Sacrifices by Rebecca Allen

Sacrifices
By Rebecca Allen

I believe that everything happens for a reason. And because of this belief I can honestly say that I
appreciate and understand that for me to be who I am now, my dad had to be a drug dealer. Before and after I was born my dad was an Angel Dust (PCP) dealer. He left my mother and I when I was ten days old. But growing up I was as naive to the situation as one could possibly be. I thought that my dad was the captain of the world and I was his first mate. I claimed ignorance until a childhood friend in the fifth grade revealed to me what my dad kept from me for years.

At this point in my life, I was just starting to become aware of what drugs were and wasn’t sure what the appropriate course of action was. So I kept quiet, like my dad had been doing for all of those years. I waited. After having my eyes forced wide open, I started to pay closer attention. Closer attention to why people did what they did and how outside forces affected them. I realized that instead of my dad continuing to sell drugs, he had become an alcoholic.

Being a drug addict and being an alcoholic are two completely different states of addiction in our
society’s mind. But my mind couldn’t accept that just because my dad could legally be addicted to alcohol that it was right by me. I know that I made harsh judgments at an early age and as a result of that I asked my dad to put down the beer can, but he wouldn’t. There is very little that I ever asked from my dad and because he refused me I haven’t talked to him in over two years.

I believe that everything happens for a reason, but above that I believe in the power of addiction. This experience was only the beginning of an entire world filled with addiction for me to find. Addiction has continued to pry open my eyes to the bare essentials of human desire. I didn’t understand that addiction is a poison that reaches all around the world and because I didn’t understand that then I sacrificed a relationship that can never be completely filled. We give addiction the opportunity to bring us up to the highest when nothing else can stifle that desire, but there is a long downward spiral waiting to blind us of everything else. I believe in the power of addiction because if we want something enough there is little that can keep us from it.

The Borderlander: The artist culture's need to find the frontier

The Borderlander:

The artist culture's need to find the frontier

Everywhere was once "The Frontier"

Despite the advancements in technology, the human race remains a hunter-gatherer society wherein the role of warrior, homemaker, mother and father remain paramount. As members of the species outgrew the confines of the twenty-person tribe into nations, the parameters of the tribe remained, among its core tenants: provide for the tribe, do not kill members of the tribe, provide for and protect the next generation, and proportionately punish those who violate those rules necessary for survival.

Each tribe, then nation, and then ethnic culture adapted rules, rewards and punishments in accordance with their locale, terrain, food supplies, traditions, and value systems to enforce these basic rules.

Those that failed starved until they adapted or went extinct.

The Birth of Civilization Delineates "The Frontier"

However, as the human race spread and multiplied, those rules changed to reflect the sheer size of the tribe, which numbered in the thousands, then millions.

As each nation state adapted rules reflecting the unique genetic culture and social history, the system of laws, whether ruled by book, the whim of a ruler chosen by merit or from the most powerful and influential family, or a heritage of agreed-upon rules, became the underlying governance of the basic hunter-gather tribal structure to keep the peace.

What is "The Frontier"?

In the long history of the human race, those who disobeyed or rejected those rules found either punishment and annihilation or ostracism as liberation. The frontier has always been the salvation of the tribe.

In the small society, those who left founded their own tribes. If the new tribe failed, it died. If it succeeded, it later conquered or assimilated the founders, conquered or was conquered by another, and in some cases, created a new tribe or nation state that found an equilibrium with the founders, either as neighbor and sometimes ally, sharing a mutual common heritage, or as the dominating or subservient tribe of its founders until rebellion or assimilation reestablished a nation state capable of survival.

As such genocide, or at least a cultural genocide, is ingrained in human heritage as it is with other species on a far longer, but no less important genetic scale. The new mutated species survives and becomes something new, while the older species either adapts to the change or becomes extinct itself, or the new mutation becomes obsolete and a genetic dead end.

Physical Frontier Has Disappeared

But the human frontier has disappeared. Until travel and colonization to the deep sea and to other worlds becomes possible, there is no more wide-open frontier. The forests and wild lands have reached their limits and the barren north or south is simply too remote and inaccessible.

The human race continues to adapt and reject its own systems, but is cannibalizing the structure to reestablish a frontier. With no new terrain, the landscape is the cities and countryside in which the human race has already inhabited.

The Need to Rebel Into the Frontier Turns Inward

All human societies face rejection and rebellion from within more so now than ever. Traditions that have stood for centuries or longer are being rejected. They worked to keep the society safe when they were created, but are growing more obsolete in the face of new art, technology and interaction between nation states.

While one nation developed laws and government according to its unique landscape, both physically and sociologically, access to information bombards a nations people with new ideas. People finding error with their systems look elsewhere and find better ways to behave individually and collectively, but without understanding the systems, success and failures that led to that particular adaptation.

"Civilization" is Slow to Effectively Adapt

Thus, cultures are adapting traits that should work, but fail completely or create more problems. The heterogeneous cultures are striving to adapt and fix underlying issues that have plagued their systems and are stumbling toward developing a homogenous social structure that can apply to all of a nations people and its immigrants, however, they still strive to keep their dominant cultural heritage.

The result in the short run will be a social structure that eventually collapses into anarchy as the heterogeneous elements reject the mainstream and fight first the dominating power, then each other, until a new equilibrium is reached, or a complete restructuring of the social structure that creates a bland, cultureless superstructure that ignores the genetic and cultural distinctions between peoples that seeks only to keep the peace.

This peace will only last until the cultural vestiges evaporate through interbreeding, blending the species until a single amalgamated race, or until a majority-minority power structure ignites into anarchy and the combative tribal structure again reestablishes itself.

From the 1998 movie "Bulworth": "All we need is a voluntary, free-spirited, open-ended program of procreative racial deconstruction. Everybody just gotta keep fuckin' everybody 'til they're all the same color."

Until a New Physical Frontier is Found, Civilization Faces Violence From Within

Due to scale of the human race, especially as the population continues to increase, will still create a cultural regionalism and culture based on place reflecting the values of locale over genetics and cultural heritage that will result in regional values overtaking the super-nation or global values and result in perpetual animosity, violence and war until a new frontier, new worlds made habitable by new technology, becomes available until the human race reduces itself back to the stone age through global disease or catastrophic world war, or simply becomes extinct.

The converse is a personal sovereignty wherein the overarching rules each individual is permitted to behave obeying those few basic rules of the tribe, now the species as a whole: provide for the species, do not kill members of the species, provide for and protect the next generation, and proportionately punish those who violate those rules necessary for the species survival. The advantage of this structure is that as the species encounters new technologies and new environments and later new worlds to colonize, the members of the species will be able to adapt and keep extinction at bay until it can find success then equilibrium with the environment.

Creating A Temporary Psychological Frontier Through Artistic Expression, Bohemian Lifestyles, and Becoming a "Cultural Rebel"

This adaptation begins earlier, and can be seen in American culture now. The borderlanders, the underground, the outlanders are those who see the laws and governance as inherently flawed as those rules are based on a time and place that is no longer applicable. They break the rules that do not harm to individuals involved. They slip beneath the radar of the system and learn to function and succeed as outlaws in the frontier beneath the social strata.

The overarching norms of the mainstream which, in America are capitalism, the pursuit of wealth and financial security are rejected and ignored.

These individuals have found that rejection of these has not lead to poverty and destitution, but rather to a particular lifestyle that is as distinctly liberated as the frontier of the West used to be 100 years ago. They have found that one can live, not just sustain, but comfortably live, without life insurance, investments, homeownership, nine-to-five employment, 401Ks, taxes, and pensions. They take little from the system and seek one underlying distinctly American value, perhaps more at our core more than any other to be left alone in peace.

"The Borderlanders":

The quintessential borderlander creates art, works for a living, contributes to his or her local community economically, politically or socially, raises children and/or benefits the offspring of other economically, politically or socially, occasionally indulges in minor vices which are still seen as negative by the elitist power structure, travels, experiments with their art, lifestyle, body, and morality, and spreads of living liberated within the society as ideas via a network of like minds.

They reject the system that restrains them by disobeying the rules that don't apply and communicating a new set of individualized values through art, but it in literature, music, visual art, or other mediums.

The goal, whether known or not, is to impart a value system of equality in members of the species so that as the species reaches the crux wherein it must decide to become bland and homogenous and face perpetual regional warfare, or embrace individual sovereignty.

The mainstreamer takes what is given, buys what they are fed, serves in the system and fights and hates what they are told. The mainstreamer is too complacent, too afraid, or too uninspired to see anything but what the system serves. They work hard but economically, politically or socially deposit their gains into a system that seeks to do the same to their children, in the often vain and intense vague hope that they will work up the ladder to a place of power and authority which seeks to feed on the masses for its power. It is a parasitic mind consuming a living corpse that maintains equilibrium as long as those in power dont get too hungry for more and as long as the body doesnt get too small or weak. Eventually, the system will tip one way or another and result in a totalitarian despot or open rebellion.

Draining troops from the mainstream is a social rebellious element that has been growing in strength for decades and presents a problem for the elite. As long as the masses have their bread and circuses, they are easily controlled.

The Threat of Political Rebellion

However, if the rebellion stirs the pot, shows those in the system that they don't need the system to be comfortable, creative and productive, the elite loses power. As power diminishes, the elite weakens, gets frantic, and uses its power to hold on to it. In time, this will lead to conflict. Either the elite will openly confront the rebellion and force the mainstream to choose, which will essentially cause it to fragment into factions, or the elite will lose its power and dissipate, or the elite will destroy the rebellion and reassert its power.

In other cultures and in other times, the elite has had forces in position to maintain power. At various times in human history, armies, the church, secret police, federal investigative agencies, fear or invasion, and the numbing powers of drugs, entertainment and television to kill or assimilate the outlaw borderlanders or cause the mainstream to turn against them.

Globalism Accelerates the Psychological Frontier

However, with the advent of new information technologies, the freedom of movement nationally and now internationally, the diminishing threat of invasion by enemies or outsiders is creating a structure wherein the concept of "us" is no longer a cultural, national or nation-state concept, but becoming one of a global community. It's hard for members of a nation such as the United State to hate members of another when its legal system openly and legally accepts everyone from anywhere to become one of its citizens. To become an American, equal to each every other American, all an imigrant need do is repeat the Naturalization Oath, and then they have as much right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness as the dead white men who first penned those words.

As the enemy outside fades, the elite targets trouble-making nations to instill fear and keep power. Within, the elite targets anything outside the norm that is still not accepted by the predominate culture, such as those with differing social morals, practicing different sexual orientations, speaking different languages, wearing foreign dress, with different religious and cultural heritages, etc.

However, the borderlanders, in their quest for the frontier, the different, embrace and assimilate these outsiders. First as social tourists experiencing something new and different, second as like minds also ostracized for being difference from the mainstream, and third because borderlanders come from these outside groups a readily as from the mainstream.

The Borderlanders are Destined to Congregate

The borderlanders come from urban areas of large cities where the rules of the mainstream are least applicable because of the removed applicability and general obsolescence from the reality of the environment; or from suburbs and medium cities where complacency has created an structure of indifference to all but the most severe crimes and punishments; or from isolated small towns wherein a small minority has had influence to the art of the borderlander network; or art-centered towns where the artistic expression of borderlanders is more common and accepted than the mainstream itself.

Potential borderlanders in small towns where the population is stable and content, economy is healthy, the government is representative and adaptive, and art is conservative, have little complaint and generally no need to rebel against the local elite. However, regional or national issues can easily tip the scales one way or the other.

"Outlaw" Artists Will Create Enclaves

The outlaw artists seeking expression, the borderlanders, will seek out those places where they are accepted to create and to bend and break obsolete rules without consequence.

While the borderlanders have held onto pockets of their genesis the urban areas, suburban enclaves, and pockets art-centered towns are the future, the new frontier, where the borderlanders, social outlaws and art rebels can more free express, experiment and share.

They will congregate, agitate and adapt their unique regionalism into the locally predominate culture.

The Inevitable Conflict

While the timeframe could be years or decades, the elite will continue to fight and hold on to the mainstream and seek to destroy these outposts until the borderlanders either change the mainstream or the elite brings economic, political or social conflict in its final throes before it either collapses in the unrest it has caused but suppressed; or the elite assimilates the image of the borderlanders and feeds it to the mainstream in a package the elite can control; or the borderlanders face extinction and retreat back to pockets of isolation where the process can continue until it again finds a frontier to weaken the elites power hold again.

Let Nature Take Its Course

Current Mood: amused
Begging for special treatment
she complains at 96:
"I have a rock hard liver,
I'm on kidney dialysis,
I'm on an oxygen tank,
I have onset Alzheimer's,
a weak heart
bloated feet
cataracts
a new hip
liver spots
osteoporosis
a blown spleen
thin blood
colon cancer
lung cancer
intestinal cancer
mouth cancer
skin cancer
three heart attacks
and a brain aneurysm.
what do you think that means!?!"

"oh ma'am, i don't know,
maybe it's god's subtle way
to ask you to die?"

Gentle Prose Eyes

I'm been writing prose stories of my autobiography for the last three days. This is one of the products. Maybe more to come.





This physical details of this story are true, though the interpretation is entirely my own. The names have been changed to protect the guilty. The very, very guitly. Enjoy.

Rupert

Rupert always liked shocking 'mundanes,' members of that vast majority of people who sit home at night, every night, laughing it up over the scripted behavior of sitcoms. There was a time, we're told through textbooks of mosaics and vases of naked athletes, when actors were on par with beggars and con men, thought no higher than the urban campers that migrate through downtown Tempe by night and curl up on benches at the park just outside my flat, ogling the young Spanish mothers. But the ancient class of pretenders have become celebrities, usurping the role once held in our grandmother cultures by orators, warriors, politicians, and the beleaguered breed of poets. Rupert would not have considered himself any of these things. He once referred to himself as a "shockster," tagged with a chuckle, once when we split a bottle of wine on the roof of the Matthews Center. He chucked the bottle into orbit after we downed it, bursting like a star of broken glass on Cady Mall.

If he had more forethought, I would have called him a performance artist. Without his conversation, I would have debated his sanity. If he ever wrote his brain into a page, I would have described him as a writer of prophecies.

Unfortunately, Rupert was impulsive and hated writing. His life was built on spoken words and he could bullshit his way out of anything and often did. He once scored a one-night stand with a business sophomore after telling her she had nice teeth. He blasted epithets in the theater, not at the screen, but at other moviegoers, shouted across Mill Avenue to friends and foes alike, and was politely asked to leave various establishments under threat of calling the police. To know Rupert was to know an anarchist who hated anarchists, but wanted to throw a bit of chaos in the comfortable life of soccer marms and white-collar suburban middle-managers whose life goal was owning an SUV with 1.2% APR.

I can't remember how I met Rupert. Most of the players in my life slide up from the sides while I'm watching protagonist and heroine bicker center-stage. Pause. Sideline character becomes supporting actor, epigrammatic lines emerge into the venue, soaking into the brains of watchers, and the audience asks, "where did he come from?"

Rupert always stole his scenes.

Too much coffee in our systems while he paid the check. He always had money it seemed. Just enough cash to survive, I thought, but he always had a bill in the beat-up wallet I'm sure he lifted from some thrift store, more than likely with slight of hand than with a receipt. On our treks, we never stopped at a bank, and he job was fuzzy something or other, so I knew he was a dealer; coupled with the number of strangers that would stop him in bars or on the street to say hello.

Start parenthesis. Here I insert the fable of the stork among crows for those of you with a lofty moral compass and no dangerlove. I never dealt in any organized sense, but materials illegal fell my way from time to time, the floorscore of my acquaintances as it were, and I passed on the substances I wasn't into with a marginal profit.

Rupert though, always had a story about getting roughed up for one reason or another, and he could read tags, gang signs, and knew what areas of town to not head into looking for trouble. I was far more naive so he kept an eye out for me. End parenthesis

Too much coffee and he had finished more than a pack of Marlboroughs. I'm not one for cigarettes and can barely tell the difference between a filter and the other end; being the heir to a registered nurse can do that to a boy. The waitress had a smooth butt and a nice smile in a dull midwestern sense. One of those flat states that ends in a vowel that no one remembers driving through, despite gas station receipts proving otherwise. Rupert always overtipped for good service or a pretty face; he knew a serious waitress, like a poet, could make a ten dollars stretch a week.

The water glasses were just chunks of ice now, and Rupert and I sucked the sweat off the cubes like ants milking aphids.

"Wanna pick a fight?"

The room is half-packed. In a booth to the left are three kids, younger or older than us by a few months, suburban black kids in sweaters and baggy jeans cleaned and pressed by mothers or girlfriends or young wives, and they're not up for a friendly tussle with strangers. To the right is a family of four, Homer in a maroon polo, digital watch ticking down the seconds to his inevitable heart attack, Marge in her Friday "we're going out honey" blouse. Bart and Lisa pick off the remnants of the children's menu burgers with cute names aimed at the youngest youth market. College couples abound elsewhere in pairs or quads, but I'm not up for dropping soft-skinned science majors desperately trying to score subtlety with their newest virgin targets, or roughing up goofball boyfriends in front of girlfriends far too good and fine for them, but doomed to imitate the cartoon breeders to our right.

"Sure," I quietly say, thinking we'll head outside and spill drinks on thick-necked frat boys sauced on overpriced Long Islands.

Keep in mind, dear reader, that I am by no means a warrior, nor is Rupert, and I only fight back in self-defense. Rupert, conversely, saw confrontation as means to an end, if only that end is to pass the time with some shared excitement. There was no humor in a knockdown, drag-out fight where one party incurs a debt with their health insurance behemoth. It was always about the subtlety of the confrontation, the maneuvering, the drama. It was a chess game, Rupert said, to agitate a normal person into throwing the first punch, then getting the fuck out before the law arrived to ruin the experiment.

Rupert is instantly standing, his chair tumbling backward behind him toward the empty table behind us. Legs spring and he is suddenly airborne and our table is the deck of an aircraft carrier. He skids across it at full speed, wheels missing the non-existent tow cable and the ice cubes become frozen projectiles tumbling across the floor. His hands plant on my shoulders, taking me over in the chair to the floor. My torso topples back, my head does not, but locks halfway to floor, so my skull does not dribble across the court.

I distinctly remember hearing the one black kid facing us shout, "shit!" as I tumbled.

Rupert's knee is planted on my chest, fists wailing. He has a ten-year-olds smile, not at the thrill of assault, but the reaction of the crowd. Homer is dumbstruck; he's only seen shit like this on every single one of his 500 channels except PBS. Now in reality, he's unsure whether this is scripted or sports. Marge repeats the same two-word prayer over and over to her deity, while Bart and Lisa get to see R-rated violence for free.

Rupert's dive broke a glass he never did pay for.

Fists flying, his into me, mine into him, but he's pulling punches. (No permanent damage kiddo, not that pretty face). I'm returning body blows but have no momentum due to the floor. I block whatever else I can. The black kids have half-stood, unsure of the proper moment to intervene in what does not seem to be their affair. College couples have all turned their attention away from banal small talk and sexual pursuits to watch Rupert (apparently) beat the living daylights out of a me, pinned to the floor.

Later, Marge would be heard to remark: they seemed like two nice, quiet young gentlemen, before the recent unpleasantness.

Rupert lands an excellent shot across my jaw, jerking my face to the right into wet carpet. I start laughing uncontrollably, more out of shock than design; perhaps some long repressed survival tactic to distract opponents in a tense situation.

Rupert begins laughing too and his punches fall softer until they halt altogether.

By now, management and the cook staff have been alerted by the commotion and emerge into the dining room , appraising the scene. One of the black kids has emerged from the booth. Two college kids have split from their dates in moral outrage and to demonstrate their virility. Hormones flow. Adrenaline. Testosterone. Estrogen.

Rupert backs off me, grabbing me up by the arm in a single fluid motion. I stabilize. I glance at Bart, letting him see that the wounded hero is still alive after the commercial break, despite the cliffhanger postulated minutes before.

Rupert faces the stunned crowd, even more stunned that the scene ended so abruptly. He bows slightly, and shouts, "thank you, you've been great."

Afterwards, I informed him that when I told the story years later, I would remember him saying something humorous and dramatic. In reality, though, after he pulled me up, he shouted something far more lowbrow, like "fuck", or "run", or "now" and he bolted, halfhazardly dragging me with him, toward the waiting area.

Inbound customers hover like Vietnamese Hueys for the next hostess in the foyer as Rupert, then I, dash past. Rupert halts just long enough to grab a handful of peppermints from a basket on the hostess stand. Some fell out on the way, skidding across tile like carnival hockey pucks.

He slams shoulder-first through two doors and I followed, laughing hysterically the entire way.

We hauled toward Rupert's pickup. He took the helm, I leapt into the bed and we disappeared into the night, while bruises formed like medals in our skin.