On Barbara Greene-Mann

Portrait of a Cancer Survivor
Trying to spin the life and work of the artist known to me as Barbara Greene, who somewhere along lost years became Barbara Greene-Mann, is critical folly. If there exists any spin, it is a (super) natural phenomenon, like the female Elijah sucked up in whirlwinds and transported from one enthusiasm to another, or one despair to another, from heaven to hell, ever-chronicling in one art-form or another the vertiginous view. She paints and she tap dances. She sings and she draws. She plucks feathers from passing birds and makes collages. is critical folly. If there exists any spin, it is a (super) natural phenomenon, like the female Elijah sucked up in whirlwinds and transported from one enthusiasm to another, or one despair to another, from heaven to hell, ever-chronicling in one art-form or another the vertiginous view. 

Malignant Narcissism: Trending or Ending?

by Tommy George

I envision myself as an author dealt a unique thematic niche based on my personal recognition and experience of Malignant Narcissism, a psychiatric disorder declared by Erich Fromm (perhaps a touch melodramatically) as the “quintessence of evil.” I ask you--reader, story editor, agent, publicist, and publisher--to consider such claims 1) in light of the theme's still-evolving definition, 2) in terms of Media Relations: what professional protocol is needed to legitimize and differentiate a new niche within the Mass Mind. After those near-imponderables, if you are still willing, I ask that you take a look at my writing so far in this odd milieu.
Click Cover Illustration(s) Below to Sample the Novels

1st Completed Novella
Novel in Gestation

I Resolve to Stop Making Resolutions

by Tommy George

Just before the start of each new year--about 11:40 PM each December 31st, filled with some spirit sufficient to resurrect my belief in the Tooth Fairy--I find myself in the ammonia-scented, empty corner of whatever riotous tavern I happen to be in, chin in one hand, stumpy pencil in the other, drawing up a list of impossible resolutions for the twelve months about to befall my besotted existence. These annual compendia of wishful thinking are a habit hard to break, because of the items I include, I sometimes accomplish one or two, at least in part. For example, last year I resolved to start using the bathroom for nocturnal calls of nature (i.e., no more bed-wetting). I made it work for a full four months. The other occupants of our family bed--my wife, mother-in-law, and four children--stopped calling me a wretched pee-boy father figure during those pleasantly arid nights.  

I: Grandmother Undantva (Oona) Whitekiller

A History of My Mother in Three Parts. Part I

by Tommy George
Oona at 18

I have grandparents I never met. In fact, I never even learned their names until I was in my 40's, and my mother, in the spirit of the times, was loosening up about her mixed race particulars. My grandmother Oona Whitekiller was a full-blooded Cherokee whose family had been chased down a trail of tears in one of US History's ugliest episodes, and come to reside near Crudestruck, Oklahoma, on settlement lands distributed by the government. Oona Whitekiller had been left to fend for herself since the death of her father's sister (the last Whitekiller elder), who perished in the withering heat of Summer, 1914. Oona's legacy was the family home of unpainted wood where she was born and spent her life watching others die, in time dying there herself.

II. Sula Whitekiller Enters the World in 1915

by Tommy George

A History of My Mother in Three Parts. Part II
Left to her own devices, Grandmother Oona elected to remain living alone in the old wooden house, the walls of which exuded salt inside the home. When the wind blew, the outside world turned to a turbulent moonscape, tiny grains stinging Crudestruck for a menial's wage. The marooned Cherokee maiden by her final teenage year had become an accomplished pianist with mind and fine hands to match, consumed by the passionate dexterity required by the music of Mozart and Beethoven, Liszt and Chopin, great European composers

She sometimes lamented of her dark skin tone, for the world was far larger than her young experience, and filled with conflicting words and meanings, stated intent and far different experience.The one principle she had avowed unequivocally was to remain chaste--and not die of rotten sex gone into the blood and the brain, and then blown out the ears, as had been her mother's end, so piteously weeping blood. The solitary maiden resisted for months the animals pawings at her door--young red men, not yet braves but clearly not boys--pleading to be let into her house. 

III. Sula Whitekiller Overcomes Racism the Old-Fashioned Way: Passing

A History of My Mother in Three Parts. Part III
By Tommy George

8-year-old Sula Whitekiller
2016-3-12. Even as a child, my mixed race mother felt herself a dislocated person--she was half Cherokee, half Irish, but looked lily white. Early on, she vowed to remake her world. It would require silence and cunning for the child Sula Whitekiller to resist the hopelessness overtaking Native Americans of the 1920's. She was born on the Cherokee settlement land of her forebearers and wanted nothing more than to be a different person, somewhere else. Her grandmother (my great-grandmother) had managed to get away from the Cherokee settlement by joining up with a Wild West show, but she returned after a dissolute decade of bad acting to make an even worse exit from life, her teeth turned black and her person suffering from tertiary syphilis at the age of 40. 

My mom's extended history says something about the mutability of race and caste, poverty and power, and their relation to human will. It also supports an idea I always detested, that everybody is where they are supposed to be at any given time. By extension, that means that you and I may yet have miles to go before ending up to our necks in some predestined mess, either to overcome and triumph or let ourselves get sucked under and die. Worse, it may take a lifetime of horrific accidence to get there.

The A-B-C's of a Much Cooler Detroit

by Tommy George

See the grinning wraith below. It is L. Brooks Pattersen. He declared in a national magazine that he thinks fencing off Detroit, throwing in some corn and blankets, and letting the Native Americans have it back is the answer to Detroit's problems. He thought he was making a joke, but history may bear out that his impudent remark is the only intelligent idea the man ever expressed.

L. Brooks Pattersen

Exethalamion, Part the First

By Tommy George

Exethalamion > Greek: Homage to Divorce

168,000 B.C.

Seventeen-hundred steaming centuries ago 

Your future essence was conjured amidst clouds of acrid stink 
in an ungroomed farrago, when a gnarly ur-pimp 
pinned your greatest granny down at the tar-pit;
she came to in his cave wearing only a bear-skin carpet.
Thus entered politics ancient into the bargain.

Miss Piggy's Luv-a-Cop Telethon

Wipe Your Eyes, My Hero! Miss Piggy Will Find a Way!

by Tommy George

18 December 2014. Allison, Iowa. Scoff-laws of America, beware! You won't be breaking the law around here anymore, because law-enforcement has got your number. McGruff the Crime Dog has already put away over 2,300,000--that's two-million, three-hundred thousand!--lawbreakers. Human being-type people--gone wrong! That's the number of men and women presently locked up in American prisons and jails--more than any other nation in the entire history of evil-doing! We're beating the pants off old Eichman!