Lewis Carol once noted that a stopped clock was better than one which was five minutes fast because at least, he reasoned, the stopped clock would tell the right time twice a day whereas the one which was five minutes fast would never be right…there is a clock that is held in the university of Chicago that has been stopped for some time now, the doomsday clock, which is meant to be a metaphorical image of how close mankind is to total nuclear fallout bringing with it the end of civilization as we know it but also, one might hope, bringing with it the end of a civilization obsessed with doing just that, that is bringing itself to an end…
The minute hand of this clock has lurked within the last quarter to midnight since its invention in 1947 (where it was set at 7 minutes to midnight), straying back and forward as scientists deem fit; being as close as 2 minutes to midnight in 1953 and as far as 17 minutes to midnight in 1991 (its furthest point from doom to date…).
The clock is, in short, supposed to be mankind’s gauge as to how close it is to the event of total nuclear war or fallout.
In October of 1961 the most powerful weapon ever constructed by man (at least the most powerful weapon known of by the general public…) was exploded over Novaya Zemlya, an island in Artic Sea. After the explosion, the fire ball (which reached from the ground level to 34,000 feet…) and the mushroom cloud (which reached over 60 kilometers into the sky…) had dissipated, a team was sent into the area to analyze their handiwork, they said :
“The ground surface of the island has been levelled, swept and licked so that it looks like a skating rink. The same goes for rocks. The snow has melted and their sides and edges are shiny. There is not a trace of unevenness in the ground… Everything in this area has been swept clean, scoured, melted and blown away."
In January 2007, the minute hand of the Doomsday clock was moved two minutes closer to midnight, it is now 5 minutes to midnight in case you wondered; five short minutes to nuclear Armageddon… So, in this case in particular, we will have to be agreed on the fact that a stopped clock really is a whole lot better than one that is five minutes fast…but what can we do..?...well, first we need to synchronize our watches just like they do in the movies and just like we always forget to do in real life, but, more importantly, we need to remember that if it weren’t for mankind…
Perhaps the most interesting thing about this Doomsday clock is the insight it can give us on our own perspective of the world. The Doomsday clock is not some kind of objective scientific measurement as it is often heralded to be but rather it is a mirror. It is a mirror of our own selves in the world, of mankind’s place or more accurately mankind’s role in the grand scheme of our earth, or put more accurately still, our role in the earth that we happen to inhabit.
The thing is, time is linear and a line always goes somewhere…
The very fact of there being a Doomsday clock spells trouble. As could be pointed out we will never actually see the so called midnight or the fallout, we won’t be able to look up at the clock and say, oh, whoops, its midnight on our metaphorical gauge of mankind’s complete destruction, we had better pull in the reigns boys before something really goes wrong… oh no, we just won’t have time, but that seems to be the point…
blood., c/o Haley Tyndall.,
A child is playing with a fly on the windowsill. She is poking it, squeezing it, tormenting it. I am the fly, Holy is the child.
Yesterday was my seventeenth birthday. Yesterday I found a letter. Marked on it were the words “To Paige Benson, from Holly Roberts. The contents would forever change my life. It read:
“Dear Paige,
Darcy, Wendy and I agreed that on your seventeenth birthday you would learn the truth. The truth about where it is that you come from.
When I was your age I met a man by the name of Kyle Mackenzie and we fell in love…. Or so I thought. We were together for about two months when I found out that I was pregnant. Three months into the pregnancy I found a letter from Kyle in my letterbox. He and his parents had gone back to Australia. I went through the rest of the pregnancy alone and on January one, gave birth to a healthy baby girl. I named her Paige Holly Roberts.
Paige, I want you to know, that giving you up was the hard thing I have ever had to do, but I am sure I made the right decision.
I can not imagine the pain and questions the next few days will bring you. I suggest that you talk to Darcy and Wendy. They are such lovely people and they have taken wonderful care of you. They have given you a better life than I could ever have dreamt of.
I would like it very much if you would come and stay with me for a little while in Titarangi. But only if you want to of course.
I love you Paige,
Holly.
So here I am, boarding the train destined for Titarangi. My legs shake as I climb the steps of the train. Though there are only two, it feels no less than one thousand. The usher takes my ticket and shows me to my seat. I wonder if he knows who his mother is. I wonder if she gave him up at birth. The train remains still as the usher continues to seat people. A mother and a child no more than five take the seats in front of me. It’s raining outside and I watch the drops fall from the sky, splat on my window and wriggle down. I am a raindrop. I am born, fall from the sky, splat on some ones window and carry on. But how much longer can I carry on? As if those above can hear my call, the train jolts forward. I watch the little girl in the seat in front of me play with the fly on the windowsill. She sits there and pokes it. She flicks it. I cant help thinking about Holly. I feel like that fly. Holly has control over my life now. She has the power to flick me onto my back so I can’t get up or, leave me standing. Holly has chosen to flick me. She shakes my entire world, leaving me shattered and upside down.
Not once does a thought about this poor little fly cross the mind of the rigid child. A sudden jolt of the train pulls me out of my daze. I realise that I have been on the train for three hours. I am now only five hours from Titarangi. ‘Maybe I could leave the train now and just wait around for the next one home.’ I think to myself. ‘I don’t think I should be on this train. No.’ “This is wrong.” I whisper. ‘ I don’t want to see this woman she is a stranger to me. Blood or not, she is a stranger. “okay, you’ve established that you don’t want to see her.” I say to myself. “so just get up and leave. Right now. Just get up.” the train jolts again “shit!” next time. Five hours. Five hours and I will be standing face to face with the woman who abandoned me.
I wonder, if it keeps raining, maybe if it storms even, they might have to pull over or something. I hope so. Maybe the train will crash. Then I’ll end up in hospital. But who will come and take me home? Holly? Wendy and Darcy? ’no, I don’t want to see either of them. Ok, bad Idea.’ Wendy and Darcy looked me in the eyes, every morning they looked me in the eyes and lied to me. They stole some ones identity. Holly is my mother, Darcy and Wendy pretended to be my parents. What they did was wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t be angry with Holly, maybe I should be angry at Darcy and Wendy. Maybe I should let Holly explain, maybe I should give her a chance, I don’t know what to do!
Holly has enclosed a photo of herself. She’s beautiful. Long strait black hair, fair skin and a smile that makes you feel safe. I’ve looked at this photo a hundred times in the past week. Looked over every part of her face. She has amazing eyes. I bet she smells great. I wonder what she sounds like. I’ve read her letter every night like a bedtime story, afraid to ring her.
Suddenly the train conductor announces that we have arrived in Titarangi. I try to calm myself down by taking a few deep breaths. My hands shake as I get my things together. My heart pounds with all its might. My legs turn to jelly as I move off the train. I feel as if I am in a daze. All I can concentrate on is her. I take a deep breath. I spot her on the other side of the station. She smiles. Should I smile back?
Yesterday was my seventeenth birthday. Yesterday I found a letter. Marked on it were the words “To Paige Benson, from Holly Roberts. The contents would forever change my life. It read:
“Dear Paige,
Darcy, Wendy and I agreed that on your seventeenth birthday you would learn the truth. The truth about where it is that you come from.
When I was your age I met a man by the name of Kyle Mackenzie and we fell in love…. Or so I thought. We were together for about two months when I found out that I was pregnant. Three months into the pregnancy I found a letter from Kyle in my letterbox. He and his parents had gone back to Australia. I went through the rest of the pregnancy alone and on January one, gave birth to a healthy baby girl. I named her Paige Holly Roberts.
Paige, I want you to know, that giving you up was the hard thing I have ever had to do, but I am sure I made the right decision.
I can not imagine the pain and questions the next few days will bring you. I suggest that you talk to Darcy and Wendy. They are such lovely people and they have taken wonderful care of you. They have given you a better life than I could ever have dreamt of.
I would like it very much if you would come and stay with me for a little while in Titarangi. But only if you want to of course.
I love you Paige,
Holly.
So here I am, boarding the train destined for Titarangi. My legs shake as I climb the steps of the train. Though there are only two, it feels no less than one thousand. The usher takes my ticket and shows me to my seat. I wonder if he knows who his mother is. I wonder if she gave him up at birth. The train remains still as the usher continues to seat people. A mother and a child no more than five take the seats in front of me. It’s raining outside and I watch the drops fall from the sky, splat on my window and wriggle down. I am a raindrop. I am born, fall from the sky, splat on some ones window and carry on. But how much longer can I carry on? As if those above can hear my call, the train jolts forward. I watch the little girl in the seat in front of me play with the fly on the windowsill. She sits there and pokes it. She flicks it. I cant help thinking about Holly. I feel like that fly. Holly has control over my life now. She has the power to flick me onto my back so I can’t get up or, leave me standing. Holly has chosen to flick me. She shakes my entire world, leaving me shattered and upside down.
Not once does a thought about this poor little fly cross the mind of the rigid child. A sudden jolt of the train pulls me out of my daze. I realise that I have been on the train for three hours. I am now only five hours from Titarangi. ‘Maybe I could leave the train now and just wait around for the next one home.’ I think to myself. ‘I don’t think I should be on this train. No.’ “This is wrong.” I whisper. ‘ I don’t want to see this woman she is a stranger to me. Blood or not, she is a stranger. “okay, you’ve established that you don’t want to see her.” I say to myself. “so just get up and leave. Right now. Just get up.” the train jolts again “shit!” next time. Five hours. Five hours and I will be standing face to face with the woman who abandoned me.
I wonder, if it keeps raining, maybe if it storms even, they might have to pull over or something. I hope so. Maybe the train will crash. Then I’ll end up in hospital. But who will come and take me home? Holly? Wendy and Darcy? ’no, I don’t want to see either of them. Ok, bad Idea.’ Wendy and Darcy looked me in the eyes, every morning they looked me in the eyes and lied to me. They stole some ones identity. Holly is my mother, Darcy and Wendy pretended to be my parents. What they did was wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t be angry with Holly, maybe I should be angry at Darcy and Wendy. Maybe I should let Holly explain, maybe I should give her a chance, I don’t know what to do!
Holly has enclosed a photo of herself. She’s beautiful. Long strait black hair, fair skin and a smile that makes you feel safe. I’ve looked at this photo a hundred times in the past week. Looked over every part of her face. She has amazing eyes. I bet she smells great. I wonder what she sounds like. I’ve read her letter every night like a bedtime story, afraid to ring her.
Suddenly the train conductor announces that we have arrived in Titarangi. I try to calm myself down by taking a few deep breaths. My hands shake as I get my things together. My heart pounds with all its might. My legs turn to jelly as I move off the train. I feel as if I am in a daze. All I can concentrate on is her. I take a deep breath. I spot her on the other side of the station. She smiles. Should I smile back?
Royal Ascot Horse Races., inking Tom Morgan-Jones., words jwh.
Ascot, the royal horse racing meet, where for the first day i felt queasy with the disgrace of the whole world-view/attitude that was propagated by the cycles of their frenzied maniac styles of life’s gaming {where money isn’t an object of any type of concern} - where i saw the women as horses and the horses as divine equine beings of a higher purer breed that those "gentlemen" and "Sirs" begged to burn through and down the track to fill their over-flowing ever greedily-grasping hands again and again with more and more and more… But as the week went on and my defences were eroded (by fatigue, drink and a general acid-like lack of sleep) the more subtle confessions of that place became more clear to me watching (always watching). The daily Queen’s Procession somehow captured a magical respect in everyone who watched, as She was real royalty, really without taste {the hat etc} but that is the point of royalty i think - to embody the aspect of being beyond taste and decency. As she was paraded down the final strip of the race course each day, her progress was followed by a vast volley of applause (50,000 capacity at Ascot) which rang deep in my anti-monarchy chest, and i was moved by the blind adoration and soon joined in the clapping feeling quite bemused… As a member of staff i had total access in that place, and would often disappear from my duties to wander that strange terrain, to watch and bet on the races and generally ogle the crowds who exuded some un-earthly scent. I’ve always had a good sense of the odds and other such finacial dealings and so using the tips etc i made quite a bit on the races, eagerly discussing the "insider" details of horses and jockeys, trainers and etc. There was a large population of nouveaux-rich present and these were the ones who would really jar me, fucking me off a great deal; purchasing the most expensive champange and requesting that it not sit in an ice-bucket so that its label would be clearly visible to anyone who cared to look {etc etc for that type of mind-set is a serious - possibly life threatening - disease that only execution can properly cure}. You could spot these prancing twats a long way off, as they coughed on over-fat cigars and staggered dizzily about the tracks always looking over their shoulders as though they expected to be asassinated at any point or dragged out by the heavy security presence for not being whatever they were pretending to be. There was though, a very reassuring old money presence {whose life etc does not sit well with me but all the same represents something that cannot be eroded by all our capatilist-schizophrenic-enducing worlds of false choices…}. These people are mind blowingly well off but always take care of those who look after them {they’ll slip a £20 note into your hand and say softly/all-knowingly "look after us today, and we’ll square you up before we go…" and so on}.Ascot is an ugly/beautiful place. On the last evening though, the beautiful side came out under the sticky-humid Yorkshire sunset as we were collecting up the furnitures of the very large grandstand lawn. We had made a human chain of 30 or 40 waiters that swung around the lawn passing the furniture down the line to a point where it was being stacked. Then, to my wide-eyed amazement, the chain doubled then tripled as the punters flocked to help us out. The sun going down on the week must have smiled then, for at that moment there were no staff and there were no punters, there was only people left, who on seeing other people sweating on a humid night, happily gladly {singing chanting encouraging} lent a hand to help take the weight of Ascot of our tired shoulders. So once again, all the bitterness that i may have tried to keep, was desimated/destroyed/turned on its head by the real truth that people are people and i am a person - so what could possibly be the difference?
the glen -
“I’ve read the postmodernists with some interest, even admiration. But when I read them, I always have this awful nagging feeling that something absolutely essential is getting left out. The more that you talk about a person as a social construction or as a confluence of forces or as fragmented or marginalized, what you do is you open up a whole new world of excuses. And when Sartre talks about responsibility, he’s not talking about something abstract. He’s not talking about the kind of self or soul that theologians would argue about. It’s something very concrete. It’s you and me talking. Making decisions. Doing things and taking the consequences. It might be true that there are six billion people in the world and counting. Nevertheless, what you do makes a difference. It makes a difference, first of all, in material terms. Makes a difference to other people and it sets an example. In short, I think the message here is that we should never simply write ourselves off and see ourselves as the victim of various forces. It’s always our decision who we are.” Waking Life, Richard Linklater.
The Glen…
The day starts slowly, as languid figures begin to emerge from their tree houses late morning, their light silhouettes catching against the winter forest behind, all moving towards the fire pit. The fire pit is sheltered by a parachute tied to the tall trees above it. The fire pit itself is dug into the slight slope, with a heavy metal box at one side, which is used to keep food warm as well as to shelter the fire from the prevailing winds that come from that direction. Around the fire pit are rough wooden benches, an assortment of office type chairs all showing signs of having been in the woods through all weathers for some time already. Just outside the perimeter of the fire pit are stacked broken up pallets, which are used for fire wood.
The tree houses are scattered about a small valley with a river in its base. The river is ten feet wide with a bridge crossing it, made from scraps of wood reclaimed from the industrial site near by, with bright plastic tubes – stolen from a building site – arching along its edges, a space age mad max creation. The water in the river is undrinkable due to the disused sewerage plant several miles up river that has and continues to pollute the river with its filth…
The tree houses are wooden and to keep out the harsh weather in Scotland they must be strewn with tarpaulin and other plastics. On their insides the tree houses are insulated with pieces of cut up carpets and rugs. The carpets are nailed into the wooden walls, and serve well to keep out the wind – between the gaps in the rough wood work – as well as keep any warmth generated inside, mainly from candles, and the tarpaulin keeps all the rain out. The tarpaulins and plastics give the houses perched high in the trees a scrap yard image but a strange aerial one as many sit as high up as 50 or 60 feet trees. Inside the houses are the belongings left by previous inhabitants, long since gone, but they feel homely and well lived in. The belongings themselves leave a mystery behind and tell an odd history of the place.
I had moved out to the Glen to escape troubles in the Stone City and also I was homeless and pretty hard up. The community there took me in as one of their number, albeit with some suspicion at first, but as I helped with the daily work and ate, sang, smoked and drank with them around the fire pit each night till the late hours their unfounded anxiety soon faded…
In the morning as I came down towards the fire pit there were already a few folk there, brewing the morning tea, which was strong with lots of sugar and milk. The ground was heavy mud but there had been a foot path built through the centre of the encampment out of large rocks, without which the main walk ways would have been a swamp. Still it took getting used to in the dark to move effortlessly around this camp, especially while carrying wood or water back in the night down the steep slope of the camp’s entrance.
All food supplies were taken from the skips of the industrial site that was located about ten minutes walk from the camp, although to gather the food it was a good twenty minute walk. And the food was excellent, we dined on meat, pasta, near fresh vegetables, fruit, tinned nuts, olives and almost anything you could think of. This was taking advantage of the waste of the industrial shopping centre, and was known as skipping. In fact the skipping here at the Glen was so good that it was renowned and spoken of as far away as Finland - from where a passing traveller had recently returned and brought with him news of the Glen’s skipping fame, to which understandably a wave of great pride swept the fire pit that night…
The only things that were hard to come by in the skips was milk, sugar and often enough tea. However, there were many visitors to the site from the city – which was only a 45minute bus ride away – and they always brought with them fresh milk, tea bags, sugar and candles as well.
My limbs are stiff from the cold of the night but breathing the fresh air invigorates the soul, and I am very alive. I sit by the fire and rub my hands in front of the fire, closing my eyes and enjoying the feel of the warm smoke on my face. There is water near the boil and I make tea for myself and others round the fire.
This was a very quiet place with none of the trivial chattering of the Stone City where speaking is to fill in the gaps sound and, in part because of this, more often than not people do not listen but only wait for their turn to speak…but this was left behind with the city and it is closer to silence than anything else where the softer unmediated sounds of the forest were the focus.
No PR, no advertising, no manipulative subliminal messaging attempting to distort and affect mass behavioural patterns, no streets no street signs traffic lights no neon no shop windows no green flashing men commanding it safe to cross…
On the first morning I awoke in the tree house, I was sitting up icy cold, and shivering I put on my cloths underneath the cover of my blanket and poncho, breathing the fresh air, seeing the leaf covered forest floor out of the door way, smelling the damp scent of winter forests; then a robin landed in the doorway, and I froze, startled, brimming over with innocence; the robin looked up, around, then spun on its feet and was gone. In my mind I had had the blessing of the forest for the robin has always been a symbol of good luck for me, appearing at moments of great transition when luck would be needed.
The Glen always gave the impression of a ship at sea, with its careful communal rationing of supplies, its ethos of knowing where all the hands on deck were, its kitchen, the endless war with the rats (there was no cat…) and the sail like image of the tarpaulins and the constant creaks and groaning of the tree houses at night in the wind. People would announce and carefully plan their trips off-ship to the distant shores of the Stone City, then return with eagerly listened to stories of the goings on in the city and of course the wide eyes at the extra supplies from that distant shore.
Another thing that amazed was exactly what was deemed essential in this semi-cut-off life. Aside the kitchen, the store house/kitchen and fire pit, the only other communal structure was the library (and information centre). The was library housed in a large wooden structure raised of the ground by about 4 or 5 feet and next to the fire pit. Returning visitors or new guests alike would be proudly shown the latest additions to the collection of books and notice boards. These notice boards had information primarily regarding actions, maps and strategies but also there were some posters of wild life species and plant types – donated by someone from the Stone City, as were most of the books.
The maps, talk of strategy and the likely reactions of the constant enemy also gave the place the feel of a military camp or far flung outpost; a place in the midst of some large scale and on-going battle.
So far, which has perhaps gone unnoticed by the reader, no mention of the purpose or the function of the Glen has been make and yet this purpose was both very real and constantly under discussion around the fire pit.
The Glen was a protest site set up to block the building of a new road outside the Stone City. BIOTECH (famous for cloning sheep) had begun the 1st private road construction in the U.K., a bypass to the nearby A-road, 8 miles south of Edina, which would cut straight through the Glen. This represented a seemingly unnecessary destruction of woodland in order that a private company could further maximize its own profits while passing off the costs to the local area. At the time of writing this had so far been successful and had protestors had stopped the development of the road for over five years; and over those years the Glen had evolved from a make shift camp into a permanent residence. Further, due to its relative permanence it had become a central hub in the larger scale action of anarchists and protestors all over the UK but particularly in Scotland. There existed well developed plans of action in the event of a forced eviction. This was the original reason for the tree houses being built and inhabited due to the legal technicality that in the event of a forced eviction the event would be treated as a civil matter as opposed a criminal matter for the courts.
Many actions elsewhere in Scotland were co-ordinated from this site in the woods. Regularly people were sent to the Stone City to communicate via the Internet with other protest groups, to arrange meetings and future strategies. Over time as well the actions of the Glen became less focused on the by-pass and also encompassed the deforestation of the countryside by industry in general, action against companies such as Shell (there were crosses in the camp bearing the name of some of those murdered in Nigeria by mercenaries hired by Shell…), the illegal war in Iraq and the general project of world-wide imperialism under the name of globalisation.
One of the main operators of this community did not live on site but would drop round every evening. He worked in the trades and often he said slept in his car, for the cause of course. He would drop by to see how morale was, who was in camp, to decide what needed to be done and co-ordinate the various communications and over and above everything else try to maintain a solid thread in strategy. He had an all American type look, almost like an aged college football player, and was always with his dog, that tragicomically would burst into shrieking yapping barks almost every time that he tried to speak to the group around the fire…”so you need to get the information on that bit of land, find out who owns it and who is…” then right on queue the frenzy of barking and he would be thrashing out at the tiny dog scurrying around in the darkness shouting “quiet, shut it, quiet…” and then return to his mission statement out of place in his announcement, “uh, yea, so if you find out who owns that land, is it council, university or private or…” then another frenzy of barking and he waving his arms trying to beat down the noise – he was no Napoleon but honest and good hearted – and so it would continue with no mention of the absurdity of these routine pantomimes, its behind you, oh no it isn’t...
Once darkness had fallen the people set off to gather wood, water and food. The wood was collected from behind warehouses on the industrial estate and I will never forget the employees standing by their cars staring blankly filled with confusion as we trooped out of the night, half caked in mud to pick up the pallets, then walking calmly away with one perched on each shoulder, back into the thick surrounding woods and over grown grass that broke up the splintering concrete car parks; and looking back once I saw an employee still stood with his car keys hanging from his fingers unmoved…for water it was a longer walk to collect it in large jerry cans from behind a car show room where there was an unattended tap on the back wall. For food it was to the skips behind the huge out-of-town supermarkets. We’d leave with rucksacks and come back struggling under the weight. There was something indescribable about this side of life at the Glen, an elation of unspeakable success as we dined like kings around the fire.
Many of the actions and protest were brave in the face of the constant police brutality against a legally unrepresented class of citizen, for in politics it is usual that the under dog will hang quietly and unknown on the scaffold while his masters look on… however confrontation breeds confrontation and although none of the protests began with violence all expected it in some form or other at some point during the proceedings, and each in their own heart would be deciding how far they would go for the cause in the days leading up to the demonstration; and similar dialogues must be occurring the hearts of the police in the days leading up to the actions…but the simple fact is that mass protests put police in a situation where it becomes politically justifiable to use force to halt it; and one would do well to recall the recent introduction of laws in the UK which forbids demonstrations that have not had prior consent from the relevant authorities as well as outlawing demonstrations altogether outside of parliament and in certain areas of London – presumably for reasons of PR but surely in the field of public relations the population’s right to demonstrate its feelings is always legitimate no matter how spontaneous? Whatever can be said though it cannot be denied that in the context of the hyper-confrontation that demonstrations bring the violence is never justified in moral terms, and always rather in political terms which lead in the end to a politically driven police force and not one lead by justice, it leads to political prisoners (and already in the UK their ranks are silently swelling..) the sure sign of a blossoming autocratic system of governance.
There has been an interesting shift in terminology in recent years where the citizen has been re-branded the consumer and about this shift all political and social issues must be seen; where democracy should be read for laissez faire free market system and freedom should be read for freedom from the act of making individual moral and political decisions…and it goes on.
This is the world we live in and this is the world we have allowed to come about; but this is not a world we have voted for.
And so long live the Glen and all places like it, small pockets of political resistance, let us have freedom of speech, thought and association and most of all let us have freedom from those who would curtail it in the lives of others for the sake of their own ends, for without these things we are lost and will remain simply a rash of humiliating and self-mutilating pain on this planet.
Hesq.
The Glen…
The day starts slowly, as languid figures begin to emerge from their tree houses late morning, their light silhouettes catching against the winter forest behind, all moving towards the fire pit. The fire pit is sheltered by a parachute tied to the tall trees above it. The fire pit itself is dug into the slight slope, with a heavy metal box at one side, which is used to keep food warm as well as to shelter the fire from the prevailing winds that come from that direction. Around the fire pit are rough wooden benches, an assortment of office type chairs all showing signs of having been in the woods through all weathers for some time already. Just outside the perimeter of the fire pit are stacked broken up pallets, which are used for fire wood.
The tree houses are scattered about a small valley with a river in its base. The river is ten feet wide with a bridge crossing it, made from scraps of wood reclaimed from the industrial site near by, with bright plastic tubes – stolen from a building site – arching along its edges, a space age mad max creation. The water in the river is undrinkable due to the disused sewerage plant several miles up river that has and continues to pollute the river with its filth…
The tree houses are wooden and to keep out the harsh weather in Scotland they must be strewn with tarpaulin and other plastics. On their insides the tree houses are insulated with pieces of cut up carpets and rugs. The carpets are nailed into the wooden walls, and serve well to keep out the wind – between the gaps in the rough wood work – as well as keep any warmth generated inside, mainly from candles, and the tarpaulin keeps all the rain out. The tarpaulins and plastics give the houses perched high in the trees a scrap yard image but a strange aerial one as many sit as high up as 50 or 60 feet trees. Inside the houses are the belongings left by previous inhabitants, long since gone, but they feel homely and well lived in. The belongings themselves leave a mystery behind and tell an odd history of the place.
I had moved out to the Glen to escape troubles in the Stone City and also I was homeless and pretty hard up. The community there took me in as one of their number, albeit with some suspicion at first, but as I helped with the daily work and ate, sang, smoked and drank with them around the fire pit each night till the late hours their unfounded anxiety soon faded…
In the morning as I came down towards the fire pit there were already a few folk there, brewing the morning tea, which was strong with lots of sugar and milk. The ground was heavy mud but there had been a foot path built through the centre of the encampment out of large rocks, without which the main walk ways would have been a swamp. Still it took getting used to in the dark to move effortlessly around this camp, especially while carrying wood or water back in the night down the steep slope of the camp’s entrance.
All food supplies were taken from the skips of the industrial site that was located about ten minutes walk from the camp, although to gather the food it was a good twenty minute walk. And the food was excellent, we dined on meat, pasta, near fresh vegetables, fruit, tinned nuts, olives and almost anything you could think of. This was taking advantage of the waste of the industrial shopping centre, and was known as skipping. In fact the skipping here at the Glen was so good that it was renowned and spoken of as far away as Finland - from where a passing traveller had recently returned and brought with him news of the Glen’s skipping fame, to which understandably a wave of great pride swept the fire pit that night…
The only things that were hard to come by in the skips was milk, sugar and often enough tea. However, there were many visitors to the site from the city – which was only a 45minute bus ride away – and they always brought with them fresh milk, tea bags, sugar and candles as well.
My limbs are stiff from the cold of the night but breathing the fresh air invigorates the soul, and I am very alive. I sit by the fire and rub my hands in front of the fire, closing my eyes and enjoying the feel of the warm smoke on my face. There is water near the boil and I make tea for myself and others round the fire.
This was a very quiet place with none of the trivial chattering of the Stone City where speaking is to fill in the gaps sound and, in part because of this, more often than not people do not listen but only wait for their turn to speak…but this was left behind with the city and it is closer to silence than anything else where the softer unmediated sounds of the forest were the focus.
No PR, no advertising, no manipulative subliminal messaging attempting to distort and affect mass behavioural patterns, no streets no street signs traffic lights no neon no shop windows no green flashing men commanding it safe to cross…
On the first morning I awoke in the tree house, I was sitting up icy cold, and shivering I put on my cloths underneath the cover of my blanket and poncho, breathing the fresh air, seeing the leaf covered forest floor out of the door way, smelling the damp scent of winter forests; then a robin landed in the doorway, and I froze, startled, brimming over with innocence; the robin looked up, around, then spun on its feet and was gone. In my mind I had had the blessing of the forest for the robin has always been a symbol of good luck for me, appearing at moments of great transition when luck would be needed.
The Glen always gave the impression of a ship at sea, with its careful communal rationing of supplies, its ethos of knowing where all the hands on deck were, its kitchen, the endless war with the rats (there was no cat…) and the sail like image of the tarpaulins and the constant creaks and groaning of the tree houses at night in the wind. People would announce and carefully plan their trips off-ship to the distant shores of the Stone City, then return with eagerly listened to stories of the goings on in the city and of course the wide eyes at the extra supplies from that distant shore.
Another thing that amazed was exactly what was deemed essential in this semi-cut-off life. Aside the kitchen, the store house/kitchen and fire pit, the only other communal structure was the library (and information centre). The was library housed in a large wooden structure raised of the ground by about 4 or 5 feet and next to the fire pit. Returning visitors or new guests alike would be proudly shown the latest additions to the collection of books and notice boards. These notice boards had information primarily regarding actions, maps and strategies but also there were some posters of wild life species and plant types – donated by someone from the Stone City, as were most of the books.
The maps, talk of strategy and the likely reactions of the constant enemy also gave the place the feel of a military camp or far flung outpost; a place in the midst of some large scale and on-going battle.
So far, which has perhaps gone unnoticed by the reader, no mention of the purpose or the function of the Glen has been make and yet this purpose was both very real and constantly under discussion around the fire pit.
The Glen was a protest site set up to block the building of a new road outside the Stone City. BIOTECH (famous for cloning sheep) had begun the 1st private road construction in the U.K., a bypass to the nearby A-road, 8 miles south of Edina, which would cut straight through the Glen. This represented a seemingly unnecessary destruction of woodland in order that a private company could further maximize its own profits while passing off the costs to the local area. At the time of writing this had so far been successful and had protestors had stopped the development of the road for over five years; and over those years the Glen had evolved from a make shift camp into a permanent residence. Further, due to its relative permanence it had become a central hub in the larger scale action of anarchists and protestors all over the UK but particularly in Scotland. There existed well developed plans of action in the event of a forced eviction. This was the original reason for the tree houses being built and inhabited due to the legal technicality that in the event of a forced eviction the event would be treated as a civil matter as opposed a criminal matter for the courts.
Many actions elsewhere in Scotland were co-ordinated from this site in the woods. Regularly people were sent to the Stone City to communicate via the Internet with other protest groups, to arrange meetings and future strategies. Over time as well the actions of the Glen became less focused on the by-pass and also encompassed the deforestation of the countryside by industry in general, action against companies such as Shell (there were crosses in the camp bearing the name of some of those murdered in Nigeria by mercenaries hired by Shell…), the illegal war in Iraq and the general project of world-wide imperialism under the name of globalisation.
One of the main operators of this community did not live on site but would drop round every evening. He worked in the trades and often he said slept in his car, for the cause of course. He would drop by to see how morale was, who was in camp, to decide what needed to be done and co-ordinate the various communications and over and above everything else try to maintain a solid thread in strategy. He had an all American type look, almost like an aged college football player, and was always with his dog, that tragicomically would burst into shrieking yapping barks almost every time that he tried to speak to the group around the fire…”so you need to get the information on that bit of land, find out who owns it and who is…” then right on queue the frenzy of barking and he would be thrashing out at the tiny dog scurrying around in the darkness shouting “quiet, shut it, quiet…” and then return to his mission statement out of place in his announcement, “uh, yea, so if you find out who owns that land, is it council, university or private or…” then another frenzy of barking and he waving his arms trying to beat down the noise – he was no Napoleon but honest and good hearted – and so it would continue with no mention of the absurdity of these routine pantomimes, its behind you, oh no it isn’t...
Once darkness had fallen the people set off to gather wood, water and food. The wood was collected from behind warehouses on the industrial estate and I will never forget the employees standing by their cars staring blankly filled with confusion as we trooped out of the night, half caked in mud to pick up the pallets, then walking calmly away with one perched on each shoulder, back into the thick surrounding woods and over grown grass that broke up the splintering concrete car parks; and looking back once I saw an employee still stood with his car keys hanging from his fingers unmoved…for water it was a longer walk to collect it in large jerry cans from behind a car show room where there was an unattended tap on the back wall. For food it was to the skips behind the huge out-of-town supermarkets. We’d leave with rucksacks and come back struggling under the weight. There was something indescribable about this side of life at the Glen, an elation of unspeakable success as we dined like kings around the fire.
Many of the actions and protest were brave in the face of the constant police brutality against a legally unrepresented class of citizen, for in politics it is usual that the under dog will hang quietly and unknown on the scaffold while his masters look on… however confrontation breeds confrontation and although none of the protests began with violence all expected it in some form or other at some point during the proceedings, and each in their own heart would be deciding how far they would go for the cause in the days leading up to the demonstration; and similar dialogues must be occurring the hearts of the police in the days leading up to the actions…but the simple fact is that mass protests put police in a situation where it becomes politically justifiable to use force to halt it; and one would do well to recall the recent introduction of laws in the UK which forbids demonstrations that have not had prior consent from the relevant authorities as well as outlawing demonstrations altogether outside of parliament and in certain areas of London – presumably for reasons of PR but surely in the field of public relations the population’s right to demonstrate its feelings is always legitimate no matter how spontaneous? Whatever can be said though it cannot be denied that in the context of the hyper-confrontation that demonstrations bring the violence is never justified in moral terms, and always rather in political terms which lead in the end to a politically driven police force and not one lead by justice, it leads to political prisoners (and already in the UK their ranks are silently swelling..) the sure sign of a blossoming autocratic system of governance.
There has been an interesting shift in terminology in recent years where the citizen has been re-branded the consumer and about this shift all political and social issues must be seen; where democracy should be read for laissez faire free market system and freedom should be read for freedom from the act of making individual moral and political decisions…and it goes on.
This is the world we live in and this is the world we have allowed to come about; but this is not a world we have voted for.
And so long live the Glen and all places like it, small pockets of political resistance, let us have freedom of speech, thought and association and most of all let us have freedom from those who would curtail it in the lives of others for the sake of their own ends, for without these things we are lost and will remain simply a rash of humiliating and self-mutilating pain on this planet.
Hesq.
what the catipillar calls the end of the world - c/o savage lucy with teeth like baseballs & eyes like fired jelly, aka Katherine Griffin.,
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Katherine Griffin (the artist that is..)
cityscape.jpg)
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peace., anon.,
loosely based on a piece by picasso., this oil painting., "peace" is hopeful, a prayer like a flame in the dark., anon.,
i walked., c/o Gavin Tonks., South Africa.
I walked
I walked in the dark on an African plain
While the moon and stars they stared
From the blue black blanket pinned across the sky
I stumbled against the rock-strewn landscape
While Khoi ancestors
Sang their shaman songs into the wind
Lonely and lost you looked for me
I am not there
My sons and daughters dance
Their dizzy song on my dusty face like ants
I cry dry tears of dust
For their little dry bodies beating out the rhythm of their spent lives
You chant deep into the night
Exhausted
To wait a new day – hoping to see my signs
If I have been there
The lion and the leopard – I sent to steal your souls
They swallowed you as you danced into the sky – still you did not find me there
Little children of this sand wandering against the African midnight sky
Take my soul to meet this lion – maybe then to know - If you are not there?
Children of Africa I hear your song on the distant growling of the wind
The lion’s hot breath blew against my face
From between sharp, white, teeth like clouds
The blood red mouth open, while the beast in purposeful travel moved – to find me not there
I looked for you, by the light of the worshipped moon
I know that you are there, African sky, my sad and melancholy friend
Did you so old know more than me?
Oh faithful cosmic vision, where you there?
At the beginning, did you see him then?
I walked in the cold light of an African day.
G.T.
I walked in the dark on an African plain
While the moon and stars they stared
From the blue black blanket pinned across the sky
I stumbled against the rock-strewn landscape
While Khoi ancestors
Sang their shaman songs into the wind
Lonely and lost you looked for me
I am not there
My sons and daughters dance
Their dizzy song on my dusty face like ants
I cry dry tears of dust
For their little dry bodies beating out the rhythm of their spent lives
You chant deep into the night
Exhausted
To wait a new day – hoping to see my signs
If I have been there
The lion and the leopard – I sent to steal your souls
They swallowed you as you danced into the sky – still you did not find me there
Little children of this sand wandering against the African midnight sky
Take my soul to meet this lion – maybe then to know - If you are not there?
Children of Africa I hear your song on the distant growling of the wind
The lion’s hot breath blew against my face
From between sharp, white, teeth like clouds
The blood red mouth open, while the beast in purposeful travel moved – to find me not there
I looked for you, by the light of the worshipped moon
I know that you are there, African sky, my sad and melancholy friend
Did you so old know more than me?
Oh faithful cosmic vision, where you there?
At the beginning, did you see him then?
I walked in the cold light of an African day.
G.T.
The Mystery of Voodoo - FAZILLA SHUJAAT
The drumming and chanting goes on hour after hour. A goat and a small pig have their throats cut, and the blood is sprinkled over the worshippers. The animals are then thrown into a pool of brown bubbling mud. Many believers jump into the pond as well.
This is the climax of the voodoo ceremony at the Plaine Du Nord, 300 kilometres north of the Haitian capital Port-Au-Prince. Thousands of voodoo believers come each year as they all say that the saint will help them. This particular ceremony is in honour of Ogou, the spirit of fertility and the earth.
The most important part of voodoo is the actual religious ceremony. After starting out slowly, the voodooist work themselves up to a spiritual and religious frenzy, using such things as dance, music and liquor to help inspire them, but the real question is that Voodoo a religious thing or a satanic thing?? As voodoo is often charged with being fatalistic, superstitious and involving devil worship.
Voodoo, which is a mixture of Catholicism and ancient African religion. The voodoo faith holds that there is one God, the creator of the universe. Subordinate to this God are the Loas, lesser deities or saints who act as messengers between a voodoo practitioner and God. Voodoos fatalism focuses on how the Loa control the world, wealth, sickness, childbirth, rewards, punishment and many more.
Voodoo believers accept the existence of one God. Below this almighty God spirits (LOA) rule over the worlds affairs in matters of family, love, happiness, justice, wealth, and revenge. The practice of Voodoo involves the blessing of a Voodoo doll to contact the spirits directly, requesting fulfilment in love, finance career matters and many more. It is still believed that the main reason why people turn to practising voodoo or witchcraft today is because more and more people are dissatisfied with traditional religious structures and are seeking deeper, and more meaningful relationships with divinity through alternate methods.
Voodoo, which means ‘Spirit Of God’. It’s a system of beliefs originating in Africa. It has over 50 million followers worldwide. Voodoo flourishes in Brazil, Trinidad, Jamaica and Cuba. It is known to be one of the world’s oldest known religions, which have been around in Africa since the beginning of human civilisation. Some people estimate these civilisations and religions to be over 10,000 years old.
M.f…
Page 2
Voodoo is a powerful mystical practice that can bring great gifts and rewards to anyone who believes in it, and who is willing to place his destiny in the hands of the spirits, who are waiting eagerly for your call.
The most popular part of Voodoo is the doll, which is used to represent the spirit of a particular person. You can talk to the doll requesting a change in attitude, influencing the person to act in accordance with your wishes. You can request the doll to call upon powerful forces and then you can perform a simple ritual to fulfil a dream and your desires.
People’s perception of Voodoo rites and rituals are that its all evil or malicious, but not many people know that there are healing spells, nature spells, love spells and joyous celebration spells. Spirits can also bring harmony and peace, birth and re-birth, luck, happiness and health. For people who believe it Voodoo is powerful, it is also empowering to the person who practices it.
For anyone who is looking for a solution to a difficult problem, for someone who is trying to sort out a conflict, return a lover or become rich LOA is waiting for your call.
FAZILLA SHUJAAT
This is the climax of the voodoo ceremony at the Plaine Du Nord, 300 kilometres north of the Haitian capital Port-Au-Prince. Thousands of voodoo believers come each year as they all say that the saint will help them. This particular ceremony is in honour of Ogou, the spirit of fertility and the earth.
The most important part of voodoo is the actual religious ceremony. After starting out slowly, the voodooist work themselves up to a spiritual and religious frenzy, using such things as dance, music and liquor to help inspire them, but the real question is that Voodoo a religious thing or a satanic thing?? As voodoo is often charged with being fatalistic, superstitious and involving devil worship.
Voodoo, which is a mixture of Catholicism and ancient African religion. The voodoo faith holds that there is one God, the creator of the universe. Subordinate to this God are the Loas, lesser deities or saints who act as messengers between a voodoo practitioner and God. Voodoos fatalism focuses on how the Loa control the world, wealth, sickness, childbirth, rewards, punishment and many more.
Voodoo believers accept the existence of one God. Below this almighty God spirits (LOA) rule over the worlds affairs in matters of family, love, happiness, justice, wealth, and revenge. The practice of Voodoo involves the blessing of a Voodoo doll to contact the spirits directly, requesting fulfilment in love, finance career matters and many more. It is still believed that the main reason why people turn to practising voodoo or witchcraft today is because more and more people are dissatisfied with traditional religious structures and are seeking deeper, and more meaningful relationships with divinity through alternate methods.
Voodoo, which means ‘Spirit Of God’. It’s a system of beliefs originating in Africa. It has over 50 million followers worldwide. Voodoo flourishes in Brazil, Trinidad, Jamaica and Cuba. It is known to be one of the world’s oldest known religions, which have been around in Africa since the beginning of human civilisation. Some people estimate these civilisations and religions to be over 10,000 years old.
M.f…
Page 2
Voodoo is a powerful mystical practice that can bring great gifts and rewards to anyone who believes in it, and who is willing to place his destiny in the hands of the spirits, who are waiting eagerly for your call.
The most popular part of Voodoo is the doll, which is used to represent the spirit of a particular person. You can talk to the doll requesting a change in attitude, influencing the person to act in accordance with your wishes. You can request the doll to call upon powerful forces and then you can perform a simple ritual to fulfil a dream and your desires.
People’s perception of Voodoo rites and rituals are that its all evil or malicious, but not many people know that there are healing spells, nature spells, love spells and joyous celebration spells. Spirits can also bring harmony and peace, birth and re-birth, luck, happiness and health. For people who believe it Voodoo is powerful, it is also empowering to the person who practices it.
For anyone who is looking for a solution to a difficult problem, for someone who is trying to sort out a conflict, return a lover or become rich LOA is waiting for your call.
FAZILLA SHUJAAT
Tyrant., poem from Albert Seymour.,
It's a lonely road the only road,
Written in code waiting for time to erode and corrode,
The one in control explodes as all emotion implodes,
Engulfed, like a savage wolf chewing on gristle,
Too stubborn to listen I whistle,
Get the attention a momentary time suspension,
Suspended on the cold arms of winter, As I hint to her,
Mother nature answers with a crash of thunder
And suddenly in a blunder I'm plunged under,
I shout, calling out,But no ones here now,
Left to thoughts of how,
Stuck within extreme opposites,
Atop I sit looking down,
And the crowd shouts out now,
Now they sudden lease of life,
Not when I was beneath the knife,
Fighting for my own life,
Jesus Christ what's with the heist,
Would be nice to entice some willing advice,
Now and again before I pick up this pen,
Scribble life on to the backs of other men,
Offloading problems and customs defining new outcomes,
But never really finding the answers, left asking,
The dancers keep dancing to the tune of creation,
The nation retreats to the silence, back to the violence,
Forget where the light went no longer is life vibrant,
Sink back to the hand of the tyrant cause that's where I went.
A.S.,
Written in code waiting for time to erode and corrode,
The one in control explodes as all emotion implodes,
Engulfed, like a savage wolf chewing on gristle,
Too stubborn to listen I whistle,
Get the attention a momentary time suspension,
Suspended on the cold arms of winter, As I hint to her,
Mother nature answers with a crash of thunder
And suddenly in a blunder I'm plunged under,
I shout, calling out,But no ones here now,
Left to thoughts of how,
Stuck within extreme opposites,
Atop I sit looking down,
And the crowd shouts out now,
Now they sudden lease of life,
Not when I was beneath the knife,
Fighting for my own life,
Jesus Christ what's with the heist,
Would be nice to entice some willing advice,
Now and again before I pick up this pen,
Scribble life on to the backs of other men,
Offloading problems and customs defining new outcomes,
But never really finding the answers, left asking,
The dancers keep dancing to the tune of creation,
The nation retreats to the silence, back to the violence,
Forget where the light went no longer is life vibrant,
Sink back to the hand of the tyrant cause that's where I went.
A.S.,
a post from paris.,
here is a photograph c/o davina de laszlo., from paris herself to us here at gonzo media.,
Gordian Knot Presents...A Denny Ledger Single Malt...
‘A Day At The Races’
Bunny said she didn’t want to go but there was something in her eyes that said otherwise as I peeled them open like a Spanish onion as she lay lifelessly asleep. I prodded her with the gun that her father gave me in order to shoot at the travelling gypsies in case they had gotten inside the birthday cake, he was a pacifist you see, and I a communist, but put the travelling gypsies inside Josephine’s birthday cake and there was no telling who was the more dangerous. I fired off a few rounds hoping that the smell of gunpowder would provoke a stir of life from Bunny; I knew she wouldn’t hear the shot that much was pointless; she slept like a rock face at high altitude. Nothing. But nothing.
BREAK IN THE NARRATIVE
I was half way through watching Casablanca for the third time at half speed when I let the cat out of the bag. Though he seemed not to mind. I though about calling Bunnys friend Honey over just to confuse the situation but the architecture seemed less accommodating. Terrance had died recently, or maybe he hadn’t yet, either way it was going that way, it was just a matter of bad timing. I proceeded to call him later to check on the kid. And maybe even kill him myself if the boy scouts hadn’t beaten me to it. I thought I’d even call Tilly until I remembered I didn’t know her, though I did have her number on my phone shaped like Peros from Peru. And to be honest I don’t think we were there yet. I still didn’t know what to do about Bunny. I decided to wait for the new Django Reinhardt CD, but that meant going to Fidels and I couldn’t say for sure whether I’d get past the Americans. I turned my attentions back to Bunny. The sun was already beginning to set but I felt an uncertainty in its actions which later proved to be true and it ended up being daylight for several days, but who was counting. The man on the radio suggested repopulating the Aztecs in order to re calculate what day it actually was but after a vote by the Ghanaians it was agreed that no one really cared. And in any case the water company were too busy to invade with all the legal action still going on against the Scandinavians. There was something of a heat wave at this point, whether it was self induced or not I guess I’ll never know. My money was on the turtleneck. The guy from sparks had finally called a ceasefire on his brother, the brother from Sparks, which would please Bunny, she loved Thin Lizzy, if only I could wake her to tell her. I scurried for her Thin Lizzy record, side B had been stolen by the Afghans but side C was still playable but for a hairline fracture in the third quarter. I lost it in my findings. I resurrected Mortimer’s 57th and 4th and decided nothing was better than something before deciding everything was irrelevant the day before, Mortimer would do. I watched Bunny as Mortimer retold the story of the Phantom of the Opera in a wet suit, Bunny seemed not to stir. I decided on calling the guy from spark but the woman on the answer phone said he was busy working on the musical with his brother, the brother from Sparks. I resorted to plain indecency but Fidel soon put a stop to that. His brother Rual sent me a birthday card in the mail; his presidency of the Northern Territory had done him the world of good. I put the kettle on thinking the adrenaline would wake Bunny. I turned it off after the 19th coffee after remembering Bunnys coffee allergy. I decided to protest ignorance if the attorneys ever found out about this, fortunately Bunny seemed not to notice. On reverse tactics I read D.H. Lawrence’s ‘Sons and Lovers’ to myself in order to not disturb Bunny.
ACT TWO: IN WHICH THE SCENE IS SET
Bunny had been awake for a while, or maybe it hadn’t, or maybe she wasn’t, but she made herself a coffee and put the whole thing down to experience. I guess I had to tell her, after all, Pete had put a gun to my head and said that if I didn’t he’d do something not even he knew would be, it had put the wind up me I swear, I said I’d do it. I had no tolerance for the Danish, that much was true, I sure did like the muffins though, which evened things out at least, all’s fair in love and war. Ha! Try telling that to the pentagonal love oblisque; soon as they get back from the Olympics, the Japanese were there only threat. I picked up her fathers gun, the cloud had followed me, was I meant to kill her? Or merely split up with her? Were we even going out? I have a vague recollection of getting married in New York, its hazy, or was that a film I had seen? Note to self: find out if there’s a film in which two people get married in New York and, Note to self part two: check if one of those people was me. The more I thin k about it the more I recall Genna Davis being there, I hadn’t seen her since the cruise to the tropics in the 40’s. Did we stop off via New York? I thought maybe I’d kill Bunny anyway, but if I was wrong I’d have Fidel to answer to, and he was still pissed off about the whole jam jar incident. Lucy called me to say that it wasn’t me in the film about a couple that get married in New York. That was... tepid? I’d have to watch that film myself to resolve the confusion. I tried to remember what Pete had said, since the whole business with not reviving the Aztecs I had no recollection of days but if my calculations were correct I wasn’t due to meet Pete until next year, since I hadn’t met him yet I figured I shouldn’t worry too much about what he had said on our last encounter. I put the gun down, but not before blasting off a few rounds to keep the dawn at bay. The Django Reinhardt CD had arrived from Fidel the previous morning. Bunny and I relaxed with another coffee and decided to get the tattoos to match. The Aztecs were reinstalled for promotional purposes.
END
-X-
Bunny said she didn’t want to go but there was something in her eyes that said otherwise as I peeled them open like a Spanish onion as she lay lifelessly asleep. I prodded her with the gun that her father gave me in order to shoot at the travelling gypsies in case they had gotten inside the birthday cake, he was a pacifist you see, and I a communist, but put the travelling gypsies inside Josephine’s birthday cake and there was no telling who was the more dangerous. I fired off a few rounds hoping that the smell of gunpowder would provoke a stir of life from Bunny; I knew she wouldn’t hear the shot that much was pointless; she slept like a rock face at high altitude. Nothing. But nothing.
BREAK IN THE NARRATIVE
I was half way through watching Casablanca for the third time at half speed when I let the cat out of the bag. Though he seemed not to mind. I though about calling Bunnys friend Honey over just to confuse the situation but the architecture seemed less accommodating. Terrance had died recently, or maybe he hadn’t yet, either way it was going that way, it was just a matter of bad timing. I proceeded to call him later to check on the kid. And maybe even kill him myself if the boy scouts hadn’t beaten me to it. I thought I’d even call Tilly until I remembered I didn’t know her, though I did have her number on my phone shaped like Peros from Peru. And to be honest I don’t think we were there yet. I still didn’t know what to do about Bunny. I decided to wait for the new Django Reinhardt CD, but that meant going to Fidels and I couldn’t say for sure whether I’d get past the Americans. I turned my attentions back to Bunny. The sun was already beginning to set but I felt an uncertainty in its actions which later proved to be true and it ended up being daylight for several days, but who was counting. The man on the radio suggested repopulating the Aztecs in order to re calculate what day it actually was but after a vote by the Ghanaians it was agreed that no one really cared. And in any case the water company were too busy to invade with all the legal action still going on against the Scandinavians. There was something of a heat wave at this point, whether it was self induced or not I guess I’ll never know. My money was on the turtleneck. The guy from sparks had finally called a ceasefire on his brother, the brother from Sparks, which would please Bunny, she loved Thin Lizzy, if only I could wake her to tell her. I scurried for her Thin Lizzy record, side B had been stolen by the Afghans but side C was still playable but for a hairline fracture in the third quarter. I lost it in my findings. I resurrected Mortimer’s 57th and 4th and decided nothing was better than something before deciding everything was irrelevant the day before, Mortimer would do. I watched Bunny as Mortimer retold the story of the Phantom of the Opera in a wet suit, Bunny seemed not to stir. I decided on calling the guy from spark but the woman on the answer phone said he was busy working on the musical with his brother, the brother from Sparks. I resorted to plain indecency but Fidel soon put a stop to that. His brother Rual sent me a birthday card in the mail; his presidency of the Northern Territory had done him the world of good. I put the kettle on thinking the adrenaline would wake Bunny. I turned it off after the 19th coffee after remembering Bunnys coffee allergy. I decided to protest ignorance if the attorneys ever found out about this, fortunately Bunny seemed not to notice. On reverse tactics I read D.H. Lawrence’s ‘Sons and Lovers’ to myself in order to not disturb Bunny.
ACT TWO: IN WHICH THE SCENE IS SET
Bunny had been awake for a while, or maybe it hadn’t, or maybe she wasn’t, but she made herself a coffee and put the whole thing down to experience. I guess I had to tell her, after all, Pete had put a gun to my head and said that if I didn’t he’d do something not even he knew would be, it had put the wind up me I swear, I said I’d do it. I had no tolerance for the Danish, that much was true, I sure did like the muffins though, which evened things out at least, all’s fair in love and war. Ha! Try telling that to the pentagonal love oblisque; soon as they get back from the Olympics, the Japanese were there only threat. I picked up her fathers gun, the cloud had followed me, was I meant to kill her? Or merely split up with her? Were we even going out? I have a vague recollection of getting married in New York, its hazy, or was that a film I had seen? Note to self: find out if there’s a film in which two people get married in New York and, Note to self part two: check if one of those people was me. The more I thin k about it the more I recall Genna Davis being there, I hadn’t seen her since the cruise to the tropics in the 40’s. Did we stop off via New York? I thought maybe I’d kill Bunny anyway, but if I was wrong I’d have Fidel to answer to, and he was still pissed off about the whole jam jar incident. Lucy called me to say that it wasn’t me in the film about a couple that get married in New York. That was... tepid? I’d have to watch that film myself to resolve the confusion. I tried to remember what Pete had said, since the whole business with not reviving the Aztecs I had no recollection of days but if my calculations were correct I wasn’t due to meet Pete until next year, since I hadn’t met him yet I figured I shouldn’t worry too much about what he had said on our last encounter. I put the gun down, but not before blasting off a few rounds to keep the dawn at bay. The Django Reinhardt CD had arrived from Fidel the previous morning. Bunny and I relaxed with another coffee and decided to get the tattoos to match. The Aztecs were reinstalled for promotional purposes.
END
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