Throwing stones on an open road
It's Odin's day and the mailbox was packed with home-town items . . .
One of, if not, the most severe incidents of racial violence in U.S. history occurred in Tulsa, Oklahoma, beginning on May 31, 1921, and lasting for two days.
Martin Scorsese unveiled “Killers of the Flower Moon” in Cannes on Saturday, debuting a sweeping American epic about greed and exploitation on the bloody plains of an Osage Nation reservation in 1920s Oklahoma just a stone's throw from downtown Tulsa. The expansive cast included Cate Blanchett, Salma Hayek, Paul Dano and Isabelle Huppert.
The U.S. has had an continues to experience sorry instances of mob sadism, terror, and suppression of civil liberties. All, in the name of Americanism, have used undemocratic methods and doctrines which…can be properly identified as ‘fascist.’ Americans should not be fooled into thinking that fascism cannot come to America; after all, we once laughed Hitler off as a harmless little clown with a funny mustache.
MAGA is fascist. Jesus was not.
History tells us that Albert Einstein was a brilliant genius. After his death, the brain of the pioneer physicist was saved and studied for years in the hope of analyzing the secrets of why it produced so many great ideas. Science writer Stephen Jay Gould provided a different perspective. He said, "I am less interested in the weight and convolutions of Einstein's brain than in the near certainty that people of equal talent have lived and died in cotton fields and sweatshops."
History also tells us that Walt Whitman was born on this date in 1819 West Hills, Long Island, New York
Long, too long America,
Traveling roads all even and peaceful you learn'd from joys and prosperity only,
But now, ah now, to learn from crises of anguish, advancing, grappling with direst fate and recoiling not,
And now to conceive and show to the world what your children en-masse really are,
(For who except myself has yet conceiv'd what your children en-masse really are?)– Walt Whitman, from Leaves of Grass
Behold through you as bad as the rest, behold a secret silent loathing and despair . . .
No husband, no wife, no friend, trusted to hear the confession,
Another self, a duplicate of every one, skulking and hiding it goes,
Formless and wordless through the streets of the cities, polite and bland in the parlors.
Keeping fair with the customs, speaking not a syllable of itself.
Speaking of any thing else but never of itself.
– Walt Whitman, from Song of the Open Road, 13