is it every American I meet here seems so inorganically and suspiciously out-of-place? With his immaculate grooming and obscure Christian-group connections, Barry is either the worst poet in the universe or a CIA-plant designed to ferret out traitorous lunatics like me. Whatever the case, Barry remains to this day, the uncontested poet laureate of the Exiled American Poets' Association of Stockholm, an organization still fervently awaiting the arrival of their Swedish publisher.
I have my theories, of course. I think we're all dancing to the hidden beat and it matters very little what goes on superficially around us. Whatever this hidden beat, or vibration, may be, I have no idea, but it makes a good justification for my growing cynicism and slug-like inactivity. Let's just say, for the moment, I am floating with the breeze.
The breeze, the breeze. Which can certainly blow you into some interesting places. This is why I follow it so ardently. Learn how to yawn and say "big deal," at all times. This is fact: the breeze blew me where I am today. I am not in exile. I have not banished myself into the unknown to uncover, rediscover, or rejuvenate myself. I was just blow by a terrifically nasty wind. And I am certainly not waiting for any gold star. Me? Ambition-less. Flunk-out. No job. No money. No heat. Having no dough is suddenly painfully frightening.
But, on the other hand, this is paradise. And if I pass my language course, the police will issue me papers. The language course is composed of lots of Turks. I am the only American. The general population here doesn't seem to care much for Turks, or even Italians, for that matter. They're all "niggers" to the pasty-white Swedes. The course is boring, but fortunately, free. I'm just breezing through, anyway.
I try and tell my deserter friends there is nothing illogical about killing people for pay. For all I know, war could be very stimulating. In fact, I'm sure it is. My being here is all a mistake.
"I was in Chicago, and I boarded the wrong plane."
Marta.
Yesterday, Pippi dropped by. She caught me in the middle of trying to memorize the dictionary. Actually, not in the middle, around "ch" somewhere. Actually, not memorizing, just familiarizing myself with the words I never heard of. I told her my heater was scheduled to run out of oil soon. She looked very sad. (Actually, not oil, but kerosene.) When my heater runs out of kerosene, all the plants will die. These plants are not my idea, they were entrusted in my care by the landlord of this abode, and my unusually miniscule rent was awarded in exchange for a promise to look after them diligently. Meanwhile, they're all slowly withering away, conspiring against me by staging their own leafy suicides.
I only ask that a letter from my dear family arrives soon containing lots of their dear money. This typewriter is my only possession, since everything else is either borrowed or stolen. I paid 25 crowns for this gem. Although ancient, it is in mint condition. A screaming scrivmachine. My nimble fingers prance like fawns over the keys and presto....instant art. This place needs airing out badly. (It just occurs to me.) That's because I tried to start a little paper fire in a likely-looking receptacle, which was, I assumed, the very receptacle which was employed at this location before the Swedes discovered kerosene. As it turned out, I was right, but through some oversight neglected to note that the little wood stove was no longer connected to the flue. There was a lot of unwanted smoke and the building's concierge came banging on my door.
I found this in my dictionary: VALHALLA, n. (norse myth) banquet hall of slain heroes, roll or burial place or collected monuments of a nation's illustrious dead. This is where I live. Valhalla 42. The coincidence is too much to overlook. The hall of the slain. This makes me a victim of fate.
I ate at Pippi's last night but she was extremely upset with my conversation. She didn't even offer me seconds. Pippi would prefer we discuss the revolution while eating at her table. She doesn't fool me, I know what she says behind my back.
"He's just confused. Someday he'll be a great revolutionist."
That's what she tells her friends. Pippi wants to live in a world of lovely things. She doesn't like war, hate, or racism. In short, the dullest place on earth.
Tonight all I have to eat is hard bread. It's very cheap. It also hurts my gums. But I eat it because it gives me strength. It makes me powerful. Cabbage and hard bread is the national diet and the Swedes are growing at the alarming rate of three inches per decade. Who cares if it sticks to my teeth? Someday, I will be big enough to leap across the Baltic and snap off the Eiffle Tower for a tooth-pick.
The gnat that nibbles on horseflesh. The fool that slaps the hand that feeds him. I don't care what happens anymore, I can rush home and expose it all on paper. I'm surrounded by blithering idiots. Feed me and you buy my patience for one more day.
Photo of the author in 1971, photo by Marta
I’m a writer, journalist, filmmaker, event producer and counterculture and cannabis activist, and was born and raised in Urbana, Illinois. I started out writing black comedy, but I'm best known as the first reporter to document hip hop and the instigator of the film Beat Street. I also founded the Cannabis Cup, organized the first 420 ceremonies outside of Marin County, while launching the hemp movement with Jack Herer and writing some landmark conspiracy articles. Some of my other books you might enjoy:
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Why was Lincoln left unguarded when the War Department knew there were serious plots afoot against him? Why was Booth killed when he was locked in a tobacco barn and surrounded by 25 soldiers. Why were two innocents swiftly hanged by a military tribunal and not allowed to even testify in their own defense. You will find the answers in this explosive book.
Does cannabis cure cancer? Cancer is a big subject and easily misunderstood. But there is no doubt cannabis has anti-cancer effects, so why does the US government pretend it has no legitimate medical uses?
In the early 1980s, I became the first reporter to travel to the South Bronx to document the origins of hip hop and this book remains the most authentic portrait of the first generation. It was recently updated with never-before-seen photos and illustrations.
"The idea is not to make war on religion, but to help it evolve, so we can put an end to war for religion, because right now, religion is the problem and not the solution. Religion and magic are the same thing, and a sense of enchantment has always been an essential part of ceremony and ritual."
Bitcoin is sweeping the world. Find out how to get into the game fast and easy. If you think this isn’t a revolution, you need to read this book now.
In 1966, a youth revolution took place in the United States. It was called a "generation gap," but it was really a generation war that divided familes and caused deep divisions throughout the country. Within a few years, the rapidly rising cost-of-living made social activism a luxury few could afford.
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