Upside the Apex

/ DeCentral /

Hierarchical organizations, the natural not always easily distinguished from the artificial, has long been a major pk theme. My Judgment Day story for example features the triangle shape of civilized organizations from kleptocracy to monotheism: the hoi polloi form a broad base, God is at the apex.

vertical organization
thanx the-tribulation-network

Think of the earth / heaven / God verticality of Renaissance to Mannerist painting: hell is broad, earth is not quite as broad, a heaven of clouds is narrower, and God’s at the tippy top. I’ll find a better illustration (my youth was spent steeped in pyramid symbolism: today’s atheist internet seems never to have heard of it. Think Dante’s universe: devils at the broad bottom, many many devils; then the human damned, devils crawling up their ass;

Bosch hell
thanx wga

… then humans; then angles, lounging in clouds … then Beatrice, heaven … and God.

all seeing eye
thanx crystalinks

Everyone is familiar with this, right? You should be if you’re not. The pattern may be used to model thought system after thought system: I spent a few minutes with a funny one yesterday: a Marx-derived hierarchy of capitalism!

hierarchy of capitalism
thanx zazzle

Labor is at the bottom, very broad; power is at the top, quite narrow. (Way high up are the professions, experts who “lie to us”: and at the very top we find William Blake’s God: a god of lies.
(No, wait, I said that without looking at the image: at the very top is the US god: a bag of money!

OK: one more image and I can try to make my point:

double bipod arch
thanx crystalinks

There. We’ve got the AllSeeingEye at the top — we’re in Egyptian theology here: Masons and so forth would have got rid of the insufferable God of their youths without changing the picture by more than a millimeter!
But look: we’re got a two-sided “triangle”, apex up: and another: apex down!

Absorb that for a moment, continue when you’re ready. The apex at the top is the obverse interpretation of the symbol: but anything that can be shown one way can also be shown another: the shadow is sometimes not visible but never altogether lost. Come at it again, from a familiar angle: I’m writing in American, the US: we’re cultural children, inheritors of British culture: British imperialism, British cosmology … British values. God is at the top: But: we’re never really talking about God; we’re talking about the king. We’re talking divine right of kings. King James was steeped in this propaganda that made him semi-divine, which legitimized his power, his authority. The 17th Century lost it, then got it back again.

Once again: clear as clear: at the bottom we have the ordinary: then, like a child going through school’s magical twelve grades, we have the “better” then, “better and better”, we have the saints in the clouds, mixing with angels: then archangels … then, at the very top, nothing higher, we have God.

Except …
Wait a moment, think this through with me carefully: come at it again, from a side angle:
at the bottom you have the peasant, he makes the food, has no say in it. Then there are the managers, then the royals, eventually, the king, then God: so long as the barons and the king and the god don’t piss off too many peasants. Because, if they do, the king will learn very fast, and the Sheriff of Nottingham along with him, as the whole thing tumbles down, glonk, crash. the peasants are really above the king and above the God: hell is full of gods the peasants had already gotten rid of, vetoed, over-ruled.

It’s a triangle? Look better: it’s two triangles: there’s a strong one, an obvious one; then there’s the upside down one, the real one, the immortal one.

But never ever forget: these are human models. No matter what we think, say, draw, teach, reality is reality. The cigarettes are killing you or they’re not, it doesn’t matter what the doctor says: he said the opposite last year.

We can all pin gold stars on our forehead for being so smart. But if we’re really too stupid to live, too dishonest to draw anything truthfully, we’re on our way to hell in a hand basket no matter what hymns we’re singing. And when we’re dumped, hard, into extinctions’s heap, another damn stupid wasted experiment, it won’t matter what lovely Tintorettos we were looking at as we fooled ourselves.

DeCentral Menu DeGate! Deschool Menu
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Poetry Scrapbook

Chat / Favorites / Art / Literature /

I share something I just learned about John Keats: his poem Bright Star, which the movie Bright Star shows him writing for and giving to his girlfriend, Fanny Brawne, he had earlier written for and given to his girlfriend, Isabella Jones! Apparently the latter was his first girlfriend; Fanny Brawne was the second, and last (since he died thereafter).

Jan and I really loved this movie. Ben Whishaw is an amazing actor, Abbie Cornish was comparably suitable as Fanny Brawne. Best of all was how resonant the selected poems were as read, especially at the end, where contexts shimmered.

I also want to share a Keats memory or two. In high school Keats was my favorite poet. In college John Donne was my favorite poet. I mentioned Keats to my Donne teacher, James Zito. Zito scoffed dismissively. I defended Keats: told Zito, “In high school, Keats was my favorite poet.” “Mine too”, Zito rejoined, “but we outgrow that”.

I read some Keats to Jan five years ago, when we were first reading together. Read La Belle Dame Sans Merci and it’s the greatest lyric: until you read Kublai Khan, Coleridge, and it’s the greatest poem, ever, impossibly great. Until you remember Shakespeare, or Milton … Bright Star depicts Keats’ friend Brown mocking Fanny Brawne and her ambition to study poetry under Keats all at once: Brown asks Fanny if she didn’t find Milton’s rimes too something-or-other, trying to trap her: then he declares, Milton didn’t uses any rimes. But he did! magnificently! just not in the epics. Read Milton’s sonnets, of course they’re rimed.

Anyway, I’m grateful to Bright Star for reminding me of the major poems of Keats: and for showing us some biography (which I’d known superficially to not at all). Now I’ll read all those featured Keats poems to Jan again. I keep saying I’m ready to die. We just watched Keats preparing to die, and dying. Jan, 83 1/2, is aching and paining: but I say, Wait, hold off on both of us: we gotta reread this Keats. And I have to make love to her yet again.

PS The movie showed us bits and pieces of a bunch of those Romantics: Severn, Leigh Hunt Shelley, Byron … Not long ago Jan and I saw Hunt fictionalized insultingly by Dickens, in Bleak House, and I don’t doubt he deserved it, or much of it; but last night I reminded Jan who Hunt was, quoted Jenny Kissed Me to her! Now that is an immortality-maker right there! Until you realize, if you realize, how much great poetry (and bad poetry, and ordinary poetry) we don’t know, don’t know that we don’t know: ’cause it got sabotaged, blotted, not published, not repeated … censored …

But you know, even in heaven, for those of us who get to heaven, however many persecuted thinkers, writers, and poets are included in God’s heaven-library, there will still be no telling, how incomplete that library is. We certainly don’t know the scope of the cosmos: how could we know how complete or incomplete God’s sense is? Because he told us?
Actually, maybe God didn’t tell us anything: all his lines are written by us.
And when he corrects us, how should we understand the correction?

I don’t know. Neither do you. But I know this: a lot of that Keats is inconceivably wonderful.

Literature Literature (Chat)
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I keep dozens of scrapbooks here, a dozen or so of them I made “monthlies”: that is, I dated them the first of the month, updating the fictional date each month. But now I’ll keep just one: this one. Here I’ll jot notes to be further developed, maybe elsewhen, maybe moved elsewhere. This is, some may promote to modules; others may remain entries in scrapbooks.

Baroness James
/Movies /
I’ve loved Jane Austen since high school, who doesn’t? The major stuff I’ve read and re-read (though not in recent decades). The minor stuff I’ve seen BBC versions of: again and again. So have you, so has everyone: in the English(&American)-dominant world.
But now Jan and I came upon something new: to me. Death Comes to Pemberly. PD James penned a sequel to Pride & Prejudice! A TV series.

I’ve clarified elsewhere, I repeat here: I’ve never been much of a mystery reader. I read Sherlock Holmes as a kid, by the end of high school I was finding fault with it, fed up: the “rationality” was fake: rational people wouldn’t have been fooled. In college though I started conscious readings of American hard-boiled fiction. We all knew it from the movies: The Maltese Falcon, The Big Sleep … Now I was reading and rereading this stuff.
My mother, my sister, still read Doyle: and also read Agatha Christie, Hercule Poirot … Not me, that was silly fiction, chick dreck: chichi. So: PD James career came and went without my being aware of it, except as a genre, a sub-breed.

Now: writing a sequel to Jane Austen takes some chutzpah in this world, some balls, or some major stupidity. (It’s like me when I announced that my PhD thesis would be on Shakespeare! Don’t be a fool (tamper with the sacred at your peril).) (Of course it didn’t matter what my thesis argued; no one heard the argument!) (Like no one would hear me if I took holy orders, then tried to convince cardinals and pope that God should best be addressed as “Mildred”. The Times won’t be aware you ever said anything. Neither will the Vatican, or the Library of Congress.)
But James got away with it. She was already established. (Pretty funny: cause if you read her encyclopedia bio (as I just did at wikipedia), she had a very unlikely career: rose despite, not because-of. So: lucky us, bravo for her, bravo for BBC …

Illusion of authenticity
It ain’t just English teachers who’ll recognize Austen’s tone: especially with Pride & Prejudice! That’s one of the best loved works, ever. The TV Pemberly begins. Ah, there’s Elizabeth, there’s a sister, and another. That one’s the dumb whore, now here comes Jane. There’s Mrs. Bennett, Mr. Bennett. Ah, there’s Darcy, and Pemberly. We know, and love, all this stuff.
The diction lulls us with familiarity. There’ll be the oddball here and there, like me, who wonders what these kleptocrats have invested in, where do they get off feeling superior? They fool themselves, they fool the servants … Some Austen movie of recent decades did that: uncovering drawings of abuse, rape, of slaves: sugar plantation: all that money, all that hypocrisy … These damn Chrisitians … And look: they’re utterly confident, can’t imagine alternatives, that their kleptocracy will sustain, endure.
See what I mean? We’re rolling merrily along … then, it starts to change. No, this isn’t Austen, the tone isn’t right. The actors are the same, the architecture is the same. Superficially the culture, the persons, are the same; but they’re not. Suddenly there’s a death, presumably a murder: here comes a bureaucracy! a magistrate, a sheriff. Darcy isn’t in charge, and Elisabeth with him; some magistrate can replace intelligence and judgment with impatience and stupidity.

Here’s a diction example: see what you think, add a comment, email …
Somebody says “soldiering for king and country is never foolish”.

Austen never wrote that! Did she! Maybe Baroness James wrote that, maybe the BBC wrote that … Maybe it slipped past most viewers, morons all, or nearly all. It stuck in my craw. Am I the only one?
Le mot (in)juste.

That’s post-WW I; not pre-Victorian. I’n it?

I’ll try to remember to re-date this the first of each month, making it a “monthly”.

I’ve categorized this file as / Personal and / Teaching: it’s a passim mix.


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Pseudo Names

/ HierCon / Neighbors /

OK, I surrender. Naming names has not only hurt me all my life, it’s hurt those close to me. It hasn’t hurt those named; it’s hurt me: and my son, my love … The Nazis lock up the queer, the gypsy, the Jew: the Jew may say, “It was Hitler, it was Goebbels …” Does it do the Jew any good? Does it do Hitler any harm?

“You’re a truth teller”, the federally appointed pubic defender told me in jail. February, 2007, jailed since October 2006. “And I’m going to go to hell forever”, he added. The first part of the statement told me nothing I didn’t know. Neither did the second. What Dave didn’t tell me was what was most immediately important: but he didn’t have to tell me: I knew! and he knew I knew. He would expend not one calorie of effort passing my truths on to the court: the truth was and always had been barred from that bar: or any other bar. The court was there to rehearse flattering myths, not to probe reality. The court was put there, power plays, to protect the kleptocracy, to misrepresent its nature; not to advance science. Same reason the schools were put there, and the NY Times.

The court had followed suit from the FBI already not allowing one relevant fact about me to be established. There we were, the lawyer, Dave, and I: in a deep refrigerated dungeon. He was warmly dressed, I was in prison cottons: shiver, tremble. We were alone in the cell (but it could have been bugged for all I know). I’d been sent there under the supervision of guards: Dave could come and go in that jail. When Dave came, the guards would announce, “So-and-So” (in this case, Knatz, “your lawyer is here”. The bars between me and the corridor pop open, they ring back closed behind me.

I don’t say, “It was Hitler, it was Goebbels”. I don’t even say It was Washington, it was Lincoln” (I do say “It was Thomas Mann …”)

Never mind. I hereby, this day, Good morning, 2015 02 21, alter my practice of naming names. Come to me, and ask: I’ll tell you (It was Johnson, it was Nixon), but here at, the pKnatz blog, I’ll henceforth falsify the name. If it was the US, I won’t say it was the US; I’ll say it was “We”. a fiction.

Actually, this isn’t altogether new to me. For fifteen or so years I told sex stories online. If a girl named Molly suggested we take all our clothes off when we were eight or nine years old, I, telling the story, would say it was “Bonny”. Molly was bonny: literal meaning “cute”. But I renamed all the cute girls Bonny. (One or two I called “Heidi”: in tribute to a real Heidi: an utterly arresting twelve year old, from 1978).

So: the US put me in jail; I said, “The US put me in jail”. But now I’ll say, “We did it.” No longer will I say “US”, naming real names; henceforth I’ll say “We”, a suggestive fiction.

Here’s what happened: yesterday Jan wanted to go dancing at a dance center featuring a great swing band, a big band, The Golden Era Band. The dance was held in a hall owned by a guy I’d recently been implicating in reckless, dangerous, immoral activities: a big guy, a guy known to get into fist fights: a guy I don’t trust an inch, a guy who doesn’t play fair. I felt compelled to warn Jan that I’d been telling these stories, that the guy’s minions had signaled me that they were aware of it, an associate I know had sent the signal … I warned Jan that if somebody came up behind me with a 2X4, and split my head like a melon, that she should understand what was going on. Demand our money back, and, quick, get out of there.

Now, Jan knows me. Jan knows me better than anyone around these days. But: Jan doesn’t pass on what she knows. As soon as Jan tries to pass the truths to a friend, she too gets it in the neck. What does she want? the truth that gets people crucified? or to keep her life-long friends as friends. They’ll all abandon her is she admists much truth telling. Jan knows (as I too have always known) that the world doesn’t support name disclosures, not while the names are in power: you can say Hitler did it after the Reich has lost the war; don’t say it while the Reich still controls the blitzkrieg, the death camps …

Anyway, last night I promised Jan that I’d review my writing and consider toning it down a bit: not for the sake of We, and not for my sake; for her sake: for Jan’s sake. For her comfort and sense of security. I don’t fit in this world, but she does fit, is comfortable. She had been before he met me at least.

She goes through a lot, being my girlfriend. Now I guess it’s finally more important to me that she be spared seeing me murdered than it is to tell the truth, to name names.

No, Jan: it wasn’t Molly, it was Bonny. It wasn’t US; We did it.

I’m gonna go through my reports and rename villains. Ask me, and I’ll supply real names. I’m just no longer advertising them. Not while they’re in a position to murder me in front of her.

I promised God to do what I’ve done: or tried to do, been prevented from doing. I regarded the promise as also meaning that I would tell about it: and about the preventions. But: I’m 76 and 1/2 years old. I’m falling apart, so is Jan. … Sorry, God: I’ll still make the reports, but at least in the naming department, I’m retired.

Remember the radio drama cliche that “the names are changed to protect the innocent”? I’m changing names to protect the guilty: who don’t need my protection, they already run what’s left of the world. The innocent have never been protected, never will be, not so long as the mislabelers coerce us into their schools, their managed markets, their media fairyland. So: I’m changing names in hope, beyond my control, of protecting Jan’s peace of mind. Nothing but her peace of mind is worth protecting.

Defender Dave
There’s an example: Dave was his real name, but I don’t give his full name, not his last name, no surname. Similarly I give his role but withhold his title. Go ahead, try looking up “Dave” in a federal pubic defenders registry. But come to me, ask. I’ll give you his full name, I’ll give your his address, and telephone.

I also freely confess that I liked him. That he was non-the-less a criminal was no news to me.

Garble to get edited
1 + 1 may = 2. But 2 + 1 may not equal 3. It depends on what the message is. Huxley understood some essentials of Darwin. But Wilberforce would not allow the message to be received further than that.
Eventually it did get received, by some, but no thanks to the Church and its Wilberforces. Thanks to this and that professor in this and that university; but not thanks to professors, or universities, who pretty much are cousins to Wilberforce.
Jan actually feared losing her oldest friend once she tried to tell that friend who her new boyfriend was!
Timid head pulled back into the vulnerable shell, nothing is learned.

Truth Against Our Religion
We tell of the Passion. We already knew what the Roman empire was like. We already knew they took the Persian torture and crucified by the thousand. Our churches tell that truth. But then our churches tell that we’re different!
pk says, from experience, No, we’re not. In evil essentials, we’re exactly the same. Caesar is still on the throne, it doesn’t matter what the News headlines. And Caesar will always back the Temple over the money-tables turner.
And their thugs, having gone to school, think they’re protecting the “good”. Sure, we crack a few skulls: it’s for the Good.

Bible? Mis-transcription defended. Mis-interpretation enthroned.

Stories Hierarchy vs. Conviviality Stories
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pk the (Senior) Dancer

/ Neighbors / Highlands Dancing / Schiz Center

I have Who’s-pk? modules and pk-the-Dancer modules and blah-blah-pk modules all over the place. pk-the-Dancer modules I’ll import from a couple of dance blogs. Meantime, here’s one written yesterday for right here. I’ll trim, combine, smooth transplanted prose later.

Something very important happened though. By week two of frustrated pk attending the Senior Dance I’d vowed to myself that I would resume ballroom dancing. I would dance with some of these old gals. pk, the Best Dancer of South Side High School, 1956 (actually, the best dancer in Rockville Centre since 1950, when I first learned) would shelve his having quit ballroom dancing while still in junior high school, for reasons I’ll quick list in a moment, would use his rhythm, his athleticism, his flexible joints to wow some old gals until I found the right one. Meantime, I’d make up for Catherine’s death, and jail, by sleeping with every widow in Highlands County.

pk the Dancer

I should take a moment to tell about my dancing history. In the sixth grade my school offered a dance class. A dozen and a half of us gathered in the grammar school gym. Some guy set up a player on a table, showed us a basic box step, and played Tea for Two, over and over while we drilled the box step. The fox trot came first. He also showed us the basic waltz step, a lindy, maybe there was a rhumba in there, and we were all getting it OK, the boys and the girls precisely paired … I was not one whit better than anybody else, neither was I worse. Until:
I can’t say whether it was a first week or a second week, at some point the Tea for Two guy showed us a basic Charleston step: forward, back; back, forward. We got it. We all got it. He put on the Charleston, and drilled us.
OK, he said. Now, add a little style!
And he began angling his ankles, showing us how it could swing.
pk imitated. Within seconds I discovered that my ankles could pretend they were rubber. I had no joints, but didn’t fall down.
The dance teacher went berserk. “You’ve got it!” he said, fixed on me alone. “You’ve really got it!”
The next thing I know we’re sent to a dance at another grammar school. We’re fed into a gym, gigantic, like a high school gym, not at all like the little constricted space where our lessons had been held at the Morris School. All the boys gathered against one wall, sub-clumped by which of several grade schools we were from. The girls distributed themselves similarly against the opposite wall. Some teachers had set up a player. They played a fox trot. All the boys stayed one one side, all the girls on the other. I remember distinctly how we boys turned our backs on the record player. No way would anyone ever dance at this dance.
The teachers continued to strike out. Until someone put on a Charleston!
The energy in the room changed. Some of my Morris school guys suddenly ran off toward another boy-clump. Some kid was extracted from that group. That kid was shoved toward the girls’ side. A “guard” grabbed a little girl, and dragged her across the hall, shoved her in front of me. “This is Doralee, she can charleston.”
Standing in front of me, cute as could be, was this little girl. I’d soon learn, she wasn’t even in the sixth grade, but she was a dancer, specially recruited from the fifth grade of our host school.
Doraess smiled at me: trained: the guy leads. I was the guy.
I launched my charleston. Dorelee matched me, swivel for swivel.
My crown of guys attacked the teachers at the record player. Start it over again, they begged. The teachers complied.
Doralee and I also started over again, but we allowed ourselves to be manoevered toward the center of the gym. Other kids formed couples. There were a half a dozen brave couples doing the charleston. But then they all stopped. They saw Paul and Doraless. They formed a big circle around us. The circle clapped, in rhythm.
Doralee was already famous at this other school. But as of that first chareston, Doralee and Paul were famous. She and I had been drafted for each other. Sure enough, we continued to dance as a couple, all the dances.
Our Morris School Tea for Two teacher had told us to “style it”: I styled everything thereafter. And Doralee showed perfect pitch for my brain waves. I started to think something, she did it, with me, in perfect synch.

pk with Doralee early 1950s
early 1950s

Doralee had already been trained for years. Her fame had spread beyond Rockville Centre. Doralee would be invited to dance at dances all around the New York metropolitan area. She was developing a solo repertoire. She’d be invited to a dance as a pro, the entertainment. They’d pause the dance, introduce her, she’d appear in some little costume, with a little set, a couple of props. Part of Doralee’s payment was that she could bring an escort. That was me. I dance as Doralee’s ballroom partner at a series of other town’s highschool dances. That contined for years.

Meantime: I was already a jazz nut. Maybe that’s why I was able to charleston so. Or maybe that’s why I’d been destined to be a jazz nut in the first place. The rhythm was wired into me, I heard the sixteenth notes in my marrow.

(This past New Years I was dancing with a new friend, a dance fiend, probably in her early sixties. Shirley has assured Jan that she’s harmless, she just wants to be allowed to dance a couple of dances with me. So: we’re dancing. Shirley says she loves to feel someone feel the rhythm, and “No one feels the rhythm like me!”)

OK. There’s two elements: I can dance, I love jazz.
But: this is 1950, 1951 … I graduate from dixieland to swing, from swing to modern jazz. I’m just a kid, I pick up the culture. And the modern jazz culture is to be intellectual: jazz Puritans. We don’t dance, we listen, we concentrate, sucking in cigarette smoke: we worship the nuances in our minds: like Quakers foregoing all the pomp and ritual, gold and lace, of the Church of England. So:
I dance, and expressed the rhythm, everywhere, with my whole body, mind, spirit; I was embarrassed to. I resisted. Schiz culture, the Puritan was at war with the sensualist.

The kicker came with puberty.

Before Elvis Presley astonished the world over TV, pk was already rubber-ankles and wiggle-hips to an embarrassing extent on the dance floor. When Elvis did appear, kids came up to me to make sure that I knew that the world was providing me with competition.
Understand, back home, around 1955, Elvis got a lot of flack. His performances bordered on obscene. They transgressed. Girls liked it, their parents put them under house arrest.

When I first danced, people were drawn to me. But by 1953, 1954 people with drawing back. There was a backlash. We were all part of it. I too drew back.

Meantime, Dorelee became fourteen years old. Now she was getting invited to dance in Las Vegas. Frank Sinatra wanted her. Doralee went off into the big world. I danced with other girls …

But: I found that I couldn’t!
Other girls repelled me. On the dance floor. And off! No other girls was half as cute as Doralee!
I have yet to mention what was worst. Dancing with other girls showed me that I didn’t know how to lead!
Doraless knew what I was going to do before I did. My “lead” was mental, unconscious: psycho-kinetic: stuff for the X Files.

Long before I was named Best Dancer in my year book I had stopped dancing. I was everyone’s memory of a best-dancer.

So: it’s 2008. I attend the Senior Dance. I’m now seventy years old! I’m broke, broken. “80%” of the old folks at the Senior Dance want me back in jail, buried. Don’t tell them who I really am, they absolutely won’t allow it. Persecutors’ persecutions being “wrong” only serve to goad the persecutors to persecute harder. “20%” don’t want to torture me, but they don’t want to buck the tide either. And they’re certainly not going to listen to any testimonies about kleptocracy. (Crazy Horse wasn’t listened to, neither was Sutter! How many Americans will sit still to hear that we stole from a white man: not just injuns and blacks (and chinks and wops) …)

Schiz Center

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Ann, Beautiful Boss

/ Neighbors / Highlands Dancing / Schiz Center

Ann is wonderful. She’s cute, she’s beautiful, she’s energetic, non-stop, really funny. She’s also crazy, vulnerable, a chaos of uncoordinated drugs. My understanding is that the drugs got funneled to her by doctors, hospitals, going back three decades or so, with no one, least of all the doctors, knowing which ones are active. It’s like your doctor(s), your bartender(s), your pusher(s) all supply you but without knowing, let alone talking to, each other.

My stories are from five to seven years ago (and more), not current. But I doubt if much has changed.

Stretcher Boss
Ann never stops working, supervising, bossing. The she collapses, falls on the floor. Someone calls 911. Here comes the ambulance. Ann is getting hauled away. Does she know to be a good patient? to go passive? to leave everything up to the ER team? No: there’s Ann, sitting up on the gurney they’re trying to strap her to. What’s she doing? She’s directing everyone: Her Senior Dance friends and volunteers, the ER guys … I stand there, Joe stands there, laughing (lovingly), shaking our heads.

Funny Ann
It’s a Tuesday. I’m part of the teach setting the hall up for Wednesday’s dance and luncheon. Joe, a nice tallish guy is there, one of the “usual suspects”. There’s a buxom young blond, I don’t remember her name, I’ll call her Betty. We’ve set up the tables, placed the chairs. Ann says, You’re all doing great, let’s take a break. Ann sits at the table where Betty is seated. Joe and I join them. A half a dozen of us are at the table. Millie is there. Ann says, “Betty, the boys are getting bored: why don’t you take off your blouse.”
Betty doesn’t even blink. Joe and I blush. Another Tuesday at Senior Dance.
Go to the Devil
Ann is blusering, picking on Joe. Finally Joe calls her bluff: “Oh, go to the devil,” he joshes.
“The devil?” Ann squawks. “The devil? I’ll show you the devil!” And Ann lays on the floor on her side, checks where each of us is located, makes her calculations, rolls her jeans down over one buttock … Christmas! she’s not wearing any underwear! And there, tattooed on her butt, in multicolors, green, red, brown, is a cartoon of the Devil, with his pitchfork and a fiendish grin!
An amazing performance. Somehow she’d managed to show her private, impudent tattoo, and, yes, some buttock, but only a little: nothing obscene, or illegal. She knew where everything was, everything that should remain secret, and she kept it out of sight.
I watched Audrey Hepburn do Hollygolightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s last night. Audrey climbs all over George Peppard in nothing but the light robe she’s climbed up the fire escape in. Nothing’s tied, nothing’s buttoned, but somehow, just barely, nothing shows!
Ann is cute as the devil, she’s been in movies even if only as a decorative extra: she’s a beauty who knows exactly where everything is and who will see what. Bravo.

Always Pay
I tell another favorite Ann moment. The Senior Dance had had three music periods: one dance band from 10 to noon, another from 1 to 3. Lois, 90-odd year old widow of a popular dance band leader accompanied the lunch hour on her piano. (More Wednesdays than not I would carry her keyboard from her car for her and back again at the end of the day.) But now with my line dance lessons, there was a fourth period which required music. I could make CDs of line dance songs: Joyce, the Thursdays line dance leader at the Lake Placid American Legion had hundreds of recordings, she copied for me anything I asked of her. What we still needed thought was a player. So Senior Dance and I went to KMart together to see what was on offer. Senior Dance had the Senior Dance credit card.
KMart had a couple of CD players on display, marked around $30. Our error proved to be that there was no way to test if the cheap player would be heard as the hall filled up with people and noise; but at that moment we were just looking for a KMart clerk or section chief who could answer other questions, I forget which questions. No one was at the cash register, no one was visible in any of the nearby aisles. “Five minutes,” Ann said, “and I bill them.”
Huh. “Five minutes,” Ann repeated. “If KMart personnel don’t appear within five minutes, you can charge them for wasting your valuable time. I bill them at $100/hour. And they always pay!”
You gotta picture Ann. She’s hardly bigger than your thumb. Cute as a button, pretty as a picture, long soft blond hair, nice features, all the right curves, right where they belong; but a tough little broad. Don’t fool with her.
If her husband didn’t fool with her, I wouldn’t be here now personally ignoring my own advice.
Anyway, to complete the stage: Ann said, you need to have professional stationary: like the Senior Dance. Bill them for a half hour of wasted time, $50. Say “thirty days”. They always pay, she promised.
I never saw the check, I never sent my own bills (too broke to buy a stamp). But I believe her. Then and now.

Ann is a natural leader but with a serious fault: she monopolizes power, doesn’t delegate. That is she delegates function but not authority. I could teach the line dancing but I had no power to stop Bo from bulldozing across the dance floor in the middle of our ance, on his way to the storage room to get something he’d forgotten the day before. The dance floor was between the kitchen and the storage room. While we’re in the middle of a dance, the dance floor shoud be off limits to anyone not doing the dance, for any reason. Bo needs something from the storage room: fine: go around; don’t barge through the old ladies. Bo would put his head down, so he wouldn’t see who he was bowling over.
It wasn’t just Bo: We line danced from 9 to 10. Around 9:30 the band members for the 10 o’clock band would start setting up. They were used to having the dance floor to themselves for that period, but now, here was a dance class on the floor. The band members continued to wander on the floor. underfoot to the dancers. I’d be playing the CD of the line dance music: the musicians would tune their instruments, Gator would practice his drums, in rhythms contrary to the line dance music!
Had Ann made my position clear, I could have told the band to be polite. I could have told Bo to wait, or to go around, or to have planned better yesterday … I could have told Gator to silence his drums while the dance music was on.
As it was, I had to go to Ann, wait for her attention, complain: then she had to explain to Bo: who would then ignore her! as he had ignored me, and the class.
Story imported at Dance Floor Hazards.

Schiz Center

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pk ‘Fore & Aft’

/ Neighbors / Highlands Dancing / Schiz Center

Who’s this pk that came to the Senior Dance in 2008, all horny, socially parched, out of jail but far from free?

I’ve told many dozen stories, featuring personal stories, illustrating failures of human conviviality in kleptocratic society. But new examples outpace my ability to report on the old ones, let alone add the new ones. Well, it’s not a race that can be won, especially not when the kleptocracy cheats at every opportunity, any journalist who wants a paycheck naturally siding with the kleptocracy’s mandate to perpetuate itself. With enough such journalists, the cooperative audience for the crucifixion can call itself Christian: Caesar and his centurions invented cooperation.

Kleptocrats mislabel faster than Tristram Shandy can narrate.

I arrived in Sebring FL at Easter in 1989, defeated as the deschooler, then also defeated as the novelist of theological humor. I wrote my experiences into a digital diary. By the early 1990s I had a new patron: she herself lived below the poverty line, but that was a luxury of wealth to me who had nothing at all. So: by 1995, not only was there an internet, plagiarizing my FLEX‘s offer: there were also local internet providers. I went online and started narrating my life and experiences: formed, initiated blogs … while all around me, under and above me, the kleptocracy continued to be the kleptocracy. The kleptocrats saw me, correctly, as alien: alien to them, an enemy of their culture. The internet I’d offered was intended to free us from the kleptocracy: but the kleptocracy’s internet had everything it’s own way. It’s as though Colt invented the handgun to empower John Doe, but Macbeth stole John Doe’s handgun to deepen John Doe’s enslavement.

Persecutors’ persecutions being “wrong” only serve to goad
the persecutors to persecute harder.

I founded FLEX in 1970. I asked the public for the funds to go digital, didn’t get any. But by 1973 we (FLEX) did have our own cable program: neighborhood-resources database available 24/7, even if it was still 3×5 card-based, not financed to become electro-cybernetic. By 1974 I was an inch from homeless. A foray into the art business saved my address till 1982 when I went from pan to fire in accepting patronage from someone incapable of delivering it: so I was homeless: as I wrote my novels. (Wouldn’t trade the experience, the stack of experiences for anything.) But by 1990 when Catherine became my patron, I was beginning, for the first time in my life, to look my age: to look older than my age. Bless her, Catherine reversed that. Now, 2015, I look (again) far younger than my age: my beloved Jan keeping me physically young. But psychologically I’m still smashed to smithereens, no king’s horses, no king’s men able to put me back together: the entire US GNP X 100 couldn’t repair the damage.

pk, Jan @ Senior Dance counter
Taken by Jan’s Lisa in Jan’s TV room

I diagnose my society as schizophrenic. I use the term not technically, but metaphorically. Everyone understands that schizes are “split” without bothering to take Psych 101. We’re split: in our experience, we’re kleptocrats; in our self-image, we’re Christian, free men, citizens of a republic … the good guys. We drop bombs on people, kill in the millions, give ourselves a gold star: schiz.

Meantime, pk says we’ve got it backwards: the klep can find a zillion experts to say that pk is the schiz. Well, insofar as I’m a member of the schiz culture, then sure I’m also a schiz …

Catherine died in 2004. There died my income. Her savings were getting fast exhausted. I thought, before I starve I’ve got to devote everything to achieving at least one success: I want to force NYU to respond to my testimony regarding their role in my assassination. I filled up with my reports and analyses the best I could. In mid-2006 I wrote to NYU, said Behold: Acknowledge.
Behold: or when I’m too broke to move, by next month, I’ll come up there and bloody your nose!

Anyone who isn’t a total imbecile will notice that that’s like Crazy Horse telling the US that when the Lakota are down to the last man, no warriors left, Crazy Horse, without even a horse, is going to invade DC!
What does DC do? It annihilates Crazy Horse!

NYU called the FBI. The FBI tag-teamed with the Sebring sheriff. Arrested me. Jailed me: in a series of jails refrigerated to keep me nearly brick-frozen. The FBI stole my computers, fragmented them. The US judge censored my messages to NYU., my IP, destroyed all my data. The US judge thereby destroyed my business,, making sure I’d be totally helpless once they released me. (The court was threatening me, aged sixty-nine, with forty years in jail. Once they decide thought that I’m really harmless, they give me the minimum sentence: 15 months. 2007, I’m back home, but with no business. The FBI returns my computers, but they’re no longer networked, no longer coordinated. If you put Hamlet in the blender, all that comes out is a lot of As and Bs and Cs, a “1”, and a colon … But there’s no “to be or not to be”. We don’t hear Ophelia sing herself to death.

The fed also prescribes a social worker of sorts for me: I have to attend a “Wellness Center”!

Actually I loved the social worker type woman: Sandy. And Sandy loved me. She sees I need to get laid, she starts fixing me up with horny widows. She tracked down some info for me on a senior social, with a weekly dance: the Highlands Senior Center. Every Wednesday: one dance band from 10 AM to noon, then lunch, then a second dance band from 1 PM till 3.

I showed up, eager to meet women: 60, 70, 80, 90 … any women.

The first three I met were indeed “90”: 91, 92, 93 … The daughter of the 93 year old looked me up, got the FBI’s pack of lies. (Look up Jesus after the crucifixion: you get not the Sermon on the Mount; you get what Pilat said, what the centurion testified: you get Herod’s complaints, the complaints from the rabbis whose money tables got overturned. That’s civilization: organized to steal, and to keep what’s stolen: to grow it. 93’s daughter faces off against the Highlands Senior Center: Don’t let this Knatz guy so much as breathe!
(Did she know that no one had let me breathe since grade school?)

Ah, but the Senior Dance boss already had her own opinion! Ann Mc had already decided I was a good guy!

real pic, fictitious name

So I continued to go to a schiz dance. There was a ground fire, arson, that burned so far but not much further; and there was a love-and-admiration core that also didn’t spread far but that did keep the ground fire from becoming a block fire.

Schiz Center

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