Los Gatos Special

by Richard Oxman

> “Just a dream, just a dream….” — Jimmy Clanton

In the middle of cloudland, I was laying out a plan for some hip-hop Hispanic from not-too-far-away San Jose, CA. He was to organize all of his dark-skinned friends –hopefully 1000 plus– and have them infiltrate white Los Gatos… where I live… the Hummer capital of the world.

It was maybe going to take place –this disruptive event– on some anniversary of the Iraq war. But it could have been arranged for any day. Like on a Sunday, when they have their Farmers’ Market at the Town Center… in that quaint little park of privilege.

Where poodles poop, and they don’t care if the rest of us are unrested, too pooped to live. Uncontested they will continue on their way. Until others are laid to rest, or more firmly in our *places* than tombstones.

The Hispanic must have thought I was out-of-my-white-mind ’cause he never called back.

But my out-of-mindness hasn’t abated. The recurrent dreams continue in Lexus Land.

Unlike the masses of activists who announce their Second Coming down the streets of New York City, or travel ‘cross the country to meet “colleagues”… to put the pressure on The Powers, this fantasy has the downtrodden and their sympathizers and Citizens of the Planet traversing a very short thoroughfare, somewhere in the neighborhood… at virtually no cost. And no threat of arrest.

This Best of Plans cannot be busted.

Trust the efficacy, if you will, of the legality attached to simply filling up a town that never dreamt it would be invaded. A Center of Arrogance which is not prepared for a sudden, unannounced influx of people *out of their place*. Making shops’ sales plummet simply ’cause of *appalling pigments in close proximity*… and pig-minded entitlement. Creating havoc with business as usual.

In a way that doesn’t have to go away. Cannot be forced to disperse so easily as A Protest.

The general setup here –the size of the routes and configuration of the retailers– cannot accommodate such a turn, such a tweaking of routine. Such a twisting of the neck.

If enough little, proposterously prosperous, indifferent towns were garotted thus, the puss would flow… so the Iraq war, for one, would be stopped. [1]

For, in effect, citizens here –leftists so fond of screaming that we need to move in solidarity with the so-called insurgents– would be doing what our *enemies* –once they’re really up on our pressure points– will eventually consider . They’d be attacking the lifeblood of The Powers… in a way that bringing down more replaceable towers and such cannot touch.

Soldiers, for instance, can be replaced with tanks. Whereas a spanking on the homefront that won’t go away is… of a different order. [2]

Abuse and Neighbors Without Borders is a hard combo to beat.

Now the cat may be out of the bag in Los Gatos respecting this dreaminess. But let it not be said that activists didn’t have something placed in their laps –courtesy of cloudland– which would have… made a difference. At virtually no cost by any standards.

Let it be known that there are other “Cats” out there, and more than one way to skin ‘em.

I’m just dreamin’. [3]

Meow. [4]

Fantasy Footnotes:

[1] Other *demands* could be made… to help with organizing *numbers*, for one. And the flow would grow… as in more than ten towns… wearing frowns.

[2] I always know when I’ve struck a chord, and when I’m up against a Donny Do-Nothing … when some reader is quick to point out why something won’t work… without being open to dialogue on the matters in question.

[3] Dreaming to avoid nightmares taking over is a whole different thing than dreaming in space to avoid confrontation of unpleasant facts.

[4] And purring on all cylinders. This whole article begs the question of exactly where those people are today who created that historical display… on the long-forgotten February 15th demo of People’s Power. The one which everyone in the alternative media… and all the righteous souls on the lecture circuit applauded… as meaning something. As indicating that a watershed moment had been reached. That seeds were planted that would blossom into something that could not be stopped, a growth of unbeatable protest. The big arguments at the time against what I was calling a Movement with a Very Soft Underbelly were… that the numbers –the millions– represented something substantial, of historic proportions… of unrelenting resolve. And so on. Well, I’d love to get Vegas odds on what the chances are that activists across the country could muster together the 10,000 or so *total* for what I’m proposing nationwide –ten small, vulnerable towns would surely do the trick– **out of the supposed millions** who had their heads screwed on properly… with the proper priorities in place. I’m purring ’cause I want my catty remarks to circulate; I want to put the leftist shysters out of work, and make the mindless followers a bit uneasy. Fat chance, of course. But, more importantly, I want those who have eyes to see to consider some thoughts of D.H. Lawrence.

To wit, the ones which address how we are stewards of ourselves, not proprieters of ourselves; I’m thinking specifically of The Rainbow and Lady Chatterley’s Lover. We are not ready to extrapolate respecting stewardship of Mother Earth… politics, etc. We have enough on our hands… dealing with ourselves. Like with William Blake, Lawrence saw that singularity and infinity… all that which we are concerned with… are one. Our task, he suggested, is to be faithful transmitters… not to seek to create ourselves by our own actions. The self is not ours to… create. As Terry Eagleton has said (in his The English Novel): “It is a mysterious gift, which we should cherish and nurture as tenderly and disinterestedly as though it were the being of another. We simply have to stand by… and watch this marvelous efflorescence known as our self flourish into life, without seeking to master or manipulate it. We cannot determine our own future.” Well, how true that is. And how far almost all activists are from that realization… as they push and pull, trying to tweak The Powers… in the most boring, transparent, worthless ways imaginable… devoid of any trace of imagination. How does one begin to caricature a caricature? Look, I’ll be the first to back up and reconsider, should someone engage me in dialogue concerning the Los Gatos article. Short of that, however, I’d truly like to see readers stick to… or get started with… discovering who they are, and where their bliss can dream out loud. And have a good piss.