***The Professional- With The Film Noir Stop Me Before I Kill In Mind

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

You know every profession has its share of outliers, rogues, cranks, guys and gals who frankly got into their particular endeavor under something like false pretenses, or went over the edge while manically performing their work. The profession under the microscope right now is psychiatry, you know shrinks, head-bangers, guys and gals who look deep inside your brain, and maybe your soul and try to figure out how you can cope with the world once you have an idea about what ails you. People like Freud, Jung, Melanie Klein, big brain people. Fair enough and on most days and in most cases that credo works just fine. Except with, well, let’s call him Doctor Faustus and leave it at that. Now this Doctor Faustus had a big reputation, plenty of clout, lots of people clamoring to get in his door, get on his couch. But here is the twist the good Doctor, a man in his fifties, was nothing but a Mama’s boy, never married, and has dear old mom puttering around catering to his every need. Make of that what you will all you neo-Freudians, semi-Freudians, post-Freudians, Freudian debunkers, proto-Freudians and maybe on an off day Jungians. Make of that what you will until he saw her. 

You know that there had to be a dame, an “until he saw her” type dame in the picture and when she came into the picture he kind of flip out, went kind of crazy like some addled teenager. Now this young woman, Diane, was maybe twenty-five, a little young for the good doctor in the inter-generational sexual conflicts, blonde, of course, a nice shape but frankly just average for looks, a tumble or seven beneath the sheets and then move on, no regrets from what I saw of her. And a little air-headed if you asked me. But the doctor went overboard and saw some Greek goddess, some eternal truth shining in her eyes, or something

The problem was that she was not only young but married, very married, to a race car driver, Carl, who just so happened to have recently had a few problems, a few head problems after an accident on the race circuit. Diane was trying to get him to recuperate in sunny Italy, along the water’s edge. That is where the trio met while respectively on vacation and on honeymoon.      

That news discussed one night over dinner about Carl and his condition was probably where Doc hatched his plan, his very subtle plan to under-mind Carl’s mental health and drag him, one way or the other, out of the picture. He had to win Diane to his plan first, win her to the idea that Carl’s mental condition was critical, and that was easy once he started intersecting his professional mumbo-jumbo with Carl’s frankly erratic actions. His fits of senseless jabber and then remorse which put Diane on edge more than somewhat. With Carl and Diana doing their dance of the macabre over Carl’s behavior setting things up for the fall was a piece of cake for a pro like Doc.

Of course macho Carl, big deal race car driver with nerves of steel Carl, while worried about his condition, claimed he did not need a shrink, no way. No way until he tried to strangle Diane one night with her own necklace while in a fit. Then he meekly submitted to Doc’s therapeutic plans. Little did Carl know through that Doc had planted the seeds of Carl’s nightmarish scene through Diane with a little sleight of hand talk. Again, a piece of cake, almost like taking candy from a baby.        

Where things started to unravel though was when Doc began to do some very extreme stuff with his program for Carl. Like endlessly filling him with dope, high-grade dope, but dope nevertheless while in his office supposedly to get him to probe some deep dark secret hatred for Diane since she had constantly unmanned him of late with her incessant talk of his troubled mind. All along with Doc scripting the lines, leading Carl to see things his way. A real work of art, once Doc got going, once he put all his energy into it.  Of course when, as planned, those probing drugs proved fruitless it was on to the next level of hell. An ether binge which was meant to calm Carl enough to think back to some episode that turned him over the edge.  Naturally such a high-powered therapy was supposed to be used sparingly but Doc plied the stuff daily for weeks so that Carl was a shell of his former self.  And just as naturally Carl needed to go to the next level with a total coma-like in hospital drug program. Then Doc could  just throw away the key and make his big moves on Diane unhindered.  

That last treatment was way over the edge. Carl, no fool, even if he was a race car driver, hipped to the program pretty soon, broke out one night and went after Doc. When he arrived at Doc’s place he found Diane there trying to fend Doc’s unwanted advances off. When Doc saw Carl he knew the jig was up and pulled a gun out. They fought for it and Doc took a tumble down one of those legendary Italian hills. Mama’s boy had bit the dust. But here is where Doc really messed up, really was clueless in the dame game. Diane, for whatever reason, loved her man and no old geezer big time shrink was going to interfere with that. Like I say though there are always a few rotten apples in every profession… Enough said.

 

***He’s Got You- With Kudos to Miss (Ms.) Patsy Cline

 
Rick Roberts wanted to cry, wanted to just go into a corner and cry. Of course, as a man of the 1950s, of the hard-hearted Cold War shoulder-to-the-wheel, no prisoners taken love wars of the 1950s that was impossible. Impossible as well because although he felt himself a man in many ways, large, strong, virile and smart enough to make it to sixteen without too many mishaps he was still a boy, a Clintondale High junior boy. And that was the crux of the matter. No self-respecting boy (and, maybe, no self-not respecting boy if it came to it) would dream of going to a corner, or anywhere else, and cry, or let it be known that he was about to cry, or that he had cried at all past the age of six, maybe earlier . But Rick still wanted to cry. And it took no deep thought, no deep insight, no nothing to know the reason- a woman, well really a girl. June Davis, his "June Bug" (his pet name for her, although he would be the first to tell you do not, under any circumstances, call her that, or else-the “or else” part related to his being large, strong, virile and sixteen).

And, of course, if it’s a woman driving you to tears then it is almost a certainty that there is some guy behind the scenes stealing your time. And the name of the thief in this case is one Freddie Jackson, June’s elementary school flame, or something like that, but back a while ago. For christ sakes. And the way that Freddie did it was not so sneaky, well not sneaky, backdoor sneaky, but right in front of Rick at the last school dance. Freddie, for old time’s sake he said, asked Rick if it was okay for him to dance with June Bug when they played Patsy Cline’s I Fall To Pieces. Rick didn’t think anything of it, he wasn’t much of a slow dancer and June liked the song and wanted to dance.

What Rick didn’t know was the song was something like “their” song, their song for christ sake, along with Patsy’s Always and So Wrong. Rick thought Patsy was okay but not enough to make her songs “their” songs. Jerry Lee’s Breathless, for very private reasons, don’t ask or else, was their song (and for fun, as joke between them, since they met at the Wash-All Laundromat, Leader of the Laundromat). And now he is poring though every Patsy record he can find like Crazy, She’s Got You, Why Can’t He Be You, Back In Baby’s Arms, and Sweet Dreams Of You to figure out where he went wrong, and how to get his June Bug back. Back from that Freddie Jackson, for christ sakes.

Out In The Lovelorn 1950s Night-For Margaret Gilbert-In Lieu Of A Letter

For The Adamsville South Elementary Class of 1958

From The Pen Of Peter Paul Markin  

Sorry, the Mayakovsky poem that I followed in writing the post below is not available in English on the Internet. Poe's poem gives the dreamy mood I [Markin] was trying to evoke, though.

Ulalume (1847)
by Edgar Allan Poe

The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere—
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year:
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir—
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll—
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole—
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere—
Our memories were treacherous and sere,—
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)—
We noted not the dim lake of Auber
(Though once we had journeyed down here)—
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn—
As the star-dials hinted of morn—
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn—
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said: "She is warmer than Dian;
She rolls through an ether of sighs—
She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies—
To the Lethean peace of the skies—
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes—
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes."

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said: "Sadly this star I mistrust—
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:
Ah, hasten! -ah, let us not linger!
Ah, fly! -let us fly! -for we must."
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust—
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust—
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied: "This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybilic splendour is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty tonight!—
See! -it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright—
We safely may trust to a gleaming,
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom—
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb—
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said: "What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied: "Ulalume -Ulalume—
'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sere—
As the leaves that were withering and sere;
And I cried: "It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed -I journeyed down here!—
That I brought a dread burden down here—
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon hath tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber—
This misty mid region of Weir—
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

{Said we, then — the two, then —" Ah, can it
Have been that the woodlandish ghouls —
The pitiful, the merciful ghouls —
To bar up our way and to ban it
From the secret that lies in these wolds —
From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds —
Had drawn up the spectre of a planet
From the limbo of lunary souls —
This sinfully scintillant planet
From the Hell of the planetary souls ?")

********
Johnny Silver comment:

My old pal from North Adamsville high school days and before that down in the old- time Adamsville housing project (the infamous “projects”) where we went to elementary school together, Peter Paul Markin, recently asked me to write about my take on his “love affair,” his first time puppy-love affair (from afar to boot) with Margaret Gilbert in fourth grade down at Adamsville South Elementary School. I accepted with the proviso that whatever I wrote was not to be “edited” by him. See, I know he is a fast man with the delete button when things don’t come out just right in his rose-colored glasses world. So I am “trusting” him, as a man of honor, some old-time corner boy man of honor anyway, or rather I am holding certain information that he would no like to see in the public eye to make sure I get my say.


Why he is suddenly inflamed by the desire to stir the ashes of the past is beyond me. What he asked me is anybody’s guess. We hadn’t seen each for years until several years ago and I had, almost, well kind of almost, forgotten her name when he mentioned it. I guess he figured that since I went through the experience with him that I would tell the truth. Well, the truth of the matter was that while he was doing his mooning act, getting all misty-eyed every time she came within fifty yards of us, and endlessly “crying” on my shoulder about whether he should approach her, you know boy meets girl stuff that has been going on since Adam tried to date up Eve, I was holding the “torch” for her myself.

As was true of every non- juvenile delinquent guy in the school with enough sense to come in out of the rain on Tuesdays (jesus, I haven’t said that old-time schoolboy expression in ages, well since elementary school). Yah, she was like that, ten-years old like that, with that what was it, damn, gardenia scent or some exotic soap thing that drove me crazy any time she came within fifty yards of me. Had me mumbling to myself, mumbling distractedly. But see Markin, sweet old goof Peter Paul, couldn’t see I was hurting, hurting bad myself. Now some fifty years later turnabout is far play so I am just going to turn his little “in lieu of” around as my own valentine to Margaret Gilbert. Margaret, did you later drive half the men who came within fifty yards of you to distraction without even meaning too. The worst part not even aware of it. Lordy, lordy.

The best way to read, really read Peter Paul’s screed is wherever the idea seems to suggest some action (or inaction) by him just think old Johnny Silver. You too, Margaret Gilbert if you every see this. The asides “speak" for themselves:


“I make no claim to any literary originality [christ, the guy use to carry around index cards all through school with ideas on them, all unattributed, although none of us knew that at the time we just though they were all his ideas. It was not until later when I started to get serious about reading and would run across certain Markinisms I got hip to what he had done.] I will shamelessly ‘steal’ any idea, or half-idea that catches my fancy in order to make my point. [See aside above.] That is the case today, as I go back in time to my elementary school days down at the old Adamsville South Elementary School in the Adamsville projects. Part of the title for today’s entry and the central idea that I want to express is taken from a poem by the great Russian poet, Vladimir Mayakovsky. [Everybody and his brother knew Markin was crazy for Russian writers like Dostoevsky and poets like Pushkin in high school. We just thought he was a “red,” some kind of bolshevik creep who would get caught by the FBI soon enough. They never got him, I guess, and I ain’t a squealer, no way. Old Coach Duffy had his number in high school though. He called him a Bolshevik with a capital B right in front of the whole history class one day.]

So what do a poet who died in 1930 and a moonstruck kid from the Adamsville projects, growing up haphazardly in 1950s have in common? We have both been thrown back, unexpectedly, to childhood romantic fantasies of the “girl who got away.” [I already mentioned that I was clueless about why he is in a craze mode now about it so that covers me on this.] In my case, Margaret G. [nee Gilbert], as the title to this entry indicates. [See, that is where Markin’s weird sense of honor, romance, or just plain fear of girls got him nowhere. Fifty years later he is playing the gallant by not divulging her name like it was some state secret or like she hadn’t gotten married (if some guy was brave enough to get within fifty yards of her and survived the enveloping fragrances, lucky guy) or something.] I do not remember what triggered Mayakovsky’s memories but mine have been produced via an indirect North Adamsville Internet connection seeing her last name mentioned on a profile page. In this instance, damn the Internet. I do not know the fate of Margaret G., [Gilbert, okay for the slow-witted] although I fervently hope that life has worked out well for her. This I do know. For the time that it will take to write this entry I return to being a smitten, unhappy boy. [Yah, sometimes, every once in a blue moon, Markin catches a hold on the truth, the bone-dry truth. Margaret G., ah, nee Gilbert, Johnny Silver wishes you well too. Yah, he is a little unhappy too]

Mayakovsky would, of course, now dazzle us with his intoxicating use of language, stirring deep thoughts in us about his unhappy fate. I will plod along prosaically, as is my fate. Through the dust of time, sparked by that Internet prod, I have hazy, dreamy memories of the demure Margaret G., mainly as seemed from afar through furtive glances in the old schoolyard at Adamsville South (which is today in very much the same condition as back then) . This is a very appealing memory, to be sure, of a fresh, young girl full of hopes and dreams, and who knows what else. [Yah, Markin is on fire here, go brother speak some truth, speak some Margaret Gilbert truth.]

But a more physical description is in order that befits the “real time” of my young ‘romance’ fantasies. Margaret G. strongly evoked in me a feeling of softness, soft as the cashmere sweaters that she wore and that reflected the schoolgirl fashion of those seemingly sunnier days. And she almost always wore a slight suggestion of a smile, working its way through a full-lipped mouth. And had a voice, just turning away from girlishness to womanhood, which spoke of future conquests. I should also say that her hair… But enough of this. [Thanks, for stopping, stopping right there Brother Markin] This is now getting all mixed up with adult dreams of childhood. Let the fact of fifty plus years remembrances speak to her charms.

Did I ‘love’ Margaret G.? [Did you love her more than me, Peter Paul?]That is a silly thought for a bashful, ill-at-ease, ragamuffin of a project boy and a ‘princess’ who never uttered two words, if that, to each other, ever. Did I ‘want’ Margaret G.? Come on now, that is the stuff of adult dreams. Did Margaret G. disturb my sleep? Well, yes, she was undoubtedly the subject of more than one chaste dream, although perhaps not so innocent at that. But know this. Time may bury many childhood wounds but there are not enough medicines, not enough bandages on this good, green earth to stanch some of them. So let’s just leave it at that. Or rather, as this. For the moment it takes to finish this note I am an unhappy man and… maybe, for longer. [Ditto, Brother].”

I guess I didn’t turn the tables on Markin after all. Sweet dreams, Margaret Gilbert wherever you landed. Johnny Silver blows you a kiss.

***Out In The 1960s Be-Bop Night- The Times Were Out Of Joint

 

 

 

Susie Roberts, Rick’s youngest sister, Rick Roberts the legendary Clintondale High School football and almost as legendary “lady’s man,” was stuck. No, not stuck in some car stuck place on some desolate road looking for Sir Galahad to show up and rescue the fair damsel, pulling might and main to win her favors after she had stalled out forgetting to put the clutch of her father’s Dodge in at the appropriate time, a task that she had not quite mastered yet. Or car stuck down in some Adamsville Beach parking lot late at night in some other father’s car, maybe a borrowed  Buick, holding off some eager, too eager, non-Galahad looking for more than to win her favors. And decidedly not stuck on some Clintondale High Math Class Pythagorean Theorem problem looking for the square root of some distance from point A to point B. She had Lenny Linsky for that, and for any other mathsciencehistoryenglish problem that she needed resolved. Yes, Lenny was that way about her. Had been since about seventh grade when they had worked on a science project together and she nearly blew the chemistry lab where they were working up and he decided then and there that she needed some protection, and some study help as little good as it did him except a seventh grade midnight kiss.   

And she had a few others on her string as well, a few hopeless others, not hopelessly willing however to join Lenny in the slave- quarters. Everyone, hopeless or hopeful, agreed that while Susie was not up to speed in the mechanical or smarts departments she was cute (no knock-down drag-out beautiful but pretty enough, pretty enough not to have to worry about mechanics or math now, and probably ever), tall, blonde, real blonde if you can believe that in this day, this 1966 day in age, pert, and Miss Personality. And in the final analysis isn’t that what you wanted in a high school honey?

That though was exactly where Susie’s stuck problem came in. See she was stuck on a soda jerk over at Doc’s Drugstore in North Adamsville. And not just any of Doc’s five jerks (yes, I know soda jerks, but let’s just shorthand this thing as jerks, no slander intended, okay) but Jeff Brigham. Yes, Jeff Brigham the big time politico, student body version, who had his picture taken with Robert Kennedy at some Northeast anti-war student conference where they were mapping out ways to end the war in Vietnam. And that was really where the problem came in. Jeff, bright, agile, good-looking Jeff, those days has no time for Susie, well, Susie no brains, although not really no brains but more no political brains. And why Susie had continually asked herself should a sophomore, a good-looking sophomore girl in the year of our lord, 1966, have to care about war, a war in some place she could not locate on a map and couldn’t pronoun, about black civil rights in the far-off south (and which Mr. Roberts had decidedly retro positions on which he freely imparted over the dinner table about uppity n----rs), about whether Red China or some China, she never got that clear, should be in the United Nations or not, or about which way America should be going in the world just to keep up to speed with a jerk. Even Doc’s top jerk with that heavenly smile that he once sent her way. Once before he got the bug, before he wanted to tilt windmills for the world and not for her.   

Something was out of whack and Susie couldn’t figure out an angle to get to Jeff. Hey, any other time, say a couple of years before in 1964 when he could hardly keep his eyes off of her, Jeff would be so much putty in her hands. Would have been jerk proud, like the others at Doc’s, just to have Susie come in and talk to him. But, damn, Susie muttered under her breath they weren’t Jeff. And as many signals as she had given Jeff when she played Doc’s juke box, played it to perdition, and tried to interest him in talking about songs like The Temptations’ crooning My Girl; Otis Redding’s be-bopping I’ve Been Loving You Too Long; Barbara Lewis practically begging her man to take what he wants on Baby, I’m Yours; and when she turned the volume up for Percy Sledge’s When A Man Loves A Woman he just smiled his non-committal smile and started talking about whether Robert Kennedy should, or should not, run for President in 1968, or some such thing. And then Susie fumed under her breath, the times were damn well out of joint.

AIM Leader Leonard Peltier: 37 Years in Prison Hell

 

Make June Class-War Prisoners Freedom Month

Markin comment (reposted from 2010)

 

In “surfing” the National Jericho Movement website recently in order to find out more, if possible, about class- war prisoner and 1960s radical, Marilyn Buck [now deceased], whom I had read about in a The Rag Blog post I linked to the Jericho list of class war prisoners. I found Marilyn Buck listed there but also others, some of whose cases, like that of the “voice of the voiceless” Pennsylvania [former] death row prisoner, Mumia Abu-Jamal, are well-known and others who seemingly have languished in obscurity. All of the cases, at least from the information that I could glean from the site, seemed compelling. And all seemed worthy of far more publicity and of a more public fight for their freedom.

That last notion set me to the task at hand. Readers of this space know that I am a long -time supporter of the Partisan Defense Committee, a class struggle, non-sectarian legal and social defense organization which supports class- war prisoners as part of the process of advancing the international working class’ struggle for socialism. In that spirit I am honoring the class war prisoners on the National Jericho Movement list this June as the start of what I hope will be an on-going attempt by all serious leftist militants to do their duty- fighting for freedom for these brothers and sisters. We will fight out our political differences and disagreements as a separate matter. What matters here and now is the old Wobblie (IWW) slogan - An injury to one is an injury to all.

Note: This list, right now, is composed of class-war prisoners held in American detention. If others are likewise incarcerated that are not listed here feel free to leave information on their cases here. Likewise any cases, internationally that may come to your attention. I am sure there are many, many such cases out there. Make this June, and every June, a Class-War Prisoners Freedom Month- Free All Class-War Prisoners Now!

***************

Leonard Peltier is known throughout the world as one of the most prominent political prisoners in the United States. His 37 years of incarceration due to his courageous activism in the American Indian Movement (AIM) has come to symbolize the U.S. rulers’ racist repression of the country’s indigenous people, survivors of centuries of genocidal oppression.
Peltier emerged as a Native American leader in the late 1960s. In response to the hideous oppression he experienced and saw all around him, he became involved in struggles for Native American rights and joined AIM. It was in his capacity as a trusted AIM activist that he came to assist the Oglala Lakota people of the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota in the mid 1970s. AIM came into the government’s crosshairs because it was attempting to combat the enforced poverty of Native Americans and the continued theft of their lands by the Feds and the energy companies, which were intent on grabbing rich uranium deposits under Sioux land in western South Dakota. The hated Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) and the FBI turned Pine Ridge into a war zone as they trained and armed thugs to terrorize and crush Indian activists. Between 1973 and 1976, these forces carried out more than 300 attacks, killing at least 69 people.
In June 1975, 250 FBI and BIA agents, SWAT police and local vigilantes descended on Pine Ridge and precipitated a shootout. Two FBI agents were killed, and Peltier and three others were charged. All charges were dropped against one AIM activist, and two others were acquitted as jurors stated that they did not believe “much of anything” said by government witnesses and that it seemed “pretty much a clear-cut case of self-defense” against the murderous FBI-led assault.
The government then went into overdrive to assure a conviction against Peltier. His trial was moved to Fargo, North Dakota, a city with strong bias against Native Americans. The prosecution concealed ballistics tests showing that Peltier’s gun could not have been used in the shootings while the trial judge ruled out any possibility of another acquittal on grounds of self-defense by refusing to allow any evidence of government terror against Pine Ridge activists. In April 1977, Peltier was convicted by an all-white jury and sentenced to two consecutive life terms.
Successive court proceedings have laid bare the evidence of Peltier’s innocence and of massive prosecutorial misconduct. In a 1985 appeals hearing, the government’s lead attorney admitted, “We can’t prove who shot those agents.” In 1986, the Eighth Circuit Court of Appeals ruled that the trial jury could have acquitted Peltier if records improperly withheld from the defense had been made available. In 2003, the Tenth Circuit Court of Appeals stated, “Much of the government’s behavior at the Pine Ridge Reservation and in its prosecution of Mr. Peltier is to be condemned. The government withheld evidence. It intimidated witnesses. These facts are not disputed.” Nevertheless, in August 2009 the U.S. Parole Commission again turned down Peltier’s request for parole, declaring that Peltier would not be considered for parole for another 15 years! For Peltier, who is now 68 years old, this in effect was a declaration by the state that this courageous man will die in prison.
The long trail of injustice against Leonard Peltier has been documented in the film Incident at Oglala, narrated by Robert Redford, and in Peter Matthiessen’s book In the Spirit of Crazy Horse. Decades of unjust imprisonment have not only robbed him of the prime years of his life. They have also taken a devastating toll on his physical well-being as he suffers from diabetes, high blood pressure, partial blindness and a heart condition. We join millions around the world in demanding: Free Leonard Peltier now! 

* * *

(reprinted from Workers Vanguard No. 1023, 3 May 2013)

Workers Vanguard is the newspaper of the Spartacist League with which the Partisan Defense Committee is affiliated.

 

Free The Cuban Five

Make June Class-War Prisoners Freedom Month

Markin comment (reposted from 2010)

 

In “surfing” the National Jericho Movement website recently in order to find out more, if possible, about class- war prisoner and 1960s radical, Marilyn Buck [now deceased], whom I had read about in a The Rag Blog post I linked to the Jericho list of class war prisoners. I found Marilyn Buck listed there but also others, some of whose cases, like that of the “voice of the voiceless” Pennsylvania [former] death row prisoner, Mumia Abu-Jamal, are well-known and others who seemingly have languished in obscurity. All of the cases, at least from the information that I could glean from the site, seemed compelling. And all seemed worthy of far more publicity and of a more public fight for their freedom.

That last notion set me to the task at hand. Readers of this space know that I am a long -time supporter of the Partisan Defense Committee, a class struggle, non-sectarian legal and social defense organization which supports class- war prisoners as part of the process of advancing the international working class’ struggle for socialism. In that spirit I am honoring the class war prisoners on the National Jericho Movement list this June as the start of what I hope will be an on-going attempt by all serious leftist militants to do their duty- fighting for freedom for these brothers and sisters. We will fight out our political differences and disagreements as a separate matter. What matters here and now is the old Wobblie (IWW) slogan - An injury to one is an injury to all.

Note: This list, right now, is composed of class-war prisoners held in American detention. If others are likewise incarcerated that are not listed here feel free to leave information on their cases here. Likewise any cases, internationally that may come to your attention. I am sure there are many, many such cases out there. Make this June, and every June, a Class-War Prisoners Freedom Month- Free All Class-War Prisoners Now!

*************

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We're All Bradley Manning

Wednesday, June 05, 2013

We're All Bradley Manning

We're All Bradley Manning

by Stephen Lendman

On June 3, trial proceedings began. They'll last well into summer. What's ongoing reflects much more than Manning alone. We're all in this together. Freedom in America is on trial.

Post-9/11, it's been on the chopping block for elimination. Convicting Manning of anything compromises what too important to lose.

He deserves praise, not prosecution. His fate is ours. That's what's fundamentally at stake. Everyone stands to win or lose with him.

In his February plea statement, he said he wanted to "spark a domestic debate on the role of the military and our foreign policy in general as it related to Iraq and Afghanistan."

Americans have a right to know the "true costs of war," he stressed. He called war logs given WikiLeaks "some of the most important documents of our time."

He chose ones he believed "wouldn't cause harm to the United States." Washington's "obsessed with capturing and killing people," he said.

He was sickened by the "Collateral Murder" video he saw. US helicopter pilots gunned down innocent civilians. They murdered anyone trying to help them. Manning called doing so "bloodlust."

He exposed lawlessness. He reflects justifiable resistance. Francis Boyle calls it "our Nuremberg moment US government officials are the outlaws," he says.

Marjorie Cohn calls Manning's heroism "uncommon courage." He "fulfilled his legal duty to report war crimes," she said.

"Enshrined in the US Army Subject Schedule No. 27-1 is 'the obligation to report all violations of the law of war.' "

International, constitutional and US statute laws are clear and unequivocal. US Army Field Manual (FM) 27-10 provisions incorporate Nuremberg Principles, Judgement and the Charter, as well as the 1956 Law of Land Warfare.

FM's paragraph 498 says any person, military or civilian, who commits a crime under international law is responsible for it and may be punished.

Paragraph 499 defines a war crime. "Every violation of the law of war is a war crime," it states.

Paragraph 500 refers to a conspiracy, attempts to commit it, and complicity with respect to international crimes.

Paragraph 509 denies the defense of superior orders in the commission of a crime.

Paragraph 510 denies the defense of an "act of state" to absolve them.

These provisions apply to all US military and civilian personnel. No one's exempt throughout the military and civilian chain of command up to where the buck stops.

Under the Constitution's Supremacy Clause (Article VI, paragraph 2), all international laws and treaties are the "supreme Law of the Land."

Failure to uphold it defines lawlessness. Howard Zinn called dissent "the highest form of patriotism." So is exposing crimes too grave to ignore.

Crimes of war, against humanity and genocide demand disclosure. Manning was legally obligated to reveal them. He acted legally and responsibly. Prosecuting him for doing so mocks rule of law justice. It makes it a four-letter word.

Manning faces 22 charges. He pleaded guilty to 10 lesser ones. He denied 12 greater ones. Most serious is aiding the enemy. Doing so is treason. It's a capital offense.

It's separate from the main accusation against him. He's charged with leaking classified information to people unauthorized to receive it. The ACLU says doing so "raises enormous problems." Convicting him under "these circumstances would be unconstitutional."

At issue is posting alleged intelligence information online. Prosecutors say doing so aids Al Qaeda. They don't claim Manning did so intentionally or intended to.

They claim he "indirectly" did because documents he supplied appeared on WikiLeaks' web site. Anyone can access it. So can Al Qaeda.

Manning, they say, knew that. They charged him with violating Article 104 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ).

It states that "any person who gives intelligence to or communicates or corresponds with or holds any intercourse with the enemy, either directly or indirectly; shall suffer death or such other punishment as a court-martial or military commission may direct."

Article 104 isn't limited to sensitive or classified information. It prohibits all unauthorized communications or contacts with the enemy - direct or indirect.

"The implications of the government's argument are breathtaking," says ACLU. Everyone is potentially vulnerable.

Included are whistleblowers, journalists doing their job, sources they use, editors they report to, lawyers they consult, others advising them, anti-war activists, bloggers, and anyone challenging government policies.

Free expression, the press and other fundamental freedoms are threatened. At perhaps the most perilous time in world history, exposing vital truths becomes more urgent than ever.

Suppressing them by intimidation and prosecutions prevents doing so. Sunshine is the best disinfectant. Fundamental freedoms are threatened.

Post-9/11, they've been gravely compromised. Manning's trial reflects Washington's attempt to eviscerate them further.

Free expression is fundamental. Without it all other rights are endangered. Obama's waging war to destroy it. He's targeted more whistleblowers than all his predecessors combined.

He's done so throughout his tenure. He acts without justification. He governs lawlessly, repressively and secretly.

Openness and transparency are verboten. Secrecy defines his administration. It reflects Manning's trial.

The Center for Constitutional Rights (CCR) challenged it. On April 17, it headlined "Press and Public Denied Access to Documents in Bradley Manning Case," saying:

"Today, the Court of Appeals for the Armed Forces (CAAF) rejected claims in a lawsuit by the Center for Constitutional Rights challenging government secrecy around" Manning's court martial.

CCR sued on behalf of journalists. At issue is the public's right to know. They "challenged the fact that important legal matters in the pre-trial proceedings have been argued and decided in secret."

"The court rejected the claims on the grounds that military appellate courts lack jurisdiction to address the scope of public access until a trial is over and the sentence has been issued."

"The decision was 3-to-2, issued over two vigorous dissents." CCR senior attorney Shayana Kadidal argued the case.

"Today’s decision flies in the face of decades of First Amendment rulings in the federal courts that hold that openness affects outcome - that the accuracy of court proceedings depends on their being open," she said.

"Bradley Manning's trial will now take place under conditions where journalists and the public will be unable as a practical matter to follow what is going on in the courtroom."

"That ensures that any verdict will be fundamentally unfair, and will generate needless appeals afterwards if he is convicted."

Dissenting judges said this decision "leaves collateral appeal to (civilian) courts as the sole mechanism to vindicate the right to a public trial beyond the initial good judgment of the military judge. This is unworkable and cannot reflect congressional design or presidential intent."

On May 22, CCR headlined "Constitutional Rights Attorneys, Media Challenge Secrecy of Manning Court Martial in Civilian Court."

CCR filed a complaint and motion for preliminary injunction. It did so in Baltimore federal district court. It challenged government secrecy. Maintaining it spurns the public's right to know.

CCR's Kadidal called civilian courts the last option. "If this lawsuit fails," she said, secrecy will triumph over openness. Journalists and others won't have access they deserve.

On Manning's trial day one (June 3), CCR reported "Still no meaningful access." Denying it makes proceedings farcical.

"Unsurprisingly, the court has refused to set aside two dedicated seats for the crowd-sourced stenographers the public and press have raised the funds to pay."

Freedom of the Press Foundation (FPF) campaigned for permission. FPF said trial judge Colonel Denise Lind granted the right to stenographically transcribe the trial from the media room.

However, no press passes were issued. The military media desk stonewalled FPF's request. On June 3, one FPF stenographer got access. A borrowed press pass was used.

Transcribing proceedings requires full access. Two stenographers are needed. The process is too grueling for one.

"All the opinions that had been released via FOIA a few weeks ago have now inexplicably been taken down from the site."

The public's right to full disclosure is seriously compromised. Obama wants proceedings "as opaque and inaccessible as possible."

"The Reporters’ Committee on Freedom of the Press will be filing an amicus brief this week in the new Center for Constitutional Rights federal case challenging the public’s lack of meaningful access to the trial and trial documents. Oral argument in that case will be in two weeks, on June 17."

From the day Manning was arrested, the entire process against him "has been fundamentally flawed and illegitimate." It reflects the worst of police state justice.

Manning's fate is sealed. Obama's "crush(ing)" him. At issue is intimidating and terrorizing anyone daring to reveal information that Washington wants kept secret.

CCR president emeritus Michael Ratner believes Manning's trial will last 12 - 16 weeks. Much will go on secretly. Prosecutors plan on about 150 witnesses. Twenty-eight will give secret testimony - 24 partly, four completely.

Doing so is outrageous. According to Ratner, they'll discuss uploaded WikiLeaks documents. They'll include information Manning provided. They're available online. Anyone can access them.

Washington considers them classified and secret. They won't be openly discussed or shown in court. It's part of prosecutorial secrecy. It mocks judicial fairness.

Ratner calls Manning's trial one of the most punitive in US history. "It's one of the most secret. It's one of the most unfair." It's unconscionable.

Imagine, said Ratner, war criminals remain unaccountable. Truth-telling is on trial. Manning should be honored, not prosecuted. Justice is egregiously denied.

Convicting him will be used against Julian Assange. Washington wants him extradited to America. Reports suggest a sealed indictment awaits him. If he's brought here, he'll be imprisoned and never heard from again, said Ratner.

Secrecy prevents judicial fairness. It flouts democratic principles. America never was beautiful. It's never been a democracy. For sure it's not one now.

Manning's trial represents the worst of police state justice. It reflects deplorable deplorable judicial unfairness. It reveals tyranny up close and personal. It shows what everyone's up against. There's no place to hide.

A Final Comment

On June 3, over 1,100 days after Manning's arrest, his trial began. The whole world's watching best it can. Defense lawyer David Coombs addressed the court.

His opening statement stressed Manning's humanism. He's "not your typical soldier," he said. He wore "customized dog tags that read 'humanist.' He strove to help his unit, wanting everyone to come safely every day, but he wanted the locals to go home safely every day too."

He wanted to make a difference and tried. He believed information too important to conceal should be made public. He felt obligated to do so.

Exposing wrongdoing is fundamental. Doing the right thing is its own reward. Testimonies began after lunch. Many more trial days remain.

Pre-trial, Obama pronounced Manning guilty by accusation. He said so publicly. He sealed Manning's fate.

What military or civilian judge would dare overrule the president and commander in chief? Who'd have the chutzpah to do so? How harsh the verdict will be remains to be seen.

Prosecutors ruled out the death penalty. Decades in prison or life seems likely. By August or September we'll know.

America reaches for new depths. Responsible officials deserve eternal hell. They deserve a lower level Dante forgot. Nations that punish their best lose all legitimacy. Doing so shows what we're all up against.

Stephen Lendman lives in Chicago. He can be reached at lendmanstephen@sbcglobal.net.

His new book is titled "Banker Occupation: Waging Financial War on Humanity."

http://www.claritypress.com/LendmanII.html

Visit his blog site at sjlendman.blogspot.com.

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http://www.dailycensored.com/were-all-bradley-manning/