killen case

I'm not much of a news junkie (pure heresy in a journalism student, I know) but sometimes stuff catches my eye. Despite some hesitation about hitting the "publish post" button, I'm going to throw this opinion piece out there. It may seem as if I'm claiming Killen is innocent, or that I'm on his side; I'm not. However, I do question the system that's calling him to task.

A few days ago, an 80 year old man was convicted of manslaughter (not murder) for killing three men in 1964. In the story Ex-KKK Member Convicted, you can find a bit of the background. You can also find a few things that made me scratch my head.

I understand that covering politically charged issues is difficult for journalists. Conveying a complete picture with tact and honesty—within a word count, no less—is something that stretches the capacity of prose. However, in this case, I have some issues with both the case and the coverage it's being given.

First off, what exactly is an "ex" KKK member? Has he renounced his former beliefs? I googled around, and couldn't find anything declaring Killen's status. Is he no longer KKK because he quit, or because he's now too feeble to pull a bed sheet over his head? While I'll admit that his classification doesn't exactly pertain to the case (the defense admitted he was a member of the KKK, but rightly stated that membership doesn't automatically mean he's guilty,) by stating that Killen is "ex-KKK," the journalist has implied something that may not be true.

Next, how about this image? "Killen, who was in a wheelchair because of a logging accident in which he broke his legs, was surrounded by more than a dozen armed officers as he was wheeled from the courthouse and taken off to jail."

Oooh, scary grumpy old man. Unable to walk. And surrounded by armed police. That makes me question the motivation of the authorities. Are they really afraid that this guy is going to leap out of his wheelchair and attack the nearest black person? Probably not. It was a statement, but I can't quite figure out what kind of statement. Either they were playing up the threat he represents (he may be a frail little old man, but he's an evil, inhuman little old man) or it was an unsubtle move to show the black community how seriously they're taking the matter.

Either way, it’s a scene generated expressly for the media and viewers. Sounds like his guilt in the trial was a foregone conclusion. While I want to see this bastard burn, isn't the way the legal system ought to work.

Was Killen really on trial for what he did, or is he serving as an effigy of every KKK-lynch mob? One man to represent the whole bloody mess of racism, violence, and segregation hardly seems fair. Seems to me that Killen’s trial is a PR-fest to prove how liberal and open-minded Mississippi has become.

The story says, "[Killen] slapped two television microphones and a TV camera on the way out." While this does paint a vivid picture of a vicious old man with a temper, lashing out at the world that's condemning him, it bothers me. Guilty or not (even if his hands aren’t bloody, it’s pretty clear he incited hatred and violence in his role as preacher) he's now presented as a symbol of his time, so that American society can make a show of atonement for past transgressions. Of course he's pissed. Doesn't matter what he says, we're going to crucify him anyway.

And anyway, why the hell was a camera that close to him anyway? Sounds almost like he was being bated—same way you could poke a pitbull with a sharp stick to get a picture of it growling.

Next issue, and possibly the largest—why manslaughter, and not murder? The story states: “With a murder charge, prosecutors had to prove intent to kill. With a manslaughter charge, they had to prove only that a victim died while another crime was being committed.”

I have a hard time believing that you can place a community leader (like Killen was) at lynching and then say the deaths were accidental. Either he is guilty of murder and the charge is stepped down or they can’t prove he’s guilty in this case, but are sure he’s a killer and are slapping him with a lesser charge. Neither sounds too plausible, but as I said, the manslaughter charge smells funny to me.

The rest of the article is full of the predictable rhetoric about heroism, change, and civil rights. Which is good. People need to feel safe, respected, and represented in their own societies. However, the realization that we’re only now addressing these issues, in 2005, makes me sad. It’s something that should have been done decades ago.

Admittedly, I don’t have a lot of solid ground to stand on here. I’m attacking a journalist, a society, and a legal system all in one go. However, I stand by my theory. The Killen case is a kangaroo court trial, legitimatized by political correctness. And the media isn’t going much past the orchestrated veneer.

Yes, Killen needs to be held accountable. Yes, retribution ought to be granted and attitudes altered. However, to say that the conviction is an indication of wonderful change seems more like deliberate rhetoric than a true shift of ideology.

But maybe I’m too pessimistic. Truth told, I have more than a few hesitations about posting this. I don’t want it to be misread. If you’re offended, please understand; just because I’m skeptical about the system attacking Killen doesn’t mean that I’m on Killen’s side.

I’m afraid, however, that we may be letting the media-enhanced “victory” of condemning Killen distract us from the very visible problem of racism and segregation in North American society. The case, which finally addresses the vicious and unnecessary death of three people, shouldn’t be seen as the end of anything. Rather, let it be the first opportunity to call attention to racial segregation and injustice.

The KKK still exists, and even in Canada, racism is something you can find in your own neighbourhood. We’re not done with these issues, and the Killen case does represent something powerfully important. I hope, however, that there is substance behind the show when it comes to atonement, retribution, and justice.

one art

I found the poem "One Art" on the front page of a book called "The Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing," by Melissa Banks. I've read so many stories with terribly written women (we tend to get written the way we wish we were, the way men wish we were) that a book with such a profoundly real women stands out in stark relief.

One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop (1927-1979)

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

issue 2 submission info

If you read the JList, you've already got this information. However, for everyone else (all three of you) here are the submission guidelines for Peripheral Axis.

Peripheral Axis Issue 2 Guidelines:

I only want first-person material (though I'm flexible about informative sidebars) between 500 and 4000 words. I'm willing to let ONE story per issue go longer than 4k, but you'll have to hand me something good. I won't go under 500 words because of stylistic concerns.

At the moment, story topics for Issue 2 seem to follow a theme of self-discovery, travel, and concepts of home. I would love to get my hands on more stories, and I bet some of you would like clips for your journalistic resumes.

Here are a few topic suggestions: risk taking that paid off (or didn't), accounts of big changes in your life, interesting travels, or personal stories about gaining adult perspective. Of course, I'm open to any and all pitches.

For Issue 3, I'll be looking for things about relationships (romantic, familial, and friendships both good and bad) so if you have anything in your brain that fits under that genre, start drafting. I’ll publish people in consecutive issues, as long as they keep sending good stuff.

To submit to Peripheral Axis, send me a note ASAP at ferric_feline@lycos.com. Let me know what you'd like to write about, and what kind of approach you're going to take.

For example, if you want to write about your experiences as a journalism student, give me a couple anecdotes or quotes that highlight the tone of your story. One or two paragraphs is fine. Think of it as a very informal query letter--tell me why you think it's worth writing a full story.

If it's interesting and you can produce something solid, we'll work together to polish it for publication.

I don't like to rush brilliance, but I’d like to finish the issue by the end of June. June 22nd is about the latest I'd like to take in stories for Issue 2.

Thanks for the interest, and please please please pass this call for submissions on to anyone who might be interested.

love song

It wasn't requested, but when someone asked me "who the heck is Alfred Prufrock?" I decided I had to take action. I love T.S. Eliot as much as I love Firefly, Douglas Adams, and the steak sauce at Japanese Village in Victoria. No faint praise, that.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
by T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”

. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

oh darwin, where art thou

Sometimes I fear for the species. Shamelessly ripped from Jess's Blog, here's one of the first reports on Paris Hilton's engagement.

"I'm very in love – he's the one," Hilton told PEOPLE earlier this month. "I want to have kids in the next two years, because I know that completes your life."

Just like her dog completes her wardrobe. If you listen really closely, you can actually hear the divorce scandal headlines already.

fire and ice

I'm very tired, but feeling guilty for the lack of updates.

The grinding wheel of Peripheral Axis is starting to turn again, albeit slowly, and I have a small handful of stories to work with at this point. If you're interested in writing something, now's a great time to do topic-talk with me. Insecure about your writing skills? Talk to me anyway.

On the personal blog front, I have a lot of things I'd like to write about, especially my wanderings around some smaller communities in BC. But every time I try to coax my thoughts into formation, they disintegrate and scatter. Even writing this is difficult, which I find profoundly depressing.

At any rate, here's my new fall-back position: I love poetry, but I don't read enough of it anymore. Gone are the days when I could recite all of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" without checking my notes.

Now, when I can't manage my own words, I'll give you someone else's.

(And no angsty-pop song lyrics designed to appeal to the awkward outsider in us all. While they are debatably poetic, most song lyrics are better left inside the song. Jenny seems to find a few good ones, but I prefer lyrics to be sung.)

You get a virtual hug and a digital cookie if you can name who wrote this. Googling it is cheating, and anyway, this ought to be dead easy.

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.