Jack's Tribe Quotes

Being good at being a man isn’t a quest for moral perfection, it’s about fighting to survive. Good men admire or respect bad men when they demonstrate strength, courage, mastery or a commitment to the men of their own renegade tribes. A concern with being good at being a man is what good guys and bad guys have in common.

Above, the heavens glow, the sky pale with starlight. Some long-buried part of me understands that this is beauty, but I am unable to wonder at it, the way I did when I was a boy. Back then, I clambered up spiky Jack trees to get closer to the stars, sure that a few feet of height would help me see them better. Back then, my world had been sand and sky and the love of Tribe Saif, who saved me from exposure. Back then, everything was different.

THe Gnobi, when not roused to violence, were a sluggish clan, the least nomadic of Boarderland's tribes. Not sensing any immediate threat to their freedoms in the person of Jack Diamond, they had responded to his urgency with characteristic listessness. "Myrval's tent is somewhere that way," one of them had said with a vauge wave of the hand. "Follow the sound of the snoring and you'll find it," another had suggested.

When you feel overwhelmed or unfocused, what do you do? I have a friend at the gym who knew Jack LaLanne (Google him if the name is unfamiliar). Jack used to say it’s okay to take a day off from working out. But on that day, you’re not allowed to eat. That’s the short way of saying you’re not really allowed to get unfocused. Take a vacation. Gather yourself. But know that the only reason you’re here on this planet is to follow your star and do what the Muse tells you. It’s amazing how a good day’s work will get you right back to feeling like yourself.

For every year humans had been modern, they had been primitive for seven hundred more, which left a residue, and by then the back part of my brain was firmly in charge - My tribe needs you gone, pal. And you're ugly, too. And you're a pussy.

The air you're breathing right now is also the same air that once circulated through the respiratory system of Jesus over 2000 years ago, which probably makes you feel a bit spiritual, doesn’t it? But unfortunately you’re also breathing the same air that once circulated through the body of Jack the Ripper, which probably makes you feel a bit shit

He was incorrigible, yet you can’t help but love him. His devil-may-care attitude, his brash nature and his vivaciousness aligned with his self-assertive and fearless nature gave birth to a Star who most people will, never, ever see the likes of. People like Sixteen-String Jack are wild, untameable and impossible to forget.

We invariably have an internalised personal code of honour, an inner voice that embodies us with a sincere, strong sense of decency that surpasses Rag, Tag & Bobtail’s acquiescence to law and ethics. Think Captain Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean, Terry McCann from Minder or the heroic English folklore outlaw, Robin Hood.

Sir Richard Francis Burton was a cross between Indiana Jones and Captain Jack Sparrow, with perhaps a little piece of the warrior-poet Aragorn from Lord of the Rings thrown in for good measure. Or maybe I should rephrase that; all these swashbuckling film heroes, including probably John Rambo, may well have been loosely based on Burton and his life

I’ve been a non-believer all of my life, but I’d drop to my knees and sing the praises of any righteous god who collapsed this Tower of Babel and scattered men across the Earth in a million virile, competing cultures, tribes, and gangs.

Once in a lifetime, if we’re lucky, a Sixteen-String Jack Rann crosses our paths, and if we’re really lucky he or she becomes a friend. You’ll know them because even though they may be scoundrels they affect all those around them positively. They will be larger than life characters who will draw people to them without any intentional effort whatsoever. And they’ll make people smile.

The Internet is a good filter. It’s a good way to find men who share some of your values. However, your friends on message boards and on social networking sites, scattered all over the world, are not going to be there for you when the proverbial shit hits the fan. Spend more time making contact with men who are geographically close to you. If you have close friends in your area, consider moving into the same apartment complex or within a few blocks of one another. Think about the way gangs start in inner cities. Men and boys have lived and died to defend tribes with territories as small as a few blocks. Proximity creates familiarity and shared identity. It creates us. Spreading our alliances across nations and continents keeps us reliant on the power of the State and the global economy. Men who are separated and have no one else to rely on must rely on the State.

An ancestor of mine, Jesse Wiggins, was hung for stealing sheep, and I don’t know how I feel about that. Was he a dashing, swashbuckling ‘outlaw’ or a desperate, brutal criminal? I’d like to think he was a rustler or possibly a highwayman, a ‘knight of the road.’ Dick Turpin or maybe Sixteen-String Jack Rann. But in all likelihood Jesse Wiggins was simply hungry and stole a battered old sheep to feed his family, and that’s what cost him his life.

When you feel small and invisible or stretched-too-thin-and-all-used up, when life feels too hard to live and pain feels too much to bear, when guilt and shame and self-condemnation feel too heavy to carry, go outside and stand barefoot in the stardust-speckled dirt with your face tilted up to the universe and whisper to your wounded heart, 'This is not how my story ends. There is so much more to life than this moment, these hours, this day, this season of my life. It's my story. I get to choose. It doesn't end here;' And then take your pen in hand and write the rest of your gorgeous, shredded, pasted-back-together story however you choose to write it. And remember, you're not alone. We're all writing our own jacked up stories our own way, too. Welcome to our tribe of misfits and outcasts and rebels and dreamers. We are the story-weavers. And we're all on this ride through the galaxy together.

Because you are the daughter of your Khan father, you are sent to govern the people of the Oirat tribe.

I’ve always loved wild people, and Sixteen-String Jack Rann reminds so much of my mate, Dave Brotherton, that it’s uncanny. Not that Dave was ever a highwayman – although he may well have been in a past life – but like Jack he was born with a wild hair up his arse, and that’s all there is to it. He has a savage charisma about him that radiates out of the chaos of his life. His energy comes at you from all directions and watching Dave, when he’s on form, is like trying to keep your eyes on the pattern the sun makes as it bounces off the waves at dusk

We are, each of us, alone. And this is the first law of masculinity. And it is the most important law. Your value is equal to the value which you bring to the tribe. We are not equal. You are not special. Respect is earned, not given. Your brothers will not love you unconditionally for who you are, just being yourself. They will criticise you, push you to your limits, bring out the best in you, and give you their respect when earned. And this isn't shocking at all. This is common knowledge to any man. Your childhood is over. The boy is dead. It's time to be a man for the rest of your life.

Within and about the Forest of Tantrevalles existed a hundred or more fairy shees, each the castle of a fairy tribe. Thripsey Shee on Madling Meadow, little more than a mile within the precincts of the forest, was ruled by King Throbius and his spouse Queen Bossum. His realm included Madling Meadow and as much of the forest surrounding as was consistent with his dignity. The fairies at Thripsey numbered eighty-six.

I am that man, the sum of him, the all of him, the hairless biped who struggled upward from the slime and created love and law out of the anarchy of fecund life that screamed and squalled in the jungle. I am all that that man was and did become. I see myself, through the painful generations, snaring and killing the game and the fish, clearing the first fields from the forest, making rude tools of stone and bone, building houses of wood, thatching the roofs with leaves and straw, domesticating the wild grasses and meadow roots, fathering them to become the progenitors of rice and millet and wheat and barley and all manner of succulent edibles, learning to scratch the soil, to sow, to reap, to store, beating out the fibers of plants to spin into thread and to weave into cloth, devising systems of irrigation, working in metals, making markets and trade routes, building boats, and founding navigation—ay, and organizing village life, welding villages to villages till they became tribes, welding tribes together till they became nations, ever seeking the laws of things, ever making the laws of humans so that humans might live together in amity and by united effort beat down and destroy all manner of creeping, crawling, squalling things that might else destroy them.

In the Babemba tribe of South Africa, when a person acts irresponsibly or unjustly, he is placed in the center of the village, alone and unfettered. All work ceases, and every man, woman, and child in the village gathers in a large circle around the accused individual. Then each person in the tribe speaks to the accused, one at a time, each recalling the good things the person in the center of the circle has done in his lifetime. Every incident, every experience that can be recalled with any detail and accuracy, is recounted. All his positive attributes, good deeds, strengths, and kindnesses are recited carefully and at length. This tribal ceremony often lasts for several days. At the end, the tribal circle is broken, a joyous celebration takes place, and the person is symbolically and literally welcomed back into the tribe.

Raiding followed a geographic pattern originating in the north. The southern tribes that lived closest to the trade cities of the Silk Route always had more goods than the more distant northern tribes. The southern men had the best weapons, and to succeed against them, the northern men had to move quicker, think more cleverly, and fight harder. This alternating pattern of trade and raiding supplied a slow, but steady, trickle of metal and textile goods moving northward, where the weather was always worse, the grazing more sparse, and men more rugged and violent.

Not a single family finds itself exempt from that one haunted casualty who suffered irreparable damage in the crucible they entered at birth. Where some children can emerge from conditions of soul-killing abuse and manage to make their lives into something of worth and value, others can’t limp away from the hurts and gleanings time decanted for them in flawed beakers of memory. They carry the family cross up the hill toward Calvary and don’t mind letting every other member of their aggrieved tribe in on the source of their suffering. There is one crazy that belongs to each of us: the brother who kills the spirit of any room he enters; the sister who’s a drug addict in her teens and marries a series of psychopaths, always making sure she bears their children, who carry their genes of madness to the grave. There’s the neurotic mother who’s so demanding that the sound of her voice over the phone can cause instant nausea in her daughters. The variations are endless and fascinating. I’ve never attended a family reunion where I was not warned of a Venus flytrap holding court among the older women, or a pitcher plant glistening with drops of sweet poison trying to sell his version of the family maelstrom to his young male cousins. When the stories begin rolling out, as they always do, one learns of feuds that seem unbrokerable, or sexual abuse that darkens each tale with its intimation of ruin. That uncle hates that aunt and that cousin hates your mother and your sister won’t talk to your brother because of something he said to a date she later married and then divorced. In every room I enter I can sniff out unhappiness and rancor like a snake smelling the nest of a wren with its tongue. Without even realizing it, I pick up associations of distemper and aggravation. As far as I can tell, every family produces its solitary misfit, its psychotic mirror image of all the ghosts summoned out of the small or large hells of childhood, the spiller of the apple cart, the jack of spades, the black-hearted knight, the shit stirrer, the sibling with the uncontrollable tongue, the father brutal by habit, the uncle who tried to feel up his nieces, the aunt too neurotic ever to leave home. Talk to me all you want about happy families, but let me loose at a wedding or a funeral and I’ll bring you back the family crazy. They’re that easy to find.

Though the steppe tribes of his time changed sides at the least provocation and soldiers might desert their leaders, none of Temujin’s generals deserted him throughout his six decades as a warrior. In turn, Temujin never punished or harmed one of his generals. Among the great kings and conquerors of history, this record of fidelity is unique.

We’ve all got a dozen or so friends, haven’t we? And when we’re drunk we philosophise well into the night on an array of subjects ranging from what happened before the Big Bang to who would win a fight between a vampire and zombie, to what’s the most compromising position to be caught in, but we’re hardly going to be extolled in 60 or 70 years’ time as the Heat Generation or the Cheat Generation or the Street Generation, are we? The Tweet Generation, maybe, but that’s about all. So what was it about these few guys? Well, they wrote about what they did, and what they did was quite revolutionary back then. They went On the Road, and it was Jack Kerouac’s book that turned the tide.

Here are my 11 favorite poems to read when I am feeling depressed (11 is the master power number): “The Fish” by Elizabeth Bishop “Leaving One” by Ralph Angel “A Cat in an Empty Apartment” by Wisława Szymborska “Apples” by Deborah Digges “Michiko Nogami (1946–1982)” by Jack Gilbert “Eating Alone” by Li-Young Lee “The Potter” by Peter Levitt “Black Dog, Red Dog” by Stephen Dobyns “The Word” by Mark Cox “Death” by Maurycy Szymel “This” by Czeslaw Milosz

Recently, a professor at Penn State told my son Joshua's class that during a trip to Africa, he had a mysterious encounter with a witch doctor of a tribe. He watched with horror as this witch doctor put a man into a trance and made the man put his face into burning coals and move them around with his nose on the ground. The man received no burns and wasn't even aware of the sensation of burning his flesh. The professor, being a committed naturalist, had no way to understand this obviously satanic phenomena. His scientific model didn't include any supernatural cause, whether it be godly or satanic. He admitted this fact to the class. He said that he saw what happened yet he did not believe it, because he couldn't fit it into what he called his scientific model . . . If their presuppositions rule out the supernatural, that is that! There is no more.

One of the most astounding discoveries in the history of humankind was made in Turkey in the 1960s - and yet few people are aware of it. An ancient burial complex was discovered which featured huge ornate carved stone pillars in a circular arrangement. Archaeologists date the building to around 9000BC. This is particularly amazing because humans did not develop agriculture until after this date; as tribes had to constantly move to find new sources of food, one would not expect to find buildings of that age, as there were no permanent settlements. No-one has been able to explain how this permanent structure came about, although it has been speculated that it was most likely a religious site.

RULE 3. Leaders get into everyone’s skin, exuding positive energy and optimism. You know that old saying “The fish rots from the head.” It’s mainly used to refer to how politics and corruption filter down into an organization, but it could just as easily be used to describe the effect of a bad attitude at the top of any team, large or small. Eventually, everyone’s infected. The leader’s mood is, for lack of a better word, catching. You’ve seen the dynamic a hundred times. An upbeat manager who goes through the day with a positive outlook somehow ends up running a team or organization filled with…well, upbeat people with positive outlooks. A pessimistic sourpuss somehow ends up with an unhappy tribe all his own. Unhappy tribes have a tough time winning. Of course, sometimes there are good reasons to be down. The economy is bad, competition is brutal—whatever. Work can be hard. But your job as leader is to fight the gravitational pull of negativism. That doesn’t mean you sugarcoat the challenges your team faces. It does mean you display an energizing, can-do attitude about overcoming them. It means you get out of your office and into everyone’s skin, really caring about what they’re doing and how they’re faring as you take the hill together.

Whether these adoptions began for sentimental reasons or for political ones, Temujin displayed a keen appreciation of the symbolic significance and practical benefit of such acts in uniting his followers through this usage of fictive kinship. In the same way that he took these children into his own family, he accepted the conquered people into his tribe with the possibility that they would share fairly in the future conquests and prosperity of his army.

It’s worth taking a second to think about what it really means to be a tribe. In Permission Marketing, years ago, I wrote about how marketers must earn the right to deliver anticipated, personal, and relevant messages to people who want to get them. And that’s still correct, as far as it goes. But tribes go much further. That’s because in addition to the messages that go from the marketer or the leader to the tribe, there are the messages that go sideways, from member to member, and back to the leader as well. The Grateful Dead understood this. They created concerts to allow people not just to hear their music, but to hear it together. That’s where the tribe part comes in. I just heard about Jack, an “occasional restaurant” run by Danielle Sucher and Dave Turner in Brooklyn. They open the restaurant only about twenty times a year, on Saturday nights. By appointment. Go online and you can see the menu in advance. Then, you book and pay if you want to go. Instead of seeking diners for their dishes, Danielle and Dave get to create dishes for their diners. Instead of serving anonymous patrons, they throw a party. Danielle is the food columnist for the popular Gothamist Web site, and she and Dave run the food blog Habeas Brûlée. That means they already interact with the tribe. It

African witchcraft?’ Kaiser peered over his glasses as if Caffery was a mystery. ‘I’m not sure which of those two words is the most ignorant and patronizing. To describe a deep-seated cultural belief as ‘witchcraft’ or to apply the universal label ‘African’ instead of using the name of a tribe or, at the very least, a country. Even if the concept of a country is a colonialist construct, it’s better than giving them all one title – ‘African’.

It has always been the job of men to separate “us” from “them,” and to police and protect the boundaries of the band, tribe, kingdom or nation. The function of women has always been to unify the tribe from within, to nurture positive relationships, to make everyone feel wanted and included, and to care for and empathize with the young, the old, the sick and the wounded.

Jack used to say it’s okay to take a day off from working out. But on that day, you’re not allowed to eat.

As historian Theda Perdue and anthropologist Jack Campisi have noted separately, the closing of all-Indian schools created a crisis for southeastern Indians. When institutions like the East Carolina Indian School in Sampson County, North Caroline, locked its doors, a symbol of Indian pride, independence, and identity was closed as well. Despite the negative publicity surrounding integration, some silver lining soon appeared. The loss of schools prompted many groups to establish formal tribal entities in place of old board of education and related committees.

Hunting and war are inexorably mixed. They share a common father. Death begets life, and in defense of oneself, one’s family, one’s tribe, or one’s country, killing is often a part of the equation.

Becoming a barbarian — becoming the kind of man who can belong to a tribe — requires a level of commitment that makes “good, modern, civilized men” uncomfortable.

Furious at being deceived, Zeus devises the supreme trick in the form of a ‘gift’ to men, ‘an evil thing for their delight’, Pandora, the ‘all giver’. The Greek phrase used to describe her, ‘kalon kakon’, means ‘the beautiful evil’. Her beauty compares to that of the goddesses: From her comes all the race of womankind The deadly female race and tribe of wives Who live with mortal men and bring them harm. 3

Furious at being deceived, Zeus devises the supreme trick in the form of a ‘gift’ to men, ‘an evil thing for their delight’, Pandora, the ‘all giver’. The Greek phrase used to describe her, ‘kalon kakon’, means ‘the beautiful evil’. Her beauty compares to that of the goddesses: From her comes all the race of womankind The deadly female race and tribe of wives Who live with mortal men and bring them harm. 3 The gods give her ‘sly manners, and the morals of a bitch’.

bear Indian names such as Yukon, Ontario, Manitoba, and Saskatchewan in the north, and Alabama, Mississippi, Texas, and Arizona in the south. Often these names reflect the tribal names of the people who lived in an area. Such names might be a tribe’s own name for itself, or it might be the name given them by a neighboring group. We have states named for the Dakota, the Kansa, the Massachuset, the Illini, and the Utes. Some are names that describe the land or the water. Iowa is a Siouan word for “beautiful land,” Wyoming derives from the Algonquian for a large prairie, Michigan is Ojibwa for “great water,” and Minnesota is Siouan for “waters that reflect the sky.” The original meanings are often rather straightforward, but translators and local boosters have usually worked to derive the most poetic name possible. Nebraska means “flat” or “broad river” in the Omaha language; this makes it similar in meaning but not pronunciation to the Algonquian term for “long river” that eventually became Connecticut. Ohio means “good river” in Iroquoian languages, and Oregon means “beautiful water” in Algonquian. Kentucky has one of the more mysterious meanings: “dark and bloody ground.

Jack Canfield quote, “Everything you want is on the other side of fear.

while Jack Kirk—a.k.a. “the Dipsea Demon”—was still running the hellacious Dipsea Trail Race at age ninety-six. The race begins with a 671-step cliffside climb, which means a man nearly half as old as America was climbing a fifty-story staircase before running off into the woods. “You don’t stop running because you get old,” said the Demon. “You get old because you stop running.

Why did taking the life of a wild creature always give him a pause? Maybe it was because there was time; time to stalk, time to choose, time to contemplate the impact of removing an animal from the ecosystem to nourish his family. Life begets life, and death is a natural part of the cycle. In combat one kills as quickly and efficiently as possible and then moves on to the next target. Killing his fellow man was not something that gave Reece pause. One was to provide sustenance while the other was to protect the tribe.

children had children, and his oldest son, Jack, would succeed him as the tribe’s Head Man. (Jack Red Cloud would in turn be succeeded by his son James; his son, Chief Oliver Red Cloud, died at ninety-three on July 4, 2013, 110 years to the day after his great-grandfather stepped down as chief.)

Social media only makes people more afraid. It only makes them conform more. Not alone do we have friends, family and co-workers telling us how to behave; we also have people we don’t know on social media telling us how we should behave. The more your identity is known by the tribe, the more you will be duped into conforming.

his death in 1241, she became the official regent. For the next ten years, until 1251, she and a small group of other women controlled the largest empire in world history. None of the women had been born a Mongol but had instead been married into the family from a conquered steppe tribe, and most of the women were Christians. Neither their gender nor religion hindered their rise to power nor the struggle against one another as

breed.

During the next two weeks Trurl fed general instructions into his future electropoet, then set up all the necessary logic circuits, emotive elements, semantic centers. He was about to invite Klapaucius to attend a trial run, but thought better of it and started the machine himself. It immediately proceeded to deliver a lecture on the grinding of crystallographical surfaces as an introduction to the study of submolecular magnetic anomalies. Trurl bypassed half the logic circuits and made the emotive more electromotive; the machine sobbed, went into hysterics, then finally said, blubbering terribly, what a cruel, cruel world this was. Trurl intensified the semantic fields and attached a strength of character component; the machine informed him that from now on he would carry out its every wish and to begin with add six floors to the nine it already had, so it could better meditate upon the meaning of existence. Trurl installed a philosophical throttle instead; the machine fell silent and sulked. Only after endless pleading and cajoling was he able to get it to recite something: "I had a little froggy." That appeared to exhaust its repertoire. Trurl adjusted, modulated, expostulated, disconnected, ran checks, reconnected, reset, did everything he could think of, and the machine presented him with a poem that made him thank heaven Klapaucius wasn't there to laugh — imagine, simulating the whole Universe from scratch, not to mention Civilization in every particular, and to end up with such dreadful doggerel! Trurl put in six cliché filters, but they snapped like matches; he had to make them out of pure corundum steel. This seemed to work, so he jacked the semanticity up all the way, plugged in an alternating rhyme generator — which nearly ruined everything, since the machine resolved to become a missionary among destitute tribes on far-flung planets. But at the very last minute, just as he was ready to give up and take a hammer to it, Trurl was struck by an inspiration; tossing out all the logic circuits, he replaced them with self-regulating egocentripetal narcissistors. The machine simpered a little, whimpered a little, laughed bitterly, complained of an awful pain on its third floor, said that in general it was fed up, through, life was beautiful but men were such beasts and how sorry they'd all be when it was dead and gone. Then it asked for pen and paper.

Over the last half of my life, I’ve read hundreds of poetry books. Whenever I read a poem that I loved or felt a deep connection to, I added it to a collection I titled “200 Antidepressant Poems.” Now, whenever I feel overwhelmed or feel I did something wrong, I go to the meditation room, randomly open my manuscript, then read a poem loudly. Usually two poems are enough to make me feel better and restore love in my heart. Here are my 11 favorite poems to read when I am feeling depressed (11 is the master power number): “The Fish” by Elizabeth Bishop “Leaving One” by Ralph Angel “A Cat in an Empty Apartment” by Wisława Szymborska “Apples” by Deborah Digges “Michiko Nogami (1946–1982)” by Jack Gilbert “Eating Alone” by Li-Young Lee “The Potter” by Peter Levitt “Black Dog, Red Dog” by Stephen Dobyns “The Word” by Mark Cox “Death” by Maurycy Szymel “This” by Czeslaw Milosz