“The Good War?” by Eric Kroczek

Discussed in this essay: 

Bloodlands: Europe Between Hitler and Stalin. By Timothy Snyder (New York: Basic Books, 2010).

Human Smoke: The Beginnings of World War II, the End of Civilization. By Nicholson Baker (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2008).

“Why I’m a Pacifist: The Dangerous Myth of the Good War.” By Nicholson Baker (Harper’s Magazine, May 2011, pp. 41-50).

*

Pity Józef Czapski. A sensitive and highly intelligent man—committed pacifist, intellectual, painter—he nonetheless found himself thrust into two of European history’s most horrific, existentially disorienting intervals. First, as a Polish Army volunteer in the early 1920s, he was tasked with locating a cadre of regimental officers taken captive during the Russian Civil War; he eventually found that they had all been executed by the Bolsheviks, among the first of millions to lose their lives in the name of Soviet Communism. Then, after a nearly two-decade career in Paris as a successful artist and critic, he returned to Poland in 1939 to re-enlist in an armored division after the joint Nazi-Soviet invasion of  his homeland. He was taken prisoner by the Red Army and sent to a camp at Kozelsk, Russia, one of three Soviet camps designated to billet some 8,000 reservist officers. These officers were among some 22,000 professionals and intellectuals—the cream of Poland’s burgeoning educated class—rounded up by the Soviets. These men expected that the normal rules of civilized warfare applied: that they would be interned until hostilities ceased and then returned home. Perhaps, some thought, they were to be screened for new roles in Soviet society or a Polish puppet state. At worst, they imagined not making the cut and being sent to the Gulag for an indeterminate period. Indeed, though they were not treated particularly well by their captors, they were at least allowed to organize themselves, hold worship services, and write to their families in the manner prescribed for prisoners of war by the Geneva conventions. Some—though not many—worked secretly as informants, hoping for preferred treatment.  None ever suspected that they were the subjects of an experiment in social decapitation meant to render Poland leaderless and compliant to her new rulers.

The 22,000 Polish officers and intelligentsia were indeed being screened, through a particularly fine filter (one that winnowed out only Soviet undercover agents, non-Polish nationals, and those with some form of foreign protection or diplomatic immunity) that would leave fewer than 400 of them alive, including Czapski. Under the pretense of repatriation, the men were sent off by the trainload—not back to Poland as they were led to believe, but to isolated places such as the now infamous Katyń Forest, where they were executed wholesale. Those few who remained were sent on to yet other camps, and had no idea of their cohorts’ grisly fate. Meanwhile, the mens’ families, whose identities and addresses had been gleaned from the their letters home, were being rounded up for execution or deportation to camps in Kazakhstan or Siberia.

Some eighteen months later, Hitler would renege on his Non-Aggression Treaty with Stalin (under which their two nations had jointly invaded and occupied Poland) and invade the Soviet Union, thus making the USSR and Poland uneasy allies against the Nazis, along with the United Kingdom and eventually, the United States. And so it befell Józef Czapski once again—this time under the direction of the Polish government, which needed its “imprisoned” officers freed from the Gulag in order to lead the military—to travel to the Soviet capital in search of ghosts.

This is just one of scores of heartbreaking stories to be found in Timothy Snyder’s masterful Bloodlands, a history of the vast Eastern European abattoir, now comprising Poland, Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, Belarus, Ukraine, and the extreme western region of Russia proper, during the period from roughly 1933-1945, as first the Soviets, then the Nazis, and then the Soviets again, ravaged these lands, incurring unprecedented famine and massacre that left some 14 million civilians dead, not including military combat casualties. It is these stories that lend humanity to what could have otherwise been a dull recitation of grim numbers, and Snyder, ever wary of the numbing effects of statistics, strives to particularize and give voice to as many individual victims’ stories as he can.

Nicholson Baker, best known for the meticulous rendering of detail found in his novels, also makes good use of anecdote to give pathos and punch to the dismal facts of his nonfiction work, Human Smoke, a work that stands up quite well as counterpoint and companion to Bloodlands. Both books starkly present the nihilism of an era defined by the genocidal policies of two men, Hitler and Stalin, and the efforts—by turns fickle and futile—of their opposite numbers, Churchill and Roosevelt, to put an end to their depredations and save their intended victims. But whereas Bloodlands was received with broad critical acclaim (and rightly so) for the unprecedented scope of its research, which made use of previously classified documents from the archives of former Warsaw Pact nations, Human Smoke was greeted with skepticism—especially among politically conservative reviewers—as much for its innovative (though soundly researched) pointillist style as its frank condemnation of the Allies’ use of indiscriminate violence against civilian populations (i.e., the carpet bombing of cities) as means of ending the killing. Baker flatly rejects the logic of mass violence used as a means to end mass violence, and he uses a compelling device—the juxtaposition of short scenes and quotations, often taken from contemporary newspaper articles, letters, and diaries—to illustrate the hypocrisy, muddled motives and reasoning, and callousness of key players on both sides of the war.

Baker’s book, though, devotes little attention to the Eastern Front and to Stalin: his policies of domestic repression and mass murder, and the effect of the Soviet Union on Nazi policy once war began on the Eastern Front—or more accurately, the changes in Nazi policy once the war in the East began to go badly. Here, facts uncovered by Snyder’s research complement and reinforce Baker’s book quite effectively, to wit:

a)     The vast majority of the non-combat  slaughter in Europe—of Jews and non-Jews alike—took place in the Bloodlands, where the Western Allies had minimal military reach or influence (or, for that matter, political or economic interest), and so did not intervene in the killing there, even after September 1939;

b)     In any case, much of this killing was perpetrated during the period 1931-39, before the war even started—perpetrated by Joseph Stalin, no less, our wartime ally against the Nazis;[1]

c)      The onset of the war exacerbated the killing, causing the Final Solution to metastasize from its original conception as primarily a program of intimidation and mass deportation of the Jews, to a far more virulent campaign of mass extermination.[2]

Snyder observes that Hitler’s rise to power in 1933 even provided cover for Stalin, diverting attention from the Ukraine, where forced collectivization of agriculture killed  at least 3.3 million, and also from the persecution of the kulaks, 1.7 million of whom were sent to the Gulag. During the period 1936-1938, the so-called Soviet “show trials”—in which some 55,000 persons were “purged,” falsely tried and executed as saboteurs, traitors, political heretics, and other “enemies of the state”—lent cover both to the much wider Soviet persecutions of kulaks and undesirable foreign nationals (in particular ethnic Poles)[3]; these covert purges, which were kept quiet so as not to tarnish the USSR’s image as an ethnically diverse and tolerant state, claimed some 625,000 additional lives and resulted in hundreds of thousands more deportations to the Gulag. The show trials also unintentionally returned Hitler’s favor by helping to divert world attention from the oppression of the Jews in Germany, which was quickly ratcheting up in intensity.

Baker’s book ends in December 1941, shortly after the U.S. entered the war, just as the Final Solution was being implemented in its most malignant form. However, Baker has written an essay, published in Harper’s this month, which serves as a kind of coda to Human Smoke. In this essay, which is, formally, a classic apologia rather than collage, he further explores and justifies the roots of his pacifism, again using World War II and the Holocaust to illustrate his point, but moving ahead in time to the period 1942-1945. He begins by reiterating his idea, first posited in Human Smoke, that the United States and Britain could have vastly improved the lot of European Jews during 1933-1941 simply by raising immigration quotas to allow more Jews to emigrate to Palestine, England, and America; they did not.[4] He presents evidence of Hitler’s use of the German Jews as hostages: the Nazis’ control over the lives of millions of Jews was supposed to guarantee that Germany would not be attacked by the United States.[5] According to this logic, once the Americans entered the war, the Germans had no reason to keep the Jews alive—their bargaining value was nil, they were dead weight—“useless eaters,” in Nazi parlance. At this point, says Baker, the best option, from the point of view of the Jews’ survival, was not continued bombing by the Allies, but a cease-fire to allow Jews time to escape.

Snyder presents a different, but not necessarily contradictory, theory about the reason for the change in the Final Solution’s aims: The Nazi effort to conquer the Soviet Union and its vast land mass before the onset of winter had failed. Now, there was simply no good place to relocate the Jews. Furthermore, the Wehrmacht was beginning to suffer as its supply lines lengthened and food and other resources became scarce, in part because of Allied bombing and embargoes in the West. Jews in the Bloodlands (as well as Soviet POWs, who were starved by the millions) became expendable—again, “useless eaters.”

None of this killing was in any way ameliorated by the Allies and their efforts. Whether because of  Baker’s theory, that the entry of the U.S. into the war lessened the value of the Jews as hostages,[6] or because of Snyder’s reasoning—or both—the Allied war effort simply was not much concerned with ending the slaughter of the Jews (or the Poles, Ukrainians, and Belarusians, for that matter) at least not until very late in the war, when it was too late. And even then, their main concern was with limiting Stalin’s land grab in central Europe, not with meddling in Eastern Europe’s “internal affairs.”

And this relates to one of Snyder’s key assertions (one which I believe Baker would wholeheartedly support): That whether the Nazis or the Soviets killed more people in the Bloodlands of eastern Europe is a moot question; that to the tens of millions who died there, it scarcely mattered which side was the agent of their death. It was, in effect, the synergy between the two totalitarian states in conflict, and their theoretically opposite yet eerily similar failed Utopian ideals, that killed them, and two tyrants’ dreams of controlling the same territory and extirpating all resistance from those who stood in the way of those ideals. It didn’t matter, either, whether the victims were Jews, or Ukrainian or Belarusian peasants, or the liberal-minded Polish citizen-soldiers of Józef Czapski’s fruitless quest, these innocent people were doomed to extermination by one of two ideologies of conquest and violence. And there was little chance that yet more violence, whatever its justification, would be their salvation.


[1]Prior to the outbreak of war, the Soviet Union was a far more lethal regime than Nazi Germany. For example, Snyder points out that in the years 1937-38, some 380,000 executions took place in the Soviet Union, versus 270 in Germany, a ratio of 700:1. Confinement to a camp was also far less likely (and in Germany, mostly confined to political prisoners and “asocials,” rather than Jews, at this time); the concentration camp internment ratio was something like 25:1 in favor of Germany.

[2]Madagascar and Palestine were among many places being considered for relocation even by Zionist Jews and the prewar Polish government prior to the Final Solution. According to Snyder, Hitler’s idea involved pushing out or killing the majority of the Slavs in the Bloodlands and Russia, then relocating the Jews, possibly to Siberia, perhaps using the existing Soviet system of camps.

[3]Snyder notes that during the period 1933-1938, Stalin killed one thousand times more Jews than Hitler did, not because of their status as Jews, but because they were also members of these other undesirable groups—kulaks, Polish nationals, suspected spies, and political enemies.

[4]Human Smoke contains numerous examples of the fate of those German Jews who were able to get into England: they were interned in concentration camps for the duration of the war, much as Japanese-Americans  in the U.S. after Pearl Harbor.

[5]This wasn’t a very good supposition on Hitler’s part, given FDR’s apparent lack of concern for the welfare of European Jews, as demonstrated by his refusal to expand immigration quotas.

[6]I have some doubts about this hypothesis, mostly because, as Baker himself admits in his essay, the American war effort, from her entry into the war through Spring 1944, was far more focused on defeating the Japanese than the Nazis.

Andreas Economakis

photo by Andreas Economakis (©2011)

“The Daze Of Old”

by Andreas Economakis

You turn yourself on. The images that pop out in front of you are colorful, ethereal. Your mind is fleeting, like the musical notes thumping out of your old Yamaha speakers, the ones your cats have scratched to pieces. You break the bounds of your small East Harlem apartment and head straight for the sun. Sundrenched Jamaica. You lie on the beach with big fat toasty lips. That night you find yourself in a club whose name you don’t know but whose baseline you recognize. For a split second you’re back on the beach. You open your eyes and realize you’re staring at a travel commercial on your 13-inch Trinitron.

Snack time. You haul yourself to the kitchen and crack the door to your refrigerator. Some scary stuff inside stares back at you, making you cringe. You slam the fridge as hard as you can and spend the next twenty-eight and a half minutes trying to find your wallet. You finally locate it under the couch. Now, about your keys… To hell with them, I’ll leave the door open, you think. On the way out you forget about the door and find yourself locked out of your apartment. What a bonehead!

You decide on Chinese, ‘cause it’s closest. When you finally get there (and you nearly freeze your ass off in the process) the gate is halfway down and they’re mopping up. You have intense cottonmouth and can’t help but stare at the shiny poster of steaming chicken legs that’s Scotch-taped to the window. A whole bunch of pedestrians walk by, looking at you. “Check him out, homey’s buggin’… Ha, ha, ha!” You feel like a village idiot. The Village Idiot. Did the Village People have an Idiot? You make a fast break and cut into the Palestinian grocery store two buildings down. Your heart is thumping.

Mohammad says “Hello, my friend!” You gasp “Hi!” in response. Shit, why did I spill the beans? What a dunce. You stall at the beer section. You try to hide behind the indecisive chin-scratching gaze of comparison-shopping. You finally snatch a rack of Buds and a can of minced clams. Then you freak out because you can’t find your wallet. You’re making a spectacle of yourself, rifling your pockets like a junkie looking for his last rock. Your heart is about to jump out of your chest and run for cover. You find your wallet comfortably ensconced in your left hand. Been there the whole time probably. You look around and notice that this big guy to your left is staring at you like he wants to kill you. You look at Mohammad for help.

“Everything okay, my friend?” Mohammad says, suspiciously, as you approach the counter. Blind confusion. You vow to never set foot in this joint again. Better yet, you vow to never ever smoke again. Sam’s stash is bug-out stash. 100% no-doubt-about-it, freak-you-out-like-a-nuclear bomb-to-your-brain-this ain’t-no-medical-marijuana-dope-this-is-the-apocalypse-now stash. You remember the good old days of yore before all this shit. One day these will be the good old days. The good old daze. You bust out into the cold and crisp street and decide to run home. By the time you reach your front door you’re sprinting as fast as you can. There’s a tremendous sense of relief hiding in your own vestibule. Shit… no keys! It gets about fifty degrees colder in a matter of seconds and you’re not sure which part of your face is chattering so loudly. The scent of junkie urine rises to your nostrils and you turn blanch white, like a Disney cartoon. You wonder whether the local shelter has got a bed before you even ponder tracking Jose down, the only other human being with keys to your apartment.

You decide to act quick. You head straight across the street to Jimmy’s under-stocked grocery/dope-dealing front to score a tub of Visine. There’s no way you’re going to confront Jose with red eyes. He’ll barrage you with tricky questions and scan you with that retired cop glare he scans tenants with. Your mind goes blank under that stare. Why on earth does your landlord have to be an ex-cop? Besides, are cops ever ex? You ask Jimmy for the eye juice. His store always carries Visine and Bamboos, if nothing else. While digging for your wallet in your jacket pocket, you find your keys amidst some old Bazooka Joes. You break into a smile and call it your lucky day.

You’re on a roll now. You beeline for your apartment. By the time you’ve cracked your first Bud, you’re already bored with the TV. Need more excitement. Maybe I’ll ride my bike, you think. Your thoughts quickly drift and settle on the image of Vinnie on his Harley. Vinnie is a small dude with long balding hair, lots of Hells Angels tats, an 883 Sportster, a shiny Bowie knife and a big attitude. Everybody knows a guy like this, right? Guys like Vinnie (plus or minus the Italian name and Hell’s Angels tats) are standard issue to every every neighborhood in the world. You remember yesterday’s conversation with Vinnie. He was cutting down your Honda CM400 when you said: “Vinnie, a bike gets you from here to there, no?” Then Vinnie replied: “Figures a Rice-hopper would say something like that about his ride.” You smiled and recalled the time Santana yelled out “The plane, boss, the plane!” when Vinnie walked by, alluding to Fantasy Island’s small man. It was quite appropriate, considering all the tats and Vinnie’s size. Since then everybody’s called Vinnie “Tattoo”” behind his back. Only Santana can call him that to his face. No one fucks with Santana. Not even little psycho-wired Vinnie and his freaky Bowie knife.

You check the blinking clock on your VCR and it flashes back 12:00 A.M. No, it always says that. You jump up from your couch and head to the kitchen. You woof down some pasta with clam sauce (a bachelor’s best friend) and note the time. Its 11:37 P.M. You pick up the phone and call your buddy Kendall. Kendall will want to go downtown.

Kendall’s machine kicks in with some weird-ass Indian music. You figure he’s probably right below his apartment, in the West End Bar, hitting on the new crop of fresh-women from the esteemed university across the street. Or maybe (and more probably) he’s in the bathroom with Tito, scoring an eight-ball. Who knows? You muffle your voice and leave a threatening message about how Kendall shouldn’t have messed around with your sister and that you’re coming around to square things with him. You hang up.

You’re really bored now. You try juggling some silverware that’s on the counter and a fork flies off and nearly beans Billy. Billy and Kaya are your two plain tiger kitties. East Harlem originals. You recall how when you found Billy under the fire escape, he was all puffed up with worms and crawling in ear mites and fleas. Don’t know why, but you started calling him Baby Billy with the Baseball Belly. You notice that Billy and Kaya’s food bowl is bone dry. You grab some Cat Chow and totally miss the bowl. The smelly stuff scatters all over the dirty hardwood floors, the majority lodging itself under the fridge. You can almost hear the roaches rustling under there with great enthusiasm. ”My enthusiasm? Baseball!” Shit… Deniro’s Al Capone was badass. While cleaning up the mess you turn on the paint-spattered Sony cassette player-radio in the bathroom. The dial’s been frozen on WNWK for a long time now. Cool. Robert Nesta Marley’s in the house, crooning “Chances Are.” You grab another Bud from the fridge and head for your electric green couch. Feet up, your mind begins to drift again (must be the damn couch). You close your eyes and vow to motivate as soon as the song ends. The song never ends.

When you open your eyes you’re driving across country in a green school bus with two miniature white dragons in the cab. Every gas station on the way is out of gas but sells fireworks. When you finally run out of gas you’re in a town you remember from your childhood. There’s a big red brick building on the right. You decide to go in and ask about gas. When you come out the dragons are gone and an air raid siren is going off. At that moment you wake up to the sound of an Emergency Broadcast Systems test and the phone ringing at the same time.

Someone on the other end of the line says: “That’s not too cool bro, setting me up like that. You better bring that shit over now.” You recognize the voice from somewhere and it brings you great dread. You quickly hang up the phone. The phone rings again, almost instantly. Hesitantly, you pick it up. “Don’t fuck with me like that, dude!” It’s Kendall. You ask him how he dialed you back so fast. “What are you talking about?” he replies. You ask him about what set up he was referring to. He’s completely lost. Confusion. “Aw, come on Kendall, stop messing with me,” you say and instantly goose bump all over your body. You just placed the voice, the first phone call’s voice, to a face. Georgie. Georgie is your ex-roommate’s psycho drug dealer crackhead gun totting ex-boyfriend who won’t go away. “What the fuck is Georgie doing out of jail?” you mutter aloud. “What’s that?” you hear Kendall say, from somewhere far off. You spit out “Gotta go,” and hang up.

The phone rings again. That’s when you wake up. Back to today. The TV is blaring: Bin Laden is dead, shot in the face by CIA-led US soldiers, Greek national debt is out of control, powerful women are unfaithful in their relationships, gas prices are out of control. You swallow hard and look around. No crackhead Georgie or Bowie knife Vinnie, no wack-out weed or cockroach apartments or electric green couches. No vestibules that smell like urine. Maybe you’re a sap after all, or maybe you’re a romantic. It might sound crazy, but life sure felt simpler back then, more “alive.” That’s the funny thing about memories.

–Andreas Economakis

This piece is part of a collection of stories on blindness entitled: The Blindness of Life.

Copyright © 2011, Andreas Economakis. All rights reserved.

For more stories by Andreas Economakis click on the author’s name below.

SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: NICOLAS DESTINO

SATURDAY MORNING
by Nicolas Destino

When you live alone you can put thing s where you wish.
Alone, you can contaminate your own environment and spill
olive oil on an orange floating in the sink.
You can Sink where you want to, in your own part-icles,
part the water in your own sink, create miracles.
You can say things like excuse the mess. Would you like a drink?
When you live alone you are naked more often.
If another man is naked with you in bed, you can say welcome visitor.
If another man contaminates your environment, you can say
thanks for coming over,
and you can clean up after him with old rags
only you know where to find.


(“Saturday Morning” is printed here today with permission from the poet.)


Nicolas Destino’s work has appeared in The American Poetry Journal, The Bellevue Literary Review, Barge Journal, 580split, 322 Review, and others. He is a graduate of the MFA program at Goddard College, and his first full-length collection of poems, Heartwrecks, was released by Sibling Rivalry Press in 2013.

Editor’s Note: I have been a fan of Nicolas Destino since he was published in the Friday Poetry Series here on As It Ought To Be last year. There is a lulling quality to his work. A rise and fall of language like waves that either gently lap against wet sand or swell and crash as torrential surf. If his poems had arms, I feel as if they would wrap around me and rock me; comforting, familiar, gentle, but with intent.

Today’s poem is a snapshot of the familiar. Of the struggles one has as an individual. Self-perception of one’s own space, of one’s own independence and control. There is a beauty in Destino’s vision of what it is to live alone, and, yet, beneath the surface of that beauty is dissatisfaction with that lone existence, of an uncleanliness inherent within it.

Today’s post is dedicated to a special occasion in the poet’s life. Mazel tov and congratulations on your marriage, Nicolas. Here’s to having found love worth cohabitating for!

Want to read more by and about Nicolas Destino?
322 Review
Verse Daily

The Coming Crisis of Global Food: Sneak Peek into Future Food Projects

By Liam Hysjulien

While there is not enough time in the day to write about all of the current food problems—especially the upcoming global food crisis—I would like to provide two snippets of my recent writing on food (expected to be published else forthcoming).   The first is a book review I wrote on the exceptionally well-researched book by the good folks at the Monthly Review Press, Agriculture and Food in Crisis.  Next, I continue my critique into the need for a more in-depth understanding of class and inequality in the US food movement.  I will provide links to these entire pieces as they become available.

First Article

While the first half of Magdoff and Tokar’s volume deals with the contradictions and conflicts laden throughout our current agriculture model, the second half of the book focuses on areas of resistance and social change. The chapter by Peter Rosset discusses the need for land reform in creating alternative models for the establishment of global food security. Rosset suggests that global food production can be understood in terms of a dichotomy between industrialized agriculture, on the one hand, and small-scale farmers producing food for “local and national markets.” Over the last couple of decades, a coalition of farmers, peasants, and rural workers have banded together to form the global alliance, La Vía Campesina. In addition to promoting rights for landless rural workers, La Vía Campesina has “proposed an alternative policy paradigm called food sovereignty”. As one-sixth of the world currently suffers from food insecurity, food sovereignty proposes the radical idea that access to safe, nutritious, and healthy food, along with agricultural land, is a basic human right for all people. As Rosset concludes, the language of food sovereignty rests upon the reality that land reforms are not only necessary for the continuation of rural and peasant communities, but also the foundation for creating social and environmentally viable agricultural practices.

Furthermore, Jules Pretty concludes the volume by discussing the ability of ecological agriculture to feed a growing global population. In the same way in which Illich describes radical monopoly as “reflect[ing] the industrial institutionalization of values,” Pretty posits that great progress in industrialized farming has led to “hundreds of millions of people…hungry and malnourished.” For Pretty, along with many of the writers in the volume, the focus rests on changing the future of agriculture toward sustainable and just systems of producing and distributing food. Instead of seeing agriculture and food as merely an industrialized commodity, the future of food resides in a change in agriculture that “clearly benefits poor people and environments in developing countries.” Already, as Pretty argues, the current model of global food production is failing to feed the current 6.7 billion people, and a “massive and multifaceted effort” will be needed to solve future problems of hunger, health, and food security.

Second Article

 If we are going to be serious about addressing the problems of food in this country, we need to discuss class inequality, the stripping of social welfare programs, and the erosion of a middle-class base. Food choices, especially the ones deemed poor or nutritionally low, are not only the byproducts of choice but the realities of a society where growing inequalities have become coupled with limited upward mobility. When Madden writes, “America has always been the land of plenty, but we have plenty of plenty,” I wonder if we are both talking about the same country.

Americans have plenty of access to low-priced commodities, but—and this is especially apt when discussing cheap food—the plenty that we value bends considerably more toward cheap goods. And this is not merely Americans making poor food-purchasing choices, but instead the underlying reality of a market-based system predicated on low costs and declining wages. As Truthout contributor Dave Johnson remarks, we are living in a country where “[m]any people are finding it harder to just to get by and stay even, and expect that things will get worse for their kids”. We are seeing the ramifications that emerge from a society wedded to the notion that growing inequality and cheapness at all cost is somehow economically viable. Americans could probably spend more money on food, learn how to grow their own food, and strengthen family and community bonds through cooking and shared meals—all things I value in my own life—but where are the time and resources for such endeavors? Unless you are of that top 1% of earners benefiting from the last three decades of supply-side economics, you are engaged in financial self-survival—community-building through food be damned.

Are we really a society of plenty when real median income hasn’t changed over the last 14 years? And while we may spend less on food than people in other countries, we do spend considerably more on education and health care than our European counterparts. As a 2005 New Yorker article on the amount of hours that Americans work noted, “Americans spend more hours at the office than Europeans, they spend fewer hours on tasks in the home: things like cooking, cleaning, and child care” [5]. In this era of fleeting job security and decreasing social safety nets, we work more, eat worse, and socialize less. And obviously we have choices in all this—the poorness of our choices seem to be an emphasis of the current food movement—but the realities of slowing down, enjoying the simplicity of a home-cooked meal, and eating more expensively now to save on future healthcare costs, run contrary to the values of our capitalist system.


SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: THE ACHE AT THE CENTER OF THE WORLD: ISRAEL-PALESTINE PEACE POETRY

Editor’s Note: Peace is always a timely topic. Today much of the middle east is in a state of political unrest. Civil wars are raging, dictators are struggling to keep the masses under their control, and citizens are taking up arms – be they in the form of guns or words – in the name of freedom. Having been born in Israel, the daughter of Israel-Palestine peace activists, conflict in the middle east has been a reality in my life for thirty years. I believe peace in the middle east is not only possible, but is an eventual reality, for Israel-Palestine and beyond.

Throughout history, poets have used their poems and songs in the name of peace. Today, rather than share a particular poem with you, I want to share with you some of my favorite Israel-Palestine peace poets. May their energy, their words, and their efforts help to bring forth peace.

Yehuda Amichai

Elana Bell

Mahmoud Darwish

Naomi Shihab Nye

Henry Ford, Socialist

Ford workers on the line assemble engines in a public domain photo from Henry Ford’s 1922 memoir, "My Life and Work." A caption reads, “Henry Ford turned the thinking of employers to reduction of unit costs—not wages—and helped them to see that it is bad business to destroy customers by reducing their purchasing power.”

Henry Ford, Socialist
By John Unger Zussman

Detroit was a great town for labor when I grew up there in the ‘50s and ‘60s. While I never worked on the assembly lines—my uncle’s steel warehouse had first dibs on my summer labor—I had friends who did. The work was stultifying, but the pay was good, and they socked away money for college.

The high pay was because of Henry Ford, and it was not an accident. Ford had no love of labor unions (or Jews, for that matter, but that’s another story)—quite the opposite. Yet in 1914, he stunned the business world by offering a wage of $5 a day—more than double the prevailing rate.

Ford’s bold move did more than attract skilled mechanics and workers to Detroit and reduce Ford Motor Company’s heavy employee turnover. It spearheaded the creation of a vast middle class, including blue- as well as white-collar workers. The canny Ford realized that, if he was going to sell his mass-produced cars, his own workers (and those of other companies) had to make enough money to afford them. “I believe in the first place,” he wrote in his memoir, “that, all other considerations aside, our own sales depend in a measure upon the wages we pay.” For seventy years, American industry and the American middle class grew in tandem.

That link has now been strained to the breaking point. For the last thirty years, the American middle class has been under assault. It started with the right’s beloved Saint Reagan, whose orgy of tax cuts and deregulation spawned not only the savings and loan crisis but also a massive transfer of wealth from workers to the rich. Real middle-class incomes have stagnated since Reagan. “Morning in America”—to the extent it was ever more than a campaign slogan—was confined to the wealthy.

Corporations—no longer American but global—can afford to underpay or lay off American workers because they are no longer dependent on them either as labor or as consumers. Automation and robotics have reduced the proportion of labor costs in manufacturing. Advances in telecommunications and transportation allow corporations to relocate operations to locations where wages are lowest. And a growing global middle class provides a market of eager customers with money to spend.

All this represents capitalism in the 21st century, as companies find new ways to compete and find their market. But satisfying the market becomes almost irrelevant when big corporations can lobby the government to keep themselves solvent. Automakers make SUVs that become impossible to sell when gas prices rise, so they run to the government for bailouts. Oil companies reap generous tax breaks even when they make record profits. Food conglomerates collect extravagant farm subsidies even when their factory farming practices endanger the environment and produce food that makes us obese and sick. This is corporate socialism, showering benefits on people who decry socialism.

Nowhere has the link between wealthy corporations and the struggling middle class been severed more completely than in the financial industry. In the wake of the financial meltdown, the big banks have eliminated the need to have markets at all. Matt Taibbi’s recent exposé of the financial bailouts in Rolling Stone describes the feeding frenzy of free money and guaranteed profits that followed the financial meltdown of 2008.

In one of Taibbi’s classic examples of corporate welfare to the financial industry—though by no means the most egregious—the Fed offered loans to banks at near-zero interest rates, intending to buoy up their balance sheets and encourage lending to businesses and consumers. But because the Bush (and later Obama) administrations attached few strings to those loans, the banks simply took the money and bought Treasury bills, realizing a 2% risk-free profit for essentially lending the government back its own—that is to say, our own—money!

The strained link between corporate and middle-class prosperity is why we have another jobless recovery, why corporate profits and GDP and the stock market have been on a tear for two years while the middle class struggles. It is class warfare and we ought to call it that. Unfortunately, right-wing politicians and media—who somehow still dominate political discourse in this country despite the debacle of the Bush administration—have co-opted the term, crying “class warfare” whenever someone proposes that tax rates be returned to those of the “oppressive” ‘90s. They have somehow convinced the American middle class that their interests, as Bill Maher likes to point out, are the same as Steve Forbes’.

We need to take the term back. Class warfare is what we need to wage, and it ought to be our battle cry as we tell the American people who’s been waging war on whom.

No, Henry Ford was not a socialist. But he felt a responsibility to American workers. If he were alive today, he just might be on our side.

Additional links:

It’s telling that some of the best reporting on the financial meltdown has come from Taibbi’s groundbreaking reports in Rolling Stone, Planet Money and Pulitzer Prize-winning ProPublica’s features on public radio’s This American Life, and Charles Ferguson’s Oscar-winning documentary, Inside Job. Why have their startling revelations found so little resonance in the supposedly liberal mainstream media? Because mainstream media are big corporations too.

Update 4/21/11:

Astute reader Robert Mayer, professor of consumer studies at the University of Utah, observes that former secretary of labor Robert Reich makes similar points in his recent book, Aftershock. Reich has spoken out strongly to decry the right’s attack on the middle class. “After 1980,” he writes, “the pendulum swung backward.” Indeed.

Update 4/27/11:

A new study by the Congressional Research Office now confirms the extent to which the big banks borrowed at low interest rates from the Fed and then, instead of lending to consumers or businesses, simply turned around and bought Treasury bills. The report was requested by Senator Bernie Sanders (I-VT), who has taken a lead role in exposing such practices.

Copyright © 2011, John Unger Zussman. All rights reserved.

SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: JAMES VALVIS

THE LINES AT ST. PAUL’S
by James Valvis

The nuns lined up the boys on one side, girls on the other.
We lined up knowing God loved us and Jesus was God.
We lined up understanding our place in heaven was arranged.
We lined up as boys and girls, but that was all that separated us.
Not once did we line up according to appearance or wealth,
or according to size of our breasts, or the strength of our biceps.
We didn’t line up as Democrats and Republicans, blacks and whites.
Never lined up as fats and thins, prudes and sluts, gays and straights,
We didn’t line up as believers and doubters, saints and sinners.
To the nuns, we were all sinners who were trying to become saints.
To ourselves, we were all saints who would like to one day be sinners.
They lined us up and marched us to recess, lunch, the bathrooms.
They lined us up, all the girls pretty and smiling,
all the boys tough and smirking, like it would always be that way,
like those perfect rows would go on forever and ever and ever,
like if you simply followed the person in front of you
you would get to the place you needed to be,
and for a while you dreamed it possible,
maybe you all did, even the nuns,
until one kid stopped suddenly
and the pushing started.


(“The Lines at St. Paul’s” was originally published in First Class and is reprinted here today with permission from the poet.)

James Valvis lives in Washington State with his wife, daughter, and cat. His poems or stories have recently appeared in Arts & Letters, Atlanta Review, Crab Creek Review, Hanging Loose, LA Review, Nimrod, Pank, Rattle, River Styx, and are forthcoming in Daily Science Fiction, Fractured West, Kill Author, Midwest Quarterly, Night Train, New York Quarterly, Pinyon, Sierra Nevada Review, Verdad, and many others. In addition to being a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Web nominee, a novelette was a storySouth Million Writers Notable Story. A poetry collection, How to Say Goodbye, is due in 2011.

Editor’s Note: Ah, the allure of order! The ease of being just another member of the flock! When we have no choice, when we are told what to do, life is simpler. But the easy road is more often than not the wrong road. Today’s piece functions as a philosophical commentary as much as a poem. With brilliant moments like “To the nuns, we were all sinners who were trying to become saints. / To ourselves, we were all saints who would like to one day be sinners,” and “like if you simply followed the person in front of you / you would get to the place you needed to be,” this poem contemplates the human condition in modern times, within the framework built around us by religion and society. A huge topic deftly considered in a few swift clean lines.

Want to read more by and about James Valvis?
Poets & Writers
NYQ Poets

SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: LISA ZARAN

By Lisa Zaran:

RETICENCE

Never
does the world
not fall into my lap.

And if God
Himself
were to send me
a private message,
would I react?

Knowing,
possibly not knowing,
reluctant in every passing
thought.

Nor trusting,
holding the weight
of every word spoken
in the palm of my hand,
looking into the not-so-distant
future of every gesture
as if behind each
was a guise
or a secret.

There’s always
the thought
that something
might go terribly wrong.

Every day
the world falls
into my lap
and every day
I’m afraid to touch it
frightened of what it might bring.


FROM BRIDE TO BURIED

It is a chorus, her mother thought
when she was born, a fragile lilt
of voices singing rise rise rise
as if her daughter were already a myth.

She was a knowledgeable child,
too trusting perhaps but never flighty,
no never that. Her center could always
grasp what her mind could not.

She learned very early to trust
her body, its rhythms and advice.
She being an only child, grew with the speed
of those shown to know everything

in corresponding order.
This is your nose, see, touch it.
These are your feet. Soon you will walk.
Out there, beyond this window, is the world.

Which is also a perception.
See that tree over there? Could be
a madman standing in utter stillness
in the breach of night. Shhhhh.

The earth is tired now. The moon is up.
Lock the door, fasten the windows.
Sleep and dream of every possibility.
For beyond this childhood you will meet

a man and fall in love. He will ring you out
of yourself. He will convince you that
you are not yours but his and at the apex
of your dependency where hands and hammers

become one in the same blunt instrument,
he will strike you again and again and again.
To seek your remains, I will pass my fingertips
over your picture. I will try to remember

the scent of your breath, your intangible life.


(“Reticence” and “From Bride to Buried” were originally published in A Little Poetry. Both poems are reprinted here today with permission from the poet.)

Lisa Zaran was born in 1969 in Los Angeles, California. She is an American poet, essayist and the author of six collections including The Blondes Lay Content and the sometimes girl, the latter of which was the focus of a year long translation course in Germany. Subsequently published to German in 2006 under the title: das manchmal mädchen. Selections from her other books have been translated to Bangla, Hindi, Arabic, Chinese, German, Dutch, Persian and Serbian. Her poems have appeared in hundreds of literary journals, magazines, broadsides, anthologies and e-zines including: Juked, Ramshackle Review, Apparatus Magazine, Hudson Review, Black Dirt, Other Voices, Kritya, The Dande Review, Soul to Soul, Nomad’s Choir Poetry Journal, Not a Muse Anthology, Best of the Web 2010, Literature: an intro to Reading and Writing by Pearson as well as being performed in Glasgow’s Radio Theater Group and displayed in SONS, a museum in Kruishoutem, Belgium. Lisa is founder and editor of Contemporary American Voices, an online collection of poetry by American poets. She is also the author of Dear Bob Dylan, a collection of letters to her muse. She lives and writes in Arizona.

Editor’s Note: Today’s poems give the reader food for thought. The first is, in my reading, a contemplation of the idea of outside forces, who or what is in control of our lives, and the responsibility we as humans have to do what we can with the opportunities and responsibilities laid in our laps. The second is a darker piece, almost cryptic, following the life of a woman from girlhood and the protection of her family home to adulthood and the abusive relationship that ends her life. Both poems are highly successful in their ability to make the reader think, perhaps outside the box of the reader’s normal thinking, and contemplate ideas and worlds that may or may not be their own.

Want to read more by and about Lisa Zaran?
Lisa Zaran Official Website
Contemporary American Voices

Book Review

Sloth by Mark Goldblatt (Greenpoint Press, 2010)
reviewed by Duff Brenna

Air the color of khaki, soot on windows prismed with sunlight, neon-skewed dust, the smell of engine fluid and pralines, steam rising from the hood of a truck, a cluster of taxis. Throw into this assortment of images an unnamed narrator trying to prove he isn’t crazy: “Despite appearances, sir, I am not out of my mind. Quite the reverse, it is sanity itself which moves me to this exercise. Sanity itself which moves me to accost you … “

Dostoevsky permeates Goldblatt’s Sloth, especially Notes from Underground with its duality and layers of unreliable realities. Add a large lump of adoration for a TV aerobics instructor named Holly Servant worshipped and wooed from afar by the love-struck diarist of this story and you have what amounts to a word-rich ride, rollickingly inventive.

Will Holly ever respond to the letters of the man who gives himself the pseudonym Mark Goldblatt, whose Medieval beliefs rely, in part, on the notion that beauty of flesh testifies to higher virtues of the soul, the inside reflecting the outside? Truth is beauty, beauty is truth, that’s all ye know on earth and all ye need to know. The nameless narrator a.k.a. Mark Goldblatt builds his dizzying “metronomic dance” around Keats’ famous insight into what makes males tick, especially horny young males transfixed by “areolae shining like tulips through her leotard … pixied blond hair clinging to her moist back and shoulders.” Goldblatt, the real one, the author self-reflexively observing the fictional one, could easily (if he wanted to) write literary pornography that would rival (possibly surpass) anything Robert Cleland wrote when he was obsessed with Fanny’s fanny. But though Sloth doesn’t shy away from things sexual, titillating sex is not its primary purpose, which is rather a somewhat philosophical search for identity.

Who is a.k.a. Goldblatt? And who is Zezel (also known as Mark Goldblatt) who dips in and out of the narrative, playing the role of “best friend” and perhaps in the past a.k.a.’s lover, a great perhaps that a.k.a. denies. No: “He is my dearest friend, yes, but an odd case.”

Who is Mrs. Zezel? Mrs. Zezel is “a Vassar girl … summa cum sassy.
She is, in sum, the very locus of reason, a geometric proof of the soul …” And also trickster devil-may-care “cross between Lauren Bacall and Leo Gorcey.” Mrs. Zezel gets a.k.a. a date with Allison Molho, but he stands her up, an insult for which Mrs. Zezel will never forgive him, even after she finds out her husband Zezel has taken a.k.a.’s place and is in full-blown adultery mode. Mrs. Zezel’s revenge falls on a.k.a. This comes later in the book and is aided by a kitchen counter. Let your imagination loose, Goldblatt certainly does.

Into the author’s cheerful tongue-in-cheek muddle concerning the vicissitudes of love comes a.k.a.’s desperate need to make enough money to buy a VCR, so that he can rent Holly Servant’s Sunrise cassettes and watch her aerobic gyrations, until he is sweat-soaked and satisfied—at least for a few moments.

His main source of income comes from being a waiter. Not a waiter who waits on tables, but a waiter who waits in line, standing in for those who don’t want to show up too early and wait for doors to open for shows and/or events to begin. But the meager income a.k.a. earns from waiting is not enough to afford the coveted VCR. He reads an advertisement asking for volunteers for a scientific experiment. He signs up and is given some green pills, which might or might not contain a new psychotropic drug. His instructions are to take the pills and record his moods or behavior and return to the office every two weeks to have his finger pricked. Each time he is pricked he also receives one hundred dollars. What a deal! He’ll have that VCR in no time and will be able to spend his days and nights wallowing in Holly’s mesmerizing pulchritude.

The plot thickens when a young gay man is murdered and a.k.a. becomes a person of interest. At this point Zezel has already fallen for Allison Molho. The woman who pricks a.k.a.’s finger has also fallen for Allison Molho. Then Mrs. Zezel has that encounter with a.k.a. on the kitchen counter. But even before such a frightening event, Holly starts answering a.k.a.’s letters at last. Their correspondence moves them ever so slowly closer. Maybe he’s her soul-mate. He tells her he is a writer and sends her some of his stories. Problem is: Zezel wrote the stories. Zezel wrote them under the pseudonym Mark Goldblatt. So right away a.k.a. is misrepresenting himself. He’s already lying to the woman he loves more than anyone else in the world.

And then they talk about meeting.

And the detectives keep questioning him.

And a menacing-looking man is spying on a.k.a.

When Zezel breaks into the apartment and reads a.k.a.’s journal, what he finds there makes him want revenge for the kitchen counter incident with Mrs. Zezel.

Will he do something desperate? Will he hurt a.k.a.? Will the spy kidnap him? Will Holly really show up for the rendezvous? Will the detectives try to pin the murder of the gay man on a.k.a.?

Well, it just gets curiouser and curiouser.

Sloth is a work full of artistic flavor and Rabelaisian slumming. It is funny, serious, insightful and as unique in style and substance as any seriocomic novel I’ve read since Steven Gillis penned The Consequence of Skating or Junot Diaz wrote The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. Some novels leave you with a smile. Some leave you thoroughly satisfied. Sloth does both.

***

DUFF BRENNA is the author of six novels. He is the recipient of an AWP Award for Best Novel, a National Endowment for the Arts Award, a South Florida Sun-Sentinel Award for Favorite Book of the year, a Milwaukee Magazine Best Short Story of the Year Award, and a Pushcart Honorable Mention. His work has been translated into six languages.

Hopeful Mushroom or Lonely Arugula?

©MAYA HAYUK, Mushrooms 1 – 6, 2009  http://mayahayuk.com/

One of the first things I do every day is delete stuff out of my email inbox: heartlessly I trash LAST CHANCE TO SAVE POLAR BEARS along with many other invited entreaties from MoveOn.org, Greenpeace, Alvarez, WWF Canada etc. When I’m feeling particularly buoyant I choose one petition to sign and sometimes I’ll even post it to fakecrack. If I fail to cull these worthy invitations I start to feel symptoms of my (self-diagnosed) 21st century malaise — Systems Overload Disorder ( SOD for short) which manifests as a feeling of being helplessly over-informed and correspondingly unhappy about heavy shit I can’t do much about. My email deleting ritual is one of my many coping mechanisms, devised, I might add, without the advice or support of either a health care professional or a second-hand self-help manual. I have also made a habit of drinking an early cup of strong coffee, which generally propels me first to the bathroom and then to a high-speed writing jag which may or may not yield useful material. Then I look online for jobs: after the exhausting process of variously imagining myself working as a receptionist for a holistic veterinarian in the Outer Sunset, telemarketing for a dubious outfit in the Financial District or answering phones for a gay porn studio in the TL  I apply to a couple of vacancies and then turn swiftly to my Hopeful Mushroom project to jolly myself up.

I spend the next hour researching my ambitious idea for a slow food co-op which is also a storefront ambient café incorporating  gallery space, a weekly flea market, monthly underground party venue, possibly therapy rooms and a modest on-site mushroom farm. My research runs along the lines of legal requirements, organizational features of co-ops, possible funding and vacant commercial properties. I call this pipe dream project The Hopeful Mushroom because mycelia seems to me more optimistic than mostly everything else on the planet.

There are literally millions of species of fungi on this planet, around 150,000 of these are specifically identified as mushrooms , so far we’ve documented around 50,000 of them and managed to give around 14,000 their own names. Paul Stamets is probably the greatest living authority and advocate of mushroom-kind  and he believes that mushrooms suffer from a kind of ‘biological racism’ where many cultures regard mycelia as dangerous, ugly and potentially poisonous, while others have nurtured a love and respect for them and an awareness of the very positive benefits they give us. Stamets thinks that this biological racism might have grown from our ignorance at how mushrooms live and grow: contrary to popular belief, mushrooms don’t grow at night, its just that we notice where they have popped up in daylight. Mushrooms are everywhere, mycelia cover most of the landmass on the planet and some individual fungal mats cover thousands of acres and are hundreds of years old. Mycological research tells us that fungi are smart: the way that fungi react to sudden environmental changes is a testimony to their intelligence and awareness. When mycelia detect the bacteria E Coli in the soil the crystalline entities which live on the edge of the fungal mat send a chemical signal back to the mother mycelium that, in turn, generates a customized macro-crystal which attracts the motile bacteria by the thousands,  — the advancing mycelium then consume the dastardly E. coli, effectively eliminating them from the environment. Bioremediation techniques using mushrooms are just beginning to be utilized in human orchestrated ecological rehabilitation – take the phenomenal success of oyster mushrooms being employed to “eat” heavy oil – they do it and then internally neutralize the toxicity!

Mushrooms, in the form of saprophytic and parasitic fungi help create the organic components of topsoil and mushroom composting yields not just excellent dirt but will generate free tasty nutritional mushrooms, good to eat and to use medicinally. Stamets believes that the way mushrooms communicate with each other reveals them as a kind of Gaian Internet, and says that our current computer technology mimics their biological model of network integration. What more might this incredible life form be capable of ?  Maybe they can negate radioactivity as well as petroleum contamination.

Then of course there is the psychedelic dimension to consider: the far out fungi that McKenna and Wasson championed and believed had profoundly affected the development of consciousness in us precociously curious  humans. I am just a neophyte in the study of mycology and untrained in scientific thought it takes me a while to comprehend this kind of meaty discourse. Always ready to expand my scant knowledge I happily purchased Andy Letcher’s Shroom: A Cultural History of Magic Mushrooms ( Harper Perennial, 2007) last Christmas Eve. The colorful psychedelic cover led me to believe I’d scored the perfect gift for our friend Clancy, who likes a good read, but as he forgot to take it home with him after Christmas dinner I started to read it myself. Before I’d even finished Chapter One I realized that Letcher was on a mission to discredit the existence of a historic relationship between mushrooms and humans. Blatantly on page five he writes that “most all others before us have regarded them [magic mushrooms] as worthless”  and this is what the ensuing three hundred odd pages are dedicated to proving- that we contemporary psychonauts constitute the first “Mushroom People” and this amounts to nothing significant. What “we” believe or achieve never gets discussed but the midriff chapters wade through Letcher’s anti-psychedelic thesis which sets out to discredit the major psychedelic theories of the twentieth century. Gordon Wasson, the self-funded and published author who documented the pre-christian use of psilocybin by the cunanderos of Huatla, Mexico gets a vote of no confidence from Letcher. Wasson’s theories about psychedelic mushrooms being part of human’s religious consciousness are dismissed as Wasson’s lack of academic rigor are highlighted. Letcher manages to overlook that for Maria Sabina and her contemporaries to have been practicing pre-christian mushroom rituals in the 1950s the logical inference is that those rituals pre-date the Spanish conquest of Mexico in the 16th century. Because Wasson wasn’t an academic by profession doesn’t preclude him from having a good idea or two and as a wealthy banker he was able to fund research which otherwise might not have happened. Wasson was not summarily despised by all social and scientific theorists of the day, Claude Levi-Strauss was a supporter and so was Albert Hoffman. Terence McKenna was inspired by Wasson’s idea of early religious use of mushrooms and developed it further, continuing to research in the field and theorizing even more adventurously about the interrelationship of mycelia and men. Letcher doesn’t get deeply into McKenna’s many theories but he does rubbish his Timewave Zero algorithm which for him justifies writing McKenna off as little more than a talented “senarchie” a rather patronizing way of calling him a “storyteller”. Robert Graves, whose The White Goddess ( Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1948) attempted to grasp the origins of poetic expression and considers Druidic and other ancient belief systems is written off in academic terms entirely.

Letcher’s tone is politely apologetic as he breaks it to his readers that their mushroom experiences have no historic validity or corollaries. While he is obviously fascinated and even personally experienced in psychedelic research he cannot accommodate any kind of meaningful historic context, consoling us with many  amusing anecdotes of historic textual references to accidental ingestions. This doesn’t fly for me as Letcher’s own methodology is as flawed as the theorists he condemns as determinist: he accuses Wasson, McKenna, Graves et al for simply fitting their data to their pre-concieved ideas about human/mushroom history, he even accuses McKenna of enhancing the mushroom-like aspects of ancient cave art. However Letcher chooses to totally disregard existing archeological evidence and makes nothing meaningful of the continuing religious practices of indigenous cultures which use natural psychedelics. The archeological record continues to expand and advances in technology mean we can now retrieve more meaning from the data. Just a few weeks ago I read about the discovery of cave art near the Spanish town of Villar del Humo ( New Scientist, 6 March 2011) which shows a bull and a row of thirteen psilocybin mushrooms, carefully painted to show the species’ distinctive caps and characteristically twisted stems. It is not only actual evidence that Letcher ignores but current trends in archeology which acknowledge that our conception of history is colored by our own self-created human ethnology. Take for example  long-held ideas about the Roman conquest of Britain: native Britons have long been considered as having a much less developed civilization that their dominators who supposedly modernized the territory with innovations like their superior road-building skills. A recent archeological investigation in northern England exploring a stretch of Roman Road dug down and discovered that the road had actually existed several hundred years before the Romans arrived- thus the incursionists had merely resurfaced the highway. This new data reinterprets our view of history, now we regard the fact that many ancient pre-roman sites are found on pre-Roman routes differently and see that the Romans were working with existing structures. Similarly a recent excavation of an ancient British pre-Roman cemetery yielded funerary goods which demonstrate the technological sophistication of indigenous craftsmen as well as the far-reaching trade routes which imported Phoenician glassware and Italian pottery to these supposed barbarians. We have relied on the opinions expressed in the Roman texts to inform our own ideas about history which are now being challenged. Unfortunately new interpretations of  ancient history do not filter into mainstream consciousness quickly which is why the suppositions of  disenchanted hippies like Letcher are all the more problematic: we don’t need pseudo-intellectuals shutting doors that really original thinkers are nudging open for us. John W. Allen, author of the oldest guide to magic mushrooms, Magic Mushrooms of the Pacific Northwest ( Psilly Publications, 1976) which has sold over 100,000 copies  writes disparagingly of Letcher’s research:  Allen debunks the author’s unsubstantiated claims (eg. That English shroomers predated a modern North American tradition) and draws attention to many inaccuracies in Letcher’s 20th century timeline.

Personally, I keep an open mind to what may or mayn’t have transpired in the past, I believe humans will only survive if we are open-minded and do not cling sentimentally to ideas which may be irrelevant to us now. Our linear and human-centric apprehension  of world history needs close examination by vigorous thinkers ( not any chancer with a couple of doctorates, a word processor and the green light from a publisher fixated on potential best-seller material).

More useful ideas are voiced in  The TIME BEFORE History (Scribner, 1997) by Colin Tudge, a biologist who proposes we need to take a very long view of history to understand our human impact on the planet’s ecology over the last five million years. As Tudge points out, those civilizations which we consider ancient — the Assyrians, Eygptians etc are actually ‘modern civilizations’ coming along after our human trajectory of many thousands of years of existence on the planet.

There can be no justification for shutting down the creative suggestions of those who seek to understand our long-forgotten origins, our past which reveals itself in muddled mythological fragments. More thought-provoking than Letcher’s  revisionist denial of a psychedelic component in human history  is Alan Garner’s powerfully imagined novel Thursbitch (Vintage Books, 2007) a story about a remote English eighteenth century rural community which still uses standing stones as a seasonal almanac and pays respect to the unfathomable forces of nature through ingesting psilocybin.

And so to my lonely arugula, the sole occupant of my vegetable patch. When I’m feeling down I relate to it’s isolation, it’s bitter flavor, the unlikeliness of it ever becoming part of a tasty salad. Luckily I’m more of a hopeful mushroom type and just yesterday I planted two kale starts next to the lonely one. Underneath these three photosynthesizers the  dark earth teems with filaments of fungal mats: I was mistaken, that arugula was never lonely.

P.S. Clancy I have a copy of Thursbitch for you – merry chrimbo!

Art :

Maya Hayuk,  Mushrooms I-IV acrylic on paper   view more at  http://mayahayuk.com/

Books:

Andy Letcher,  Shroom: A Cultural History of the Magic Mushroom (Faber & Faber [U.K.] 2006 HarperPerennial/Ecco [U.S.] 2007)

Colin Tudge, The TIME BEFORE History: 5 Million Years of Human Impact ( Scribner, 1996)

Alan Garner, Thursbitch ( Vintage Books, 2007)

John W. Allen, Magic Mushrooms of the Pacific Northwest ( Psilly Publications, 1976, repub. Raver Books, 1997)

Robert Graves, The White Goddess ( Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1948)

Online sources:

Paul Stamets website MYCOVA

http://www.fungi.com/mycotech/mycova.html

“Earliest Evidence for Magic Mushroom use in Europe” 6 March, New Scientist

http://www.newscientist.com/article/mg20928025.400-earliest-evidence-for-magic-mushroom-use-in-europe.html

“What the Romans didn’t do for us” Mike Pitts, 16 March 2011

http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2011/mar/16/roman-road-made-by-britons?INTCMP=SRCH