july 1998 issue
volume 102

humor Strange but true... Stewardesses and reverberated are the two longest words (12 letters each) that can be typed using only the left hand. The longest word that can be typed using only the right hand is lollipop. Skepticisms is the longest word that alternates hands. A duck's quack doesn't echo, and no one knows why. In the 1940s, the FCC assigned television's Channel 1 to mobile services (two-way radios in taxicabs, for instance) but did not re-number the other channel assignments. That is why your TV set has channels 2 and up, but no channel 1. A group of geese on the ground is a gaggle, a group of geese in the air is a skein. The underside of a horse's hoof is called a frog. The frog peels off several times a year with new growth. The San Francisco Cable cars are the only mobile National Monuments. The "save" icon on Microsoft Word shows a floppy disk, with the shutter on backwards. The combination "ough" can be pronounced in nine different ways. The following sentence contains them all: "A rough-coated, dough-faced, thoughtful ploughman strode through the streets of Scarborough; after falling into a slough, he coughed and hiccoughed." The verb "cleave" is the only English word with two synonyms which are antonyms of each other: adhere and separate. The only 15 letter word that can be spelled without repeating a letter is uncopyrightable. Facetious and abstemious contain all the vowels in the correct order, as does arsenious, meaning "containing arsenic." The shape of plant collenchyma cells and the shape of the bubbles in beer foam are the same - they are orthotetrachidecahedrons. The word 'pound' is abbreviated 'lb.' after the constellation 'libra' because it means 'pound' in Latin, and also 'scales'. The abbreviation for the British Pound Sterling comes from the same source: it is an 'L' for Libra/Lb. with a stroke through it to indicate abbreviation. Same goes for the Italian lira which uses the same abbreviation ('lira' coming from 'libra'). So British currency (before it went metric) was always quoted as "pounds/shillings/pence", abbreviated "L/s/d" (libra/solidus/denarius). Emus and kangaroos cannot walk backwards, and are on the Australian coat of arms for that reason. Cats have over one hundred vocal sounds, while dogs only have about ten. The word "Checkmate" in chess comes from the Persian phrase "Shah Mat," which means "the king is dead". Pinocchio is Italian for "pine head." Camel's milk does not curdle. In every episode of Seinfeld there is a Superman somewhere. An animal epidemic is called an epizootic. Murphy's Oil Soap is the chemical most commonly used to clean elephants. The United States has never lost a war in which mules were used. Blueberry Jelly Bellies were created especially for Ronald Reagan. All porcupines float in water. Hang On Sloopy is the official rock song of Ohio. Did you know that there are coffee flavored PEZ? The world's largest wine cask is in Heidelberg, Germany. Lorne Greene had one of his nipples bitten off by an alligator while he was host of "Lorne Greene's Wild Kingdom." Cat's urine glows under a blacklight. If you bring a raccoon's head to the Henniker, New Hampshire town hall, you are entitled to receive $.10 from the town. St. Stephen is the patron saint of bricklayers. The first song played on Armed Forces Radio during operation Desert Shield was "Rock the Casbah" by the Clash. The reason firehouses have circular stairways is from the days of yore when the engines were pulled by horses. The horses were stabled on the ground floor and figured out how to walk up straight staircases. Non-dairy creamer is flammable. The airplane Buddy Holly died in was the "American Pie." (Thus the name of the Don McLean song.) Texas is the only state that is allowed to fly its state flag at the same height as the U.S. flag. The only nation who's name begins with an "A", but doesn't end in an "A" is Afghanistan. The names of the three wise monkeys are: Mizaru: See no evil, Mikazaru: Hear no evil, and Mazaru: Speak no evil. The July issue of cc+d also has a PETA news section, which is not included on this page. In order to see the entire version of cc+d, email us and we'll send you a text version through email. poetry SUNSET TRAINS Allison Jenks Defenses stretched along your swampy skin. I've been funnelled inside you, Swallowed into the spine of your wine-filled drums. Convince me of your kiss Then I'll owl right back inside myself, forgetting it all. It'a a matter of letting things go that I still feel for, Not listening to the sunset trains that pass miles of rainy corn heading for laughing cities. I want to sleep at all the places You feel at home. There's always a fire in someone to feel but what burns in you are from the youngest, warmest blood. I want to come into you so hard That I can see myself through your eyes at angles mirrors won't show me. I want the parts of your mind that you hide the dogs to fill our new planet. Find me nearly dead as Clover hills dance around my fear with the moonlit porch of my future I can hear my name running in the frosted notes that paint my hands when you hold them. < ashes > Ray Heinrich ray@scribbledyne.com excuse means some small word said turning gone walking all these scenes repeated ashes i keep eating them < all i can give you > ray heinrich ray@scribbledyne.com The rats of a good purpose, run away.I enter this in the logbook, and i know you will be checking on me.But i know a lot.More than you think. Maybe enough.I enter this in the logbook too.And then, i give up, and change the logbook into this poem.Knowing you will check it too.And here you are, reading this.So see, i was right.Now maybe i asked you to read this; and maybe i didn't.Maybe, i want to invite you in.Here, have this food and drink made into words. You see, no matter how much i might love you, all i can give you are these words. < a pig in shit > Ray Heinrich ray@scribbledyne.com i was as happy as a pig in shit when i yelled at you to get your shit together when i said that you had shit for brains when i could tell you to eat shit and die when i could go ape shit over your holy shit like a pig in shit but as they say shit happened shit hit the fan and you got off the pot and left me up this creek without a paddle VALENTINES DAY By Paul L. Glaze I Gaze At You My Love And Say Every Day Is Our Valentines Day. Married By Man Within Gods Laws. Each Day Together Is A Special Cause. These Years Have Passed So Very Fast How Much Longer, Do We Dare To Ask ? I Pray To Our Lord So High Above To Grant Us Moments Of Eternal Love. If This Can Not Be, I Now Wish To Say. Each Day With You Is A Day I Pray. A Prayer To Share With Loving Care. That Together We May Convey. Just One More Precious, V A L E N T I N E S D A Y. Winter walk Michael Estabrook MEstabr815@aol.com White cat sitting on a rock in a field of dead grass staring at me. Frozen brown-white ice floes, water churning underneath. Stark trees shadows in the dusk, branches cracked and broken from the storm. Thank you, women who work II Thank you, women who work In this way you make an indispensable contribution to the growth of a culture which unites reason and feeling, to a model of life ever open to the sense of "mystery" Letter to Women, Message of His Holiness POPE JOHN PAUL II, July 10 Thank you, women who work because you are supposed to be the ones who rely on superstition, on faith, more than men Thank you, women who work because you need to rely on something, you're the inferior sex, remember? rely on men, or rely on religion either way, we'll make you dependent Thank you, women who work because that sense of mystery we attribute to you is really the sense of hopeless fear our religion instills on people who don't want to think for themselves and turns people to us because they have no other choice Thank you, women who work with your influence we can get rid of this whole reason thing altogether janet kuypers Thank you, women who work I Thank you, women who work In this way you make an indispensable contribution to the growth of a culture which unites reason and feeling, to a model of life ever open to the sense of "mystery" Letter to Women, Message of His Holiness POPE JOHN PAUL II, July 10 Thank you, women who work because you take on the responsibilities of men while still having to be mothers, wives good little daughters a feminine creatures Thank you, women who work because you are the ones we can blame when the family falls apart Thank you, women who work because you make a point to do more than your fair share even though no man would do the same for you Thank you, women who work for you know you have to prove yourselves over and over and over again and that it still isn't enough, so keep up the good work, ladies janet kuypers The Pain in Leaving By Peter Scott I stand in place Watching the music swirl around The tears catch me off guard I know this is the end Can sense a moment dying In abdication of the greater whole Intoxicating my memories So as you pack your bags A drop of sorrow looms While I do the same. < in this poem the protagonist shoots himself > Ray Heinrich ray@scribbledyne.com bang < fuel > ray heinrich ray@scribbledyne.com poetry is fuel not brick each word a little stick that snaps and burns Unfamiliar Skin Caron Andregg caron@ktb.net A girl ripe with wanting Unfolds herself before you Like a gift; the delicious Surprise of unfamiliar skin Startled by desire Awake after long sleeping Nimble fingers search for the spots which unlock her Tentatively touching Like Asian Macaques High in the Japanese alps Who discover a hidden pool Springfed and bubbling Amidst the snow Reach for the warmth Then shy and run away You find her not so much Frightening as inexplicable As those clever mountain monkeys Over time learn to bathe Daily in those steaming pools Not from some innate fastidiousness But because they find delight in it So from halting exploration You will come in time To touch her for sheer joy. Trains Caron Andregg caron@ktb.net From such humble places Great journeys begin From dirty suburban platforms Crumbled candy wrappers, spent gum Yesterdays Financial Times Used and abandoned Like last year's trophy wives Commuters crowd benches Grey as grim pavement Coming and going Going and coming Joyless and bound 500 pound fine for spitting Towns here remember TB and Black Plague Memory is long, here Ancient carriages Swinging wooden doors Sway on track Laid by Irish ancestors Escaping blighted fields Compartments smell Of leather long removed Of suitcases stuffed with dreams Of children's fear and wonder Big engine is going Past office parks Past suburban sprawl Past endless switching tracks At Crewe and on To everywhere New choices at each point Great journey begins THE NATURAL ORDER OF THINGS David E. Cowen Ripford@aol.com http://members.aol.com/ripford/homepage/cowen.htm Carl's father first saw him, walking down by the old creek the Corps had carved around to create Beuscher Lake; clover and lichen spreading from the brief sides of the twisting canal to the edge of the water, slowly filling in the hole. We could see him jump back as if something had intruded on his morning constitutional; he ran back toward us, something in the grass ran away from him. Carl's father gathered his tribe: his four sons, myself and a neighbor's husband; a thin man with round glasses and a neatly pressed oxford. We reconnoitered near the creek bed, complimenting each other on the tread marks from our sneakers imprinting the dew-soaked ground. "He's in the brush pile," someone said. We soft-stepped toward the mound of gray logs covered with fungus and twigs; thinking its existence was somehow natural, part of the order of things; unaware of the chain scars on the wood, and the cries of uncertain loons circling for a place to land on the emerging lake. The neighbor took a lighter to a twig poking it into the scrub; the heat and light began to rise against the early wind; the snake sought its escape. We heard the rattle as it moved in the heart-shaped green leaves of the clover; almost graceful. We were ancient hunters, grabbing for broken branches like pulling the bones from a bleached carcass, and beat on the ground. The snake did not recoil or seek retribution for the blows; it just kept running, until finally a lucky blow on the skull ended its flight. Carl's dad got out an oversized pickle jar, like those the cafeteria ladies take home to store their sewing scraps; coiling it into the glass; its flattened, sneering mouth resting on folds of broken skin. "It's a good thing we killed it," he said, holding up the diamond scaled fangs, "you never know who it might have hurt." We nodded in agreement, trying to stoke the futile flames, of a smoking stub of wood in a ring of rocks, as a light, but steady drizzle began to wet our clothes; another contribution to the half-born lake; a group of white loons swiming uncomfortably in the shallow water. < how email works > ray heinrich ray@scribbledyne.com these words you see are from excited electrons excited by other electrons into making photons and throwing them your way when i write to you i feel like a child prodigy playing these plastic keys making music with these words music to send to you and this trust i have trust that you are there trust that you are reading this right now comes from my firm knowledge that the same electrons that make steel hard and stars shine are responsible for getting you this message the entire universe is on our side < i lied about the frogs > Ray Heinrich ray@scribbledyne.com a frog turns gold in the sun in the hot sun a frog turns gold a frog rubbed gold by the sun watching the sun make gold frogs frogs in the sun frogs in the pond unless it moves a frog doesn't give a shit hot gold frogs shitting in the sun a gold sun frogs me in the pond there are no frogs no sun no pond just words well... i lied about the frogs of course there're frogs < in my head > ray heinrich ray@scribbledyne.com written in my head it's there what my eyes won't read what i cannot share kept in my head twisted-down real tight a prisoner of words i cannot write < in the moment before the pictures took over > we enjoyed the dark with only our words < interior decorating > Ray Heinrich ray@scribbledyne.com this poem is a lonely room a bare room these words are it's only furniture this poem is an empty room i'm trying to fill with the furniture of these words this poem is an empty room i'm trying to furnish with these words well... no matter how i move them around it needs you coming in the door The Poet's Reproduction By Peter Scott You savored the trial Experienced such elation When nothing mattered Godless in a heap Without purpose Or thoughts of your own A simple cog Pushed and Pulled Driven to burden others Who read these words Thanking their lord They are less themselves At least they are happy For you are not in all The privileges granted Touched like them Does your pleasure derive From that accursed feeling? Worthlessness from knowing Future through the past Bloodied against infinite walls Reason not to move Peering at yourself ripped asunder Under a distance Scraping your burns while the minutes move by Knowing never to see that look Or yourself Conversations secret now Forever Love's son Waiting by the porch Calling out in the wind Anything ever done backfired Launching Tearing more than your muscle apart A life force Longing to be born When death comes Wishing to express Pleading to speak Something you can not speak but must Self-made Cancer Infecting Cell by cell Over your mind into The house Two options present themselves Die Or try Maimed more torture follows Pain leaves Death alone So you try Writing the cancer on paper Skipping rules Breaking reason To talk with many In isolation None understand Those strange perplexities They merely eat your soul Without tasting Robbing you of the cancer Curing you Granting unofficially a community Where I understand Don't flinch to hold you close Or kiss you with the knowledge We are two of the same. The Past By Peter Scott Impersonable history We live it not So it is mere fantasy You may study You may toil You may know everything about it But unless you've created it You know it not at all. SATISFIED WITH LIFE Christopher Stolle cstolle@indiana.edu some stages of rebellion only appear through glass-bottom boats. the only fantasies you envisioned were seen in the ripples of water created by the spouts lifting, nay, shooting water sky-high. do you rebel in your fantasies scared to take reality in your hands or has reality yet to bite you and affect your mentality? and changes never occur in your expression. wheeling, wv anorexic buildings house the ife along the shores of the Ohio river cheryl townsend gift of motherhood part two We need only think of how the gift of motherhood is often penalized rather than rewarded even though humanity owes its very survival to this gift Certainly, much remains to be done to prevent discrimination against those who have chosen to be wives and mothers Letter to Women, Message of His Holiness POPE JOHN PAUL II, July 10 "so i was sitting in on a meeting with the other managers, and we were talking about presenting our project at the upcoming trade show, when our boss said, oh, none of us will have to go i'll just hire some dumb - and then he looked at me, with my long blonde hair - some model to demonstrate it instead. and this is the same guy who has a photo in his office of a woman in a legligee grabbing her crotch, i mean, it's not even a tasteful photo. i wonder what he'd think if he came into my office and there was a playgirl magazine sitting on my desk? one of my supervisors even kept asking me to go out and get lunches for everyone, or to fax stuff for him. i finally had to tell him no. i said, why don't you ask john? he's been here less than me, you could ask him to do it. but he never did. i look around, and i think, i'm the only woman here. why is that?" janet kuypers hiding vices "The way I see it the Bible is so popular because of its many confusions in which it is possible to hide any vice or combination of vices." John Leroy Coffin, Springfield MO, 1997 i met a man once who told me that he prayed to God every night now, i knew better and he was no Chrtistian maybe born one, maybe baptized but i knew he had notches on his bedpost and so i asked him how he could justify being a Christian and having sex before marriage and he said, "it doesn't say in the Bible that you can't have sex before marriage" and so i checked and the closest thing i could find was "thou shalt keep thy marriage bed pure" and i wondered who misconstrued the words first janet kuypers won't see Last Tango in Paris again michael estabrook In 1973 my wife and I went to see Last Tango in Paris and after it was over and we got outside I began crying I don't know why exactly. It was dark out and the streets were empty like the theater was empty and we walked slowly and I couldn't stop crying. In the car I rested my head against the steering wheel and held onto it with both hands and sobbed and sobbed my poor wife watching quietly thinking I'd lost my mind trying hard not to laugh. ~ Voices In The Wind ~ Sensuous Voices In The Wind Flow Freely Thru The Night. The Promises They Send, A Leisure Loves Delight. Together They Will Fashion, Sweet Moments So Divine. In Shimmering Passion, Two Bodies Intertwine. Two Voices In The Wind , Are Telling Lovers Lies. True Love They Pretend, Wistful Fainting Sighs. Lies Are Adorable, Reflections In A Lovers Face. Truth Is Deplorable, Avoided With Each Embrace. An Echo Of What Has Been, A Fleeting Love In Flight. Faint Voices In The Wind, Soft Whispers Of The Night. Tonight A Love Did Blend, Tomorrow It Will Die. Vague Voices In The Wind, Chanting A Soft Good-Bye. The Vows These Lovers Made, Will Vanish In The Wind. A Game Of Love They Played, Has Now Reached Its End. Moments Of Sweet Chagrin, In A Night Of Primitive Blend. A Fond Farewell Two Lovers Send, They Both Forgo And Secretly Know. Through These Hours Of Sensuous Sin, Something Deep Within, Whispers, ~ We Will Never Meet Again ~. (C)1995 Paul L. Glaze Poetaster@aol.com Q(uad) E(rat) D(emonstrandum) M. Kettner soaped and wayward strangled then trampled crucified and useless one less bozo to worry about marble rolling through the night rimmed and reamed cakewalking phony tight-jawed monkey wrench of a man seared and sanitized levers replaced, taps and dies stored maintenance on the equation never ending Disillusioned Richard Fein bardbyte@chelsea.ios.com Common wisdom holds around first light- and for ages poets and singers have marked the moment, those minutes before waking, before the meddlesome sun pries open the eyelids, past when the sky has subtly changed from ebony to a hint of blue- common wisdom has always held first light is first birdsong. The illuminated clock hands point to the proper numbers for dawn on this spring, calendar day, but it's as dark as a new moon midnight, for the clouds are thick and starless, and all the city lights on the block are broken. It's dawn somewhere above those clouds, but not here-not here. Here is a false dawn. Through my open window first birdsong greets the dark day. Its shrill notes rob me of an hour more of dreams. Am I the only one who hears, who knows that in pitch black night there can be birdsong? Am I the only one lying awake listening? For the common wisdom has always held-holds now- (it's the grist for poems and songs) that a sunrise melody marks the end of darkness. But birdsong and the golden dawn are not so intimate, rather it is the comfortless, cold clockwork of mindless instinct that plays this swan song of common wisdom. < gray > ray heinrich ray@scribbledyne.com the world outside is real and can be described in those terms but we live in here inside in the landscape of where our life is a story where magic is real and available and a single word can make you or you can vanish a key pressed in the late afternoon can leave you gone painted out like white on white or like gray (if you prefer it that way) on gray < blood > Ray Heinrich ray@scribbledyne.com i'm trying to get beyond the necessity of its flow trying to leave its constant run and linger on the red my closed eye sees when looking at the sun < dog farts > Ray Heinrich ray@scribbledyne.com a few years back we had a little brown poodle koko (named after the cartoon clown) now our black lab could fart large it took him thirty seconds to lay one down but koko was queen her tiny ones had the strength of nerve gas their smell made people jump up and run away it wasn't something they thought about but a reflex like jerking your hand off a hot stove one moment you'd be sitting and reading and the next you'd be across the room wondering what happened (until your nose caught up with you) SMOKE THE LIGHT Allison Jenks Walk with me Endure in the drift of Ocean queens Molding rock, Coating cities. From the trumpet, A mosaic volume scourges. Curling covered flesh, Flooding grim sculptures. Gambling with the cypress of frozen marrow and frontal lush Where luscious poison stalks, The elbow of life tackles Barred dreams. Envoys twitch in panic and Smoke the light while Loud, cyclical instruments Rapture like magnetic fury The Power of Golden Curls by Tina L. Jens tina_jen@para-net.com Never underestimate the power of golden curls. Or the strength of a pretty pout. Never underestimate the effect of lipstick and high heel shoes. In the war between boys and girls A coo in your voice and a wiggle in your walk. Can open doors without a key. Lashes so long they can knock a man out. It doesn't matter if you can see. Skirts so high you can see the whole thigh. That's how it should be. That's how the war is won. The war between boys and girls. Never underestimate the power of golden curls. Or the strength of a pretty pout. Never underestimate the effect of lipstick and high heel shoes. In the war between boys and girls. I believe in feminism and ERA, oh yeah. But the fact remains You're not treated the same. If you're a femme fatale or a plain Jane. That's how the war is won. The war between boys and girls. Never underestimate the power of golden curls. Or the strength of a pretty pout. Never underestimate the effect of lipstick and high heel shoes. In the war between boys and girls. You can shout it's unfair and cut off your long hair. And buy your suits in the men' s department of Sears. But I'm here to say there's an easier way. To win the war between boys and girls. Cause you should never underestimate the power of golden curls. Or the strength of a pretty pout. Never underestimate the effect of lipstick and high heel shoes. In the war between boys and girls. That's how the war is won, uh-huh. The war between boys and girls. SOMBRE DESIR deckard kinder newman@ntr.net regretting your touch or feeling it: how easily I slip from one to the other instead of avoiding them [write about it they say and I do until I can't write anymore] outcome? you win I lose today like yesterday tomorrow like today and on and on and on how easily I write about you to no end except grasping at tender terminal memories how easily I grieve over them instead of letting go my mind shrieks to forget still amnesia is not for me until I die [just let it go they say understanding nothing of my love or my obsession for you] everyday like every other day regretting your touch and loving it at the same time wondering where you are escaping to you in my mind because you are nowhere else poems by pete lee: the night of my death will be like any other night i imagine except that other hands will draw the sheet up and they'll keep going when they reach my neck. ** obits. . our daily uses little bullets. . one of them has my name on it. office politics did you just punch my ticket, or was it a slap in the face? is that a promotion in your pocket? office pot luck the signup sheet's going around Sue will supply "the desert" Brigitte's bringing "Chile" smartass that I am I can't resist: "I'm getting Hungary" on a clinton faux pas maybe i'd be ready to date a 500-years-dead mummified 13-year-old sacrificed incan virgin with a gaping hole in one side of her skull, too, if i called hillary wife. * once bitten a drop of blood falls from my tongue into my drink almost at once tiny fins break the surface and begin circling as the ice clinks and swirls one lousy haiku - the whole of my output since you darkened my door one man's lucky stars are another man's light pollution one-minute sketch four lines to suggest which direction your subject's heading. the rest is style. the only security as long as I take care of my teeth I'll never be one of those friend less home less job less penni less hopelessly drunken broken down tooth less old poets. an open book she's a bestseller among suckers for fiction a thrill ride you just can't put down even if you already know the plot The Other Day The other day I spotted a philosopher on the roof of my apartment building. The philosopher was wrestling with a concept. After a while they stopped, towelled off, and sat down side by side. A few minutes later, they started wrestling again. I realized they must be practicing their moves for an upcoming match. And I thought that stuff was real. "other nations" my face so close to the spider's as it gains the summit of a pile of books I can see its eyes wide n its jaw drop literally leaping back off spin ning running on all 8 back down halfway then wait ing for the Big Book of Death to fall & as it does a cringe & me thinks the spider behaved much as I'd have in the same spot palimpsest remember it or forget it: it can't be recalled. SPLATTER BALLET deckard kinder newman@ntr.net august came and went leaving me on the street no more or less better or worse off except that I was dying I was killing myself now and then sooner or later the neon glowing about me like some halo heroin eyes in dark corners embroidering some personal sos down on the way out and clueless to boot reflected in quiet whispers kicked about like school girl prayers but without the school girl hope like something is better than nothing or everything or anything dilettante in sheep's clothing [school girls were never my type] I'm wise to your game sweet sister maybe I am your game played with broken pieces like monopoly without the chance cards exquisite in my failure careless in my success unredeemable in my way remarkable only in my time with you time as well spent as it was hopeless as hopeless as it was heavenly I almost remember my street time not that that's anything to be proud of step one: make everyone think you're sharing desiring more they will be your friends even in hard times step two: never share with anyone protect what's yours even in fat times remember discreet confidences and conspicuous fictions they will serve you well if you use them well everyone out here knows this little sister except you I won't cut you any slack vulnerable as I am to you I won't because you know I want to no more no less for better for worse gullible greedy guilty little girl every move calculated six moves back delivering the goods on time grabbing yours in the exchange even though you don't want it or need it like your friends do flaming junkies on a perpetual jones silently circling each and every time and for what? nothing changes I'm still dying on the street tied to a resume of self abuse you depend on like flesh and bone for undecipherable reasons of your own longing to be dropped like a bad habit except that I get off on it all step three: get what you can however you can anytime you can no questions asked do you read me baby? buy your way in like a con artist or a whore or a gambler doing his thing growing up on newsreels on documentaries on endless nat fleischer cartoons disaster absofuckinglutely assured tender mercies horded offered only as an aphrodisiac leading to a casual escape done like one of don juan's ladies manipulated smoothly exquisitely turned out like a ten dollar whore open for business twenty four seven how do you rise above this excruciating display unscathed? like a god? like a corpse? none the worse for wear [that's for sure] inspite of your injuries giving so little getting so much harboring more hard feelings than regrets turning every wound into a weapon in the beat of a heart naive when the occasion arises torn between were are and want to be or seductive as a junkie's dream to what end sweet lady? heaven cannot help you here even though you pray for deliverance irrelevant in the face of your history regardless of all your apologies eagerly given like backseat blow jobs juicy mouthfuls ultimately swallowed to a bitter end forgotten or remembered exactly divinely anxiously without a hint of remorse not that you would brag about it to the troops on the corner how do you live like this every day knowing what you know? I am impressed sometimes more than others sweet sister listen to me obsessing about you voraciously hunting the cure even though I chose the disease arguably impaired totally out of control seduced subjugated swindled to the skin to the fucking marrow of my goddamn bones and then some kismet kissed off and kicked out evacuated like some bombed out mideast hellhole city instincts on hold do you read me? [not that you'd admit it if you did gifted players never do habits die hard after all talent is as talent does sweetheart nobody loses it I never did grudge bludgeoned heartbroken taken muzzled muted and mutilated articulated into invisibility relegated to the morgue extinguished like a black candle or redeemed like a thief on the cross for an eternity for no good reason except god's own grace recycled on the wheel in the face of my intentions never delivered granted just enough time sensuous sadistic symbolic little sister] purity never made the difference obscurity never made the cut security never made the grade shame always closed the deal everytime like blessed choreography swinging my heart swaying my soul infecting my history or my possibilities not that I could ever tell the difference regardless of your efforts to teach me I never got off the street [did I?] terminally fascinated with this sleazy little scene utterly lost in the neon haze and trapped by my own habits like all your other junkies swapping my body for a fix selling my soul for one more numbing shot heart stopping insensitivity teetering on the edge in eager anticipation of nothing so intense vacancy signs shut down [possibly forever] erotic closure assured or at least attempted rumors rumbling about like archaic trolleys sympathy cards piling up battered garbage cans to no noticeable effect [oh please do not get poetic on me now!] inspite of your precautions everybody knows how you turned me out furtive though you might have been opening me up like a a corpse on a morgue table removing the good parts for later use until there were no good parts left nobody was fooled [except me] incredible as that may seem nobody cared [except you] voiceless cravings satiated in the heat of the moment totally unaware eventually pleased devouring what little was left of me in seconds the answer is in the question: how do you live with yourself? or do you not? until you can tell me I am lost twixt what I am and what I want to be wrestling with some invisible self august came and went real hard no margins given I wallowed in the gutter nothing to hold on to growing old alone poems by pete lee: pansexual loves every body not equally may be but the same ***party pooper picking up the joke book he went into the bathroom locked the door with a loud click we all sat around helplessly as he laughed his head off ***passing between them - two deaf people conversing with their hands - I duck Pay Phones Are Like Whores Pay phones are like whores? I only know I saw one get beat half to death, found another gutted by bolt cutters. They get cried on and cursed at. They're ignored by passing strangers when they ring, and ring, and ring... Bums finger their slots. They share a man who stops by to relieve them of all their coin. He takes care of them, calls them his babies. It's a living. The bad ones, they just take your money and don't want to communicate. The good ones are so pleased with your conversation, they give you one on the house. Pay phones stand on street corners in the hot parts of town, drawing sweaty salesmen and rat-faced bookies like flies. REBIRTH Bob Ludden robert@essex1.com http://www.essex1.com/people/robert/ Reflective consciousness, the dubious gift of age may well confront with calm the time impending, compressing all the moments of our days into an order vain as pale dimension will, and to a single mind make substance of its own. Contentment bred....alas, but for the moment owned. Oh yes, they wait outside the frame we crafted! Thank God our infancy protected us from outrage at such gifts we never knew existed, and deal with even now in feigned esteem. As meteors they rain upon us!... and we would block them out with thoughts of resignation? The words still nag at us...."You must be born again." We chew at them, or simply nod in piety... Their growth in us as transcient as the breath They rode upon 2000 years ago. I will NOT come out from this most precious womb, Though worlds await. The most audacious thing a man can do is echo the achievement of his infant self. Reborn? Nicodemus, what did you hear? Water....does it not carry the food of life? Holy spirit....is it not the breath of life? And then, later........did we hear it right? Lazarus..........................Come forth! SONNET FOR MODERN MAN Bob Ludden robert@essex1.com http://www.essex1.com/people/robert/ In rearranging concepts of our fate When needs arise unmet by previous plan, Our human nature tends to speculate On 'market idols', speciously to scan All facets showing possiblity For insight to be gained from sense or seer. Yet all endeavor is debility With lack of fundamental premise clear. The ground of wisdom stil unrecognized, Unsought, in spite of logic's labor spent. No intellect delivers truth uncompromised. Mere casuistry caps sound experiment. Thus I on God's inchoate thought depend... The first and final cause of all I apprehend. NEED FOR ANOTHER KIND OF POWER Paul Weinman I tried wearing a teddy knowing what they do for me and not convinced it couldn't be tit for tat. But, after squirming into one it seemed there was something to that. Certain slendernesses weren't there other bulges ... awkward elsewhere. I tried various postures, strides and poses in the mirror ... somehow, it all seemed lame. Of course, I am my own worst critic het verbranden Ik nam de laatste slok vodka voelde hoe het brandde in mijn keel het verschroeide mijn tong en greep naar de fles om mezelf te trakteren Ik dacht er aan hoe mijn slokdarm schreeuwde telkens ik de alkohol me liet verkrachten. Dan keek ik hoe mijn handen - - beefde - met het glas vergif in mijn hand- en denken dat het de handen van een ander waren die je van me moeten wegduwen. Maar ik deed het niet. Me afvragend waarom ik met jou door de hel liep, je vergif nam Ik herinnerde me hoe je een weg brandde door mij . Je chanteerde mijn ziel, en ik bleef komen Ik liet je me verzieken , en nu heb je een groot gat in mij. Ik haat het. Nu moet ik mezelf en jou redden, mijn vlucht is tussen de ijsblokjes die zich nestelden in de palm van mijn hand. Maar ik moet meer drinken. Het branden duurt niet zolang als jou leeft (the burning) translated by Jean Hellemans The Nightly Song By Peter Scott Simple sentences I travel one at a time down corridors Misused or abused Lain barren Breaking from dawn to dusk Choreographically perversive Painted with pink Reds of realization Plus those fleshy Earthly hues Submitted seductively Enticing her to stay Awake on my bed While I gaze the other way Dreaming of show girls Shadows of you A singular movement I did not make Only if I had... Staring at the sky Polished on the ceiling My sore limbs quake A hand over my waist Only should I move Springs will shift and Break mingling with my tears A certain blood will Flow free Haunted on the eve Your caress holding me Captivating my future With the forgotten Oh God do not spare Fingertips guarding My body with care Gentle touch replacing Covers now bare Dare not determination wander Ought I roll over to see An empty bed beside me Alone and unfillable Conversing with the unquenchable Abandoning me with no release It says "goodbye" Closes my eyes Kissing my lips with sweet possibility. Tears By Peter Scott A pool Extending its boundaries every second Tears cry to leave Dropping Merging into the expansive pool At the introduction of old memories They race down the cheeks deftly Chosen to be heard again Forcing liquid to the eye Tormenting me subtly Brings a shared collection To the pool No one can see It rests an inch off the surface Which sorrows the grass Goes unnoticed All except for one. ROSS throws pennies in the urinal so he can piss on lincoln, & recently sent 5 bucks to david duke. he hates whatever's left of the hippies, & fondly recalls being on the fringe of a riot where countless numbers of them got their heads beat in by the cops. he hates the cops, & the feds & the states & the locals. he likes to piss me off whenever i let him. he's mean to his wife. my wife thinks he's handsome. i don't have the heart to tell her what a fascist asshole he is. c ra mcguirt "The Return of Sexy" D. Michael McNamara RFDD36C@prodigy.com I come like Paul Newman riding the sun rise. PERIPHERAL VISION that woman sitting on the sidewalk head on knees as if in pain doesn't need your help. she turns out to be a piece of plywood leaning on a trashcan. PRAYER FOR RAIN o Goddess! grant me one chaste chance to court the Princess of the Storm; Thy shoreless Self distilled in form & poured upon the Earth to dance! RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT another whiskey fight at 4:00 a.m. i had her dead to rights when she dared to say: you're a really egotistical person. i said: get real, babe. when we left that bar tonight, even though neither one of us played, & someone said to someone who had: 'i liked your stuff', YOU turned your head. so did you, she said. i said: you want a cigarette? we smoked one & went to bed. < on getting rid of little words > ray heinrich ray@scribbledyne.com those little words may be like dirt and crawling everywhere like ants but they can lift ten times their weight while other words are elephants and getting rid of little words is getting rid of breath and air if you get rid of little words the bigger ones grow hair gift of motherhood part one We need only think of how the gift of motherhood is often penalized rather than rewarded even though humanity owes its very survival to this gift Certainly, much remains to be done to prevent discrimination against those who have chosen to be wives and mothers Letter to Women, Message of His Holiness POPE JOHN PAUL II, July 10 "he started in on me again last night, he had too much to drink, and came home, drunk, and started yelling at me. he got home at ten-thirty but wanted to know why his dinner wasn't warm. and he wanted to wake up the kids and play with them, but i told him it was a school night and they needed a full night's rest. i swear, i can't tell anyone else this, i have to keep telling everyone i fell down the stairs and i burned myself when i was cooking dinner and i tripped over one of the kids' toys or a vase from the book- shelf i was cleaning fell and hit me in the face. i've come up with a lot of excuses, i know. but what would the kids do if i lost him? how could i work and take care of them? how would they be able to go to college? i know i keep making up excuses, but i have to. for the kids." janet kuypers < interior decorating > ray heinrich ray@scribbledyne.com this poem is a lonely room a bare room these words are it's only furniture this poem is an empty room i'm trying to fill with the furniture of these words this poem is an empty room i'm trying to furnish with these words well... no matter how i move them around it needs you coming in the door < life is its own metaphor > Ray Heinrich ray@scribbledyne.com this cow on the other hand just shit on my foot contempt for man Often, the interests of production prevail over concern for the dignity of workers, while economic interests take priority over the good of individuals and even entire peoples In these cases, pollution or environmental destruction is the result of an unnatural and reductionist vision which at times leads to a genuine contempt for man THE ECOLOGICAL CRISIS: A COMMON RESPONSIBILITY, Message of His Holiness POPE JOHN PAUL II, January 1, 1990 the interests of production they are for the dignity of the workers who are these products for what are these people working for who's standard of living does this production raise when everyone works for themselves when they are interested in production that's when they have dignity and economic interests are for the good of individuals and entire peoples economic success allows these people, these workers to buy the things they want to have rights over their property to be economically free and hey, i guess that gives them more dignity, too if a corporate giant destroys the environment every worker, every person who buys the product has the right to stop has the right to purchase something else forcing the corporate giant to work with a technology that accommodates the environment (see, that's what technology is all about, progress) if these individuals don't place the human as the individual on the highest pedestal and make these choices for themselves if they let a god or a government or a company make these choices for them if they think that humans aren't smart enough to make these choices well, then, they are the ones with the contempt for man janet kuypers < resolution > Ray Heinrich ray@scribbledyne.com suicide as a diversion from remembering to renew your driver's license we got together on the anniversary as he shot from a distance but still managed as the head exploded caught on film no worries about suicide here no dreams of resolution like driving over a laptop computer while it does your income tax < made in china > Ray Heinrich ray@scribbledyne.com i'm practicing my Chinese in a K-Mart i'm translating labels as i come to them this shirt says it was made in China by people who believed in free speech and made the mistake of saying so and this pair of pants was hand-crafted in China by a woman who mentioned Tiananmen square and these socks were produced in China by a man who is gay or maybe he's Christian my Chinese really isn't that good and this toy was assembled in China by someone it could have been anyone who lived in Tibet < kiss > ray heinrich ray@scribbledyne.com the conversation of your mouth on mine our best words traveling straight from heart to heart fulfill their deepest vocation Necessary emphasis should be placed also on those ordinary women who reveal the gift of their womanhood by placing themselves at the service of others For in giving themselves to others each day women fulfill their deepest vocation Letter to Women, Message of His Holiness POPE JOHN PAUL II, July 10 of course, according to your religion women should be your servants, they should answer to you women can't be preists, or fulfill their dreams women have to rely on men to protect their rights of course, god was created in man's image and, according to you, woman came from man just so she could churn out all his kids and that's probably why you ban birth control, too keep pressing your thumb down a little harder so that no one can get out of your control you, being the man, the ruler, the leader, the pope. janet kuypers < my ego wrote everything i have > ray heinrich ray@scribbledyne.com when my head writes something it's disgusted throws it away thinks it's just shit but when my ego writes it loves it and though it won't admit it it gets a little help my subconscious sends it tiny notes about fathers and mothers that are really hard to read my libido (when i can find it) provides the juicy details my tongue loves the words my hands dance to them but my stomach is not much help always wants to be doing something else oh and i almost forgot my toes they wiggle as my ego writes and loves it best stuff in years wonderful damn you're good gotta keep that so it just turns out my ego wrote everything i have < rat brains > - for kim ray heinrich ray@scribbledyne.com when things aren't going so well and you can't eat words and the wolves have eaten everything else even the rats well not ALL of the rats so you turn to what's left but why is it always the brains? poems by pete lee: modern bride moral she wears a locket after that deflected a bullet walking a from an ancestor's heart mile in during the civil war... everybody's shoes I was but this is no war in great no matter how civil, shape. except & love is a bullet for my only in metaphor. feet * my father had six webbed toes on each foot he was a good swimmer in fact all the Lees are no wonder the quiet of a secluded mountain pond or cut-bank I find homey and familiar no wonder I paddle contentedly in circles under a copper sun and if the peace is broken no wonder I give out with a whack quack quack echoing off the mountain- sides and ravine walls as I explode almost vertically into the air and wing off so blue-green my thoughts fly off like hubcaps as I round your curves, bury themselves in your weeds. nature girl you don't want to know all the places she's got hair. yes you do. neuromom neurodad neurosis "never generalize" to a person we occasionally fall awake with a jerk we're all marionettes of our abbreviated dreams My Father's Face My father's face stares out at me from the mirror They painted his back silver when he died He was lowered into me while I slept Figures stood around my bed speaking in soft tones Their words like a steady rain in the bedroom where I lay My father's face accuses the world through me The mouth of the world is an empty stadium The nose is a windy peninsula besieged by gulls The tears are twin seas regulated by twin moons There is no peace anywhere on the face of the earth My great silverbacked father died a grizzly I am a fish swimming feverishly toward death I see the face of a bear through water like broken glass It is the face of the principal of a school of one I rise up into that face as if snatched and swallowed No son of mine will ever spawn this face The glass rivers will all lead to oceans of dust The wind will flee as if something pecked at its eyes The silence will rise up like a cheer Peace will sprout like whiskers from the dead earth **My Near-Death Experience I came-to with a lampshade on my head. The first thing I did was throw up on God. After I made a pass at the Virgin Mary, some angels wrestled me into the dead-drunk tank. "Ask not for whom the bell tolls," someone had scribbled on the wall, alongside "All things considered, I'd rather be in Philadelphia." Comedians. My head ached. I needed a drink.... Synthesis Bob Ludden robert@essex1.com http://www.essex1.com/people/robert/ Though mine among the millions, Still I do not own this child, The core of stone or mist Released this night To stand along the ramparts Long ago upraised to serve One cause alone. Demarking truth from void. For art is higher than the noblest vision. It is our substance, Our nostrum for decay, indeed, but more! It is the centrifuge of breathing dust That found a universe beyond itself, And then another just inside its own, In equal whirling splendor... In tune with sirens Singing in the soul, Just now, and for all time to be! THE DREAM RIDER Bob Ludden robert@essex1.com http://www.essex1.com/people/robert/ The play is in our heads, and when its nodding audience lets go, the cast will never sleep, for as the headless horseman finds his road always to reach beyond the pounding hooves, this circling serial may yet not die with death. It sets its pace to greet the awakening, or flashes back, or holding up its time until another dawn, might then slough off the most intrepid cavalier, or find itself his victim. Discontinuity ,stuffed into the glass as though by fate, might then create no time at all...or no criterion to measure it. We sleep, we wake, and always it is there and never owned. An odyssey of dreaming bears the scars of self uncovering and scarcely lets us know but in another dream, as if a tattered leaf were floating on the stream and paused against an unseen rock until another force would send it on with shape askew from battered rest. And then in crumbled state, each particle the fragment of a hologram, it finds its destiny -to change its universe. It's not for weeping, seeing as we will such microscopic shards . Go trample them without a care. They still reflect the light of truth and bear our substance underneath. A misty curtain visions valkyries behind, who rising now above our heads will scream in triumph at the slain, or fade as rapture captures loss. Still we must ride, though we perceive but that we will. We would do well to sweep the plain with eyes alert. Our mount will not fatigue...this trail of fantasy may blur our vision, true, but only for a time, and speeding past another mark, the path beyond is wide and open, and the posthorn calls us forth to endless day. RIOT IN MURFREESBORO they tore down the goal post. the campus police started kicking ass indiscriminately. the dean said: it marred a great victory. it was terrible. it was really, really bad. i mean, it wasn't good. annabelle said: when the officer hit me, they were just swinging at everybody. ll, hell, annabelle. you came here to get an education... poetry by c ra mcguirt RELATIVELY DANGEROUS in my baggy red-striped boxer shorts & serial killer t-shirt, how could anyone NOT take me seriously? YOU CAN NEVER BE TOO RICH OR THIN a certain rich man died, & entered into hell. being in torment, he lifted up his eyes, & begged one drop of water. in heaven, karen carpenter shook her shrunken head & sadly smiled. "The Tragedy of Man Who Finds Comfort in Madness" D. Michael McNamara RFDD36C@prodigy.com [The last words of a dying man convinced he is already dead.] I have horns and wings. Intent and malcontent at my whim. I can fly through your dreams or dance you through day. [Stuttering and coughing up a Lucky Strike, stumbling what he believes to be straight but is global in condition, tilting polar, following the latitudes.] I can walk straight and still end up in the same spot. I wash by letting the swollen clouds swim past me. [Bloodshot and disillusioned; acutely romantic but highly ignorant.] I've got thunder in my lust and whiskey in my veins. I drink your thoughts like wine and sail around your conscience like Magellan mapping out the new world. [Dreaming of the beaches of Calais....] Upon my death all the observers thought I was flailing for help but I was merely making a snow angel in the sand, leaving my mark on this world, placing my link to heaven. [Dreaming of the cliffs of Dover....] And now I'm at my throne keeping watch over the English Channel, across Finland and into the Ukraine, into the vastness of Canada to Newfoundland and to my back porch of Balleycastle. [Shuffling barefoot kisses with gritty linoleum with an impotent- impeded erection from the tickling breeze.] These white robes are representative of my mortal endeavours: I don't regret my regrets so I wouldn't change a thing. I can drift around forever. Here I can cry alone, do all the crying I never had the courage to do. [Drifting into the infinite terminal love in the hospital planetarium.] Here I can make voodoo doll's of the planets, spin them around like marbles. I can swallow the stars and feel their warmth in my chest; I can yoga with orbits and trace their ellipses with my breaths. I can confess to the sunspots; I can orchestrate the eclipses. Here...I am finally happy. Shock Face Robert Michael O'Hearn RMOHRN@AOL.COM At the core of all sacryn-sweetness lies the heart of a cynic. Almost classic, lives an artist with arson in his heart, although arson-less in deed, flamboyant in fiery poems. Such witticism could only either break big into some ham actor's life or break bad on you as unconscionable as refusal at role-playing. That is to say, all demeanors are so soporific, you'd like to spread-eagle your hand across your face, facetious with a feigned shock-look. RAZOR BLADE APPLES i knew you knew some things i didn't know. i asked you to teach me. you dismissed me. you knew i knew some things you didn't know. it made you angry & afraid. you pretended i couldn't learn the things you wouldn't teach me, & that the things you knew i knew you didn't know were worthless. c ra mcguirt THE REAL DEAL I.B. Rad I B Radeck@aol.com Everyone, come on! As those jazz notes play, when that trumpeter sways and blows those blues; there's no race razzmatazz, just jazz, jazz, jazz. Come on everyone, come on! No mind whether that sound's "white" or "brown," jazz permeates our senses, serenades our mind till we're colorblind. So come on, come on! Groove on the theme. Feel that jazz, jazz, jazz, the cool, progressive culmination of Martin Luther's dream. The Birth of Calasandra By Peter Scott Paradoxically we sit here again Proving their shock an apparition Why did they flee Could you believe we are alone again Gazing afar But just for a moment Throwing caution to the wind My arm outstretches in a rake Drawing you close and Making me think Of the last time I held you so near What it meant and the consequences overlaid Your eyes see it too Darting past mine In a quick probe of anticipation I smile back Although you refuse my intention Studying the wall For slight indiscretion My hands run up your arm Sliding back to your lap All the while peering forthright At your misbehaving silhouette It agrees to nothing But denies even less Leaving me to believe I am nowhere near rest Touching you ever so softly I reach your supple breast Producing a jump, a rest, and Curiousity's undenying best Where once we had dreamed Now stood perceptions true Grouping with other shadows Shading us in thoughts of the past Reminiscence of the future I try to speak Yet my brain refuses Abdicating dialog To quiet expressive lust Finally you turn to stare Yet I massage and you shiver We touch lips And bodies Never realizing we had sunken into the couch Lying one on one Blanketed in relentless joy Unforgiving and unforgetful Our expectations dual it out Vying for dominance with self-image Social conscience Experimentation And a love needing to be expressed It's like a movie As my tongue slides down your neck Our overgarments take leave to rest Systematically igniting two fires Giving birth You realize my body Is more than bravado I confirm the harsh reality Your dress is course to your silken skin Forcing me to a shudder and pause Then laying worship with my faithful kiss Bold and in the moment The hands of fate And those I contemplate Move to separate my quarrelsome belt Oh, it is me who is shocked Birthing a dream of the past Pants of no concealment Discarded without current inhibitions Cut in the moment it is not a "when" But a "now" Ever so sweet it is The talk put to wait Your banished film clip gone Upgraded with reality I hear you moan Know I am on the right course Truly of the scenes It was never remotely like this You are accepting of me I am accepting of you So we share a deep breath A last kiss Joining the fleeting conversations Once termed Unattainable bliss. The Ideology of Her Final Supper By Peter Scott Blood streams down her head Pooling in puddles of red While she sits in a distant realm Alone Remorse and spelling silent tears Using the trickle from the domain of fears Faint are the symbols Spread thin In a patch of overshadowed terrain Previous pleas too subtle Essence rests still She has slaved beyond the passage of retreat Overtaxed the soul Does not defend Her atrophying remains Moves not an inch Fluid draining from her cheeks Dying the synthetic shag A deep hue of concentrated blue. The Last By Peter Scott Among the living I walk But my soul remains bare Cold and driven Out from the storm Left someplace cool Silent Oh God Please may you defy me Live there Birds chirping a song Land so lush green A dry mist whose form is of soup Nothing is left for me I would kill myself Were not for their teachings And the hope The hope of seeing them again I know we have sparred before Had our differences felt the price of failure Met by the jubilance of success Even cried together But please God Only should you be true Coming times of wealth Asking for greedy perfection Consistency not be my suit Tell me they are safe Take care of them oh Lord Never but a moment did we meet Until now you were distant space The eye turned to the honeymoon Give me not the gift Show those who believed how wrong I am For they loved you Always caring for me My dearest and my furthest The tablets to my life Walking underground I thought Stone could not break Yet it has Rubble under my blasphemous feet Don't come to torment Telling me I am alone They were there Now Holding the pedestal to you... Have them forget me Let all love for me drain Yet God The one I defy Keep the candles burning So the light may show the way. (exerpts from the Electronic Windmill) "They serve only legal poison here," Cole assured her. "Let me order you a capuccino, Lucretia's most famous potion." "Thanks, Cole," Mike declined. "We're due at the theatre in twenty minutes. The couple we had dinner with forgot the tickets and left early to go pick them up." "Have you seen 'Excreta'?" Renee interjected. "It's had marvelous reviews." "No, I haven't," Cole admitted. "I read a short piece on it, though." "I can't wait to see it," she gushed. "I have a friend who has seen it twice and has reservations for a third time. She says that regardless of what you've read, it's a play of hope and symbolizes the indestructability of life - carried on in some form or other. Everybody should see it," she concluded. "I hope you enjoy it," Cole said. "The title sounds immortal and should add a richness to the growth of our cultural heritage." "I'm going to quote you to my friend," Renee promised. "I think it better expresses what she was trying to say." Cole turned to Mike. "I saw the ship at the pier when I drove by this evening." "She just got back to her berth. She's been in Alameda for repairs ever since we disembarked. We'll probably sail again Monday morning." He hesitated for a moment, taking the last sip of his coffee. "Things are happening so fast," he said. "I had hoped we might have a chance to talk. There was an idea I wanted to discuss; I think you might have been interested." He paused again and looked in the empty cup. "I want to tell you I enjoyed and appreciated the rap sessions we had aboard ship. I...", then he trailed off and looked at his watch. "We've really got to hurry," and they both stood up. "Thanks, Cole, and so long." "So long, Mike. Good night, Renee - nice seeing you both again." Moving slowly back to the table, he wondered about Mike's strangeness. Why was he appreciative of the rap sessions? Hell, he'd forgotten to thank him for delivering his luggage and the ducks. "What happened?" Larry demanded. "Was it an apparition? You look confused." Cole sat down and emptied his picon punch. "It was Mike Crowder and his wife. I told you about him." "Oh yeah, the guy on the perpetual vacation." "That's right, only it isn't a vacation to him and he's changed since the last time I saw him." Cole looked at Larry. "Are we going to eat anything, or are you ready to go?" "I'm not hungry, unless you want to." "Let's go." Larry dropped a bill on the table and they started for the door. Giuseppe, seeing them leaving, came running. "What's the matter - where you going? I told you I'd give you another table. We've got one of your favorites - veal picante with fettucini." Larry grinned and said, "Thanks, old buddy, but we've got an appointment, and anyway we're not hungry right now. We'll try to get back before closing time." Cole looked at Giuseppe and shook his head. "Lucretia told us the veal was tough and now you want to push it onto your best friends." Giuseppe's eyes got round, and he turned to scream at Lucretia who was seating a party of six. Cole grabbed him just in time, while he was still only sputtering. "I'm kidding, Giuseppe. We haven't even talked to Lucretia. She never saw us poked back in the corner like that." Giuseppe opened his mouth wide and Cole hurried on, "where we insisted on being put. We'll be back and thanks for being a great guy and our best friend in the world." As his two friends pushed out the front door, Giuseppe beamed his confusion. "Since you know where you're going, why don't you drive?" Cole suggested. Larry was parked next to Cole. He backed out and maneuvered through the lot to Black Pearl Road and then decided on Broadway and the tunnel which would take them through one of the hills that sectioned the city. "Where are we meeting your friend?" Cole asked. "We may not be meeting him at all. I'll check his pad and we'll swing by his favorite shooting gallery." "I thought you made a date." "I did, but that doesn't mean anything. He might have forgotten it by now and could be anywhere of a dozen places, or he might be boxed." "Yeah, like man, you're going to have to help me out with some of this jargon," Cole grinned. "'Boxed,' he's in jail; 'shooting gallery,' where they shoot up - inject drugs." "If he's high, is he going to make any sense?" "He'll make more sense turned-on than he will if he's cold. But maybe not a hell of a lot either way. I think he'll try though, he wants turned-off." Larry kept looking at the dark buildings until he found a gray dirty one that looked like all the rest. "Here's his pad. Let me check it out." He doubled-parked and Cole waited in the car but he came back a few minutes later alone. "We'll go to Jollo's. It's only a couple of blocks over." This time Larry found a parking slot a half block away. "I'll be right back. I hope to hell Sam's taking a night off... Uncle, or Sam - federal narcotic agents," he explained and left Cole to wait. Twenty minutes later three people appeared suddenly from out of the dilapidated store front that Larry had entered. One of them was a girl. When they got to the convertible Larry introduced them. "This is Cole Rain," he said, "and this is Cicero and Debbie." Cicero was a tall, slender, good-looking black boy and Debbie a long-legged, long-haired blond with intensely blue eyes. Cole got out of the car and the couple moved into the back seat. "How about closing us in, man, the heat could be cruising round and round and we got a spike and two speed balls stashed." Larry pressed the button raising the top, lashed it down and then started driving cautiously to his own pad. Chapter XIII Larry Carver lived across the park in a fairly new section of the city where land costs dictated that homes should still abut each other. He found his place in a wall of white houses all looking alike and parked in the slanted opening of the curb leading to the basement garage. Cole got out, pulled the seat forward and helped Debbie from the rear. Her hand clenched his tight and strained. Cicero followed and stood beside the car with hands in hip pockets hunching and shivering against the cool night air. Larry led them up half a level, hurriedly unlocked the door and reached in to switch on the lights, motioning them to enter. When he came in he closed the door, pressed the lock and attached the chain. Cicero checked the oblong room that seemingly made up the whole of the house. Satisfied, he unzipped his pants and reached down the left inseam searching for scat and spike. Larry waved toward the far end of the room where the total wall surface, with the exception of the door on the right, was one painting, Leaving Cole, the three of them went through the door and closed it too. Cole looked around to see if anything new had been added since his last visit. The carpet, the walls, the ceiling, the furniture and the fireplace in back of him were almost exactly the same beige color. Only the texture of the various items made them distinguishable. Three pictures dominated the room; two on the long wall to the left were large but small compared to the painting covering the end wall. There was only the reflected light from the illuminated pictures and Cole moved in front of the first to marvel again at the color and detail. He glanced at the almost illegible signature in the corner knowing it was "Laurie." Laurie, Larry's twin sister, had been dead more than two years and since the cold misty day of the semi-private funeral Larry had never mentioned her name. The extent of Larry's loss and loneliness could only be guessed at. There was a small typewritten card announcing the trilogy of pictures as: "Our Relatives" by Laurie Carver. Under the first painting was another card; Cole read it again: "Our Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great Grandparents". The picture itself was set in a small clearing in a jungle at dusk. There were two people squatting beside a fire. A huge carnivore of the cat family lay dead before them and the ancestral grandmother was handing a bloody red heart, just hacked, with a dripping stone knife, from the breast of the beast, to the ancestral grandfather. She was holding it out with both hands, still clutching the red tool. The bestowal as well as the sharp-toothed laughter showed her approval. The male ancestor was accepting in somber dignity the hacked heart of victory as his due. The subtleties of expression, the features lighted by the flickering fire, the resemblance to Larry and Laurie were there but the impelling subtlety was the faces stamped with the crude and cruel conditions of their primal existence. He backed off to get a last perspective and then moved slowly over to the next painting. For maybe the twentieth time he read the typewritten card beneath it: "Our Nephew - Larry II". Larry II was sitting on the back steps of the house where he still lived; a five-year-old boy holding an alley cat on his lap. A machine pistol and a sling shot lay on the step below. His dark intelligent eyes were level and there was just a hint of impatience, of wanting to break the pose; the need to move, to be active; perhaps to burst into laughter for no reason at all other than that he felt good. The untouched innocence of five-years-old stared straight at Cole. He moved on to the largest picture and glanced at the title card: "Our Nephew and Friends." Cole backed off to see it all. Five people were in the scene; two women and two men of various shades of human color crouched inside a cage that apparently had been constructed from wire mesh and reinforced steel protruding from the smashed concrete of a destroyed city. One of the women was straining to hold open an iron-barred make-shift gate, reaching out from inside the cage and ready to slam it closed as soon as the fifth human gained the enclosure. This last figure was a man running and carrying a dead cat, probably twice as big as the one Larry II held on his lap. Behind him were at least two hundred cats of the same size or slightly larger. They were all the variations in colors that has ever been seen in a cat and they were weird and terrifyingly wild. Some were rabid; white froth flecked from open jaws and yellow pus exuded between needle-sharp fangs. It was a questionable race; whether the runner would reach the make-shift gate in time. He was taking a quick backward look at the closest gaping-jawed cat and there was a half-grin on his face. He was bent low to hurtle through the opening before it closed. (Cole was reminded of Larry being hit by two defenders five yards from the goal line.) It appeared that the cats would be on him, but maybe he could fight them off long enough to just get through. The race would be close but that wasn't the real doubt. The runner's death or life, and the death or life of those in the cage really depended upon the girl holding the gate. If she slammed it too soon the cats would rip and tear the flesh from the runner's bones, too late, and a horde of ravenous felines would get through and gorge on those inside also. The caged people, all except the girl at the gate, were enjoying the race and ignoring their own peril. Just as Cole was deciding for the hundredth time what would probably occur if the painting came alive and started to move, Larry came through the door with a couple bottles of beer and two glasses on a tray. "Let's sit by the fireplace, I'll start it up," he said, making his way to the other end of the room and placing the tray on a low beige table in front of a low beige lounge. Cole took a last look at the ruins of some future crumbled city, at the people in the rusted iron cage, at the pursued hunter with his life-sustaining kill and at the death horde of multi-colored cats and turned away. "Whoosh, man, like whoosh. Crazy pad, Larry baby," Cicero bubbled. "Groovy colors on the wall - groovy," Debbie said dreamily. "But give me mountains with white, white snow." "While you're smellin' the snow, I'm reachin' up and sniffin' me some stardust and keepin' right on goin' higher and higher," Cicero said. "How about circling around and coming in for a landing over here," Larry suggested. "What would you two like to drink?" "Coke for me, man. Debbie'll have Squirt - anythin' with lemon or lime." Cicero dropped on the couch stretching his stick-like legs towards the new fire. Debbie wandered aimlessly over, touching the rocks of the fireplace. Cole leaned forward from one end of the long lounge and poured his beer and Larry, returning with the soft drinks, said, "It's a cool night but we're cozying it up." "Have a juice, baby," Cicero called to Debbie. "She gotta get back to the big street," he explained. "We need the bread for when we livin' low insteada high like right now." "Relax, Cicero," Larry said, "We got bread for you." "Front and center, Debbie," Cicero demanded. "We got action right here." Debbie turned from the fireplace looking first at Larry and then Cole, waiting. "Come on and sit down, Debbie," Larry said. "We're just talking. Your conversation is worth money." Debbie glanced quickly at Cicero and he nodded. "I'm goin' to talk about Jollo," Cicero said, staring directly at Debbie. "You don't know nothin', you don't hear nothin', you don't say nothin'. Sit down." He clasped his hands in back of his head, leaned on the couch stretching out his thin feet even closer to the fire and opening his mouth as if to speak, closed his eyes and didn't say anything. They waited for a minute or two and finally Larry asked in a low voice, "Where's Jollo getting this high grade stuff if it isn't coming down from the top? And how do you know he still isn't on the same chain gang?" Cicero stirred but didn't open his eyes. "No more, man. Jollo is the top hook. Everythin' hangs from him now - he the source and he got nothin' but thoroughbreds hustlin' for him." "I thought no one could operate outside," Larry insisted. "Jollo don't need to be inside no more," Cicero stirred again slightly. "When you connected with jolly Jollo, you connected with the top." "Right, Cicero, but the stuff's got to come from someplace. Where does he get it?" "It fly in from tamale-land - tha's all I know ... an' it pure horse. He makin' up with his own cuttin' and packin'." "How long has he been on his own?" Larry asked. "Long time...months....maybe a year, I don' know." "What makes you think he flies it in?" "That's the word and I got faith." "I thought you were ready for a kick in the head," Larry said. "You change your mind?" "Yeah, I did. I don't want to turn off when I'm high or when I'm low only in the diddle middle. Will you and this cat he'p us sometime when we in the diddle middle?" he asked, suddenly sitting up and looking from Larry to Cole. "We'll help," Cole said. "You've got to let us know when, though. We'll keep asking." He paused for a minute and then looked at Debbie who was slumped staring into the fire. No one said anything and finally he turned back to Cicero. "I think you've helped us but I want to check something out tonight." Cicero surprisingly came completely awake, stood up and reached for Debbie, pulling her to her feet. "Take us to the swingin' scene, Larry. We gotta get back on the track." "Have you got what you want?" Larry asked Cole. "Maybe, I don't know. Let's take the kids back and then run down to the wharf if you haven't got anything better to do." "Right," Larry agreed. "Nothing better to do." They circled through the park and back to the buzzin' street where they had picked up Cicero and Debbie. Cole got out, pulling the seat forward again, and as they came clambering from the back he handed Cicero two fifties. "This bread will buy bread you know," and then deciding his comment was worthless, "Thanks, we'll see you around....give us a call, like soon." "Right, man, than's for the bread." "Where to?" Larry asked when Cole got in the front seat. "Take Bush to Powell to Ellis, cut across Market and we'll go Fourth to Mission Rock and into China Basin Street." Larry drove and Cole thought about Cicero's ramblings. Larry didn't ask what he knew and Cole didn't volunteer anything. Coming into China Basin Street Cole said, "Turn right here." The unloading of the Crescent Moon was still under way. They drove on past and then Cole asked Larry to swing around and come back again. As they approached the second time, Cole said, "Pull over by the small building where the gate guard's stationed." He got out of the car and walked over slowly looking at the ship mostly. When the watchman saw Cole approaching he stepped out into the cool night air. "Is that the Crescent Moon?" Cole asked before the guard could challenge him. "It is. Are you looking for someone?" the guard asked suspiciously. "I know some of the crew. I was just wondering if anyone was aboard." "Are you from the company?" the guard wanted to know. "No I'm not, but I've sailed on the Crescent Moon. I thought if anyone was around I might know, I'd say hello." "The people on her now are the unloading crew. I think the ship's crew are all ashore. Mr. Crowder sometimes stays aboard to get her ready for the passengers but they won't be leaving until Monday so he probably won't show up until tomorrow evening sometime." "Is it still Saturday night?" Cole asked in surprise. The guard got out his watch. "It's about twenty-five minutes to go until Sunday morning." As Cole started to leave the guard asked, "Who will I say was here?" Cole stopped and looking back, hesitated slightly. "Conrad," he said. "Joe Conrad." He went back to the car and got in, and as they pulled away he saw the guard making an entry in his record book. "What do we do now?" Larry asked. "There's about an acre of ground right across the street from the ship. If you look back you can see it's got a board fence around it. This evening when I drove by, all I could see inside it was a couple of small stacks of lumber. I'd like to take a closer look at it." "When? Tonight?" "Yeah, right now - but I need a light. I better go back and get my car." Driving slowly down China Basin Street, Larry looked at him for a long moment. "There's a flashlight in that glove compartment," he pointed, "and I haven't got anything else to do, or any better sense," he said. "But we can't park across the street from the ship. Maybe I can come in from Illinois or Michigan." He kept on driving at a slow pace and at the end of the street doubled back into Illinois, squared into Eldorado and turned left into Michigan and then, stopping the car where he thought would be opposite the ship, started to get out. "No, you wait here," Cole said. "I just want to confirm what I already suspect." "Anybody catches me here they're not going to wait to confirm anything. I'll just wind up in the stout-house," Larry protested. "Don't worry about it" Cole commiserated as he faded into the shadows. "I'll be right back." Moving cautiously beside a white building he came to the end of it and the reflected light gave out. He stopped, closed his eyes for a minute to adjust them to the blackness beyond and looked off to where the Crescent Moon should be tied up. He saw a faint glow against the low fog. Then he began to make out the dark outline of what he was sure was the top of the wooden fence enclosing the storage area that fronted on China Basin. Starting toward it confidently he stepped into a hole and his left leg dropped into water above his knee. Flinging his arms out instinctively he caught the edge of the other side of whatever he had fallen into and hung there for a moment. As his eyes adjusted further to the darkness it was apparent that he had fallen into a four-foot-wide ditch. He let the other leg slide in and, pushing with his hands in the damp grass, pulled himself out, felt his clinging wet pants, and took off toward the dark silhouette of the fence a little more cautiously. As he came close, he stretched out his hands and finally touched moist boards. With his fingers, he found a crack and put his eye to it. It was just as black on the other side, so he moved to his right and almost at once came to a corner. Turning, he started pacing off the distance to the other corner. It was sixty-four yard-length steps before he found it. Making a ninety-degree turn this time, he continued his measured tread towards China Basin Street. When he came to that end of the fence which was almost on the street, he wasn't sure whether he had taken sixty or seventy steps but finally decided it was seventy. In either case, the enclosed space was approximately an acre - plenty big enough. He reached up and barely got his fingers over the edge of the boards. It must be seven-and-a-half or eight feet high, he thought, but couldn't remember how high he could reach either. Feeling along the top he touched a metal bracket screwed into the board extending upward. He jumped and waved his hand above it and felt a sharp tearing pain in his palm. One of the barbs in the wire-strung brackets had caught it and ripped it open. "Damn!" Clasping his hands together, the palms felt warm and sticky. He got out a handkerchief, balled it up, and squeezed down hard and then started at a half trot back the way he had come, trailing his good hand along the fence. When he came to the corner he felt his hand leave the fence but before he could slow down there was a bright flash of light and his head was rocked back. Reaching out instinctively, he contacted arms groping for him. Going into a clinch he hissed, "Larry?" but there was no answer and whoever it was didn't have Larry's bulk, but Christ, he was strong and quick. Cole pinched one of the arms against his side as his left hand grasped a wrist, and then he felt cold metal. He broke the clinch and grabbed with both hands to keep the cold metal from pointing toward his body. Sweat came quickly and fear-goaded strength soared as he tried to break or jerk the arm from its socket. It was a static strain and again he felt steel pressing down toward the top of his head. He disengaged his right hand and chopped short for the belly, not wanting to miss. There was a high sigh of escaping air and this time he aimed at the sound. His knuckles splatted against a twisting jaw and sharp teeth just as metal crashed against his forehead and spurting blood rolled into his eyes. With all his strength he struck now at a gurgling noise, aiming lower, and felt his fist drive under a chin and into a neck and then a body was falling backwards and he was jerked forward on top of it. The left wrist was painfully stretched and seemed to be caught up in the cold metal. Pushing away from the inert form, Cole still couldn't get untangled and then he saw a light swinging across the field, lost it momentarily about where the ditch was and then saw it come on again sweeping over the ground until it found them and he heard Larry's voice. "What the hell happened? Are you O.K.? Who is he... Christ!... is that your blood or his?" "I don't know, but I think it's mine. My head hurts." Larry bent over and played the light on Cole's head. "It's not very deep but it's bleeding like hell," he said, taking out a handkerchief. "Here, hold this on it." Cole reached for the handkerchief and another arm came up with his. "Look out!" Larry yelled and Cole feinted off with his right hand, but when there was no more action Larry examined the arm that had moved. "How did you get him cuffed?" he wanted to know. Wiping blood from his eyes, Cole looked at the handcuffs in disbelief. "Where the hell did those come from? I thought he had a gun." "I wonder who he could be," Larry said with some concern as he turned the torch on the quiet face. "It's the steward, Lew." "Who?" "The steward from the ship. I figured there was something wrong about him but I really didn't pick him as a part of this operation." He looked the still form over carefully. "Maybe you'd better dim that light and we'll try to get him back to the car." "Here, you hold the light," Larry said, "and I'll carry him." "You can't carry him. I'm handcuffed to him." And then he paused and looked again. "I wonder what the hell he's doing handcuffing me." "What do you mean, handcuffing you? I thought you cuffed him." Cole shook his head. "Let's get out of here. I'll figure it out later." He got off his knees, pulled Lew up and slung him on his shoulder as easy as an oversized duffle bag. Larry lighted the way and this time both avoided falling in the ditch. When they got to the car Cole worked Lew's dead weight into the middle of the seat and squeezed in beside him. Larry got behind the wheel and pushed Lew's lolling head off his shoulder. "Are you sure he's still breathing?" he asked Cole with real concern. "Yeah, he's O.K. - his pulse is strong." "Now where would you like to go?" Larry asked in a business-like voice. "Let's go to my place, I'll call Thad Bocana. Maybe he can get something out of this guy." "Who the hell is Thad Bocana?" "He's an acquaintance of mine with the FBI who read my book on investigative procedures." Larry raced down the Embarcadero rather than across the city. "Slow down, for Christ's sake," Cole said. "You'll get us into trouble." Larry took his foot off the gas, pushed Lew's head from his shoulder again, checked the handcuffed wrists and then Cole's blood-streaked face. "You mean we're not in trouble... now?" he asked incredulously. Twenty minutes later Larry eased into the parking space reserved for C. Rain Apt. 3, got out, closed the door softly and went around to the passenger side to help drape Lew over Cole's shoulder. Then he fished the keys from Cole's pocket and opened the apartment door. As they went in Lew straightened suddenly and heaved himself head first towards the floor. Larry caught him before Cole was twisted completely around, carried him to the couch and dropped him. This jerked Cole off his feet and put him on top of Lew, who started to struggle again. "Take it easy. Where are the keys for those things?" Larry demanded. Cole got off Lew and sat down beside him. "Hi, Lew - nice running into you again." It was hard for Larry to believe they could both look so bad and still be able to function. Lew started to talk: "I didn't know you were there by the fence. I was just curious as to why you were nosing around the Crescent Moon." Cole interrupted, "Have you got a key for these things? Don't tell me you lost it." Lew searched around in the waistband of his pants and finally came up with a key. It took him some time before he succeeded in snapping both links open, and Larry didn't offer to help. "What's your story, Lew?" "What's yours?" Lew asked. Cole ignored the question. "I concluded a long time ago you weren't a steward but I'll admit I didn't figure you for part of the law. Where do you fit?" "I'm not interested in talking to you, Mr. Rain," Lew said stiffly. I'll call a cab and get the hell out of here," and he started for the phone. "Wait a minute, Lew. I was going to call Thad Bocana and invite him over for a drink. You don't happen to know Bocana, do you?" Lew stopped, looked at Cole and then at Larry trying to grasp a complex combination and turned slowly back to Cole. "What do you know about Bocana?" "Nothing, really, he's just an acquaintance of mine. He read a book I wrote." "What would that be?" "A book on investigative procedures for law enforcement officers." A look of surprise touched Lew's face. "Oh, you're that Rain," he said frowning. "I've got to pay more attention to who writes those things." He thought for a moment longer, placing his hand gently on his jaw. "I never knew a guy who wrote books could hit like that though. It seems it was all a mistake," and he manipulated his head gingerly to see if it would still turn. "Some mistake," Cole grunted as he dabbed at the still seeping scalp wound. Lew fumbled out a folded piece of leather and tossed it on the table. "I'm with the Narcotics Bureau," he said shortly. "I thought you'd given up on the Crescent Moon," Cole said in mild surprise. "We gave up a couple of times, but things kept happening. If you and your friend can explain what you were doing there I'm ready to forget the Crescent Moon for the last time." "This is Larry Carver," Cole said, "a friend and business associate of mine." "I'm Hal Bronte. Lew's just one of the names I use from time to time." He paused for a minute squinting at Cole. "How did you happen to be out there tonight?" "I'm not at liberty to tell you but it had nothing to do with me or my friend smuggling dope from the ship. Sorry I can't tell you more." Then he asked, "You're convonced the Crescent Moon is clean now, is that right?" "That's right," Lew said, "and I'm turning my report in that way." "Would you hold that report for a day? I'm too damned tired and sore to think clearly right now. I'ds like to take a hot shower, put a couple of band-aids on my head, get some sleep, and then think about a few things." "What is there to think about?" "I've got some angles to mull over. We might even bring Bocana in on it tomorrow." "My report wouldn't go in until Monday anyway," Bronte said as he got up from the couch wearily. "I'm a little sore myself, maybe the sleep would help." Larry, who had been quietly listening, shook his head negatively to himself but didn't voice all his thoughts. "I'll take you anywhere you'd like to go," he said. "But are you sure you shouldn't have a doctor look you over first?" "No, I'm all right," Bronte said shortly with a sort of sigh. "All I need is a couple of aspirins and some sleep." Cole went as far as the door when the two left the apartment and shook hands with Bronte a little formally. He watched them go down the steps and move toward the car before he called to Larry, "If you stop by Borgia's tell Giuseppe I'll see him tomorrow." Then he closed the door quietly, hesitating before attaching the latch. Finally he snicked it in and walked slowly to the couch, flopping on it to think for a minute before going to sleep. Chapter XIV Carl Peterson picked up a tray of potted begonias and carried them from the small glass house around to the shaded side of the old mansion. He set the tray on the grass beside a plot of ground that Hester Coleridge was working with a short-handled hoe. "Is there any of that sand left? This ground is too hard," she complained as she straightened up and rested the hoe in the chopped dirt. Carl Peterson reached down for a piece of the dark soil, inspected it closely and broke it in his hands, letting it sprinkle back on the ground. "One wheelbarrow'll do it," he said softly, as though to himself. "There's plenty of sand." Hester didn't argue the point, just grasped the hoe and continued to dig at the earth, deciding at the same time to wear her pale blue ribbon-knit dress when Pilar came to tea in the afternoon. She would have to buy a new outfit for the wedding and she allowed the excitement to envelope her and wanted to hurry the planting of the begonias to give her plenty of time to bake orange cookies to compliment Catherine Peterson's lemon nut bread. It was somewhat disturbing to her that she had not guessed, or that Cole had never hinted at his romantic interest in Pilar. Of course she wouldn't be the first to mention it to him but there was no reason why it couldn't be discussed and arrangements made with Pilar. These things required planning to which most men were oblivious. The squeek of the wheelbarrow as Carl pushed it around the corner broke her reverie. "Where do you want it?" he asked. She directed him to dump it in the middle of the bed and an hour later it was raked in and a dozen begonias had been carefully set out and watered. It was just before noon when she entered the back door of the house, washed her hands at the sink, and dialed Cole from the kitchen phone. She knew when he answered that her ring had wakened him. "I waited to call till I was sure you were up," she said and not waiting for a reply, "Mrs. Peterson and I are going to do spring house cleaning in the morning and we'll start on your rooms first if it won't disturb you." "Fine," Cole croaked. "Fine," and he fought to control his voice. "I thought you'd already done my rooms. They look fine." He wondered if he sounded fine. "I'll probably stay here until the middle of the week, Wednesday or Thursday." "We'll be finished in your rooms long before then," she said and adjusted the receiver more firmly to her ear. Cole recognized the pause as a signal for the real reason she had called. "Pilar is coming to see me this afternoon," she announced after the proper interval, and this time the wait for his reaction was real. When none came, she continued, "That girl has the truest marks of breeding and proper upbringing. She'll make someone a fine wife." Cole was only slightly startled at this sudden switch since Aunt Hester had always come on strong, nudging him toward marriage. "Most of these modern girls aren't worth a continental," she stated flatly. He was awake and grinning now, wondering what was coming next. The archaic 'continental' must have filtered down from one of their revolutionary ancestors. Another of her favorite words was 'tarnation'. Finally he broke in, "Well, Aunt Hester, I hope you two have a nice tea and I'll see you again sometime around the middle of the week." "All right, Coleridge," she relented. "Sorry if you were flaked out when I called. I've got to split now, see you later." She hung up just before Cole's burst of laughter came through the receiver. She decided to have a light lunch and then bake her cookies. She would still have time for a warm bath and a nap before putting on her blue ribbon knit. Twisting the ancient mechanical bell, Pilar waited at the heavy front door framing etched plate-glass. Millie Peterson opened it wearing a pink creation that in no-way stamped her as a domestic. "Hello, Pilar," she greeted, and then conspiratorily, "Hester got a bad do on her first batch of cookies and she hasn't caught up yet." "I hope I'm not early," Pilar worried. "You look lovely in pink, Mrs. Peterson." "Thank you. I hear the elevator rattling so she'll be down in a minute," Millie Peterson said as they moved into the foyer. "Let me take your wrap... what a beautiful shade of blue! Mr. Peterson laid a eucalyptus fire in the parlor," she went on. "Come in and make yourself comfortable I'll see if that was Hester." Pilar loved the old formal room and particularly admired the Persian carpet and the polished parquet floors. To sit near the fire, she selected a rigid and uncomfortable last-century settee. The flames from the burning wood made glowing waves on the floor and mantel, and the warm colors in the carpets gave her a comfortable and secure feeling. She leaned forward to brush her hand over the top of the low table, savoring the texture of the bits of burnished ivory, pearl and exotic woods. There was a china tea service reposing on a mobile cart. The faded flower design on the eggshell-thin rim of the cups was yellowed with flickering light. Suddenly she had the feeling of being watched and, looking over her shoulder, saw Aunt Hester standing in the open doors. She was wearing azure of almost the same shade of Pilar's frock and her silver hair intensified the blueness of the lovely gown and her wise eyes. She walked to Pilar with hands outstretched. "When I saw you sitting there before the fire I wanted to call to you.... Lydia, Lydia hurry, we don't have time for tea....Alex is taking us in the carriage to a little shop on Sutter Street." "I hope it was a pleasant remembrance. I don't need to ask how you are, you look divine." "Lydia was my dearest friend and the prettiest girl I ever knew. You don't suppose that's a sign I'm getting old?" she asked twinkling. "But the past is gone and now you're the prettiest girl I know. Sit down, dear," and in a confidential tone, "Can we talk before I ask Millie to bring tea?" "Oh yes, let's do," Pilar said. "Please tell me all about Lydia." "No, no, dear. Lydia is from another time. I only remember when I'm reminded," she said, looking someplace beyond the room and then quickly back. "I'd like to talk about you and Cole and your plans...and to ask if you'll let me help." Pilar's eyes widened, her mouth opening slightly as if to speak but she only portrayed a rather startled expression. "I've known for some time that you two were in love," she said gently. "I don't want to meddle but I'd be proud to be a small part of any plans you might have." Since Pilar was unable to speak Aunt Hester continued, "There's a ballroom on the east wing of this house that would be big enough for a reception. The last time it was used was Cole's thirteenth birthday party, but after he started high school he didn't want another one." Pilar held up her free hand, brushing her brow with it, and finally spoke. "Are you under the impression that Cole and I are planning to be married?" she asked in astonishment. "Oh no," Hester assured her, "I didn't know what your plans were. I realize that both of you are very modern and up-to-date on these things, but when two people are in love it sometimes follows that they get married." Pilar had regained part of her composure but still couldn't understand how Aunt Hester had jumped to this impossible conclusion of love and marriage or something else. Perhaps it was merely old age, but Cole had never suggested that Aunt Hester had mental aberrations. Something was seriously wrong; she would have to set her straight, but gently. "There's nothing between Cole and me, Aunt Hester, other than being good friends and having mutual respect for each other as colleagues in the corporation." It was Aunt Hester's turn to be surprised. Pilar suspected that she should allow this blunt statement of fact to handle the situation but couldn't help asking the obvious. "Where did you ever get such an idea that Cole and I were in love?" Dating At The Apocalypse: An End-Of-The-World Quickie By Mike Spitz The day the world ends, no one will be there, just as no one was there when it began. This is a scandal. Such a scandal for the human race that it is indeed capable collectively, out of spite, of hastening the end of the world by all means just so it can enjoy the show. - Jean Baudrillard It isn't necessary to imagine the world ending in fire or ice - there are two other possibilities: One is paperwork, and the other is nostalgia. - Frank Zappa During the age, of Empire, of seated Caesar and sweating centurion, of sweeping Imperial supremacy, surging through the plains of Panacea, vanquishing Gaul and Druid beneath the static wings of Falcon-crested Victory staff, Romanic proto-aristocracy established their totalitarian precedent for two thousand years of Darkness. Within those shadows of transmillenial oligarchy, of grape vine and slave, the worshippers of Apollo celebrated their oppression with the orgying of Dionysis: Romulus and Remus, suckled by she-wolf and raised by shepherd, imbibed and were nourished by the inherent duality of Nature, a tradition re- invigorated by the bureaucracies of Vespacian and Claudius, a respect, an implicit understanding of the mechanisms of control, of the politics and pageant of Power. Sun in Leo, urgent bank of Enola harbinger of the end to a gay day for that harbor city off the Inland Sea, a Flash!- Sonic concussion followed by roar of flame, fat droplets scorched to Hiroshima city streets a fitting, feisty farewell to a an aeon of sovereign Kings and Courtesans. That a Viconian Cycle should demarcate its stage into Democracy with but a nanosecond of isotopic splendor seemed an appropriate end to an era: That the Universe herself would impose an introduction into Chaos little more than two centuries later remains somehow confusing. Unexpected yet inevitable, early yet long overdue, we have tracked the trajectory of our Armageddon from Jupiterian flyby to imminent terrestrial impact, tomorrow morning, a Monday, just before dawn. Since flicked from Kuiper Belt, cruising the plane of the elliptic as tumbling mass of rock and ice, our cometary horseman, veiled in a gaseous hub spanning ten Earth diameters, trailing her gown of misty, solar wind-blown debris for a quarter billion kilometers, she now spans our skies for more minutes of arc, than we have minutes left to live. As strength begets strength, so weakness begets weakness: Worldwide disarmament precludes all attempt at intervention. The titanium casings of launch vehicles now ground down into mascara and paint for the easels of artists, warheads disassembled and ceremonially buried beneath fast food joints and sex shoppes, our Enlightenment, our respect for, as some have put it, "Planetary Hygiene," has inexorably led to our demise. The causality is sound, even if the result cataclysmic, ironic, idiotic laughter from the dark: A minor salvo of hydrogen flake and fusion between India and Pakistan, the cousins of Han, provided the sanctimonious impetus for another skirmish between North and South Korea; before radioactive fall-out could bring snow to Paris in July, China quickly settled a border dispute and Argentina finally brought closure to the Falklands Crisis. London obliterated, an international conference in Greenwich established the terms of a New Peace that brought a temporary hiatus to hostilities, and would eventually bring universal equity and genuine fair play but six years hence: Tomorrow morning, a Monday, just before dawn, we will all perish. Some blame the eastern darkies for starting it in the first place. Others the zealot pacifists of Greenwich, mistaking madness with meridian, as if boundary were a "bad" thing, as if lines of tangent, code of globe, Reimann geometries and historical topology could ever succumb, could ever be swept away as arbitrarily as they were created! Mappers of nothing but they're own shortsightedness and dread, these progressive pacifists of Greenwich committed the only illegitimacy of diplomacy, that of gross naivete: Only fools forgive them, even though fool, forgiver, and foe, forgotten, will all simultaneously share tomorrow's feisty orgy of fire delivered down by ice. Others, sterner, stricter, cite the paradox of History, duality between aristocracy and democracy, while still others, those crass opportunists who fall between soldier and martyr, scramble for the twelve remaining Shuttle seats, a Willy Wanka lottery to merely postpone the inevitability of shared oblivion, democracy of destruction: Nice view for the lucky fuckers until the oxygen runs out in the Space Station, as below, the explosion, equivalent to over one hundred teratons of TNT, erupts into the placid skies of Metropolis, the atmosphere ripped open, enthusiastic calling card for the slow labors of a fifty year Cold & Dark, the entire planet enveloped tightly in that blossoming, dusty shroud of Silence and Death ... A stirring, almost a flutter in the compartment awakens me from my euphoric, annihilatory reveries about The Great Extinction (Our Own): I check my retinal Timex, yep, less than an hour, we're gonna die all right, but I want to be well-DOSed-out for the big Boom-Boom. Shit. Now I've gotta deal with it, all bullshit having to do with the End Of The World. Can't we all just peel out like a civilized doomed species? He always wakes me up during the best parts of my DOS-trips, anyway, and I just know he's working me for another practical joke. I keep one eye plastered shut, the other a tight squint, hazy light barely leaking in: This one had better be good, no second chances, no follow-ups, no apologies. "Don't know 'bout you, motherfuckuh, but I'm goin' out with a Bang, man," Zim tells me, my feigned hypnogogic just a soporific intro for him to start fucking with me. Dressed in his prankster clown drag, part Court Jester, part Swiss Guard, he packs up his shit nonchalantly, as if tonight's score would be just another deal, on just another early Monday morn. Now I know somethin's up. "I've always asked myself," Zim continues, as if sensing my thoughts, the rude DOSer, striking again, "if I knows that I've only got an hour to live, what the fuck I'm gonna do?" "And what the fuck are ya gonna do?" I can't help but ask, my velvety retinal haze diffusing into the tacky wallpaper. Telebroadcasts have ceased, or have been subverted with inconsequential bullshit, an attempt at mitigating the panic. Sudden uselessness of the advertising dollar's more like it. Besides, at this point, what the hell else is there left to say? "I'm gonna take me a serious motherfucken overdose of the DOS, man, until my brains fucken blow out, and then get laid, man," Zim sez, grabbing my favorite syringe, vials of my remaining stash. He sees me flinch, takes it all anyway. "Like you're really gonna have much more use for this shit ..." he sez, laughing hysterically, the portal whisking shut behind him. "Yeah, and like you will?" I yell after him. The wallpaper vision now displays a subtle shade of fuchsia, bursting in non-linear chaotic tendrils, infinite in resolution, downward, at least, since toplevel will soon be the rotting mulch of all civilization, adios everybody. I stare at the portal: That fuck, that queen, that nellie-assed faggot: As if he staged even that part of this morning's fun. Zim, or Zimbo, or Zimmie, or Bo, Bo-Zim, or whatever the fuck, remains, first and foremost, deep down and way out, fundamentally just another particularly mean-spirited nigger and faggot to boot, even on this last day for all Humanity, no respect at all. He'd be an epic junkie, if you could even be an epic junkie these days. Then again, so would I: So I follow the asshole. I figure, you know, if he's buyin' ... The tessellating pattern of the hallway carpeting rolls beneath me like a conveyor belt into madness. But I am leaving from yet another madness, that most wonderful of deoxy-madnesses, so I pay the optical discomfort no mind. Deoxy- serotonin, since its fabrication but a decade ago, was first hailed as the ultimate recreational drug: Neither a hallucinogen nor narcotic in the strict sense, neither an stimulant nor a depressant, Zim liked to say it "did ya sideways," whatever the hell that meant. But wonderful, oh so very wonderful the DOS (as the underworld called it) was and remains: No known side-effects, completely non-addictive, no build-up of tolerance, the only factor preventing FDA approval was the very mystery surrounding how it works, why it could do what it does, and not display any toxicity or induce dependence. That mystery remains, as strong and fast as the inevitability of imminent global destruction, while governmental approval never did arrive, since freaks such as me and Zim ended up taking the stuff at the cost of productive life, and livelihood. Who would want to work, deal with the endless stresses of life, when the immersion of deoxy-serotonin dream could fill not only a boring Sunday afternoon, but populate the rest of one's days with infinite glee and gladness? Not a high, you could never crash; not a low, you could never bottom- out; not a hallucinogen, you could never freak; not a narcotic, you could never get hooked. The drug's non-addictive, all right, but people just couldn't stop taking it. The epidemic became worse than that of opium or heroine: For me and Zim, well hell, at least it sustained our bond, one of need, more than familiarity, his connections and my connections, our shared disconnection from the world- without-deoxy-ser, all along two freaks sustained by his sense of humor, and my willingness to put up with all the bullshit. Tonight, unfortunately, my nigger has just left me no choice: LoveMe Avenue, the main thoroughfare between Here and There, is crowded, but not what you'd expect given the circumstances. Clunky Chryslers and jalopy Fords hover above, the superconducting monorail station is full, probably due to malfunction more than anything else. When human extermination was first confirmed and announced less than a week ago, fools rushed to megamarkets, hoping to stock up for the tough times. After a few days, however, when the realization finally settled in that those "tough times" would last only long enough for the mile-high tidal wave to wash the entire city away, people started to chill slightly. The stages of mourning were typical, boring in their systemic concreteness. Following the initial shock and excitement, then the buying frenzy, an almost comatose melancholy became pervasive. Then, religious fervor took over like clockwork. Mass suicides, pilgrimages to Mecca, Jerusalem, Bill Gates V's grave and the Rock 'n' Roll museum, the high, the low, the sacred and the profane all blending together in some post-post modern smorgasbord of cowardliness and bad taste. After that, an indulgent societal chaos, a communal "who-cares-about-anything-anymore, we're- all-gonna-die-anyway" attitude that led to blackout curfews, mass arrests, public executions through torture. In this sense, Zim's enthusiasm seems slow on the take. Then again, the fucker's been so zonked out of his mind for the past week, he probably didn't find out about the End of the World until tonight. Zonked right along with him, I feel it's my responsibility to continue the pursuit: I could sit back, and just wait to die like everybody else, but there's still an hour left, and all my deoxy-serotonin is gone. Besides, the world's a tough place, even on the brink of its end. And who's gonna look out for a mean-spirited nigger faggot right before it's all over? I can feel the warmth, flowing through me, into me, filling my mind with feeling, with idea, with feelings and ideas about Power ... "Hey, Zim, man, wait up!" With an insane giggle, he doubles time up the avenue, not hard to spot wearing that funny hat, bangles, taffeta skirt with leggings. What's the hurry? Then again, he's got my piece, the bitch owes me at least a couple micrograms. "Stop! Queen!" I have something to do. He uses the teeming, seething crowd for cover, darting like some prissy, half-pregnant ballerina between throngs of protesters in front of the expressionist steps of City Hall, the artfully broken tiles a choreography of tasteless 22nd Century architecture, and now the apocalyptic soap box of fools who feel compelled to fill their last breaths with last words for Last Men, as if vindication could be found in the raw finality of it all, as if the denouement of History could hold the asses in the seats for one last curtain call. If no one gave a shit before, why would they now? And since when has protest amounted to much of anything but Marxism and scholarly headache, the force of bored pedantry no match for momentum of coin, the power of cashflow, the give-and-take not so much of capital per se, but of the lowest common denominators of passion and instinct, the greed and garrulousness of masses who wish only to fuck, and be fed: The placard- bearing anachronisms, these sandwich boys of scholarly slush, are taunted by holographic advertisements suspended above, projected onto the sides of the buildings, a jeering created not so much from content, all the pornographic promotions for herbal medicinals and the infra-red ads for fried foods, the marketing campaigns you can feel as well as see and hear, but from the holo-ads' punctilious persistence, the entertainment loops endlessly replaying themselves in 12 minute intervals, the medium indeed the message as the moguls of marketing having days ago abandoned their polymer desks, now killing each other for those few remaining Space Shuttle seats. Zimbo, the junk freak, blends in effortlessly with the information freaks, the neo-Huguenots burning multigraphic copies of the Edict of Nantes, pseudo-Canadian irredentists claiming Mason & Dixon were Jesuit spies, or the phalanx of Jews resplendent in skull cap and S.S. paraphernalia, goose-stepping while chanting the Shemah Yisrael, as if that juxtaposition of diametric opposites could somehow save them, bring back their gassed, burned and pillaged brethren, not to forget, indeed, for how can anyone sleep through genocide, how can anyone whine and complain through Armageddon? Damn them, damn them all to hell: What has happened to winner-take-all? What has happened to courage and calamity? Can our only redemption be through an icy, fiery death, hurled from the sky? Goddammit, I need, some of the shit. Non-addictive my ass. We are addicted to only two things in this life: Hunger, and death. With death imminent, I hunger. Only deoxy-serotonin can sustain me now. How fitting that some nigger, some spineless, chickenshit cocksucker would be in possession of that which I need, that which I must have, and the device for its delivery? That I am now tested as the world has been tested, only to fail, I will not let myself fail, for to surrender at the moment of mass surrender is to capitulate not only to my own weakness, but to the depravity of two centuries of error, to succumb not only to collective malfunction, but to thermodynamic law- Uncaring physics, the celestial mechanics of Kepler and virginal Newton can vanquish me only in the end. Until then, personal biology must take me elsewhere, the politics of lateral motion. So long as there's movement, there's some hope. Zim cascades through the throng, across the street, and rushes for minor calamity, the immediacy of human misery made utterly inconsequential by the grand cataclysm only minutes away: A large hovermobile has lost control, smashed headlong into a skraper, shards of plummeting polymers and glass glittering the twisted wreckage of airframe and bodies trapped below. Gravity has overtaken them, a fully functional force-vector that reminds us of our universal fate, forces of Nature still operative, healthy, robust, penalizing absentee traffic wardens, their glowing terminals undoubtedly vacant, punishing indirectly the hapless victims of that bureaucratic neglect, as evinced by the mortally wounded, crawling on pavement and pavilion. Using the smoke and screams for cover, Zim dodges and darts between this epitaph of crash, this tombstone of technology. An Olympic symbol, the multi- colored, intertwined rings, is visible on a piece of wreckage as I enter the smoke and steel. The Games of 2184, scheduled for later this summer, have been "indefinitely postponed" given the celestial circumstances, the athletes being ferried from a training camp in the suburbs to some unknown destination, now unanticipated yet demonstrably conclusive at my feet: One of the clones of Jesse Owens, amazingly well-preserved given the circumstances, tries to stand, and but a moment I mistake him for my man, Zim. I almost stop to ask him for a dimethyl-steroid, before Zim makes his way deftly into an alley. Around me stand and lie, living and dying symbols of the lies of contemporary sports, more a contest between rival international genetics laboratories than the bravest and best of the nation's amateur contenders. Amateur? Clearly, one must be considered a professional runner, having the grafted legs of a gazelle, the coded musculature of a bison for shotput, the bone-structure of a bird to pole vault, the fins of a fish to free-style the 500 in record time. Critics have suggested that splicing human code has already been made obsolete, why not just optimize the animals themselves? While others, more astute to the dynamic of demos, the media of masses, have observed that by-passing the human source code entirely would somehow diminish the emotional intensity of the games, would make identification and association too much a challenge, misspelling the nucleotide alphabet somehow superior to speaking in a new tongue altogether. After all, we create heroes if only to watch them rise, summarily to fall, a dynamic made difficult if we consider them beneath us all along. Besides, interviews and athletic bios would be impossible, too much holographic airplay already devoted to the scientists themselves, the creators superseding the created. But now this team has all fallen, never to rise again. Red and blue flashing lights, the drone of sirens suddenly fill the air: Public servants, the mercenaries of the municipality, are always the last to resign themselves to revolution or any radical change: Their pay checks guaranteed even if their tenure is not, cops and medics approach, as the smoke around me begins to clear with the suction of their propjets. Not only do I have a private mission this early morning, for scoring, but a public warrant for my arrest, for selling. I leave the freak show to their endorphin pain killers and water-stretchers, and resolutely pursue my quarry, my own killer, to the brink of oblivion. Zimbo enters a freight elevator on the far end of the alley just as I enter narrow walkway between buildings from streetside. Before the doors shut, he waves my syringe, a lavish vial of my deoxy-serotonin, and gives me the finger. By the time I reach the small, jutting alcove, the lift has already made midpoint up the building's surface. The only unit Zim's ticket to ride, a gaper block already forming at the mouth of the street, an exposed fire escape seems my only recourse. For some reason, however, the 114 stories seem slightly daunting. Back on the street proper, I push through the crowd. In this age of computer-generated entertainment, athletes perhaps the only remaining celebrities, ambulance attendants and medics have some trouble getting to these victims, better gaper blocks than for the comet. In the commotion, a medical hovermobile floats idly, emptily, beckoningly by the perimeter of the throng. I slip inside the air- ambulance. Flipping this switch and that, the hatch slides shut, the propjets charge, as a disembodied voice fills the interior quads. "Voice print identify, please." "You fucking idiot!" I scream, "Dontcha know it's the End of the goddamned World?" "Voice print identification, incorrect. Please supply password override to gain clearance." Hmmm, I figure that I'm genuinely fucked, when the hatch suddenly opens, an orange-garbed medic towing a water-stretcher, bearing the inert body of what must be an Olympic boxer or wrestler, the hairless gorillalike body a relatively easy give-away. "Who are you?" the medic exclaims, stabilizing the stretcher against an inertial restraint mechanism. "I'm your driver," I concoct, "Get him stabilized and let's fly." "I'm the driver, you fucking idiot," the medic remarks. "Voice print identification confirmed," drones the voice. "Proceed to Emergency Evac Coordinates, immediately." Some appropriate lights and numbers flash on the viewscreen. Fuck the autopilot, I'm in charge here. Given the circumstances, I decide to be diplomatic. "Get out of this hover, you asshole, or I phase-shift your face," I suggest, pointing my snub-nosed particle beam pistol at his head. Make guns illegal, and only the criminals will have them. But I'm no criminal: I just love my deoxy-serotonin, and this day-glo jerk sure as hell isn't going to keep me from it, whether or not the whole planet's about to be hammered. Come on, fucker, get an anti-proton beam, right between the eyes: "Move! Now!" He complies: What's he gonna do, give his life up for a goddamned gorilla? Some porch monkey in biodrag? With a whir the machine rises into the sky. On manual, I maneuver the craft straight up the side of the skraper, dodging the area of smoke and dangling debris at the impact site, about twenty stories up. As we zoom vertically, I gaze back at my passenger: Figures that this gorilla fuck would have survived the crash in fairly good shape, muscles rippling amid the mass, this guy could probably bench press a thousand pounds. I only hope the beast doesn't wake up. "Hungry!" he suddenly exclaims, eyes shooting open, the inertial restraints buckling under the brawn. "Hungry!" Oh, Jesus. As we zip along the skraper face, rows of abandoned offices flowing by like stacked movie sets, I look about the compartment. Opening a med- kit, I scope some endo-endorphin, glowing pale blue in 20cc vials. "Relax, George," I suggest, prepping a suction needle. "Hungry!" my buddy grunts again. "Gorilla pussy!" he articulates, his breathing spastic, excited. "You're looking at the wrong girl, friend," I remind him. Breaking over the top of the skraper, all that's visible is an empty hoverport, exhaust vents still smoking. Zim must have copped himself a ride, too. Checking the scopes, looking for a suspicious tagnumber, spotting Zim's craft proves remarkably easy: The grid is a-buzz with the traffic violator, ripping through unauthorized routes, bobbing like a fucked up duck from one cruise-plane to another. Punching the dopplers, I lock onto Zim's hover, program the machine to pursue and overtake. I might be a deoxy-hop-head, but at least I still know how to work all the techno-bullshit. Unfortunately, so does Zim. Streetwise, with 3-D skywisdom, always count on an addict to get around. We might not be able to tie our own shoes, but nothing no one can get in the way of our one goal, The Stuff. Surely, the end of the species might be a minor obstacle, but twenty minutes remains an eternity for those feeling The Need. We might all soon be dead, but at least I'm gonna be DOSed. "Feed me," blurts my ape friend. I pop all 20 into one of his pecs, the tissue so tough the vacuum almost doesn't connect. The brain drain hits his bloodstream, but no effect. "Stockholm! 2184! We kick ass!" he screams. At least King Kong here has managed to change the subject. "Yeah, Stockholm, you guys kick ass," I concur, grabbing another vial. Pfftth, in she goes. "Going for the gold!" apeman here continues. "The gold, and then my Nike promotion!" I can't help but check out the guy's shoes, eeeee-normous. "What size are you, anyway?" I inquire, making some conversation before the braindrug does her magic- Hopefully. "Stockholm! Gold! Nikes! Pussy!" he grunts. At least he's stopped tugging on the straps. Altitude increasing, every wavelength crowded with complaint, the cityscape unfolds beneath, the weather clear as crystal, perfect morning to die. Halgon searchlights criss-cross the hub of sky, as if humanity could somehow better illuminate the lovely instrument of its demise, suspended now breathlessly, a majestic halo of vapor surrounding a mountain-sized kernel of tumbling rock, glowing across the eastern horizon. Spaceports flash with civilian launches, as every craft capable of orbital travel carries their human cargo into space, last ditch attempts to prolong life, for at least the length of an oxygen allotment. Surely, they cannot be blamed: To live but an extra instant is to somehow transcend the overall finality: But what succor, what pleasure to be gained in being a firsthand witness to the death of 10 billion souls? To share in life is to share in death: To breech that treaty seems a violation, however justified. To hold fast to honor, whatever honor entails, is perhaps to willingly descend back into primordial, eternal deep with the sinking ship. Not to fear death, not to despair over providence, but to defy it with an almost willing submission. We are all destined to die: That we should all of this particular generation be fated to die together infuses us with a sense of community unknown to any historic or cultural precedent. That I, perchance, choose my death to be a deoxy death is my own decision, is my own luxury, is my own sense of validation. That I have a goal, that I have a concrete, practical mission at this penultimate moment, brings me a joy almost as profound and intense as that anticipated rush of deoxy-serotonin pleasure. I will not be defeated, even if all humanity, myself no exception, is about to fall. Zim's craft has entered visible range. A reddish utility vehicle, Zim zigs and zags, but makes no effort to block my tracking, his antics merely more showiness, the necessary and fitting dramatic choreography to a chase that can only become meaningful at its unsuccessful termination. As we skirt the city limits, his destination looms ahead like a Count's Castle, lost in the mists of mountain, hugged by valley village. Only in this case, the neo-Gothic splendor is that of The Observatory, shrouded in the sprouting, frothing waves of nearby Ocean, pulled from the depths and invigorated by the tidal forces squeezing Earth and her ever-approaching Nemesis. The insectlike structure of Observatory Complex and its contained reflecting telescope hug not Transylvanian furrow but the shores of a jutting promontory, a synthetic peninsula constructed to study the stars. With an unobstructed view of the cosmos, flying above presents an equally lavish view of the structure's brilliant white dome, hundreds of meters across, and the few support buildings, splayed like spots on a mushroom, an enchanted enclave designed to further enchant those whose eyes peer upward, away from human limit, mortal passion and misery, and up up up to the infinite, all the hidden mysteries of a vastness that contains yet somehow transcends the life huddled so helplessly within itself. Zim's choice of such a destination is irrelevant when conjoined with the knowledge that his destination has been identified: Where I find Zimbo, I find the deoxy-serotonin, to the end of the world I shall go. With all the commotion downtown, with the anticipation of planetary fait accompli, the otherwise heavily populated promontory, replete with an international host of technicians, scientists and even tourists, seems abandoned. Zim's craft hovers momentarily, locks onto the nearest landing pad, and smoothly docks. Jamming the throttle, smoke rises past the viewport as I park the fucking gorilla and myself but a few meters away. Zim's gangly, almost gelatinous body effortlessly disappears into the closest support building, an annex located just west of the main Observatory Globe. At first I decide to pump Kong here with another 20cc's and pursue my destiny unaccompanied by this hairless ape in estrus. Vial in hand, I suddenly realize that having a trusty assistant, particularly a 300 lbs. genetically engineered Olympic calibre gorillaman-boxer-wrestler-motherfucker, just might come in handy. "Hey, George," I say, gripping the release mechanism of his inertials. "You wanna come along? Food, pussy, gold, prime time spots. We might even be able to pick your ass up some sneakers, quality shit?" "Stockholm?" George here inquires, looking about. "Yeah, Stockholm- But only if you behave yourself, you got that?" "I am a conditioned athlete!" George grunts, as if by rote. "I was created at GenoGen Laboratories, of Kenosha, Wisconsin, on June 7th, 2170-" "Yeah, whatever," I add, unhooking the device. Releasing him, I dart back, fearing the worst. The worst is, of course, a relative concept, as George here leaps out of his water-stretcher, and proceeds to give me a hug that completely knocks my wind-out. "Are you my new trainer?" his breath like a compost heap in hell, waft enveloping me of straw, bananas, dimethyl-steroid, blood, sweat, a hovermobile wreck, dead teammates, and what can only be described as gorilla pussy. "Take it easy, Chim-Chim," I gasp, somehow freeing myself. At least his numbered jersey and light blue sweat pants are still intact. "Yeah, I'm your trainer. Come on, let's go find some deoxy-serotonin. You get some too, okay?" I open the hatch, and we scramble out. "Stockholm!" George yells, waving his arms up and down, jogging along beside. A tight path, flanked by topiary bushes leads to the annex, the door teetering open, beckoning. Suspense thwarted almost immediately, as entry produces Zimbo, on the other side of a hallway, glaring at us. Somehow noticing my new assistant, Zim mimes a chimpanzee, laughs, stands again, and proceeds to inject himself with a healthy dose of DOS. I can almost see his pupils dilating from 10 meters away. Zim smiles a lavish deoxy-serotonin smile, gives us both the finger, and disappears behind yet another door, slamming shut behind him. This door proves to be locked. "George, will ya open this for me?" George works the handle. "Locked," he grunts. I point to it. "Other side- Stockholm!" I scream. As the door is cleaved from its hinges, darkness overtakes us. Somehow, the lights from the hallway have also been suddenly extinguished. Popular with the Chinese Opera, this Fight In The Dark offers a decidedly new twist. I can hear Zim, laughing a few meters to the right and back. "George!" I try to command, "as your trainer, go get that lanky fool and bring him to me!" Luckily, the creature's sense of smell has been heightened in direct proportion to commensurate body mass and musculature, as a few more grunts, some movement, is summarily followed by the unmistakable shriek of a Zim. Groping in the dark, I find the light switch, and indulge all our curiosities. A small laboratory space is illuminated, Zim and the Olympian revealed on its far end. George has pinned his captive to a table, whose one free arm is used to inject himself and the Beast with the fucked DNA's body with my shit. Mission accomplished, Zim tosses syringe and empty vial into his satchel, open beneath them. As I approach, animal aggression yields to what can only be described as affection, instantaneously transforming into an utterly repugnant display, right before my DOS-deprived, leering eyes. "Oh, Mr. Man!" cries my roommate and fellow addict, mesmerized, reaching around and actually fondling the hunk. "What size be you?" Disgusted to the verge of physical discomfort, I scowl, grab the satchel, the clink and clamoring of several remaining vials my only reason to continue, and run for yet another door, on the far end of the lab. Bolting through the portal, I dash up a seemingly endless series of steps, round and round, up and up, anteroom of the Underworld, my sexually perverted Anubis now satiating himself with the baboon incarnation of Thoth, I finally reach, exhausted in mind and body, the threshold of Inner Chamber, the toplevel of Observatory. Osiris, escorting the Sun on its night barge journey along the river beneath the world, has given way to bright white globe of Observatory, its now-stationary multiple-mirrored reflecting telescope poised at the glowing cometary Chariot, here to reclaim the species to the God of the Dead's resolute, patient kingdom below. Standing on the catwalk that runs along the shell's perimeter, I see dozens of computer monitors, processing and displaying variants of the cometary reality, the bulb of creative destruction filtered along distinct wavelengths, from infrared to ultraviolet, the actual anomaly, visible through the dome's slanted opening, mirrored now and projected into a hundred faces of Janus, all staring at me, yearning, oh so very eager to capitulate to its own annihilation, the consumption of everything we have ever come to know and experience. "I didn't think I would have company," says a voice from below, sitting at the very base of the mammoth telescope, tweaking the controls. "I thought I would have this moment all to myself, but now that you are here, would you care to join me, party with me at the End Of The World?" I somehow recognize that voice, its strange intonation. I make my way toward a ladder, try to get a better look. "The comet is very beautiful, isn't it?" the voice continues. "I have worshipped beauty my whole life, the politics and biology of beauty. I think it somehow fitting that now, in the end, will I witness the very incarnation of Come here! Hurry! We don't have much time." I descend the vertical steps. What the hell else can I do? Amazingly enough, the shock sustained in the laboratory annex, this voice, the impending doom, so lavishly displayed on all these monitors, has made me forget about the gold I carry in that small satchel. As I go down to the floor of the Observatory, to directly confront this bizarre yet familiar voice, it continues, as if to taunt me, as if to ensure my continued attention before all attentions cease. "Nature knows no death, only transformation," it goes on, as I reach the floor of the Observatory. "I have known so many transformations, internal and external, social and political. I have accepted them as my destiny, as I accept my destiny now, poised at the brink, a communal transformation, yet personally shared only with our cometary guest, and with you, my friend." "You fucking cunt!" I yell, the words erupting from my mouth, as if they had a life unto themselves, as if my sole life's purpose has been, from the very start, to utter them, at this very instant, locked like the stars, in time, forever. Of course! How could I be so stupid? So naive? That voice! How could I not have recognized it? For here I stand, an arm's length away from none other than President Lorelei-Lee, that name, that position, that face, that fucking body, yes, President Lorelei-Lee, Chief Executive Officer of the United States of America, chief architect of the Greenwich Treaties, hailed as the greatest diplomat and negotiator of the 22nd Century, winner of the Nobel Peace Prize of 2180, Stockholm my fucking ass, this transsexual bitch has single-handedly brought entire human race to Oblivion, I can't even believe this ... She sits, utterly, totally non-plussed. She wears a stunning, glittering gown, covered in jewels, latticework of the cut crystal reflecting the eerie, cometary light in all directions. Her hair is long, jet black, flowing, free, accentuating the subtle yet defined areas of cheekbone, jaw, penetrating deep blue eyes. Her ample breasts, full hips, soft thighs, whether real or synthetic, whether bioengineered or grafted, are sumptuous, insufferably gorgeous. Her only facial response a dull stare, followed by a hand-gesture, pointed above, beyond the reflecting mirrors, outside the dome, and directly toward the comet, which suddenly erupts in a spectacular, fiery explosion of rocky debris, icy vapor, and immense concussion. "The tidal forces have just broken up the primary mass," is all she says, studying the scopes, her voice, her demeanor so calm, so collected that my released rage echoes uselessly through the dome. "Instruments indicate that four major units have now formed into a train of debris, in addition to secondary tertiary components. Time of initial impact, now recalculated, is five minutes, twenty-two seconds hence. Punctuality, after all, is the politeness of queens. Would you like a cocktail?" President Lorelei-Lee. In this era of brain-shunted virtual entertainments, instantaneous communication and globally networked connection, nobody reads. And even if they did, what's in a name, what could that name really mean? Lorelei, though, you know for a fact that this bitch reads; just as you know for a fact that her name was chosen, chosen much like her transgendered biostatus, even if her ethnicity, a composite of black and white, West and East, was more willed than overtly selected, as if her soul, seeking a receptacle, chose this ultimate composite to realize herself as the final archetype of all transformative, all-encompassing principles and powers. You can hate her with finesse, you can love her foolishly, but you can't deny, that this fucken bitch knows. Finally, in the end, I am just beginning to understand. Considering ourselves center, solipsism as natural, as inevitable, as simple a reality as we can possibly stand, we ascribe meaning to that which happens to us, to that which we, in our self-centered delusions, conclude that we create. That I would suffer under political incompetence, that I would inadvertently precipitate biological atrocity, now becomes apparent to me, as I stand facing, President Lorelei-Lee. Chromosomes describe, they don't prescribe. They offer a potentiality, not a rigid blue print. The West, relying on reduction, analytical principles, the synthetic a priori, concludes that by breaking down and breaking apart do we come to understand the operating rules of this world. Perhaps. The East, taking a holistic approach, sees the organism as a totality, one part, however supposedly "integral," undifferentiable from the rest. Forces become a central concern, then, their control and demarcation fundamental. But one force is inseparable from own opposite; dichotomy does not imply inherent, rigid duality. To contemplate yin, one must experience yang; to indulge the male, one must appreciate, consider and even partake in the female. As communication, economic contingency have unified the world, admittedly in a web of greed and reluctant cooperation, a conjoining of essences has proven to be an inevitability, if not a more realistic scientific and sociological attitude. The transsexual, whether gender crossing in behavior, biology, or both, has historically been ostracized, excommunicated from the hierarchy of patriarchal standard. Universal unification, however, has compelled the opposites not only to attract, but to consider each other in the mirror-light of undifferentiated experience. A sign of the times, as much a product of culture as culture became a product of her, Lorelei-Lee learned to work herself, work that culture, so that the fallen child of one age became the very Master of the next. Sign of the times, product of culture, Lorelei's ascendancy and eventual dominion seemed as natural, as organic a reality as the forgotten reign of Augustus, as the theocratic empires of Babylon and Egypt. Sexuality remains the first and last stage of liberation: Throughout her own reign, to the members of America's Senate and House of Representatives, to all those youthful, publicly elected niggers, spics, kikes, wops, gooks, faggots dykes, President Lorelei-Lee, with all her flash, good looks and brilliance, was just another fucking drag queen. But as always, power is power, and power commands subservience, if not respect. That unspoken supremacy of naked strength remains the way of this world, be it ruled by man or woman, child or slave, fantasy or freak. And now, that world, that reign, and all that they represent, nears its close. "What are you having?" Mz. President offers, gesturing to the wet bar next to the reflecting telescope control and monitors. "I'll have a vodka-rocks-lime," I say. Indeed, I have become rather thirsty. She makes me a cocktail, makes herself one, and we toast. "To the End Of The World," she sez. "To the End Of The World," I say. Clink, clink. We drink. She looks at me, and smiles, her first openly displayed emotion. "You and your kind will never change," sez President Lorelei-Lee. "I have done what I have thought best, and I have succeeded in doing it. That, as a human being, is all that I can do, is all that I have ever hoped to do. You and your kind will never change," continues President Lorelei-Lee, "but I have come to accept and appreciate that I get my way of things. The universe has offered me that, the universe has now offered me you. I get my way of things, and now, before the end, I will have you, you, and all that you represent." She reaches into the satchel, removes my favorite syringe, and two unopened vials. She fills the syringe, injects me, fills the syringe again, and then injects herself. The deoxy-serotonin flows through us, magnificently. The first, and largest, chunk of the comet has entered the outer atmosphere, as revealed by the sudden burst of light, the inflaming of the misty shroud. The disruption of the ionosphere has produced a sudden power-outage, the lights, equipment, monitors and computers now gone dead, now silenced, forever. As Lorelei-Lee pushes me down to the floor of the Observatory, as I willingly, enthusiastically relent, I gaze up at the sky, exploding with ten thousand colors, an alien dynamism the vault of heaven has not known for 60 million years. Humanity, in moments, will follow the way of the dinosaur: Our culture, our accomplishments, everything we have known, discovered, invented, tried to destroy and re-create, will be left as mere fossilized curios for the Age of Capricorn, when other sentient beings, walking the face of their own brave new world, will recapitulate in their own turn, in their own time, all that has come before. Lorelei-Lee takes me, and in that moment of rapture, I worship her. HEALTH CARE IS NOT A RIGHT Notice: The following article is Copyright 1993 by Leonard Peikoff and is being distributed by permission. This article may be distributed electronically provided that it not be altered in any manner whatsoever. All notices including this notice must remain affixed to this article. by Leonard Peikoff, Ph.D. Delivered at a Town Hall Meeting on the Clinton Health Plan Red Lion Hotel, Costa Mesa CA December 11, 1993 Good morning, ladies and gentlemen: Most people who oppose socialized medicine do so on the grounds that it is moral and well-intentioned, but impractical; i.e., it is a noble idea - which just somehow does not work. I do not agree that socialized medicine is moral and well-intentioned, but impractical. Of course, it *is* impractical - it does *not* work - but I hold that it is impractical *because* it is immoral. This is not a case of noble in theory but a failure in practice; it is a case of vicious in theory and *therefore* a disaster in practice. So I'm going to leave it to other speakers to concentrate on the practical flaws in the Clinton health plan. I want to focus on the moral issue at stake. So long as people believe that socialized medicine is a noble plan, there is no way to fight it. You cannot stop a noble plan - not if it really is noble. The only way you can defeat it is to unmask it - to show that it is the very opposite of noble. Then at least you have a fighting chance. What is morality in this context? The American concept of it is officially stated in the Declaration of Independence. It upholds man's unalienable, individual *rights.* The term "rights," note, is a moral (not just a political) term; it tells us that a certain course of behavior is right, sanctioned, proper, a prerogative to be respected by others, not interfered with - and that anyone who violates a man's rights is: wrong, morally wrong, unsanctioned, evil. Now our only rights, the American viewpoint continues, are the rights to life, liberty, property, and the pursuit of happiness. That's all. According to the Founding Fathers, we are not born with a right to a trip to Disneyland, or a meal at Mcdonald's, or a kidney dialysis (nor with the 18th-century equivalent of these things). We have certain specific rights - and only these. Why *only* these? Observe that all legitimate rights have one thing in common: they are rights to action, not to rewards from other people. The American rights impose no obligations on other people, merely the negative obligation to leave you alone. The system guarantees you the chance to work for what you want - not to be given it without effort by somebody else. The right to life, e.g., does not mean that your neighbors have to feed and clothe you; it means you have the right to earn your food and clothes yourself, if necessary by a hard struggle, and that no one can forcibly stop your struggle for these things or steal them from you if and when you have achieved them. In other words: you have the right to act, and to keep the results of your actions, the products you make, to keep them or to trade them with others, if you wish. But you have no right to the actions or products of others, except on terms to which they voluntarily agree. To take one more example: the right to the pursuit of happiness is precisely that: the right to the *pursuit* - to a certain type of action on your part and its result - not to any guarantee that other people will make you happy or even try to do so. Otherwise, there would be no liberty in the country: if your mere desire for something, anything, imposes a duty on other people to satisfy you, then they have no choice in their lives, no say in what they do, they have no liberty, they cannot pursue *their* happiness. Your "right" to happiness at their expense means that they become rightless serfs, i.e., your slaves. Your right to *anything* at others' expense means that they become rightless. That is why the U.S. system defines rights as it does, strictly as the rights to action. This was the approach that made the U.S. the first truly free country in all world history - and, soon afterwards, as a result, the greatest country in history, the richest and the most powerful. It became the most powerful because its view of rights made it the most moral. It was the country of individualism and personal independence. Today, however, we are seeing the rise of principled *immorality* in this country. We are seeing a total abandonment by the intellectuals and the politicians of the moral principles on which the U.S. was founded. We are seeing the complete destruction of the concept of rights. The original American idea has been virtually wiped out, ignored as if it had never existed. The rule now is for politicians to ignore and violate men's actual rights, while arguing about a whole list of rights never dreamed of in this country's founding documents - rights which require no earning, no effort, no action at all on the part of the recipient. You are entitled to something, the politicians say, simply because it exists and you want or need it - period. You are entitled to be given it by the government. Where does the government get it from? What does the government have to do to private citizens - to their individual rights - to their *real* rights - in order to carry out the promise of showering free services on the people? The answers are obvious. The newfangled rights wipe out real rights - and turn the people who actually create the goods and services involved into servants of the state. The Russians tried this exact system for many decades. Unfortunately, we have not learned from their experience. Yet the meaning of socialism (this is the right name for Clinton's medical plan) is clearly evident in any field at all - you don't need to think of health care as a special case; it is just as apparent if the government were to proclaim a universal right to food, or to a vacation, or to a haircut. I mean: a right in the new sense: not that you are free to earn these things by your own effort and trade, but that you have a moral claim to be given these things free of charge, with no action on your part, simply as handouts from a benevolent government. How would these alleged new rights be fulfilled? Take the simplest case: you are born with a moral right to hair care, let us say, provided by a loving government free of charge to all who want or need it. What would happen under such a moral theory? Haircuts are free, like the air we breathe, so some people show up every day for an expensive new styling, the government pays out more and more, barbers revel in their huge new incomes, and the profession starts to grow ravenously, bald men start to come in droves for free hair implantations, a school of fancy, specialized eyebrow pluckers develops - it's all free, the government pays. The dishonest barbers are having a field day, of course - but so are the honest ones; they are working and spending like mad, trying to give every customer his heart's desire, which is a millionaire's worth of special hair care and services - the government starts to scream, the budget is out of control. Suddenly directives erupt: we must limit the number of barbers, we must limit the time spent on haircuts, we must limit the permissible type of hair styles; bureaucrats begin to split hairs about how many hairs a barber should be allowed to split. A new computerized office of records filled with inspectors and red tape shoots up; some barbers, it seems, are still getting too rich, they must be getting more than their fair share of the national hair, so barbers have to start applying for Certificates of Need in order to buy razors, while peer review boards are established to assess every stylist's work, both the dishonest and the overly honest alike, to make sure that no one is too bad or too good or too busy or too unbusy. Etc. In the end, there are lines of wretched customers waiting for their chance to be routinely scalped by bored, hog-tied haircutters some of whom remember dreamily the old days when somehow everything was so much better. Do you think the situation would be improved by having hair-care cooperatives organized by the government? - having them engage in managed competition, managed by the government, in order to buy haircut insurance from companies controlled by the government? If this is what would happen under government-managed hair care, what else can possibly happen - it is already starting to happen - under the idea of *health* care as a right? Health care in the modern world is a complex, scientific, technological service. How can anybody be born with a right to such a thing? Under the American system you have a right to health care if you can pay for it, i.e., if you can earn it by your own action and effort. But nobody has the right to the services of any professional individual or group simply because he wants them and desperately needs them. The very fact that he needs these services so desperately is the proof that he had better respect the freedom, the integrity, and the rights of the people who provide them. You have a right to work, not to rob others of the fruits of their work, not to turn others into sacrificial, rightless animals laboring to fulfill your needs. Some of you may ask here: But can people afford health care on their own? Even leaving aside the present government-inflated medical prices, the answer is: Certainly people can afford it. Where do you think the money is coming from *right now* to pay for it all - where does the government get its fabled unlimited money? Government is not a productive organization; it has no source of wealth other than confiscation of the citizens' wealth, through taxation, deficit financing or the like. But, you may say, isn't it the "rich" who are really paying the costs of medical care now - the rich, not the broad bulk of the people? As has been proved time and again, there are not enough rich anywhere to make a dent in the government's costs; it is the vast middle class in the U.S. that is the only source of the kind of money that national programs like government health care require. A simple example of this is the fact that the Clinton Administration's new program rests squarely on the backs not of Big Business, but of small businessmen who are struggling in today's economy merely to stay alive and in existence. Under any socialized program, it is the "little people" who do most of the paying for it - under the senseless pretext that "the people" can't afford such and such, so the government must take over. If the people of a country *truly* couldn't afford a certain service - as e.g. in Somalia - neither, for that very reason, could any government in that country afford it, either. *Some* people can't afford medical care in the U.S. But they are necessarily a small minority in a free or even semi-free country. If they were the majority, the country would be an utter bankrupt and could not even think of a national medical program. As to this small minority, in a free country they have to rely solely on private, voluntary charity. Yes, charity, the kindness of the doctors or of the better off - charity, not right, i.e. not their right to the lives or work of others. And such charity, I may say, was always forthcoming in the past in America. The advocates of Medicaid and Medicare under LBJ did not claim that the poor or old in the '60's got bad care; they claimed that it was an affront for anyone to have to depend on charity. But the fact is: You don't abolish charity by calling it something else. If a person is getting health care for *nothing*, simply because he is breathing, he is still getting charity, whether or not President Clinton calls it a "right." To call it a Right when the recipient did not earn it is merely to compound the evil. It is charity still - though now extorted by criminal tactics of force, while hiding under a dishonest name. As with any good or service that is provided by some specific group of men, if you try to make its possession by all a right, you thereby enslave the providers of the service, wreck the service, and end up depriving the very consumers you are supposed to be helping. To call "medical care" a right will merely enslave the doctors and thus destroy the quality of medical care in this country, as socialized medicine has done around the world, wherever it has been tried, including Canada (I was born in Canada and I know a bit about that system first hand). I would like to clarify the point about socialized medicine enslaving the doctors. Let me quote here from an article I wrote a few years ago: "Medicine: The Death of a Profession." [*The Voice of Reason: Essays in Objectivist Thought,* NAL Books, c 1988 by the Estate of Ayn Rand and Leonard Peikoff.] "In medicine, above all, the mind must be left free. Medical treatment involves countless variables and options that must be taken into account, weighed, and summed up by the doctor's mind and subconscious. Your life depends on the private, inner essence of the doctor's function: it depends on the input that enters his brain, and on the processing such input receives from him. What is being thrust now into the equation? It is not only objective medical facts any longer. Today, in one form or another, the following also has to enter that brain: 'The DRG administrator [in effect, the hospital or HMO man trying to control costs] will raise hell if I operate, but the malpractice attorney will have a field day if I don't - and my rival down the street, who heads the local PRO [Peer Review Organization], favors a CAT scan in these cases, I can't afford to antagonize him, but the CON boys disagree and they won't authorize a CAT scanner for our hospital - and besides the FDA prohibits the drug I should be prescribing, even though it is widely used in Europe, and the IRS might not allow the patient a tax deduction for it, anyhow, and I can't get a specialist's advice because the latest Medicare rules prohibit a consultation with this diagnosis, and maybe I shouldn't even take this patient, he's so sick - after all, some doctors are manipulating their slate of patients, they accept only the healthiest ones, so their average costs are coming in lower than mine, and it looks bad for my staff privileges.' Would you like your case to be treated this way - by a doctor who takes into account your objective medical needs *and* the contradictory, unintelligible demands of some ninety different state and Federal government agencies? If you were a doctor could you comply with all of it? Could you plan or work around or deal with the unknowable? But how could you not? Those agencies are real and they are rapidly gaining total power over you and your mind and your patients. In this kind of nightmare world, if and when it takes hold fully, thought is helpless; no one can decide by rational means what to do. A doctor either obeys the loudest authority - *or* he tries to sneak by unnoticed, bootlegging some good health care occasionally *or,* as so many are doing now, he simply gives up and quits the field." The Clinton plan will finish off quality medicine in this country - because it will finish off the medical profession. It will deliver doctors bound hands and feet to the mercies of the bureaucracy. The only hope - for the doctors, for their patients, for all of us - is for the doctors to assert a *moral* principle. I mean: to assert their own personal individual rights - their real rights in this issue - their right to their lives, their liberty, their property, *their* pursuit of happiness. The Declaration of Independence applies to the medical profession too. We must reject the idea that doctors are slaves destined to serve others at the behest of the state. I'd like to conclude with a sentence from Ayn Rand. Doctors, she wrote, are not servants of their patients. They are "traders, like everyone else in a free society, and they should bear that title proudly, considering the crucial importance of the services they offer." The battle against the Clinton plan, in my opinion, depends on the doctors speaking out against the plan - but not only on practical grounds - rather, first of all, on *moral* grounds. The doctors must defend themselves and their own interests as a matter of solemn justice, upholding a moral principle, the first moral principle: self- preservation. If they can do it, all of us will still have a chance. I hope it is not already too late. Thank you. ------- Copies of this address in pamphlet form are available for $15 per 100 copies or $125 per 1000 copies from: Americans for Free Choice in Medicine, 1525 Superior Ave., Suite 100, Newport Beach, CA 92663, Phone (714) 645-2622, Fax (714) 645-4624. Copies of Dr. Peikoff's lecture, "Medicine: The Death of a Profession" may be purchased in pamphlet form for $2.50 each (catalog number LP04E) from: Second Renaissance Books, 110 Copperwood Way, P.O. Box 4625, Oceanside, CA 92052, Phone (800) 729-6149. (Quantity discounts are also available: $1.85 each for 10-99 copies, catalog number LP66E, $1.50 each for 100-499 copies, LP77E; $1.25 each for 500-999 copies, LP88E; and $1 each for 1000 copies and over, LP99E.) Also available from Second Renaissance is the pamphlet "The Forgotten Man of Socialized Medicine: The Doctor," containing articles by Ayn Rand and Leonard Peikoff. (Catalog number AR10E, $2.95) Additional information on why national health care programs don't work is available from: Objectivist Health Care Professionals Network, P.O. Box 4315, South Colby, WA 98384-0315, Phone (206) 876-5868, FAX (206) 876-2902. This organization publishes a newsletter on health care and distributes a copy of it in their health care information package. ------- Almost ten years ago, Leonard Peikoff predicted that our medical system would be dismantled. Looking at the young people in the crowd, he remarked: "If you are looking for a crusade, there is none that is more idealistic or more practical. This one is devoted to protecting some of the greatest [men] in the history of this country. And it is also, literally, a matter of life and death--YOUR LIFE, and that of anyone you love. Don't let it go without a fight!" From "Medicine: The Death of a Profession" by Leonard Peikoff from concluding remarks from 1985 presentation with Dr. Michael Peikoff. ------- Dr. Leonard Peikoff, author of *The Ominous Parallels* and *Objectivism: The Philosophy of Ayn Rand* was a long-time (30 year) associate of the novelist/philosopher Ayn Rand and upon her death in 1982 was designated as her intellectual and legal heir. He received his Ph.D. from New York University in 1984 and taught at Hunter College. Over the years, he has served in the capacity of professor of philosophy, lecturer and chairman of the board of the Ayn Rand Institute and is currently one of the principal lecturers and instructors of the Objectivist Graduate Center. He has lectured extensively at such prestigious speakers' forums as Ford Hall Forum in Boston on several topics including philosophy and current events. Additionally, outside of academia, he has taught courses on philosophy, rhetoric, logic and Objectivism audio version of which are available from Second Renaissance Books listed above. In Search of the New Age By Thomas Beaudry Do we have the liberty to create new spiritual axioms in the name of enlightened Thinking? By now the term "New Age" is part of the vocabulary of practically every American. A consistent definition of the term, however, is not as commonplace. For the most part, the New Age-a recent name-tag given by the media-has meant a class of people of diverse interests united by common values. Marilyn Ferguson, social critic and author of The Aquarian Conspiracy, whose best-seller has been dubbed "The Handbook of the New Age" by USA Today, sees a New Age that has as its members those who espouse an underlying holistic philosophy. They attempt to see the inteRrelationship of problems instead of mechanistically viewing each problem separately. They emphasize decentralization of power with the view to promote the develop- ment of whole individuals and tend to view things globally by keeping the long-range interests of the planet in mind. Ferguson sees many smaller movements and individuals as members of the much larger New Age social phenomenon. Although it is often thought of as a movement arising out of a spiritual foundation, many of the major influences have come from humanistic psychology. For example, the human potential movement of the '60s and '70s epitomized by psychologists like Carl Rogers and Abraham Maslow are largely responsible for laying the foundation of the fundamental optimism which pervades New Age thought. The movement's spiritual credentials are more directly questioned by Jonathon Adolph, senior editor of New Age Magazine. In a recent article written for the 1988 Guide to New Age Living, Adolph asserts that the claim that spirituality underlies the New Age phenomenon has been problematic and "a source of much confusion regarding the new age in general." He says, "The new age is not a religion," and he questions what is meant by spirituality by the many who loosely use the term. However, the latest rising star on the New Age horizon-trance channelers-have difficulty with the aforementioned concept of the New Age. They would like to deify it. Although the more down-to-earth humanistic New Age advocates recognize the "new spiritualists" to be members of the New Age family, more and more they are seeking to disassociate themselves from them, giving them a place on the fringe. Much to the embarrassment of long-standing members, the media recently has given more attention to this "fringe" element than it has to the entire New Age movement in the last decade. Recently,Time 1magazine dedicated one of its covers to the New Age starring Shirley MacLaine. The thrust of the article dealt with the latest booming industry within the New Age-channeling-followed by crystals, surrounded by an aura of an old age said to have gone by. Many may have thought it unfair for Time to have characterized the entire New Age as a paranormal quasi-spiritual good way to make a fast buck, but the fact is that millions of people are becoming enamored by the prospect of quick-fix cosmic cures to the problems facing humanity. What attracts people to the not-so-new spirituality is difficult to say. Channeling, for example, has been around since time immemorial. It has generally appealed to lower-class sections of society, and is prominent in many third world countries. In Brazil it is known as Macumba, and although most of the country is officially Catholic, unofficially Macumba is practically the national religion. While the poorer sections are open about it, the aristo- cratic class is equally involved behind closed doors. Haiti and many African nations are also heavily influenced by a type of spiritualism involving chan- neling, and one would be hard-pressed to find a culture where its influence was altogether absent. Channeling was also spoken of by the Greek philosophers Plato, Aris- totle, and Socrates.1 Some say that those channeled insights had much to do with the shaping of the basic principles of Western law.2 President Lincoln invited the famous medium Andrew Jackson Davis to the White House and his channeled information inspired Lincoln to sign the Emancipation Proclamation.3 Channelers tell us that the popularity of channeling in America today is due to the new information that is being channeled to a people now ready for enlightenment, a people whose time has come. Leaving aside the American way of marketing as another possibility of channeling's popularity, it is true that the information that New Age persons receive from channeled entities is different than the type of information sought after and received in many third world countries. Global prophecies, stock market predictions, and technological insights, for example, have replaced information about finding lost loves, catching unfaithful partners, and speaking with deceased relatives. Moreover, the new information is the news of a spiritual time to come and a new spirituality: a New Age. Just how accurate the new information is, however, is subject to suspicion, especially when it contradicts many of the spiritual truths held by persons of exemplary character for centuries. Several popular channeled entities have labeled the traditional tran- scendentalists who have walked amongst us as members of the "old spiritual age." Although it is commonly understood that actions speak louder than words, these new New Age leaders, while speaking at considerable length, remain in such a state that their actions cannot be observed. In fact, those who channel the entities generally insist that they cannot even be held accountable for their own actions! The "old spiritual age," however, has already spoken of channeling and the method by which the physically embodied can approach the disembodied, as well as what type of result such communication can be expected to produce. Throughout the entirety of revealed scripture in every major religious tradition, channeling is referred to. The Old Testament considers channelers as bad company. "Let no one be found among you who sacrifices his son or daughter in the fire, who practices divination or sorcery, interprets omens, engages in witchcraft or casts spells, or who is a medium or spiritulist or consults the dead" (Deuteronomy 18:10,11). And in the Bhagavad Gita we find: "Those who worship the demigods will take birth among the demigods; those who worship the ancestors go to the ancestors; those who worship ghosts and spirits will take birth among such beings; and those who worship Me will live with Me."(B.G. 9:25). From this sampling of verses it would appear that channeling is somewhat less than divine. Of course channeling as it is known today is not to be confused with the inspired side of a saint through which revealed scripture is manifested. The willingness of God to move the pen of man depends on man's utter willingness to serve the will of God, devoid of any tinge of self-interest. The pens of the apostles of Christ, the inspired writings of Vyasadeva, the author of the Vedas, and Mohammed's Koran have left the world with timeless wisdom. Their inspired followers exemplify a wholesale dedication to the inspired word and its singular author whose message appears in various forms in accordance with time and circumstances. Possessed of that spirit, they are capable of shedding "new light" on the revealed truth; new light in the sense of not throwing out the words that have come before, but merely shining a brighter light on the same words. With the addition of the sun, the rose can be seen to bloom. That, however, is a far cry from suddenly replacing the rose with a dandelion. There is no doubt that God has spoken to man and so have ghosts. The two are not synonymous. According to the Vedas, the mental world is the background of the physical realm. It is like a vast body of water, while the physical world can be compared to ice. Ice is a temporary transformation of water under certain conditions. The mental plane is far more accommodating than the physical. For example, if we look around the room we're in, we see so many objects. But how many of them can we physically take with us? By mental exercise, however, we can accommodate everything in the room and take it with us wherever we go. It is said that work is done in the mind. It is only later carried out through the senses. The mind is more subtle than the body, but more powerful. However, the mental world is not the divine world. God knows what evil lurks in the minds of men...(and most of us have some idea as well). Above the mind is the intelligence, the power of discrimination. Although with the help of the mind I may determine that something is pleasing, with the help of the intelligence I may override that limited mental conception and determine that even though the mind says something is good, it may not really be good for me. The height of intellectual exercise is to discriminate between spirit and matter. That may give us a glimpse of the soul which is above the intellect. Intellect may lead us to the soul, but its capacity to guide is limited. Intellect is but a servant of the soul, and the soul is but a servant of God. What kind of information can we get from the mental world? The only thing we can be sure of is that it will not be 100% accurate most of the time. It is certainly not absolute. There are many types of inhabitants in the mental realm ranging from benevolent to demoniac, from progressive to regressive. It stands to reason that the type of entities which are most easy to get in touch with are those who are themselves attached to the physical plane. These would be entities who are possessed of physical material desires yet whose karma would not allow them to acquire a physical form. For example, suicide is said to produce the karmic reaction of having to take birth in the mental world where there are no physical bodies. These entities remain hovering in an ethereal form nearby, seeking opportunities to possess a body through which they can satisfy their desires. Similarly, those who do the work of channeling-the "gifted"-were most likely living in the mental world in their last life (there is a kind of death in the mental world); thus their consciousness is still attached to that plane. There are others who derive pleasure from having their views heard and appreciated. Rather than being grossly materially attached, their connection with mundanity is more subtle. Philosophers and thinkers, speculators and the like who function on the mental plane, can easily acquire a large audience here. Their views are no more profound, however, than many of the thoughtful persons from this plane, although they generally have more knowledge of the physical world. Thus, most spirits can capture our attention by telling us about our past or something of the future. In exchange for the satisfaction the spirits derive from our listening to them and taking their advice, those of an altruistic disposition often give practical help in many areas. In the fields of medicine, invention, science, investment, or in just helping one to feel good about themself, there is plenty of documented evidence that the disembodied can be helpful. Edgar Cayce provided consistently accurate medical data, although he knew little or nothing about medicine in his waking state. Lazaris of Concept Synergy currently gives a pretty good sermon about PMA (positive mental attitude). But that is about as far as it goes. After that, many spirit guides get in over their heads, especially when they contradict genuine spiritual traditions which have produced numerous saints on Earth. An example of such contradiction is found in a popular theme of channeled guides, Westernized reincarnation. According to some new trance channelers, we can only progress. There is no question of falling back to a lower life-form. But the original literatures of ancient India, wherein the process of reincarnation is fully described, do not lend themselves to such interpretation. The idea that we can only progress does not match with our experience or common sense, nor give us license to freely choose our next incarnation. If a man is given a high and responsible position along with certain privileges and facilities, and misuses them as did, say, Richard Nixon, he will be hurled down or impeached. Therefore, we must seriously consider that today's popular channeled entities may not be divine, but mental or astral, and cannot bring their audiences to the highest destination sought by genuine spiritual seekers since the beginning of recorded history. If the more humanistic section of the new-agers are embarrassed by the many who have attempted to make divinity out of the paranormal, they have no one to blame but themselves. Humanism, after all, is nothing but the speculative attempt to equate humanity with divinity, and a man-made God is no God. Such a heretical idea of spirituality can never satisfy the soul of humanity. We should call a spade a spade, especially in this instance. Otherwise we become subject to potential contempt of the Supreme. This in turn may threaten our chances of ever achieving the harmonious life which, regardless of how much we herald its arrival, still continues to elude us. In the words of Plutarch, "It is better to have no opinion about God at all than such a one as is unworthy of Him: for the one is only unbelief-the other is contempt." The license to speculate can be dangerous. Just as in mechanistic science there are certain axiomatic truths, so also in nonmechanistic science or spiritual science there are fundamental axiomatic truths. For example, that the platform of the soul lies beyond the limited conceptions of race, sex, nationality, and even the tradition of spiritual practice one may choose is an axiomatic truth. We are moved to raise questions, therefore, when our cultural orientation plays a prominent role in shaping our "spirituality." Do we have the liberty to create new spiritual axioms in the name of enlightened thinking? Until our own behavior is at least in accordance with the saints who have come before us in "traditional religion," a grain of caution may be in good taste. Everyone has the inalienable right to pursue enlightenment at their own pace and of their own volition (necessarily), and there is tremendous scope for new revelation within our God-given traditional religious systems. From Shankara to Ramanuja to Madhva to Sri Caitanya, from Old Testament to New, there are many examples. We must look not to replace the law but to fulfill it. Too often speculative theories regarding the nature of spirituality expose themselves as uninformed opinions when they blame "shortcomings" in the "old age of spirituality" for their necessity to redefine divinity. In the words of Bernadette Roberts, author of The Experience of No Self, "The inclusiveness of the traditional paths is well attested to by the contemplatives who never went 'outside' of their religion to see the divine in all that exists-or see all that exists as a manifestation of the divine. To overlook this fact is indicative of an out-of-hand rejection of traditional religion by those who have obviously never lived it. That some people choose not to go the traditional route is their prerogative, but to blame their choice on a deficit in traditional religion is contrary to the fact and totally absurd." Our conjectures about the nature of Godhead must arise out of a strong foundation, one which has been laid down by saints and scriptures in previous times. Enlightened thinking requires that we are careful not to throw out the baby with the bath water. If we are truly interested in enlightened thinking, the planet is rich with examples from every religious tradition from which to draw inspiration. Is it enlightened thinking to feel that it is beneath our dignity to follow greater thinkers who have gone before us? Do not the greatest of thinkers advocate that we also think for ourselves? When so many saints have already come before us leading the way, perhaps it is only our lack of courage and utter attachment to this earthly plane that has forced us to come up with "new ideas" about spiritual life which may amount to no more than self-deception and relative improvements of character. No one can deny the noble character of Christ or the idea that a society of Christ- like men and women would undoubtedly be a New Age, but very, very few are courageous enough to follow such an example. Very few are thoroughly convinced of the dire necessity for a truly "new age." Genuine spirituality remains above the mental and intellectual con- jectures of much of the New Age speculation, as something not to be known except by those to whom God so chooses to reveal Himself. After all, are we the subject or is He? This is not a discrimination on His part, but an invita- tion on His terms. Although those terms may appear to be restricting for the neophyte, it is not the self that they seek to restrict, but the demands of the material coverings of the soul in the form of the body and mind for which we maintain a deep affection. If we love our vehicle but let it take us in the wrong direction, we may end up in a fool's paradise. But if we steer our vehicle in the direction pointed to by genuine saints-past and present-then we can actually achieve the divine consciousness which trance channelers and humanists fall short in attempting to produce in their followers. If there is indeed a New Age upon us, it is found in those calling for the visions of the enlightened to descend within us. It is a group that sees the frailties of humanity and seeks communion with the divine. It is the finite drawing the sympathy of the infinite. It is a new generation wholeheartedly following the genuine spiritual traditions of the past and finding new inspiration in doing so. It is admittedly a time for the most part yet to come, but a time which will be truly worthy of the title New Age. 1 Jeff Mishlove, Life After Life (Bantam Books, 1981). 2 Ibid, p 24-25 3 Nat Freedland, The Occult Explosion (East Rutherford, N.J.: G.P. Putnam's Son's , 1927) p 62 Judgment, Evasion, and Toleration By Paul Hsieh Date: November, 1994 From: Paul Hsieh hsiehp@crl.com Newsgroups: alt.philosophy.objectivism Subject: An Open Letter To Both Sides of the Peikoff-Kelley Debate I am writing this to clarify my position on a.p.o. with respect to the Peikoff-Kelley issue and other related matters. Up until now, I've have attempted to cultivate a public stance of relative neutrality on this issue, although I have sometimes participated on various threads related to this topic. At times, I have asked others questions about these issues in order to elicit their responses and to clarify my own (and others') positions, particularly with respect to the issues of moral judgment, evasion, and toleration. However, I have my own opinions on these subject (which some have discerned based on my pattern of questioning) and I would therefore like to make them more explicit. First of all, based on what I know, I am in strong sympathy with the Kelley position. I have to admit that I have not yet gotten around to reading Truth and Toleration (since my copy is buried in a big pile of books next to my futon, covered by several other books that are higher in priority on my reading list), so most of my understanding of that position is based on what I've read on a.p.o., what I've retrieved from various ftp archive sites, and personal discussions with some Kelley supporters. (More on that later.) Briefly, I'll spell out my position on these issues. Others are, of course, welcome to critique them. Moral Judgment How do I judge others? I judge them based on a combination of their words, their ideas, and their actions. If I encounter someone who holds a demonstrably false set of ideas (such as Marxism or Christianity), then I am sure of one fact - they they are in error. The question is: are they making an error of knowledge or a more serious error of morality? In one sense, it doesn't matter. If they are holding false ideas and they are in a position to harm me, I will take steps (whenever possible) to eliminate or minimize the harm that they can do to me. It would be as if someone were carrying around a loaded hunting rifle and waving it in my general direction. If he squeezes off a round or two, in one sense it doesn't matter whether he did so out of deliberate malice or accident - a bullet wound is still a bullet wound. If I see someone with a loaded gun, I'll do my best to make damned sure that I am nowhere near the line of fire of that rifle barrel. However, in a different sense, it does matter. Someone who is firing his rifle in a deliberate attempt to kill me is different from someone who honestly didn't realize that I was there and thought he was shooting at some deer. Their moral status is quite different. I'll judge the first person far more harshly than the second person, at least as far as his morality/character. The first person will be clearly immoral, whereas the second person may be honestly mistaken. Furthermore, we can distinguish the two of them by their response to attempts to persuade them of their error. If you tell the murderer, "Hey, there's a human being in the line of fire!", he won't care. On the other hand, if you tell the honest hunter the same thing, he'll refrain from pulling the trigger. I adopt a similar approach to someone who advocates ideas that I know to be false and harmful to me. Some of those advocates will be evil, whereas others may be honestly mistaken. Again, regardless of which category they belong to, I'll take steps to eliminate or minimize the harm that they can do me. But how do I judge their moral character? Again, it primarily depends on their response to reason. If a person is fundamentally rational, then with careful discussion, it should be possible to get him to eventually change his mind. It may take a while, but eventually he'll come around to "see the light". On the other hand, if a person is fundamentally irrational, then he'll never see the light, and he's a lost cause. The problem is - how do you know whether a person is a lost cause or not? In general I don't think there are 100%, foolproof, hard-and-fast rules, although there are some useful guidelines. For instance, if a person persists in holding false beliefs despite the fact that the context of his knowledge is such that he has (1) sufficient information to reach the truth, (2) he has had sufficient time to reach the truth, and (3) the contradictions in his belief are glaringly obvious (given his context of knowledge), then these are all very powerful indicators that suggest that he is refusing to listen to reason. However, I don't consider them to be 100% foolproof, since it is still possible that he is just making a whopping error. Especially with certain self-reinforcing, complex belief systems (like Christianity or Marxism), what would be a glaringly obvious error to me may not be quite as obvious to someone immersed within the system, which contains its own set of self-supporting, semi-stable network of rationalizations to prop them up. Eventually a dedicated thinker will be able to work out all the bugs and find the flaws, but it may take a long time. Thus one has the seeming paradox where a more intelligent person may take a *longer* time to find the flaws in those belief systems than a less intelligent person. In my experience, this is usually because the more intelligent person has integrated a few flawed premises much more thoroughly into his belief structure than his less intelligent counterpart. When a contradiction is exposed, he will need to overhaul a much greater portion of his belief system, usually digging much deeper into subtle aspects of epistemology and metaphysics before he roots out all of his errors. For that reason, I tend to cut people a fair amount of slack if I see them immersed in certain false belief systems like Marxism or Christianity, before I write them off as hopelessly irrational. It doesn't mean that I think that they are right or that I approve of their beliefs - all it means is that I recognize the fact that these things take time. I consider this analogous to the fact that in Atlas Shrugged, it was the most rational "scabs", like Hank and Dagny, who took the longest to realize the error of their ways and join the strike. But at some point, one has to decide if a person is beyond hope or not. Is he fundamentally rational (and just hasn't reached the truth yet) or is he fundamentally irrational (and evading)? To answer this, I need to explain my understanding of the concept of evasion. Evasion My understanding of evasion is that it consists of a refusal to focus one's mind on the facts of reality. In one sense, all forms of error must come from some failure to correctly focus on reality. In some cases, the context of the person's knowledge is such that it is actually quite reasonable for him to arrive at a conclusion that I know to be mistaken (based on my presumably broader context of knowledge). In that case, he is *not* evading. In some cases, the person is evading at a pretty low level - the facts are blatantly obvious, they speak for themselves, and he is just refusing to recognize them. In other cases, the person is evading, but at a very high epistemological level. Or he might be operating under some other faulty premise whereby he substitutes some other process for acquiring knowledge in place of reason. The problem is that it may not always be immediately apparent whether these forms of faulty epistemology are due to evasion or honest error. Let me illustrate this with an example from my real life: A friend of mine believes that God exists because of a strong moral intuition. He justifies it on the grounds that his moral intuitions have always worked well for him in the past, and that they are, in fact, revelations from God. Through introspection, he can directly sense God and God's truth (just as he can directly and immediately sense his own consciousness), and that is sufficient justification for him. Someone like that will gladly acknowledge that a non-believer like me won't be able to sense God, since I've closed my mind off to Him ("evaded" God, in a sense!). But if I were to open my mind and at least make the first efforts towards faith, I would be rewarded with the beginnings of a faint awareness of God. As I move further along the pathway towa rds religious faith, this awareness will become clearer and clearer, until it is as incontrovertible as any of my other sensory input. It's very difficult to argue with this sort of viewpoint. He is clearly failing to understand that reason is the only valid means of acquiring knowledge. On the other hand, his very viewpoint gives him an explanation as to why reason is insufficient - this incontrovertible direct experience supersedes it. (In my opinion, this "direct experience" of God is nothing more than a cleverly constructed system of self-delusion and emotion, but it is so well-structured in a self-reinforcing way, that it can stand up on its own for many, many years.) Now the question is: Is he evading? In a sense, yes. He is explicitly denying one of the fundamental tenets of Objectivism (and one of the fundamental facts of reality) - that reason as applied to sensory data is the only valid means of acquiring knowledge. But in another sense, it's not that clear-cut. His faulty epistemology could be a form of higher-order error rather than simple evasion. (An example might be a fairly subtle epistemological fallacy like the analytic-synthetic dichotomy. To detect the fallacy in that position is not easy. I had to think about that issue for a long time before I started to develop a firm grasp of many of the important implications.) I supect that in most cases where an intelligent person sincerely holds false beliefs (such as a Christian professor of theology at Harvard's Divinity School or a Marxist professor of economics at Harvard's JFK School of Government), they are falling for some fallacy at a very high epistemological level. These people aren't so much evading the raw facts - instead, they are failing to use the correct method for integrating these facts (or they are adopting a faulty method for determining their method of integration). Perhaps they are evading. Perhaps not. I can't generally tell, unless I get a chance to discuss their beliefs with them in depth. But my point is that even if a person holds demonstrably false beliefs, and the context of his knowledge is such that he has enough information to realize that his beliefs are false (i.e., he is sufficiently well educated, and he has had sufficient time to think over the issues), the mere fact that he hasn't yet shed those false beliefs doesn't mean that he *must* automatically be an evader. He might be, but he might still be just honestly mistaken, because he fell for a subtle fallacy. Do I need to always take the time and trouble to determine which is the case? Absolutely not. Once I know someone is a Marxist (or a Christian), I usually have enough information to know how to deal with him in most contexts. I don't usually need to know any more than that - i.e., whether he's honestly mistaken or evading. It's not my job to make that determination about every single mistaken person on the face of the earth. But if there is a particular reason that I want to make that determination about a specific individual, from experience I've found that it often takes a fair amount of time and direct discussion. So, is an academic Christian an evader? Based on past experience, I would have to say, "probably". But is he * automatically* an evader? My answer would be, "No, not always. He might still just be plain mistaken, most likely at a very high epistemological level." (Similar remarks would apply to an academic Socialist.) To tie this back to an earlier thread from a few weeks ago - the whole Alan Greenspan issue. *If* it can be determined that he has repudiated his belief in the gold standard (which is a determination which, in fairness to Mr. Greenspan, I haven't yet made), would that mean that he *must* be evading? I would say, "No, not necessarily". Perhaps he is, but perhaps he isn't. He could just simply be making a BIG mistake - all the bigger, since he has already clearly demonstrated that he has the necessary context to reach the correct conclusion on this issue. The only way to know for sure one way or another would be to take the time to explore his beliefs at length. Certainly, if I have sufficient evidence that someone is an evader, I have no problems about labelling him as such. My position is that one cannot always make that determination simply by looking at the content of their beliefs and the context of their knowledge. One sometimes needs to know more than that - i.e. a detailed understanding of their exact thought processes. Toleration Whenever I've discussed ideas with people, I've noticed an interesting phenomenon. My best discussions are often with people with whom I disagree. As long as the discussion stays on a polite and rational level, I get a great deal from talking with people who hold different ideas from mine. This includes people who hold different political, religious, and philosophical ideas from my own. When I discuss an issue with others who disagree with me, one of two things usually occur: (1) Either they are right and I am wrong. In those cases, I end up learning something from them. Or, (2) They are wrong and I am right. In those cases, I still derive some benefit. By being forced to answer their questions and counter their arguments, I often gain a keener understanding of why my own position is correct. My own arguments are improved by this process, which will make me a better spokesman for my position in future discussions with others. Plus I gain a better understanding of the types of errors that people can make. I think that it is important to have a solid understanding of philosophical errors and fallacies if one is to advance the cause of truth. (As an analogy, I have long had an interest in biological pathology, both because the subject is fascinating in its own right, and because knowledge of pathology is important if one is to treat diseases. Similarly, I have long had an interest in philosophical pathology, both for its own sake and because a understanding of these issues is invaluable in defeating philosophical errors and advancing the truth.) Now does this mean that I will listen to everyone else in the world with equal gullibility? Certainly not. I choose my discussion partners carefully - they have to be people who are fundamentally rational and are willing to discuss things politely with me. And the discussion has to be on a topic that is of interest to me for one reason or another. But within those constraints, I have managed to have many fruitful discussions with all sorts of people - - Christians, Socialists, Buddhists, Republicans, Democrats, etc. And I will continue to pursue these sorts of discussions for the best reason in the world - it is in my self-interest. I've often learned useful and interesting facts of reality from them - facts that I wouldn't otherwise have learned. Someone who holds a mistaken philosophy can still be right about a lot of things, and they can often tie these facts together in interesting and still-rational ways that wouldn't have occurred to me otherwise. I just have to make sure to apply my own reason and judgment to everything they say. Obviously if I deem that a discussion is *not* in my self-interest, I won't participate. That's why I don't waste any time talking about issues with people who are malignant, rude, or disrespectful to me. I have better things to do with my time. Similarly, I won't waste my time discussing issues I find boring. For instance, I won't waste my time with someone who believes that the earth is flat. I have nothing further to gain from a discussion of that particular topic. On the other hand, religion and politics interest me greatly, which is why I am often willing to discuss these subjects with others, even if I already know that their beliefs are wrong. I don't expect that others will necessarily share my same hierarchy of values and interests. I am merely explaining what mine are. A Few Last Words On Moral Judgment A lot has been made of Rand's recommendation to "Judge and be prepared to be judged!" In essence, I agree with this sentiment. However, there are a few nuances which I think bear mentioning. First of all, I believe that moral judgment, like any other form of judgment, is an acquired skill that one becomes better at with practice. We don't expect a third-year medical student to be able to judge a patient's state of health as accurately as a seasoned, veteran physician. Similarly, we shouldn't expect that a person who is relatively inexperienced in moral judgment to do as good a job as someone who has a keen understanding of philosophy, psychology, and human nature. To be a good judge of moral character takes skill, hard work, and time. Yes, some moral judgments will be pretty straightforward. But not all of them. When I teach my medical students and residents how to interpret x-rays, CAT scan and MRI images, I expect them to use their medical knowledge, their reasoning abilities, and their capacity to judge to arrive at the correct diagnoses. I don't expect them to be always right. The field of medical diagnosis is not always easy, but as long as a student is trying conscientiously to use his skills and knowledge to the best of his ability, that all I can ask for. But nothing turns me off more than an ignorantly overconfident medical student who thinks he knows more than he really does. Those sorts of students are a great danger to their patients, because they will often pronounce judgments in a high-handed and arrogant fashion. They'll look at a chest x-ray and leap to an unwarranted conclusion, saying something like, "Oh, that's obviously a lung cancer", without taking into account all the information available that might steer them towards a different (and correct) diagnosis. Curiously enough, these students are often the ones who most harshly criticize other students' abilities to make diagnoses. If there weren't more senior physicians around to supervise them and let them know when they are wrong, all sorts of catastrophes could occur. These sorts of students need to learn to recognize their own limitations and flaws before they should presume to judge others' medical skills. (Occasionally, one runs into a brilliant student or resident whose judgment *is* superb. In that case, I don't mind if he criticises others harshly - he has the talent and ability to back up his words. But that is the exception, rather than the rule.) Similarly, I think there is a potential danger if Objectivists take the advice of "judge and be prepared to be judged" in the wrong way. If they start casting inappropriately harsh moral judgments without the requisite understanding of ethics and psychology, they can do a great deal of harm, both to others and eventually to themselves. The wise Objectivist (I hope) will exercise his judgment in a prudent fashion. He will be firm in his judgments when he is justified, and appropriately cautious where he does not have sufficient information. A wise Objectivist will evaluate and critique his own ability to judge just as strictly and carefully as he judges others' moral character. At my workplace (a university medical center), we have a regular series of departmental quality assurance conferences where we analyze our own (and each other's) diagnoses, combining information from radiology studies, surgical specimens, pathology analysis, patient outcome data, etc. During these sessions, we analyze our own judgment processes and learn to critique and improve our medical judgment. During these sessions, I've learned a couple of important lessons: (1) My medical judgment is pretty damned good. I can take a rightfully deserved pride in that fact. (2) My judgment is not infallible. Even at times when I've been *sure* of my diagnosis, there have been occasions when I have subsequently been proven wrong. I am not alone in this respect. The same thing has happened with everyone else, even some of the world-famous senior faculty in our department. As a result of these sessions, I've learned to be have an appropriate level of confidence and pride in my medical judgment *and* to maintain an appropriate level of humility. These sessions provide us with regular opportunities to compare our judgments to the facts of reality. As a result I've learned to always keep my mind open to the possibility that my judgment might be mistaken. If I took any other attitude, I would be remiss in my job as a physician. I would be as dangerous to my patients as the ignorantly arrogant medical students that I've criticized above. I take a similar attitude towards my moral and philosophical judgments. I make these judgments to the best of my ability, but I am always open to new ideas and new evidence that suggest that I might need to correct some errors. If I were less open or tolerant to careful evaluation of opposing ideas, I would be remiss in my job as a rational human being. At this point in time, my understanding is that these views place me firmly within the Kelley camp. Of course, I am always open to any arguments that would show that I am in error (either in the actual content of my ideas or my assessment that this places me in agreement with the Kelley camp). I am keenly aware of the claim by the Peikoff supporters that his (Peikoff's) positions are constantly misrepresented on a.p.o. by the Kelley supporters. (Similar claims are made by Kelley supporters, of course). That's why I chosen here to say what *I* believe, rather than try to defend or refute what others say that either Kelley or Peikoff are supposed to believe. Dynamics On 'Alt.philosophy.objectivism' I have always endeavoured to maintain a polite tone on a.p.o., even towards people with whom I disagree. I like to discuss ideas, and I have little inclination to trade insults or engage in flame wars with others. I've noted a tendency for threads on a.p.o. to degenerate into a tiring series of personal attacks whenever Peikoff-Kelley issues arise. Since I have an interest in some of the substance of these issues, I deliberately decided a few months ago to adopt a relatively neutral public stance, and hold off on explicitly declaring my views in public. A few people on both sides of the divide already know of my Kelleyite leanings, through private e-mail discussions. The Kelley supporters, of course, have no problems with that. My concern was that some Peikoff supporters would choose to engage in personal attacks rather than engage in polite discussions of the issues, which is why I decided to keep my own opinions close to the vest. However, some of the Kelley supporters that I have been in contact with, in particular Diana Brickell and Jimbo Wales, have expressed concern that I am misrepresenting myself by pretending to be more neutral on this topic than I actually am. In order to allay their concerns, I am making this public statement of my beliefs. Certainly, I am willing to discuss these issues in a polite fashion with members of both sides. And I have had many constructive e-mail exchanges with members of both camps (some of whom are already aware of my Kelleyite sympathies, and some of whom are not). In particular, on the Peikoff side, I have greatly enjoyed my correspondence with Betsy Speicher, Tony Donadio, Tym Parsons, Andrew Southwick, Brad Aisa, Jay Allen and others whose names I am currently blanking on. (If you are one of the Peikoff supporter that I have traded e- mail with, and I forgot to mention you, then I apologize!) In that group, I think Betsy is the only one who I have explicitly told that I have Kelleyite leanings. She, of course, believes that I am mistaken, but she has been willing to continue corresponding with me, since she believes that I will eventually come around to her point of view. At this point in time, based on what I know, I think that it is extremely unlikely that I will "switch sides", and take the Peikoff side of the P-K debate. However, I am still open to any arguments or evidence that might prove me to be in error. I will be glad to continue to correspond with anyone on either side of the divide as long as they feel it is in their self-interest to correspond with me. I also realize that by making this statement, I (potentially) run the risk of being banned from the IRC #AynRand channel. Although I haven't had the chance to show up there for the last few Friday night sessions due to various scheduling conflicts, I've always enjoyed my participation on that forum. However, if the channel administrators feel that they can no longer in good conscience permit me to participate (on the theory that they would be "sanctioning a sanctioner"), then I will accept their decision. That is their channel to administer as they please, and I have no "right" to join an IRC channel where I'm not wanted. Similarly, I've wanted to meet and make personal contact with members on both sides of the divide. I have already had the opportunity to meet Diana Brickell, Jimbo Wales, and a few others, on the Kelleyite side. On the Peikoffian side, Betsy Speicher has been gracious enough to invite me to attend one of the meetings of her Southern California Objectivist Association during my next visit to Los Angeles, and I look forward to meeting her in person as well. Eventually, I would also like to attend the major annual meeting of both groups - I've forgotten the name of the annual conference put on by the Peikoff group, but the counterpart Kelleyite meeting is called the IOS Summer Seminar. My objective would be to check out both groups for myself, which would give me the most amount of information to make informed judgments about their respective approaches to Objectivism. For what it's worth, I differ from most other Kelley sympathizers in one important respect - I do *not* call myself an Objectivist. In that respect, my position on a.p.o is fairly similar to Robert Kolker's. I agree with many Objectivist ideas, but I also have some disagreements. My disagreements, questions, and reservations about Objectivism are primarily in issues in epistemology and metaphysics. These differences are sufficiently great that I consider it inappropriate to call myself an Objectivist. (I don't know where all of Robert's differences lie, so I won't presume to speak for him.) Until I resolve these differences to my satisfaction, I'll hold off on claiming the title. A Personal Note I am currently on the faculty at the Washington University School of Medicine in St. Louis, Missouri. (Hence, the picture of the St. Louis Arch in my .sig.) By coincidence, one of the prominent Kelley supporters, Diana Brickell, is also a student at that same university. Hence, she was the first a.p.o. "regular" who I got to meet in person, approximately 3 months ago, and we socialize on a regular basis. Through her, I've also had the pleasure of meeting her boyfriend, Jimbo Wales, as well as some other Kelley supporters. I consider them all friends and I have greatly enjoyed the real-time conversations we've had. They are all intelligent, rational, pleasant, and benevolent people, and I value the time that I have spent with them. (When I first met Jimbo, I looked pretty closely for the horns, the forked tongue, and the cloven hooves, and I was greatly disappointed - he looked nothing at all like the paragon of evil I was hoping for!) I don't agree with them on all aspects of Objectivism, and as they can attest to, whenever I've had disagreements with them, I've had no hesitation whatsoever about aggressively asking them to explain and defend their views! (Just as I do with others on a.p.o.) But I value their company greatly and I am proud to call them my friends. If anyone has any comments or questions on anything that I have written here, please don't hesitate to e-mail me. Nick DiSpoldo, Small Press Review (on "Children, Churches and Daddies," April 1997) Kuypers is the widely-published poet of particular perspectives and not a little existential rage, but she does not impose her personal or artistic agenda on her magazine. CC+D is a provocative potpourri of news stories, poetry, humor, art and the "dirty underwear" of politics. One piece in this issue is "Crazy," an interview Kuypers conducted with "Madeline," a murderess who was found insane, and is confined to West Virginia's Arronsville Correctional Center. Madeline, whose elevator definitely doesn't go to the top, killed her boyfriend during sex with an ice pick and a chef's knife, far surpassing the butchery of Elena Bobbitt. Madeline, herself covered with blood, sat beside her lover's remains for three days, talking to herself, and that is how the police found her. For effect, Kuypers publishes Madeline's monologue in different-sized type, and the result is something between a sense of Dali's surrealism and Kafka-like craziness. Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer's styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere. Ed Hamilton, writer #85 (of children, churches and daddies) turned out well. I really enjoyed the humor section, especially the test score answers. And, the cup-holder story is hilarious. I'm not a big fan of poetry - since much of it is so hard to decipher - but I was impressed by the work here, which tends toward the straightforward and unpretentious. As for the fiction, the piece by Anderson is quite perceptive: I liked the way the self-deluding situation of the character is gradually, subtly revealed. (Kuypers') story is good too: the way it switches narrative perspective via the letter device is a nice touch. Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself. Write to Scars Publications to submit poetry, prose and artwork to Children, Churches and Daddies literary magazine, or to inquire about having your own chapbook, and maybe a few reviews like these. Jim Maddocks, GLASGOW, via the Internet I'll be totally honest, of the material in Issue (either 83 or 86 of Children, Churches and Daddies) the only ones I really took to were Kuypers'. TRYING was so simple but most truths are, aren't they? what is veganism? A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don't consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources. why veganism? This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions. so what is vegan action? We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty. We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification. We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems. A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations. vegan action po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353 510/704-4444 C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies) cc&d is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist. "I really like ("Writing Your Name"). It's one of those kind of things where your eye isn't exactly pulled along, but falls effortlessly down the poem. I liked "knowledge" for its mix of disgust and acceptance. Janet Kuypers does good little movies, by which I mean her stuff provokes moving imagery for me. Color, no dialogue; the voice of the poem is the narrator over the film. Children, Churches and Daddies no longer distributes free contributor's copies of issues. In order to receive issues of Children, Churches and Daddies, contact Janet Kuypers at the cc&d e-mail addres. Free electronic subscriptions are available via email. All you need to do is email ccandd@aol.com... and ask to be added to the free cc+d electronic subscription mailing list. And you can still see issues every month at the Children, Churches and Daddies website, located at http://scars.tv Also, visit our new web sites: the Art Gallery and the Poetry Page. Mark Blickley, writer The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. "Scars" is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book. MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG) functions: * To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change. * To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants * To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking * To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues. Gary, Editor, The Road Out of Town (on the Children, Churches and Daddies Web Site) I just checked out the site. It looks great. Dusty Dog Reviews: These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding. John Sweet, writer (on chapbook designs) Visuals were awesome. They've got a nice enigmatic quality to them. Front cover reminds me of the Roman sculptures of angels from way back when. Loved the staggered tire lettering, too. Way cool. (on "Hope Chest in the Attic") Some excellent writing in "Hope Chest in the Attic." I thought "Children, Churches and Daddies" and "The Room of the Rape" were particularly powerful pieces. C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review: cc&d is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist. Cheryl Townsend, Editor, Impetus (on Children, Churches and Daddies) The new cc&d looks absolutely amazing. It's a wonderful lay-out, looks really professional - all you need is the glossy pages. Truly impressive AND the calendar, too. Can't wait to actually start reading all the stuff inside.. Wanted to just say, it looks good so far!!! Dusty Dog Reviews: She opens with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak's Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, "Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment." Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers' very personal layering of her poem across the page. Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA Indeed, there's a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there's a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship. Mark Blickley, writer The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. "Scars" is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book. You Have to be Published to be Appreciated. Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book or chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers. We're only an e-mail away. Write to us. Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies') obvious dedication along this line admirable. The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CREST's three principal projects are to provide: * on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment; * on-line distance learning/training resources on CREST's SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet; * on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development. The CREST staff also does "on the road" presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources. For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061 Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies') obvious dedication along this line admirable. Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA "Hope Chest in the Attic" captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family. "Chain Smoking" depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. "The room of the rape" is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation. want a review like this? contact scars about getting your own book published. Paul Weinman, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) Wonderful new direction (Children, Churches and Daddies has) taken - great articles, etc. (especially those on AIDS). Great stories - all sorts of hot info! The magazine Children Churches and Daddies is Copyright © through Scars Publications and Design. The rights of the individual pieces remain with the authors. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author. Okay, nilla wafer. Listen up and listen good. How to save your life. Submit, or I'll have to kill you. Okay, it's this simple: send me published or unpublished poetry, prose or art work (do not send originals), along with a bio, to us - then sit around and wait... Pretty soon you'll hear from the happy people at cc&d that says (a) Your work sucks, or (b) This is fancy crap, and we're gonna print it. It's that simple! Okay, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over. Hope Chest in the Attic is a 200 page, perfect-bound book of 13 years of poetry, prose and art by Janet Kuypers. It's a really classy thing, if you know what I mean. We also have a few extra sopies of the book "Rinse and Repeat", which has all the 1999 issues of cc&d crammed into one book. And you can have either one of these things at just five bucks a pop if you just contact us. It's an offer you can't refuse... Carlton Press, New York, NY: HOPE CHEST IN THE ATTIC is a collection of well-fashioned, often elegant poems and short prose that deals in many instances, with the most mysterious and awesome of human experiences: love... Janet Kuypers draws from a vast range of experiences and transforms thoughts into lyrical and succinct verse... Recommended as poetic fare that will titillate the palate in its imagery and imaginative creations. Mark Blickley, writer: The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. "Scars" is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing the book. You Have to be Published to be Appreciated. Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book and chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers - you can write for yourself or you can write for an audience. It's your call... Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA: "Hope Chest in the Attic" captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family. "Chain Smoking" depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. "The room of the rape" is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation. Dusty Dog Reviews, CA (on knife): These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding. Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself. Dusty Dog Reviews (on Without You): She open with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak's Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, "Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment." Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers' very personal layering of her poem across the page. Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself. Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada (on Children, Churches and Daddies): I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer's styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere. Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA: Indeed, there's a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there's a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship. Published since 1993 No racist, sexist or homophobic material is appreciated; we do accept work of almost any genre of poetry, prose or artwork, though we shy away from concrete poetry and rhyme for rhyme's sake. Do not send originals. Any work sent to Scars Publications on Macintosh disks, text format, will be given special attention over smail-mail submissions. There is no limit to how much you may submit at a time; previously published work accepted.