RUDIMENTS, pt. 1073
(onward christian soldiers?)
In 1972 Norman Mailer wrote
a book entitled 'Of a Fire On the
Moon.' It was about the 1969
moon landing, and in the style
then of Norman Mailer (he was a
very transient American cultural
and literary lion. For some thirty
years his work was considered
powerful and important. Then
he hit his Gary Gilmore and his
Marilyn Monroe period, and
fizzled out like a squished
banana. Goes to show).
-
I wonder, should I write 'Lunar'
landing, instead of moon landing,
for, in fact, the Moon didn't land
anywhere (except it too ended up
in the trash-heap of history after
this brief period of American
attention). Things seem to come
and go, but I always wondered
if any other nation would have
used their science and technology
jargon for political purposes in
the same manner the USA did.
Touting some sort of Nixonian
greatness and every turn. I guess
not, and who ever heard of a
'humble' nation? They're all the
same, and even the worst of them
strut about with their own forms
of insane nationalism, if not
about lunar achievements, then
about fewer cases of dysentery
or starving kids, fewer Tse-Tse
flies on poverty-stricken eyes,
or oil kingdoms with better
Shia strictures and punishments.
The beheaded can't vote, nor can
those without hands use a ballot?
-
Anyway, the book was pretty
cool, and I was attracted to it.
It had that, for me, infectious
level of interest which held
me rapt, and embodied those
then-current and running hot
elements of what was called
'New Journalism' - in much
the same manner as did Tom
Wolfe, another 1960's flash-icon
of the party/literary world.
Mailer tended to be more serious
and harsh, and rude and raw, on
his subjects then did ever Tom
Wolfe, but they were both New
York and Los Angeles literary
icons of the highest and most
bombastic nature. In the same
way as were the Soviet Union,
then, and the United States.
Another one of those 'lions,'
or, in this case, maybe a
'lioness,' was Truman Capote.
By contrast, however, he
was fey and weak knee'd and
limp-wristed too, a truer
embodiment of a 'humble'
nation, were one to be found
for the alusion. They were all
cocktail-circuit banterers as
much as anything else, but that's
how it went back then - the
same 45 or 50 'nightlife' and
cocktail headliners in each
magazine and fawning press
coverage, while they bloviated
about every other matter except
their own work. That sort of
this, yes,stil goes on now, but
today's parade of such superstars
tend to be of even less value and
with no literacy appeal whatsoever,
vanquished as they are by the their
own mirror images of sloth and
deceit. Besides being mental
12-year olds forever.
-
It all began, all this, with the
Kennedy era presidency. The
world, for some reason, seemed
suddenly to sit up, take stock,
and pay attention to 'itself.' The
American world anyway, which
treated the rest of the world, and
the Moon by then, all as its own.
About these years was thrown
the thinnest new shroud of a
cultural imagism, playful feints
at things like 'Camelot' and royalty,
British things, actors, music, and
the rest. Mrs. Kennedy opened the
White House to all this low-tier
art, tours, and TV cameras. Carl
Sandburgian and Lincolnesque
tributes to the stalwart American
type. The icon of icons. A true
Wyeth and Warhol combination
of Christina's World and Campbell
Soup/Brillo Pad iconic irony.
It was all, in the end, worth nothing,
except maybe the resultant 58,000
dead Vietnam-soldiers, which
selfsame burden was then carried
just as lightly as it grew and amassed
it's numbers amidst the most tortured
logic and reasoning about why it was
all happening in the first place. Of a
Fire In the Jungle, was more like it.
And all the newspapers and magazines
went along, at first, for the ride.
-
I watched and witnessed. It all ended
in disaster. The same garrulous guilt
and torture which ended up with the
President's head blown off, MLK's
parking lot death by the very-same
long-range rifle fanaticism, Robert
Kennedy's bizarre death in a hotel
kitchen short-cut, all those Vietnam
President guys, Diem, Thieu, Ky,
meeting their own 'Americanized'
fates manipulated from Washington,
either by death or sham electioneering
in the global pursuit of sending the
American lie and frivolity everywhere,
that sam guilt took over the cultural
and literary content of each active
moment: Truman Capote's famed
Masked Ball, Norman Mailer stabbing
his wife, Marilyn Monroe's sex-death,
Sirhan Sirhan - one of the most
redundant names ever - and James
Earl Ray and Jack Ruby, and, lest
we forget, Lee Harvey Oswald. Each
one of those names, and others too,
had learned to stop the clock, each
momentarily, on the American
situation ticking. New Journalism
took it all to the Moon. Norman Mailer
gave us the story, and the content.
And the context too.
-
It's all over now; those times have
passed, America as we knew it is gone,
Everything once pre-eminent is now
badly secondary, those people of the
limelight then are now all gone, the
world has fizzled, it reeks of the
imbecile and the moron, nothing new
happens anymore except additions to
the negative values of factors already
in the negative columns. The churches
are filthy, fallen jokes, Hollywood and
entertainment have become vast rectums.
No one can speak intelligently, and
the schools and temples of higher
learning are now vapid, self-serving,
and, mostly closed to ideas anyway.
-
Where is the 1960's bomb when we
really need it most. Obliterate the
Literati...or hasn't that already been
done? Let's obliterate everything else.
Onward, Christian, soldiers?
No comments:
Post a Comment