2730 lines
144 KiB
Plaintext
2730 lines
144 KiB
Plaintext
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, UfOFofO ,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 3/31/99 tahw ro who gniwonk
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to think. You are in FiFTY-FOUR 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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EDiTORiAL Kilgore Trout
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LETTERS TO THE EDiTOR
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STAFF LiSTiNGS
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[=- ARTiCLES -=]
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ON SERBiA Crux Ansata
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SCREENPLAY #48 Clockwork
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THE CRiTiCAL CRUX Crux Ansata
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THE PROCESS OF WRiTiNG -- A FAiRY TALE Kilgore Trout
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GAURA PURNiMA: MONDAY NiGHT Dark Crystal Sphere Floating
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WiTH THE HARE KRiSHNAS Between Two Universes
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THE SEXUAL STATE OF CONSCiOUSNESS Crux Ansata
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[=- POETASTRiE -=]
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MY LAST POEM OF THE CENTURY, THANKFULLY Clockwork
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[=- FiCTiON -=]
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JACQUES STANDiSH Clockwork
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REALiTY SUCKERS Kilgore Trout
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A DOCUMENTARY Sophie Random
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FiRST DRAFT I Wish My Name Were Nathan
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UNPRONOUNCED Kilgore Trout
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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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EDiTORiAL
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by Kilgore Trout
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It's almost Good Friday. Jesus died for my sins, so I get to sleep in.
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There. The lame Easter joke is already out of the way. Aren't you happy?
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This issue was kinda strange and hectic. I had about 14k of material
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about three days ago, and then everybody decided to send all of their stuff in
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at the last minute. Of course, it got me off my ass to finish some stuff I
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had been putting off because I thought there wasn't going to be much of an
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issue, so I guess that's good. But please, people, early submissions are
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fine. Really. I've got enough wracked nerves as it is.
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The First SoB World Tour went off without too many problems. Morrigan,
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the esteemed staff member who has replaced Clockwork as the disappearing
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writer, emailed us and asked us to come and visit her in Montana.
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Unfortunately, she stopped checking her email before I could get her address,
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so when we got up to Montana, directory assistance wasn't of much help, even
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though when she called directory assistance, they told her where she lived and
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what her phone number was. It's a conspiracy. Anyway, Clockwork, Nathan, and
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me drove in a Ford Probe for a lot of hours.
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But other than that (and Clockwork getting strep throat a few days before
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the trip), everything went off without a hitch. I must say, I never want to
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drive across Kansas again. Way too flat. Too much dead cornfields. And
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60mph speed limits on the highways. What's up with that?
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About the only sightseeing we did (we went up to Montana and back from
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Austin in five days) was stopping at Mt. Rushmore, which was kinda strange
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since we're not exactly the most patriotic bunch around. At least it was big.
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I should have gone to Mt. Rushmore before I had seen the Sphinx, though. It
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probably would have been better.
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So, we don't know when we're gonna have the Second SoB World Tour, but
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we'll let you know a little more in advance next time so we can plan a bit
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better and hit more places. Everyone's gotta restock up on their vacation
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time, though.
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So, here's this issue. Read it all. Soak it up. Give it to your
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friends. Give it to your enemies. Leave it in bathroom stalls on campus or
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in your workplace. And don't forget to change your clocks this weekend. I
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forget which way it goes. I think time turns off cause we turned it on in the
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fall. Right?
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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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From: Ciro Dutch
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To: kilgore@eden.com
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Subject: Sign me up
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hey Kilgore,
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Let's just say that i started reading your e-zine out of love(my boyfriend
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showed it to me) but to my pleasent surprise, i actually liked it(not an easy
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feat) I have made it my duty to introduce my friends to it, so that they to
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can have something intelligent to read while school works to numb their minds
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throughout the day. So i guess what i'm asking is for you to sign me up to
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your mailing list. thatnks, it would bring much joy.
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Ciro Dutch
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[well, we're always happy to provide some entertainment amongst those in love.
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i believe a while back the zine actually was causing a bit of a problem in
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someone's marriage due to the subject matter or something, so it's always
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nice to hear about the other side. and just for you, we've included lots of
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lovey dovey stuff in this issue. okay, that's a lie. keep on passing it
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around, and get them all signed up. pretty soon, we'll have enough for a
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cult. i mean, we've already got t-shirts.]
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--SoB--
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From: josiah
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Sent: Thursday, March 25, 1999 12:08 AM
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Subject: your page
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i cant find a link to your page on the sob site
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you mentioned you had one in the editorial of the last issue and i felt
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like looking at your hair
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think i could have the address maybe?
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ill give you a spittoon if you like
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[no thanks. i don't need a spittoon. you can just click on my name on the
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main page if you really want to see my hair from four years ago. happy
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viewing, i think.]
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--SoB--
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A Prologue to Turing Test
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Oh, the humblest apologies I mutter. I must confess, the sweet
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sweat-plowing work that has been done on the upcoming audio splatter has been
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little and less. Thoughts, many thoughts, rippling thoughts spin down my own
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neural walkways -- closed eyes, pictured sound tree, how do you want it to
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feel. Many, many, that is how, with multiple plots and womb-noises, makes you
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want to sleep in the bathtub. Much still needs to be done. Still needs to be
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transferred from the realms of raw uncorked thrash media, into a half-polished
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unlimited useable format. This is a daunting task. I've found myself flying
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home, numerous evenings, driving into the dining room, ready to implement and
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create, only to find such unedited recordings waiting for me to wade through,
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pied piper and his jolly vinyl boots. And I sit and stare for a moment, and
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the desire is swept from me. By my own brow, of course.
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It will be done, I say. That is my decree. It is being done, I say. As
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you read this, every moment, my hand is in the jar. It is little and perhaps
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nothing, but what else can I do? I could do the thing. Right. My tongue has
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been swimming in the written word with Dillinger and friends for many months,
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and I've been wrapped up and hoisted into that world with joy. That, and I
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have a five picture deal with Miramax -- they want _Babe: Pig on Mars_ and I
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shall deliver, with Tim Burton as director. Yes. You know.
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The question remains why I write this half-excusitory explanatory
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sing-a-long for someone to read -- it is not as though the world stands still
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until the creation is finished, no distribution to millions by Columbia, no
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screaming babydoll'd flappers at the doorstep sighing and swooning at every
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word. There's certainly about four of you -- not counting the pseudo-staff who
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are obligated by the clauses of friendship to listen to every second. Four
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who may take the time to listen and grunt to whatever picks and whistles and
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logging jams they hear. So, out of respect for those four, and the general
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concept of living up to one's words, I write this. Not to mention the deep
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rooted desire to fill the wicked void in one's soul through the acts of
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creation. I have trouble with calling whatever I do art, though I wish it to
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be. Therefore, the word creation is apt. I ask for patience. I ask myself
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for patience. I ask for help -- there is no I in Buddha. I ask myself for
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confidence and honed skill to channel the universe through my body in hopes
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the results will move someone to levitation, or bestow the power to teleport
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and visit distant roving planets without the need for bulky constraining
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suits, or cause someone to smirk and say "neat," or influence a six-year-old
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to enter the world of music and become a critically acclaimed oboe player.
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To hint, to hint. Abstract and moody. Some wandering carnival dances,
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fellow heart-laden friends, conversations in space, deep from the womb,
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rippling conversations, eternal hope, free and flowing, topped with scarves
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and eye-pieces, lost, passage through time and boyhood, a hopping indictment
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of technology.
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Please be clear: this will certainly not sound like a Depeche Mode album.
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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 LiSTiNGS
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EDiTOR
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Kilgore Trout
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CONTRiBUTORS
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Clockwork
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Crux Ansata
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Dark Crystal Spheres Floating Between Two Universes
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I Wish My Name Were Nathan
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Sophie Random
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GUESSED STARS
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Ciro Dutch
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Josiah
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SoB OFFiCiAL GROUPiES
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crackmonkey
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Oxyde de Carbone
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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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ON SERBiA
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by Crux Ansata
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As this article has taken shape, the world has seen rumors of war give
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way to war -- the first NATO war of aggression -- and begun to hear ominous
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rumblings of the rivers of blood a ground war will bring on. By the time this
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goes to press -- God willing -- our boys will be safely home.
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At this point, it does not seem this is God's will.
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Why Kosovo? Why has our Kaiser forced us to stick our bombs where they
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don't belong; into this particular place where they don't belong? I watched
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him make his case on television. I read his speech and his statements. I
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don't buy a word he said.
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His second point was the most flimsy. We have to do it now, or we will
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have to do it later. Watch the argument; feel the dizzying buzz; but you will
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still not have gotten anywhere. Maybe those whose knowledge of foreign
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affairs comes solely from CNN are dazzled by the circular arguments; I,
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however, can think. Why do it now? Why do it later? In short: Why is this
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America's war?
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His first argument -- humanitarian disaster -- is the most cited. Why?
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Corpses and refugees are photogenic. Humanitarian intervention is good for
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ratings and advertisers. But what makes it our war?
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When did Clinton grow a moral backbone? When did he become a
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humanitarian? (Kosovoars can't vote. I doubt they can even afford campaign
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contributions.) For that matter, where is his consistency? This is a NATO
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war; when can we expect NATO peacekeepers in repressive NATO countries? When
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do the humanitarian cruise missiles strike London for the oppression of the
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six counties? Ankara, for the repression of Kurdistan? Madrid, for Euzkadi?
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Do we only wage war on non-NATO states? (We must preserve unity, at
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least for show -- shows such as the nightly news.) Then let us bomb Tel Aviv
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for the occupation of Palestine.
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Too strategic an ally? Too White? (We all know it can't be because Tel
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Aviv is acting in accordance with the UN!) Let us move a little deeper into
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the world's south.
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When do we bomb Jakarta? East Timor, a sovereign nation, was outright
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invaded. The U.S. may have been the first to recognize the move -- there was
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oil involved, after all -- but the UN never did. Humanitarian tragedy? One
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third of the East Timorese have been killed. Proportionately, this is a
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bigger holocaust than any claim for the Shoah. Why now are we supposed to
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forget?
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Perhaps the East Timorese are too Catholic?
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Let us not deceive ourselves. Whatever has launched Kaiser Bill into
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this latest murderous rage, love for his fellow man isn't it.
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So we look to his last claim, his desperate appeal to national security
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-- not, the cynic suspects, because even he, globalist extraordinaire, could
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possibly believe it, but because it gives him a congressional end run,
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clutching the War Powers Act.
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Clinton tells us -- without cracking a smile -- that our children need a
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stable Europe. One would think Europe needs a stable Europe, such as such
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anti-bombing powers as Greece, Russia, Belarus. But apparently we know what's
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best for them. We, in our arrogance, take sides, obliterate the
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insufficiently politically correct, and dash off to the Bat-cave, having saved
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the world once more.
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Globocop has become Globonanny.
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What jurisdiction could we possibly claim? The Federal Republic of
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Yugoslavia is not a NATO state. The Federal Republic of Yugoslavia did not
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attack a NATO state. Kosovo was never even a federated republic; the
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reasoning used to excuse Bosnia, Slovenia, Macedonia and Croatia as they
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seceded and hid behind NATO's skirts does not apply to a formerly autonomous
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region. Repressive as Milosovic may be -- or may not be -- he has not
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attacked a sovereign state. This was not an international war -- not a war at
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all -- until the night Clinton ordered the Serb people attacked.
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And let no one claim the UN gave jurisdiction. Only the Security Council
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gives jurisdiction for the use of force. No permission was given. Had it
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been sought, even if it could have mustered a majority, it would have been
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defeated by veto.
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Clinton has arrogated to himself the privilege of dictating not only the
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world's foreign policy, but each nation's internal, domestic policy. Kaiser
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Bill has appointed himself emperor.
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But what does he hope to achieve? At the very least, he is setting a bad
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example. If a supposed liberation army brings repression down on itself -- or
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fakes repression, as some sources claim -- the U.S. will force their
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government's surrender. What kind of humanitarian policy is that?
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Aside from that, this is an idiotic military policy. No campaign of air
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strikes has ever turned a people against its leader. To the contrary, we have
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examples of the opposite: World War Two Britain, Germany and Japan; North
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Vietnam; Iraq. An air war will not result in a political victory, in a change
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of leadership. And it cannot in isolation win a military victory, elimination
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of the Yugoslav capacity to police its own territory. Only a ground war --
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and a virtual ethnic cleansing of the Serb people, already begun by the KLA --
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can impose this imperial Pax Americana on a crushed Serbian people. And only
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temporarily.
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The Serbs are not opposed to peace. They are not even opposed to
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Kosovoar autonomy. Ever notice how the U.S. representatives on the nightly
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news never detailed the certain elements of the peace agreements Serbia would
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not accept? Serbia refused -- and Russia backed their refusal -- and they
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were right in their refusal -- to allow NATO ground troops into Serbia.
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Milosovic told NATO if they wanted to occupy Serbia, they would have to invade
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Serbia -- and prepared for the bombs.
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After all, why should this war be any different? When Bosnian Serbs
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tried to secede from Bosnia, Kaiser Bill bombed the hell out of the Serbs.
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When Kosovoar -- which is to say, Serbian -- Albanians, Serbs of Albanian
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descent, tried to secede from Serbia, Kaiser Bill bombed the hell out of the
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Serbs. Like mysterious deaths and Chinese debts, it has been an unwavering
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common thread throughout his regency.
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Don't be deceived! We are putting our brothers and sisters on the line
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in Serbia for one reason and one reason only. We are in Serbia because
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Milosovic told "Madame War" Albright exactly where she could launch Kaiser
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Bill's syphilitic cruise missile, in all its dwindling supply. We are hearing
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either the birth cries or the death rattle of the Bush-Clinton New World
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Order, the fascist, globalist, one world policeman in all its absolutely
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powered brutality. Nationalist, don't let the sun set on you here.
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Serbian innocents need to die so you can live -- in dictated slavery.
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If we believed in peace, we would terminate Clinton's term of office.
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Since 1989, most of which has been this humanitarian pacifist's watch,
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military deployments have increased 300 percent. That's three *hundred.*
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That's for every one boy guarding some contested piece of dirt a decade ago --
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as the Berlin Wall came down -- there are three of the slavemaster's bullet
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catchers watching dirt now. That is the globalist's police state, not the
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Democrat's "peace dividend."
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If we believed in freedom, we'd let Yugoslavians -- ethnic Albanians,
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ethnic Montenegrins, and ethnic Serbs alike -- manage their own internal
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affairs. Had Milosovic attacked an independent country, perhaps it would be
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right to drive him back. He has not, and it is not.
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So, as you go to bed tonight, call up for a moment the bombed schools,
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the damaged monasteries, the dead Serbs your tax money has bought. Think
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about the killing your elections have brought about. And ask yourself: What
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kind of world safe for democracy has Kaiser Bill and his pack of warlords
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wrought?
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Peace to Serbia! Stop the Bombs!
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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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"I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just."
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--Thomas Jefferson
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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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SCREENPLAY #48
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by Clockwork
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It's some kind of tribal warfare. Monks and thorny queens with staves of
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diamond arse whip and croon at a virgin's hand. What an endowed monstrosity
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with ember hands, held still to keep the body warm, archfestivals with
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winebred children lapping at their mother's waist. We all want to fit into
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leather pants, stick and stuck with boots and mad verse, rhythm of heartbled
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dribble, droop and drop kneel to your bewildered folk, impure musings willed
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to spill forth onto a concrete streaked corner store, nickels and dimes for
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words that rhyme.
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"Can I read you a poem?" Ahem.
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"I am the greatest poet who walks the streets of Notting's End, and I
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shall recite you a poem, I shall, and if your heart is moved and struck, you
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can pay me what you will for this beauty I spoke."
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Beauty for change, change that jingles when beauty doesn't. He spoke his
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poem, spake and spat, sullen-eyed, minced paws at his side, spoke of woman,
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the embodiment of beauty through the empires' collapse and death fought death
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fields -- above all she stood -- hearts and eyes and skin and hair, he spoke,
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of course, a classical Greek influence, Roman columns and flowers born from
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blood. That is fine. We ate his beauty, lifted our pockets. When not many
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days after we stood as the poet of poets approached and sauntered a group
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beside us, two feet, three, more -- a couplet of womenfolk and off he went
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with his verse of beauty. The same verse of beauty, same words and pauses,
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same head bows and eye closures, and off he went.
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Disappointed and sad and still unsurprised, as the poet of poets
|
|
poeticized and did not rhyme with vowels, or give heed to the Muse that mused
|
|
him. A lie, so it is, but who am I to say I am not a liar. Everyone wants to
|
|
be a rock star, and those who don't only lie.
|
|
|
|
I do not know who Shakespeare was, but he birthed the Muses, raised and
|
|
fed and slept with all nine, whimpering the will of the gods, and he is the
|
|
rock star. I want them all to be rock stars -- a world full of rock stars,
|
|
stage upon stage with no opening acts, no headlining troupe, except them and
|
|
those and, everyone headlining after they open -- and where am I? Where do I
|
|
sit? The one at the ivory sound board, towering divine, levels and levels of
|
|
the worldly bops, no. No, I am just a rock star. I open and close and screw
|
|
myself over as my management and such.
|
|
|
|
Woman and children sit in rows of lanky bluebonnets, rolling to prove the
|
|
moment in film, and behind them sits a five-story bank building, and in front a
|
|
six-lane highway, all to mark us present. If only it would rain snowcones --
|
|
real snowcones, not a ball of solid ice with one drop of goo, no plastic or
|
|
styrofoam, I want Amish crushed whittled love ice, unshaved, draped in a vat
|
|
of blue and red and gold, wrapped with cardboard chewed by women in Istanbul,
|
|
and at the bottom, a perfect sphere of amorous gum, the ultimate engineered
|
|
solution to drips. I can fall in love with every single one of you and your
|
|
snowcones, and I will in due time.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"I think myself in a jail."
|
|
--E. Saliers
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
THE CRiTiCAL CRUX
|
|
by Crux Ansata
|
|
|
|
The Tale of a Dog (Historien med huden)
|
|
Lars Gustafsson
|
|
trans. Tom Geddes
|
|
(New York: New Directions, 1999) 182 pp., $11.95
|
|
|
|
It is a bit disorienting to read a novel written in central Texas, about
|
|
central Texas, first published in Sweden, in Swedish, by a Swedish immigrant
|
|
to central Texas, translated into British English and originally published in
|
|
translation in England. Incredibly believable central Texas characters, in
|
|
places I personally have been to, will, without warning (and through no fault
|
|
of their own), say something I was much more used to hearing when I lived in
|
|
England. Understandable, but somehow out of place.
|
|
|
|
Interestingly, this feeling of disorientation is probably appropriate in
|
|
reading this novel, the most recently translated volume of Professor
|
|
Gustafsson's work. (New Directions now publishes seven of his novels in
|
|
English, as well as one volume of short stories and one volume of poems. At
|
|
least three other novels have been published in Swedish.) His novels deal
|
|
with philosophical issues, much as do those of Sartre, Beckett, or Philip K.
|
|
Dick. Defamiliarization -- subtle defamiliarization -- is probably vital to
|
|
understanding the work.
|
|
|
|
For the past couple of decades, Gustafsson has been teaching philosophy
|
|
here at the University of Texas, as well as courses on Swedish literature. It
|
|
is one thing to take a course on math or economics where the professor has
|
|
written the textbook; it is quite another to take a course on literature where
|
|
one studies one of the works of the author. In more concrete studies, books
|
|
are selected to reflect what the professor wants to teach. In literature,
|
|
Professor Gustafsson has had to earn his place on the syllabus as one of
|
|
Sweden's most important authors.
|
|
|
|
The reference to Philip K. Dick above is not entirely gratuitous. While
|
|
not a "science fiction novel" -- as, say, Sigismund could be said to be -- The
|
|
Tale of a Dog is as influenced by science fiction themes as by (more commonly
|
|
recognized) philosophical literature. Professor Gustafsson never refers to
|
|
Dick explicitly in the novel, as he does to, say, Norman Spinrad. Nor do I
|
|
remember him speaking about Dick, as he did about other authors, such as
|
|
Stanislaw Lem. And though all three of these science fiction authors deal
|
|
with philosophical themes in their work, the character of Anthony T.
|
|
Winnicott, who "seemed to have a certain penchant for long titles," seems to
|
|
me too much like Philip K. Dick for coincidence. Unless, of course, one
|
|
assumes all science fiction authors, at some point in their lives, think
|
|
themselves to have a direct revelation from God.
|
|
|
|
Although this novel deals tangentially with the issue of the existence of
|
|
God -- much as it does with Anthony T. Winnicott -- it deals a bit more
|
|
explicitly with the issue of the nature of good and evil, their existence and
|
|
their meaning. Amid Texas floods and Belgian Nazis, bankruptcy court judges,
|
|
flaming boats and a couple of dead dogs, Gustafsson manages a critique of the
|
|
reality -- or lack thereof -- of transcendent moral standards, using as a
|
|
launching point, of all things, Saint Anselm's ontological argument for the
|
|
existence of God. And he does so with the incredibly readable, and somewhat
|
|
crushing, Existentialist viewpoint he brings to all his novels.
|
|
|
|
While I am not entirely a fan of the price of their hardback books, I
|
|
have otherwise never been disappointed by New Directions. One thing that has
|
|
noticeably changed, though, is this is the first New Directions book I ever
|
|
recall seeing with a full color cover. The translator, Tom Geddes, is also
|
|
familiar, having translated Professor Gustafsson's other most recent novel
|
|
translated into English, A Tiler's Afternoon. In short, this novel is
|
|
unquestionably worth the price.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"If anyone can show me, and prove to me, that I am wrong in thought or
|
|
deed, I will gladly change. I seek the truth, which never hurt anybody.
|
|
It is only persistence in self-delusion and ignorance which does harm."
|
|
--Marcus Aurelius
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
THE PROCESS OF WRiTiNG -- A FAiRY TALE
|
|
by Kilgore Trout
|
|
|
|
I write to no one, for no one. I am a dead letter box. There isn't much
|
|
of a sender to return to. What happens when you deconstruct a text to kill
|
|
the author's voice and that text belongs to you? Do you now have writer's
|
|
block or brain death? What are you supposed to do when subjectivity becomes
|
|
truth, when words are mere strokes of a pen in a seemingly ordered fashion?
|
|
The reliance on the written word has spawned religion, law, art and war. What
|
|
do you do when the text becomes your enemy? You let the characters fight it
|
|
out for you.
|
|
|
|
|
|
PEN ADDICT CHALKS UP ANOTHER ViCTiM
|
|
|
|
"See, the author here doesn't believe in himself anymore," Protagonist
|
|
Jones says, "so he has to speak through me. He thinks he's being sly and
|
|
crafty, aping me around like a goddamned puppet. As if I'm that naive. I
|
|
know -- and he knows it, too -- that what he intends to write and what comes
|
|
out of the text isn't always the same. He's hiding behind a pen, assured that
|
|
this is the safe route, but there is still doubt. There is always
|
|
uncertainty. He wants me to be his voice, but I'm not sure I like that
|
|
arrangement. After all, suspension of disbelief is the first step towards
|
|
cracking like brittle lips."
|
|
|
|
|
|
QUALiTY CONTROL BREEDS BUREAUCRACY
|
|
|
|
And we're not even talking about Max Weber here, because English
|
|
departments have not been relegated to the cultural studies department -- yet.
|
|
There are still New Critics hanging out in the basements, clutching their
|
|
Donne and Milton texts to their breasts while they wait out the latest -ism to
|
|
hit academe. In the meantime, Stanley Fish is putting grocery lists on a
|
|
chalkboard and asking, "Is this a poem?" The other groups are doing their own
|
|
things, but they aren't as humorous as Mr. Fish. They're concerned with
|
|
semiotics and which author is (sub)consciously oppressing X group. It's an
|
|
oversimplification, sure, but when the text doesn't matter, then criticism
|
|
becomes art.
|
|
|
|
|
|
JUSTiCE OF THE PiECEMEAL
|
|
|
|
"But we're all critics," bemoans Labia Child, "whether we like it or not,
|
|
so some unwitting dupes have to be cajoled into producing art. Prop up an
|
|
aesthetic theory, let them run with it, and before you know it, you've got
|
|
tenure. Of course, you'll take yourself too seriously, and people will ram
|
|
long pipe beams into the holes of your arguments, but that's what it's all
|
|
about, really. We argue with each other to convince ourselves that we're still
|
|
alive."
|
|
|
|
|
|
EXCEEDiNG THE SPEED LiMiT(ER of DECORUM)
|
|
|
|
Crenshaw lit a cigarette and rocked back and forth in his chair on the
|
|
patio. "For crissakes," he told his cat, Bentham, "that damn bastard's gone
|
|
and changed person and tense for no reason whatsoever. Plus, I'm now
|
|
metatextually aware, but I'm just a non sequiter. What the fuck ever happened
|
|
to unity?"
|
|
|
|
|
|
WARNiNG: KiSS THE WOUND ON THE OUTSiDE ONLY
|
|
|
|
The first thing we have to do is question the ontological nature of the
|
|
text itself. Is the text autonomous (poem qua poem) or is there a
|
|
transactional relationship between the reader and the text? And how does the
|
|
author fit into all of this after his work is finished? Everybody has their
|
|
theories, so throwing mine onto the heap will just add to the literary trash:
|
|
the text has a tendency to exist. Being a reader raises the chance of
|
|
solidification (you haven't skipped this section, have you?) of the reality of
|
|
the text, but you can never be sure. The text is a model of supposed reality,
|
|
subject to change at any given moment.
|
|
|
|
|
|
BARNEBY DUSSELDORF QUESTiONS HiS LEFT THUMB
|
|
|
|
Barney. At what point in the first trimester do
|
|
your fingers grow?
|
|
Thumb. I am a thumb, you dolt,
|
|
and if you want to gen'ralize, go suck
|
|
on fingers five and tell me that you're cool.
|
|
|
|
|
|
HE'S PLAYiNG GOD, DR. WATSON
|
|
|
|
It appears pretty astute for Ben Jonson in the 17th century to play with
|
|
the fictional reality of _The Alchemist_ by stating that the action is
|
|
supposed to be actually taking place next door to the theater in which it was
|
|
first performed. The first words of Subtle the Alchemist's mouth are, "Thy
|
|
worst. I fart at thee!" Even 400 years ago there seems to be this desire to
|
|
make the text more than just a text: it directly interfaces with its
|
|
surroundings. When more and more characters are becoming aware of the author
|
|
and the reader, how does this affect the analysis? Is it a striving to give
|
|
our creations answers about their world because we have none of our own?
|
|
|
|
Humans want to be gods, and writers are about the closest thing because
|
|
they think they wield total control over their works. In a world that is
|
|
becoming less concrete and objective, the text becomes just as "real" as the
|
|
nightly news. Literature can no longer be viewed as a passive activity;
|
|
rather, the characters are beginning to get ideas of their own about our
|
|
memespace and are slowly invading.
|
|
|
|
|
|
A REPRESENTATIVE OF THE CHURCH BREAKS PARTY RANKS
|
|
|
|
"Let's analyze me for a second," proposes Father Lament. "You know
|
|
nothing about me except my name, which I haven't even had to mention. I'm
|
|
speaking directly to you, but your ability to discern information about me
|
|
lies both within my words and without. You have probably already guessed that
|
|
I'm supposed to be a sad priest or something, and you're waiting for some type
|
|
of conclusive evidence to validate your hypothesis. Did it ever occur to you
|
|
that my name might be Bill or Flannery or even Abdullah? I haven't told you
|
|
my name, so you have to choose who to believe, the author or me. I mean, I
|
|
should know my own name, correct? When quotes are placed around words, they
|
|
instantly become subjective, as this dialogue is. Why do you inherently trust
|
|
the author? Is your faith that blind, your reverence of the text so
|
|
consuming?
|
|
|
|
Father Lament jumps off a bridge and dies. His death is investigated by
|
|
the police who rule it a suicide, but his family and friends aren't so sure.
|
|
They think foul play is involved.
|
|
|
|
|
|
A PLAN FOR WORLD DOMiNATiON
|
|
|
|
No wonder Plato wanted to kick artists out of his idealized republic.
|
|
Writers are liars, plain and simple, and they'll be the first to admit it.
|
|
Spin doctoring isn't required as in politics or law, and authors, unlike
|
|
journalists, can flaunt their biases like a baboon who wants to show off his
|
|
giant red ass. So why aren't writers, who are honest about their deceptions,
|
|
running the world instead of those who are deceptive about their honesty? The
|
|
answer lies in supplementing the model of objective reality with that of
|
|
fiction. When the two become interchangeable, then maybe the world will be, if
|
|
not a better place, at least truthful about truthlessness.
|
|
|
|
|
|
BONUS EGGS FOR THE PERSON WiTH DiSCERNiNG iNTUiTiON
|
|
|
|
"It boils down to a question of who to trust. If you haven't surmised it
|
|
by now, the author is simply another created character in her work, so you
|
|
have to choose which character to believe. And what do you do if everybody is
|
|
unreliable in the text? How do you judge what the author intends and if those
|
|
intentions are actually carried through or, worse, intentionally maligned?
|
|
Being the author/character doesn't help matters because you are already set up
|
|
as fallible. While everything may not be a lie, it is not truth either,
|
|
because truth presupposes total knowledge. You can't even trust yourself."
|
|
|
|
|
|
LOST EPiSODES OF THE SALEM WiTCHTRiALS
|
|
|
|
Goody Gretel and Goodman Hansel were brought into court as expert
|
|
witnesses. "The witch," Gretel began, "is an infertile creature, eschewing
|
|
the natural in exchange for the supernatural. She cannot, however, give up
|
|
that part of her psyche that is linked to the birth of a new life, so she
|
|
attempts to destroy it. In our case, the method preferred was an oven -- an
|
|
obvious symbol of the uterus."
|
|
|
|
"One other thing that should be mentioned," Gretel offered, "is that we
|
|
tricked her into her own oven. She experienced a return to center, destroying
|
|
herself in a symbolic attempt to reproduce."
|
|
|
|
Goody Gretel smiled. "After that," she said, "we ate all of her fucking
|
|
sweets."
|
|
|
|
|
|
BLACK HOLE DiATRiBE FOR THE iMPOTENT
|
|
|
|
Goody Gretel's imminent dental woes can serve as an illustration of this
|
|
mother's personal predicament. Much like decayed teeth require fillings and a
|
|
nice polish, so does my current view of creating art need an infusion of fresh
|
|
meat. It remains putrid, stagnant, and disenjambed. While Goody Gretel can
|
|
go to a dentist (provided she has insurance), my solution entails a more
|
|
elusive structure. A muse, perhaps? Inspiration? Maybe my Poetic
|
|
Imagination has decided to take a vacation to a neutral European country.
|
|
Browning, in "Bishop Blougram's Apology," argues that the desire to have faith
|
|
is faith enough. This is not true for writing, however, as the amount of bad
|
|
teenage poetrie attests: desire is not enough.
|
|
|
|
|
|
SUBVERT THE MALE DOMiNANT HiERARCHY, BABE
|
|
|
|
"What are you studying?" I ask the black-haired girl at the table next to
|
|
mine. I am bored.
|
|
|
|
"Feminist literary theory," she says, looking up. "I'm reading about
|
|
Elaine Showalter and gynocriticism."
|
|
|
|
"So, do you think we should revamp the patriarchal western canon?"
|
|
|
|
"I think so. I mean, look at popular writers of the last century like
|
|
Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, Susan Warner, or E.D.N. Southwick who have been
|
|
excluded."
|
|
|
|
"Are they kept out because they are women or because they just aren't
|
|
canon material, sex excluded? They were popular writers. Do you think one
|
|
hundred years from now Kathy Acker is going to be snubbed in order to make
|
|
room for John Grisham or Tom Clancy?"
|
|
|
|
"You're trying to push me into the extremist camp."
|
|
|
|
"No, I just wanted clarification."
|
|
|
|
"I bet you've never read any of the women I mentioned."
|
|
|
|
"True, but what good does that do you?"
|
|
|
|
"I know about them, and since I know about a lot of things, that means I
|
|
should do well in grad school."
|
|
|
|
|
|
EVERYTHiNG YOU WANTED TO ASK BUT WERE AFRAiD NOT TO KNOW
|
|
|
|
"Epistemology is the problem," Protagonist Jones says. "As in Foucault's
|
|
epistemes, worldviews change with each culture, and these perceptions of
|
|
reality are inherently subjective and contradictory. What is true today is
|
|
wrong the next and laughable the day after. Boethius' Wheel of Fate? The
|
|
great chain of being in the Renaissance? Flogisten? Har har har. When you
|
|
only know about things, the relationship with objects and ideas becomes a
|
|
transitory connection, and so do the words used to communicate these links."
|
|
|
|
|
|
A DEFENSE OF THE READER, OR A MONKEY APOCALYPSE
|
|
|
|
Many would argue that the reader gives the text meaning, no matter what
|
|
whacked out theories artists or critics have. Of course, authors themselves
|
|
are readers of their own texts, so meaning, however illusory, still struggles
|
|
not to be denied. Whose meaning is correct, if at all? If the writer
|
|
believes his work means absolutely nothing and was designed as a nihilistic
|
|
document, are readers who find meaning imposing too much? Can such a text be
|
|
produced? If the old experiment was conducted with a million monkeys on a
|
|
million typewriters in an attempt to produce _Hamlet,_ do the illiterate
|
|
monkeys keying at random fashion a work of art or a work of chance? The two
|
|
may not be too different.
|
|
|
|
|
|
iN THE GARDEN OF EDEN, REViSED
|
|
|
|
Monsieur Lasalle takes a sip of water and places the glass on the
|
|
lectern. "Finding meaning or substance is what drives the author to write
|
|
or the reader to explore literature," he explains. "The hope that knowledge
|
|
exists -- whether or not it actually does -- is the motivating factor. We
|
|
want to learn about ourselves and our surroundings to be able to understand
|
|
_why._ We are hoping creatures, and even if it means having blind faith to
|
|
keep us sane, at least we aren't committing ourselves to insanity. The
|
|
greatest conspiracy ever told involved a man, a woman, and an apple. They did
|
|
not escape ignorant bliss; they acquired the ability to doubt and question.
|
|
It was not a fall from grace but an ascent into reality. The illusion is
|
|
real: embrace it."
|
|
|
|
|
|
LANKY SWANKMEiSTER POSTULATES AN ELUSiVE PAYCHECK
|
|
|
|
Let's recap, shall we?
|
|
|
|
1. The text is your enemy.
|
|
|
|
It stares you in the face, challenging you to subdue it with analysis and
|
|
unearth the supposed truths with which it tempts you. Neither the author nor
|
|
the reader has control, as much as they might like to believe. When Jesus
|
|
spoke of enemies, he suggested turning the other cheek. Jesus never wrote
|
|
anything, either.
|
|
|
|
2. Writers are liars.
|
|
|
|
This has the possibility of nullifying everything written above. It is a
|
|
blanket statement, but if truth is not really truth, then everything said can
|
|
be considered a lie. And besides, if the above statement is not correct, then
|
|
this text serves as an example to illustrate that very point.
|
|
|
|
3. Meaning does not exist.
|
|
|
|
Welcome to the subjective universe of modern humanity. Have a mocha and
|
|
put on your blinders to keep your head. Even you diehard nihilists are closet
|
|
utopians. I can smell you.
|
|
|
|
Do I believe any of this? I'm a writer -- a liar -- who is consorting
|
|
with my enemy to produce an enemy for you. The question is not whether I
|
|
believe any of this but what conclusions you draw. The instant you try to
|
|
defend your position, you become just like me. We are all just characters,
|
|
and the one thing we dread more than the author or reader is the end.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Writers of fiction generally must stick to probabilities, or at least
|
|
possibilities, more or less, but in real life there are no such
|
|
limitations. The impossible happens continually."
|
|
--William B. Seabrook, _The Magic Island_
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
GAURA PURNiMA: MONDAY NiGHT WiTH THE HARE KRiSHNAS
|
|
By Dark Crystal Sphere Floating Between Two Universes
|
|
|
|
On Monday, the first of March, 1999, the moon waxed full and heralded the
|
|
Appearance Day of Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu. This marked the five hundred
|
|
thirteenth year of the birth of the itinerant brahman who wandered Southern
|
|
India preaching the love of Krishna and whom the members of the International
|
|
Society for Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON) -- believe to be an incarnation of
|
|
Krishna -- "the Supreme Personality of the Godhead" -- himself. Through the
|
|
hospitality of the worshippers, and especially of their leader, Sankarshan
|
|
Das, I was allowed to observe the celebrations. Hopefully the reader will
|
|
forgive my mistakes in this short account, for while I am interested in
|
|
Hinduism in general and the Krishna Consciousness movement in particular, I am
|
|
not a member of that religious tradition. I hope any blunders I fall into
|
|
based on lack of knowledge or misguided memory will be slight.
|
|
|
|
The International Society for Krishna Consciousness -- popularly known as
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the Hare Krishnas -- is a Hindu organisation founded by a retired
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pharmaceutical executive by the name of A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada
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-- a sannyasi or world renouncer who abandoned family and home to teach the
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path of ultimate devotion to Krishna. After living in Vrindavana and writing
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what is considered his masterpiece, a translation of and commentary on the
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_Srimad-Bhagavatam (Bhagavata Purana),_ he came to the United States in 1965
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and organised the first ISKCON Temple in New York City. The movement was
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probably most visible in American culture in the late sixties and early
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seventies, but following Swami Prabhupada's death on 14 November 1977
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considerable problems arose. Factions broke from ISKCON, some of which still
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exist. ISKCON would be ruled by eleven gurus who declared themselves Swami
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Prabhupada's divinely ordained successors and divided the world among them; at
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least two of these -- the gurus of Berkeley and of New Vrindavana, West
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Virginia -- would later be imprisoned for various offences. Both were
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involved in drug dealing, and the guru of the Berkeley Temple believed he
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could commune with Krishna by using LSD. Several decapitated corpses were
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found at the farming community in West Virginia. However, as John Hubner and
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Lindsey Gruson said in _Monkey on a Stick: Murder, Madness, and the Hare
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Krishnas_ (San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Publishers, 1988), their
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chronicle of these events:
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Since 1987, reformers in the movement have worked to purge
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ISKCON of the horrors portrayed in this book. They hope to
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restore the spiritually powerful principles on which the
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movement was founded.
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This was not the end of these problems -- just last year there were
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scuffles between ISKCON Hare Krishnas and those who challenged the line of
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succession during a love feast at the Los Angeles Temple. However, in a
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number of places, apparently including Austin, none of these controversies
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were brought to bear. I believe this had a lot to do with the character both
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of the Temple's general devotees and especially of its leader, for unlike
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those who wanted to take the place of Srila Prabhupada, Sankarshan Das struck
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me as a humble man who merely wants to follow the path he believes God has set
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out for him. ISKCON has managed to survive all of the conflicts which have
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arisen, and seems to have had a massive appeal to converts, now having Temples
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on every populated continent.
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ISKCON follows a form of Bhakti Hinduism, holding that salvation comes
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through ultimate reliance on the Deity, rather than proper performance of the
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sacrifices. The Hare Krishnas are a Vaishnavite sect, believing the God
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Vishnu to be the ultimate God. This is at odds with the Saivite sects, which
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follow Siva (Shiva). The Hare Krishnas believe Krishna to be the Supreme
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Personality of Vishnu. They believe that the ascetic God Siva worships Vishnu
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and as such prayers directed to him are answered by Krishna.
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This was not the first opportunity I have had to visit an ISKCON
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ceremony. The first Hare Krishna I ever recall meeting I met on Guadalupe
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Street, the main drag across from the University of Texas at Austin. I
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happened to be walking past him and, as he was an interesting looking
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character, I wondered what his story was as I walked past. The gentleman
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didn't leave me wondering long, for as I passed he shouted after me, "Hey you
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-- the one with the cool hat!" Hearing this, of course, I wheeled round.
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What the exact words were that passed between us I don't remember,
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although I remember discussing my studies at UT with him, and he told me
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he was from the Temple in Dallas. He introduced himself as Indranuja
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dasa -- servant of the God Indra, the Thunderer. He put a book in my
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hands -- A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada's _The Quest for
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Enlightenment: Articles from Back to Godhead Magazine_ (Los Angeles:
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Bhaktivedanta Book Trust, 1997) -- which he handed back to me every time
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I gave it back to him and insistently pointed to the book's pictures of
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the Spiritual World. I had intended to buy the book as soon as I saw it, but
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I found his salesmanship practices quite interesting. He was obviously well
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taught. That day I walked away with the book, a coupon to Kalachandji's
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Garden Restaurant and Palace (the Hare Krishna restaurant attached to the
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Temple at 5430 Gurley Avenue in Dallas) and an invitation to a free "Friday
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Nite Krishna Feast" at an address on South Oak Drive in Austin. But, as with
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many things, I found a multitude of ways to put it off, and it would be over a
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year before I would attend a gathering.
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The meeting I finally attended was heralded the Friday before the event
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by a flyer posted on a kiosk next to the University of Texas' Tower. In bold
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letters across the top of the yellow sheet were the words "GAURA PURNIMA" and
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beneath those "A Celebration of Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu's birthday, and
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Holi." Next to a picture of Sir Chaitanya as a schedule of events. As the
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gathering was "Guaranteed to be a fun-filled evening of dancing, singing, and
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feasting!" and was obviously open to the public, I decided this was the event
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to attend. By this time it appears the Hare Krishnas had already moved their
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Center to another building, this one within a few blocks of the University of
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Texas campus.
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As I walked through the warm March night to the Center, I must admit I
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was apprehensive. As I headed toward the Hindu shrine, passing through a
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typical quiet Austin neighbourhood, I felt out of place. While everything I
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passed, from the typical houses to the corner cafe were familiar and common,
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the purpose of my trip gave the whole night a bizarre air. And I felt very
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much alone. In short, I felt like a Catholic in a strange land. It was not
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long before I approached 807-A East 30th Street, the small duplex on the banks
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of Waller Creek -- not terribly far from the House on the Waller where famed
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Texas folklorist J. Frank Dobie once made his home -- which houses the Austin
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Hare Krishna Center. No sign on the street proclaims the Center's existence,
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and were it not for the knowledge of the happenings there I would have passed
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it by as a typical dwelling in a quiet Austin neighbourhood.
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I arrived and knocked at the front door, from the handle of which hung a
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small copper or brass object, apparently of Indian origin, the purpose of
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which I still do not know. Sankarshan Das -- a thin, pale man with blue eyes
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and a grey topknot, with a yellow paint streak down his forehead and nose --
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met me there. He somehow remembered the e-mail I sent him before Christmas
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asking about whether non-believers could observe their ceremonies. He asked
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me to go to the side door, facing Waller Creek. There I took off my shoes
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and, after noticing another of the copper or brass objects hanging from this
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door handle, I entered the abode of the God.
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Entering the building I found myself at the back of a small rectangular
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room. Hanging across the open space and across the walls were garlands made
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from the green oval leaves and beautiful purple flowers of the wild-growing
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Texas mountain laurel in arrangement which seemed to open the white walls and
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turn the place into a South Indian grove where Krishna and the cowherd women
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might have played. In its structure, the white tile-floored room could be in
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anyone's house, and the Hare Krishna Center has moved from duplex to duplex
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over the thirty years or so that it has been in Austin. The air was full of
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the scents of Indian cookery, the ritual meal. Facing us was the shrine which
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is the dwelling place of Krishna. Within the small images in this shrine --
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the largest one, I would estimate, less than six inches in height -- are
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believed to dwell the God Krishna and his Divine Consort Radha. The Gods and
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Demigods are, of course, not limited to the statues, for their -- or, I should
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say, his, for in the faith of the Hare Krishnas they are believed to all be
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manifestations of a single God -- power is believed to pervade all and inhabit
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all people. Also, while each of these statues is believed to be inhabited by
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a particular aspect of the God, each statue does not have its own name. For
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example, Sri Sri Radha Govinda (Krishna in his Govinda form and his consort
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Radha) can be seen at both the Dallas and the Brooklyn Hare Krishna Temples.
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It is the belief of the Hare Krishnas that all the Gods are One, all the
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Goddesses are One, and the God and the Goddess are One. This is common in --
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but not universal to -- Hindu theology. It is probably from such Hindu
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influences that the Wiccans adopted this form of monotheistic belief system.
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When I entered the room was largely empty. I took a seat on the Temple
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floor like those already assembled and was soon handed a copy of the Hare
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Krishna Songbook and a small carpet on which to sit. A few people sat around
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the room and others straggled in as the ceremonies began and I moved closer
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and closer to the front of the room. Many of the people knelt on the ground,
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touching their heads to the floor, before the Deity Statues as the entered.
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There was no segregation of the sexes, and everyone simply sat where there was
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room. I would estimate a total of about thirty to forty people showed up that
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night, filling the room and raising its temperature considerably.
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I was quite surprised to see that of those assembled there most were of
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Indian descent, ranging in age from teenagers to white-haired gentlemen. In
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the heyday of the Hare Krishna movement, at least as I understand, the
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majority of those involved in the US were converts of Western European stock.
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Swami Prabhupada, the founder of the movement, was told by his guru to
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missionise the English-speaking world, and at the age of seventy he came to
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New York to do just that. In Austin, however, it seems that the movement
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survived by attracting some of the many Indian immigrants in the Austin area,
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and their families. Of those Western Europeans who were assembled there -- I
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believe about seven -- most were middle-aged and were probably converts from
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the movement's heyday. I found out from testimony on a Hare Krishna webpage
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that Sankarshan Das himself first ate a ritual meal in Austin in 1971.
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Vishnupriya Dasi, the woman who helps Sankarshan Das take care of the Temple
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and whom I assume to be his wife is an Indian woman of about the same age as
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Sankarshan Das, who wore an Indian dress and the same yellow face marking.
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The worship opened with a prayer or hymn to the Guru, Swami Prabhupada.
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It should be stated that the Hare Krishnas do not believe that their Guru is a
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God -- at least, it is not so simple as that. Even in his life on earth,
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Swami Prabhupada was treated as a God because he was believed to be a
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messenger of God and therefore worthy of the same treatment as a God. Thus he
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is accorded a much higher place than a Catholic saint, but not quite at the
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level of, for example, Sri Chaitanya, who is believed to have been God
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Incarnate. He is believed to in a sense open the way to Krishna, and
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therefore all Hare Krishna ceremonies open with a prayer beseeching him.
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This chant, like all the others in the Hare Krishna Songbook, is in
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Sanskrit, put into Latin letters, with explanations interspersed throughout.
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Unfortunately, I couldn't follow most of it, although a middle aged Western
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European American pointed out where they were to me. In those places I could
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follow I didn't chant because I feel that joining in such prayers would be in
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conflict with my Catholic beliefs, although I learned that night that not all
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Catholics feel this way. This chanting -- accompanied by tambourine, drum,
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and Sankarshan Das on a sort of pump keyboard -- went on for over an hour. A
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number of people clapped with the chanting, and after it was over Sankarshan
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Das pointed out that clapping helped drive out sin, and that only those
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without sin shouldn't clap.
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Of course, among the chants was that usually linked to the Hare Krishnas,
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which Sankarshan Das would later refer to as the "Sixteen Names of God," as
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follows:
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Hare Krishna
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Hare Krishna
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Krishna Krishna
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Hare Hare
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Hare Rama
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Hare Rama
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Rama Rama
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Hare Hare
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Simply by reciting Krishna's name -- particularly in this chant, which
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represents several of Krishna's aspects -- the Hare Krishnas believe one
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attains grace. This chant is considered by them to be one of the most
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important, and it was believed to have been spread by none other than Sri
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Chaitanya himself. Many Americans know of this chant because of its
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popularisation in the '70's musical _Hair_, but the means of chanting is much
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different than in that soundtrack, at least in the case I heard it and in the
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Hare Krishna recording I have heard. While the musical's version is much more
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Western sounding and I would say higher, the chanting by the Hare Krishnas
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themselves were much more like other Vedic or Hindu chanting I have heard in
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that it was lower and almost droning, reminiscent of the also well-known Om or
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Aum. As I recall, while this chanting was done seated on the floor, it was
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capped off with the congregation rising to their feet and chanting for a short
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time before bowing to the Deity Statues, touching their heads to the floor in
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what seemed to me a very Muslim-like posture.
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This chanting was followed by a recitation of, as the poster reads,
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"Pastimes of Lord Chaitanya and Prahlad Maharaj. Significance of Holi." At
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this time the people all sat and listened as accounts of the sacred figures
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and their companions were read, first by Sankarshan Das, then by various
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volunteers in the congregation. Occasionally Sankarshan Das would interject
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comments and clarification, but mainly the book was left to itself. I noticed
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when Sankarshan Das retrieved the thick tome from the room next door,
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separated from the Temple area by an open doorway, that he took it from a case
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of about four shelves of books, all of which bore the imprint of the
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Bhaktivedanta Book Trust, the Hare Krishna publishing company which publishes
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and owns the rights to Swami Prabhupada's books.
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The book was largely a collection of various miracle stories and
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anecdotes about Sri Chaitanya and other Hindu holy men. The most memorable
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story was of how Sri Chaitanya enlightened the entirety of Southern India by
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walking down the street. It must be known that Sri Chaitanya is the most
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merciful aspect of Krishna, and while Krishna himself will give enlightenment
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to all who ask, Sri Chaitanya doesn't even require that. As Sri Chaitanya
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walked down the road one day in Southern India, all who saw him suddenly
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became enlightened. Being enlightened, they recognized him as Krishna
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Incarnate, and, of course, when one sees God walking down the road, one is
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quick to follow. As Sri Chaitanya walked with his growing band of enlightened
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ones, he would direct each of them where he wished the individual to go, and
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off the enlightened one would go, down whatever side street to whatever
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district Sri Chaitanya willed. Now, as these enlightened beings traversed the
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countryside, anyone who saw them, in turn, would become enlightened, and then
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anyone who saw one of those newly enlightened ones would in turn become
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enlightened himself. And in this way the most merciful form of the Godhead
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turned the entire southern section of the subcontinent to himself, without the
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messiness of free will.
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Another interesting story, which also shows the conflict between Saivite
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and Vaishnavite Hinduism, was one of the tales of Sri Chaitanya's childhood.
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According to tradition, the young Sri Chaitanya, like Krishna in his boyhood,
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was a capricious lad. One day, coming across a shrine to Siva where young
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women were making offerings to the God in order to secure a good husband, Sri
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Chaitanya told the girls that he himself was God, and that Siva worshipped
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him. As such, he pointed out that Siva would be much more pleased if they
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gave their offerings directly to him. Some of the women believed him and gave
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him their offerings, and these Sri Chaitanya blessed with handsome husbands
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and many children. Others, however, did not believe the boy, and he cursed
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them, seeing to it that they took old men for husbands.
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A further story, and unfortunately the last that I remember, made clear
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the conflicts between the Hindu and Muslim inhabitants of India. In this
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story, a particular holy man -- who precisely it was escapes me -- was being
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oppressed in some way by the Islamic governor of the region. This angered the
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populace, and they went in a crowd to confront the man. The Muslim was
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terrified -- an amused Sankarshan Das interjected that he ran and hid under
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his bed -- and stopped his oppression of the man after the man spoke to the
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crowd to spare him. If memory serves me, the man had been imprisoned, and
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after freeing him the governor himself converted to Hinduism.
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After the reading was finished began another portion of the services,
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which I believe was the "Arati and Abhishek" mentioned in the schedule of
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events. This portion of the ceremonies was conducted standing, and
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occasionally bowing in the former position. The services were opened with
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blowing a small conch shell during the beginning chants. During the Arati and
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Abhishek I counted at least three blessings of the people amid the other
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ceremonies. For the first blessing Sankarshan Das sprinkled holy water on the
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people, similar to the holy water blessings performed in Catholic churches
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today. The second blessing was one of fire. A small flame was brought by one
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of the women to Sankarshan Das, who put his hand to the flame and then to his
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head in a sweeping motion. The woman then brought the flame to each member of
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the congregation, and they then repeated this procedure. As the plate with
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the small censer on it passed each person, some people placed money on it,
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although there was no formal collection like that in most Christian churches.
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The third blessing was done with the small conch shell itself, which
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Sankarshan Das blessed the congregation with by waving it towards the
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congregation like an aspergillum. Towards the end of the ceremony Sankarshan
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Das once again blew on this conch shell, and then blew on another he took from
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the mantle in the next room. Soon it was over, the congregants bowed to the
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Deities once more, and the room broke up into small groups and talked.
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Throughout the services, because of my obligations as a Catholic, I had to
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avoid even the appearance of worshipping these Gods or their images. When the
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congregants bowed, I would sit, and I stood when they stood, so as to see what
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went on while staying out of the way. When the fire was brought to each of
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the congregants, I waved it by. I never so much as pretended to be a Hindu,
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and I was quite open with whoever asked what religion I belonged to that I was
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a Catholic. Sankarshan Das even shouted across the room to me at this time to
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ask if I had any questions about their faith. I mention all of this not so
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much to protect my own reputation but because I believe it important to point
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out that one can study another religion while not taking part in it. I bore
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witness to the Faith of Christ by my simple honesty with the people around me.
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While I believe that the faith in Krishna is tending toward God, and I can
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understand why this beautiful religion has so many adherents -- and I can
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understand why devotees of Krishna would act the same way were they to visit a
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Catholic church -- but I believe that any faith is incomplete without the
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Saving Grace of Christ, and had I bowed down I would have been saying by this
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action that all the blood of martyrdom had been for nothing and that any
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conception of God, no matter how strange, was as valid as perfect Faith in
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Christ. Readers can interpret this as they see fit, but I felt it my
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obligation to show my Faith in Christ by merely saying "No."
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Following this the congregation members were able to take darshan of the
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Deities. It is believed that when a devotee looks on the images of the
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Deities with faith, he is blessed by in some way taking into themselves
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something given by the God. Even holy people are thus viewed, and when I
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studied Hinduism under Dr. Richard Lariviere (to whom I owe most of my
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knowlege on the subject) he told us that when his wife worked with Mother
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Teresa in Calcutta people would travel miles to take darshan of holy woman.
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Simply looking upon these people -- like when the South Indians looked upon
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Sri Chaitanya -- is believed to pass along a blessing, freely given to viewer.
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The congregation went up to the shrine in small groups and viewed the Gods and
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prayed. One left a money on the shrine; another left an envelope addressed
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"To Krishna," which Vishnupriya Dasi later opened and took away. Towards the
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end, a man began taking photographs of the Deities. As I had been waiting for
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my chance to do just that, I ran out the side door -- informing Sankarshan Das
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what I was up to when he asked -- and grabbed my camera from my trench coat
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sitting on the steps. Coming back in I approached the shrine.
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The shrine is a small structure, set a little over waist-high on a wooden
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base with drawers in its side, with a canopy over it standing on supports.
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The Deities stand on tiers in the shrine, and a canopy rises over them. A
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pink lotus representation is mounted in the centre of the canopy front. The
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Deity statues stand within this shrine, on a series of platforms. The shrine
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is full of flowers, and it really has more the character of a tiny hill on
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which the Deities stand at different levels. One's attention is first brought
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to the two main cult statues -- one of Krishna and one of Radha. Krishna plays
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the a pipe and is slightly taller than Radha, but the two figures are very
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similar in appearance. These are the Presiding Deities of the Temple. Also
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in the shrine, at the lowest level, was a small statue of the Guru Srila
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Prabhupada sitting on a cushioned dias of his own. At various places in the
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shrine were two-dimensional images of the deities, some in oval frames. As I
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recall, these included an image of Sri Chaitanya and his associates, an image
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which, along with depictions of Srila Prabhupada and of Radha and Krishna, are
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required of all Hare Krishna altars. It was a very beautiful display, and I
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believe that for mere aesthetic reasons going out of one's way to see an
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ISKCON shrine is worth the hardship. As magnificent as the great stone
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temples of India are, one cannot fully appreciate them if one fails to see the
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statues for which the temples are homes. For those who do not wish to visit a
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Temple, most Temples which have web pages have pages devoted to the darshan of
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the Temple's Presiding Deities, even having chants played in the background.
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One can (and I have) spend hours viewing these images online, and those
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interested can go to http://www.iskcon.org/hkindex/ and simply look up the
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darshan links on the Temples' pages.
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As I clicked a few shots off with my camera, Sankarshan Das too was
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filming, with a hand-held camcorder. He filmed the Gods from all angles and
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even leaned into the shrine to get good closeups of the images. As he was
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doing this and all through the darshan I had a very strange feeling of
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anticipation, as though I was waiting for the statues to *move*. I'm not sure
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if I was expecting a trick, or if I was expecting some spiritual creature to
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actually act through it, but it was a very weird sensation. Seeing the images
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treated like they are alive has an effect even on the psychology of
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non-believers, and I believe I can understand in part how a person raised in
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the Hindu culture can believe that the images live. Some Saivites believe
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that images of Ganesh, the elephant-headed God, drank milk all over the world
|
|
in 1995, and I have seen taped footage of this on television I could not
|
|
adequately explain. Growing up knowing both that objects can be possessed,
|
|
and knowing that God can work through images, I believe I understand this
|
|
aspect of the Hindu religion than others not raised in such conditions.
|
|
However I do not believe that God dwells in any image, and I certainly do not
|
|
believe that images should be worshipped as Gods. But no statue moved that
|
|
night, and after Sankarshan Das finished his camera work, a curtain which hung
|
|
from the canopy above the shrine was drawn, and the Deities were meant to rest
|
|
for the night.
|
|
|
|
At some point during the earlier festivities before the darshan,
|
|
Vishnupriya Dasi brought out a screen and placed it in front of the Deity
|
|
shrine. This added veil of mystery of course immediately sent my mind into
|
|
motion, and I wondered what rites went on behind hidden from prying eyes.
|
|
Soon the screen was taken away, revealing the prasad -- the ritual meal. Hare
|
|
Krishnas offer every meal to Krishna, following a verse in the Bhagavad-Gita
|
|
(9.26) which reads, "If one offers Me with love and devotion a leaf, a flower,
|
|
fruit, or water, I will accept it." This food is then believed to have been
|
|
made holier than normal food, is better for a person, and, so they claim, even
|
|
tastes better. This food is, of course, not allowed to contain any meat,
|
|
fish, or eggs. In addition, certain vegetables -- such as garlic and onions
|
|
-- are also taboo, for they "are in the mode of darkness," according to Hare
|
|
Krishna texts. Caffeine is also forbidden, and food prepared by non-believers
|
|
is warned against because of their mental state might sully the food. In the
|
|
devotees' daily life, three prayers are said during the offering of the food:
|
|
one to the Guru (Sri Prabhupada), one to Sri Chaitanya, and one to Krishna.
|
|
These prayers and more information on the ritual and life of the Hare Krishna
|
|
are found for example in "An Introduction to ISKCON And Devotee Lifestyle" (an
|
|
addendum to A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada's _The Quest for
|
|
Enlightenment_; Los Angeles: The Bhaktivedanta Book Trust, 1997).
|
|
|
|
After the darshan, preparations began for the ritual feast. Originally I
|
|
had intended to leave before the feast, but Sankarshan Das asked me to stay
|
|
and come sit by him. Sheets were brought out and laid on the floor. During
|
|
the commotion a man came up to me, pointing out the Jerusalem cross I
|
|
habitually wear, and asked me if I was a Catholic. I told him that I was, and
|
|
he then introduced himself not only as a Catholic, but as the musical director
|
|
as St. Thomas More Catholic Church in North Austin. It was what I would later
|
|
refer to as a "Young Goodman Brown" moment for me, for, like the protagonist
|
|
in Nathaniel Hawthorne's story by that name, I realised that I could never
|
|
make any assumptions about anyone's beliefs. This man had bowed as low before
|
|
Krishna as any other, but while I considered it incongruous, he had pure
|
|
intentions, for he truly believed that Krishna was merely another name for
|
|
God, no matter how different the beliefs of Krishna Consciousness may be in
|
|
relation to those of Catholicism.
|
|
|
|
After the darshan a woman went around a room tearing off pieces of a
|
|
flower and handing them to each person to eat. She gave me a piece, which I
|
|
put on the plate given to me for the prasad dinner. This was the most
|
|
uncomfortable time of the night for me, for I felt that, given the
|
|
prohibitions set forth in chapter eight through ten of St. Paul's First Letter
|
|
to the Corinthians, I could not eat the food which was being placed before me.
|
|
While when a person is worshipping they are caught up in their actions and how
|
|
they should act before the Divine, when one is at table it is too easy to
|
|
judge and be judged. In a similar case I greatly disappointed myself, when I
|
|
observed one of the Rites of Eleusis staged by the Scarlet Woman Lodge of the
|
|
Ordo Templi Orientis in Austin in November of 1997. When I went to that
|
|
ritual, I paid $5 and thought I was going to watch a play about what they
|
|
believed really happened in the Greek mystery rites at Eleusis. Instead, what
|
|
was presented was a blasphemous (though they did not recognise it as such)
|
|
rendition of the Last Supper and Crucifixion. At that time I had a
|
|
misunderstanding of what these passages really meant -- I knew that they
|
|
allowed us to eat sacrificed food, but I had not studied the passages to know
|
|
that this was hinged on the faith of others. If others might feel we were
|
|
renouncing true faith in Christ by eating the food we should not eat it. But
|
|
offering food falsely does not make it any less the food of the True God, for
|
|
all creation is His and we can make use of it if it does not drive others from
|
|
the Faith. At the Rite event a ritual meal of crackers and wine was passed
|
|
around, and since I foolishly thought we were simply to eat the food no matter
|
|
the circumstances, I pretended to eat a small amount of food which came to me.
|
|
(I did not eat it in reality, for having just read what happened in Tibet to
|
|
Arkon Daraul among the Buddhists, as recounted in his _A History of Secret
|
|
Societies,_ [original publishing: New York: Citadel Press, 1962] I was wary
|
|
of being drugged, as he had been. I did not fear an attack specifically aimed
|
|
at me, but knowing how many groups -- including the OTO -- use psychedelic
|
|
drugs as a way to, in their belief, open what Huxley called the "Doors of
|
|
Perception," I wanted to take no chances.) Fortunately, since I refused to
|
|
recite the OTO's chants to the Sun, I proved in another way that I would not
|
|
pay homage to their Gods. Situated as I was, being accidentally placed right
|
|
next to the raised platform where the OTO's leaders sat, this had considerable
|
|
effect and elicited some stares from the members. Unfortunately, as I was
|
|
attempting to read along as they chanted, they may have attributed my failure
|
|
to join them to the poor lighting. It was not until later, after
|
|
understanding the Biblical sanctions, that I relised my blunder. I had no
|
|
fear of being drugged by the Hare Krishnas, but I could not reconcile my
|
|
beliefs with eating the prasad.
|
|
|
|
I explained my dilemma to Sankarshan Das, and he referred the question to
|
|
the man from St. Thomas More, who was consuming all that was placed before
|
|
him. The Catholic Hare Krishna pointed out the difference between the Gods
|
|
condemned in the Old Testament, such as Moloch, to whom children were
|
|
sacrificed, and Krishna. He said that, while those Gods were not real,
|
|
Krishna *is*, and this man firmly believed Krishna and Yahweh to be one.
|
|
Sankarshan Das told me that he joined the Hare Krishna movement in order that
|
|
he could better serve Christ, and he said that he felt that if I were to eat
|
|
the prasad, Christ would bless me, and that if I took part in the practice, I
|
|
would learn how the practice was good to take part in. However, while trying
|
|
to convince me to eat, one of Sankarshan Das' arguments was more than anything
|
|
what undid him, for he said that the eating of the prasad was as good as any
|
|
of the sacraments of the Catholic Church. I knew when he said that I could
|
|
not eat, for eating would imply that I felt the same way. I could never
|
|
pretend this, however, because when we consume the Host, we Catholics consume
|
|
the Body of Christ in reality. Even if the prasad were blessed food, it could
|
|
never equal what we have in the Eucharist, in which we take the Real Presence
|
|
of God within our hearts. The food did not go to waste, however, and was
|
|
taken off by one of the devotees for his mother.
|
|
|
|
At the feast all the people sat on the floor in rows winding lengthwise
|
|
across the room. Once again, here there was no obvious separation by caste or
|
|
sex. Among the American converts this wouldn't be particularly unusual, but
|
|
among Indians it was somewhat noteworthy. Dr. Lariviere told us that, while
|
|
many groups in theory do not distinguish according to caste, in practice caste
|
|
matters greatly, even among Christians and Muslims as well as among some more
|
|
orthodox Hindus, and this comes out most notably while dining and in
|
|
marriages. Indeed, Orthodox Hindus are considered defiled if they eat with
|
|
people of lower caste, and they must perform cleansing rituals. Among most
|
|
Hindus who rely totally upon God for salvation from the cycle of re-death, in
|
|
theory caste is unimportant, and here among the Hare Krishnas, at least in
|
|
Austin, they had apparently succeeded in creating a caste-less Temple.
|
|
|
|
Throughout my stay at the Hare Krishna Center, Sankarshan Das, and indeed
|
|
all the Hare Krishnas, were very kind and understanding of my beliefs. From
|
|
my short time with him, Sankarshan Das struck me as a very good man, and I
|
|
genuinely like the fellow. Had his past life been different, and had he
|
|
taken different forks in his path, I could easily have seen him becoming a
|
|
Catholic priest. I believe he truly loves God, and while I believe he is
|
|
mistaken to the identity of God, I believe that God loves him. And I hope
|
|
that, one day, the two of us will meet in the presence of the Living God.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"God love those pagans."
|
|
--Homer Simpson
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
THE SEXUAL STATE OF CONSCiOUSNESS
|
|
by Crux Ansata
|
|
|
|
i. Introduction
|
|
|
|
Needless to say, sex is among the most widespread of human social
|
|
activities. It is present wherever a sustained population exists. The mere
|
|
presence of sexual activity, though, does not exhaust the anthropological
|
|
interest.
|
|
|
|
Especially in the context of a detailed magico-religious culture, the
|
|
role of sex is often regulated and subject to detailed traditional rules.
|
|
This paper will explore what is available on the sexual mores of the shamanic
|
|
Turkic peoples of Siberia, and some related peoples. It will explore the
|
|
sexual aspect of the initiatory dream, and finally examine the possible role
|
|
of sexuality to the shaman.
|
|
|
|
ii. Definition of Terms
|
|
|
|
For the purposes of this paper, the definition will be accepted that
|
|
"[t]he distinctive feature of the shamanic ecstasy is the experience of 'soul
|
|
flight' or 'journeying' or 'out-of-body experience'" (Walsh, 10). This paper
|
|
will, however, not restrict itself to those persons for whom the journey can
|
|
be demonstrated. Persons in the shamanic culture who experience altered
|
|
states of consciousness will also be dealt with, as the emphasis of the paper
|
|
is on the state of consciousness rather than on the specific form of activity
|
|
engaged in during this state. This will allow the investigation, for example,
|
|
of weather magicians, of whom Molnar says: "He is not a shaman" (Molnar,
|
|
144).
|
|
|
|
The term "altered state of consciousness" is a bit less easy to define.
|
|
This will be defined in a broad sense, to include most controlled trance
|
|
states, but also to include the dream state engaged in for those practitioners
|
|
under consideration.
|
|
|
|
iii. Purity Laws
|
|
|
|
In the absence of a set of Books of Moses, or a Laws of Manu, the
|
|
shamanic cultures of Siberia lack a clear and written moral code. What can be
|
|
known about their cultural dictates in the fields of morals, by those not able
|
|
to directly question or observe them, must be picked up from off-hand comments
|
|
here and there in the literature. On the other hand, reviewing the literature
|
|
leaves one with the impression that, particularly compared with traditions
|
|
like the Judaeo-Christian and Hindu, if there is a striking aspect to the
|
|
sexual mores of the Siberian peoples, it is their relative lack.
|
|
|
|
Not surprisingly, in some cases there appear to be adoptions by the
|
|
Turkic shamanic cultures of Islamic purity laws. (An example is likely the
|
|
use of ritual oblations for weather magicians, found in association with
|
|
references to Adam, Allah, Gabriel, and al-Quran (Molnar, 84).) In other
|
|
cases, the references to sexual specificity seem rather arbitrary. (For
|
|
example, the requirement that all weather magicians be male (Molnar, 144), or
|
|
the claim of the Yakuts that if a weather stone "is touched by a woman, or is
|
|
seen by foreigners, it dies" (Molnar, 94; see also Molnar, 134).) Apparently,
|
|
the only explicitly sexual taboos regarding weather magic refer to when the
|
|
blood of a woman must be used, either a maiden, or a recent mother (Molnar,
|
|
36). Either male or female individuals may be shamans, whether or not they
|
|
have children, and no specific sexual purity laws for shamans were come across
|
|
in the Siberian context.
|
|
|
|
iv. The Initiatory Dream
|
|
|
|
Slightly more information of a sexual nature exists in the consideration
|
|
of the initiatory dreams of shamanic practitioners among the Siberian people.
|
|
An examination of a few of those will be useful, followed by some
|
|
considerations of the common points.
|
|
|
|
Among the Yakut, the initiatory stories have been somewhat preserved in
|
|
the epic tradition of the olonkho. One of these discusses the shaman's
|
|
initiation at the World Tree.
|
|
|
|
At its roots dwells the protective goddess of his clan and
|
|
land. Invoked by her protege, she emerges naked to the
|
|
waist and offers him her breasts. At his first suck she
|
|
turns pale, at his second blue. She thrusts him away and
|
|
withdraws. (Hatto, 11)
|
|
|
|
Another olonkho tells a related story.
|
|
|
|
The hero Yuryung Uolan, having passed through the Clashing
|
|
Rocks with the help of his steed, who is possessed of more
|
|
horse-sense than he, is warned by him against the sirens,
|
|
three ladies of calorific appeal who, after offering him a
|
|
feast rich in proteins, recommend their breasts, strictly
|
|
in the second place, not as white, soft, or lovely, but as
|
|
very cosy. Yuryung yields -- and falls into the abyss.
|
|
Life is hard for bone-headed heroes, since later he meets
|
|
three maidens who invite him to solace them. If not, will
|
|
he kiss them? If he will not kiss them, will he brush
|
|
them with his whip? Yuryung passes them by, whereupon for
|
|
very shame they hang themselves. For, although outwardly
|
|
indistinguishable from sirens, these are genuine,
|
|
sensitive maidens. (Hatto, 12)
|
|
|
|
The difficulty of trying to draw conclusions from brief summaries of
|
|
texts is acknowledged, and the epic tradition, while bearing the seeds of
|
|
shamanism, is nonetheless at a remove. Nonetheless, both of these stories
|
|
represent the motifs of spirit women who are desired by the heroes. Human
|
|
women appear to be harmless, though that cannot be said; perhaps they needed
|
|
to be sacrificed, but if the shaman had not passed them by, he would have been
|
|
destroyed. The spirit women, however, are anything but harmless. Accepting
|
|
the sirens causes the hero to "fall into the abyss," and it is not impossible
|
|
the same would have happened had he been allowed to satiate himself on the
|
|
maiden of the World Tree. Tentatively, one may conclude the desire for these
|
|
spirit maidens draws him on, but to be fulfilled by them would be negative.
|
|
|
|
Space does not allow detailed examinations of other dream narratives,
|
|
such as the others in Eliade or Erdener. However, the trends observed above
|
|
-- that, when dream spirits are presented, the reaction of the shaman or other
|
|
trance practitioner is to desire, but not to the fulfillment of sexual desires
|
|
-- hold. This is particularly true among the ashiks, who once claimed to
|
|
spend their time searching for the object of their erotic love. The extended
|
|
pursuit without attainment plays in to the assumption that the desire is the
|
|
active component, rather than the spirit.
|
|
|
|
v. The Sexual State of Consciousness
|
|
|
|
Clearly, there is not a lot of evidence available on this subject. This
|
|
may be for a number of reasons. For one, much of the early evidence on
|
|
shamanism comes from a culture that did not fully understand the culture it
|
|
was studying. The sexual elements in shamanism may have been too foreign for
|
|
the Victorian scholars to understand. Just as shamanism was long considered
|
|
to be a form of insanity, and later researchers had to overcome the false
|
|
start laid by their predecessors, so too the early consideration of shamanic
|
|
sexuality may need to eventually be revised at a fundamental level for all the
|
|
nuances to be appreciated.
|
|
|
|
As an example, from one of the authorities on shamanism:
|
|
|
|
It is natural that the "celestial wife's" intervention in
|
|
the shaman's mystical experience should be accompanied by
|
|
sexual emotion; every ecstatic experience is subject to
|
|
such deviations, and the close relations between mystical
|
|
and carnal love are too well known for the mechanism of
|
|
this shift in plane to be misunderstood. (Eliade, 79)
|
|
|
|
This passage shows potential prejudicial misunderstanding. One assumes
|
|
"sexual emotion" refers to sexual arousal, but the key word in the potential
|
|
misunderstanding here is "deviation." It seems potentially true -- though not
|
|
necessarily for Eliade's reasons -- that "[t]he sexual relations that the
|
|
shaman is believed to have with his ayami are not basic to his shamanic
|
|
vocation" (Eliade, 80). But the difference between an inessential and a
|
|
"deviation" is a stark difference, and typically a difference less of fact
|
|
than of interpretation. Another possible interpretation might be necessary to
|
|
the most full interpretation of the phenomenon of shamanism.
|
|
|
|
The same assumptions Eliade seems to make also seem to be made by other
|
|
authors writing on shamanic topics. One example, apparently following almost
|
|
word for word Eliade's conclusions, reads: "Frequent themes in the
|
|
hallucinatory experiences connected with shamanistic initiations are death,
|
|
mystical resurrection, descent to the underworld, and ascent into the sky"
|
|
(Rogers, 17; a parallel passage is: "The content of these first ecstatic
|
|
experiences, although comparatively rich, almost always includes one or more
|
|
of the following themes: dismemberment of the body, followed by a renewal of
|
|
the internal organs and viscera; ascent to the sky and dialogue with the gods
|
|
or spirits; descent to the underworld and conversations with spirits and the
|
|
souls of dead shamans; various revelations, both religious and shamanic"
|
|
(Eliade, 34)). Aside from the additional prejudice of calling the initiatory
|
|
dream an "hallucination," Rogers follows Eliade in essentially disregarding
|
|
the erotic component of the dream, possibly misunderstanding it as a periphery
|
|
factor. For another example, assuming that the "sexual emotion" is a
|
|
"deviation," another author writes the "ashiks must have transformed the
|
|
mystic poet's [i.e., the Sufi's] favorite symbol of the handsome boy into a
|
|
beautiful girl of fourteen to sixteen who appeared in a dream" (Erdener, 70).
|
|
Another interpretation could be that this was a tradition independently
|
|
retained from the shamanic tradition, or borrowed from Sufis who had
|
|
previously transformed an element independently retained from the shamanic
|
|
tradition. Again, the statement that the love felt for the dream-bride, the
|
|
ashik's equivalent of the ayami, is "platonic" (Erdener, 54) seems to rest on
|
|
the assumption that an erotic desire for the spirit is a "deviation." It is
|
|
possible, but not necessarily true.
|
|
|
|
With the lack of available evidence shamanism affords the armchair
|
|
anthropologist, it is easy to pick out any favored thesis and make up evidence
|
|
for it. With that in mind, to advance a thesis at a variance with such an
|
|
authority as Eliade would require at least some basis for the
|
|
counterassumptions. To that end, one may consider the role of erotic arousal
|
|
in the physiognomy of the individual, and compare it to the physiognomic
|
|
reports of trance states of shamans.
|
|
|
|
Although rejecting the idea shamanism is "caused" by hysteria, V.N.
|
|
Basilov provides some useful information on the physiological aspects of the
|
|
shamanic responsiveness.
|
|
|
|
The shaman loses consciousness, thrashes in convulsions,
|
|
performs "wild" leaps and all the rest... If the shaman
|
|
trembles from head to foot or flies into a rage, jumps up
|
|
and screams, it means that the spirits have come in to him
|
|
or that he is fighting with hostile demons. If the shaman
|
|
lies senseless, it means that the soul has left his body
|
|
and is wandering in other worlds. (Basilov, 8)
|
|
|
|
Basilov, and other observers, see a number of phenomenon: Sensory
|
|
acuteness appears to be increased (in that the shaman can find things and
|
|
directions), but sensory responsiveness appears to decrease, even to the point
|
|
of apparent unconsciousness; physical blows can be carried out on the shaman
|
|
without disrupting trance; the shaman seems to develop incredible strength;
|
|
heat and cold appear to no longer affect the shaman.
|
|
|
|
Kinsey (The flaws in Kinsey's work are well known; it is hoped this paper
|
|
does not suffer from them, avoiding his conclusions and drawing exclusively
|
|
from phenomenological data), for his part, compares the physiognomic response
|
|
to epilepsy, but nonetheless has many comparable physiognomic details.
|
|
|
|
[A]ll of our evidence indicates that there is a
|
|
considerable and developing loss of sensory capacity which
|
|
begins immediately upon the onset of sexual stimulation,
|
|
and which becomes more or less complete, sometimes with
|
|
complete unconsciousness, during the maximum of sexual
|
|
arousal and orgasm. ...
|
|
|
|
The situation may involve some psychologic distraction ...
|
|
but there is some evidence that an actual anesthesia may
|
|
be involved. ...
|
|
|
|
Specific observations and experimental data indicate that
|
|
the whole body of the individual who is sexually aroused
|
|
becomes increasingly insensitive to tactile stimulation
|
|
and even to sharp blows and severe injury. ... Not only
|
|
does the sense of touch diminish, but the sense of pain is
|
|
largely lost. (Kinsey, 613-5; he goes on to examine
|
|
depression of each sense.)
|
|
|
|
A particularly specific physiognomic response in the shaman is his
|
|
seeming imperviousness to cold. Although Basilov recounts a number of stories
|
|
demonstrating this, the following makes the important point that not only does
|
|
the shaman's body not go anywhere -- the effects of the cold are experienced,
|
|
just not heeded -- the shaman does not indicate a belief in a physical
|
|
transport away from the source of the sensation.
|
|
|
|
I put on only the shamanic costume over a naked body,
|
|
caused my eyes to be bound, and wandered through the
|
|
tundra for three days and three nights. ... Although I had
|
|
on only the shamanic parka over a naked body, I did not
|
|
freeze, but I did take a good chill, which I felt when I
|
|
arrived back at my tent. (Basilov, 201; quoting the shaman
|
|
Diukhade)
|
|
|
|
It is interesting that Kinsey, too, specifically mentioned the decrease
|
|
in temperature sense as a specific form of the desensitization in the sexual
|
|
syndrome.
|
|
|
|
The temperature sense is similarly diminished and may
|
|
become quite lost during sexual activity. In the earlier
|
|
stages of arousal there is, as we have already noted, a
|
|
considerable recognition of the surface warmth of the
|
|
body which develops as a result of the peripheral
|
|
circulation of blood. But the sexual arousal may progress
|
|
to a point at which most persons become unconscious of the
|
|
extreme temperatures of summer or of winter, of an
|
|
overheated or a very cold room, or even of objects like
|
|
cigarettes which may actually burn them. (Kinsey, 616)
|
|
|
|
Many observers specifically referred to the shaman's apparent superhuman
|
|
strength, but -- and this is an important caveat -- only while in the state of
|
|
trance.
|
|
|
|
"At such a time the shaman is capable of displaying energy
|
|
totally inconsistent with his physical profile. Thus,
|
|
weak female shamans have as much strength as several grown
|
|
men and cannot be restrained, if such is required. Old
|
|
women and men become limber and youthful," reports
|
|
Shirokogorov. The latter once had occasion to observe an
|
|
Evenk shaman "more than eighty years old, who was blind
|
|
and no longer able to move about without assistance; when
|
|
he was dressed in the costume, weighing well over thirty
|
|
pounds, and when the spirit had taken possession of him,
|
|
he began to jump to a height of at least one meter,
|
|
beating the drum, and danced with an ease absolutely
|
|
unfathomable for his decrepitude." (Basilov, 17; Basilov
|
|
reports a number of other examples)
|
|
|
|
A similar appearance of superhuman strength manifests itself among the
|
|
sexually aroused.
|
|
|
|
Most persons display unusual muscular strength during
|
|
sexual arousal, and may become capable of performing feats
|
|
that require abilities which they do not ordinarily
|
|
exhibit. This is not because they actually acquire
|
|
strength, but because they are released from the
|
|
inhibitions which normally prevent them from utilizing
|
|
their full capacity. ... When there is arousal, many
|
|
persons become capable of bending and distorting the body
|
|
to an extent which would be impossible if there were no
|
|
arousal. (Kinsey, 618)
|
|
|
|
And this may be the secret, too, of the shaman's powers. Observers agree
|
|
that the shaman can do amazing things, but do not agree on how: hysteria,
|
|
auto-suggestion, possession by or of spirits. The relation between the sexual
|
|
trance state and the shamanic trance state, however, indicates a possible
|
|
other answer. The practitioner of trance "may become capable of performing
|
|
feats that require abilities which they do not ordinarily exhibit. This is
|
|
not because they actually acquire strength, but because they are released from
|
|
the inhibitions which normally prevent them from utilizing their full
|
|
capacities."
|
|
|
|
vi. Conclusion
|
|
|
|
So far as can be known -- and there are many questions, given the lack of
|
|
information -- any erotic component among shamans of the Siberian region is a
|
|
peripheral matter, not a requirement for the profession. This lack of
|
|
information could have a number of origins, from the misunderstanding of
|
|
anthropologists who came into contact with the Turkic peoples (either due to
|
|
ethnocentric misunderstandings or due to having been misled by predecessors in
|
|
the field), to reticence on the part of informants among those cultures. Be
|
|
that as it may, this erotic component need not be a meaningless accretion to
|
|
the shamanic tradition. Just as fasting is not essential, but still plays a
|
|
part, so too the erotic component may do so, by augmenting the trance state.
|
|
|
|
Assuming this to be true, some predictions can perhaps be made. On the
|
|
anthropological level, if more full evidence could be gathered, one would
|
|
expect sexual restrictions to be as or more restrictive for shamans as for
|
|
other members of the community, either officially or by tradition. Legends
|
|
that contain shamanic initiatory stories would be expected to tell stories
|
|
regarding erotic relations with women -- spiritual or human -- to involve
|
|
desire rather than fulfillment. (Cases where texts exist in contradiction to
|
|
this would be expected to have been later changed from the original motifs.)
|
|
|
|
On the physiological level, further comparisons between persons in mystic
|
|
trance states, such as shamans, and persons in erotic "trance" states may at
|
|
least provide circumstantial corroborating evidence.
|
|
|
|
Anything other than hypothesis, though, remains at this point impossible.
|
|
|
|
Bibliography
|
|
|
|
Basilov, V.N. "Chosen by the Spirits." Shamanism: Soviet Studies of
|
|
Traditional Religion in Siberia and Central Asia. Ed. Marjorie M.
|
|
Balzer. Armonk, New York: M.E. Sharpe, 1990. 3-48.
|
|
|
|
Eliade, Mircea. Shamanism: Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy. Princeton:
|
|
Princeton University Press, 1972.
|
|
|
|
Erdener, Yildiray. The Song Contests of Turkish Minstrels: Improvised Poetry
|
|
Sung to Traditional Music. Garland Publishing, Inc.: New York, 1995.
|
|
|
|
Hatto, A.T. Shamanism and Epic Poetry in Northern Asia. London: Luzac and
|
|
Co., Ltd., 1970.
|
|
|
|
Kinsey, Alfred C., et al. Sexual Behavior in the Human Female. Philadelphia:
|
|
W.B. Saunders Company, 1953.
|
|
|
|
Molnar, Adam. Weather-Magic in Inner Asia. Bloomington, Indiana: Indiana
|
|
University Research Institute for Inner Asian Studies, 1994.
|
|
|
|
Rogers, Spencer, L., Ph.D. The Shaman: His Symbols and His Healing Power.
|
|
Springfield, Illinois: Charles C. Thomas, 1982.
|
|
|
|
Walsh, Roger N., M.D., Ph.D. The Spirit of Shamanism. New York: G.P.
|
|
Putnam's Sons, 1992.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
[=- POETASTRiE -=]
|
|
|
|
"In the East poets are sometimes thrown in prison -- a sort of compliment,
|
|
since it suggests the author has done something at least as real as
|
|
theft or rape or revolution. Here poets are allowed to publish anything
|
|
at all -- a sort of punishment in effect, prison without walls, without
|
|
echoes, without palpable existence -- shadow-realm of print, or of
|
|
abstract thought -- world without risk or _eros_."
|
|
--Hakim Bey, _T.A.Z._
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
MY LAST POEM OF THE CENTURY, THANKFULLY
|
|
by Clockwork
|
|
|
|
throw your body out the window and
|
|
scream and screech and summon faeries
|
|
like Bjork and children do.
|
|
|
|
--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--
|
|
|
|
JACQUES STANDiSH
|
|
by Clockwork
|
|
|
|
I rode whales through '63, before they turned me into an amusement park
|
|
showcase. Crept along with current and moontows, and here they came, to dance
|
|
with me in the cold. What poor couple with children in hitch would believe
|
|
the brewed man with capered white beard and bartered face as he spoke those
|
|
true tales of bliss and understanding. I could not sing the whales' song but
|
|
did not need to. They knew and heard just fine. And I heard them and
|
|
learned the words. Learned I did not need to swim, but only let the world
|
|
swim for me, devour my limbs and trunk until I was it, and swayed and plowed
|
|
away. I could hear the coral grow after several days, at first by swishing my
|
|
ears against the salt, and soon from many reefs away, and sooner still, some
|
|
many miles. And with the stretch of the reef, an urging sound, came trolling
|
|
cankerous tankers and engines and boats with nets, immense moving mountains
|
|
speaking of pleasure cruises and dancing under stars. I could hear them too,
|
|
more often than the others, deafened with foreign mechanical screaming. And
|
|
when one slaps the earth, my skull splits, and falls to dry sand, and I swim
|
|
to distant thick seas where ice keeps those away. Ice capped land bridged
|
|
water, where movement of ice on ice and ice on earth calms the toes, like a
|
|
slow working sculpting carpenter, able to never create imperfection. The last
|
|
I rode in hopes to save the others. They tossed themselves onto weathered
|
|
beachfront as pedestals of thick show were constructed around them, crashing
|
|
tourists and tall moneymakers, and they could not live in such patches
|
|
anymore. I came with a small crew of weathered giants, ones who saw their
|
|
fathers and grandfathers stripped and sold, and came to see my own watch and
|
|
scream as this was all shown to the world, kept in annals of history,
|
|
encyclopedias for children to see. And they saw me emerge from the shelf,
|
|
from water to man, and they caught me as well, ready to toss me into the tanks
|
|
with latex fed men, which I could not stand for, as neither could you. Now I
|
|
tell the tales to bored schoolchildren chased by their parents, and they
|
|
believe until they are ripped away and tossed bank into their carts.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Saint: N., a dead sinner, revised and edited."
|
|
--Ambrose Bierce, _The Devil's Dictionary_
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
REALiTY SUCKERS
|
|
by Kilgore Trout
|
|
|
|
Old Man Hat traced a circle in the middle of his left palm with his index
|
|
finger, the nail jagged from continuous biting. His long, matted grey hair
|
|
covered his face, and the small wicker chair he perched on was more than ample
|
|
to hold his frail frame. Outside the cell, a young officer on watch slept in
|
|
a leather chair, and the moon was obscured by still clouds through the window.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
When I studied her body lying in the casket, I had an insatiable desire
|
|
to touch her flesh, to run my fingers across skin that had experienced
|
|
ninety-seven years of living. She didn't look as peaceful as I thought she
|
|
should have. Her mouth frowned, which the mortician said was because of her
|
|
dentures. He claimed that he had tried to massage the muscles, but since she
|
|
hadn't been wearing her false teeth for a while, it simply wasn't possible.
|
|
Her skin wrapped tightly around her bones, veins showing blue beneath withered
|
|
flesh, and I wanted to touch it. I was afraid that it wouldn't feel any
|
|
different than mine.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
Lucinda's head was surrounded by a 2x2x2 foot cube of water, and her
|
|
smile undulated as the breeze rippled across the surface. Corduroy jeans,
|
|
loose at the waist, underlined an exposed navel. A tattoo lay bare, a
|
|
mechanical cog circling her bellybutton. She did not drip.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
God called Israel a prostitute, which is no way for Dad to talk about his
|
|
little darling. Think about it. Even Eve got a shekel for every screw with
|
|
Adam. The man had no bellybutton: freaks don't get chicks for free.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
It was too cold of a day for sex on the beach, and William had the jazz
|
|
playing in his brain, keeping beat to the lapping waves in an unusual time
|
|
signature. The jazz was what William knew because it rearranged his
|
|
hypochondriac notions into something sterile, a release by the burn beat.
|
|
Seagulls kept their distance from him and his open, inverted umbrella.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
"Having any luck with your pecans this year?" Dad asked my grandfather.
|
|
|
|
"Nope," he said, shaking his head. "You crack them open and they're
|
|
black inside."
|
|
|
|
I turned away and sat down in a chair close to the coffin. I could just
|
|
see her head over the edge, and I wondered what her eyes would look like if
|
|
they were open. My family and her few remaining friends were in the small
|
|
room, talking and looking at her. She had outlived her brothers and sisters,
|
|
and I thought of Burroughs lasting longer than most of the Beats. He had been
|
|
a literary genius, but she had mowed her lawn every week until she was
|
|
ninety-five. I wasn't sure which was more commendable.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
"Hey, you," the officer said, waking up and lighting a cigarette. "Why
|
|
do they call you Old Man Hat?"
|
|
|
|
Bony fingers parted the curtain of hair, and Old Man Hat's eyes were
|
|
closed, the eyelids thin and almost transparent. His pink lips were chapped,
|
|
and his face was scarred with quivering hands razor blade cuts.
|
|
|
|
"Names signify persona, existence, categorization," he answered. "Others
|
|
have a need for labels, but I am just a body, a conscious conglomeration of
|
|
flesh, tissue and bone. You think I'm locked up, but you are trapped, too.
|
|
You can't escape your skin."
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
The sun fed the jazz running through his cerebral cortex, synapses
|
|
clicking on and off to the infinite beat. William could almost see the notes
|
|
materialize in his field of vision, and they sounded green, green like a warm
|
|
radiation bath to wash away his s(k)ins. It was low tide, so he stuck the
|
|
umbrella handfirst into the sand and picked up a shovel.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
Everyone stared at Lucinda when she went to the mall. They were
|
|
publicly reviled by her mutated appearance, but secretly they longed to
|
|
discover how she ate. Most of the men wondered what it would be like to press
|
|
their lips into her watery face and taste her tongue. Lucinda knew this, of
|
|
course. She would have welcomed any advances, but nobody ever approached
|
|
her, and her offers were always scorned.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
George Washington's head is on a quarter and gets fondled in millions of
|
|
pockets every day. Did he take out his wooden teeth while he and his men were
|
|
freezing at Valley Forge and toss them into the fire for extra warmth? Our
|
|
forefathers would have never given bums a penny.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
It began to rain as William dug, and the inverted umbrella started to
|
|
fill up with water. He shoveled out sand rhythmically to the burn beat, his
|
|
brain overclocked and running hot. The notes were clearly visible now,
|
|
crossing over his eyes as the music got more complex. He could almost see the
|
|
whole score itself, seemingly scrawled in chickenscratch notation. William
|
|
continued to dig.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
The girls all wear sweatpants, and the boys have septum nose rings. You
|
|
can feel the tortured libido, the standoffish glances and wavering palms.
|
|
Everybody's shirts have at least one horizontal stripe. Two women leave the
|
|
group and head down the stairs, their hair in buns held together by pencils --
|
|
secretary whores in the making. "Oh, you have a degree? I like to fuck
|
|
intellectual proles." Eighteenth century aristocratic plantation owners
|
|
couldn't have planned office mercantilism any better.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
"Come on, there's got to be a story behind that name," the officer said
|
|
after extinguishing his cigarette. "Were you an expert on fine headwear?
|
|
Maybe you wore the same dingy cap for sixty years that your father gave you as
|
|
a young lad during the depression."
|
|
|
|
Old Man Hat's eyes were still closed. "You don't understand, do you?" he
|
|
asked. "Focus on your present predicament instead of the past. You can't
|
|
know history. You can only hope you piece it together in the best way
|
|
possible. You've situated yourself between nostalgia and ennui, and you're
|
|
too blind to recognize it. You are an officer of the law. You should know
|
|
imprisonment when it happens to you."
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
Earlier that afternoon, I had picked up my sister and driven home to see
|
|
my parents. She was nineteen and having a rough time this semester.
|
|
|
|
"I'm not going to the funeral home or the funeral," she commented in the
|
|
car.
|
|
|
|
"Why not?" I asked. "Are you afraid to look?"
|
|
|
|
"It's not that. I just don't want to be around everyone because they're
|
|
going to be said. Dying shouldn't be a sad even, unless the person is going
|
|
to hell, but Aunt Bird isn't."
|
|
|
|
"Don't you want to see her one last time? It's not like she's going to
|
|
jump up and bite you."
|
|
|
|
She didn't answer, so I turned up the radio and kept driving.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
"Say there, O God above, who reigns in invisible splendor: what's the
|
|
deal with Sandra's cancer?"
|
|
|
|
"O beloved child of mine, the world feeds on itself. Consumption is the
|
|
cause and effect; there is no other."
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
She wasn't really my aunt. My grandfather had met her during World War
|
|
II while stationed at Bergstrom Air Force Base, and she babysat my mother and
|
|
her two brothers. She had no children of her own and basically became an
|
|
extended member of our family. After her husband died in 1975, the year I was
|
|
born, we were pretty much the only family she had.
|
|
|
|
Aunt Bird was strong-willed, independent and old-fashioned. Whenever I
|
|
would see her at family gatherings, she would berate my long, poofy hair,
|
|
calling it "nigger hair" and threaten to leave me out of her will if I didn't
|
|
cut it. My mother would always stop me from arguing with her, citing her age
|
|
and inability to change at this late stage. I thought that was pretty
|
|
insulting.
|
|
|
|
We finally had to put her in a nursing home in 1997, and she only lasted
|
|
six months. She lost her memory, became incoherent most of the time, and in
|
|
December she died. I didn't blame her. The friends she made there were being
|
|
carted off weekly as well.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
"What's your paradigm, cop?" Old Man Hat inquired. "Does the political
|
|
system you adhere to and vehemently defend fully mesh with your perceptions of
|
|
reality and the way things ought to be? Roll up your sleeve and run your
|
|
fingers down your forearm. Feel the goosebump skin, the soft hair, the
|
|
indentions in the flesh from you watch. No matter how free you think you are,
|
|
you're still a prisoner."
|
|
|
|
The officer nervously fingered the billy club on his belt instead. "Shut
|
|
up and go to sleep," he said, "or you'll find out how we treat loons in this
|
|
county."
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
The hole was about two feet deep and six feet long. William lied down
|
|
and began covering his body with sand. A small bird was perched on the rim of
|
|
his umbrella, drinking rain water. The sun was out again, and his brain was
|
|
heading towards being well done. The green notes barely retained the eleven
|
|
note progression they had taken on an hour ago, and it kept repeating as he
|
|
piled sand on his chest.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
Lucinda did meet a boy once who treated her decently. His name was
|
|
Jerry, and he had moved here with his father after a divorce. Instead of
|
|
skin, Jerry was covered by a giant scab. He couldn't move without bleeding,
|
|
but his advanced psychic abilities allowed him to communicate with those who
|
|
would open their minds to him. Sometimes he would actually talk, breaking
|
|
open around his mouth, and Lucinda would kiss him, cooling his pain with her
|
|
water. Eventually, Jerry's father got another job, and she never saw her scab
|
|
boy again.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
The tide was coming in, and only William's head could be seen in the
|
|
sand. The first small laps of water hit the side of his face, the salty spray
|
|
splashing his eyes and burning them. The notes began to dissolve on the backs
|
|
of his eyelids as more water started rolling in. His brain was burning, and
|
|
the water around him began to steam. When two joggers found him the next day,
|
|
a big, pearly grin shined beneath his charred flesh.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
Jake once knew this guy named Primo Origin. He was, as James eloquently
|
|
put it, a heliocentric bastard, but with a name like that, you'd expect to
|
|
have everything revolving around you. One day, Jake and Primo were sitting
|
|
around in the park talking to this chick who was juggling Christian tracts,
|
|
one for every denomination and splinter group. Jake thought it was quite
|
|
impressive for a biped, but Primo retorted by saying, "I'd like to see her
|
|
doing that while sucking my cock."
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
Lucinda sat in a chair in the middle of the living room, washing her hair
|
|
while watching television. It didn't really help much, but it made her feel a
|
|
bit more normal. A local televangelist was on, preaching about the benefits
|
|
of the water of life. She scoffed, stood up, and stuck a finger in an
|
|
electrical socket. The water vaporized, and her waterlogged face looked like
|
|
it was almost a hundred years old. She ran to a mirror and looked before the
|
|
water replenished itself.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
My uncle, a Baptist minister from Dallas, gave the eulogy at the funeral.
|
|
It was the first time I had worn a suit in years. My sister stood next to me,
|
|
trying to stifle snobs. As my uncle went on, I realized that I had never
|
|
really known her. I was always standoffish because of her barbs, and I
|
|
always saw her as the perpetual old lady in the recliner who wouldn't change
|
|
and see things differently. Until I stood there by her grave, I had forgotten
|
|
about her taking care of me when I was younger, walking me to the convenience
|
|
store to buy comics or slipping me sugar cubes when my mother wasn't looking.
|
|
She never changed, but I did.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
Old Man Hat leapt from the chair and phased through the bar, landing next
|
|
to the officer. He grabbed the baton out of the belt and nimbly twirled it
|
|
under the officer's nose.
|
|
|
|
"Ever see a paradigm shift in full effect?" Old Man Hat asked. "I'm not
|
|
as trapped as you thought, eh? You're going to have a lot to explain, so I'd
|
|
suggest running while you still can. Or do you like your skin?"
|
|
|
|
Old Man Hat opened the door and walked away.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Perhaps my life is nothing but an image of this kind; perhaps I am
|
|
doomed to retrace my steps under the illusion that I am exploring,
|
|
doomed to try and learn what I should simply recognize, learning a mere
|
|
fraction of what I have forgotten."
|
|
--Andre Breton
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
A DOCUMENTARY
|
|
by Sophie Random
|
|
|
|
She brushed her teeth and thought of Hegel. She had never read Hegel.
|
|
That didn't matter though, as someone's always talking about Hegel. So much
|
|
so that she felt quite qualified to state flat out, out loud, looking directly
|
|
into her own eyes, that he was wrong. Completely off the mark.
|
|
|
|
"Thesis, antithesis, synthesis... but there's no synthesis. Do you see a
|
|
synthesis anywhere? Or aren't we just going round and round -- thesis,
|
|
antithesis, back to same thesis, same antithesis, same conflict, no
|
|
resolution. No, he was wrong. Or my life transcends somehow the Hegelian
|
|
dialectic. But I'm not that extraordinary. Maybe it's a question of
|
|
categorization? Maybe I'm still stuck in some sort of thetic stage. I don't
|
|
think I can use 'thetic' like that. Perhaps, though, that's it. My thetic
|
|
stage is somehow... what is Nietzsche's 'eternal recurrence' anyway?"
|
|
|
|
She wandered over to her bookshelf, toothbrush held by the constant
|
|
sucking motion of her mouth and tongue, toothpaste dripping down her chin.
|
|
|
|
She muttered aloud from a dictionary of philosophical terms, "...all that
|
|
has been once must repeat again... Well, what do I do with that? I don't
|
|
think I can use it without completely bastardizing the term and besides, isn't
|
|
the interpretation of it a source of controversy anyway? Well, if that's the
|
|
case, then I suppose I can use it anyway I want.... Which is sort of
|
|
Nietzschian in itself, right? Fuck. I'm late. And I have toothpaste all
|
|
over myself."
|
|
|
|
There was no point in thinking about anything anymore, she just had to
|
|
refer to a previous page in a journal. She was reliving everything. It wasn't
|
|
regression, it was repetition. Different men, same problems. Same naive
|
|
wide-eyed little boy devotion, full of idealized expectations, easily
|
|
distracted and disappointed, and therefore short-lived. Same heated arguments
|
|
over and over, recite the lines, maybe she should change the intonation this
|
|
time, for variety? They looked older, but they weren't getting any smarter.
|
|
Or maybe she was just good at finding the runts of the litter. As time
|
|
passed, maybe she was just reaching out for the lesser developed, for the ones
|
|
who haven't gone through the rite of passage. The right passages? And
|
|
without them, could they really move on to write quality passages? And
|
|
without them, would she serve any purpose? What a beautiful symbiotic
|
|
relationship. Or co-dependent. Either-or.
|
|
|
|
She had to get to class. She had to get coffee. She had to drink it even
|
|
if her mouth was full of minty-freshness. There are some things that she had
|
|
to do. This was becoming increasingly obvious.
|
|
|
|
She made it to class five minutes early. "James." She announced as she
|
|
threw her bag down while throwing herself into a chair. "What's 'eternal
|
|
recurrence'?"
|
|
|
|
He smiled and put down his biography on Wilhelm Reich. "Well, Erica,
|
|
you see, that's a difficult question. I mean, Dr. Tomson and Dr. Ivanson are,
|
|
as you know, completely at odds as to how this concept is to be interpreted
|
|
exactly. Nietzsche himself never really explained it, thinking the common man
|
|
wouldn't understand it. Of course, if you look in _Zarathustra_, Section
|
|
10...."
|
|
|
|
"Uhuh, fascinating, James. Just, can you... synthesize the
|
|
interpretations for me or give me quick synopsis of each, please?"
|
|
|
|
"Eternal recurrence. Well. Consider this: everything you
|
|
experience, down to the detail, must be lived over and over again. It's
|
|
possible, at least, I think he says this, it may even be irrelevant to
|
|
the larger scope of his philosophy.... Anyway, he says it's possible at
|
|
least for some events to repeat themselves... there's a theory that says he
|
|
says this because of 19th century ideas of thermodynamic law and--"
|
|
|
|
"Move on, James."
|
|
|
|
"Well, it's horrible, right? The concept of being fated to relive
|
|
events.... Because think of all the fucking shit you've gone through. And
|
|
Nietzsche recognizes this as the 'greatest weight', and he says the weak will
|
|
be crushed by it. They will continue to suffer through every miserable pain
|
|
over and over again, and live in terror and regret, never accepting the fact
|
|
of it. But eternal recurrence doesn't necessarily have this negative
|
|
connotation. By embracing the eternal recurrence, and accepting our pain as
|
|
well as our joy, not escaping it, we can move ourselves to make each moment...
|
|
exquisite. And there's good reason to, obviously, as you will repeat each
|
|
again and again. You can make each moment full, even the horrible can be made
|
|
interesting."
|
|
|
|
"I choose not to suffer uselessly."
|
|
|
|
"Right."
|
|
|
|
"Adrienne Rich."
|
|
|
|
"Ugh. She's disgusting."
|
|
|
|
"Women who are right and write, usually are."
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
You'd think what with all the thinking that the day would pass quickly.
|
|
But every thread that Erica followed was followed by a new sequence of mood
|
|
swings. The day went on and on as her mind went on and on full of itself.
|
|
|
|
Shut up shut up shut up shut up and give me some peace already. Don't you
|
|
have something better to do than think? Why don't you take up a hobby or
|
|
something? All day with you, all day. She stood waiting for the bratty
|
|
looking, no doubt a Comm Arts major to finish steaming the milk in the
|
|
coffeeshop that never closed. She couldn't sleep, and it was well into the
|
|
next morning. As she was concentrating on telepathically trying to transfer
|
|
cellulite from her hips to the girl's perky little rump, she didn't hear David
|
|
come in and move into her personal space.
|
|
|
|
"Coffee at this time of night. Most unhealthy."
|
|
|
|
"Like the future of this exchange." Her eyes wavered, but she stopped
|
|
herself from turning towards him.
|
|
|
|
"Couldn't possibly be any more so than its history."
|
|
|
|
Ready for combat now she turned and smirked. "Don't be so fatalistic.
|
|
I'm always up for a challenge."
|
|
|
|
He looked over and licked his lips. "And a great challenge it would be
|
|
indeed. I can't believe you are here at 3 a.m. I was just about to get some
|
|
sleep."
|
|
|
|
"Sounds like a grand idea. I say go for it. "
|
|
|
|
She grabbed the mug and paid. But he continued, and she was sucked into
|
|
bemusement of his complete focus on himself and his obvious lie. "Quadruple
|
|
mocha. Yes. As in four shots. Just use that milk that's already steamed..."
|
|
And as if he was discussing an issue of terrible severity, he continued, "I
|
|
have to get up in 5 hours. Maybe 5 hours of sleep would be worth it though.
|
|
Maybe."
|
|
|
|
"How _do_ you deal with these kind of decisions, David? The grappling,
|
|
the wrestling with such abstract concepts, day in, day out. Over and over.
|
|
Again and again. I'm in awe."
|
|
|
|
"And well you should be. For instance, to be faced with: 'Taco Bell, or
|
|
Burger King for breakfast?' One of the most daunting questions ever pondered
|
|
by mortal man."
|
|
|
|
"And if ever one must ponder it, David, you are that man."
|
|
|
|
He got his drink and paid. "Keep the change, hon.... Not to sound too
|
|
fatalistic," he paused for her to make the connection to the opening of the
|
|
dialogue, "but, it is my destiny."
|
|
|
|
She made her eyes wide and blinked in mock admiration. "I am not meant
|
|
to reach such heights, such lofty planes of existence."
|
|
|
|
"Where even gods fear to tread."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, fear? I thought it was just non-interest." As she said this he
|
|
walked backwards to the door.
|
|
|
|
"An easy mistake to make. Especially from all the way down there." He
|
|
winked and walked out.
|
|
|
|
She stood unwavering at the counter. She stared at her mug. The girl
|
|
stared blankly at a textbook. "I didn't even vary my intonation." The way
|
|
her day had aligned itself thematically offered her some aesthetic comfort.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
The lecture hall was black. Black turtlenecks, black scoopnecks,
|
|
black-rimmed glasses, dyed-black hair, used black boots, old black bags, new
|
|
black pens.
|
|
|
|
Erica was in black. In the back. With everyone else. The first five
|
|
rows remained empty and all the aisle seats were taken. From this point until
|
|
fifteen minutes into the lecture people would be sighing and standing up to
|
|
let the later-comers in to the only available seats in the middle of the rows.
|
|
|
|
"Excuse me, sorry, can I just--" and a wave of sighs came from the
|
|
end of the row. "Hey, Erica."
|
|
|
|
Erica moved her coat so that Ben could sit on her other side. "Ben."
|
|
|
|
"Did you read the new _Mots_?"
|
|
|
|
"Uh, yeah, well, I read your piece. It was adorable."
|
|
|
|
"Could you not? Could you not do that?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh come on, Ben, 'and her eyes blueful, surreptitiously masking her
|
|
doubt, only accentuating her beaut--' "
|
|
|
|
"All right, all right, Erica. When you say it like that, you take all
|
|
the poetry away."
|
|
|
|
"Yeah, that's all me.... No, really, Ben. It was a good piece, except
|
|
for your description of that girl. Of course, I disagree with the underlying
|
|
theory of desire and your insipid presentation of what actually occurs in a
|
|
romantic relationship, but hey, what's that saying about everyone having their
|
|
own opinion? Although, I don't think it's true that we're really all entitled
|
|
to one, even if everybody's got one. Anyway, it was a good issue. It looks
|
|
like there's some new regulars involved. What do you think about this Simon
|
|
Frazer and this Edna Hellenson?"
|
|
|
|
"Simon's work is good. He's great with imagery, you know? Fuck,
|
|
that passage with the glass on the countertop! Man. Unbelievable, how
|
|
that one image just perfectly explained the entire conflict between the
|
|
two guys at the bar. Man, I wish I could write that, you know? Uh, Edna?
|
|
Eh. She has promise, but she's not that engrossing. She's too... I don't
|
|
know. There's no plot, it's all whining and directionless dialogue. And when
|
|
there is a plot it's something that Steve Midland would have written in a zine
|
|
back in high school. What was that one chick who used to write all the time?
|
|
I heard she dropped out. She was a lot better, I think.... You should submit
|
|
some stuff, Erica. I assume you write? I mean, of course you do, it's
|
|
obvious by the way you talk--"
|
|
|
|
"Steve Midland? Is he lanky, with long hair?" She chuckled. "Who isn't
|
|
lanky with long hair?"
|
|
|
|
"Uh, yeah, do you know him? I wouldn't think... I mean, Steve doesn't
|
|
talk to many girls. So, when he does, I usually know her."
|
|
|
|
"But you do know me."
|
|
|
|
"I mean, I know that she talks to him."
|
|
|
|
"Is he coming to the lecture?"
|
|
|
|
"Uh, I don't know. Why are you so interested in Steve Midland all of a
|
|
sudden? Haven't you heard of him before?"
|
|
|
|
"Should I have?"
|
|
|
|
"Well, it was a big deal a while back. He formally resigned from the
|
|
staff of _Mots_. He's kind of controversial."
|
|
|
|
"Who isn't controversial? And lanky? With long hair?"
|
|
|
|
"Uh, right. But, I mean, Steve's resignation was a big deal. He was a
|
|
popular writer. He has his own publication now."
|
|
|
|
"Fa-a-a-scinating. I'm positive we're speaking of the same person."
|
|
|
|
"So, how do you know him?"
|
|
|
|
"He was in my head."
|
|
|
|
"What?"
|
|
|
|
"In classic story-telling fashion, this is to be continued. The lecture
|
|
is starting."
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
As soon as the lecture ended, Erica quickly approached a professor to
|
|
discuss a point he had brought up. Ben waited for a while, but seeing that
|
|
Erica was on one of her stubborn rampages, gave up and left. Not much later,
|
|
Erica set up a time to meet with the professor in his office the following
|
|
week.
|
|
|
|
Late that evening she found herself once again at the coffeeshop. She was
|
|
sitting alone, skimming the movie listings and talking herself out of seeing
|
|
the latest in the trend of teen films.
|
|
|
|
"Hey. I thought of you today. I was wearing a sleeveless shirt, and I
|
|
saw myself in the mirror from the side, as I lifted the dumbbell up I looked
|
|
at my shoulder and thought, 'Erica was right, that is almost edible.'"
|
|
|
|
She didn't look up while she replied. "Lately, I've been really upset at
|
|
how everyone takes what I say as truth. No one ever looks behind my words, or
|
|
even doubts that I'm giving an honest opinion."
|
|
|
|
"Indeed? Well that isn't to say that I don't have nice shoulders. I
|
|
do."
|
|
|
|
She sighed and stared at him with bored exasperation. "And why is it
|
|
that you are slinking around here again, David?"
|
|
|
|
"I started missing you, Erica."
|
|
|
|
"Translation: David's going through withdrawal from his latest chemical
|
|
addiction. Or is inbetween fucks. And how has the sex life been going,
|
|
David?"
|
|
|
|
"Not bad, but not great either. Fucking while on meth is almost as good
|
|
as having sex with you."
|
|
|
|
She laughed at him. "Our sex life was the biggest lie of all."
|
|
|
|
"How so? You faked all your orgasms?"
|
|
|
|
"Well, what do you think?"
|
|
|
|
"I would say not all of them. But really, who cares? I was having fun.
|
|
Insert somewhere close, preferably moist, thrust, repeat. Thanks for being
|
|
there, though."
|
|
|
|
"It doesn't take much to amuse you for five minutes. I'm sure you could
|
|
take a girl who just lies there while you fuck and have fun with her."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, no not all. There have been a few who complained about rough
|
|
treatment. If they can't be bent over a bed and fucked from behind, or if
|
|
they get whiny about having their hair pulled, it's just not fun. Anyway, it's
|
|
been real, but I'm out of here."
|
|
|
|
She didn't watch him leave. She thought that was an interesting twist.
|
|
|
|
Ben, Steve and some young girl had walked in while she was talking to
|
|
David. A few minutes after David left, Erica felt someone looking at her. It
|
|
was Steve. She acknowledged him with the raise of her left eyebrow. Ben
|
|
turned his head to see what Steve was staring at. He looked quizzically at
|
|
Erica and Steve.
|
|
|
|
"Uh, hey, Erica." He waved her over.
|
|
|
|
She pushed herself slowly from her table and walked over. "Hello, Ben.
|
|
Steve. And..?"
|
|
|
|
The young petite girl in black smiled earnestly and introduced herself.
|
|
"Hi! I'm Kate. Nice to meet you, Erica!"
|
|
|
|
Now Erica looked confused. You could literally hear the exclamation
|
|
points at the end of Kate's sentences. And she was so fresh looking. Her
|
|
black looked... pinkish, almost. She was in college, Erica was sure of that.
|
|
But she couldn't have been more than a second-year student.
|
|
|
|
Erica turned to Steve, "Did you enjoy the Jarry?"
|
|
|
|
Before Steve could answer, Kate responded. "Oh, wow! You read Jarry,
|
|
too? That's so neat. Steve lent me some Jarry. This book _Visits of Love_.
|
|
Have you read it? It was so good. Steve has so many cool books." With that
|
|
she turned and gave Steve a wide smile, as if it was substituting for a bow.
|
|
|
|
Erica squinted her eyes and leaned in to make sure she wasn't
|
|
misinterpreting the girl. But no, that was true devoted adoration. "Yes,
|
|
Kate. He certainly does. Steve's just a cool guy." Her voice was laden with
|
|
insincerity and sarcasm. Steve remained silent and stared at the table.
|
|
"Steve. Did you enjoy the Jarry?"
|
|
|
|
"I had read it before."
|
|
|
|
"Uh, so when did you lend Steve some Jarry? I didn't know...uh..." Ben
|
|
looked completely lost.
|
|
|
|
"I didn't. He took it from me."
|
|
|
|
"Ste-e-ve. You're so me-e-an. You didn't really, did you?" Kate's eyes
|
|
were big and incredulous.
|
|
|
|
"So, uh, is no one going to tell me what's going on... er, what went on?"
|
|
|
|
"I'm a deserter, not a gossip." His response was directed at Erica.
|
|
|
|
Erica smiled. She turned and walked towards the door.
|
|
|
|
"Wait, Erica--" Ben called, "Why are you leaving?"
|
|
|
|
"I've seen this before. It's a rerun. I'll tell you how it ends: I
|
|
lose."
|
|
|
|
She walked outside. She was still smiling. Erica was beginning
|
|
to enjoy herself.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"First drafts are shit."
|
|
-- Ernest Hemingway
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
FiRST DRAFT
|
|
by I Wish My Name Were Nathan
|
|
|
|
Distant sounds outside an open window on a cool and windless night...
|
|
why?
|
|
|
|
Man is an avalanche.
|
|
|
|
A human is a clown attending the birthday party of the sun, crouching
|
|
behind the earth and waiting to say surprise.
|
|
|
|
He hears nothing and sees only glimmers from his hiding spot. While he
|
|
waits, the cool of the night numbs him; the dark of the night prompts him to
|
|
enter infantile fantasy. He concocts intricate fantasies to entertain himself
|
|
and explain in a narrative fashion how he came to be crouching behind the
|
|
earth. He longs for sleep, hardly remembering that he is already asleep, in a
|
|
way. The party has not even begun.
|
|
|
|
I counted up all the coins that were jingling in my pocket each time I
|
|
walked across the room and splurged on two bags of crunchy M&Ms. I opened
|
|
each bag and mechanically ate them while I pondered a program. By the time I
|
|
was finished, I felt sick. Why? Why the ending, why the resolution, why the
|
|
conflict? And why was I carrying a buck forty in change?
|
|
|
|
Increasing your intuition and personal freedom in three easy steps: one,
|
|
two, *bang*!
|
|
|
|
A friend of mine has revealed to me and others that the problem of
|
|
interpersonal communication is a major hurdle for him. In short, he doesn't
|
|
believe it exists. I went through a short period of increasing loneliness and
|
|
terror when I imagined he was right. A casual reader revealed that I write as
|
|
if the audience doesn't exist. This may be a justified complaint, but not my
|
|
methodology. I have recently tended toward my friend's belief, especially
|
|
since discovering the depth of experience that cannot be communicated. The
|
|
time has passed when I believed that truth could be communicated by stating
|
|
it; and further still is the time since believing truth consisted of objective
|
|
facts. Gone are the days of screaming and yelling about ugly parts of the
|
|
truth, hoping to drown them out through sheer force of attention. And I can
|
|
no longer describe my high moments, because they are too far away, and last as
|
|
long as the effort taken to achieve them. What is left? What do I write
|
|
about? I have exhausted all the audiences I cared to talk to. I am reluctant
|
|
to attempt the role of teacher or guide, since I am really just a lazy
|
|
student. I dislike the mode of pure entertainment, since I don't want to
|
|
offer empty gifts.
|
|
|
|
All in all, when I look back at the things I think I know and that I
|
|
think I want to say, I realize I am really just talking to myself. I am
|
|
really just talking to myself, I think I know, I think I want to say. I
|
|
realize, I realize, I am talking to myself. I think I know, I want to say, at
|
|
the things I look back. All in all, as it goes, as it were, because. In
|
|
short, after all, you realize, you see. You realize, you see. You realize,
|
|
you miss the point and wait a second, what party, anyway? What am I doing
|
|
here? I'm horny. Yeah, that hole looks promising. Hope the person around it
|
|
don't mind too much. Oh yeah? What? Come back here, goddammit, I'm not
|
|
going to hurt you. Yes I am! More shit about the fucking clown suit, huh?
|
|
You'll pay for that, fucker. I am so sick of hearing that. I can't help
|
|
having a clown suit / I wear it as a statement / You're so intolerant of me
|
|
/ Hey man, can't we all get along and see past the polyester and polka dots?
|
|
Tell me to stop if you don't like it. Honestly, I'm a good guy. I can't
|
|
hear you / I can't understand your language / You're not saying it the way I
|
|
want to hear it / Say it again / I lied. Just shut up and let me finish and
|
|
you can be on your way. Boy, you're ugly. You are so weak. You let me do
|
|
this. And now it's over. Don't you ever speak to me again, unless we
|
|
happen to meet again under similar circumstances. A pleasure to
|
|
meet you. Until next time. Charmed, surely. Give my best to the family.
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Hey, where are you going? Come back! I miss you / You left something here
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/ You owe me more time / I apologize / You're ugly, weak, and easy. Oh
|
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well, bye, I guess. Bitch / Bastard. Old hag / Dumb little kid. A moment
|
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like that only comes once every... what time is it? Man, is it dark. Oh
|
|
no, the sun is going to come up. I can't believe I wasted the whole night.
|
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Look at me here! What am I doing with my life? Why am I up at this hour?
|
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I'm such a loser / I'm so impractical / I always end up doing the same
|
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stupid shit / I just stink of beer / I'll surely be arrested this time /
|
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Mother will disown me / God hates fags. I guess if I'm too lame to kill
|
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myself, I'll just lie down here in the dirt and hope I wake up with a bad
|
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memory. Yes, bow down and kiss the dirt, you scum, it's your eternal womb.
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Death would only be a reason to giggle where you're going. Maybe someday
|
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I'll...
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|
He misses the party! And then it's a new day.
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|
|
A girl is standing in the kitchen, leaning back against the dishwasher
|
|
while eating a candy bar. The house is quiet, with each of the family members
|
|
keeping to himself. Instead of watching TV, for instance, her father is
|
|
balancing his checkbook. Emily is concentrating on the silence and enjoying
|
|
the chocolate in her mouth. The cool and windless night outside the window
|
|
reveals dense cloud cover, meaning the night is luminous, but not enough. It
|
|
is unnervingly yellow. While she thinks about this, her father stands up and
|
|
announces, "Well, that's done, now!" He probably knows Emily is there, which
|
|
accounts for his boisterous outburst. While clearing the table of receipts
|
|
and statements, indeed, he seems to become progressively more animated. After
|
|
dropping a wad of papers in the wastebasket, he tools over to the bookshelf
|
|
and aligns the rows. Then he picks up the cushions from the couch and fluffs
|
|
them roughly and tosses them back a little carelessly. Emily considers the
|
|
chocolate bar. A quarter remains. She glances at her father, turns around,
|
|
drops the candy in the trash, and walks hurriedly to her room. She realizes
|
|
he could have seen her ungraceful exit -- head cocked, hands grasping a sofa
|
|
cushion -- and she flubs it even further by closing the door a little too
|
|
loudly. As she heads toward the bed, she abruptly turns and dives into her
|
|
closet, hiding behind a tower of boxes, and sobs. *I can't believe you did
|
|
that!* she scolds herself. *Daddy is always so hurt when you're like that.
|
|
Just look at the pain in his eyes!* Another voice speaks to her. *Who hangs
|
|
around when an avalanche is coming?*
|
|
|
|
I practice frowning in front of a mirror every night, particularly
|
|
focusing on the rigidity of my furrowed brow. I hope to use it to dent cars.
|
|
|
|
"How can I take this seriously?" means, "How can I deal with its refusal
|
|
to settle into a monotone, where I can measure its pitch and mark it on my
|
|
chart?"
|
|
|
|
"What is this gibberish? Why doesn't he talk to the reader?" means, "Why
|
|
can't I deal with the challenges to my expectations? Why can't I just be
|
|
entertained so I can forget?"
|
|
|
|
Although I've seen it said that one should forget his past to better see
|
|
the present, I also believe one should learn from what he forgets... or else
|
|
history repeats itself.
|
|
|
|
History is an avalanche.
|
|
|
|
Time kills, too.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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|
|
|
"There is nothing so stupid and pathetic as an orgy that doesn't quite
|
|
come off."
|
|
--William B. Seabrook, _The Magic Island_
|
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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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|
UNPRONOUNCED
|
|
by Kilgore Trout
|
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|
|
I can almost smell the quiet in the gridlock of the city. Even when the
|
|
city veers toward a halt, it still moves, still makes noise. The city is
|
|
perpetually in motion, and trying to slow it down only leads to more frenzied
|
|
action. The quiet lurks in there, somewhere, hidden away, illiciting
|
|
challenges to be found. It masquerades as sleep, a sidestreet on a misty 4am
|
|
morning, or a shady oak tree in the park. Things still move, the air is
|
|
disturbed, and the aural assault violates my space and dissipates the
|
|
illusion. I become accustomed to the absence of absence and turn into a
|
|
junkie for interaction.
|
|
|
|
The quiet wants to be discovered and felt, cherished like a newborn
|
|
infant's first sleep. It strives for attention, relegated to dark corners and
|
|
holes in plaster walls, and the noise continues to invade and diminish.
|
|
Glimpses appear in the cracks in the sidewalk, on the rotting boards of shut
|
|
down storefronts, almost tangible, almost within reach. The quiet needs me to
|
|
survive.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
The alarm clock slices through the room, covering up the almost inaudible
|
|
Lou Rawls playing on the radio. She is already awake, staring at the ceiling
|
|
and twirling a long strand of blonde hair around her finger. After about ten
|
|
seconds, she reaches over and slams the snooze button with the edge of her
|
|
hand and listens to the rest of "Dead End Street."
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
Her flowing strawberry-colored dress is offset by the army issue backpack
|
|
she wears. After locking the door to her apartment, she hurries down the
|
|
stairs in her sandals, each toenail painted to match the dress. The early
|
|
morning clouds shift steadily across the sky in their pink-orange hue as she
|
|
makes her way down the block. Her buzzed, blonde hair does not move.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
She sips strawberry tea at a table outside of the cafe, her blonde hair
|
|
blowing in the wind. The face she watches passerbys with is hard, full of
|
|
restrained femininity, and the hot tea burns the tip of her tongue. A cricket
|
|
lands next to her idle foot, which she steps on because she can. The tea is
|
|
half gone by then.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
A quick twenty bucks from the ATM and she's off, running towards the
|
|
cafe, hoping she's not too late for her appointment. The dress tries to wrap
|
|
itself around her legs, entangling red cloth weaved by fate. Her steps are
|
|
uneven, and she has to slow down to a fast walk. The concrete is broken with
|
|
abuse, and she steps on all the cracks.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
I want to live in photographs because there everything is static. Motion
|
|
halts, and people stop in midsentence, their mouths open. The moment is all
|
|
there is, visualized in freeze frame, and nothing can change. Even the blurs
|
|
of movement still themselves, defying the natural laws of the universe. They
|
|
say a picture is worth a thousand words, but I say it is worth the absence of
|
|
words.
|
|
|
|
Hundreds of polaroids line the walls of my apartment. I'm trying to
|
|
capture the quiet, weed it out of its nesting place, and experience it
|
|
firsthand. I have pictures of planes, people, cars, dumpsters, potted plants
|
|
in tenth story apartment building windows, double yellow lines in the road,
|
|
stereo speakers, the backs of crowds, orators, guns, dog muzzles, seashells,
|
|
Geiger counters, tin roofs, the moon, a puddle in 51st street from August
|
|
1989, balcony railings, chemotherapy patients, horse races, contrails, small
|
|
albino children, a cow skull, communist leaflets, cameras, neon exit signs,
|
|
beer cans, empty prescription medication containers, piles of leaves in my
|
|
stepfather's yard, combs, nonfiction books, Thai menus, nude department store
|
|
mannequins, laptop computers, shovels, lawn clippings, one-way mirrors, fire
|
|
trucks, and scissors.
|
|
|
|
The quiet isn't there, though. The pictures are intangible desires on
|
|
film, untouchable and unrealized. They surround me when I sleep, teasing me
|
|
with their stillness, and in my dreams they move.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
She glances furtively at her watch, examining the second hand meticulously
|
|
measuring time. Today's paper rests under her chair, already read and
|
|
worthless. The cup next to her elbow is nearly empty, and an ant is
|
|
struggling in the sugar sludge at the bottom to free itself. After running a
|
|
hand through her short, blonde hair, she takes a straw, crushes the ant, and
|
|
then stands up to get another drink.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
The crosswalk light begins to flash red, and she stops and leans against
|
|
a streetlight to catch her breath. Wet, sweaty bangs hang in her eyes as she
|
|
unshoulders her army backpack and checks one last time to make sure her
|
|
portfolio is still in there. A small sparrow makes a sharp turn in midair,
|
|
narrowly avoiding a speeding Nissan truck which goes through the intersection
|
|
as the light turns yellow.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
A fold of her dress gets caught between her legs as she crosses them, so
|
|
she tugs at it until it comes loose. Her appointment book is open on the
|
|
table, and the 10:30am entry is crossed. She drinks some more tea while going
|
|
over the rest of the day in her planner, scribbling notes beside a few of the
|
|
times. She looks up almost instinctively as the loud squeal of skidding tires
|
|
fills the air.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
She sees the cafe across the street down the block as she puts her hair
|
|
into a ponytail, still walking. She keeps going down the sidewalk towards the
|
|
cafe, head darting back and forth rapidly, waiting for an opening in the
|
|
traffic. Sensing a short break in the flow of cars, she steps into the road.
|
|
She turns her head left and sees a car skidding towards her.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
When I was younger, I used to grow out my hair just so I could cut it all
|
|
off. My mother thought I was crazy since I had naturally curly hair which all
|
|
of the women in the salon vocally envied. I always made sure to keep the
|
|
clippings and put them in a large glass jar. It was part of me, in there, and
|
|
I knew where it was from and could control it.
|
|
|
|
It's not that simple anymore. The world outside is as dead as the
|
|
molding hair in that glass jar, but it has perpetual motion. I can't lock it
|
|
up, can't keep it trapped, even though I might be the only person who knows
|
|
that the quiet is actually out there, somewhere. I want to feel it, to touch
|
|
it, to let it hold me in its wispy, silent arms, crushing me to keep me
|
|
immobile. If I can't stop the world, maybe the quiet can stop me.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
She stands and screams as the car hits the girl and throws her backwards
|
|
onto the pavement. A few people move over to the girl while the driver gets
|
|
out of his car, a hand clasped over his mouth. Her body is awkwardly arched
|
|
upwards because of the backpack underneath her, and someone yells for somebody
|
|
to call an ambulance. She runs over to the girl, strawberry dress whipping at
|
|
her legs.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
She stands and screams as the car hits the girl and throws her backwards
|
|
onto the pavement. A few people move over to the girl while the driver gets
|
|
out of his car, a hand clasped over his mouth. Her body is awkwardly arched
|
|
upwards because of the backpack underneath her, and someone yells for somebody
|
|
to call an ambulance. She runs over to the girl, strawberry dress whipping at
|
|
her legs.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
Looking down at the girl, blonde hair matted with blood, she realizes
|
|
that the girl is the one she was waiting for. She gets pushed back as people
|
|
try to give the girl some space, and a man next to her is on his cell phone
|
|
with emergency services. All she can do is stare at that face with its wide
|
|
open eyes and wonder why she never realized that the girl looks so much
|
|
like her.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
My mother threw away that glass jar full of hair when I was at a summer
|
|
camp in '82. When I got back and found out, I threw a fit and called her all
|
|
sorts of names, which got me grounded for two weeks. I never collected hair
|
|
again. That's when I started taking pictures.
|
|
|
|
I'm not sure if I can ever capture the quiet, but I have to try. The
|
|
photographs aren't going to work, but even if it's empty progress, it's still
|
|
progress. The quiet needs me, and I need the quiet. People just keep letting
|
|
it slip away, and once it's gone, I think it will be too difficult to find
|
|
again, and then what will we have left? When will we have rest? Will we just
|
|
be driven along by random events and impotent obligations until we get tired
|
|
and die?
|
|
|
|
I shaved off all of my blonde hair last night before I went to bed. I
|
|
needed a change, and I thought it might impress some of the people who I have
|
|
to meet and deal with. Besides, I always thought a chick with a bald head
|
|
would look amazing in a strawberry dress. If my current appointment doesn't
|
|
show up soon, I'll finish off that last bit of tea and move on. Maybe
|
|
sometime I'll catch a glimpse of the quiet.
|
|
|
|
--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) 1999 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) 1999
|
|
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:
|
|
|
|
World Wide Web http://www.apoculpro.org
|
|
irc the #unbeing channel on UnderNet
|
|
|
|
|
|
Submissions may also be sent to Kilgore Trout at <kilgore@eden.com>.
|
|
The SoB distribution list may also be joined by sending email to Kilgore
|
|
Trout.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|