For all the marbles, MAHI, is four and half pages from first draft completion.  

       I’m not going to sell out, because I’m still out there. It’s my watch, and I’m backing off, not down and not driving.  I’m letting the kids test their wings, and it looks good from here:  Diverse and courageous. They will loose a few, but this crop is the best since 1980 slammed the barely open door on diversity in favor of some really weird science crap. 

       1981 revealed  White National Socialism perhaps...Jobs, benefits for white veterans, crack  and heroin for poor and non white civilians. This was the post Nam plan to shore up white elite power. 

        The jobs would come from modernization of the MIC, as Abrams tanks rolled off the line prosperity could be directed with precision, just as crack could some how find its way to every urban cubby hole. 

         Who cared? To call drug war or modernization of the MIC wasteful, racist, or genocidal was dangerous. Who connected those dots? 

         I was in my tenth year of field work in 1982, at twenty five. I was green as all get up, and the storm hit me hard. I was not the new ideal and bad news. The old school got shut down hard. I was caught in a squeeze far along to get rid off, and too far along to bullshit.  I barely hung on. I hung on and stayed down. 

         I’m at the end of my watch. I like the way it’s shaping up. I like the Chinese better than the British, but prefer Turtle Island to either. I am all for the Brits in Britain, and the Chinese in China. I’d like to see more Turtle Island and less genocide here, where I grew up pretty wild in a place where all the people had been exterminated. I self identify as a native of that place, not British or Chinese.  Pardon me. 

         My command and control system is in the estuary; yes I can and have been shocked, awed, duped, bribed, strong armed, beaten, chained, jailed...but I have not lost the estuary, and my connection to those who lived there before me. I imagined them. They raised me, native. 

          The place, the estuary recovered some. I left it better than I ever knew it. I helped, but it was not me that turned the estuary was a MIC that no longer exists. The MIC that raised was me gone for good as the power behind Reagan ground the human element into dust. 

           We are on the brink. My estuary will be under the Atlantic soon enough. I am already in the hills, and winding down. These kids are prepared, diverse and have a good shot at standing up to the oligarchs, who have had their day, and some. 

            I’d like to keep the British and Chinese command and control in Britain and China.  I’ve never been afraid to ask for help. I’d like to make a case for self rule, but not yet. I welcome help from any source. We need help to create a sustainable future for a diverse population, based on respect for all living things including soil, air and water. 


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Comment by J.P. Hart on March 19, 2019 at 4:38am

all numbers are large
home folks think I'm

Comment by Robert B. James on March 19, 2019 at 6:41am

We rolled numbers, not dice. But that was nearly half a century ago. We grew pot next to where the cesspool had overflowed for a decade and then sanitary sewer sucked the front yard dry. The pot grew tall and proud on the river edge, and that was that. I hung the plants in the attic to dry, eventually to be disappointed by the vintage. 

I was big several times, and large after. I ate my stress but needed every pound. 260 for those big years in the hood.  Dropped fifty after. But the role called for big in the hood, so I carried it, extra large. I went from being a big fish at home to being a large presence unknown. 

Now Im out of the cold and into the blue, passing in this new role...leaking like a stinky corpse. Not big time, but short time. Thank you, Dr. Hart, for reading and commenting.  


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