Monday, February 3, 2025

 

NEWSFEED by Laurie Lipton


The Resistance has been Futile

by Jason V Brock


Massive wildfires fueled by climate change… Immigration at unprecedented levels… Rampant inflation, social collapse, unaffordable housing… The ongoing threat of emerging viral plagues… Radicals proposing existential questions about whether there are two, zero, or 72 genders… Venerated institutions ideologically captured by extremist theorizers… Catastrophic wars in Europe and the Middle East… The major threat of the specter of religiously motivated terrorism… Longstanding democratic traditions swept aside as autocrats seize control of the reins of power across the globe… The world as it had been suddenly dangles above a chasm of annihilation, besieged by Left- and Right-inspired anarchic assaults… Unchecked technological progress in the fields of Artificial Intelligence (AI) and other areas feed social anxieties as the egos and bank accounts of Postmodernist Techno-Robber Barons swell to grotesque proportions… Meanwhile the screen-mesmerized masses seem anesthetized to the grave new world order in the offing…

Elements of the latest Hollywood blockbuster? A compelling mental exercise in the form of a new television drama?

Sadly, no. Welcome to our turbulent mid-decade: Call it the “Raging ‘20s”, a sort of ghastly mirror of the more prosperous Roaring ‘20s one hundred years prior.


There are several eerie parallels to the 1920s in the current epoch: Multinational warfare and its aftermath (namely World War I); a devastating global pandemic (the Spanish Flu of 1918 and the Encephalitis Lethargica plague which followed in its wake); huge surges in immigration triggered by displacement due to war and other cataclysmic events both natural and man-made; clashes between political and social ideologies; rapid, technologically driven advances in modern life (e.g., automobiles, movies, aviation); as well as key social upheavals due to the advancement of women’s rights, relative tolerance of homosexuality, and the development of Freudian Psychoanalysis, among other movements and expansions.

Between the end of the 1920s and the start of the 2000s, the world was engulfed by several massive disruptions, to include the Great Depression of 1929-1939 (echoed in the Great Recession of 2008), World War II in the 1940s (which continues to generate geopolitical ripples in the modern world), the Cold War of the 1950s through the 1980s, and other huge changes socially (such as the Civil Rights Era in the U.S. and the Vietnam War), technologically (the Space Race and the Information Age), and in other ways (e.g., coups, assassinations, the decline of religious belief in the West, and so on).

In particular, the Information Age and the rise of the Internet have had a spectacular (even revolutionary) impact on every realm of human experience, from medicine and social interaction to politics and entertainment. After widespread adoption of computers in the 1980s, the Internet became the next frontier for the computing industry, fledging in earnest by the late-1990s. A few years later, social media became popular. After several precursor platforms, Facebook debuted to the general public in 2006. Then the Apple iPhone dropped in 2007.

In 2008, the Democrat Barack Obama was elected as the first mixed-race President of the United States, using online tools to great effect. This election seemed to signal a change in the way politics and humanity would proceed; a transnational liberal order had become the norm in the post-World War II Western democracies, foundationally established on the promises of security, prosperity, knowledge, and personal freedom from religious, political, and social strictures, the axis of which had long hindered personal advancement and human development. Other countries followed suit with their leadership choices. As these elements intertwined, there was at once a sense of great potential and profound concern regarding the way forward for humanity, though no one truly believed that the world would ever devolve back into the atavistic times of the pre-War period. In the years prior to 2016, there was a sense of the unfolding future as an inevitable leap from strength-to-strength, especially after the system shock of 9/11 in 2001, which heralded, at least for a time, a new phase of uncertainty for the United States not felt since the end of the Vietnam War. Post-9/11, while there were serious missteps along the way (the Iraq War), things appeared to have reached a newfound accord during the Obama years. Of course there were still problems in the world, as there always have been and always will be, but there was renewed hope that better times were on the horizon.

However, as Obama’s second term drew to a close, there was what seemed, at the time, to be a minor backlash to the rapid pace of change taking root in modern life. By the lead-up to 2016, a sense of equilibrium appeared to have at last been regained, albeit an uneasy one. During this time, it looked as though progress in every sphere—social, technological, entertainment, medical, and so on—could coexist with new advancements and understandings in other areas of life: the personal, the political, the world in general. Troubles may manifest, but they could be overcome with compassion, grit, and forward-thinking. Then Trump was elected in 2016, a surprise rejection of the status quo, represented in this instance by the Democratic candidate to replace Obama, Sec. Hillary Rodham Clinton.

In reality, while the first term of Donald Trump was disordered and ineffectual in many ways, his forceful nature seemed impervious to critique, and he was absolutely worshipped by his stalwarts. Trump was fast evolving into the Supreme Leader of a powerful cult of personality, one rarely experienced outside of religious figures described in antiquity. The closest analog to the loyalty he inspired (indeed demanded) in the modern era could be a facile comparison to Adolf Hitler, though Hitler was far worse with regard to policy and execution. Trump was more of a caricature in many ways rather than a tyrant for the ages. The resistance to Trump, and by extension what he appeared to represent—a return to less progressive notions about social structures and political policy—was vocal and determined, if perhaps overzealous in some respects. The far-Left—so-called “Progressives,” yet another nod to the Wilson-era 1920s—had by this point come to dominate the media (with a few exceptions, such as terrestrial radio and Fox News), academia, and other institutions, providing robust challenges to the Trump Administration and his policies in the courts, the media, and the streets.

One nexus of this resistance was located in Hollywood’s entrenched, deeply Blue entertainment industry. Almost since its inception, the entertainment industry as represented by the Hollywood studios and their output have been a major source of American soft-power throughout the world. America has been quite successful at the cultural exportation of its interpretation of American beliefs and ideals (at times even veering into government-sanctioned propaganda), even when on the ropes geopolitically. Over the years, Hollywood has grown increasingly liberal in its political views and willingness to risk alienating both audiences and powerbrokers within the industry with overt demonstrations of its orthodoxy, especially during Trump’s first term in office. During the period between 2016 and 2020, with the convergence of causes such as Black Lives Matters (BLM), the #MeToo movement, and others (many with early roots dating back to the 1920s and related social movements throughout the 20th century and after), the industry seemed to have found a raison d'être in mocking and resisting Trump at nearly every turn.

Despite this, Trump appeared on-track for reelection.


Along the way, however, that all seemed to change; in 2020, during the peak of the COVID-19 pandemic and Trump’s bungling of the pandemic response, as the dead piled up in mobile morgues and the virus raged, people appeared to have hit their limit with the chaos and division. Trump would be rebuffed in the 2020 election due to his poor handling of this disaster; at last, a sense of normality would finally see a return in the unlikely visage of Joe Biden, who cast himself as the anti-Trump: Calm, steady, consistent. Not one to accept defeat gracefully, Trump incited an uprising comprised of denials, lies, conspiracy theories, and seditious activities in the lead-in to the January 6, 2021 certification of Biden’s victory after Trump’s November 2020 loss. The certification was delayed due to the ensuing riots (understood now as the “J6 Insurrection”) at the Capitol, though the process was finally completed in the proper timeframe, resulting in Biden’s ascension as the 46th President, and Trump’s official defeat.

Biden’s presidency started well. Life returned to normal for most in many ways, though the post-pandemic had its challenges: Inflation, supply-chain issues, keeping the disease at bay, and trying to avoid a recession created by a once-in-a-century Black Swan Event. Trump was the past; Biden represented hope for the future.

Eventually, though, Biden would be seen as isolated, even incompetent to lead. Though metrics in the economic picture pointed at a strong recovery, the reality for many was lacking; perception and personal experience lagged behind the overall truth of the what he had accomplished given the enormity of the task at-hand; that noted, he remained opaque, and failed to capitalize on his strengths, instead being led by far-Left advisers into unforced errors about unpopular culture war issues, such as trans-care for minors or politically correct pronoun usage. This afforded a line of attack for the opposition. In a strange turn of events, he lost public confidence after his first debate with Trump and was forced to capitulate his nomination to his Vice President, Kamala Harris. She came out of the gate strong, but with an overreliance on the by-now waning powers of the Hollywood glitterati in the post-COVID, Tech Bro realignment of soft-power within the U.S.—itself a troubling indicator of growing technological hubris and vapidity—she failed to win the presidency.

As an aside, it isn’t a surprise that Hollywood has lost its potency in this harsh post-pandemic landscape; the strikes shortly afterward didn’t help, and neither did weathering sizable changes in media consumption along the way, most significantly the move from physical media to streaming platforms as the primary vehicle for content delivery. Coupled with the reality of rising production costs and the threat of Artificial Intelligence (AI) looming on the digital horizon, a good deal of anxiety for artisans within the industry has likewise ground the moviemaking business to a relative standstill. The terrible Los Angeles wildfires this January only added further insult to injury for the beleaguered industry, causing many in the business to reconsider their unwavering allegiance to the policies and politicians who contributed to the disaster. Some even left the area; every Blue lost makes California Redder. Besides, given there are no more true auteurs, no real movie stars to power projects through downturns, the business is no longer the culture-driver that it once was, and has become just another adjunct to the Tech Industry at this point—soulless and fixated on “streams” or “views” rather than artistry and wonder; it has become mindless, boring, and safe.

Additionally, there seems to be no plan in place to answer the (predictable) superhero movie franchise collapse and the resultant vacuum produced, another outcome of the slow evaporation of monoculture owing to the Balkanization of this sphere because of a phenomenon that I deem the “Internet Flattening Effect”: This is a process that rounds off regionalism or other identifiable characteristics, rendering content or imagery into a deadening sameness, driven by computer algorithms designed to feed the end-consumer experiences defined by a plodding monotony rather than encouraging personal discovery. Compliance and consumerism are mandated; transgressiveness and invention are discouraged (unless they can somehow be ruthlessly copied and exploited as a financial tool). The consequence is a soul crushing conformity of content without insight or imagination: The arts have been commodified into a steady diet of psychogenic gruel. Politicizing content with overt messages of Leftist right-think have only compounded these problems within the film industry and closely follow similarly disturbing trajectories within the publishing and music businesses. The message appears to be that you must adhere to the groupthink, or risk being ignored, consigned to creative purgatory, or expunged from these spaces altogether.

Though Harris failed to connect with the electorate, in fairness, as a key player in the Biden Administration, she was part of a team dealt a bad hand from the outset. All of his administration made valiant efforts under difficult circumstances to keep America from plunging into a gulf of financial ruination, and largely succeeded; collectively they have many genuine accomplishments to their credit, though, in the end, it was too little, too late. People were exhausted and afraid. Nostalgic for a “simpler” time prior to the pandemic, Trump, a seditionist criminal, was re-elected in 2024. The damage had been done for many reasons, and psychic wounds are notoriously slow to heal. Minds, hearts, and lives had been damaged, lost. Too little social interaction dehumanized, and too much artifice deluded. The result has been a decidedly sideways careening into the abyss that always resides on either side of the narrow road from perdition, which increasingly looks like nothing more than a well-paved circle with no exit ramps.


And now?

Well, can you feel it? That shift?

It’s the disorienting perception of previous social conventions spinning off-axis into oblivion as a new center of political gravity careens into reality. I first noticed this shift as the election results came in on November 5, 2024. In truth, this shift signifies more a sort of boomerang effect coming into view than a sudden change or evolution, though the unexpected implosion of the far-Left extremes of recent societal discourse ultimately failing to overcome the inertia of their own ponderousness has felt at once predictable, startling, and in some strange ways, welcome. It’s almost as though this boomerang of common sense has finally returned to its sane home-state after miscalculated overreaches by the increasingly out-of-touch far-Left.

To their credit, while the Right may lie about policy aims, they rarely lie about who they are and what they are in favor of (preferring allegiance to leaders and an unwillingness to be perceived as “weak”). In this way, they aren’t hypocrites. The Democrats are the opposite: They are earnest about policy (preferring fealty to ideas, with little appetite for compromise on principles), wonks even, but they often appear to lie about who they are truly representing, which, more and more, seems to be out-of-touch elitist snobs in the Collegiate/Progressive Pipeline. They often resort to controlling, abusive behaviors, such as wielding blame, shame, and guilt to manipulate people—understood online as mob-like “cancel culture” or “deplatforming” and now more often associated with the Left—into doing their bidding. These tactics frequently edge into pseudoreligious, even extremist actions. Of course, tantrums rarely achieve their goals in the end; they push people away, in fact. They also lose elections.

Going back further, the shift actually began in the final weeks running up to the November U.S. presidential election; on the Left, where only a few months prior there was hope, momentum, and excitement, as the election sprinted to its finale, there was also—if one was paying attention—a strange undercurrent of déjà vu, even foreboding; already a sort of 2016 rematch, it began to feel as though it was becoming a replay, with likely similar outcomes. Then, on Election Day, came the stark, unexpected (though sensed) realities of defeat, status quo rejection (again), political redemption, and change.


But change into… what, exactly? Was it a return to some imagined past (“Make America Great Again!”) or an effort to move ahead?

As noted, people were growing nostalgic for the misremembered stability of a pre-COVID time under Trump; life then seemed easier, digestible in ways the far-Left had made ever more unpalatable. The negative aspects of Trump’s first term felt less intrusive, softer, ironically, than the harsh realities of the post-plague world. After the grimly ceaseless battering of the COVID-19 outbreak and resultant pandemic of 2020 and onward (still an existential threat, though better controlled now thanks to vaccines), beyond the pent-up frustrations of ensuing global lockdowns, school closures, political upheaval, inflation, and the general angst created by the menace of a deadly new disease, people were understandably feeling secluded and scared. As the virus enveloped the Earth, one way of asserting control of their lives was in speaking out from behind their devices; consequently, the Internet became both a lifeline and a fuse for long-simmering frictions to detonate as rivals competing for power boiled over from the online realm and exploded into the streets. Unrelated worldwide social protests—including #MeToo and BLM in the wake of George Floyd’s death at the hands of Minneapolis police officers—had galvanized the pre-2024 election politisphere into a perfect storm of hardened oppositional perspectives.

In this new organizational dichotomy, the rising “Alt-Right”—fomented in stateless online enclaves—was in fact little more than a reverse mirror-image of the burgeoning “Ctrl-Left”—itself a reaction to the perceived resurgence of so-called “fascism” due to a nascent worldwide rightward political lurch in the wake of the pandemic and its response. Sadly, neither image was a reflection of reality for the vast majority of people but instead represented the collective Jungian double-projections created by twisted ideologues at the fringes of socio-political thought; the moderate center was collateral damage in these cultural melees.

Elsewhere, and adding to this already combustible mix, the awful and starkly polarizing terrorist attacks perpetrated against Israel by Hamas on October 7, 2023 sparked more warfare and global unrest (prompting a paroxysm of outrage among youthful Leftists in the U.S. and other Western nations particularly), just as some aspects of normality seemed in-hand. This unprovoked, savage attack was yet another dystopian blow in a brief span of grim recent history, which also encompassed the brutal grind of the war in Ukraine, as well as surges in global migration post-pandemic. In aggregate, these events would have ominous implications for the Democratic coalition in the U.S., already fracturing into factions as a result of Trump’s first-term policies and the reactions to them.

Taken together, these events made clear that there was no refuge from the entropy of geopolitics whether within the U.S. or abroad. The democratization of a now-mature Internet has vastly increased interpersonal antagonism (via the virtual realm) even though people connect in the communal “meatspace” in ever-shrinking numbers—impacting shared live entertainment experiences, religious attendance, even romantic life. The Internet Flattening Effect also afforded formerly radical theorists and fringy, conspiratorial ideas to gain false equivalence with established science and personalities, calling into question recognized facts and priorities, further augmenting the chaos and turmoil of daily life on both the Left and Right.

Meanwhile, as literacy rates decline, ideologies (and paranoid mistrust) expand, both attributable to social media, mobile connectivity, and the Internet. Internally (the self), these forces synergize to promote half-baked, postmodernist theory-driven ideological considerations of established social norms regarding race, gender-identity, sex, class, and sexuality—including the speech around them—further eroding the boundaries defining community, morality, or what even constitutes a “person” or “woman”.

Externally (the community), insecurity regarding what defines the agreed upon borders between nation-states due to migration fueled by violent conflict, politics, climate change, and economic hardship, has ignited culture clashes between religiously conservative Middle Eastern immigrants and traditionally liberal Western ideals across Europe and the United States (increasing pressures in the latter with respect to South American and Mexican immigration). Wealth disparity has also increased exponentially around the world as a result of this upheaval and displacement.

In general, a sense of unease, even dread, permeates the air; mentally conjured images of virality and protean identity-loss inform the Roaring ‘20s Zeitgeist. In a span of roughly five years, it feels as though 15 years have passed. And in some ways this time compression illusion is real: Technology, medicine, and politics have leapt ahead, though these leaps seem to have prematurely aged those living through this period. The past has been torn down physically and mentally. The future has arrived. Nothing seems permanent or reliable. Things feel mutable, unstable. As demonstrated, even that dependable old source of American pride and soft-power, Hollywood, seems to have gone dark, unsure how to move forward, its influence in danger of shrinking to a point of singularity, as old models of doing business surrender to the dominant Tech-Industrial Complex, which has likewise consumed multiple other industries, from publishing and music to healthcare and retail. AI administrators seem poised and eager to reduce older systems into even further irrelevance, crushing humanity in the process.

With respect to the perceptible shift mentioned previously, I personally felt it building once more during the Trump presidential transition period shortly after the election was called; the balance appeared to tip decisively in his favor with the Inauguration on January 20 of this year, as Trump assumed full power once more. As he began signing stacks of Executive Orders (EOs) establishing new directions for the country while consigning other actions from his predecessor to the fabled ash heap of history, first at a televised rally, then at the White House, the political boomerang appeared to swiftly drag Overton’s Window back to the Right. For a brief instant, a few moderate majority political positions came back into at least momentary focus, both within the United States and globally. That proved to be short-lived, perhaps illusory.

As the cold light of the 2025 New Year fades and the closing festivities and recollections of 2024 begin their slow transition from the vivid colors of present understanding into the muted sepia of history, a gentle yet accelerating sensation of mental vertigo has crept in. The echoes of history resonate vibrantly in both good and bad ways; as the second half of the 2020s materializes, society is set to reorient itself in the wake of the tumultuous past decade or so. Western countries all over the world are now seeing Leftist ideals and institutions (as noted, once dominant in academia, politics, entertainment, the media, and other institutions) collapse, change focus, and reject this version of leftward extremism. The noose of leftist denunciation has abruptly relaxed, leaving many in shocked disbelief as the scaffolding around their pious trapdoor collapses underfoot; the condemned who dared not toe-the-line hover in stark, surprised disbelief at the strange reversal of fortune on display. As a consequence, many of these same countries have also ejected (or are about to) established leaders from their positions in favor of more realistic, though not uncontroversial in some cases, policymakers.

Traditional values, albeit perhaps too conservative in certain instances, have begun to rise across the board. It appears that transformation is the order of the day.


But, again, transformation into… what, exactly?

As the world’s economies collapsed under the onslaught of COVID and the attempts to contain the ensuing fallout, people increasingly felt disconnected and unmoored from the “before world” (which they yearned for, having missed out during the radical disruption and loss during that time)—though in reality this feeling was only a recent temporal displacement from just a few months prior, it felt as alien and weird to most as landing on a hostile, barren planet. Stress was high as norms were disturbed; mental health deteriorated as the crisis wore on, all driven by a horrific intrusion of mass death and injury into the placid routine of daily life. After all, the past and the future exist only as non-states in a collective mindscape. They do not exist in the moment; they are both imaginary realms, places which reflect current states of mind and understanding. We can imagine the future. We also likewise must imagine the past based on records and memories; though nothing to be or previously experienced is real, anticipation and aftereffects are still felt.

There is little comfort or sense to be made in this new paradigm: Trying to navigate these freshly delineated, hysterical spaces is rewarded not with esprit de corps, understanding, and decency, but instead by a rough, politicized trajectory fraught with emotional overreaction and terror. Nothing is easy, and the illusion of safety promised by seemingly limitless scientific and technological advancements has been suddenly and decisively curtailed in the near-term by one of humanity’s oldest and deadliest foes: A pathologically lethal virus of uncertain origin. Not since those modern-ancient horrors of 9/11 have things seemed so apocalyptic and disturbing: We have learned that death is one fateful short-term close-quarter gathering—even a single breath—away, and it could happen at any time and any place. Life is uncertain.

Meanwhile, the blue-collar class (ostensibly the Democrats’ “people”) and those on the Right (frequently demonized by the Left) have been on the hook paying a lot more for eggs, energy, and other staples, dealing with shortages, escalating housing costs, COVID-driven homelessness, deadly addictions, high crime rates, uncertain job prospects in the wake of automation (despite low unemployment), an ongoing immigration crisis, and a host of other problems. All while being lectured to by pretentious, well-off Leftist youngsters and (often) their parents about arcane notions rooted in Fourth-wave intersectional feminist theory, and instructed to “check their privilege” if white (though whites also include some of the poorest people in the country), or how they are “supposed” to vote if Latino, black, or some other minority (seeming to ignore their agency and right to self-determination).

Much of this points to class division (i.e., wealthy v. poor). The sufferings of ordinary folks don’t seem to register or even matter in light of these perceived “social injustices” (a debatable idea in and of itself), whether of the moment or from literal ancient history (surely this is what they actually mean as “privilege” [relitigating the past through a presentist/classist lens], though they cannot seem to grasp the irony). In this narrow worldview, the transgressions of minority-status people and groups are blithely dismissed as “historical trauma responses” (which I refer to as “Benign Othering”), while non-minority Americans are shamed, blamed, and scolded for nothing more sinister than wanting the best for their families and friends, or not being performative enough within the (limiting) oppressor/oppressed binary (to include moderate Democrats, Independents, and other Centrists). It also appears that civilization itself hinges on whether a woman can obtain an abortion whenever she demands it, that males are inherently misogynistic (and/or predators), and that “Zionists” are Untermenschen—this latter position neatly uniting the far-Left (e.g., college students) and far-Right (neo-Nazis) under the umbrella of antisemitism.

Of course, there is no compromise offered (i.e., Leftist fealty to ideas); one-sided and never content, the far-Left continues to move goalposts and pedal a victim-centric narrative that if you disagree you are ______phobic (e.g., trans-, homo-, and so on), racist, sexist, anti-Muslim (though antisemitism seems oddly acceptable to them), all of these, or something worse. As a result, there is a great deal of condemnation, either/or thinking, and contempt on display in their rhetoric and actions.

Who could have guessed that these arrogant strategies and alienating tactics would turn out to be excellent ways to lose elections?


A tough environment, to be sure.

And, granted, all presidents have difficult issues to contend with, but the things which eventually unseated Biden came from within his own party, a sort of modern Praetorian Guard evidently determined to overreach and allow the perfect to become the enemy of the good. Of course, as with most such collapses, there wasn’t one single, critical part that failed disastrously, but many small errors which compounded over time. The result in this case was a diminishing of actual and perceived value to the voters, which accumulated over time into an unstoppable, cataclysmic chain reaction, either real or intuited; given that perception is reality, similar accumulations risk becoming a threat to the overall Democratic Party ecosystem if not addressed directly and effectively. In the final analysis, despite the best intentions, the so-called “resistance” was not only overly confident, but has also been utterly futile.

This time, at the dawn of his second term, the response to Trump has so far been more muted. People voted for him in much larger numbers, including minorities; he narrowly secured the popular vote—which eluded him in 2016—in addition to the Electoral College, legitimizing his win. He has better focus, organization, and understanding of the machinations of governance now. People, including other world leaders, seem ready, after the pandemic, after the lack of empathy from the far-Left, after the collapse of “Progressive” ideology, after being instructed by elitists how to think, speak, and be, to give him a chance. Tellingly, voters this cycle came in greater numbers and from all walks of life: poor, rich, female, male, Latino, black, all religious faiths, Native Americans, young, old. Even some Democrats who didn’t care for Harris flipped (though my wife, Sunni, and I voted for her; we’re Democrats and Liberals).


So, what does this mean for the future?

Watching the Inaugural festivities, I had honestly hoped Trump could reform his worst inclinations and succeed in his new term, although I strongly disagree with most of his stated policies. There are a couple that I agree with, mostly pertaining to reining in the more ridiculous overreaches of the far-Left’s Orwellian tendencies to control thought and speech. More control over the Southern Border seems reasonable, given that terrorists could exploit an under guarded ingress into the country, though the idea of deporting every immigrant is unconstitutional, unsavory, and un-American (dangerous criminals and gang members seems a wise idea, however). As a sane Leftist, I am opposed to authoritarianism (including from the Left), and many of his EOs seem destined to fail or be overturned, as they rightly should be.

In an interesting development, the “Progressive” wing of the Democratic Party seems on a downward slope, a circumstance they have mostly brought upon themselves due to their bombastic, dysregulated, and pompous actions. They seem to have lost the plot about what we need to be working for, and very little of it resides in odious social theories. These elements should be purged from the Democratic Party, which has morphed into a negative, ultra-feminist cult, just as the macho Cult of Trump has psychologically captured the Right. The Democrats at the moment are not for people, they’re about people, and they are harmful. I will be curious to see how these things unfold, and while I don’t care for Trump, he has brought a measure of hope to many and has instigated a cultural shift that reads as a badly needed corrective.

Of course, the very day of his Inauguration, Trump once again showed his worst aspects. Signing a raft of Executive Orders that displayed a remarkable lack of understanding of the times we occupy and the needs of the American people. They were often mean-spirited and venal, with few upsides or relief for a pummeled electorate. His blanket pardoning of J6 rioters, for example, was a grave error and completely unwarranted. His understanding of tariffs (and economic policy overall) is embarrassingly limited. He generally displays little empathy for others, and wallows smugly in obvious intimidation, bullying, and cronyism, apparently relishing the suffering and anarchy he seeks to unleash. His Cabinet picks have been absurd, even dangerous at times, as though he is trolling the republic and wants to destroy the very country he sought to lead by shattering institutions, gutting programs, and relying on advisements not from policy experts and seasoned government officials, but the likes of Fox News pundits, rabid ideologues such as Steve Bannon, and billionaire Tech Industry narcissists like Elon Musk and his cohort. Thusly noted, with the Supreme Court and both the House and Senate (though only marginally) on his side, it appears we are all in for a bumpy ride—largely brought to us by dogmatically Leftist groupthink.


There is a political truism: You can’t govern if you don’t win.

The Democrats are in their wilderness period; they must look inward to understand how to proceed, and with a ruthlessly critical eye. As a political party, we can and should do better. And both parties are in dire need of overhauls with respect to the gerontocracy that has developed, to include operatives not only currently serving in the Congress and the SCOTUS (e.g., we need term and age limits, as well as enforceable ethical codes, among other things), but also restrictions on those running for President (again: age limits, ethical codes, and so on).

I predict that the first female President will be a Republican. I noted this on my own social media in the first week after the election. A few weeks later, former POTUS Bill Clinton said the same thing, so I feel my gut is on the right track. It’s sort of an “only Nixon can go to China” moment: Rightwingers will certainly vote for a woman; unfortunately, the Left keeps putting up unlikable, extreme, or uninspiring candidates (I wrote-in Bernie Sanders in 2016, as I disliked HRC), offering no compelling bipartisan option for them to consider. A female Republican would have broader appeal, and there is less mistrust that she would be some sort of radfem Trojan horse. The next candidate for the Democrats should probably be a moderate, Southern male, plainspoken and intelligent, not a radical reactionary. Someone like a modern-day Jimmy Carter or Bill Clinton. But they are few and far between. And even if they do present themselves, are the Democrats mature enough to look past their own ideological biases and purity testing?

Only time will tell.

###

Pushcart Prize-nominee Jason V Brock is a writer, editor, filmmaker, composer, scholar, and artist. His fiction and nonfiction works have appeared in many venues (Weird Fiction Review, Fangoria, online, etc); his books include Disorders of Magnitude: A Survey of Dark Fantasy (about horror and science fiction in culture), numerous anthologies, and two fiction collections. He has been nominated twice for the Bram Stoker Award, and his films (Charles Beaumont: The Life of Twilight Zone’s Magic Man; the Forrest J Ackerman documentary The AckerMonster Chronicles!—winner of the Rondo Hatton Classic Horror Award for Best Documentary in 2014) have garnered many accolades; he is finishing another about Fantastic Art. He resides with his wife and their reptiles in Vancouver, WA.


Tuesday, January 28, 2025

 




To Heal Through Pain, to Live Through Death
Eric LaRocca – At Dark I Become Loathsome


Reviewed by Barry Lee Dejasu


The feel-good book of the year is out now! In Eric LaRocca’s new novel, readers will find a little bit of everything to warm the soul. A loving father and husband has made it his mission to bring the value of life into the hearts of people struggling with their inner demons, while also asking himself some important questions about his own place in life, and what he’s really meant to do. This beautiful tale brings up themes of mortality and morality in the forms of the protagonist’s half-glimpsed ghosts of his late wife and missing (and presumably) dead son, his own increasingly frightful facial enhancements, and oh yes—suicidal people being buried alive…


In all seriousness, At Dark, I Become Loathsome is a gruesome and unflinching tale of grief, trauma, death, and in the midst of it all, the search for inner peace. Ashley Lutin’s narrative is rife with self-loathing and inner exile. Not long after his wife Pema had succumbed to cancer, his eight-year-old son Bailey went missing, and in the months and soon years that followed, Ashley retreated into absolute darkness, meditating on his losses and pursuing unhealthy avenues of grief, eventually taking to piercing up and decorating his face—including implanting metal horns on his forehead and his altering his ears altered to elf-like points. But within these shadows, Ashley has found a new goal, a new mission, a new purpose: to help others struggling to exist to find a new value in living. And to do so, he has created a business for himself, in which such desperate people contact him online to seek his help in cleansing them of their yearning for death…by burying them alive, for a time, and releasing them into a new, reincarnated life.


The cover synopsis is a little misleading (and spoiling) as to what occurs in this book. While this tale does involve Ashley’s correspondence with someone by the username “masterjinx76” (identified as Jinx on the cover), including the revelation of masterjinx76’s terrible, tragic story, the plot does not outwardly follow their interactions à la other works by LaRocca such as Things Have Gotten Worse Since We Last Spoke. This is Ashley’s tale, through and through—and although the correspondence from masterjinx76 has a powerful effect on him and his overall trajectory, this journey is wholly his own.


Throughout the novel, Ashley intones the loathsomeness that he becomes at dark. While this admission may at first come across as a little repetitive, what it really does is serve as Ashley’s nocturnal mask, primarily to justify his mindset and actions. And while for him it feels like he is becoming his own in his mission, that he’s in his true element, in many ways, it seems to serve more as his way of hiding from the shames and traumas of his life. Time and again, he tells the reader that at dark, he becomes loathsome—but if anything, he’s really telling this to himself, for himself, because as his narrative unfolds, his vulnerable humanity is on constant display.


Although the heart of this novel is denser than a black hole, it is still very much a heart. As Ashley gently holds the reader’s hand, leading us staggering and stumbling and crawling along his journey through nihil’s maw, Eric LaRocca’s unrivaled skills at presenting beauty in decay are on full display in this unforgettable tale, carrying throughout it echoes of love, kindness—and even in its bleakest moments…hope.


Friday, January 24, 2025

 

Funereal Plots

Horror Cinema reviews
Matthew M. Bartlett




Get Away


Director: Steffen Haars

Writer: Nick Frost


The Smith family, parents, a son, and a daughter, are on a much-needed family vacation to Svälta, a small, insular village in Sweden. While there, they hope to catch part of an 8-hour traditional play performed on the anniversary of Karantan, a holiday commemorating the time that the village was under British-imposed quarantine during a plague and ended up overpowering and eating their oppressors.

The Smiths are, of course, British, and it’s made abundantly clear early on that despite their host, a B&B owner, having arranged for their lodging, they are not welcome in town, and especially not at a sensitive cultural event. The B&B owner turns out to be a voyeuristic creep with a penchant for dressing in the clothing of his unwitting female guests, and the townspeople do everything they can to make the little clan uncomfortable and afraid.

This is, of course, a very familiar folk-horror setup, complete with villagers either menacing or bizarrely idiosyncratic (shoutouts in particular to standouts Eero Milinoff and Anitta Suikkari), and creepy animal and skull costumes; there are deliberate echoes of Midsommar, and, of course, The Wicker Man.

The particularly British humor, infused with a capacity for and a love of language) is evident right off the bat, with explicitly hilarious family bickering and insults, especially from Richard, the patriarch. Frost, most famously of Shaun of the Dead, is at his best here, a seemingly clueless bearded patriarch with a family that matches him volley for volley. Aisling Bea, who plays Susan, his wife, is hilarious, and the bickering siblings (essayed by Sebastian Croft and Maisie Ayres) throw a lot of gusto and personality into their roles—the plot may be pat, but the characters are anything but. While Get Away doesn’t hit the heights of Frost’s work with Simon Pegg, nor of the movies it gently lampoons, it’s solidly watchable, perhaps somewhat funnier than it is frightening.

I’d strongly suggest that even if you’re put off by the cliched folk horror trappings and the predictability of such plot arcs, you should still watch, especially if you get on with British humor, because the third act takes some chances and offers some compensatory delights that make it well worth sticking it out for the 90-minute runtime.


Friday, January 17, 2025


Funereal Plots

Horror Cinema reviews
Matthew M. Bartlett





A Quiet Place Day 1


Writer/Director: Michael Sarnoski


The premise here, introduced in the 2018 John Krasinski film A Quiet Place and expanded upon in a 2020 sequel that I only just found out existed, is that aliens have landed on the earth, and when humans make sounds, or cause sounds to be made, they kill humans. The first movie and this one (and presumably the second) play a little fast and loose with these rules, but the results are entertaining at least, if somewhat predictable.

This prequel/spinoff opens at a hospice where Sam (Lupita Nyong’o), a cancer patient with a support cat named Frodo (Schnitzel and Nico, alternating acting duties) who reluctantly goes on a field trip with a nurse and some other patients into New York City to see a marionette show. After the show, the aliens soar into the city, killing anything that makes a peep (except each other).

Sam and Frodo (oh boy) are separated when the military swoops in, destroying the bridges that lead into (and out of) the city. We are helpfully informed that the aliens can’t swim, and that the army is planning to try to evacuate people by boat. I thought the aliens could fly, but that might just be because they can jump really far. One problem with movies like this is that one instantly starts to try to determine whether the filmmakers lose track of the rules of their premise.

Meanwhile, Eric, a transplant from England in the U.S. to study law, happens upon Sam’s cat and follows him back. Sam dismisses Eric, but he follows her, and eventually they become a team (note: don’t follow women who don’t want to be followed!) Along with the cat, they must evade the aliens and get to the boat.

A Quiet Place Day 1 shouldn’t be this good. It follows the by-the-numbers screenplay template (make the character want something! She wants to get pizza! Near the end, she’ll get pizza!) and relies too much on CGI, which, despite its many years in use, still manages to mostly look like cartoons superimposed over real goings-on. But it’s saved by a spectacularly immersive and brave performance by Nyong’o, some effectively heart-tugging pathos, and by – spoiler alert – treating a character’s pet not merely as a plot device, not merely as monster-fodder to be killed off and never mentioned again, but by actively involving the animal in the goings-on and not killing it.

This may seem glib on my part, but it’s something moviegoers rarely see in this genre, and it’s worth mentioning. You worry about Sam, but you also worry about that cat.

Nico and Schnitzel are, needless to say, terrific actors.


Monday, January 13, 2025

 

The Poetry of Rock and Roll


Bragi, God of Poetry


This month we share some poetry from the world of Rock. Three bands, three styles of music. That the lyrics work as poetry draws us to our three examples today. Let's begin. 


The Band:

Strange Advance


The Song/Lyrics

WORLDS AWAY

Worlds Away, with memories

Of killing time and dreams

Think of me, it was so cold we burned

And as they leave, they cross my mind

No time, I think it's over

This life inside, I steal is mine

Look in your eyes, you're worlds away

And life is locked inside you...

 

Then you sleep, and city walls

They dissolve to dreams

Children cry,

They're losing everything

From heart to heart

The beat slow fades

The sun explodes the night-time.

For all we know

There's nothing changed

Look in your eyes, you're Worlds Away

Where art is love is science

A million miles, a thousand minds

Now Worlds Away

 

Oh no, don't say goodbye

When you can love only one thing

And they want you to know

It's you, it's you

 

Worlds Away, don't say goodbye

Worlds away, don't...say...good...bye


Drew Arnott, Composer/Lyrics





The Band:


Bat For Lashes



The Song/Lyrics


Glass


I will rise now, and go about the city in the streets,
and in broad ways I will seek him whom my soul loveth

Went over the sea
What did I find?
A thousand crystal towers
A hundred emerald cities
And the hand of the watchman
In the night sky
Points to my beloved
A knight in crystal armour…

And I tried to hold him
I tried for the cream
I’ll make a suit of colours
To stop the blinding mirrors
Sew a cape of rainbow
Stifle up the beam
With the perfect armour
With the perfect dream…

To be made of glass!
When two suns are shining
The battle becomes blinding
To be made of glass!
But we’re light and light and light
And light and light!

And from two suns spinning
At two different speeds
Was born a hot white diamond
Burning through the rainbow
Flames fell into orbit
To hold eternally
Two heavenly spirits
That just wouldn’t see

To be made of glass!
When two suns are shining
The battle becomes blinding
To be made of glass!
But we’re light and light and light
And light and light!

Natasha Khan, Composer/Lyrics




The Band:


Chvrches


The Song/Lyrics


By The Throat

Bad blood and no holds barred
A warning shot, a sacrifice that we made

You know, you know, you know, you know that you go to far
You know, you know, you know, you know that you go to far

Waste of time or waste of fear?
Do it again, again until you unfocus them away

You know, you know, you know, you know that you go to far
You know, you know, you know, you know that you go to far

All that's golden is never real
And I won't play fair with you this time
All that's golden is never sold
And I'll be thankful when you let go

You know, you know, you know, you know that you go to far
You know, you know, you know, you know that you go to far

With teeth we've come this far
I'll take this thing by the throat and walk away

You know, you know, you know, you know that you go to far
You know, you know, you know, you know that you go to far

Remember me as I will you
Honesty will wreck this point that we made

You know, you know, you know, you know that you go to far
You know, you know, you know, you know that you go to far

All that's golden is never real
And I won't play fair with you this time
All that's golden is never sold
And I'll be thankful when you let go

You know, you know, you know, you know that you go to far
You know, you know, you know, you know that you go to far

Taking over parts of mine
That I will pay for every time

If I could catch you and cut your ties
I would leave you, every time

All that's golden is never real
And I won't play fair with you this time
All that's golden is never sold
And I'll be thankful when you let go

You know, you know, you know, you know that you go to far
You know, you know, you know, you know that you go to far.

Chvrches, Composer/Lyrics

Saturday, January 11, 2025

 



The Verse 

of 

Rhys Hughes




The Sheet

Rhys Hughes


I have suspected for a long time that the ghost that haunts my house is actually a person dressed in a sheet. They don’t glide up and down the stairs silently like a moonbeam but clatter and trudge in heavy booted feet, making each step squeal. I sit in my favourite armchair, reading a book, waiting for a supernatural breeze to stir the draperies over the window, waiting for a waft of dead air to stiffen the hairs on the nape of my neck. But nothing like that ever happens. The ghost is a clumsy oaf, probably unable to see where it is going, prone to tripping over the creases in the rugs, colliding with items of furniture, knocking ornaments off the mantlepiece. I once threw my book at the thing and it cried out in pain. A ghost shouldn’t act in such an uncouth manner.

And I wonder where it came from, if there really is a person under there? I can’t imagine who that individual could be. A long lost relative? A mischievous former friend? Simply a madman or madwoman with nothing better to do? The other curious aspect of the case is that the ghost is quite short, only half my own height. Does this mean the person is a dwarf or a child? Perhaps it is neither but a paranormal entity of a different kind. A goblin or imp. That would be worse, I think, than any authentic phantom or malicious mortal trickster. Do goblins and imps wear boots? I doubt it. I sit in my chair and sip wine. I fling the wine glass at the ghost, but the ghost has become wary of me. It dodges the missile and the wall is stained red rather than the sheet.

When I was young, I too dressed in a sheet and pretended to be a ghost. It’s a common enough game. On one memorable occasion I was unable to obtain a white sheet. I made do with a striped one instead. I felt less like a phantom and more like a desert bandit. But desert bandits can die and turn into ghosts too. In tropical and equatorial countries, where it is too hot to sleep with sheets, it must be difficult or impossible to pretend to be a ghost in such a traditional style. Do they have traditions of their own? Of course, they must. On another occasion, I wrapped myself in a sheet with a black and white check pattern. I resembled an undulating chess board as I moved from room to room, sometimes diagonally, a bishop, or else in hops like the knight.

Who occupied this house before I bought it and moved in? A little old lady, perhaps, who already was a shrivelled dried fruit of a human being, but who, at the moment of her death, contracted herself even more, a shrunk and desiccated relic of a grand dame. Might she be under the sheet? But that makes no sense at all. A walking corpse under a sheet, pretending to be a spook? That is as absurd as a zombie wearing a wig and mask and howling on all fours to fool observers into believing a werewolf is at large. Well, there is a ghost at large in my house, but it isn’t large. We have covered this point already. And there is no valid place for wordplay in this brief account of a travesty of a haunting. Poetry is irrelevant when talking about wandering spirits.

I almost yearn to die, turn into a ghost myself, a genuine spectre, and haunt that impostor under the sheet. Terrify the scoundrel into casting off the disguise and revealing itself for what it really is. But I enjoy life too much, despite all the limitations of my present environment, my self-imposed exile in this mansion, a daily routine that rarely changes, the dust and isolation, the gradual corrosion of my physicality, the sapping of my strength. I am no longer fresh, vibrant, eager. I am already halfway or more to becoming an elderly man, stooped, warped and grumpy, too slow and tired to chase and corner the ghost, to snatch off the sheet with a flick of my bony wrist. That opportunity is long gone. I am wholly at the mercy of the imp or dwarf, the trickster.

And then one day I drag myself up to the attic, the first time I have visited that cluttered space since my sixtieth birthday. It takes a great effort, I pause on each rung of the old ladder, hauling myself through the trapdoor, my skeleton in anguish inside me, bones like xylophone resonators. I drag myself onto sagging floorboards and I stand on my unsteady legs like a drunken ostrich. But I have triumphed, the summit of the climb has been achieved, I am gratified. So I catch my breath and allow my heartbeat to slow. Then I explore the dim volume of the lofty sanctum, slowly, carefully, lovingly, marvelling at all the memories boxed and shelved, the frayed nostalgia, the toys of a bygone era, the adjuncts of a life that no longer properly belongs to me.

I encounter a fishing rod leaning against one sloping wall. I don’t believe it was ever used. My grandfather gave it to me before he understood my character, my disdain for rivers and the sea, nature in general. I am a studious fellow only. But I discern a use for the rod now. I hold it gingerly, the barbed hook glints like a sad wink in the artificial dusk. And then I hear a noise, a stamping sound, the crash of a vase. The ghost is circulating on the floor directly below the attic. My lips are sealed tight as I lurch to the edge of the open trapdoor and peer down at the violator. Yes, the ghost is there, next to the ladder, and I wonder if it plans to climb the rungs and confront me in this hallowed asymmetric chamber. Well, let it think whatever it chooses. Watch me!

I keep to the shadows but extend the rod over the trapdoor hole and quietly I allow the hook to descend on its line. I am patient, I am calm. But at last I feel a bite, the barb of the hook has snagged on the fabric of the sheet. At last I have what I want, a chance to reveal my tormentor for what he or she truly is. With a yell of delight, I jerk up the rod, reeling in my flimsy prize with all the power that still remains in my hand. The ghost below yowls. I step forward to the very lip of the square chasm and peer down. The hook has plucked off the sheet. The ghost is naked. And what do I find under that sheet? A dwarf or child, goblin or imp? No, unfortunately not. There is a ghost under the sheet, another ghost, and this time it’s a real ghost. Whose? Mine!


_____________________________________


The Distribution of Fear

Rhys Hughes


I was once told that fear is evenly distributed around the world. But I’m not sure what this means. That everybody in their lifetime feels exactly the same amount of fear? That seems unlikely. I am certain there are people who feel more fear in total than others do. Existence is unfair. Then it occurred to me that it is perhaps a reference to death. We all die, no matter how successful we are, how fortunate, wealthy or respected. But do we all fear death equally? Obviously not. Some of us are far more troubled by the prospect than others. It has even been known for individuals to welcome death, to crave it.

Considering the matter carefully, I decided that it was Death itself that was terrified. Why should a force of extinction not resent the task it has been given? We assume that Death enjoys his work. What if it is a punishment imposed by a draconian deity on a timid entity? What if Death feels the exact same amount of fear whenever he is required to reap a soul with his scythe? This scenario would justify the assertion that fear is equally distributed around the world. Death feels his quota of terror no matter what we feel.

And we personify Death but regard fear as an inner emotion manifesting as a physical reaction. Maybe Fear is a creature too? The personification of Fear is the entity most dreaded by Death. And now I wonder what Fear looks like. The figure of Death is familiar enough, a skeleton in a ragged cloak, but Fear? How does it present itself? I tremble when I consider the options. Slowly, the door of my study opens. I look up from my desk, where I am writing this account. Fear had entered the room. I jump to my feet.

He is dressed in armour and on his head he wears a helmet with a fantastic visor that resembles the gateway of a dungeon. He lifts his gauntleted hands and opens his visor to show me what I most fear. Inside is a smaller helmet with the same kind of visor. The answer is that Fear is what I most fear! Hissing through the grille, he opens this smaller visor. Behind it is an even smaller helmet. And to maintain a consistency of scale, his body shrinks so that the new helmet is in proportion to the rest of him. He growls.

I have annoyed him. I ought to feel more afraid of other things, of torture and mutilation, who knows what? But I am most scared of Fear and he is unable to alter this fact. He keeps opening his visor and shrinking as he does so. Soon he has reduced himself to the size of a single molecule. The next time he opens his visor he will vanish for good. I have conquered Fear, I have reduced him to nothing. Or rather, Fear has destroyed himself. A face of fear inside a face of fear. By refusing to believe that Fear itself is my main fear, the chain reaction has taken him beyond a negative infinity.

If Fear was my deepest fear then I must be Death, for he is the only being for which that equation is true. But the rule that states that fear must be evenly distributed around the world means that Fear must continue to exist somewhere. I lift my hands to my head. Instead of a cracked skull partly covered with the torn hood of a ragged cloak, I feel the metal of a helmet, a helmet with a strange visor like the gateway to a dungeon.


_____________________________________



Sunday, January 5, 2025

 


As the dawning sun dried the dew on the cardboard sheet that served as my blanket in the alley where I slept, I awoke with the taste of last night's wine caked on my tongue. An incessant buzzing pounded in my ears. I opened my bloodshot eyes and saw flies heavy and thick in the air. They landed and skittered across my face, and I brushed them away, squinting and trying to focus on the source of the buzzing. I sat up and rested myself against the cold brick wall, rubbing the laganas from my eyes, and trying in vain to remember the black-and-white visions which clung vaguely to the insides of my eyelids like broken blood vessels. I focused my attention on the blurry surroundings of the alleyway that I called home. I pushed aside the huge green trash bin, which rolled away easily, despite its size, because it sat on metal wheels. I flipped away the moist cardboard from my lap and stood. It took me a second to find my balance as I gauged the intensity of my morning 'shakes,' my alcoholic tremors that determined for me daily how soon and how much I needed to drink. And I realized as I circled to the front of the bin that I was on the verge of succumbing to that approaching uncontrollable thirst.

Curiosity, first, had to be satisfied. I lifted the bin lid and found the source of the buzzing. A mass of flies were swarming over a ball. Only it wasn't a ball. I couldn't quite make it out, so I shooed away the flies and squinted my eyes upon the object. It lay there blurry and out of place. It didn't belong in there with all the trash and flies, whose buzzing grew and grew as they re-massed at their feeding place. The throbbing in my temples suddenly intensified, while my stomach knotted and bile choked my throat. I fought down the nausea and shuttered a second. Something in my head told me to leave the alley and to go buy a bottle of Thunderbird, but I ignored it, and against my better judgment, I reached over and poked my finger into the swarm. I touched beyond the insects. The cold feel cleared my senses a moment, and in that brief space of time, I saw that the ball was the decapitated head of a small boy.

Serenity had etched its likeness on the boy's ghastly white face. His skin was as stiff as week-old bread. His blank eyes were fixed on mine as if he recognized me, and as I met his gaze with my own sense of familiarity, a memory loomed.

#

It is a spring afternoon. I sit alone in the alley with a bottle of wine and a pocket full of change enough for another bottle as soon as the sun sets. Some school boys crowd the alleyway entrance. One of them says, 'There he is. That wino has a gun. Let's get it from him. 'Another says, 'He'll shoot us.' The first boy responds, ‘No way. He's way too slow for us.' They consider his words a moment and suddenly attack me.

They are quick but not strong. The cheap wine in my blood gives me false courage. I toss off the first of the attackers. Another grabs my coat in search of my .38 revolver, which I hid under the bin when I heard them approaching. My coat pocket is ripped and my change falls around my feet. Someone pushes me off-balance. I am torn between defending myself and protecting my money. My alcoholic priorities drop me to my knees to pick up my coins. I feel the sharp kicks against my side, but they don't matter. A few more coins to go and then I'll run. A half-empty bottle of Thunderbird smashes against the side of my head. I collapse, landing on my shoulder. Someone slips his hand into the exposed coat pocket and fishes for the gun. I wail like a newborn baby. The boys back away in shock. 'Let's get out of here,' says the youngest boy, standing off in a shadow, away from the violence. The boy with the gun on his mind answers, 'There's nothing here anyway.'

I stop screaming as they walk away. However, the shadow boy returns and scoops a dollar from his pocket and pushes it into my hand, forcing my fingers to close around the bill. Then he joins his friends who await him at the end of the alley, and together they leave, some admonishing the gun boy, others mocking the shadow boy. I reach under the trash bin and retrieve the revolver. I slide it into my pants pocket, next to the photograph that is folded in half and stuck together. I cannot remember whose face is on the photo or why it is so important to me. It does not matter as I go buy another bottle of wine, with blood streaming down the side of my head.

The shadow boy returns the next day with another dollar to give me. He avoids looking at the bandage on the side of my head, which the liquor store owner placed over the wound that she had cleaned and nursed. The gun boy accompanies his friend, but stands off to the side. 'Give him the money,' the shadow boy says. The gun boy throws the coins hard at me. I can feel the stings. 'Just hand it to him next time,' he says as he helps me to pick up the change. The shadow boy apologizes for his friend and drops the coins into my cupped hand. He then passes me a large bag full of day-old bolillos, processed cheese, some cooked beans, which he advises me to eat soon, a few oranges, and some fresh jalapenos and carrot-slices in a plastic sandwich bag. 'Eat it up,’ he tells me, ‘and I’ll see you tomorrow.’ The shadow boy punches the gun boy on the arm as they exit the alleyway.

The last day that he comes to visit me with gifts, he comes alone. He says that his father had left his mother to be with another woman, a white woman. He cries. He says that he will never forget this day, that his father had died. He promised that he wouldn’t. But he did. Then he runs out of the alley.

#

I emptied out the largest brown bag that I could find in the trash bin and placed in the shadow boy's head. Then an uncontrollable laughter seized me and refused to release me until my gut was about to burst. As I caught my breath the tears began flowing. I sobbed for the boy and for myself and for a world where little boys lose their fathers. I wiped the last of the tears from my face and folded the bag closed. I no longer needed the crutches of tears and laughter, and without the need for them, I no longer needed booze. I tucked the folded bag under my arm. I could feel the contours of the head on my cold skin. The sun was burning weakly in a sky of dark and gathering clouds. It would be raining soon, I thought, and started my long journey toward finding a killer.