1947 lines
99 KiB
Plaintext
1947 lines
99 KiB
Plaintext
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Living in such a state taTestaTesTaTe etats a hcus ni gniviL
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of mind in which time sTATEsTAtEsTaTeStA emit hcihw ni dnim of
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does not pass, space STateSTaTeSTaTeStAtE ecaps ,ssap ton seod
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does not exist, and sTATeSt oFOfOfo dna ,tsixe ton seod
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idea is not there. STatEst ofoFOFo .ereht ton si aedi
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Stuck in a place staTEsT OfOFofo ecalp a ni kcutS
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where movements TATeSTa foFofoF stnemevom erehw
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are impossible fOFoFOf elbissopmi era
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in all forms, UsOFofO ,smrof lla ni
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physical and nbEifof dna lacisyhp
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or mental - uNBeInO - latnem ro
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your mind is UNbeinG si dnim rouy
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focusing on a unBEING a no gnisucof
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lone thing, or NBeINgu ro ,gniht enol
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a lone nothing. bEinGUn .gnihton enol a
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You are numb and EiNguNB dna bmun era ouY
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unaware to events stneve ot erawanu
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taking place - not -iSSuE- ton - ecalp gnikat
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knowing how or what SEVENTEEN tahw ro woh gniwonk
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to think. You are in 5/28/95 ni era uoY .kniht ot
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a state of unbeing.... ....gniebnu fo etats a
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE
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=----------------------=
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GUESSED EDiTORiAL Crux Ansata
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LETTERS TO THE EDiTOR
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STAFF LiSTiNGS
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[=- ARTiCLES -=]
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CAPiTALiSM & AMERiCA'S DECLiNE Lares et Penates
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THOUGHTS ON CROM KidKnee
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CRiME & PUNiSHMENT Lares et Penates
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THE POLiTiCiZATiON OF THE MiLiTiA Bobbi Sands
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AUTOMATiON: SUPPLANTiNG THE WORKER Lares et Penates
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PUT YOUR LEFT FOOT iN, PULL YOUR LEFT FOOT OUT,
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PUT YOUR LEFT FOOT iN AND SHAKE iT ALL ABOUT Kilgore Trout
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i WiSH i WERE A GURU I Wish My Name Were Nathan
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[=- POETRiE -=]
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EMPATHY introvert
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A POEM OF LiFE Dark Gathering
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HERE i AM Tejas
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SPECKS The Dancing Messiah
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WORDS AND PHRASES (July 17, 1975) Tejas
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[=- FiCTiON -=]
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SiTTiNG ON THE TOOLSHED ROOF I Wish My Name Were Nathan
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A PASSiON PLAY Tull
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A BRiEF ENCOUNTER I Wish My Name Were Nathan
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NEW BEGiNNiNGS Nomad
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SUN OUT I Wish My Name Were Nathan
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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GUESSED EDiTORiAL
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by Crux Ansata
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Well, for the last five hours or so, I've been sitting here watching
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Kilgore assemble the zine with blinding speed. Never made from potatoes.
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And, he says, in punishment for not having written anything this issue, I
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have to write the editorial, or I'll never see my family again. When that
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didn't work, he said he do something bad or something. (Actually, I did
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write something, but it is under my handle, not my real name. But let's not
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tell Kilgore....)
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First, I have to take up space with house cleaning. Or something.
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First, under intense suppression by Agent Williams, Kilgore has been forced
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underground. The board, iSiS UNVEiLED, is now located in a cavern under
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Colorado. The new number is at the end of the issue. Don't tell the Feds.
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Second, in protest for the bombing of the Bosnians, our usual quote supplier
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has boycotted us. We assured him that we aren't bombing the Bosnians, but he
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didn't believe us. If we could release his name, we'd ask everyone to
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pressure him. But he knows who he is....
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Well, that was two paragraphs.
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At this point, I should probably talk a little about what is in this
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issue. We can't remember, though. There is a letter to the editor for the
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first time in a long time. It would be nice if you people would write in.
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There are also Kilgore's sensitive and caring responses to the points
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addressed in the letter. We have a lot of articles again this issue, and
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they are primarily about politics and mysticism. Evidently we ran short of
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love and suicide, so we had to fall back on our other two topics. It would
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be nice if you people would write in. A few poems. I was out of the room.
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Also, I Wish My Name Were Shorter has several stories, and a couple from
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other people. Or something.
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It would be nice if you people would write in.
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Well, I've been ignoring the situation in Eastern Europe, so that pretty
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much leaves me Oklahoma and the Ebola virus to talk about.
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Ebola bad. Don't get it.
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About Oklahoma. Well, I suppose it is a pity that kids died. But, just
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to put this in perspective, 17 born and 2 unborn children died in the
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government sponsored Waco inferno, and by proportion, the government is more
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of the baby killer motif. The kids were stored in a legitimate target -- a
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SS and FBI building. The government accuses the bombers of being evil
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babykillers, while they hide behind the slanted media. For evil
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babykilling: Dresden, My Lai, Baghdad. In war, kids die. It's sad, but I
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just ask everyone to listen to all sides, and not just government rhetoric.
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The views expressed in this editorial do not necessarily reflect the
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views of the editors or writers of this publication. Feel free to blame the
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readers and quote suppliers.
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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LETTERS TO THE EDiTOR
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Dear America,
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I've sent this letter to discuss the epidemic spreading through the coun-
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try. This epidemic is called P.C. (Political Correctness). The whole concept
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behind P.C. is total and utter bullshit. The people who use this are damn
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cowards. They're afraid of showing their but they'll still try to enforce it
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on others. I don't care what someone calls himself, black, white, African-
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American, I really don't give a damn. I've been called a racist for how I
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feel toward others. But let me make this point -- I hate every one of you
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mother fuckers -- whether you're white, black, or whatever. I'm also tired of
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all the belly aching from our country. We're too fucking lazy to realize the
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system is crashing around our ears and we're not doing a damn thing, we're too
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damn busy suing each other and talking on talk shows.
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I won't apologize for my hatred and I won't apologize for my actions --
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because I don't care what you think, because I'll just keep acting Politically
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Incorrect.
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Peace, Love, War,
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Wrathful Prodigy
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[Aside from the fact that basically every angry white American is said to
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feel this way, and even though this topic is getting *really* old, I decided
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to publish this letter for the following reasons:
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1) We'll publish anything. But you know that anyway.
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2) Maybe you'll get pissed off and write something back. Rebuke, I say,
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is the name of the game.
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3) Some people haven't really moved onto the really important topics
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that should be discussed in this lifetime -- for examples, please see
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the articles section. We just think it's pretty damn funny to show
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you some people who are still living in a repressed, warped reality-
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tunnel. Now, some of you might think that the editor and a bunch of
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the staff writers live in this aforementioned repressed, warped
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reality-tunnel. Well, we do. The only difference between us and
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Wrathful Prodigy is that we have far more pressing things to worry
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about, such as world peace and feeding the hungry. You oughta check
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out our food drives, baby. Well, maybe that one can of green beans
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I dropped on the side of the road once made it to a needy family or
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something.
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4) I don't have to like it. Neither do you. Maybe it'll get us some
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press.
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5) I just wanted to annoy you with my own little stupid commentary that
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means absolutely nothing and is, in fact, longer than the letter
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itself. Diatribe that, monkeybreath.
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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STAFF LiSTiNG
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EDITOR
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Kilgore Trout
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CONTRIBUTORS
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The Dancing Messiah
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Dark Gathering
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I Wish My Name Were Nathan
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introvert
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KidKnee
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Lares et Penates
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Nomad
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Bobbi Sands
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Tejas
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Tull
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Wrathful Prodigy
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LiQUiDS SPiLLED ON KiLGORE TROUT DURiNG THE EDiTiNG OF THE ZiNE
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Lots and lots of water
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A dribble of Coca-Cola
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Believe it or not, that's all
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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[=- ARTiCLES -=]
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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CAPiTALiSM & AMERiCA'S DECLiNE
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by Lares et Penates
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One of the most dramatic features of the twentieth-century societal
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landscape is the rampant localized crime and violence of our day. The
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Republicans would like to attribute it to immorality as they see it, and so
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want to institute state-supported "values." What a joke. Values, supposedly
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engendering common decency, in a capitalist society? Ha! If truly civil
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behavior has ever extended deeper than thin exterior appearance in any
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free-market industrial society, then I'll admit that Elvis is living in my
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closet.
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Take the Fifties, for example. I've heard some extol the virtues of
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that decade, when innocence prevailed and everyone was civil to one another.
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Possibly some semblance of these conditions existed in isolated towns, but I
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doubt even that. Racism, bigotry, and intolerance were the orders of the
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day, and classist exploitation was rampant. In addition, it was the heyday
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of our friend, Joe McCarthy, who persecuted people who didn't even stand up
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for the ideology he so hated (communism) while he fed his morphine addiction
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on Capitol Hill. Meanwhile, millions were languishing in poverty, as always
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has and always will be in capitalist societies. The closer we are to Adam
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Smith, the closer we are to feudal Europe and its inequities.
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Back to my main thrust, which is crime in America. I would argue that
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the crime rate, overall, is proportional to several factors, including the
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unemployment rate, the size of that part of our culture that is without
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economic hope, and the size of the lower class. It is one thing to be
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unemployed or underpaid, but it is another to realize that you are trapped in
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that situation.
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I would also like to forward the position that lack of economic hope is
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due to the values engendered by capitalism itself. This is because our media
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promote materialism for the furtherment of the capitalist class. People like
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inner-city children then believe that material possessions are the primary
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goal in life. Consequently, realizing that this "good life" is, in the main,
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unattainable to them and their peers, they lose hope and turn to a hopeless
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lifestyle. It does not matter that neither they nor their friends have
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televisions; this materialist preoccupation permeates our society so
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completely, and is embodied in almost every aspect of our existence, that it
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can reach even those who live on the fringes of our culture.
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The point here is that late-stage capitalism acts as a major corruptive
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force in society, even to the point where it could completely obliterate it.
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Socialism, however, can result in a more egalitarian, just, and civil society
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that we can proudly call home.
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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THOUGHTS ON CROM
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by Keeper of the Uncontainable Chao, KidKnee.
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Let Crom be a God who gave his followers a sense of purpose, then
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abandoned them to seek his own pleasure. Furthermore, let this sense of
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purpose be a riddle with no answer, and let this riddle be, 'What is the
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secret of steel'. Furthermore let him take no action, and sit on a throne in
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a dusty hall watching his followers, deriving amusement from their actions.
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Furthermore, let the purpose of the riddle be to get those seeking knowledge
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to seek combat and war, that Crom might be amused.
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Crom is therefore to men an arbitrary God that asks nothing of them, and
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gives nothing in return. As each dies, Crom asks them his riddle, and will
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cast aside any who do not know it. Let it be known therefore that Crom cast
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aside into the dust all that kneel before him to answer his riddle. Likewise
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does he cast aside those who sneer at him and taunt and would do war with
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Crom himself. Thusly does he cast aside all that enter the gates of his
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hall.
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Let JHVH-1 be a God who gave his followers a sense of purpose, then
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abandoned them to let them prove their worth. Furthermore, let this sense of
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purpose be inscribed in a lengthy, self - contradicting tome, and let this
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tome be called the bible. Furthermore let him take no action as he sits in a
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distant realm known only as heaven, that presumably lies in the skies.
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Furthermore, let the purpose of his teachings be that man be good and kind to
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each other, and worship only Him for reasons we are not meant to know.
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JHVH-1 therefore seems to men to be an arbitrary God that asks much of
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his followers, and gives only promises in return. As each dies, JHVH-1 asks
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them their deeds, and will cast aside sinners into a lake of fire. Let it be
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known therefore that whom JHVH-1 shall cast aside will be known to no man, for
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such things are unknowable.
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I shall then tell you the secret of Crom, although it is not the secret
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of steel. Those who truly know the secret of steel never stand before Crom
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in his great hall. Those who truly know the secret of steel are never slain,
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and defeat their enemies, and build great halls to live in. In these halls
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those who know the secret of steel sit, brood and grow old longing for the
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times they fought bravely in the battlefields, and tasted the blood of their
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enemies on their lips. They long because they have slain their enemies, and
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they lie in the dust, and will not make war. When they die they have no time
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to go begging to Crom for life. Nor do they come to him for solace or to
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know they are correct, for they already know the truth, and have no time for
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Crom just as Crom has no time for them, for dead men do not amuse Crom, and
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Crom does not amuse dead men.
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I cannot tell you the secret of JHVH-1, for it is unknowable by man.
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Once, man was perfect in every way. Despite this, the deeds of the perfect
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man angered JHVH-1, and forever since man has been imperfect. If the perfect
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man cannot have pure deeds, then surely I cannot tell you the secrets was
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supposed to know to keep his purity. This is one of the mysteries of JHVH-1.
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Thus is nothing said, thus is nothing done. May entropy be merciful
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on us, for She has not abandoned us.
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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CRiME & PUNiSHMENT
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by Lares et Penates
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"Why don't they just get it over with and give the nigger the chair!?!"
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I have heard this statement quite a bit since this summer when O.J. Simpson
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was accused of killing his wife. (Didja see that car chase? Gee, that was
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fun. Reminds me of the last scene in Brave_New_World.) It seems few
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Americans understand justice in this damned country.
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Not that I'm supporting the system or anything -- but there are certain
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small portions that have a little good mixed in with the corrupt power
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structures. Freedom (which there is truly little of) and due process in trial
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are the only two I can think of now, but I'm sure there's at least one more
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in that tangled bureaucracy someplace. And despite my misgivings, I choose
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to deal with the system, even if by my own rules.
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It's an interesting insight on the human psyche to see the reaction of
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the average Joe, who, like some sort of vindictive compulsive, wants to see an
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alleged murderer put in the electric chair as soon as he's convicted (or any
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time, for that matter, or even another method of execution -- as long as he
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"gets what's comin'"). And even a conviction is just a formality to these
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people, if there's sufficient evidence; even if that "evidence" has been
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filtered through the media and thus mutated and polarized into definite
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markers of guilt or innocence, it is seen as definitive.
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If you ask people about the O.J. Simpson case, for instance, (supposing
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they're NOT in front of a TV camera and so feel obligated to voice a well
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thought-out -- really just politically correct -- opinion to America) many
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will tell you their "definitive" take on the guilt or lack thereof of the
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man, acting as judge AND jury, which they, no doubt, take to be perfectly
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fair. Reminds me of that glorious relic of our less "civilized" days, the
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good ol' lynch mob.
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Besides, even if we do have a guilty man on our hands, what is the
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purpose of putting another minority member on death row? So we can pay
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exorbitant costs just to keep him alive until we impose the ultimate
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punishment and end that same life. What the hell is the government doing
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killing people? It's bad enough that we send a bunch of our own citizens,
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either against their will or brainwashed so that their will was one with the
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system, around the globe to kill the citizens of other countries. Is this
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justice?!?
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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THE POLiTiCiZATiON OF THE MiLiTiA
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by Bobbi Sands
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The militias in the United States have recently fallen under intense
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scrutiny. Through the spin put on the evidence of the recent Oklahoma bombing
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by the U.S. Government and by the various media, the American people have been
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led to fear or hate the militias; to associate them with alleged "evil
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cowards" and "baby killers". The American people, though, have lived in
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safety on their own land for a long time. The last significant invasion on
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U.S. soil was in 1812, and the last major war fought in the U.S. was against
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its own people in the 1840s. The militia, then, has not been a fighting force
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in a long time. Along with the American people's militancy and love of
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freedom, their militias have atrophied.
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It is not the intent of this article to provide an extensive history of
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militias, nor to provide a census of the militias today. The intent is to
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define militia, to place it in an historical context, and to discuss
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specifically the role of politics in a militia. The emphasis on U.S. law
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reflects the fact that the U.S. is the center of militia scrutiny at the
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current time, and also due to the fact that the U.S. citizen enjoys rights to
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militias that many countries do not. These rights they do not fully
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understand, nor do they fully use them. Nonetheless, the government has not
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taken these rights away. Yet.
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The militia is, in simplest terms, the people's army. The Bill of Rights
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says it is "necessary to the security of a free State". The government and
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media are saying that the militia should be under the control of the
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government. The claim is made that the militia always has been government
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controlled, and must always be so. The government doesn't want to hear the
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question, "Why does a government of the people, by the people, and for the
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people fear for the people to have guns?"
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The Constitution is relatively clear on this point, however. Article 2,
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Section 2 says:
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The President shall be Commander in Chief of the Army and
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Navy of the United States, and of the Militias of the
|
|
several States, when called into the actual Service of the
|
|
United States...
|
|
|
|
This states that the President controls the militia only when it is to be
|
|
used for the service of the nation. Similarly, the Army and Navy are not
|
|
under the control of the executive branch except in case of mobilization;
|
|
otherwise each branch -- Army, Navy and Air Force -- has a representative on
|
|
the Joint Chiefs of Staff, with a rotating leadership. The argument may be
|
|
made that these remain under government control when at peace, and this is
|
|
true. The national Army, Navy and Air Force remain under national control.
|
|
The "Militias of the several States" includes the National Guard under U.S.
|
|
law, and this, being the state's "military", is under its own command and is
|
|
called by the governor in case of emergency, just as the Armed Forces are
|
|
mustered by the President in case of national emergency. This is a matter of
|
|
coordinating forces, not of direct command.
|
|
|
|
The parallel may then be drawn further. The nation needs an executive,
|
|
and it has one. The nation needs a military for the defense of the nation,
|
|
and it has one. The state needs an executive, and has the governor. The
|
|
state also has an army -- the National Guard, or so-called "organized militia"
|
|
-- for the defense of the state. Similarly, the community, when it perceives
|
|
a need, has an executive. Similarly, the community, when it perceives a need,
|
|
has the right to an army: the militia.
|
|
|
|
Just as the National Guard and the military are not restricted to combat,
|
|
neither are the militias. When the community is endangered, the militia is to
|
|
defend the community, just as the National Guard does for the state and the
|
|
Armed Forces do for the nation. When there is a community emergency, the
|
|
local militia is needed, just as the National Guard and the Armed Forces at
|
|
their respective levels. Thus, during the "Baby Jessica" incident -- an
|
|
incident in Texas a few years ago when a young girl fell down an old well and
|
|
was caught, needing to be dug out -- the organization of the relief effort was
|
|
provided by the Texas militia, and it was the militia that got the digging
|
|
equipment from Oklahoma to Texas so quickly. When the community had a need,
|
|
the militia provided the solution. A militia, aside from being trained in
|
|
combat, is trained in other military skills: communications, emergency
|
|
relief, and most importantly, combat units are the most efficient at
|
|
cooperating in an emergency.
|
|
|
|
Once it has been explained, it is obvious that the militia can provide
|
|
much help for the community. But does this negate the fallacy that it should
|
|
be regulated by the government? What is the historical context here?
|
|
|
|
Let us go back in time, then, and look at a few conflicts. First, let us
|
|
look at the conflict happening now in what once was Yugoslavia. There, when
|
|
the nation crumbled, most of the military equipment was in the hands of those
|
|
who were to become the military of the Serbians. When the nation crumbled,
|
|
much of the air and military equipment was taken to the Serbian nation, and
|
|
was then used in the war and the alleged ethnic cleansing. The fact that some
|
|
equipment was not in the hands of these people but in the hands of the Bosnian
|
|
militias allowed some resistance to continue.
|
|
|
|
A bit further back, to World War Two. Against Hitler, many nations
|
|
simply capitulated. This placed the militaries under Hitler's control. In
|
|
France, for example, the Resistance existed not because France fought back as
|
|
a political entity, but because France fought back as a national entity;
|
|
because the militias were there to protect their communities.
|
|
|
|
A couple of years further, to the late thirties. In Spain, the military,
|
|
under the control of the fascist Franco, turned against the government in a
|
|
coup. The Anarchist and Communist militias resisted his coup, however, and
|
|
managed to fend him off, though only until the Stalinists betrayed the
|
|
revolution.
|
|
|
|
Back further, to Ireland in the early part of this century. Militias,
|
|
independently formed and organized, were the backbone of the 1916 uprising and
|
|
the eventual civil war, which still rages in the form of the IRA, a community
|
|
force fighting an external invader.
|
|
|
|
The U.S. itself can provide adequate example of the need for a militia,
|
|
though. In the Civil War militias protected their own communities, and the
|
|
Founding Fathers certainly knew the value of a militia that refused to answer
|
|
to an oppressive government. Such a force was what stood at Lexington and
|
|
Concord, and such a force was what took Washington to victory. A people
|
|
fighting for its homeland and its families will eventually win over any number
|
|
of Hessian invaders. In order to be defeated, you must first defeat yourself.
|
|
|
|
So clearly the militia is an important force, and clearly the threat
|
|
exists that if all the military strength in a nation were centralized that the
|
|
people could -- and eventually would -- stand defenseless. Without a people's
|
|
army, the people have nothing. What, though, should be its politics?
|
|
|
|
Essentially, there will always be a reactionary militia. If need be, a
|
|
free people will fight with forks and spoons for its freedom. Any person who
|
|
denies that at times his nation's government might be his nation's enemy --
|
|
for we must oppose all enemies, foreign and domestic -- is either naive,
|
|
foolish, or a coward. Most likely, he is a coward -- someone who feels that
|
|
as long as he can continue to work and as long as the government hasn't
|
|
started to oppress him yet then he can keep on keeping on -- and a coward can
|
|
never be a free man. There is an excellent story told by a Lutheran priest
|
|
about how when the Nazis came for the Jews he didn't speak out because he
|
|
wasn't a Jew. And when they came for the Communists and the homosexuals he
|
|
didn't speak out because he wasn't a Communist or a homosexual. And when they
|
|
came for the Catholics he did nothing because he wasn't a Catholic. When they
|
|
came for him there was no one left to speak out. An injury to one is an
|
|
injury to all. A coward has no people to defend. A coward is alone because
|
|
he thinks only of himself, and it is not to the coward that the militia
|
|
preaches its message. The coward is content with the government -- any
|
|
government -- that "keeps the streets safe" and lets him "make a living," and
|
|
a government is content with a coward because he pays his taxes and doesn't
|
|
start trouble. The coward is happy to make a living, but he will never truly
|
|
live a life.
|
|
|
|
Those who are not cowards and who would fight when their community's
|
|
freedom was threatened form the reactionary militia: a force that would react
|
|
to a threat. A reactionary militia is the minimum needed, and provides
|
|
defense. A well regulated militia is necessary for the security of the nation
|
|
because it is the people who would oppose the invasion or coup that provide
|
|
the backbone of resistance. With a reactionary militia, of course, no
|
|
advances may be made, but a reactionary militia will hopefully prevent any
|
|
losses from being incurred. The current militia movement tends towards the
|
|
reactionary militia at this time: It provides training and organization in
|
|
the event that the community's freedom is threatened.
|
|
|
|
In this way, the current militia movement provides an essential service.
|
|
If the time comes that the community is threatened, either by in invading
|
|
force or an oppressive nation, it is imperative that the people be prepared to
|
|
fight for that which God has given them: Freedom. Inevitably, a nation will
|
|
either become weak and be invaded, or it will become complacent and become
|
|
increasingly totalitarian, and so the militias not only serve a noble purpose,
|
|
but one that will inevitably be necessary. It is not a question of if, it is
|
|
a question of when.
|
|
|
|
As mentioned above, though, this militia cannot achieve anything new
|
|
until it has been taken to war and possibly forced to become revolutionary. A
|
|
reactionary militia has no agenda other than to protect what is rightfully
|
|
theirs. A reactionary militia will not try to advance for what should be
|
|
theirs until, as they say, the balloon goes up and they realize the power a
|
|
free, united people can and should have.
|
|
|
|
But there is another form of militia. Aside from the reactionary militia
|
|
-- which inevitably exists, in one state of readiness or another, and derives
|
|
its power from the accidental structure of the community -- there is the
|
|
revolutionary militia. The revolutionary militia is not so inevitable, as its
|
|
strength derives not from free people who know they could lose their freedom,
|
|
but from true thinkers who can see how much freedom has already been lost. A
|
|
revolutionary militia derives its fighting strength not from those community
|
|
members who are prepared to help in an emergency, but from those with the
|
|
foresight to form for the advancement of the community. In short, the
|
|
revolutionary militia stems not from the organic community but from the
|
|
artificial party.
|
|
|
|
(Let us step aside for a moment into parentheses and define what is meant
|
|
by the party. The party is a number of like minded people in a sociopolitical
|
|
setting, but it is more than that. The party is people who are willing to
|
|
struggle towards a common sociopolitical vision. The party is not so much
|
|
Democrat and Republican as it is Sinn Fein and Zealot. The Democrats, being
|
|
an institutionalized "party" in at least partial control of the nation would
|
|
not think of needing a military wing to protect their interests any greater
|
|
than a set of bodyguards, because the Democrats take their strength from the
|
|
status quo. The Sinn Fein or the Zealot would, however, be a true political
|
|
party, having experienced or having come from a community that recently
|
|
experienced not having institutional power, and even being considered a threat
|
|
to the State, a threat to be eliminated. This is a revolutionary party, and
|
|
they -- not controlling the national Armed Forces -- need a militia for their
|
|
defense and advancement.)
|
|
|
|
Again, let us look for an historical basis for this position. In Spain,
|
|
for instance: was this a reactionary militia? At first. When the coup
|
|
occurred, the people, as an organic community, rose up in resistance. The
|
|
advances occurred, however, because the Anarchists and the Communists --
|
|
Stalinist and P.O.U.M. -- already had an established militia which then
|
|
galvanized the people. When the Communists took power and controlled the
|
|
Armed Forces they eliminated the militias, and lost the war.
|
|
|
|
In Ireland? The militias were associated with the Irish Republican
|
|
Brotherhood and the various people's parties. These militias were
|
|
revolutionary, as proven by the fact that the status quo was oppression -- the
|
|
British invaders had been there for centuries -- and the militias struck back
|
|
to win what was rightfully theirs.
|
|
|
|
In the U.S.? In the Civil War the militias were essentially reactionary,
|
|
and protected their communities. In the Revolutionary War, however, the
|
|
militias were undoubtedly revolutionary. They were associated with parties
|
|
such as the Sons of Liberty and fought against the status quo -- against
|
|
British imperialism -- and for the rights of man.
|
|
|
|
So the revolutionary militia has existed in the past, but in contemporary
|
|
America has become essentially unheard of in the mainstream. Some forces,
|
|
such as the Black Panthers, have been parties associated with revolutionary
|
|
militias, and others, such as the Weatherpeople and the Symbionese Liberation
|
|
Army, have attempted the same. These have been generally derided as fringe
|
|
groups. This is why the revolution is dead in America, and why the reaction
|
|
is well entrenched. Without a people's army, the people have nothing.
|
|
|
|
The reactionary militia in general, and the militia movement in the U.S.
|
|
in particular, form vital parts of the defense of the free nation. As such,
|
|
they should not be hated as the easily manipulated American public opinion has
|
|
leaned towards. Nonetheless, the revolution -- the progression of free men
|
|
towards more and more freedoms; in short, the true "American Dream" -- cannot
|
|
continue with only a reactionary militia. Inevitably, if we are to win back
|
|
the freedoms we once had, and win once and for all the freedoms God meant a
|
|
free man to have, the revolutionary militia must be formed alongside the
|
|
revolutionary party. Any freedom loving person must take advantage of their
|
|
rights to prepare for the revolution; for when it comes to fight in it, or for
|
|
when it comes time to start it.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
AUTOMATiON: SUPPLANTiNG THE WORKER
|
|
by Lares et Penates
|
|
|
|
In most socialist philosophies and publications there seems to be a
|
|
romanticization of manual labor for which I cannot account. While I mean no
|
|
disrespect for anyone whose occupation entails such, it seems to me that
|
|
someone who is interested in the quality of human life would find it
|
|
imperative to eradicate it, not glorify it.
|
|
|
|
In addition, a forward-looking adaptation of Marxism or any form of
|
|
socialism needs to be reconciled with the fact of the elimination of the
|
|
human component in manufacturing operations. It is easily within the reach
|
|
of our imaginations, and soon within that of widely-available technology, to
|
|
automate all production efforts that supply material goods. It will also soon
|
|
be the case that automation will prove both more economic and expedient than
|
|
even the cheapest human labor, which is characterized in our day by factories
|
|
in southeast Asia, in which working conditions are simply abysmal. Assuming
|
|
a socialist revolution devoid of the capitalist economics of exploitation,
|
|
there will be no justification for ignoring this potential technology so that
|
|
we can employ thinking human beings in a position that a contraption of
|
|
silicon and steel can do in a fraction of the time without wages, vacations,
|
|
or breaks.
|
|
|
|
It seems to me that the vocation of homo sapiens, then, should be of the
|
|
mental sort, and not simply mechanistic work which a computer can also
|
|
perform, but of a conceptual sort. Not only does this impress my
|
|
sensibilities as more noble, it also has a pragmatic reason; that is, that it
|
|
is the only sort of work that will be available and needed to be done, the
|
|
only labor left to us, the sentient creatures of this world. And even if,
|
|
eventually, our computers do reach the complexity necessary to think as we do
|
|
on such topics as death, morals, or even society, then it would be obligatory
|
|
to recognize them as fellow humans, or at least as fellow thinkers, and give
|
|
them rights as our own, and the personal liberty owed to all who qualify as
|
|
like unto humankind in mind.
|
|
|
|
So then, it seems to me that we would, in a worker's society, eliminate
|
|
all jobs that are inhuman, by definition not requiring but a dumb machine to
|
|
complete, and move on from duties for our animal half and begin those that
|
|
compel our human half. However, I do not suggest that we abandon our bodies
|
|
for recreation or enjoyable work. We would likely retain some sorts of
|
|
manual labor such as art, crafts, or similar endeavors that those so inclined
|
|
could engage in. But the drudgery of assembly lines or similarly inhuman
|
|
work should be eliminated, and those who are forced to unwillingly
|
|
participate in such labor to make a living should be liberated.
|
|
|
|
So, let's illustrate the hypothetical situation. Humankind has been
|
|
emancipated of the task of self-preservation by the employment of machines
|
|
that plow, plant, and harvest our fields, make our food, produce our shoes
|
|
and clothes, even clean our houses. Thus man transcends his most basic needs
|
|
and, as Maslow theorized, can move on to the task of self-realization.
|
|
Persons can pursue what work or leisure they choose, and, because of such,
|
|
work becomes as leisure is, voluntary, while still retaining its qualities
|
|
that fulfill any human desire to toil. In such a society, also, we don't
|
|
even require the phrase "from each according to his abilities"; instead we
|
|
have "from each according to his inclinations." This slogan upholds liberty
|
|
to a greater degree than the communist refrain because, although one may do
|
|
well at something, one does not necessarily wish to do so. In some cases the
|
|
more modest abilities are more highly enjoyed precisely because they require
|
|
more effort; the other is to easily and thoughtlessly employed to bring
|
|
fulfillment.
|
|
|
|
In summary, the worker should not fight the employment of automation for
|
|
production or service in the right context. In the capitalist society, it
|
|
destroys jobs and would eventually lead to catastrophe due to such
|
|
unemployment. In a socialist system, however, it is humankind's ticket to
|
|
the next step towards a more humane society.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
PUT YOUR LEFT FOOT iN, PULL YOUR LEFT FOOT OUT, PUT YOUR LEFT FOOT iN
|
|
AND SHAKE iT ALL ABOUT
|
|
by Kilgore Trout
|
|
|
|
|
|
"ERiS. The personification of Strife. In Hesiod's _Theogony_ she is
|
|
daughter of Nyx and herself gives birth to Work, Forgetfulness, Hun-
|
|
ger, Pain, Battles, Fights, Murders, Killings, Quarrels, Lies, Stor-
|
|
ies, Disputes, Lawlessness, Ruin and the Oath. In the _Works and
|
|
Days, _Hesiod postulates two separate Strifes: one a daughter of
|
|
Nyx, the other a spirit of emulation, placed by Zeus within the
|
|
world to give it a healthy sense of competition. Eris was gener-
|
|
ally portrayed as a female winged spirit. She threw the apple in-
|
|
tended for the fairest of the goddesses, which Paris had the task of
|
|
awarding; this was the origin of the Trojan War."
|
|
--Pierre Grimal, "The Penguin Dictionary of Classical Mythology"
|
|
|
|
|
|
"GP: Is Eris true?
|
|
M2: Everything is true.
|
|
GP: Even false things?
|
|
M2: Even false things are true.
|
|
GP: How can that be?
|
|
M2: I don't know man, I didn't do it."
|
|
--from the _Principia Discordia_
|
|
|
|
|
|
Every person must face the Abyss at least once in their life. Some do it
|
|
willingly; for others, it is an unwanted experience. There are those who
|
|
choose to fall into Its great depths and try to climb out, a few are given a
|
|
push from behind without warning, and many decide to turn away. No right
|
|
choice exists when one encounters the gaping jaws. Two possibilities exist:
|
|
the beneficial choice and the harmful choice.
|
|
|
|
I have willingly jumped into the Abyss and have spent many days and
|
|
nights trying to evoke Its secrets, to conquer the mystery that so many have
|
|
attempted and failed. I have been through bouts of escapism, depression,
|
|
insanity, megalomania, and was once near the verge of suicide.
|
|
|
|
Yet I have seen a glimpse of something which cannot be described. Some
|
|
call it "God" or "Illumination" or the attainment of "Knowledge and Conversa-
|
|
tion with my Holy Guardian Angel." These labels do no justice to what I have
|
|
observed, yet they are the closest our language can approximate without
|
|
writing volume after volume of descriptions and still being far off target.
|
|
|
|
What purpose, then, does the Abyss serve, aside from the arduous task of
|
|
navigating deep into Its depths and enduring endless torture, when one only
|
|
acquires a minute amount of something good? Are not the means too risky and
|
|
dangerous -- nay, even fatal -- to justify such an undertaking?
|
|
|
|
The answer, quite simply, is yes.
|
|
|
|
But we humans are ignorant creatures. Many times we forget about safety
|
|
and trod on dangerous ground unabated. Foolish? Definitely. Sometimes,
|
|
though, fools make the best partners in a game of chess.
|
|
|
|
A metamorphosis occurs once the Abyss has been crossed, one that is both
|
|
permanent and transforming, for to conquer the Abyss is to eradicate the
|
|
former self altogether. Belief systems rapidly arise and fall in periods
|
|
ranging from weeks to days to mere seconds. Reality reveals itself as an
|
|
illusion, and the perception of the illusion becomes the new reality. One
|
|
begins to understand that nothing is absolute: everything is true and false
|
|
at once, because perception implies relativity.
|
|
|
|
Have I crossed the Abyss?
|
|
|
|
Three men stand on a beach, stranded and starving. Tattered remains of
|
|
their lifeboat are scattered around them. One man kneels down and scoops up
|
|
a two handfuls of sand. The grains starts sliding between his fingers back
|
|
onto the ground.
|
|
|
|
"A handful of sand will fill an empty stomach but not nourish it," he
|
|
says.
|
|
|
|
"We are doomed to die here, with nothing to eat and nothing to protect
|
|
us from the elements," says the second man.
|
|
|
|
"But the sand is *alive!*" shouts the third man, pointing to the first.
|
|
|
|
In his hand a small crab lies on its back, struggling to escape.
|
|
|
|
Have I conquered the Abyss?
|
|
|
|
Two weeks ago I stepped out of the shower and became King Charles. I
|
|
carried on a full conversation with him for a good five minutes while drying
|
|
myself. The content of the conversation is still unknown to me. His mother
|
|
was there, too, but I was not ashamed of my nakedness. Before King Charles
|
|
left, she said, "This boy is brainsick, and that is why he is good."
|
|
|
|
Has the Abyss destroyed me?
|
|
|
|
Four days later I was sitting outside of one of my college classes and
|
|
for no reason blacked out. A great door rose out of the darkness, and I
|
|
knocked three times. A voice called out, "Who comes here?" A voice from
|
|
behind me said, "The son of a poor widow, seeking Light." I turned and
|
|
beheld the Christ, the Shin that transforms the Tetragrammaton. He looked
|
|
at me and said, "He who is in the fire is near me." Then he pushed open the
|
|
door, and I walked through.
|
|
|
|
Who has ears, let them hear.
|
|
|
|
I am the Empress being spun around on the Wheel of Fortune, full of life
|
|
and devoid of energy simultaneously. I am the Seeker of Truth and am the
|
|
destroyer of Truth as well. Eris delights in my vacillation and strife,
|
|
and I hate Her. Does She not know the pain of my travels, the torments of
|
|
my soul, the collapse of my mind? She is the one who caused it. I let Her.
|
|
|
|
To answer an earlier question, I have not gained passage over the Abyss.
|
|
Have you not seen through the Lies that all men say? The Abyss does not
|
|
exist, therefore it cannot be crossed. How then can one gain illumination if
|
|
there is no Abyss? One must traverse Its profane spaces and emerge victorious
|
|
on the other side.
|
|
|
|
Those who understand have no need to read any further. The two are one,
|
|
and the one is All. For those who have not yet realized the significance of
|
|
the piece, one question still lurks in their minds.
|
|
|
|
How can a fool be a good partner in chess if chess doesn't allow
|
|
partners?
|
|
|
|
You see? You do understand.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
i WiSH i WERE A GURU
|
|
by I Wish My Name Were Nathan
|
|
|
|
I often wonder what makes a guru. The image that enters my mind is an
|
|
old bearded man sitting on top of a mountain, a man who has lived many years,
|
|
through times of turmoil and peace, of uncertainty and luxury. His long life
|
|
has instilled him with the wisdom to guide others, the young people whose
|
|
shoes he once walked in. He feels peace and can relax in his final years
|
|
knowing it has all been worthwhile.
|
|
|
|
Something of that kind of spirit came into me when I was sitting at
|
|
Mojo's drinking coffee one Saturday night. Kilgore had gone back into the
|
|
shop to get something, and I was left sitting alone in a metal chair facing
|
|
the Drag. In front of me a metal table stood with our nearly empty coffee
|
|
mugs, save the espresso foam that remained. I leaned back calmly, forgetting
|
|
my resentment that the caffeine had had no effect on me whatsoever, and
|
|
watched the road.
|
|
|
|
So many people were going by at midnight. Single people in cars, couples
|
|
driving home from dates, drunken fratboys in jacked-up pickup trucks.
|
|
Austinites out for a peaceful stroll in the mild weather, exhausted college
|
|
students walking home from a long night of studying, tourists wandering about.
|
|
All the people, I thought; all the people I could help. I could be a
|
|
coffeehouse guru.
|
|
|
|
It wouldn't be so difficult. The chair opposite me was still empty.
|
|
There was no crowd. The only slightly distracting thing about me was the
|
|
Mojo's employee picking up cigarette butts from the cracks between the bricks
|
|
and stones in the ground. I reminisced about watching Kilgore thoughtlessly
|
|
toss six or seven of his own used cigarettes on the ground. Into my mind came
|
|
the grand cycle of things: the menial labor, the careless carcinogens, and
|
|
coffee! -- right smack in the middle of the great city of Austin. My mind
|
|
became more open to new ideas, more perceptive, more guru-like.
|
|
|
|
My first visitor would be a morose thirty-something man. He'd fall into
|
|
the chair, exhausted from depression about a love that'd gone awry. She was
|
|
the crown jewel of femininity, he'd tell me, but she didn't watch Seinfeld.
|
|
She never appreciated the Kramer antics or the Jerry impersonations: "What is
|
|
it, with these uncultured bimbos?" Their nights together would be little but
|
|
missed jokes and futile reenactments of complicated storylines. I would see
|
|
that their brief affair was not meant to be, but the man would not be able let
|
|
go of his passions. My advice: remember the episode where Elaine falls for
|
|
the opera-buff windowwasher: recall her lack of personal intimacy with him,
|
|
recall her misunderstanding of his convictions about life and opera and his
|
|
fear of heights, sympathize with Elaine, because, your lovelet is Elaine;
|
|
you're in love with the Elaine from that episode. You must let happen to you
|
|
what happened that windowwasher in that Seinfeldian parallel universe: be
|
|
kidnapped -- yes, be kidnapped by the Senegalese seal trainer who mistakes
|
|
your window-washing romantic move for a threat about bombing Sea World -- yes,
|
|
be kidnapped and disappear forever. Then, only then, can you start anew.
|
|
|
|
Euphoric from my inspirational advice, the man would hop up reenergized
|
|
from the metal chair and leap away into the darkness. I too would share some
|
|
euphoria, but also some exhaustion, having had to reach into the bowels of my
|
|
soul, to the roots of my knowledge, for such inspirational advice. I would
|
|
lean back in my chair, making such a grimace as to notify other passing
|
|
strangers that I was briefly taking a long-needed rest.
|
|
|
|
But a guru's work is never done; submitting to guruhood means a life of
|
|
tireless effort and giving. A frail old woman would approach and slowly sit
|
|
down in the rickety metal chair. I would put on a kind, caring face, cross my
|
|
hands over my chest, and ask her, pray tell, what is her problem. The words
|
|
would come slowly, but the seconds of delay between words would be nothing
|
|
compared to the years of painful and fruitful experience I had earned. After
|
|
several minutes, an idea about her would have formed completely in my mind: a
|
|
frail old woman looks completely out of place at a Sixth Street coffeeshop. I
|
|
would start snickering, then giggling, then laughing uncontrollably, waving my
|
|
arms about in an effort to prevent my collapse to the ground; her words would
|
|
dissolve from my mind; her image would dissolve from my eyes; all I'd see
|
|
would be an angry face under a cheap wig stomping away down the sidewalk into
|
|
the hands of the night people. The image would redouble my laughter, the
|
|
caffeine would finally set in, and lucidity would strike into my vision.
|
|
Nirvana.
|
|
|
|
A few minutes later, the laughs would cease altogether. It is an
|
|
unfortunate thing that the guru cannot be happy. Happiness is self-delusion,
|
|
a mask over the eyes which blots out the stark truths which lie ahead. I
|
|
would again lean back calmly and gravely in my chair, silently reciting a
|
|
mantra of revivification and pontification. The night stars would suddenly
|
|
become clearer after a streetlamp across the road suddenly flickers off. The
|
|
soothing, rumbling murmur of the night road would envelop my ears. I would
|
|
sensuously lick my teeth in my closed mouth for another bittersweet ping of
|
|
coffee. Time would seem to slowly brake at a stoplight, just out of range of
|
|
the sensors across the street which would give it a green.
|
|
|
|
Out of the corner of my pensive eye would come a boy, not yet out of
|
|
junior high. My thoughtful expression would immediately reveal to him my
|
|
benevolent authority and trustworthiness. I wouldn't whistle down a cop for
|
|
the curfew violation. The boy would sit down easily in the chair, his grace
|
|
reminding me of my youth and rejuvenating me. Unfortunately, in coming to a
|
|
guru such as myself, something would have to be wrong. I would gravely ask
|
|
what his trouble was, if he were too laconic to bring it up himself. Boredom,
|
|
he'd say. He'd tell me about how his schoolwork was undemanding, his teachers
|
|
uninteresting, the curriculum un-thought-provoking. And he'd say that in his
|
|
neighborhood, they had passed rules prohibiting bike riding, skateboarding,
|
|
and inline skating on the sidewalks, driveways, and streets. And he'd tell
|
|
about his friends, who had started to drink and do drugs to combat their
|
|
boredom and who suddenly became unfriendly. I'd nod solemnly and let the
|
|
impact of his situation soak into me. Looking up, I'd ask if he at least got
|
|
to watch Beavis & Butthead. The no answer would make me grimace. What could
|
|
a boy do?
|
|
|
|
I would try to be objective again, sitting up straight and looking him
|
|
sternly in the eye. I'd ask if he had a pencil on him. He would. I would
|
|
too. I'd tell him to hold the pencil in front of him between his two thumbs.
|
|
I'd hold my pencil firmly between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand
|
|
and bend back the tip with the left, and let go. Thwack! Maybe his pencil
|
|
would break, maybe not. In any case, his eyes would light up. New worlds
|
|
would suddenly open to him. My eyes as well would light up, feeding off the
|
|
youthful energy. I would hold my pencil between my thumbs, and he would take
|
|
aim and strike. Thwack! In mere minutes, our pencils would be reduced to
|
|
stubs of erasers. I'd suggest a nearby grocery store where we could purchase
|
|
entire packages of pencils. We'd start walking. I'd ask him if he'd ever had
|
|
Pop Rocks. Yes, he'd say, but it was so long ago! We'd run down the
|
|
sidewalk. I'd suggest drinking a Jolt Cola with a mouth full of Pop Rocks.
|
|
The excitement would send crackles of exuberant lightning through the air;
|
|
we'd be charged, laughing in the faces of oncoming cars and wary pedestrians,
|
|
singing the songs of eternal youth. His boredom would be cast away to the
|
|
winds; my guruhood would be forgotten.
|
|
|
|
Running recklessly through the streets, I'd cry out: ignore your gurus,
|
|
throw away your self-help books, forget your common sense and folk wisdom!
|
|
Years of wisdom and experience serve only to age your skin, produce ulcers,
|
|
and dull your minds! Social rules were made to be broken! Drop your
|
|
workloads, forget your trifling problems. Bow down to the giggling, ticklish,
|
|
curious god of Youth, for only there will true inspiration be found!
|
|
|
|
It could happen.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
[=- POETRiE -=]
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
EMPATHY
|
|
words without meaning by introvert
|
|
|
|
|
|
empathy: (em'-puh-thee) n. intellectual or
|
|
emotional identification with another.
|
|
|
|
save your condescension, spare me the pity.
|
|
i never expected you to understand.
|
|
and never needed you to empathize.
|
|
we don't have this emotion in common.
|
|
oh. you know what it feels like?
|
|
twist the knife a bit harder please.
|
|
a bit faster, a little to the left.
|
|
right there.
|
|
i want to be here forever.
|
|
pain is the only truly reliable emotion.
|
|
there must be a bitter significance to this place.
|
|
why do i keep returning here?
|
|
cycles through heaven and hell,
|
|
but always returning here.
|
|
a throbbing nothing, an overcast sky.
|
|
just another day inside walls of flesh.
|
|
she remains the same.
|
|
her name and face may change,
|
|
but she is eternal, the bitch-goddess of retribution.
|
|
i let her know just enough to let her rip me apart,
|
|
giving enough of myself to let her take it all away.
|
|
but i never expected you to understand that,
|
|
and never needed you to empathize.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
A POEM OF LiFE
|
|
by Dark Gathering
|
|
|
|
Death is nothing but the toll man
|
|
life is nothing but a mother
|
|
we are children of nature
|
|
we mustn't fight each other.
|
|
Hate is the weapon of man.
|
|
Power is needed to use it.
|
|
Ignorance fuels the flames
|
|
Its us who abuse it.
|
|
Control is need within
|
|
control is what's forced from without
|
|
Intelligence is what's needed to break the chain
|
|
Faith is what it's all about.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
HERE i AM
|
|
by Tejas
|
|
|
|
Here I am
|
|
Waiting,
|
|
for the change
|
|
On the
|
|
inside,
|
|
Listening to waterfalls.
|
|
The sky is all around me
|
|
It opens up m'soul...
|
|
|
|
Headed for a new home
|
|
Uprooted to be replanted
|
|
To follow the path to the sea
|
|
The watercourse way
|
|
Leads me home...
|
|
|
|
What will the dogs think!
|
|
|
|
M'flesh is fluid
|
|
Beneath m'skin
|
|
Here we are
|
|
The both of us
|
|
Just sinking in
|
|
And once again
|
|
Sliding toward the future
|
|
As the moment of movement
|
|
Awaits us...
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
SPECKS
|
|
by The Dancing Messiah
|
|
|
|
life gets to be a little too much sometimes.
|
|
work is a drag but you need to to survive, to live.
|
|
life seems to be one big grinding struggle with no end in sight.
|
|
sorta like those cats from "Grapes of Wrath" who try to farm dirt.
|
|
water dirt, it don't grow. play dirt mozart it don't turn a shade greener.
|
|
some times though, life surprises ya, nudging you to go on.
|
|
just the other day, the sun was glaring intensely through the windshield
|
|
of my '73 Volkswagon bus.
|
|
of course, the sun was just at the right angle that no matter what way i
|
|
contorted my head upon my spindly neck, the orb of the sun was perfectly
|
|
superimposed on the retina of my eye.
|
|
then the miracle happened.
|
|
for a few brief moments the intensity of the sun had decreased!
|
|
searing pain was no longer part of my world, no longer a factor in my life.
|
|
for some reason i had never realized before, the upper edge of my
|
|
windshield was tinted!
|
|
never will i again have to deal with glaring solar rays wilst driving
|
|
my vehicle, my... Bus
|
|
joy to the world I exclaimed over the blaring base line of the Prodigy
|
|
album I was playing.
|
|
but as it always is, life let me down.
|
|
the sun passed behind a cloud and the true nature of my tint was revealed.
|
|
dirt.
|
|
dirt, dirt, nothing but dirt.
|
|
dirt across the upper edge of my windshield.
|
|
a thin, almost none existent double arc of dirt my windshield wipers
|
|
had missed.
|
|
dirt, the same stuff a lot try to farm, relying on some act of faith
|
|
to miraculously transform into a source of food or alcohol or
|
|
popcorn.
|
|
then, through all the glum and sunken spirits, i came to a grand revelation.
|
|
heck, I'm set until the next time it rains. I HAVE GOT TINT!
|
|
who said miracles involve wine, snakes, seas, and women.
|
|
I HAVE GOT TINT!
|
|
you may not be able to farm dirt, but it sure as heck makes a wonderful
|
|
serendipitous window tint.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
WORDS AND PHRASES (July 17, 1975)
|
|
by Tejas
|
|
|
|
Just a Lonesome Lingam
|
|
Yearning for a Yoni
|
|
|
|
Chemical tides
|
|
Washing through my blood
|
|
|
|
Chemical Floods
|
|
And I'm drowning in My Being...
|
|
|
|
People are playing their own Games
|
|
That were invented
|
|
By and for Bored People...
|
|
|
|
Me, I'm a'waiting
|
|
And trying to forget
|
|
What I am waiting for...
|
|
|
|
Ah, yes, I've played
|
|
But I was the loser
|
|
And soon found myself out...
|
|
|
|
People asking
|
|
What's the Answer?
|
|
When they haven't heard the
|
|
Question???
|
|
|
|
Testing, trying
|
|
Pushing, poking
|
|
Looking, loving
|
|
But why?
|
|
But why ask?
|
|
|
|
I've forgotten what I'm trying to say
|
|
But not that I'm trying to...
|
|
|
|
Words,
|
|
Phrases,
|
|
Sometimes just having some kind of structure existing in the
|
|
outer environment which has no real meaning attracts real meaning to it,
|
|
if there is sufficient free energy to work with in the mind of the
|
|
perceiver...
|
|
|
|
Words,
|
|
Phrases,
|
|
Roads and paths you've walked before, leading from the world of
|
|
Your Existence to the Universe of You're Existing...
|
|
|
|
Words,
|
|
Phrases,
|
|
HEY YOU!!! Are you listening with a constant level of attention
|
|
or does your awareness shift in and out UNTIL SOMETHING SPECIAL catches
|
|
your eyes and raises your level of consciousness...
|
|
|
|
Words,
|
|
Phrases,
|
|
Will anyone ever read them and know what I'm feeling, right here
|
|
in my heart, a pain in the middle of my chest, a feeling that I love you
|
|
so very much, whoever/wherever you are, just for being there, and
|
|
knowing...
|
|
|
|
Words,
|
|
Phrases,
|
|
You're reading, hoping I'll tell you something that you don't
|
|
already know, but what I'm trying to tell you words cannot hold in their
|
|
empty shells; you must fill the empty cups of my words...
|
|
|
|
Words,
|
|
Phrases,
|
|
To understand, one looks at the parts of the whole, and the more
|
|
seen, the more there is to be known; letter-representatives of
|
|
non-euclidean thought in euclidean line-figures, the arcs and right
|
|
angles of the soul finding form...
|
|
|
|
Words,
|
|
Phrases,
|
|
The whole universe as simple as ABC...
|
|
|
|
Words,
|
|
Phrases,
|
|
Don't you know yet who I am, hiding behind these words, the same
|
|
person who does the reading does the writing, in this and in all books...
|
|
|
|
Words,
|
|
Phrases,
|
|
I keep shooting out these empty shells, and you keep filling
|
|
them; now stop and look at what YOU are putting in...
|
|
|
|
Words,
|
|
Phrases,
|
|
The energy builds up as you wonder, where is the energy linking
|
|
you and me, here and now, in this time and space, what brings us to
|
|
gather but a common questing, a peeking between the covers of books, just
|
|
trying to find out what lies behind appearance of a vast multitude of...
|
|
|
|
Words,
|
|
Phrases,
|
|
Do you dare to read
|
|
Between the lines?
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
[=- FiCTiON -=]
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
SiTTiNG ON THE TOOLSHED ROOF
|
|
by I Wish My Name Were Nathan
|
|
|
|
I was hiding on the roof of the toolshed next to the barn wall. I was in
|
|
a protective crevice. I was under the overhang of the barn roof. I felt
|
|
safe, secure, and comfortable. I had a self-assured smirk on my face.
|
|
|
|
Today I was planning to put the moves on Angela. She didn't know I was
|
|
hiding here. She was going to take her horse out for a quick spin. I heard
|
|
her messing around with the saddle and talking sweet to the horse.
|
|
|
|
She had walked in and out of the barn several times without even seeing
|
|
me. I followed her with my eyes and I knew she didn't even peek. I love her
|
|
for her ability to concentrate on her horse.
|
|
|
|
Angela came trotting out of the barn on her horse. The horse is brown
|
|
and shiny. The sun wasn't even shining through the clouds. That's how shiny
|
|
the horse was. I watched her ride around in circles to test the horse's
|
|
stamina. It was a good horse.
|
|
|
|
She could have seen me where I was sitting. She was riding in the field
|
|
and I was visible. A fence surrounded the small field. She went around
|
|
several times.
|
|
|
|
Angela's little brother came out of the barn. His name is Tony. He is
|
|
little by farm standards. He wore a smirk like I did. He was carrying a
|
|
bucket. The bucket was empty. He walked behind the toolshed. He stopped
|
|
there. He wasn't visible to Angela. He had sat down behind a barrel.
|
|
|
|
I watched Angela loping around the field on her horse. The horse looked
|
|
majestic. She looked pretty on the horse. They both moved fast. I was
|
|
comfortable in the shade. The sun wasn't out but it was hot.
|
|
|
|
Tina came out of the barn. She was from the neighboring farm. She was
|
|
pretty too. She was younger than Angela. She looked around at the field.
|
|
She saw Angela riding the horse. She saw the toolshed. She didn't see me.
|
|
|
|
Tony was still sitting behind the barrel. He was still behind the
|
|
toolshed. He wasn't moving. He wasn't holding the bucket.
|
|
|
|
I saw Angela on the horse. She was stopping far out in the field. The
|
|
horse was dropping pellets. Angela was used to it. She was enjoying the
|
|
break.
|
|
|
|
Tina was looking around for something. She walked by the toolshed. She
|
|
didn't see me. She slowly wandered to the back of the toolshed. She didn't
|
|
know Tony was there.
|
|
|
|
Tina gasped. I looked at Tina and Tony. Tony was holding his finger to
|
|
her lips. Tina was nodding a little. He was holding her hand. He was
|
|
whispering to her. I couldn't hear. They didn't see me watching.
|
|
|
|
Angela was moving again on her horse. The horse was done. The pellets
|
|
were steaming. Angela was directing the horse in a wide circle. Angela was
|
|
going fast. She looked even prettier. I was going to make the moves on her.
|
|
|
|
I looked at Tina and Tony. Tony was putting his hand up Tina's shirt.
|
|
Tina was frozen. Tina was fifteen.
|
|
|
|
I climbed down from the toolshed. They didn't hear me. They didn't see
|
|
me. I walked around behind the toolshed. Tony didn't see me. He was facing
|
|
the wall. Tina wasn't seeing anything. I tapped Tony on the shoulder. He
|
|
turned around. I punched him in the face. He fell down.
|
|
|
|
Angela saw me. She got off the horse. She was running toward me. I
|
|
felt disappointed. I didn't get to surprise her.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
A PASSiON PLAY
|
|
by Tull68
|
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|
|
|
|
God of Ages/ Lord of Time -- mine is the right to be wrong.
|
|
Well I'll go to the foot of the stairs.
|
|
Jack rabbit mister -- spawn a new breed of love hungry pilgrims
|
|
(no bodies to feed).
|
|
Show me a good man and I'll show you the door.
|
|
The last hymn is sung and the devil cries more.
|
|
--I.A.
|
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|
|
|
|
1.
|
|
|
|
We leaned up against the wall outside of that revered hallowed-out
|
|
theatre called The Symphony Room scoffing with devilish grins and fixed eyes
|
|
at a few badgery Callows who momentarily watched down upon us from little
|
|
flats high above the street.
|
|
|
|
The blackened pavement was wet from the morning rain and set the sound
|
|
of the exuenting crowds' steps into and echoing cluster between the flats and
|
|
closed down business buildings that lined the avenue.
|
|
|
|
I was Gaven, at seventeen years of age, and with me were Jack, Dunnere,
|
|
who was a whole year ahead of us (didn't act it though), and Conor. We all
|
|
wore our ragged attire (socially conventional and in style, of course); wool
|
|
overcoats, mine being black, Jack's a dark blue, Dun's a brown and Conor's
|
|
being almost as black as mine but in the light could plainly be seen as a
|
|
shadowy shade of the darkest green. I wore my brown leather vest underneath
|
|
my open coat and a white button-up beneath that, all of which were my own
|
|
eclat as not to be as hackneyed others, but my black boots and Levis were
|
|
much more trite among the rest of everyone.
|
|
|
|
The Symphony hadn't been as well-performed as always this night but I
|
|
guess that should be expected once every while. It had been more jazzed up
|
|
then others but as long as it didn't cross the line as far as that synthetic
|
|
rubbish those ponces across the river somehow subscribe to as music.
|
|
|
|
We were the true artists and educates who knew that the others across
|
|
the river's existence would be short-lived just as it had faded those years
|
|
ago before any of us were birthed.
|
|
|
|
We were a farrago. A new uprising of all the art and knowledge that had
|
|
been lost for so long. We sucked the marrow from the best of the bony past
|
|
and spat it out for each others well-being. This was our time.
|
|
|
|
Jack pulled out his cigarette. "Head on to Cafe D'saster?" he asked
|
|
releasing a breathy mist of smoke.
|
|
|
|
"A few more minutes, I've got to see her one last time." I explained
|
|
looking about, knowing my mates would understand as I had done with their
|
|
infatuations. "She 'ast to come out some time," I muttered into the night air.
|
|
|
|
"Five more minutes mate," said Conor brushing his mess of black locks
|
|
back to get a better view of his wrist watch.
|
|
|
|
"She's probably in there getting on with some other brother while we're
|
|
out here in the fucking frigid cold," scoffed Dunnere trying to be
|
|
comedic-like.
|
|
|
|
"Piss-off," I responded for lack of a better and more sophisticated
|
|
deride, for language was highly regarded in this "renaissance" of ours. I
|
|
then looked up into the chasmic sky watching the clouds move swiftly like
|
|
soot stained waves across the blackness.
|
|
|
|
I kept looking upward-like, overcome by the sky's vastness, only hearing
|
|
odds of the other's conversation like that The Bluebloods were playing the
|
|
Cafe tonight and that some slutty lassy Dun was habituated to (as were half
|
|
the other brothers at Glascock School) known as Kathy Coxon was supposed to
|
|
turn up there.
|
|
|
|
My concentration on the darkened realm above me came to a sudden halt
|
|
induced by a sharp elbow jab from Jack who, when I turned to him irate-like,
|
|
motioned his head toward the Symphony Room's door about fifty yards adjacent
|
|
us.
|
|
|
|
And there she was in her full brilliant form; laughing lassy-like (yet
|
|
not so much that she looked as if she were daft or something) with a group of
|
|
her friends as she came through the doors like some angelic being. Shoulder
|
|
length, nearly jet black, hair, with legs that arched out beautifully and
|
|
seemed to go on forever, and the purest of white skin. She had to be at
|
|
least three years older my age.
|
|
|
|
Looking at her filled me with a fervor, yet I was then surprised by the
|
|
fact this same infatuation somehow rained a dreariness in my mind. Seeing her
|
|
loveliness, in all it's subtle deliciousness, made me realize how pathetic I
|
|
actually was; my fairly spotted and scarred face, my skinny and unmuscular
|
|
body, dry hands and callus tipped fingers, my fowl cigarette breath, my
|
|
ragged and uncombed locks...
|
|
|
|
"She is a nice looking trad lass isn't she?" blurted Conor quietly.
|
|
|
|
"Alright, let's go to the Cafe now," I said turning round to the car.
|
|
|
|
"We waited for this long and your not even going to talk to her?!" asked
|
|
Jack.
|
|
|
|
"Look at 'er," I said faced away from her, "some brother 'as to be on
|
|
that action." I turned back to Jack, "No. There is absolutely no way I can
|
|
talk to 'er! I only saw 'er just this night, I don't 'ave any slight clue
|
|
what 'er name might be, and there is absolutely no possible way that she would
|
|
even look twice my direction let alone respond to whatever yeh think I'm
|
|
going say 'er. We're going to the Cafe D'saster now."
|
|
|
|
"We've stood 'ere for this lass for 'alf a bloody 'our; either your
|
|
talkin' to 'er or I'm putting a word in for yeh," Conor grabbed my shoulder.
|
|
|
|
I probably won't see her again anyway, I thought, so what the hell? I
|
|
waited a moment then forced my mind to do it and turned slowly toward that
|
|
picturesque figure coming down the stairs. My heart was pumping piston-like
|
|
in my chest, my insides became like rapid covered current and I didn't even
|
|
realize my legs were moving me closer, upon each step, to her body.
|
|
|
|
I reached in my pocket and pulled out a cigarette and put it in between
|
|
my winter chapped lips. She was getting even closer still as she stepped
|
|
from the final stair on the case. Ah bloody 'ell! I searched my pockets for
|
|
me damned ligh'er.
|
|
|
|
Suddenly I found her staring at me not three feet away. I grabbed the
|
|
cigarette from my mouth and threw it into the bushes off the side of the
|
|
stair-case. I hoped so badly she didn't see that... but she did, and thank
|
|
god; she smiled with all her kind tenderness...
|
|
|
|
"Aye, I'm Gav. I saw you in the Symphony Room," I daftly pointed to the
|
|
building as if she didn't know where she had just come, "and was just
|
|
wondering if you'd like to go have a coffee sometime or some..." I stopped
|
|
and looked at the floor as if I were some inferior servant waiting for
|
|
orders. I took a breath, "I'm really soory, yeh probably thing I'm a callow
|
|
or something for comin' 'ere like an idgiot and thinking you might
|
|
actually..." I shyly pushed my locks from my face as I usually do. The
|
|
awkwardness was unbearable.
|
|
|
|
"No, no that's alright. I'll give you my number if you like," she
|
|
reached into her purse and pulled out a pen. "You wouldn't have anything to
|
|
write on you would you?"
|
|
|
|
"No, I don't usually do this kind of th..."
|
|
|
|
She grabbed my hand out of my trench pocket. I hesitated for a moment
|
|
but she quickly opened my hand and scribed the number down.
|
|
|
|
I could hear her friends around her staring and laughing real callow-
|
|
like at me...
|
|
|
|
This is probably sounding real cliche and overly trite to you by now so
|
|
I'll get on with it.
|
|
|
|
We quickly parted ways, smiling at each other as we did and I returned
|
|
back to my scoffing audience over against the wall.
|
|
|
|
"Any luck den?" asked Conor following me like the others to the car.
|
|
|
|
"Don't think so. I acted queer-like, you know? She's got to have some
|
|
brother shaggin' her... It's all a bunch of dick."
|
|
|
|
"What's that?" asked Conor.
|
|
|
|
"Everything. It's all a bunch of dick."
|
|
|
|
Dun came up behind me, "How much you want to bet that phone number that
|
|
lassie gave yehs just some fake she made up on the spot so you'd get away
|
|
from her?"
|
|
|
|
"Fuck off," said Conor to Dun.
|
|
|
|
"All a bunch of dick," I said again opening the car door.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
The Cafe D'saster was a massive hall that sat on a corner, towering
|
|
between many rows of dim shops and shined with an comely firey illumination
|
|
via it's encircling windows. Through these same windows could be seen many
|
|
brothers and lassies smoking, scoffing, and shagging about.
|
|
|
|
We entered the Cafe through the glass doors and were instantly belted by
|
|
the ranking, yet somehow pleasantly familiar, aroma of java, smoke and bitter
|
|
as if we had opened the door to some awesome oven.
|
|
|
|
We made our way through the crowd who were enjoying an evening with a
|
|
very well received band called The Bluebloods who I had been wanting to see
|
|
for ages. Tonight, a night I thought would be a quite affable evening on the
|
|
town, had taken such a fatuous turn though that I didn't really notice the
|
|
band at all, especially after the new cognizance of my patheticness. It was
|
|
like those many times I have been given the most unpleasant assignment from
|
|
my schoolmasters to write of an interesting childhood memory. This obligation
|
|
usually initiated a night of sitting at my desk and drowning in my own
|
|
despondency.
|
|
|
|
"Damn, I forgot my cigarettes in the car," I turned back around to the
|
|
door.
|
|
|
|
"No problem," said Conor mockingly laughing, "I can see yehr 'aving a
|
|
rough night." I've got to get some blues I left in the glove last week
|
|
anyway."
|
|
|
|
"Me ma or da could have found those you idgiot!" I yelped at him knowing
|
|
my parents don't take kindly to finding blues or any type of amphetamines for
|
|
that matter, lying around.
|
|
|
|
"Don't worry I'm getting them now," responded Conor as he made his way
|
|
to the door.
|
|
|
|
Dun spotted Kathy Coxon over against the stage surrounded by about ten
|
|
other brothers and took off, Jack following close behind. What I needed now
|
|
was a brutal java to put me back on top of things.
|
|
|
|
I sat depressed at a table in one of the Cafe's corners, sipping in the
|
|
piping hot Karova coffee (named after the bar in the Burgess book "A
|
|
Clockwork Orange". Just as well, the java was indeed pretty brutal and was
|
|
known to get the drinker pretty uplifted yet aggressive at times) and
|
|
thought. Thought about how dismal my days have become since I can't remember
|
|
when. I needed someone or something to believe in me and I guess that's what
|
|
I was doing within this refractory renaissance. In some ways this massive
|
|
band of radicals coming together did provide a sort of credence but it was
|
|
like I had all the pieces sorted out to look right, like thoughts of what I
|
|
knew I wanted to do with meself, but still only a minuscule amount actually
|
|
could be put together. Now, all this metaphoric gibberish probably means
|
|
nothing to you at all as it doesn't, quite also, to me, and most likely
|
|
sounds like some marmy-shmarmy song or something, but let's not even get into
|
|
that poncey shite.
|
|
|
|
Feeling a bit refreshed and woken up after finishing my java I returned
|
|
to the dance floor as to try to find Jack and Conor, but not so much Dun for
|
|
he could make any bad night worse, but he was most likely off drooling over
|
|
that Coxon lassie anyway.
|
|
|
|
For a while I just walked round through the crowd giving quick hellos to
|
|
other lassies I know and some brother friends.
|
|
|
|
Who then should come rushing up to my side first is Dun, (story of my
|
|
life). He stood there for a second and looked at me strangely. I had an
|
|
idea something was amis for Dun wasn't usually as serious as he looked now.
|
|
|
|
"Ay, what 'appnin' then?" I asked.
|
|
|
|
"They got Conor," he said with eyes like widened as he pointed to the
|
|
rear door.
|
|
|
|
"Ah, bloody 'ell!"
|
|
|
|
I raced for the back door of the Cafe and could hear Dun right behind
|
|
me. Every thing went silent in my mind and the door seemed to fade backward
|
|
in the distance as I raced toward it. I pushed my way through the crowd as
|
|
quickly as I could and didn't realize someone had actually socked me in my
|
|
ribs, for pushing them a little too aggressive-like, until later.
|
|
|
|
I put a nice football foul into the door and stopped in my steps as not
|
|
to stumble over the bloody faced Conor who laid down at the kneeling Jack's
|
|
feet. His white shirt looked as if he'd coughed a large quantity of red wine
|
|
all on it and his head was up against the stair wall that lead up to the
|
|
street.
|
|
|
|
"Shite...," I muttered leaning down.
|
|
|
|
"Aye, ponce." He said spitting out a bit of spitty blood as I rollicked
|
|
at the fact he was still alive. "Dicks kicked me in the face."
|
|
|
|
I took my handkerchief from my pocket and began cleaning him up a bit.
|
|
"My god did they do a job on you. Lets get you to the lavvy," Jack helped me
|
|
pick him up.
|
|
|
|
The florescent lights flickered as Conor stared at his cleaned up, but
|
|
very bashed about, face in the half-way broken mirror.
|
|
|
|
"Made me look like bloody Claude fuckin' Frollo those ponces did," he
|
|
said lightly touching a very brutally abraised bruise on his cheek bone
|
|
making himself twinge with agony.
|
|
|
|
I cringed at the sight of this and put my sweaty palms under the tap
|
|
next to Conor. As I scrubbed with some of that annoying powdery soap from a
|
|
tin can on the sink I saw the ink spiral down into the rusty drain.
|
|
|
|
"That was quite the stupid thing to do," scoffed Jack leaning over my
|
|
shoulder. "That about ruins all the chance you have of ever talking to that
|
|
lassie."
|
|
|
|
"Shite...," I muttered at the third, but much less horrid, memorable
|
|
event tonight.
|
|
|
|
"No, it's not," grinned Dun in the reflection of the mirror in front of
|
|
me. "Kathy knows her and she is coming to Glascock."
|
|
|
|
"What?" I asked turning to Dun to make sure if what I'd heard was right.
|
|
|
|
"That lassie, yeh met tonight, she's comin to Glascock this coming
|
|
Monday."
|
|
|
|
"All a bunch of dick?" muttered Conor. "Looks like Gav Duncan's life
|
|
has finally taken a turn for the better."
|
|
|
|
I grinned devilish-like in my mirror, "Just hope it lasts I do."
|
|
|
|
"Ay!" blurted Conor. I turned to his smiling scraped and bruised
|
|
face. "'ere's your fuckin' cigarettes." I caught the white box he tossed to
|
|
me in my ink smeared palm.
|
|
|
|
[to be continued...]
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
A BRiEF ENCOUNTER
|
|
by I Wish My Name Were Nathan
|
|
|
|
[This is actually the very good beginning to a very unfinished story.
|
|
Enjoy. --IWMNWN]
|
|
|
|
A confusingly happy lad of about nineteen burst into the brightly-lit
|
|
halls of Wal-mart with a huge self-assured smile on his face. He politely
|
|
turned down the employee's offer of a shopping cart and headed directly to the
|
|
junk-food slash candy section of the store. Nathan preferred to call it
|
|
"sugar heaven".
|
|
|
|
Someone who was working in the store during these unusually slow hours of
|
|
a mid-morning weekday would have seen this lad amble into the aisle out of
|
|
sight for a few minutes, and then reappear triumphantly from the other side
|
|
with two handfuls of pound candy bags. Rachel was one such person. Her eyes
|
|
bugged out and she threw her hands to her mouth to stifle imminent raucous
|
|
laughter.
|
|
|
|
Nathan looked for the express lane -- he had made sure to keep below the
|
|
eight-item limit -- and found it with relative ease. And as he stood in that
|
|
line, he looked over the selection of the impulse-buyers' merchandise heaven
|
|
and briefly considered buying a few cigarette lighters to make people think he
|
|
had taken up smoking. His dreams were shattered as he saw the line empty in
|
|
front of him; he stepped up.
|
|
|
|
He dropped all the bags of candy, and a new black pen, on the counter,
|
|
and felt himself salivating at the bounty of sugary goodness he had selected.
|
|
The cashier, a sixty-something lady, made a passing glance at the pile,
|
|
decided to be polite, and said nothing.
|
|
|
|
"Makes ya kinda hyper just lookin' at it, don't it?" he asked in a
|
|
friendly and completely fake Texan accent. He also winked at her to make his
|
|
point.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, no, that would go right through me," she replied, concentrating on
|
|
the laser price checker. Nathan shrugged, blushed a little, and laid down a
|
|
ten-dollar bill. "Nine seventy-three," she said perfunctorily, making change.
|
|
|
|
"Thanks," Nathan said, pocketing the change and looping his hand through
|
|
the plastic bag. He flashed a quick smile and headed out of the store with an
|
|
air of importance.
|
|
|
|
Rachel expelled a brief laugh and self-consciously covered it up by
|
|
dusting her register. She wore a grin the rest of the day.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
NEW BEGiNNiNGS
|
|
by Nomad
|
|
|
|
I don't believe how much can happen in just a day. I start the day in
|
|
one of my moody states, I don't want to talk to anyone or be talked to. I'm
|
|
very happy to see my family leave early to get to work and send my siblings to
|
|
before school activities. So I get ready and go to school. I get there and
|
|
my mood lifts a little. But still I didn't want to be at school either so I
|
|
just kept to myself reveling in my own self hate. The day was flying by in a
|
|
haze and I didn't listen to any of the teachers. Finally lunch rolled around
|
|
and I was still in my haze. I had gotten my food and was heading for my seat
|
|
when I bumped into a tall guy I know was a football player. I looked at the
|
|
mess that was all over his clothes, ketchup and Koolaid all over, and he
|
|
looked really pissed off.
|
|
|
|
"You little fuck look what you did!" he yelled.
|
|
|
|
"What I did, you walked into me, so you owe me $1.50!"
|
|
|
|
"I ain't givin' you shit, what I am going to do is beat the crap out of
|
|
you!"
|
|
|
|
By this time a small mob had surrounded us and were cheering him on.
|
|
Then I heard someone call my name and I looked; that was my first mistake.
|
|
|
|
I didn't see the fist, but I felt it. He hit me hard enough to knock me
|
|
to the ground and he stood over me telling me to get up and fight back.
|
|
|
|
I just let my anger go, and I didn't care what I did. So I kicked him in
|
|
the groin and when he doubled over in pain I stood up and took my knee to his
|
|
face, until I saw blood on my knee. I let him fall over and I began to walk
|
|
away, not even seeing the people or hearing the hushed voices. Then something
|
|
grabbed my shoulder and turned me around. And I was staring into the eyes of
|
|
a mid-aged coach.
|
|
|
|
"Where the Hell do you think you're going?" he yelled.
|
|
|
|
"Let go of me," was all I said and when he didn't I broke his arm, which
|
|
was my second mistake because as he yelled in pain about ten football players
|
|
jumped me for hurting their coach. After that I don't remember much because I
|
|
went into such a frenzy all I remember is hitting and being hit until my head
|
|
was slammed into the side of a table and I was knocked unconscious.
|
|
|
|
Next thing I knew was waking up to my head pounding and my hands cuffed
|
|
behind me.
|
|
|
|
I looked around to see that I was in a police car. My vision was blurry
|
|
but I could see more lights from what looked to be an ambulance. I looked
|
|
around some more and saw a policeman talking to a paramedic. I could just
|
|
barely hear them.
|
|
|
|
"Damnedest thing I ever saw. I saw cuts on some of them kids and it
|
|
looks like a knife, but he didn't have one on him. How many did they say it
|
|
took to take him down?"
|
|
|
|
"The kids and teachers told me about ten to fifteen and you saw what he
|
|
did to them. What is this kid on? I never seen someone do so much damage by
|
|
himself."
|
|
|
|
"They say he's one of those quiet types, but you know what they say
|
|
about . . . " That's when I passed out.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
I woke up some time later. My head wasn't pounding and my hands weren't
|
|
cuffed. When my vision cleared I saw that I was in a jail cell and was laying
|
|
on a cot. I could just barely make out voices in the other room, so I knew I
|
|
wasn't alone. I just sat there letting my head clear and waited for something
|
|
to happen. What seemed like hours went by until a policeman walked in with a
|
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tray of food which he slid under the door, saying that I'd be able to talk to
|
|
a lawyer and my parents in a couple of hours. When he left I quickly wolfed
|
|
down my food to silence my stomach's aching.
|
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|
|
Time slowly dragged on until again a policeman walked in. This time he
|
|
was with a middle-aged man with dark brown hair and a small mustache, and
|
|
under the suit he looked to be athletic.
|
|
|
|
"Has he been ranting and raving or has he been like this the whole time?"
|
|
asked the man.
|
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|
|
"He hasn't moved much and he's kept to himself. We haven't heard a peep
|
|
out of him," replied the guard.
|
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|
"Then let me in and excuse us."
|
|
|
|
"I don't think so, didn't you see what he did to those kids?" said the
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|
guard.
|
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|
|
"I saw, but I don't think he'll attack me. Now let me in," demanded the
|
|
man.
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|
|
"Fine, but I'm not going to be held accountable." The guard opened the
|
|
door and the man walked in.
|
|
|
|
"Hello. My name's John Wilson. I'm your lawyer."
|
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|
|
"My lawyer, what I do? All I did was get in a fight at school and *I'm*
|
|
the one who got the concussion."
|
|
|
|
"You're right, in a normal case you would just serve some time in Juve-
|
|
nile Detention, but this isn't normal. You cut out two people's throats.
|
|
They died en route to the hospital."
|
|
|
|
"Kill them, how could I have killed them? It's not like I'm some kind of
|
|
martial arts expert."
|
|
|
|
"Well, the police believe that you had a knife on you and you dropped it
|
|
when you lost consciousness. They have nothing to prove it, though, because
|
|
they can't find the knife."
|
|
|
|
"That's because I didn't have a knife! Why would I bring a knife to
|
|
school? It's not like I'm some psychotic gang member or something! You can
|
|
ask anyone. I'm usually very even tempered, except for the last few weeks," I
|
|
said.
|
|
|
|
"I know, but I need to ask you some questions, some of them are personal
|
|
things your friends or parents wouldn't know. Is that all right?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"Fine." I got up and started pacing and chewing my nails, which I knew
|
|
I'd regret later for chewing them too low.
|
|
|
|
"Okay, first how old are you?"
|
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|
|
"I turned 18 a couple of months ago."
|
|
|
|
"How long have you been having this temper problem?"
|
|
|
|
"It started some weeks before my birthday."
|
|
|
|
"Do you get along with your peers? Are you popular or an outcast?"
|
|
|
|
"I guess I'm about in the middle, because I know people but I only have
|
|
five to six real friends."
|
|
|
|
"How do you think you're viewed by others?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't know, I guess I think people really don't like me all that
|
|
much."
|
|
|
|
"Okay, that will be all for today. I'll be back, and you're hearing is
|
|
in two days. So if you can, talk to your parents."
|
|
|
|
And with that he left.
|
|
|
|
Like I said, a lot can happen in a day. All I'm worried about is what's
|
|
going to happen tomorrow.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
My parents showed up the next day with my mom looking like she was about
|
|
to cry and my dad had a weird look of shame on his face. No one talked about
|
|
what happened, and my mother battered me with endless questions of how I was,
|
|
how good they were treating me, and so on. My father didn't even say any-
|
|
thing. He just stood there and just watched us. When it was time to leave,
|
|
my mother started to cry and my father tried to comfort her. She gave me a
|
|
quick kiss and left for the car. My father only looked at me and shook his
|
|
head and walked out. I just sat there and cried the whole day.
|
|
|
|
The next day was the day of my hearing and I didn't feel like I'd be
|
|
getting out of this. But I made myself presentable and waited to be escorted
|
|
to it.
|
|
|
|
The trip to the courthouse was long and boring. The police I could say
|
|
were almost scared of me. They put me into the car cuffed at both my hands
|
|
and feet and when I was in the car they cuffed the cuffs to enforced spots in
|
|
the car. The driver didn't say anything through the whole trip, but kept
|
|
watching me through the rearview mirror.
|
|
|
|
When I arrived there were some camera crews and reporters that acted like
|
|
vultures when I got out of the car. I was quickly ushered through the crowd,
|
|
much to the reporters' dismay. They put me in a smaller cell that reminded me
|
|
of a padded insanity cell.
|
|
|
|
Some time went by until they came and got me. I was led down a hallway
|
|
and I had an odd feeling that I was being led to my own execution. A door
|
|
opened before me and they put me in a seat by my lawyer. I noticed my family
|
|
in the back and some friends sitting around in the courtroom. All were look-
|
|
ing upset and my mother was still crying. A bailiff stepped in front of the
|
|
podium and asked for all of us to rise. When the judge entered and sat we all
|
|
sat down. The hearing went on in a haze and I really didn't understand a lot
|
|
of it, but by the look on my lawyer's face it wasn't good. I was finally made
|
|
to stand as the judge started to speak.
|
|
|
|
"Seeing that all the evidence points to this young man being the killer,
|
|
and thanks to the new Republican Crime Bill, there is no need for a trial.
|
|
But, seeing how this is not a regular murder the death penalty will not be
|
|
enforced. Instead, you shall be sentenced to life in a minimal security
|
|
prison. Court dismissed."
|
|
|
|
"No!" I yelled, and snapped my cuffs as I charged the judge. The guards
|
|
tried to spot me but I was able to throw some of them off. There were four of
|
|
them clinging onto me when a fifth came up behind me and hit me behind the
|
|
head with a nightstick, knocking me unconscious.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
When I awoke I was again in a cell. This time I was cuffed and chained
|
|
to the cell door.
|
|
|
|
After some time guards came and escorted me to an armored truck that had
|
|
a couple of other prisoners in it. They were men much older than me and
|
|
didn't seem to really take notice of me. They cuffed me to a bar that was
|
|
firmly attached to the truck. Then they shut and locked the door. Then the
|
|
truck jerked and started forward.
|
|
|
|
The ride was long and boring because no one in the truck wanted to talk.
|
|
We went on in silence, when the truck came to a sudden stop. Muffled voices
|
|
were heard and the men in the truck started whispering. Until a scream rang
|
|
out that was turned to a gurgling noise.
|
|
|
|
Then the world turned upside down. The truck had been flipped to its
|
|
side and my shoulders screamed in agony as my body was twisted and jerked. I
|
|
just hung there until the door was ripped off its hinges.
|
|
|
|
What stood at the door was one of the scariest things my young eyes have
|
|
ever seen, a creature that was so large it filled the door. This creature had
|
|
the body of a wolf but walked on its hind legs. Its eyes glowed red and its
|
|
canine mouth glistened with saliva. The thing entered the truck slowly and
|
|
moved toward the men who were now beginning to yell and scream. As it neared
|
|
the first man it seemed to smell the air around it. Then, with speed that
|
|
seemed unrealistic, it ripped the man's throat out, spilling blood on me. It
|
|
did this to each man until it came to me. But the only thought that crossed
|
|
my mind was that this was what a trapped animal must feel, tied up and not
|
|
able to get away. As the creature approached me it raised its clawed hand and
|
|
as it descended I shut my eyes expecting death, but I only fell to the ground
|
|
with such suddenness it knocked the air out of me.
|
|
|
|
The thing's head came down towards mine and in a voice that sounded
|
|
almost too human it told me to relax and it wasn't going to hurt me. Then it
|
|
picked me up and carried me away into the trees.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
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|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
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|
|
SUN OUT
|
|
by I Wish My Name Were Nathan
|
|
|
|
Tony calmly closed the door behind him and said to Jackie, "The sun's
|
|
going out." Her eyes widened but he placed a calm hand on her shoulder. "I
|
|
was watching it all the way home," he said reassuredly.
|
|
|
|
Jackie asked softly, "What are you talking about?" But she knew what he
|
|
was saying. She'd noticed the dampening light as she read the art history
|
|
textbook, uneasily blaming it on her tired mind and lack of vitamin A.
|
|
|
|
He opened the blinds and waved an arm. "I was driving back from the
|
|
store when I suddenly realized it was dark but not cloudy. I looked up and
|
|
saw the sun. I looked right at it for several seconds. It's deep red.
|
|
Didn't hurt my eyes one bit." A good-natured farmer would have chuckled at
|
|
that statement, saying it was a special effect of nature when the sun set.
|
|
But it was three o'clock. A farmer like him was now uneasily sitting in his
|
|
tractor, glancing upwards, not worrying any longer about the failed of the
|
|
corn crop he was now churning into the soil.
|
|
|
|
Tony watched the sky, his head nodding involuntarily as he stood
|
|
motionless with his hands in his pockets. Jackie had turned her head to look
|
|
out the window but didn't think to turn her body after two minutes. The time
|
|
for panic hadn't happened that day. A boy, sitting through a seventh-grade
|
|
history lesson, had glanced outside during a ping of boredom during a droning
|
|
lesson about another bloody war. His eyes hadn't returned to his notebook
|
|
even to check if his handwriting was on the lines; his pen had stopped moving
|
|
long before. He wasn't sure, and didn't care, if his teacher had stopped in
|
|
the middle of that sentence to glare him down in humiliation. The sun -- the
|
|
thing -- glowing through the trees cast a ruddy shade on his face. He was
|
|
shivering.
|
|
|
|
The sun blinked out of sight when Tony solemnly lowered the blinds.
|
|
Jackie looked up, startled, and didn't even bother to chide herself. She
|
|
shifted her gaze down to the floor where the red rays of the sun dropped in
|
|
through the slits in the closed blinds. Tony walked into the kitchen and
|
|
pulled a can of grape juice from the refrigerator, and looked at it for a
|
|
while before opening it and taking a sip. He wandered back to Jackie and sat
|
|
down next to her.
|
|
|
|
Two hours later, they were sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall
|
|
opposite the soon-to-be ineffectual sunblinds. The empty can of grape juice
|
|
sat between them in the middle of the floor. Tony and Jackie were huddling
|
|
together under several heavy covers, not speaking. Far away a burly man of
|
|
about thirty was sitting in an uncomfortable metal chair next to the main
|
|
furnace of the hospital, staring sedately into the cool ashes he had been
|
|
watching burn out.
|
|
|
|
At five-thirty in the afternoon, it was night. Half the world was in
|
|
sleep; the other half was in stupor. Tony slowly realized it wasn't the
|
|
militias, it wasn't the Muslims, it wasn't the Republicans. The dualities and
|
|
prejudices he had learned throughout his life could not explain it. There had
|
|
been a bombing once. In the days after, as his mind adjusted to his luck
|
|
survival, his mind also raced in philosophic thought. He had realized the
|
|
meaning of life. In those flustered weeks when he searched through tons of
|
|
stone and concrete and metal, and he looked hard and pulled hard and cried
|
|
hard, he had come to terms with his entire outlook on the world. In the
|
|
months and years afterward when he grimly faced the fact that he'd meet his
|
|
end courageously fighting a merciless evil, he planned out a close moment he'd
|
|
share with Jackie when he'd explain to her his philosophy, his drive, his will
|
|
to live, and how she would be inspired by his soothing voice backed up with
|
|
plain sense, logic, and security, before he left to trod off to his valiant
|
|
end in defense of his rights.
|
|
|
|
He sat next to Jackie under the heavy sheets and quilts watching the sky
|
|
slowly turn black in the still bitter cold and found he didn't have much to
|
|
say.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
State of unBeing is copyrighted (c) 1995 by Kilgore Trout and Apocalypse
|
|
Culture Publications. All rights are reserved to cover, format, editorials,
|
|
and all incidental material. All individual items are copyrighted (c) 1995 by
|
|
the individual author, unless otherwise stated. This file may be disseminated
|
|
without restriction for nonprofit purposes so long as it is preserved complete
|
|
and unmodified. Quotes and ideas not already in the public domain may be
|
|
freely used so long as due recognition is provided. State of unBeing is
|
|
available at the following places:
|
|
|
|
iSiS UNVEiLED 512.252.3101 14.4 (Home of SoB)
|
|
THE LiONS' DEN 512.259.9546 24oo
|
|
TEENAGE RiOt 418.833.4213 14.4 NUP: COSMIC_JOKE
|
|
GOAT BLOWERS ANONYMOUS 215.750.0392 14.4
|
|
ftp to io.com /pub/SoB
|
|
World Wide Web http://io.com/~hagbard/sob.html
|
|
|
|
Submissions may also be sent to Kilgore Trout at <kilgore@bga.com>. Thank you.
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
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|