Rod Amis - Unbound

NEW ORLEANS - 10 February, 2003: I have two words for you this week, my love: Camp Bondsteel.

You've probably not heard about Camp Bondsteel but, if you follow the link I've given you, you'll see that it is an American city in the heart of the former Yugoslavia. Strange how the Mouthpiece Media here in the United States have omitted telling you much about Camp Bondsteel, don't you think?

Even its name is deceptive. When most people think "camp" they think of something small and impermanent. But Camp Bondsteel is a city that isn't going away any time soon.

The word "occupation" comes to my mind and into that of most Serbs I know.

His Fraudulency, during his debates with Mr. Gore at the last election, said that there would be no permanent American presence in the Balkans. But, Lo, only two months after his inaugural, March of '00, Mr. Cheney took Mr. Bush to Kosovo. He showed him Camp Bondsteel, a city built by Brown and Root, a division of (I know how clever you are, so you guessed it! Halliburton, the company for which Mr. Cheney had been CEO before he resigned to run for [Vice-] President of the United States.)

According to the New York Times, Mr. Bush looked like a deer caught in the headlamps as he surveyed this massive American city in the former Yugoslavia. What he said to the American troops at Camp Bondsteel was that this country was committed to keeping them there as long as it takes.

Let me repeat that word: occupation

As you'll note, if you followed the second link I gave you above, some people think that the O word is the only relevant one when looking at our intentions in the Balkans. Me, having returned from Yugoslavia less than two years ago, I won't make a call yet. They are becoming "compliant" now that we have bombed them. Besides, the Slavs are used to being dominated by some empire or other. They have been for over a thousand years. Turks, Austrians, US; what difference does it make what language the conqueror speaks?

We are occupying Afghanistan, too. The oil pipeline will go through. The plans have already been drawn for the administration of Iraq.

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6 February, 2003: I can't believe I said I'd come out with another edition of the magazine on Monday. Monday! What was I thinking?

"Obviously, you weren't thinking much about having a LIFE."

You have a great way of stating the hidden truths of this existence, thanks. It's bad enough that I could only pay part of my rent and the rest is due by Monday, worse that I actually came up with a date (Yes, The Dancer) and picked up another part-time job prepping for Scott and Steve's tacqueria. Worst of all these unneeded stressors, I had to say to the writers that I'd also have this magazine completed by then.

Of course, they're the only ones who know that deadline as I type this. You received a large new edition yesterday. I doubt it will bother you if I don't update until Tuesday or Wednesday.

(Come to think of it, I doubt if it would bother you if I never wrote a single word. I could just let this entire effort fade away. But that's a topic for a time when I'm in a worse mood even than I am in today.)

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WHEN PEGGY AND I FIRST BECAME INVOLVED, I referred to myself as the Dragonslayer. That was my job. Like St. George, I felt that life could send as many dragons as it wanted against me and I would bathe in their blood.

Ironically, only weeks ago I found a soap called "Dragon's Blood" at the French Market in the Quarter. I bought it immediately.

After Peggy, I have not seen myself as a Dragonslayer anymore. I can bathe in a soap called "Dragon's Blood," but that is mere fantasy and nostalgia. I can't remember the last time I felt up to slaying a dragon. I can't remember the last time I wasn't merely afraid.

I look back at Dragonslayer and wonder how he could do that and where he went.

I looked in the bathroom mirror this morning and said: "Please, one more time. Slay the dragon and I'll never ask you again."

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MONDAY THE TENTH AGAIN and you've figured by now that this diary is as chronological as Billy Pilgrim's life. Oh well, the flow is based more on the logic of editorialism rather than temporality.

I had an odd Sunday. Both Fashionable and Elusive dropped by The Cat to see me. Fashionable came in the afternoon, while I was safely behind the bar, to ask me if I thought our country would go after (North) Korea. I told her, "Not right away. Bush is obsessed with Iraq." This did not make her feel much better as she is from South Korea. Her mother and her sister are still there and she is worried for her country. She thinks America has gone crazy, as far as foreign policy is concerned.

I have never seen Fashionable afraid before, so I tried to be comforting.

"I was thinking that if anyone would know what was going on, it would be you," she told me. "I only saw two days ago that America is planning to go to war again. Then I read about Korea and I was worried. Do you think there will be a war?"

Not with Korea, right now, I told her. A new Korean war is two years down the road, at least. But Iraq should start within a month.

She wagged her head.

I changed the subject. I told Fashionable that I wanted to leave New Orleans. That maybe I would go out East and hang with Dmitri, but that I wanted to visit Mexico after Mardi Gras, if I made enough money, to visit the Art Camp in Taxco.

She remembered that I'd been dreaming about Mexico for a long time now, but said she didn't understand the other choice.

I reminded her how much I loved Manhattan and wished I hadn't been convinced to leave it by my friend Robin.

Fashionable lived in New York City for nine years before coming to New Orleans. She said that she had burnt herself out on The City. It had worn her down and she hadn't liked the changes under Guiliani. She felt that part of its spirit was gone now and 9/11 had only made it worse.

I told her that I still felt it was one of the few great cities on the planet and that I longed to be near it, if I have to stay in America.

"But you don't," she said. "You have the whole world."

I know she is right.

But then she said something very odd. "I don't think you should leave New Orleans. I can't say why, but New Orleans would not be the same for me without you."

As she might say, that was a sweet thing for her to say, but also odd. She does not know me and I have not been a significant part of her life. I am certainly not a significant part of New Orleans - I don't even like the place.

Elusive (clever girl!) showed up just as my shift was ending. That way she could have me play with her dog, who loves me, and have my full attention rather than share me with The Rod Show. It worked.

I know I said she was "toast" but I'm still a sucker for a pretty face.

She wanted me to know that her divorce will be final in only a week or so. She said it would be great if she could sign the papers on Valentine's Day. She was "on", as usual, and gave me amble opportunity to listen to how her life had been this week.

"You have to give me some time," she told me at parting. "If you give me a couple of months, I think you'll begin to like me more."

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EVEN AS I WRITE, LOVE, ABOUT THE DAY TO DAY, I am staring down into the precipice.

My landlord expects me to have the rest of my rent, plus late fee and $3/day penalty, tomorrow. I don't. I'm lost. I don't know what I shall do tomorrow, other than try to get this magazine out.

Scott tells me I shouldn't panic. He says that I should talk to my bosses at The Cat and let them know how bad things really are for me financially. I consider that just borrowing from Peter to pay Paul. I would only be that much deeper down in the Black Hole of New Orleans.

The season is starting, his argument goes. I can make the money back quickly, he thinks. I could get side jobs with other friends. If I go back to working three jobs again, let the mag' slide for awhile, I'll be okay in a couple months.

But would I be sane?

I'm the only one who can answer that question.

So all I can do is write you. Another long epistle about the universe in my head.

I am actually surprised that I am not more depressed. But my depression, of last week, has evolved into numbness this week. I sleep like a rock. Rather than being sleepless, I have passed the point of caring about my fate. I have become completely immune to my own malady for awhile and just float through the day oblivious to all that I know to be threatening. I have gone to the bottom of my fears now and simply wait for the axe to fall upon my neck. I welcome it.

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11 February, 2003: Didn't make rent this weekend, Baby. In fact, I'm broker than I have been in a while.

Few customers of late for The Rod Show. Despondent, I went out and got toasted with Matt last night. I'm going to try to rush the magazine out today and hide from the world.

The Black Hole of New Orleans is eating me alive.

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ELUSIVE accused me of that one crime my ex hated most. "You are one of few actual intellectuals, I know, Rod," she said.

I put that behind the other accusation that has bothered me most, of late. People say that I think like a European. How does a European think? I have to wonder. AND What is it about the way I express myself that makes other people here think that I think the way they imagine a European would?

The shorthand for all this is that I am not American enough.

I guess I don't watch enough television.

I've tried to adjust to the American way of life. I went to a Wal-Mart with Fergus and Beth a few weeks back, just so I can finally say I've seen one. I watch sports at work. I read newspapers now and again, for as long as I can stomach the propaganda. I try to fit in.

What I should make myself understand, it seems, is that I live in a country where there is very little blood memory. In many countries, events from three, four, six hundred years ago resonate as if they happened yesterday because people can actually look back thousands of years. I think that is what charmed me about Egypt. I believe that charms me about Ireland and Yugoslavia, as well. That sense of history, that tie to something less ephemeral than a mere lifetime, works for me.

In the universe in my head, I look back (of course) to the distant glimmer of consciousness, the first locks, the mystery of fire, but I do also look forward a thousand years and more. I do believe in a future. Unlike the eschatologists, I don't expect the sky to crack open like tin foil and Jesus to come riding down on a white chariot. I expect a First Contact and planetary colonization.

"Oh-oh! He's going into Star Trek Boy mode."

Not quite. I think that's an oversimplification of human destiny - but also as close as a fictional vision has gotten us thus far. Today's science fiction is tomorrow's science fact, after all.

The boy in me still remembers that we are children of the stars and still expects us to live up to that destiny. That is why I remain optimistic, despite all the pain I see on the planet. That is why I remain a leftist.

I look ahead to a future of humanity with less pain, more compassion and more love. I look ahead to the next great adventures.

If I lose that, my love, I shall not be able to write to you. And I plan on writing this history of the (my) world, this cathedral of words for you, as long as I have breath. That is my definition of love today.

Things I Want This Week

1. The ability to pay my bills.

2. A girlfriend.

3. Escaping the Black Hole of New Orleans.

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Thanks for coming back this week.

"Work like you don't need the money,
"Love like you've never been hurt,
"Dance like no one is watching..."
Rod

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ROD AMIS has published this magazine since 1990. It first appeared as a hardcopy 'Zine. In March, 1996, he launched it here on the Web. Rod was a Contributing Editor at Suite101.com, where he wrote the " 'Net Publishing" feature. His work has been featured in the San Francisco Bay Guardian Online, NRV8, and at WebLab's Reality Check site. Rod was also a contributing writer on technology for Faulkner Information Services. He wrote on Web issues for MethodFive.com's Hyper newsletter.

Rod was a columnist for the Andover News Network, where he wrote over two hundred articles on web design and development issues. He was also principal writer and Editor for IT Manager's Journal, where he reviewed technology issues weekly, producing 383 editorials. He became the Managing Editor for Electronic Mail/Newsletter Publications at Andover.net at the end of February, 2000, and left in September of the same year. He was a contributing writer for ACCESS magazine, which appeared both on- and offline for 10 million readers in 100 newspapers like the San Francisco Chronicle, New York Post, Boston Herald, Austin American-Statesman, Denver Post and Orlando Sentinel, among others. Rod was the US reporter for Silicon.com, a division of Network Multimedia Television in London, UK, reaching 3.5 million European readers, until May, 2001.

This year he worked as Assistant to the General Manager of a Big Easy company that does restaurants and nightclubs. (Think: The Boy.) Oh yeah, Rod's had Day Jobs working construction. Mostly renovations of old New Orleans structures, houses and a bar. Sometimes he designs Web sites for other people so that he can get his creative juices flowing the way he can't at a staid publication like this one. And he's been the instructor in Editing for Internet Publications at the Novi Sad School of Journalism in Yugoslavia. Right now our Resident Philosopher has joined the pantheon of New Orleans bartenders and still doesn't know when he'll have a "permanent residence" that he likes.. In his spare time, he chases women in the manner that a fly pursues a spider.

Rod lives in New Orleans, Louisiana. This town is eroding his normal sense of driven purpose. He wants to live somewhere civilized when he grows up. Wish him Luck.

He continues to be committed to integrity, chastity and a dose of humility.

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