At 9:00 A.M.

A fourth ( though in actuality, there are only three in prison currently, which is a parallel story in and of itself involving the lens, negation and acceptance, but time-like water, is scarce) Grand jury resister has turned themselves in this morning, the fourth, mysteriously disappeared after being mysteriously released, but that is neither here nor there, in truth neither of this is here nor there, because it has happened, and it probably will continue happening and  I suspect that nobody knows what to do. And, on a serious, or more serious note, that's OK, who would know what to do? The member's of the MRI in Chile with the benefit of hindsight would probably lift their hands to the absent sky, because all their friends are dead. But, lets be reasonable, that probably wont happen, we aren't incensed, and the closet we have come to Allende is Nader ( which isn't as bad as one would naturally think, I am sure, for example, that Nader is more enjoyable to be around, if Isabel Allende and her, literally, gag inducing prose, is any clue as to her late uncle's company), so nobody knows heads or tails of this mess ( least of all me) because we are 1.)  strangers 2). little children 3). idiots. Other than march, plead, beg, wait what is there? Only the insane or the subterranean robotic  children of Che want to storm a prison George Jackson style and so I exclude that, breaking shit and the law, however, is not excluded, but at the end of the day, what is irrecoverably lost remains so. Whats the point? Not uttered in inane nihilism but, as nihilism should always be held ( a mirror to the world), as a serious question, because I don't know, then I know almost nothing, I know that the sky is like clay  after the cold rain has slid under the cracks of the Sound, I know that Maddy and Matt and Kate-o are brave and not in a relative sense either, they are brave like every other generation that has gone to prison or died as a schizophrenic world held its breath and then tried to exhume the ghosts that haunt  it. I know that almost everyone believes that we are a rotten broken generation, I know because of this sad ( but also our deserved example, after so long under the water) spectacle that even the whisper that we are not capable of being brave is untrue and undeserved. I also know that we don't deserve their ( the grand jury resisters') incredible gift of bravery and that a day will come when we will probably have to live up to that gift, and that we probably wont. I like to think an instinct of self defense would over come artists as they stare into a future where ( as Bolano correctly stated) a prison will be the only home for poets and that a stirring or a fear or a peep would arise. To our horror, silence is always rewarded unless you aren't a rat.