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Just bought it for my father for father's day.
The most moving of scenes which will touch anyone who has lost a loved one is the trip to the Mother graveside. Ultimately no matter how you behave during the visit; if you talk to the deceased, weed the plot or whatever, you walk away the same as you came in...alone... to paraphrase Roth. This an other flashes of the master make this and all Roth novels worth reading over and over.
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Reading Philip Burgess' poems is like looking at old black-and-white photographs, the sharp grays and whites sun-faded with time, and yet the clarity of the faces and images so revealing that at times you have to look away.
"Badlands Child," Burgess' collection of poems, is full of ache. Though the poems take us from rural Montana to Vietnam, across the United States, over oceans and deserts and mountains to Spain, Morocco and Normandy, and then finally back to Montana, there is a common denominator of heartbroken lives, of silent observation and numbness, of hollow loneliness. And yet, there are moments of love and appreciation so ripe that all of that pain seems justifiable, redeemed somehow, the human condition as it is meant to be.
In "Weather Report From Home," the pull between away and home is like bare skin against cold metal - it is familiar, familiar yet wholly uninvited. Sewn together with big, loopy stitches, there is guilt and sadness, regret, relief:
Curious, that when you hear the old man
loud and hollow over the party line
tell of three days rain after a long dry spell,
even though you've been thirty years gone
from that lean, dusty place
you still feel the extravagant wetness
of those first few raindrops on a sun-tender forearm.
Far from Montana, "Saigon Whore" is told from the point of view of the title character, not of the soldier. She wonders and speaks, her questions perhaps not too far from those of the soldier:
I cannot see my life before me, I cannot see love.
I come into the bar where Mick Jagger sings
of dissatisfaction and I search each soldier's heart
for stars with which to create a necklace,
a constellation of a man and woman planting rice
beneath a sky of silent blue.
Burgess' collection is enriched with a small spattering of old photographs, the majority of which are from the Burgess family archives dating back to the Civil War. Each is beautiful and stark, reinforcing the images we have read of a dance below a "guillotine moon," fence posts guarding "the border of what's left of a man's spring dreams," an old Chevrolet truck resting "in the powdery cleavage of the hills," a stag with "three legs frozen in failed leap," and the sister, in the lounge of a mental hospital, who "sways like a metronome, arms trembling across her emaciated chest." These photographs, dropped seemingly effortlessly within the text, are like poems themselves - you squint, searching for signs, for truths, for a reason why when you know there are none.
The poem "L.A. Coyote" leaves us hearing the haunting cry of this desert creature, and perhaps seeing ourselves in the reflection of his unblinking eyes:
The L.A. coyote learns to find grace in alienation,
to bless betrayal through slightly bared teeth,
and to relish the chilly decay that rides on winds
blown through the nooks and crannies of worn cadavers.
The coyote learns that all passions are temporary,
that water can be tasted only as you die of thirst,
and that true warmth is never without cold.
Burgess was raised on an isolated ranch in eastern Montana. Currently, he lives and works in Missoula.
I know nothing about poetry. In fact, as a general rule, I'd rather read an environmental impact statement or a brief in a federal tax case than try to decipher the higher meaning hidden behind the words and phrases of the most gifted poets.
That's why I was amazed by a book of poetry mailed to me recently from Touch of Light Publishing, a Missoula company specializing in works peculiar to Montana.
Without much interest - more out of a sense of obligation to at least take a look - I opened Philip J. Burgess' Badlands Child, a collection of 80 biographical poems.
From the opening offering, "The Caretaker," I was hooked. It may have been that the imagery was so familiar - the long expanses of near-desert that stretch north and south along Highway 2 on Montana's northern tier, groves of Russian olives planted as windbreaks generations ago and the railroad when it was still the Great Northern.
According to biographical material sent with the book, Burgess grew up on an isolated Eastern Montana ranch along the Missouri, and, as with anyone who takes landscape seriously, it left its mark in all that came after.
Even the powerful impressions left by his tour in Vietnam and on his subsequent wanderings around the world are tainted by the dust of a Montana childhood. (...)
(...)
The poet lives in Missoula now, where he spent 13 years advocating for and counseling veterans. The poetry collection represents 20 years of work, a lifetime of watching the chips fall where they may.
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He suggests that concern with the sexual abuse of children has developed in waves over the past century or so. In each case, public awareness has gone through a kind of cycle -- from reluctant awareness of the problem, to increased public attention, then to a period of intense fascination and horror culminating in the demand that the government move in to act decisively.
Jenkins argues that we have, for some time now, been in the final stages of the cycle. The expression "moral panic," which gives the book its title, is a sociological term. Those who coined it define moral panic as a state in which public reaction to a problem "is out of all proportions to the actual threat offered, when 'experts' perceive the threat in all but identical terms ... [and] when the media representations universally stress 'sudden and dramatic' increases (in numbers involved or events) and 'novelty,' above and beyond that which a sober, realistic appraisal could sustain."
What makes Moral Panic absorbing is not so much Jenkins' diagnosis of the present situation as his careful reconstruction of how medical and legal institutions came to recognize and understand the existence of molestation. "In the opening years of the twentieth century," he writes, "social and medical investigators argued convincingly that American children were being molested and raped in numbers far higher than had been imagined ... By 1910, social investigators were confirming the worst speculations about the prevalence of child sexual molestation, and panic about sex killers and perverts became acute about 1915." A similar pattern of increased attention and growing anxiety ran from the late 1930s through the early 1950s.
Conceptions of the nature and extent of sexual abuse changed from decade to decade. Extensive documentation -- from social-scientific works, newspaper stories, and mass entertainment forms like crime novels and film -- undermines the impression that pedophilia was only recognized a short time ago. Particularly striking are the parallels between the early years of the century and the present day: "In a foretaste of the 1970s and 1980s," Jenkins writes of the Progressive era, "feminists allied with therapists, social workers, and moral reformers in order to defend children, and the new ideas were promulgated by a sensationalistic media." The wave of concern that peaked in the late 1940s brought with it demands -- also heard lately -- that sex offenders be turned over to more or less permanent psychiatric hospitalization.
Following earlier patterns, the cycle of attention, anxiety, and legislation that began in the late 1970s ought to have burnt itself out by now. Clearly it has not. And some of the bogus "data" afloat about the menace suggests that "panic" is just the right word. "Far from marking a new era of indifference," Jenkins writes, "the year 1995 was characterized by the furor over sex predator statutes and the fear of cyberstalkers. The cycle has been broken in the modern era, when child abuse has become part of our enduring cultural landscape, a metanarrative with the potential for explaining all social and personal ills."
Contents:
1. Creating Facts, 2. Constructing Sex Crime, 1890-1934, 3. The Age of the Sex Psychopath, 1935-1957, 4. The Sex Psychopath Statutes, 5. The Liberal Era, 1958-1976, 6. The Child Abuse Revolution, 1976-1986, 7. Child Pornography and Pedophile Rings, 8. The Road to Hell: Ritual Abuse and Recovered Memory, 9. Full Circle: The Return of the Sexual Predator in the 1990s, 10. A Cycle of Panic.
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I was reminded of the war against agricultural pests because what Professor Jenkins stresses is that it is impossible to get rid of child porn on the Net completely without destroying much of what is good about the Net. In trying to completely kill all the pests, we may inadvertently kill all the beneficial insects as well.
This book is ostensibly about the "kiddie porn" culture on the Web, its extent and what can be done about it. Jenkins uses quotes from child porn Bulletin Boards to demonstrate the mind set of the traffickers. He describes a war between citizen vigilante groups and the child pornographers, each employing their hacker expertise in trying to shut down the Web sites and expose the identities of their adversaries. Jenkins does not describe child pornography other than in the most general terms. He claims not to have actually seen any child pornography himself, noting that it is illegal to view such material even for research purposes, and indeed intimates that had he seen such material he would deny having seen it.
The picture that emerges is of a deviant, global community populated by persons hiding behind nicknames and proxies who view and exchange pictures of children through sites and servers from many different places in the world. Jenkins believes that because of the differing laws in the various countries, child pornography cannot be completely eliminated, that it can only be controlled. He depicts the regular deviants themselves as savvy, elusive individuals who change identities and addresses as they stay one step ahead of the law. Only the amateurs get caught.
But there is a bigger issue here emerging out of the struggle between law enforcement and the deviants, and that is the issue of privacy. How can we simultaneously monitor the Web sufficiently to trap, expose and prosecute child pornographers while at the same time protecting ourselves from Big Brother?
Jenkins begins Chapter Six, "Policing the Net," with a revealing quote from Scott McNealy, CEO of Sun Microsystems, a man who ought to know what he is talking about: "You already have zero privacy--get over it." My feeling is that our government and the large corporations already have enough information about us to serve a totalitarian regime (should one ever emerge). Every key stroke on Web can be monitored, recorded and stored. Right now this information is being used mostly for commercial purposes, but we can see how such information could be used to influence, intimidate and control individuals for political purposes. Consequently what this book is really about is the war between the interests of society and those of the individual, the social good verses private interest.
This war is of course as old as humanity, going back even into the tribal culture. But never before has there been such power to coerce and persuade. The tribal leader may have been all powerful within his tribe, so that if you went against him, you would meet with defeat. But you could run away to another place in the world, as humans have always done. Today, and increasingly tomorrow, there is and will be no place to run to.
One of the fears we have of one-world government, now enormously augmented with electronic and computer technology, as Jenkins notes, is that of a totalitarian state from which there is no escape. Our fear is that we will conform to the dictates of that state or we will be punished and "retrained." The Orwellian nightmare in comparison seems limited and amateurish.
So the struggle against the very real and intolerable evil of child pornography becomes in this book a precursor scenario of the struggle of the state against the individual. What Jenkins wants to see happen is some kind of control placed on the invasive nature of the state while somehow maintaining the ability to go after anti-social deviants like the child pornographers. Somehow the state must be restrained but the bad guys controlled.
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