Paul Haeder: I treat the throw-aways – out of prison, off the streets, barely, in recovery, all those fines-levies-garnishments-fees-invoices like a billion leaches on their souls.
Terminal Velocity—A Man Lost of Tribe
What is a life, revealed? What is this idea of truth, the unadulterated history in one's narrative? The baggage, the contexts, the points of view, dredged into one's psychological state, all the trauma of simple moments in a boy's or man's life, boy-to-man and man-to-boy sense of things, are these parts of the lens one should focus in a process of a looking backward (writing it) and then forward to draw lessons learned and still to be revealed (as an organized, somehow, autobiography)?
Is it important for someone like me to write a “biography” even at all without the pedigree of “someone who's big, still rising, haven risen and/or now fallen from grace,” or in this case the anti-autobiography of a simple man, Willy Loman sort of teacher, even without a bone of celebrity in my body?
The body of this long-form writing is a 30-part “series” possibly distilled into fictional fusions—captured life moments, galvanized to the heart of seeing creatively in a pretty messed up world. I believe this to be one of the most gut-flooding truth seeking to some of us, painted characters and landscapes, conflicts, yet the dog of the lamentation, those roses that shed blood, tears from the prickly pear, the ghost inside cenotes.
Paul Haeder: Something about the morning after. Mourning. Buyer’s remorse. Where do we go from here. How do we reboot. When did everything change. Where did all the common sense go.
Paul Haeder: Racking up those balls for this giant eight ball game by the elites—one more miss-election, one more perversion to the collective soul.
Paul Haeder: Bolt down the heroes, the Black Panthers, the Protestors, the Eco-warriors; bolt us down when we occupy the offices of the fat-cat college presidents; bolt us down when we converge in the streets with our Trayvon Was Murdered signs.
Paul Haeder: It’s that chosenness that eats too at my soul, when I am in a room with elites or some vanguard group, and there are no clothes, and the pomposity and patronizing and altogether self-important glory of their own reflections eat and eat at the one meth user at a time formula.
Paul Haeder: I am always shocked daily that there are people like me and my brethren who do this work, this low pay work, scraping people off the sides of the walls and out of the gutters.
Paul Haeder: The solution is training, getting these people off the grid, getting them steeled for rebellion, heroics, death if need be, anything to tear down the glass towers of Bank of America, the Nike Campuses, the exploiters, the prostitutes, pimps of commerce-law-patents-debt.
Paul Haeder: Make no bones about it, the 92 percent of the world’s wealth is held by 20 percent of folk, and a few hundred billionaires in that group have sucked the futures of humanity with controlling 40 percent of the take.
Paul Haeder: Creative non-fiction in an age of publish or perish, analysis paralysis and speaking to the choir who is selling us all out by the nanosecond
Paul Haeder: These henchmen and henchwomen sleep good at night, play with their Doberman pups, take kids to confirmation and watch the Final Four with the neighbors. Proportionality.
Paul Haeder: Vietnam like a leech inside my guts, slowly growing, waiting to expurgate right before truth hits my amydgala like a hollow-point uranium-tipped US of A projectile.
Paul Haeder: This young lad looks to me for a male voice, an ear, some guy who looks like a professor, someone who knows a lot, and he opens up, giving me insight into my client that none of his managers could really speak about.
What is a life, revealed? What is this idea of truth, the unadulterated history in one’s narrative? The baggage, the contexts, the points of view, dredged into one’s psychological state, all the trauma of simple moments in a boy’s or man’s life, boy-to-man and man-to-boy sense of things, are these parts of the lens one […]