Twenty-three hours worth of eternity, reliving each piece of a lifetime; thinking in strings of thought, helplessly conjuring the ghosts of the past. Then escorted down the hall in silence for a solitary shower. Which is the only thing that goes by fast…
From the void of solitary confinement comes Paulie Gaeta’s harrowing story of crime and glory; from his Boston roots with an Italian crime family to his climb up the underworld pedestal as a bare-knuckle champion.
With dozens of illegal prize fights under his belt, Paulie loses a gamble with fate, and earns a 24-year sentence for narco-trafficking. In prison he finds himself surrounded by potential enemies and impossible choices, losing touch with the outside world which cast him out. Faced with insurmountable odds, Paulie must fight his way to the top again and again as he battles images of his past. And through it all, a recurring choice: death or quarter.
Death or Quarter is a dark saga of triumph and suffering, rooted deep in the mind of a philosophical killer, and underscored by shocking brutality and surprising sensitivity.
The first time I saw God, I was digesting a bellyful of poison and processing a headful of one of the stronger psychoactive biological byproducts known to the sapiens crew. Staring at the placid surface of the pond, I grokked and grokked, alternately smiling and sobbing; feeling at once completely refreshed and utterly destroyed.
When the face-to-face confrontation became too much, I trailed my fingers through the water to disrupt the image. Narcissus‘ failure was not in his gaze, but rather in his inability to shake things up every now and then. We become enchanted with and enamored of our own iconized fictions, forgetting that they’re no more than deep ruts of habit—and no more valuable than a scent whose strength fades almost as soon as it becomes apparent.
As the ripples settled down and my reflection rematerialized, I recognized that I finally understood everything. The pattern was clear. Through the course of history, the spiritual looking-glass had been clouded over by a multitude of cheap products and obscured by the patina of centuries of filthy rags.
As I see it, the truth that the snake-oil prophets would obscure forever is simpler than anyone would believe. As I see it, the truth of the universe (which is infinitely complicated or shockingly simple, depending on the layer) rests briefly in each one of us. But through a mad web of manipulation and an artificially structured society, we’ve been led to believe that there are paragons to admire and pinnacles to aspire to.
This is wrong. This is the product of living in a “community” of 300 millions, a number that the human brain can’t even really conceptualize outside of an abstract comparison to grains of sand or stars in the sky. Bound together by a vague sense of patriotism, we sift through the proverbial hourglass while bullies with billy clubs keep us from disturbing the peace as we worship the plebeian promise of the American Dream.
But the truth of the matter is, the patsies always outnumber the iconoclasts, which traditionally means the latter are killed as soon as feasible. Nowadays, however, such individuals are simply paved over by the bland idolatry of 1/300,000,000. Even God has been rubbed out by those who refer to it the most.
Inspirational irreverence, irrespective of boundaries and borders. Not to mention wildly funny and magically realistic—or…realistically magical. A treat for anyone with half a brain and a sense of humor.
A force in American culture, he was my favorite author before I’d even read any of his work. Tom Wolfe’s depiction is a guiding light.
(But who was Ms. Frizzle?)
pure as we begin // pure as we come in // pure as we begin // pure by will alone
pure as we begin // here we have a stone // gather place and raise it // shelter turned to home
pure as we begin // here we have a stone // throw to stay the stranger // swore to crush his bones
move by will alone
spark becomes a flame // flame becomes a fire // light the way or warm this // home we occupy
spark becomes a flame // flame becomes a fire // forge a blade to slay the stranger // take whatever we desire
move by will alone
pure as we begin
pure as we begin // move by will alone // leave as we come in // pure as light, return to one
moved by will alone
Angels on the sideline, Puzzled and amused. Why did Father give these humans free will? Now they’re all confused.
Don’t these talking monkeys know that Eden has enough to go around? Plenty in this holy garden, silly monkeys Where there’s one you’re bound to divide it right in two.
Angels on the sideline, Baffled and confused. Father blessed them all with reason, And this is what they choose?
Monkey killing monkey killing monkey over pieces of the ground. Silly monkeys. Give them thumbs, they forge a blade, And where there’s one they’re bound to divide it right in two.
Monkey killing monkey killing monkey over pieces of the ground. Silly monkeys. Give them thumbs, they make a club to beat their brother down. How they’ve survived so misguided is a mystery. Repugnant is a creature who would squander the ability To lift an eye to heaven, conscious of his fleeting time here.
Gotta divide it all right in two.
Fight till they die over sun, over sky, They fight till they die over sea, over air, They fight till they die over blood, over love, They fight till they die over words, polarizing.
Angels on the sideline again, Benched along with patience and reason. Angels on the sideline again, Wondering where this tug of war will end.
It’s midnight…or something like it. A breeze whistles up and around the balcony high above laser streaks of headlights all herding through intersections. Stop and go, ushered anonymously past stop lights and sidewalks, a crawling luminescence. If I stood here long enough, I could probably figure out the algorithms…or at least the timing.
The first time I saw God, I was digesting a bellyful of poison and processing a headful of one of the stronger psychoactive biological byproducts known to the sapiens crew. Staring at the placid surface of a pond, I grokked and grokked, alternately smiling and sobbing; feeling at once completely refreshed and utterly destroyed.
Isn’t it funny how we’re sometimes visited with miracles? Like right now, this couch. Purple crushed velvet, faded but clean. Thick cushions, almost bursting at the seams. One broken foot, lending a charming imbalance. Yeah, this couch is good. This couch is sainted. This couch is mmmmmmmmmmmmmm
It’s a log. Just a piece of wood, stripped of its bark and drying imperceptibly in the cool air. Once a growing thing, grains and veins flowing with water and life—now it’s cut, sectioned, and alone. Just a log.
But then take a closer look, maybe squint, and there’s something else. A promise. A shape. It carries its own inspiration, and suddenly the tools on the bench vibrate with magnetism, crying for attention: use me! Gouge, shave, and trim! Caress the shape from its hiding place; encourage the intrinsic design; open the doors whose outline is only just visible, and only to the Seeing eye.
The elevator door pinged open on the seventh floor. A little girl shuffled in, pushing thick glasses up her nose with the hand that wasn’t carrying a plastic bag half full of water. She looked up at the grandmotherly figure who accompanied her, and caromed toward the columns of buttons to make her selection.
