Print this post.By Phil Rockstroh || December 21, 2010
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I’m in Atlanta, Georgia, at present. Among the scent of pine trees and the reek of southern denial. The moribund economy has thwarted the city’s manic drive to silence its resentful ghosts by means of constant motion … Below the lilting southern accents here, one detects rage … Not simply the ubiquitous hate-speak on right-wing talk radio. But an animus bred by truth-deferred … that southern pride is a lie of the mind — a blown banner … foisted skyward to distract the minds of my fellow southerners from the ground level truths of a system rigged to enrich the privileged few and keep the many working for their benefit. (How do you think they filled the ranks of the Confederate Army to kill and die for the rights of rich men to own slaves?)
If these Confederate ghosts could shout through the prison of their enshrinement — they would call out to us, “Don’t believe it. Having seen the meaningless waste of war, we know now that we would have chosen to live out our lives, breathing in the humid, Georgia air, having our troubles softened by the sight of dappled light filtered through pine needles, and being lulled to sleep at night by the song of crickets and cicada. Don’t you believe the lie, as we did, that dying in a rich man’s war is a virtue; don’t buy into the fraud that working all your life for a greedy few is a sound way to proceed through the fleeting and finite years of your time upon this earth”
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Senior Contributing Editor PHIL ROCKSTROH is a poet, lyricist and philosopher bard living in New York City. In his own words, “Yet a bio amounts to dharma for dimwits: It defines a human being in the same manner and degree of veracity as a restaurant menu describes the various slabs of meat offered … commodified things that were once living beings.”
Posted in Essays
One Response to “Notes from Atlanta, Georgia: A Lie Of The Mind”
- TheMisfortuneTeller said:
December 21st, 2010 at 5:56 pm
Some corresponding considerations:
…
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, —
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.”
– Wifred Owen, Dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori
“Patriotism: combustible rubbish ready to the torch of any man ambitious to illuminate his name.”
“Patriot: the dupe of statesmen and the tool of conquerors.”
– Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary
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