It’s only after an hour I begin to get tired and that my thoughts turn to day dreams. I watch them, my thoughts, turn to dreams in a state of waking clinging tiredness. Although being here was never my intent, it’s how I like it. I wish I had intentions. I don’t. I have excuses. My excuse, my reason for walking this country lane in the dark is that my train came to a standstill an hour or so ago and in defiance or perhaps for no particular reason, instead of waiting at the platform for the problem to get fixed I strolled off in the general direction of the next town where I have no guarantees everything will be fine. That’s not really a sensible solution and if my intent was to get to where I was heading then I should have stayed put. The announcement had let us know, in rather uncertain terms, that the train was held up because someone on a train ahead had fallen ill. It’s probably code for a passenger falling on the track but I’ll never get to find out.
An hour into my trek the reasons are useless and I don’t want to know them. I walked past intention, purpose, reason and meaning when I walked through that last town. Not stopping made no sense. The last town was my excuse for this walk and seeing as I didn’t stop to catch a train I am heading to the next town where I might be inclined to stop. Until then, after an hour or more of walking, my thoughts go beyond the aches in my back and legs. A slight nagging pulls at me and asks why I’m here but I agree to ignore the question. On this long country lane, lit only by the cars going by on mass, tonnes of metal flashing by, I feel like a tourist, an alien, the only small flesh based anything in a metallic world, a pipeline, a vein, with vessels carried with more intention than me. To either side there are green walls of trees standing in the dark and I hear the wind blow through them and then nothing beyond them. It’s weird for a city boy to see. I’m so used to the people moving fast and the cars crawling. In my world the asphalt is surrounded by concrete and wrapped in glass and brick and occasionally jotted with the green of window sill potted plants.
This is where I am an hour into my journey and to this backdrop I’d want to be dreamy if I had a choice. But I don’t. Dreamy pointless strolls in the dark, the type that gets people worried, the ones with no man made reason, are what I want. At what point do I lose purpose and meaning? When is it okay to stroll for no reason?
Drunkenness.
Oh good grief. My head fills with every drunken walk I’ve ever had. This is all excusable. Rational reasoning does not come into play. There are no reasons here in this part of your brain. There is a where and a vague why, a direction with badly chosen means and no compass and a lot of hope, but although you cling to your original intention to get home the method is plainly dumb.
My drunken id wants to run wild but it needs to talk to my rational self for ideas but my rational self has turned his back and is having a sulk.
You’re on your own pal.
In response the id monster that I have become picks up a road cone and dares me to walk home with it. The cone itself seems monstrous, three feet high and filled with sand at the base. I wonder if the sand will leak as I walk and leave a trail and incriminate me in any way.
I don’t need to walk too far before the reaction to the sight of the two of us is apparent. There is a level of respectability between drunkards and the cone carriers of the world are pretty much the untouchables. This is no longer about having fun on a night out. Something somewhere has turned serious and you cannot explain where you are, neither in state of mind or on the global positioning system.
I am propositioned at one point but I try my best to politely explain to the fine young lady that I’m not capable.
“Twenty pounds darling, for anything you like.”
“Strangely, I’m on a mission. I’ve promised myself I will not let go of this cone.”
And the world moves on.
In memory people give the cone and I a wide berth. This happens so often that I find myself asking in perfect English, “Why does everyone seem to fear the cone?”
“I rather like your cone.”
Years removed I can’t see the face anymore of the girl who appeared next to me that night. I remember she was Scandinavian and I remember how she walked me to where I wanted to be and how we sat on a bench outside of a pub that I’ve subsequently never been to. I remember how she signed her name on the cone and how we stayed in touch for a little while until contact faded and that brief spark of friendship that existed through the randomness of life eventually faded too.
Is that what I’m doing tonight? Is this walk an act of randomness? Do I need more randomness? Have all my walks been like this? How many times have I done this? Am I a serial walker, forever wandering, not taking the quickest route but the one fraught with the most misadventure?
“Get in the taxi!”
I see myself not getting in the taxi despite my well wishing friends having my best interests at heart. That taxi represents an end, a swift ride and the day is done. Within seconds I’m running.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m happier running home.”
Occasionally it was better planned. It was still for no particular reason in a society that begged for reasons. But have I got society wrong here? Didn’t people used to go for walks for no particular reason? I can walk if I want to and in no particular direction.
On a pointless day with no plans, living alone, I decided one cloudy morning to go for a walk in the heath. Cloudy morning turned to wet afternoon and by the time I heard the first crack of thunder logic dictated that I stay at home, watch something, read something, do something, create something, cook it, eat it or buy it and don’t ask why.
I tried to sit down for a little while and stared through the TV. Daytime TV is why people get jobs. I get up out of the chair and ponder being outside. I ponder staying inside, outside, halfway in and out, stuck in my doorway. I have an urge. It almost feels like a calling, as though I’m supposed to go out. Why? I don’t know why. I promised myself. Is that enough of a reason? Will I go looking for reasons? I laid myself on the carpet and listened to some music and contemplated how the floor needs to meet the hoover more often. It was either time to hoover or to go walking, between raindrops, if possible. A lot of raindrops as it turned out.
I edge out onto my porch and almost question this choice. But it’s not a choice. The rain is a strong drizzle and doesn’t bother me. My reasons, purpose, destination or method don’t worry me. The walk is not a struggle. I don’t seem to fight the conditions but feel buoyed along by it. I might be Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, taken for a ride. I enter the Heath at the bottom of the hill and I hear cries of teenage whooping as soon as I do but I see no teenagers. An expanse of field stretches to the top of the hill and the open space makes me more aware of the occasional crack of thunder and lightning, the source of excitement that has created the whoops I hear. I don’t feel bold enough to march straight through the rough and up the middle of the hill. The rain has driven everyone but the two invisible teenagers away. I still hear but don’t see them. Being open to the elements holds an imaginary feeling of danger that I don’t feel drawn to. As I walk up the paved tree lined route that runs along the side of the hill the rain falls heavier and pounds against the leaves and the route, the walk, everything in a rain storm seems severe. I march with haste and purpose to the very top of the hill. Well, it’s a purpose of sorts, to no end, pointlessness with a great view.
There is a path that cuts across the peak of the hill, the view is almost as spectacular but it isn’t the peak. I ignore the turn off and veer towards the summit. The path rises steeply to it. My teenage screams have gone quiet. At the top the tree line covers what is immediately below. The cut through path and much of the expanse of field below is obscured. What can be seen is the city stretching beyond this leafy burb, a downpour of rain and the lightning occasionally streaking the sky. It feels like voices lead me to this place, even if it was my own. I don’t know why. Are there better days to take impulsive walks? How many people are struck by a purposeless calling?
I have one last desire, one last calling, a pointless purpose before I go. How dangerous does it seem? Statistics will tell you the answer. It seems dangerous to be called to this spot and raise your arms in a thunder storm. Where do you think you are being called to? The chance of being struck by lightning are so slim but when you try and think how you got here it somehow seems possible. To stumble here by chance seems safer. To make a choice to be here seems dangerous. I look out at the city below me and I nag myself to do it. Go on. Both arms in the air. Do it.
But I don’t. I snap out of it and stop hearing my own silly voice. I walk over the top of the hill and through the rough and right through the heart of where I am and that in itself feels good enough. As I hear the whooping again I turn around and stand in the middle of the field and see one skinny kid in jeans with his shirt stripped off, standing on the cut through path, a little under the summit and he’s raising his arms to the skies and whooping a long whoop of excitement and I wonder if he chose to be here.
Memories like this stop you in your tracks, in your muddy countryside tracks. God, I must be mental. And the fun of this march is that I’ve picked a route which you can’t turn back from. It’s miles between towns and there are no buses, so you can’t give up on this, you can only keep going. I look for a full moon to explain the last few hours but the moon I see is a thin sliver and I wonder if it’s new. I never know if the moon is new or not or almost new because I imagine that it can always get thinner. Could it ever be a fine line in the sky? If I found it in me I could go home and Google it and look online and see what a new moon looks like. But pictures don’t interest me. Only wrapped in this moment with this moon, inexplicably here, do I care and I’m glad I’m here because I don’t know where else to be at this moment and no rational thought would have brought me to this place and all I ever need is a prod, an excuse and absolutely no reason.
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The Lamb Question
Who the fuck is George Lamb? Now there’s a phrase I haven’t heard enough lately. I have been lucky enough to not have ben listening to any radio let alone 6 Music over the past sixmonths or so, so I haven’t had a real chance to mourn and lament the loss of 6 Music’s sensical duffer genius that is Gideon Coe. The man brought clarity to an otherwise gimmick driven world that is British Radio. Sadly now I am back in the world of the living, and am using the radio as my trusty companion at work, what choice am I left with? The ‘nowhere near as Indie as it liks to think’ Xfm, Ken ‘smug cunt’ Bruce on radio 2, or a range of local radio (which usually isn’t too bad if truth be told, but that wouldn’t help my case here.) Radio 1 is not even getting a look-in. Anything with Chris Moyles is so tainted the whole thinkg must be raveaged by his big fat, bigoted, ugly flavour. 6 music use to fil such a needed void, so what does it offer you now? George Fucking Lamb. The man is so moronic its like over hearing one of those twats on the bus who you can barely block out with earphones, who shout nonsense in an annoyingly strong over exaggerated regional accent – in our boy Georges case, come arrogant cockney patter. Because he’s on this particular radio station you think he must have somewit and knowledge, but don’t you believe it. He is essentially no better that Chris Moyles, but because he is thin and seemingly good looking his idiocy slips past people unnoticed. As you will see from numerous Lamb haters blogs on the net he has a a record of acting likean utter nob infront of the 6 music bread and butter. Bands that appreciate you get amore discerning listerner and knowledgable host who are therefore willing to come on and talk properly about their music, not just what they like better on their toast (that’s the sort of banal stuff radio 1 does isn’t it?) They weren’t counting on Lamb. The guy oozes laddishness like he is stuck between the pages of an issue of Loaded from 1997, and knows about as much about music as if he really was. When meeting the Super Furry Animals he confused many of their songs. Aside from the first cock up – A 6 music presenter who didn’t know the back catalogue of an Indie Staple like SFA (look Im not saying everyone should, but if you do that for a living, fucking come on!!) – he made a major one, by not even reseaching them. What the fuck do these people do with their time? He finishes his shift at one in the afternoon. He wuld no doubt have us believe he spends it ‘dahn the boozer’ taking the piss with his mates (why are they not in work? Ahh, on the George Lamb gravy train! Glad Im not) but probably spends it either a.having orgies with hi legion of essex bird fans, or b. wanking wishing he had a legion of essex bird fans. What he should be doing is listening to music seing as that is supposed to be what he gets paid for. But then, are we actually getting a station that promotes people who like to talk but have no interest in music. Its called 6 music for fucks sake!!
My question I suppose, is who on earth landed this plum on our airwaves?
The obvious answer to that is the big stiltons at BBC, whoever they maybe. They haven’t got a clue though. Why wont they smell my cheese – it may give them an idea of the cravings of the nation. But the purpose of this article is not merely to have a cheap dig that not enough people will read (I’ll tell it to Channel 4 news if only they would listen) at cock Lamb, but to tell those lucky few who are reading this that there are more of us out here, and we are organised. There is refuge. Think of me as the radio transmission you have picked up amidst a world run by Zombies, offering help and salvation. There is hope. The good people of Britain have started a campaign simultaneously to get Lamb off of 6 Music, and to highlight how much we hate him (god bless Facebook). This has also been championed and much discussed on the website Drowned in Sound – its well worth a look for some comfort.
No I realize this is insignificant in the wake of the poverty, hunger and want around the world, but Geldolf has that inhand.
I have been solely focusing on the dire non-talents of Lamb, but not on what could have ben. Gideon Coe has been relegated, not completely disposed of, but its not often I get to listen to the late night show, so as good as for my poor deprived ears. It is just such a shame as he displayed everything I want in a presenter. He doesn’t affect anything, its all him, and hes understated and cool with it.
The replacement of a genius like Gideon with a dooshbag like Lamb is symbolic of what is happening to popular culture in this country.
My question I suppose, is who on earth landed this plum on our airwaves?
The obvious answer to that is the big stiltons at BBC, whoever they maybe. They haven’t got a clue though. Why wont they smell my cheese – it may give them an idea of the cravings of the nation. But the purpose of this article is not merely to have a cheap dig that not enough people will read (I’ll tell it to Channel 4 news if only they would listen) at cock Lamb, but to tell those lucky few who are reading this that there are more of us out here, and we are organised. There is refuge. Think of me as the radio transmission you have picked up amidst a world run by Zombies, offering help and salvation. There is hope. The good people of Britain have started a campaign simultaneously to get Lamb off of 6 Music, and to highlight how much we hate him (god bless Facebook). This has also been championed and much discussed on the website Drowned in Sound – its well worth a look for some comfort.
No I realize this is insignificant in the wake of the poverty, hunger and want around the world, but Geldolf has that inhand.
I have been solely focusing on the dire non-talents of Lamb, but not on what could have ben. Gideon Coe has been relegated, not completely disposed of, but its not often I get to listen to the late night show, so as good as for my poor deprived ears. It is just such a shame as he displayed everything I want in a presenter. He doesn’t affect anything, its all him, and hes understated and cool with it.
The replacement of a genius like Gideon with a dooshbag like Lamb is symbolic of what is happening to popular culture in this country.
Invalid., c/o : kavita jalan.,
“These people are not fit to be parents, they lack the…….”, once again the words of the defense lawyer were drowned by his thoughts. Once again Goyal Shah found himself lost in his doubts, in the miseries of his confusion. Three years ago he would have never even imagined that he would be sitting in a court, fighting for a little soul who he would be responsible for. Being parents again at the age of 65 wouldn’t be an easy task, God knows it had not been a piece of cake the first time. But he had never realized the magnitude of his actions the day he had dragged his son – in – law to the court to get custody of his only grandchild. All he knew that day was that he owed it to his daughter, his only pride and joy in life. He owed it to her to protect her daughter, even though he hadn’t been able to protect his own. He remembered the first day Meeta had got Suresh to meet them. The radiance on her face and the brightness of her smile yet haunted him, if only he wouldn’t have been blinded by his love for her and had stopped her from marrying that cold hearted Suresh. If only he had…..
“Mr. Shah, Mr. Shah”, he looked up and saw his lawyer sitting next to him gesturing him to take the stand. He stood up and walked towards the stand. Only a few feet away and yet it seemed like he was being weighed down with the weight of the entire world. His feet were moving slowly, waiting for a miracle to happen by the time he reached the stand, but life was not that generous; it was not going to grant him his wishes that easily, he would have to fight for them like the rest of the world.
The complacent defense lawyer, a very well known shark, Mr. Dilip Vardha looked directly in his eyes and asked him,
“How did your daughter die, Mr. Shah?”
With fear, guilt and tiredness he answered the question very softly, “She committed suicide.”
“What? I couldn’t hear you very well.”
“I said she commited suicide”, all of a sudden finding strength in his voice Goyal replied.
“And you think you are capable of bringing up another child even though your own child committed suicide?”
“It wasn’t my fault that she killed herself. It was that man, he is the reason she is dead”, with anger that threatened to consume him Mr. Goyal got up and pointed at his son – in – law.
“There is no need to loose your temper Mr. Shah. It is known by everyone that Mr. Suresh Jain was a very loving and attentive husband. In fact, it was your daughter who had never fulfilled her duty as a wife. I even have a list of witnesses here who shall testify on how your daughter had not only cheated on her husband but also wasn’t mentally stable.”
Goyal pleaded with his eyes, “That’s not true, she wasn’t like that. I know it she wasn’t…” and his voice was once again muffled by his tears, the same way it had been happening in the past three years.
Another day in court had passed by. Goyal looked outside the window of the taxi and remembered his daughter. Nostalgic thoughts of his daughter running through the doors showing him her first report card, her first school play, the way she smiled and got anything she wanted, made his heart a little heavier. He even remembered her little questions which used to annoy him after a hard day’s work. What he wouldn’t do right now to have her ask him those questions? What he wouldn’t do only if he would once again be able to hear her voice? From no where he was drawn back into reality by his wife’s hand. He gave her a sad little smile. Rita was the only reason he had been able to get through all this. He looked at her and saw his strength in her. She had always been with him, during their days of poverty and their days of joy, through the days they had felt like love sick puppies to the days when he had been unbearable. Yes, she was his strength, he wondered what she was thinking, he had never really discussed Meeta’s death with her and yet somehow she had managed to seep some of the pain from his heart. He knew the Meeta’s death had killed a part of Rita the way it had destroyed a part of him.
As they reached home Rita got out of the taxi and saw her husband pay the taxi driver. She looked at him and realized how old he looked and all of a sudden she was aware of her own age. She wondered how they were going to take care of little Sonali, their grand daughter? Her arthritis had become worse in the past few months, getting the simple house chores done was suddenly becoming difficult, then how was she going to run after a 5 year old child? Just yesterday the doctor had told her that her bones were detoriating at a very fast pace and she would have to double the dosage of her medication to curb the rate of the disease. She had hidden this little fact from Goyal and had told him the doctor had said all was fine because she didn’t want to put any more pressure on him. This case had taken almost all of their savings and if it hadn’t been for the medical insurance that Meeta had got for them they would be in serious trouble. Her thoughts diverted to Meeta, even now her heart felt like it was being torn by a serrated knife when she thought of her beautiful daughter. She knew it was going to be difficult but they had to take care of Meeta’s little angel. They had to save her from all the evils in the world and help her get a life that her mother could never have. She remembered Meeta’s swollen eyes the day she had been crying because that imbecile Suresh had not remembered their first anniversary. How sad had Meeta been not knowing that it was only the beginning of all her troubles. It was the same after that time, every few days Meeta would come running to them and tell them about Suresh’s behaviour. The way he used to taunt her by saying that she wasn’t beautiful enough or that she wasn’t easy to live with. The way he criticized every small move she made. If only Meeta had listened to her and had left him, but no instead she had wanted to make the marriage work, if not for herself then atleast for her little daughter. But somewhere inside, Rita had known all along that this would kill her daughter someday. The small voice in head had warned her so many times, if only she would have been a little more persistent, today her daughter would be standing in front of her.
As the thoughts ran through her mind, Rita prepared the simple meal of dal, rice and cauliflower for them. It would have to be simple even when Sonali would come to live with them, she didn’t have the stamina anymore to prepare the lavish meals she had when Meeta had been a little child. Her heart went out to Sonali, not for the first time she felt pity for the little girl. “Were they fit to be parents again?” The same thought sent a shiver down Goyal’s spine, what if they wouldn’t be able to give Sonali the care she deserved? Would they be able to give her everything she needed? They weren’t 25 years old anymore, they didn’t have the strength and the patience as they once did. And it had not been easy raising Meeta. She was loving child but she had had her moments of craziness and her puberty had been a living nightmare. Would they be able to go through it again? What if they were not good enough? But he realized anything would be better then to leave Sonali with that monster Suresh, he would trample her delicate spirit just the way he had destroyed their daughter’s soul. So what if they would have to begin all over again? You don’t stop being a parent simply because you become old. What pricked his heart was that in order to give Sonali a proper life they would have to dive into the savings and property Meeta had left in the name of her daughter, because his pension money hardly covered his and his wife’s basic needs. His pride and his ego felt like they were been run over by a million bulls. But he would have to swallow his pride, he Mr. Goyal Shah who had not taken a single penny from anyone in his life, he who had always looked at adversity in its eye and never given up, for the first time in his life, he felt helpless. He felt like a little ant who had to stay each day in the fear of been crushed. He hated himself at that moment. He hated his daughter for taking her life, he hated his wife for being so understanding, he hated his dependency and most of all he hated his old age.
Three months passed and once again, Goyal found himself sitting in the same court, in front of the same judge, the same people around him and the same despairing feelings surrounded him. He was once again called on the stand, this time by his lawyer. With a lot of suaveness his lawyer began questioning him.
“Mr. Shah why do you want the guardianship of your grand daughter?”
Goyal replied with some sadness, “That man over there isn’t fit to be father, he never loved my daughter and he is never going to love his own flesh and blood. All he cares about is himself and my granddaughter deserves better.”
“But aren’t you a little too old to be a parent?”
He replied with a little bit of uncertainty, “Yes we are but we have the experience and she is only a little child she needs to be with people who love her and we can provide her with that love.”
“Thank you Mr. Shah that will be all”.
Goyal couldn’t believe his ears, that’s it? That’s all? He was paying his man through his teeth and he had given him five minutes, is that all that was needed to get his granddaughter, somehow he thought not. The Shark returned this time and dug his teeth deeper into Goyal’s skin.
“Mr. Shah isn’t it true that you wife and you live on your pension money?”
“Yes that’s true”, Goyal’s heart was beating faster than a clock, he could clearly see the direction this question was taking and shame swept over him.
“So how do you expect to raise your granddaughter on just your pension money? Having raised a child you surely must know the costs of raising a child?”
Goyal looked at his lawyer for some help but his lawyer just gave him a sickening smile encouraging him to answer, “Well we will manage somehow”, came a small reply.
“Do you know your daughter has left money and property in the name of her child?”
“Yes I do”.
“And do you know that anyone who had the guardianship of the child will have the control of the money till the child becomes an adult?”
“Yes I do”, came a small meek reply.
“So the real reason why you want the child is that after so many years of living in poverty you want to spurge a little on yourselves?”
Goyal felt his voice rising a little more then it should have. “That isn’t true I love my granddaughter and all I want to do is protect her.”
“Protect her from whom Mr. Shah? Her father, who can give her a nice secure home? A father who can provide her with the best education in this world? Or a father who is loving and caring? What can you give her? How will you take care of her all alone?”
“I am not alone I have my wife”, said Goyal all of a sudden getting his strength back by looking at his wife.
“Your wife? But she suffers from arthritis and has trouble looking after herself.”
“That’s not true she is not in such a bad condition”, replied Goyal defending his wife.
“These are her reports which are around four months old which shows the current growth of her problem. Do you actually think she is capable of looking after a five year old child?” said Dilip Vardha with a smug look on his face and produced the Xerox of the reports.
Goyal looked at his wife with a stunned expression. She had hidden all this from him, but why? Did she think he was so weak that he wouldn’t be able to help her? Is that what everyone thought of him as, just a weak old man? Had he really become that incompetent that even his wife had lost faith in him?
All Goyal remembered after that was his despair, the total annihilation of his pride, his entire life had suddenly become a joke. As if all his struggles had meant nothing. His every sadness, every sacrifice had become worthless. Later that day, the court came out with its verdict, Suresh won the battle. Goyal just sat there, emotionless. The awareness of his loss suddenly washed over him. First he had only felt it a little, and then it had started sticking its ugly head into his mind but now it was out there. His loss had confirmed it; he had become a no body. He had become a handicap. He had lost his right to hold his head up high and walk. He had become a burden. He had become the one thing he had always been afraid of becoming. He had at last become an invalid.
K.J.
“Mr. Shah, Mr. Shah”, he looked up and saw his lawyer sitting next to him gesturing him to take the stand. He stood up and walked towards the stand. Only a few feet away and yet it seemed like he was being weighed down with the weight of the entire world. His feet were moving slowly, waiting for a miracle to happen by the time he reached the stand, but life was not that generous; it was not going to grant him his wishes that easily, he would have to fight for them like the rest of the world.
The complacent defense lawyer, a very well known shark, Mr. Dilip Vardha looked directly in his eyes and asked him,
“How did your daughter die, Mr. Shah?”
With fear, guilt and tiredness he answered the question very softly, “She committed suicide.”
“What? I couldn’t hear you very well.”
“I said she commited suicide”, all of a sudden finding strength in his voice Goyal replied.
“And you think you are capable of bringing up another child even though your own child committed suicide?”
“It wasn’t my fault that she killed herself. It was that man, he is the reason she is dead”, with anger that threatened to consume him Mr. Goyal got up and pointed at his son – in – law.
“There is no need to loose your temper Mr. Shah. It is known by everyone that Mr. Suresh Jain was a very loving and attentive husband. In fact, it was your daughter who had never fulfilled her duty as a wife. I even have a list of witnesses here who shall testify on how your daughter had not only cheated on her husband but also wasn’t mentally stable.”
Goyal pleaded with his eyes, “That’s not true, she wasn’t like that. I know it she wasn’t…” and his voice was once again muffled by his tears, the same way it had been happening in the past three years.
Another day in court had passed by. Goyal looked outside the window of the taxi and remembered his daughter. Nostalgic thoughts of his daughter running through the doors showing him her first report card, her first school play, the way she smiled and got anything she wanted, made his heart a little heavier. He even remembered her little questions which used to annoy him after a hard day’s work. What he wouldn’t do right now to have her ask him those questions? What he wouldn’t do only if he would once again be able to hear her voice? From no where he was drawn back into reality by his wife’s hand. He gave her a sad little smile. Rita was the only reason he had been able to get through all this. He looked at her and saw his strength in her. She had always been with him, during their days of poverty and their days of joy, through the days they had felt like love sick puppies to the days when he had been unbearable. Yes, she was his strength, he wondered what she was thinking, he had never really discussed Meeta’s death with her and yet somehow she had managed to seep some of the pain from his heart. He knew the Meeta’s death had killed a part of Rita the way it had destroyed a part of him.
As they reached home Rita got out of the taxi and saw her husband pay the taxi driver. She looked at him and realized how old he looked and all of a sudden she was aware of her own age. She wondered how they were going to take care of little Sonali, their grand daughter? Her arthritis had become worse in the past few months, getting the simple house chores done was suddenly becoming difficult, then how was she going to run after a 5 year old child? Just yesterday the doctor had told her that her bones were detoriating at a very fast pace and she would have to double the dosage of her medication to curb the rate of the disease. She had hidden this little fact from Goyal and had told him the doctor had said all was fine because she didn’t want to put any more pressure on him. This case had taken almost all of their savings and if it hadn’t been for the medical insurance that Meeta had got for them they would be in serious trouble. Her thoughts diverted to Meeta, even now her heart felt like it was being torn by a serrated knife when she thought of her beautiful daughter. She knew it was going to be difficult but they had to take care of Meeta’s little angel. They had to save her from all the evils in the world and help her get a life that her mother could never have. She remembered Meeta’s swollen eyes the day she had been crying because that imbecile Suresh had not remembered their first anniversary. How sad had Meeta been not knowing that it was only the beginning of all her troubles. It was the same after that time, every few days Meeta would come running to them and tell them about Suresh’s behaviour. The way he used to taunt her by saying that she wasn’t beautiful enough or that she wasn’t easy to live with. The way he criticized every small move she made. If only Meeta had listened to her and had left him, but no instead she had wanted to make the marriage work, if not for herself then atleast for her little daughter. But somewhere inside, Rita had known all along that this would kill her daughter someday. The small voice in head had warned her so many times, if only she would have been a little more persistent, today her daughter would be standing in front of her.
As the thoughts ran through her mind, Rita prepared the simple meal of dal, rice and cauliflower for them. It would have to be simple even when Sonali would come to live with them, she didn’t have the stamina anymore to prepare the lavish meals she had when Meeta had been a little child. Her heart went out to Sonali, not for the first time she felt pity for the little girl. “Were they fit to be parents again?” The same thought sent a shiver down Goyal’s spine, what if they wouldn’t be able to give Sonali the care she deserved? Would they be able to give her everything she needed? They weren’t 25 years old anymore, they didn’t have the strength and the patience as they once did. And it had not been easy raising Meeta. She was loving child but she had had her moments of craziness and her puberty had been a living nightmare. Would they be able to go through it again? What if they were not good enough? But he realized anything would be better then to leave Sonali with that monster Suresh, he would trample her delicate spirit just the way he had destroyed their daughter’s soul. So what if they would have to begin all over again? You don’t stop being a parent simply because you become old. What pricked his heart was that in order to give Sonali a proper life they would have to dive into the savings and property Meeta had left in the name of her daughter, because his pension money hardly covered his and his wife’s basic needs. His pride and his ego felt like they were been run over by a million bulls. But he would have to swallow his pride, he Mr. Goyal Shah who had not taken a single penny from anyone in his life, he who had always looked at adversity in its eye and never given up, for the first time in his life, he felt helpless. He felt like a little ant who had to stay each day in the fear of been crushed. He hated himself at that moment. He hated his daughter for taking her life, he hated his wife for being so understanding, he hated his dependency and most of all he hated his old age.
Three months passed and once again, Goyal found himself sitting in the same court, in front of the same judge, the same people around him and the same despairing feelings surrounded him. He was once again called on the stand, this time by his lawyer. With a lot of suaveness his lawyer began questioning him.
“Mr. Shah why do you want the guardianship of your grand daughter?”
Goyal replied with some sadness, “That man over there isn’t fit to be father, he never loved my daughter and he is never going to love his own flesh and blood. All he cares about is himself and my granddaughter deserves better.”
“But aren’t you a little too old to be a parent?”
He replied with a little bit of uncertainty, “Yes we are but we have the experience and she is only a little child she needs to be with people who love her and we can provide her with that love.”
“Thank you Mr. Shah that will be all”.
Goyal couldn’t believe his ears, that’s it? That’s all? He was paying his man through his teeth and he had given him five minutes, is that all that was needed to get his granddaughter, somehow he thought not. The Shark returned this time and dug his teeth deeper into Goyal’s skin.
“Mr. Shah isn’t it true that you wife and you live on your pension money?”
“Yes that’s true”, Goyal’s heart was beating faster than a clock, he could clearly see the direction this question was taking and shame swept over him.
“So how do you expect to raise your granddaughter on just your pension money? Having raised a child you surely must know the costs of raising a child?”
Goyal looked at his lawyer for some help but his lawyer just gave him a sickening smile encouraging him to answer, “Well we will manage somehow”, came a small reply.
“Do you know your daughter has left money and property in the name of her child?”
“Yes I do”.
“And do you know that anyone who had the guardianship of the child will have the control of the money till the child becomes an adult?”
“Yes I do”, came a small meek reply.
“So the real reason why you want the child is that after so many years of living in poverty you want to spurge a little on yourselves?”
Goyal felt his voice rising a little more then it should have. “That isn’t true I love my granddaughter and all I want to do is protect her.”
“Protect her from whom Mr. Shah? Her father, who can give her a nice secure home? A father who can provide her with the best education in this world? Or a father who is loving and caring? What can you give her? How will you take care of her all alone?”
“I am not alone I have my wife”, said Goyal all of a sudden getting his strength back by looking at his wife.
“Your wife? But she suffers from arthritis and has trouble looking after herself.”
“That’s not true she is not in such a bad condition”, replied Goyal defending his wife.
“These are her reports which are around four months old which shows the current growth of her problem. Do you actually think she is capable of looking after a five year old child?” said Dilip Vardha with a smug look on his face and produced the Xerox of the reports.
Goyal looked at his wife with a stunned expression. She had hidden all this from him, but why? Did she think he was so weak that he wouldn’t be able to help her? Is that what everyone thought of him as, just a weak old man? Had he really become that incompetent that even his wife had lost faith in him?
All Goyal remembered after that was his despair, the total annihilation of his pride, his entire life had suddenly become a joke. As if all his struggles had meant nothing. His every sadness, every sacrifice had become worthless. Later that day, the court came out with its verdict, Suresh won the battle. Goyal just sat there, emotionless. The awareness of his loss suddenly washed over him. First he had only felt it a little, and then it had started sticking its ugly head into his mind but now it was out there. His loss had confirmed it; he had become a no body. He had become a handicap. He had lost his right to hold his head up high and walk. He had become a burden. He had become the one thing he had always been afraid of becoming. He had at last become an invalid.
K.J.
thoughts on torture., c/o : anon.en.tity.,
In the united states of America torture has been redefined as physical pain that would be equivalent to the loss of limb (amputation without anaesthetic), organ failure or death. That is to say that unless an organ fails, you loose a limb or actually die, it does not constitute torture per se.This means that water boarding lies within the system of justice in the USA if it is necessary to use in order to get a confession. Water boarding for those of you who do not know these things (I envy those of you who do not.,) simulates drowning. So from this we can safely draw the conclusion that acts which simulate death do not, in the USA, constitute torture.
Before we continue, let us just state for the record that torture is always and everywhere wrong. Never is it justified. No matter what the situation it is wrong to press the human spirit in such a way as to deliberately make it break. No other human has this right over any other, no matter how one can define another.
Torture is the ultimate hate crime and by far worse than summary executions.
That the USA has sanctioned the use of torture as a part of its judicial system tells the on-looker several things. Firstly, the judicial system is immoral. Secondly, those responsible for these changes in the judicial system are morally corrupt. Thirdly, the judicial system of that country is not applicable to any nation that does not allow torture in the process of getting a confession; but more importantly any evidence obtained through the use torture ought not to be admissible in any court of law that is against torture. This means that the so called terrorists that have admitted to crimes under duress, or under torture, should not be seen as terrorists in countries that do not allow torture, and they should be given asylum to protect them from the judicial system of the USA.
To torture somebody is not just academic or legal jargon that has no relation to the real world. It is a deliberate and concentrated act of cruelty that requires a level of dislocation from reality that begs belief. Ask yourself how far you could go…how much could you break a person..?
anon.en.tity.,
re : organ donor by dj shadow : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mWf-JIk-RxA .
sweet dreams.,
the modern bardo, c/o : SB.,
I have a persisting habit of amassing stuff, collecting and holding on to anything that crosses vision and memory, appealling to belief until becoming a quilted monolith, an unceasing nebulous greyness, without distinction.This space is the mirror in which the ideal is formed, Lacanian infants beginning first flights on vast oceans, witnesses to leering ideal Babylonian prostitutes on Aurore's horizons, and needless tongues creeping in alleys 'casting light'.
*****
These are the rooms of the Tower, where language is nulled and naturalised, pinioned demurrings in abstract spaces, ruins and blurred outlines of people outstretched, of backalleys and crowned, blushing infant queens and sun setting over a pier in flores, noplaces and past lands where the ocean cuts through with sharpened blue fjords and trees arabesque white background.
*****
Here is the tissue of quotations, where the notes of the score are cut out and the staves are stranded, the goldfish bowls are filled with fine grains and gorges hint at spectral lights further down, where I find no transcendental unity but monoliths and basins, perspectives of bridge arches still standing, fogs and cranes and aluminium skulls of children, the night saxophones have ceased and wax furls down bottles.
*****
There is light, and there is the subdued self in the wild desert frontier plains, encountering the naguals with half-assed smiles and innocent eyes in the lucid chapels, where the sorcerers jump into the valley basin as the last test, of faith, and ability. Where the putative eye ends. 'A sound that calls people from far away, for I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, and the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns.'
*****
It's really a state that needs to be approached correctly though. Like, with a cup of shitty grainy coffee and a smudgedcigarette, when that morning coat of coarse skein hasn't been lifted, when the yellowish stains appear more grotesque and shameful.
*****
This the modern bardo for the precession of simulacra, the sprawling map, the transmigrated meaning, thrusting in a total absence.
SB.
*****
These are the rooms of the Tower, where language is nulled and naturalised, pinioned demurrings in abstract spaces, ruins and blurred outlines of people outstretched, of backalleys and crowned, blushing infant queens and sun setting over a pier in flores, noplaces and past lands where the ocean cuts through with sharpened blue fjords and trees arabesque white background.
*****
Here is the tissue of quotations, where the notes of the score are cut out and the staves are stranded, the goldfish bowls are filled with fine grains and gorges hint at spectral lights further down, where I find no transcendental unity but monoliths and basins, perspectives of bridge arches still standing, fogs and cranes and aluminium skulls of children, the night saxophones have ceased and wax furls down bottles.
*****
There is light, and there is the subdued self in the wild desert frontier plains, encountering the naguals with half-assed smiles and innocent eyes in the lucid chapels, where the sorcerers jump into the valley basin as the last test, of faith, and ability. Where the putative eye ends. 'A sound that calls people from far away, for I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, and the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns.'
*****
It's really a state that needs to be approached correctly though. Like, with a cup of shitty grainy coffee and a smudgedcigarette, when that morning coat of coarse skein hasn't been lifted, when the yellowish stains appear more grotesque and shameful.
*****
This the modern bardo for the precession of simulacra, the sprawling map, the transmigrated meaning, thrusting in a total absence.
SB.
everything is ok there is no need to protest., image c/o: David Dees.,
everything is ok., there is no need to protest.,so they'd finally won., i was considering the tax form, they've finally beaten the dog out of me, here, sat in front of this i have to smile, bin the f*ck and call it a day, out to the local boozer., well, that's what she said anyway.,..
anon.,
The Statue of Liberty is Closed Until Further Notice... artwork c/o: David Dees, article c/o: hesq.,
The Statue of Liberty is Closed Until Further Notice…
“The current access patterns reflect a responsible management strategy in the best interests of all our visitors,” says the out-going Park Service Director, Fran Mainella; which is to say that the Statue of Liberty is closed to the public, and is seemingly to remain closed to the public until further notice.
A citizen is able to enter the statue but only to climb as far as the pedestal, or the statue’s toes; with the crown and the stairway up inside the body itself being out of bounds. The importance is of course that this statue is hollow, and without people ascending its stairs to her crown it remains just that, a hollow and people-less idea.
The Statue of Liberty is a symbol of Freedom and Opportunity, of the Hopes and Dreams of not only the American people but of all people who aspire to be great in the face of all the odds. Its closure, since 9/11 2001, is a significant symbolic gesture. In fact Senator Charles Schumer has gone so far as to couch this debate in explicit terms having said, “In this case, freedom has given way to fear”. Well perhaps Senator Schumer, perhaps…but however we look at it, the 21st Century truly began on that day…
It is critical to realize that nationalism or the tendancy towards it is not only a positive feeling. In the positive – by way of example to illuminate the difference – one may feel an attachment to a nation, England say, or an ethnic or racial group, as is demonstrated in the all black oscar awards for instance. However, on the more foul side of such tendencies and feelings is the negative; whereby a group feels bound together simply by a collective hatred or fear of another group or ideology.
This kind of sentiment has two major aspects. Firstly, it inclines a slackness of moral thought, whereby WE are good on the basis of THEM being bad. They are always bad, and so by virture, we, being good, must always be good, regardless of what we actually do. So, when we bomb an urban area and the generals report that “collateral damage” was fairly high, we fail to see this as a crime against humanity, we fail to see that the killing of innocent civilians is wrong, and that even terming the death of a civilian as “collateral damage” is wrong; but because it is US doing it to THEM, and since they are bad then we are good, anything we do must be to further goodness… To labour this point somewhat, the overall hysteria and frantic rage that was built up and surrounded the deaths of those 3000 or so innocents in the World Trade Centre attacks is grossly disproportionate to the feelings of regret over the deaths of nearly 1 million Iraqi civilians (remember that the invasion was partly justified as a retaliation to the attacks on the Twin Towers). This negative type of nationalism produces the same results as scape-goating does. It allows rage and hatred to be vented without actually necessitating any change in the behaviour of those that are doing the hating.
This was at the forefront of politics in the McCarthy era, the era of the Communist witch hunts, where again the burden of proof fell upon the accused and people arrested were encouraged to ‘name names’ of other potential communists… In this era, the enemy is the ‘terrorist’, and more specifically the Islamic terrorist, with everyone a suspect until somehow they prove themselves innocent. And this burden of proof seems to remain in place even while the suspected are locked in concentration camps without charge, little legal access and with the prospect of a closed, juryless trial ahead of them. The very existence of a camp such as that at Guatanamo bay ought to be enough for the civilized nations of the world to scrap any existing treaties with the American administration, begin an immediate boycott of all USA exports to the world, and seek to enforce the international laws upon those responsible for behaviours and policies that would not have been out of place in the Third Reich of the 1940s…
Another aspect of this slackening of moral thinking and accuracy of thought can be seen in the slogans of the day (as well as in the slogans of repressive governments of the past), all hollow and meaningless. Support the troops for instance, is about as meaningless as oil your weapons, or, change your socks… it is something that in itself is right, and no body can have an objection to, for of course any good hearted and decent person will support the troops (who are people after all..) just as they would support the teachers or the train drivers. The sinister use of this slogan is that it has been used as a pro war slogan, as a slogan meant to divide and not bring together. That is to say that those who are against the war in Iraq are accused of not supporting the troops, something which does not go down well. And so those in favour of the war have the ammunition that the anti-war lobby does not support the troops giving further cause to avoid rational debate or dialogue regarding the facts of the situation… It is often missed that the people who are looking out most for troops are those who are resolutely against a war for oil, where people’s lives are being lost, given and taken for the sake of the profit margins of a few companies closely tied to the White house and the Pentagon. Rationally speaking, a slogan such as support the troops ought to be an anti-war slogan, but here again is an example of the twisted world view that is brought about by such negative nationalistic feeling.
Through slogans of this type the identity of the US is strengthened further through the identification of those who are not US. This of course is deliberate, and is nothing new. Perhaps a slightly unusual comparison to make, but none the less valid as an illustrative tool, would be to the marketing campaign of the 50s engineered by Edward Bernays, whereby in order to break the taboo of women smoking and thereby open up a large new market for the tobacco companies, Bernays organised a march of cheer leader type girls through New York with banners saying “smoke for Freedom”. This meant anyone objecting to the women smoking now was branded as one who was against women having equal rights, rather than objecting to the shameless use of a serious political issue of the day to promote the benefits of big business.
The second important aspect of this type of negative nationalism is that the group involved are very easily manipulated and the politicians doing the manipulating need have no coherent policy or objective, and need only satisfy immediate requirements for the hatred and fear of the OTHER group to continue. Helpfully as well, the other group needn’t be too specific, and any perceived enemy of the state can be added without any contradiction to the group of the OTHER, with no any real or rational justification. A person can be accused simply of being one of THEM, and no evidence is needed for such a claim if through the media and other channels of communication their name can be sufficiently tarnished…Hence we see groups being suddenly added to the list of international terrorist organisations who were trading and dealing quite normally with Western governments until their expulsion, generally for reasons unknown to the public at large, while other groups, generally those who cooperate with the military plans of the West, Pakistan for instance, are embraced and heralded as heroes in the war of terror when to all extensive purposes they are criminals of the highest order. Pakistani human rights records are appalling, and the country was run until very recently by a tight knit military dictatorship that has only changed since then in name and not in actually reality.
To return to our Senator’s observation of how freedom has given way to fear now… a group caught up in the hysteria of negative nationalism displays all the characteristics of a cornered animal, and will attack without thought if its escape is blocked. A population constantly on red alert, fearing the imminent attack, divided and insecure with no apparent escape from the endless torrent of media and political speculation endlessly reminding it that its fate walks a knife edge is a population that is easy to manipulate quickly and without proper rationale. Ironically maybe, the group that is scape-goated also begin in their turn to behave like cornered animals, and so we are left with a situation of two cornered animals facing each other…
Against a background of this type of negative nationalism all kinds of repressive actions are to be justified, phones can tapped, databases kept on those who attend anti-war rallies and demonstrations, restrictions in the civil liberties of a nation’s population, biometric ID cards, increased stop and search powers and of course the limitations of the powers of the judicial system and the limiting of basic human rights; and all can be justified with respect to the apparent increased need for tighter security to protect against the evils of THEM (and evil is not too an extreme a word to use, remember we are at war with the axis of evil…). However, any sane or reasonable person can see that the two – ie security and freedom are unrelated in the sense implied by the draconian measures of the western democracies. Similar to the divisive thinking behind the slogans, no-one would wish for innocent people to be killed in terrorist attacks but by reducing the freedoms of people targeted by those attacks will not reduce their effects or probability, particularly with the cases of the so called home grown terrorist. A little off the point but worth remembering is the fact that as the Nazis clamped down harder and harder on the French resistance it did not stop them, in fact it only encouraged them to continue to fight against that repressive and cruel regime. And well that they did.
The closure of the Statue of Liberty will fire up a rage in the hearts of many Americans, and will be symbolic act elsewhere too, and of course the answer given to this rage will be Blame Them, its not our fault, but the fault of our Enemies, further entrenching the negative nationalism we discussed before. And those in power will have the job of simply channelling that rage to what or whoever it suits them to even when it is quite irrational.
The Lyrical Terrorist escapes jail with a Suspended Sentence…A 24 year old Muslim woman who had worked in the Heathrow airport escaped a jail sentence and got off with a suspended 18 month sentence and was ordered to carry out 100 hours of unpaid work we learnt on the 7th December 2007. She had called herself the lyrical terrorist, as an on-line persona, because she had written poetry that was anti-western and anti the US, some of that poetry described and called for the beheading of non-believers; also she was alleged to have printed information from the Internet which together with the poetry was deemed to be likely to be useful for terrorism… Samina Malik had done nothing wrong, at least criminally, and one can only conclude that she had committed a so called thought crime… In a society where freedom of expression is valued then she has the categorical right to create such poetry – despite its evident bad taste and lack of literary skill – and also the right to read and collect any information that happens to be in the public domain.
This young woman’s poem was no great piece of art work as I have tried to stress, in fact it has hardly any artistic merit whatsoever and can only be seen akin to self harming and other destructive behaviours, however, to my mind at least, neither does the work of Damien Hirst or the Chapman brothers (respectively cutting a shark in half or mutilating original Goya prints with cartoon sketches of Mickey Mouse…) or any number of other contemporary artists making a very healthy living today…Freedom of expression cannot be restricted and it is as simple as that, and anyone who seeks to restrict the most basic freedoms of thought and expression is an enemy of the free world, of free people and of freedom itself and these individuals must be seen in that light with no mitigating circumstances being able to revoke that judgment for it is the most basic fact. Human rights are non-negotiable.
This case only highlights the potential for the irrational and damaging outcomes of this environment of whipped up Fear and channelled false Hatred. It seems that Samina Malik is a victim, not a criminal. It appears that she has lost the right to freedom of expression and the freedom of association – both enshrined in the human rights laws that the UK is a signatory to. The only way to explain this is that those in positions to do otherwise were swayed from rational thinking by this poisonous environment that we are creating around us. For thinking rationally again, how could an angsty young woman’s poor attempts at literature truly present a threat to a nation, or truly be useful to a terrorist or terrorist organisation..?
Freedom of expression also has another side. To be able to act properly information must be available. In fact, a premise of democracy is that those in power are honest with those that they serve. To create a divisive environment fermenting with fear and hatred is not conducive to reasoned thought or action, nor is it serving the best interests of the electorates. It can be concluded that more than anything the endless streams of misinformation and hashed logic that is pushed down the throat of the average person is perhaps the greatest threat to freedom of expression. When a person is enraged, full of hatred and confused in their fearful state their reason will often abandon them, and their expressions will not be free in the sense that they have been manipulated to be as they are by a whole series of false queues that trigger an intended reaction, rather like a puppet.
And so against this background, any victory that we are told that we have achieved in this war by the same people who have consistently deceived and divided us, will remain as hollow a symbol of victory as the Statue of Liberty is of freedom until it is once again opened to the public. However, the Statue of Liberty remains closed, and those in the positions to affect real change in the crushing environment that is being created across the globe continue to lie and deceive their electorates, they continue to refer to the deaths of civilians as “collateral damage” and continue to maintain and fill concentration camps in the name of freedom, and ultimately, they show no signs of changing their ways, and so, it appears that the Statue will remain closed until further notice is given by the authorities; unless, of course, the people of the world take it upon themselves to reopen it…
Hesq.,
A citizen is able to enter the statue but only to climb as far as the pedestal, or the statue’s toes; with the crown and the stairway up inside the body itself being out of bounds. The importance is of course that this statue is hollow, and without people ascending its stairs to her crown it remains just that, a hollow and people-less idea.
The Statue of Liberty is a symbol of Freedom and Opportunity, of the Hopes and Dreams of not only the American people but of all people who aspire to be great in the face of all the odds. Its closure, since 9/11 2001, is a significant symbolic gesture. In fact Senator Charles Schumer has gone so far as to couch this debate in explicit terms having said, “In this case, freedom has given way to fear”. Well perhaps Senator Schumer, perhaps…but however we look at it, the 21st Century truly began on that day…
It is critical to realize that nationalism or the tendancy towards it is not only a positive feeling. In the positive – by way of example to illuminate the difference – one may feel an attachment to a nation, England say, or an ethnic or racial group, as is demonstrated in the all black oscar awards for instance. However, on the more foul side of such tendencies and feelings is the negative; whereby a group feels bound together simply by a collective hatred or fear of another group or ideology.
This kind of sentiment has two major aspects. Firstly, it inclines a slackness of moral thought, whereby WE are good on the basis of THEM being bad. They are always bad, and so by virture, we, being good, must always be good, regardless of what we actually do. So, when we bomb an urban area and the generals report that “collateral damage” was fairly high, we fail to see this as a crime against humanity, we fail to see that the killing of innocent civilians is wrong, and that even terming the death of a civilian as “collateral damage” is wrong; but because it is US doing it to THEM, and since they are bad then we are good, anything we do must be to further goodness… To labour this point somewhat, the overall hysteria and frantic rage that was built up and surrounded the deaths of those 3000 or so innocents in the World Trade Centre attacks is grossly disproportionate to the feelings of regret over the deaths of nearly 1 million Iraqi civilians (remember that the invasion was partly justified as a retaliation to the attacks on the Twin Towers). This negative type of nationalism produces the same results as scape-goating does. It allows rage and hatred to be vented without actually necessitating any change in the behaviour of those that are doing the hating.
This was at the forefront of politics in the McCarthy era, the era of the Communist witch hunts, where again the burden of proof fell upon the accused and people arrested were encouraged to ‘name names’ of other potential communists… In this era, the enemy is the ‘terrorist’, and more specifically the Islamic terrorist, with everyone a suspect until somehow they prove themselves innocent. And this burden of proof seems to remain in place even while the suspected are locked in concentration camps without charge, little legal access and with the prospect of a closed, juryless trial ahead of them. The very existence of a camp such as that at Guatanamo bay ought to be enough for the civilized nations of the world to scrap any existing treaties with the American administration, begin an immediate boycott of all USA exports to the world, and seek to enforce the international laws upon those responsible for behaviours and policies that would not have been out of place in the Third Reich of the 1940s…
Another aspect of this slackening of moral thinking and accuracy of thought can be seen in the slogans of the day (as well as in the slogans of repressive governments of the past), all hollow and meaningless. Support the troops for instance, is about as meaningless as oil your weapons, or, change your socks… it is something that in itself is right, and no body can have an objection to, for of course any good hearted and decent person will support the troops (who are people after all..) just as they would support the teachers or the train drivers. The sinister use of this slogan is that it has been used as a pro war slogan, as a slogan meant to divide and not bring together. That is to say that those who are against the war in Iraq are accused of not supporting the troops, something which does not go down well. And so those in favour of the war have the ammunition that the anti-war lobby does not support the troops giving further cause to avoid rational debate or dialogue regarding the facts of the situation… It is often missed that the people who are looking out most for troops are those who are resolutely against a war for oil, where people’s lives are being lost, given and taken for the sake of the profit margins of a few companies closely tied to the White house and the Pentagon. Rationally speaking, a slogan such as support the troops ought to be an anti-war slogan, but here again is an example of the twisted world view that is brought about by such negative nationalistic feeling.
Through slogans of this type the identity of the US is strengthened further through the identification of those who are not US. This of course is deliberate, and is nothing new. Perhaps a slightly unusual comparison to make, but none the less valid as an illustrative tool, would be to the marketing campaign of the 50s engineered by Edward Bernays, whereby in order to break the taboo of women smoking and thereby open up a large new market for the tobacco companies, Bernays organised a march of cheer leader type girls through New York with banners saying “smoke for Freedom”. This meant anyone objecting to the women smoking now was branded as one who was against women having equal rights, rather than objecting to the shameless use of a serious political issue of the day to promote the benefits of big business.
The second important aspect of this type of negative nationalism is that the group involved are very easily manipulated and the politicians doing the manipulating need have no coherent policy or objective, and need only satisfy immediate requirements for the hatred and fear of the OTHER group to continue. Helpfully as well, the other group needn’t be too specific, and any perceived enemy of the state can be added without any contradiction to the group of the OTHER, with no any real or rational justification. A person can be accused simply of being one of THEM, and no evidence is needed for such a claim if through the media and other channels of communication their name can be sufficiently tarnished…Hence we see groups being suddenly added to the list of international terrorist organisations who were trading and dealing quite normally with Western governments until their expulsion, generally for reasons unknown to the public at large, while other groups, generally those who cooperate with the military plans of the West, Pakistan for instance, are embraced and heralded as heroes in the war of terror when to all extensive purposes they are criminals of the highest order. Pakistani human rights records are appalling, and the country was run until very recently by a tight knit military dictatorship that has only changed since then in name and not in actually reality.
To return to our Senator’s observation of how freedom has given way to fear now… a group caught up in the hysteria of negative nationalism displays all the characteristics of a cornered animal, and will attack without thought if its escape is blocked. A population constantly on red alert, fearing the imminent attack, divided and insecure with no apparent escape from the endless torrent of media and political speculation endlessly reminding it that its fate walks a knife edge is a population that is easy to manipulate quickly and without proper rationale. Ironically maybe, the group that is scape-goated also begin in their turn to behave like cornered animals, and so we are left with a situation of two cornered animals facing each other…
Against a background of this type of negative nationalism all kinds of repressive actions are to be justified, phones can tapped, databases kept on those who attend anti-war rallies and demonstrations, restrictions in the civil liberties of a nation’s population, biometric ID cards, increased stop and search powers and of course the limitations of the powers of the judicial system and the limiting of basic human rights; and all can be justified with respect to the apparent increased need for tighter security to protect against the evils of THEM (and evil is not too an extreme a word to use, remember we are at war with the axis of evil…). However, any sane or reasonable person can see that the two – ie security and freedom are unrelated in the sense implied by the draconian measures of the western democracies. Similar to the divisive thinking behind the slogans, no-one would wish for innocent people to be killed in terrorist attacks but by reducing the freedoms of people targeted by those attacks will not reduce their effects or probability, particularly with the cases of the so called home grown terrorist. A little off the point but worth remembering is the fact that as the Nazis clamped down harder and harder on the French resistance it did not stop them, in fact it only encouraged them to continue to fight against that repressive and cruel regime. And well that they did.
The closure of the Statue of Liberty will fire up a rage in the hearts of many Americans, and will be symbolic act elsewhere too, and of course the answer given to this rage will be Blame Them, its not our fault, but the fault of our Enemies, further entrenching the negative nationalism we discussed before. And those in power will have the job of simply channelling that rage to what or whoever it suits them to even when it is quite irrational.
The Lyrical Terrorist escapes jail with a Suspended Sentence…A 24 year old Muslim woman who had worked in the Heathrow airport escaped a jail sentence and got off with a suspended 18 month sentence and was ordered to carry out 100 hours of unpaid work we learnt on the 7th December 2007. She had called herself the lyrical terrorist, as an on-line persona, because she had written poetry that was anti-western and anti the US, some of that poetry described and called for the beheading of non-believers; also she was alleged to have printed information from the Internet which together with the poetry was deemed to be likely to be useful for terrorism… Samina Malik had done nothing wrong, at least criminally, and one can only conclude that she had committed a so called thought crime… In a society where freedom of expression is valued then she has the categorical right to create such poetry – despite its evident bad taste and lack of literary skill – and also the right to read and collect any information that happens to be in the public domain.
This young woman’s poem was no great piece of art work as I have tried to stress, in fact it has hardly any artistic merit whatsoever and can only be seen akin to self harming and other destructive behaviours, however, to my mind at least, neither does the work of Damien Hirst or the Chapman brothers (respectively cutting a shark in half or mutilating original Goya prints with cartoon sketches of Mickey Mouse…) or any number of other contemporary artists making a very healthy living today…Freedom of expression cannot be restricted and it is as simple as that, and anyone who seeks to restrict the most basic freedoms of thought and expression is an enemy of the free world, of free people and of freedom itself and these individuals must be seen in that light with no mitigating circumstances being able to revoke that judgment for it is the most basic fact. Human rights are non-negotiable.
This case only highlights the potential for the irrational and damaging outcomes of this environment of whipped up Fear and channelled false Hatred. It seems that Samina Malik is a victim, not a criminal. It appears that she has lost the right to freedom of expression and the freedom of association – both enshrined in the human rights laws that the UK is a signatory to. The only way to explain this is that those in positions to do otherwise were swayed from rational thinking by this poisonous environment that we are creating around us. For thinking rationally again, how could an angsty young woman’s poor attempts at literature truly present a threat to a nation, or truly be useful to a terrorist or terrorist organisation..?
Freedom of expression also has another side. To be able to act properly information must be available. In fact, a premise of democracy is that those in power are honest with those that they serve. To create a divisive environment fermenting with fear and hatred is not conducive to reasoned thought or action, nor is it serving the best interests of the electorates. It can be concluded that more than anything the endless streams of misinformation and hashed logic that is pushed down the throat of the average person is perhaps the greatest threat to freedom of expression. When a person is enraged, full of hatred and confused in their fearful state their reason will often abandon them, and their expressions will not be free in the sense that they have been manipulated to be as they are by a whole series of false queues that trigger an intended reaction, rather like a puppet.
And so against this background, any victory that we are told that we have achieved in this war by the same people who have consistently deceived and divided us, will remain as hollow a symbol of victory as the Statue of Liberty is of freedom until it is once again opened to the public. However, the Statue of Liberty remains closed, and those in the positions to affect real change in the crushing environment that is being created across the globe continue to lie and deceive their electorates, they continue to refer to the deaths of civilians as “collateral damage” and continue to maintain and fill concentration camps in the name of freedom, and ultimately, they show no signs of changing their ways, and so, it appears that the Statue will remain closed until further notice is given by the authorities; unless, of course, the people of the world take it upon themselves to reopen it…
Hesq.,
Fox News., c/o : David Dees.,
Here at Gonzo Media we want to slash the power of the corporate media, driven by profits to manipulate the minds of their viewers, sometimes a picture though truly does say a thousand words, and by way of introduction, this picture here is from one of our favourites here, David Dees. You can see much more art work from him on his site, which you can catch here : http://rense.com/1.mpicons/dees1.htm .
Happy Hunting.,
Happy Hunting.,
Moral Turpitude and Addiction., c/o : hesq.,
Recently the author Sebastian Horsley was denied access to the USA to launch his new book (Dandy in the Underground) on the grounds of “moral turpitude”. A confused Horsley complained that he was “feeling quite well” and went on to point out that “I’ve never drunk turpentine in my life.” (Reuters)
Perhaps Horsley had missed something for the US state dept. defines moral turpitude for the purposes of refusing someone entry to the USA as being “conduct that is considered contrary to community standards of justice, honesty, or good morals”.
Or maybe Horsley hadn’t missed a thing. He has written an honest autobiography of life spent in the British underworld and it is a cautionary tale as much as anything else.
Horsley had spent much of his life addicted to drugs, frequenting prostitutes and selling his own body as a rent boy. Well, at least he was no hypocrite as in the case of the recently resigned Governor of New York, Eliot Spitzer, who recently stepped down after being linked to a prostitution ring in his own state where he had campaigned for years to eradicate the “vice” of paying for sex.
It seems that we are led to believe that Addiction to drugs for one is not to be seen in the same category as an addiction to the tenants of consumerism, shopping, eating fast food and drinking the coke (a large glass/mug/carton thing you can get in the USA contains up to 48 teaspoons of sugar in it…). A compulsion to fornicate – even with prostitutes – is seen as more degraded than someone who sits in front of porn all day/night long… now just what is going on… Addiction surely is addiction, and the problem of addiction lies not in the object of addiction but in the mind set of one who is addicted…to be addicted to one thing or another is as bad as being addicted to anything else, no matter who sells it or says that no one else can have any.
So, as a community we have sanctioned advertisements all over the media that fundamentally seek to get people addicted to (their) product(s). Products that is, and lifestyles, that are sold for profits. Bottom line. And the aim of this is a life long “loyalty” to a brand or object. This goes for everything from food to services, from cosmetics to automobiles. Now, the root of the problem with addiction as far as one can rationally see it is that once addicted a person looses something of what it is to be free. To need to have one thing or other – beyond sustenance – removes an important element in the process of choice making and thereby reduces that person’s liberty. Is this not the real problem?
To blindly belief that more is always better, even if that has to result in less for others, has got to be how the US State Dept would define a drug users dependence, where the user who has developed a compulsion (however irrational that may be…) to consume more of the said drug to get the same fix is in a vicious downward spiral. This can apparently justify in the mind of an addict stealing from another in order to fund that addiction. And often enough it is true to say that this theft from others does not even register on the moral compass of an addict.
Now for honesty. Does the situation described not fit just about every single body who has bought into the great American dream? I will do all in my power to increase my material lot even at the expense of my neighbour would be a good enough motto for any good true upstanding American. At the extreme end of this madness you have certain Christians who believe that there is only so much room in heaven and that everybody else will burn for eternity in hell suffering to extents that are unimaginable in this life. These Christians will gloat openly throughout their lives about this imagined fact; well, I can’t wait to meet them all in hell…
Remember that the State Dept defines moral turpitude in terms of Community justices etc. Community not Ideological…
The great American dream is harmful to communities. Something like 30% of Americans do Not have full or any health cover. The American dream has created a society where if you are rushed to hospital in an emergency the first thing that doctors may do is check your wallet for credit cards… the American dream has created a society that has recently sanctioned the use of torture within its system of justice. The American dream has created a society that accepts racist foreign and domestic policy. The American dream has created a society where the Statue of Liberty is closed to the public until further notice.
The American dream has created a society that has denied an author access to its country on the grounds of his apparent moral deviations from their own little understood beliefs. Whatever this is reminiscent of is unimportant in some ways. What is important is that it is happening and it is being allowed to happen. America seems to be suffering a great deal at this time, it is engaging itself and its people in illegal and morally corrupt wars world wide for the sake of Profit and Oil and Power and to bolster its massive Defence Industry (note on doublethink - for defence please read Attack), it has eroded what was one of the finest constitutions in recorded history as well as run itself bankrupt. Although we do need sympathy for this falling star, we also need to be realistic and portray this monster in its true image.
So here’s to hoping that Horsley does eventually get to visit, and that his book does help a broken people understand themselves better, and maybe even come off the terrible drugs that so many of our cousins across the Atlantic are suffering so much while on.
The incident in itself is minor. It is not significant in itself – or at least in the context of all things considered. It is, however another straw in what is rapidly becoming an unlit bonfire, and when it does flare up – probably by some trivial incident such as this one just described – it will go up in roaring unforgiving flames leaving nothing but ashes. But maybe all we can hope is that as well as those ashes some memories remain such as the ideas of True Liberty that once underpinned a beautiful American Dream.
Perhaps Horsley had missed something for the US state dept. defines moral turpitude for the purposes of refusing someone entry to the USA as being “conduct that is considered contrary to community standards of justice, honesty, or good morals”.
Or maybe Horsley hadn’t missed a thing. He has written an honest autobiography of life spent in the British underworld and it is a cautionary tale as much as anything else.
Horsley had spent much of his life addicted to drugs, frequenting prostitutes and selling his own body as a rent boy. Well, at least he was no hypocrite as in the case of the recently resigned Governor of New York, Eliot Spitzer, who recently stepped down after being linked to a prostitution ring in his own state where he had campaigned for years to eradicate the “vice” of paying for sex.
It seems that we are led to believe that Addiction to drugs for one is not to be seen in the same category as an addiction to the tenants of consumerism, shopping, eating fast food and drinking the coke (a large glass/mug/carton thing you can get in the USA contains up to 48 teaspoons of sugar in it…). A compulsion to fornicate – even with prostitutes – is seen as more degraded than someone who sits in front of porn all day/night long… now just what is going on… Addiction surely is addiction, and the problem of addiction lies not in the object of addiction but in the mind set of one who is addicted…to be addicted to one thing or another is as bad as being addicted to anything else, no matter who sells it or says that no one else can have any.
So, as a community we have sanctioned advertisements all over the media that fundamentally seek to get people addicted to (their) product(s). Products that is, and lifestyles, that are sold for profits. Bottom line. And the aim of this is a life long “loyalty” to a brand or object. This goes for everything from food to services, from cosmetics to automobiles. Now, the root of the problem with addiction as far as one can rationally see it is that once addicted a person looses something of what it is to be free. To need to have one thing or other – beyond sustenance – removes an important element in the process of choice making and thereby reduces that person’s liberty. Is this not the real problem?
To blindly belief that more is always better, even if that has to result in less for others, has got to be how the US State Dept would define a drug users dependence, where the user who has developed a compulsion (however irrational that may be…) to consume more of the said drug to get the same fix is in a vicious downward spiral. This can apparently justify in the mind of an addict stealing from another in order to fund that addiction. And often enough it is true to say that this theft from others does not even register on the moral compass of an addict.
Now for honesty. Does the situation described not fit just about every single body who has bought into the great American dream? I will do all in my power to increase my material lot even at the expense of my neighbour would be a good enough motto for any good true upstanding American. At the extreme end of this madness you have certain Christians who believe that there is only so much room in heaven and that everybody else will burn for eternity in hell suffering to extents that are unimaginable in this life. These Christians will gloat openly throughout their lives about this imagined fact; well, I can’t wait to meet them all in hell…
Remember that the State Dept defines moral turpitude in terms of Community justices etc. Community not Ideological…
The great American dream is harmful to communities. Something like 30% of Americans do Not have full or any health cover. The American dream has created a society where if you are rushed to hospital in an emergency the first thing that doctors may do is check your wallet for credit cards… the American dream has created a society that has recently sanctioned the use of torture within its system of justice. The American dream has created a society that accepts racist foreign and domestic policy. The American dream has created a society where the Statue of Liberty is closed to the public until further notice.
The American dream has created a society that has denied an author access to its country on the grounds of his apparent moral deviations from their own little understood beliefs. Whatever this is reminiscent of is unimportant in some ways. What is important is that it is happening and it is being allowed to happen. America seems to be suffering a great deal at this time, it is engaging itself and its people in illegal and morally corrupt wars world wide for the sake of Profit and Oil and Power and to bolster its massive Defence Industry (note on doublethink - for defence please read Attack), it has eroded what was one of the finest constitutions in recorded history as well as run itself bankrupt. Although we do need sympathy for this falling star, we also need to be realistic and portray this monster in its true image.
So here’s to hoping that Horsley does eventually get to visit, and that his book does help a broken people understand themselves better, and maybe even come off the terrible drugs that so many of our cousins across the Atlantic are suffering so much while on.
The incident in itself is minor. It is not significant in itself – or at least in the context of all things considered. It is, however another straw in what is rapidly becoming an unlit bonfire, and when it does flare up – probably by some trivial incident such as this one just described – it will go up in roaring unforgiving flames leaving nothing but ashes. But maybe all we can hope is that as well as those ashes some memories remain such as the ideas of True Liberty that once underpinned a beautiful American Dream.
hesq.,
DEAD FLAG BLUES - God Speed You Black Emperor.
and the sewers are all muddied with a thousand lonely suicides
and a dark wind blows
the government is corrupt
the government is corrupt
and we're on so many drugs
with the radio on and the curtains drawn
we're trapped in the belly of this horrible machine
we're trapped in the belly of this horrible machine
and the machine is bleeding to death
the sun has fallen down
the sun has fallen down
and the billboards are all leering
and the flags are all dead at the top of their poles
it went like this:
the buildings tumbled in on themselves
it went like this:
the buildings tumbled in on themselves
mothers clutching babies picked through the rubble
and pulled out their hair
the skyline was beautiful on fire
the skyline was beautiful on fire
all twisted metal stretching upwards
everything washed in a thin orange haze
i said:
i said:
"kiss me, you're beautiful -
these are truly the last days"
you grabbed my hand and we fell into it
like a daydream or a fever
we woke up one morning and fell a little further down -
we woke up one morning and fell a little further down -
for sure it's the valley of death
i open up my wallet
and it's full of blood.
God Speed You.
Crimson - c/o: Mr. Nobody.,
Crimson
Another hotel. Another kitchen. Another fire escape and more toxic lung punishment, caffeine intoxication taking the baton from the alcohol that is fighting a losing but valiant battle.It could be anywhere but is so happens to be here with me stuck right in the middle of it. Its been my escape for the last week from the life that crumbles around me but a lonely one filled with a million words, a thousand feelings and an eternal sadness.
I have made a lasagne. Served a burger, a few steaks and that has been that. Its an agonising way to make money. Its like being in purgatory - bartering my soul to the devil for a measly thirty pieces of silver.
Its nearly over though for another evening but life outside of this perfectly gleaming, large, airy and empty kitchen is a world that currently scares me and the fear threatens to consume all that I am. I smoke more, l light another cigarette, inhale deeply, longer, stronger. I need the nicotine to fill my lungs, I need to feel something other than this. I need to lose this fear. Caffeine has brought me right back into the game. Alert. alive, agitated and high. Its sparked everything from the night before that is now the day, the edges smudged, as the night falls once again it only seems like a heartbeat ago I was toasting the end of yesterday and welcoming the moon and the stars. My destination somewhere high, somewhere far away from here to watch as London sleeps the night away.
The hours instead of cooking have been inspired by music and comedy. My mind set free to wander this evening to other places, to other times. To ponder of what I have lost and marvel at what I have. Wishing, always things could be different. Wishing always things could be perfect. It never can be. So wishing I remain. Wishing to be home to her. To see her in that crimson dress she was wearing last night.
* * *
Wembley seemed to be scattered with rainbows wherever, whichever way I looked. Strips of rainbow, Japanese rainbow cut across the pavement I walked. Pretty, random and captivating for my racing mind and failing sight. The night sky dances with the dying day sharing and swapping their colours creating surreal landscapes and postcards from Albion.
The magic and the serenity seemed lost in Wembley Park well weathered and wrinkled, dirty with the years, decades underneath the shadow of Wembley Stadium.Fast food outlets breeding neon and obesity litter the streets. Hotels surround like citadels – the castles lost years ago. Giant concrete monoliths making the panoramic view an ugly one at best. Bars that have been battered, repeatedly by marauding fans of all factions. Almost transfixed in shock between event. I walk by and they remind me of rabbits stuck, staring into the headlights that mark their untimely end from this world. Their life and their livelihood a saddening statement but a profitable one that befits them the entrance to the tree-lined streets that almost seem a world away from the giant holding pen for the stadium and arena.
The lighting and my tired but alert mind freed my imagination and it flew, it flew to so many places I felt myself spinning as I climbed the steps that surely can only be modelled on some idealistic view of heaven. A god complex in an architect, just what the world needs. There must be a hundred. Steep and seemingly with no end. The summit always invisible until the final step, and the barriers. The fifty safety jacketed officials, paid for what. To stand there, Drink tea, Be abusive to degenerates, fair dodgers and any member of the public that isn’t blond or beautiful showing some thigh or a little breast. Oh how I would like to kill them all. My rage nearly gets the better of me as I stumble for my ticket and head into the dirty and hot underground.
I dreamt for the first time in many a month the night before last. I’m afflicted, gifted maybe diseased with nightmares of the woes and ills of mankind. Of acts and scenes torn from the devils scrapbook. Its not suffering – its just another place that takes a while to get to know. To understand the limitations and boundaries. There are obviously no rules. That’s where the nightmares take hold and my will is broken, tortured and dammed in fire. My dream could be a script. Easily penned by Tarantino or the cinema he has spawned. Graphic yet reminiscent of a cartoon. Comical yet horrific.I was never really there.It was my face transposed onto somebody else playing a role in a film that was supposed to be real and I was aware of this the whole time. Just watching, terrified because I knew it was me but also subdued enough to watch and to let the story unfold. Good versus evil and love all played out in perfect tones of crimson.Notably it’s the first night in many a month I slept alone and without her. Another room. On the floor. A makeshift bed. I slept from late night into late afternoon. Refreshed but disturbed. Graphically remembering every detail, sensation and feeling from my dream left me still there seeing things from a distance, seeing everything in Crimson.
* * *
I was slumped into a corner, a piss smelling corner just outside the entrance to London Bridge station, waiting, watching tourists and travellers flowing as if water through and around the buses and taxis. Relatives waiting, pimps and prostitutes stalking.Flowing – bathed in a Sodium glow that twisted and manipulated shadows into figures from the underworld. Skewed signs into abstract art and bounced off the interlined girder roof that almost gives the image of the original wooden trussed pitch roof some a hundred and fifty years ago.The Saturday night slags and chavs staggered into a city braced for madness and violence in the name of fun. In they flow from the satellite towns where Yatzy’s is posh and special brew is breakfast. Here for fights and fornication spreading their seeds of despair as far and as wide as they can be scattered in another lost night in the garden of the devil. (evil?)
My train, minutes away, if all can be believed and my final mission, albeit a fifteen minute mission will be underway. From Wembley Park to Peckham and my home. My girlfriends home. My girlfriends parents home. A flat underneath a beautifully trademark Victorian house that reminds me of the home I never had. The flat, a conversion, her legacy. Her foot on the ladder.
I look around and as the smoke clears I can see I have created a perfect cigarette circle all around me. At least ten butts litter the floor forming a perimeter and a long stream of smoke forms a stream flowing all the way through the station. There is a little part of me that is challenging cancer to a fight. A fight to the death. Only one winner. Perhaps it’s the only thing naturally left for me to fight. Another crimson encounter. To beat cancer. To receive that touching sentiment from strangers. Unbridled support from loved ones tingled with pity and despair . I plucked myself from my thoughts and wander, perhaps stagger as my co-ordination is damaged by the things I have consumed. The train journey so brief, a montage in images and colours, so quick I nearly missed my stop. The stairs leading out – guarded by two very ugly, very nasty looking half-breeds adopted from a laboratory somewhere. Probably ex-research. Infected, Jacked up. There eyes glared at each other. Ready. Waiting for a weak moment by its owner. A moment of indecisiveness or simple stupidity. Then they could finish this. I walked through them trying the best to curb the fear that had gripped me and the dark place my mind had gone. They smelled it but I was gone bounding down the fifty steps three at a time into the ghetto that is Peckham. Regeneration and re-building of Peckham only shifts poverty elsewhere, further out, as new money beats no money. It’s a sad day for London when real London fades further and further away until it is no longer more and its a sad day every day i arrive home and the landscape looks different. A little more polished. A little more of that shiny new glint.
The same kid, cracked out, eyes as black as Opal, asks me every day for money. Each day he tries to sell me something usually and with an annoying of repetition drugs he does not have. His transparency makes him no less of a threat. I wonder where he is at night. Where does he sleep. Does he even sleep. Can he sleep. The repetition of walking the same few hundred yard patch every day taking in two rows of shops, and of course a pub, separated by Asylum Lane and the railway bridge above carrying people into the city. A barber, a beauty parlour, café and several fast food outlets dot the landscape. A real Caribbean takeaway – where they are so stoned, so lazy most days they forget to make food and turn away scores of people seemingly on a minute by minute basis.
The kid. He walks amidst the same people every day, asking the same people every day. Trying to work the unworkable scam and until one day he stabs someone seemingly random but all together predictable. If not that then someone puts him out of his misery and around here who knows – its perhaps amusing, like having a jester, a performing monkey with a miniature cymbal spiralling so badly out of humanity.He is here again, separating me and a two minute walk past the phonebox, next left and home.“you got any money” he stares. Evil. Pure evil stares at me. I can feel myself trembling that I, because I am who I am, will be the person to tip him over the edge. I fear I am the only person that shuns him so sardonically, sometimes with haste and sometimes in anger but always shuns.“No” I shout at him and run, run away. Faster and faster until I hear the crunch of the stones, the gravel, the driveway. I’m here, The stitch hits me hard and I feel sick. I am home. Home. Her home and then all and everything comes flooding, painfully. Filling my head past breaking point. I need something. I need anything. I rush down the stairs, keys trembling, they make the lock first time, the security light blinds me, I stumble into the darkness.The lightswitch is flicked. Light, bright blinding light and horror fill all.My trembling stops. My breathing becomes shallow, a mere whisper.My heart. My heart is gone I think.My eyes crimson. Mirroring crimson all around.Crimson everywhereBlood everywhere.I walk coldly into the bedroom opposite just illuminated from the hallway. The white sheets near soaked, saturated with her blood.And there she lay in a pool of crimson that looked just like watered down ribena.
Another hotel. Another kitchen. Another fire escape and more toxic lung punishment, caffeine intoxication taking the baton from the alcohol that is fighting a losing but valiant battle.It could be anywhere but is so happens to be here with me stuck right in the middle of it. Its been my escape for the last week from the life that crumbles around me but a lonely one filled with a million words, a thousand feelings and an eternal sadness.
I have made a lasagne. Served a burger, a few steaks and that has been that. Its an agonising way to make money. Its like being in purgatory - bartering my soul to the devil for a measly thirty pieces of silver.
Its nearly over though for another evening but life outside of this perfectly gleaming, large, airy and empty kitchen is a world that currently scares me and the fear threatens to consume all that I am. I smoke more, l light another cigarette, inhale deeply, longer, stronger. I need the nicotine to fill my lungs, I need to feel something other than this. I need to lose this fear. Caffeine has brought me right back into the game. Alert. alive, agitated and high. Its sparked everything from the night before that is now the day, the edges smudged, as the night falls once again it only seems like a heartbeat ago I was toasting the end of yesterday and welcoming the moon and the stars. My destination somewhere high, somewhere far away from here to watch as London sleeps the night away.
The hours instead of cooking have been inspired by music and comedy. My mind set free to wander this evening to other places, to other times. To ponder of what I have lost and marvel at what I have. Wishing, always things could be different. Wishing always things could be perfect. It never can be. So wishing I remain. Wishing to be home to her. To see her in that crimson dress she was wearing last night.
* * *
Wembley seemed to be scattered with rainbows wherever, whichever way I looked. Strips of rainbow, Japanese rainbow cut across the pavement I walked. Pretty, random and captivating for my racing mind and failing sight. The night sky dances with the dying day sharing and swapping their colours creating surreal landscapes and postcards from Albion.
The magic and the serenity seemed lost in Wembley Park well weathered and wrinkled, dirty with the years, decades underneath the shadow of Wembley Stadium.Fast food outlets breeding neon and obesity litter the streets. Hotels surround like citadels – the castles lost years ago. Giant concrete monoliths making the panoramic view an ugly one at best. Bars that have been battered, repeatedly by marauding fans of all factions. Almost transfixed in shock between event. I walk by and they remind me of rabbits stuck, staring into the headlights that mark their untimely end from this world. Their life and their livelihood a saddening statement but a profitable one that befits them the entrance to the tree-lined streets that almost seem a world away from the giant holding pen for the stadium and arena.
The lighting and my tired but alert mind freed my imagination and it flew, it flew to so many places I felt myself spinning as I climbed the steps that surely can only be modelled on some idealistic view of heaven. A god complex in an architect, just what the world needs. There must be a hundred. Steep and seemingly with no end. The summit always invisible until the final step, and the barriers. The fifty safety jacketed officials, paid for what. To stand there, Drink tea, Be abusive to degenerates, fair dodgers and any member of the public that isn’t blond or beautiful showing some thigh or a little breast. Oh how I would like to kill them all. My rage nearly gets the better of me as I stumble for my ticket and head into the dirty and hot underground.
I dreamt for the first time in many a month the night before last. I’m afflicted, gifted maybe diseased with nightmares of the woes and ills of mankind. Of acts and scenes torn from the devils scrapbook. Its not suffering – its just another place that takes a while to get to know. To understand the limitations and boundaries. There are obviously no rules. That’s where the nightmares take hold and my will is broken, tortured and dammed in fire. My dream could be a script. Easily penned by Tarantino or the cinema he has spawned. Graphic yet reminiscent of a cartoon. Comical yet horrific.I was never really there.It was my face transposed onto somebody else playing a role in a film that was supposed to be real and I was aware of this the whole time. Just watching, terrified because I knew it was me but also subdued enough to watch and to let the story unfold. Good versus evil and love all played out in perfect tones of crimson.Notably it’s the first night in many a month I slept alone and without her. Another room. On the floor. A makeshift bed. I slept from late night into late afternoon. Refreshed but disturbed. Graphically remembering every detail, sensation and feeling from my dream left me still there seeing things from a distance, seeing everything in Crimson.
* * *
I was slumped into a corner, a piss smelling corner just outside the entrance to London Bridge station, waiting, watching tourists and travellers flowing as if water through and around the buses and taxis. Relatives waiting, pimps and prostitutes stalking.Flowing – bathed in a Sodium glow that twisted and manipulated shadows into figures from the underworld. Skewed signs into abstract art and bounced off the interlined girder roof that almost gives the image of the original wooden trussed pitch roof some a hundred and fifty years ago.The Saturday night slags and chavs staggered into a city braced for madness and violence in the name of fun. In they flow from the satellite towns where Yatzy’s is posh and special brew is breakfast. Here for fights and fornication spreading their seeds of despair as far and as wide as they can be scattered in another lost night in the garden of the devil. (evil?)
My train, minutes away, if all can be believed and my final mission, albeit a fifteen minute mission will be underway. From Wembley Park to Peckham and my home. My girlfriends home. My girlfriends parents home. A flat underneath a beautifully trademark Victorian house that reminds me of the home I never had. The flat, a conversion, her legacy. Her foot on the ladder.
I look around and as the smoke clears I can see I have created a perfect cigarette circle all around me. At least ten butts litter the floor forming a perimeter and a long stream of smoke forms a stream flowing all the way through the station. There is a little part of me that is challenging cancer to a fight. A fight to the death. Only one winner. Perhaps it’s the only thing naturally left for me to fight. Another crimson encounter. To beat cancer. To receive that touching sentiment from strangers. Unbridled support from loved ones tingled with pity and despair . I plucked myself from my thoughts and wander, perhaps stagger as my co-ordination is damaged by the things I have consumed. The train journey so brief, a montage in images and colours, so quick I nearly missed my stop. The stairs leading out – guarded by two very ugly, very nasty looking half-breeds adopted from a laboratory somewhere. Probably ex-research. Infected, Jacked up. There eyes glared at each other. Ready. Waiting for a weak moment by its owner. A moment of indecisiveness or simple stupidity. Then they could finish this. I walked through them trying the best to curb the fear that had gripped me and the dark place my mind had gone. They smelled it but I was gone bounding down the fifty steps three at a time into the ghetto that is Peckham. Regeneration and re-building of Peckham only shifts poverty elsewhere, further out, as new money beats no money. It’s a sad day for London when real London fades further and further away until it is no longer more and its a sad day every day i arrive home and the landscape looks different. A little more polished. A little more of that shiny new glint.
The same kid, cracked out, eyes as black as Opal, asks me every day for money. Each day he tries to sell me something usually and with an annoying of repetition drugs he does not have. His transparency makes him no less of a threat. I wonder where he is at night. Where does he sleep. Does he even sleep. Can he sleep. The repetition of walking the same few hundred yard patch every day taking in two rows of shops, and of course a pub, separated by Asylum Lane and the railway bridge above carrying people into the city. A barber, a beauty parlour, café and several fast food outlets dot the landscape. A real Caribbean takeaway – where they are so stoned, so lazy most days they forget to make food and turn away scores of people seemingly on a minute by minute basis.
The kid. He walks amidst the same people every day, asking the same people every day. Trying to work the unworkable scam and until one day he stabs someone seemingly random but all together predictable. If not that then someone puts him out of his misery and around here who knows – its perhaps amusing, like having a jester, a performing monkey with a miniature cymbal spiralling so badly out of humanity.He is here again, separating me and a two minute walk past the phonebox, next left and home.“you got any money” he stares. Evil. Pure evil stares at me. I can feel myself trembling that I, because I am who I am, will be the person to tip him over the edge. I fear I am the only person that shuns him so sardonically, sometimes with haste and sometimes in anger but always shuns.“No” I shout at him and run, run away. Faster and faster until I hear the crunch of the stones, the gravel, the driveway. I’m here, The stitch hits me hard and I feel sick. I am home. Home. Her home and then all and everything comes flooding, painfully. Filling my head past breaking point. I need something. I need anything. I rush down the stairs, keys trembling, they make the lock first time, the security light blinds me, I stumble into the darkness.The lightswitch is flicked. Light, bright blinding light and horror fill all.My trembling stops. My breathing becomes shallow, a mere whisper.My heart. My heart is gone I think.My eyes crimson. Mirroring crimson all around.Crimson everywhereBlood everywhere.I walk coldly into the bedroom opposite just illuminated from the hallway. The white sheets near soaked, saturated with her blood.And there she lay in a pool of crimson that looked just like watered down ribena.
A Character Emerges., c/o Si Hodges.,
[A man sits at a computer. Bare floorboards. Wooden chair]
[he speaks] A few pokes and well-wishes and my entire social life completed online, no need to see anyone but the shopkeeper for the next 14 days.
So, what to keep with my unbridled solitude?
A puzzle perhaps.
Solitaire for eternity?
Or something perhaps to grow?
To become the unchallenged master in any field of my choosing.
Or perhaps...a cigarette
[puffs] Begins so easy with a cigarette.
That it could never end.
There's a curious chalice i've received, one that I'm sure is not peculiar to others.
[waits - looks at camera]
The world does not concern me.
It's forever drama of lost and forgotten dreams holds no thrill for me. pretends nothing that sparks me into action.
[drag] Makes me wonder why these dreams exist.
But forever there's this pull to improve our existence.
Is it a joke that such simplicity cannot last forever?That my days cannot go on in such rich boredom that I am so apt to find myself?Is it an inner yearning that wishes to bring diversity to existence?
Or a conditioned lurch for novelty whenever we get too close to a point of as silence; evenif we were to ever know which way that was?
I do not mean to say that I am without fear.
I fear impending existence keenly, that so many courses of action could remain fruitful to me if I only had the will and courage to take them.
I would like to think that it's my privileged insight that keeps me here.
Away from the chewing masses: binging on a collective hysteria that keeps them from acknowledging their own utter inconsequence.
No doubt it's fear that keeps them from falling.
But is it really love that also draws them together?
Such calamity if not.
No. My fear is fully acknowledged – although it is one that keeps me very much apart.
I have trouble understanding the utility of social exchange if it is not to beautify or embellish an otherwise sober existence but so few of my friends of companions are able to satisfy this unending itch.
So I accept that these fears exist, within me as in everyone else.Such a strange thing their existence.For if they were not, it's almost as if there would be no compulsion to act.
As though the grass being greener is a reason to grow it in the first place.Perhaps I prefer my rich damp earth...I am sure that my desires are fully spent.
I have been to the edge of all childish dreams and at each found nothing that appealed, struck me deep, gave me a sense of unfolding destiny.
Though no doubt I expected too much.
Were it not for my fears,
I would be happy sit
and acknowledge a world as it flows before me
– whose beauty may penetrate me on some days more than others,
occasionally allow ugliness to impinge upon me, but that would be it.
Is it simply an idea of 'not' that keeps me from sitting still?
Not going in an ideal direction, not sitting in the right company,
being in the right creative space,
Not living up to some unknown potential?
Surely the greatest potential is that which is unspent?
...
So there's a fear that sits.
Polluting my idleness, daring me to react.
To force myself to overcome its chimera so I may find myself, somewhat distressed, but back in another idle spot contemplating the same question as to why I would be want to leave this place again.
Is my fear really of here?
That my life, so devoid of external stimulation, is truly lacking?
But these things hold no promise for me.
No delight for me.
It's as if I'm a renunciant, though more through an accident of temperament than a conscious putting aside of the worlds ills.
Perhaps...perhaps my lack of action is an ornate excuseConcealing a fear of doing anything, to go out and experience the juice of the world.
Those things that seem to entertain those 'others' so endlessly.
But I swear to engage in these activities has never seemed to me anything but futile – sometimes a fleeting spark – perhaps a more pleasant sensation in the body for a brief amount of time but nothing I could call joy or pleasure.
No - quite honestly – there is no thing, no place or person – that I could say brings me anything amounting to joy.
It to me nothing but an addiction to drama – an endless ketamine fix to postpone the point where we stop and see that there is no one no thing that sustains us.
And if all these experiences flow before me - none piquing or probing more than another – why wish for such variety at all?
But yet, I am compelled to act
And not stay still
and drink from this chalice that promises nothing but threatens anything i could pretend to hold dear.
Until the day that too melts away and I'll be found ... [loses himself in thought][comes back to himself, grinning]
Relaxing in utter futility
Not worry that there was anything else that ought to be done.
To have it dropped.
And effortlessly.
(to read more of Si, Hodges peices visit : www.everrollingsnowball.blogspot.com )
[he speaks] A few pokes and well-wishes and my entire social life completed online, no need to see anyone but the shopkeeper for the next 14 days.
So, what to keep with my unbridled solitude?
A puzzle perhaps.
Solitaire for eternity?
Or something perhaps to grow?
To become the unchallenged master in any field of my choosing.
Or perhaps...a cigarette
[puffs] Begins so easy with a cigarette.
That it could never end.
There's a curious chalice i've received, one that I'm sure is not peculiar to others.
[waits - looks at camera]
The world does not concern me.
It's forever drama of lost and forgotten dreams holds no thrill for me. pretends nothing that sparks me into action.
[drag] Makes me wonder why these dreams exist.
But forever there's this pull to improve our existence.
Is it a joke that such simplicity cannot last forever?That my days cannot go on in such rich boredom that I am so apt to find myself?Is it an inner yearning that wishes to bring diversity to existence?
Or a conditioned lurch for novelty whenever we get too close to a point of as silence; evenif we were to ever know which way that was?
I do not mean to say that I am without fear.
I fear impending existence keenly, that so many courses of action could remain fruitful to me if I only had the will and courage to take them.
I would like to think that it's my privileged insight that keeps me here.
Away from the chewing masses: binging on a collective hysteria that keeps them from acknowledging their own utter inconsequence.
No doubt it's fear that keeps them from falling.
But is it really love that also draws them together?
Such calamity if not.
No. My fear is fully acknowledged – although it is one that keeps me very much apart.
I have trouble understanding the utility of social exchange if it is not to beautify or embellish an otherwise sober existence but so few of my friends of companions are able to satisfy this unending itch.
So I accept that these fears exist, within me as in everyone else.Such a strange thing their existence.For if they were not, it's almost as if there would be no compulsion to act.
As though the grass being greener is a reason to grow it in the first place.Perhaps I prefer my rich damp earth...I am sure that my desires are fully spent.
I have been to the edge of all childish dreams and at each found nothing that appealed, struck me deep, gave me a sense of unfolding destiny.
Though no doubt I expected too much.
Were it not for my fears,
I would be happy sit
and acknowledge a world as it flows before me
– whose beauty may penetrate me on some days more than others,
occasionally allow ugliness to impinge upon me, but that would be it.
Is it simply an idea of 'not' that keeps me from sitting still?
Not going in an ideal direction, not sitting in the right company,
being in the right creative space,
Not living up to some unknown potential?
Surely the greatest potential is that which is unspent?
...
So there's a fear that sits.
Polluting my idleness, daring me to react.
To force myself to overcome its chimera so I may find myself, somewhat distressed, but back in another idle spot contemplating the same question as to why I would be want to leave this place again.
Is my fear really of here?
That my life, so devoid of external stimulation, is truly lacking?
But these things hold no promise for me.
No delight for me.
It's as if I'm a renunciant, though more through an accident of temperament than a conscious putting aside of the worlds ills.
Perhaps...perhaps my lack of action is an ornate excuseConcealing a fear of doing anything, to go out and experience the juice of the world.
Those things that seem to entertain those 'others' so endlessly.
But I swear to engage in these activities has never seemed to me anything but futile – sometimes a fleeting spark – perhaps a more pleasant sensation in the body for a brief amount of time but nothing I could call joy or pleasure.
No - quite honestly – there is no thing, no place or person – that I could say brings me anything amounting to joy.
It to me nothing but an addiction to drama – an endless ketamine fix to postpone the point where we stop and see that there is no one no thing that sustains us.
And if all these experiences flow before me - none piquing or probing more than another – why wish for such variety at all?
But yet, I am compelled to act
And not stay still
and drink from this chalice that promises nothing but threatens anything i could pretend to hold dear.
Until the day that too melts away and I'll be found ... [loses himself in thought][comes back to himself, grinning]
Relaxing in utter futility
Not worry that there was anything else that ought to be done.
To have it dropped.
And effortlessly.
(to read more of Si, Hodges peices visit : www.everrollingsnowball.blogspot.com )
Forest Road, c/o: SB.,
Slashing rain through a misaligned car window. Tipping ashes through grey on grey. A fingerpicker's rough clusters seeping through the sundry clouds, drifting, cloaking the rain-splashed plastic interior. As we looked out from the vantage point in the Welsh hills, a low grey tongue of cloud lolled in the valley, steeply banked by trees and fields of multiples of sheep, and an arrogant pheasant stationed on top a fence post close to the car, our haven from the cold outside. You'd been borne forward by a forest road with remaining acne scars, a long stretch towarddistant Snowdonia and perpetually skirting the height of a hillrange, through portals of metal gates and huddling clusters of houses, on an afternoon's sojourn further and further away from any perceived location. Yet this was nice for a time,until the grey rolled in through the window rolled, sparking the ancient fearful questioning of silences between friends left by a temporal layby someplace in a slight occupation of time. Gradually we passed through the smoke rings, towards a deep movement, smiling. And then onwards, further down the ruttedgravel track into a blanket of yellow-flowered trees, solemn in their dripping.A young couple with a pram stood next to a dull coloured car, still awhile to watch us, the eyeing pair passing, left to wander what reverence was contained in that small containment. What half-brained concept of the dimmed imaginations left whirring on prepared strings,resonance, reverberations, assessment-reassessments. No words were spoken as we passed them again, on our way out of the dead zone.Out into the smoothed road, desolate. Reflecting inward colours. Driving forward, slowed at the sight of groups of walkers vested in animal hides and false weapons, divested of motive, leaving that vacuous space for guesswork. Thinking about asking, not acting, no disappointments - just a brow, and several of these bestial pretences sluggishly progressing toward the passenger, troubled opening a gate, hands leaden with tremulous, excited humour. A caravan hidden in trees. Lapwings were momentarily haunting a pond near a hollow steel barn, casting a brief form against a formless expanse of Welsh sky. Young dogs racing.
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