Author: Admin

“Shithole Countries”: Trump uses rhetoric of dictators*

    Employing a Language of Superlatives   by Henry A Giroux   George Orwell warns us in his dystopian novel 1984 that authoritarianism begins with language. In the novel, “newspeak” is language twisted to deceive, seduce and undermine the ability of people to think critically and freely. Donald Trump’s unapologetic bigoted language made headlines again Thursday when it was reported he told lawmakers working on a new immigration policy that the United States shouldn’t accept people from “shithole countries” like Haiti. Given his support for white nationalism and his coded call to “Make America Great (White) Again,” Trump’s overt racist remarks reinforce echoes of white supremacy reminiscent of fascist dictators in the 1930s. His remarks about accepting people from Norway smack of an appeal to the sordid discourse of racial purity. There is much more at work here than a politics of incivility. Behind Trump’s use of vulgarity and his disparagement of countries that are poor and non-white lies the terrifying discourse of white supremacy, ethnic cleansing and the politics of disposability. This is a vocabulary that considers some individuals and groups not only faceless and voiceless, but excess, redundant and subject to expulsion. The endpoint of the language of disposability is a form of social death, or even worse. As authoritarianism gains strength, the formative cultures that give rise to dissent become more embattled, along with the public...

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On Location/France

Andelu painter in Vallauris: When reality flies   by Jean-Paul Gavard-Perret Contributing Editor With Andelu the space of the  the picture is decomposed as blown by a contagious  sphere of influence. The artist seems to voice the air and the elements she deconstrusts and recomposes. Butterflies fly, women rises surreptitiously. A time is needed for the look, so that the look assembles the details that compose every picture and demand attention to understand such imagery. As the artist, we need a sky, a silhouette, a rustle of wings. Because the consciousness does not like the invisible, it does not...

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Ken Wetherington/Fiction

One Night in Las Vegas   Jackson and I pushed our way through the crowded casino to the table where Marcos dealt blackjack.  We stood among the spectators, watching as his deck diminished.  When a dozen or so cards remained, he scooped up the discards and began to shuffle. Jackson edged forward and gave the sign.  Marcos’ sharp eyes caught the movement.  Jackson held up two fingers and tilted his head toward me.  Marcos nodded in response and from his vest pocket drew two green tokens.  Jackson stepped closer and accepted the tokens.  Marcos gestured toward the bar and mouthed the name “Frankie.”  Jackson backed away, pulling me with him. “See, I told you.”  He handed me one of the tokens.  “You can get anything in Vegas.” I examined my token.  It resembled a typical gambling chip except for a large “2” on both sides.  Jackson pocketed his.  I did the same with mine. Saturday night brought in an amazing variety of patrons.  Tourists overwhelmingly dominated the floor, but boozers and cruisers mingled as well, along with a few serious gamblers.  A red-headed woman, wearing a tight, electric blue dress, screamed as we passed the craps table.  Was it a cry of pleasure or despair?  I couldn’t tell.  We made our way to the bar, and Jackson motioned to the tall, slender bartender. “Frankie working?” The bartender shifted his...

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Fiction/Allen Davis

  Fireball   by Allen Davis “Hey chief,” says the big guy in dirty, mustard-colored overalls as you walk up to the store in the village. “Come ‘ere for a sec. I wanna ask ya somethin’.” He’s got a bloodshot face, a bushy, Santa Claus beard and gray-white hair to his shoulders. A huge, cloudy mass covers his left eye where the pupil and iris should be and you try not to look at it. He holds out some change, twenty or forty cents. “Do me a favor. Get me a nip?” His bad eye bores into you like a ray gun while the bloodshot blue one has a hopeful yet faraway look about it. Twenty or forty cents won’t be nearly enough. “What kind?” you ask. “Fireball.” The special brownie you ate an hour ago is starting to kick in and you’re feeling good so you ask the Indian guy with the red dot on his forehead for three Fireballs and get a six-pack of beer for yourself. The red devil on the front of the bottles is breathing fire. You hand the small brown bag to the man outside. When he discovers it’s more than he asked for he booms, “I love you man!” and wraps you in a bear hug. You sit down with him on the sidewalk with your backs against the wall of the...

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