Wednesday, October 03, 2007

Artichoke Circus

(and unresolved dilemmas)

Before Ductape died (for my part I think he is dead and I miss him greatly) he and I were writing something together. For this last year, I’ve been unsure what to do with it. On the one hand, it was part of a correspondence which is clearly private. On the other, it was also a collaboration within that correspondence which both of us had intended to be read by others when it was eventually completed. It wasn’t complete last September. But nor did it break off abruptly: we had got stuck a while before that.

We had encountered changes that needed making and some basic questions that needed answering before we could keep on writing. And events intervened. The Lebanon was being bombed. In retrospect, I think Ductape's health was failing. Also I was not writing much: La belle dame had dropped by and words had become dangerous creatures.

But I think that perhaps had circumstances been otherwise, we might eventually have found a way out of our narrative difficulties. Counterfactuals. As it was, they weren't, we didn’t and I don’t want to change what was written now, since I think some parts of it may be among the last things he wrote. Though not the last.

It’s hard (at least I've found it hard) to know what to do with words that have, if only by default, been entrusted to your keeping, but which – at least at some point – were intended to be read by more than one pair of eyes. I thought about what to do about this over the last year, but have reached no conclusion: I still don’t know whether this is a betrayal of trust or not. We didn’t -- and in particular Ductape didn’t – think that it was finished. But I cannot fix or finish it by myself and some of you were his friends, the people for whom he wrote.

So.

If parts seem clumsy or inept, they are almost certainly mine since Ductape didn't do clumsy or inept.



Artichoke Circus.


Where did I find this place? In a memory. Look see? Over here.
A dubious pause and a raised eyebrow.
"Well it's a good enough place to meet isn't it? A place that is no place at all. One can come and go, traceless. Singularly apropos."

You follow the voice over to a rather distressed looking picnic table, there in what passes for a park for the kids to run around during the day, letting off steam. It's darker here, away from the floodlit carpark, from the loglo of McDs and Burger King. The air smells of oil and fumes. Beneath that, the smell of stale cooking fat and old fries. Yet catch that midsummer breeze in just the right way and there's a hint of something not yet vanquished, not yet destroyed utterly.

"Like Ithilien" she mutters beneath her breath, "Yes. This is my memory of it."

Her companion does not hear. He is preoccupied with the discovery of a fire fly, and its periodic hopefully-green glowing.

"What's it's name?" he says, looking up.
"It doesn't have one. But we called it the United States of Generica. "

Out on the highway a military convoy trundles through the night.

"So." she says, "What shall we discuss on this shortest night? Manifest Destiny? The End of Empire?

"Is there a difference?" the old man asks, smiling down at the firefly, with whom he has made friends. It perches comfortably on his finger, blinking companionably in the gathering dusk.

"In their ends, I mean," he eyes his DoodleBurger skeptically. "They have always been symbiotic, like conjoined twins that cannot be separated, that live only a short time, though to their parents, it seems an eternity. The fact is, we are all just people. There is no Master Race, no Manifest Destiny, no Empire. These are more truly fairy tales than fairies and goblins and enchanted forests. Although unlike the fairies and the enchanted forests, they call forth the worst that is in us, worse even than the mischievous goblins."

He nods farewell to the firefly, who makes its blinking way off into the sky, and takes a hesitantbite of the DoodleBurger, nods approvingly. "Good. They remembered the extra pickles."

"I suspect I'd need more pickles still," she replies grinning, picking lazily at a strawberry parfait. Lifting her spoon, She raises an eyebrow towards her companion.

“We are all just people?There is no Master Race, no Manifest Destiny, no Empire?” These things, then, are mere chimeras. Figments of a feverish brain, of paranoid imagining? Will-o-wisps we have been chasing through a forest to our boggy doom.” She smiles. “Windmills. Not giants after all.”

She pushes the half-finished parfait aside, not before having extracted, with care, one last strawberry, though not the last. And looks at her companion seriously.

“In that case, all of our rejections and denials (flawed though they doubtless have been), all our disruptions, disputations and dissolutions (morally compromised to their core though they may be) – all have been truly full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Harsh words hurled at an imagined foe.”

“I wish that were so. I would like to die happy. But it is not. We are not just people.“

She pauses for a moment as a security guard makes her round of the car park.

“We are people, yes,” she continues quietly, once the guard is out of earshot,
“but we are also the things that people make. And to our great misfortune, Master Races, Manifest Destinies and Empires have been among these made things.”

“And are we not so neatly caught between truth and falsehood? For if these things are to be unmade again, we must deny them existence, we must reject them utterly and steadily. Yet if we simply deny their existence – if we say all innocent and unawares, “Oh but there is no such thing as Empire! The Master Race? Who are they? I never heard of them before!” then whether our innocence is sincere or feigned, we cannot help but make invisible its consequences, its damage done.”

She looks around the carpark again. The security guard has resumed her post outside Burger King, on the other side of the lot. A worn, sharp vegetable knife has materialised on the table between them. She shakes her head. “Another memory.” She picks it up and rests it carefully in her left hand flat across her palm, fingers folding up and closely over the blade.

“It is tempting to imagine that they do not exist, that these things that people make are in some sense not real because they are made and can therefore be unmade. The knife is relatively simple to regard as real, it is material. We can see it, touch it, guess what its effects might be. From here in Generica? Though no less material, perhaps it is true that Empire is not so visible here as elsewhere. But that – as you observed to Alex – is only because in the eye of the hurricane, there is no wind.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, she puts the knife down between them. “So. What is to be done?” she asks. "How may we escape this snare?"

"Well, yes, they exist in the same way that fat exists on the butt of an insecure and slender young girl, gazing into her mirror."

The old man decides not to tell his companion that those are not strawberries, but chunked and formed vegetable protein, not unlike the DoodleBurger itself, only the extrusion settings are different.

"And so I suppose we make arguments against them for the same reasons we try to reason with the young girl."

The firefly has returned. It seems to like the old man. Or maybe it is hoping for a crumb of DoodleBurger. If so, its hopes are beyond rewarded, as his benefactor decides he has more than achieved his textured vegetable protein requirement for the day,and lays the dubious sandwich down, only a few bites eaten."It is our destiny to fight phantoms," he muses. "All those things that don't exist, with which we seek to destroy ourselves."

He pulls a pair of glasses from a pocket in his garment. His distance lenses. He puts them on and gazes out across the parking lot, and is caught by a billboard "WORLD'S BIGGEST ARTICHOKES KIDS AND SENIORS FREE.""Do you like artichokes?" he asks, pointing at the billboard. "I am a senior." He looks around for a few more seconds, and apparently decides he has had enough distance vision, replaces the glasses.

"The girl, you see, will starve herself. She will pretend nothing is wrong, and eat her meals, but vomit them up in secret. She will do this until one day her mother catches her unawares, in her underclothes, and sees the bony shoulders, the ribs like a concentrationcamp photo, and then, if it is not too late, the whole family will live around the cause of saving her life. But even in the hospital, hooked to her IV pole, when she looks in the mirror, she will see a fat butt.

So it is with Empire, so it is with Manifest Destiny.Just a bunch of white people who think their butts are fat. At least in this particular century, it's white people. A while back it was Persians."He looks quite old enough to have been witness, possibly participant, in events "a while back," but it is with remarkable agility that he springs up from the plastic table, after murmuring his farewell to the firefly in some ancient (or not) language."Let's go see those artichokes!" He rubs his hands together in anticipation, licks his lips. "I hope they will have lemon butter!"

She too gets up, casting a brief surreptitious glance at her backside, choosing a moment when her companion’s attention appears to be fully fixed upon the possibility of artichokes. “But it is fat, there’s just no getting around it.” she thinks ruefully. She shakes herself. After all, there are worse things. She’s not hooked up to an IV. The trick is to try and see clearly what is there, fat or no fat, ghosts or no ghosts. Or both, even, depending on which of one’s mismatched eyes one peers through.

"Looks like it’s still open” she says, staring out across the car park in the late twilight. “See, there’s lights on and they’ve got seats out on the verandah. This wasn’t here last time.”

She picks up the knife – “In case we have to cut the prickly ends off the leaves. Or that pithy stuff” she explains, tucking it out of sight. “I love artichokes. Especially with garlic, but lemon would be good too.”

As they amble across the car park, she regales him with a tale of the time she learned to distinguish between anchovies, artichokes and garbage disposal units and why the remnants of the second should never, ever, be put into the third.

“Green. Stringy. Stuff. Everywhere. ” she concludes, grimacing. “Who’d have thought one artichoke could have so much of it? .”

Taking a seat at a wooden table on the verandah, they take turns looking at a menu and discover a broad assortment of artichoke-devouring options, several of which require thoughtful and detailed investigation, consumption and comparison.

“So it is with Manifest Destiny so it is with Empire – yes, I think that we agree. But listen,” she thinks aloud, as they sit there, replete with artichoke in many delicious forms, contemplating the deep blue evening sky, “The girl on the IV, surrounded by her loving family – she will not recover, I think. She may linger but she will not live, until she sees what is there, the delusion, that it is a delusion, and the harm she does by acting on it. Until she sees that, she will not see a need to end it. And where will she learn to see? And how?

“We may reason with her – as you said – tell her that she is, in fact, not only slender but dangerously emaciated. We may place the mirror before her face. We may drag her from her bed to measure her height, weigh her body and show her the BMI index, but what she will hear is that we, being fat, lazy and undisciplined are jealous of her determination, her self-control, her wholehearted desire to be thin, her willingness to do whatever it takes to reach that goal. Her single-mindedness. And if we acknowledge this as well – if we say to her that this – our fat, lazy and undisciplined jealousy of your determination – is what she will hear when we say this and it this is a predictable symptom of this illness? Well, sophistry can be added to that list easily enough.”

“I remember sitting in a room with someone who had once been a friend, holding my hands tightly together so that I would not hit her with them and realising for the first time that although I had the strength to bodily pick her up and hurl her to the other end of the room – and for that matter, the necessary rage to make such a choice seem attractive – it was not in my power to move her conscience one single inch.”

And so beloved ancestor, with the irritating persistence of an uncooperative and childish descendant sitting in the back seat of a car, asking every two minutes “Are we there yet?” I shall repeat my question: what is to be done?

He gestures to indicate that he cannot answer just yet, he is still finishing up his Artichokes Rockefeller, wondering whether there really is a difference between anchovies and garbage disposals, he is not fond of either. He smiles to himself as best he can, under the artichoke-stuffed circumstances, at the array of empty dishes at the girl's place, waiting to be collected.

Woman, he corrects himself, but he cannot help but think of her as a child, when they cross busy streets, he takes her hand protectively in his own, careful to let her think she is assisting his aged self make the journey safely.

He is glad to see her eat. She is too thin. "How to move a conscience," he finally mumbles, almost to himself. "There really should be a pamphlet orsomething. A website. With easy steps and a diagram." "I think it is like teaching," he continues, pushing back his dish, reluctantly acknowledging that he has reached his personal limit of artichoke consumption, and a bit concerned that his astonishing capacity for same may cause the restaurant's management to revise their "SENIORS FREE" policy, at least on the All-U-Can-Eat buffet.

"No one ever teaches anyone anything, really. You just make the resources available and sit back and watch them learn."

"Where y'all from?" asks the cashier as the girl - the woman - hands her a plastic card. "Y'all ain't from round here," she pops her bubblegum to emphasize her remarkable perceptive powers. "Yourn's free, youknow," she shouts at the old man, unaware that at this moment, he can hear the slurp as a child over at the BurgerDoodle finishes his WildBerryFreeze. "Seniors is free," she explains to the woman, voice lowered to a normal decibel level, swiping the plastic card through a machine, waiting for another machine, somewhere, to respond, and agree that the impressively low sum of $7.99 US may be safely deducted from or charged to, yet another machine somewhere else.

"You know who he looks like?" she asks conversationally, as they all wait for the hiss and clicks that will indicate that the electronic question and answer session has concluded,

"He looks like the feller they got on the television set, th'terst, you know, that blew up the nine-a-leven? With all them people in it? Oh I know he ain't, he's way too old, plus he's one o' th' nice ones. I c'n tell th' nice ones." She leans toward the old man, grins. "You ain't fixin t' blow up nothin', is ya?" she shouts.

"Could we have some bubble gum like yours?" the old man places a coin on the counter, takes the little squares from her astonished hand. It jumps at his touch, as if from an electric shock.

"He speaks English real good." The cashier is, after all, a professional, who must be able to recover quickly from shocks to the system. "You speak English real good," she shouts in the direction of the old man's ear. He inclines his head to her graciously. "You will permit me to return the compliment."

Sometimes we must lie to be kind, he thinks to himself, as they settle into the car, leaving the cashier to stare at her hand where the ancient fingers brushed it as they took the gum, as if looking for some kind of mark.

"Pay-gy," she calls to a waitress, " You got smora them pills like you gimme that night Misty got th' po-leesecalled on Dwayne?" Peggy nods obligingly and goes off to get her purse. The cashier looks as if she might burst into tears.

"So it is with moving consciences. We cannot do it, they must move themselves. At best, we can make vehicles available." The old man blows a bubble and pops it, quite pleased with himself, undisturbed by the fact that he is no match for his companion's skills in this department.

"The Americans like to say, you know, that Uncle Tom's Cabin changed peoples' hearts, and was the real catalyst for the re-framing of slavery. Even Abraham Lincoln himself is alleged to have indicated as much to Ms. Stowe. But I think this is a myth. The real reasons were economic, as they always are. But the public is always encouraged to attribute such things to something less mundane, more emotionally uplifting, a book, Gandhiji, Patrice Lumumba, Dr. King, Nelson Mandela. Not to take away from any of them. All were the vehicles for moving many consciences, and this is a good thing. But we must not deceive ourselves, and if we look about Soweto today, or the projects a few miles from Dr. King's tomb, if we leave the big city and observe the plight of Dalits in almost any village, we must acknowledge that on the whole, only a small percentage of consciences have been moved."

82 Comments:

Blogger Man Eegee said...

Well, here I am sitting at my desk at work bawling like a baby. All I can say is 'Thank You, Dove', for sharing this piece with us. My heart is ripped in shreds by reading it, but like with any muscle growth, sometimes it takes pain to create future strength.

I have had Ductape on my mind quite a lot recently. It's been over a year now and, while this isn't the first time he's disappeared, this stint feels much different. More lasting. Fortunately, the power of words transcends our time on this earth, and by your efforts today, the reason that I was always drawn to his, and your, insight to this world is rekindled brilliantly like a fire fly in flight. Paz

10/04/2007 12:56 am  
Blogger dada said...

powerful

DT's prose and wisdom is sorely missed.

thank you for sharing this dove.

10/04/2007 2:47 am  
Blogger olivia said...

Thank you Dove ... Thank you.

10/04/2007 7:15 am  
Blogger katiebird said...

"Before Ductape died"

{{shudder}}

I'm sorry. I started to read it and got to the old man making friends with the fire fly.

And I

can't
go on.

I miss him so much. Sometimes I pretend that other people are secretly him. Hiding from me in the open.

Thank you for posting this. I'll be back. But I might have to take a while to finish reading.

I love you all.

10/06/2007 1:03 am  
Blogger Smartypants said...

Hey everyone, this is NLinStPaul...just a new online name.

I hear your dilema about posting this dove, but I'm so glad you did. There are many of us for whom ductape's writing and unique perspective were dear. Its been hard to just see him disappear from the internets. I hope that wherever he is, he can feel the love.

A dear friend of mine who was in my bookgroup died a couple of years ago. We have had a ritual every year of going away for a retreat weekend up north for many years now. At the last one she attended, as we were leaving, an eagle appeared in the sky and we all watched it together for awhile and marvelled at its beauty - especially Pat, she loved that kind of thing. She was crying at the time, knowing that the cancer was winning the battle and this would be the last time we would all be together for our retreat.

For the last couple of years since she's been gone, we've always seen an eagle while we were at our retreat. And so we know that Pat has come to say "hello." It might all just be something we make up in our heads, but it comforts us.

Perhaps fireflies will be ductape's way of joining us now.

10/06/2007 3:26 pm  
Blogger James said...

Like Manny, Ductape has been on my mind a lot over the last few weeks, periodically intruding into my dreams.

This may have been a work in progress but then so is the struggle for human rights and dignity.

Thanks for these words.

10/06/2007 6:02 pm  
Anonymous alohaleezy said...

Thank you Nancy for steering me here to read this. So many familiar names here that I have grown fond of over the years of blogging. Ductape is sorely missed. What an amazingly talented writer and an especially wise person.

10/06/2007 7:16 pm  
Blogger supersoling said...

Hello all,
I just caught the notice from NL for this piece, at ECFS. Dove, I wanted you to know that you've been in my thoughts quite a lot lately and that I've allowed my terrible talent for procrastination to get in the way of at least sending one of the many emails I thought to write to you over the last months. Besides a courteous hello to you that's long been overdue, I think I've been needing some grounding influence and recognized that that's how you've often affected me when I've read your writing or gotten a reply to a note. But like so many things i need to do, I let it slip so many times when I thought to write to you. In other words, this is a small apology for having gotten so scarce in the last year :o)

I haven't read the entire piece yet myself and needing to run out for a while I guess I'll catch up to it later (no procrastinating super!). But like Katiebird, those first words made me sad. I haven't wanted to think about Ductape having possibly died. I concocted my own preferred version of him heading back into the fray to protect the Levant. It's safer that way, for me, though not him! :o)

Either way, alive or not, he's continued to have a large influence on me. Maybe mostly when I realize that I'm wasting precious time on useless meta arguments. Something I've done too much of lately.

Leezy! :o) I miss you man :o)

10/06/2007 11:08 pm  
Blogger James said...

A few months ago, I was reminded of Ductape's seven-part dystopian serial, Haley's Nose: America 2009. I am, of course, ever the fan of dystopian fiction as it tends to serve as a harbinger of possible futures which could still be prevented, as well as offering at least some tentative hope in the potential for human freedom and dignity to prevail against the various forces of tyranny.

On another note, as of June 30, his email address was no longer in service. As I said at the time:
I know at Yahoo that typically accounts get discontinued for any of a number of reasons including lack of activity (a few months of not checking your email, and "poof" the account is discontinued unless or until the account's owner reactivates it). Unless he reappears or unless a relative is sufficiently cognizant of his internet life to contact some of us with news (good or bad) about his circumstances, I can only hold on to the faint hope that he's still alive and well (or that he is at peace).

Anyone who ever read his blog, or checked any of his postings at the various "gated community blogs" (a term he coined just months before he disappeared) or some of the larger or smaller community and group blogs will know three things about him: 1) he had a uniquely creative writing style, 2) he was no stranger to controversy (just look at the testimonials to him at the far right column of his own blog, for example) and 3) he was good at unifying a diverse and probably divergent group of people. The latter quality in particular was readily apparent during the early weeks of Mo Betta Meta while he was still active, and has been sorely missed in his now extended absence there (the animosities that have sprung up subsequently between one-time friends have been nothing short of heartbreaking [at least so to me] to say the least).

I'll merely use this post as a sort of message in a bottle, in the hopes that one day someone who knows his whereabouts can get in touch with me or one of his other friends who miss him.

10/07/2007 5:12 am  
Anonymous alohaleezy said...

Supersoling...miss you too, Please contact me at old email addy. It is still the same. We can chat that way. I have lost your telephone# in the move some how.

10/07/2007 4:27 pm  
Blogger supersoling said...

I think now that ductape would have long ago recognized the futility there is or was in hoping that the internet and political blogs in particular, where most of us stumbled upon one another, would be a sufficient vehicle to moving the consciences of nearly enough people to make the smallest dent in the injustices that are perpetuated around the world by empires and the empire's facilitators, no matter how often he professed his pleasure at having found those of us that he did find here and other places. I too had come to this sad conclusion not so long ago, while simultaneously feeling grateful for having found any of you at all in what seems so much like a desert devoid of clarity, compassion, humanity, let alone...hope for widespread change. These small places remind me of his firefly. The larger places remind me of the artichoke stand, offering something too good to be true and overseen by ignorant, biased and prejudiced, if not well meaning...clerks.

I now think it unwise to rely on our long distance glasses to bring far away and unattainable meals of fantasy into focus, when what is most important and what we are best equipped to nurture and save is fluttering and glowing on and off right in the palms of our hands.

10/08/2007 6:15 pm  
Blogger dove said...

I'm sorry about my belated replies. Though I never was fleet-footed in comments so I’m sure it’s not entirely unexpected.

There are a couple more sections of this (one or two, depending where I draw divisions) which I intend to post over the next week or two. I’d do it sooner, but it involves editing (of the typographical kind, not the content kind – that I’m leaving entirely as it is for the reasons already discussed).

I’m glad that all of you have stopped by and relieved that you think this was an appropriate thing to do.

Katiebird – for my part, I think if he could have made an arrangement for saying goodbye, he would have done so. But more than most, I think he was concerned about the potential impact of a collision between his online writing (and that part of his life, since he must have spent a good deal of his life writing given his prodigious output, much of which was in comments as well as his own essays) and the rest of his life including the wellbeing of his family and friends. I think he probably had good reason to have such concerns, and I can very easily see how that might have ended up being something that worked both ways – that we didn’t know who he was in offline life, and that the places where he wrote weren’t known to those who did know him in offline life. And too, he may had had thoughts of making an arrangement, but been overtaken by events. In retrospect, I do find myself noting that in his later writing, he often stated that he was neither terribly well, nor terribly young – but that seemed so at odds with the liveliness of his writing that I never gave it sufficient weight.

Like all of you, I miss him more than I have words for. He had a rare combination of courage and grace.

man eegee

“the power of words transcends our time on this earth”
Yes. Words don’t always suffice, certainly they are not infallible. But if you are someone who reads, or likes music or art, then the odds are that many of the people whom you care for deeply are dead –and what’s more, were dead long before you ever encountered them – yet that has not been a barrier to care or a meeting of minds. Which may be some kind of consolation or none at all: I don’t know.

A practical consideration that has crossed my mind after James mentioned about Ductape’s email no longer working is ‘what happens to old blogs?’ Should we be archiving the content of Enemy of the State and DTF’s posts elsewhere and ensuring public access to that? What do people think? For my part, I think it might be a good precautionary idea. Though one that carries with it its own choices between wrong and wrong.

Smartypants – what a name to reclaim. Thank you too for telling us about Pat. It’s a delight to see you here – may I blogroll you?

Supersoling – consider yourself courteously helloed and apologised to in turn. I owe you a longer reply I think. I fear though, that I am unreliable as a grounding influence: this past year has been like walking on a scree slope.

For my part, I think the last thing Ductape says in this piece is true, but I think all of that last part is true: the good and the bad of it. There’s not much hope to be had there, but hope isn’t something I look for particularly, as a source of strength.

Not that I have much of that either, especially lately.

Here’s what I want you to do (since I’m nothing if not bossy). There’s a comic called ‘A Game of You’ by Neil Gaiman. It’s brilliant, and as its preface is a shortish essay by Samuel Delany which is about – among other things – the nature of hope and what words can and cannot do. Or at least that’s part of what I take it to be about. Go and read it. I think it might speak to you and I’d be interested to hear what it said.

I’ve been away a while, but I have been lurking and stopping by around the neighbourhood.

It’s been an almost wordless year. Which shows: my tongue is like rust. I want to find a way to change that, I think.

10/08/2007 10:57 pm  
Blogger Smartypants said...

OK, so now I'm sitting here reading Ductape and reading all of you with tears running down my face. I don't think I'll know how to say what's in my heart, but its a mixture of joy and grief. Joy at all the soul that is in so many of the words all of you have shared. And also joy that there are people like you in my life (even if its just online). And the grief is that, not only Ductape is gone, but that these kinds of moments where we gather are so few and far between. I grieve the days where this kind of gathering happened all the time. Maybe it was all just so wonderful in my imagination. Or maybe those moments are meant to be fleeting. But I do want to say to all of you that were a part of that moment for me...Thank You.

And yes dove, I'd love it if you'd blogroll me. I'll do the same at my place.

10/09/2007 12:38 am  
Blogger Nanette said...

dove, it's good to read you again. I am glad you are back. And also glad that you decided to go ahead and post this. I couldn't actually read it till today (like Katie, I got to the firefly last week and couldn't go on). Too many emotions getting in the way and nothing at all was making any sense to me.

I read it today, though, and what a great little story, deceptively simple, but filled with so much. So Ductape, and so you, too! I'll look forward to reading the rest of it.

10/10/2007 8:08 pm  
Anonymous spiderleaf said...

And I'm always late to the party.

Miss you all.

I mourned for DTF about 6 months ago - like Dove, I was sure he was gone. But his heart and spirit lives on in all of us.

Peace.

Thanks for posting this Dove.

10/12/2007 5:38 pm  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

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3/07/2008 1:42 am  
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8/28/2008 7:07 am  
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5/31/2009 3:14 am  
Blogger loving said...

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6/04/2009 11:30 am  
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8/01/2009 10:07 am  
Blogger good11good11 said...

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8/01/2009 10:09 am  
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10/27/2009 8:49 am  
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Dove, I hope you can see this message through the spam. You'll now have scrolled down a multitude of "noise" to get to this I fear.

At one point you discussed that there was additional content that you were planning to publish from your collaborations with DTF. Is that still in the works? "Artichoke Circus" as it is stands on its own. Obviously, if you've chosen not to publish the remaining work I understand and respect your decision.

Know that I miss your words out here in blogtopia. There was much that I was able to learn from you during that brief period when we could interact. I take some solace in knowing that your fine words are archived in blogtopia and that I can still revisit them from time to time. It is a faint substitute for interaction, but if that is what is left, I accept it. May my words find you in peace.

James (someone you might have recalled from MoBettaMeta or Everybody Comes From Somewhere).

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Dove - James (MoBettaMeta, etc.) here:

Please check your email.

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10/19/2014 9:20 am  
Blogger Don Durito said...

Dove, this is Don Durito. After some brief email contact we lost touch. I recall some conversation about figuring out a way to publish the other part of the collaboration between you and Ductape Fatwa. A while back I set up a tribute page on tumblr that I thought might work as an appropriate venue. I like the idea of keeping his memory and ideas alive, as well as the ideas of my internet comrades alive for as long as I might be physically able.

Here is the link:

http://ductapefatwa.tumblr.com/

You can send me messages at the bottom of the site's interface (where it says "ask me anything"). If this would work for you, just let me know. Not only do I miss Ductape's words, but yours as well.

All the best.

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11/27/2014 5:48 am  
Blogger Don Durito said...

It is hard to believe that something like a decade has passed since Ductape Fatwa passed away. His loss was a blow in so many ways. It took a while to really appreciate it, but he (and perhaps a handful of others) was the glue that held together our little group of misfits in the left-ish blogosphere. After his passing, and some fallings out that were nothing short of regrettable, we scattered into the blogging diaspora never to stand together again. The loss of our little community is one I still mourn nearly a decade onward. I suppose there are a number of losses I mourn from time to time, especially as time has required me to take stock of my own eventual mortality. That your voice went silent was one of the more tragic things to occur. I suppose there is only faint hope that you will reappear to give us your take on where we are ten years later, after the ravages of the financial collapse, the long emergency in the Middle East and Central Asia, the looming climate change catastrophe, and the rise of nationalism and ethnic and racial hatred.

We talked once about the second part of this particular collaborative story that you created with Ductape Fatwa and I realize that it was somewhat incomplete when the project was halted. If you ever choose to release it, I do have a tribute page set up for Ductape Fatwa on Tumblr.

http://ductapefatwa.tumblr.com/

You can send a message through Tumblr (make sure it is crystal clear who you are, so that I will be certain to reply) - use the "Ask Me Anything" link. Or I think you still have my current email address. I hope you are alive and well.

10/16/2016 3:56 am  

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