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This website is the manifest of a group of writers dedicated to the celebration of the written word–both classic and contemporary. It is open to any writer who wishes to submit his work (see Submissions, left panel). Rights to the submissions  remain solely those of the submitting authors. Select submissions are presented freely as posts and  may be withdrawn at the request of the submitting author or by determination of our editorial board.  Another America is also open to photographs, videos, music and even such paintings as our readers shall be moved to share. We have been a web presence since early in the new century.  Select authors are represented by the agency  auspices of Another America Literary and charitable donations to the Smithsonian Institution are handled by The Library Arts Alliance. We continue to  chart a highly inclusive course.  All are invited and many will find (as many have found) respite and a home.

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New 2015:

Whitman’s Code: A New Bible Vols. I & II

Whitman's Code IWhitman's Code II


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Eliot and Cane Cropped

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Happiness Is a Warm Gun

American Gun


Change a few names and the story’s the same one–my rant was written after Sandy Hook–you will hug your children or your guns–the story’s the same one.

Brett Arends’ Article, which follows my rant, appeared on MSN’s Market Watch website the day after the Oregon Massacre.

M.C. G.


I am upset. I am likely to be indelicate.  I  might even appear insensitive to the feelings of  half of my fellow countrymen. This is likely a rant.  Nonetheless I shall proceed. Continue reading

NRA & the Commerce of Death


*(Comment & Photo not part of Market Watch Article)

NRA Profits Soar Along with Deaths

Brett Arends

The Sandy Hook Elementary School massacre in Connecticut almost three years ago did nothing to restrict access to guns, as the students of Umpqua Community College in Oregon learned to their cost yesterday.

But it did a huge amount for the National Rifle Association. Continue reading


Lanta Yellow

Every morning the couple that owned the place sat on the terrace and had breakfast with the other clients. He was probably seventy-five with a large nose that seemed perfectly at home in the middle of a pleasant grandfatherly face. They had likely been the same age when they married, but she had kept a younger physique and her keen eyes made her look like she was calling the couple’s shots. Perhaps he had the money, but she was the one that decided how to use it. Certainly her clothes cost more than his and the girl at the front desk said she played golf at Is Molas.

        The room was rather pricey, especially for the southern part of the island, but it was spacious and air-conditioned and there were vast meticulously-kept gardens full of lantana, hibiscus, and a coterie of cactus that fit well with all the flowers, rather like a childhood scar on a handsome face. Next to the pool was a putting green that my daughter and I used more than anyone else, including the Madame whom I never saw grab a club. In any case, the owners seemed very “hands on” which probably accounted for the fact that everything functioned seamlessly and the staff were always polite and on their toes. In such a perfect setting I was intrigued by the feeling that my head might explode at any moment.

         When I chose the hotel I didn’t know what the word “Lantana” meant. I thought it might have been the name of an Indian tribe that the owners had expropriated because it had a cool ring to it, like “Cheyenne,” “Cherokee”, or “Lakota”. It turns out that I was partially right when Madame told me her husband had chosen the name because it sounded good in any language and that they both loved lantana flowers. When you pull into the hotel driveway on the quiet street between the center of Pula and the beach, the first thing that grabs your attention is an enormous bush of yellow lantana set next to a manicured lawn as green as any golf course or cemetery. Though I had been to Italy many times, I didn’t remember ever seeing these flowers before. Maybe it was how my mind was structured at the moment that made me notice them immediately and constantly. Besides the yellow ones there were hoards of reddish-gold and others as white as milk. They were as beautiful as any flowers I had ever seen. When one is mingling with madness, beauty tends to take on exaggerated proportions.

         The flight had left Geneva at 6h00, which meant we had had to get up a little before 4h00. We landed in Cagliari at 7h20, but the car rental joint didn’t open until 8h00. Small airports can do such things. In any case, we were all rather tired when we finally checked in at the Lantana Resort a few minutes after ten. Fortunately the room was ready and the mother of my daughter and I were able to take a nap. The daughter spent the time pecking her IPhone.

         Lunch in the hotel was over-priced as far as the food was concerned, but not if you took into account where you were eating. The terrace was lovely, the waitress attentive and pleasant, and the view of the pool, fountain, gardens, and palm trees magically made the eleven-euro pizza seem reasonably priced even though we would later find out you could get a much better one in the main Pula plaza for half the price.

         After lunch we walked to the beach a hot mile away. The air was starting to stick to your skin. But as we got near the sea there was a slight breeze, the sand was clean, the water reasonably clear, and the family complaints were minimal. We were on vacation in Sardinia.

         Dinnertime arrived. The maître d’hôtel wore a wide-shouldered cream jacket and looked to have been in the business for at least forty years. The sun was definitely setting on his career, but there was enough bounce in his step and light in his eyes that it was understandable why the owners of Lantana kept him on. He suggested I try the house wine the first evening and that we’d move up from there as the week progressed. I agreed as I was probably too tired to appreciate something special. We had the demi-pension arrangement and would be eating there every night. It turned out the wine was better than average and I went to bed as contented as one with a battered mind can expect to be.

         Usually I don’t dream much, but for whatever reason, the first night inside the walls of the Lantana is still with me, as limpid as the sea at the Chia beach, even now, many days after it all passed through my consciousness.  It was one of those dreams that wakes you like an earthquake.

         She was at the middle of it of course…she and the absolute chaos of living. By chaos I don’t mean noise, jackhammers, and trucks falling out of trees; I mean realizing that the human head might be in no way fit or built to understand what makes anything happen in the world. Of course people everywhere think they know what is causing what and what is going on, but there’s a very good chance that on most fronts everybody is full of shit.

         The fact that I hadn’t seen her for six months didn’t make her appearance in my dream unexpected or extraordinary. She still passes through my mind a thousand times a day, perhaps even more now than when we were seeing each other regularly. It’s normal that I would dream about her. What is not normal is how she would be in the dream.

         She was no longer bone, blood, and flesh. She was trying to simply stand up, to come to me. Her body kept wilting, dropping, falling. Her eyes were there, linked with mine. But the material world had lost all reality. The eyes were dark, almost black, and hung in space like moons or planets. She was near. I was there. But was there enough of me? Was there enough of her? Was there enough reality to allow us to touch?

         I woke up and looked around the room…TV, suitcases, curtains, bathroom door, lamp next to the bed, desk, IPhones being recharged. My daughter was on the foldout bed. Her mother was next to me.

         We would stay at the Lantana for a week. I would walk a lot and get to know the city quite well. The wine would be good. The owners would be on the terrace every morning and often in the evening. The flowers would stay amazingly firm and radiant in spite of the heat. The beach in Chia would be as perfect as a beach can be. I wouldn’t dream of her again, but she would always be there, everywhere.

Conversation With God, Part I

Scream Pope 3

Who are you?

God. Who are you to be asking me questions?

I’m a man.

You are not a “man”. You have no idea what it is to be a man. You call yourselves men, but you don’t know anything about where you came from, what you are for, why you are alive, and how you function.

I know, that’s why I’m asking you. You’re God. You know everything. I thought you could help me understand who I am.

Not only are you wrong about yourself, you are also wrong about me. I don’t know any more about anything than you do.

You don’t?

No, and why should I? What makes you think I know anything more about this existence than you do? You found yourself alive on earth…I found myself alive in the universe. Continue reading


Weeds 1

   Weeds are called “mauvaises herbes” in French – bad herbs, bad little plants. One word in English, two words in French. In English the “bad” is built into the word. Weeds are – by nature – bad. We don’t need to say “bad weeds”. In French “herbes” can be positive,  “herbes fines, plants used to make food taste even better…oregano, thyme, parsley, sage, rosemary and the like. But in English weeds are intrinsically nasty; there are no good ones. Here’s what the people that make the Webster dictionary have to say about being a “weed”: a plant that is not valued where it is growing and is usually of vigorous growth; especially one that tends to overgrow or choke out more desirable plants. Here’s the Free Dictionary’s take on the word: A plant considered undesirable, unattractive, or troublesome, especially one that grows where it is not wanted and often grows or spreads fast or takes the place of desired plants. – Weeds are no good; they overgrow, choke, spread rapidly, take the place of more desirable plants, and are not even pleasant to look at.

 Do you know people who have pangs of conscience when pulling weeds? I saw one in the mirror the other day. He smiled meekly when he said (in all seriousness), “And what if all Being has feelings? What if ants, plants, worms, trees, and even moons and suns have feelings?” I wondered how he could live in this world. He sensed my thought and said, “Of course there would be infinite suffering – suffering everywhere, but wouldn’t there also be infinite joy?”

T.S. Eliot’s Mental Breakdown

THE MAN FROM LLOYD’S                                                                                    M.C. Gardner




Eliot Breakdown 2



Viv 1



Russell 2





Duck 1

 The quacking of ducks is one of nature’s most beautiful sounds. Why we call it “quacking” instead of “talking” is beyond me. Humans think they are the only ones who talk. Birds chirp. Pigs oink. Cows moo. Dogs bark. Cats meow. Frogs croak. Chickens cackle. Crows caw. Donkeys bray. Horses neigh. Mice squeak. Owls hoot. Pigeons coo. Roosters crow. Lions roar. Turkeys gobble. Snakes hiss. People, however, talk…But listen again. Listen to the sounds that come out of human mouths in churches, at sporting events, in love or hate situations, when anger or joy are present, when fear strikes, or even around the dinner table or the TV news desk…There is much quacking, chirping, hissing, cackling, croaking, mooing, braying, squeaking, gobbling, crowing, cooing, meowing, neighing, barking, oinking, hooting, roaring, and gobbling. I seriously doubt that when we humans open our mouths we are describing the truth of the world any better than our four-legged, furry, flying, crawling, web-footed friends are. We have our world; they have theirs. Mankind just can’t seem to understand that his world is no truer, righter, higher, or more important than the worlds of all other beings.

 Human talk is just sounds like any other sounds made by creatures on earth. Because we have what we call “language” does not mean we have truth. Language has nothing to do with truth. Why should it? Why should the sounds that come out of human mouths be representative of “truth” and the sounds that come out of other creatures mouths not be? We have duped ourselves into thinking our “words” are somehow correctly breaking the world down into its real parts. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Our world makes sense to us just like a cat’s world makes sense to a cat and a rooster’s world makes sense to a rooster. But our world is no “truer” or “realer” than that of a cat, rooster, snake, pig, turkey, lion, donkey, mouse, pigeon, owl, turkey, horse, pig, dog, frog, duck, or crow. We do what we do and we die, just like all the above boys, girls, men, and women.

 Ah! You didn’t like it when I called so-called animals “boys and girls, men and women”! You want to reserve those words only for yourselves. Do you see how you are? On what do you base your distinctions? Do you know what is behind “life”? Do you know what moves “being”? Do you know what is the essence of anything? No, you don’t. You don’t even have the slightest idea as to why you do anything you do. No thought, no emotion, no movement in any part of your body is known to you. It happens and then you look back and give it a reason. But you have no idea why any of it happens. None. Zero. The human mind, the duck mind, the lion mind, the pig mind…no mind has any idea of what is behind “being”. We can talk all we want with all our words, but we will never understand what moves any part of the universe to be what it is.

 So which parts of the world do you want to pretend you understand and hence can accurately “talk about”? If you think deeply before you talk, will you have anything to say?

Greg Darlin’

Leontyne Price 3

My Weekend with Leontyne Price

Greg Stanford

The great American soprano Leontyne Price was among the recipients of the Kennedy Center Honor in 1980, the third annual Kennedy Center Honors presentation and gala. Her fellow recipients were Leonard Bernstein, James Cagney, Agnes DeMille and Lynn Fontanne. While most of the honorees come with a personal guest, the Kennedy Center provides an escort for each recipient for the weekend, from pickup at the airport to the return. This person is normally a Kennedy Center employee, preferably one with a knowledge and appreciation of the artist in his or her charge. It was my good fortune to be that person for Leontyne Price, a singer I had long admired. At the very least, I considered her one of the two greatest Verdi sopranos of the Twentieth Century, alongside the long retired Rosa Ponselle, who had walked away from her career at forty in the mid 1930’s. Continue reading

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