As The 100th Anniversary Of The First Year Of World War I (Remember The War To End All Wars) Continues ... Some Remembrances-The Culturati’s Corner

In say 1912, 1913, hell, even the beginning of 1914, the first few months anyway, before the war clouds got a full head of steam in the summer they all profusely professed their unmitigated horror at the thought of war, thought of the old way of doing business in the world. Yes the artists of every school the Cubist/Fauvists/Futurists/Constructivists, Surrealists or those who would come to speak for those movements (hell even the hide-bound Academy filled with its rules, or be damned, spoke the pious words of peace, brotherhood and the affinity of all humankind when there was sunny weather), those who saw the disjointedness of modern industrial society in its squalor, it creation of generations of short, nasty, brutish lives just like the philosophers predicted and put the pieces to paint, sculptors who put twisted pieces of metal juxtaposed to each other saw that building a mighty machine from which you had to run created many problems; writers of serious history books proving that, according to their Whiggish theory of progress,  humankind had moved beyond war as an instrument of policy and the diplomats and high and mighty would put the brakes on in time, not realizing that they were all squabbling cousins; writers of serious and not so serious novels drenched in platitudes and hidden gazebo love affairs put paid to that notion in their sweet nothing words that man and woman had too much to do, too much sex to harness to denigrate themselves by crying the warrior’s cry and by having half-virgin, neat trick, maidens strewing flowers on the bloodlust streets; musicians whose muse spoke of delicate tempos and sweet muted violin concertos, not the stress and strife of the tattoos of war marches with their tinny conceits; and poets, ah, those constricted poets who bleed the moon of its amber swearing, swearing on a stack of seven sealed bibles, that they would go to the hells before touching the hair of another man, putting another man to ground or laying their own heads down for some imperial mission.

They all professed loudly (and those few who did not profess, could not profess because they were happily getting their blood rising, kept their own consul until the summer), that come the war drums they would resist the siren call, would stick to their Whiggish, Futurist, Constructionist, Cubist worlds and blast the war-makers to hell in quotes, words, chords, clanged metal, and pretty pastels. They would stay the course. 

And then the war drums intensified, the people, their clients, patrons and buyers, cried out their lusts and they, they made of ordinary human clay as it turned out, poets, beautiful poets like Wilfred Owens who would sicken of war before he passed leaving a beautiful damnation on war, its psychoses, and broken bones and dreams, and the idiots who brought humankind to such a fate, like e. e. cummings who drove through sheer hell in those rickety ambulances floors sprayed with blood, man blood, angers, anguishes and more sets of broken bones, and broken dreams, like Rupert Brooke all manly and old school give and go, as they marched in formation leaving the ports and then mowed down like freshly mown grass in their thousands as the charge call came and they rested, a lot of them, in those freshly mown grasses, like Robert Graves all grave all sputtering in his words confused about what had happened, suppressing, always suppressing that instinct to cry out against the hatred night, like old school, old Thomas Hardy writing beautiful old English pastoral sentiments before the war and then full-blown into imperium’s service, no questions asked old England right or wrong, like old stuffed shirt himself T.S. Eliot speaking of hollow loves, hollow men, wastelands, and such in the high club rooms on the home front, and like old brother Yeats speaking of terrible beauties born in the colonies and maybe at the home front too as long as Eliot does not miss his high tea. Jesus what a blasted night that Great War time was.  

And as the war drums intensified, the people, their clients, patrons and buyers, cried out their lusts and they, they made of ordinary human clay as it turned out, artists, beautiful artists like Fernand Leger who could no longer push the envelope of representative art because it had been twisted by the rubble of war, by the crashing big guns, by the hubris of commanders and commanded and he turned to new form, tubes, cubes, prisms, anything but battered humankind in its every rusts and lusts, all bright and intersecting once he got the mustard gas out of his system, once he had done his patria duty, like speaking of mustard gas old worn out John Singer Sargent of the three name WASPs forgetting Boston Brahmin society ladies in decollage, forgetting ancient world religious murals hanging atop Boston museum and spewing trench warfare and the blind leading the blind out of no man’s land, out of the devil’s claws, like Umberto Boccioni, all swirls, curves, dashes, and dangling guns as the endless charges endlessly charge, like Gustav Klimt and his endlessly detailed gold dust opulent Asiatic dreams filled with lovely matrons and high symbolism and blessed Eve women to fill the night, Adam’s night after they fled the garden, like Joan Miro and his infernal boxes, circles, spats, eyes, dibs, dabs, vaginas, and blots forever suspended in deep space for a candid world to fret through, fret through a long career, and like poor maddened rising like a phoenix in the Spartacist uprising George Grosz puncturing the nasty bourgeoisie, the big bourgeoisie the ones with the real dough and their overfed dreams stuffed with sausage, and from the bloated military and their fat-assed generals stuff with howitzers and rocket shells, like Picasso, yeah, Picasso taking the shape out of recognized human existence and reconfiguring the forms, the mesh of form to fit the new hard order, like, Braque, if only because if you put the yolk on Picasso you have to tie him to the tether too.          

And do not forget when the war drums intensified, and the people, their clients, patrons and buyers, cried out their lusts and they, they, other creative souls made of ordinary human clay as it turned out sculptors, writers, serious and not, musicians went to the trenches to die deathless deaths in their thousands for, well, for humankind, of course, their always fate ….           

*In Honor Of Our Class-War Prisoners- Free All The Class-War Prisoners!- Maumin Khabir,( aka Melvin Mayes)

 

http://www.thejerichomovement.com/prisoners.html

 

A link above to more information about the class-war prisoner honored in this entry.

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, 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 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 longtime 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 in the comment section. Likewise any cases, internationally, that 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!

Out In The 1950s Be-Bop Night- Josh Breslin Comes Of Age- Kind Of

 

From The Pen Of Sam Lowell

 

One night, not late, not late since his time clock had switched over the long years from going to bed at five in the morning to getting up at that hour, Bart Webber, an old friend of Josh Breslin’s out of the blue began thinking about a story that Josh had told him (and others) one night around a campfire out in the California high desert near Joshua Tree the first time they had travelled together along with the late Peter Paul Markin on the long cross-country hitchhike road. That hitchhike road influenced by getting caught up in the tail end of the “king of the beats” Jack Kerouac’s on the road sagas (physically, spiritually and emotionally but don’t use those words around Bart, or Josh for that matter, since you will get nothing but side glance sneers for your efforts) and the first stirring of the yellow brick road “on the bus” mantra put forth by new age guy Ken Kesey and his merry pranksters (also physically, spiritually and emotionally but don’t use those words around Bart, or Josh for that matter, since you will get nothing but side glance sneers for your efforts).

 

Bart had been, as befits an elder of this world, thinking more lately about those youthful days when everything good physically, spiritually and emotionally had seemed in front of them (remember don’t you use those words if you don’t want the Carver or Olde Saco corner boy version of the big chill), and everything seemed possible. Added to this memory lane trip a story that his granddaughter, Amanda, had told him about her much more recent coming of age first date with some young guy in middle school [known to him in his day as junior high but they are both the same hormonally-charged, mind-boggling, heart-breaking institutions not one whit more forgiving today than in his day] that got the floodgates of past time remembrances flowing.

 

Of course, Bart and all the guys who had survived to tell tales had the name Peter Paul Markin uppermost in their minds these days as the fortieth anniversary of his disappearance came on the horizon when they would meet to toss down a few at Jimmy Higgin’s Tavern in Plymouth next to the town where they all grew up, Carver about thirty some miles south of Boston. All had grown up in that town except Josh who hailed from Olde Saco up in Maine, a guy whom Markin had met on his first trip out to the West, met out in San Francisco when Markin was “on the bus,” on Captain Crunch’s converted yellow brick road school bus roaming up and down the coast looking, well, looking for the way out of whatever ailed them (and society for they were very idealistic and naïve as well) and Josh had stopped at the psychedelically-inscribed bus and had asked the first “dude” he ran into [dude a term of usage well before it was made “cool” popular by actor Jeff Bridges] ran into, Markin as it turned out, and asked for some weed [marijuana], the high times symbol of the early part of the 1960s jail break. (Josh’s words had actually been “anybody got any spare dope, a spare joint for a weary traveler, for a seeker of truth.”  Yeah, the times were like that, at least in some minds.) Markin had flipped him a joint, a book of matches, and a high five revolutionary brotherhood handshake greeting popular at the time among the politico brethren, saying “don’t bogart that joint [meaning don’t waste one milligram, no, not one nano-gram a word not in ready useage at the time by correct, of that precious elixir and save anything that could not be reasonably smoked in that joint for the next one that was rolled] and that started a relationship that lasted until Markin fell off the face of the earth in the mid-1970s. Fell off the earth and has still been high holy moaned about to this day. Markin when he had come back to Carver from the West Coast on one of his periodic returns then brought Josh back and that is where they had all met and bonded (the old time working-class ethos of Carver and Olde Saco which they all grew up imbibing being very much the same in both locations). A few months later they all went west together on that same hitchhike road and that trip is where Josh told Bart (and others) around that campfire his coming of age story.

 

In those days Josh slightly older than Markin, Bart and the Carver boys had kept body and soul alive by some free-lance writing for the proliferating alternative journals, newspapers and broadsheets of the time. [It seemed like every week a new paper would rear its head, make some waves, and then either fold or get fused with another paper until in the end they all, except iconic vehicles like Rolling Stone and the Village Voice, went to ground as the writers moved back to the bourgeois press [Josh’s term] or the dwindling readership for such materials told the tale to abandon ship.] He was particularly in demand for a time for his reviews of music, in those day records, small and large, singles and long-playing, and concerts, mostly rock concerts. Of course the only music that the Carver boys were interested in was rock and subsequently when that music made its minute splash, acid-etched rock but Josh as it turned out was very keen on the whole American songbook and later would make a certain reputation on that score. So when, and maybe particularly when he was “on the bus” and high as a kite on bennies or something Josh would be writing a mile a minute.

 

The night that he told Bart his story he had been working on reviewing an album, a retro 1950s rock album compilation which had had in contrast to the more recent flaming artwork that had increasingly inspired acid-etched rock albums a black and white family album-style photograph that graced the cover. That now golden age (ouch!) of rock and roll album glanced by Josh at in some cheapo retro record store in the Fillmore district where there was probably a record store of some type on every corner to meet the demand of the young crowds flowing into that place [its most famous, or infamous street names, Haight-Ashbury evoking even now fond memories of high times among the brethren and rage and rapine among the death-dealers who wanted to have every hippie executed or worse). For the young or the forgetful records were, oh hell, it would be really too hard to explain why we bothered with such an odd-ball way to listen to our music, jesus, on 45 RPMs only one song at a time on each side of the platter [slang for record, okay]. Look it up on Wikipedia like everything else from olden times, ah, that is everything before last week.

 

On this album Josh was talking about the viewer was treated to a photograph of a well-groomed boy and girl, teenagers of course, who else would listen to rock and roll in the be-bop 1950s night. (The “beats,” you know high priest Kerouac, shamanic Ginsberg, demon Burroughs and their crowd who slightly touched the “hippies” were serious Monk/Parker/Gillespie “cool” jazz freaks so those emulating the beats with their berets, black outfits and midnight sunglasses were not who were being pictured in that album but rather perhaps their older brothers and sisters.) They are indeed well-groomed he with a sports jacket, white shirt, tie and black chino pants(probably bought at Robert Hall’s a well-known national clothing chain store that catered to providing cheaper formal goods to the sons of poor and working-class families. The mere mention of that old time name brought laughter from the males who all were very familiar with the ritual of the first sports coat mothers forced on them which were either ill-filling, made of bizarre fabric, or looked like an item only a mother would think was “cool.” Maybe all three.) She with her first party dress, a frilly girly thing and nylons with matching shoes (probably bought at Filene’s or Macy’s but not ill-fitting or anything like that since no self-respecting girl would allow her mother to foist such an item off on her). The young women around the campfire did laugh when Josh brought up the issue of “falsies,” the attempt, the futile and potentially embarrassing attempt if things sagged or fell out to “enhance” their breasts with toilet paper or napkins or some such in their training bras). They, boy and girl, each in their own happiness, awkwardness, sweaty-handed-ness, worried about “b. o.” [body odor], mouth breathe worlds, from the look of the photograph were trying to “connect” by carefully perusing the pile of records that were stacked in front of that vintage RCA record-player (same advice for the clueless on this item as on records-go to Wikipedia asap).        

 

But see just then every parent, every square parent, and they were legion, almost universal, who had just gotten used to the idea that the “beat” manner and style of the older brothers and sisters would not sent the world, their world to hell in a handbasket were fitting themselves up to be tied if they had any sense at all were banning, confiscating, burning, or otherwise destroying every record, 45 RPM or long-playing, that came through the front door with junior and missy. Reason? Said rock ‘n’ roll led to communistic thoughts (turning Junior and Missy into brain-washed zombies of Moscow or Peking [sic] body –snatchers it was never clear which in the days before the big split between the Communist behemoths but probably the nuclear-savvy Soviets  ready to do serious harm to the American way of life without a murmur, without mercy too to hear it told in that red scare Cold War executive the traitor Jewish Rosenbergs and all the heathens too night), youth tribal hanging together (to the exclusion, no, to the denials of the existence of, parents with their transfixed transistor radios glued to their ears, clueless again look at Wikipedia), bad teeth(soon among the middle class and other upwardly mobile types to make some dentists very rich creating Ipana smiled children), acne(never really conquered and always the cutting point in the boy-girl universe), brain-death (from too much television, radio, or just bewildered staring into space, or most dreaded the “s” word, s-x, maybe the most dreaded of all the nightmare scenarios in that pre-“Pill” time with every parent sworn to secrecy by church no matter he denomination and politician no matter the party like the mere mention of the word would wreak havoc on   gentile society. Jesus, no, double Jesus. 

 

Of course Josh Breslin an aspiring writer then saw his “hook,” saw that Rosetta Stone photograph could provide a snapshot of what Josh’s own first date was like. So Josh told those who were around the campfire in the high desert night to think back to their own introductions to rock and roll, leave the world of parents behind and concentrate on the couple in the photo. Call them, the couple, Josh Breslin, and his date, his first date, his first date ever, Julie Dubois, who were just then looking spiffy if uncomfortable for all the reasons mentioned above and were emphatically not shuffling the records for show at the practiced eye whim of some besotted record producer trying to create his or her own “hook” to the nostalgic 1960s crowd looking back those few years to their innocent coming of age times but looking to see if Earth Angel by the Penguins was in the stack to chase away the awkwardness both were feeling on this first date. It turned out that both of them were  crazy about that platter so they were reaching way back in their respective young minds' recesses to come up with every arcane fact they knew about the song, the group, how it was produced, anything to get through that next few moments until the next dance started.

 

Now Josh said he always thought he was cool as kid even in that hellish junior high school night, at least cool when he was dealing with his corner boy boys that hung out in front of Mama Leclerc’s Pizza Parlor on Main Street up in Olde Saco, that’s up in Maine if you don’t remember (but also remember this could have been anywhere USA then in an age before mall rats when every guy who was not a loser had his boys to protect him, but mainly to hang out on those tough girl-less, dough-less, car-less nights when other guys in the same boat provided an audience for dreams, for thoughts of the great jail-break from whatever the town did not provide). That Mama’s pizza parlor on that corner was by tradition then given over to a new crop of guys once the previous junior high hangers-outers moved up to Johnny’ Roadside Diner in high school (with girls, guys with cars and a jukebox to die for to tell one and all you had arrived). And now too according to Josh although the place has changed hands several times since then and the cops tend to harass the kids more now since the owners are not happy to have a bunch of wise-ass guys hanging around when young families come in for their give-Ma-a-break pizza night.

 

But this girl thing, pretty or not, and Julie was very pretty, getting Josh worked up or not (actually forget that “or not” part he was worked up, okay) was a lot harder than it looked, once he had exhausted every possible fact about Earth Angel and then had to reach way back in his mind’s recesses again when he tried to do the same for The Clover’s version of Blue Velvet. No sale, Julie didn’t like that one; she smirked, not dreamy enough, meaning more sappy, more for elementary school girls to get all weepy over not for the likes of her to have a guy’s shoulder to rest her face on (she would not give Josh the full explanation until later but that was what she was thinking behind that smirk. Then ditto, naturally, since Josh had felt snubbed trying to almost painfully reach down for what he thought was a surefire girl-winning song when, Julie, seriously trying to hold up her end went on and on about Elvis’ Blue Moon cover. No sale, no way, no dice, too country bumpkin boy sailing under the starry night in some goof movie a girl had asked him to take her to at the Alhambra Theater, said Josh to himself and then to Julie since they had vowed, like some mystical rite of passage passed down from eternal teenager-ness, be candid with each other. (That candor had it limits, its very circumscribed limits, since candor was not a characteristic high on any teen-agers list except that prevailing wisdom deemed it necessary in the boy-girl night to show you have the capacity to show it in the interest of moving things along and in showing you had some gravitas, Jesus, once again.) Finally, Julie’s shuffling through the platters produced The Turban’s When You Dance and things got better. Yes, this was one tough night, one tough first date, first date ever night.

 

After that seemingly futile bout Josh began to think maybe the whole thing was ill-fated from the beginning. Josh’s friend, maybe best friend, at Olde Saco Junior High, Rene Leblanc, was having his fourteenth birthday party, a party that his mother, as mothers will, insisted on being a big deal. Big deal being Rene inviting boys and girls, nice boys and girls, dressed in suits (remember sweet mother’s choices), or at least jackets and ties (boys), and party dresses (girls, and remember the big nix on mother’s choices something out of the 1920s Jazz Age or some time like that) and matched-up (one boy, one girl as befitted the times). Josh had said recently to Bart over drinks that he would not have known what Mrs. Leblanc would have made of today’s same-sex arrangements probably would have called out high heaven’s damnation, the Gaullic Roman Church’s damnation against the sins that dare not speak their name. For that matter Josh would have at that time fag-dyke baited the hell out of any such relationship that came through the door just like he did down at Olde Saco Beach when the fags hung out at Billy’s Bad Boy Tavern where the placid gay bikers, not Hell’s Angels-types but limp-wristed motorcycle clubbers, from Quebec would hang in summer.

 

Mrs. Leblanc was clueless that such square get-ups and social arrangements in the be-bop teen night would “cramp” every rocking boy and girl that Rene (or Josh) knew. But the hardest part was that Josh, truth, had never had a boy-girl party date (meaning “petting” might be on the agenda if he played his cards right and did not screw everything up by being too candid) and so therefore had no girl to bring to Rene’s party. And that is where Julie, Rene’s cousin from over in Ocean City, came in. She, as it turned out, had never had a girl-boy date. And since when Mrs. Leblanc with Rene in tow picked Josh up on party night and then went over to Ocean City for Julie, introduced them, and there was no love at first sight clang although she no question pretty but seemed to angelic, too ethereal, Josh figured that this was to be one long, long night.

 

So the couple, the nervous couple, nervous now because the end of the stack was being reached when mercifully Marvin and Johnny’s Cherry Pie came up, both declared thumbs up, both let out a simultaneous spontaneous laugh. And the reason for that spontaneous laugh, as they were both eager to explain in order to have no hurt feelings, was that Josh had asked Julie if she was having a good time and she said, well, yes just before they hit Cherry Pie pay-dirt. Just then Rene came over and shouted over the song being played on the record player, The Moonglow’s Sincerely, “Why don’t you two dance instead of just standing there looking goofy?” And they both laughed again, as they hit the dance floor, this time with no explanations necessary as Julie almost immediately rested her head on that Josh shoulder. The night turned out not so bad after all. The “petting” well Josh even in his drug high “truth is beautiful” phase out in the high desert left his listeners to figure that out for themselves.

Once Again- Stop The Damn Wars- Stop The Damn American And Allied  Bombings In Syria And Iraq- Stop The Damn American Killer Drone Attacks Everywhere- Stop The Saudi Bombing Decimation Of Yemen-Stop The American Military Aid To Israel- Hell, Just Stop The Madness In The Middle East 

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Once Again- Stop The Damn Wars- Stop The Damn American And Allied  Bombings In Syria And Iraq- Stop The Damn American Killer Drone Attacks Everywhere- Stop The Saudi Bombing Decimation Of Yemen-Stop The American Military Aid To Israel- Hell, Just Stop The Madness In The Middle East 

For a very long time, a very long time it seems now since the first days that  I started looking to the Russian revolutions of 1917 (the essentially embryonic stillborn one in February and the more world-historic Soviet socialist one in October) and to a somewhat lesser extent that of 1905 as historical events that anybody seriously interested in working-class centered revolution has to take the measure of I have seemingly endlessly touted the example of the Bolshevik Duma deputies (who actually resided in the workers section of that body, proving yet again the second, hell, maybe third class status of that class in Imperial Russia) in voting against the Czar’s war budgets for supplies in World War I (and winding up in Siberian exile for their troubles) as a prime example of what anti-war parliamentary representatives should do when the war drums start beating. I have also noted the examples of the Bulgarian and Serbian Social-Democrats in that war voting against their respective war budgets, and more so given the more decisive character of the betrayed of socialism by the cowardly majority of the German Social-Democrats, the valor of Karl Liebknecht in Germany in breaking with Social-Democratic Party policy of voting as a bloc in voting against the Kaiser’s war budgets also in that same war (and winding in the Kaiser’s jails for his efforts). I have argued with those in the now almost moribund anti-war movement as well as in the past starting with George McGovern in the early 1970s when I began to think through how to stop the damn wars that seem to constantly confront us in the age of the American imperium that the key to any political support to any politician is their negative vote on the war budgets. That, at times, has meant not voting for the over-all defense budget which is asking for way too much of any bourgeois political these days and would have me put away in some protective institution for my own good even by Senator Bernie Saunders of Vermont just against the specific budgets for whatever current adventure the United States government has embarked upon. You know the one hundred billion here and there each year for Afghanistan, Iraq and the odd conflict all of which by every reasonable account adds up to some serious money, over a trillion dollars at last count, drawn down the drain. That is the litmus test for any serious opposition at the parliamentary level. [Saunders who has just announced for the presidency here in America for 2016 not as an independent socialist but as some kind of animal called a “democratic socialist” running as a Democrat against Madame Clinton, one of the wings of the war party and thus no longer worthy of consideration as a candidate. His consistent votes for endless military aid to Israel in order to continue the savage suppression of the Palestinian people within and outside its borders also precludes such support.]

This, if the recent past is any example, is no abstract question these days as I wrote in February 2015 when President Obama was scratching around once again for Congressional authorization to go after ISIS and whoever else he has in his gun-sights these days. Who knows what is next if the Saudis get bogged down in Yemen, some other country becomes a “failed state” after a little off-hand American bombing and troops, somebody’s troops paid out of the U.S. mint coin of the realm. At that moment I, we, the anti-war movement was not even asking anything about saying “no” to the war budgets but for Congress to simply say “no” to another imperial adventure. That simply sane act would be a big step and even Senator Bernie Saunders of Vermont would grant me a reprieve from that institution he was about to throw me in for such a reasonable request. Let’s get to it, let’s set a fire under the Congress each time war resolutions and war budgets come to the floor and hold each and every hand to that fire on this one. Even if we have to hold our noses while doing so. 

Some of my fellow anti-war activists have argued with me about this “no support for politicians who say “yes” to war resolutions and budgets citing the “progressive” variation of the old chestnut that you must support Democrat X because despite the fact that he or she put up every hand for every war resolution and every war budget you have to support him or her because the other guys, usually Republican W, Y, Z, are so much worse, maybe wants to bomb extra countries or jack up the war budget or something. All these so-called anti-war maneuvers of supporting the “lesser evil” whether my fellows know it or not were honed into an art form in their turns by the Socialist Party whose pro and anti-war faction fights over World War I and the example of the Russian October as the most decisive anti-war action in history when they withdrew from World War I, the Communist Party when they back-handedly (and not so back-handedly when the deal went down) backed every Roosevelt action in World War II and the Socialist Workers Party who openly promoted their links to bourgeois politicians and refused to make a no on the war budget a litmus test in the Vietnam anti-war movement, the three leftwing organizations in this country that have had the minimal clout necessary to argue this point. I cannot follow that path. However I am always ready to join with the too few forces who care about such questions of war and peace to oppose whatever action the American government is taking to gear up for war, or gear up their incessant bombing, and now drone campaigns. So yes you will see me walking along with the brethren whenever the call comes out.   

Off the recent track record in the failed state of Iraq, the failed state in Libya, the nearly failed state in Syria (I am still looking for those “moderate” anti-ISIS forces that the United States is trying to supply in Syria) and also the nearly failed state in Ukraine all of which have the fingerprints of American involvement over them the beginning of wisdom is to oppose further military involvement beginning with a “no” vote to supply the damn wars. Hands Off Syria! No New War In Iraq! Stop The Bombings and Drone Attacks! Down With The Saudi Bombings In Yemen! No Military Aid to Ukraine….and that is just for starters.                 

    

From The Abraham Lincoln Brigade Archive Website- The Alba Blog

 

Click below to link to the Abraham Lincoln Brigade Archive blog page for all kinds of interesting information about that important historic grouping in the International Brigades that fought for our side, the side of the people in the Spanish Civil War, 1936-39.

http://www.albavolunteer.org/category/blog/

Markin comment:

This blog had gotten my attention for two reasons: those rank and filers who fought to defend democracy, fight the fascists and fight for socialism in Spain for the most part, political opponents or not, were kindred spirits; and, those with first-hand knowledge of those times over seventy years ago are dwindling down to a precious few and so we had better listen to their stories while they are around to tell it. Viva La Quince Brigada!  
*******
BOOK REVIEW

THE SPANISH REVOLUTION, 1931-39, LEON TROTSKY, PATHFINDER PRESS, NEW YORK, 1973

THE CRISIS OF REVOLUTIONARY LEADERSHIP
AS WE APPROACH THE 70TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE BEGINNING OF THE SPANISH CIVIL WAR MILITANTS NEED TO LEARN THE LESSONS FOR THE DEFEAT OF THAT REVOLUTION.
I have been interested, as a pro-Republican partisan, in the Spanish Civil War since I was a teenager. What initially perked my interest, and remains of interest, is the passionate struggle of the Spanish working class to create its own political organization of society, its leadership of the struggle against Spanish fascism and the romance surrounding the entry of the International Brigades, particularly the American Abraham Lincoln Battalion of the 15th Brigade, into the struggle.

Underlying my interests has always been a nagging question of how that struggle could have been won by the working class. The Spanish proletariat certainly was capable of both heroic action and the ability to create organizations that reflected its own class interests i.e. the worker militias and factory committees. Of all modern working class revolutions after the Russian revolution Spain showed the most promise of success. Bolshevik leader Leon Trotsky noted that the political class consciousness of the Spanish proletariat at that time was higher than that of the Russian proletariat in 1917. Yet it failed in Spain. Trotsky's writings on this period represent a provocative and thoughtful approach to an understanding of the causes of that failure. Moreover, with all proper historical proportions considered, his analysis has continuing value as the international working class struggles against the seemingly one-sided class war being waged by the international bourgeoisie today.

The Spanish Civil War of 1936-1939 has been the subject of innumerable works from every possible political and military perspective possible. A fair number of such treatises, especially from those responsible for the military and political policies on the Republican side, are merely alibis for the disastrous policies that led to defeat. Trotsky's complication of articles, letters, pamphlets, etc. which make up the volume reviewed here is an exception. Trotsky was actively trying to intervene in the unfolding events in order to present a program of socialist revolution that most of the active forces on the Republican side were fighting, or believed they were fighting for. Thus, Trotsky's analysis brings a breath of fresh air to the historical debate. That in the end Trotsky could not organize the necessary cadres to carry out his program or meaningfully impact the unfolding events in Spain is one of the ultimate tragedies of that revolution. Nevertheless, Trotsky had a damn good idea of what forces were acting as a roadblock to revolution. He also had a strategic conception of the road to victory. And that most definitely was not through the Popular Front.

The central question Trotsky addresses throughout the whole period under review here was the crisis of revolutionary leadership of the proletarian forces. That premise entailed, in short, a view that the objective conditions for the success of a socialist program for society had ripened. Nevertheless, until that time, despite several revolutionary upheavals elsewhere, the international working class had not been successful anywhere except in backward Russia. Trotsky thus argued that it was necessary to focus on the question of forging the missing element of revolutionary leadership that would assure victory or at least put up a fight to the finish.

This underlying premise was the continuation of an analysis that Trotsky developed in earnest in his struggle to fight the Stalinist degeneration of the Russian Revolution in the mid-1920's. The need to learn the lessons of the Russian Revolution and to extend that revolution internationally was thus not a merely a theoretical question for Trotsky. Spain, moreover, represented a struggle where the best of the various leftist forces were in confusion about how to move forward. Those forces could have profitably heeded Trotsky's advice. I further note that the question of the crisis of revolutionary leadership still remains to be resolved by the international working class.

Trotsky's polemics in this volume are highlighted by the article ‘The Lessons of Spain-Last Warning’, his definitive assessment of the Spanish situation in the wake of the defeat of the Barcelona uprising in May 1937. Those polemics center on the failure of the Party of Marxist Unification (hereafter, POUM) to provide revolutionary leadership. That party, partially created by cadre formerly associated with Trotsky in the Spanish Left Opposition, failed on virtually every count. Those conscious mistakes included, but were not limited to, the creation of an unprincipled bloc between the former Left Oppositionists and the former Right Oppositionists (Bukharinites) of Maurin to form the POUM in 1935; political support to the Popular Front including entry into the government coalition by its leader; creation of its own small trade union federation instead of entry in the anarchist led-CNT; creation of its own militia units reflecting a hands-off attitude toward political struggle with other parties; and, fatally, an at best equivocal role in the Barcelona uprising of 1937.

Trotsky had no illusions about the roadblock to revolution of the policies carried out by the old-time Anarchist, Socialist and Communist Parties. Unfortunately the POUM did. Moreover, despite being the most honest revolutionary party in Spain it failed to keep up an intransigent struggle to push the revolution forward. The Trotsky - Andreas Nin (key leader of the POUM and former Left Oppositionist) correspondence in the Appendix makes that problem painfully clear.

The most compelling example of this failure - As a result of the failure of the Communist Party of Germany to oppose the rise of Hitler in 1933 and the subsequent decapitation and the defeat of the Austrian working class in 1934 the European workers, especially the younger workers, of the traditional Socialist Parties started to move left. Trotsky observed this situation and told his supporters to intersect that development by an entry, called the ‘French turn’, into those parties. Nin and the Spanish Left Opposition, and later the POUM failed to do that. As a result the Socialist Party youth were recruited to the Communist Party en masse. This accretion formed the basic for its expansion as a party and the key cadre of its notorious security apparatus that would, after the Barcelona uprising, suppress the more left ward organizations. For more such examples of the results of the crisis of leadership in the Spanish Revolution read this book.

Revised-June 19, 2006

"Viva La Quince Brigada"- The Abraham Lincoln Battalion In The Spanish Civil War (2006)
BOOK REVIEW

THE ODYSSEY OF THE ABRAHAM LINCOLN BRIGADE: AMERICANS IN THE SPANISH CIVIL WAR, Peter N. Carroll, Stanford University Press, Stanford, California, 1994.

AS WE HEAD INTO THE 70TH ANNIVERSARY IN JULY OF THE BEGINNING OF THE SPANISH CIVIL WAR MILITANTS NEED TO STUDY THIS IMPORTANT EVENT OF INTERNATIONAL WORKING CLASS HISTORY. THE WRITER WILL BE REVIEWING AND COMMENTING ON SEVERAL ASPECTS OF THAT FIGHT FOR MILITANTS TODAY.

I have been interested, as a pro-Republican partisan, in the Spanish Civil War of 1936-39 since I was a teenager. My first term paper was on this subject. What initially perked my interest, and remains of interest, is the passionate struggle of the Spanish working class to create its own political organization of society, its leadership of the struggle against Spanish fascism and the romance surrounding the entry of the International Brigades, particularly the American Abraham Lincoln Battalion of the 15th Brigade, into the struggle.

Underlying my interests has always been a nagging question of how that struggle could have been won by the working class. The Spanish proletariat certainly was capable of both heroic action and the ability to create organizations that reflected its own class interests i.e. the worker militias and factory committees. Of all modern working class uprisings after the Russian revolution Spain showed the most promise of success. Russian Bolshevik leader Leon Trotsky noted in one of his writings on Spain that the Spanish proletariat at the start of its revolutionary period had a higher political consciousness than the Russian proletariat in 1917. That calls into question the strategies put forth by the parties of the Popular Front, including the Spanish Communist Party- defeat Franco first, and then make the social transformation of society. Mr. Carroll’s book while not directly addressing that issue nevertheless demonstrates through the story of the Abraham Lincoln Battalion how the foreign policy of the Soviet Union and through it the policy of the Communist International in calling for international brigades to fight in Spain aided in the defeat of that promising revolution.

Mr. Carroll chronicles anecdotally how individual militants were recruited, transported, fought and died as ‘premature anti-fascists’ in that struggle. No militant today, or ever, can deny the heroic qualities of the volunteers and their commitment to defeat fascism- the number one issue for militants of that generation-despite the fatal policy of the the various party leaderships. Such individuals were desperately needed then, as now, if revolutionary struggle is to succeed. However, to truly honor their sacrifice we must learn the lessons of that defeat through mistaken strategy as we fight today. Interestingly, as chronicled here, and elsewhere in the memoirs of some veterans, many of the surviving militants of that struggle continued to believe that it was necessary to defeat Franco first, and then fight for socialism. This was most dramatically evoked by the Lincolns' negative response to the Barcelona uprising of 1937-the last time a flat out fight for leadership of the revolution could have galvanized the demoralized workers and peasants for a desperate struggle against Franco.

Probably the most important part of Mr. Carroll’s book is tracing the trials and tribulations of the volunteers after their withdrawal from Spain in late 1938. Their organization-the Veterans of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade- was constantly harassed and monitored by the United States government for many years as a Communist 'front' group. Individuals also faced prosecution and discrimination for their past association with the Brigades. He also traces the aging and death of that cadre. In short, this book is a labor of love for the subjects of his treatment. Whatever else this writer certainly does not disagree with that purpose. If you want to read about what a heroic part of the vanguard of the international working class looked like in the 1930’s, look here. Viva la Quince Brigada!!

Karl Marx On The American Civil War On The 150th Anniversary Of The Great Northern Victory  

Markin comment:

I am always amazed when I run into some younger leftists, or even older radicals who may have not read much Marx and Engels, and find that they are surprised, very surprised to see that Marx and Engels were avid partisans of the Abraham Lincoln-led Union side in the American Civil War. In the age of advanced imperialism, of which the United States is currently the prime example, and villain, we are almost always negative about capitalism’s role in world politics. And are always harping on the need to overthrow the system in order to bring forth a new socialist reconstruction of society. Thus one could be excused for forgetting that at earlier points in history capitalism played a progressive role. A role that Marx, Engels, Lenin, Trotsky and other leading Marxists, if not applauded, then at least understood represented human progress. Of course, one does not expect everyone to be a historical materialist and therefore know that in the Marxist scheme of things both the struggle to bring America under a unitary state that would create a national capitalist market by virtue of a Union victory and the historically more important struggle to abolish slavery that turned out to a necessary outcome of that Union struggle were progressive in our eyes. Read on.
*********
Articles by Karl Marx in Die Presse 1862

The English Press and the Fall of New Orleans

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Source: MECW Volume 19, p. 199;
Written: on May 16, 1862;
First published: in Die Presse, May 20, 1862.


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London, May 16
On the arrival of the first rumours of the fall of New Orleans, The Times, The Herald, The Standard, The Morning Post, The Daily Telegraph, and other English “sympathisers” with the Southern “nigger-drivers” proved strategically, tactically, philologically, exegetically, politically, morally and fortificationally that the rumour was one of the “canards” which Reuter, Havas, Wolff and their understrappers so often let fly. The natural means of defence of New Orleans, it was said, had been augmented not only by newly constructed forts, but by submarine infernal machines of every sort and ironclad gunboats. Then there was the Spartan character of the citizens of New Orleans and their deadly hatred of Lincoln’s mercenaries. Finally, was it not at New Orleans that England suffered the defeat that brought her second war against the United States (1812 to 1814) to an ignominious end? Consequently, there was no reason to doubt that New Orleans would immortalise itself as a second Saragossa or a Moscow of the “South”. Besides, it harboured 15,000 bales of cotton, with which it could so easily have kindled an inextinguishable fire to destroy itself, quite apart from the fact that in 1814 the duly damped cotton bales proved more indestructible by cannon fire than the earthworks of Sevastopol. It was therefore as clear as daylight that the fall of New Orleans was a case of the familiar Yankee bragging.

When the first rumours were confirmed two days later by steamers arriving from New York, the bulk of the English Ispro-slavery press persisted in its scepticism. The Evening Standard, especially, was so positive in its unbelief that in the same number it published a first leader which proved the Crescent City’s impregnability in black and white, whilst its latest news” announced the impregnable city’s fall in large type. The Times, however, which has always held discretion for the better part of valour, veered round. It still doubted, but, at the same time, it made ready for every eventuality, since New Orleans was a city of “rowdies” and not of heroes. On this occasion, The Times was right. New Orleans is a settlement of the dregs of the French bohème, in the true sense of the word, a French convict colony -and never, with the changes of time, has it belied its origin. Only, The Times came Post festum to this pretty widespread realisation.

Finally, however, the fait accompli struck even the blindest Thomas. What was to be done? The English pro-slavery press now proves that the fall of New Orleans means a gain for the Confederates and a defeat for the Federals.

The fall of New Orleans allowed General Lovell to reinforce Beauregard’s army with his troops; Beauregard was all the more in need of reinforcements, since 160,000 men (surely an exaggeration!) were said to have been concentrated on his front by Halleck and, on the other hand, General Mitchel had cut Beauregard’s communications with the East by breaking the railway connection between Memphis and Chattanooga, that is, with Richmond, Charleston and Savannah. After his communications had been cut (which we indicated as a necessary strategical move long before the battle of Corinth), Beauregard had no longer any railway connections from Corinth, save those with Mobile and New Orleans. After New Orleans had fallen and he was only left with the single railway to Mobile to rely on, he naturally could no longer procure the necessary provisions for his troops. He therefore fell back on Tupelo and, in the estimation of the English p ro-slavery press, his provisioning capacity has, of course, been increased by the entry of Lovell’s troops!

On the other hand, the same oracles remark, the yellow fever will take a heavy toll of the Federals in New Orleans and, finally, if the city itself is no Moscow, is not its mayor a a Brutus? Only read (cf. New York”) his melodramatically valorous epistle to Commodore Farragut, “Brave words, Sir, brave words!” But hard words break no bones.

The press organs of the Southern slaveholders, however, do not construe the fall of New Orleans so optimistically as their English comforters. This will be seen from the following extracts:

The Richmond Dispatch says:

‘What has become of the ironclad gunboats, the Mississippi and the Louisiana, from which we expected the salvation of the Crescent City? In respect of their effect on the foe, these ships might just as well have been ships of glass. It is useless do deny that the fall of New Orleans is a heavy blow. The Confederate government is thereby cut off from West Louisiana, Texas, Missouri and Arkansas.”

The Norfolk Day Book observes:

“This is the most serious reverse since the beginning of the war. It augurs privations and want for all classes of society and, what is worse, it threatens our army supplies.”

The Atlantic Intelligencer laments:

“We expected that the outcome would be different. The approach of the enemy was no surprise attack; it has long been foreseen, and we had been promised that, should he even pass by Fort Jackson, fearful artillery, contrivances would force him to withdraw or ensure his annihilation. In all this, we have deceived ourselves, as on every occasion when the defences were supposed to guarantee the safety of a place or town. It appears that modern inventions have destroyed the defensive capacity of fortification. Ironclad gunboats destroy them or sail past then) unceremoniously. Memphis, we fear, will share the fate of New Orleans. Would it not be folly to deceive ourselves with hope?”

Finally, the Petersburg Express:

“The capture of New Orleans by the Federals is the most extraordinary and fateful event of the whole war.”

 ****

Stop The Incessant Escalations-- Immediate Withdrawal Of All U.S. Troops And Mercenaries From The Middle East! –Stop The
U.S. Arms Shipments …

Frank Jackman comment:

Nobel “Peace” Prize Winner, U.S. President Barack Obama (and yes that word peace should be placed in quotation marks every time that award winning is referenced in relationship to this new age warmonger extraordinaire), abetted by the usual suspects in the House and Senate (not so strangely more Republicans than Democrats, at least more vociferously)as internationally (Britain, France, the NATO guys, etc.),  has over the past several months ordered more air bombing strikes in the north of Iraq and in Syria, has sent more “advisers”, another fifteen hundred most recently (but who knows the real number by the time you rotate guys in and out, hire mercenaries, and other tricks of the trade long worked out among the bureaucratiti), to “protect” American outposts in Iraq and buck up the feckless Iraqi Army, has sent seemingly limitless arms shipments to the Kurds now acting as on the ground agents of American imperialism whatever their otherwise supportable desires for a unified Kurdish state, and has authorized supplies of arms to the cutthroat and ghost-like moderate Syrian opposition if it can be found to give weapons to,  quite a lot of war-like actions for a “peace” guy (maybe those quotation mark should be used anytime anyone is talking about Obama). Of course the existential threat of ISIS has Obama crying to the high heavens for authorizations, essentially "blank check" authorizations just like any other "war" president, from Congress in order to immerse the United States on one side in a merciless sectarian war which countless American blunders from the get go has helped create.

All these actions, and threatened future ones as well, have made guys who served in the American military during the Vietnam War and who, like me, belatedly, got “religion” on the war issue from the experience (and become a fervent anti-warrior ever since), learn to think long and hard about the war drums rising as a kneejerk way to resolve the conflicts in this wicked old world. Have made us very skeptical. We might very well be excused for our failed suspension of disbelief when the White House keeps pounding out the propaganda that these actions are limited when all signs point to the slippery slope of escalation (and the most recent hikes of whatever number for "training" purposes  puts paid to that thought).

And during all this deluge Obama and company have been saying with a straight face the familiar (Vietnam-era familiar updated for the present)-“we seek no wider war”-meaning no American combat troops. Well if you start bombing places back to the Stone Age, or trying to, if you cannot rely on the weak-kneed Iraqi troops who have already shown what they are made of and cannot rely on a now virtually non-existent “Syrian Free Army” which you are willing to give whatever they want and will still come up short what do you think the next step will be? Now not every event in history gets repeated exactly but given the recent United States Government’s history in Iraq those old time Vietnam vets who I like to hang around with might be on to something. In any case dust off the old banners, placards, and buttons and get your voices in shape- just in case. No New War In Iraq!–Stop The Bombings !- Stop The Arms Shipments!-Vote Down The Syria-Iraq War Budget Appropriations!   





Here is something to think about picked up from a leaflet at a recent anti-war rally:  

Workers and the oppressed have no interest in a victory by one combatant or the other in the reactionary Sunni-Shi’ite civil war in Iraq or the victory of any side in Syria. However, the international working class definitely has a side in opposing imperialist intervention in Iraq and demanding the immediate withdrawal of all U.S. troops and mercenaries. It is U.S. imperialism that constitutes the greatest danger to the world’s working people and downtrodden.

[Whatever unknown sister or brother put that idea together sure has it right.]  
      

John Brown’s Body Lies A Moldering In The Grave-With The Massachusetts 54^th Black Volunteer Regiment In Mind.

 

Every time I pass the frieze honoring the heroic Massachusetts 54^th Black Volunteer Regiment which fought with valor in the American Civil War which we have just finished commemorating the 150^th anniversary of its formal ending across from the State House on Beacon Street in Boston I almost automatically focus in on that old hard-bitten grizzled erect bearded soldier who is just beneath the head of the horse being ridden by Colonel Robert Gould Shaw, the white commander of the regiment. I do not know the details of the model Saint-Gauden’s used when he worked that section (I am sure that specific information can be found although it iis not necessary to this sketch) but as I grow older I appreciate that old man soldier even more, as old man are supposed to leave the arduous duty of fighting for just causes, arms in hand, to the young.

I like to think that that old brother when he heard the call from Massachusetts wherever he was, maybe had read about the plea in some abolitionist newspaper, had maybe even gotten the message from Frederick Douglass himself through his newspaper, The North Star, or on the stump once Lincoln unleashed him to recruit his black brothers for whatever reason although depleting ranks was at least one cause, he picked up stakes leaving some small farm or trade and family behind and volunteered forthwith. Maybe he had been born, like Douglass, in slavery and somehow, manumission, flight, something, following the Northern Star, got to the North. Maybe learned a skill, a useful skill, got a little education to be able to read and write and advance himself and had in his own way prospered.

But something was gnawing at him, something about the times, something about white farm boys from the heartland of the Midwest, sullen Irish and other ethnic immigrants, hell, even high-blown Harvard boys were being armed to defend the union. And more frequently as the days and months passed about the increasing number of white folk who hated, hated with a red-hot passion, slavery and what was he a strong black man going to do about it. Maybe he still had kindred under the yolk down South in some sweated plantation, poorly fed, ill-treated, left to fester and die when not productive anymore, the women, young and old subject to Mister’s lustful appetites and he had to do something.

 

Then the call came, Governor Andrews of Massachusetts was raising a “sable” armed regiment (Douglass’ word) to be headed by volunteer Harvard boy urged on by his high abolitionist parents Colonel Shaw and he shut down his small shop or farm, said good-bye to kin and neighbors and went to Boston to join freedom’s fight. I wonder if my old bearded soldier fell before Fort Wagner fight down in heated rebel country, or maybe fell in some other engagement less famous but just as important to the concept of disciplined armed black men fighting freedom’s fight. I like to think thought that the grizzled old man used every bit of wit and skill he had and survived to march into Charleston, South Carolina, the fire-breathing heart of the Confederacy, then subdued at the end of war with his fellows in the 54^th stepping off to the tune of John Brown’s Body Lies A-Moldering In The Grave. A fitting tribute to Captain Brown and to an old grizzled bearded man’s honor.             

Rage Against The Machine: Voice Of The Voiceless

'It is my contention that if Mumia Abu Jamal dies as a result of the deliberate medical neglect that he is being subjected to, the uprising in Baltimore may well come to look like a tea party' - Tayo Aluko

La Lutte Continue

In London

La Lutte Continue

After the generally disastrous general election, the struggle continues...

Labels: Austerity, capital, class struggle, crisis, David Cameron, Ed Miliband, New Labour, Nick Clegg, Nigel Farage, Scotland, socialism