disappearing

I feel as though everything in my life is changing. I no longer seem the same even when I stare out a window. The world has changed, but I'm not sure how. It's as if I have entered into someone else's body and seeing the world through their eyes. Maybe someone else has entered my body. Either way, I see me caring less about living, caring less about what happens, caring less about anything.

It is so hard to navigate the paths of life, especially when others drag you into their storms, their drama, their shortcomings, their failures. They sweep you up into them, and if you voice an opposing opinion, then you are thrown overboard, cast out to sea, and they will never throw you a lift raft. They will set their sails for another course and leave you to drown. Whereas I once sought to swim, now I am content to slowly sink beneath waves and watch the last bubbles of my breath rise toward the surface. The light glistens in the bubbles like dancing diamonds across the night sky in the full moonlight. Those who cast me aside did me the greatest favor. My biggest fear now is that guilt will overtake them and they'll come back and find me. But if they do, I will not be found, for the "me" they threw overboard is now gone. That person lives only in their conscience.


I no longer care. But I suppose that could always be argued. I might once again find passion if I were starving in the slums of a great city, etching along, gasping desperately for a crumb to feed my ravaging body. But maybe not, maybe the change that has overtaken me is the first acceptance of death, or perhaps the longing for the struggle to end. And it is struggle. To contend with others, especially family, who want to mold me into their image. Who want me to love them and serve them. I suppose that's why they say it's not easy to live a "Christian" life. Jesus said to, "love your enemies." It's so much easier just to let them be. But make no mistake, it is evil. Yes, evil. Maybe I have become one with life's evils. I've accepted the gratuity for shunning those who have shunned me. And my pockets are full, my cup overfloweth.

Oh, but I digress. I had sought to tell you I have changed. But to tell you, means I must recall and recollection can bring remorse. But I have no need for recall, or remorse, for I have no care anymore. I am disappearing. In a little while, I'll be gone.

Oh, that the shores be long gone
That the waves will still
And that I shall be alone
For solitude cures my ill

Peace of Pocahontas

I feel like I've got my life back. I deleted both my facebook pages four days ago after Donald Trump once again tweeted a racist remark about Elizabeth Warren following her speech at the Democratic Convention: Trump tweeted, "Pocahontas bombed last night! Sad to watch."

Apparently, Trump thinks it's funny to call Warren "Pocahontas." I do not.

My situation is not that different from Elizabeth Warren's. My family's story is that my great-grandmother on my mother's side was part-, or full-blooded, Native American; at least, that's what I've been told. But I cannot prove it. Once, I did find her name on some sort of Cherokee register at a Pow-Wow in Hopkinsville, Ky., but I don't know for certain that it was her. Nor do I know any way to find out. Warren's family story is that her great-great-great-grandmother was Cherokee; but just as myself, Warren cannot prove it. But why should she have to? And why should she deny it? Why should she stop telling the family story that was told to her? There is no reason to stop telling it. Warren has never used Affirmative Action or her assumed Native American heritage to advance her career. On May 20, 2012, The Atlantic reported that Warren, who graduated from the University of Houston in 1970 and got her law degree from Rutgers University in 1976, did not seek to take advantage of affirmative action policies during her education, according to documents obtained by the Associated Press and The Boston Globe. On the application to Rutgers Law School she was asked, "Are you interested in applying for admission under the Program for Minority Group Students?" "No," she replied.

Harvard Law professor Charles Fried sat on the appointing committee that recommended Elizabeth Warren as a professor to Harvard Law School in 1995. He said there was never any mention of her Native American heritage during the hiring process. Yet despite that fact, rumors continue to circulate that Elizabeth Warren used affirmative action to get hired as a professor at Harvard Law School.

Warren is a member of the Democratic Party and a Senator from Massachusetts. She holds a seat on the Senate Banking Committee and doggedly fights to stop corruption in big banks, which has made her the target of attacks from the Republican Party, who openly wants very little regulation placed on Wall Street. But much to the credit of the forerunners to Trump in the Republican Party, they did not refer to her as Pocahontas.

I've watched Trump's followers on television laugh and jeer as he calls her Pocahontas, and I've recoiled at the sight of these arrogant, racist, bigots. Pocahontas, herself, was not a bad person. She spent much of her life promoting peace between the English and her Native American people of Virginia, the Powhatan. She converted to Christianity and married an Englishmen, John Rolfe. So, from one point of view, it could be considered a compliment to be called Pocahontas, but it is obvious Donald Trump is not complimenting Elizabeth Warren; quite the contrary, it is an obnoxious, arrogant verbal attack; in turn, he is attacking all Native Americans, and all those who have any Native American blood in their veins. Hence my anger: he is also attacking my heritage and me.  

But this is what we've come to expect from Donald Trump. He started his campaign by belittling Mexicans, calling them criminals, rapists and drug dealers; he mocked and jeered and made an unflattering imitation of Serge Kovaleski, a reporter with a congenital joint condition that limits movement in his arms; he's called for the United States, a country founded upon the freedom of religion, to ban Muslims from entering the country; he praises dictators like Saddam Hussein, Vladimir Putin, and even admired North Korea's leader, Kim Jong-Un, for executing his uncle by stripping him naked and feeding him to 120 starving dogs. Just imagine what the Tea-Party would have said about Barack Obama if he had cozied up to dictators.

Rational people should ask themselves why they would want Donald Trump to be the President of the United States of America. Why would they want to elect a Hitler or Mussolini? Both were elected by a majority vote, I might add.

After Trump's tweet about Elizabeth Warren, I wrote on facebook that I was damn, sick and tired of Trump making racist comments about Native Americans. And then I went over the top, I must admit. I also wrote, "Fuck Trump, and if you like Trump, Fuck you, too." And therein I lost a moral war and Trump won. He achieved his goal: he succeeded in making me to sink to his level. Sure, I was ashamed of what I wrote, and I was going to delete it but I was in no hurry. I went to the kitchen and poured myself a strong one, because, as mentioned, I was pissed. I thought I needed a little something to knock the edge off. In my naiveté, I thought that none of my facebook friends would defend Trump for making fun of Native Americans. But I was wrong! I immediately got attacked for attacking Trump. And I attacked back. Before I knew it, I was in verbal war with an old friend, probably best described as an acquaintance. During this heated exchange, it suddenly occurred to me that I did not give a hoot-in-hell what he thought about me, about my opinion, or my comment, or anything. The man basically means nothing to me at all. And I wondered to myself, why am I verbally sparring with this guy? What a waste of my time.

And earlier that same day, I posted this silly comment on facebook:
"OMG, it's Monday. That means I have another week to witness the hatred, vitriol and vile political comments posted on facebook by people who claim to be good, decent, Christian folk. Post on, Brother; write on, Sister. God is our facebook friend."

Several comments were posted below mine. And the thread quickly digressed into an exchange about how churches abuse their tax-exempt status and openly dwell in politics and endorse candidates. Then a facebook friend of mine wrote, "I'll never forget seeing Gore in some black church in the south during the campaign. I'm thinking, how could someone do something so overtly illegal?"

This "so-called" facebook friend is a well-known conservative in our community. He and I got into a heated facebook debate several years ago that took several personal messages to mend the hard feelings on both sides. And here we are once again, back to square one, getting ready to go at it. And I thought, this is so damn boring.

So in my disgust, I responded to his Gore comment by saying, "Let's not take this thread into a mud slinging contest. You know both ( political parties ) do that. Good Lord, Trump spoke at Liberty University's chapel. Whew! This is the kind of debate I hoped to avoid. It's pointless. I'm too goddamn busy to go back and read how churches got introduced on this thread, but as a reminder, I was originally posting about the hatred, vitriol and vile political comments I see on facebook daily anymore. But, I must note that I have not seen you post those sorts of comments. I just wish love would prevail, and people would follow the better angels of their nature."

He responded and assured me he wasn't starting anything. He said he was simply recalling the first time he noticed churches abusing their tax-exempt status, and that both political parties do the same.

But then he went one step further. (Being the churchgoer that he is, I knew he would. ) He gave me the backhanded vocabulary lecture. "I purposefully do not post political posts," he said. "I do comment on other posts, but you will not see me get personal, use profanity, etc. I'd like to think I'm smarter than that and that I can, 1.) make a point without attacking the person; and, 2.) that I have a big enough vocabulary not to use the F word!"

Well, I didn't use the F word, but I did use the GD word and it was obvious he was talking down to poor little ole me, trying to teach me how to communicate with well-educated church folk, as himself. So I personally messaged him and said I hope he wasn't calling me down for cursing, and assured him that I wasn't cursing him. One thing I've noticed around churchgoers is that if you use the GD word or the F word or even the word "damn" during a debate, they immediately accuse you of cursing them. Then I furthermore explained that I grew up in an iron working family and cursing was par for the course. Thankfully, our messages were very cordial. It was obvious that he and I were both doing our best to avoid another heated conflict like the one we had over politics years before in the early days of facebook. During this exchange, it occurred to me that my conversation with him was a total waste of my time. I really didn't care what he thought of me. I barely know him. But while we were having this congenial conversation, he shared with me that some of his liberal facebook friends were causing him great distress, and that if he were not a man in a professional position, he would get off of facebook altogether.

*BING* A light bulb went off in my head. Why not? I thought. Why not get off of facebook? There are so few people on my "friends list" that are actually my "friends." And I have to be so careful what I write, careful not to state my liberal democratic views because whenever I do, I get attacked. The right-wing conservative trolls, many in my own family, come crawling out of their caves and sling darts and arrows and lash out jabs with their silver-tongued swords that probably even makes Satan himself wince. And it's a no-brainer that people who attack me for what I believe are not my friends, even if they are on my facebook "friends" list. They are just adversaries waiting to pounce, members of a social church waiting to publicly discipline me for stepping out of line, they are control freaks who want to make sure I say and do exactly what they want me to say and do, they are a lot of goddamn things but one thing is for certain, they are not my friends.

But my rational side kicked in and I didn't delete my facebook account that day. I do enjoy some of the things of facebook. I like people's travel photos and I love The Peter O'Toole Appreciation Page, the Keith Richards page, and many similar celebrity fan pages. So I went on about my business that day and forgot all about the temptation to delete my facebook accounts.

But as mentioned earlier in this text, later that night I fired off some nasty comments after Donald Trump called Elizabeth Warren Pocahontas again. Then I once again found myself in another useless heated, nasty facebook exchange, this time my adversary even brought up the fact that I once openly stated that I like Jane Fonda, suggesting that was equally as bad as liking Elizabeth Warren. I quickly wrote my rebuttal:

"WTF does Jane Fonda have to do with Donald Trump calling Elizabeth Warren Pocahontas?"

But I did not post it. Instead, I sat and looked at it, and read it over and over, thinking this is just a total damn waste of my time.

Suddenly the congenial conversation I had earlier with the other "so-called" facebook friend came to mind. He had said he'd get off of facebook altogether if he were not in a professional position. And it occurred to me that I am no longer in a professional position. I don't need this shit. I could care less that a brainless idiot is defending Donald Trump for calling Elizabeth Warren Pocahontas. And besides that, I don't want to be friends with someone who defends an arrogant prick's right to make fun of Native Americans. And if I wasn't on facebook, then I would not get drawn into these needless, useless, mindless, senseless, wasteful wars that wreck havoc on my soul, steal my time, my life, my emotions, my sanity and my serenity.

And that's when I did it. I deleted both my facebook accounts. And I have Pocahontas to thank for the peace that has once again returned unto my life. The peace she brokered between her people, the Powhatans, and the English only lasted for eight years. So my peace may only be a temporary one. I might succumb to the darker angels of my nature and return again to the land of the trolls. If only there were a way to get back on facebook without the trolls ever finding out, that would be a beautiful thing. Then I could keep up with the Peter O'Toole page. But I've tried that before. They always find me. But thank God for Pocahontas. She set me free this week. I'm so thankful that I even wrote a blog about it.

                                                       Bernard Mitchell Plumlee, Jr.

http://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2012/05/is-elizabeth-warren-native-american-or-what/257415/

http://www.alternet.org/video/cherokee-nation-chief-schools-trump-calling-elizabeth-warren-pocahontas-racist-put-down

American individualism is dead.

American individualism is dead. Just look at how all the Republicans are reacting to Ted Cruz not endorsing Donald Trump. Republicans tout themselves as the party of "individualists," people who believe in personal freedom. Ha, that's a load of crap. Individualists respect others who stray from the pack; individualists don't give a shit what someone else does as long as they don't tell them what to do; individualists respect someone who has the balls to go against the grain, to live by their own code and say, "fuck you," to anybody who tells them not to. The last individualists in this country were probably the mountain men. I'd like to see Americans have the balls to be individualists again, being able to "be" without belonging to a church, a fraternity, a sorority, a political party, a civics club, a country club, etc. We've been brainwashed as children that we have to "belong." Bullshit. Everybody's down on Cruz ... well, in my opinion, he should've said a hell of a lot more. If somebody called my wife ugly and accused my father of plotting to assassinate a U.S. president, I'd have gone on that stage and challenged the SOB to a duel.

Individualism, my ass. This country can't stand individuals. Me, I can't stand people who have to follow the herd. To be truthful, I can't even stand Ted Cruz. He's too much of a "party man" for me. My party is the wind and the earth that I will return to.

All these fuckers saying that they're individualists and they don't have the guts to stand up to someone who said John McCain wasn't a war hero because he was captured. I'm a democrat but I can tell you with certainty that if Hillary Clinton said that about John McCain, I'd have to balls to tell that bitch to fuck off. But you "party people" can't do that. You have to stay true to your school. Well, fuck you and your school, too.

Write on, Right on, Write on writers ... Equal opportunity has arrived

The great thing about living in the post 9/11 world is that you no longer have to fear obscurity. Rest assured that somebody, somewhere, will read whatever you write. It doesn’t matter if it’s the next great American novel or if it's so damn boring that your friends have to scroll past your posts in order to stave off another suicide attempt; either way, somebody will read it. There once was a time when even the best of writers couldn’t get anybody to read their stuff. But now everybody has equal opportunity. Every thing anybody writes will be read: it’ll probably by some poor sot working the midnight shift in a ran down, three story row house in the worst end of Chicago that’s being used as a covert operation by a shady company that secured a Pentagon contract to screen certain criteria of internet bloggers and facebook posts, but rest assured it will be read. Prior to 9/11, you could write about your secret desires to draw pictures of the Prophet Mohammad with a broom stick size dildo stuck up his ass and all it did was reinforce the fact that your mother repeatedly warned you that you might be a pervert as you were struggling through those years of budding hormones. But if you share your perverted, racist, sick wacko shit today, somewhere, somebody is going to have to read it and decide whether or not to send the FBI knocking on your door, or some crazy, ideological rag-head fanatic claiming allegiance to the latest psycho crazed Islamic cult will send 10,000 jihadist to assassinate your stupid ass; but either way, it will be read. So, if you want recognition as a writer, just go ahead, let the world know all the sick thoughts that swim through that cesspool mind of yours and before long, you’ll either be on the world news as the latest fool that has been martyred for freedom by some soon-to-be forgotten group of jihadist or you'll have a free computer in the prison library to practice your craft and a certified security guard to edit every damn word you write. But at least in this day and age you have a guaranteed readership. So write on brother, rant on sister.

The Coca-Cola Queen: A Musician’s Life

God, I’ve fucking had it. I’ve played every jip-joint dive for a thousand mile radius. I’m sick and damn tired of working my ass off, practicing all goddamn week just so I can play every weekend night in some smoke-filled bar with a bunch of fucking drunks who just want to dance and get their hands in somebody’s pants right in front of the stage. Back in the seventies, I played the big stages, toured with recording artists and had roadies. Now I’m in my fucking mid-fifties and I have to lug my own equipment into some bar for every gig, set it up, play the show, then break it down, wait around to get paid, get home at four in the fucking morning, drink a couple glasses of wine, maybe a scotch, watch the sun come up, take an Ambien and finally go to sleep before I have to get up and do it all again. It’s a pathetic life, it a musician’s life. That’s what we fucking do. And when you bitch and moan about it, everybody tells you, “Ah Man, but you know you love it. You can’t stop playing. It’s in your blood.”

Bla Bla Bla. Blood my ass. If it’s in my blood then I’ve got blood poisoning. I’m fucking tired. I’ve done this shit since I was twelve years old and now I’m staring at sixty in a few years. I don’t want to be playing jip-joints and listening to drunks tell me that I’ve got what it takes to “make it” when I’m sixty fucking years old.

So this is it. Fuck it. I quit.

My wife’s got a good job. Of course she’s got a job. You can’t be a working musician if you’re not hooked up with somebody who’s responsible. Okay, so that’s not always the case. There are those lucky, or doomed, bastards who have a steady road gig out of Nashville, LA, or New York, but they’re hardly ever home. What kind of life is that? I guess it’s the kind I wanted when I was a teenager and in my twenties, back when I thought I’d always have roadies, when I thought I’d be flying in 747’s or riding in a plush bus to my next gig. But now I just want to be home.

I always wanted to write, maybe I could try that, but the only stories I know are those about crazy girls like the one in Ft. Smith, Arkansas. She asked me over to her house, which turned out to be a goddamned Coca-Cola “creepy” doll museum. Weirdest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. There were dolls of every size, shape and color of skin; they were on top of the refrigerator, on the couch, in the floor, on the table, and they were all dressed in red outfits with Coca-Cola logos on them. Some had it on their caps, some on their lapels, some on the sleeves. There were dolls of China girls, gas station attendants, singers, belly dancers, clowns, stewardesses, waitresses, even jugglers, and of course the juggler’s balls were red with the Coca-Cola emblem on them. The balls were suspended above the juggler’s hands on a circular wire that was barely visible. She spent what seemed like an eternity, going into great detail about the different places she searched for two years to find the right sort of wire, and even drove all the way to Little Rock to get it because she wanted to make sure it was, “just right.” It was three-thirty in the morning and I listened to stories about how she made each and every doll. I started worrying she was going to poison me with Atlanta’s favorite recipe, then stuff me in a Coca-Cola colored casket and hide me away in her secret Coca-Cola cellar.

Finally, she asked me to her bedroom. Yeah, you guessed it - Coca-Cola bed sheets, pillowcases, dresser, and dolls all over the bed. This girl was freaking me out. But then she started kissing me, and pulling me onto the bed, so I went with it. Dolls were rolling off onto the floor, she’s unbuttoning her blouse at the same time she’s unzipping my pants. Next thing I know I’m on top her of her. Her bra was red and laced with Coca-Cola logos. She’d pulled her red skirt up around her waist. I glanced down, and of course, her panties matched her bra. As most men would do in that situation, I started to pull her panties down, but she stopped me. She reached over, opened a beside-table drawer and pulled out a condom and a pair of men’s red briefs with Coca-Cola logos on them. “You’ve got to wear these,” she said, in a hushed voice, as if this was some sort of initiation. It was obvious we were getting ready to do some sacred Coca-Cola sexual ceremonial; or even worse, sacrifice something to the Coca-Cola gods. I just hoped and prayed that something wasn’t going to be me. It was freaky.

“But how are we going to do it if I’m wearing underwear?” I asked.

“There’s a flap in the front of them, and mine, too.”

She giggled, opened her legs wide, and pointed to her panties. Covering her sacred spot was a cloth that looked just like a Coca-Cola bottle top. “It unsnaps.” She licked my cheek with her tongue, bit my ear and whispered. “You’ve got to pop the top if you want a drink.”

Whew! And I’m thinking this is one crazy girl.

She hands me the condom and explains that it looks like a Coca-Cola bottle once it’s put on. I leaned over on my elbow, took a deep breath and wondered, “What the fuck am I doing here?”

I was afraid to just tell her I had to leave. I was seriously scared of what she might do. This girl had “crazy” written all over her. So, I started thinking fast. She seemed like the sentimental sort, she was certainly nostalgic about Coca-Cola, so I assumed she’d value someone being true to what they believed in. “I really want to make love to you,” I said. “But I feel so guilty.” I proceeded to tell her I was in love with a girl back home, and that I swore to myself that I would be true to her. I went into a long story of how I had cheated on my first wife and ruined the marriage. “I swore if I ever found someone else, I’d stay faithful,” I said, trying to sound like a Catholic at confession “And that’s what I’ve done until tonight, but I like you and I wanted to spend some time with you. But I know I’m gonna feel guilty if we do something.”

It worked.

She put her arms around me, hugged me tight and said, “I knew you were a good guy. That’s why I wanted you. But I couldn’t live with myself if I caused you to break a vow. Love is sacred.”

And I’m still thinking, I’ve got to get the hell out of here.

We moved the conversation to her kitchen and drank coffee from Coca-Cola cups. After a long while, I coaxed her outside, saying I wanted to see her yard. Blades of blue light sliced the darkness and I could now see the bleak row houses that lined the street. A neighbor wearing a work uniform came out of his house and walked briskly toward his car. The Coca-Cola Queen waved, said hello and tried to start a conversation. But her neighbor would have none of it. He glanced at me, looked away for a second and then stared me straight in the eye. He jerked his jaw, clenched his teeth and gave me the warning look that guys give to one another on the battlefield of life that silently says, “Buddy, I hope you know what the hell you’re doing.” As he got in his car I told her I had to go. She obliged and drove me back to my hotel, where she gave me a Coca-Cola lapel pin. “To remember me by,” she said. 

The check out time was noon. I was dog-ass tired when the band pulled out of Ft. Smith driving to our next show in New Orleans. To be truthful, I was wondering why I didn’t have sex with the Coca-Cola Queen. She seemed innocent after all, just a little kooky. But hell, out on the road we’re all a little kooky. Besides, I was raised on Coke; we always had a refrigerator full of them. And thankfully, I grew up on the early Sixties, long before the days of over-zealous parents who monitor their children’s sugar intake. Over indulgence didn't hurt me then, so a little craziness with the Coca-Cola Queen might not have been so bad. That was life on the road, dozens, if not hundreds, of strange encounters with lonely women in the wee-hours of the morning. So I’m glad I quit. But I do remember her every time I open my dresser drawer and see the Coca-Cola lapel pin stashed away with other keepsakes and mementoes. But I don’t know if anybody would want to read about the Coca-Cola Queen: does anyone really care about lonely people in the wee-hours of the morning?

So I’ve still got to decide what to do now that I’ve quit. Guess I'll have a JD and Coke and think about it for a while. 

                                                Bernard Mitchell Plumlee © 2016