The legitimacy of solism as a philosophy.
I read once about the theory of solism, or egism. The passage was brief and I found the analysis of the theory delightfully ironic. To paraphrase, it read, "however, there are schools of thought or major writings on the topic."
If you are the only sentient, real creature in the universe, who do you need to tell the theory to? So no one else "matters," in the philosophical sense, and when you die, the universe ceases to be.
Everyone is the center of their own universe. You are the center of your universe. It began at your birth and will end at your death, simply because there is no other way to disprove this. Any objections to this are speculative, and, since they can never be proven, unless you inhabit the mind of someone else, are irrelevant. Whether you are "god" or there is another, be it an equal or a superior being, is also irrelevant.
As such, ignore any pretense that anyone or anything else but you has, does or will exist.
The rules for behavior are simple: you have elected to inhibit a human body with a limited lifespan obeying other rules of physics, the passage of time, and whatever society you have chosen to inhabit. You have created others with whom interact who also obey the same set of finite rules. You have created a fictional history of the universe before your existence that all of these characters and yourself choose to believe, because there is nothing else to believe. Since you, in this body, can not travel through time, can not disprove this fiction, it is true in the sense that it is uniformly believed.
However, everyone else, whether they exist as sentient beings, characters in a story or mere figments of imagination is also irrelevant. Everyone believes they are the center of the universe. Understanding this cognitive rationality is paramount to interaction with them, whatever they may be.
The reason society functions at all given this fact is that members of it choose to play the game that others exist, whether or not they do. They also obey the rules of corporeal existence in a limited space-time continuum.
We chose to play this game because we cannot break the rules we ourselves have created and the only other option is self-annihilation.
Whether the reality of what we have been told the nature of the universe is is true, or whether this theory is true, the point is that we must obey the rules we have established until we end. When we end, either the universe ceases to be along with us and the hiccup in time and space ends as well, or we find out that the game is over and go back or forward to whatever state of existence truly is. If we are god playing a game, we go back to being god. If we are mortal and there is a god, I'm sure we speak at length over the experience. Granted, if there is no god, but a corporeal universe, then we still cease to be, but the universe continues on as it has for eons.
Metaphorically, imagine that you are seated at a table on a platform floating in space. Before you, sits a massive chess board or Monopoly game, deck of cards, whatever, and you play an invisible, incorporeal opponent. If you win, you play again. If you lose or refuse to make any moves for too long, the platform and table disappear and you fall. You have no choice but to play, make a running leap off the edge or refuse to play. Even if you win, you will eventually lose. With nothing else to do until then, why not play? Find joy in the game.
Conversely, imagine that you are an author thousands of years from now. You have written a fictional novel of a character with your personal history. However, rather than read it, you live it. The book does not end, and you do not leave the novel and return to your author life until you die in the book. The author creature you are may make nothing like a human, may be a jelly, a being of electrical energy, or may have the ability to travel through time, or may be god with an itchy pencil. Either way, the author has chosen to write about a human life. You are that story.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Christopher Fox Graham new managing editor for Kudos
Christopher Fox Graham is the new managing editor for Kudos.
Graham, 29, a resident of West Sedona, has been deeply involved with the arts community since he moved to the Verde Valley from Tempe. For the last four years, he has been an editor, columnist and journalist in Sedona, best known for his "Sedona Underground" arts column.
Graham graduated from Arizona State University in 2001 with a Bachelor of Arts degree in English and a minor in history. He worked as senior copy editor for ASU's State Press.
As a spoken word poet, Graham has toured nationally and represented Northern Arizona four times at the National Poetry Slam. His poetry has been published in several anthologies.
Graham currently runs a poetry open mic in Sedona, serves as poetry coordinator of the annual GumptionFest arts festival and as co-chairman of the Sedona Youth Commission.
Graham has won several awards from the Arizona Newspapers Association, including sharing the 2006 Journalistic Achievement/Community Service award with Verde Valley Newspapers columnist Nate Hansen.
He can be reached at (928) 634-2241, ext. 46; or by e-mail at cfgraham@verdevalleynews.com.
Graham also will serve as managing editor for The Villager in the Village of Oak Creek. Both Kudos and The Villager are published by Verde Valley Newspapers, Inc., which also publishes The Verde Independent in Cottonwood and The Bugle in Camp Verde.
"We are really excited to have Christopher on our staff. His accomplishments in our profession speak well of him. Christopher's background will be a perfect fit for building on our already great products-- Kudos and The Villager," said VVN Publisher Pam Miller.
Graham, 29, a resident of West Sedona, has been deeply involved with the arts community since he moved to the Verde Valley from Tempe. For the last four years, he has been an editor, columnist and journalist in Sedona, best known for his "Sedona Underground" arts column.
Graham graduated from Arizona State University in 2001 with a Bachelor of Arts degree in English and a minor in history. He worked as senior copy editor for ASU's State Press.
As a spoken word poet, Graham has toured nationally and represented Northern Arizona four times at the National Poetry Slam. His poetry has been published in several anthologies.
Graham currently runs a poetry open mic in Sedona, serves as poetry coordinator of the annual GumptionFest arts festival and as co-chairman of the Sedona Youth Commission.
Graham has won several awards from the Arizona Newspapers Association, including sharing the 2006 Journalistic Achievement/Community Service award with Verde Valley Newspapers columnist Nate Hansen.
He can be reached at (928) 634-2241, ext. 46; or by e-mail at cfgraham@verdevalleynews.com.
Graham also will serve as managing editor for The Villager in the Village of Oak Creek. Both Kudos and The Villager are published by Verde Valley Newspapers, Inc., which also publishes The Verde Independent in Cottonwood and The Bugle in Camp Verde.
"We are really excited to have Christopher on our staff. His accomplishments in our profession speak well of him. Christopher's background will be a perfect fit for building on our already great products-- Kudos and The Villager," said VVN Publisher Pam Miller.
Friday, May 2, 2008
It was the best of times ...
Rehearsing in a garage, a high school student’s fingers run raw as she retries chord after chord, desperately trying to match music to her emotion.
Every failed strum brings her closer to that perfect song and every callus measures her journey.
Across town, a 28-year-old abstract painter adds another splash of color to a piece he’s already spent hours working to complete to his satisfaction.
Despite the difference in art form, personal background, experience, education and socio-economic class, Sedona’s underground artists seek the same vexing goal: expression.
Kindred spirits, the artists of Sedona reach out and support each other in ways that major city art scenes envy: poets attend friends’ art openings for inspiration, painters dance to their favorite bands and musicians cheer the loudest at poetry slams.
Understanding this city’s rare peculiarity – that artist friendships transcend genre – is what makes living, working and creating art here worth enduring endless road construction, noise ordinances and the high cost of living.
Desert sunsets every night, hiking trails minutes away, recently-immigrated artists adding new ideas and stories to our municipal tapestry infuse inspiration to short-timers and longtime artists alike.
Our residents may complain about the city’s small-town atmosphere bleeding away into memory, but for Sedona’s art community, it’s alive and well.
Sedona’s underground art scene has grown by leaps and bounds in my last three years, eight months and 23 days working as copy editor, columnist and arts reporter for Larson Newspapers.
From a loose collection of cliques and tribes, the art scene now boasts a cohesiveness that promulgates into the city’s core.
More festivals, arts events, concerts and small gigs – and greater diversity among them – have found the gumption to exhibit their creations. Their news continues to fill our pages.
At an event on Friday, April 25, a local artist told me that my work “has changed this town.” However, I am just a storyteller reporting on the changing city around us.
Artists and the community at large have grown to realize that art is not a luxury, it is as necessary as food, shelter health, education, decent working conditions, to paraphrase poet Adrienne Rich.
The city has always been a mecca for artists, ever since the Sinagua carved petroglyphs into the rock faces at Palatki Heritage Site centuries ago.
Many artists claim, while other loudly champion, that the strength of Sedona’s current underground art incarnation has its roots in a small coffeehouse located beneath a liquor store in West Sedona.
It was a venue that welcomed all artists to perform, exhibit and produce, served as a gathering place for local, temporary and traveling artists.
While the venue closed in July 2005, the close-knit community spirit has lived on, even among those who never drank a coffee within its walls.
The “Sedona Underground” column certainly had its roots there.
My first column on May 27, 2005, appeared with this editor’s note: “This is the first installment of a column that will appear weekly in The Scene. It will explore the underground artists and musicians of Sedona.”
Colleagues and friends alike wondered if there would be enough artists to maintain such an endeavor.
In the more than 100 columns published in The Scene, the well has yet to run dry.
Artists continue to appear from the woodwork, drawn not by “vortex” or “red rock fever,” but an unspoken conviction that Sedona returns to you what you bring to it – artists either flee within months or flourish for years.
Those who endure the trials of living here pass on their experience and artistic talents to those who move here for the art scene and those young artists who rise up and take their rightful place in the community.
What has made these artists so remarkable and worth the ink of newsprint are not simply their skills, but their proximity. These artists live and work among us – next door, down the street, or in a room upstairs.
It has been my privilege to bring you, our readers, the personal profiles of the scene’s most talented, influential, inspiring and promising members.
However, all good things must come to an end.
I am leaving the Sedona Red Rock News to pursue other artistic endeavors in the Verde Valley.
While this column comes to an end with my departure, the obligation to support, promote and celebrate the city’s art and artists falls on the community that they entertain and honor with their work.
Sedona’s destiny is to become an artistic hub of the Southwest, but we must all have to gumption to play our part.
Follow your bliss and build the city you want to see.
Contact Christopher Fox Graham at foxthepoet@yahoo.com.
Now take the first nine paragraphs and read the first letter:
Rehearsing in a garage, a high school student’s fingers run raw as she retries chord after chord, desperately trying to match music to her emotion.
Every failed strum brings her closer to that perfect song and every callus measures her journey.
Across town, a 28-year-old abstract painter adds another splash of color to a piece he’s already spent hours working to complete to his satisfaction.
Despite the difference in art form, personal background, experience, education and socio-economic class, Sedona’s underground artists seek the same vexing goal: expression.
Kindred spirits, the artists of Sedona reach out and support each other in ways that major city art scenes envy: poets attend friends’ art openings for inspiration, painters dance to their favorite bands and musicians cheer the loudest at poetry slams.
Understanding this city’s rare peculiarity – that artist friendships transcend genre – is what makes living, working and creating art here worth enduring endless road construction, noise ordinances and the high cost of living.
Desert sunsets every night, hiking trails minutes away, recently-immigrated artists adding new ideas and stories to our municipal tapestry infuse inspiration to short-timers and longtime artists alike.
Our residents may complain about the city’s small-town atmosphere bleeding away into memory, but for Sedona’s art community, it’s alive and well.
Sedona’s underground art scene has grown by leaps and bounds in my last three years, eight months and 23 days working as copy editor, columnist and arts reporter for Larson Newspapers.
That's right, "Read Kudos" the secret message hinting at reading the competition arts publication I'm taking over on May 1.
Every failed strum brings her closer to that perfect song and every callus measures her journey.
Across town, a 28-year-old abstract painter adds another splash of color to a piece he’s already spent hours working to complete to his satisfaction.
Despite the difference in art form, personal background, experience, education and socio-economic class, Sedona’s underground artists seek the same vexing goal: expression.
Kindred spirits, the artists of Sedona reach out and support each other in ways that major city art scenes envy: poets attend friends’ art openings for inspiration, painters dance to their favorite bands and musicians cheer the loudest at poetry slams.
Understanding this city’s rare peculiarity – that artist friendships transcend genre – is what makes living, working and creating art here worth enduring endless road construction, noise ordinances and the high cost of living.
Desert sunsets every night, hiking trails minutes away, recently-immigrated artists adding new ideas and stories to our municipal tapestry infuse inspiration to short-timers and longtime artists alike.
Our residents may complain about the city’s small-town atmosphere bleeding away into memory, but for Sedona’s art community, it’s alive and well.
Sedona’s underground art scene has grown by leaps and bounds in my last three years, eight months and 23 days working as copy editor, columnist and arts reporter for Larson Newspapers.
From a loose collection of cliques and tribes, the art scene now boasts a cohesiveness that promulgates into the city’s core.
More festivals, arts events, concerts and small gigs – and greater diversity among them – have found the gumption to exhibit their creations. Their news continues to fill our pages.
At an event on Friday, April 25, a local artist told me that my work “has changed this town.” However, I am just a storyteller reporting on the changing city around us.
Artists and the community at large have grown to realize that art is not a luxury, it is as necessary as food, shelter health, education, decent working conditions, to paraphrase poet Adrienne Rich.
The city has always been a mecca for artists, ever since the Sinagua carved petroglyphs into the rock faces at Palatki Heritage Site centuries ago.
Many artists claim, while other loudly champion, that the strength of Sedona’s current underground art incarnation has its roots in a small coffeehouse located beneath a liquor store in West Sedona.
It was a venue that welcomed all artists to perform, exhibit and produce, served as a gathering place for local, temporary and traveling artists.
While the venue closed in July 2005, the close-knit community spirit has lived on, even among those who never drank a coffee within its walls.
The “Sedona Underground” column certainly had its roots there.
My first column on May 27, 2005, appeared with this editor’s note: “This is the first installment of a column that will appear weekly in The Scene. It will explore the underground artists and musicians of Sedona.”
Colleagues and friends alike wondered if there would be enough artists to maintain such an endeavor.
In the more than 100 columns published in The Scene, the well has yet to run dry.
Artists continue to appear from the woodwork, drawn not by “vortex” or “red rock fever,” but an unspoken conviction that Sedona returns to you what you bring to it – artists either flee within months or flourish for years.
Those who endure the trials of living here pass on their experience and artistic talents to those who move here for the art scene and those young artists who rise up and take their rightful place in the community.
What has made these artists so remarkable and worth the ink of newsprint are not simply their skills, but their proximity. These artists live and work among us – next door, down the street, or in a room upstairs.
It has been my privilege to bring you, our readers, the personal profiles of the scene’s most talented, influential, inspiring and promising members.
However, all good things must come to an end.
I am leaving the Sedona Red Rock News to pursue other artistic endeavors in the Verde Valley.
While this column comes to an end with my departure, the obligation to support, promote and celebrate the city’s art and artists falls on the community that they entertain and honor with their work.
Sedona’s destiny is to become an artistic hub of the Southwest, but we must all have to gumption to play our part.
Follow your bliss and build the city you want to see.
Contact Christopher Fox Graham at foxthepoet@yahoo.com.
Now take the first nine paragraphs and read the first letter:
Rehearsing in a garage, a high school student’s fingers run raw as she retries chord after chord, desperately trying to match music to her emotion.
Every failed strum brings her closer to that perfect song and every callus measures her journey.
Across town, a 28-year-old abstract painter adds another splash of color to a piece he’s already spent hours working to complete to his satisfaction.
Despite the difference in art form, personal background, experience, education and socio-economic class, Sedona’s underground artists seek the same vexing goal: expression.
Kindred spirits, the artists of Sedona reach out and support each other in ways that major city art scenes envy: poets attend friends’ art openings for inspiration, painters dance to their favorite bands and musicians cheer the loudest at poetry slams.
Understanding this city’s rare peculiarity – that artist friendships transcend genre – is what makes living, working and creating art here worth enduring endless road construction, noise ordinances and the high cost of living.
Desert sunsets every night, hiking trails minutes away, recently-immigrated artists adding new ideas and stories to our municipal tapestry infuse inspiration to short-timers and longtime artists alike.
Our residents may complain about the city’s small-town atmosphere bleeding away into memory, but for Sedona’s art community, it’s alive and well.
Sedona’s underground art scene has grown by leaps and bounds in my last three years, eight months and 23 days working as copy editor, columnist and arts reporter for Larson Newspapers.
That's right, "Read Kudos" the secret message hinting at reading the competition arts publication I'm taking over on May 1.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Take the wheel and drive
Take the wheel and drive
to a city I’ve never heard of
in a country nameless in my geography
I want to be a forever-stranger
except in your arms
call me whatever you want
drive so fast the cities I’ve always known
disappear into the rearview
I’ll gladly forget them all
if you never want to see them again
Take the wheel and drive
ignore the highway signs
the exit signs
keep driving till the world we know
starts fading fast
take me to another place
where only you and I know our language
a land with a new horizon
Take the wheel and drive
so fast the sun rises in the west
and the world starts over
with all new players
I’ve seen this country
and there ain’t nothing new
just the same towns as 10 miles back
with new names but the same old characters
we’ve seen the stages here
and grown tired of the play
take the wheel and drive
let’s find a new country
without borders or barriers
that still uses stars for compass points
though we don’t recognize the constellations
we want a two-lane path
with no lights as far as the eyes can see
get the keys,
fill the tank,
take the wheel and drive
let’s find where last road ends
to a city I’ve never heard of
in a country nameless in my geography
I want to be a forever-stranger
except in your arms
call me whatever you want
drive so fast the cities I’ve always known
disappear into the rearview
I’ll gladly forget them all
if you never want to see them again
Take the wheel and drive
ignore the highway signs
the exit signs
keep driving till the world we know
starts fading fast
take me to another place
where only you and I know our language
a land with a new horizon
Take the wheel and drive
so fast the sun rises in the west
and the world starts over
with all new players
I’ve seen this country
and there ain’t nothing new
just the same towns as 10 miles back
with new names but the same old characters
we’ve seen the stages here
and grown tired of the play
take the wheel and drive
let’s find a new country
without borders or barriers
that still uses stars for compass points
though we don’t recognize the constellations
we want a two-lane path
with no lights as far as the eyes can see
get the keys,
fill the tank,
take the wheel and drive
let’s find where last road ends
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
How would Jack Bauer free Tibet?
Why is the world picking on the People’s Republic of China leading up to the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing?
For a country with 1.3 billion people to protect, feed and force into sweatshops to manufacture Western goods — such as your shoes, watchband or every plastic thing in your kitchen — you have to admire the PRC’s efficiency.
Production quotas and six-day, 12-hour work days get things done for those proud Americans with five-day, eight-hour workdays and addictions to “24.”
If Jack Bauer knows the world is harsh, shouldn’t we?
From the state of China’s perspective, what’s the harm in oppressing a nonviolent ethnic minority here or there, crushing unarmed student protestors or blocking Google searches about “Sedona vortices” to keep the peace?
Independent thought and differing ideas cause problems, plain and simple.
Political dissent and free speech must be restrained and controlled for the state to flourish. Hence the reason Congress passed the USA PATRIOT Act, whose theft of American liberties is only topped by the sheer, kneejerk brilliance of turning it into an acronym: Uniting and Strengthening America by Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism.
Seriously, that’s what it stands for.
Imagine being in the room with the guys during the six hours it took to come up with that title not realizing the Bush Administration official who said, “Hey, now, make it an acronym,” was just kidding.
In 2005, Reporters Without Borders’ Annual Worldwide Freedom Press Index ranked the PRC 159th out of 167 countries.
The Chinese Communist Party restricts most access to news deemed a threat to national security.
Few Chinese have met Westerners.
Right now, the average Chinese have access to state-run news which tells them Tibet was never independent, asked for PRC support to resist Western imperialism in the 1950s and wants to break away, due to a secretly militant and nationalist Dalai Lama.
History gets fuzzy when it keeps changing, much like recollections of past ex-girlfriends or ex-boyfriends change when your current partner asks for details.
The state of China and the Chinese people need to be treated as two separate parties as we approach the games.
Most Americans these days don’t want foreigners to confuse their ideologies with those of President George W. Bush, thus the reason some Americans wear red maple leaf patches when they tour Europe.
Hate the war, love the soldier.
The Chinese see images of foreigners the world over trying to douse the Olympic flame or statements like, “Our government should boycott the Beijing games …,” however, the state of China carefully neglects the context of “… because the Chinese government has oppressed, silenced and killed Tibetans for 50 years.”
Protesters would do better to silently protest the passing Olympic torch with signs reading “Question Your Government” and “Dissent is Necessary,” “Demand Free Speech” — of course written in Mandarin — and hope to get caught on camera.
“Free Tibet” bumper stickers help pay manufacturers to make more “Free Tibet” bumper stickers but do little to actually free Tibet.
One-sixth of the world’s population wakes up with a photo of Chairman Mao on the mantle. They support their government because there is little or no access to the outside world.
Bitter street protests in San Francisco or Paris make rabble-rousers feel self-satisfied, but to the average potential Chinese dissident watching on television, the Western countries seem like tribes of self-righteous jerks, which helps neither Tibet nor the average Chinese.
Rather than boycott the games, more Westerners should go. For many Chinese, the 2008 Olympics may be the first face-to-face contact with Westerners.
An old friend of mine returned to Sedona after a few months in the Far East. In China, he was asked bluntly and naively, “Tiananmen, did that happen?”
For Westerners, the oppression in Tibet, the massacre of students in Tiananmen Square and Beijing’s efforts to limit free speech and dissent are old news. To the Chinese, they are rumors desperately seeking confirmation.
The right words at the right time could do more than a full day of tear-gas-filled fun on the Champs-Élysées.
Communist China is a doomed creature, whether it happens in the slow progression toward capitalism or with a violent overthrow by the people.
Either way, this summer’s celebration of the best achievements the human body can perform could be a tool to show the Chinese what’s possible from free minds.
Ask yourself, “How would Jack Bauer free Tibet?”
Deciphering Sedona is published every Wednesday in the Sedona Red Rock News. To comment, e-mail to cgraham@larsonnewspapers.com.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Results from the Old Town Poetry Slam, held Saturday 11 April 2008 at the Old Town Center for the Arts in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Photos byJon Pelletier/Verde Valley News
Invocation: Christopher Fox Graham "Welcome to the Church of the Word"
Sacrifice poet: Shama
The Klute, 2:39, 25.5
Mikel Weisser, 1:16, 20.3
Carl Weis, 3:11, 23.6 after 0.5-point time penalty
Fun Yung Moon, 3:03, 27.1
Apollo Poetry, 2:33, 28.1
Tufik Shayeb, 2:49, 26.0
Bill Campana, 2:15, 23.9
Than Ponvert, 0:48, 17.5
Clearing poem: Christopher Fox Graham, "Staring at the Milky Way with One Eye Closed"
- - - - - Round 2 - - - -
Than Ponvert, 0:22, 18.5, 36.0
Bill Campana, 2:15, 23.9, 47.8
Tufik Shayeb, 2:45, 26.4, 52.4
Apollo Poetry, 3:26, 29.0 after 1-point time penalty, 56.1
Fun Yung Moon, 1:48, 25.6, 52.7
Carl Weis, 3:57, 20.8 after 2.5-point time penalty, 41.4
Mikel Weisser, 2:08, 19.0, 39.3
The Klute, 2:39, 27.7, 53.2
Manifest Destiny, 3:05, 27.0, 50.8
Clearing poem: Christopher Fox Graham, "She Wants a Poem About Clouds"
- - - - - Round 3 - - - -
Apollo Poetry, 2:57, 29.7, 85.8, first place
The Klute, 3:22, 27.6 after a 1-point time penalty, 79.8, fourth place
Fun Yung Moon, 2:57, 27.8, 80.5, third place
Tufik Shayeb, 3:10, 28.4, 80.8, second place
Manifest Destiny, 2:20, 28.6, 79.4, fifth place
Bill Campana, 4:00, 22.5 after 3-point time penalty, 70.3, sixth place
Carl Weis, 3:23, 21.4 after 1-point time penalty, 62.8, eighth place
Mikel Weisser, 3:12, 25.5 after 0.5-time penalty, 64.3, seventh place
Than Ponvert, 0:45, 26.1, 62.1, ninth place
Benediction: Christopher Fox Graham, "Imagine a Religion"
Victory poem by Apollo Poetry
Slam staff
Scorekeeper: Alun Wile
Host: Christopher Fox Graham
Organizers: William Eaton, owner of the Old Town Center for the Arts
Christopher Fox Graham, Sedona 510 Poetry
Photos byJon Pelletier/Verde Valley News
Invocation: Christopher Fox Graham "Welcome to the Church of the Word"
Sacrifice poet: Shama
- - - - - Round 1 - - - -
Manifest Destiny, 3:42, 23.8 after 2-point time penaltyThe Klute, 2:39, 25.5
Mikel Weisser, 1:16, 20.3
Carl Weis, 3:11, 23.6 after 0.5-point time penalty
Fun Yung Moon, 3:03, 27.1
Apollo Poetry, 2:33, 28.1
Tufik Shayeb, 2:49, 26.0
Bill Campana, 2:15, 23.9Than Ponvert, 0:48, 17.5
Clearing poem: Christopher Fox Graham, "Staring at the Milky Way with One Eye Closed"
- - - - - Round 2 - - - -
Bill Campana, 2:15, 23.9, 47.8
Tufik Shayeb, 2:45, 26.4, 52.4
Apollo Poetry, 3:26, 29.0 after 1-point time penalty, 56.1
Fun Yung Moon, 1:48, 25.6, 52.7
Carl Weis, 3:57, 20.8 after 2.5-point time penalty, 41.4
Mikel Weisser, 2:08, 19.0, 39.3
The Klute, 2:39, 27.7, 53.2
Manifest Destiny, 3:05, 27.0, 50.8
- - - - - Intermission - - - - -
Clearing poem: Christopher Fox Graham, "She Wants a Poem About Clouds"
- - - - - Round 3 - - - -
Apollo Poetry, 2:57, 29.7, 85.8, first place
The Klute, 3:22, 27.6 after a 1-point time penalty, 79.8, fourth place
Fun Yung Moon, 2:57, 27.8, 80.5, third place
Tufik Shayeb, 3:10, 28.4, 80.8, second place
Manifest Destiny, 2:20, 28.6, 79.4, fifth place
Bill Campana, 4:00, 22.5 after 3-point time penalty, 70.3, sixth place
Carl Weis, 3:23, 21.4 after 1-point time penalty, 62.8, eighth place
Mikel Weisser, 3:12, 25.5 after 0.5-time penalty, 64.3, seventh placeThan Ponvert, 0:45, 26.1, 62.1, ninth place
Benediction: Christopher Fox Graham, "Imagine a Religion"
Victory poem by Apollo PoetrySlam staff
Scorekeeper: Alun Wile
Host: Christopher Fox Graham
Organizers: William Eaton, owner of the Old Town Center for the Arts
Christopher Fox Graham, Sedona 510 Poetry
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Free Northern Arizona with a plebiscite
Christopher Fox Graham
Deciphering Sedona
The idea has been thrown around of a Verde Valley independent of both Yavapai and Coconino counties.Deciphering Sedona
We should go further. Let’s declare Northern Arizona independent of Southern Arizona.
The word “succession” has earned a foul reputation ever since Fort Sumter and “partition” implies a hope for an evitable reunion. An “irreconcilable statehood” might be more appropriate.
Phoenix can claim up to New River while the state of Northern Arizona gets everything north of Black Canyon City.
For too long the counties of Northern Arizona have been beholden to Phoenix’s values. We have the water, the Grand Canyon, Monument Valley, Canyon de Chelley National Monument, Hoover Dam and the London Bridge in Lake Havasu City.
Southern Arizona can keep the Gadsden Purchase, whose northern frontier is proudly celebrated at a rest stop somewhere between Phoenix and Casa Grande.
Northern Arizona may lose the rights to the Old West battleground of Tombstone and Bisbee, but Western movie heroes always rode off in the sunset in Sedona or Monument Valley.
The division has historical precedent: while the Union split Arizona and New Mexico at the 32nd meridian west of Washington, D.C. — the present boundary, the Confederate States of America split the states at the 34th parallel — placing Sante Fe and Prescott in New Mexico and Phoenix and Roswell in Arizona.
An obvious provincialism already exists in Northern Arizona, clearly illustrated in Sedona’s citizen-local and alien-visitor dynamic.
Those visitors from Flagstaff — “You live in Flagstaff, my kids go to college there” — and Anthem — “You’re from Anthem, that blight of urban sprawl choking the water and life from our state?” — are treated different in Northern Arizona already.
There’s a rash of new states springing up around the globe, from East Timor and Kosovo to peoples demanding autonomy from Basques, Chechens, Kurds, Tamils and Tibetans.
A new state of Northern Arizona could slip in without much of a fuss.
The biggest and most obvious gain for partition from the south is tourism, which we can use to fund roads, schools, emergency services and local government projects.
Ever heard anyone travel from Michigan or Sweden to visit the wonder that is … Yuma?
However, Kingman draws gamblers too broke to stay in Laughlin, Nev., and Route 66 is still a part of the national consciousness although the Mother Road is a worn out, potholed strip of pavement that only photography students from Yavapai College or Northern Arizona University dare travel anymore.
Payson can hold a referendum to see which side of the line it wants to beholden to, but my money is on the northern half. We’re just cooler.
Puerto Rico became a U.S. territory in 1898 and since 1952 Puerto Ricans have shot down the idea of becoming the 51st state. Maybe they really want to be the 52nd state and are just waiting for a filler in the 51st slot.
Perhaps that’s our destiny.
Besides, having 52 states would be great for playing a deck of cards — Northern Arizona could be on the seven of clubs.
But the primary motivation for statehood would be better planning for water as Salt River Project owns surface water rights throughout the state to keep Phoenix moist. The Verde River risks disappearing so Tempe resident can have a pool and Scottsdale can advertise golf courses in the middle of the Sonoran Desert.
Northern Arizona would also control it’s own transportation projects, namely the brilliant decision to implement road construction on Sedona’s busiest intersection, the ‘Y,’ between Spring Break and Memorial Day.
It takes someone from the Phoenix-based Arizona Department of Transportation to assume that the best time to rip up our most important and heavily traveled thoroughfare is during the height of tourist season.
Combine that with the heavy roadwork along Hwy. 179 at the same time and you can see why locals debate succession.
Even cable guys know better than to work on the line in the middle of the Super Bowl or the season finale of “American Idol” as they’re liable to face the wrath that is a football fan, or worse yet, a 14-year-old girl with a crush on Jason Castro.
Maybe blocking highways in Phoenix makes sense in the spring, but with the lack of an alternate route between West Sedona and the Village of Oak Creek, all the road work does is make locals wonder, “If it’s called ‘tourist season,’ why can’t you shoot the tourists?”
Now we just need a flag.
Deciphering Sedona is published every Wednesday in the Sedona Red Rock News. To comment, e-mail to cgraham@larsonnewspapers.com.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Dodging bullets like Keanu Reeves
Christopher Fox Graham
Deciphering Sedona
As the recent Sedona city election headed toward the finish line, some of our readers wondered if the Sedona Red Rock News would endorse any candidates.Deciphering Sedona
Other editorial boards in other major newspapers have endorsed presidential candidates, but more often than not, these endorsements have little effect on readers and only serve to reveal a potential bias in following new stories, whether they exist or not.
In our Internet culture, people are reading more, but are less likely to read the opposition. People want “news” about their candidate or issue, but they don’t want “news by journalists” to present an honest picture, flush with the acne, scars and high-class call girls with MySpace pages that may taint a public figure.
Liberals tend to skew toward left-leaning publications like Mother Jones or TomPaine.com whose writers inch more toward punditry that journalism.
Conservatives have “fair and balanced” Fox News, which is neither fair, nor balanced, nor really news. Discuss.
Punditry is not a bad thing in itself, but it should not masquerade itself as journalism.
Both The New York Times and The Washington Post are cited by the right and left as too liberal or too conservative, respectively.
At the other end of the spectrum, journalism must be free of any bias whatsoever, otherwise, it’s just opinion printed on broadsheet.
It’s that specter of bias lurking beneath the bed that defines a reporter from a writer.
When we begin in this career, cub reporters are terrified that readers may see a hint of their opinion on a issue, so they learn to pick words and phrases that avoid that bias but still tell an engaging story.
They call representatives on both sides, in part so they don’t get angry phone calls after the story goes to press, and get quotes so that readers have both sides.
The reporters also learn the hard way that even if the story is fair, they’ll still get angry phone calls from both sides.
Nobody likes the truth unless it’s their truth.
As cubs grow up into … lion reporters — I’m stretching for the metaphor here — they carry themselves with a certain proud nobility of being fair and unbiased. At this point they’re not much fun at parties, but certain costs must be paid for ethics.
While the Sedona municipal election was the impetus for this column, we dodge these bias bullets in Keanu Reeves-like fashion in all of our news coverage.
In the same issue, we run letters to the editor calling President George W. Bush a warmongering pinhead destined for a war crimes trial at the Hague to letters calling the sweet, mentally handicapped man a hero for doing his best to protect Americans from the dangers of militant Islamic fundamentalism.
This gut-twistingly fun sense of ethics is also what defines a newspaper from a tabloid or a newsletter, like many of those that have appeared in Sedona.
The journalists’ Constitution is the Society of Professional Journalists Code of Ethics.
Some of my favorite parts, which mark the distinct difference between the Sedona Red Rock News and other publications, include section three, “Act independently:”
Avoid conflicts of interest, real or perceived.
Remain free of associations and activities that may compromise integrity or damage credibility.
Refuse gifts, favors, fees, free travel and special treatment, and shun secondary employment, political involvement, public office and service in community organizations if they compromise journalistic integrity.
Disclose unavoidable conflicts.
Be vigilant and courageous about holding those with power accountable.
Deny favored treatment to advertisers and special interests and resist their pressure to influence news coverage.
In the interest of full disclosure, I am the volunteer chairman of the Sedona Youth Commission. As such, I will never write a story on the commission’s activities, I will not edit a story on the commission, nor will I read it until it comes off the press.
This is not a rule of the city government, nor has it been handed down from our publisher. It doesn’t need to be. It’s simply the ethical thing for a reporter to do.
Other publications, in stark contrast to the Sedona Red Rock News, publish bylined news stories by individuals quoted as sources in the story and — miraculously or with the help of a tripod and timer — appear in the story’s photographs, too. Will technological wonders never cease. Toss in a letter to the editor by the same person and you have a tabloid or a newsletter, not a newspaper.
The only thing that gives journalism its health and strength is ethics — without ethics, newspapers are merely pretty fishwrap. The Sedona Red Rock News’ readers have a healthy newspaper.
Deciphering Sedona is published every Wednesday in the Sedona Red Rock News. To comment, e-mail to cgraham@larsonnewspapers.com.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
CFG to Rick Renzi: resign now
Christopher Fox Graham
Deciphering Sedona
To the honorable Richard Renzi, United States House of Representatives,Deciphering Sedona
Resign.
Now.
You’re facing 35 counts of criminal activity, your fellow representatives dodge you in the halls of Congress and since you’ve left all your committees, you aren’t really helping your constituents in Arizona.
Sincerely,
Christopher Fox Graham.
On Feb. 21, a federal district court in Tucson filed a 35-count, 26-page indictment against Renzi — who technically represents Arizona’s First Congressional District.
While Renzi is innocent until proven guilty, in politics, guilt isn’t the issue — effectiveness is.
As glimmers of impropriety grew into friendly visits from FBI agents to a novella by a grand jury, Renzi left the House Intelligence Committee, the House Financial Services Committee and House Natural Resources Committee — he has been effectively ostracized from decision-making on Capitol Hill.
Laws aren’t decided on the House floor, they’re decided in committee. Voting on bills is something any appointee can do. Right now, Renzi’s collecting a big paycheck for only a few hours of work a month.
In fact, forward Arizona Gov. Janet Napolitano my phone number; my weekends are free.
Miraculously, Renzi topped both the charges and page count filed in 2005 against Rep. Randy “Duke” Cunningham [R-Calif.], considered by many as the most corrupt member of Congress in recent memory.
Duke, step aside and clear the pedestal for Rick.
While the nation stood aghast at the corruption charges filed against a sitting three-term member of Congress, national news agencies turned to Arizona for a response and found that most voters in Northern Arizona sighed and asked, “Oh really? We knew that.”
A congressman who could be Joey Buttafuoco’s twin brother was indicted? You don’t say.
It’s no secret that Renzi hasn’t represented Northern Arizona well. He’s rarely in Arizona, if at all, except for brief tours during election season and fair-weather visits.
Think of the grandkids who only visit grandparents long enough to remind them that they need a paragraph in the will – that’s our congressman.
His staffers show up to events and apologize for his absence, much the same way our parents continue to tell us there’s a Santa Claus.
We believe some fictions because they’re pretty.
Chances are, it’s because he can’t find the Verde Valley on the map — if his staffers want to tell him, we’re south of Flagstaff and north of Phoenix … just find us on GoogleEarth.
I remember getting a call from his office to request a copy of a newspaper after a former editor wrote a particularly scathing editorial.
Granted, we’re not a huge newspaper, but you’d figure a congressman with a net worth of $5 million could afford the out-of-state subscription of $65 per year from a newspaper serving 10,000 of his constituents – we’re cheaper than a set of American flag cufflinks.
According to an Associated Press news story in 2002, Renzi has lived in Arizona only seven of the past 20 years. Imagine electing a Sedona City Council member who lived here only four-and-a-half months a year. Renzi is essentially a Virginia resident with a vacation home in Flagstaff — and all 12 of his kids went to school in Virginia.
In 2001, Renzi started his first run for Congress, using what federal investigators are now claiming were illegal funds.
He also boldly claimed that he had authored key legislation for Sen. Jon Kyl [R-Ariz.] and former Republican Rep. Jim Kolbe, then of Arizona’s District 5.
In an Associated Press article by Scott Thomsen in August 2002, both Kyl and Kolbe denied that Renzi was anything more than an unpaid intern, making his closest interaction with pending legislation the act of pressing the “copy” button on the Xerox machine.
Renzi won that first election by vastly outspending his opponent, George Cordova, and paying for attack ads that Cordova simply didn’t have the funds to fight.
All of his campaigns have been equally brutal to his pocketbook and yet he has stayed in office.
Since moving to Washington, D.C., — or going back home — Renzi has been implicated in the firing of U.S. attorneys, an action, which, added to perjury, brought down U.S. Attorney General Alberto Gonzales in September.
The FBI come knocking on the door of his family’s business in April 2007 and the indictment was handed down last month.
“Let the chips fall where they may if I’m a carpetbagger,” Renzi was quoted saying in the 2002 Associated Press article.
The chips have finally fallen, congressman. Go home.
Deciphering Sedona is published every other Wednesday in the Sedona Red Rock News. To comment, e-mail to cgraham@larsonnewspapers.com.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Campaign trails: Not for stars or VIPs
Christopher Fox Graham
Deciphering Sedona
Scarlett Johansson has endorsed Sen. Barack Obama [D-Ill.] for president.Deciphering Sedona
That endorsement may be key to winning the Democratic nomination before the national convention in August and may entice swing voters away from the presumptive Republican contender, Arizona Sen. John McCain, and could push Obama into the White House.
Those who stood in long lines at Sedona City Hall only wish they had heard her endorsement before Super Tuesday, otherwise they would have given the state’s delgates to Obama instead of Sen. Hillary Clinton [D-N.Y.] and McCain.
Even though Johansson has never been elected to office, she holds the crux of the pop culture swing vote.
Scarlett Johansson … yes, the actress. From “Lost in Translation” and “Girl With a Pearl Earring.” She was in “A Love Song for Bobby Long,” too, I think.
Johansson recently appeared in a music video alongside footage of Obama’s concession speech after the New Hampshire primary in January.
Even though he lost the state, the speech is an example of Obama’s linguistic prowess and inspires in a way only the man who dared to author a book called “The Audacity of Hope” could.
Johansson is accompanied by almost 40 other actors and musicians, including that guy from that thing, I think, and that girl I saw on a magazine, I think, or maybe her bandmate … maybe.
Quite honestly, aside from Johansson, I couldn’t name anyone in the video with certainty, hence the reason she’s receiving the brunt of my angst.
Anyone who can name more than 10 of the artists in the video probably spends more time watching music videos than deciding who to vote for anyway.
The video is an example of viral marketing — a sinister tactic that uses word of mouth and existing social networks to promote a concept or product.
The video snaked its way on to YouTube and Think MTV — make your own joke about that one — and into the collective consciousness pitting the “have you seen it yet?” faction against the “I’ve got to find it because I’m not cool” faction.
Thus, if you have seen it, you’re cool for being in the know. If you haven’t, you’re not. Sneaky marketers evolve just as fast as consumers.
The song was “written” by Black Eyed Peas frontman Will.i.am, who can call stolen lyrics a “song” the same way he can call his pretentious spelling of “William” a “name.”
Will.you.are, in music, it’s called sampling. In journalism and everywhere else, it’s called plagiarism.
Don’t get me wrong, Obama’s speeches are moving.
While my daily Bruce Wayne facade is a newspaper copy editor and columnist, my Batman is a slam poet, so I can say with some authority that Obama is a poet running for president.
He commands the English language like President Abraham Lincoln, imparting hope and patriotism without sounding cliché, and does so with enough humility that makes us believe we are merely angels trapped in skin suits.
I sometimes get chills from his cadence and inflection, which seems to blend the the inspirational concepts of President John F. Kennedy, the conviction of Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. and the lyrical rhythm and simplicity of poet Maya Angelou.
However, watching a group of self-righteous celebrities ride on the coattails to promote a political candidate smacks of an impeding American Idol coup d’état, which threatens our fragile democracy.
It’s nice that celebrities have gotten out of rehab long enough to tell us that Obama’s words are moving, but, honestly, we don’t care.
We know the words are moving already.
What’s worse is that Obama’s campaign neither commissioned nor endorsed the video.
Actors should stay in movies, musicians should stay on CDs and only occasionally make the foray into other mediums to sell cologne or laundry detergent.
Leave the speeches to politicians and the poetry to the poets. If they happen to be same person, let the Obama be.
Deciphering Sedona is published every Wednesday in the Sedona Red Rock News. To comment, e-mail to cgraham@larsonnewspapers.com.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Underdogs get Sedona's sympathy
Christopher Fox Graham
Deciphering Sedona
In restaurants and bars across the city on Sunday, Feb. 3, Sedona residents joined the more than 97.5 million Americans to watch Super Bowl XLII.Deciphering Sedona
While both teams garnered local support, in many Sedona venues, the crowds leaned toward supporting the New York Giants in its inevitable defeat at the hands of the as-yet undefeated New England Patriots.
Why?
Perhaps our support is a translation of the American way blended with Southwestern flavor.
We are a nation, after all, that earned independence by defeating the largest empire the world had ever seen with a army of Kentucky farmboys and Boston tea-tossers — then defied the greatest navy on Earth for good measure 30 years later.
There is a strong tradition of supporting people who have little chance of victory, yet we still secretly root for Dennis Kucinich, Ron Paul, the Washington Generals and the Rebel Alliance to overcome overwhelming odds.
Perhaps there’s some vicarious joy in watching Patriots’ quarterback Tom Brady, the provebial flawless homecoming king replete with cleft chin and five o’clock shadow, get showed up by Eli Manning, a Louisiana hick who often has the stunned expression like he’s just been hit in the face with a shovel.
Even in Hollywood, the doofus gets the girl.
However, Sedona’s support of the underdog was not unexpected, but an incarnation of our city’s character.
Sedona is a city of small-business owners and working artists who often defied convention to eke out a living and inevitable success among like-minded people struggling against larger forces, be it big box stores, economic instability, environmental doom or the vices of selling out to capitalist corporate music.
For Sedona residents, the Giants was our team.
Granted, New York was also destined to lose brutally.
The Patriots were 13.5-point favorites with an unblemished 18-0 record.
The team planned to walk home with the Lombardi Trophy and a perfect 19-0 record after a short Sunday afternoon of playing a quaint little scrimmage against a wildcard team with a 10-6 record.
Sports commentators nationwide debated whether the Patriots would abuse the Giants like Joe Pesci in “Goodfellas” with the largest blowout in history or merely rough up the team by a mere two touchdowns.
Yet, the unthinkable happened. The Giants not only put up a fight, they won.
Casino owners in Las Vegas made money like mad.
The “greatest team in football history” was run out of Phoenix by a scrappy team whose quarterback often throws footballs wildly, often into the arms of the opposition, and can be counted on to blow any advantage his defense can earn.
Manning looks like someone who fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down, then climbed back up because he thought he missed one.
Before Sunday, Manning was not anyone’s pick for most valuable player, certainly not by fans in New York [actually New Jersey, to be geographically accurate], who booed him during games earlier this year.
Yet, Manning led his team over the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, the Dallas Cowboys and the Green Bay Packers with plays that caused diehard fans to go white-knuckled at the sheer inane recklessness of his behavior on the field.
But perhaps we cheered for the New York Giants because the New Agey metaphysical gooeyness that is Sedona has rubbed off onto even football fans and we saw the future before it happened — and the cause of the Patriots inescapable fall from glory.
“Spygate” — the illegal videotaping of opposing teams’ sidelines during games by Patriots head coach Bill Belichick — was conspicuously absent from any reference during the telecast. Many felt the NFL’s punishment for the sin was far too light.
However, the universe smacked revenge by pressing the “smite” key giving the Giants a 17-14 upset of the Patriots
Sedona residents have a word for cosmic justice: Karma.
Deciphering Sedona is published every Wednesday in the Sedona Red Rock News. To comment, e-mail to cgraham@larsonnewspapers.com.
Monday, January 28, 2008
The cost of dynamite
The cost of dynamite
magic lurks in her shrouded shoulders
that only her few lovers have tasted
although scores claim her lips hold her enchantments
I've been touched by neither,
though her temptations keep me up at night
in the half-conscious imaginings
of our skin dances
her limbs have teased her proximity
and her anticipatory warmth
enlivens our thighs
caged horses feel this way
when they see open fields beyond the fences
but words like these
hungrily dripping ink on untouched pages
are best hidden on the unread bookshelves
lest they betray the thousand sins
we would visit on each other
should the skies ever see them
and to Dante,
who cataloged all our predecessors,
Virgil neglected to reveal the 10th level of Dis
reserved solely for the lustful un-inhibitions
destined to be enumerated in epic detail
by some future poet,
about the nights when she and I
unlock the inevitable collision of hips and skins
evangelical preachers will base sermons on our rhythms
to terrify parishioners toward good behavior
expect presidential campaigns to stump legislation
to combat the passions we would release
and slam poets to spit verses
in pale comparison to the erotic hip-hop hips
of our beat-box breathing
sinners have their new saints
and Screwtape has new letters
to write to Our Father Below
when our moment comes,
expect the fire department
and the local police
to secure the scene
while Hugh Hefner and Larry Flynt
thumb wrestle to the death
to secure the rights
prognosticators and prophets will claim
they saw the end coming in our coming
in poetry critics will cite this poem
claiming it a talentless rehash
of all slam poem to have come before
while my reply is simply
that those who must rely on these words
have yet to hear the earthquakes
when she lets loose her inhibitions
to her anticipations
and takes me along for the ride
rocking her hips to the stories
held between her shoulders
dreamers, you have heard us
in all your aimless wanderings
wondering how you could've lived your lives
before you knew of the chemistry
between skins locked
in the exasperated expression
of all that is holy
we are dying, but in our echo
the pageantries of our passions
will spill forth into the divine archetypes
to rebuild a new civilization as yet unimagined
that was just the title,
this is the poem:
in the lonely nights like these,
I wait for a lover I've never kissed
imagining that all these years of waiting for a meaningful lover
aren't in vain
my fear is to look back in old age
knowing that when the time was right
I'd let her slip away into the history and memory
too fearful of giving into the game we played:
always aiming for a checkmate
and afraid to lose I’ll play too harsh
she'll step back from the board
leaving my pieces in forever-stalemate with the absence,
seeking someone less serious and self-absorbed
if one of us can’t win the teasing test
of how far we can push the bounds
then these days and calculations
aren't worth the weight of numbers we measure
and lofty words aside,
I want to drift to sleep alongside her
in awake unashamedly unalone,
the way all great poets seem to do
but I'm too old to write about longing anymore
my poems of unrequited lovers
could kill passersby if dropped from high stories
yearning has its limits
and the ones that should plague my pages
would be best concluded with
“she's come again”
my words and would be better spilled
recounting ways to enumerate nuances
so that thousands could learn them
but so that they wouldn't forget the value of lonely moments
and if some student should find them in years hence
know that longing pains only focus so far
in the prophetic knowledge
that there is a light beaconing the end
I’d rather spend my days penning trivial sonnets at her side
then scribbling the epic of the ages in a studio apartment
made for one
illiteracy is inevitable and in time
all our silly words will become old,
understandable only in classes where academics
teach the ancient tongues of Aristotle and Chaucer
no poem retains its immediacy
when the poet is ash
but descendents can carry the fire
in their blood through the ages
long after the poem is obsolete
and its author is a grad school essay question
in her embrace its locks on
as if to a sinking ship’s life raft,
pen and paper yards away
the greatest poems of my fingers
will dance in her skin
and those that may find their way
through the sheets
to the floor
to the pages
they’ll merely echo those moments
when we erased our knowledge
of spelling and consonants
instead relying on vowels and the language of skins
to speak for us
these verses would I rather have annotate my days
in the press of her breath
and our secret words
would publish the best of me
while all the rest
can take the place when the moment suits
and the critics push aside their trivial jealousies
of not being born poetic
to pencil in a few pages
of their doctoral thesis
for them but me insert bits of profanity
a wayward curse
a gratuitous “fuck”
so they don't choose this piece
for its nonoffensive cleanliness
a well-placed “ass” can ruin a safe poem from publication
pun intended
these poems aren't for them anyway
they're just the thoughts of a boy
close enough to touch her
yet far enough away
to measure her distance from him
in multiples of the length of her shadow
and the geography of heartbeats and unspoken words
erects mountains between us
and the cost of dynamite
is bleeding my pockets dry
magic lurks in her shrouded shoulders
that only her few lovers have tasted
although scores claim her lips hold her enchantments
I've been touched by neither,
though her temptations keep me up at night
in the half-conscious imaginings
of our skin dances
her limbs have teased her proximity
and her anticipatory warmth
enlivens our thighs
caged horses feel this way
when they see open fields beyond the fences
but words like these
hungrily dripping ink on untouched pages
are best hidden on the unread bookshelves
lest they betray the thousand sins
we would visit on each other
should the skies ever see them
and to Dante,
who cataloged all our predecessors,
Virgil neglected to reveal the 10th level of Dis
reserved solely for the lustful un-inhibitions
destined to be enumerated in epic detail
by some future poet,
about the nights when she and I
unlock the inevitable collision of hips and skins
evangelical preachers will base sermons on our rhythms
to terrify parishioners toward good behavior
expect presidential campaigns to stump legislation
to combat the passions we would release
and slam poets to spit verses
in pale comparison to the erotic hip-hop hips
of our beat-box breathing
sinners have their new saints
and Screwtape has new letters
to write to Our Father Below
when our moment comes,
expect the fire department
and the local police
to secure the scene
while Hugh Hefner and Larry Flynt
thumb wrestle to the death
to secure the rights
prognosticators and prophets will claim
they saw the end coming in our coming
in poetry critics will cite this poem
claiming it a talentless rehash
of all slam poem to have come before
while my reply is simply
that those who must rely on these words
have yet to hear the earthquakes
when she lets loose her inhibitions
to her anticipations
and takes me along for the ride
rocking her hips to the stories
held between her shoulders
dreamers, you have heard us
in all your aimless wanderings
wondering how you could've lived your lives
before you knew of the chemistry
between skins locked
in the exasperated expression
of all that is holy
we are dying, but in our echo
the pageantries of our passions
will spill forth into the divine archetypes
to rebuild a new civilization as yet unimagined
that was just the title,
this is the poem:
in the lonely nights like these,
I wait for a lover I've never kissed
imagining that all these years of waiting for a meaningful lover
aren't in vain
my fear is to look back in old age
knowing that when the time was right
I'd let her slip away into the history and memory
too fearful of giving into the game we played:
always aiming for a checkmate
and afraid to lose I’ll play too harsh
she'll step back from the board
leaving my pieces in forever-stalemate with the absence,
seeking someone less serious and self-absorbed
if one of us can’t win the teasing test
of how far we can push the bounds
then these days and calculations
aren't worth the weight of numbers we measure
and lofty words aside,
I want to drift to sleep alongside her
in awake unashamedly unalone,
the way all great poets seem to do
but I'm too old to write about longing anymore
my poems of unrequited lovers
could kill passersby if dropped from high stories
yearning has its limits
and the ones that should plague my pages
would be best concluded with
“she's come again”
my words and would be better spilled
recounting ways to enumerate nuances
so that thousands could learn them
but so that they wouldn't forget the value of lonely moments
and if some student should find them in years hence
know that longing pains only focus so far
in the prophetic knowledge
that there is a light beaconing the end
I’d rather spend my days penning trivial sonnets at her side
then scribbling the epic of the ages in a studio apartment
made for one
illiteracy is inevitable and in time
all our silly words will become old,
understandable only in classes where academics
teach the ancient tongues of Aristotle and Chaucer
no poem retains its immediacy
when the poet is ash
but descendents can carry the fire
in their blood through the ages
long after the poem is obsolete
and its author is a grad school essay question
in her embrace its locks on
as if to a sinking ship’s life raft,
pen and paper yards away
the greatest poems of my fingers
will dance in her skin
and those that may find their way
through the sheets
to the floor
to the pages
they’ll merely echo those moments
when we erased our knowledge
of spelling and consonants
instead relying on vowels and the language of skins
to speak for us
these verses would I rather have annotate my days
in the press of her breath
and our secret words
would publish the best of me
while all the rest
can take the place when the moment suits
and the critics push aside their trivial jealousies
of not being born poetic
to pencil in a few pages
of their doctoral thesis
for them but me insert bits of profanity
a wayward curse
a gratuitous “fuck”
so they don't choose this piece
for its nonoffensive cleanliness
a well-placed “ass” can ruin a safe poem from publication
pun intended
these poems aren't for them anyway
they're just the thoughts of a boy
close enough to touch her
yet far enough away
to measure her distance from him
in multiples of the length of her shadow
and the geography of heartbeats and unspoken words
erects mountains between us
and the cost of dynamite
is bleeding my pockets dry
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Governor's doublespeak leaves Sedona wondering
Christopher Fox Graham
Deciphering Sedona
Arizona Gov. Janet Napolitano visited Cottonwood on Jan. 15 to tell local leaders her plans for 2008.Deciphering Sedona
She also came to say that the impending recession was not her call and that whether we’re in one or not is up to academics to determine.
Apparently, a recession is much like the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal — if you can’t see it, then it can’t see you.
No one wants to be the bearer of bad news, but the governor’s obvious omission does hold some weight, especially in financial markets where moods of investors can change the future, best illustrated by Robert Redford and Ben Kingsley in “Sneakers:”
Posit: People think a bank might be financially shaky.
Consequence: People start to withdraw their money.
Result: Pretty soon it is financially shaky.
Conclusion: You can make banks fail.
Of course, if the banks are already shaky, then the rationale for denial goes away. The governor, rather than looking like an alarmist, begins to look oblivious.
On Monday, Jan. 14, stock markets around the world crashed in their biggest drops since the economic fallout following the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001.
Markets from Mumbai and Hong Kong to London and Paris saw huge drops, some of which froze trading for hours to induce calm.
Imagine 10,000 high-stress, over-caffeinated stockbrokers trying to find something to do before the markets reopen while at the same time trying to find reasons not to kill themselves.
In the bars around the world’s stock markets, I bet pinball games recorded their highest usages ever.
In Japan, the Nikkei Index hasn’t fallen this fast since Ghidorah faced off with Godzilla.
Why did the world go nuts? With the U.S. economy roiling from the subprime housing fiasco, the Bush Administration announced details of a stimulus package Friday, Jan. 11.
Of course, economics looked at the package, then asked if the real package was hiding behind that one.
Call me shocked and awed.
The Bush Administration has been able to hold off widespread criticism of its domestic policies for the last six years due to a mediocre wartime economy, but as the housing crisis and credit crunch strikes hardest at the middle class, expect even die-hard right to turn on President George W. Bush.
Bush lasted longer in office than his father, but will be remembered the same way — as a bad economist.
Oddly enough, if the Bush Administration had stayed out of Iraq and restrained itself to snipe hunting Osama bin Laden in Waziristan, it would likely have enough of a surplus to afford a buyout of the worst mortgages and stave off the fall.
Hindsight is 20/20. That’s what the History Channel is for.
In the meantime, though, Arizona’s governor needs to face the state’s economic situation and offer us more than blase shrug of the shoulders.
If we wanted to ask an academic about the state’s economy, we would have elected one as governor. But we elected Napolitano and she needs to say it like it is.
Once people know they’re in a recession, spending habits change and the economy slowly begins to recover.
If they still think the economy is shiny, however, they buy Hummers and oceanfront property in southern Arizona figuring good times will refill their pocketbooks.
Locally, Sedona businesses are buckling down, while others are changing hands or closing up shop.
Houses that have been vacant and up for sale will likely stay that way a little while longer.
As a city, Sedona’s renewable resource is its landscape, so even in a recession, people will still come, artists will still create and the city’s finances won’t collapse.
So even if the governor won’t say it, pretend like we’re in a recession. Plan for worst, hope for the best.
In the end, what makes governor’s doublespeak ironic is that her ambiguous answer intended to keep us out of recession creates enough confusion and false security to push Arizona into one even faster.
Deciphering Sedona is published Wednesdays in the Sedona Red Rock News. To comment, e-mail to cgraham@larsonnewspapers.com.
Friday, January 11, 2008
New headshot by Ashley Wintermute
Photo by Ashley Wintermute, one of my favorite portraits by one of my favorite photographers.Wednesday, January 9, 2008
A game of Red Rover decides next president
Christopher Fox Graham
Deciphering Sedona
Unless you’ve been behind closed doors this week or catching up on all the New Year’s Day bowl games via TiVo, the biggest news this week was the Iowa caucuses.Deciphering Sedona
Every four years, the corn capital of America takes its focus off its native sons Tom Arnold and Ashton Kutcher and turns toward selecting our next president.
Unlike typical blind ballot primaries, the Iowa caucuses are an odd throwback to our agrarian heritage.
The premise is simple: neighbors gather in a town hall, church or farmer Jim’s big red barn and debate which person they like best, like a bad high school prom.
One of the major parties – figure out which one — uses a straw poll, but admission to the caucus costs $35, so candidates often purchase tickets and give them out to supporters.
This is different from buying votes, because, well, they say it is.
The other major party has voters stand in designated areas for each candidate. For 30 minutes, they shout each candidate’s pros and cons trying to coax other voters to leave their group.
Nothing says we have a modern 21st century government like choosing our leaders in a game of Red Rover.
As some candidates’ support drops below 15 percent, they are no longer viable and the former supporters have to choose a new candidate to support and 30 more minutes of “will my candidate make it.”
Kind of like musical chairs.
In the end, the results are supposed to prognosticate the future election season.
The turnout is historically miniscule. This year, 225,000 Democrats and 120,000 Republicans participated, slightly more than 0.15 percent of the country’s registered voters.
In layman’s terms, it’s like determining the end of an hour-long football game in the first 3.8 seconds.
In our microwave society, that brevity makes sense.
Thankfully, Arizona has the foresight to hold its primary on what was once called Super Tuesday, but now Super Duper Tuesday, perhaps the lamest name for a calendar date since Weasel Stomping Day.
The date places Arizona on the “forgettable states” list, when faced with the powerhouse delegate states of California, Illinois and New York.
However, it also means that as candidates skip Arizona in favor of California, we’ll also dodge their negative ads, the slight swelling of anger when they mispronounce “Prescott” in speeches and a deluge of campaign promises that they’ll forget if and when they reach the White House.
“Did I promise Arizona I’d protect its water, or was it Tennessee? It was all such a blur.”
The results of Super Duper Tuesday on Feb. 5 will essentially leave voters with the two major candidates for the long, bitter run to November.
While the particular process of primaries is almost silly, the matter behind it is not.
This presidential election offers female, black, Hispanic, Italian, Mormon, senior citizen and second-generation immigrant candidates — not as fringe choices but as major front-runners for both parties.
But what makes the 2008 election a milestone is not that candidates come from these groups, but that their minority statuses seem to matter so little.
While in past years, a person’s gender or ethnicity was seen as a benefit or bane, in 2008, it seems to be more of a footnote.
While voters and the media note the specific differences, the actual influence seemed to be negligible at best.
Voters at the Iowa caucuses were gleefully choosing from a slate of candidates far different from their state’s demographic, with little concern about that difference.
Whether Iowa voters predicted the future president during their popularity games, they chose candidates based on the content of their character.
The prediction that race, gender and family heritage will cease to divide us less and less after 2008 is one any election-watcher can see coming.
Deciphering Sedona is published every Wednesday in the Sedona Red Rock News. To comment, e-mail to cgraham@larsonnewspapers.com.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Workplace Revelation
I'm not a television watcher, but Greg Ruland is Michael Scott, only there is no Dwight Schrute in the newsroom.
Ruland pours incompetence like a fountain.
Ruland pours incompetence like a fountain.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Have Gun, Will Speak Freely
Have Gun, Will Speak Freely
Sedona Gun Club Practices Second Amendment To Enforce The First
By Nate Hansen
944 Magazine © 2007
On a living room bookshelf, rising floor to ceiling, ranges an arsenal of literature from Friedrich Nietzsche to Dante Alighieri, David Sedaris to Kurt Vonnegut Jr. Chapbooks written by people otherwise unpublished sit among poems and books from the beats; inspiration some days, history others. Five miles away, off a winding road between a tourist town and lavish resort, the same book lovers worm through rounds from .40- and .45-caliber handguns, a .32-caliber pistol, a .30-06 rifle, a 12-gauge and an AK-47. At home, book jackets. At the firing range, full metal jackets.
Greg Nix and Christopher Fox Graham are the 20-something visionaries and organizers of Sedona Gun Club. Once a month, they gather like-minded people who relish in the idea of popping off rounds after sounding off poetry, haikus, quotes or jokes. You see, this isn't an ordinary gun club. First rule of Sedona Gun Club, there is no Sedona Gun Club. Actually, that's not true, but it's hard to resist saying it.
The Sedona Gun Club originated as the brainchild of writer and friend Nate Hansen [in case you haven't noticed, the writer of this article], but shortly thereafter was adopted and given life by Nix and Graham. Its mission is to guarantee — and enforce if deemed necessary — the First Amendment of the Bill of Rights and the United States Constitution by making use of the succeeding amendments, specifically the Second Amendment's "right to bear arms."
During meetings, members must read written works — original or otherwise — before shooting any weapons. Afterwards, the ceremony continues with one copy archived for a future underground newsletter called The Report, while the second is fired upon. After all, words and guns have and always will be natural combatants, Nix and Graham say.
"We use poetry as targets for its metaphorical statement. A poem is an intentional, concentrated effusion of words encapsulating a moment, a feeling or an experience. A bullet is an intentional concentration of metal, gunpowder and purpose," Graham says. "Granted, the metaphor isn't why we created the gun club — we initially just wanted to shoot at targets — but it seems to be a way to explain our rationale for blasting holes in our art."
Nix sees things a little differently. Born and raised in Georgia, he prides himself for his Southern cynicism, yet always ends an argument in a gentlemanly way. He agrees with his friend in respect to why they do what they do with poetry and guns, but explains it in a broader sense.
"Poets are taken seriously in other countries because they are meant to challenge them, meant to speak truth to power, meant to question what others take as a given," Nix says. "Poets in this country are just trying to figure out how to pander to the widest base and sell merchandise. Why take somebody seriously when they already make it clear what they're all about?"
Nix slips on a pair of ear protectors and slides a 30-round clip into an AK-47. He continues his tirade, feeling for the import weapon's safety lever.
"Poets aren't taken seriously in this country because most poets in this country are fucking morons. Write me a poem that has something intelligent to add to this supposed national dialogue we fantasize we are engaged in," he continues. "We all know racism, bigotry and war is bad, but how about you tell me why instead of just jerking off to the latest groupthink babble that's put out there?"
Nix steps up to the firing line, flips down the safety so the weapon and range is "hot" and unloads an entire magazine of 7.62 on Graham's 1980s hi-fi stereo. Graham looks on, laughing as remnants of a Culture Club cassette is blown to smithereens and scattered beside empty bottles of beer and wine consumed the evening before.
"You hit eject," Ella Garrett, original member of SGC screams with her hands over her ears.
After Nix returns the weapon to its rightful owner, Graham loads four rounds of .30-06 into his rifle. As Nix did, Graham attempts to multitask conversation with gunfire — sometimes oil and water, sometimes gunpowder and flame.
"Being an armed poet makes sense in the shadow of the Patriot Act. First, it's knowing what type of literature we're checking out of the library, then it's restricting it, then it's banning certain speech as treasonous. A cabal pursing corporate wealth at the expense of the people's rights is far less likely to enact legislation restricting free speech if they knew their constituents had a breaking point and would back up their outrage with a forceful return of those rights," he says.
Graham kneels down in the ready, looking oddly like a British soldier during the Revolutionary War. He makes sure his cowboy hat is properly adjusted over ear protection and returns to pay full attention to his rifle. He looks through the scope and focuses on the bullet-ridden stereo, his former boom box.
"Put the needle on the record. Put the needle on the record," P.J. Robbins, newest member, sings tauntingly.
Boom!
Echoes ring out over the forest service area when Graham pulls on the trigger.
Boom!
A cloud of dust and disc jockey debris fly from nearly 100 yards away.
Boom!
A miss, but it seems half the hillside collapses as dirt showers from 20 feet above an embankment.
Boom!
After his fourth and final hit, Graham rises from his position and approaches the makeshift armory, all smiles.
"Pro-gun and anti-gun lobbies have a far too narrow view of the Second Amendment. At the same time, your neighbor probably doesn't need a howitzer to hunt pigeons, it also shouldn't restrict ownership to the police and military.
The Second Amendment is very clear, "a well-regulated militia" protects the nation in case of invasion, while the "right to bear arms" protects the free speech of the people from government infringement," he concludes without missing a beat.
Friends and members of SGC are familiar with the duo's eloquence and well-versed antics, but this is impressive. Chewing bubble gum and walking has nothing on blowing an old television away while citing Shakespeare.
Nix and Graham aren't only the organizers of Sedona Gun Club, they're housemates. Before they began sharing a two-bedroom home in West Sedona, they were rivals at slam poetry events. Each one varies in their writing style, political stance and personality, but when it comes to their views towards free speech, they're brethren.
Nix is from Georgia, but Graham is from Montana. He prides himself on a western heritage, and similar to Nix, a heritage that has never been one to rollover and say, "die." On the other hand, the fact they both sleep on nearly 1,000 rounds of ammunition stored under their beds is comforting as well. While other members of SGC take turns on weapons of their own, they step away for a moment to discuss the gun club's mission and vision. Nix notices a Starbucks' coffee cup sitting beside a semi-automatic weapon cooling near the center console of a pickup truck. He can't help but laugh, then begin another sociopolitical rant.
"America is just a longing for a plot of land you can guard with guns, a soapbox made out of empty beer cases, and a night sky willing to listen to all the crazy, shit-pot theories you dare to come up with," he says. "Something's always wrong with America, but then again, something's always wrong in a family, a group of friends, and your mental state at any given moment. If shit wasn't going wrong, we'd have nothing to bitch about. If we had nothing to bitch about, you'd have nothing to read. Peace, love and happiness is a goddamned boring state of mind and doesn't keep circulation up."
"These are critical times for civil rights, perhaps the most dangerous times for free speech in our history, " Graham chimes in quietly. "Hope for the best with a pen in one hand, but prepare for the worst with a firearm in the other. If the worst should befall us, the common people are going to look to poets for hope," he says.
After calming themselves with passive glances back toward the firing line, both Nix and Graham insist their intention is not to promote aggressive behavior towards any entity, whether it be foreign or domestic, but rather ensure the freedom of speech without censorship. In other words, SGC maintains one right by upholding another. Everything SGC uses — ammunition, weaponry and targets — is as legitimate as a person can get. Soon, the gun club plans on making it mandatory for all members to take a gun safety course. Some already have their CCW, a concealed carry permit. All in all, and odd as it seems, it's good fun for a good purpose.
"Being a poet and knowing how to use a weapon safely isn't a contradiction, despite the stereotype of socially liberal poets as nonviolent peaceniks," Graham says. Before rounding up bits and pieces of technical targets and empty shell casings, the two make plans for everyone to meet at the Martini Bar, one of Sedona's few spots for nightlife. Thirsty for a few Pabst Blue Ribbons and Oak Creek Ambers, members talk among themselves.
"Imagine scores of armed poets springing up across the West like Chuck Palahniuk's fight clubs or a Cacophony Society with ammunition," Graham says to a dreadlocked marksman.
For more information, to inquire on how to become a member or to visit a Sedona Gun Club meeting, visit http://www.myspace.com/sedona_gun_club or www.myspace.com/nate_hansen
Sedona Gun Club Practices Second Amendment To Enforce The First
By Nate Hansen
944 Magazine © 2007
On a living room bookshelf, rising floor to ceiling, ranges an arsenal of literature from Friedrich Nietzsche to Dante Alighieri, David Sedaris to Kurt Vonnegut Jr. Chapbooks written by people otherwise unpublished sit among poems and books from the beats; inspiration some days, history others. Five miles away, off a winding road between a tourist town and lavish resort, the same book lovers worm through rounds from .40- and .45-caliber handguns, a .32-caliber pistol, a .30-06 rifle, a 12-gauge and an AK-47. At home, book jackets. At the firing range, full metal jackets.
Greg Nix and Christopher Fox Graham are the 20-something visionaries and organizers of Sedona Gun Club. Once a month, they gather like-minded people who relish in the idea of popping off rounds after sounding off poetry, haikus, quotes or jokes. You see, this isn't an ordinary gun club. First rule of Sedona Gun Club, there is no Sedona Gun Club. Actually, that's not true, but it's hard to resist saying it.
The Sedona Gun Club originated as the brainchild of writer and friend Nate Hansen [in case you haven't noticed, the writer of this article], but shortly thereafter was adopted and given life by Nix and Graham. Its mission is to guarantee — and enforce if deemed necessary — the First Amendment of the Bill of Rights and the United States Constitution by making use of the succeeding amendments, specifically the Second Amendment's "right to bear arms."
During meetings, members must read written works — original or otherwise — before shooting any weapons. Afterwards, the ceremony continues with one copy archived for a future underground newsletter called The Report, while the second is fired upon. After all, words and guns have and always will be natural combatants, Nix and Graham say.
"We use poetry as targets for its metaphorical statement. A poem is an intentional, concentrated effusion of words encapsulating a moment, a feeling or an experience. A bullet is an intentional concentration of metal, gunpowder and purpose," Graham says. "Granted, the metaphor isn't why we created the gun club — we initially just wanted to shoot at targets — but it seems to be a way to explain our rationale for blasting holes in our art."
Nix sees things a little differently. Born and raised in Georgia, he prides himself for his Southern cynicism, yet always ends an argument in a gentlemanly way. He agrees with his friend in respect to why they do what they do with poetry and guns, but explains it in a broader sense.
"Poets are taken seriously in other countries because they are meant to challenge them, meant to speak truth to power, meant to question what others take as a given," Nix says. "Poets in this country are just trying to figure out how to pander to the widest base and sell merchandise. Why take somebody seriously when they already make it clear what they're all about?"
Nix slips on a pair of ear protectors and slides a 30-round clip into an AK-47. He continues his tirade, feeling for the import weapon's safety lever.
"Poets aren't taken seriously in this country because most poets in this country are fucking morons. Write me a poem that has something intelligent to add to this supposed national dialogue we fantasize we are engaged in," he continues. "We all know racism, bigotry and war is bad, but how about you tell me why instead of just jerking off to the latest groupthink babble that's put out there?"
Nix steps up to the firing line, flips down the safety so the weapon and range is "hot" and unloads an entire magazine of 7.62 on Graham's 1980s hi-fi stereo. Graham looks on, laughing as remnants of a Culture Club cassette is blown to smithereens and scattered beside empty bottles of beer and wine consumed the evening before.
"You hit eject," Ella Garrett, original member of SGC screams with her hands over her ears.
After Nix returns the weapon to its rightful owner, Graham loads four rounds of .30-06 into his rifle. As Nix did, Graham attempts to multitask conversation with gunfire — sometimes oil and water, sometimes gunpowder and flame.
"Being an armed poet makes sense in the shadow of the Patriot Act. First, it's knowing what type of literature we're checking out of the library, then it's restricting it, then it's banning certain speech as treasonous. A cabal pursing corporate wealth at the expense of the people's rights is far less likely to enact legislation restricting free speech if they knew their constituents had a breaking point and would back up their outrage with a forceful return of those rights," he says.
Graham kneels down in the ready, looking oddly like a British soldier during the Revolutionary War. He makes sure his cowboy hat is properly adjusted over ear protection and returns to pay full attention to his rifle. He looks through the scope and focuses on the bullet-ridden stereo, his former boom box.
"Put the needle on the record. Put the needle on the record," P.J. Robbins, newest member, sings tauntingly.
Boom!
Echoes ring out over the forest service area when Graham pulls on the trigger.
Boom!
A cloud of dust and disc jockey debris fly from nearly 100 yards away.
Boom!
A miss, but it seems half the hillside collapses as dirt showers from 20 feet above an embankment.
Boom!
After his fourth and final hit, Graham rises from his position and approaches the makeshift armory, all smiles.
"Pro-gun and anti-gun lobbies have a far too narrow view of the Second Amendment. At the same time, your neighbor probably doesn't need a howitzer to hunt pigeons, it also shouldn't restrict ownership to the police and military.
The Second Amendment is very clear, "a well-regulated militia" protects the nation in case of invasion, while the "right to bear arms" protects the free speech of the people from government infringement," he concludes without missing a beat.
Friends and members of SGC are familiar with the duo's eloquence and well-versed antics, but this is impressive. Chewing bubble gum and walking has nothing on blowing an old television away while citing Shakespeare.
Nix and Graham aren't only the organizers of Sedona Gun Club, they're housemates. Before they began sharing a two-bedroom home in West Sedona, they were rivals at slam poetry events. Each one varies in their writing style, political stance and personality, but when it comes to their views towards free speech, they're brethren.
Nix is from Georgia, but Graham is from Montana. He prides himself on a western heritage, and similar to Nix, a heritage that has never been one to rollover and say, "die." On the other hand, the fact they both sleep on nearly 1,000 rounds of ammunition stored under their beds is comforting as well. While other members of SGC take turns on weapons of their own, they step away for a moment to discuss the gun club's mission and vision. Nix notices a Starbucks' coffee cup sitting beside a semi-automatic weapon cooling near the center console of a pickup truck. He can't help but laugh, then begin another sociopolitical rant.
"America is just a longing for a plot of land you can guard with guns, a soapbox made out of empty beer cases, and a night sky willing to listen to all the crazy, shit-pot theories you dare to come up with," he says. "Something's always wrong with America, but then again, something's always wrong in a family, a group of friends, and your mental state at any given moment. If shit wasn't going wrong, we'd have nothing to bitch about. If we had nothing to bitch about, you'd have nothing to read. Peace, love and happiness is a goddamned boring state of mind and doesn't keep circulation up."
"These are critical times for civil rights, perhaps the most dangerous times for free speech in our history, " Graham chimes in quietly. "Hope for the best with a pen in one hand, but prepare for the worst with a firearm in the other. If the worst should befall us, the common people are going to look to poets for hope," he says.
After calming themselves with passive glances back toward the firing line, both Nix and Graham insist their intention is not to promote aggressive behavior towards any entity, whether it be foreign or domestic, but rather ensure the freedom of speech without censorship. In other words, SGC maintains one right by upholding another. Everything SGC uses — ammunition, weaponry and targets — is as legitimate as a person can get. Soon, the gun club plans on making it mandatory for all members to take a gun safety course. Some already have their CCW, a concealed carry permit. All in all, and odd as it seems, it's good fun for a good purpose.
"Being a poet and knowing how to use a weapon safely isn't a contradiction, despite the stereotype of socially liberal poets as nonviolent peaceniks," Graham says. Before rounding up bits and pieces of technical targets and empty shell casings, the two make plans for everyone to meet at the Martini Bar, one of Sedona's few spots for nightlife. Thirsty for a few Pabst Blue Ribbons and Oak Creek Ambers, members talk among themselves.
"Imagine scores of armed poets springing up across the West like Chuck Palahniuk's fight clubs or a Cacophony Society with ammunition," Graham says to a dreadlocked marksman.
For more information, to inquire on how to become a member or to visit a Sedona Gun Club meeting, visit http://www.myspace.com/sedona_gun_club or www.myspace.com/nate_hansen
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
I'm too tough for Canada - and never allowed to visit
Another thing I discovered on my vacation after trying to enter into Sasakatchewan to shoot a few photos. According to the Immigration Office in Ottawa, Canada, I am forbidden from ever entering that country. I have a nice little letter saying the same.
If I ever try to enter or are found in country, I'll be promptly arrested, jailed and subsequently deported. The immigration official I spoke to at the border checkpoint had a cute accent, though.
"I just want to let you know, Mr. Graham, that we are turning you back at this time and you're forbidden from ever entering Canada, eh."
On the plus side, it was the most polite country to ever kick me out of it.
If I ever try to enter or are found in country, I'll be promptly arrested, jailed and subsequently deported. The immigration official I spoke to at the border checkpoint had a cute accent, though.
"I just want to let you know, Mr. Graham, that we are turning you back at this time and you're forbidden from ever entering Canada, eh."
On the plus side, it was the most polite country to ever kick me out of it.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
To The Girl Riding Shotgun
For Montana and Sarrah Wile
across this home country of rednecks and ranchers
the pages of my ancestry
turn backward to days
running barefoot over vetch and stones
when i stood much shorter
gracing the sweetgrass with elbows and shoulders
instead of the strained fingertips of today
memories flood back when i least expect them
lessons learned, loves lost,
childhood games and their innocence
before i translated the rules
and learned how to break them
the silhouettes of familiar landscapes
eagerly welcome me back as if they're the tourists
revisiting a boy they knew in their youth
these green wheat fields of farmer tans
these western hats signaling oncoming howdys
these selfless smiles from strangers
this countryside
this is home
a boy i knew once lives here
we shared the same name
wished on the same stars
jumped the same cricks together
and left the other behind
when we cut the cord
leaving him in the Rockies
while i wandered the deserts
we see each other still in dreams
and play tag with fawns, calves and cubs
that have yet to learn
our parents play predator and prey
he still plays on the hillsides i long for,
beneath fir trees overlooking the valley that once held me fast
along the yellowstone artery carving a canyon
our ancestors will see from orbit
his house is over the ridge,
somewhere
down this dusty stretch of gravel,
somewhere
in the shadow of flax and sweetpeas,
somewhere
i know the outline of the farm like a thumbprint
can pick it blindfolded from all the others
simply by the sound of the breeze
but the roads still seems unfamiliar
though the map clearly says it's here
and to the girl riding shotgun
all this land is as new
as it seems to me mostly
as i wait for the memories in bottles
to find me lost in this sea of rolling hills
beneath blue moons rising red in the blood of harvest
sometimes we're both awash anew in these fields
National Geographic anthropologists on assignment
deciphering a dialect with a common vocabulary
in others
she is only a passported traveler while i am timeless
standing swallowed by the sunset of red fields
touching my family's livelihood in the grain
reaching roots down deep into the land
that we love as a mother
bud lights, rodeos and hank williams
rise up from the soil
in the aftermath of a solid spring shower
as honky-tonk two-steps,
broad-rimmed stetsons
and a vigorous fiddle
shake free the alfalfa baled back home
and for a moment in the dim lights
old men remember being cowboys
while cowgirls look for old wives they will become
to understand montana
you must travel it by road
knowing that distances are measured in days, not hours
every stop is a must-see
because haybales are the only signs of human habitation
no matter what town you visit,
there's always a drink waiting at The Mint,
where the bartenders call you "hon,"
even if they know your name
lost locals identify themselves
by family name first
in the smallest towns
to which your bloodlines tie you
in montana,
family comes before the man
here, where death and life are cyclical
we learn young to converse honestly
because each visit
may be the last
until the hereafter
words are ties that bind
that boy i once knew
i see now grown up
behind the wheel of every beat-up Ford
that passes us
the girl riding shotgun learns
that the difference between
redneck and revolutionary
lies in the chance taken
by my parents
before i could even spell "poet"
that boy sees me, too
behind the wheel of every out-of-state plate
knowing that this boy looking for home,
somewhere
is on the interstate,
somewhere
dreaming of catching up,
somewhere
where the beer is cold
the jukebox plays only johnny cash
and on the drive back down country roads
the breezes bring back memories
on the parachutes of roadside dandelions
across this home country of rednecks and ranchers
the pages of my ancestry
turn backward to days
running barefoot over vetch and stones
when i stood much shorter
gracing the sweetgrass with elbows and shoulders
instead of the strained fingertips of today
memories flood back when i least expect them
lessons learned, loves lost,
childhood games and their innocence
before i translated the rules
and learned how to break them
the silhouettes of familiar landscapes
eagerly welcome me back as if they're the tourists
revisiting a boy they knew in their youth
these green wheat fields of farmer tans
these western hats signaling oncoming howdys
these selfless smiles from strangers
this countryside
this is home
a boy i knew once lives here
we shared the same name
wished on the same stars
jumped the same cricks together
and left the other behind
when we cut the cord
leaving him in the Rockies
while i wandered the deserts
we see each other still in dreams
and play tag with fawns, calves and cubs
that have yet to learn
our parents play predator and prey
he still plays on the hillsides i long for,
beneath fir trees overlooking the valley that once held me fast
along the yellowstone artery carving a canyon
our ancestors will see from orbit
his house is over the ridge,
somewhere
down this dusty stretch of gravel,
somewhere
in the shadow of flax and sweetpeas,
somewhere
i know the outline of the farm like a thumbprint
can pick it blindfolded from all the others
simply by the sound of the breeze
but the roads still seems unfamiliar
though the map clearly says it's here
and to the girl riding shotgun
all this land is as new
as it seems to me mostly
as i wait for the memories in bottles
to find me lost in this sea of rolling hills
beneath blue moons rising red in the blood of harvest
sometimes we're both awash anew in these fields
National Geographic anthropologists on assignment
deciphering a dialect with a common vocabulary
in others
she is only a passported traveler while i am timeless
standing swallowed by the sunset of red fields
touching my family's livelihood in the grain
reaching roots down deep into the land
that we love as a mother
bud lights, rodeos and hank williams
rise up from the soil
in the aftermath of a solid spring shower
as honky-tonk two-steps,
broad-rimmed stetsons
and a vigorous fiddle
shake free the alfalfa baled back home
and for a moment in the dim lights
old men remember being cowboys
while cowgirls look for old wives they will become
to understand montana
you must travel it by road
knowing that distances are measured in days, not hours
every stop is a must-see
because haybales are the only signs of human habitation
no matter what town you visit,
there's always a drink waiting at The Mint,
where the bartenders call you "hon,"
even if they know your name
lost locals identify themselves
by family name first
in the smallest towns
to which your bloodlines tie you
in montana,
family comes before the man
here, where death and life are cyclical
we learn young to converse honestly
because each visit
may be the last
until the hereafter
words are ties that bind
that boy i once knew
i see now grown up
behind the wheel of every beat-up Ford
that passes us
the girl riding shotgun learns
that the difference between
redneck and revolutionary
lies in the chance taken
by my parents
before i could even spell "poet"
that boy sees me, too
behind the wheel of every out-of-state plate
knowing that this boy looking for home,
somewhere
is on the interstate,
somewhere
dreaming of catching up,
somewhere
where the beer is cold
the jukebox plays only johnny cash
and on the drive back down country roads
the breezes bring back memories
on the parachutes of roadside dandelions
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