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De La Revolucion, a la Belle Epoque. LaRousse.

I put a long not in drafts. I didn't notice the term, "l'esprit revolutionnaire", the revolutionary spirit, the other day when I was trying to copy the picture and translate the caption. It embodies the idea of the collective nature of human endeavor and gives emphasis to the notion that theorists like Fourier, Marx and the Republican Party abstract their systems from contemporary society and economy, what the revolutionaries came to call "natural man", by washing out inconvenient complexities of human nature and rejecting elements of society and economy they judge to be immoral as "unnatural" impositions on the natural order of things which would otherwise live up to their personal measure of the good. Their systems are more personality cult and daydream than social science and economy and the application of their ideas through the coercive authority of the the community---the government made good by the decrees of the central committee---can and often do obstruct the moral development of popular government and a free market.

I was just looking at this picture and noticed what looks like a tree-line boulevard running from in a straight line toward what looks like a clearing on a bluff above a wide curve in the River Sidon. It reminds me of those arrow straight roads that radiate out from many Anasazi centers toward other pueblos, villages or significant religious sites. They are often many miles long and are thought to have served some ritual purpose. I remember visiting Chaco Canyon and climbing up the sandstone bluffs over trails and steps carved in the sanstone by the Anasazi. I think there may have been some wooden handrails and a bridge or so built by park rangers, too. At the top was a view of a desert plain that stretched to low hills on the horizon. Across this plain could be seen the vague remnant of one of these straight roads which may have been used for practical purposes but were built according to some ritual map that ignored things like washes and arroyos. At that time I hadn't studied the war chariots, the sun, swastikas of ancient Aryana and the dharma wheels with their deer cherubs on the roofs of Tibetan monasteries so I probably didn't think of spokes, lightning bolts, the solstices, prayer beads and things like that but I might have thought about the opening song of that musical "Godspell" I had enjoyed watching in restored ward house in Provo not too long before, The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the LORD, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Go through, go through the gates; prepare ye the way of the people; cast up, cast up the highway; gather out the stones; lift up a standard for the people. Behold, the LORD hath proclaimed unto the end of the world, Say ye to the daughter of Zion, Behold, thy salvation cometh; behold, his reward [is] with him, and his work before him. And they shall call them, The holy people, The redeemed of the LORD: and thou shalt be called, Sought out, A city not forsaken. Isaiah 40-3 Isaiah 62;10,11,12. Terms like "Zion", the daughter of Zion the holy people the redeemed of the Lord kingdom of priests, holy nation, peculiar people the holy one of Israel suggest a collective, a communal whole, the unique personality of the many, the gathering of the saints, the drvn. suggest a divine unity transcendent of division. In some kind of editorial in the sltrib in which he defends the Central Soviet's legislative mandate that government schools refer to the system of government in the United States as a "compound republic" instead of a democracy by quoting Ken Ivory quotes the Federalist Papers “In a single republic, all the power surrendered by the people is submitted to the administration of a single government; and the usurpations are guarded against by a division of the government into distinct and separate departments. In the compound republic of America, the power surrendered by the people is first divided between two distinct governments... . Hence a double security arises to the rights of the people. The different governments will control each other.” [[[[[[[[[[[It's hard to say exactly what Mr. Ivory means by terms like "democracy", "republic", "popular sovereignty", "freedom", "union", "life", "happiness", "common human decency", "fundamental law", "In God We Trust" and "America", but looking at the context of the compound Republic of Utah Valley, he seems to be saying, plainly and simply, that the federalist term "two distinct governments" corresponds to the Democratic Party and the Republican Party and that in order for there to be a "just balance...all the power of the people is submitted to the administration of a single government", the Republican Party appar

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ODA A WALT WHITMAN

Por el East River y el Bronx
los muchachos cantan ensenando sus cinturas,
con la rueda, el aceite, el cuero y el martillo.
Noventa mil mineros sacaban la plata de las rocas
y los ninos dibujaban escaleras y perspectivas.

Pero ninguno se dormia,
ninguno queria ser el rio,
ninguno amaba las hojas grandes,
ninguno la lengua azul de la playa.

Por el East River y el Queensborough
los muchachos luchaban con la industria,
y los judios vendian al fauno del rio
la rosa de la circuncision
y el cielo desembocaba por los puentes y los tejados
manadas de bisontes empujadas por el viento.

Pero ninguno se detenia,
ninguno queria ser nube,
ninguno buscaba los helechos
ni la rueda amarilla del tamboril.

Cuando la luna salga
las poleas rodaran para turbar el cielo;
un limite de agujas cercara la memoria
y los ataudes se llevaran a los que no trabajan.

Nueva York de cieno,
Nueva York de alambres y de muerte.
?Que angel llevas oculto en la mejilla?
?Que voz perfecta dira las verdades del trigo?
?Quien el sueno terrible de sus anemonas manchadas?

Ni un solo momento, viejo hermoso Walt Whitman,
he dejado de ver tu barba llena de mariposas,
ni tus hombros de pana gastados por la luna,
ni tus muslos de Apolo virginal,
ni tu voz como una columna de ceniza;
anciano hermoso como la niebla
que gemias igual que un pajaro
con el sexo atravesado por una aguja,
enemigo del satiro,
enemigo de la vid
y amante de los cuerpos bajo la burda tela.
Ni un solo momento, hermosura viril
que en montes de carbon, anuncios y ferrocarriles,
sonabas ser un rio y dormir como un rio
con aquel camarada que pondria en tu pecho
un pequeno dolor de ignorante leopardo.

Ni un solo momento, Adan de sangre, macho,
hombre solo en el mar, viejo hermoso Walt Whitman,
porque por las azoteas,
agrupados en los bares,
saliendo en racimos de las alcantarillas,
temblando entre las piernas de los chauffeurs
o girando en las plataformas del ajenjo,
los maricas, Walt Whitman, te sonaban.

?Tambien ese! ?Tambien! Y se despenan
sobre tu barba luminosa y casta,
rubios del norte, negros de la arena,
muchedumbres de gritos y ademanes,
como gatos y como las serpientes,
los maricas, Walt Whitman, los maricas
turbios de lagrimas, carne para fusta,
bota o mordisco de los domadores.

?Tambien ese! ?Tambien! Dedos tenidos
apuntan a la orilla de tu sueno
cuando el amigo come tu manzana
con un leve sabor de gasolina
y el sol canta por los ombligos
de los muchachos que juegan bajo los puentes.

Pero tu no buscabas los ojos aranados,
ni el pantano oscurisimo donde sumergen a los ninos,
ni la saliva helada,
ni las curvas heridas como panza de sapo
que llevan los maricas en coches y terrazas
mientras la luna los azota por las esquinas del terror.

Tu buscabas un desnudo que fuera como un rio,
toro y sueno que junte la rueda con el alga,
padre de tu agonia, camelia de tu muerte,
y gimiera en las llamas de tu ecuador oculto.

Porque es justo que el hombre no busque su deleite
en la selva de sangre de la manana proxima.
El cielo tiene playas donde evitar la vida
y hay cuerpos que no deben repetirse en la aurora.

Agonia agonia, sueno, fermento y sueno.
Este es el mundo, amigo, agonia, agonia.
Los muertos se descomponen bajo el reloj de las ciudades,
la guerra pasa llorando con un millon de ratas grises,
los ricos dan a sus queridas
pequenos moribundos iluminados,
y la vida no es noble, ni buena, ni sagrada.

Puede el hombre, si quiere, conducir su deseo
por vena de coral o celeste desnudo.
Manana los amores seran rocas y el Tiempo
una brisa que viene dormida por las ramas.

Por eso no levanto mi voz, viejo Walt Whitman,
entra el nino que escribe
nombre de nina en su almohada,
ni contra el muchacho que se viste de novia
en la oscuridad del ropero,
ni contra los solitarios de los casinos
que beben con asco el agua de la prostitucion,
ni contra los hombres de mirada verde
que aman al hombre y queman sus labios en silencio.
Pero si contra vosotros, maricas de las ciudades,
de carne tumefacta y pensamiento inmundo,
madres de lodo, arpias, enemigos sin sueno
del Amor que reparte coronas de alegria.

Contra vosotros siempre, que dais a los muchachos
gotas de sucia muerte con amargo veneno.
Contra vosotros siempre,
Faeries de Norteamerica,
Pajaros de la Habana,
Jotos de Mejico,
Sarasas de Cadiz,
Apios de Sevilla,
Cancos de Madrid,
Floras de Alicante,
Adelaidas de Portugal.

?Maricas de todo el mundo, asesinos de palomas!
Esclavos de la mujer, perras de sus tocadores,
abiertos en las plazas con fiebre de abanico
o emboscadas en yertos paisajes de cicuta.

?No haya cuartel! La muerte
mana de vuestros ojos
y agrupa flores grises en la orilla del cieno.
?No haya cuartel! ?Alerta!
Que los confundidos, los puros,
los clasicos, los senalados, los suplicantes
os cierren las puertas de la bacanal.

Y tu, bello Walt Whitman, duerme a orillas del Hudson