to the reader: hello and i love you. what the heck is going on?? what kind of insane turmoil is this?? wanna read?? wanna open the monitor and read?? i’m not going to stop you, in fact i encourage you to do it!!
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contributors joseph christian banez linda seidel p. johnathan stickerman larry iles brendan solis mere harrach lesley hauck alex wang huxley maxwell ms. magnum opuss olli sure anonymous joseph christian banez
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Shreds by Joseph Christian Banez
Irate by Joseph Christian Banez
My Journal of the Plague Year by Linda Seidel
Editor’s note: the two short pieces to follow were originally Facebook posts on Linda Seidel’s Facebook page. Dr. Seidel is a retired Truman professor who has written for the monitor before (really good stuff!!). With her permission, I’m printing these posts here. Read!
Floyd's was to be unabashedly mourned by thousands of young people trying to make a safer world. .
Belinda and the Pandemic #68 (June 3)
Belinda felt sorry for herself, an emotional state of which she disapproved but found that self-disapproval had no ability to lift her spirits. When she visited the supermarket, she saw the other shoppers looking equally glum, no longer joking about the new rules of social distancing, but exhibiting the weary demeanors of people who had been depressed for a while and saw no end in sight to their distress. People no longer jammed the aisles encroaching on each other's space, but resignedly formed queues in which every non-related person stood six feet away from the next. She thought about a Sunday radio show on which intellectuals and artists presented radical ideas all their own. One young man, on an episode a year or so before, had recommended that the human race should phase itself out because life was more pain than pleasure. Belinda noted that, of course, he had not himself committed suicide. But he thought that the suicidal should not be dissuaded from achieving their goal and that people, at the very least, should abstain from reproducing themselves, given all the suffering their offspring would undoubtedly bear. Belinda thought about the protracted suffering of her parents in old age and could not dispute the accuracy of the young man's equation, which, after all, might be supported by sages from major religions and philosophies. But, surely,
When Derek Chauvin knelt with his knee on George Floyd's neck, he had his hand in his pocket, a casual pose not suggesting panic, reported the CNN anchor. Maybe that's why the charge against him was being upgraded from third- to second-degree murder: he had not been afraid for his life. Why did he do it then? Kill another human being unnecessarily? Belinda thought about the activist who had said yesterday on TV that videotaping the
cops, once thought to be the solution to racially motivated police brutality, had not worked. Of, course, for cops who really were in a panic, however unjustified, the prospect of being filmed would be unlikely to render them rational. But Chauvin was not in a panic; presumably knew he was being filmed and watched by people who told him to stop killing Floyd--so there was only one conclusion Belinda could come reach: the young white cop was content to star in this particular show. The suffering he imposed on another man did not break his heart, at least not at the time. Maybe he was even proud of himself, for creating an event that would be displayed so many times that the viewer felt sick. This was Derek Chauvin's accomplishment. George 6
My Journal of the Plague Year #19 (April 2)
those sages would not necessarily agree with the utilitarian premise that life should boil down to pleasure. Anyway, it didn't--and, yet, most people wanted to live. They stayed six feet away from their neighbors not just because of the social pressure to do so, but because they did not not want to sicken other people or become sick themselves. Put under threat in wars and epidemics, life became precious to most people. The goal was not pleasure but survival. Belinda sighed. Was this built-in quest to live anything more than basic biology? Maybe not. (The species that survived were the ones in which the desire to survive had been reproduced in their off-
spring.) And yet, people had sweet ways, sometimes, of consoling one another, of offering just the right gift that made its recipient want to stay in this world one more day, one more year, one more lifetime. She thought of such a gift--one she had received today: a small card from an admirable former student, now an artist and teacher, a wife and mother. On one side of the heavy paper, the young woman (30-something by now) had painted portraits of her cats; on the other, she had written a note singing the praises of her tiny daughter, who might still redeem a world that had "fallen apart." Belinda wept, then smiled, with gratitude.
review of my dog by p. johnathan stickerman sits when told to, can do some trick like shake and lay down, attempts to roll over but cannot, too clumsy and big. has tongue, will try to lick with tongue, will lay on you and lick you, hard to get him to stop because he is big, but it is cute. good boy, can fetch a stick or ball, or can fetch many other things. likes water sort of, will get in it and drink it, will get in it only sometimes. he is two and a half years old. full of love and i love him. he makes me feel really happy, it is good to have him around. all in all i like the dog. in conclusion i like the dog. dog, he’s good, Very Good Dog.
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ARNSTEIN, COWIE, MASTERMAN, WAGNER, WALSHE---FIVE LATE PUBLIC FIGURES WHOSE CAREERS HELPED SUSTAIN ME, AS THEY, IN TYPES, COULD YOURS, IN THE AGE OF CORONA VIRUS CRISIS by Larry Iles
Dear Rowena, Alex et al, We are sadly plagued by poor imbeciles like Trump and the fellow tyrants he likes in other places. He openly avers gallons of emotions in concern for them that he is fascistly incapable of showing in any compassion at all for in this, his own country, worst hit than in any other country, in terms of Corona Virus mortalities. So what might really be most helpful to Monitor readers is a display of some leading opposite qualities from five figures whose works can serve as a counter to this selfglorifying thug, in terms of life well service led. They all have in common well-travelled internationalist pasts and a range of politics, from Center-Right to Center-Left. And despite the fact that all of them were better at sustaining institutional hiring attachments than me, in collective rare testimonial clout, they not only sustained myself, often formatively. But I have every reason to believe many other ex-students or political party supporters. Best of all, all were eager Monitor issue readers in all our formats of the issues, now approaching a quarter of a century of radical expression. Walter Arnstein died last fall with a magnificently fine obituary in his local CHAMPAIGN-URBANA GAZETTE. One that, nevertheless, somewhat missed out on his wit and skill expressed in such books as his textbook 8
on modern Brit history since the 1832 Reform Act of the Whigs and Radicals that itself led to Tory rural howls because it began the process of giving the vote to at least urban educated men voters in the new industries that were sprawling up at the time. Before I even first met him for an interview in a London Victoria rail station cafĂŠ for a US History Teaching Assistantship that turned out to be the longest job of my life, his name was richly familiar. As I had read as a boy a UK History Today article by him on Charles Bradlaugh, a Victorian MP who had shocked to their very core not only his Queen and his own political party but world respectability. Bradlaugh had done so by his open Republicanism and also his avowed atheism. This barred him several times from Commons admission, in disrespect for his Midlands artisanate wins statistically in actual consecutive popular elections. We met all too infrequently after my stint with him and his Cambridge afar advisor role in my second MA award, in intriguingly GB Left wing history, not the First Nation US/Canadian area we had both projected as the future barnstorming career for me, based on London first MA. Evelyn Cowie was my PGCE or teacher lead trainer from Kings College and, whilst Walter might be aptly described as a conservative Liberal in the US/ CANADIAN senses, she was a middle class Labour inclined Social Democrat. But one who was opposed, like him, to the occasional excesses of the
educational Left, as likely to hold back real progress, overall, in society. Neville Masterman, another person I met first in a café rendez-vous, this time at Kings College off the Strand, backed me in my audacious request that I process his WWI Cabinet minister Father’s papers. As I publication did so, successfully, amidst grimy disordered boxes in 1987, in spite of huge Tory opposition both sides of the Atlantic. Our association lasted till his centenarian plus death last year. Dr Irene Wagner and Hove’s first female Socialist mayor Betty Walsh were both not only prominent in alike feminist politics of the non-hysterical kind. But they were sufficiently detached from academia to be able to detest folly in both sexes including in Irene’s Labour HQ national workplaces and in Betty’s macho and GBLQT council seaside environs. All made enemies yet none let themselves be deterred by excessive “ober”-caution, although looking at their relaxed well dressed personas you might mistakenly have thought their modest conformist appearances suggested otherwise. All had more happier than alas often normal, lover relationships, belying the nonsenses you have to be absolutely identically compatible, straight or gay or more hopefully both! Walter Arnstein’s spouse was a talented musician, Evelyn Cowie’s was a Roman period historian, and Betty’s spouse had been a rather cantankerous WWII injured chap, perhaps aiding in her lifelong atheism, much to the unjustified disgust of Tory readers of her local ARGUS paper.
Conclusively, why were at least three of them long lived, suffice it to say, to give me their supportive disdain about “Trumpism” in this world of racist blame he is already trying to foment for a natural not a one nation caused virus disaster? Well most of them had family lineage to know exactly what Nazi personalities damagingly do, if ever over -indulged; WA had warned in a local NYC paper, long before he served in the UN Korean war, about how the electoral college could be wealth perverted in distorted outcome. And both he and Charlotte had had German anti-Semitism and anti-Socialist forbears which Trump, the opposite side, still hates in his own German American McCarthyite lineage. Irene had nearly got herself concentration camp arrested by Hitler for smuggling, as a schoolgirl, anti-fascist pamphlets on the border with occupied Poland. And Mayor Betty Walshe had to put up with still largely sexist campus administrators when on ceremonial speech-making functions. All of my five, unlike Trump, enjoyed nonspecialist sheer reading for its own sake, be it in Walter Arnstein’s case The Economist or in Betty’s instance The Guardian devotedly. All merit your attention now and in the future epidemics to come, long after Trumpism and his Brazilian, Hungarian and Russian, North Korean heroes have, like him, gone to their dusty oblivions, viral or not.
Yours, Larry Iles, Nearly sixty-six and surviving
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Every Player Character I’ve Ever Played in Pathfinder/D&D in Chronological Order! by Brendan Solis
cx{}:::::::> cx{}:::::::> cx{}:::::::> cx{}:::::::> cx{}:::::::> cx{}:::::::> cx{}:::::::> U3U ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ <3 cx{}:::::::> cx{}:::::::> cx{}:::::::> cx{}:::::::> cx{}:::::::> cx{}:::::::> cx{}:::::::>
Claefabl “Clefa” Lugosi - halfling rogue -she defs had a bit of that ‘1st-character-self-insert’ syndrome, as many of us tend to do with our first characters. i tried my best to give her some spicy traits tho. she had a tragic backstory and a chip on her shoulder and a substance abuse problem and i wrote her a super-involved family history because i’d just discovered the joy of playing tabletop roleplaying games and creating characters. lotsa great memories were made with this lil lady. the campaign is longdead, but i always imagined her going on to become a mighty sea captain that hunted slavers.
Cybil, The Moth of Shavor - changeling cleric of Desna -edgy changeling, chaotic good, worships my fav pathfinder deity. i built her to be a frontline fighter and a lil too violent for a healing cleric, which was a fun dynamic. in pathfinder, changelings are usually orphan daughters of evil witches that are left on the doorsteps of other families for them raise, and then the changeling’s witchy nature reveals itself when they grow up. so of course i had to give her a tragic backstory and an edgy monstrous side. also she had a shitty eastern european/maybe russian(?) accent. the eyepatch is to hide her heterochromatic eye, which is a dead giveaway of her changeling nature.
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Frick - ratfolk wizard (my fav!) -big fat nerd! not really big and fat, actually tiny and twitchy. just deliberately built to be an effective wizard. suuuuuuper high initiative rolls. but more than that i just loved roleplaying as him. he started out all meek and shy at the beginning cause he was traveling in a dark and superstitious land where he was seen as a monster, but once he got close to his party he started getting a little bolder. super bookish, he was a librarian as well as a wizard. lover of books. adorable spaz. all-powerful and legendary wizard-to -be. tragic backstory!
Joshua - firbolg cleric of Ehlonna -350 year-old Christ figure wandering the earth, healing those who need it and trying to cure humanity of whatever spiritual illness it is that keeps them from living in harmony with the earth. tragic backstory, but unshakably kind. exhausted old man with an affinity for gallows humor. lover of nature as a firbolg and worshipper of a forest god. his character voice sounded like a very haggard ian mckellen. the campaign he was in was with a kinda shitty group but Joshua brought a lot of love to the table iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d like to think :3 (it was my first time playing fifth edition D&D, but pathfinder 1st edish will always have my heart, for all of its clunky quirks).
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april by mere harrach i feel good the wart on my right middle finger has split open despite efforts to pretend it isn't there, but now also on my write hand is a face drawn from my cat's teeth and a pen in my friend's left hand, right on my palm. tomorrow i hope we will tread lively out to the moonshine tombstone (a false vault from prohibition time) to visit stray palm fronds and our mystery poet we left our quick chilly offering on the 13th (my strong friend's birthday) and it's now occurring to me someone else could have read our words we're always so quick to put down humble or shy or genuine i just want to be perceived now no more need for prelude
moody blues by mere harrach powder blue day it dusts the ground & everything else the sky touches grab my hand and bury it under a cerulean shrub and i will grow into a bluer person people sit in cubicles outside and still expect to become unsquare but the secret is driving up a mountain and letting the sky pull you up and letting the earth drag you back down a volcano knows its self-worth all gods do i don't wanna be a god though i just want to know myself
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2020 by Alex Wang The country burns as the great plague creeps, Grandpa dies as mom weeps. Yet the man fiddles on. Businesses shutter, the poor mutter. Yet the man fiddles on. Red hats gather, Caged kids never sadder. Yet the man fiddles on. Black brothers and sisters shot, Her people distraught. Yet the man fiddles on. Forgetting Crisis By Lesley Hauck
To everyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s surprise the people rise. Protests in the street, the people on their feet. The man fiddles no longer.
dust felt disseminates in air unknown lower branch low dull static space you cant see till you're there pollen hair and a dead bug cemetery in between cracks in the asphalt holding heat like anger low, heavy, steady, red-brick colored mud puddle, we're stuck in our shoes falled busted knees gazes, aching to meet aching to feel, aching to ache slow down, reach out with gentle hands touch the sky with me evening heat fills the space between us reach out and touch it so you know that it's there
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with the magnetic tape still taut on my cortex i will take a drag of your breath and sleep off the bottle
i dress you with spiritual notions from my mouth but it is only you that is to see yourself in the mirror
your indecision very well might keep burning, never seeming to reach the filter
i will tell you that i think the singer knew that she was going to die and you will light another smoke
at that moment the clock will become eternal at your decision and wind back to the blinking 12:00
midway through you may eye your unread yet kissed prose and be hesitant to share
once arrived i will ask you to delve into me while sucking on an amethyst
i'll be tapping on yer window later on when the coffee pot is done buzzing me
anxiously wrapping the unspooled cassette tape around my brain and looking for a chant to loop
untitled by huxley maxwell
Vegetable Drag Names by Ms. Magnum Opuss To our poorly lit stage, we welcome… Rue Barbara Sweet Pea Edda Bull-flower Kohl's Robbery Sarah No Pepper Bea Troot Cellar E. Greens Brock Ollie Rue D. Begga Watt Erma Lonna
“drive home poem” [june 25 2020] by olli sure a desire path that goes nowhere an ambulance's siren that makes someone on the sidewalk jump heels that are held together w packing tape o shit, today is today today's date is today if i told u u wouldnt believe me would u believe me ? neighborhoods dont have too too many differences until the city ends [limit, boarder, line]
Plugged by Ms. Magnum Opuss I hear nothing... Yet everything That's how earplugs work but it feels so profound like something new I found alone in a crowd surrounded but no sound I am such a clown
7 crazy saxophones is exactly what i need to hear on 88.1 @ 1:30am looking like shit i shouldnt have to tell u for u 2 get it but im going 2
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“moving forward poem” [june 17 2020] by olli sure when u see some poor dead thing on the side of the highway r u the kinda person who looks @ it or intentionally doesnt ?? there's only 2 kinds of ppl soles make it harder 2 cut ur feet on broken glass n shit n the ground isnt hot 2 everyone this never was an america there's an empty pedestal in the park anyone could stand up there now
“premium gas poem” [may 24 2020] by olli sure who is the premium gas for who uses the premium gas who delivers your food 10 hours of video game facts 10 hours of lo fi beats to study/relax to 10 hours of getting a sun burn alone
bodies dont change fast enough to not recognize their own fleshy bones but a skull looking rly unfamiliar rn a femur looking rly unfamiliar rn trying to keep up w what "good morning" means now im not gonna forget how to talk to you
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by anonymous; found on the Truman State IT news blog 17
Clean Sheets by Joseph Christian Banez
Yellow Peril by Joseph Christian Banez
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