When I was very young I used to go fishing with my step dad, John.  I sat beside him in a small metal boat as he demonstrated how to hook a worm. He was an experienced fisherman and made the gruesome business look simple, even painless (one two, one two, and through and through).  The worm hardly seemed to notice, it wriggled around exactly as it had been before being plucked from it’s tub of soil and now could tell if the wriggling meant anything at all.  And then it was my turn. I picked a worm at random from the tub. Perhaps my hands were too small or too clumsy bu pinching it between two fingers, as John had done, was not enough.  It took five fingers and all my concentration to contain its agonized writhing.  It, The Worm, who had no power whatsoever to comprehend its new position in the world, or to save itself from the imminent horrors about to be inflicted upon it. A worm is a simple thing, one imagines its desires are to stay moist and crawl around in dirt eating whatever worms eat. It found none of this clutched in my dry, salty, oily hands and it wished to return to a state where things made sense, a it’s home, where sensory data corresponded to established patterns allowing it to navigate  its would and flex it’s Will to Power. It would not hold still, so I held it tighter. The wrinkles circling its form inverted as the pressure in its body increased to the point of exceeding the strength one of it’s two ends, and all at once, all that was once contained within the skin of the worm was evacuated onto my thigh.

Something between a liquid soaking into my jeans, and solid, definite forms which once constituted a whole, still pulsing, still squirming with a purpose. The ruined pitiful creature still held its desires intact. Still held memories of moist, cool darkness, of safety somewhere beyond the salty claws of this idiot god who had arbitrarily chosen it for hell. It still fought. I sensed in its scattered constituents that this desire to return to that state of order, now fragmented, would, if added up, amount to and even more innocent desire, that to simply be whole again. to be gathered back up and placed back on its normal path. Never mind the distant home, it would gladly squirm in my hostile grip for the rest of its days so long as it could BE again.

“lets us return to that place where ‘we’ were called ‘I’. lets us return to that home where each of us worked together to make the a humble miracle squirm happy and free, where the burden and loneliness of individuation was and unknown unknown.”

That home which had been flung into the water by reflex and with a disgusted terror, and a girlish scream, to be devoured without hesitation by the fish down below. I stood up in the boat and nearly fell out frantically flapping my jeans, sending the former tenants down where, presumably, they faced even greater divisions before finally becoming parts of a new whole.

After watching the movie Night Catches Us I noticed two examples of ways in which the police or the feds (the ‘man’) exerted power over the African Americans. Both exertions were a means of control, and both were founded on a fiction.

First let me discuss the comic book, just so I can move past it more quickly. When we are first introduced to it we see it as a training manual for young Black Panthers, and then it is revealed to be a work of misinformation produced by the feds to incite young black people to violence against white power. By ‘white power’ I refer to the thoughts motivating the behaviors of those with power to control anyone who is identified (by someone who identifies them self as ‘white’ and who also has grown accustomed to a feeling of power) as ‘not-white’. Behaviors, which in any way (necessarily defined by someone who identifies them self as ‘not-white’) inhibits the freedom of a not-white (self identified) person.  The misinformation of the comic book is the first example of power being exerted over another, power to mislead a person into carrying out the desires of another (ask yourself why the feds would want black people to attack cops), and it is based on a deception.

The second is seen when the two police officers are questioning a young man while Jimmy (played by Amari Cheatom) watches from across the street. This play is much more precarious than the ostensibly anonymous distribution of propaganda comics, the two officers are taking for granted that anyone watching will be placed under the same spell as the man they are harassing. In this scene we see Jimmy in his proudest moment. He understands the magic at work (or appears to, more likely he is spitting truth fed to him by Iris (Jamara Griffin)) and stands above it and is intelligent enough to wield it properly to protect his fellow man. The magic at work is another deception, a weaker one than the comic book, not an out an out lie but rather a withholding of the truth.  Jimmy undoes their spell by revealing it for what it is – nothing, a puff of smoke, a fiction spun between two cops. He appeals to the power which the officers are agents of, and which they had misused. That is, Law. And expounded the truth which the officers had hoped to conceal, thereby arming his fellow man with the power to protect himself.

This protection is limited. Very limited. And Jimmy ruins it perfectly. After existing as the very definition to true power for less than a minute, he reveals his true nature as a petty, small minded man by insulting the officer. And we see a deeper truth begin to reveal itself before Jimmy is saved by the stranger doing a drive-by (perhaps this was planed by Jimmy, but I doubt it). The officer was prepared to beat the living shit out of Jimmy, and most likely his fellow man as well, and then arrest them both for what ever he wanted to arrest them for. And he would have gotten away with it, because the hideous truth revealed in that brief moment before the drive-by was that the only reason he had not already begun the beating was because Jimmy had temporarily dazzled him with his knowledge of the law and his fearlessness in confronting the cop. The power which produced the comic book, and which the cops attempted to abuse, is ultimately on side of the cops. That is, Law (though truly, the truth Jimmy exposes is deeper than law). A fiction agreed upon by the masses (once they are instructed on what to believe) and then instructed to believe it is truth. It is fiction. A puff of smoke. To affirm that it is real is a deception. To affirm that an action is ‘right’ or ‘true’ because it is ‘law’ is a deception.

Deception is a fear response.  It is seen in individuals who believe they cannot rely on truth, because if they did they would be without power. The deceptions used by the two officers, as well as the federal government in the production of the comic, exposes a fear in them of losing power. Indeed, it exposes that they are already powerless.  When Jimmy faces the officers he stands on truth alone, a thin ledge of truth perhaps but truth nonetheless, and thus he exemplifies true power. This truth is the simple fact that the man being harassed did not have to speak. A truth so obvious that the power embodying the two police officers allows for it. It has no choice, to claim that a person must speak to the police would be ridiculous. The illusion of power woven by makers and enforcers of Law would collapse. Sadly, the truth he stands on is overwhelmed by the fiction which protects and empowers the police. Jimmy’s truth is enough to take away the officer’s power to bully information out of the stranger across the street (without working up a sweat or risking any injury to himself, that is). He who had used deception to hide his powerlessness (to bully) then resorted to another fear response: anger.

His anger is evident as he strides across the street. He meets Jimmy with it hoping to get a reaction from him, producing the positive feedback loop is body is so hungry for, to release his anger, to exert that most primitive power to control another. Jimmy does not give him anything though, he stands upon truth alone, and the officer is cowed. His anger begins to deplete and then Jimmy, no doubt  giddy with his own power, the power of truth, the one true power, calls out to the officer, stoking his anger anew. I do not know if Jimmy understood the position he was in or not. If he did then he truly was asking for a beating, and no matter how true his position, he was asking for the officer to release his anger, perhaps to allow himself the same release.

It is important, however, that he does this very foolish thing. The film makers wanted us to see this microcosm, as abbreviated as possible in a crunch for time. This is the Black Panther movement in a nutshell. Jimmy starts the movie with a strongly held belief about police officers that they are violent pigs. No matter how justified that opinion is, it does not change the fact that the cop was walking away when Jimmy taunted him. Jimmy, through his own will alone, created his preconceived notion. After demonstrating the higher path, that which was chosen by wiser activists such as Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr., he showed what happens when you stray from that path and meet force with force: needless violence. Iris’ husband learned this lesson the hard way, and all the people who survive him have learned it too. All except Jimmy, who had to learn it himself, to show us. This truth, allows them to thrive in a hostile environment which proved too devious and complex for Jimmy.

Anger and Deception, both responses to the emotion Fear, a loss of power, however trivial, both attempts to take away that painful feeling.  Ask yourselves, brothers and sisters, the next time you meet these two exertions of power: “what is the fear behind this behavior?”  Understanding this will allow you to see the true power at work, as Jimmy did when he saw the officers harassing the other man. I hope you will have the strength of will to stand upon that truth and not give in, as Jimmy did, to the temptation of attempting to exerting power over someone who is already in a state of fear based anger, attempting to control the officer, to make him attack, and succeeding.  Justifying, for the officer, his own attempts to control others amplifying and affirming his anger. Do not forget, brothers, sisters, as Jimmy did (I think) that this truth upon which you stand can be precarious. The power of truth can be wholey eclipsed by the power of fiction. But fiction stands upon belief, which stands upon a persons will to believe. Truth stands upon nothing, it is its own foundation, and it remains even despite any number of opinions to the contrary.

When I was very young I used to go fishing with my step dad, John.  I sat beside him in a small metal boat as he demonstrated how to hook a worm. He was an experienced fisherman and made the gruesome business look simple, even painless (one two, one two, and through and through).  The worm hardly seemed to notice, it wriggled around exactly as it had been before being plucked from it’s tub of soil and impaled on a hook. None could tell if the wriggling meant anything at all.  He dropped his hook into the water and it was my turn. I picked a worm at random from the tub. Perhaps my hands were too small or too clumsy but pinching it between two fingers, as John had done, was not enough.  It took five fingers and all my concentration to contain its agonized writhing.  It, The Worm, who had no power whatsoever to comprehend its new position in the world, or to save itself from the imminent horrors about to be inflicted upon it, squirmed frantically. A worm is a simple thing, one imagines its desires are to stay moist and crawl around in dirt eating whatever worms eat. It found none of this clutched in my dry, salty, hands. It wished to return to a state where things made sense, it’s home, where sensory data corresponded to established patterns allowing it to navigate  its would and flex it’s Will to Power. It would not hold still, so I held it tighter. The wrinkles circling its form inverted as the pressure in its body increased to the point of exceeding the strength of one of it’s two ends, and all at once, all that was once contained within the skin of the worm was evacuated onto my thigh.

Something between a liquid soaking into my jeans, and solid, definite forms which once constituted a whole, still pulsing, still squirming with a purpose. The ruined pitiful creature still held its desires intact. Still held memories of moist, cool darkness, of safety somewhere beyond the salty claws of this idiot god who had arbitrarily chosen it for hell. It still fought. I sensed in its scattered constituents that this desire to return to that state of order, now fragmented, would, if added up, amount to an even more innocent desire- that to simply be whole again. to be gathered back up and placed back on its normal path. Never mind that distant home, it would gladly squirm in my hostile grip for the rest of its days so long as it could BE again.

“lets us return to that place where ‘we’ were called ‘I’. lets us return to that home where each of us worked together to make a humble miracle squirm happy and free, where the burden and loneliness of individuation was an unknown unknown.”

That home which had been flung into the water by reflex and with a disgusted terror, and a girlish scream, to be devoured without hesitation by the fish down below. I stood up in the boat and nearly fell out frantically flapping my jeans, sending the former tenants down where, presumably, they faced even greater divisions before finally becoming parts of a new whole.

Often I have wished to disappear. This strange attraction pulls me into my own mind and distances me from people around me. I have told myself that this is necessary in order to gain a greater perspective on people in general. It is a feeling I have associated with gravity, and I’m still not sure why. It feels as inescapable as gravity, like it existed before me and I am merely a means for it to express itself. It begins with a kind of sleepiness which I must submit to at least to the extent of closing my eyes. At this point I can still listen to the world around me, or to music, but my mind is free from the visual data which just ever ends and is constantly diverting my attention, against my will, to the sway of trees, the flight of birds and bugs, the shapes of bodies around me, the way they move and what I can learn from this about the shape of their truest form.

The truest form– which I can never know in anyone other than myself, and thus I am drawn deeper, searching for my own truest self so that I might imagine that others are something similar. I disassociate with my body, my brain, and recognize that my thoughts are a ‘truer’ form of myself than my body, which I have had only very limited control in shaping. And my thoughts, what are the origins of these? I do not believe that I began as a ‘tabula rasa’ I have certain needs which have been on my mind, in some form or another, from the very beginning, and a will to meet these needs, even if at first, and for a long time, I could not name them and had no idea how to meet them. This frustration made me scream and cry and thus I discovered my very first means of satisfaction. Before language held any meaning for me, before the sensory data had been cataloged to any degree to be dissected and analysed. Before I had ‘thought’.

My thoughts are a truer form of me, but not the truest. Thoughts and behaviors are like plants which must be planted as a seed and allowed time to grow, if they are nurtured, or whither if not. I have the power, and the power has me, to choose which thoughts are nurtured and which are not, I don’t know how I can make such a decision without basing my opinion on preconceived notions. When I started, anything that helped me get what I felt like I needed was ‘good’ and almost anything else was ‘bad’. I cannot help what thoughts are planted in my mind, I can never rip them out completely, I can only starve them until they are too weak to move me.

Where did my desire to disappear come from? I can not say. I’m sure it began as something unrecognizable to whatever it can be called today. And over time it was nourished without my being aware of it. It crept up on me and by the time I could see it for what it was, we were indivisible. Now any attempt made by me to starve this thing resembles a battle field, more than a garden, where I am the loser more often than not.

This entry has gone on long enough and I’m still not sure how to bring it to the point I originally set out to make, so I’ll end it here and build upon this later.

The sun was warm, the wind was cold and I was laying on my back on top of a grassy hill watching the clouds coalesce, drift, collide, and disperse, in their ceaseless, nebulous dance. I stared straight upward at the zenith of the sky as I had not done since I was very young, when I would lay in the back yard of my mother’s house and, looking up into the darkest center of the sky, and tracing a line down to the horizon, I had to wonder how anyone could have ever believed the earth was flat.

And then waves of frantic, energetic music swept across the square. A violin, with two deep beats of a bass drum punctuating at regular intervals. The kind of music which calls to attention anyone and everyone it reaches and demands that they be present in this moment and observe the visceral reality of it.  The kind of music which usurps your thoughts, the kind of beat which reigns your heart into step. I looked toward the sun and could almost feel my body being swung around it in space, as it has done nearly twenty seven times already since I emerged and began my observations, and as it will continue to do, after my observations have ceased, for such epochs as my mind will never be able to comprehend. Such lengths of time had passed before I began and such lengths will pass after I’m gone as to make my life, and this moment, seem so infinitesimally brief. I can not help but inhale the cool air, stretch my muscles and tendons, soak in the light of that beautiful and terrible source of all motion on the surface of this great ball of coagulated energy, and exhale a long slow sigh in the form of the deepest gratitude a mind can muster that I could be awake in this passing moment, in this ever changing place. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to believe that it would last forever.

And the music stops.