Wobbly Times

Wobbly times number 141

2012-01-30T23:37:00.000-08:00

THE SOCIETY OF THE SPECTACLE

PART 1

PART 2

Wobbly times number 140

2012-01-18T14:20:00.000-08:00

Haw! You've got to hand it to Freddy...." and almost each particular section of the possessing class has its representatives in each of the two parties to a very large degree". What a guy! And today, we on the left with our Zeitgeists and populist rants about the Fed, supporting all kinds of nationalisms and very little, if any, class analysis, hear a voice from the past making a class analysis which brings clarity to the mess we're in: the rule of Capital. The bourgeois democratic electoral system is, of course, rigged to produce a consistent result: the continued rule of Capital. Reforms are modifications of this rule, to be sure; but they don't change the basic social relation based on the continued political servility of the working class i.e. wage labour. And as long as people like Engels can be put in the 'out of date' box, we'll have, "contempt for all theory....and be... " punished for this by a superstitious belief in every philosophical and economic absurdity, by religious sectarianism, and by idiotic economic experiments, out of which, however, certain bourgeois cliques profit." IOW, anything but the abolition of the wage system.

There is no place yet in America for a third party, I believe. The divergence of interests even in the same class group is so great in that tremendous area that wholly different groups and interests are represented in each of the two big parties, depending on the locality, and almost each particular section of the possessing class has its representatives in each of the two parties to a very large degree, though today big industry forms the core of the Republicans on the whole, just as the big landowners of the South form that of the Democrats. The apparent haphazardness of this jumbling together is what provides the splendid soil for the corruption and the plundering of the government that flourish there so beautifully. Only when the land — the public lands — is completely in the hands of the speculators, and settlement on the land thus becomes more and more difficult or falls prey to gouging — only then, I think, will the time come, with peaceful development, for a third party. Land is the basis of speculation, and the American speculative mania and speculative opportunity are the chief levers that hold the native-born worker in bondage to the bourgeoisie. Only when there is a generation of native- born workers that cannot expect anything from speculation any more will we have a solid foothold in America. But, of course, who can count on peaceful development in America! There are economic jumps over there, like the political ones in France — to be sure, they produce the same momentary retrogressions.

The small farmer and the petty bourgeois will hardly ever succeed in forming a strong party; they consist of elements that change too rapidly — the farmer is often a migratory farmer, farming two, three, and four farms in succession in different states and territories, immigration and bankruptcy promote the change in personnel, and economic dependence upon the creditor also hampers independence — but to make up for it they are a splendid element for politicians, who speculate on their discontent in order to sell them out to one of the big parties afterward.

The tenacity of the Yankees, who are even rehashing the Greenback humbug, is a result of their theoretical backwardness and their Anglo- Saxon contempt for all theory. They are punished for this by a superstitious belief in every philosophical and economic absurdity, by religious sectarianism, and by idiotic economic experiments, out of which, however, certain bourgeois cliques profit. Friedrich Engels, 1892

Wobbly times number 139

2011-12-28T01:18:00.000-08:00

Commodification is the process whereby our lives become synonymous with the production of cheapness dedicated to achieving market share.

Zappa's vision didn't go beyond the rule of Capital. He was definitely opposed to what he saw as a leitmotif of modernity, 'cheapnis'. His was a kind of sardonic cry for quality in the age of mechanical reproduction.Unfortunately, Frank couldn't see that commodification and capitalism were joined at the hip.

We start with the commodity, this specific social form of the product, as the foundation and prerequisite of capitalist production. We take individual products and analyse those distinctions of form which they have as commodities, which stamp them as commodities. In earlier modes of production—preceding the capitalist mode of production—a large part of the output never enters into circulation, is never placed on the market, is not produced as commodities, and does not become commodities. On the other hand, at that time a large part of the products which enter into production are not commodities and do not enter into the process as commodities. The transformation of products into commodities only occurs in individual cases, is limited only to the surplus of products, etc., or only to individual spheres of production (manufactured products), etc. A whole range of products neither enter into the process as articles to be sold, nor arise from it as such. Nevertheless, the prerequisite, the starting-point, of the formation of capital and of capitalist production is the development of the product into a commodity, commodity circulation and consequently money circulation within certain limits, and consequently trade developed to a certain degree. It is as such a prerequisite that we treat the commodity, since we proceed from it as the simplest element in capitalist production. On the other hand, the product, the result of capitalist production, is the commodity. What appears as its element is later revealed to be its own product. Only on the basis of capitalist production does the commodity become the general form of the product and the more this production develops, the more do the products in the form of commodities enter into the process as ingredients. The commodity, as it emerges in capitalist production, is different from the commodity taken as the element, the starting-point of capitalist production. We are no longer faced with the individual commodity, the individual product. The individual commodity, the individual product, manifests itself not only as a real product but also as a commodity, as a part both really and conceptually of production as a whole. Each individual commodity represents a definite portion of capital and of the surplus-value created by it.

Karl Marx, Theories of Surplus Value, Marx 1861-3, Chapter 20

"At the origin of industrial society, based on the primacy and autonomy of commodities, of things, we find a contrary impulse to place what is essential - what causes one to tremble with fear and delight- outside the world of activity, the world of things. But however this is shown it does not controvert the fact that in general a capitalist society reduces what is human to the conditions of a thing (of a commodity)."

Georges Bataille, ACCURSED SHARE vol.I page 129

The reign of commodities is allowed because the subject becomes mystified as to the origin of the object : Wage-labour is not aware that it creates Capital. Quite the contrary: it is generally believed that Capital creates wealth and provides jobs to wage-labour. This is what Marx was writing about in the section in CAPITAL volume I on 'the fetishism of commodities' , the sort of 'camera obscura' world view taken as the norm under the rule of Capital and what Georg Lukacs was referring to when he used the term 'reification' and identified it as the mind trick whereby the subject>object relation was reversed.

Wobbly times number 138

2011-12-21T20:25:00.000-08:00

"Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them." Henry David Thoreau

"Darkness thus surrounds two worlds that are distinct but always associated. The same horror banishes the sexual function and excretion to the same darkness." Georges Bataille

WHAT MAKES SAMMY RUN?

How I see what causes so many neuroses in class society.

Remember the capitalist dictum: 'Find a need and fill it'.

What humans need is more fucking with birth control pills and condoms i.e. we don't need an expansion of the population. Lack of fucking causes so many neuroses. It also creates needs which are filled in with the commodification of human relations i.e. pornography, generalised advertising and prostitution to name but a few.

Humans are more like promiscuous apes, chimps and bonobos than monogamous apes like gibbons or alpha male, once a year fucking gorillas. Gibbons split off on the ape line 22 million years ago and also have sex about once a year. Gorillas and orangatuans split a few million years later. The last of the apes to split off and the ones closest to humans genetically are the chimps and bonobos. Chimps and bonobos are naturally promiscuous. I contend that humans are as naturally promiscuous as our closest relatives in the animal kingdom. As the old saying goes, "Variety is the spice of life". Our evolutionary history gives lie to the notion that humans are by nature, monogamous or alpha-male polygamous. Within the official ideological cauldron of patriarchal forms of marriage lies a roiling mass of social and psychological distress e.g. infidelity, divorce, one parent families and the blues in general.

"The pathology known as "hysteria" was named over two thousand years ago as a condition that affected women and had something to do with the willful difficulties of the uterus. Already in the times of Galen, a doctor who lived around the time of Jesus, medical experts recommended a "massage" of the genital area of women suffering from this malady, which relieved the symptoms and restored the women to health. It was commonly known from that time forward that hysteria was related to female sexual satisfaction although different societies responded to this problem in quite varying ways.

"The 19th century saw a great rise in the disease to the point of it being a near epidemic, at least among middle- and upper-class women. This was undoubtedly related to the heavily repressed sexuality of the era as well as to what Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English describe as the masculinization of industrial society (For Her Own Good: 150 Years of the Experts' Advice to Women. Anchor Books, 1978). In a world in which a reasonably wealthy woman's role is purely sexual and where sexuality is solely the realm of men, the greatest taboo was the idea that traditional coitus might not in and of itself satisfy the demands of women's sexual needs. Although many doctors of the time observed that over half of their female patients were not satisfied by their marital duties, they also were able, with a straight face, to declare this majority "abnormal" and in need of medical treatment.

"As in ancient times, treatment for hysteria consisted generally of manual manipulation of the womb area to provoke a "hysterical crisis" in which the woman convulsed and moaned and was relieved of her tension to the point of even being somnolent. In this way, women's sexual needs were deemed to be an illness and without ever using the word "orgasm" doctors of the time made a fine living with women patients who returned frequently for treatments.

"These treatments were so common and were consuming so much of the time of doctors that this actually led to the invention and perfection of the vibrator. The first vibrators were huge, expensive machines sold only to doctor's offices (and came with names like "The Chattanooga"). With this modern technology the time to treat a hysterical patient dropped from one hour to ten minutes, allowing the doctor to see many more patients in the same time. Needless to say, the medical establishment was quite enthusiastic.

"As the end of the century neared and more and more homes were connected to electricity, the technology of orgasm came into the home in the form of small, inexpensive vibrators. For the first time this technology was in the hands of the women themselves, but all mention of these machines carefully avoided mention of sex or orgasm. Instead advertisements gave glowing reports of rosy cheeks and youthful energy.

"Something, however, happened between the beginning of the 20th century and the 1920's, because suddenly the vibrator disappears as a product; the ads are gone from women's magazines and the manufacture of the products themselves seems to drop off. One possible reason, reports Maines, is that some early pornographic films from the 1920's show the vibrator as a sexual tool. This connection of the vibrator with sexuality made it impossible for women of the time to continue the charade that they were "just relieving tension," and the vibrator disappeared from the home.

The vibrator as sexual technology returned in the 1970's during the era of sexual liberation. In 1976, sexual therapist Joanie Blank opened the first store dedicated to vending vibrators in a women-centered, sex-positive environment, and which she called "Good Vibrations.""

K. Coyle

As for men, Wikipedia says, "As a general rule, an animal's penis is proportional to its body size, but this varies greatly between species – even between closely related species. For example, an adult gorilla's erect penis is about 4 cm (1.5 in) in length; an adult chimpanzee, significantly smaller (in body size) than a gorilla, has a penis size about double that of the gorilla. In comparison, the human penis is larger than that of any other primate, both in proportion to body size and in absolute terms." I argue that these anatomical, evolutionary, adaptive characteristics are the material reasons why monogamy, polygamy, private propety and the political State are obsolete, indeed they are all contributors to multiple neuroses (including the sadistic tendencies/acts of cruelty passing for mutual erotic pleasure) we see displayed on a daily basis and much unhappiness amongst/between humans. The social psychology which class society generates is one of submission the many and dominance by the few, the powerful, the class with authority to rule.

Women and men are anatomically evolved to fuck a lot. Just like bonobos and chimps, we don't have sex just to reproduce. Reproductive competition, when it comes, comes between the various males' sperm in the wombs of women who have chosen many partners. The female womb itself is naturally attuned to selecting which sperm get through and are most likely to impregnate an egg. Women, female chimps and bonobos (unlike say, the monogamous gibbons or harem-like gorilla females) don't 'advertise their fertility; they have what is known as hidden estrus, making them ALWAYS ready to engage in sexual intercourse and indeed for tens of thousands of years before the advent of agriculture and animal husbandry, there was no human monogamy nor is there monogamy among chimps and bonobos. Children were considered to be part of one big family in hunter/gatherer groups. There was simply no need to know exactly who the father was.

I don't advocate mindless promiscuity. I advocate conscious knowledge of how we humans are anatomically constructed; how we've adapted over tens of thousands of years so that we can survive. What I'm saying is that the cultural constructs which flow out of the agricultural revolution beginning around 8,000 BCE are having negative effects on social relations between human beings, in particular between men and women. The need to be able to identify the male's offspring in order to reliably pass on the wealth the males have accumulated in patriarchal societies has bent human social psychology and made so many of us neurotic, unhappy, violent, bored and feeling unfulfilled. Monogamy and polygamy may have proven necessary social structures of civilisation when civilisation was necessarily based on the maintenance of class rule, private property and the political State; but is now proving an irrational, unnatural imposition on humanity.

Since the dawn of patriarchy (some say around 10,000 years ago), we've been acculturated (mostlly through priestly admonitions from the legitimsed authorities of class society) into accepting monogamy as being natural and anything else as being 'sinful', wrong, low, primitive, barbaric etc. However, as I've indicated, men and women in pre-class, pre-monagamous society couldn't tell whom a child was fathered by and paleo anthropolical studies demonstrate that most pre-agricultural societies were based on egalitarian power relations, within matriarchally oriented tribes. Why matriarchy? Because only the mother could always be known; paternity was ambiguous at best. Polyandry was more the norm than the exception.

Thus, monogamy/polygamy comes about as the patriarchal solution for being able tell which kids should get the male's property/wealth...most of these inheritors being males anyway and most of the property belonging to father males in the first place. Historically, males owned most of the wealth in class societies' version of civilisation. In prehistoric society, what there was of wealth, was held in common in politically egalitarian, extended collective familial arrangements. The need for the political State to legitimate and enforce class society's social relations of power and the unequal division of wealth by threat of violence is/was largely driven by the very unnatural, patriarchally driven forms of marrage: monogamy and polygamy. Polyandry died out with the advent of class divided civilisation i.e. after the invention of agriculture and animal husbandry. After the creation of systems of surplus wealth creation, exploitive modes of production were set up by ruling classes which had the purpose of taking wealth and by extension, political power from the producers of wealth: the slaves, the peasants and the workers.

Marriage is a cultural tradition which flows into the legal structures of class ruled societies. Publicly recognised, lawful relationships between men and women have been like that since patriarchy was found to be a necessary link in controlling property and inheritance of same after agriculture and animal husbandry were developed circa 8,000 BCE. The mode of producing a surplus of wealth above and beyond personal need of the few is a foundation stone of class dominated civilsation and when conditions have been developed where it becomes possible for society as a whole to enjoy wealth beyond need, the material foundation stone of classless civilisation has been laid. It is when Capital as a social relation becomes recognised for what it is, a fetter on the freedom of the overwhelsming majority of individuals, that the rational bases of class society's foundations begin erode.

It's perfectly possible (not easy though) to change cultural traditions i.e. recognising gay marriage by educating, agitating and organising within the culture; however, the class who rules will not change over implementing these measures. In the modern era, that's the capitalists and their buddies in the landlord class. Cultural change is what is happening now. Supporting cultural traditions is what social conservatives tend to do i.e. there is, as yet, no conscience vote to be allowed on this issue of gay marriage in the Liberal Party or Nationals or some other, even more conservative political party. Of course, the Greens, being to the left of Labor, have a more socially liberal position and I expect those to the left of the Greens have an even more socially liberal position. For instance, I support marriage between as many people who want to be married to each other (gay or straight). I even support monogamy as choice. Why not? Legalise polyandry now! That would be my personal slogan. However, I realise that this is a cultural change most people would not support at this point in history. La luta continua. I do think that the whole cultural rumbling and grumbling about gay marriage contributes to the general historical transition social relations are undergoing nowadays, the transition from the monogamous (and polygamous) family, private property and the class dominated political State towards a free association of human beings who hold the social product of their labour in common and administer their collective wealth in grassroots, democratic ways, leaving their personal lives as a matter for individuals to design for themselves.

‎"The power of accurate observation is commonly called cynicism by those who have not got it." G.B Shaw

Wobbly times number 137

2011-11-12T02:04:00.001-08:00

Objective Spirit on record.
Marilyn Monroe's last photographer shot this film. This event and film were the precursor to "Monterey Pop" and "Woodstock".

Wobbly times number 136

2011-11-08T03:45:00.000-08:00

"Growth for the sake of growth is the ideology of the cancer cell." - Edward Abbey.

It’s About Time

We came out of Africa

ages ago

We roamed o’er this planet

in various tribes

But

our numbers have grown

We’re hitting six billion

We don’t need any more

We need a rest

some disposable time

We’ve got enough families

and too many swine

We need a shrink

We’re working too long

driving for hours

with ring-toned

bright mobiles

stuck fast to our ears

jammed ‘twixt car bumpers

to-ing and fro-ing

producing more gadgets

than we’ll ever use

And what’s most of it for

To profit the powers

THE POWERS THATBE

increasing their greed

immersing our planet

in fads become junk

twelve percent plastic

and toxic to boot

Yes

truth is still beauty

but look what WE’VE got

beauty’s become

a ware to be bought

a thing to be sold

In this day and age

cheapness’s the measure

of market-share gain

It’s just so much fools’ gold

What happened to leisure

Why so much pain

Come on fellow workers

Let’s turn the page

Our faire Sister is groaning

under this weight

We’ve created more wealth

than ever before

measured in money

and we’re still insecure

Output per worker

has shotthrough sky

do-dads are humming

boss profits are high

while needy go hungry

and poor children die

Yes

by thousands each day

because water is dirty

and boy is it scarce

The deserts are coming

the planet is warming

and pundits are talking

they’re talking‘bout more

All for the bosses

More power for them

to growtheir damn

business

and lest we forget

we’ll get more landlords

and rent hikes galore

Oh my god

can’t you see

by the dawn’s early light

Come on

all you workers

wage slavery’s a bore

It’s taking up your life

and taking up mine

Let’s make something real

something useful for us

for us and our planet

before we go bust

Let’s grow us some FREE-TIME

Give it a think

We’ve piled enough crap up

We need a shrink

"An era can be considered over when its basic illusions have been exhausted." Arthur Miller

Wobbly times number 135

2011-10-30T02:01:00.000-07:00

After the abolition of the horrid wage system by the workers themselves, the transition from the lower to higher stage of a co:operative commonwealth takes place using socially necessary time (SNLT) as a measuring device. After all, we're just out of a capitalist society and many people may still be hung up with notions of narrowly selfish individualism. To prevent the fear of free-loading and the actual act, SNLT will show that we're all doing our part. A modern communist society is large. We simply don't and can't know everybody on the modern commons as we might have in our small 150 or less peasant communities in the past, before the commons was destroyed--pre-18th century in the Anglo Saxon culture. At the current level of technology, SNLT could be recorded electronically. A good or service would be enjoyed by swiping a card taking however many minutes it took to produce the good or service off an electronically stored balance. Working in the production of goods and services would enable the producer to add socially necessary labour hours to the card as he or she put them in. Those who felt a greater need for goods and services or even for work itself (face it...many people enjoy what they do for a living now, why would this not be the case in a classless society?)...these people could put more time into the social store of goods and services. Those who did the least popular jobs could be compensated with say, double-SNLT being put on their cards e.g. one hour of underground mining equals two hours of working in a library. But of course, these matters would all be decided at the time by freely associated producers. I am merely speculating and proposing from my own era.

This arrangement of using SNLT would make the whole production process transparent; it would leave the mystifications of mass commodity production behind, along with the wage-system which breeds it. An individual producer could see that s/he was putting in so much time and just like everybody else, could draw that time back out of the common store as needed. Still, this transitional arrangement would lead to inequalities in access to goods and services; but not to classes as nobody would be able to pay others a living sum of SNLT to get control over the collective product of their labour. Capital is essentially a social relation. Capital becomes political as soon as one person controls/owns the labour/product of the other, in other words, instantly for as that happens, the one person is able to tell the other person what to do. Having power over other people is the essence of political power and the foundation stone of the political State. Socialist praxis is based on equal political power amongst all women and men living in a classless society. There is simply no room for Capital in a transition to a higher level of a communist society.

The highest stage of socialist society that I can imagine is one where there is no longer a concern about whether someone is or is not doing a fair share of the work necessary to keep the community together and measuring SNLT or using it to obtain goods and services from the collective product of labour becomes superfluous.

Wobbly times number 134

2011-10-15T11:29:00.001-07:00

1:00pm, October 15th Location: Forrest Place Murray Street Perth, Western Australia

"The wealth of those societies in which the capitalist mode of production prevails, presents itself as 'an immense accumulation of commodities'." Karl Marx CAPITAL volume I, page one.

We demonstrate our anger amidst the wealth we create.We are the 99%. We produce the wealth of nations. The 1% own what we produce and by virtue of the wealth they own, they run the political show. The 1% select the polytricksters the 99% are asked to vote for. This social relation of wealth and political power is based wage labour. The 99% are obliged to sell their skills and time in order to make a living. The 1% own the product of labour. The product of our labour is called capital. Its owners are the capitalists. The 1% are powerful because they own what the 99% produce.

The fact that 10% of Australian households own 45% of Australia's wealth while 50% of Australian households own only 7% of Australia's wealth is information which is unknown to most Australian workers.

Catch the Perthian Wobblies at the anti-Rulers' Fest demo in Perth on October 28th here

Wobbly times number 133

2011-10-13T02:16:00.000-07:00

ANTI

(by Jenny A and Mike B)

“It’s all their fault!” I’m just going to lie here and cry into my pillow!” Lance looked at his friend Jason. Jason’s eyes were delightfully sea-blue. The sea was a notion which you found in books, and the ideas you read about it would cause you to experience it differently than if you hadn’t read such books. Lance put his fist, hard into the pillow’s end and turned over. Jason slowly awoke.

Marsha reclined on the sofa. She was the ocean itself. Her swollen vulva pressed up against eight blankets. Lance wanted his attire to be significant – It had to “rock”. Jason caught Lance’s eyes for the eighth time. Eight was the number of an octopus’s legs. “Spydiferous octopussy!” Lance said it out loud. The significance of eight was therefore droll. In this instance, any fucking would be droll, and therefore pointless. Lance wondered, if in the overall scheme of things, there was a value to drollness “in itself” but then decided against that likelihood. He already knew, from his university undergraduate course, that there was no point deciding the indecipherable.

It was the fault of things being made too complex. There was no room to manouevre any more – the more you moved, the more life locked down on you until your existence became like a grid around your head – just like in “Matrix”. "One" was truly the loneliest number of the self-centred self.

There was a knock on the door. It opened. It was Jane. “I’m hungry”, she said. “I could eat a horse.” Horses were animals with manes and tails, and the hooves and teeth would have been too boney to eat, all at once. Obviously, then, Jane meant this assertion metaphorically, although in size and demeanor, she resembled an ass.

Context is everything. Jane made this assertion standing in a university dormitory. University dormitories signify desperation and consumption of way too much caffeine. They also signify pimpled faces and immaturity, by and large. Jane’s face was clear as she made this statement, thus signifying her manipulative tendencies as an outsider. Who would pay for this horse that she would eat? Neither boy thought he had it in him. They exchanged glances again – they, too, felt hungry.

Marsha groaned. “The more things change, the more they remain the same,” she proclaimed with a wince. Her groan signified devastation; her utterance, resignation. She had caught the ‘flu, only a week out of the end of winter. How would she ever finish her essay on postmodernism? Nobody seemed to care though. If they did, they did not know how to convey it. No, they didn’t. It didn’t really matter anyway, since wanting to communicate meant reinforcing the dominant ideals of patriarchy and Marsha fancied herself a feminist, par excellence. Gosh, circumstance was immutable. It was better to shut up and preserve the name. They could all eat later, when the time was right. The significance of the correct time would be known when each felt it, synchronised, within each heart. Then, independently, and yet together, they would make their individual ways, beyond the closed door, and outside the dormitory, into the great world, the great intertextual meta-narrative.

Nobody knew the significance of this more than Lance. He knew, somehow, in a way which can neither be explained nor represented, that they would eat Korean food that day. It was just something which came to him in a flash! There was just something about the meaning of it being winter, and the likelihood of them eating Korean. However he looked at it, he couldn’t get away from that notion.

“I’m ashamed. I’m ashamed!” cried Marsha. If I don’t get this postmodernist essay done, then I might have to repeat that whole course! Tears welled in her swollen red eyes. She looked pathetic. “If you want to play with us,” asserted Lance, “ you’ll have to do better than that! You look pathetic!” he added. “Why don’t you buy some decent mascara?”

Marsha certainly seemed to be upset. Her seventies hairdo added extra sincerity to her display of emotion, however Lance remained resolute. Something within him made him think that Marsha was just aiming for a subtle game of sado-masochism. Sacrifice and confess–he would make her sacrifice and confess. Perhaps, he would wear a robe and his black leather mask.

Jason had another game in mind, however. He had grave suspicions that what really would achieve the effect he’d been hoping to with Lance was a high heaping of some good Korean Kim Chee. Kim Chee was hardly acknowledged as an aphrodisiac, and only those who had rare access to a certain multicultural knowledge could possible gauge what they were really in for.

It was a barely known fact that Korean sailors ate Kim Chee. The cross textual reference was this: Genet had also written about sailors. This was a subtle point, to be sure–and yet not one which, objectively speaking, should be overlooked. This was to be a test of mental agility and sexual daring, all at once. Would Lance have the intellectual, je ne sais quoi, to realise what was being suggested, right in front of him? As both partook of the Kim Chee, surely a transition would overcome them? They would realise that they were both dead men, fated to take whatever options still remained to them – either to become like Genet, or die wondering.

The Kim Chee had that hot pickled taste. It was true that it was made mostly of chili-soaked cabbage, but it was also made of love. Love was a concept which reminded you of warm and fuzzy things. Baby octopuses hidden under lettuce leaves, so cutely surprising. Christmas lunch with colleagues who you didn’t totally approve of... That sort of thing.

Lance decided to get into some heavy fucking. Just the thought of the Kim Chee and octopi under the lettuce leaves had done it to them, shoving it between the ass’s legs till he couldn’t cum anymore. Things were getting complex.... which was all to the better. Lance had decided to proposition Jason under eight or nine blankets. Eight signified love. Nine signified treason. Which was it to be? Certainly not ONE!

It was so hard to decide. Such is radical un-decidability. They agreed upon setting fire to the dorm instead. Only, Marsha was still in it.

What could be done? Was it an offence to female self-direction to set fire to the whole room with an actually, existing female in it? Or, was it more accurately a case of gay men’s jouissance? Neither point of view could be decided upon. A compromise would be to set fire only to the bed, in which Marsha was hiding, but it seemed a bit unfair, in terms of more conventional behaviour injunctions. Still, it was reasoned, as if by transcendent force, she would have a fighting chance, if the whole house were not on fire. Only her bed.

Midnight Oil, the band, was playing. They sung the song about beds burning, in order to protest the politics of, well, everything, but especially oppression. They sang:

How can we dance when our Earth is turning
How do we sleep while our beds are burning
Four wheels scare the cockatoos
From Kintore East to Yuendemu
The western desert lives and breathes
In forty five degrees

You could just tell that there was a great deal of anticipation in that song. One, ever so secret thing, you could surmise from it was that global warming was not a major issue. We would still be able to sleep ok, because “life goes on”. That insight had been taken to heart at an early age by both Lance and Jason as they listened to their mothers’ Beatles’ records. They knew it well by now -- it was “in” them, and that was totally normal, nothing to beat oneself up about: “Lord, liberate us from Fascism.”

A dog barked. The screams from Marsha’s burning lips – the text she spouted forth – must have been, according to some readings, horrific.

A knock came on the door. The police. A disturbance had been reported. Playing Midnight Oil at high volume had signified these dorm residents as being, “out of date” or was it, “out on a date”? What did it matter -- It wasn’t new. The postmodernist police wanted its free citizens to know that it was now the year 2005. Mayhem was ok, but would they please get with the programme.

The television came on just then via the remote control (Jane’s fat ass had just descended onto it.) Nobody knew what would happen next: Each were rivetted to their seats. Maybe this was “it” – the point when we we're all going to get “new values”. Instead a commercial: “‘Surf’ is a revolutionary new detergent”, it said – something which (from the jaded viewpoints of the students) was patently untrue. Having fringes (“bangs”, some would say) was revolutionary. Didn’t anybody know?

The T.V. news also went on to announce a textual reference – that thousands of women had been killed in “honour killings” throughout Jordan, but that was an uniformed, racist critique from a Caucasian cultural perspective that did not understand that they go to live with Allah. It was also a voice of technology speaking to their Daseins. To claim to understand it all was wrong, wrong, wrong! It could lead to textual totalitarianism and concentration camps.

Real freedom was ... much like ice, really -- disconcerting enough to tolerate when it is freezing up your gums and mouth. Impossible when it was placed onto your chest or belly.

Wobbly times number 132

2011-10-05T19:47:00.000-07:00

It's the "Hooray for me, fuck you" narrow individualist principle of 'freedom'
which has run amok in the USA. As long as freedom is defined negatively,
as top down political power of one over the other, all sorts of physical and
psychological interpersonal violence will be taken for granted as being
somehow, 'natural'.

Dominance and submission between humans is endemic within the greater
whole of class society in the world, from social relations between men and
women, to power relations between workers and their employers.
Dominance and submission ideology is actively expressed in

racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia. It also plays out in acts of
violent crime between people--most of those people being
from the working class and lumpenproletariat.

The above is not meant to deny that war is probably the greatest State
legitimised interpersonal violence, all ordered by ruling classes and
murderously obeyed by the ruled, mostly against each other inter-nationally.
Finally, the greatest legitimised robbery in history is based on the wage system,
where in the USA 88% of the wealth produced by 90% of the people
(aka the working class) ends up under the ownership and control of
about 10% of the population (aka the ruling class).

But on to the matter at hand, CRIME AND PUNISHMENT:

1.35 million people are prisoners in the USA. Are they all violent criminals?

http://www.bop.gov/news/quick.jsp

102,580 50.6% Drugs
30,756 15.2% Weapons, Explosives, Arson
24,311 12.0% Immigration
10,480 5.2% Extortion, Fraud, Bribery
9,697 4.8% Sex offenses
8,403 4.1% Robbery
7,161 3.5% Buglary, Larceny, other property
5,563 2.7% Homicide, Aggravated Assault, etc.

Drugs, Immigration, Extortion and Burglary categories aren't necessarily violent crimes at all. Immigration is a mixed bag: it's a growing category in part because it's easier to get a conviction; you arrest someone under suspicion of some other crime, then find out they are undocumented and file those charges instead. How many of them are violent criminals? No way to know. Is it 0%? Unlikely.
---

OIC, here's the source:

http://www.drugwarfacts.org/cms/Prisons_and_Jails

Sex crimes are not counted as being violent? Probably not.

See USC 18.109, 18.110 and 18.117 for details.

http://www.law.cornell.edu/uscode/html/uscode18/usc_sup_01_18_10_I_20_109A.html
http://www.law.cornell.edu/uscode/html/uscode18/usc_sec_18_00002251----000-.html
http://www.law.cornell.edu/uscode/html/uscode18/usc_sup_01_18_10_I_20_117.html

Anyway, there are three times as many violent criminals in the state prisons than there are in the *entire* Federal prison system. The Federal system, while at historic highs, is a relatively small piece of the picture (15%?).
---

There are entirely too many people in jail and prison in the US; but, we must remember that more than half of them are actually pretty violent criminals. Violent crime is a problem in the USA AND so is the 'War on Drugs' (begun during the Nixon Presidency) in terms of locking people up who should have the right to use whatever they want to use to have non-violent fun.

The roots of contemporary, violent, interpersonal crime lie in the culture of narrow individualism, a culture which springs from the social relations of dominance and submission which pervade class society as a whole. I maintain that a classless society, where common ownership of the collective product of labour would be the norm; where the product of labour would no longer dominate labour as a commodity, alienated from the source of its production as a power over labour i.e. Capital, that such an association of producers would be free of most of the violent crime we experience today and certainly free of puritanical sadists running political States bent on punishing those who wish to live wild, free, libidinous lives. In such a society, equal political power between all men and women would be the norm.

Wobbly times number 131

2011-10-01T20:37:00.000-07:00

Whenan Old Woman Vanishes a Library Burns

Tommy opened his eyes. A blue plane flash-flew ceiling high, passingjust over his head. As soon as itappeared, the plane vanished along with any memory of why it had been there.

He was awake now, the covers felt good. Frances lay warm, gorgeous and sexy next tohim. Tommy would have liked nothingbetter than to snuggle up next to her. But Frances had to be up for job training by five. Waking her with a cuddle, possibly poking herwith his boney knees was not an option. So, he decided to get up.

It seemed the coldestpart of the day was blowing through the partially open bedroom window. He moved in a semi-drunken, slow mannertoward the bathroom. Shock hit his bodylike a cold fist, as he splashed cold water over his face, scrubbing night’scrud from his eyes. “Bald guys need tokeep a wool beret around in the winter.” This was but one of the many thoughts erupting in his head.

He put on his heaviestblack sweater, his thickest sweat pants along with the olive green socksFrances had been issued during her stint in the Australian Defence Force. Moving outside the bedroom, he carefullyclosed the door and tip-toed into the darkened living room. He was finally able to switch the living roomlight on. “When you have nothing, youhave nothing to lose.” He spied hisflip-flops on the rug. It was 3am.“Damn, I thought it was closer to five.” Tommy had become an inveterate insomniac. It seemed the only time hecould write was in the wee hours of the morning when it was quiet and he couldbe alone with his imagination.

Now properly, warmly,deliciously shoed, “coffee!” He made hisway to their drip style machine and began his holy morning ritual. Three tablespoons of espresso beans into thegrinder : water up to the ‘seven’level. “Must be seven demitasse.” As he pressed down on the mill’s cover, theelectrical connection was made and it whined, constantly changing pitch turningthe dry beans to powder. “What beginswith a whine and ends with a wine .” After fingering the powder into the filter basket and switching themachine, on gurgling water began splurging over the freshly ground coffee,dripping thick-black into the glass pot.

At the push of a button, the familiar “beep”and “whirr” of the computer booting up came on as Tommy began doing his Cobra-trained, fullpush-ups. “Chest to the floor.Twenty-five, twenty-six. Not bad,” he mused breathlessly. Rolling his body over on the red, Turkish-stylecarpet, Tommy crunched thirtysit-ups. He stood up without using hishands and walked backed to the coffee maker, where he poured himself a cuppa. From a condition of total destruction, hismind was now cooking with gas.

Once he’d shuffled backin front of the blue lit computer screen, he launched into the Internet. He keyed-in his Yahoo password and perused news on his home page.

“Nothing muchunusual...ah Bob Hope died. He was100. And some 22 year old AmericanGI bought it yesterday Iraq. Wonder why we’re there?”

“Yankee, you die!” theold refrain from a black and white John Garfield movie passed through his mind.

“But of course, oil. Here you are boys. Here’s what you’re fighting for. Hope was smiling as two bikini-clad starletsrolled out a barrel of crude. And therewas Bob, waving good-bye from a rising Army helicopter to his old theme song,“Thanks for the memories....”

An unkind thought, tobe sure. But hell, it was war and humourhelped make the absurdities of same more palatable. Hope knew that. The joke was probably lost on the kidthough. Too young to know better. Never to know better, really when you thoughtabout it. The kid lying there, bleeding,last thoughts about home, his girlfriend, fading, the pain, then nothing. Sad really. “But what could a ‘Poe’ Boy do, sep to play for a rock n rollband....stop it!” he thought.

He clicked on his e-mail setting. Some postings from his various virtualacquaintances across the globe popped up on the screen. M wrote from Brazil on the vegetarian listabout sprouting alfalfa seeds and E passed an article on to the P list from“The Financial Times” concerning the ins and outs of the U.S. dollar’s lowerexchange rate. Then, one guy, who workedin advertising, said that the success of the industry he was employed in wasmore or less proof of the practical degree that behaviourism worked inmanipulating contemporary society.

Tommy got up and gotanother cup of coffee. He flip-floppedback to the blue sheet, which served as a curtain and gently moved both endstoward the middle so that he could see outside. Starlit darkness ruled.

“Mostpredators who eat people are nocturnal. It must be that the equation ofdarkness with evil is embedded there. After all, it exists in African societies as well as elsewhere.”

Thecement balcony looked ice cold grey and dull. “Must be something like seven degrees out there now.” Walking back toward the kitchen, he grabbed

his black wool beret impermeable fromwhere he’d left it on top of the fridge the night before. Immediately on donning it, he feltwarmer. “Funny that, about heat and baldheads,” he half-whispered to himself.

This time, he sat down for the duration,wandering off into his imagination, writing until first-light began to peek through the thin, blue windowsheet. He immediately immersed himselfat the foot of a gorge in pre-historic France. Cro-Magnons spoke to one another in staccato tones. They did not speak often. This tribe was more reserved with speech thanperhaps others were. At least, that’show he imagined it.

Then, the scene was gone. After an hour-straight of typing, it wasover. Like the blue plane he’d awakenedto, the images of pre-historic life vanished. Perfect timing really, as Frances had just begun to stir. He could hear ABC classical radio switchingitself on automatically in the bedroom. Music from Prokofiev’s “Romeo and Juliet” wafted from the darkened door.

Frances stuck her head around the corner ina t-shirt, greeting Tommy with an, “AbBa!” She was a funnyanimal.

Tommyanswered by frying sliced potatoes and onions with the pan cover on. He also put bacon in and finally two eggs. Heopened some baked beans and placed them in the pan as well. When the potatoeswere brown, he spread a small amount of barley bran and parsley over them. Then he flipped the whole conglomerationover.

Tommy and Frances didn’t speak Frances checked and responded to her e-mail,while absentmindedly eating her eggs, bacon and potatoes. Tommy launched into the beans and potatoesspreading gobs of Farmland Tomato Sauce and Bornier’s Dijon Mustard over hisfried spuds.

When they’d finished breakfast, they jumpedinto the car and drove to the train station. Frances’ trip to Joondalup wouldtake thirty minutes, about as long as it would be for her to drive there, plus there was thehassle of parking.

Tommy saw the usual gaggle of workers andstudents making their way to their expected, allotted places by 8 in themorning. “Disturbed honey bees.”

When he got back to the apartment, he took ashower, got dressed and swept a bit. Theonly thing he absolutely had to do was pay Frances’ credit card at the PostOffice. It was a fine day outside. The prediction in the “West Australian” wasthat the temperature would hit 29. Twenty-nine and partly cloudy was his favourite brand of weather.

After pounding out a newsy letter to hisdaughter asking her what she thought of ANNE OF GREEN GABLES, he folded it inhalf and half again and put in an envelope, sealing it with a lick of histongue. Then he wet the stamp and airmail sticker and carefully addressed it to Texas.

Tommy did the morning dishes then stepped out,credit card and bill in hand, along with his letter to Solange. Down the sun-drenched sidewalk he walked,heading for the Albany Highway some two city blocks away. He turned right, making his way past thelocal news vendor, the music store, the clothing store, past Verlanda’s coffeeshop, the Vic Park launderette and then crossed the highway to the AustralianP. O.

“Small line as usual,” he thought tohimself. Just another thing that heliked about living in Australia, at least Western Australia. The post office seemed oh so much more efficientand friendly than the ones back the U.S.. And why? Of course, it wasbecause they were more adequately staffed. It stood to reason. But another,more amazing thing was that one could pay most of one’s bills there, includingone’s credit card.

“Good day, sir. How can I help you?” the woman smiled.

“I need to pay my wife’s credit card.”

“Certainly sir. How much were you going to put in?”

“A hundred.”

“Check or savings?”

“Savings. There you go.”

“Thank-you. Is there anything else?”

“No.”

“Ok....Next?”

As he exited the flourescent lit P.O., he noticed a grey-haired woman sitting on thesun drenched sidewalk propped up against the shade of a wall of theCommonwealth Bank.

“I say,” he said after crossing the AlbanyHighway, “you seem to have picked the right spot.” Tommy was being half sarcastic, halfserious. Actually, he felt a bitpowerless. Charity was never an optionfor him. He was poor and he knewit. No illusions here, not for Tommyanyway. The poor giving to the poor,sharing crumbs, this wasn’t the way out of the cycle of poverty. Sure, you could be a good Muslim or Christianby being charitable. But Tommy wasneither and as far as he was concerned, charity only kept people from the kindof righteous indignation they needed to stoke fighting spirit. Charity was not the same thing as solidarityin struggle. Most poor souls, most ofwhom were workers or formerly employed workers never understood this dynamicand actually preferred the role of errant members of the flock who just neededa hand out now and again. As he lookeddown on her in her in what seemed to him to be a passive position, he felt a bit stronger.

Tommywas prepared to walk on as he usually did when he encountered homelesspeople. Then he heard the woman remark,“There’s no place like home, until you have to clean it.”

“Excuseme! Are you ok mam?”

“What a strange thing to say,” he thought tohimself.

She looked up and startled him again. “What’s housework? Just something you do that nobody noticesunless you don’t do it.”

“Mam?”

“The amount of sleep required by the averageperson is five minutes more, don’t you know.” she muttered.

“Are you ok?” he asked again.

“Yes. I’m fine,” she said looking up through squinting eyes. Two of her teeth flashed golden in thesunlight.

“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” Tommy asked.

“Don’t know,” she answered. “I’ve been a lot of places in my life.”

“I mean, where do you live?” Tommy asked.

“I live here,” she answered.

“Where’s here?” he insisted.

“Just up the street....”

“I know where it was! You’re the person living in the wash house,”Tommy blurted.

She looked up at him in earnest now. “I don’t know that’s any of your business.”

“Brendan told me that there was someonesleeping in the wash house. I saw yougoing down the driveway yesterday.”

“Ok, you got me,” she said.

“Hmm. So, why are you doing that?” Tommy asked.

“I need a place to sleep,” she mumbled. “You wouldn’t begrudge me that.”

“No, no. I mean, what in the world made you end up sleeping in our wash house?”

“Life. Besides, it’s not your wash house. It belongs to the landlord.”

“Sure, ok, but what’s your story?”

“I’ll tell you for a bottle of wine,” sheanswered with a twinkle in her eye.

“You got it,” he said.

“First the wine,” she grinned.

They walked like the most unlikely couple downto Liquor Barn, where she insisted on abottle of “Poet’s Corner” shiraz.

“Got something to open that with?” he asked.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head aboutthat sonny,” she replied, pulling a jack-knife complete with cork screw out ofher pocket.

“You know, you don’t have bad taste in wine fora street person.”

“Look, this stuff isn’t that expensive. I know what’s what with the reds though. You alright about that sonny?”

“Look, I’m as old as you are. How about laying off the sonny stuff.”

“Sure.” She took a large swig.

“Ok, how about that story.”

“Okay mate,” she said, sitting down on the kerb under a gum tree near a seagullinfested parking lot. “You see, it waslike this,” taking another pull. “Bythe way, why do you want to know? You’renot a social worker or a cop or something, are you?”

“I’m just curious. I’m a writer. Stories hold great interest for us, do they not?.”

“I see. Ok. Here goes. You’d never know it to look at me but once Iwas a nice lady. I had the whole shebang,a husband, a child, a house, the whole shebang. Everything was going along just fine. Chuggingly well, really. Then, ithappened. My husband got layed off fromhis welding job at the plant. He’d beenworking there for fifteen years. Eversince his mid thirties really. Well,that put the old financial kybosh on our lives, ‘cause try as he might, hecouldn’t find another job–leastwise none he’d take. When you reach your fifties and beyond theparty’s over in the old job market. Hetried though. I’ve got to give himcredit for that.

“Anyway, we had house payments to make and Ihad the bright idea to send my son to private school. Only the best for our son.

“We’d agreed to that. Well after I pestered my husband some, we’dagreed. He really didn’t really fancyit. Never did. Well, I wanted my son to have better than wehad. I wanted him to have something morethan a crappy welding job like his father. So, it was off to private school. The point is that what with his layoff and all, we were beginning tohurt. Our savings were cleaned out afterthe first month and bills started piling up, not to mention the alreadyexisting credit card. I decided to startlooking for work. Jack didn’t likethat. He didn’t want me working. But I told him, someone had to findsomething, so’s we could pay thebills. The bank wasn’t going to let uskeep the house for nothing and then there was our son’s private school. He threatened to take Jimmy out of the schoolto save cash. Well, I wouldn’t hear ofit.”

She stopped for awhile and looked around at thetraffic, birds and people passing by. After a few more swigs, she continued.

“In fact, I did manage to find some work at thelocal Coles. But they were only payingme $11 an hour. We needed more thanthat, just for groceries. So, I keptlooking. Then one day one of myworkmates, a woman, read me this story in the “West Australian” about prostitutes. I couldn’t believe what they were beingpayed. I thought, why not give it atry. I mean, sex had become something Imore or less did as a duty for my husband. I really did it without wanting to. Why not do the same thing for $200 a pop?”

She stopped talking and sat silently on thekerb, fingering the label on the wine bottle.

“In fact, when I finally did get in the whoringgame–oh mind you, it was a respectable place with lots of respectable mencoming and going–but when I finally did get in to the whoring game, I met a lotof women who were like me or who were unlikely candidates for this kind ofwork.”

“Really?” Tommy asked. “Who?”

“College girls. I even met a woman who had done her PhD and who hadn’t been able to findwork in her field yet. She said thatshe’d more or less worked her way through school this way and she saw no reasonnot to continue as long as the need arose, so to speak.”

“And who else?”

“Wives. Lots of wives, supporting their kids and or husbands or both. I found others in my position there. It was a good house. No disease. Lots of respectable Johns, really they were.”

“Well, what happened?”

“My husband began to get suspicious. I mean between footy matches on thetelly. I was able to keep sending Jimmyto school and pay the mortgage. He’dsay, ‘How much you making there at Coles anyway? I heard they don’t pay much’. You see, I’d kept my old job as a cover.”

“And then?”

“Well, and then I told him. I broke down. I cried!”

“And his response?”

“He hit me. He hit me hard and then he walked out.”

“What do you mean, ‘he walked out?”

“He left me with a black eye. I didn’t know where he’d gone, but heleft. I think he ended up inMelbourne. I’d stopped crying for good bythen. I was only trying to make surethat my son got a good education and that we’d have a nice house for him tocome home to.”

“And your son?”

“He found out too. My husband made sure of that.”

“And what did he do?”

“He was so ashamed. He screamed at me, ‘Mommy, you’re a whore!’He wouldn’t speak to me. For weeks, helocked himself in his bedroom and wouldn’t come out. My childless sister in America found outabout the whole thing. I think either myhusband or son e-mailed her or something. Anyway, she and her husband flew to Australia and got a whispered courtorder. They live in America. They took him away. It broke my heart,” she said taking anotherswig. “I told them, I told the law thatI’d never go back to prostitution. Soonafter my son left, I lost the house. I’dlost everything, everything that really mattered to me. It broke my heart. And so, I’m here.”

“How long ago was all this?”

“Oh, it’s been years.”

“Have you ever seen either your husband or sonagain?”

“Never saw them again. They don’t want to see me. My son goes to Harvard Business Schoolnow. My sister makes sure I know thoseinsipid things.”

“And prostitution?”

“Gave it up permanently when I went on theroad.”

“I can’t believe this happened to you. You sacrificed your integrity for them andthey ditched you.”

“Seems all to typical,” she said.

The kerb side conversation fell silent. What more was there to say?

Trust could exist. Solidarity could exist. Even charity could exist. But what the hell.

If hardly anybody could be counted on, whatcould you do?

The gulls flew around now and again and theoccasional car pulled into the parking lot. She drank the last of the shiraz and without another word made her waydown to the Albany Highway. Tommy ambledback to the apartment and found the door open.

“Where have you been?” Frances asked.

“Paying your credit card,” he answered.

That night Tommy dreamt that he was in a forestwith three other people. They werewondering how to warn another group that something bad was about to happen tothem. The trouble was that they were sofar away from those people, none of them could think of a way to get to thepeople who were in danger in time. Tommyfelt a surge of adrenalin go through his body and he jumped, staying in the airfor longer than he had expected. Hereached the top of a tall tree and pushed himself upwards and forward again andagain to other, further trees and on until he reached the place where thepeople in danger were. He shouted tothem and awoke in the dark. Frances kickedhim in the knee then pushed him over and told him to stop snoring. After awhile, they both went back tosleep.

The next morning, when the Sun had come up, hetook the garbage out. On the way back tothe apartment from the trash barrels which were located just outside the washhouse, he checked inside. The woman’ssleeping bag was gone. She’d vanished.

Nobody ever saw her in Vic Park again, not evenBrendan--Brendan sees most everything which goes on around these parts.

Wobbly times number 130

2011-09-17T19:16:00.000-07:00

The Modern Way

Don't show you are hostile
your feelings are wrong
come now my darling
let them be gone
they're a big social stigma
they’re not even mature
you're aware of dysfunction
that's NEVER approved
remember the others
are all just like you
one must embrace life
with positive tones
sure there'll be casualties
and a few broken bones
remember you have to
sell self with skill
wage-slavery’s the price mate
that we must all pay
so suppress your emotions
and have a nice day
your fate is the market
your destiny's sealed
now on with the show love
the modern way

Wobbly times number 129

2011-09-17T04:19:00.000-07:00

On Reading

COLLAPSE

by Jared Diamond

It is disquieting

like watching onelarge accident

about to happen

with most every body

looking way away

far too willfullyblind

too caught up

busy in our billions

burying noses

in some million dollar

owner’s business

sticking the Earth

“our faire sister

in the side of thedawn”

with fences

symbolic markersaround

“a vast accumulationof commodities”

which make up ourwealth

especially our currentNature

Amen

“Well

it doesn’t affect

my children

my S.O.s!

Just leave me mate

the hell alone!”

And the Disquiet

worms its way

into our computed days

Somehow we know

in some fashion sense

sleep loss

weight gain

collapse

migraine

fear of our childrens’tears

But

we’ve always done ourwork this way

just as we do it now

We sit upon an eve

and think

that we will neverever fall

I give us fifty years

old mate

give or take a few

We’ll slowly boil likelobsters

one by one

then two by two

while unbeknownst toall of us

we’ll turn a deep redhue

Wobbly times number 128

2011-09-15T17:28:00.000-07:00

On the Eve of the Invasion of Iraq, 2003

It was a still Sunday morning in March. Even at7:55am, the heat was already unbearable. The sun was pouring 40C down fullscorn. It was Indian Summer in Perthand the Fremantle Doctor was out of town. Hector sat in his apartment waiting,his curtains drawn, his fan on full. As a janitor, he didn't bring much moneyhome, even though he worked most everyday of the week. He had no regular pay.Essentially, he and his crew were on call for services so, the amount of moneyhe had each week varied, sometimes quite widely. Hector was lead man at TempoJan.He'd be the first to get any call. He'd wake the others by phone, and becometheir wage-slave driver, if they were needed. Better, if he worked alonethough. More money that way. But today was special. It was rent day. Both hisemployer and his "team members" at TempoJan knew that he couldn't take-offfrom home before 8:20am or so.

Hector lived life in the slow lane. He'd done thatsince he'd escaped from Sydney, his ex-wife and his failed building maintenancebusiness. He'd traversed the whole of the Australian continent in a `66 Holdenwagon ten years before. He still had his son and his daughter whom he wouldspeak to now and again very loudly on his phone at 4 in the morning––his sonbeing at university in Canadaand his daughter, wasting her life away, employed in a shoe factory after herown divorce in Brazil.His wife...fortunately, he never heard from her again after he took off for theWest Coast.

Hector's landlord would be coming by soon to pick uphis bi-weekly rent. Don and his wife, Alicewere always quite cheerful on rent days. They'd visit each of the eightapartments, knock on every door with a smile on their faces, expecting same andrent from those who answered. Funny how that works. Of course, they also usedthe occasion to take a peek at the condition their property was in. Two birdswith one stone, win/win and all that. Hectoropened his door rather obsequiously after the first rap. He guffawed nervously,cigarette in hand. Alicetittered. "Eh, hombre!" he bellowed loudly. The others would know nowthat it was The Don. The Don was usually quite prompt for these Sunday rentcollections––always 8am––unless something had gone awry––like the time he hadto have his heart checked at the Royal Perth Hospital.Then, he'd phone Ian and Ian would make sure the other renters knew the newtime of his arrival."Hot morning this one," Don observed to break theice. Alice keptsmiling. She reminded him of his ex-wife when she was giving worm pills to thefamily dog. His wife was Anglo too. "HereMercury." It was all wrappedup in hamburger that worm pill. Mercury would sniff and then his wife'd pop itdown his throat as he opened his jaws for burger.

Hector was from Brazil. Portuguese was his mothertongue. "Yayz. Buggah me. It'z ben so bloodah hah. Woo!" Don Martino was of Italian stock. His parentshad moved to WA to farm after WWII when he was still a little boy. They hadbeen lured by the Australian Government's promise of cheap land. Plus, the ideaof living in a country barely touched by war appealed to war weary Sicilians.Don's papa planted a couple of apricot and pear orchards. "The Don"as he was known, had taken overafter his parents retired. He'd decided to buysome apartments on the side in the 70s, after he'd married Alice. It was a second marriage for both ofthem and they'd wisely decided to pool their savings to buy some rentalproperty before they'd gotten hitched. It was in writing.

The Don opened Hector's screen door and came in, blackbook in hand. "Less sigh, we goh-- elec-trissity this time oz while." Hector silently grinned and asked aspolitely as he could, "How much bahz?" His tone was not challenging, indeed,it was taken humourously, The Don and Alice laughing out loud, The Don puttinghis pencil tip between his lips with his right hand while placing his left armon Hector's shoulder."Well, ih comz to for-ee-oyt this toyem," Doninformed him. His black book was at the ready, in case there was a challenge tothe figure. "Eye goh eat," Hector replied. "Cheers Hektah, soill be, let'z sigh", Don said as he took his pencil out of his shirtpocket and added the rent to the electricity figure on the pre-printed receipt,"too-hunret oy-teedollahs." Hector looked a bit taken a back and thensmiled sheepishly, peeling off the $200 and then going into his back pocket, hepulled out his wallet for a fiver and then extracted a one and two dollar coinfrom his front pants-pocket. After thelast bout of the rent collecting ceremony had ended at Ian's door. The Don andAlice sauntered back slowly to their shiny, black, air-conditioned HoldenStatesman for the drive back up to their home in the hills. Their spacioushouse was situated picturesquely next to their apricot and pear orchards.

As the Don and his Alice were going down the drivewayinto King Charles Street,Hector's phone rang and the owner of TempoJan informed him of a small clean upjob at Skipper's Hyundai Auto Mart. AsHector was putting his phone down, Jimmy, the Scotsman popped out of hisapartment below. He immediately began to complain to Ian about how little TheDon did for upkeep at the complex. Ian listened patiently, "Humm," hesaid. "Oy seee," he saidslowly. After pointing out for the 10,000thtime how The Don only cared, "boot this," holding his hand up and rubbinghis thumb and his index finger together, the scene evaporated in retreat fromthe ever rising sun, into the fan cooled interiors of their respectivechambers.

Afternoon was even more torrid. By the time Hector gotback, even the bricks in his apartment were radiating a withering heat. As heentered his oven-like home, he spied a cockroach out the corner of his eye. Thetoenail sized brown bug scuttled along the lip of the sink, racing behind thefridge. "Got damn ro-shez," he whispered irritably, as thestale,humid air of the apartment sank into his lungs. He had to keep it lockedand sealed when he was away. There were break-ins happening all the time in hisneighbourhood. A yawning wave came over him. It was time to nap. He shut thefront door, opened his windows and turned his two fans on. He left his sweatsoaked clothes in one clump. The hot, form fitted sheet stretched across alonely queen-size mattress which was plopped, frame-less. atop a set of boxsprings. His head slumped into the feather-filled pillow.

Dream dramas took over more or less instantly as hefound himself in a furniture-less living room. His ex-wife was shouting at himbecause he hadn't remembered where her laundry was. A kangaroo appeared behindher, putting its arm over her shoulder. But she didn't seem to notice itspresence as she shrieked. On thefloor, surrounded by wall stickers, advisingthe location of her web site (complete with telephone number), the sloth-antarched, its black, furry back.....

He awoke clutching his heart! His pillow was damp fromsweat. He glanced at his alarm clock. He had been out for an hour and a half.He got up, trundled to the bathroom and splashed cool water on his face. Thefeeling was so refreshing that he decided to shower. In he jumped, letting thewater run cold over his back, over his head, then he adjusted it warmer andshampooed his matted hair. The rest of the accumulated dirt and encrustedsweat-scum from his body disappeared under the vigorous sudsing action of anaqua-green Palmolive soap bar. From there, it was off to the fridge door for acold one.

"No beer!' his thoughts panicked in Portuguese.He remembered now that he'd drunk the last of his Emu Bitter block on Saturdaynight with Jimmy. "Time to get dressed and make your way to the bottleshop at the Broken Hill," he whispered to himself in Portuguese. Out hewent, into the last, dimming orange tinted light of day, with his partiallyjelled hair slicked back, crisp white shirt on, his khaki coloured shorts onlyone day old. His flip-flops struck his heels rhythmically and he walked downthe cement staircase onto the driveway and onto the sidewalk. He proceeded downKing Charles road to the Albany Highway, to cross the street to the sparkling, oldAussie hotel structure known as, The Broken Hill.

"Perhaps a small beerbefore I go to the bottle shop," he reflected outside pubentrance."G'day myte," Ian said smiling from the bar. "How longYu ben he-ah?" Hector asked."Since `bout tha-rree the avo myte."said Ian. "Come, I'll by ya a Jameson's.""I'm goin' to theboh-ul shop myte."

Hector answered as he took the whiskey in hand anddowned it in one quick, satisfied gulp.Ian sniffed the lip of his tumbler andthen, "Dawn tha hahtchmyte. I'll calm which ya. By the whey, did yah knowah'mgoin' back ta Irelandnext year?. I want to see weatha I kin live there agin," Ian said."Amleavin' this blood-ay Westurn Austrailyah too," Hector replied. "Masee-ster sayz thot I cah leave which her familia until I get whirk.""Where'z tha, myte?""Brass-eel," Hector said."Way-ahr you tink?""Lessgo," Ian said. He accompanied Hector to the bottle shopjust outside andaround the corner."One block of Emu Bitter and one litre of Jameson's. Isthat all?", the bottle shop attendant asked."Yayz," Hector answered."Hearz thur-tee for the whiskey, myte." Ian said putting onehand onHector's shoulder while shoving the thirty dollars into his mate's palm."Itank U, leslie tanks U," Hector replied grinning, a freshly burningcigarette dangling from his lip.

Hector had lived in America for a few months, learningEnglish and some of the commercials stuck, it seemed, forever. He took the coldEmu block under his arm. Ian grabbed the Jameson's and the two made theirwayback across the Albany Highway,up King Charles road, into the driveway, up the cement stairs and into Hector'shot-as-an-oven kitchen.

"Blah-dee roaches!" Hector said as he twistedthe brownexo-skeleton against the wall near the light switch. He wiped the gutstain from the wall with a paper towel. "Podon me. I'ma gonna wash mahandz." "No were ease, myte," Ian smiled. "Aye got thesameproblem. These thingz are a bloody new-since." "Yah, and Jim-ah,he say, The Don, he don't donothin'," Hector guffawed from the bathroom. "Hejuscollek da rent." "Nowah, therez a trooth," Ianreturned.

Hector came out, turned the TV on sound down and put an Anita BryantLP on his record player. "The man is the soul of a woman," she wailed.The music drifted on through an eclectic selection of piled discs. The TV inthe background flickered like a campfire as the two sat at Hector's kitchentable talking weather, sports, former familylife, and news events while downingswigs of Jameson's, followedon by Emu Bitter stubbies.

The last record ploppeddown on the turntable and the Morman Tabernacle Choir came on with theirstirring rendition of, "Onward Christian Soldiers". The twomen stopped talking, giving the choir their undivided, even rapt attention. Themusic stopped and a moment of silence ensued.

Of a sudden, they startedslurring their views on the coming war. "Waz you think? The bloodeeAir-abs. Therz no hopa. Bloodee liars, all of them. Hypocrits. All of dem--hyp-O-crites."

"Am not sure what's happenin' owt they-arenow,myte," Ian said, his head lowered, his eyes looking up through histhick eyebrows. Then, with his head cocked sideways, he looked askance atHector from his kitchen chair. His broadly set, greyish-blue eyes stared outfrom his white, partially balding skull.

"Not shoah? Dare bloodahypocrits. I theenk dah Americans are gonna bomb dem back to sheet. But nodramas fo me, myde. I stick bah mahself. Day go aroun bombing sit-ays and sofort," Hector said looking a bit desperate. He had forgotten to take hismedicine after getting up in the morning.

"I d'own ax-act-lee know wha youmyan, myte?"

"I meen, they all hypocrits, the whole useless bloodeelot. They can all die in their sheet. I doan cair. Wha you meen yu do-own noah?You some kind of hypocrit too?"

"Wha? Yur sayin' I'm ahypocrit?"

"They all dezerve die. Nothin' but hypocrits."

"Whass.You sayin', I'm a hypocrit?"

"They all hypocrits. They talk one tingand sigh an-udder,"Hector said. "They sheet."

"Whass? Yousayin', I'm a hypocrit?" Ian insisted.

"The blood-ah Erbs, they gonnaget it now. Saddam, hissheet."

"U sayin' I'm a hypocrit?" Iankept on, his dark,deep voice slurred, but threatening too.

"Dat Bush, heezhypocrit too. Belief me, the world is full of`em. All liahs," Hectoranswered.

"U sayin' I'm a hypocrit?" Ian asked again.

Too much booze intoo little time had changed them both into the other people, the people theywould be happy to forget they were in the morning.

"Da world iss a bigplaza ma ferend. Full a hypocrits. I doanlie. No, I doan need ta lie. Day alllie. I doan need a lot. Am simple mine. Haf a simple life, right he-ah. I doanneed they steen-king money. Am a simple mine."

"U sayin' I'm ahypocrit?"

Another silence fell over the table. The men looked throughtheir blurred visions at each other.

"Get ow of mah house!"

"Usayin' I'm a hypocrit?"

"Geh ow mah house!"

"U sayin' I'm ahypocrit?"

Hector got up and opened the front door. Then Ian got up andHector tried to push Ian away towards the screen door. But Ian wasn'tso easilydealt with. He stood his ground and with determined, semi-bowed gaze focussed onHector, his slurred speech erupted once again, "U sayin' I'm ahypocrit?"

The two men were close to being the same size. Both had hadabout the same amount to drink. Only Hector was a bit more under the influenceof things beyond his control. He stood in close proximity to Ian, and with afrustrated, angry, loud, "Hee-ah!" heforced his mate's torso into theprecariously latched, aluminum-framedscreen door. Ian's body went backwards,out onto the cat walk cement landing.

With this victorious defence of his territory,Hector quickly slammed his front door, "Bang!" as he glimpsedhisdrinking mate's body hit the iron grating outside and begin its bounce backtowards him at the entrance to his apartment. He stomped through his livingroom/kitchen turning off all three of his lights. Then, in the dark, he set hisalarm for 5am. Still fully clothed, he collapsed onto his bed and into animmediate, if troubled sleep.

After loudly inquiring three more times, "Usayin' I'm ahypocrit?" while banging his fist against Hector's door, Ianretreated to his corner abode. He turned his record player on-- volume on high.It was 3am and the air inside his brick dwelling was a stale 40C. The sounds of"Irish Eyes Are Smiling" blared from his open windows. He sat in hischair staring, incoherent soliloquies flowing through his mind like bands ofangry chimps.

At five, Hector's alarm rang and didn't stop ringing until seven.

Wobbly times number 127

2011-09-10T06:26:00.000-07:00

Observations on September 11, 2001

written by

Michael Thomas Ballard

on September 12, 2001

murder is not a legitimatepolitical weapon

murderersshould be jailed for life

they're badfor our health

fundamentalism is a dangerous ideology

no matterwhat its dogmatic flavor

oh suicidalself-abnegation

is your nameonly kamikaze

if I thoughtthe "U. S.is the great satan"

then i'dguess i'd think that god was on my side

especially ifI was dirt poor and ignorant

"gottmit uns" was inscribed on the belt buckles

of germansoldiers

who took offto smash the U.S.S.R on june 22, 1941

hitler"heroically" shot himself four years later

feelingbetrayed by "his" deutsches volk

now

let us hearthe war cries coming from the bravest of the future non-combatants

many of them"our" leaders

"let usprey,"

they say outloud

for the teevee audiences of the world

half devouredchildren dripping from their mouths

Wobbly times number 126

2011-08-18T08:41:00.000-07:00

For the record, Idon't think the IWW was/ is an anarchist organisation. Of course, thereare plenty of anarchists, anarcho syndicalists in the IWW, along withcommunists, democrats and workers with various ideological preferences. Howcould it be otherwise in a union dedicated to classwide organisation? Workersare different, come from different backgrounds, different personal historiesand from different cultures. Workers are individuals and by definition,individuals are diffferent. There was never a time when Wobblies have beenbarred from voting in elections on pain of losing membership in the One BigUnion; just as there has never been a time when the IWW barred members frombelieving in god(s). DeLeon was dishonest when he portrayed theIWW as being anarchist, all because the union didn't ENDORSE voting andinstead leaving it a private matter for the member. He took outhis personal anger on the union, after being denied his delegate's credentials at the1908 Convention of the IWW, denouncing the One Big Union as having beencaptured by people who would subject its members to being tartgeted by Statesponsored, agent provocateurs because 'the political clause' had been dropped from the IWW Preamble by the attending delegates. While the fear of police agent infiltration is genuine in any revolutionaryorganisation, merely endorsing peaceful revolution via the Amendment Clause tothe US Constititution is no guarantee of freedom from police spies andprovacateurs in your organisation. But more than this, the IWW doesn'tendorse a lot of proscriptive ideological doctrines. For example, the IWW alsodoesn't endorse Socialist Realism as the only form of acceptable working classart, although some on the left would consider that a terrible misjudgement. The truth is that the IWW doesn't endorse a lot of the left's petreformist projects. What workers need to know is that the IWW is organisedaround its Preamble.What Wobblies want and struggle for is written there, out in the open for allto see. Wobblies are individual workers (sorry, no member of theemploying class allowed membership) who endorse the Preamble, no matter whetherthey believe in divine powers after death; the Pope's inherent infallibility orsurrealism as the only revolutionary art form etc. You will find no mention or endorsement ofviolence, 'bombism' or 'anarcho-syndicalism' in the IWW's Preamble. On theother hand, you will find a resolution in its Constitution which was written in1908 stating that the IWW "...refuses all alliances, direct or indirect,with existing political parties or anti-political sects." That said,DeLeon was on target in his definition of socialism and his conception of how a revolutionary political party should dissolve itself and the political State on the day of itsvictory at the polls, as the workersthemselves, organised in democratic, socialist industrial unions take, hold andoperate the means of production for themselves.

Industrial Unionism
by Daniel De Leon
from The Daily People, Jan. 20, 1913

In these days, when the term "Industrial Unionism" is being played with fast and loose;

-- when, in some quarters, partly out of conviction, partly for revenue, "striking at the ballot box with an axe," theft, even murder, "sabotage," in short, is preached in its name;

-- when, at the National Councils of the A. F. of L., lip-service is rendered to it as a cloak under which to justify its practical denial by the advocacy and justification of scabbery, as was done at Rochester, this very year, by the Socialist Party man and International Typographical delegate Max Hayes;

-- when notoriety seekers strut in and thereby bedraggle its fair feathers;

-- when the bourgeois press, partly succumbing to the yellow streak that not a member thereof is wholly free from, partly in the interest of that confusion in which capitalist intellectuality sees the ultimate sheet-anchor of class rule, promotes, with lurid reports, "essays" and editorials, a popular misconception of the term;

-- at this season it is timely that the Socialist Labor Party, the organization which, more than any other, contributed in raising and finally planting, in 1905, the principle and structure of Industrialism, reassert what Industrial Unionism is, restate the problem and its import.

Capitalism is the last expression of class rule. The economic foundation of class rule is the private ownership of the necessaries for production. The social structure, or garb, of class rule is the political State -- that social structure in which government is an organ separate and apart from production, with no vital function other than the maintenance of the supremacy of the ruling class.

The overthrow of class rule means the overthrow of the political State, and its substitution with the Industrial Social Order, under which the necessaries for production are collectively owned and operated by and for the people.

Goals determine methods. The goal of social evolution being the final overthrow of class rule, its methods must fit the goal.

As in nature, where optical illusions abound, and stand in the way of progress until cleared, so in society.

The fact of economic despotism by the ruling class raises, with some, the illusion that the economic organization and activity of the despotized working class is all-sufficient to remove the ills complained of.

The fact of political despotism by the ruling class raises, with others, the illusion that the political organization and activity of the despotized working class is all-sufficient to bring about redress.

The one-legged conclusion regarding economic organization and activity fatedly abuts, in the end, in pure and simple bombism, as exemplified in the A. F. of L., despite its Civic Federation and Militia of Christ affiliations, as well as by the anarcho-syndicalist so-called Chicago I.W.W., -- the Bakouninism, in short, against which the genius of Marx struggled and warned.

The one-legged conclusion regarding political organization and activity as fatedly abuts, in the end, in pure and simple ballotism, as already numerously and lamentably exemplified in the Socialist Party, -- likewise struggled and warned against by Marx as "parliamentary idiocy."

Industrial Unionism, free from optical illusions, is clear upon the goal the substitution of the political State with the Industrial Government. Clearness of vision renders Industrial Unionism immune both to the Anarch self-deceit of the "No government!" slogan, together with all the mischief that flows therefrom, and to the politician's "parliamentary idiocy" of looking to legislation for the overthrow of class rule.

The Industrial Union grasps the principle: "No government, no organization; no organization, no co-operative labor; no co-operative labor, no abundance for all without arduous toil, hence, no freedom." -- Hence, the Industrial Union aims at a democratically centralized government, accompanied by the democratically requisite "local self-rule."

The Industrial Union grasps the principle of the political State -- central and local authorities disconnected from productive activity; and it grasps the requirement of the government of freedom -- the central and local administrative authorities of the productive capabilities of the people.

The Industrial Union hearkens to the command of social evolution to cast the nation, and, with the nation, its government, in a mold different from the mold in which class rule casts nations and existing governments. While class rule casts the nation, and, with the nation, its government, in the mold of territory, Industrial Unionism casts the nation in the mold of useful occupations, and transforms the nation's government into the representations from these. Accordingly, Industrial Unionism organizes the useful occupations of the land into constituencies of future society.

In performing this all-embracing function, Industrial Unionism, the legitimate offspring of civilization, comes equipped with all the experience of the age.

Without indulging in the delusion that its progress will be a "dress parade"; and, knowing that its program carries in its fold that acute stage of all evolutionary processes known as revolution, the Industrial Union connects with the achievements of the revolutionary fathers of the country, the first to frame a constitution that denies the perpetuity of their own social system, and that, by its amendment clause, legalizes revolution. Connecting with that great achievement of the American revolution, fully aware that the revolution, which it is big with, being one that concerns the masses and that needs the masses for its execution, excludes the bare idea of conspiracy, and imperatively commands an open and above board agitational, educational and organizing activity; finally, its path lighted by the beacon tenet of Marx that none but the bona fide Union can set on foot the true political party of labor; Industrial Unionism bends its efforts to unite the working class upon the political as well as the industrial field, -- on the industrial field because, without the integrally organized union of the working class, the revolutionary act is impossible; on the political field, because on none other can be proclaimed the revolutionary purpose, without consciousness of which the Union is a rope of sand.

Industrial Unionism is the Socialist Republic in the making; and the goal once reached, the Industrial Union is the Socialist Republic in operation.

Accordingly, the Industrial Union is at once the battering ram with which to pound down the fortress of Capitalism, and the successor of the capitalist social structure itself.

Wobbly times number 125

2011-08-18T05:21:00.000-07:00

"At the end of the chapter [on primitive accumulation] the historic tendency of [capitalist] production is summed up thus: That it itself begets its own negation with the inexorability which governs the metamorphoses of nature; that it has itself created the elements of a new economic order, by giving the greatest impulse at once to the productive forces of social labour and to the integral development of every individual producer; that capitalist property, resting as it actually does already on a form of collective production, cannot do other than transform itself into social property. At this point I have not furnished any proof, for the good reason that this statement is itself nothing else than the short summary of long developments previously given in the chapters on capitalist production." Karl Marx
*************************************

I think that the 'development of every individual producer' was undermined by the very historical process on which collective production expanded. Through this lens we see the commodification of human relations. With the cheapening of the commodity through industrialisation came the cheapening of social relations of solidarity in both the working class and its masters. The commodity is corrosive to community. Yes, communities can develop under class rule, even with all their dominance and submission fetishes. Reactionaries seize on the feelings of insecurity which generalsed commodity production induces and push the need to look backwards in time for salvation from moral corruption. Liberals feel the commodity's alienating powers, describe them and then resign themselves to the absurdities of life and shop on. Use-value (the material core of the commodity, encased in its capitalist shell of exchange-value) is lost in a haze of electronic blips, buying and selling, gaining market share. And always, the relentless cheapening of the commodity mingling with capitalist class society as a whole. And the proletariat calls itself the middle class and thinks of themselves as individual consumers, competing for the lowest prices. And with less and less labour time in the collective product, the fact that it is a collective product of labour disappears in an immense, constant sale. Wherever you look, you see an advertisement for a commodity. The 'development of every individual producer' is not something to be assumed. History demonstrates that this development requires education, agitation and organisation by and amongst the workers themselves about who creates the wealth and which class appropriates the lion's share of both wealth and political power through the wages system of slavery.

"Labour is, in the first place, a process in which both man and Nature participate, and in which man of his own accord starts, regulates, and controls the material re-actions between himself and Nature. He opposes himself to Nature as one of her own forces, setting in motion arms and legs, head and hands, the natural forces of his body, in order to appropriate Nature's productions in a form adapted to his own wants. By thus acting on the external world and changing it, he at the same time changes his own nature. He develops his slumbering powers and compels them to act in obedience to his sway. We are not now dealing with those primitive instinctive forms of labour that remind us of the mere animal. An immeasurable interval of time separates the state of things in which a man brings his labour-power to market for sale as a commodity, from that state in which human labour was still in its first instinctive stage." Karl Marx

But what also has happened is the commodification of human relations, of social relations. The discipline necessary to maintain the sophisticated division of labour within industrially developed capitalism, to keep it running the show, so to speak, is made easier for our rulers as the commodity invades our everyday lives at every level and even our relation with Nature. Commodification develops cheapness in critical thinking as it destroys Nature in the pursuit of market share. "We had to destroy the Earth in order to save the economy." The commodity puts a price on everything. Our mind's eyes are fixed firmly on consumer prices. Reification is built into the language as corporations become thought of as subjects creating wealth. "Mercedes produces the best cars." The legalised separation of the product from the producer is aided and abetted by commonplace notions, embedded in the cultural intercourse which distance concepts like 'expoitation' from 'wage' and hitch words like 'fair' and 'social justice' to more 'humanely' moderated wage-slavery.

The possibility of securing for every member of society, by means of socialised production, an existence not only fully sufficient materially, and becoming day by day more full, but an existence guaranteeing to all the free development and exercise of their physical and mental faculties -- this possibility is now for the first time here, but it is here.

With the seizing of the means of production by society, production of commodities is done away with, and, simultaneously, the mastery of the product over the producer. Anarchy in social production is replaced by systematic, definite organisation. The struggle for individual existence disappears.

Then for the first time man, in a certain sense, is finally marked off from the rest of the animal kingdom, and emerges from mere animal conditions of existence into really human ones.

The whole sphere of the conditions of life which environ man, and which have hitherto ruled man, now comes under the dominion and control of man who for the first time becomes the real, conscious lord of nature because he has now become master of his own social organisation.

Friedrich Engels, from Anti-Dühring, part 3, chapter 2 (1877)

Wobbly times number 124

2011-08-15T01:21:00.000-07:00

Source: Hubblesite.org

Beware the Secret synthetic Life

I knew

that face would hauntme

at my dying breath

The photo-capturedtime

still full of life

dead

preserved moments

in a shrunken skull

Memories lost

in aftermath’s dustycloud

invisible now

that consciousness isdead

Images lie

The truth is closer

to the quick

Gone!

as soon as spoken

Wobbly times number 123

2011-08-09T02:20:00.000-07:00

From the pages of the "Industrial Worker" circa 1995

RED LONDON, by Stewart HomeISBN 1 873176 12 0Published in 1994 by AK Press22 Lutton Place, Edinburgh EH8 9PE, Scotland, UK5.95 Pounds + 10% handlingU.S. order to AK Press, POB 40682, San Francisco, CA 94140-0682$12.95 + $2.00 shipping

RED LONDON is a novel about a revolt of the oppressedagainst their oppressors. Its protagonists spend theirworking lives as members of what is termed these days byofficial authorities from Clinton to Habermas as the"underclass". The sell their time as prostitutes, obscurerock musicians, porn magazine photographers and so forth;while devoting their free time to sexual pleasure and themurder of the ruling class. They are libertines withvisceral passions. Their practice of meeting out classvengeance is both crude and ruthless. They are seriousproles with serious lusts.

RED LONDON is not for the squeamish or prudish of heart.Stewart Home's prose is on a par with the Marquis de Sadewhen it comes to sex and violence. Here's a taste. Thesetting is a rock concert for conservative teens, given byan older Tory rock star, Sebastian Fame, whose neurosis ofchoice happens to be pedophilia. Security for the concertis by a gang of fascist boot boys, known as the Aryan YouthLeague. Nobody suspects that the Soho ProstitutesCollective has planned a guerrilla action.

"The minders jumped to attention when a van skidded to ahalt outside the hall. Twelve masked wimmin leapt from thetransit, while the driver remained at the wheel. Theheavies relaxed. Obviously these birds were a part of somepractical joke, one of their mates had no doubt set them upby writing to Jeremy Beadle. The two AYL yobs were mentallyincapable of accepting the fact that many of the greatestfighters down the ages had been wimmin.

"'We don't need to see your faces', the fatter of the pairlaughed,'just get your tits out.'"'Get your tits out, get your tits out, get your tits outfor the lads!' his mate chanted, but not for long!"Cleo floored the sexist retard with a kidney punch thatbrought blood bubbling up through his mouth. Then the kungfu chick broke the bastard's spine by bringing her boot downon th back of his neck. There was the satisfying crunch ofsplintering bone and the fascist bore became just anothername on the Met's long list of murder victims.

"Simultaneously, Melody Thrush slammed a clenched fist intothe other minder's mouth. Having rearranged the brickhead'steeth, she landed a devastating blow to his stomach andwithin seconds, the prick was puking his lunch. If naturehad been left to take its course, it looked like the bastardwould have retched up his guts, piece by little piece.Instead the steel toe-capped boots of several SPC membersrained in against his body. After the first few ribs hadsnapped with a sickening crack, a badly aimed kick hit thecunt's head and the beer boy's body went limp. It wasbloody unfortunate that his brain no longer registered thesearing pain which accompanied the early stages of thebeating. But, to the fascist, the icy numbness of physicalblackout was more welcome than a million pound win on thepools.

"Sebastian faltered and broke off midway through a song asthe SPC cut through the hall in a flying wedge. After a fewscreams, the crowd fell silent and the only sound to beheard was the tramping of boots on the wooden floor. Cleoand Melody grabbed Fame. The other SPC members herded theaudience into a side room. Adults were simply shot throughthe head and left where they fell.

"Sebastian was shoved across the stage and held against thewooden cross. Melody removed two hammers and a fistfull ofsix-inch nails..."

RED LONDON is Home's latest novel. Like his previous worksof fiction: NO PITY, PURE MANIA and DEFIANT POSE, Home hasset RED LONDON in a Britain which has already raced throughthe cautionary traffic light, flashing " a clockworkorange", into a nearly visible future populated by anincreasingly class conscious, if semi-educated, proletariat,who live within the socio-economic boundaries of acapitalist system in terminal decay. In RED LONDON, theself-appointed vanguard of the lumpen and proles is composedof young men and wimmin, who have cut their ideologicalteeth on a tract penned by the then notorious K.L. Callan.

Callan's famously banned book, MARX, CHRIST, and SATANUNITED IN STRUGGLE is passed in xerox copies betweenself-styled anarchist fighting units and individualanarcho-nihilists, like Adolf Kramer. Kramer is the mainprotagonist. His mental interior reads like apolitico-genetic cross between Charles Manson and UlrikeMeinhof. He is the archetypical child of the urbanterrorist movement, grown more sly; but just aspsychopathically dogmatic as his forbearers. Adolf and hiscomrades are prone to using the blood of their classantagonists to dab quotes on walls at the scenes of theiractions. It is invariably K.L. Callan's MARX, CHRIST andSATAN UNITED IN STRUGGLE which is quoted.

"Adolf slit Gallon's throat with a flick-knife, then set towork ritually mutilating the bodies of the two classtraitors. After dipping his fingers in the gouts of bloodthat were still spurting from Gallon's bulk, Kramer scrawledthe following observation across the living room wall: Contrary to orthodox opinion, be it Situationist or conservative, it is quantitative--not qualitative--problems that lie at the root of the current crisis."It was a quotation from MARX, CHRIST and SATAN UNITED INSTRUGGLE, magnum opus of that most mysterious of nihilistsK.L. Callan."

These exiles from main street move within a milieu ofmilitant vegans, situationists, buddhist priests, nazis,skinheads and other assorted denizens of lumpen and proleorigins. You follow them through the pages of RED LONDON asthey drink, fight, and sexually amuse themselves in thepublic housing projects, whorehouses, streets and bogs ofthe city. RED LONDON is a simple book, written in aminimalist style, with more than a few repetitious iconse.g. the ubiquitous bottles of 100 Pipers Scotch, preferredbrand of the underclass; the ever present sexual motif ofcouples, "beating out the primitive rhythm of the swamps."It's also an exciting bit of anarchist pulp fiction. Thesex and ultra-violence can stir up your deepest Id-ishfantasies. But, I don't think that it should be read as anorganizing prescription, the way its heroines/heroes seem tohave read K.L. Callan's MARX... . Nor do it think thatStewart Home sees himself as the K.L. Callan of today.There is more tongue in cheek within RED LONDON than is tobe found in the numerous scenes of oral sex.No. RL might better be read as a warning; much as theproles of yesteryear read Jack London's IRON HEEL, thatforeboding tale predicting the advent of the fascist Statesof the mid 20th Century. The warining this time is for thebourgeois of the world, whose commodified morality leadsthem to treat their wage-slaves as nothing more thancarbon-based biological work units to be thrown on society'sscrap heap when they're all used up. Home has given us anovel about a pissed off underclass of midnight ramblers whoare going to be the first to stick their knives right downthe throats of the ruling class--and baby it hurts! Thewarning is as simple as that old working classaphorism--what goes around, comes around.

Wobbly times number 122

2011-08-07T19:02:00.000-07:00

When I was nearly two in Panama

I’d switch the car’s ignition off

then my mom and dad and I

would roll

engine silent

to a stop

in the driveway of our bungalow

I sat on sunlit front porch steps

with Janet

my first friend

the perfect girl next door

we two

blonde

curious

dressed only in our diapers

legs all dotted

with dirty smudges

comparing notes

contrasting views

in babble-tones

me about some cars I saw

she about some baby things

at least I think that’s what she said

I could never really understand

but she was fun

that’s what counted

down in Panama

in ‘46 and seven

The days and nights were warm

not hot

just heat enough

so’s you didn’t need

to be

encased behind

the airless glass

just some screens and louvers

That was all we ever had

or wanted when

a tropic breeze

for covers

was quite

enough

All stretched out

like cats

were we

on starched

white cotton

evening sheets

those summers without end

Like the ancients

long ago

I didn’t know

what was meant

by time

oh no

not then

Hours were not

measured so

in second ticks

and hard

short hands

Days and nights

passed by

like ships

cruising in a big canal

that’s what it was like

yo-ho

when I was nearly two

Magic lived within thin air

and all around

the shadows dwelled

as monsters

under beds

in wells

in closets too

while spirits danced

most everywhere

under over

in my head

in places

which I’d only dreamt

when I lived down in

Panama

so very long ago

Wobbly times number 121

2011-07-29T05:43:00.001-07:00

Charlie and Dizzy's Night Outin Tunisia...

Embracing you

with skittish

skidding

saxaphone tones

felt depth

as Miles blows emotionally

sympathetic

muted horn

into our ears

"Don't Blame Me"

Up and down

tonal ladders

of impossible emotion

we travel

my old flame and I

sure sense of each other

darting tongues

in and out

silky smooth ride

to ecstasy

Wine and

intoxicating

illegal smoke

Daring to be

free

Out of nowhere

love comes

like a bird of paradise

Oh Bird

Soar as you will

Breakfast on scrapple

from the Apple

Have your fill

Wobbly times number 120

2011-07-23T18:31:00.000-07:00

Look Away

Victor moved tightly against Sheilaugh’sfragrant body. As he kissed her, she levered her groin into his. Sheilaugh'stongue entered, just touching Victor's own. Then, they broke their embrace,emerging past the handball court wall that had hidden them from public view,strolling onward toward the locker room.

"I wonder how themarket's doing."

"Does it matternow?" Sheilaugh dead panned.

"Capital gains", hesmiled, "I bought Coke yesterday."

"I see", shegrinned. “But, your stock certificates are dated, no?”

“Look, I'll meet you at yourplace about seven tonight."

At that moment, Victor looked to be deeplyengrossed in serious thought. He had forgotten that about the sale dates on hisstocks.

“Have I forgotten anythingelse?” he worried to himself.

"Not getting cold feetare we?" Sheilaugh challenged, looking Victor directly in the eye.

"Oh no. I'm absolutelyclear about you and our venture, you above all. No, I'm just wondering whetherwe've really thought of everything, made all the calculations correctly. Thereare so many angles to consider. And then, there are the machine calibrations.I've GOT to make them come out perfectly---not one digit off. The mechanism is so delicate."

"Your calculations willbe fine, Victor. They always are. Let's get this show on the road. I'm so boredand tired of this life of always hiding. I want us to have a future and I wantthat future NOW!"

Sheilaugh disappeared beyondthe heavy, “W” emblazoned doors to the locker room. A moment later, Victor passed into thesteamy, tiled section of the men’s shower immersed in reflection.

"Still, I've got to makesure that it's RIGHT." His cravings for Sheilaugh knew no bounds. It blinded him to all his other needs as wellto considerations of what he could do without. Victor had it bad and, as the old blues song goes, “that ain’tgood.”

Mark was mowing the lawn whenSheilaugh pulled their Spyder into the driveway. He pushed the 'power off'button, as she opened the candy apple-coloured door of the Fiat.

"Hi Hon! How's your gametoday?"

"Quite good. My backhandneeds some work though."

Mark admired his wife's brownlegs. Her shapely body stirred a sensualyearning in all males and he was no exception. He felt an excitement in hisloins as his gaze fell on her curvaceousness body. He took Sheilaugh's hand andkissed her cheek while putting his other hand just under the hem of her shortwhite tennis skirt on the fleshy part of her exposed buttocks.

"Mark!" , Sheilaugh groaned. Thetone in her voice was noticeably irritated.

"Not now! I've got toget dinner ready. You KNOW, tonight's the night of the 'Big Bras' readingcircle. I have to be there by seven. We’re finishing TICKETS this evening and Iwant to have a shot at selecting the next novel. You know that that won't happen, unless I'mthere on time."

"Oh, right, Sheilaugh. Iforgot," he said, jerking his hand away from her ass like it was a hotiron. Mark started the mower back upagain. He was visibly upset, pushing the cutting machine’s whirring bladesvigorously across the grass. At the same time, flash thoughts of hirsute womenstarted popping into his head. After three vengeful back and forth trips overthe lawn, he began teasing himself about, among other things, the thickness andshade of the pubic hair in Megan's panties.

"Was it really red?”

“What tone?"

As he finished the last rowof grass, his thoughts returned to his wife. She would be getting ready for hershower about now. Sheilaugh loved, long,warm showers. Mark thought of the waterdropping from her large, rose-coloured nipples, her ample breasts bobbing asshe shampooed. He pushed the off switch on the lawnmower again and made his wayhurriedly to the house. Once inside, he noisily proceeded up to the top of thestairs and into the bathroom.

"Sheilaugh, I needyou," he said as he opened door. She was standing there in the nude, inspecting her face for blemishes.

"Don't be absurd,Mark. It’s 5:15. I've got to shower; make dinner and drive twomiles. I don't like it when you put pressure on me. Why do you do that?"

"I'll make thedinner," he said sheepishly. “I’vegot some New York cut steak, I can make with some baked potato, sour cream andFrench cut green beans. How aboutit? Hey and I can open that bottle ofFetzer cabernet, we’ve been saving since 1977.”

Hearing nothing in response,except the closing of the shower door and the onrush of the watery spray, heknew that his proposal had been rejected. His blood boiled. He stood for moment, hoping. Then, he quickly wheeled around and walkedout.

As he switched the ignitionon and started the Ford pickup, he put his other hand between his legs, tryingto force his bulge down. Then grabbed the gear shift, put it in first and madehis way to the "U" district. He was on his way to his favorite hideout. Here, finally, he wouldescape the hostility at home. Here, hewould find some friendly faces.

As he made his way into theBlue Moon's dimly lit, wooden interior, he noticed the Mirror Pond draft handlewas back. Sue Foley's voice came from speakers strategically placed in theceiling of the joint. Her cool, sexy phrasing wafted just above the crowd noisein the Moon, "Men lies about that. Some of them cries about that."

"Pint of Pond Scum,please."

The fresh nut tan ale pouredinto the glass crowned with a creamy head.

"Thanks."

"That'll be $3.50."

"Here's $4. Keepit."

The barkeep smiled. She wasyoung and brown. Her onyx black hair was thick, even to her eyebrows. Alas, herlips were a bit thinner than he would have preferred; however, she was stillquite attractive-her olive black eyes, the sway of her skirt just disclosingthe outline of her ass, her shapely legs, as she walked over to the nextcustomer. Mark put the pint to his lips.The ale was fresh and very good. Mirror Pond was the best you could get in thePacific Northwest and, "perhaps even the world", he mused.

His pint began partiallyquenching his sensual desires. Then, as it worked its way through his body, hismind reversed course. He began mentally undressing Teresa as she sauntered upand back, behind the bar.

"Her pussy has got to bethick with blackness, black on black shadows."

Then.......

"Hey Mark!"

"Oh! Hi Megan."Mark answered, a bit taken aback.

"What are you doinghere?"

"It's Sheilaugh'sreading circle evening-the 'Big Bras'. Go figure. So, I decided to pop down here and have a couple of pints.What brings you to this neck of the woods?"

"Paul dumped metoday."

"Oh no, really?"

"Yeah. So I'm havingcakes and ale to celebrate my freedom.”

Megan looked great. Her warmsmile made her look more vibrant than ever. She remained charming in spite of her trouble. Her ever alluring redhair made her extremly attractive, much more so than most women. She put herglass next to Marks's and drew up a square bar stool.

"Would you like anotherpint of, what was that?"

"Grants." Shegrinned.

It was going to be a goodevening.

As Sheilaugh drove towardsSeattle's city centre, a furious rain began pelting her car. She had taken the old Toyota four-door. Thestreets were slick, glistening in the night with shiny, wind swept rainbows.She turned the window defroster on. Inspite of the downpour, she rolled her window open a crack to help prevent toomuch fogging. She also wanted to createa bit of a mess inside the vehicle. Hermind was moving quickly now. She came to the darkened area which she and Victorhad agreed would be a good place to abandon the vehicle. Then grimacing, shetook a razorblade out of her pocket and cut the tip of her left ring finger.After a few drops of blood fell on the seat, she placed a band aid over herwound and put her hair under her raincoat. She then placed six marbles from hercoat pocket to fatten her cheeks. As she exited the driver's side of theautomobile, she flicked the button of her umbrella. It shot open with a“ka-clump”.

"Don't forget thehat", she told herself and reaching into her coat pocket, she pulled out asoft, dark blue woolen watch cap and placed it on her head. Then, she slammedthe car door shut and proceeded to walk to the cover of the adjacent bus stop,where she waited, out of the rain, exact change in hand.

Victor was engrossed innumerical gymnastics. His dry, warm 2nd story apartment was a flimsy placewhich had been built back in the 30's. The floors creaked when being walked on;however, it was charmingly located in an old warehouse district of the port andall, quite frankly, he could afford at the moment. Next to him, looking muchlike a large refrigerator was his '4 D'--- a "dimensionalmanipulator" was what he called it. He had stolen most of the parts thathe used to construct it with from Microsoft, where he was employed as aresearch assistant. Victor's realinterests though, had always been adventure and freedom. He acted his part atwork well enough. After all, it put food on the table and electronicallysophisticated parts in his hands. He didn't feel he was biting the hand thatfed him. Quite the contrary, Victor felt that he was only taking back a smallportion of what he had helped produce for the giant corporation. He knew thatthe wages system was a rip-off, no matter which corporate or State entity youworked for. He was hardly wedded to his profession as some of his co-workersseemed to be. They actually spoke in terms which made it seem as if they ownedthe companies they worked for. “My company makes this,” and other utterbullshit notions of their actual standing in the scheme of things.

"Bloody dampoutside", Sheilaugh said as she slammed the door shut and put her umbrellain the corner to dry.

"Fucking marbles!” Sheplaced them back into her coat pocket.

Victor looked up from his figures and intoSheilaugh's eyes.

"You're beautiful."

He stood up. She put her arms around him and they embracedtightly for a time, saying nothing, just swaying like lovers at some airportdeparture scene.

"Are we ready?" sheasked.

"Yes, Doll. The '4 D'has finally been calibrated.

Sheilaugh moved toward the ‘4D’.

“Don't bump it!” hecried. Then, noticing that he hadstartled her, he softly explained,”It's quite sensitive, you know.” Then, witha devilish grin, “We meet here in five years?"

Sheilaugh smiled. Victorcould resist no longer. He kissed her hard on the lips while cupping andsqueezing her left breast. Sheilaugh's nipples hardened in response; she felt atingling in her groin and so began shoving her pelvis into his.

"I love youSheilaugh."

"Te adoro, Victor."

"I want you now."

Their hands, bodies and lips,moving across each other; they fell on the couch in a heavy breath; thesmacking of saliva clearly audible to each, driving each. Victor reached underSheilaugh's skirt and grabbed the elastic of her panties, then, with a powerfultug, he ripped them from her body. Sheilaugh gasped as Victor kept moving downher body. Putting his head between her legs, he began moving his tongue intoher thick, trimmed swatch until he found her clitoris.

"VICTOR! I need you now!Fuck me! Fuck me good like only you can!", Sheilaugh gasped.

Victor fumbled with his belt,then pulled his trousers to his knees. All the time, they kissed on and off,Sheilaugh tasting her own acidic saltiness. Finally, after what seemedeternities to Sheilaugh, his cock sprang out hard as a rock. She put the back of her knees over hisshoulders and he entered her stiffly, slowly putting one, two, three then sixinches into her wetness. Then he stopped.

"Give it to me, Victor.Give IT-TO-ME!"

He needed no more urging.With that, he thrust his last inch into the V of her crotch then began grindingagainst her tightly. Sheilaugh matched Victor move for move. Then he pulled outa bit and then in again and out a small way. The couch began shaking. As themovement became more and more intense, it seemed as if the whole apartmentbegan to shake.

Sheilaugh felt an urge comingon. "Harder, Victor, faster." Then she convulsed as she released atthe peak of her passion.

"VIC!" Sheilaughsmiled breathlessly. “V-i-c-tor!” Thenshe loosened and relaxed.

“God, I needed that,” shewhispered.

Victor looked at her,replying with low urgency in his voice, "Sheilaugh. I want you to stand upand bend over the couch."

"Not in the ass tonight,Vic. Not tonight." Sheilaughpositioned herself over the back of the couch. Victor put it where it had beenonly this time from the rear and began a slow, stroking, increasing the rhythmwith each repetition. He reached 'round to fondle her left breast and with hisright hand as he fingered her clit. His rhythm grew more intense. He noticedthe wall shaking as the couch seemed to be banging against it. "The cave" he thought as he losthimself in the pleasure of it all and then he whispered it, "The cave..."And finally, pushing his cock as far up Sheilaugh's cunt as he could get it,"THE CAVE!" He ejaculated wadsof cum, as his imagination transported him instantaneously back in time to adim genetic memory.

Sheilaugh wonderedwhether..., then felt everything becoming much wetter and smaller.

"The whole Movementbegan its death spiral when Townsend pushed Abbie off the stage atWoodstock."

"YES!" Megan agreedemphatically, "Yes, that was it! The litmus test was the Airplane. Youwere just another hippie, if you didn't get the Airplane. The Movement justbecame an act of cynical rejection with no understanding and then,accommodation with the System a la Yuppiedom. "

"Or" , hecountered, "You were just in it for the pleasure, the lyrics lost in the'smoke rings of your mind' and you ended up getting a day job or pushing ashopping cart around town."

Megan swallowed the last inchof her Grants and smiled knowingly. Markwas excited. It was the first time in years that he had felt this way, thisclose to a woman. Sheilaugh was always browbeating him and NEVER took himseriously. In fact, most of herconversation towards Mark came in the form of ridicule for one thing oranother. That made for a lack of communication and guaranteed an impoverishedsex life.

Megan put her hand on Mark'sknee. "Want to go home with menow?" she asked. Mark picked up theempty pint glasses and brought them back to the bartendress. Megan tossed herraincoat on. Mark followed her as Miles Davis’ muted, “Kind of Blue” trumpetprovided the fanfare for their exit into Seattle’s evening storm.

Victor arrived with a numbingjolt, as if he had been spit out of a lightening bolt. His head ached badly. Henoticed a clunky old pinball machine with levers and a coin slider designed totake nickels in what had been his apartment. He turned round and round. The '4D' had vanished. The weather was cool and gray, quite normal for this time ofyear. Then, he saw someone out on thedeck below.

"Hey, do you know whatday it is?"

"Yah sure, buddy. It'sMonday. Ain't it grand, Labor Day and all. We don't have to work, although whatwith the War and all, I'm doing a little patriotic overtime."

And then, after a pause, hemuttered, "Damn Japs don't have a Labor Day."

Victor looked out on to thestreet. Warehouse roofs were everywhere to be seen. A '32 Ford and a '36 Chevywere parked at the curb on the street below.

Sheilaugh got out of theFord. A child was holding her hand. In a voice filled with contempt, she yelledup to Victor, "It's about bloody time! Five years, Victor, it’s been fivebloody years. The ‘4 D’ is gone; there's no use looking for it." Then, she reached into her pocket and rifledfour marbles toward the second floor landing. “And by the way, say hello to your five-year-old daughter.”

THE END

Wobbly times number 119

2011-07-14T01:04:00.000-07:00

Ghostsin Africa by Jennifer Armstrong and Mike Ballard

Oh God said toAbraham, "Kill me a son"

Abe says, "Man,you must be puttin' me on"

God say,"No." Abe say, "What?"

God say, "You cando what you want Abe, but

The next time you seeme comin' you better run"

Well Abe says,"Where do you want this killin' done?"

God says, "Out onHighway 61."

~~~Bob Dylan

By the entrance of thekraal was a fallen, sugared yellow fence. Torrential rain had killed itssubstance, and the straw and grass that made it were shattered into fragments.In his state of torpor, Tom mechanically propped his racer with its flat tireup hard against the fence, and thought for just a while. "I'd reallyrather not be here. But I am and that's all there is to it. Life is so unkind,just like my father. My mother was nice." Right there, a stray red andbrown cockerel pecked, mindlessly, against the spindled turf, and thereproceeded to mash it with its feet. "What a strange thing a cock's combis. I should really comb my hair. There now, much better. What would mummy anddaddy say, most especially, daddy. It's hard being a man. It's no wonder thehens are so impressed with them‑the cocks' combs, I mean. And how theycackle..the hens. Of course, cocks can cackle too. It's all equal. It's allreally the same." Apart from the cow and the bell, there was no sign ofany human life there, or anywhere to be found and this made Tom feel safe andanxious. He was safe, in that nobody could see him, well almost nobody.

Without thinking, Tomsaid a prayer, and smoked the last remains of his dried‑out cigarette ‑‑ He hadsaved a half "just in case‑‑". The invigorating taste of nicotinespread rapidly throughout his lungs and found its way into his body. "'Hemaketh me to lie down in green pastures'. Nice notion, especially for big,brown‑eyed cows. Cows always lie down just before it begins to rain. Release issuch a pleasant feeling. I think that when I go back to America, I'll let mycat and dog go‑my bird too. Then, they'll be free. After all, what do they needme for. Sure I pet them and feed them. Well, I don't pet the bird‑justsometimes, I put my little finger in Dodo's cage and give him a small stroke.Birds, generally don't like to be petted. They don't mind if their mates nuzzleup to them. I think that's true with most birds, though I've never seen a crowor a raven bill and coo. But no matter, Dodo will soon be released, that is, ifI'm not here very long. Maybe I should get mom to do it. Ah, silly me. Thereare no phones or computers out here and besides, mom is dead."

Tom blew cigarettesmoke through a pursed, whistle‑like hole he made in his lips. His lips werethin. He didn't like his lips. He couldn't imagine a decent looking girl likinghis lips. They might like other parts of him, which, well.. that would be upthem. Visibly grinning, he thought of his penis. Why did such thoughts enterhis mind? Tom didn't know and besides, he wouldn't presume to tell girls whatthey should like about him or anything else for that matter. Then again, he didknow. He was in denial and he knew that. He'd heard that term bandied aboutduring his Psych 101 course at UT. It'd stuck with him since. But his fathertaught him about the devil. It was good to deny the devil. The devil was sinand sinning got you "cast into 'hail'". Tom smiled again at thethought of his father's Texan accent. Cast into 'hail', indeed. Just theopposite‑cast into eternal fire where the marrow in his bones would turn intomolten lead and his eyes would flame in their boney sockets and the tears wouldbe endless‑ENDLESS!‑to infinity. And the stench of eternally rotting flesh.There would be no end to the tortures God, the father would inflict upon him,unrepentant sinner that he was. As hard as he tried to deny his thought‑dreams,they just continued to pop up, like targets on a shooting range. Tom wasafraid. His own ideas were betraying him, sending him to eternal suffering,just as Jesus must have suffered on "that old rugged cross". Themelodic whisper of voices came ringing out the open doors of that little old,white wooden Baptist church near Pottsboro. Tom sometimes caught himselffalling asleep during the sermons of Reverend Paul. Other times, he got hard‑onslooking over at Nancy's crossed legs. When the congregation stood up to sing,Tom would have to hunch over a bit and adjust to camouflage the protrusionemanating otherwise from the zippered part of his trousers.

The ash‑weary smell ofAfrica, of pot‑dust smoke... which funnelled up around him formed more than awisp. Now, the salient odour of some dead, decaying meat, in a winds' gust,gained a more pungent edge. The urge to get away, to go back home, came overhim ‑‑ Tom plucked a spindle‑leaf from a nearby bush, and crushed it ‑‑ thenpaused for a second, "Do leaves go to heaven? His mother had once told himthat his dead cat had gone to heaven. To be sure, it was 'cat heaven'. If therewas a cat and dog heaven, then perhaps a leaf heaven would not be too great anask of our Father."

He knew he was a long,long way from home... . . The very first autumn he had experienced in the US,had been a magical one. Gold and amber oak leaves had fallen all round thecollege grounds and after that little specks of dust had been gathered up bythe breeze of an impending winter storm. And in those months that followed, hisold boyhood ways had been forgotten ‑‑ so he had thought. He still rememberedthem, of course. They were fresh in hi memory‑the lazy days of marbles andrunning with balls and climbing trees and teasing girls. He'd found some Texanfriends who went to the same school, and so he'd lengthened out his tone ofspeech into a common drawl. "Yawl come," he thought giggling tohimself. So young...Tom had only wanted to please everybody. He wanted to be"good", in future...But his good was different from that which hadbecome his father's ‑‑ "and that much was certain". Now his motherwas in The Lord's good hands, there was nothing left to worry about. Andyet....How wondrous the echo of this silence. To think....there was really noone around! Well, except Him. He was always there. That's what he'd been told,"he knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you're awake... Christmas,birthdays, was a guy ever alone?"

A helicopter flew upoverhead, and rattled like rain about to fall again. Tom cleared his throat. Hestill felt grateful and more alone than ever. He meandered along the path. Thepath was a different one from that chosen earlier. So, only now it was leadinghim over hidden boulders and rocks ‑‑ He looked at his watch and it was five tofive. "Must be the helicopter people are going home now," he thoughtwistfully. His thoughts turned to Tarzan, swinging freely, securely from vines,halting only for the briefest second on the limb of some jungle tree. He lookedaround him and saw a lone thorn tree. " And Cheetah, funny little Cheetah.What an hilarious chimp! Oh‑ooo‑hah‑hah‑hah, ugha‑ugha," he said out loud.

Tom's ears perked up.He could hear the sound of something in the distance, which he vaguely recognisedas baboons ‑‑ he had last heard a baboon when he was still a child ‑‑ They'dscramble for the nuts, they'd throw some more, they tore them open, with theirteeth, spat their husks. Now the memory was gone. Tom knew enough to be able tosay they were probably a tribe of baboons, waiting for him just over the hill.That, itself, was very beautiful, and glorious. "Tribes were nice,"he thought. "Nice and ever so natural." He liked saying "everso", even to himself. His mother used that expression. It was cultured. Itshowed you were cultured, that you knew things and were someone to be reckonedwith. Yes, indeed it did." He felt more assured now. His anxiety hadebbed, 'ever so, ever so'.

Everything wasstretching out into a stream of caramel, gray chocolaty colour. The sun's pathwould soon fall beyond a cloud and sink much lower, out beyond the most distanttree. So now, he had to find his own path back and out the way he came. Toensure a short‑cut, he would boldly cut right across the bush.

An army vehicle zippedthrough, as if above those close‑by tufts of vegetation. Like Tom, it wasmoving southwards. It jettisoned the breeze, as it were: The breeze bounced offit. Then down it went, along the road Tom had been travelling, an hour or morebefore. A sharp reverberation as it passed was seemingly caught up by thenearest grass and re‑echoed. Tom looked up and fell down, scraping his knee."Damn." he said out loud. A khaki apparition vanished, just at themoment he glimpsed it. Was it ever really there? He looked at his knee. Itbled, ever so slightly. Everything seemed slow; like in a dream. He felt unsureand yet on the verge of battle. What kind of battle? He did not know. Therewere battles all around him, all the time as he grew up. It was normal. "Tom,Tom, the butcher's son, lost a ring and away he run," he thought as hishead jerked. His eyes opened. They shut again. They opened again: He felt a bittired. He had been walking so far, now. He had come around full circle.

He climbed up to theroad and took his bearings southwards ‑‑ ever southwards. Warmth anddestination were there. Up above, a group of eagles soared. Tom had hisnotebook, and he'd drawn a sketch of these birds in it. The sun was part of thesketch. And, we were all a part of it, and had our origins from it. And whenthe sun finally departed, it always left a feeling of peace, as though inspecial tribute or in consolation. "Amen," he thought, bowing hishead. "Mustn't sleep. No. Too dangerous. No, I'm fine."

He'd learned enough aboutmechanics in a funny lakeside place back home, and about throwing flat‑facedstones in a way that skimmed the water, whilst looking for fish. He'd done thatin Africa, when he was left alone for the best part of the day. Out of boredom,mostly, he'd learned to turn a pine stick into a fishing rod, attach fish‑baitupon a makeshift, barbed‑wire hook. He swung a thorn stick resolutely as hewalked along the road. It was his stick ‑‑ he'd plucked it from the tree, allalone.

He travelled alongthese roots and stones. Nobody had told him that these could be the wrongshoes. . nobody had told him just how dark it gets ‑‑ or how suddenly the nightfalls. Tom jiggled his rucksack, which was made heavier by the pressure. Hisfather had been right ‑‑ he had said, "Watch out for those . . . who'lllead you up the garden path! 'Rock of ages, come to me'." Songs made himfeel more like he was with someone else. "The Lord is always withyou," his mother had told him. "There are no monsters. The Lord willwatch over you and see that you go to heaven, when it is your time." Therewas a movement in the bush. Tom was afraid. It wasn't his time. Of that he wassure. "But then, what if the creature in the bush was a rhino. Would arhino know that? Would a rhino know about the Lord and his plans?" Ofcourse, God moved in mysterious ways and the rhino would know in his owninscrutable way. This thought did not comfort Tom. He picked up his pace a bit,even though the pack chafed his shoulders and his lungs began to burn.

And now the night hadclosed in. And he breathed the chill; and all his breath had turned into whitesmoke.

The night was reachingin to rob him of possibilities, and his missions . . . its cold hand ofdarkness reaching in ‑‑ Perhaps, soon, day would come along to . . . re‑invigorateus all? The darkness covers everything and returns all to its embryonic shapes.It makes all frenetic activity depart with its hushed and hushing authority.The cold was making him cough . . . Perhaps only the dryness of his breath wasmaking him cough, now. He had to slow down. His body was giving out. Soon a carwould pull up, if only he was lucky. A friendly face would take him to the nextstage: show him where he had to go. Tom believed in fate: It was as much a partof his belief as breathing was a part of him. "Now I lay me down withsheep." Sin... blasphemy! That is what father would say? "We are men,not sheep. Now, where did I put my woollen jersey? Where is my shepherd? Whenis the man coming with a gun? Where is the highest bidder, for my life? Where,indeed, is my son's penknife?"

Next, Tom made his waytowards the nearest hut, in a random detour. A red and brown cockerel cackled,flapping 'cross his path, emitting a threatening, gargling sound. The shadowsstretched. He poked his head in, knocking a bit of grey dust from its entrance,"Anybody home?" But the sleeping, creeping shadows inside the silenthut were deeper. It was warmer there inside. The hut smelt like stale corn ‑‑and spittle that had been re‑swallowed, two, or three, or more times, until ithad finally turned sour. Dark wooden embers; dust and coal, were scatteredwithin the cold structure. The floors were cow‑dung, the walls of brighterclay. Tom pulled his penis out, unconsciously, and began to play with it. Itwas rare to be alone for such a long time and so safe. . . He now felt safe,within the heat and darkness of the hut. Tomorrow, he would head south again.In the meantime, there was Leslie. Leslie in her red plaid school skirt withher white cotton panties on. "Leslie, will you take off yourpanties?" Tom thought of ripping them off, no sliding them down andsliding in and out and in and.. "Leslie!" he cried. And then it wasover. He wiped his hand on his trousers and drifted off to sleep... in thebelly of a leopard.

A car started or so itseemed. Milky white stars...and then some light. Tom opened his eyes. Somelight was bouncing off the grey walls of the hut and an engine came to a stop.A flashlight bumped its way up to the hut. Crunching gravel under feet. Thelight shone into Tom's face. "Anybody here?" the voice asked?"Nobody here but us chickens," Tom returned with his boyish grin.

"What are youdoing boy? It smells like a sperm factory in here."

"First of all,I'm not a boy. I'm old enough to drink and vote and I'm a graduate of theUniversity of Texas."

"How did you gethere?" the soldier asked.

"I rode my racer.But it got a flat tire."

"So?"

"So, I walked. Iforgot to bring patch and glue."

The soldier scratchedhis head.

"I'm visiting myold homeland, sir" Tom continued.

"You'd bettercome along with us," the soldier answered. "And don't call me sir.I'm a corporal."

"Yes sir",Tom said. "I mean.."

"Never mind. Justget in."

The purring of theengine which had picked him up and carried him thus far had made him feel likehe was a lion cub, inside a lionesses' womb ‑‑ A child of Africa, not in thisland for long. Alone‑except for four ghostly shapes of others around him. Theboy struggled, under the weight of the most tiresome engagement: SLEEP. Why washe struggling? He ought to be more alert. Three hours past‑‑ they approachedTown.

The familiar voicesbroke through the drought‑‑" My people live around here ‑‑ Perhaps we candrop him out down there?" So ensued a general shuffle of silent assent.Something was resting on him ‑‑something that he couldn't somehow shake it off.It wound around him while he rested, like a python. And, it had seemed, in thatlong journey, like it had always been this way. Except now, in Africa, thechild in Tom was free. The memories were not strong enough to resist theviolence of bright, arousing day.

And the car, at thatpoint, really seemed to be a leopard, purring up the long dirt road, and itslid under a porch light coming to a still rest within a breeze. And feelingmore alert, Tom, happily, at last, stepped out for a look. The moon loomed downfull, its face, round, smooth ‑‑ and small. He kicked the dust off hiss boots,as if awake. The Ghost‑spirit knocked against the door. It opened‑‑ Tom wasalone, with one of four hallucinations. First was there a small woman‑‑young‑‑with her dark hairs brushed softly, low, against her brow, and then a man inhis late thirties, followed by a hairy, long‑slithered face: The dog's name wasPeter Pan. The hallucination said, "We just found him walking down theroad; we thought he might be lost‑‑ ...would you take care of him ? ‑‑his tonewas soft, and kind. Inside, it was stark, with wooden shelves and a belching'fridge. The floors were cold, uneven; seemingly melted with old footwork‑‑and,probably young feet ‑‑ A kettle rocked sedately in its cradle on a gas stove.It had made its contents dry.

Tom could taste thissweet smell of ancient herbs. The boy regretted leaving behind his brightlycoloured racer. It was the one thing he prized highly, that he had brought withhim from the States. ‑‑ he hated the thought it might rain overnight, and allthe paintwork would suffer. It irked him . . . more than the fact he had been'tricked' by a bunch of "apparitions" to participate in a journey to'who knows where'.

He felt his body beingvery purposefully jiggled. "Hey you. Wake up. Is this it, son? Therearen't many houses out this way."

"Yes sir."

Tom got his knapsack,exited the car with a wave, watching it until its lights finally disappearedand all that was left was the distant growl of its engine. At least Daina'splace hadn't changed.

The woman clucked andscurried and found pillows, sheets and blankets. The room was large ‑‑ toolarge to hold one person ‑‑ and tthe ceiling was tall and high. A silken web ofmosquito netting was draped around him. Tom felt he was a spider, caught byanother spider, under the watchful eye of a fly. Then the late hour arrived.When daybreak came, it left a hole in everything ‑‑ a mellow, quickening lightthat nothing could hide inside. Breakfast was pan‑cooked flapjacks, bacon, jam,and eggs. Tom removed the netting that had until this point contained him. Awhole new world of possibilities had just opened up.

He sucked in themilky, hot, tea. Michael Leary ‑‑ she, Daina‑‑ called him "Laz" forshort‑‑sat smoking in the kitchen. Later on, Tom found them seated out on thegreen lawn, with their dog, Pan. Pan eyed this boy, with one of his translucentgazes and sidled up to him. Tom offered him the remains of his egg. He had onceused to keep some scraps for his own puppy, a Great Dane, called Marshall."Little Marshall," Tom had called him, but that was when Tom had beenso much younger.

"It's warm outhere, and everything is suddenly quite still" he thought. The Africanhabit of seeing the outside, and not the soul, at all... was all "alie". Daina, spread out languidly on a deck chair, followed him with hereyes. He fell into reverie, whilst eyeing Daina's legs; an almost milk‑chocolate‑brown.Her skin was of a well‑fed cow, glistening with either brill cream or adelicate version of crushed sunflower seeds. Meanwhile, "Laz",shuffled back and forth and here and there, in his broken boots. And then hestopped and propped himself, right shoulder against a wooden beam. As if allthis gentleman was. . .was leaning there in one place against the porch. Andthen, he sat again, sipping tea and looking for all the world like a man ofleisure as he leaned back into a closed eyed position.

Laz was a game‑keeper,from way back ‑‑ knew the hills and every animal by name, and was stillsleeping on his armchair. Daina smiled ‑‑ she seemed reluctant to participatebut loomed there in the shadow‑morning‑light. "Laz", however, was farbeyond , so far, he didn't care ‑‑ almost beyond the essence of a man, hetwitched his whiskers, softly, as he remarked on the dew. Midday, next theevening soft approaching, he would tighten up his collar ‑‑ always was tryingto adjust it to avoid sunburn. He even swatted flies away from his face, with alow, digestive, grunt. A man tormented by the cold, but refusing to admit it.Light always tormented his day but evenings were the best by far.

Daina re‑crossed herlegs, and smiled in a conspiratorial way at Tom. She slithered her body downthe chair into a more relaxed position. The boy felt the morning sun bite intohis brow. He paused. Now his tea was getting cold. In the heat of day, Dainaslid off her silky slip coat, and dove into the pool. Tom lay right back on anarmrest; closed his eyes, in half response ‑‑ "Daina.... When I leavehere, I'll collect my things, come back for you. You needn't be afraid. I wantto protect you from ALL of the dangers."

Tom knew Laz wasleaving to go to his game reserve in the bush the next day. Daina would be allalone. "You must go back to your Leslie," she said, at last,subduingly, ‑‑Since there's nothing real for you here...Alone, out in thebush."

The air was gettingcolder. Suddenly, for some reason, Daina's voice almost seemed reproachful:"Do your parents know where you're about? ‑‑Do they even care?"Daina's nose was a wrinkled freckle‑patch of ‑winsome‑ satisfaction‑‑ "youmight be too heavy to be carried..." Daina's dark brown hair hung aroundher face, as she examined Tom's injured knee. Her eyes developed a quizzicalappearance, laughing at him.

"Laz" wascat napping. He snorted in his sleep, as if registering a movement, somewhere,out there in the bushland. He let out a whispered snore, as if in a huge reliefthat a certain danger finally bypassed him and left him safe. He sunk deeperinto a reverie, as if on cue. As Daina watched, his breathing turned morerhythmic, and so was silenced ‑‑ as if with bandaids.. Daina reached over,gently, and offered Tom a elasto‑plaster, to cover up his searing leg‑gape.

"Only my fatheris still alive. My mother died when I was five..my father said... a car crashin London...she slid into a telegraph pole, on a track of icy road‑‑nobodycould have seen it coming.."

Tom leaned back in hislawn chair. A light dawned somewhere, but it was far away, too far away for allthe weight he now must carry. The light paused. Trapped within a shadow, pannedbetween two shifting clouds. His tea was getting cold ‑‑ a signal that the partnershipmust now subside.

And now the sun wasbeating down perpetually, the clouds began crisscrossing . . . it reminded himof daybreak, dreaming: The knowledge of an infinite horizon : And the child‑likehours slipping away disappearing into the world's hidden ideas, to be condensedone day above a mountain range, and fall again, ever recycled, asprecipitation. This dream was one which, fortunately, could last forever."But ‑‑ a‑grasping at dreams, a life could slip away! But to lose them,that would be tragic, truly tragic. What am I going to do?" he thought.But no answer came. Only blankness...tabla‑rasa that's what his mind's eye saw.Why didn't God ever tell him what to do? Not like prayers about tending sheepwith his rod and his staff, but real things. He'd never had a rod nor a staff.He didn't even know what the heck their function was in terms of sheep herdingor why anyone would be concerned with them in this day and age. Why didn't Godtell him about real things, instead of just having his disciples write downthose parables? Parables were nice, but they could only go so far. And Tom washere, in Africa, very far from home. There wasn't an olive tree in sight.

A dust storm whippedup everything and forced the leaves and twigs into a spiral. Before too longhis friends would make tracks and reach him. Everything was encapsulated hereand lived on its own terms, as if forgotten by all time. Soon the sky wouldopen up and rain would fall ‑‑ a rain which would drench them all,delightfully, intensively to the bone.

... The Earth can onlyspin so far, and then it must recline and tumble! A revelation, to be sure. Ashis father used to exclaim, "The world's going to hell in ahandbasket!" And it was! Tom's mind's eye could see it or humanity, more properly,writhing there in one giant handbasket, no longer capable of even turning intheir graves, being carried off by demons to that final day of judgement, Jesusup there on his floating throne, no longer the gentle Jesus, the baby Jesus,the helpless Jesus. No, this time, he was the muscular Jesus‑‑ the judge, likethe kind who wear those funny dark napkins on their heads as they hand downdeath sentences to the black sheep of humanity. He would come to wreakvengeance on the unrepentant. It was his right. He'd given them a chance andthey'd flubbed it and he consigned them to the gates of Hell. Funny how Jesusand the Devil worked this sort of division of labour, what with Jesus doing thepointing and Satan ordering his minions to drive this or that herd of sinnersinto the flames. Thus, one never really ever faced death, only eternities ofheaven or hell or, if you were a Catholic or a Communist, long transitionalperiods of purgatory or socialism.

"Tom, how long doyou think you'll to stay here?" said Daina, unexpectedly ‑‑ "we don'twant you wandering all over the place ‑‑ there are dangers here. Wild animals,in particular... Laz killed a leopard only last week."

The realisation he wason his own and in danger, poured springs of cool and tepid water over Tom‑‑reviving him: ‑‑"I have Leslie waiting for me, back in QueQue ‑‑ she'salone: I'm heading back , to bring her something special." Tom thought ofLeslie's smile and how she would grin when she saw him again. It was all warmand inviting. Yes, to Leslie's smile. No to her hot body. Yes to herintoxicating toes: No to her forehead, which was too broad. Yes to herwillingness to engage the forgiving embrace of unconditional love. No toactually embracing her. After all, there was the hot body to worry about. Tomwas afraid of being burnt. And he would be burnt, he would surely be burnt, ifhe gave in to sexual pleasure. The road to hell was paved with pleasure'slures.

"Lurid woman! Outof my head," Tom shouted.

"What?"Daina asked.

"Oh,nothing", Tom said sheepishly.

A bush fire, thatmorning, had swept its way across the farm; yet pre‑burnt areas had saved them.Daina's gold‑brown eyes flashed inwardly, in the certain knowledge thatboundaries were changing, squaring, losing form. Her own body was losing form.Age was relentlessly beating her down into a kind of shaplessness mass. Sheimagined herself growing old, lines becoming ever more deeply etched into herforehead. "Repulsive", she thought and frowning, she decided ondiversion, picking up the old SPIEGEL catalogue her cousin had mailed to herfrom Chicago.

Yet grass seed dustedand swept across the land ‑‑ and Tom remembered Leslie with her violet eyes andgolden hair, cascading, as it were, around her body. "Here's a cigarettefor you: Don't lose it!‑‑ and remember, to take a map and write down whereyou're going!" she told him. The fresh cigarette Leslie had given himwould soon be ashes. He'd taken it without a thought. He KNEW Leslie had ataste for all forms of corruption ‑‑ ‑‑cigarettes would be her tender ‑‑ ormeagre, 'offering'. His father and god, who art in heaven, would be displeased,as women were a menace to the nice. "Even had proven that," hereflected. His penknife was nice. In spite of this, he wasn't happy, especiallyabout the dullness of its main blade.

Nothing would beallowed to become jaded, dull or green ‑‑ . . . But everything would mostcertainly be perfect, somehow, someday. Though, through its own natural course.Leslie had been in agreement with this sentiment for she too believed in hisfather. Ah Leslie...he remembered that time when she had nodded, and passed hima pencil‑thin joint, and a roll of silver paper from her ciggie box. As acouple, they had escaped all crispening dryness, and any near disaster.

But Tom was anxious.He suspected Leslie might have returned to Vermont by now. His travels hadtaken ever so much time. She would probably get married, have three kids, anddie there, as she always told him she wanted. Tom just wanted to return to hernow‑‑ instantly!

But more than that, hewanted to collect, and dust off, his new bike, which for sure would 'of gotten"all messed up", "worsened for the wear". Surely, he couldget patches, glue and a pump from Daina and Laz. Then, he would take just alittle more time. He would ride to the place his mother had been married in.Sure, it wasn't something she could ever thank him for (an Irish way ofthinking upon it, he flashed) which was impossible now, although he wished shemight. He didn't want thanks ‑‑ he wanted kisses, even if they came from aghost. "Doesn't everyone want that unconditional love?"

For Tom, warm, plumpfaces of girls, like Leslie, were thoughts to be desired ‑‑ and anticipated aswell. For they promised freedom from these incessant yearnings for his mother'sforgiving kiss, the sickly sweet smell, the veil, the altar, the church, itswhiteness, so crisp and cold and pure like the driven snow. Was this not thegreater sin?

That night Tom sleptwell. In a way, he felt as if he'd confessed to himself. A desert rain wouldinterrupted the simmering humidity. Yet he awoke with a start. He was decided.He would be paying a visit to the cathedral where his mother had been married.

"You are the sortwho looks like he LIKES the sticks and mud!‑‑ You should enjoy the journey!" Tom's father had said before he left Texas, for Tom was sure, eventhen, that he would be making this pilgrimage. Tom's father's dog had loped upat the sound of the human commotion between Tom and his father that day. He dog‑smiled and dribbled all around, smearing blood dropped saliva in with the redslimy residue on his canines. Miraculously, it fell down the cracks of a rottenboulder and dropped into the earth. It seemed like the world laughed at thissight‑‑ the sky emerged‑‑ a bright penetrating blue ‑‑resilient in its smile.

This ever so vividmemory of Tom's came out of nowhere ‑‑ It made him shudder. In a flash, Tomrecollected another vision and this one was equally horrific, yet, in a way,pure. There he was, right near the place where his father, George, hadsharpened a large butcher's knife on a rock, just outside his shop in the city.Most of George's inspirations had come from the rock, for the rock was true.Yes, that's what George was always saying, "The rock is true."Unchanging, it was stable, dependable, a thing of wonder and mystery. Language,truth and logic, his father had a way of precisely separating them.

One day, he had saidto his son, "Tom, take your mother's wedding band off her hand, and go andget it enlarged ‑ She is telling me it now cuts into her circulation." AndTom was glad to help. His mother's skin was alabaster, and so soft you couldsee her blue and purple veins protruding, threaded throughout her fingers likea spider's web; perhaps it was her English quality? ...a certain"displeasure" of the sun? "It burns me so," she used to sayto him. The milky mildew texture of her features were shocked against existencein the waves of African Sun which had penetrated, leaving hints of cracks andlines to come. Tom's father had sharpened a large butcher's knife on his rock.It was just outside his shop in the City. His father was most definitely not atraditionalist, but he had made an exception in this case ‑‑ due to his disdainfor the peculiar 'buzz' of electrical devices. There had been a 'buzz' onenight. "Impurity!" Tom had heard his father yelling at his mother intheir bedroom as he lay awake in his room, his eyes moving anxiously back andforth under their lids.

She had died quite suddenly.Her death had come soon after George and his son had finally migrated back tocivilisation ‑‑ It was not entirely unexpected. The lies she had been toldabout the mildness of the Texan heat must have taken their toll.

"Don't lose thatring! It is important ‑‑", Tom remembered George yelling at him. But Tom,feeling the heat, as if in a whirl of steam, he had dropped it. Down. Next tothe rock, it fell, where it had slipped. He had been wetting his pen knife inorder to make an incision in his overalls. He had only been testing the blade.He like testing his blade for sharpness. Then, in the sweat and heat Tom losthis clarity of vision. Damnable sweat! Salt water, not gentle, like tears orbaby shampoo. It irritated his eyes to distraction. And what bedlam there hadbeen when he confessed to his clumsy crime! Hellish denunciations were to beendured‑‑ until his father found the golden ring ‑‑ whereupon he scolded Tomfor being so careless. It was at this very moment, the moment of Tom's mostextreme humiliation that George forgave Tom. Quite reluctantly and withprofound forbearance, he had advised, with rich, rump‑textured tones, "Myson, I love you, and sometimes you do behave just like Tarzan's Chimp ‑‑ but wemust also forgive the chimps my child!" Tom had been eight.

The next day, Tom onlywanted to say good‑bye; just once and for all excuse himself to both Daina andher husband. Yet his shirt was on the wrong way round. He was no Tarzan."Tarzan never wore shirts anyway," he said under his breath.

"You are reallynot leaving are you, Tom?" You KNOW I'll be alone," Daina said.

The fire ‑‑ the heat ‑‑had been dismissed as part of nature's fury ‑‑ a natural disaster. Theblackness of the land was already flecked with green. ‑‑Sprouts of life were nature'sown. And all of a sudden, everything seemed ever so far off and yet so close.For it was Leslie he had loved. And, Tom remembered well this time of year, andhow it felt when they had first "made love".

The deciduous treeshad whistled and echoed, just like they did today. Tom had gone down the bushpath to meet her, his palms sweating through his pink, clenched‑up fingers. Itwas a secret meeting. They had conspired together, like thieves in the night.The sun skimmed along her form, all along the dull bush path, a yard off.Summer colours chimed with insects, intersecting, flying, buzzing, crawling inthe wet, green hedges. Shimmering lights appeared. The sun had masked her,shuffling up the garden path‑‑ he pulled her tightly to him. He'd let histongue penetrate her open, inviting mouth. He laughed with her; touched herlips, caressed them, sucked them, licked them.

No, that was afantasy. He should admit it. The truth would set him free. He must confess, ifeven only to himself. No, instead, she "leaned back" and he took herbreasts in his mouth, tipped them onto his tongue on every pass. He'd noticedthe sounds around him were becoming bigger, coherent. "There was a rhythmto the Earth," he remembered thinking that, "and a song".

That was the same dayof the evening when they'd passed each other one of Leslie's ciggies as theysat at the beach campfire. What a strange night. In the corner of his eye heremembered catching a meteorite, time‑travelling the night sky ‑‑ and he hadbeen awestruck.

And as he looked ather, her smile, twisted, her laugh echoing in the flickering light. At thatmoment, he just wanted to . . . . . . . . smoke some more, look up at theconstellations of the night and then to continue to hold her. And Leslie hadwhispered in his ear, " Tom, I am a cool, nectarine drink‑‑and I let yousuck the nectarine from me, although I didn't suck the nectarine from you‑‑notthis time anyway ‑‑ I still remember the crashing ocean on the beach, and theblur and the haze, of your leaving me."

What did it all mean?Tom could not fathom it. It seemed so like a dream at the time ‑‑ but it wasnot just another haze of the unreal. She'd said it in the aftermath of a day ofsocial hieroglyphics: Such things as the clothes we wear, the way we brush ourhair, the way we clean our teeth at night, or fail to do so and must try andremember in the morning...all these elements that must brush us away. "Istill remembered holding you around your waist", she breathed, " yourbelly firm and supple, and your cock soft and warm as a dream. The perfectshape."

Then thetransformation. In a motion dream. The beach, the line of sand dunes ‑‑ stillwarm, all in motion.

" It seemed to mewe were creating soft waves," she had said to him once.

"You were determined;funny‑‑making our whole lives seem gratuitous.

"Softpenetration; deep arc.

"The nightslipped by ‑‑ we slept as we had never slept ‑‑ under the influence of a heavydrug.

"I would havesucked the warm pollen from you if only I could have," Leslie swooned.

Tom grinned. It hadfinally come to him. He knew what pollen meant.

"Another night ‑‑and hope was closing in on us," she had said. "We had to live on hopeinstead of some bread of hope; we knew this was just around the corner.

"We knew an endwas just around the corner,

"~~ and so wecouldn't even say "good‑bye. We simply threw up in a separate veggiepatches; and departed."

What had she meant bythis? Oh yes, the Jameson's made us ill.

"Instead, wemight have jumped into the soft flowerbed and let the green sea swirl us far,and far away!"

Indeed, upon thegrasslands, Tom's mind had erupted, separated so to speak. He had seen Herghost, locked frantically into another time. It had been then that he'd brokenhis hold on Leslie. His mother intervened. The sickly sweet smell. What was it?L' Air du Temps Parfum left long unused on the bedroom shelf? It had been herfavourite.

Yes, it was then thatthey'd drifted, fallen apart.

"Leslie!"Tom had sighed‑‑ and coolness faded over the greens. He stood alone again,beside the path, sucking in soft tears against his hot cheeks. He rememberedhis mother. Oh poor mother. She had found the crumpled conveyance from hisfather. He could see her. She held the onion skin paper between her silky, quiveringfinger bones. The writing in it didn't make any sense.

"The Earth has noheart. It has a big, frightening cock, instead." He knew it now. Day wouldcome, and Death would come ‑‑ three things. Mean time, NIGHT would shield himand protect his dreams.

And Leslie, she hadshrugged her shoulders, as if she hadn't actually expected anything, right fromthe start. She tried to get started, but.... "Tom? What is the matter?...You have . . . problems?‑‑ Is it ... HOME?

"Oh! Tom? Whatwill you do? Will you stay? ...or will you go back home‑‑ now?"

It was all too muchfor poor Tom‑‑the voices echoed, softly, in his head as Leslie quaked softly ‑‑her mascara soon stained by random‑flowing tears ‑‑tears which would go on , upto NOWHERE, recycle, sift over the Earth in pain, and roll into the Sea.

"My mother!"Tom had said, finally.

"What?"Leslie replied.

"I just wanted toSay.. I wanted to SEE where she lived, how she was married.." "‑‑Howshe lived?"

Leslie's learnedschool teacher repartee was precise and to the point, "Oh, Tom!"

Tom could see her nowwhen he closed his eyes. Leslie was packing up her things: the books, thebrushes, the little curly paper winds she had used to do her hair.

"I'd love to stayand chat, Tom, but you seem to be entangled in so many things; and it's toomuch for me right now... Everything has lost its balance , Tom ‑‑ we must keepours, as solitary individuals‑‑ and if you do not find your dreams, make surethey will see to it, we are punished! We are so lucky to have had this time,together, and we simply cannot hope for more than this .."

These last words fellaway into a whisper. They drifted off‑‑ these sounds of their conversationsfaded and were gone. And Tom, reflecting back, was certain now‑‑what had beensaid could not be easily undone. A master, a peasant... a north windsympathiser...His thoughts of Leslie stopped. He was ..virtually"gone" from her now...back to the place where he'd left his bike ‑‑,to rust and fall apart in the rain, unprotected and unloved and with aflattened tire.

Grass always grewgreen under his Father's feet: The Earth degrades. His father had said this wasits natural pattern. But ‑people_ WILL spring up from it. And for his father,degradation always brought the hope of something newer. Love was surely a cold,hard stone ‑‑ an amethyst. No, the resemblance to the softness of .. thedream... a cow's heart, a pulsating, red, sacrifice: A soft intensity. The lifeonce given could not easily be taken back.

Tom remembered hisfather giving him cows' hearts to play with, collected from the weekend at theslaughter yard ‑‑ which Tom was expressly forbidden to visit. Goats' heartstoo, accumulated from the weekend's work. And offal, plenty of offal. The softvibrancy of their liquid surface‑‑an artistic curiosity. A delicate boy (fromhis mother's side), Tom doted on the funnels and the passage which lead ‑‑ oneway or another ‑‑ into the pumping valves and out again, and from the otherside. The intricacies of life...a soft jewel, a forbidden present. His dreamswere detours through this heart; a means to pass the time: A gift. The earthwas less kind to women. Africa was dry as dust. His mother knew that.

When the pain started,Leslie stopped. And where pain STOPPED, there, Leslie could come into fruitionagain. And thus, was everything predicated on pain ‑‑ a STRONG definition andlogical, too! Nobody could argue with it!

"Good‑bye Leslie ‑‑I have already loved you!! Toss up your freckled nose!"

And Leslie....

"You cannot seeit, Tom? Your mother's country set the stones for you to follow. Now you followthem everywhere. You follow in the way of women who have gone before, and youdon't know 'Why',"

Tom chortled, lookeddown and began to walk back in the direction of where he had left his bike.Leslie saw her blond boy disappearing off into the distance. Caught up in astorm, pursuing cobbled stones along a dirt road. He disappeared: a slouchingheap of bowed‑over bones, "who will soon be reclining over his fucking,precious bike again. Human genetic material, it was," Leslie thought,"heading south on some guilt infested oedipal pilgrimage,"sheshrugged.

Tom's blond hairdisappeared into the grey....she had pulled a stray one from his chest. It hadcaught up against her neck , inside her collar, as they'd said "good‑bye".He was too pale for this country ‑‑ Almost a ghost now . . . blended white withlight grey on the old tar road. Yet: "Something in the wind loveshim?" ‑‑ she sighed. She knew this was untrue, but it made her feel goodto think it and to think it honestly.

The night was ebony.It had suddenly turned inky, and seemed as though it would remain so for theduration. Still, Tom found his racer, sooner than he thought he would ‑‑ undera tree. Twisted and grey, unloved by the earth , as if spewn out by a demon.There was no hope ... here, he thought. Besides, the gravel hurt his feet. Hegot on his bike and peddled as fast as he could, south, to warmth, ever south,to the bright, to the light from above.

He found his way toFort Victoria and met up with some locals. There, if he decided to, they wouldshare some beer. He'd liked frothy maize beer when he first had tried it ‑‑ itwas .... intoxicating. And it made him forget his more morbid thoughts. Theghosts in the chapel were dead, and so were his ancestors. "Let them burythemselves," he mused. Years and years of dead bodies, straining, linkingto each other under ground, all the way back to the bottom of the earth and thebeginnings of time. So, were his thoughts on living and on being alive.

After Fort Victoriaand his hangover, he took the right fork in the road out of town. He bent thebow against his former path. "I'm going home to Love," he toldhimself, his headache throbbing. "Ah! the warm nested cradle of myexpectations! The past of brave Old Souls, giving warmth to frozen, hiddenhearts." These were the stories his mother would have told ‑‑ she was upin the sky, and looking down on him. (No longer a frozen heart.) She loomed upgraciously, with the hot smell of brandied spirits. The thought of brandy madehis sick to his stomach. The ancestral spirits would be his guides. They couldsoothe into a liquid form, a lost heart.

A black cloud, anancestral thumb, a snub nose, a hairy soft, inviting toe, warmed itself on thehorizon. A stray storm cloud, merging obliquely with the grey, beneath areddening sun: Profuse with life, some storm birds ‑scampered‑ upwards, archedin rows over the sky, in search of succour, life, the wind in his face, hisbicycle arching along...

"I am going tothe chapel, to find my mother," he'd announced ‑ to Leslie. "MY past,and My life......." ‑‑ There is warmth here, in the cradle of mankind.."and such cool air!" "We are never alone, when we at peacewith ourselves," "We find this peace, and that will make usfree." ‑‑ the rhythm of life, falling, rising, the soft pulsating of life,the dull zip of the bike, and clinker as he altered gears . . . . theefficiency of a Western lifestyle...Sundays, Kentucky Fried Chicken, BurgerKing, McDonalds, Walmart, Big John Mazmanian, Funny Cars...

Back home in WestTexas, his father wielded his long, baton‑stick. Tom‑Thumb, the sheep dognudged George's arm. Thumb had always been a good replacement for his son or soGeorge thought. He'd had to be. George stroked the corn‑silken hair of thegrateful porch dog. ‑‑ Musing‑‑ Tom had always brought his school work home,and was always quiet and respectful. He was the very model of a perfect son.His hair was so long and brown. The unexpected attention which had just comemade him pant‑‑ he was the perfect model of a perfect companion.

George threw the ball,as he soliloquised: "My son, you are the loyal 'pal': I love you!"

"Your energysurely knoweth no bounds ‑‑ hence I love thou!"

"Whenever ‑(that's at any time), I throw a ball , you must come bounding up; your hair isas if on fire, in reflection of the glaring sun! When you bring back the ball,I will feed you and take care of you and you will thank me with wags, just as Ithanketh the Lord with prayer." And yet....these words had always beenplain enough to see : "You are NOT good enough!" If ever he shouldshow a trace of waywardness or unpredictability, he'd brought himself in line,and humbly conceded, what was important in this life was to be "good"‑‑ his Father smiled in fondest memory.

Old crimes were easilyforgiven. When Tom played his basketball, he had a firm strong, body. Sinewyeven. Not flabby like today. He was a creature to be seen ‑‑ with his alabasterwhite skin , "his firm and lengthy body, stretching...stretching... forthe hoop.... He brings it back, I pat him well, on the head....Oh, your motherused to say you would grow up to be a big, strong, boy," his fathermuttered, resolutely‑‑ patting the silky creature next to him, gently upon thehead‑‑ "And she was right!" Oh, if your mother didn't know it ‑‑ shewas ‑‑always‑‑ right!! So far right was she,, she died on the blade of her ownbelief in me."

The boy had understoodthis was just George's way of just consoling himself: his dog, his ball, hismutterings ‑a mental and emotional barrier against the recall of her loss.

Tom had often knownhumid days like these ‑‑ clouds hung low air soft and silky, and yet defined...enough humidity to rain ‑‑ but still the crisp, and countervailing force,prevailed...breathing in refreshing air, refining it, through the earth. Thecool and gentle, probing fingers , reaching up to life. He was reborn again ‑‑a MAN on a bicycle now ‑‑ he was still a dreamer, on a sea of shaky clouds andice. This dark could do this to a human; if he is enough of an intrepiddreamer. The coolness wiped away sullen, drooling clouds let forth thepossibility of early morning rain. Like Tom, the hyena could be seen, soonlapping up the traces of the morning's spoils, ingesting the sweet carrionthrough its lulling glands, along the track it follows. Tom absorbed the air ofthe explorers ‑‑ Sucked it down, ingested it. Threw it up, for it hadintoxicated him. Until he was but a fractured, memory‑remnant of the Western world‑‑ Still, part of Africa, and therefore in a categorical and finite sense, notyet civil, holy. The bike felt good under him, sturdy, balanced.

He owned no real home,not any more, yet he followed a dream, the will of an apparition; the dream ofa man with a raised and pointed spear. "That other life is not for you ,Tom. Here you might breathe". . . .the warm thought exposing his fears,unveiling his dreams. " . . .If you must breathe at all" . . . Thewarm tongue of the hyena freshens over frosted and cold scent glands. "Ourancestors will always reach out to us through their will." Tom's ancestorhad heavy boots, and whimsical eyes. His ancestor gazed soulfully up to theskies, and laughed a little. His boots were red and overlarge. His eyes wereoverdrawn, and startled looking.

And then, he felt apresence, as if he was no longer alone, zipping along on a lonely, African dirtroad. He was somewhere..out beyond an old farm gate on a small kraal , tuckedup and cordoned off, in a rambling, abandoned section of a farm. The sky slunkin heaviness with its humidity and yet the air remained clear, the firmamentappeared black with sparkling specks of ivory; paused to dust off feet, adetail of childhood which Tom repeated. Looking up at the sky, looking at itssolid, shimmering sackcloth and translucent panthers, moving in the night, Tomfelt a bit nervous, frightened....The kraal smoked . . . dust flew: Ashes, woodsmoke, dead bones, and the smell of cooking hen. He saw no lights, except ashiny flicker of a mud hut wall; its circularity gave it some harsh form. Itwas a home ‑‑ a break from his long journey.

A dust track led himso ‑ far‑. ‑ it was cold! ‑‑the sweat, the silence, made it damper ‑‑ turned tofreezing under all the wool against the skin. ... As he approached thisstructure ‑‑shadows began disappearing into nightfall‑‑. Seeing the body ofshadow against other shadows. That was the time he remembered: "Come hereTom!!" ‑‑ the way his mother used to say it. He chased her ghost along thehills' slope...

"Yeessss,"the voice queried in flat song. Ah yeess. Alright, you can sleep out here. Ifyou are not cold? Well, fine."

"I've come downhere to find my . .bike," Tom said, holding his racer.

The man stood near thegrass fence, holding in cattle, smiled and pointed to Tom's bike.

"Tom, Tom, thebutcher's son" went through his head at that moment. And then, he spiedthe man's cattle. He enjoyed watching the animals shivering off the mosquitoes.He set his bike against the fence.

The man led Tom to thehut. Hushed whispers.

"Who werethey...these? Apparitions...? Parents? Teachers?" Tom was unsure. Therewas time enough for slowness, for a fumbling‑‑ a match‑a paraffin light flaresup a dull pink and orange. Flashes of light around the hut revealed shiftingbody patterns, almost shapeless up against the shadows, twirling 'round thewall. A soft interchange ensued .... "but still, they seem only to lastforever", Tom thought, why he did not know. The forms stopped and simmeredas the light was turned suddenly away. And then him, the masked shaman appearedand as quickly, he disappeared. Then he appeared. Only to disappear again.

Just outside, the skywas black again, cold as coal. The air inside became filled with forms that canonly be felt as you approach them‑‑rocks and huts and trees. These seemed as ifto reformulate themselves as they were passed by, as by a twirling cycle intoblackness, nothingness.

Tom abruptly leftthrough the hut door. And the grass outside was cold and silky, crumbling, softwith the plenitude of night‑formed dew. The trees began to circle round them,for others had exited shortly after Tom and the man who had tended cattle swung'round his lamp. Tom was shaken into life by the very depth of nothingness.Bodies seem to follow, trickling. Something moving in the void, losing theirshape in everything else, as they passed by. He pretended that the stars wereCops, and began shooting at them with his index finger, systematically.

Their bravereflections broken down, were reconstituted, broke down and reformed, as iftheir souls were rocks and trees and air.

The shaman put thelamp down on the formless earth. It shaped a glow, became a greenish light,moving forms of sand and gravel. And nobody spoke. They did not speak. Theyguffawed instead. Again, they moved. They climbed upwards now and the guide wason the point of disappearing. His swinging paraffin lamp still marked hissolitary form, an almost gesture‑less form of irradiation emerging, punctuatingthe darkness. It spilled, heaping onto the rocks and the trees, which were nowup, away, like helium balloons, released, free. Tom continued to grapple withthe earth, lifting the gravel with the toe of his shoe. New emerald greenshoots had appeared between the shreds and spokes of yellow grasses. Up abovethe hill, the sky cracked open. There was, as it would seem, a plenitude ofbright light.

No, it had been merelythe light from another lonely campfire. Tom walked toward its inviting light.And here were shocked, white faces, laughing, talking, whispering up into thesky. He breathed out sighs of relief. ‑‑"Come. It's warm here in thecampfire light. The body can recuperate all its gathered sweat and tears,"a British voice said. Night sheltered everything. There was no one else formiles.

Shallow grins returnedto lightening flashes of recollections, slunk low beneath the dreamer's hollowsurface. Faces which had been invisible were now brought to mind. The dust thatfell was flat: ghostly, cold. Smoke let out an age old smell‑and flavour‑‑ froma far‑off thatched‑roof chimneys. The tension eroded all desire for lighttouching ‑‑ Fingers slithered off ...into the blackness. Tom sighed. The grasswas also flattened, and nothing answered his lament.

Then, somebody let outa cry. A cackle. Followed by a joke. The muffled huffing of compressedemotions, expressed as a solitary whimper of aloneness. Tom's life had beenuntil now.... laughter, a sense of elevation....

"How did you gethere?" a voice asked. He had no idea how far he'd walked and ridden hisbike. His legs were aching: His brain was throbbing, in the dust and heat."How did you get here?" Tom asked. "We hitchhiked down from VicFalls, after our bus broke down," one voice said. "So we decided togo South. We travelled here in every sort of vehicle. "Why are youhere?"

"You'llunderstand properly, in good time," Tom replied. "No, I mean, mymother. Her wedding chapel. I'm here to find it."

"Here?" avoice came.

"No, not exactlyhere," Tom replied.

At that point, theconversation dropped off. The sky was still thick as hessian for all of itsrelease, as if holding down the earth in static lack of motion and oppression.He and the four visitors to Africa shared toasted flesh, though it was gray andslippery, inside. And with rivets of pink and white, still not well‑cooked. Tomate anyway, for that boy was hungry. He ate the charcoal and the raw bits, too,slurping and licking it, until there was nothing left. "The flames aregoing out. Maybe some kind soul will fetch us soon..? There are only thornbushes around here!" a woman said.

"I'll look formore wood, further out!" A body was departing, features flurried... in theflickering... Tom saw it was Leslie's. But that could not be. Leslie was goneor rather, he had left Leslie long ago.

And then the skyrained blood on them, heavy, cold and thick, putting out their fire andscattering the visitors towards whatever shelter they could find. Tom ran intothe night as well, his imagination charging at full steam. The flash ofdisintegrated comets, falling in pools of love, into the desert passed beforehis mind's eye. They felt it as warmth ‑‑ that they were ghosts ofmissionaries, and starlit and crazy, ‑‑ ghosts of freedom fighters ‑‑ The colddid not affect these crazy apparitions, nor did it make their teeth chatter.The earth was not so parched that it soaked up the rain, but it rather let thestreamlets flow out around, gushing down and swirling its way around theirbodies, cutting ice into their spine bases..

"I'm so tired . ..frightened, and now my shoes are soaked." Hushed whispers followed. Aform in human shape appeared, stooped; fumbled for a match to strike a paraffinlight. It flared up a dull pink and orange.

The figure flashed thelight around the faces, revealing shifting body patterns, almost shapeless upagainst the shadows, twirling 'round the thorn bushes. The forms stopped andseemingly simmered as the light was turned, suddenly, away! A hand fell onTom's shoulder, "I have come to get you now!" ‑‑ the witchdoctor'secho resounded; at this moment, soft and hushed. Each followed by holding on toa long stick, to keep their paces solid, steady, and together ‑‑ a game he hadoften played with Mother.

"I seek mymother's Spirit‑‑ ?" Tom replied with shaking tone.

"We will speak toher, for you!" the voice sounded assured, compliant.

"I thought Imight have lost my precious bike," Tom confessed, with his shamefacedearnestness‑"also my air gun." For he'd just remembered he'd misplacethat as well.

"Ah, we will bethe ones to help you find it."

The trees appeared tocircle round the couple, as Tom's guide swung 'round the lamp. Shaken into lifeby the very depth of nothingness, bodies seemed to flow, as if by a trick, ormagic element. The forms now lost their shape in bush and trees and as theypast by, the light echoed, spilling into rocks and trees which were now somedistance off. The air contained a silence, once again ‑‑ tracks of missingbirds. Huts, brick hostels, and chimneys ‑‑ all transposed in light and goldenflashes from the lantern up above. A dog sniffed them there; growling huskily.The cur slunk in those shadows ‑‑ almost a part of those shadows, and not real,skulked under the clamour and fatigue. It followed Tom, and snapped at behindhis ankles. The cold air cut his gut. The man in the humidified hut shook upblocks, holding them vehemently, in cold contempt, viewing his new guests withshocked suspicion. Throwing a gash opened glance at them, he smiled. The man'sthorn‑stick poked the boy; just like a cold thing, in the ribs, provoking awarm, alcohol‑sensation. Tom thought his heart would leap on to the stick: Itdidn't.

The witchdoctorshrieked, guffawed; yearned, and cried: "You are not ...afraid..?""Don't speak ‑‑ Drink‑‑!" A hot pink liquid gushed, clung to hisveins , stung his lips as it passed. The face became more frightening, intense,more quizzical, emphatic: "You like...?"

Tom swallowed.

"I want tofiinnnnd maaeey way to go baaaack hooome!" cried Tom, his voice meandering,and quivering.

"Your mother leftyou!!But first, your father murdered her!!" the witchdoctor cackled, quitehysterically.

The temperatureimmediately sunk. A dog howled. Tom laughed and shivered as well and timeslowed for what seemed centuries ‑‑ as the ghosts and forms of the present timereceded.

As the air cleared up,the smoke dissipated, and everything was sharp. The apparitions became strongagain, solemn, and tangible.

"Go back quietly ‑‑I will come again for you!"

Tom walked alone, backto the abandoned hut‑‑ and tucked himself inside , under hessian blankets.Snuggled in a corner, found a space and dreamt of Leslie, thought of Leslie,sucked her golden nipples and then awake, thought of life and death, which waslike the blackness outside, would never reach them, inside in this coolness, inthis snugness. Death had taken her‑‑his mother, his father, how could he‑‑ heknew, kept her safe, inside a cave, and safe from his father's rage. Thesinking feeling ‑‑as if he'd become so accustomed to the vaporizing feeling ofthe soul, AS IF nothing was solid, as if everything he'd been told must be alie and was gone, suddenly! All had been vanquished in the breeze of the nowcalm African night, which penetrated into the broad mud hut, through an opendoor. It gave him peace ‑‑ which was all he could hope for in the silent night."It was DARK ‑it WAS freezing ‑‑ We almost ‑got‑ lost but then thevilllagers found us!" he'd tell his all his acquaintances back home."The apparitions from the witch doctor came and rescued us." "‑‑BUT‑‑ before, I fell and cut myself ‑‑ And LOOK ‑‑ I've even got the scar to proveit...." And outside, the night was still pitch black. And Tom, resting,half awake, half rested, transfixed by its stillness, he was finally lulled tosleep again.

This was a true sleep,deep sleep, transfixed in the bosom of Leslie. Leslie's thighs, so deep andwelcoming. His dreams were not thwarted ‑‑ he was IN them, feeling them,feeling the warm flesh body actually surround him. Soft, and yet so warm, thedepth contrasted with the silky surface, so: dreams of newness, starting, andbeginning again.

Immediately there werestrong, half muffled voices, in another language. Yiddish? Not English‑‑African.A furious dialogue resounded: Incoherent to him, in his now half frightenedslumber: LOUD, an interchange that went on over , and over, following the samepattern. And then, ever so silent.

The sun came up somedays afterwards. George Miller stood near the hut and surveyed his son's long,fallen body, notebook in hand, writing with meticulous care. It was a sharp,bright day, and light flooded everything ‑ more brightly, he thought, thananything he had ever seen!

As far as the bodywent there was not a scratch on it... Almost a perfect corpse, George wrote tohimself. Except for the root of the neck , where the blade had severed it cleanthrough, it was still perfect‑‑ a token of snow in this strange African bush.

"It was a cleankill." George would give them that. No human sacrifice could have beenmore pure, he wrote. ‑‑ It was still ... quite disturbing. But, in a pleasingsort of way. "One becomes a thing and feels pleased with these things,after a while. His will be done," he mused.

Tom hadn't managed tofulfil his mission: After all.... "Tom ..... had no lover: no wife!! He...had only the soft pallor of his alabaster skin... I too wanted mother. Ifound none. I did find a chapel though. My cock has gone ... to roost withJesus!"

Cold, black raindropsstarted falling.

"It was allnatural, a God given cycle, it was. First day, then night fell:‑‑ BANG ‑‑ as ifit were an executioner's blade....Thus ‑‑ nightfall," George thought."The sacrifice was done."

Dogs which scavengehad already come and then gone.

Wobbly times number 118

2011-07-14T00:35:00.001-07:00

Team Player

Larrikin to corporate high flyers

there you sit

on top of your childhood dreams

and a pile of money

playing footy

for your team

just as you did when

you were once a child and teen

Oh what a time that was

The coach was stern

and you would learn

discipline while on the field

Well

sometimes you had to show

who’s boss

and your mates amongst

the working class

drinking mid-strength

in the stands

and together with the richer ones

behind the glass

and in the comfy seats

where the full-strength beer

and champagne flowed

all of them

would raise a cheer

when you rammed the other team

injuries galore

reconstructed knees and noses

shoulders too

cheekbones

hell

But you would soldier on

through the national anthem

then the game and then

“Advance Australia fair”

to the pub

where sometimes you were bad boys

in your corporate sponsors’ eyes

and those who drank champagne

and full-strength beer

at all the games

They’d diss your larrikin ways

being such an uncivilised

paddock-boy

suspension for

pissing on a public wall

or getting into common brawls

and like the Brit Police

in times afore

they’d taunt you in the news

with some national pride to boot

Loyalty to the bosses would be demanded

especially their image

“No tarnish please”

You’d become their public face

They’d turn on you

all claiming grace

For they’d want their markets

to be safe

for their children

and for yours

to make heroes out of

loyal servants of the game

who’d fight for them

and them alone

our team

our nation

when the time is right

not when it is wrong

When they issue orders to attack

other nations

other teams

and those who break their law

you know

the larrikins and all

Wobbly times number 117

2011-06-02T18:19:00.000-07:00

“After the conquest of Assyria, Cyrus’ next desire was to subdue the Massagetae, whose country lies far to the eastward beyond the Araxes, opposite the Issedones; they are reputed to be a numerous and warlike people and some suppose them to be of Scythian nationality. The Araxes is said by some to be bigger than the Danube, by others to be not so big. It is also said to have a number of islands in it as large as Lesbos, where men live during summer on various kinds of roots which they dig up, and for their winter supplies pick as it ripens and put into store any sort of tree-fruit which they have found to be suitable for food. They have also discovered another tree whose fruit has a very odd property: for when they have parties and sit round a fire, they throw some of it into the flames, and as it burns it smokes like incense, and the smell of it makes them drunk just as wine does the Greeks; and they get more and more intoxicated as more fruit is thrown on until they jump up and start dancing and singing. Such at least are the reports on how these people live.”

Herodotus, THE HISTORIES, Book One p.89, written a little over 2,600 years ago

30,000 years ago

The hunters ran directly into the wind. This allowed them to pick up the scent of their game while shielding their own bodies from detection. The thick forest covered them from the burning sun as they dashed under its cool, leafy canopy. The ground felt soft and sensuous under foot. It had been two suns and an evening full of sparkling stars since he had married. She had sated herself twice during these same sun round days. Her eyes were more sharply fixed on their task. Food was their most immediate, common need. Their stomachs reminded them of this, growling like protecting home dogs. Only red berries had been shared between them since the sun had risen. Running kept their cravings at bay. When they stopped to look at broken branches or scuffled grass, their hunger snarled a return. Each time its insistence felt more ferocious.

The footprint interrupted their quick pace. A sunbeam shot down to the forest floor, exposing a pig’s track. She knelt, then gauged the depth of the impression and smiled up at Ahzo with hunter’s wisdom. It was a heavy boar. There would be much meat, enough to last many sun round days. Good welcome and pleasure would be theirs, when they returned home.

Her eyes focussed on the moisture ensconced in the miniature precipices left by the pig’s hoof. She noticed wetness sliding down the indentations of the track. Her eyes glanced up at him. “Fresh” she insisted with her finger. She pointed towards the well worn animal trail. The boar would be up-wind, moving toward the river to slake its thirst. Ahzo smiled and nodded recognition of what Kah had silently imparted. They leapt up, stealthily moving in the direction the pig’s prints led them.

The sun stayed long in the sky, making its round. These were warm times. Cover-skins had no use. Sweat gleamed from their stripped, muscled torsos. They held their spears in perfect balance as they ran with animal quiet. Hands had been their family’s first weapons. This was known through the songs their ancestors had sung; the songs which they sang. It was carved on sacred trees for all who lived to see. It was painted on the walls of cavern underground for their family spirits. They had been given wisdom by those who had come before, those who no longer moved within their bodies. Those parts of the family had long passed into the Earth. Their spirits gave power to the family.

The rubbed wood of their weapons felt smooth to the touch. Each spear shaft had been meticulously crafted to fit the grip of the one carrier’s throwing hand. The single place which wasn’t smooth was at the centrally balanced grip. There, the spear’s polished continuity gave way to a fine, specially grooved shank. The unique pattern of grooving was the ancestral mark. It was at this gripping point that they held their spears in transit. It was from this point that they would hurl their pointed spears, releasing spirits from the flesh of the animals they stalked. Hunters kept their weapons sharp to make the spirit’s exit quick. A clean kill was a sign of respect for life.

The two hunters were one, even as they ran separately. Their ancestors were part of their spears, just as they were part of themselves and their family. All was linked: animals and family, land and sky, water and blood, body and spirit. All was connected, seen and unseen, lived and dreamed. This was felt. Animals killed to eat and feed their young, just as the family did. To kill without hunger was dishonour. It was shunned.

The family idolized their place on this land. Their ancestors had chosen this place. The Earth here provided them with what they needed to live. They paid homage to it as they exalted the sun, the moon, the stars, the water, the plants, the animals, in short, they honoured all beings in their surroundings, as they honoured themselves. They knew the way. The way joined the wisdom of before with the power of harmony, now. The way was passed on to them by their ancestors when they lived and when they dreamed. As mothers passed their blood and gave flesh to newborns and as that self-same flesh gave way its spirit to the Earth, they saw the grand connection, the way. They were dependent on the lives of the animals, even as they killed them, releasing their spirts and eating their flesh to sustain themselves. They knew that like their ancestors, the animals they ate would return to the Earth as they had come from the females of the Earth and were sustained by the Earth, The Grand Mother of life.

Respect and regard were what their elders and their ancestors taught them to cause, both in their nightly dreams and in the light of waking day. Rocks and trees had been coloured with images in homage to the spirits of lives past. Life past made life now possible. They honoured each other and their family as they cared for this place. Their blood and the blood of others would return to the Earth and their children and their childrens’ children would live as family with their place. Their blood was linked with the bodies of their ancestors, the animals. They has all become part of the forest and plain. It became all that they were a part of.

They knew this place since sun first came round to light the day. They knew its contours like they knew their bodies. The river was over the next hill. Their run turned trot and transfigured effortlessly into savage quiet, like the cunning crawl of cats near prey. As they reached the top of the rise, their vision caught the movement of the pig’s bulk. The current of its passage bent the green river brush. It emerged slowly, warily from waves of grass, to the river’s edge. The boar’s balls swayed as his snout twitched. His eyes nervously skimmed the rushing eddies and currents. Sensing nothing behind him and no submerged danger, he sipped. On third gulp, the hunters sprang noiselessly and with one motion and sent their spears plunging deeply into the pig's fat, meat-bloody flesh. The animal dashed sideways up the river bank, squealing as the two spears bobbed in it’s body, blood spurting from small gashes where their weapons had entered. Her spear had penetrated through the boar’s neck and had come out through the animal’s open jaw. His went through the pig’s back and into his chest. They both ran to catch the animal; but before they could reach him, the pig’s body slumped on the muddy river bank with death-wide eyes.

Then! The splash from the river’s opposite bank--oncoming crocodiles. With their ears intently listening to the waters’ movement, Kah and Ahzo’s full visual and physical attention was fixed on their spears protruding from the boar’s silent carcass. With seasoned hunter’s skill, she held the animal’s head as he shoved her spear completely through the pig’s mouth until the blunt end made its exit. He tossed her spear up to the flattened grass on the river bank. Then he pulled the body around so that she could push his weapon’s warhead out of the chest cavity. She worked quickly pulling the shank completely out of the animal’s torso. Then, she tossed his weapon up to the grassy hillock. Kah deftly tugged at the pig’s back haunches while Ahzo pushed the hulking body up the incline and on to the grass. Ahzo made a last, strong push to get the animal’s flesh safely away from the river’s dangers. As he did, he slipped-- then tumbled down the muddy slope, his mass ending up knee deep in muddy water.

“Ahzo!” Kah screamed, wild eyed, directing the blunt end of her spear towards his outstretched hands. His eyes widened fiercely. Hurriedly, he grabbed the spear’s end. She gave it a strong, steady pull, as he slipped and scrambled up the murky river’s side, just ahead of a powerful, voracious “SNAP!” Exhausted, he fell on her, shivering. And then he began laughing. And then Kah began laughing. Their boar lay next to them, its blood returning to the Earth.

The family would be pleased with this fine hunt. When they returned the cave door would be half blocked with stone. As was the custom, dried joy-plant would be placed in the home fire. It would be a good time. All would relish the smell and smoke and the feelings they had for each other. This they knew, for this was how they had lived before. There would be song and dance outside the entrance to their home and as the day’s sun passed to evening’s stars, the boar’s flesh would roast over open flames. Feast would be mixed with play and song, beaten out on rhythm logs and danced with lusty smiles. As the night wore on, the family would take pleasure in each other’s bodies, joining til exhaustion, then to dream until the first hints of dawn’s orange glow when birds would once again greet the sunlit day with song.

The hunters had been triumphant. He felt her body under his. His stomach growled again, but urge for her welled up too. She looked deeply at him. Her eyes and face smiled with desire. The Earth held them hard to her breast. Her legs wrapped around his body. His craving met her devouring passion. Their sun draped bodies, glistening in the grass, the mud and sweat, entangled, free, the pounding of ancestral yearning, as dreamy thought on waking minds.

Tight embrace gave way to ebb and peering into one another’s eyes with care. They knew family once again. Their cravings sated, they prepared the heavy pig for transport back to camp and home and all the joy that life could bring.

CHAPTER 2

“We wait for Ahzo and Kah. They will return and then our feast begins. The spirits of my sleep have told me this: We have burnt the white bones of our last meal black and have buried them. Our ancestors are cared for. They smile. Soon, we will eat the flesh of Earth’s creation. Kah and Ahzo carry her bounty to us now.”

Ree had spoken. She was a family mother. Among the elders, she held wisest attention for she had created children and was closer to those who had returned to the soil than any other. Her tie to the family was complete, like the roundness of day and night and the passing of cold times into warm and back again. She had been on the land as a child when the family first knew joy plant’s spirit as it came up in fire’s passion. Ree no longer had teeth. Family members had to chew tough meat and plants for her so she could remain alive. Her voice had most respect, for her life had been on this land longer than any other family member. She would soon return to the Earth, speaking only from when the family dreamt. Until then, her living counsel was precious. She remembered more than anyone, especially of the wisdom which passed from the spirits as she lay sleeping on the Earth which covered our family flesh and bone our mother, creator of all. We who lived in flesh and bone cared for them. When we closed our eyes, our spirits walked with them in their strange places. Ree was dear to those whose eyes were forever closed. They spoke more clearly to her than to anyone in the family. Her heart was constant true, in and out of spirit.

Because he was hungry, young Maj was beginning to feel the worm of fear. He knew the family felt the same, invisible worms gnawing in their bellies. He wanted to renew the hunt. Ree could see it in his anxious, angry eyes. Ree was prescient. She said, “No. Stay Maj. Your strength can help protect our family from the dangers. Outside our camp, there are those who would hunt us for our flesh. Ahzo and Kah will return. Our spirits know this. The family has hunger and is afraid. We know this.”

We knew Ree’s thoughts and her actions were right. They had been certain before and they would be now. We relied on knowing our past, as our past was in our spirits and our ancestors had given us a future and our present was only here because our ancestors’ lives had given it to us. We listened to their counsel through Ree.

Fat rain drops began to fall on our bodies. They were not cold. We remained under them, outside the shelter of our cave, waiting. Our black spirits touched and danced along the trees’ limbs. We continued to look to the distance for our hunters as raven haired sky rolled low over our heads. It spat its loud, deep voice as an avalanche from a mountain side. Then it flashed its giant’s face into ours and made us tremble. We looked to Ree. She smiled. It was as it should be, she gestured with a sweeping move of her arm. Furies pushed the air, rushing leaves and strong clean smells, while bending trees top branches. The dull, light green backs of leaves fluttered up, then over to their greener, shiny sun-sides. We looked into the distance for a sign of good hope. A retreat began into the shelter of our home.

It was warm in the cave. Fire burned; his spirit was a lively crackle. He would still be alive when the animal was brought back from the hunt by Kah and Ahzo to be roasted for the feast of pleasure and sating. The family had piled dry wood for our fire back in the darkness to ensure his continuing life. Kooch watched him dance. She knew how to keep his force vital. She was mother here. The family’s fire would be ready for the meat from the hunt. Like all her brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers, she too had hunger. Her belly growled like home dogs do. She felt happy comfort as she looked down, patting the grumbles just under the blind eye of her birth mother. Then, she looked up at the charm plants with their drying green flowers. They cast life shadows on the walls as they swung over the stored wood. There was Kah! There were some antelope. She felt she saw them our their outlines on the wall. It was her time. Kah and Ahzo would return soon. The ancestors told Ree. She would feast wildly, tearing hotly dripping, fatty flesh from the bones of her meat. That would drown her belly growls. Then, she would dance with the elders and later, lay near the young as her body slept and her life entered the enchanted land of her others.

Chapter 3

After emptying the pig’s insides and allowing the pouring rain to wash it out, they tied long, sturdy stems of dried joy plant firmly around its feet . With Kah in front and Ahzo in back, holding his spear on his right shoulder, they put Kah’s spear under the tied hooves and lifted the carcass onto their left shoulders. They would now begin the hard trek back to family camp. If they kept to an even stride, they would return home before day would disappear into starry, moonlit night.

The rain had been good. With much spirit, it had drenched the thirsty land and clean water for their drinking skins. The pig was heavy, trying their bodies’ muscles. To ease the work, they sang songs of hunters’ feast, putting cheer between them and the spirit of fatigue. Now and again, they put the boar down and drank cool, fresh water from their skins to replenish the salted sweat which glistened on their flesh.

As the sun moved to close to the tree lined sky, they began that last, small ascent to their home. In the distance, they could see their children rushing toward them with much glee and excitement in their voices. “Kah! Ahzo,” the young voices shouted with gleeful tones till they engulfed the two with curiosity, wonder and admiration to fill five home caves. Hollow logs were being beaten with welcome rhythms, anticipating great celebration. Ree stood near the fire to greet them. The hunt was over. They put their bounty down on the earth near her to receive her welcome hug and then were embraced again and again by others in their family. It felt good to be home amongst the infectious laughter and heartwarming smiles and curious buzz of their brothers, sisters and mothers.
Ree stood up on the family’s first tree stump. “Ahzo and Kah have done well. We thank them for their hunting skill. They will rest and wait for us to prepare the boar for roasting. Kag! Foke! Skewer the animal with roasting pole. Kruck! Lash! Make the raising sticks. Lakal! Mak! Share the turning tasks, one relieving the other until the pig is done. Akim and the children, scrape the pig of all its bristles. All else, sharpen your cutting tools and make music with song. Let the celebration last as long as we have will! Joy to one and joy to all!”
“Joy to one and all!” the family shouted in unison.
And the songs began– a new one from Sek started off. He sang of Kah and Ahzo’s great hunting masteries and how the day was hot and how the boar was heavy with flesh. It’s tusks were sharp, as were its hooves. The boar snorted its freedom in the wild, but even such a tough, young boar could not resist Kah and Ahzo’s spears. “In the end, he gave his spirit up for you and me and thee. So let us eat his roasted flesh and kill the grumbles in our guts.”

A laugh went up amongst the children when they heard this last verse. “Sing it again Sek!” All the while, they turned and scraped the bristles from the pig. The heart was taken out and roasted first for Ree. The brains would be for Maj. It was hoped he would be able to take some patience from them, for the brain was where cunning came from in all of us. The pig’s testicles and penis were to be given to the boys and girls. Maturity could be speeded by consuming them. This was known and taught since first they came to this great place. Of course, the children would get more pig than this. The whole family would feast to their heart’s content on its fattened, cooked body! The bristles would be used in garments and the bones would find their way to home dogs gnarling teeth, after they had been cracked and the marrow consumed. One way or another, the whole pig would essentially pass in to the lives of the family and their dogs.

Joy plant was married with fire inside their cave. Kooch had cared for him well. The dancing smoke was kept inside by covering the entrance to their cave with the skin of a bear. One by one, the family entered, filled their lungs with this gift of their ancestors and then one by one they exited, feeling spirits of the past and present of all which surrounded them well up inside their daydreams and their bodies’ senses, as they would begin to cavort to the rhythms being beaten, incessantly beating with songs being sung and made up and dance as well, for the world was fresh with vibrant colour and animation as the presence of the all became all that much more apparent in their eyes, to their noses and their ears. Their smiles grew to laughter, rolling laughter like the thunderous voice of the clouds above when they weep with mirth at their airy, free and rushing presence. When desire came, women picked their men and married, for this is how it had been and would so continue. Some would choose not to marry and some would not be chosen. Kah did not choose and Ahzo was sated and did not marry, although he was chosen three times over. Both slept early on, the long, deep sleep of ancestral wandering, this while most other family members revelled round the burning flames of another larger brother fire, married with large logs a ways outside their home cave door. And all this went on--the song, the dance and frolic--till the last voices still awake heard each other’s final mingling with fire’s crackle and night birds’ hooting. It was then that all were lying down under black night’s starry cloak. Some watched the distant sparkles in the sky slowly make their travels, at least for a while, then fell beneath the brew of sleep and those enchanted lands which are only seen when eyes are shut for long and quiet spells.

Chapter 4

“It was first a running river then became a waterfall. We played there underneath a canopy of moist spray, hiding from the others, playing hunting games. All yellow, I grew like a male between my legs and he became a woman and then a flock of deer flew by and we couldn’t catch a one of them our spears were made of stone with bark for points.”

“Mine was in a meadow which turned from blue to green and then some flowers of many, many colours burst on the Earth and grew very, very tall, blocking out our Sun and made life dark so we couldn’t see so we took fire and burned them down and then our cave became a big cat with fierce growls. It caught some of our family, but I couldn’t recognize them.”

“They must have been ancestors.”

“Yes. They must have. Ree says that you don’t recognize most of them. They look like us in many ways. I remember one had Kah’s eyebrows and hair like Kooch.”

“Oh, is that the worst? I once saw the family women with swinging balls like home dogs. They didn’t talk. They were dancing around the campfire.”
“I suppose that when we close our eyes forever, we will truly understand what all this means.”
“That is what Ree says. She says that our ancestors tell her so. She says that they come to her at night and tell her, ‘Soon Ree, you will come with us forever and you will understand all.’ She tells of places she has been already where family she has known now dwell. They are beautiful places, she says.”

Wobbly times number 116

2011-05-28T05:28:00.000-07:00

Choices come  

We make them  

We could have made others 

We measure them against the Ideal of Perfection 

We rue the day

we made this or that choice 

because we have not encountered our mind's Paragon as yet

Must be our fault
Regret