kagablog

November 15, 2008

Spotlight on the resurgence of women poets

Filed under: arja salafranca,dye hard press,poetry — ABRAXAS @ 5:29 am

However, it is no easy ride and the challenges remain, writes Gary Cummiskey

Despite poetry being regarded as a marginalised genre internationally, the past 14 years has seen an increase in the number of poetry collections published in SA, and particularly a rise in number of volumes by women poets.

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Arja Salafranca, author of A Life Stripped of Illusions and The Fire in Which we Burn, says: “It is difficult to pinpoint why there has been a rise in the number of women poets, “but more women are writing today than ever before in SA — whether it’s poetry, short fiction or novels. Perhaps women are finally feeling freed and empowered enough to devote time to their writing”.

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Haidee Kruger, author of Lush: a poem for four voices, says: “The growth in the number of women poets being published probably corresponds to the general growth of the book industry in SA, though this growth is more centred in the genres of fiction and trade nonfiction. I have a sense of expansion and diversification in the South African book market and I think the increasing number of more women poets being published is part of this.”

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Joan Metelerkamp, author of several poetry collections including Requiem and Carrying the Fire, takes a more backward glance into history, and sees it as being more of an issue of power, with many unanswered questions.

“It has as much to do with the history of the various languages in this country as with the politics of publishing and reading. Why were there many strong Afrikaans women poets published before 1980? Was it just paternalism — Afrikaners had a culture of looking after their women? And after 1948, when it was the language of power? Why did anyone still bother about poetry?”

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Makhosazana Xaba, author of These Hands and Tongues of their Mothers, recently published by University of KwaZulu-Natal Press, says: “Men were the familiar, men had sold poetry, so men got published. When isolated publishers here and there started taking the risk publishing women, others began to feel the risk was lessening.”

Metelerkamp says: “The fact that the publishing industry was dominated by men is no surprise: every institution all over the world used to be dominated by men.”

Kruger says that “possibly there may still be a lingering perception among some that ‘serious literature’ is, by and large, written by men, while women pen chicklit and children’s books. But how prevalent this kind of perception is, I don’t know”.

Salafranca, however, feels it also involves traditional views on gender roles. “I think writing, for a long time, has been regarded as a thing that men do. Men had studies, shut the door, said to the wife and the kids that they were busy writing and this was accepted. Now women are perhaps doing the same. So they are writing — whether it is poetry or other genres.”

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Megan Hall, whose debut collection Fourth Child, published by Modjaji Books, recently won the Ingrid Jonker poetry prize, disagrees that poetry has historically been regarded historically as a genre for men, but admits: “I remember reading somewhere that women who wrote under gender-neutral names were more likely to be published than those who wrote under names that were clearly those of women. I haven’t tested this out myself.”

But do women poets see themselves as different from men poets?

Salafranca says, “No, we are not fundamentally different. We’re all human. Perhaps, though, I have tackled more ‘feminine’ topics than men would approach.” A poem of mine, On the Morning of my Period, published in The Fire in Which we Burn, would certainly not really be written by a man, although men have often imagined themselves into women’s lives. But I have many poems that don’t ‘show’ or reveal my gender.”

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Kruger says, “I think of myself as a poet and not as a woman poet. It is striking how often a female poet will be described as a woman, female or, to my horror, lady poet, whereas you don’t often come across descriptions of ‘the male poet Breyten Breytenbach’. There is an odd suggestion in this that the female poet is an aberration from the norm (which is the male poet) and as such needs to be qualified. I am wary of the motivations behind distinctions. This too easily leads one into gross oversimplification. Having said that, though, the fact that I am a woman does play a profound and complex role in my writing.”

Metelerkamp says: “I do differ from poets who are men, but then I also differ from women, even from women poets whose work looks similar.”

Hall says that “different poets differ from one another in different ways. I think there are other differences that are at least as interesting as those to do with gender”.

Since 1994 there has also been an increase in the number of literary journals and independent presses in SA, and women’s poetry is certainly gaining greater coverage and exposure. A few years ago, for example, independent publisher Botsotso published Isis X, an anthology of poems and photography by South African women, including Salafranca and Xaba.

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Colleen Higgs, poet and founder of independent press of Modjaji Books, which focuses on women’s writing, says: “Poetry is always a bit of an a misfit genre and activity and I don’t see adequate coverage as an external issue. Poetry is unlikely to be headline news. It is a marginal activity. It is up to poets and poetry publishers to find ways of getting get coverage.

“I think we have to do things for ourselves; and not wait for some more appropriate other to do things for us. So women need to get into independent publishing, we need to claim poetry editorships; we need to see that we have power.”

Xaba says there is not yet adequate coverage of women poets in SA, but feels that “there is a growing opening of space, a growing understanding that women poets are worthy to be published, a growing acceptance that there are very good women poets in this country.”

Hall says she is curious about what percentage women actually occupy in the various new avenues of publication. “When I was working on New Contrast I did not factor gender into my choices at all. I don’t know whether the end result was balanced or not.”

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However, Salafranca asks why this wider coverage for women should be an issue. “Can’t we just publish good poetry, whatever the gender of the poet? Literary journals have sometimes devoted issues to women’s writing – the most recent edition of Wordsetc celebrated women’s writing, for instance. But generally I feel women’s poetry is getting adequate attention in journals.”

Previously many women poets responded more to overseas poets than local ones, although this is obviously changing.

Salafranca says, “I love the poetry of South African Eva Bezwoda Royston. Her work was intensely personal — about her psychological experiences, for instances. She was a bold, different, fresh voice and that speaks to and inspires me. As does the confessional, skilled work of Anne Sexton. Today, I am impressed by various local poets, both men and women.”

For Higgs, the poet who has influenced her the most is Adrienne Rich. “I love her voice, her sensibility, her quiet courage, her consisAdd Imagetent position on the side of telling the truth, especially when it isn’t popular or comfortable. However I love the work of a great many poets: Raymond Carver, Nazim Hikmet, Joan Metelerkamp, Karen Press, Megan Hall, Ingrid de Kok, Yehuda Amichai, TS Eliot, Sharon Olds, Wislawa Sjmborska.”

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Kruger says, “There are many active South African women writers who whom I admire, and who are inspirational in their very diverse talents: Joan Metelerkamp, Gabeba Baderoon, Napo Masheane, Finuala Dowling, Ingrid de Kok, Karen Press, Lebo Mashile, Antjie Krog and Isobel Dixon, to name a few. However, in terms of my own development as a writer, up to now, I think that, with the possible exception of Afrikaans writers such as Krog and Ingrid Jonker, it is mostly British and American poets who have influenced me. But I find myself increasingly turning to South African and other African poets.”

Says Hall: “I’m certainly moved by writing by other South Africans and southern Africans, both men and women, and intrigued and educated and encouraged too. The same goes for writers from overseas, although the biggies for me include Sylvia Plath, Gwendolyn Brooks, Margaret Atwood, Seamus Heaney, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Emily Dickinson, Tony Harrison. I am trying to read some of the younger wave.”

While there is undoubtedly tremendous enthusiasm about the increase in the number of women poets being published and the widening opportunities, there are, however, challenges, mainly about reaching audiences.

“It’s about getting published, finding readers and reaching readers,getting readers to buy books, getting published” says Higgs. Kruger agrees, but points out that this is a challenge facing all poets, irrespective of gender.

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Xaba feel that there is a definite need to boost the number of women poets published. “While there is a growth in women’s voices it’s still in its infancy. I would like to see publishers focusing more and more on women in order to undercover talent I know exists and is waiting to be exposed to the reading public.

“The financial support that exists for poets is minimal. Writers of any kind need time out and space to focus solely on their art. Writing residencies need to become commonplace within SA, and they need to be accessible. And they need to be friendly to women.”

For Salafranca the main challenge for women poets is getting published. “There are so few publishers willing to take on collections. People don’t buy them, so it’s an uphill battle to get them out into the world.

“Some presses do publish poetry, but they are few and far between. It remains a marginalised genre, an unpopular choice for local readers who prefer reading novels to poetry or short stories. Local readers are now reading local novels in droves, because we have moved beyond apartheid literature with its messages and heavy emphasis on guilt. We have seen a renaissance of novels by local authors.”

But Hall also brings in a reminder says that a huge challenge for poets in SA “would be things like having the leisure to write, or the energy and determination to force the leisure or time to appear” We also need reasonable access to writers of different persuasions, both local and international,” and Metelerkamp also emphasises the need for poets to keep writing, which is often a challenge in itself, especially in view of poetry’s marginalised position.

First published in Business Day’s supplement on books and publishing November 15,2008.

first published on the web by dye hard press

November 13, 2008

a small book on debauchery

Filed under: literature,paul zisiwe — ABRAXAS @ 10:42 am

This Day

How did the lush of youth fly past those moons of our discontent? There we were, moribund, messed up with charred rhythms in our souls, assailing the stuff of life. We were twenty then, candle minds raped by the last twin decades shunned in the blessing bloom of this sabbatical. This proved that we are simple and made of stone, the mystery of life we could handle with a bard of torture’s personalities. When they had come the last time, we had shoved small memories in boxes which we later chased. This was how our world reeled, breaking window eyes, commiserating a mood of television excess complications. We were here, two special friends and I, a rocket soul mauling lust’s avenues; a splintered cranium spewing vague tutorials of rage, pacing the mansion penitentiary of suburbia.

Waltzing our common dark of age… wayward the later phases of this dream, the maw that imbibes promises, before the culling… at this subtle hour of the sun’s trot into the earth’s underbelly, we thought of the bulging sky’s chest tearing… in words of adornment mashed for nirvana’s brew. He chokes, genuflecting spine of hearty poses, twisting a roaring laughter, actual mess marooning coiled hair… fleas in tripe buzzing a melody at his eyes’ choice. He had to record the events in spirit, a slight float in ransom of some ancient thoughts – a dog vomiting from fresh grass; the dances and jazz blown sparks impressed to memory’s chorale.

Locked gazes, bass flowing with a girl carrying a silver coated glass of ale; engulfed in notes glowing purple and green, orange with the night’s hideous infestations. Crimson petals hang like glitter-balls from earlobes, arms flung like oak branches on shoulders of louts – old sights and voices saying:
‘I don’t know what it is you’re on… but what it is is possible.’
A table is mapped by beverage spills, jabbed – slim elbows moving with travel of sounds, murmurs of delight pulsating toe taps in slouchy muddied sneakers.

And he says to the woman in a mink coat: ‘I know Frederich Nietzsche.’
‘Oooh wow…’ she exclaims with an indifferent expression of surprise. ‘And what does he have to do with the note you passed me earlier?’
‘Hedonisius instincts…’ he confers. ‘A pathless journey some say, where the journey is the destination.’
‘Hug me then.’ She demands, ‘write that down,’ another says; the thought missing a link to the piecing potency of a past referral.
‘Always spontaneous, I see… a joyful release of a soul in need of play,’ miles in her words – a cataclysm so wined up in terror.
‘And then the rooms like fill with balloons and other unbranded delicacies…’ he jesters,
‘Yes.’ A faint smile twists a broken halo on her face, and he wells up fatigued.

The sunset was on our war – peril of youth’s claws causing jitters on brows… Jews flocking the loo – darkies flabbergasted by joy’s smoke. Horn psalmody was awhirl in a cauldron of bitter-sweet gestures; lulling diesel morbidity bending towards the slots of our owned hypocrisies. Yet we were here, at Niki’s Oasis, freeloaders miserly lifting in nihilistic tonality. No after-life for the melody. I sit in its mist of wanton calm, syllables of hatred hugged to my loin, knees and lips blazing rings. And the common lament – jazz – skeletal rears posing – eco-enlightened women in a pale trend, pointing fingers in raw wails for attention and sex.

‘Beauty. Who defines, feels.’ I overhear a sublime epithet blown into thin air, an effeminate voice, charged with song.
‘I love these friends,’ he hunkers and staggers to the beat, ‘strangers who have become inspired friends. Ah, life is beautiful.’ A cloudy sigh.
‘But – hello sunflower.’ He ambiently utters another sibilant noose unto the figure, ‘my name is The Fat Tenant.’

I sit and ponder shafts of lights between thighs with wet near closed eyes. Psychic abandon was a prudent move I thought. I had been sleeping massacred by drink nightly for twelve moons now, the exploits of a weak mind slopping into slaughterhouses of funk. Skinned sunken eye sacks I implore not to surrender me to torpor. I feel toxic, yellowed teeth cringing, eyes crying for a draft in August’s dust. Another day will soon rise behind these eyelids – weeping blots of a maddened orange in the frenzy of the sun’s art. Unshorn chin, a template of queer negation of self – a wincher with empty palms – an incorruptible aim chained to bony shoulders. All antique demons I have orphaned were rising, moaning – thunderous and searing like a tin drum inside.

Recalling the evenings when this man-child whined under Shiva’s trample – is like seeing myself reflected in a dog’s eyes and never had I seen myself like that in any human eyes. I was to floor amid maidens who loathed wombs – heads glossed with bladed perfumes of masculine oratory, but wearing cool eyes – entreating gazes. There were suggested plans for a train trip down south I hear about, over weeks of creamy dialogues with these women of no moral regard… bliss, and debauchery’s nightmare over steel tracks towards a journey that was the destination. We would cross over open dead lands, given to a fear of open spaces.
The common disease of city image-bound catwalks would until then leer its nauseated tongue and puke at natural splendor vinyl-slide crawling outside stained TV style panes. But uncertainty was the great nemesis to premeditated hedonism as I would have to later deal with the trip in the story of this wretched company.

Creaking doors whispered among the noises of smokers some forlorn wail stinking with time’s rust. Posters glowed heavenly with moguls of sound poised and waiting still. On this night miserly faces spoke in cultured tones, brews of assortments like a hospital dispensary cabinet gurgling froth over lips of glasses.

The eve wailed rowdy with lusty informal deities and eternal puzzlement that settled when there was talk about witchcraft, how relatives have hidden hairs and nails in pot-plants for alchemies beyond youth’s common gaze. The wild resonance of their fears when living an age that exterminated such mystical séances, I found unnerving. A generation born beyond the whims of tradition’s intransigence, cosmopolitan sycophants with skins peeled over their head, how dimensional shifts affect them – harm their blue ignorant souls? That which relegated their ancestry to oblivion seemed too invincible for their challenge, and they had failed for a while… I see it everyday in faces of those who live with ghost tenants and possessed legions of the cursed. I sit and ponder the electronic age shamans and sorcerers amidst the bile forming in my throat – ales labeled black slick on buds, watching my friends, one a charm’s peril and the other a soul muscle lynched with souls akin mine. They have always managed to arouse the alchemist in me every noon under covers of delirium.

Earlier clouds of hail pour outside the venue of disgust’s revenge unfit for re-birth’s awe; babes rushing among droplets, serpentine waltzes unto the morale of bar chorus.
‘Lovely art thou,’ I murmur, chasing with wrecking ball eyes, sighing that they have saved me from in-birth and its wallowing maw ground beneath my lopsided rear. Now and again they fairy a tale at me, about their grilled destinations and choir souls who wish for their company – whom I might leave somber if they happened to indulge in conversation.
‘Just keep close,’ they’d warn amiably, languid fellows lounged braced by metal whilst the grass was dappled with droplets of sky’s spit. Some faces peeped strewn with melancholy still – old men at play when jilted by anathema’s shames. Stooped at mad portraiture poses, their guffaws bellowed as they watched their fears through me, a foolhardy sleuth – grey boned, and a ball of unkempt hair.

I saw stars, a moon halo over curse’s embrace piled with love for truth – leather thighs and pinched lip-gluttons parading hell’s make-over. I sneer initially, self-possessed – flaunting my drudgery and catching bait traded by demon pulchritude. A beast I had become once again, culling my jaws in wonder; a rained out night tasting stale flowers wired on lightning strikes. My saints watch and smile indifferently, caressing foods to sewer their bellies. Loved were they, all – as sinned out for no sin to churn my hell. The in and never out jockey steering on, wide – chest heaving of sound, bearing flowers like nightly wizards on his brow. It’s a friend’s aging day – they said, her face colored in young pain surrendered to inebriation, and so were we of these dying young – at life’s bazaar without exits.
There were no specified entries either, with moist lips charring my chin at intervals wasting sentimentalities; I figured my hands dirtied by chores of this theatre.

‘What detergent was suited for these crucified gadgets raging for hugs and polite holds?’ an inner self queries desperately within the stupor of gin and juice.
A kiss on the forehead – a saintly shock to black martyrdom it gave. As we shuffle the dark wept by strange corners later that eve, pierced by walls; we speak of how the sound was bursting suns in our ears.

I live with these vagabonds, twirled journeys with bloated knuckles, saying still memories are for an after-life and a life of before. Now was for mere remembrance or rather the membering of all dis-membered terrains of our travails. Suddenly a succulent poke into my ear raptures my senses. Past other boozing rooms of mystery staggeringly, dj brooding over decked signals of a generation’s wail. Women brawled uterine gossip at their postcard gents – lustily, them who goggled at this chaos sorely needed in their prim lives. I felt at the prime of a monstrous orgy, light footed as grass blades danced dewed waltzes under toes of hobos. Chest folded charred with efforts for air, nicotine blockage bubbling like an infernal comet twitching with my voices phlegm. Cameras flashed, shuttering stout prayers for visuals of my collapse… I was done for, the floor calling.

At her home of parties, gold glowered on the rubber pool – silent youths in pig-tail charms blazing hopes for fun. My twin saints carried me here, slump sack of bones, caressing my hair with bold fingers. A woman buzzes a strut past the stricken eye and I stare, a sweet visage on a dawn’s glory. She bows to name me: ‘The sun’s pose,’ mingled with ‘Brother loved.’

Hail storm was sizzling in guts, the whole world seeming drunk with bright breaths. South Africa – me seeing all, now you being nothing, a rand’s ransom, quarry fever reeling in your bones. But all was well with me.

‘How’s he doing?’ mutters concerned pink and rosed lips.
‘I am divine.’ I say.
‘And the smile?’ they giggle, womanly red windows spewing marvel in laughter.
‘My dear… please just give more floral chatter to this ball of slurs, around his mad buzz,’ I lie still saintly impugning, no rude face necessary. I bask face up looking at those who pass over me, feeling elated despicably. Then the street fight’s motion graces the lapa filed with mannequin fellows, enraged by ill-luck in sex slums… weakness compensated with jeers.

There was however one trait of these saints that throttled many here – good food, sung with knives among choruses of coal god’s throats. I blazed at the crested surf over these souls impaired by pride – when shame’s call wasn’t akin nudity, but souls merely nudely darkened within shards of exploded moons. And tonight groans with infinity, heralding red confessions in coffers of the miserly. I recoil into sleep, my craned out assemblage stretched over the cooing and flight of the crowd’s tongues.
Pillars of air we trotted through with women of strengths lost, at my virtue’s desolation – slipping past swift dreams, warning and sultry with the draft mounting their thighs wayward a bright room awhirl with night’s echoes.
Whence the culling of memory burst acid mucus showing stale need, how fooled I felt. But no love – that progeny of futile youth gnashing its jaw – reversed to a beyond – matriarchal curse for the unborn. A cackle of mockery assails my skull; profaned efforts of all my love slumped when a grizzled heroine called earlier that night demanding I cease to contact her. I was ashen, inner ravine gone putrid with marsh as I blacked out, blanket tailed between bony knees – paralyzed.

Had a nightmare that nap, amid this eve’s discord, whence I dreamt of L for some reason having paid a visit. I am a teacher at a school held beneath industrial chimneys. An age that seemed locked in a future’s death, boys and girls abound. A suffocated nose keeps rousing me for attention, am I at school to teach? A huge ditch runs along the playground, clogged with muddy storm water from which I see her ascend. Water is crashing violently with sounds of break time’s resonance as the dream shift to interior a maze of a depressed warehouse shelter. Those fatally normal shifts of space careened as unpredictable as the fall of an avalanche. And spooned with the overture outside, we caress like old frozen covers, her touching face clear as well water.
Then suddenly a mirage of my grandfather swells in my eyes, him looking away; rear against mother squirming under a floral plastic rag clad kitchen table, blood soaking her skirt from that crimson crevice of my exit from that life to this afterlife. I wonder why; for it was my birth I was seeing.

Her pimpled nose milkly kissed; a metropolitan setting crowding the dream, an unknown fall behind – only to see her sharing a brace with a stranger, a man dreamily black and dreadlocked. I pass them nonchalantly, with a sea of doubt preserving scars, bile of disgust for the familiar ridicule I have endured on love’s trials. Another change in eye’s dream folds a face in car, seated with an elderly woman, in her seventies I guess. A mother she seems from an initial enquiry, walking still among patches of dying grass as she climbs into the backseat lowering herself for a nap. The strange fellow follows into the seat, crawling and sliding to penetrate her from behind a vividly raised skirt. Then lucidly in boiled presence of this calm mother companion, they fuck raucously.

A while of moans and orgasmic fervor creams ears of passerby girls, eyes saddened for me as though this was a fatal blow unto my charred chest. She looks my way in shame’s coolness; waltzing out the wagon of her displeasure’s expose… flaunting the scent of a newly flogged maiden, wet, sweet sweat seeped into creased fabric. I shuddered, really trying to make talk, clouded by revulsion, sexual wizardry amok a primitive craving.

The car drives away with the twin occupants – mother and son – as she approaches me, inner voices muttering how shameless all needed to be, petting the welling pain as clarity vanishes from bleak dream-eyes.
How vile is that a dream can last minutes yet feel as though eternal? Damn, my soul is still stuck in the city for sure; I figure the window a place to chill. By its myth’s pane I loose the pain and smile in denial… beauty bashing shards from all sights raped in the dark flow of dawn in mind, but – was the heart there? Weed was on my mind, meetings at the night’s square creeping some more in the face I saw swearing the might I never sold for a dirty note. I wanted to dream with her again, but she went away – I had to forget about the deeds I said were ok. I saw soil stuck in her locked hair, and I could not best it that any more. How has the universe been treating her soul-manure?
Was her soul-book for the after life filled with awe or mirth?
Had the tree’s love cornered her in its shade?
Did peace exist in the certainty of a frail life?

*********************

There was talk of musicals about dead kings at midnight’s cry; we were here, our palms grasping their heartlessness for the first time. Curses going on with clapping hands; and so wet were eyes, getting on with someone’s birth date. You could shake the silence but never disappear. They tore my name out the window and I found it difficult to get to myself and the forces of loss. I was happy, wrapped in the robe my mind made up.
And here they step into the room looking like in-between nightmares… ruined city towers hovering in the distance. The rut of terror in my throat still thinking that it was prophetic of occurrences to become of her visit. But why such clarity of color that I’d even recognize the skirt’s silken fabric in glossed pinkish orange daubed embroidery? I had hoped to awake and sing to her instead, a greeting:
‘Molo Ntokazi Entsundu…
Ngaz’ba uluhle lwe’ndalo lisa khanya nga’mehlo wakho na?’
Hoping to share a breath through fingers and sigh…in awe of the beauty she etched in my MUD.
And yet so brilliantly divine, I took pride to have known a sister who could do that with dignity, without making my unsealed being feel loathable. Anyhow, still admitting that it would be futile for me to claim I will stop yearning…and besides, that would prove me a liar, may he who art loved in the depth of her heart be content…as I have noticed the contentment in her face about the present engagement. Love is impersonal and may it be that which binds all souls in the union of a celestial copulation.

****************

Feeling lost in that school of reveries, I recall a sudden slap by the greenery blotched for a forest thick – walking weighed down a winding stretch of a path cut by paddlers. My placid twin saints were there with me through sense not sight, perhaps dancing around my sunken head as I lay there in torpor.

I meet uncles drooling and familial friends who died with youth’s dark clime, clouds of plastic lives floating over the puddles dried by feet. We chat, glittering faces blossoming with rouge freedoms. Along sleek bends we reach a house – a cool stroke of ease filling our breasts. A joint is lit in this dream, intoxicant even to in-life’s eyes. It seems one who fucked the girl is here, my face flushing with glacial rage. A bony and tattered van speeds past and we swallow its mutinous fumes, gone hidden over-head upon that road of our descent. We wound around shrubs that concealed monsters of our star-lipped whispers, and it keeps flowing, raging, blue lights flashing on its roof like a demon at bliss with wind in its hair.
It pulls up rapidly in front of our shack in the bushes; dust specks rising as the car’s door sways open.
A bulgy policeman with impervious eyes begins a sly silent inspection of our coiling smokes and dusty puffs cloaking tree-tops, and says: ‘You are under arrest,’ tearing my white plastic sack to reveal my measly tattered belongings. He ties one of the saint’s wrists in metal cuffs and calls us to bend over.

I wake up tired and in tears, head rushed with what shame I had withheld for this pen’s death; radical cells running amok in poisonous trails across my skull – combined with the sour after-taste of an immortal dream land’s deathly air. Serpentine were those rays of thought that posed in my woken stupor, acid in girdle twisted around my belly. Much of the dream contents were for deciphering in further mystery spaces. But I was here still at this lovely place full of drunks, genuine threats pinned across faces of bored vagabonds and their queers. I felt irate, entangled in gloom though among the jubilant, chatter feeling like a gnash of teeth, toneless hissing of a delayed lung burning in my chest. My shriveled palms were feeling ghostly since the previous dusk and now the final glasses were being gulped with stale vigor on sleepy brows.

*********************

‘How are we doing this morning?’, comes a voice piercing the bubble in my head, sickle arms stretched to my yawn, sword face flashing duly before I could strike a response to my throat.
‘Dumbfounded my friend,’ I say with tears blistering my eyelids.
‘What’s wrong?’ a saint stammers bending over my face disheveled by pain. Twisting his hands and hair poked sincerely in this morning light dolefully climbing creased curtains, my poor breath blasts like tar smog from a warmly drained nasal cavity – a scalding heat swimming through an open window. The saint rubs off sweat dribbles from my forehead, mingled with droplets from blindly stingy balled sockets.

I awake with ghost dull aroma of dawn sullying other overheard snores bound to each breath’s horizon. Church thoughts being lighted in mirages holy as art us of piety’s burden. I was dumb struck with a gnawing pain. Saw two birds peaked in a duel over a worm. I fluttered inside with shamed pity, love smitten and fouled.
‘Is there a fucking drink in this house?’ I enquire in loose death breathing its demand for relief. The saints tear a thimble, lips parted by heaves twiddling in my bosom. Froth ascends at the scarcity of a numbing drink, and then awkwardly joints grease to a forlorn brace for strength. They hug me, bravely and brazen with comments of courage. I heave putridly, moans leprous upon their soaked shoulders, plumes of misfortune intermitting with rage exuding from love’s hatred.
Thoughts frittered away my machismo as we stood, beard bristles daubed with spittle and mucus; brimming silent curses at love.
‘We should visit father, I say’, the other suggests in a warring dare, ‘for brews they will never muster… to avenge the poisons injected in us.’

*******************

November 12, 2008

Gilgamesh

Filed under: literature,nikhil singh — ABRAXAS @ 10:29 pm

I will tell you of a kingdom. A kingdom of dust, closed spaces and sliding portals. Perhaps there are many of these secret kingdoms, existing in miniature. In those dark and microscopic delusion-scapes beneath the most ancient of staircases. Or between the stairs themselves, inside the ticking of the walls or in the depthless cathedral spaces of broken clocks. The twisting alien highways only the outcast ants and the travelling spiders know. Who can tell? There probably are. I have certainly, on occasion, found myself stranded in one or two of these realms. In bleak and endless microscopic nights where I have lost my sense of depth and proportion. Wandering circles in desolate halfway houses on the edge of forgettable dreams…

In any case, the kingdom I will tell you of now was patrolled by a prince. And his name was Gilgamesh. And he was the only thing alive in his lonely cupboard kingdom. He moved with an insectile grace, through the spaces of his places, his mind eaten by unameable spite. A gulf had opened up in his soul. And it was with bitter potions that he began to fill its void. His crepuscular, white body flexed as he pedalled his bonecycle across the bumps, in the half-lit dark. Rattling his fingers and rattling his toes. Gilgamesh had upon him the obsidian eyes and mandibled mouthparts of an insect, twittering and globe eyed. Glistening and clacking. He also had three thumbs, one of which he kept in a pouch at his belt. He collected dust. The particles of dust were as large as cattle in some cases and came in many different forms, floating exempt of gravity, like ghastly zeppelins through the depthless avenues of his kingdom. Long, red viral formations which twisted in slow motion in the air. Large sheets of dessicated skin flapping soundlessly in the windless spaces. Featurless cogs, slowfalling spindles and peeling doll’s limbs. Insect wings like glassy gossamer sails turning lazy somersaults in the void, flickering in the dark. He collected things which he found to be of interest, painstakingly labelling and storing them in the vast, vault-like multitude of closets and cupboards which made up the structure of his shadow dreanched palace. Every wall slid open. Each door disguised another and every drawer had its secret compartments (which in turn had their own hidey holes, some containing keys to even more secret compartments). And the dust things shivered and squirmed in their wooden box-worlds. Thousands upon millions of little and large prisons skittering and shuffling with strange prisoners, swaddled in the gulf-like blankets of silence which swamped this closet-palace. On and on he pedalled, through this labyrinth-house, filled with bile. And all this hate, this green bitterness, he directed like a searchlight toward the unlit forest of dust below his kingdom. The forest was indeed a stygian and forgotten place. Endless and tangled, depthless with dead and landed dust things; a graveyard of dust. Multileveled and vast, it stretched black, black in every direction below the kingdom of Gilgamesh. And this hate-beam flew hard and sharp as a burning arrow to that which lurked in the forest. For you see, in the tenebrous and endless nightworld of Gilgamesh, it was possible at times to listen for the distant flap of large and dusted wings over the labyrinthine forest. Each black and ceaseless eve would Gilgamesh crouch at the edge of his kingdom, high above the forest and gaze down the drop to spy for the gliding form of his adversary. The Nemesis, the lamyros gnosis, the moth. The moth of forbidden knowledge which had come to roost and fast in this godless depth of nowhere. In this land without sun. This closetland of no definable proportion. And many times would the enormous mass of the airbourne creature swoop, soundlessly below the clenching toes of Gilgamesh. Sometimes feet, sometimes leagues below, yet still high above the distant, dead tendrils of the forest. Orbiting an airspace of slowly spiralling, slowly descending dust bodies. Making them spin in its silent wake. And Gilgamesh would sit and stare mindlessly at the forest. Hating that which dwelt below. Hating it because it was the thing which he pursued. Loathing it because of the obsessions it kindled in the embers of his smoking soul. And it was here, in the stinking putrefecation of a mind so dissolved into obsession, which he brewed the spices of desperation and malice. Cooking them into a mollasses of murderous intent. Drying this into a candy of concentrated sin. A tabula rasa. A rosetta stone of black and blue scribbles. A grape of wrath.

And this he ate.

And you are what you eat. No more. No less.

The fiendish Gilgamesh pedalled the echoing halls of his dust ridden necropolis, a fresh plot burning web filaments through the well of his mind. A plan of rapture; a plan of capture. Its glowing strands stitching themselves together in the fingers of malice which clickety-clacked behind the reflections of his glittering insect eyes. And as he pedalled he noticed a twitching in the pouch at his belt. He withdrew his third thumb and found that it had grown slightly, having sprouted four vestigial nubbins at its sides. Almost like budding limbs.

He strove to recall where he had locked the thing which he sought. Where in and amongst all his hoardings had he placed that particular dust thing? Under which drawer? Behind which closet? Inside which box? Where did he put that thing….? This precious item with which he would bait the nameless moth. The rapture before the capture. He searched long and hard. Peeking through keyholes and digging in cupboards until he reached an obscure wall of drawers which soared cliff-like above his head. Many, many drawers stretched upwards into blackness, a veritable century of sniffing and sorting. A long and spindly stepladder towered alongside the hall of drawers, set on jiggly tricycle wheels. He climbed and climbed and searched high and low until he reached a drawer sequestered at some considerable height. He checked the fading sepia label set above the brass handle and his mandibles began clattering with delight. He grabbed at the tarnished handle and pulled open the wooden drawer which cloistered the much desired dust thing. Once open, he carefully perused the contents of the drawer. Inside was curled a slender little girl-thing. Fast asleep. A bud of fingers clasped at her parted lips. Goldy-sun colour locks of hair caramelised over her milky shoulder blades. He clasped the dust-thing around its soft waist and tossed it in the net. The girl-thing was partially awake now, big blue eye-things half lidded, They were the lost blue of creamy china in a twilight glow. The blue ofbroken cuckoo’s eggs. The girl-thing lay calmly in the net as Gilgamesh descended the rickety ladder and mounted his bonecycle. Clasping the net to his heavy belt, he pedalled furiously off. He retracted the girlthing and laid it on the on the scarred wood surface of his worktable. She lay there blinking as Gilgamesh fiddled about in the cupboards. After much rummaging, he withdrew a long, long, long coil of sinew. All pulled and cured by time and dust into a strong cord pulled from goodness knows what manner of creature..perhaps it was a cat. To one end he attached a long and wicked butcher’s hook, which he sunk deep into the girl-thing’s back. The dust-girl gave a low, moany noise as the point emerged, jutting between the sternal meeting of her lightly protruding ribcage. She regarded the hook in her with a detatched langour as Gilgamesh wrapped the cord around his white knuckled fist and stalked off. The dust thing was dragged off the worktable and across the threshold of the kingdom, to its very edge. Here Gilgamesh fastened the loose end of the sinew length to a nail. A hard and unbendable nail jutting from the floor. Once this task was accomplished, he tossed the girl-thing over the edge of nowhere. Down, down she tumbled. Farther and farther until the sinew snapped taut and the hook caught meatily into her, bouncing and spinning her into a dangle. A slender little dolly, white above an ocean of black. The bait-girl dangled on her hook and line and Gilgamesh waited for the nameless thing to manifest. The pretty little lure dangled for a long time before Gilgamesh spied the moth a-circling. It glided, no doubt eyeing the girl-bait from afar. And at a length it remained, moving in slow and giant revolutions. Gilgamesh chattered his termitish mandibles, sensing that it was merely a matter of time before the creature took the girl-thing for its own. By this time, the twitching of the third thumb had grown irritating. Gilgamesh pulled it out and found that it had indeed begun to grow its own arms and legs, even a tiny head. He tossed the thumb to the floor and it crawled to a corner like a foetal puppet. Gilgamesh muttered and drew from his bonecycle a heavy saw. Its teeth were jagged and savage and its iron was rusty. He moved to the edge and folded down on his angular haunches. And then he waited. Watching the spaces. Many times did the moth circle. Again and again there came the quiet and heavy swoop of enormous wings as the nameless one dove nearer and nearer. And Gilgamesh’s fingers clenched and his mandibles twittered as the moth drifted nearer still.

And then suddenly, the leathery swoop of wings veered abominably close and Gilgamesh lunged to the brink. He witnessed the vast bulk of his Nemesis rising. It arose from the depths like an aquatic behemoth. The scaled wings showered a vapour trail of dust in a comet wake. The eldritch wingbones strained against the thrust of this ferocious ascension. The silver-latticed eyes rattled like church windows, fired with a madness distilled in the pure cauldron of utter isolation. Those ancient, agonizing, terrifying eyes. Orbs which had been cast and set in the moulds of knowledge forbidden . A mouth loomed like a tunnel below these eyes, gaping and gilled, ringed with fur. And the speed of the kill erupted with such ferocity that the entire image seemed scalded into the fabric of some clarified dimension. A dimension where time could be slowed and scrutinized at will. The image of the rising monster, its maw unfolding below the sylphy form of the bait. Her pale, winter-blue eyes gazing listlessly up at the distant kingdom. The bare legs which dangled above the throat corridor and galleries of teeth. Gilgamesh stared down deep into the cathedral nave of those hideously ascending eyes, and out across the butcher’s hook which jutted above the hips of the girl-thing. He watched as the fully unfurled sails of the wings cauterized themselves irreparably into the loam of his naked memory. Caught in the amber of a bloody second.

Then the moth took the bait. And with the sound of galleon sails collapsing, it attempted to bank back into the blackness with its succulent little grub. But the butcher’s hook had sunk deep into its gullet. And the catchline snapped taut; a ruthless violin string. The nameless one fluttered and pitched in space, flicking its serpentine abdomen violently about. But its hampered aerodynamics failed it, and it was left jerking spasmodically at the leash. The girl-bait flopped like a puppet, half in, half hanging out of the clenched and lipless mouth. Gilgamesh had begun to leap up and down in a fit of insane joyousness. Rattling and clattering and chattering his mandibles as he gaped and gloated over his landed prey. For a long time did the moth battle and struggle against the catchline. And eventually it tired, waning into a reckless fatigue. Gilgamesh tucked the saw into his belt, squatting long limbed over the line. He clenched the sinew between toes and knees and began his descent. He gibbered with pleasure all the way down. The moth’s head-sized eyes were fixed unerringly upon that which came to it along the instrument of it’s capture. And who could attempt to understand whether this nameless moth comprehended the festering intent of it’s capturer? The nameless one’s mind was tangled beyond all enigma. What manner of trials would a being have to undergo in order to probe a mind so ancient, so corrupted by knowledge. Corrupted until it had become an alien thing, alien even in such a forgotten place. Alien, perhaps even to itself. Indeed, a mind which had so distilled madness and soaked itself in its own devastating loneliness, had ultimately become a victim to the ravages of its own desperate thoughts. The nameless one’s mind had slowly, over the centuries, eaten itself like an ourobouros. It had dissolved and blurred into an abysmal void, wherein drifted the flotsam and jetsom of a millennial accumulation of distant imagery and emotion. And it was into this giant soul that Gilgamesh stared, through the silver-latticed windows of its eyes. And thusly, with feet planted firmly in the fur of his enemy’s head, and with the remnants of the girl-bait moaning and pawing between his ankles, Gilgamesh pulled from his belt a rusty pudding spoon. And whilst staring into those eyes, he began to scoop out wet chunks of their gelid substance. Sucking them into his faceted insect mouth with yelps of barely disguised pleasure. The moth began to shriek. A mindless howl, resonant as the pipes of a cathedral. A deafening and endless mewlwhich continued whilst Gilgamesh ate out the silvery jade jelly to it’s fishbone sockets. He even sucked up the veinery. And the moth screamed on and on in the vast blackness. And when the eyes were emptied, Gilgamesh climbed down onto the furry boulder of a head and began to saw viciously into the braincase. Spasmodic flurries of fur, flesh and bone flew with each frenzied grind of the saw. Gilgamesh leaned in, cutting deeper and deeper, until a honey like ichor fountained from the fissure in great head. He hammered at the chink in the carapace until finally, with a mighty crack, the entire misshapen dome of chitin split like a monstrous eggshell, falling away in three bloody fragments. These became dislodged and spiralled away into darkness, like jagged petals. Gilgamesh stared in victory at the purple, many lobed brain which throbbed beneath his saw. Tiny blue lightenings travelled, shivering, across its soft walnut orbs. The brain was cancered, malignant with unwholesome growth. The nameless one was still shrieking when Gilgamesh gobbled it all up in great, sticky spoonfulls…

Perhaps, in this act, you can find a suitable conclusion to this half remembered tale of envy and dark intent. Perhaps you can glean from this bloodiness an understanding of why this story was recited to you. Perhaps it is fitting enough in its perverse exactitude to merit an ending of sorts. But it is not the conclusion I would wish you to have. For all tales of microscopic exactment require something far more circular in nature. And I fear that I have not yet communicated to you the sense of circular emptiness that haunts me in my endless cupboard nights. And, being a storyteller, I must remain faithful to the tale I tell…

Gilgamesh committed yet one more sacriledge to his Nemesis before abandoning the vast carcass. He sawed off the wings of his adversary and with a curved needle, whilst clinging to the back of his dead foe, sewed two sections of them to his own scrawny shoulder blades. This accomplished, he ascended back to his kingdom along the length of his catchline, dragging in his wake the lifeless drapery stitched to his backbones. Sated beyond any sane measure, his stomach bloated with the machinery and plumbing of his enemies’ mind, he cut the line and watched the leviathan shudder once as the line went slack. It then began its freefall tumble to the forest of dust many leagues below. The girl-bait still blinked and mouthed silent whispers in the clenched jaws of the dead monster. It watching the kingdom of Gilgamesh grow smaller and smaller as she, and that which had eaten half of her, fell away from it. Gilgamesh watched too, as the remains of the Moth and it’s fatal lure shrank from whale-like dimensions to that of a door, and then to the size of a thumbnail. They were the size of a sugar grain when they plunged into the tangled tendrils which canopied the forest. Perhaps they fell much farther, crashing through endless levels of fused dust bodies. Matter which had been corrugated together by time. Perhaps the forest did not have a floor, just a depthless maze of false levels supplied by an eternity of slow falling dust. Gilgamesh turned from the edge of his kingdom and saw the puppet like figure of the thumb in the shadows. Grown to the size of a bent child now, watching him mutely from the half dark.

Gilgamesh went back to his business of collecting dust.

After some time, Gilgamesh found that the wings stitched to his back had regained some measure of their former function. He would flap them incessantly to raise himself to the higher closet levels of his domain, rendering his multitudes of spidery ladders obselete. Eventually he took to gliding above the forest as dark unimaginable thoughts began clouding his once pure intentions. His legs and arms shrivelled to stumps over time, and what was left swelled abominably. His self inflicted dust collection duties lay unattended as, more and more, he was to be found orbiting ceaselessly above the forest. The thumb grew much all this while. It grew arms and legs and a third thumb; which it would keep in a pouch at its belt. It haunted the corridors of the kingdom, picking up and hoarding things it found to be of interest. Soon the former prince was nowhere to be seen around the desolate kingdom, having retreated entirely into the labyrinths and airspace of the forest. And the thumb would sometimes stop collecting dust to watch as the distant creature swooped and glided in the blackness. It became obsessed with the moth’s movements. Slowly growing to hate that which brooded in the vast spaces below. Hating it because of the obsession it kindled in the in the embers of its smoking soul.

And the name of the thumb was Gilgamesh.

November 9, 2008

The Abolition of Work by bob black

Filed under: miscellaneous — ABRAXAS @ 10:58 pm

No one should ever work.

Work is the source of nearly all the misery in the world. Almost any evil you’d care to name comes from working or from living in a world designed for work. In order to stop suffering, we have to stop working.

That doesn’t mean we have to stop doing things. It does mean creating a new way of life based on play; in other words, a ludic revolution. By “play” I mean also festivity, creativity, conviviality, commensality, and maybe even art. There is more to play than child’s play, as worthy as that is. I call for a collective adventure in generalized joy and freely interdependent exuberance. Play isn’t passive. Doubtless we all need a lot more time for sheer sloth and slack than we ever enjoy now, regardless of income or occupation, but once recovered from employment-induced exhaustion nearly all of us want to act.

The ludic life is totally incompatible with existing reality. So much the worse for “reality,” the gravity hole that sucks the vitality from the little in life that still distinguishes it from mere survival. Curiously — or maybe not — all the old ideologies are conservative because they believe in work. Some of them, like Marxism and most brands of anarchism, believe in work all the more fiercely because they believe in so little else.

Liberals say we should end employment discrimination. I say we should end employment. Conservatives support right-to-work laws. Following Karl Marx’s wayward son-in-law Paul Lafargue I support the right to be lazy. Leftists favor full employment. Like the surrealists — except that I’m not kidding — I favor full unemployment. Trotskyists agitate for permanent revolution. I agitate for permanent revelry. But if all the ideologues (as they do) advocate work — and not only because they plan to make other people do theirs — they are strangely reluctant to say so. They will carry on endlessly about wages, hours, working conditions, exploitation, productivity, profitability. They’ll gladly talk about anything but work itself. These experts who offer to do our thinking for us rarely share their conclusions about work, for all its saliency in the lives of all of us. Among themselves they quibble over the details. Unions and management agree that we ought to sell the time of our lives in exchange for survival, although they haggle over the price. Marxists think we should be bossed by bureaucrats. Libertarians think we should be bossed by businessmen. Feminists don’t care which form bossing takes so long as the bosses are women. Clearly these ideology-mongers have serious differences over how to divvy up the spoils of power. Just as clearly, none of them have any objection to power as such and all of them want to keep us working.

You may be wondering if I’m joking or serious. I’m joking and serious. To be ludic is not to be ludicrous. Play doesn’t have to be frivolous, although frivolity isn’t triviality; very often we ought to take frivolity seriously. I’d like life to be a game — but a game with high stakes. I want to play for keeps.

The alternative to work isn’t just idleness. To be ludic is not to be quaaludic. As much as I treasure the pleasure of torpor, it’s never more rewarding than when it punctuates other pleasures and pastimes. Nor am I promoting the managed time-disciplined safety-valve called “leisure;” far from it. Leisure is nonwork for the sake of work. Leisure is time spent recovering from work and in the frenzied but hopeless attempt to forget about work. Many people return from vacations so beat that they look forward to returning to work so they can rest up. The main difference between work and leisure is that at work at least you get paid for your alienation and enervation.

I am not playing definitional games with anybody. When I say I want to abolish work, I mean just what I say, but I want to say what I mean by defining my terms in non-idiosyncratic ways. My minimum definition of work is forced labor, that is, compulsory production. Both elements are essential. Work is production enforced by economic or political means, by the carrot or the stick. (The carrot is just the stick by other means.) But not all creation is work. Work is never done for its own sake, it’s done on account of some product or output that the worker (or, more often, somebody else) gets out of it. This is what work necessarily is. To define it is to despise it. But work is usually even worse than its definition decrees. The dynamic of domination intrinsic to work tends over time toward elaboration. In advanced work-riddled societies, including all industrial societies whether capitalist or “communist,” work invariably acquires other attributes which accentuate its obnoxiousness.

Usually — and this is even more true in “communist” than capitalist countries, where the state is almost the only employer and everyone is an employee — work is employment, i.e., wage-labor, which means selling yourself on the installment plan. Thus 95% of Americans who work, work for somebody (or something) else. In Cuba or China or any other alternative model which might be adduced, the corresponding figure approaches 100%. Only the embattled Third World peasant bastions — Mexico, India, Brazil, Turkey — temporarily shelter significant concentrations of agriculturists who perpetuate the traditional arrangement of most laborers in the last several millennia, the payment of taxes (= ransom) to the state or rent to parasitic landlords in return for being otherwise left alone. Even this raw deal is beginning to look good. All industrial (and office) workers are employees and under the sort of surveillance which ensures servility.

But modern work has worse implications. People don’t just work, they have “jobs.” One person does one productive task all the time on an or-else basis. Even if the task has a quantum of intrinsic interest (as increasingly many jobs don’t) the monotony of its obligatory exclusivity drains its ludic potential. A “job” that might engage the energies of some people, for a reasonably limited time, for the fun of it, is just a burden on those who have to do it for forty hours a week with no say in how it should be done, for the profit of owners who contribute nothing to the project, and with no opportunity for sharing tasks or spreading the work among those who actually have to do it. This is the real world of work: a world of bureaucratic blundering, of sexual harassment and discrimination, of bonehead bosses exploiting and scapegoating their subordinates who — by any rational-technical criteria — should be calling the shots. But capitalism in the real world subordinates the rational maximization of productivity and profit to the exigencies of organizational control.

The degradation which most workers experience on the job is the sum of assorted indignities which can be denominated as “discipline.” Foucault has complexified this phenomenon but it is simple enough. Discipline consists of the totality of totalitarian controls at the workplace—surveillance, rotework, imposed work tempos, production quotas, punching-in and out, etc. Discipline is what the factory and the office and the store share with the prison and the school and the mental hospital. It is something historically original and horrible. It was beyond the capacities of such demonic dictators of yore as Nero and Genghis Khan and Ivan the Terrible. For all their bad intentions they just didn’t have the machinery to control their subjects as thoroughly as modern despots do. Discipline is the distinctively diabolical modern mode of control, it is an innovative intrusion which must be interdicted at the earliest opportunity.

Such is “work.” Play is just the opposite. Play is always voluntary. What might otherwise be play is work if it’s forced. This is axiomatic. Bernie de Koven has defined play as the “suspension of consequences.” This is unacceptable if it implies that play is inconsequential. The point is not that play is without consequences. This is to demean play. The point is that the consequences, if any, are gratuitous. Playing and giving are closely related, they are the behavioral and transactional facets of the same impulse, the play-instinct. They share an aristocratic disdain for results. The player gets something out of playing; that’s why he plays. But the core reward is the experience of the activity itself (whatever it is). Some otherwise attentive students of play, like Johan Huizinga (Homo Ludens), define it as gameplaying or following rules. I respect Huizinga’s erudition but emphatically reject his constraints. There are many good games (chess, baseball, Monopoly, bridge) which are rule-governed but there is much more to play than game-playing. Conversation, sex, dancing, travel—these practices aren’t rule-governed but they are surely play if anything is. And rules can be played with at least as readily as anything else.

Work makes a mockery of freedom. The official line is that we all have rights and live in a democracy. Other unfortunates who aren’t free like we are have to live in police states. These victims obey orders or-else, no matter how arbitrary. The authorities keep them under regular surveillance. State bureaucrats control even the smaller details of everyday life. The officials who push them around are answerable only to higher-ups, public or private. Either way, dissent and disobedience are punished. Informers report regularly to the authorities. All this is supposed to be a very bad thing.

And so it is, although it is nothing but a description of the modern workplace. The liberals and conservatives and libertarians who lament totalitarianism are phonies and hypocrites. There is more freedom in any moderately de-Stalinized dictatorship than there is in the ordinary American workplace. You find the same sort of hierarchy and discipline in an office or factory as you do in a prison or a monastery. In fact, as Foucault and others have shown, prisons and factories came in at about the same time, and their operators consciously borrowed from each other’s control techniques. A worker is a part-time slave. The boss says when to show up, when to leave, and what to do in the meantime. He tells you how much work to do and how fast. He is free to carry his control to humiliating extremes, regulating, if he feels like it, the clothes you wear or how often you go to the bathroom. With a few exceptions he can fire you for any reason, or no reason. He has you spied on by snitches and supervisors, he amasses a dossier on every employee. Talking back is called “insubordination,” just as if a worker is a naughty child, and it not only gets you fired, it disqualifies you for unemployment compensation. Without necessarily endorsing it for them either, it is noteworthy that children at home and in school receive much the same treatment, justified in their case by their supposed immaturity. What does this say about their parents and teachers who work?

The demeaning system of domination I’ve described rules over half the waking hours of a majority of women and the vast majority of men for decades, for most of their lifespans. For certain purposes it’s not too misleading to call our system democracy or capitalism or — better stil l— industrialism, but its real names are factory fascism and office oligarchy. Anybody who says these people are “free” is lying or stupid. You are what you do. If you do boring, stupid, monotonous work, chances are you’ll end up boring, stupid, and monotonous. Work is a much better explanation for the creeping cretinization all around us than even such significant moronizing mechanisms as television and education. People who are regimented all their lives, handed to work from school and bracketed by the family in the beginning and the nursing home in the end, are habituated to hierarchy and psychologically enslaved. Their aptitude for autonomy is so atrophied that their fear of freedom is among their few rationally grounded phobias. Their obedience training at work carries over into the families they start, thus reproducing the system in more ways than one, and into politics, culture and everything else. Once you drain the vitality from people at work, they’ll likely submit to hierarchy and expertise in everything. They’re used to it.

We are so close to the world of work that we can’t see what it does to us. We have to rely on outside observers from other times or other cultures to appreciate the extremity and the pathology of our present position. There was a time in our own past when the “work ethic” would have been incomprehensible, and perhaps Weber was on to something when he tied its appearance to a religion, Calvinism, which if it emerged today instead of four centuries ago would immediately and appropriately be labeled a cult. Be that as it may, we have only to draw upon the wisdom of antiquity to put work in perspective. The ancients saw work for what it is, and their view prevailed, the Calvinist cranks notwithstanding, until overthrown by industrialism — but not before receiving the endorsement of its prophets.

Let’s pretend for a moment that work doesn’t turn people into stultified submissives. Let’s pretend, in defiance of any plausible psychology and the ideology of its boosters, that it has no effect on the formation of character. And let’s pretend that work isn’t as boring and tiring and humiliating as we all know it really is. Even then, work would still make a mockery of all humanistic and democratic aspirations, just because it usurps so much of our time. Socrates said that manual laborers make bad friends and bad citizens because they have no time to fulfill the responsibilities of friendship and citizenship. He was right. Because of work, no matter what we do, we keep looking at our watches. The only thing “free” about so-called free time is that it doesn’t cost the boss anything. Free time is mostly devoted to getting ready for work, going to work, returning from work, and recovering from work. Free time is a euphemism for the peculiar way labor, as a factor of production, not only transports itself at its own expense to and from the workplace, but assumes primary responsibility for its own maintenance and repair. Coal and steel don’t do that. Lathes and typewriters don’t do that. No wonder Edward G. Robinson in one of his gangster movies exclaimed, “Work is for saps!”

Both Plato and Xenophon attribute to Socrates and obviously share with him an awareness of the destructive effects of work on the worker as a citizen and as a human being. Herodotus identified contempt for work as an attribute of the classical Greeks at the zenith of their culture. To take only one Roman example, Cicero said that “whoever gives his labor for money sells himself and puts himself in the rank of slaves.” His candor is now rare, but contemporary primitive societies which we are wont to look down upon have provided spokesmen who have enlightened Western anthropologists. The Kapauku of West Irian, according to Posposil, have a conception of balance in life and accordingly work only every other day, the day of rest designed “to regain the lost power and health.” Our ancestors, even as late as the eighteenth century when they were far along the path to our present predicament, at least were aware of what we have forgotten, the underside of industrialization. Their religious devotion to “St. Monday” — thus establishing a de facto five-day week 150-200 years before its legal consecration — was the despair of the earliest factory owners. They took a long time in submitting to the tyranny of the bell, predecessor of the time clock. In fact it was necessary for a generation or two to replace adult males with women accustomed to obedience and children who could be molded to fit industrial needs. Even the exploited peasants of the ancien régime wrested substantial time back from their landlords’ work. According to Lafargue, a fourth of the French peasants’ calendar was devoted to Sundays and holidays, and Chayanov’s figures from villages in Czarist Russia — hardly a progressive society — likewise show a fourth or fifth of peasants’ days devoted to repose. Controlling for productivity, we are obviously far behind these backward societies. The exploited muzhiks would wonder why any of us are working at all. So should we.

To grasp the full enormity of our deterioration, however, consider the earliest condition of humanity, without government or property, when we wandered as hunter-gatherers. Hobbes surmised that life was then nasty, brutish and short. Others assume that life was a desperate unremitting struggle for subsistence, a war waged against a harsh Nature with death and disaster awaiting the unlucky or anyone who was unequal to the challenge of the struggle for existence. Actually, that was all a projection of fears for the collapse of government authority over communities unaccustomed to doing without it, like the England of Hobbes during the Civil War. Hobbes’ compatriots had already encountered alternative forms of society which illustrated other ways of life—in North America, particularly—but already these were too remote from their experience to be understandable. (The lower orders, closer to the condition of the Indians, understood it better and often found it attractive. Throughout the seventeenth century, English settlers defected to Indian tribes or, captured in war, refused to return to the colonies. But the Indians no more defected to white settlements than West Germans climbed the Berlin Wall from the west.) The “survival of the fittest” version — the Thomas Huxley version — of Darwinism was a better account of economic conditions in Victorian England than it was of natural selection, as the anarchist Kropotkin showed in his book Mutual Aid, A Factor in Evolution. (Kropotkin was a scientist — a geographer — who’d had ample involuntary opportunity for fieldwork whilst exiled in Siberia: he knew what he was talking about.) Like most social and political theory, the story Hobbes and his successors told was really unacknowledged autobiography.

The anthropologist Marshall Sahlins, surveying the data on contemporary hunter-gatherers, exploded the Hobbesian myth in an article entitled “The Original Affluent Society.” They work a lot less than we do, and their work is hard to distinguish from what we regard as play. Sahlins concluded that “hunters and gatherers work less than we do; and, rather than a continuous travail, the food quest is intermittent, leisure abundant, and there is a greater amount of sleep in the daytime per capita per year than in any other condition of society.” They worked an average of four hours a day, assuming they were “working” at all. Their “labor,” as it appears to us, was skilled labor which exercised their physical and intellectual capacities; unskilled labor on any large scale, as Sahlins says, is impossible except under industrialism. Thus it satisfied Friedrich Schiller’s definition of play, the only occasion on which man realizes his complete humanity by giving full “play” to both sides of his twofold nature, thinking and feeling. As he put it: “The animal works when deprivation is the mainspring of its activity, and it plays when the fullness of its strength is this mainspring, when superabundant life is its own stimulus to activity.” (A modern version — dubiously developmental — is Abraham Maslow’s counterposition of “deficiency” and “growth” motivation.) Play and freedom are, as regards production, coextensive. Even Marx, who belongs (for all his good intentions) in the productivist pantheon, observed that “the realm of freedom does not commence until the point is passed where labor under the compulsion of necessity and external utility is required.” He never could quite bring himself to identify this happy circumstance as what it is, the abolition of work—it’s rather anomalous, after all, to be pro-worker and anti-work—but we can.

The aspiration to go backwards or forwards to a life without work is evident in every serious social or cultural history of pre-industrial Europe, among them M. Dorothy George’s England in Transition and Peter Burke’s Popular Culture in Early Modern Europe. Also pertinent is Daniel Bell’s essay “Work and Its Discontents,” the first text, I believe, to refer to the “revolt against work” in so many words and, had it been understood, an important correction to the complacency ordinarily associated with the volume in which it was collected, The End of Ideology. Neither critics nor celebrants have noticed that Bell’s end-of-ideology thesis signaled not the end of social unrest but the beginning of a new, uncharted phase unconstrained and uninformed by ideology. It was Seymour Lipset (in Political Man), not Bell, who announced at the same time that “the fundamental problems of the Industrial Revolution have been solved,” only a few years before the post- or meta-industrial discontents of college students drove Lipset from UC Berkeley to the relative (and temporary) tranquillity of Harvard.

As Bell notes, Adam Smith in The Wealth of Nations, for all his enthusiasm for the market and the division of labor, was more alert to (and more honest about) the seamy side of work than Ayn Rand or the Chicago economists or any of Smith’s modern epigones. As Smith observed: “The understandings of the greater part of men are necessarily formed by their ordinary employments. The man whose life is spent in performing a few simple operations… has no occasion to exert his understanding… He generally becomes as stupid and ignorant as it is possible for a human creature to become.” Here, in a few blunt words, is my critique of work. Bell, writing in 1956, the Golden Age of Eisenhower imbecility and American self-satisfaction, identified the unorganized, unorganizable malaise of the 1970s and since, the one no political tendency is able to harness, the one identified in HEW’s report Work in America, the one which cannot be exploited and so is ignored. That problem is the revolt against work. It does not figure in any text by any laissez-faire economist — Milton Friedman, Murray Rothbard, Richard Posner — because, in their terms, as they used to say on Lost in Space, “it does not compute.”

If these objections, informed by the love of liberty, fail to persuade humanists of a utilitarian or even paternalist turn, there are others which they cannot disregard. Work is hazardous to your health, to borrow a book title. In fact, work is mass murder or genocide. Directly or indirectly, work will kill most of the people who read these words. Between 14,000 and 25,000 workers are killed annually in this country on the job. Over two million are disabled. Twenty to twenty-five million are injured every year. And these figures are based on a very conservative estimation of what constitutes a work-related injury. Thus they don’t count the half-million cases of occupational disease every year. I looked at one medical textbook on occupational diseases which was 1,200 pages long. Even this barely scratches the surface. The available statistics count the obvious cases like the 100,000 miners who have black lung disease, of whom 4,000 die every year. What the statistics don’t show is that tens of millions of people have their lifespans shortened by work — which is all that homicide means, after all. Consider the doctors who work themselves to death in their late 50’s. Consider all the other workaholics.

Even if you aren’t killed or crippled while actually working, you very well might be while going to work, coming from work, looking for work, or trying to forget about work. The vast majority of victims of the automobile are either doing one of these work-obligatory activities or else fall afoul of those who do them. To this augmented body-count must be added the victims of auto-industrial pollution and work-induced alcoholism and drug addiction. Both cancer and heart disease are modern afflictions normally traceable, directly or indirectly, to work.

Work, then, institutionalizes homicide as a way of life. People think the Cambodians were crazy for exterminating themselves, but are we any different? The Pol Pot regime at least had a vision, however blurred, of an egalitarian society. We kill people in the six-figure range (at least) in order to sell Big Macs and Cadillacs to the survivors. Our forty or fifty thousand annual highway fatalities are victims, not martyrs. They died for nothing — or rather, they died for work. But work is nothing to die for.

State control of the economy is no solution. Work is, if anything, more dangerous in the state-socialist countries than it is here. Thousands of Russian workers were killed or injured building the Moscow subway. Chernobyl and other Soviet nuclear disasters covered up until recently make Times Beach and Three Mile Island—but not Bhopal—look like elementary-school air-raid drills. On the other hand, deregulation, currently fashionable, won’t help and will probably hurt. From a health and safety standpoint, among others, work was at its worst in the days when the economy most closely approximated laissez-faire. Historians like Eugene Genovese have argued persuasively that—as antebellum slavery apologists insisted—factory wage-workers in the Northern American states and in Europe were worse off than Southern plantation slaves. No rearrangement of relations among bureaucrats and businessmen seems to make much difference at the point of production. Serious implementation of even the rather vague standards enforceable in theory by OSHA would probably bring the economy to a standstill. The enforcers apparently appreciate this, since they don’t even try to crack down on most malefactors.

What I’ve said so far ought not to be controversial. Many workers are fed up with work. There are high and rising rates of absenteeism, turnover, employee theft and sabotage, wildcat strikes, and overall goldbricking on the job. There may be some movement toward a conscious and not just visceral rejection of work. And yet the prevalent feeling, universal among bosses and their agents and also widespread among workers themselves, is that work itself is inevitable and necessary.

I disagree. It is now possible to abolish work and replace it, insofar as it serves useful purposes, with a multitude of new kinds of free activities. To abolish work requires going at it from two directions, quantitative and qualitative. On the one hand, on the quantitative side, we have to cut down massively on the amount of work being done. At present most work is useless or worse and we should simply get rid of it. On the other hand — and I think this the crux of the matter and the revolutionary new departure — we have to take what useful work remains and transform it into a pleasing variety of game-like and craft-like pastimes, indistinguishable from other pleasurable pastimes except that they happen to yield useful end-products. Surely that shouldn’t make them less enticing to do. Then all the artificial barriers of power and property could come down. Creation could become recreation. And we could all stop being afraid of each other.

I don’t suggest that most work is salvageable in this way. But then most work isn’t worth trying to save. Only a small and diminishing fraction of work serves any useful purpose independent of the defense and reproduction of the work-system and its political and legal appendages. Thirty years ago, Paul and Percival Goodman estimated that just five percent of the work then being done — presumably the figure, if accurate, is lower now — would satisfy our minimal needs for food, clothing and shelter. Theirs was only an educated guess but the main point is quite clear: directly or indirectly, most work serves the unproductive purposes of commerce or social control. Right off the bat we can liberate tens of millions of salesmen, soldiers, managers, cops, stockbrokers, clergymen, bankers, lawyers, teachers, landlords, security guards, ad-men and everyone who works for them. There is a snowball effect since every time you idle some bigshot you liberate his flunkies and underlings also. Thus the economy implodes.

Forty percent of the workforce are white-collar workers, most of whom have some of the most tedious and idiotic jobs ever concocted. Entire industries, insurance and banking and real estate for instance, consist of nothing but useless paper-shuffling. It is no accident that the “tertiary sector,” the service sector, is growing while the “secondary sector” (industry) stagnates and the “primary sector” (agriculture) nearly disappears. Because work is unnecessary except to those whose power it secures, workers are shifted from relatively useful to relatively useless occupations as a measure to ensure public order. Anything is better than nothing. That’s why you can’t go home just because you finish early. They want your time, enough of it to make you theirs, even if they have no use for most of it. Otherwise why hasn’t the average work week gone down by more than a few minutes in the last sixty years?

Next we can take a meat-cleaver to production work itself. No more war production, nuclear power, junk food, feminine hygiene deodorant — and above all, no more auto industry to speak of. An occasional Stanley Steamer or Model T might be all right, but the auto-eroticism on which such pest-holes as Detroit and Los Angeles depend is out of the question. Already, without even trying, we’ve virtually solved the energy crisis, the environmental crisis and assorted other insoluble social problems.

Finally, we must do away with far and away the largest occupation, the one with the longest hours, the lowest pay and some of the most tedious tasks around. I refer to housewives doing housework and child-rearing. By abolishing wage-labor and achieving full unemployment we undermine the sexual division of labor. The nuclear family as we know it is an inevitable adaptation to the division of labor imposed by modern wage-work. Like it or not, as things have been for the last century or two it is economically rational for the man to bring home the bacon, for the woman to do the shitwork and provide him with a haven in a heartless world, and for the children to be marched off to youth concentration camps called “schools,” primarily to keep them out of Mom’s hair but still under control, but incidentally to acquire the habits of obedience and punctuality so necessary for workers. If you would be rid of patriarchy, get rid of the nuclear family whose unpaid “shadow work,” as Ivan Illich says, makes possible the work-system that makes it necessary. Bound up with this no-nukes strategy is the abolition of childhood and the closing of the schools. There are more full-time students than full-time workers in this country. We need children as teachers, not students. They have a lot to contribute to the ludic revolution because they’re better at playing than grown-ups are. Adults and children are not identical but they will become equal through interdependence. Only play can bridge the generation gap.

I haven’t as yet even mentioned the possibility of cutting way down on the little work that remains by automating and cybernizing it. All the scientists and engineers and technicians freed from bothering with war research and planned obsolescence should have a good time devising means to eliminate fatigue and tedium and danger from activities like mining. Undoubtedly they’ll find other projects to amuse themselves with. Perhaps they’ll set up world-wide all-inclusive multi-media communications systems or found space colonies. Perhaps. I myself am no gadget freak. I wouldn’t care to live in a pushbutton paradise. I don’t want robot slaves to do everything; I want to do things myself. There is, I think, a place for labor-saving technology, but a modest place. The historical and pre-historical record is not encouraging. When productive technology went from hunting-gathering to agriculture and on to industry, work increased while skills and self-determination diminished. The further evolution of industrialism has accentuated what Harry Braverman called the degradation of work. Intelligent observers have always been aware of this. John Stuart Mill wrote that all the labor-saving inventions ever devised haven’t saved a moment’s labor. Karl Marx wrote that “it would be possible to write a history of the inventions, made since 1830, for the sole purpose of supplying capital with weapons against the revolts of the working class.” The enthusiastic technophiles — Saint-Simon, Comte, Lenin, B.F. Skinner — have always been unabashed authoritarians also; which is to say, technocrats. We should be more than skeptical about the promises of the computer mystics. They work like dogs; chances are, if they have their way, so will the rest of us. But if they have any particularized contributions more readily subordinated to human purposes than the run of high tech, let’s give them a hearing.

What I really want to see is work turned into play. A first step is to discard the notions of a “job” and an “occupation.” Even activities that already have some ludic content lose most of it by being reduced to jobs which certain people, and only those people, are forced to do to the exclusion of all else. Is it not odd that farm workers toil painfully in the fields while their air-conditioned masters go home every weekend and putter about in their gardens? Under a system of permanent revelry, we will witness the Golden Age of the dilettante which will put the Renaissance to shame. There won’t be any more jobs, just things to do and people to do them.

The secret of turning work into play, as Charles Fourier demonstrated, is to arrange useful activities to take advantage of whatever it is that various people at various times in fact enjoy doing. To make it possible for some people to do the things they could enjoy, it will be enough just to eradicate the irrationalities and distortions which afflict these activities when they are reduced to work. I, for instance, would enjoy doing some (not too much) teaching, but I don’t want coerced students and I don’t care to suck up to pathetic pedants for tenure.

Second, there are some things that people like to do from time to time, but not for too long, and certainly not all the time. You might enjoy baby-sitting for a few hours in order to share the company of kids, but not as much as their parents do. The parents meanwhile profoundly appreciate the time to themselves that you free up for them, although they’d get fretful if parted from their progeny for too long. These differences among individuals are what make a life of free play possible. The same principle applies to many other areas of activity, especially the primal ones. Thus many people enjoy cooking when they can practice it seriously at their leisure, but not when they’re just fueling up human bodies for work.

Third — other things being equal — some things that are unsatisfying if done by yourself or in unpleasant surroundings or at the orders of an overlord are enjoyable, at least for a while, if these circumstances are changed. This is probably true, to some extent, of all work. People deploy their otherwise wasted ingenuity to make a game of the least inviting drudge-jobs as best they can. Activities that appeal to some people don’t always appeal to all others, but everyone at least potentially has a variety of interests and an interest in variety. As the saying goes, “anything once.” Fourier was the master at speculating about how aberrant and perverse penchants could be put to use in post-civilized society, what he called Harmony. He thought the Emperor Nero would have turned out all right if as a child he could have indulged his taste for bloodshed by working in a slaughterhouse. Small children who notoriously relish wallowing in filth could be organized in “Little Hordes” to clean toilets and empty the garbage, with medals awarded to the outstanding. I am not arguing for these precise examples but for the underlying principle, which I think makes perfect sense as one dimension of an overall revolutionary transformation. Bear in mind that we don’t have to take today’s work just as we find it and match it up with the proper people, some of whom would have to be perverse indeed.

If technology has a role in all this, it is less to automate work out of existence than to open up new realms for re/creation. To some extent we may want to return to handicrafts, which William Morris considered a probable and desirable upshot of communist revolution. Art would be taken back from the snobs and collectors, abolished as a specialized department catering to an elite audience, and its qualities of beauty and creation restored to integral life from which they were stolen by work. It’s a sobering thought that the Grecian urns we write odes about and showcase in museums were used in their own time to store olive oil. I doubt our everyday artifacts will fare as well in the future, if there is one. The point is that there’s no such thing as progress in the world of work; if anything, it’s just the opposite. We shouldn’t hesitate to pilfer the past for what it has to offer, the ancients lose nothing yet we are enriched.

The reinvention of daily life means marching off the edge of our maps. There is, it is true, more suggestive speculation than most people suspect. Besides Fourier and Morris—and even a hint, here and there, in Marx — there are the writings of Kropotkin, the syndicalists Pataud and Pouget, anarcho-communists old (Berkman) and new (Bookchin). The Goodman brothers’ Communitas is exemplary for illustrating what forms follow from given functions (purposes), and there is something to be gleaned form the often hazy heralds of alternative/appropriate/intermediate/convivial technology, like Schumacher and especially Illich, once you disconnect their fog machines. The situationists — as represented by Vaneigem’s Revolution of Everyday Life and in the Situationist International Anthology — are so ruthlessly lucid as to be exhilarating, even if they never did quite square the endorsement of the rule of the workers’ councils with the abolition of work. Better their incongruity, though, than any extant version of leftism, whose devotees look to be the last champions of work, for if there were no work there would be no workers, and without workers, whom would the left have to organize?

So the abolitionists will be largely on their own. No one can say what would result from unleashing the creative power stultified by work. Anything can happen. The tiresome debater’s problem of freedom vs. necessity, with its theological overtones, resolves itself practically once the production of use-values is coextensive with the consumption of delightful play-activity.

Life will become a game, or rather many games, but not — as it is now—a zero/sum game. An optimal sexual encounter is the paradigm of productive play. The participants potentiate each other’s pleasures, nobody keeps score, and everybody wins. The more you give, the more you get. In the ludic life, the best of sex will diffuse into the better part of daily life. Generalized play leads to the libidinization of life. Sex, in turn, can become less urgent and desperate, more playful. If we play our cards right, we can all get more out of life than we put into it; but only if we play for keeps.

Workers of the world… relax!

first published on inspiracy.com

November 8, 2008

helgé janssen on the lesbian scene in sms sugar man

Filed under: 2008 - sms sugar man,helgé janssen,reviews — ABRAXAS @ 5:13 pm

Anna, Grace and SELENE represent three aspects of the ANIMA and centrally the ANIMA is personified as DIANA the Roman Goddess.

Diana in fact means Goddess.

Diana: Roman Goddess of Light, Moon Goddess, Queen of Heaven, Lunar Virgin (note that to the Romans, “virgin” meant a woman who had never been married or pregnant, not a woman who had never had sex), Goddess of Wildwood, Divine Huntress, Protector of Animals, Lady of Beasts.

Kaganof is not questioning the moral (social) standing of these women as prostitutes. And yet, while presenting them within a narrowly defined context he nudges the viewer to look behind the facade:

“This is Grace….she thinks she’s a man…..”

“I’m not a woman, I’m a cat…..”

“This is Anna, my favourite Sugar….”

If anything (in this film and possibly for Kaganof generally) prostitutes represent an extracted poetic link to a vital Dionysian energy which gains strength through not only a belief in its own inherent dynamic prowess, but also from the empowering results of its actions. This aesthetic approach reverberates within the psychosexual/cosmogonic role that prostitutes have performed in our society at large: the oldest profession in the world.

As such these three character portrayals represent an authentic dynasty which resonates and refocuses female mythology. SELENE is the Moon Goddess and Grace the Warrior Goddess. Anna represents the Lunar Virgin aspect of Diana.

Both Leigh Graves as Grace and Deja Bernhardt as SELENE meet the challenge of representing these underlying mythologies with performances that are nothing short of a tour de force. Further, it is the chemistry of these two women that drive and magnify the narrative inexorably, enhancing their on-screen presence and thereby the depth and import of SMS Sugar Man, the film. It is Deja who perfectly captures the poetic power of Kaganof’s text, and Leigh who perfectly demonstrates the many sides of Diana: vixen, goddess, protector, man hater. In this sense it could be argued that Leigh’s role is the more challenging of the two. However, the roles are so perfectly counterbalanced, so equal in gravitas, that this distinction would become a meaningless exercise. It is fitting and exactly correct that they should express their ‘oneness’ in a hedonistic surge of erotic (never pornographic!!) sexual abandonment. This scene ramifies deep with the echelons of goddess mythology and is absolutely true to its cosmology within a thoroughly modern context: hence the appearance of Anna within the layering collage of the filmography within this scenario. They all stem from the same archetype, and as such they demonstrate the unifying power of their ‘single-mindedness’ which stands in direct contrast to Sugar Man’s dissolution.

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The power of this scene is further enhanced by the Tuxedomoon penned track “In a manner of speaking”, here presented with the poignant Nouvelle Vague cover version.

For further enlightening input on the role of DIANA go to:

www.covenofthegoddess.com

p.s.: I find it a little disturbing (sometimes) as to how far one needs to ‘explain’ things in a South African context because all too often one is surprised at how ‘impressed’ South Africans are, and how beguiled they are of surface reality – a condition possibly more evident in Durban than other parts of the country??

Perhaps this is all just another layer in the destruction that has been wrought by apartheid where people obtained an education without having to be intelligent and who now (sadly) occupy positions in our society where they feel threatened by (and therefore block) anything they cannot understand?

I therefore find it necessary to state that in my opinion Kaganof is not ‘using’ mythology as in ‘name dropping’. If anything Kaganof is doing the opposite: he is ‘using’ surface reality to unveil (trigger) undercurrents of meaning, the pursuit of which is not absolutely essential to the enjoyment of film itself, but which is there never-the-less for those who wish to delve deeper. It is this deeper reality which makes the film an extremely satisfying one and which is sustained at every level of analysis. I feel completely the opposite about the disastrously titled film by del Toro “Pan’s Labyrinth” (please refer to my review on my site under ‘reviews’ – the Devil’s Labyrinth) where a deeper analysis defies logic and one is only left with the veneer of a ‘beautifully costumed’ film.

The more I delve into SMS Sugar Man the more it becomes evident that this film is possibly Kaganof’s magnum opus.

this review first appeared on helge’s website

THEY ARE IN THERE AND THEY ARE DANGEROUS

Filed under: literature,nikhil singh — ABRAXAS @ 12:55 am

[www.myspace.com/htrk2 for the preferable soundtrack to this piece of writing]

I staggered out the front of The Pit, immediately noticing a bald woman sitting on the outside steps. She was wearing a cheap black suit and tie. Her shirt was soiled with bright blue fluid. I heard her whisper something. Something about bad television signals. At least those were the words I heard. I walked away, across the vacant lot, through the vast support system colonnades, beneath the roaring highways. The pylon billboard soared; a mechanized Babel of electric sugar. The slipstream screams of the cars echoed overhead, crumbling down like an endless barrage of reckless, low flying aircraft. I found the car where I’d parked it – behind a row of abandoned, truck sized dumpsters. I climbed in, started it up and drove off.

I stopped at a petrol station and entered the seven eleven to buy a carton of cigarettes. Rows of cartoonish, migraine coloured bottles made me dizzy. The smell of frying donuts hit me like a wall. I moved down pillbox sweet aisles in the sanitized light, trying to find something cold to drink. I was still numb to the scene in the bedroom. But it disturbed me that I might have cut that girl and not even remembered. Bright neon stuck like glue to my retina. Refurbished bodies leered down at me from shiny magazines like dead undersea creatures. I slowly realized that the cashier was staring at my hand. Two droplets of blood had fallen on the counter top. Vivid as miniature crimson jellyfish on the gleaming white linoleum. I saw them inching slowly over the edge with soft sucking noises looking for the bloody shorelines in my palm. Digital counters beeped and loomed monstrously. I paid for the cigarettes and left.

A day passes. Then another. Then three or four more. I am still thinking of the girl in the bedroom. I start on the first series of glazes. I find that I have been washing my hands too much. Despite the cuts. I wash them thoroughly with soap and antibacterial dishwashing liquid and then ten minutes later I find myself scrubbing them again in case I missed some dirt under my fingernails. Dirt breeds bacteria. There are microscopic kingdoms. The first glaze I prepare is a rich copper-rust coloured sepia tone I have mixed out of pear and apple green oils combined with a fair amount lemon yellow and cadmium orange. Sometimes I find that I’m washing my hands four or five times every half-hour. I have been watching one particular French film over and over. Constantly rewinding and replaying my favourite scenes. I feel like I am in some form of active cryogenic suspension. I am able to operate, but I am falling through a slow, sustained stasis. I can’t really remember how long I’ve been feeling like this. Time seems to speed up and slow down for no apparent reason. I darkened the glaze with a burned umber primer and diluted it with thinners, which I feel works much more effectively than linseed oil in this case. I discovered that I have difficulty in distinguishing the day from the night if all the blinds and black curtains are closed. I think time carries little or no meaning for me these days. Like an hour of high resolution tape that is being constantly looped. The same minutes. Replayed over and over from different angles. I wear surgical gloves when I paint. I feel like I’ve stopped aging, and the prospect of this looped time frightens me more deeply than any other aspect of this limbo I’ve found myself in. The film I’ve been watching and re-watching is about a young woman living in a futuristic Paris tenement who discovers that the man she has been living with has been dead for over twelve years. Constant usage of the thinners leaves me often very light-headed and disorientated. I am sometimes unsure of my exact surroundings. Evocative high resolution shots of high-tech stainless steel elevator mechanisms and penthouse views of highways shot through a blue filter. The French girl has a futuristic Cleopatra haircut and masturbates under a deep blue light with a sleek, chrome handheld device. I am still thinking of the girl in the bedroom. A tiny red light blinks along the chromed side of the device. Slow shots of cigarette smoke behind tinted glass and long airless corridors. My hand is healing nicely. I use the glaze on the details of the cross. The cross is intricate and vaguely Coptic. I have used brassy ochre accents against dark, metallic bronze tones. Blackened yellow-gold highlights run like scars of light. The constant washing has left my hands very antiseptic, and the cuts on my palm have remained uninfected. The cross contrasts exquisitely with the creamy fleshtone image of Manon’s body; which I have elongated unnaturally. The hot water stings in my cuts. The expression on Manon’s face as she is crucified remains serene and dark. Like she is sleeping with her eyes open. Red rims and a blue mouth. I fall asleep now and then without noticing that I have. I am thinking of adding ornamental wings to her cross. Large black wings, ragged as sails. The thinners leaves me extremely light-headed. The French girl smokes behind vast panels of polarized glass overlooking a system of highways. My palm didn’t need stitches. I think I’m running out of vermilion paint. I light another cigarette. The cross contrasts beautifully with Manon’s long bare stomach. The room’s starting to get stale with them. It disturbs me that I might have cut that girl and not remembered doing it. Feels like weeks ago. I wash my hands with…overlooking a system of highways. Ten times an hour. A slow, sustained…smoking near the. Deep blue light on the chrome device. Bronze highlights. Constantly rewinding and…Washing my hands with…Then I am not… High resolution dirt under my fingernails. High resolution. Burned umber. Minutes. Different angled…I use the glaze on…

The phone started ringing. I woke up and slid off the kitchen counter where I had been sleeping, moved jiltingly into the lounge and found the phone. I answered it. The line was very bad and it crackled and hissed.

“Hello?” I asked in a voice as dry as paper.

There was a hollow electronic silence. Filled with crackling.

“Hello?” I asked again, softer this time, sensing something I couldn’t describe

I listened and could make out the faint, faraway sound of someone crying. Slow, suppressed painful breathing. A terrible and desperate sadness filled the hollow, crackling void of the phone line.

“Manon..?” I whispered. “…is that you?”

The line cut off sharply and my ear was filled with a piercing disconnected tone. I slowly replaced the receiver. Frowning and trying to wake myself into a cognitive state. I went and brewed myself a cup of bitter coffee. The phone rang again while I was making it. I went to answer it, but it stopped ringing before I could answer. I’m thinking of buying an electron-relay phone. Then I can be reached anywhere. Even at the bottom of the ocean.

A day or two dissolved before I decided to go back to the Pit. The phone had rung again over the last few nights. Once or twice I think. But I couldn’t get to it in time to answer. I needed to speak to Manon about that night in the bedroom. Who was that girl? The one she had introduced me to. I needed to clarify what had happened during the night. I needed to know what she had done to that girl. I needed to know what I had done. I took a few boxes of cigarettes to put in the car. I put on one of my black jackets and a clean pair of black pants. I then retrieved my car keys from one of the black paintboxes. I sliced some cold octopus out of the fridge and ate parts of it. Then I moved down to the underground garage and into the car. The lift to the garage had moved with the deep electric hum of heavy machinery and I got the unpleasant sensation of being inside one of the moving components of a vast video camera. They say that an octopus is five times more intelligent than a dog. I hadn’t driven the car for a week or two, but the engine caught like a blade and purred deep under the sleek hood.

When I got back to the Pit, a regular called Moll was in the kitchen making tea. He gave me a vague and vacant look and poured sugar mechanically into his plastic thermos. Moll was constantly working on highway schematics for some technical book he was writing about the road systems. He used to design road structures for the government, but now I wasn’t sure if he did anything other than work on his book. He looked shabby and unshaven in his grey overalls. I went up the spiral stairs but hesitated outside the door to the room. I thought I felt a charge of mild electricity, like static, in my stomach as I turned the handle, but it passed so quickly I was sure that I’d just imagined it. The room was empty. Manon was conspicuously absent. So was the whip thin girl. I was so sure that they’d both still be entangled on the bed, still frozen in that unspeakably insectile moment. Like a film left on pause. But they weren’t. For a moment I couldn’t believe that they weren’t. Manon wasn’t there. Neither was the whip thin girl with black lipstick. I had the frightening feeling that they’d been erased somehow. Recorded over. The bed was stripped and all the sheets and bedding lay scrunched into a soiled heap in the corner like badly bleached skin. The worn striped mattress was askew atop the rusty spring base. A scattering of used syringes and a cold molten mess of candles lay on the floor. Near the bed. A pellucid underwater light filtered through the window and cracked walls. A heavy fecal animal smell contaminated the room. Cigarette butts lay around the floor like iguana droppings. I could also smell faded make up and the lingering ghost of perfume below the rank stench. I closed the door and went downstairs. I considered the possibility that Severance was in one of the other rooms, but I knew from past experience that this was unlikely. I went back downstairs to the sunken lounge. Moll was crouched down over some highway blueprints he’d spread out on the floor. He was scribbling illegible numerations and footnotes across the translucent paper. The top of his balding head was burned pink and flaky with wisps of grey like fibrous fungus. Baxter was sitting on the couch nursing a cup of coffee. At the sight of me he leapt to his feet and beamed broadly in a fast and shaking smile. There was a shining red rim around his bulging eyes, which vibrated behind elegant and expensive prescription glasses. He was wearing a stained silk tie.
“Yes oh yes it’s you its you hello my friend..” he said in a fast burst of code.
“How you doing buddy pal my friend huh?”
His designer suit was soiled and crumpled. His triangular bone of a face was unwashed and hadn’t seen a razor in a while. He grabbed my limp hand and shook it hard. The dim lights caught his glasses like oil as he nodded his head furiously.
“Have you seen Manon?” I asked him, my throat dry.
“Fucking bitch wouldn’t give me head she’s out be back in a while I think you want some devil dandruff some coke?”
I shook my head and sat down on the couch. I noticed a fly inching slowly across low tabletop. It sidestepped the glutinous swampy crescents of blackening coffee stains and crumbling hillocks of ash, trawling the greased surface with its segmented tongue. Baxter sat down and was quiet for a while. The sound of Moll’s scribbling pen sounded like moths dying in an electric trap. The fly finds a miniscule pink splatter of candy glued like excrement to the table. It unfolds its origami tongue and vomits buckets of anticoagulant. I feel sick and on edge. Baxter’s going to start talking to me. Any minute now. The candy dissolves into the vomit like melting plastic.
“So I was what was I doing I was riding the monorails across town cos see I can’t simply can’t drive the fucking…no more it kills me and I was riding the trains and shit…” Baxter says.
“…And I’m eating junk and mini donuts and drinking diet cola and eating candy tots and sugar out of the packets and I’m doing coke in the trains I mean monorails.”
He stops for a long second and seems to be staring at something.
“I’m moving in here permanently.” He says to me slowly, annunciating each word.
I look at him.
“I’m doing an experiment you know an experiment on myself so I can…so I can…do something to myself…so I can…do something.”
He gets up and takes hold of my arm.
“Come see.” He says and pulls me up.
I stand there looking at him. The fly buzzes into the air and crawls over his face vomiting candy over his face.
“Come see.” He says and ushers me up the velveteen spiral staircase. He leads me to a previously disused room down the passage and up some more rickety stairs. We go into the room. The walls are filthy and the stained floorboards are covered with plastic sheeting. A naked bulb swings from the ceiling. An expensive waterbed sits before a huge black television set. There’s a neat pile of antiquated videotapes stacked near the set. He walks in before me.
“Beautiful.” he says flinging a dirty sleeve motion at a pristine vintage television. ” 20 inch screen dual tuners stylish design it’s a Sony a KV-214 VU dual tuners videoplus plus PDC timer programming teletext…”
He waves a huge remote control in front of his grinning face.
“…front panel auxiliary input sockets NTSC format playback auto/manual tuning on/off timerautomaticheadcleaningautorepeatandoptimum pictureadjustment and all the extra facilities youcouldwant except long play…” he trails off staring at me with his bulging spectacled eyes. He rubs them behind the lenses and blows his nose on a silk handkerchief. Long blackened loops of mucus stick to his nose and glasses. He looks at me.
“A 14 inch single tuner version was also manufactured….” He says sadly.
Then he sits on the bed and regards me solemnly.
“I’m trying to eradicate my sexual responses through mastubatory therapy I’m trying to get to a stage that I hope when I can spontaneously ejaculate when I see this particular advert on television…”
He points the remote control at the television and the inbuilt video comes to life with a subdued click and hum. I have the unpleasant sensation of being caught inside one of the moving components. The screen flickers to life. A smooth doctor voice-over comes on. ‘There are unseen microscopic bacteria living and multiplying in your toilet’s cistern…’ I hear Baxter mouthing along with the voice-over and close up shots of bacteria under a microscope flash onto the screen. Synthesized danger music. The garish pink bacteria writhe and blossom like alien life forms in amniotic fluids. ‘They are in there and they are dangerous. You must defend yourself…’ A toilet flushes in slow motion.
“I’m jerking off to this advert one maybe two hundred times a day only this advert I want to be in control of my impulses I want to be in control and get to the stage where I can spontaneously come and no fucking cuntheaded cuntfaced smiling bitch can get me by the balls and I can only jerking off to this advert no other sexual stimulus I ca…”
Bacteria multiplying in the sick soup like atomic amoebas. Then it cuts back to a shot of a pristine white toilet bowl and a hand holding a bright blue lozenge comes into rapid focus with triumphant electronic music.
‘..just one of these in your toilet’s cistern and you..’
Crystalline blue water floods the basin in slow motion. The bacteria fill the screen. Pulsing villi shiver and gibber madly. They wriggle and die in the protoplasm and fade to a white screen. The picture skips and a smooth doctor voice-over comes in as the advert repeats itself. Looped tape constantly replaying the same moments. High resolution bacteria blossoming across the screen like atomic mushrooms. Blue lozenge.
‘…are unseen microscopic bacteria living and multi..’
I become aware of a wet frenzied flapping noise. I turn my head. Baxter has unzipped his fly and is masturbating frantically on the edge of the bed. Weird pseudopodia warp and melt. His eyes are glued to the screen and his legs are pressed tightly together, Italian loafers pidgeon toed as his hand flies up and down the skinny shaft of his fish coloured member.
‘They are in there and they are dangerou…’
Blue water floods the screen in slow motion bacteria slipping and self destructing in the anaesthesia.
‘..just one of th…’
Fades to white and a smooth doctor’s voice-over comes on as the tape loops over and ov…Baxter ejaculates all over his designer crotch with a stifled splutter. He gasps in harsh, sharp sucks and falls jerkingly back onto the rolling liquid bed.
‘..living and multiplying in…’
Bacteria gibber and quake in the spew of their internal fluids. Slow motion blue water. Baxter rolls over. His back to me. Rising and rolling sickeningly on the waterbed. Blue lozenge and triumphant electronic music. He is saying something. Garish video bacteria exploding mutant jellyfish in contaminated oceans.
“..just just just…just…” come his stifled grunts.
I go down the rickety stairs and into the cramped yellow room. I can hear Moll scribbling furiously on the crinkling blueprints. Moving on his knees. I can hear the flies vomiting on sugar in the kitchen. I can hear the smooth doctor voice-over. I lie down on the worn striped mattress. Bacteria dying in slow motion inside of me.

I dream short sharp video bytes of flat plastic hamburgers and chocolate wrapper tamaguchi and radiation tested mineral water. Television satellites in blue sanitizers dissolving in bright red neon frequencies and slow motion skeletons like spider husks dying in the chemical light. I wake up and it’s night. Dead flashing neon glare burns dimly into the cold room. My head is filled with tightly packed cottonwool. Manon is lying next to me. Watching me from the shadow of my head with colourless, neon glazed cats eyes. Her hands move over me like snakes in the darkness. The slow flashing neons strobe her long slender underwater body as it uncoils softly against me. Her mouth opens like a hot soft scar and closes over mine. Chilled limbs enfolding me like a thin many limbed anemone. Her legs butterfly in the drugged strobe flashes and a small volcanic aperture sucks me into her like a leech. And as she pulsates around me I can feel myself mortifying in stop motions, the blood turning to rust in my veins as my muscles atrophy. I can’t move as she writhes and flutters soundlessly in the halogen light like an injured moth in fast shaking edits, and my nerves oxidize and petrify as she kisses me in soft deep anticoagulant penetrations with her soft pointed origami tongue and fucks numbing insect narcotics intravenously into me. She blossoms up my spine like slow-acting venom as my mouth dissolves against hers like melting plastic as she slowly swallows my melting face like sucking candy. And I fall through the safety net of paralysis, through the caving mattress and the rotting floors and the echoing sub-basements into a rapid-eye-movement ocean of mortified video byte images. And as I slip and fall she wraps herself around my frozen form like a soft bodied virus. Falling with me into a soundless black vacuum of slowly fading afterimages.

I stop on the side of the freeway, on the verge. Sheer faces of concrete and twisted wire barriers barricade the world. A deluge of cars screeches past. Heavy, aerodynamic flashes of compacted metal and glass; like uncontrollable escape pods. Flashes of empty eyed passengers like partially exposed silver nitrate images. The air conditioner vents breathe out silent gas-cold air. Filtered windscreen skyveiw and gamma radiation. The cars roar past perpetually, in constant deafening bursts. I light a cigarette. Manon unbuckles her safety belt and slips it off. She raises a bare leg, resting the wafer-thin black lacquer sole of her shoe upon the gun-metal grey dashboard. The satin on her divides, collecting in smooth scrolls. The axis of hips exposes glowingly, like a negative. But the alabaster limb is marred with a tattoo of tiny pink holes. These pucker like spiracles along the smooth curve of her inner thigh. Like the vestigial leavings of some unspeakable evolution. Melancholic orchestral arrangements loom behind the slow crackle of the tape. Her snakeskin purse snaps open on her lap as she trawls the safety belt up, past her raised foot and between her legs. Till it lodges against the inside of her thigh, locking into the stripe of her underwear. The black nylon weave wraps around her thigh again, geometric and bloodless. She stretches out the buckle and I hold it to keep the strap from retracting. Cars flash past like shuddering cruise missiles. Their fading reverberations trembling through the road and door hydraulics and crashcouch infrastructures. Sunlight glints off the sleek black chassis and refracts in the sunfilters. The filters cast a subdued greenish chemical glare over half of the capsular cockpit. The leg is a bright, overexposed whiteness in all this diffusion. Crackling analog clips in. Extractor fans suck cigarette smoke through sharkgill vents. She extracts one of the disposable, pre-prepared syringes and taps it neurotically. I wind the seatbelt in slow, hard turns, spreading her limbs against the taut pull of the black nylon weave. The wide loops of the seatbelt-tourniquet carve reddening ridges into the whiteness. The foot arches. A black needle heel locks against the dashboard while thin toes hover like fingertips against a spotless windshield. My knuckles are growing white around the metal, quivering slightly. She locates a marble blue vein with probing fingers and slides the needle in smoothly. It hooks into the soft wax of her inner thigh like a limbless mosquito as she slowly depresses the plunger. As the cars rocket violently into a mechanized tarmac limbo. The plunger tacks soundlessly against a plastic hilt and I release the seatbelt. The buckle slingshots sharply, catching her hard across her jaw and snapping her head around. Her skull cracks loud and heavy against the window, the strap reeling her legs closed, whipping tight against luminescent skin. She lolls against the safety harness as her insides liquefy in slow, electric plasmabursts of hot mink syrup. She raises limp wrists against a convulsing throat. Expressions rivulate and settle, setting in automatically before shivering out. Fingers clasp like skeletal flowers against this melting wax face. Nerve reactions blossom like bullets under cling black as the overloaded spine arches her to breaking point against the tangle of straps. The syringe still waves in her loose fingers. A chaotic stylus tracing abysmal gradients in the enclosed space. The needle accidentally pierces her cheek at an oblique angle. It sinks in, to the plastic seal and I hear it scraping against the inside of her teeth. The raised foot slides slowly across the vista of a windshield as her ankles loosen from within. The needle of the heel scrapes slippery glass as she forgets her grip on the syringe. It hangs from her face for a second before sliding out, falling between the seat and the handbrake. A garter of red reptilian ridges fades slowly from existence as I start the engine and drive off the verge. And glide into the speedlanes all look the same. Like looped tape. Moving back into a stuttering fast-forward.

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A day slips past. I think three days have past. I think we’ve been driving around on the freeway for three days. The stainless steel lift is airless and silent as it moves up the dark shaft. I must arrive at my home. The pressure recedes as space slows and the heavy airlock doors hiss open. I think I left her lying on the side of the freeway. The long white antiseptic corridor stretches to both sides. I move down its lunar silent length to my apartment door. I think I left Manon in a seven eleven eating red lollipops and amphetamine. I needed to stop to wash my hands. My head hurt and I felt sick.

My door comes into view and I stop suddenly. There is a small black envelope lying on the carpet outside my door. I glance around warily. Long white tubes hum in regular subdued light niches. I approach it and lean over to pick it up. There is nothing written on either side of the envelope. In fact it is utterly featureless. I enter the apartment and sit on the couch. I put the envelope on the low table and stare at it. Someone left this outside my door for me to find. This makes me feel paranoid and violated. Something very bad is happening. I smoke three or four cigarettes and vomit before I could open it.

I think I have been hallucinating. Last week I thought someone sent me the skin of the girl from the pit. I hallucinated that someone had sent me a portion of flayed skin from the girl I was afraid I’d cut and not remembered. Someone left a package of bad meat outside my door and I hallucinated. I thought that it was the skin off the girl’s torso. It was veal I think. Rotting veal. Of course I have no way of knowing now. I think I put the meat in the incinerator. It’s not in my apartment anymore. Either way I can’t seem to find it. It’s gone. I must have done something with it. Something is happening to me. Something very bad is happening. I light a cigarette. I am slipping. I am…they are in there and they are dangerous. I must defend myself. I must pull myself out of this limbo I have found myself in. I ate some cold octopus out of the fridge. I hadn’t eaten in days. I went down to the underground garage and started my car. I hadn’t driven it for days but the engine caught like a blade. I drove to the Pit and found Manon naked and comatose in one of the corners. Cockroaches were crawling over her thighs and stomach. I couldn’t find her clothes so I wrapped some clear polymer sheeting around her inert form and pulled her up to her knees. Her eyes were rolled back, settled like oysters in their sockets. A thin webby tracer of drool leaked out of her open mouth. I got her down the stairs and outside. I had to support her with every step and almost dropped her on several occasions. Her limbs were those of a marionette and her doll’s head lolled sickeningly. The sheets billowed and collapsed like a shroud. I dragged her across the darkened lot as cars slashed deafeningly above. If I could just get us back on track. If I could just get us out of this hole then maybe I could…maybe I could… I pulled her into the car and she sprawled corpse-like across the crashcouch. I climbed in the car and started it up. The smell of burned plastic and internal fluids vapoured off her, filling the capsule. I drove back to the apartment in a numb haze. I managed to get her out and into the lift. One of her ankles slammed against the door frame as I was pulling her out. I saw a purplish bruise begin to slowly develop as I heaved her across the concrete. At one point while the lift was ascending, she slipped out of my grasp and collapsed heavily to the rubberised floor; like a puppet whose strings had been all of sudden hacked. I gathered up her limp limbs and insinuated my arms around her hollow torso. She wasn’t very heavy, but I felt weak and bilious. I got her up as the airlock doors hissed open and dragged her down the white and silent corridor. Her chin bumped repetitively on her breastbone, and the sound of her clashing teeth made irregular clacking noises. Her long bare legs trawled lazily across the carpet like the tendrils of a bluebottle. Once we were inside, I dropped her on the floor and went into the bathroom. I turned on the shower faucets and went back to fetch her into the bathroom. Her head cracked heavily against the toilet bowl as I let go of her to turn down the faucets. Steam filled the reflective room. I stripped off the fetid sheeting and manhandled her into the mirrored shower cubicle. She lay curled on her back in the cramped shower. Twisted in a backwards foetal position in the mirrors. Her skin pinkening as hot water bulleted and gushed over her stomach and face and slopped onto the floor. I threw the sheet into the bathtub and arranged her head so it was above the gathering waterline. I could see my reflections moving in the corners of my eyes, yet I could not meet my own gaze. The movements of those reflections seemed incongruous and disconnected from mine. The shower drain sucked and gurgled near her mouth. Steam clogged my eyes and face. I sprayed liquid soap over her and slid the glass shower door shut. Then I walked into the lounge and walked back to check that it was she who was naked and twisted in the shower and not me. That it was me who had dragged her across the mirrors and stripped her and not the other way around. I stared at her but couldn’t look in the reflections. I went into the lounge and collapsed onto the couch and lit a cigarette. I smoked it down to the filter and then moved to do what I had been dreading for so long.
I went into the bedroom and opened the secret drawer and got out the black box. I moved to unlock it, only to see that it was already open. My mouth was dry.

I stared at the empty envelope till my eyes hurt and I fell into a dreamless sleep in the dark. I could feel the memories straining against me and coming back like as I fell asleep in the dark. I felt myself being fish hooked momentarily out of limbo; up one level into the buried misery I had been forced to exhume in order to save myself. I woke up hours later, swimming muzzily into focus to find myself sprawled in the dark. The distant sound of the shower ebbed into my ears from faraway. I realized that I had forgotten about Manon. I stumbled to the bathroom and opened the shower door. She was still lying comatose in the gushing jets of now icy water. Her skin was pale, bluish and marbled. I had no idea how long she’d been lying in hissing cold water. I quickly turned off the faucets and got in to pick her up. Her skin felt squidlike and pebbled with goosebumps. Her lips had turned purple like faded bruises and her long thin fingers were stiff and bloodless as shrivelled wax. Her nipples were hard as stones. Little purplish pink stones. Hair hanging in short, jet coloured swollen strings. Her eyelids were slightly parted and her eyes were rolled back to the whites. I dragged her out onto the floor and pulled a towel down off the chrome bar. Her open lips and cheek were pressed coldly against the tiles, in the long glassy puddles. I pulled her out into the hall and dried her off. Her skin rashed pink and hypothermic under the rough towel. I turned off the lights and sat beside her immobile form. And in a tiny flaring second, for a luminescent moment, I actually feel nothing whatsoever. I feel nothing at all.
Then the walls come crashing down again.
And I’m back in hell.

I woke up in the morning light, blue-grey and warm through the curtains I’d forgotten to draw. I climbed out of bed and her arms and legs slip away from me. I rubbed my eyes and looked at her. She was sleeping peacefully beneath the sheets. I felt as if I’d accomplished something. She looked clean and innocent as a sleeping child’s doll. She had felt warm under the blankets, pressed against me. In rare moments like these I felt that there was actually a chance. A chance that I could be a real person. That I might actually become real again. I went and made myself coffee. Then I came back into the room and slowly pulled off the blanket till she lay exposed in the glow of the morning. Then I started to draw her with Indian ink on a sheet of smoked glass. And when I was finished, I looked at the glowing naked figure I had drawn. I felt my sense of accomplishment begin to slowly falter into an oily neutral as I saw the completed picture. As I saw that I had accidentally drawn my own corpse. I drop the sheet of glass from an open window and watch it the image fall to the systems of highways. It shatters soundlessly in the world below.

Manon is sitting at the black and glass table in the lounge. Her eyes are quite dark underneath but she wears her recovery with chic abandon. It’s late afternoon, I think, and I have cooked her a small plate of steak fajita and nutmeg seaweed grilled in grapeseed oil. I have made her some bitter green tea. Gunpowder tea from the Kwong Sang province. Not the best. Vitamin E is an excellent antioxidant. I am making things normal. If used in conjunction with selenium, vitamin E doubles its effectiveness. She smiles at me and I try to smile back. My mouth feels like its full of sawdust and guilt. I have put her into a soft white toweling robe. Her hair is mussed like a French prostitute in a cheap Paris detective story I watched last week. The prostitute was stabbed to death in her face halfway through the fifth scene. I have sat her down and she looks as if she’s somehow decreased in age. I make her eat some soft gel vitamin E capsules and three pecan nuts. I pull the blackened fajita and crispy seaweed out of the oven and set the baking tray on the stainless steel sink. Hot juice runs like stale steak blood into the faucet. Oil like melting mammary matter. I catch myself. One pecan nut contains enough selenium to last a person several days. I pull off the oven gloves and take out a stylish black plate and some designer cutlery. Maybe it was walnuts I was supposed to give her. I’m…not…sure…I slide the steak and seaweed onto the plate and sprinkle some pine nuts over them. I pour out a tall glass of tomato juice and carry everything into the dining area inside the large lounge. She looks up from inside the oversized robe and gives me a hangover smile. I have the unnerving sensation that I am about to feed a cat or some type of household pet. I set the plate in front of her.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I think that she is wary of my mothering. By my looking after her. She likes it. I pour antioxidants down her thin long throat and watch her eat. She eats the grilled steak so slowly. Like she is chewing tinfoil. It hurts to watch her eat. Feeling her mouth divide the salt from the oil. The rosemary from the carcinogens. The protein from the saturated fats. The fork never even touches her teeth. I sit down and light a cigarette.
“How is it?” I ask slowly.
She gives me a photogenic smile through the chewing.
“Its delicious,” she says.
I force out a response-smile. She eats with small movements of her wrists and neck moving side to side as her mouth pouts over the meager forkfulls. A constant chain of tiny bites. Like a praying mantis eating a spider’s head. I feel sick. I keep expecting her to open double jointed jaws and vomit over the food. Unfurl a long, hollow butterfly tongue and suck up the dissolving meat and the partially melted plate. I think I am losing my mind.
“You should drink the tomato juice,” I say with a dry mouth. “The V8 factor…it…its isotonic and provides a rich source of…vitamin C and…beta…carotene…”
I trail off.
“Are you all right?” she starts quietly and then stops, taking my hand in her smooth, cold fingers.
Her fingers feel like polished bones. Like delicate sea creatures. I want to retract my hand but it feels paralysed. She blows me a kiss and goes back to eating. I watch her drink the tomato juice. For a second I panic that I accidentally filled the glass with blood. She looks like a French vampire. Stale steak blood. Whip thin girl blood. She sprinkles in some black pepper. She is eating the blackened steak fajita I don’t remember buying. Wrapped in plastic in the back of the fridge. It looks just like veal. I need to wash my hands. I get up and go to the bathroom. I can hear her swallowing the thick cold red juice all the way. Small sips. Her tongue divides the pectin from the monosodium glutamate. The worchester sauce from its constituents. The iodised salt from the ferrous traces. I wash my hands over and over and over and over and ov…

I live…I live in the smoking ruins. I live in the smoking ruins of myself. I turn everything over on itself in the dark. She breathes softly at my side in the blackness as the words tumble like falling bricks through my head. The closed window blinds slice out deep blue slivered reflections of underwater light but everything else is in shadows and colourless syrup reality. She moves against me in her sleep and sometimes I forget that her hair is dark and that her eyes are mandarin green. Sometimes I am almost sure that the hair like frayed silk on my shoulders is burned honey blonde, and that she is a stranger I picked up while sleepwalking who watches me while I dream of nothing. I live in the smoking ruins of myself and I get up in the dark and it feels like I’m not moving. It’s difficult to judge the dimensions of the room. And although I move in a blackness that is silent and complete, I know that my shadow cannot be far behind me. Moving free in the dark, crawling along the walls and ceiling like a girl sized spider. Pacing me in catlike leaps and bounds with each faltering step I take. I fall asleep without noticing. I wake up in its webby arms. Her legs wrapped around me like a dead or unconscious spider as the blue slivers of aquatic light peel away the black like a dissolving scab. And her hands snake over me. Almost like a lover. But the dreadful sense that something vital is missing overwhelms whatever comfort there is in her soft reptile caresses. And when I sink into her, I become sure that I am dead.

November 7, 2008

Deon Maas interview – Protest is still alive and well in ‘Afrikaans’ music

Filed under: derek davey,music — ABRAXAS @ 7:55 pm

My first memory of Deon Maas is of him sitting scrunched up between the ceiling and the top of a built-in cupboard. He was perched up there, rather uncomfortably, somewhere around 1991, to watch a band I was playing in at the time. There was simply nowhere else for him to sit … the studio was filled with instruments, equipment and sweaty musicians. He was talent scouting for a record label at the time, and wasn’t afraid to go out on a limb.

He’s come a long way since then. As Deon points out in our interview ¬– conducted in his comfortable Linden house, in front of a roaring blaze, over a bottle of good red – he has carved himself out a significant niche in the Afrikaans market. That’s from his work in the music industry, writing columns for top papers like Rapport and Beeld, and from being a judge on the popular Idols television show.

Being a legend in the tiny South African lunchbox opens doors for him when he does his own interviews; he doesn’t get stuck at the secretary any more when he phones a company; the bosses return his calls.

That’s why he’s adamant that he wasn’t trying to make a name for himself or provoke (“I never write to provoke”) with his now-famous column about Satanism, which he says was actually about tolerance (for those who don’t know, Deon wrote a column which basically outlined how Satanists, under our new constitution, should not be discriminated against. An SMS campaign, orchestrated by an outraged dominee, put so much pressure on the paper it appeared in that Deon was ultimately fired).

“A lot of the stuff I have written has had reactions … I write on a satirical level … I write on a very emotional level, so I say things the way I want to say it …” says Deon, showing me the R40 000 Rolex he bought with the Rapport payout “given to make me fuck off and shut up”.

But anyway, Deon was getting bored with writing columns: “it was like, ok, cool, I have done all this shit, I mean how many columnists can actually claim to be the headline story on the newspaper, not even Bullard got that right, Rapport a week after they fired me, I was the main story, there were four pages in the newspaper dedicated just to me, and the whole issue, which was huge, it was ‘alright, this is how far I can get as a columnist’ …”

Did the reaction to the column surprise him? “Undoubtedly, I mean they were threatening to burn the trucks in the Platteland that took the newspapers there, they were threatening to burn down the cafes that stocked the newspaper, it was pretty hairy shit …”

And what did it show about our country? Three things: that Satan still scares the crap out of people, that South Africans are still as intolerant as they ever were, and thirdly, that if you get organized, that you can change things, referring to the dominee (priest) who began and ran the campaign against Deon’s tenure at Rapport, in reaction to his “un-Christian” column.

I think Deon is a bit disappointed with where we are today in SA. We still haven’t grown up, we still throw our toys if anything pisses us off: “I firmly go for the view that up until 1994, in this country, we couldn’t think for ourselves: the policeman and the teacher and the dominee (priest) thought for us, you know, no matter what colour you were … since 94, we have had the platform for open debate, but yet, South Africans don’t debate, if somebody says something that they don’t like, its like, ‘fuck you’, or ‘lets burn his house down’ or whatever, whereas these things should be open platform for debate you know, it should be about getting to know each other …”

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Still on the Christian theme, I question Deon on why Afrikaans music is less pirated than Gospel music. The theory goes that it is less pirated than gospel … because Afrikaans people are practicing Christians, and therefore moral, which hardly make sense, since Gospel lovers should also be, surely, practicing Christians?

Deon responds that the reason Afrikaners don’t pirate is based on common decency; Afrikaners are bought up with respect, taught to respect others and the belongings of others. It’s also a pride thing: Afrikaners like to buy an original cd to show they have the money, and to have the booklet to show their friends, to brag.

“You must understand that Afrikaners have money, no matter what people say about how disenfranchised they are and shit like that in the new South Africa, Afrikaans people have money.”

Not only do they have cash, their culture is booming. “Afrikaans” is the biggest selling music genre in South Africa. Just after 1994, in an era where many thought Afrikaans would die out, Deon persuaded his bosses at Tusk to start up an Afrikaans music division, and to sign up bands like Prophets of the City and Johannes Kerkorrel. Afrikaans is now, as Deon aptly puts it, “kicking the collective ass of every other language in South Africa”.

Mr Maas is extremely optimistic about what is happening to Afrikaans music: “Afrikaans is no longer a protected language any more, so its survival is up to how well people can exploit it commercially, and they seem to be doing that very successfully at the moment … and wait till the ‘coloured’ music catches up … it is still very contained in its own market at the moment … if you look at bands like Kallitz and Brasse Vannie Kaap, that music is incredibly good, and yet you just don’t hear it enough for it to be commercially viable, but that’s the next step, that is going to be the next phase of growth in Afrikaans as a language, when the doors open there as well, because the Afrikaans thing is still pretty much a closed shop, for white people, to a large extent …”

There’s quite a lot happening in Afrikaans culture right now that stirs up Deon’s blood, which reflects his values … artists like Rian Malan, Radio Kalahari Orkes, Fokofpolisiekar. This wasn’t always the case, by any means. There was a stage when Deon felt completely alienated from his own culture:

From rock spider to rock
How I got my Afrikaans back through music

“Afrikaners vroueslaners, skisofrene en politici, kom vergader hier en sing nou saam die wiegelied van anargie” (Andre Letoit)

The Poolclub was not a regular hangout. Just off Market Street, virtually unmarked and frequented by a clientele that were at best, well the kind of people who weren’t allowed in other places. This is where Afrikaans rock was born (some will say reborn) to a new audience that would spawn a whole new genre and politicise a language, split them in two and showed the government that not all Afrikaners were the same.

I’m standing in The Poolclub, the only people I still speak Afrikaans to are my parents and my wife. People I know and mix with frequently only find out months after they met me that I’m actually Afrikaans. I’m not hiding my Afrikanerdom; it just doesn’t exist for me anymore. I can find no music, movie, television or even a magazine in my mother tongue that marginally reflects what I’m about.

The rockiest Afrikaans band of my youth was Groep Twee, whose Dink Jy Darem Nog Aan My topped all the charts. I saw them live in the Bellville Civic Centre, dressed in matching brown striped shirts tucked into brown crimpelene pants with grasshopper shoes. One member, Sias Reyneke, died in a car accident like so many other Afrikaans artists, the other, Gert van Tonder, became the presenter for Wielie Walie. Anton Goosen started rocking my world but he shortly went off on a hippy route that this Afrikaans punk didn’t relate to.

The reason I’m in the Poolclub is because there’s a revolution going on in Afrikaans music. The lunatics have taken over the asylum. On Afrikaans radio they’re playing Carike Keuzenkamp but here there’s the smell of beer, cigarettes and anarchy. There are sideburns and safari suits, pseudo ethno bongos with African prints and grass bangles, rockers with boots all dressed in black. One morning the kitchen language of Afrikaans woke up and rediscovered itself amongst a bunch of trendies.

There is much discussion in the media and amongst Afrikaans music fans as to who wrote the first Afrikaans rock track. Some think it was Groep Twee, some credit Anton Goosen, but if you need to define a moment when Afrikaans music combined with rock became a movement rather than an individual, the birth of the Voelvry tour at the Poolclub, has to be recognised as a starting point.

The new movement of Afrikaans rock started on the cabaret stage – a place it would end up again for a lot of performers. Johannes Kerkorrel did the Black Sun in Berea, a major trendy hangout at that point to do subversive tunes that not only pissed on politics but religion too. He followed it up with Piekniek at Dingaan, at the fringe theatre at Grahamstown. Bernoldus Niemand was doing some stuff over there, Andre Letoit, at this stage mainly known as a writer is learning to play guitar to get his message across (by the way, an art he really never mastered). Afrikaans music up and until then, strictly controlled by the SABC, ATKV and FAK took a left turn by bus, driven by a non-government-approved driver.

Now remember that the government didn’t like dissent. People were dying in detention from “slipping on the soap while washing”. It was bad enough when the black ouks were dissenters, but now that had to cope with those in their own midst.

The troops were mobilised and the old boy network kicked into place. Most songs were banned from airplay by the SABC, at that stage the only broadcaster that played Afrikaans music. Venues were closed on them; security police were videotaping the concert audience – in part to identify political dissidents but also to intimidate. Television crews from Canada and England were rubbing shoulders with police cameramen to capture a low key uprising, even though they were doing it for different reasons.

The song that really got the movement going was a honky tonk, rock and roll ditty called Sit Dit Af. Even though the track Hillbrow from Johannes Kerkorrel en die Gereformeerde Blues Band’s debut album Eet Kreef would later turn up to be the real sleeper hit, Sit Dit Af was catchy, danceable and above all took the piss out of PW Botha – just not the kind of thing that you did at that stage of the game. And he even blasphemed on the record! This was the first generation that admitted that author Eugene Marais was a drug addict and that Paul Kruger wore an earring. The only cow these boere knew was the picture on the milk bottle…even dominees were denouncing them as satanistic blood drinkers.

From this anarchy emerged three names: Kerkorrel, Bernoldus Niemand, an English guy from the East Rand and the author Andre Letoit, who quickly reinvented himself as Koos Kombuis.

The impact of Voelvry was immeasurable in today’s terms. A natural youth revolution that started on the streets and because of media bans confined to word of mouth for it’s growth, it changed the music industry and threatened the status quo when it just wasn’t done – especially in Afrikaans.

Socially the music reconnected people with their own roots. It was more than just music; it was a societal change that reflected the time.

It was Afrikaners’ version of punk rock.

But it’s important to also recognise other bands of the time. Even though Voelvry is always portrayed as the definitive of what happened in Afrikaans rock at that time, it’s easy to forget influential groups like Koos and Joos Tonteldoos.

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Koos featured amongst other two famous Afrikaans actors, Marcel van Heerden and Gys de Villiers. The group was considered to be too out there for inclusion in the mainstream representation of what was Voelvry and therefore confined to a cassette only release that was sold in a brown paper bag. Lead vocalist Marcel van Heerden would recite reasons given by the police for the death of detainees, from Christopher van Wyk’s In Detention “he slipped on a bar of soap, he fell from the ninth floor”, to the ominous background of percussion and lamenting bass lines. Voelvry was about the pop revolution, but even they had fringes. Joos Tonteldoos, fronted by Paul Riekert, was way too hard, even though in today’s terms they would most probably get airplay on regional stations. Their hard driving rock and studenty lyrics were widely frowned upon by the very intellectual stalwarts of the New Movement. While mainstream Afrikaans music of the time took the highway, the rock scene panga’ed it’s way through the forest.

Voelvry disbanded amongst the clashing of egos, fights amongst friends and accusations of people hogging the limelight – all the usual stuff that Afrikaners have been fighting about for 150 years or so. What started out as politics soon became cash though with people like Mynie Grove, long a mainstay of the Carike Keuzenkamp variety, now decked out in black brought out a “rock” album – or at least her version of what rock should be. Kerkorrel did Bloudruk – his biggest selling album ever, Koos Kombuis did Niemandsland and it all culminated in a rock festival called Houtstok.

Houtstok represented the highlight of the new movement combined with the commercial exploitation. The SABC covered some of it, TV talent competition winner Phillip Moolman was introduced and stacks of people smoked dope, drank beer, lit fires and celebrated the new. An alternative Afrikaans movement had been born, sucked in by the capitalists and it would be the beginning of something new.

The subversion of the original ideas had started way before that. But there were also other forces at play. In 1992 the influential Afrikaans weekly, Vrye Weekblad, wrote an article of how the cultural organisations in cahoots with the SABC were making sure that this kind of music was not finding it’s way to the broader mainstream audience. All of a sudden the new rock movement found itself in a terrible predicament. It was too rock for Afrikaans radio and too Afrikaans for rock radio. This music, even though it had more in common with international trends than Afrikaans ones were never playlisted on 5FM (or Radio 5 as it was known then).

But at the same time the country was starting to go through major political changes. Old school media people had to show that they were down with the new dispensation Kerkorrel was lucky enough to be the chosen one. His album Bloudruk was featured in every conceivable way on every channel and station to show how cool the Afrikaans media really was. This lead to a lot of criticism from Voelvry co-hoots and new musicians. He had sold out and it was time to look for the next new thing.

While Kombuis was quietly carving a name for himself amongst the intelligentsia and party animals (the tales about his jorling are legendary and mostly true), darker things were brewing. When Battery 9 unleashed themselves on an unsuspecting public on 1 April 1995, it was no April Fool’s Joke. They were hard, unrelenting, socially and politically hardcore and had more in common with Nine Inch Nails than anything in their mother tongue ever. Valiant Swart and Piet Botha were embracing the blues, Battery 9 was going industrial – and there was a path for both of them.

Both Valiant and Piet had been quietly doing their thing on the side gaining popularity amongst fans before they received recognition through the media. Piet had the curious tie of having had a National Party minister as a dad, a genetic make-up that included alcoholism, honesty and the ability to convince people of your point of view. Valiant was just an ouk from Stellenbosch in love with cheap wine, madjat (cheap marijuana) and the spirit of a journeyman. Valiant kissed a lot of frogs before he got to the prince. Both him and Piet earned their stripes the hard way – by being on the road and building up a fanbase from the street up before having any notable releases.

At this stage the spotlight moved to Stellenbosch. Driven by the Voelvry ex-pat Dagga-Dirk Uys, the Wingerdstok festivals and compilations started gaining a lot of attention by both media and fans. The festivals were inevitably on wine farms and served as a showcase for new bands. Some of them lasting only a few gigs but leaving behind at least one or two songs of note. Unfortunately Uys’s inability to run a business soon put an end to this movement. And even though to this day he has a finger in a lot of pies, he has never regained the influence of that time.

In the meantime Anton Goosen was busy reinventing himself and asserting himself as the guy who invented Afrikaans rock. Even though some preferred to disagree, he was making political satire with the “Kommisie van Ondersoek” and even dueting with Lucky Dube.

After the 1994 elections radio started with a slow and conscious effort to phase Afrikaans music out. The selling off of SABC radio stations meant that playlisting was now in the hands of people who had a bone to pick with their Afrikaans bosses from the old era. Started by Peter de Nobrega at Highveld, followed by East Coast and Algoa and brought the full circle by KFM, even though it was never admitted. The reason usually given? “It’s not suited to our format”. South Africa, the only country in the world where one of it’s own languages doesn’t get played on pop radio. The odd video was still played on television, the print media was supporting it, but when it came to the most essential tool of selling music, radio the door was closed.

This however did not deter the Boere. They know how to beat the odds and the rise of campus radio, especially Tuks FM in the later half of the Nineties started serving as a new outlet for ideas. Tuks FM was different from the rest of the campus stations. Driven by a real sense of commercialism, dedicated student DJs and people who really loved music, this station played a huge role in the resurrection of Afrikaans music on radio. Followed (not so closely) by Matie FM, the centres of Afrikaans rock became Pretoria and Stellenbosch. In Bloemfontein it was being kept alive by Die Mystic Boer – a club named after a Valiant Swart song.

Afrikaans rock became a cottage industry, sold at gigs and small independent record stores, ignored by the big corporations and kept alive by labour of love labels like Wildebeest.

This time it took a woman to kick new life in the business. When Karen Zoid’s Afrikaners Is Plesierig was first heard by the public it unleashed a new revolution. Part punk, part sex goddess and part rocker, the single blew new life into a sagging movement. Helped by the vision of Geraas, an SABC2 music programme that did not discriminate against any form of music (on an ideal programme you’d see Patricia Lewis, some unknown one hit wonder of the week and Paul Riekert) the new voice found a new media channel to stimulate it’s growth. The media started using terms like the “Zoid-generation” in the same way that the American media refers to Douglas Coupland’s Generation X. In it’s wake followed Brixton Moord en Roof, Spinnekop, Akkedis, Trike and a host of other bands that will be remembered in history for one or two songs by a small cult audience. Even the magnificent Kobus hardly dented sales charts with their hit Sondagmiddag.

But perhaps all is not lost. Afrikaans punkers, Fokofpolisiekar became the first Afrikaans band to be played on 5FM – even though they are only called Polisiekar. But does one swallow make the summer? Kerkorrel and Bernoldus Niemand are dead, Piet and Kombuis cleaned up, Valiant became a heartthrob TV star, Zoid sold out to major sponsorship and somehow that path panga’ed open by the pioneers seems to start growing some grass again.

But now things have come full circle. You can sense Deon’s frustration in the last paragraph. What happened to the artists with the pangas? Do they still have an axe to grind, now that anybody can say anything in the new South Africa, or have they simply been subsumed by the capitalist machine?

And what happened to the cottage industry ethos, which kept Afrikaans music alive, even in the face of getting no radio play? “I think if you look at the prelude to the current success of Afrikaans music, if you went into the Platteland, I would go into these small towns, and there would be these posters up, of artists that I had never heard of, and these guys – or women – would sell their cds by performing live in these small towns and selling it at the gigs, and they would sell 20 or 30 000 units from the boot of their car, without any radio play … so what happened is the Afrikaans thing started small, usually an underground movement starts in the cesspit of the city, and then filters into the Platteland, but with the Afrikaans thing, it started in the Platteland, and then it filtered into the cities, and I can’t think of any other movement in music that has ever started that way around, especially without support on the radio …”

But he is certainly satisfied that subversive content is there: “Ja, of course, there is a cd out called Genoeg is genoeg, and basically what it is, its right-wing music, but its subversive, you can’t say for music to be subversive, it has to be liberal or humanist, it doesn’t have to be U2 … and if you listen to bands like Klopjag, or Abel Kraalsal, or Die Melktert Kommissie, you listen to Die Helde, these are all guys who are politically commenting on this country, be it pro or anti-government, so the subversiveness in Afrikaans music is very much there, on both sides of the political spectrum, which makes it very unique.”

On the other hand, Koos Kombuis’ latest album Bloedrivier is dismissed by Deon as an ‘embarrassment’: “I think that he obviously made his name complaining about one government, and now he feels that he should be complaining about another one – not that I am in any way protecting the current government, and I think that they need to sort their shit out – but the way that he is complaining, is pretty close to the ideas of a lot of right-wingers, and I think that he has become a middle-aged suburban house husband, who is feeling so threatened by all the changes around him, that he can’t actually absorb it and filter it and reflect it in the right way … I mean even the title, to call it Bloedrivier, its not cool …”

Koos frankly admits that he can’t keep up with what’s happening around him: “I’m too old to properly comprehend the lyrics of young bands. I have tried a few times, but the lingo escapes me. Take a band like Foto na Dans, for instance: the young people are crazy about them, and know all the words by heart, but to me they make no sense at all. I can’t even say with any certainty weather it is protest music or just gibberish. I think I have passed a certain age where, like the old folks who were ignorant of George Harrison when I was young, I have been left behind to some extent. It was bound to happen sooner or later… fuck, I’m 53. Or 54.”

He also is quite alright with remaining a protest artist, no matter which government is in power: “I made this CD because I was angry with the ANC. I waved my finger. I also got guys like The Gereformeerde Blues band to help me do it. That’s the only protest I understand, it’s what I do best, and if one looks at the sales figures, it proves that I wasn’t quite off the mark.”

But he emphatically denies that he is right-wing: “I knew right from the start the right wing would love this record, and all for the wrong reasons. So I did two things to prevent this from happening. I asked 24.com to help me make a pop video of the song Reconciliation Day, featuring a multicultural cast. This they did, and the video will be released on the Web and on MK89 shortly. Secondly, I deliberately picked a fight with Deon Opperman and Sean Else. It placed Bloedrivier in the market as a non-right wing CD. Thank God, the message got through: go browse any right-wing website, you will see how much they hate this album. I have no credibility there, they see me as someone who stole their ideas and their metaphors and mixed it up with a lot of swear-words. Perfect.”

I guess when one talks about “subversive” or “protest” music, a lot depends on what your definition of these terms are. For Deon, “anything that steps on the collective liddoring (corns) of the nation” is protest music. He tells me: “I did a radio program the other night on RSG, about cocaine, about all the cocaine references in current Afrikaans music, and we easily filled up an hour with cocaine references in Afrikaans music … now that to me is protest as well, because it is anti-establishment …”

When I object by saying that to me, cocaine is about the most establishment drug you can get, he responds “not when you are 18 years old”. True enough.

So, Afrikaans music ¬- in itself a tricky term, since, as Deon reminds me: “I have a problem with using this term ‘Afrikaans music’ as a generic form, because it is just the language that ties it together, nobody talks about Zulu music, they talk about mbqanga or mbube or maskandi, because those are different genres which use the same language, and the same with Afrikaans music, you have Death Metal to Country to Schlage and Hip-Hop and everything in between, and yet there is this generic term, you walk into Musica or Look and Listen and it goes ‘Afrikaans music’, and here you can find everything from Kallitz and Fokofpolisiekar to Bles Bridges …” – is still full of subversive content.

And its not just anger, although there is plenty of angry, nihilistic music out there for the angry youth, there is also intelligent comment: “now, more so than ever, Afrikaans music is reflecting the wide girth of Afrikanerdom, in all its different aspects: the angry people, the death metal people, the happy people, the people who want to escape, the people who don’t want to watch the news, its all there, the whole broad spectrum …

And it has matured, in the case of Karen Zoid: “… she started off angry, and then grew into a musician who actually has something to say about her current circumstances … she moved from this reportedly lesbian, reportedly drug-using angry woman, into a mother … and her music is reflecting that, and I think its important that musicians should reflect where they are at, because musicians are the creative leaders of any society, I think that music is the most subversive art form that any society can have, because you don’t have to go to a gallery to see it, you don’t have to go to a theatre, its around you the whole time, wherever you go there is music, its on television, its on the radio, its in the lifts man, its just everywhere, so if you really want to change a nation, or change a thinking pattern, the way to do it is through music …”

But the boom of Afrikaans culture is starting to level off: “… the market is huge, but I think it is going to level off, and I think it will soon reach a stage where the men will be separated from the boys, because we have been going through this boom period, and it has to level off, it has to, it can’t be sustained, and I think that is when it is going to get really interesting, because at the moment Afrikaans creative people aren’t challenged enough, because it actually comes pretty easy, getting a book deal or a record deal, putting your own music out and being able to make a living out of it, writing a play, because there are all these people who are just absorbing it, and I think its going to level out and that’s when the real creativity is going to come through, because then it will be quality, not quantity, and at the moment its quantity, rather than quality …”

Perhaps this is when “underground” artists will come into their own, and be recognized for their genius. “… I hate the word ‘underground’ … so Paul Riekert came up with this word, systroom, (side-stream) so you have the hoofstroom, the main river, and then you have the small river running next to it, and the stuff that OneF is doing, like Battery 9, Die Menere, Trike, Plank, Esme Ewekwaad, Buckfever Underground, they all fall very much into the systroom …”

History will let us know! Watch this space for more from Paul Riekert and Marcel van Heerden.

October 24, 2008

Bones, Sharks and Bullshit

Filed under: south african cinema — ABRAXAS @ 6:44 pm

Thu, 23 Oct 2008

Local cinema goers are eagerly awaiting the imminent release of Mr Bones 2: Back From The Past, the sequel to South Africa’s highest grossing film ever, Mr Bones. The monumentally popular Leon Schuster reprises his role as Mr Bones, a white sangoma, who in this latest film, displays a love of rugby.

To this end, Mr Bones will attend the Currie Cup Final between the Sharks and the Blue Bulls at ABSA Stadium on 25 October. In fact, some scenes from the film were shot at this Stadium and feature Springbok and World Cup flyhalf Butch James in a guest appearance.

Speaking from his home in Kavukiland, Mr Bones said, “I am so looking forward to the match. It’s going to be very, very exciting! The Bulls, they must be very careful because they are playing at the seaside where the Sharks live. The Sharks are very strong when they are near the sea and my bones, they tell me that the Sharks will gobble up the Bulls.”

Mr Bones has a strong Durban connection, having shot Mr Bones 2: Back From The Past in the city. Among the locations used in the film are Prince Edward Street, Blue Lagoon, The Pearls of Umhlanga, La Mercy Beach, Verulam and Dakota Informal Settlement in Isipingo Beach.

Mr Bones 2: Back From The Past will be released nationwide on 27 November by Videovision Entertainment through United International Pictures. The film stars Leeanda Reddy, Tongayi Chirisa and Kaseran Pillay. It is edited by Johan Lategan and director of photography is Chris Schutte with music by Didi Kriel. The film is executive produced by Sudhir Pragjee and Sanjeev Singh with the screenplay by Leon Schuster and Gray Hofmeyr, produced by Anant Singh and Helena Spring and directed by Gray Hofmeyr.

October 23, 2008

Black Sun of Renewal.

Filed under: chimurenga library,literature — ABRAXAS @ 5:52 pm

The magazine Souffles made an important contribution to modern Moroccan culture in the1960s.

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Souffles was a literary and cultural quarterly review published in Rabat, Morocco. Its first issue was published in February 1966, the last in December 1971. In all, there were twenty-two issues. The cover, designed by the painter Mohamed Melehi, was austere yet elegant: under a geometric square glowed a round circle, a black sun. The composition remained unchanged for the first fourteen issues. Only the cover and the circle’s color changed. On the back, “Souffles” was written in Arabic, Anfâs (“breezes,” “breath”). Up to the double issue 10–11, the magazine was only in French; it then became bilingual (French and Arabic). After the fifteenth issue, the layout, cover, and size changed. Those who have written on the history of Souffles divide it into two periods: during the first period from 1966 to 1969, its collaborators were poets, writers, artists, and intellectuals passionately working for a new Moroccan, and Maghrebi, culture. The second period, from 1969 to 1971–721 was marked by a radical ideological Marxist-Leninist turn. “Literature was no longer sufficient,” declared Abdellatif Laâbi, the founder and editor of Souffles. The literary section became less relevant than the political section, dedicated to Third World struggles for independence from colonial imperialism and to national politics. Because of its new approach, Souffles was banned in 1972 and Laâbi arrested for his political opinions. While in prison he was awarded several international poetry prizes. After a long solidarity campaign, he regained his freedom in 1980.

Toni Maraini

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Historical Background

When Morocco gained independence in 1956, much needed to be done to free its culture from the burden of colonial (French and Spanish) ideology. Colonialism had imposed a patronizing, Eurocentric culture and controlled every aspect of life, outlawing political parties, associations, gatherings, and group activities. Moroccan authors and media were often censored, and even the use of Arabic language was carefully monitored. The colonial protectorate had industrialized and modernized the country mainly to control and exploit people, land, and resources for its own profit. Although fascinated by their “exotic” aspects, it had ignored the universal values of the local culture, its historical heritage, its dignity of identity. By curbing freedom of expression, it had inhibited the development of a national modernist avant-garde. Moroccan culture was mainly regarded as picturesque. Modern thought and intellectual life were not supposed to suit the Moroccans and were considered a dangerous challenge to colonialism itself. But Morocco and the Maghreb had a very rich history as well as a wealth of artistic, poetic, and intellectual traditions, and modernist ideas had spread in many circles and domains even before the arrival of the colons. The echoes of the Near East’s Nahda (renewal) had stirred the Maghreb since the beginning of the twentieth century. Although much of the intellectual elite’s energies had been absorbed by the struggle for freedom and although people’s desire for progress and development had been curbed by discriminatory policies, modernist movements were on the make. In spite of censorship and control, urban elites had their intellectuals, writers, reviews, and publications2. Some authors, like Ahmed Sefrioui, Driss Chraïbi, and the philosopher Mohamed Aziz Lahbabi, had published in French.

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Yet, after independence, a petty provincial and Eurocentric culture was still dominating the scene. The salons organized for Western artists admitted only Moroccan “naive” painters as a touch of “indigenous color.” Local European poets used to gather in clubs littéraires around the foreign cultural missions “where they wrote verses on the ambassadors’ gardens.”3 They ignored the best of Western production and the daring experiments of modernity, as well as the high tradition of classical Arabic poetry, not to mention Afro-Berber and popular arts and literature. They were not interested in the productions of a Moroccan cultural avant-garde. It is important to keep all this in mind, as the Western world has not always acknowledged what colonialism really was. It might be interesting, for that matter, to read the courageous writings of the Moroccan historian Germain Ayache,4 who in the 1950s denounced the abuses of colonialism, the distress and misery of the Moroccan population, and the control over its cultural roots. To understand the impact of Souffles, one has to go back to a situation still shaped by the dramatic consequences of all this. On the other hand, after half a century of colonial propaganda and isolation, the Moroccan bourgeoisie had either lost touch with its roots or found refuge in a nostalgic, if not dogmatic, vision of the past. A modernist national culture had yet to be loudly proclaimed, its theoretical basis openly debated, its creative and visionary nature concretely expressed in terms that would correspond to the new realities of an independent Morocco.

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Owing to a remarkable set of circumstances, this became possible around 1964, when, in Casablanca and in Rabat, two small groups of young artists and poets joined forces to launch a movement that impulsed profound changes and is today considered the milestone of a new era. Formulating their ideas clearly, they produced vibrant, original works of art and literature and, most important, started organizing their own independent events. The same year, 1964, intellectuals had founded, in Arabic, the important independent magazine Aqlâm, yet its contribution was mainly philosophical and theoretical rather then poetical and avant-garde. Up to then, culture had either been in the hands of foreign missions or of the state bureaucracy and conservative elites. With the exception of the writer Driss Chraïbi, the older intellectuals looked at the new groups with uneasy surprise or disdain. A handful of creative young people with daring ideas suddenly broke into the scene and galvanized the attention of the public. The so-called Casablanca Group of artists (Mohamed Melehi, Farid Belkahia, Mohamed Chebaa) engaged in innovative activities and works (paintings, exhibitions, manifestos, debates, publications).5 At the same time, in 1964 two young talented poets, Mohamed Khaïr-Eddine and Mostafa Nissaboury, published the manifesto “Poésie Toute” and the review Eaux Vives (only two issues) in Casablanca. “For Khaïr-Eddine, breaking with the existent literatures, both in French and in Arabic, was the main historical duty of the new generation.”6 When they met another young poet, Abdellatif Laâbi, the birth of Souffles was already almost a foregone conclusion. And when the Casablanca Group joined them, the movement came into being. They shared goals, hopes, and visions. They considered themselves a generation committed to building a free, just, inventive national culture. They were truly avant-garde. “We work with all our awareness for a future world [...] and this review intends to be a tool for the new literary and poetic generation,” declared Laâbi in the first issue of Souffles.

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In order to answer the question, “Who are we after the impact of colonialism?” they had to look back at the roots that had been most depreciated both by colonialism and by the national bourgeoisie, that is, oral traditions, Afro-Berber and popular Arabic poetry, arts, and culture. The first to focus on this heritage in Morocco were the abstract artists of the Casablanca Group, who claimed that popular traditional arts were modern ante litteram in spirit and aesthetics. Colonial ethnography had considered them minor arts, but for the Casablanca Group, as for Paul Klee and Walter Gropius, a rural carpet was a painting, and the artisan an artist. The poets of Souffles could not but agree. In the meantime they were all determined to fully participate in the twentieth century, experimenting with new languages and ideas and sharing universal values with all the poets and artists of the world. When they stood up and said “Enough!” to provincial salons and clubs littéraires, they expressed deep expectations of change. Their artistic and poetical revolt spread like a hot wind in summer. Those artists and intellectuals who had up to then worked in solitude were encouraged to join. Thus, when, in 1966, Abdellatif Laâbi concretely started the project of Souffles in Rabat, he could count on the support of some talented and committed poets, painters, and intellectuals. The project was heralded and carried on by means of fervid and visionary discussions in cafés and studios. The Casablanca Group designed the cover and illustrations. Getting on one of the old buses that once crossed the country, the painter Melehi took the magazine to Tangier, where it was printed at a lower price than in Rabat. Such was the birth of Souffles.

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The role of Souffles and the impact of its literary, artistic, and cultural production were of the greatest importance. Souffles figures in the annals of Maghrebi modern history as a bold, innovative experience. Besides Eaux Vives, it was the first independent literary magazine in French. Since its inception, it attracted some of the best young poets, artists, and intellectuals, whose support and contributions significantly shaped modern Moroccan and Maghrebi culture. It was not only a literary magazine; it also published notes and comments on the sociocultural situation, cinema, theater, and art, as well as critical texts, manifestos, and historical essays. By demasking neocolonial ideology, it stirred up the stagnant literary and intellectual situation in the country. Some of its comments and notes were audacious, clear-sighted pamphlets on highly urgent matters. For a magazine that had started with a slim publication of thirty-six pages, it was a remarkable achievement to become the cultural reference for a whole generation.

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The first issue was thin, but it responded “to an imperative demand” (Laâbi). Soon it reached 100 pages. Khaïr-Eddine had by then migrated to France and his name does not figure in the comité d’action, but his presence was assured by his poems. Haunted and solitary, Khaïr-Eddine (whose mother tongue was Berber) had fueled new Moroccan poetry (and literature) with the concepts of the “linguistic guerrillas”7. To finish with the garden verses and the classical elegies, someone had to dare to break the rules of literary French. He did so and opened the way to language experimentation. Widely debated by Maghrebi writers in French, through Souffles the topic reached the young generation of Moroccan writers both in French and in Arabic. At the core of the debate was the question, in which language would the new independent Moroccan writers write?8 The answer given by Laâbi in the first issue of Souffles is still valuable today: “The language of a poet,” he wrote, “is above all [his own language,] the one that he creates.” By encouraging translations and collaborations, Souffles had the great merit not to divide literary production into Francophone and Arabophone, as creation and culture in both languages were considered (and are) a complementary historical reality rooted in a common ground.

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Souffles would not have come into existence without Laâbi’s steadfast work. His poetical gift and passion were matched by his rigorous intellect. He was aware of his mission. Souffles opened with a severe “j’accuse. . .” regarding the cultural situation in Morocco and focused on the question of national identity and culture, but did not forget to write that “Our writer friends, Maghrebi, Africans, Europeans, and of other nationalities are fraternally invited to participate in our modest enterprise.” He was farsighted. And he soon received letters from Europe and the Maghreb. The Tunisian writer Albert Memmi wrote “I was waiting for this publication, I was hoping it would exist”; Driss Chraïbi affirmed “your magazine is fantastic!”; and the Algerian writer Mouloud Mammeri welcomed the “young” review. Such encouragement from three great writers of the older generation was important. As the mouthpiece of a new generation, the review took a stand in the defense of those Maghrebi writers—like Chraïbi or Kateb Yacine (Algeria)—whose work had expressed the revolt against both local feudalism and foreign occupation. What the authors who were published by Souffles meant to young readers was of great importance. Paralyzed by the language problem (literary French? classical Arabic? Berber oral tradition?), they had long repressed their anguishes, rages, emotions, and hopes. Now each of them could create their language, use vernacular terms, experiment, “scream.” Nissaboury has called it “poésie chacaliste”: the screaming of the jackal. Soon, however, la poésie chacaliste would be a juvenile joke and each poet—Laâbi was the first—would reach poetical maturity.
In the third issue we find mention of a comité d’action. It included Ahmed Bouanani, Souffles-cover,no.6,Rabat1967Nissaboury, Abdallah Stouky, the Algerian poet Malek Alloula and the French poets Bernard Jakobiak and André Laude. Bouanani, a fine intellectual and a wonderful storyteller, was the author of beautiful poems later collected in the anthology Les Persiennes. His articles on popular poetry were remarkable at a time when that subject had been studied only by ethnologists. The names in the committee were to change somewhat over the years. One of the first to give support to Laâbi, Nissaboury, the amazing author of the book La mille et deuxième nuit, remained a member until 1969. So did the painters of the Casablanca Group. In the course of time, among the various collaborators we find distinguished authors like Mostafa Lacheraf (Algeria); Azeddine Madani and Mohamed Aziza (Tunisia); Abdallah Laroui and Abdelkhébir Khatibi (Morocco). Except for a long poem by Etel Adnan (Lebanon) and few other critical contributions (by Jeanne-Paule Fabre and myself), women were barely present in Souffles. However, when women poets and writers came on the scene with their own books, magazines, and actions, they looked back at Souffles as an experience that had prepared the ground for new ideas.
Every issue of Souffles opened with a note by Laâbi. The “urgent matters” were innumerable. Significantly, religion was not an issue: fundamentalism had not yet troubled the old and wise Maghrebi Islam, which was open to changes and secularity. In 1967, besides poetry readings, Laâbi and his poet friends, with the support of Melehi, created the Collection Atlantes, which published booklets by Jakobiak, Laâbi, Nissaboury, Alloula, and Laâbi’s book L’oeil et la nuit. In 1968 Souffles participated in the birth of the national cultural association ARC (Action et Recherche Culturelle), created—as Laâbi wrote—by “some artists, university researchers, scientific and technical professionals, students. . . .” It was an important and ambitious project that also involved political parties.

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Souffles took part with enthusiasm in the first cultural activities that were boldly extended to the rest of the Maghreb. The collaboration of Abraham Serfaty, a notable Moroccan intellectual, became more relevant than the one with Tahar Ben Jelloun. Convicted with Laâbi in 1972 and later imprisoned, Serfaty was set free in 1991. After the fifteenth issue, dedicated to Palestine (“Pour la Révolution Palestinienne”), Souffles changed its layout, cover, and format. Laâbi’s review had become “the organ of the revolutionary Moroccan movement” (Gontard). This was a radical change. A decision, recalls Jakobiak, of “idealistic generosity,” “one that pushes you [however] to all kinds of ruptures and divides the world into two halves: the good and the bad. [. . .] Once the euphoria faded there were those who converted to dialectic materialism and those who did not.” Painters and poets of the first period of Souffles did not follow the new course (or were not accepted in the new comité d’action). In a climate of painful debates, the creative group split from the political group. It was the normal outcome for a cultural movement. The same had happened to other groups in the history of modern avant-gardism. Those who believe in free independent creation resist the diktat and jargon of political parties. On the other hand, ideology needs intellectuals and poets to renew its views on the world. Souffles had generously offered its contribution. It then issued consistent documents on the main revolutionary struggles of the time (Angola, South Africa, Mozambique, etc.) as well as on the political situation in Morocco. In a troubled time of “betrayed independence” (Laâbi) Souffles’ new course was important for the nation’s political awareness. Yet when art and poetry had spoken aloud, they had also set in motion a change that was revolutionary and good for the nation’s awareness. If the Souffles of the first period Souffles-coverfirstedition,Rabat,1/1966graphicsbyM.Melehiand its collaboration with the Casablanca Group had never been, Morocco and the Maghreb would have felt its absence. That is why, when the younger Moroccan generation writes today about Souffles, it looks back with admiration at its artists and poets, who had the courage to create and invent, as well as at its intellectuals, who had the courage to defy injustice.9

Appendix
Toni Maraini, poet, writer, art critic, and a specialist on Maghrebi art and culture, is founding member of Souffles. She now lives in Rome.

1

Marc Gontard, “La Littérature marocaine de langue française,” and Bernard Jakobiak, “Souffles de 1966 à 1969,” in Europe (June–July 1979), p. 107f. and pp. 117–23.

2

Abderrahmane Tenkoul, “Les Revues Culturelles,” in Regards sur la Culture Marocaine, no. 1 (1988), pp. 8–13.

3

Gontard, “La Littérature,” p. 107.

4

Germain Ayache, Les écrits d’avant l’Indépendance (Casablanca, 1990).

5

I was myself a member of this group, and have been writing about their experiences since 1964; see, for example: Toni Maraini, Écrits sur l’Art, 1964–1989 (Rabat, 1990).

6

Lahsen Mouzouni, Le Roman marocain de langue française, (Paris, 1987), p. 71.

7

The term guerilla linguistique was introduced by Mohamed Khaïr-Eddine in his autobiographical novel Moi l’Aigre (1970).

8

After gaining independence from French colonialism Arabic was declared the official language in 1956.

9

“Revue : Souffles Coupés” [editorial note], in Tel Quel (Casablanca), no. 148 (2004), p. 23.

this article first appeared in documenta magazines online journal

Writing from the belly of the beast: African writers of the Diaspora in Italy

Filed under: literature,raphael d'Abdon — ABRAXAS @ 5:27 pm

The “Domiziana” is a no-man’s land between Naples and the Garigliano that does not appear on tourist brochures: a 29-Km-long waterfront split in two by the Volturno river, whose desolate landscape is shaped by a conglomerate of concrete buildings, little villas and corrugated iron shacks erected clandestinely by local mafia chiefs, surrounded by illegal dumps and polluted sea. This post-modern urban nightmare is the undisputed kingdom (as Roberto Saviano has masterfully described in his book Gomorrah) of the family of Camorra boss Francesco “Sandokan” Schiavone: a diversified criminal empire built, amongst other, over the lives of the “wretched of the earth” who migrate in this uncelebrated area of glittering Europe to be enslaved in the multi-billion business of the tomato industry (aka “the red gold”). Most of these slaves employed in the seasonal (July-August) tomato industry are undocumented immigrants coming from Africa.

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It was in the dantesque inferno of Domiziana, in the so called “Ghetto of Villa Literno” that, on 25 August 1989, Jerry Essan Masslo, a South African asylum seeker who had arrived in Italy to find refuge form apartheid, found death by the hands of a local gang of tsostis who murdered him after robbing the shack where he was living with some fellow migrant workers. This shocking execution raised a wave of popular indignation throughout the country, and the following month the biggest antiracist march against racism ever made in Italy took place in Rome, in the name of Jerry Masslo. This event marked a watershed in the history of immigration in Italy, a history marked, indeed, by ruthless exploitation, xenophobia and violence.

In an essay titled Science, Liberty and Peace Aldous Huxley far-sightedly wrote: “The collective mentality of nations – the mentality which reasonable adults have to adopt, when making important decisions in the field of international politics is that of a delinquent boy of fourteen, at once cunning and childish, malevolent and silly, maniacally egotistical, touchy and acquisitive, and at the same time ludicrously boastful and vain”. Much water has flown under the bridges since Jerry Masslo’s assassination in 1989, but the attitude of Italian politicians and institutions towards a pivotal political and social issue like immigration has remained very much similar to that of Huxley’s political leaders and Jerry Masslo’s killers: one of “delinquent boy-gangsters”. In fact, in Italy as well as in all other countries of the EU, the immigrant keeps being conceived as a “take-away” object, a sub-human form of life to be used when the markets needs extemporary cheap manpower and dumped when industrial production decreases (a sort of guinea-pig for experimental practices of “social toyotism”…). The case of undocumented immigrants sums up well the European leaders’ approach to immigration issues. The individuals who migrate in Europe equipped with great expectations – but no papers, are in fact systematically imprisoned in so-called “Detention Camps for Immigrants” (DCI), the European Union’s home-grown Guantanamo camps which dot the map of the continent (to see shocking map check Migreurop: http//:pajol.eu.org; www.fortresseurope.org). These ethnic prisons are nothing but “social dumps” where detainees regularly undergo torture, harassment, humiliation and, sometimes, death. The sub-terrestrial world on the shadow of the DCI is the quintessential symbol of the so-called “Fortress Europe”. Far from being a romantic epitome of human and civil rights, the EU is rather a rational political system which enforces racism and segregation: a system that French sociologist Etienne Balibar defines as “European apartheid”.

Notwithstanding the bleak scenario depicted above, the history of immigration in Italy is also one of inspiring experiences of self-organization, self-affirmation and resistance. The most adamant example of such innate capacity of migrants to constantly renew their strategies of physical and cultural survival is given by the migrant writers.

In the last 30 years Italian “indigenous” literature and culture have suffered a progressive – and ongoing – decline in terms of originality, inventiveness and creativity. Beached in the sinking sands of post-modernism, intimism and self-reliance, Italian literature has stopped producing serious civil writers (the above-mentioned Saviano represents a pleasant exception, though). An apparently unstoppable tidal wave of decadence which started being put under scrutiny in the 80s, with the arrival of the first immigrants who, coming from every corner of the planet, started writing, in Italian, about their “brave new world”. Since then, the number of migrant writers has constantly increased, and so has the quality of their artistic works. In other words, the advent of these “outsiders” in the Italian cultural scenario has been, so far, one of the main factors of positive, transformative renovation within today’s Italian culturally polycentric society. Within the pluriversal category of the “migrant writers”, Africans are certainly frontrunners of this cultural (r)evolution. The list of African migrant writers is a long one but most importantly, as hinted before, a constantly growing one. Amongst them, a few names of accomplished authors are worthy to be mentioned since, for different reason, they have been able to attain a prominent position within contemporary Italian literature.

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The first of this kind is certainly Algerian Amara Lakhous, the first “non-Italian” winner of prestigious national literary prizes “Ennio Flaiano” (2006) and “Leonardo Sciascia” (2006) with the novel Scontro di civiltà per un ascensore a Piazza Vittorio [Clash of Civilization for an elevator in Vittorio Square]. Lakhous’s masterpiece, definitely on of the best novels of Italian post-war literature, has sold 25.000 copies so far and has been printed 8 times. In addition, it will be soon translated into English in by New York-based Europa Editions, and a film based on it will be produced starting form next June.

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Alongside with Lakhous, Somali Garane Garane deserves a special place in the history of Italian migrant literature since, as Prof. Armando Gnisci states, his Il latte è buono [The milk is good] (2005), is the “first Italian post-colonial novel, i.e. a novel written in Italian by a son of the soil of an ex-Italian colony”.

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Third name on the list is Togo-born Kossi Amékowoyoa Komla-Ebri. Author of short stories, novels and essays, member of the board of El-Ghibli (one of the most important national journals on migrant literature. www.elghibli.org) and panellist in several national and international conferences and festivals (he was one of the guests at the “Time of the writer” festival in Durban in 2005), Komla-Ebri has established himself as one of the most popular and original migrant writers of Italy. Apart form the artistic value of his stories, Komla Ebri’s case is particularly relevant for his commercial success. His most notorious works Imbarazzismi. Quotidiani imbarazzi in bianco e nero [Embar-racism. Daily embarrassing in black and white], and Neyla (the latter translated into English and published by Farleigh Dickinson University Press) have sold an amazing 65.000 and 40.000 copies each, even if they are published and distributed by small publishing house Dell’Arco, whose books are sold exclusively on street corners by young African vendors.

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Psychiatrist, poet, actor and sublime performer Eritrean Hamid Barole Abdou is an eclectic artist, whose literary and social activity is “inspired by the spirit of Frantz Fanon”. He is the winner of two important prizes: the “Satyagraha” prize, which he won with his collection of poetry Akhria. Io sradicato poeta per fame [Akhria. I, poet uprooted by hunger], and the “Multiethnicity and Interculture” prize, sponsored by the City of Rome, Caritas and the International Organization on Migrations granted for his fully bilingual (Italian-English) book of poetry and short stories Seppellite la mia pelle in Africa – Bury my skin in Africa. The important aspect of this book is that it lacks the parochial dimension which sometimes characterizes the works of its canon, since it has been published to be fruited not only in the local market, but also in the Anglophone one. Moreover, this collection is the result of the collective work of Barole and the “Traduttori e traduttrici per la pace” [Translators for peace], and the money resulting from the sales has served to finance a project for the children living on refugees camps of Sudan.

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Together with Barole and other fellow African writers like Moroccan Mohammed Lamsuni, Berber storyteller Karim Metref is another writer for whom civil commitment stands at the core of any artistic activity. Film maker, pedagogue and activist in the field of intercultural education Metref is the winner of the 2006 prize for migrant writers “Lo Sguardo dell’Altro” [The Other’s Stare] (short stories section), and a perfect incarnation of Gramsci’s ideal of “organic intellectual”. For Metref in fact field research and direct involvement with the community must go hand-in-hand with both fictional and non-fictional writing. This is why alongside with his brilliant literary publications Baghdad e la sua gente [Baghdad and its people] (2005), Caravan to Baghdad (2007), Tagliato per l’esilio [Cut for the exile] (2008) Metref has produced powerful documentaries such as Il Ritorno Degli Aarch – I villaggi della Cabila scuotono l’Algeria [The return of the Aarch – the villages of Cabilia shake Algeria] (http://www.carta.org/rivista/video/index.htm#Aarch) and …E Il Tigri Placido Scorre… Istantanee dalla Baghdad occupata […and the Tigris flows tranquil… Pictures from occupied Baghdad] (www.tdhitaly.org).

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Last (but not least) in this necessarily limited list of migrant writers is Ethiopian-Italian Gabriella Ghermandi. Born in Addis Ababa, she moved to Italy aged 14 to live in Bologna, the northern city where her father comes from. Winner in 1999 of the “Eks&Tra” prize for migrant writers, Ghermandi’s works have has published extensively in many anthologies, collections and journals. Her biographical journey is very significant since it represents a back-to-the-roots experience. A master on the art of metaphorical speech typical of the Ethiopian tradition, Ghermandi is one of the best spoken word artists of Italy. Her novel Regina di fiori e di perle [Queen of flowers and pearls] is the winner of 2007 “Popoli in Cammino” [People on the move] prize: an enchanting story set in Ethiopia in the times of Italian colonization. In a country where the debate on colonialism is virtually absent, Ghermandi’s book certainly shines out as one of the most important works in the history of modern Italian literature. In fact, even if very few historians (like Angelo Del Boca) have shown how Italian colonialism was as much ferocious and barbaric as other colonialisms (sometimes even more barbaric: let’s just remember, for instance, that Mussolini’s was the first army to use illegal chemical weapons against civilians – the infamous hyprite – long before the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings), all politicians, both the conservatives of the right and the “reformists” of the “left”, remain on denialist positions. They simply avoid to discuss the topic, which remains covered by a veil of silence. And literature makes no exception, for writers have paid no attention to this shameful page of Italian history. In fact, before the publication of Ghermandi’s novel, the only remarkable book on the colonial experience written by an Italian was Ennio Flaiano’s Tempo di uccidere [Time to kill], published in 1947.

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And what about the migrant writers from Mzansi? So far, apart from Italian-South African Valentina Acava Mmaka’s remarkable novel Cercando Lindiwe [Seeking Lindiwe], no noteworthy text has been published by South Africans. Nonetheless, a few of them have started coming out of the closet: Durban-born writer (and tenor) Masa Mbatha-Opasha is the winner of a minor local prize in Rome and Sowetan sis Lerato Phiri had one of her poems included in the introduction of I nostri semi – Peo tsa rona, an anthology of spoken word artists translated into Italian, published by Mangrovie.

It is said: “cultural diversity is as necessary for humankind as biodiversity is for nature”. The seeds of African word have been planted in the soil of Italian cultural desert, and they have started blossoming. Despite the provincial attitude of the political class and the media, which keep denying it, the creolization of Italian (and European) literature, culture and society is a historical process that can not be hushed up or stopped. Not today, not tomorrow. For now we, the readers, are enjoying the sweet taste of African migrant writers’ words. Words that are paving the path for a called-for Africanization of self-centred, decadent Europe.

Copyleft: this work of art is free, you can redistribute it and/or modify it according to terms of the Free Art license. You will find a specimen of this license on the site Copyleft Attitude http://artlibre.org as well as on other sites.

raphael d’abdon
Tembisa, March 2008

October 21, 2008

HENRY IN THE GUN SHOP (1)

Filed under: ian martin,literature — ABRAXAS @ 6:42 pm

From The Life of Henry Fuckit, 1950-2015

The next time he walked down Hout Street he stopped on the pavement opposite City Guns, hesitated, and then crossed over. He had a strong aversion to firearms, deeming them abhorrent on three counts. Force, or the threat of force, as a means of settling a dispute seemed to him to be a very unintelligent option. The non-violent possibilities were numerous and he believed strongly in his own ability to extricate himself from confrontation and conflict by employing such methods as argument, persuasion, flattery, reassurance, deception, deceit, pleading, weeping, promises, distraction, diversion and sleight of hand. Secondly, the mere sight of a gun made him feel faintly queasy. This was on account of his own personal involuntary response to the visual stimulus. Into his mind there instantly leapt a scene of horrible carnage: bullets ripping into flesh, blood spurting, bones being irreparably smashed, spinal cords snapping, arteries and nerves being severed. The fact that a gun was loaded meant that it was waiting to go off at any fraction of an instant. It had to go off, like a time bomb, and he braced himself for the imminent explosion. Finally, he associated a certain type of person with the bearing of firearms, and it was a person not to his liking at all. It was clear that some men derived a Freudian pleasure from carrying a gun – it made them aggressive and obnoxiously proud of their masculinity. They tended to scowl and swear more than was their usual habit, and to swagger and be argumentative. They became boorishly boastful and spoke coarsely of women, subconsciously certain in the delusion that the carrying of a pistol was accompanied by miraculous generation of erectile tissue. These were the selfsame poseurs whose virility was charged up when they slid behind the wheels of their souped-up Ford Cortinas.

Henry didn’t like them. He didn’t like anything to do with firearms but nevertheless he crossed the street to look in the window, fully intending to enter the shop and experience the dubious pleasure of being sold a gun.

The door was solid and massive and the colour of Pears Soap. The window displays which flanked it were curiously innocuous and, as it turned out, deceptive. The window to the left was devoted largely to an array of knives. There were Swiss Army combinations consisting of a whole toolbox of miniature equipment: scissors, file, can opener, corkscrew, bottle opener, awl, tweezers, saw, pliers, magnifying glass, tooth pick, screw driver – almost entirely useless for practical purposes. Then there were the spring-loaded clasp knives arranged like the spokes of a wheel – these were ideal for cutting bite-sized lengths of biltong or for stabbing rival gangsters. Behind the knives in one corner stood a family of stainless steel vacuum flasks, made in the USA and very expensive. In the other corner were two Coleman cooler boxes arranged one on top of the other. The right hand window was given over to a scene from the bush, with grass and twigs on the floor and a black pot astride the coals of a campfire. On the seat of a canvas folding-chair was a felt bush hat complete with leopard-skin headband. Casually leaning against the chair was a .303 hunting rifle. In the background he saw a weathered tree trunk upon which hung a pair of handcuffs and a four-foot sjambok of genuine hippo hide. The sporting life was sketched with skilful economy and the window dresser’s dark message was not lost on Henry once he spotted the accoutrements on the periphery – strict discipline was an essential ingredient for a successful safari.

In the Metropole Bar on the corner of Long Street he drank two beers to prepare himself for the little adventure that awaited him. He had no intention of becoming a gun owner but he was more than moderately curious about the process surrounding the legal acquisition of a firearm. What he was about to do was deceitful and a premeditated waste of salesmen’s time. He justified his intentions by reminding himself that to deal in arms was an indisputably immoral occupation and that the major religions of the world roundly condemned trafficking in commodities that lead so inevitably to an increase in human misery. So what if it wasted their time? He would be delaying, if not preventing them, from making a genuine sale. He would go in there and act his part and learn something more about the peculiar behaviour of human beings. He drained his glass and sallied forth full of Thespian resolve.

When he pushed open the door a klaxon bellowed twice with the same hoarse urgency of a bullock undergoing castration. Nervously he stepped inside and became aware of several pairs of eyes regarding him with intent suspicion.

“How can I help you?”

Henry jumped. The voice came from directly behind him. The man had been standing on a narrow footplate attached to the back of the door. His jeans were tucked into jackboots and his white lounge shirt was open at the neck. The cuffs of the shirt were rolled twice and flapped midway between wrist and elbow. The potbelly on an otherwise scrawny frame added to the seediness of his appearance and Henry was reminded of the alcoholic barman at the Fireman’s Arms. They could be brothers. From the shoulder holster he was wearing there protruded a Colt Government Model pistol.

“I – I’m thinking of buying a gun.”

“For? What purpose? We have hundreds of firearms here.”

And it was true. He hadn’t entered a shop – this was a veritable arsenal. Thousands of guns. Before him and to his left two long counters formed an L. To the right a flight of steps descended into the basement. Behind each counter stood two men, and all four of them were conspicuously armed and staring at Henry, who was the sole customer at that moment.

“This counter is for sporting guns and assault rifles, and this one is for hand guns.”

The older of the men at the sporting counter beckoned and Henry advanced obediently. He looked into China blue eyes set close in a meaty red face and he felt at once that this big-bellied hulk had to be an ex-cop. China Blue? No, these eyes were Delft Blue. They glinted with the coldness of sanitaryware and Henry was in no doubt that the blueness of these eyes must have had an emulsifying effect on the contents of many a large colon.

“Alright Meneer. I can see you think you don’t know what you want but actually you do know what you want, if you see what I mean. Don’t worry about any crap from that ou over there about ‘what purpose?’ Every man come in here for the same purpose – hy soek ‘n wapen. And what you wants a wapen for? I tell you straight: security. A white man come in here for one thing only – to protec’ hisself. To protec’ hisself, his car, his house, his kids, his dogs, his wife.”

“Well, I’m not married and…”

“Ag don’t worry man, you don’t look like a fokken moffie. Anyways, we don’t allow moffies in here.”

“No ways.” The doorman said this emphatically. He made a lightning draw form his shoulder holster and sighted along the blue-black barrel of his pistol, left hand steadying the right, one eye closed, aiming at the groin of an imaginary hermaphrodite. “Get your poofter arsehole out of here before I blow your balls off.” Satisfied, he lowered the gun and jettisoned the magazine before commencing to strut up and down. Every few paces he would go for his gun, whirl on his heel and pull the trigger. Meanwhile the ex-cop had resumed his sales pitch.

“A man has always got something to protec’, and there’s always a enemy. And in the Republic we got plenty enemies, that’s for fokken sure.”

“You can say that again. The whole world’s our enemy, and inside the country every coon and coloured’s our enemy.”

“For sure. That’s why a white man’s got to protec’ hisself. No commies or kaffirs is going to chase us off our own land. Not a fuck. A intelligent ou realise he got to arm hisself. And no ways are one firearm enough. Man, you got to plan this thing proper.”

“Man, you listen to what he says. We won’t chune you kak, no word of a lie. Six. That’s the minimum.”

“Six guns?! Jesus Christ! I…”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry. We can get you all the credit you need. You can sign your name? Right, my mate.” And he sprake unto Hinry mit zinzer und ernst, leaning forward, hands on the counter, belly resting on the scarred wooden surface. “This is now serious business. There’s plenty danger out there. You got to think about this logical and cool. This is our history we talking about, this is our destination, so help me God. If you’re too shit scared to take your own history by the balls and examine it and say yes, this is my destination and this is what I got to do, then fuck it man, you nothing but a fokken moffie, and one day soon you’ll be calling the kaffir “Meneer” and he’ll be living next door. No man, you got to say, Not a fuck, over my dead body, and you got to fight, fight, fight. Ever since Jan van Riebeeck, way, way back… thousands of years… we been fighting the Hotnots and the Kaffirs. You know, I’m going to tell you something no word of a lie, and I’m proud of it. It’s part of my heritation.

Ian Martin’s controversial novel Pop-splat is now available from http://www.pop-splat.co.za.

October 16, 2008

unmasking the black face of traditional dutch fun

Filed under: politics,ruby savage — ABRAXAS @ 3:21 am

2. The Golden Age of Racial Stereotypes

There are many different explanations of the origin of Zwarte Piet; however to me it is clear that the present-day figure is a descendant of the historical stereotype of an African or black man, which is rooted in Europe’s colonial past. Before showing how the Dutch figure is related to this stereotype, I will trace its historical development and the negative baggage it carries.

Throughout my education, I was taught about the glorious ‘Golden Age’ of Holland in the 17th century. This was the period in which Holland blossomed and triumphed, economically and culturally. We heard little however about the imperialism that was imposed on peoples and lands in other parts of the world. The exploitation of other countries and the trade in peoples from Africa were mentioned light-heartedly and were always subordinate to the more important aspect of this period: the success of the Netherlands. Allison Blakely explains in his book Blacks in the Dutch World:

‘The eternal battle against the sea to gain and maintain a tenuous hold on the land fostered a constant concern with material well-being and with commerce. The mastery of the sea gained from their struggle at home coupled with this concern led the Dutch in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries to build one of history’s most impressive trading empires.’ (1993, p.2)

As I experienced myself, growing up in the Netherlands, the wealth and reputation gained during this period is still of great significance to the Dutch and pride in the achievements of the Golden Age are still central to the Dutch identity.

Much of the prosperity of the Golden Age was due to the activities of the VOC (Dutch acronym for United East India Company) and the equivalent WIC (West India Company), which focussed on trade to the Americas. These companies maintained fleets of trading ships, which for a period during the 16th century had almost complete monopoly over the Pacific and Atlantic Ocean. Together they turned ‘the Republic of the Netherlands into Europe’s leading power and trade nation by the 17th century.’ (translated from Wit over Zwart, 1990, p. 19)

One of the chief sources of revenue for these companies was the trade in slaves. According to Blakely (1993, p.7) from 1654 on, the slave trade became the main occupation of the West India Company and ‘Dutch involvement in the trade would remain sufficiently high for them to account for shipment of some half-million Africans to the Americas before it ended.’ Blakely also argues that:

‘The Dutch role in this trade contains much of the explanation of Dutch attitudes and practices towards Blacks during the slavery era and even beyond. It accounts for important inconsistencies in behaviour and stark contrasts between the prevailing values at home and those in the colonies.’ (ibid, p. 4)

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It was during this period of colonizing and slave trading that Europeans came into contact with Africans and started to construct a representation of the ‘Other’ which Michael Pickering describes in his book Stereotyping (2001, p.51). In White on Black (1990), Jan Nederveen Pieterse analyses the European perception of African and Black peoples and points out that one of the first major stereotypes was that of the African “savage”, which depicted Black peoples as dangerous, vicious and a threat to Westerners, as a means to justify colonization. In other representations they were linked to animals and nature and were thus less evolved, or even ‘sub-human’, reflecting the belief that Europeans were more technologically advanced and therefore ‘civilised’. Pickering (2001, p. 51) analyses a similar construction, which he calls ‘the white racial phantasm of the Primitive’ which came into prominence during the later nineteenth century. ‘Western societies classifying themselves as modern and civilised relied heavily on the contrast between their own sense of advancement and the idea of racially backward and inferior societies.’ (ibid) The ‘Primitive Other’ underlined the progress of Western civilisation. The Primitive was something that did not have to be feared but helped. As power in the colonies was established Africans no longer needed to be seen as a threat but as grateful, subordinate peoples. So, the ‘Other’ could no longer be depicted as the enemy that needed to be tamed but had to be portrayed as obedient and content under colonial rule. And so the ‘Savage’ was replaced by the ‘Primitive’, who was a more childlike, intuitive and spontaneous ‘Other’. In other words, ‘the Western depictions of Black peoples demonstrated and propagated stereotypes as a means to further different agendas in Europe and America.’ (Brown and Tavares, 2004, p.94)

The visual stereotypes that came with these representations accentuated their ‘given characteristics’. The depiction (see image 2.1) also took away any kind of individualism and was mostly based on strong visual symbols (see image 2.2) like an entirely black face, full round red lips, and bright white teeth and eyes. No further personalisation was included to exclude any individual identity.

These examples of representation of Black peoples: the ‘Savage’, the ‘Primitive’, the ‘Jolly’, were images created by and in favour of Europeans. Pickering (2001, p.75) shows how ‘the ‘Other’ is constructed in and for its subordination, in and for its ‘inferiority’ to the self-in-dominance who has produced it’ and argues that the main problem with stereotyping is that it denies people the right to represent themselves.

October 15, 2008

A Farewell to the Master of Arab Cinema

Filed under: film — ABRAXAS @ 10:05 pm

By Kamran Rastegar, Lecturer in the Department of Islamic and Middle Eastern Studies, University of Edinburgh
Youssef Chahine: 25 January 1926 to 27 July 2008

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In 1998, Youssef Chahine spoke at a Film Studies class in a university in New York City – his film, Al-Masir (Destiny), had just been featured at the New York Film Festival and the students of this class had seen the film. Al-Masir is a fictionalised account of the life of the Arab Andalusian philosopher Ibn Rushd (known in the West as Averroes) recounting his intellectual struggle to promote reason over religious literalism. The film treated this historical episode as a parable concerning the spread of fundamentalist politics in the contemporary Arab world, and, through musical scenes and fantastic swordplay, ends with a call for the rejection of religious literalism.

One student asked the director if the film aimed to promote “tolerance”. Chahine chuckled and replied by noting that in his view “tolerance” is a typically Western notion – he would prefer to have the film seen as promoting respect and reciprocity for religious and cultural difference, something much more meaningful that simply adopting a tolerance for others. He went on to say that his understanding of Ibn Rushd was that he represented that dimension of Arab-Islamic civilisation which flourished not simply on tolerance, but on active engagement with religious and cultural Others, and which promoted this engagement through rationalism and science.

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By citing this ideal, Chahine was possibly also tapping memories of the Alexandria of his childhood, where he grew up in a mixed Syrian-Greek Christian family – the Alexandria which would serve as the setting for the films in his “Alexandria Trilogy”.

But it would be wrong to call Chahine a romantic nostalgist – his Alexandria, a place of respect and reciprocity for Others, served more as an ideal that could be reached only through political and social struggle. This sense of commitment and engagement serves as one of the few threads by which we may try to tie together his very diverse oeuvre.

While his films ranged in style from neo-realist to epic and from surreal to melodrama, one could always rely upon Chahine’s personal engagement to be reflected within their frames. His films also consistently addressed issues of specific concern to a progressive Egyptian artist such as gender equality, acceptance of non-normative sexualities, and the destruction of class distinctions and prejudices.

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There are certain films by Chahine that are viewed by many as successfully bringing a wide range of these themes together – one of these most certainly must be el-Ard (The Land, 1969), one of the classics of Egyptian anti-colonial cinema, screened as the opening film at Africa in Motion 2008. Coming as it does nearly at the mid-point of Chahine’s career, it showcases his command of the cinematic form, while retaining the vitality and originality of a filmmaker who makes films as part of his ideological and social commitments. The film narrates the gradual politicisation of a small Nile-delta village in the 1930s, tracing the eventual revolt of the villagers against the corrupt colonial government. The political theme plays out against the backdrop of a love story and intergenerational conflict among the villagers.

The film is populated by memorable archetypes of the anti-colonial genre, and to some extent follows the template of socially committed filmmaking by depicting a poor community as it begins to awaken politically. el-Ard ends on a distinctly ambivalent note – celebrating the struggle, but uncertain of where this endeavour has led to – through a searing final shot that will be imprinted on the memory of any viewer of the film.

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In el-Ard we discern the crucial social commitments that were to guide Chahine through so much of his work. It would be too facile to say, however, that Chahine’s work is easily reduced to terms such as “anti-colonial” or “Arab nationalist” even if these stances are valid terms to describe dimensions of some of his works.

Even in this film we may also follow Chahine’s fearless self-critique of Egyptian society’s deep class divisions, as well as his disillusionment with the aftermath of the 1952 revolution. Chahine was typical of the bravest members of the engaged secular Left of the Arab world in his ability to turn the mirror of criticism upon his own society, even while continuing to point to the unjust global systems which he believed were often to blame for the fundamental problems in Egypt and the Arab world. Schooled in filmmaking in the US, Chahine always mixed his praise of the openness and generosity he experienced on the part of Americans with trenchant criticism of what he viewed as the US’s profoundly negative role in the Arab world.

With the passing of Chahine this last July at the age of 82, the Arab world in general, and Egypt in particular, have lost one of the preeminent cultural voices of the secular Left. Chahine inspired numerous younger filmmakers and several of his protégés now occupy positions of note within a recently rejuvenated Egyptian cinema industry.

Chahine’s own legacy is assured, and with him we may say that Arab filmmakers found a confidence and clarity which has laid the groundwork for the current generation of filmmakers who have placed Arab cinemas squarely into a global spotlight.

first published on the africa in motion film festival website

October 13, 2008

TALKING OF ARMED ROBBERY

Filed under: ian martin,literature — ABRAXAS @ 10:07 am

From The Life of Henry Fuckit, 1950-2015
by Ian Martin

*** This scene is set in the late 1960′s. It takes place in the Whites Only half of the public bar at the Majestic Hotel in Kalk Bay. After many years of disuse this building was recently refurbished and turned into a bookshop. ***

It was Ivor Hopper who triggered in Henry a passing interest in firearms. They were seated on their barstools looking out through the open door to the harbour and the sea beyond the wall. Both felt pleasantly weary after a morning on Fish Hoek beach playing touch rugby with Ivor’s mates, fooling about in the waves and soaking up the hot sun and the cool southeaster. Now it was easy to feel the relaxed freedom of mild intoxication, and Ivor waxed eloquent on the merits of a playboy existence.

“Man, this is lekker. This is the way to live. What could be better? What more does a man need?”

“Well, maybe some good food. In the medical trade I believe it’s known as hypoglycaemia. I have all the symptoms: faintness, weakness, tremulousness, visual disturbances, confusion, palsy, personality change and, above all, hunger.” They ordered fish cakes and fried potato chips, and Ivor continued to extol the free-and-easy lifestyle of an unencumbered bachelor.

“You know, one doesn’t need much to live like this. The best things in life aren’t free, but they don’t cost a whole pile of money. It’s a pity we don’t live in a society that caters for individuals like us. A modest pension for life and in return a commitment to stay out of the job market, make room for those obsessed with the capitalist work ethic, those driven by insatiable greed to possess THINGS. And we could undergo voluntary vasectomies, thereby helping to diminish all this rampant procreation that has overcrowded and overloaded the planet. It makes economic sense. But no, the society we find ourselves in is terrified of the likes of us.” He shook his head regretfully. “They would be threatened by our incomprehensible happiness.”

Henry was in full agreement with these sentiments. “I’m afraid you are dreaming of a utopian world beyond the realms of possibility. We can’t look to Society for any assistance. On the contrary.” A coloured waiter of diminutive proportions appeared behind the bar bearing a tray laden with four fat fish cakes, one large platter of golden yellow chips, smoking hot, salt, pepper, vinegar and a large plastic squeeze-me tomato of sauce.

“God, but this looks good! This is the ultimate! Place before me a naked young wench, all eager and panting, and require me to choose – I’d toss a towel to her and tell her to await my pleasure, and I’d sate myself on this superior pleasure. Then I’d see to her. Probably in a half-hearted, unsatisfactory way. But what the fuck? A man must eat.” He squirted a puddle of tomato sauce onto his plate, took up a fish cake in his left hand, dunked it in the sauce and took a mouthful. With his right hand he began on the chips. Henry followed suit with grunts and other non-verbal utterances of appreciation.

At length Henry paused to drink deeply of his beer before asking a rhetorical question. “Do you know why these fish cakes are such good value for money? The ingredients would be in the dust bin if we weren’t eating them.”

“Tastes alright to me.” Ivor looked unperturbed but gave the last half of his second fish cake a precautionary sniff. “Smells alright too.”

“I’m not suggesting anything unsavoury or unsafe. It’s just that I happen to know a little about the preparation of this dish. Mrs Hildagonda De Groot, the housekeeper at Ingachini, was a very competent cook and, being Dutch, hated to throw away food of any description. If it wasn’t fit for European consumption it was fed to the dogs and the black staff. Whenever we had fish we knew we would be getting fish cakes a few days later. A very simple recipe: a cup or two of leftover fish flaked finely, two or three leftover potatoes mashed, a grated onion, one beaten egg, one tablespoon of cake flour, a sprig of chopped parsley, a few scrapes of nutmeg, a dash of Worcester sauce, salt and pepper. Throw the whole lot in a bowl and mix till stiff, then fry spoonfuls in hot oil. As easy as that. It makes sense for a hotel to recycle the leftovers and sell them cheap to the dronkies in the public bar.”

Ivor was almost finished with his meal and was looking thoughtful. “What you’re actually saying is that there exists the possibility that the food that I have just eaten was partially masticated in a former life. The fish might have borne the denture marks of Colonel Blithering-Wickforth, or some other honoured guest. The potato might have been lodged in the windpipe of some old codger before being coughed up onto the floor and then converted into fish cake.”

“Exactly.” With a split match Henry picked a morsel from his teeth, took a mouthful of beer and proceeded to light up his pipe. He blew a cloud of smoke towards the door and watched its transformation as it drifted into the sunlight. “Apart from dreaming of the Perfect Society, have you no other ideas on how to lead this idyllic life without having to work? Surely there must be a way.” The barman cleared away the plates, wiped the counter and placed before them another two beers.

“I’m afraid I can only fantasize. Winning a prize, inheriting a fortune, stumbling on hidden treasure. Kid’s stuff, you know.”

“Robbing a bank?”

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Ivor laughed and his good eye shone with a manic light. “Often, man, often. But it always ends in a fuckup. You want to hear how I rob Basil’s Corner Café down the road?” Henry nodded, eager for the privilege of entry into the Hopper imagination. “Right, well, I don’t like the revolting Greek ball of grease, anyway, so he’s a choice victim and I can enjoy myself. I hate patronising his shop but it’s convenient and he gives credit. Bright white fluorescent light; pyramids of grass green Granny smiths on indelible blue tissue; heaps of bananas and pineapples; pockets of potatoes. Too often I’ve been witness to scenes of violent unpleasantness. Shouting in patriarchal Greek at his young wife – not a bad looking woman, don’t know what she sees in him, his money probably. He cuffs a coloured slave for standing idle – “Whata ya theenk? Whata ya theenk? Ya theenk ya does a fuck-all in my shopa. Ya theenks I pays ya fuck-all? I keeck ya fucking black arse.” And even gives his grey old idiot father a verbal horse whipping when he drops a tomato. The trouble is I know the bastard’s got a gun. Have to choose the moment carefully. A quiet moment. Only the old man at the till, Basil at the back in the cold room. The old man’s not looking; step into the cold room as Basil reaches down a tray of lettuces; grab him by the blubbery neck and bang his face down on the shelf, four, maybe five times; then throw him across the floor to land spread-eagled in the corner, eggs and chickens and boerewors and cheese cascading down on him. Aim a tremendous kick at his bursting trousers as he struggles to get up; try to inflict enraging pain. Slam the door shut, never having given him the chance to see his assailant. Then I run to the front, shouting to the old man, “Your son, your son! He’s dying!” Basil’s banging on the door, the old man rushes, mouth open. I rip open the till, grab the notes, all the notes, stuff them into a hollowed-out pawpaw. Close the till and hurry to the back. “Hey, what’s the trouble? Can I help? Did you see him? I saw him. A fucking coloured ou – big, huge, with a knife. Are you alright? Shouldn’t you call the police? Wipe the blood, man. He skopped you in the balls, eh? Fuckin bastard. Your wife will be disappointed. Or maybe not, ha ha. Yah, of course, must have been a big guy. Maybe two, three of them? Yah, could have been. What they do that to you for, Basil? You good guy, Basil. Gentle. You not Greek poes. No ways!” And then the pawpaw falls right through the bottom of the packet, bursts open and spills notes all over the floor in front of the doubled-up retching little pig, and his eyes nearly fall out of his head onto the floor as well. He screams in Greek and I know I have to kill them both. Quick. An execution for the sake of not having to go out there and make a stupid honest living. Forget it. Not Basil.”

When Henry’s laughter abated and he was calmer, he said, “Ivor, I love it. This is what I thrive on. What about the bank? You must have planned any number of bank robberies.”

“Not really.” Ivor was modestly offhand. “Only one, actually. Standard Bank, Fish Hoek Main Road.” His voice took on the callous tones of a hardened criminal. “There’s no point in fucking about with small fry like Basil. The paltry amount in his grimy till wouldn’t keep me in idleness for more than six months. No. If you’re going in for armed robbery then it might as well be Big Time. Might as well do it properly the first time, that’s what I say. Take enough to live on for the rest of your natural days. Alright, so I plan to rob the Standard Bank. I’ve bought a 9mm pistol from City Guns and it’s fully loaded and feels heavy in my pocket. I’m quite prepared to shoot the shit out of those cabbages and turnips working in the bank. I’ll put a little terror into their lives so that their eyes look like the eyes of real human beings. Life will never be the same. For years they’ll be waking at three in the morning sweating at the image of my finger tightening on the trigger. Every time a car backfires in the street they’ll be cowering under their desks. Right. It’s just going one o’clock. The black guy at the door must be the security guard, judging by his ridiculous uniform. Very sophisticated! Doesn’t even have a knobkierie, for Christ’s sake. He stands in the vestibule waiting to lock the doors, just one remaining customer. I walk up the steps, bold as brass and cool as a cucumber, show him the big jute flour sack. Open it in front of him and say, “Can you tell me what’s in this sack?” Puzzled, he bends over and peers in. I jerk the bag up over his head and shoulders, expertly pull it down to his waist, tighten the nylon drawstring. Snarl through the coarse fabric, “Madala, you make one sound and I shoot your head clean off your body with makulu mbumbulu.” I close the heavy outer doors and bolt them. Now I’m inside and stride across the banking hall to the Manager’s Office, knock sharply on the door and enter. Or try to enter. But the fucking door is locked. There is one of those two-way speakers with a push button and a red and a green light. Press the button and the red light comes on. I push the button again. Sweat breaks out all over and I feel like a bowel movement. One of the tellers calls across, “The Manager’s out to lunch. You must make an appointment.” It’s beginning to go horribly wrong. The last customer heads for the door. A loud twanging noise as my nerve snaps and I rush for the exit just ahead of the customer. The security guard still stands motionless like a bewildered chicken waiting for dawn. Grapple with the bolts, wrench open the door, burst out into the glare of sunlight and a fresh breeze. I walk away from a non-event, away from another failed attempt at laying my hands on some easy money. I’m afraid my imagination is incapable of producing a satisfactory plot, or of reaching the intended climax.” Despite Henry’s obvious delight in the story Ivor sounded momentarily dejected. Then he brightened. “But hey, maybe my versions are more true to life than most fiction. Real life is one big fuckup anyhow, isn’t it?”

Ian Martin’s controversial novel Pop-splat is now available from http://www.pop-splat.co.za

October 10, 2008

The Rubick’s Juke

Filed under: literature,nikhil singh — ABRAXAS @ 8:55 am

excerpt from OUT-HERE-NOWHERE

Night cast the glass sea in impenetrable black. The glistening swells loomed and receded with an unreal majesty beneath the starry spill of a false heaven. And the blackness of the glass was so full of depth that became almost luminescent in its darkness. He wandered out, far past the belts of stormy coastal water to where the sea became at last, a still and smooth zone of star filmed jet. And then even this tranquil scape became disturbed by the violent beauty of tidal churns. Here were smooth lipped chasms caught in mid-boil. Delicate spray fanned from these eruptions in fragile organic constructions. Turbulent forces had met here, creating unbelievable troughs and tubes of enraged water/glass. The Boy, hideously weakened by his ordeals, crossed these dark distances, exploring small tracts and cosms, avoiding the finer sheets of spray lest they shatter or lacerate him. And I think we can assume that the Boy finally found some measure of peace with the emptiness of that world, out there on the cool glass surfaces. He sought refuge inside a long, sloping gulf, curling against the inside of a wave with his head clutched firmly between his forearms. And there, in that alien place of unearthly beauty, he slept the desperate sleep of fugitives and lunatics. The dreams came eventually, like harpies. But none of these could stain him as deep as the sight of an entire ocean frozen in time.

He awoke screaming in the aquamarine vase of the wave. The image of the lizard eating Suzie had wrested him from sleep with ugly visions. He stumbled with momentary vertigo on the life-like glisten of the water, but he was not sucked under. The world was still glass. A bright blue sky gleamed over the crest of the wave and hot light filtered beautifully through the cascade of cobalt forms. The Boy peered below his feet to see the distant shapes of plastic sharks, stilled in their wheeling motions like insects in amber. The glass lit up evenly to great depths, unlike the shifting substance of water which diffused and dampened the solar glare. The entire scape resonated with light. He crawled painfully out into the sun and was very nearly blinded by the infinity of reflective surfaces. He could feel that he was near death. He had lost much weight and felt perpetually drained. Sudden bouts of fatigue swamped him. He wandered out further, toward the haunting line of a blue horizon. The sea changed like a face and the Boy changed with it, drifting further and further from himself as he penetrated deeper still into this wonderland of glittering pinnacles and quartz-like, womanly shapes. He passed out several times from dehydration, and then it was night again.

He awoke once again, in the cool, jagged wasteland of morning. His limbs felt like bony helium balloons. He found himself floating on his back at the base of an enormous spiral of deep turquoise. It was difficult for him to move, but he was pleasantly shaded by the twist of an upended spill. So there was no need to move really. Shapes of diluted blue sunlight drifted like fish over his face. He let his head fall slightly, to gaze beyond the edge of the spill, taking in the gaudy gulfs of sky. He soon found his attention drawn inexorably to a dark speck at the very corner of his vision. It drifted like a mote in the water of his eye. He realised that it was in fact growing steadily larger. He had understood some time ago that he was not mad, so now he forced himself to fully investigate this phenomenon. He heaved himself onto the points of his bruised elbows and the sea seemed to shift beneath his physical unsteadiness. He felt the proximity of death like a religious certainty now, and he watched with a sort of suicidal awe as the speck swelled to a blotch. This blotch grew, until he realised it to be an enormous, disembodied head. The head was haloed by a sun-kissed spectacle of platinum curls. This head drifted gradually down, through the clouds, growing steadily more enormous as it descended. The face in the sky was one of rapturous beauty. A face glimpsed through the heady scope of celluloid memory. A high cheekboned visage of eyes smoky with mascara and lips bowed with the faintest trace of irony. The Boy felt that the face was that of a specific person, the star of some former spangled era. He sensed that her name was on the tip of his tongue. Yet no name came. It was almost as if the face encapsulated many faces and many names. A somehow universal face, bereft of identity and yet somehow infused completely with it. Its vast familiarity and nameless concentration of attention lurked in the ever-present soft focus of his memory like an unattainable fish. The head floated there, in a haze of silver and gold. It’s lashes batted the air heavily, like the wings of black angels. Gleaming locks of white-blonde cascaded closer and closer, an encroachment of blonde waterfalls. Then when it had blotted out the sky almost completely, and the entirety of the glass sea seemed suffused with the gorgeous smell of that hair and skin, one of the eyes winked at him. Detonations of mascara flowered into the air like flocks of birds. And it was as if the whole world had suddenly leaned in to give him a kiss. It was then that he saw the figure, emerging like a speck of dust from the impenetrable pupil of that eye. The figure strolled casually through the thin air, in the manner of a speech bubble. It seemed to take him hours to reach the Boy. His suit was the yellow of an overripe banana. And his shining quiff seemed crafted of solid vinyl. His face had a neurotic thinness and was dominated by an enormous pair of horn-rimmed glasses. His wingtips never touched the ground. A gleaming microphone hovered before his acne pitted face. He alighted upon the spiral at whose base the Boy lay and looked around nervously, as if he wasn’t supposed to be there. Air circulated belligerently below his suspended shoes. There was a graininess about him. The Boy noticed this with a detached interest. It was almost as if the thin, bespectacled figure were being projected somehow, directly onto the back of the Boy’s eyes.

“I am the Fush,” the figure eventually murmured into the microphone.

His voice came at the Boy from vast speaker systems in the sky. A crystalline shard of feedback gathered, threatening to break like lightening. The Fush covered his microphone with a white-gloved hand and the shrill feedback subsided cheekily, lurking somewhere in the clouds like a petulant child.

“You haven’t seen two dogs have you?” he asked casually.

The Boy breathed hoarsely, his dry throat unclasping clumsily around the very idea of speech.

“…Shot them..” the Boy wheezed. “..shot.”

The Fush slapped the back of one white glove against the palm of the other in irritation. The Boy heard the sound of this only faintly. It filtered from the sky as a background sound, microphone leakage.

“Fuckbuggy,” the Fush muttered caustically to himself before adjusting his glasses.

He peered down at the Boy, as if he were inspecting a bug on his shoe.

“Where’s the girl?” he demanded in a clipped voice. “Don’t tell me you plugged her too.”

The Boy struggled weakly to his knees, shaking his head in a drunken fashion.

“Are there others?” the Boy managed to ask.

The Fush chewed his lip, rummaged about in his lurid jacket and extracted what looked suspiciously like a love letter. He peeled back the pink envelope and withdrew a Valentine’s day card. He opened it and cleared his throat stratospherically.

“One schoolgirl, two dogs, one male polar bear, a bottle of unopened milk, fourteen Emperor butterflies, the entire pen-pal correspondence of a twelve year old in Mexico….and you I suppose.”

His voice echoed down on the glass sea like muted thunder.

“You aren’t on the list,” he sneered.

Then he seemed to suddenly grow wistful and distant.

“There’s always a coffee stain on the calendar,” mused the sky sized murmur.

The Boy tried to stand but his joints had grown too weak to support his weight. The Fush nimbly caught him under his arms and pulled him to his feet. Faint charges of static played over the areas in which the Boy came into contact with that unforgivable suit.

“Easy Tiger, ” the Fush winked suavely.

“Right,” muttered the Boy, and promptly passed out.

Sometimes folks up and get plucked from the Hamster Wheel. And all those everyday daytime reasons so precious to the former hamster just turn their backs and hustle to cover up the hole that was left. Reality runs like blood, time cakes over like a scab. Happens all the time the guy in the End-Is-Nigh sandwich board will tell you. But I wouldn’t give a fig for any statement that relies on time as its stabilizing jelly. Jesus knows I have too many little bits of time caught in the lining of my hip pocket. After awhile they stick together like boiled sweets in the sun. And then you don’t even want to go in those pockets no more. No place to do and nothing to go when time gets sticky like that. Nosirree Bob.

The Fush abruptly ceased his elucidations. The Boy noticed that he looked somewhat depressed. The Fush was rather thoughtfully attired in the khaki day uniform of the Boy’s former school. We can only assume that he did this to put the Boy at ease, although there might have been other reasons. The grey jersey was too big and gave him the appearance of a scrawny turkey. His shiny school shoes bobbed on cushions of air. They were sitting amongst the roses in the small English garden which the Fush had cultivated at the crown of the enormous blonde head. An antiquated tea table sat between them. A pot of eight hundred year old ginseng tincture had been set upon its wrought iron surface. The Boy had asked the Fush how he’d managed to acquire eight hundred year old ginseng, but he’d just shrugged, muttering something about the perks. The air was crisp and refreshing up in the cloud layer. Heated oxygen pumped up in drifts through the plants. The rose garden gave way to a hedge maze and several meandering paths lined with aspidistra and trellises of bougainvilleas. Monstrous blonde trunks of hair fountained beyond the farthest trees like detonations of peroxide lava. The sky through which they floated was the flawless blue of a cuckoo’s egg. It was pleasant for the Boy to have the Fush talk without that biblical microphone of his. Aboard the Diva’s head, the Fush’s voice was the low, cynical drawl of almost any disenchanted armchair philosopher. The armchair however, was one of exceptional, even monolithic proportions. He fed the Boy ancient ginseng and cinema-hot popcorn until he was fit to be interrogated. It was almost obvious that they’d become friends. The Fush did seem disturbed by the lizard incident though.

“Poached!” the Boy heard him mutter.

He asked him what he meant, but the Fush merely spouted some gibberish about his father being an English teacher during the war. Life on the Diva’s head was slow and strange. Each corridor had its own popcorn machine. The Fush told him one day, whilst they were shooting clay pigeons above the forest of platinum: “I once choked to death on a Rubik’s Cube.”

The Boy asked him about Suzie and the world several times, but the Fush would simply mumble incoherently or suggest something ridiculous, like a fishing expedition. Then unexpectedly, he would conjure up a pot of tincture, lock up the microphone and start talking.

When you step out with the Hamster Wheel, the Hamster Wheel steps out with you. ‘Cept it ain’t ever the Hamster Wheel you knew. No hamsters usually. If you know what you’re doing, or, if you have the right room, you can navigate. Reality Jukebox Number One. But under circumstances such as yours, a snapshot of the former Hamster Wheel comes complimentary. Just a slice’o time to potter round in. Nothing but a glorified waiting room. Kinda like life. Kinda life-like. I knew someone used to call ‘em Polaroid Voids. But it ain’t a natural snapshot plot you woke up in. Not the way you came in. Nothing natural about those sorts of Easter Egg hunts. Word comes down the line to pull a certain something or a certain somebody and the star machines up in the Nebula Shack start processing made-to-order glass oceans, if you get my meaning. You should see the Nebula Shack sometime. One Polaroid void every time your heart skips a beat. Nothing fancy though, we’re talking bulk orders here. Some kinda strange, empty limousines for just a handful of lost souls. But I guess it worked out cheaper that way. You wanna talk big! Get outta town junior, the Shack is ROBUST! But there are coffee stains all the time when that kind of assembly line has to politic with representatives from any given walk of Reality Realty. Many coffee stains make for less coffee if you know what I mean. So orphanisms like you are kept hush-hush most times. This is when they start falling through the cracks. I know buyers in the Stranger-Trade, lemme tell you. But I don’t go in for that kind of bumrush. You don’t feed pets to pets if you get my drift.

Caching the polar bear was a lot of fun for the Boy. The head pouted in over a milky, plastic ice-cap. Vast Styrofoam icebergs crunched like enormous bobbets of popcorn in the glass waves. The polar bear was clawing a blaze of fluff out of the side of a towering polystyrene glacier. It had evidently been driven insane in its hunger and confusion. Fush and the Boy hung about in one of the badly wallpapered observation lounges staring at a seven foot node of translucent jelly. Fush had the node nerved up proper to one of the eyeballs. Overstuffed paisley print couches were strewn about like children’s toys. The Persian rug had cigarette burns. Every now and then the eye blinked and the jelly core flashed black. Fush was up against the far wall, which was in fact a large surface of exposed flesh. Long glands and capillaries were attached to the quivering plane of tissue. Many of these had been stripped of their membranes and jury-rigged to interface with a system of stained plastic valves and transparent tubing. The tubes fed into the observation node, within which swam a dirty crystal-ball image of the tundra and its lone bear. Fush wrestled with the valves like some obsessive symphonic conductor. He twiddled screws and pressure points along the glands until a pale secretion ran down one of the tubes into the jelly. The viscosity of the jelly immediately changed as the fluid blossomed within it. The fuzzy image of the bear zoomed into focus almost immediately.

“Synapses are flaky,” Fush muttered, half to himself. “This baby needs ginseng like I don’t know what.”

It was obvious that the Fush was alone most of the time, pacing the inside of his starlet’s head, dressed in an unbelievable array of bad suits. The Boy kicked a cranky popcorn machine and watched as it coughed up a card carton of steaming nubbins. The Fush produced an enormous syringe of ginseng tincture which he promptly injected into the wall of flesh. The raw pink matter quivered reflexively as the needle pierced it. It then flushed a deeper shade, seemingly revitalized.

“Billy Button bought a buttered biscuit,” Fush mumbled meaninglessly.

They ate popcorn, watching the bear savage the polystyrene mountain. Only Fush wasn’t really eating. He seemed to enjoy pretending to though. At first it had made the Boy vaguely nervous, but after awhile he began to overlooked it as a harmless eccentricity.

“Did you watch us like this?” the Boy suddenly found himself asking.

The Fush eyed him quizzically, with one eyebrow raised.

“Its just a monitor,” he drawled. “Its not like I can really kick back and be entertained.”

“Did you watch us?” the Boy repeated stubbornly.

The Fush picked his nose cautiously. He studied the flawless white tip of his gloved finger.

“I liked the part with the shooting-holes-in-the-night routine,” he eventually admitted. “Was a real original twist.”

It was at times like this that the Boy felt like committing at least one homicidal act. The Fush didn’t seem to notice.

“Lets bag this Bonzo!” he drawled with fire in his eyes.

They quit the observation lounge, took several identical corridors until they reached a globular chamber padded with foam walls. Fush popped a surgical white manhole in one of the curved walls, and the Boy found himself crawling through vaguely intestinal passages toward a minty light. The passage walls were soft skin, pulsing lightly and downy. A cold draught issued from the light, announcing the outside world. The pair emerged into the mouth of a cave-like formation. Hard arctic light lay sharp as sleet over the whorled, fleshy structures around them. A blinding, white sky gleamed over a smooth outcrop above. They Boy realized that they were in the ear. They scaled the jutting cartilage and leaned over a dizzying drop to see the entire tundra extending away into stark forever’s. The wind seemed to pierce hypothermically, affecting the Boy’s bones before his skin. The Fush was completely unfazed in his

hound’s-tooth zoot suit. The Boy noticed that he had the microphone out again. His teeth chattered and shook as the bear gaped up at the Diva’s face in sudden shock. It uttered a caustic roar and began to lope maniacally across the plastic ice-shelf. There was a sickening moment of vertigo as the entire head tilted in pursuit. The Boy clung onto the warm, supple folds of skin as the vast cranium darted buoyantly, to and fro, above the crazed, furry shape. It was then that the Boy noticed an antique grandfather clock, wedged deep against the far corner of the ear. He also noticed that the Fush was edging surreptitiously toward it. Upon reaching it, Fush unlocked the clock’s door and withdrew a chipped metal cannister about the length of his forearm.

“What’s that?” the Boy called above the wind.

“Nerve gas,” Fush mumbled, his voice breaking like modulated explosions from the speaker systems in the sky. The Boy clapped his hands over his ears, hearing the bear scream in fear below.

“Sorry,” Fush squinted deafeningly, adjusting some unseen and metaphysical volume control.

He scuttled over to the Boy, fiddling with antiquated gauges and dials set along the head of the cannister.

“Picked this up in Zurich, 1946,” Fush’s voice pealed from high above the cottonwool clouds. “Should knock Bozo off the pitch for an inning.”

The head sank closer still and the perspectives of the world aligned dizzyingly. Fush pulled a greasy tab at the canister’s tip. There was a loud fizzing noise and the Boy watched as the cannister fell like a bone to the white below, taking its fizz with it. It landed surprisingly close to the bear, spewing out violent whorls of garish orange smoke. The bear was down in seconds. It wasn’t long before the head had licked it up like a drop of ice-cream.

There was a day, the Boy would later recall, when he grew weary of the English garden for no apparent reason. He strode down the meandering paths to the farthest trees and stared through the iron bars of the fence, deep into the dense blonde forest. After a moment’s deliberation, he climbed the fence and dropped to the scalp’s surface. It was moist and spongy underfoot. Thin oozings of clear oil coated everything with a sap-like lustre. The incredibly intimate smell of a beautiful woman’s head was almost overpowering in its intensity. It felt to the boy as if his nose were pressed perpetually to the nape of an invisible neck. He waded onward in a peculiar state of melancholic arousal, pushing aside thick, scaly strands of golden hair. The bleach had eaten deep into the fibre of the hair, leaving it husked as beeswax. The strands felt like a strange sort of rubbery bamboo against his body. He found himself in tears over trivial memories of his former life, clasping great handfuls of the hair to his breast and crying like a baby. When this faded, he lay in the warm swamp of luxurious oil and toppled into a deeply peaceful sleep. Intense dreams prompted an irrational need to discover what exactly had happened to Suzie.

What you are is a refugee Sunny Jim. A refugee from reality, what I would write up as an orphanism. You are a nobody an a great mess of nowhere’s. Now that Suzie Cruze, what she is, is poached. She talked to Strangers. Strictly speaking, I have no respect for Strangers who wheedle into a snapshot and capitalize off an orphanisms’s natural suicidal tendencies. It goes against my grain, if you know what I’m saying. But where there’s sugar there’s flies. And faces on milk cartons are sugar to some. So what do you got springing up round the Orphanism problem? One monster under-market; The Stranger Trade as its known round the block, with its catflaps all about time and space like snooker pockets. And tunnels and trains in between, nerved up all through the cheese of time like a parasite vine. And this is bony knuckles-to-the-wall blackmarket transit lemme tell you. Down there in the Corridor Quarter, where the Strangers take off their trenchcoats. So anyway, to get back to the plot, this Komodo jumps a catflap back at the Shack, or in transit someplace, and stows away on the snapshot. It locates you and crazy girl then acts all THIS-IS-THE-WAY so it can jack you without resorting to monster movie tactics. Or maybe it only planned for one pigeon? who knows. Either way, it seems that this is the sort of Stranger who offers sweets. Whatever the case, it jacked the wrong pigeon. She was on the list. If it had been you? No sweat, Lizard Lounge for you bud. Bet her, she’s an ORDER, she’ll be missed. What this soup boils down to is yours truly going down into the Clock Quarter after I’m done cleaning out this snapshot and finding Mr Komodo so he can cough up crazy girl No 1. This annoys me no end, but after all it is my fault. I was in Egypt fetching one unopened bottle of milk, when what I should’ve been doing was watching the walls for geckoes. But that’s the Life. Never a dull moment. Reality jukebox baby. Rubik’s Juke No1. No rest for the snookered.

When they found the right plastic rainforest, the Fush dug up an old rope ladder he’d accumulated somewhere along the way. The head coasted in low over the creeping sea of trees and bobbed motionlessly while Fush tossed the ladder out of the ear. The Boy swayed heartstoppingly over the drop, clinging to the rungs like he was about to die. It took him ages to start climbing. It was terrifying at first, but once he had descended into the plastic canopy things got better. The whole world smelled like new toys down there. Plastic creepers, livid plastic tree frogs, dense plastic tree trunks and a billion rubbery lianas suspended across the cathedral spaces. Trapped heat rose in suffocating waves. At one point, the Boy saw a shiny orang-utan moulded around a branch. The Fush strolled in mid-air, along unseen planes of invisible force with his microphone. He picked his nose occasionally and poked neurotically around in the trees. It took the better part of the day to collect the fourteen butterflies. They were all dead of course, but Fush insisted that nothing real be left behind.

‘There are no spares in the universe, ‘ he said from somewhere in the canopy above. ‘Everything is waiting around to be used by something else.’

He talked more about the Stranger Trade and the jumble of reality alleys, which he drolly referred to as The Corridor Quarter or The Catflap Quarter. The conversations emerged like paintings over a sequence of strange days above the Greek islands. The endless archipelagos drifted in the bottle-green sculptures of what was once the Mediterranean . The Boy watched them loom and dissolve with a sweet poignancy, remembering the endless formaldehyde of history lessons. For some reason, the litmus coloured memories led him to think of the many plastic temples set like wedding cakes in the lands below. Images of plastic Grecian sculpture distracted him at odd times. The Fush had dug up a battered old velvet couch and somehow secured it into the whip-like mesh of one of the enormous eyebrows. It nestled against the curve of lustrous skin, ensconced by stiff follicles. The Fush also showed the Boy the path which bisected the blonde forest. It lay to the right of the head, an unswerving highway of pale pink scalp. The Boy had been instantly awed by the division of the hair, parting on either side of the path like the Red sea. Vast diamond hairclips drifted overhead like iron bridges. The view from the hairline was truly staggering. Fush once again handed the Boy the rope ladder, shaking his head at the now familiar bursts of fear which laced the Boy’s face. The first few rungs were always nerve-racking for the Boy. But once he reached the couch , everything became incredibly pleasant. The pair would lounge on the huge sofa, munching popcorn (and pretending to munch popcorn), watching the skies darken and brighten. Fush occasionally brought his sun-setter control box down with him. On these occasions they would take turns toggling the sun up and down whilst they talked. And thankfully, for the Boy at least, the microphone remained under lock and key for the majority of these Mediterranean talks. And the voice of the Fush came soft and sombre in the long winds.

Thos zigzag canals…those chopped up alleys. I have such memory tea for those crazy lanes down in the Tick Tock Quarter. Sweet Limbo and her substructures between the cracks of whenever. A plump wasphive of ‘em too. Some are badly burrowed or set all wrong, like fractured bones leading to nothing but dead time. Some are rickety and blow off in the clocky winds. You’ll have silver nitrate moments in those hip pockets let me tell you. ..If you live to darkroom up after that is. Le Quartier Limbo is the spaces between the places. Rats alley deluxe. And o ‘course when the Trade started setting its operations like bones into the loose skin of the alleys, we had a real firmament coming to the fore. All the blackmarket brainpans and thunder-tailors put meat and sinew on this jellyfish skeleton . Grade-A suturing from Pluto to Timbuktu. So now the whole flimsy thing billows Out-Here-Nowhere, like some majestic kite for screwy-eyed God and his scarecrows. Some obscure polka dot’ll always be trying to map, or explore its obscure randoms to the envelope. Nuts to that I say. Place is bigger than yesterday, isn’t even a place! Lotta pilgrims to Ninurtia wind up down in the Corridor Quarter, you’ll always find the lost and the desperate down those passages, trying to hunt dreams they tasted when they were children. Those sorts of Easter Egg hunts can suck a soul down into the Memory Bends as easy as sugar in a shower. There are well established Korridors and spook-trains and catpaths. These subdivide and subdivide and subdivide. You gotta know the snakes and ladders before you go all Red Riding hood down there in the soup. And there are serious Strangers in that hedge maze. It’s the Land of Strangers Out-Here-Nowhere. Some have had the notion that the Quarter is, and always was some manner of ‘place’, like a mythical fracture-city, spread out in moments and murmurs all over everywhere. That it was even ‘place’ before it was THERE, like a memory in reverse. A country of trapdoors. Some say its spill-over from Ninurtia, a kind of no-mans land between that dreamy fog and the jelly of time. Maybe there’s salt in any one of these theories, but who gives a hoot. Far as I can tell, the place was put there to drive me bananas. Last snapshot season I had an orphanism pulled down into the burrows by a Stranger called Mr Cloud. This was just his grapevine handle by the way, no-one knows his real name. Happy old feller with a sky blue suit, seventeen eyes set like marbles in his head and a briefcase full of outdated newspapers. Who knows what escape-pod the kiddie saw in that grin, out there across some plastic boulevard. Took me a lifetime to find the little pigeon. Traders had already brewed its Tea by the time I wrote myself into the script. And junior was knocking Stardust in some badly written Loop. The Loop was run by a pod of nested Mon-Ghighletts. The plotline required junior to fly across eternal sunsets as a little birdie. There were other orphanisms flapping in there as well. So junior was knocking some nightingale Stardust up in the toy sky so pretty, flapping shadow puppet wings for all those methane breathers in the clouds. Stinking proles in their fishbowls. Hate those manky Ghighletts. Stinking nun suckers those. There’s some rudimentals you ought to get the know for by the by. Remind me to show you the Tea Room.

A hot day in Mexico. The Boy stood on the edge of a dusty red road kicking down plastic cactus. A row of houses cascaded off into the asphalt coloured stretches like broken cardboard boxes. The Fush was in one of those boxes, extricating a one-sided penpal correspondence from broken cupboards. Seven plastic crows dangled from tattered telegraph wires. He saw the Fush emerge from a distant door, blatant as a bloodstain in his red dungarees. He watched him wave the envelopes in the dull, soundless whistle of the wind. The Boy was eating red grapes from a vine which he’d discovered growing somewhere in the English garden. Fush had mumbled something to him about eating the seeds too. The other half of the correspondence was apparently in Russia somewhere. The Boy thought that it would be fun to read something again. Plastic tumbleweed blew past. The Boy had the sudden sense that his time aboard the Head was coming to a close.

It was sometimes disconcerting for the Boy, to turn a corner and see the corridor terminating in some enormous organic process. It was at times like those when he remembered that he was inside a head. Thick walls of transparent jelly kept the cranial fluids and organs at bay in these half finished cul-de-sacs. The habitable sections of the head resembled an endless canteen in some bizarre, recreational submarine. And the Boy always had the sensation that there were secret floors and quadrants hidden between those high cheekbones. He slept on couches because there were many of these, three for every popcorn machine if the Boy’s calculations held any water. There was a small Boeing 747 lavatory installed against a cartilaginous formation inside what the Boy assumed was the nasal quarter. A tap gave out lukewarm water recycled from the savilatory glands. Translucent chutes linked all the levels. Warm blood and living tissue pulsed beyond their crinkled walls. There was an inescapably medical atmosphere about these chutes and the Boy avoided using them as much as possible. Plastic rungs, warm from their proximity to the blood, made life easier in the chutes. When the Fush pointed out what he referred to as the ‘spinal staircase’, which led down to the Tea Room, the Boy knew that he was about to become privy to a place somehow crucial to the secret operations of the Diva’s head. The mouth of the staircase gaped through one of the walls of jelly. Its walls were lined with a smooth meniscus of slippery plastic. The Boy saw its coil snake down through the tissue, into the enormous form of a vertebrae which floated like a whale beyond the jelly. The Fush motioned for the Boy to walk ahead, and together they descended into the drifting tubule. Spiralling steps had been set into the jelly. They swivelled on an intricate system of gyroscopes, remaining level as the tube slicked between bone formations and red belts of muscle. They descended only a short way, emerging through another plane of jelly into a dingy little foyer. The foyer had an atmosphere similar to certain nameless hotels glimpsed only through the windows of cars at night. A single naked bulb swung from a damp and stained ceiling. It radiated a buzzing, yellow fluorescence. The close walls emitted strips of peeling wallpaper. They loomed, dank and ancient in the claustrophobic gloom. A ratty carpet disclosed many indefinable stains and burns. For some inexplicable reason, a tricycle brooded in the corner. The Fush seemed enormously embarrassed by its presence and very obviously ignored it. He indicated an old, panelled door which stood directly before them. The door also carried with it the same dirty ambiance of nameless hotels, yet there was something distinctly ominous about it. It seemed to emanate palpable waves of dense magnetic influence. A faint crackling haunted its hinges and lintels. The air was thick with ozone. The Boy had the sudden, deep understanding that he had come to an unavoidable crossroads, and that what lay beyond this door would catalyse all the unseen changes to come. He felt uniquely afraid of the chamber beyond and looked to the Fush for support. The Fush was, however, almost genocidally distracted by the tricycle and did not even acknowledge the Boy’s stare.

“Moving on swiftly…” he muttered unexpectedly, brushing past the Boy.

He casually opened the door and passed through to the other side. The Boy followed numbly. The chamber beyond was carpeted, low-lit and extended for about twenty meters. The long, soft, almost corridor-like space gave the nerve-wrenching impression of being completely airless. The Boy began to feel the heady, suppressed panic of a dream. It became difficult for him to breathe. The colourless carpet swallowed his footfalls completely, so all the sounds became as muffled as lights through frosted glass. In the centre of the long chamber was a severe, antiquated photo booth, the sort you might find in desolate Scandinavian airports. The Fush began walking toward it in that long, sloping way of his, his wingtips trowelling through the air above the carpet like clock pendulums. The Boy followed, wading through the syrupy air with some difficulty. A heavy buzzing began to oscillate in the deepest parts of his ears. He tried to speak but no sound emitted from his vocal apparatus. All he could manage was stifled choke.

“Don’t try to speak yet,” the Fush murmured from ahead. “This is a foreign environment for you.”

The Boy floated onward, leaning against the wall like a drunken person. The air began to feel like a solid mass, congealing over his face and arms like gelatine.

“We’ve now collected the last items on the shopping list,” the Fush announced without turning his head.

He was quite far away from the Boy now, almost at the booth. Yet his voice sounded close to the Boy’s ear, and somehow recorded. The curtain of the booth began to open from within. The Boy began panting, as though from an enormous exertion. The curtain eventually parted to reveal a vivid, mirrored interior. A headless woman sat in the brightly lit booth. She wore a shimmering silver gown and a white mink stole lay about her shoulders. Diamonds glittered at her satin gloved wrists. She stood like a mannequin, moving only slightly. A glass partition separated the box’s interior from the void of the chamber.

“This snapshot is on its way to the wastepaper basket,” Fush murmured. “But there’s this place where you can get a ticket to anywhere.”

The Boy breathed raggedly in the long distances of the room. Fush had pulled the Valentine’s day card from a concealed pocket. The Boy still couldn’t see his face properly. He realised that he was crawling across a vast carpet toward the distant, livid shape of the Fush.

“You probably feel like a bluebottle that’s been washed up on a beach,” Fush chuckled reassuringly.

The Boy struggled to retort through the dense light and lack of sound.

“Anyhows,” The Fush coughed, clearing his throat. “You’ll need to pay for a ticket, and there’s only one way to pay Out-Here.”

Now he turned and eyed the faraway Boy with something like detached sympathy. The glare from the booth reflected across his spectacles, replacing his eyes with lozenges of light.

“Don’t wind up at the Arcade though,” he said with an unmistakable edge of warning in his voice. “The butchers down at the Arcade mix their thinks.”

He snorted dryly.

“I can have your Memory Tea brewed and help you trade it for an EXIT, what do you say?”

The Boy reeled groggily against an endless expanse of carpeting. He wheezed in a vain attempt to formulate speech. And the wheezing made him think of molluscs on the beach and the suction sounds they made when the tide stranded them on rocks.

“Your life up until now,” Fush explained as the headless woman slowly drew back the glass partition. “You don’t need it anymore, it can only bring you pain and loss. But I can have it brewed for you, and extracted. You’ll be able to trade it and buy yourself a brand new From-Now….somewhere fresh and breezy maybe.”

The Boy goggled at the Fush in a cornered fashion, too disorientated to even consider the ramifications of what was being offered to him across the void.

“Its really the only way Bub,” he bit his lip at the Boy, placing the envelope in the woman’s outstretched hand.

The Boy began to turn, to try crawl away from the bright blur of the Fush. He struggled across the softness as the woman’s hands dismembered the envelope like a small animal. She emptied the miniature objects within into the photo booth’s coinslot. Somehow, the boy could discern perfectly what they were, even at such a colossal distance. They fell into the slot like playing pieces. Tiny, falling figures; a polar bear, two dead dogs, a bottle of milk…

The Boy somehow reached the door as the curtain of the booth closed. From behind it came a stark flash of white-hot photographic light.

The Fush found the Boy crying in the dingy little hotel foyer with nowhere to go and nothing to do. He peered at him inquisitively for several seconds before pulling a tiny, red hardcover book from his breast pocket. The Boy glimpsed the dust jacket, which had the words: ‘Appropriate Clichés’ embossed across its surface in gold leaf.

“Tough break kid,” he read from somewhere inside.

The Boy put his face in his hands while the Fush edged away from the tricycle.

“Why don’t we start with your childhood,” Fush suggested amiably. “You won’t miss that.”

They sat in the English garden for the last time. The Fush had prepared a tincture of ginseng and rose petals. A carton of popcorn lay unattended to the right of the Boy, a wreath of red grapes to his left. The coldness of inevitability lay between them both, like slices of white, suspect meat. Still, the Fush attempted to be cheerful. Four enormous hoops, the sort tigers might leap through at the circus, had been erected amongst the rose bushes and aspidistra. They stood at right angles to one another. Fush was slathering vast quantities of the Diva’s saliva along the tops of these hoops with an oversized paintbrush. The fluid fell in rainbow sheened skeins, until each hoop was glistered over like a soap bubble blower. Fush then activated four ancient wind machines, which he’d ‘picked up’ in Hollywood circa 1935. They burred rustily into life. Then, much like soap bubbles, the saliva began to inflate into four quivering, pearly orbs. The trembling, amoeboid form of the closest bubble grew enormous, engulfing the table stickily. The Boy also felt himself passing through this warm, filmy membrane. He soon found himself within the quivering vacuole with the Fush and his breakfast. The wind machines grated at the mouth of this space like some strange air conditioner. All this time, the Head had been slowly rising, past the cottonwool cumulonimbus formations and into the icy gulfs beyond. Clouds loomed, snagging occasionally in the blonde hair, eventually passing like haloes or hangovers. When Fush was satisfied with the bubble’s steady rate of expansion he goggled at the Boy through his spectacles.

“Gotta just fetch something,” he explained clumsily. “Hold the fort would you old chap.”

He then turned and loped off, passing through the bubble’s meniscus like a colourful ghost. The Boy eased back into the wrought iron chair, grateful for the respite. The logic of the Fush’s offer had been slowly torturing him into submission. And he was right of course, The Boy had no need whatsoever for the accumulated detritus of a dead life. Here was a chance to begin anew, along some alien tangent, free from the remorse and longings of a severed existence. The Fush knew that the Boy would have to eventually agree. He casually rolled a grape between thumb and forefinger, contemplating the sweet anaesthesia of amnesia. Down in the rose bushes, the edges of the bubbles had stretched up from the hoops like overtaxed ligaments. Eventually the stress became unbearable and these liquid tendons leapt up from the wind machines, merging in a lightening fast coagulation. The newly formed single bubble rose like the immense belly of some strange Buddha. It swelled and roiled, pushing past the circularities of the hedge maze and into the farthest trees. It slowly swamped a perimeter into the surrounding hair. The Boy watched as the top most parts of it began to slowly etch with frost against the starry black beyond. These frozen parts slowly spread, joining like continents, obscuring the spaces beyond. Fush appeared in the trees to the left of the Boy. He had the headless woman on one arm and a small, army issue backpack on the other. Although headless, the woman was still significantly taller than he was. She was still attired in the same glamorous ensemble as before. They made a ridiculous couple. The snowy mink stole obscured her severed throat. The sky outside was growing slowly darker. When the pair drew close to the Boy, Fush tossed him the backpack. The Boy quickly realised that it was a parachute. A small nervous tingle erupted behind his ears.

“Slip that sucker on,” Fush said, seating the headless woman opposite me. “Make sure it’s real snug.”

The Boy climbed through the straps, staring covertly at the snowy beauty of the woman’s flawless shoulders. Her white satin fingers were laced neatly at her lap. The Boy couldn’t shake the unnerving sensation that she was somehow watching him.

“Does she have an invisible head?” The Boy asked Fush nervously.

The Fush merely stared at him as if he were totally stupid.

“Put your parachute on,” he muttered, fiddling with a large node of translucent jelly which poked through a row of ornamental potplants. The Boy went back to securing the many buckles and straps. When he was finished, he looked up and noticed that the stars were passing beyond the scope of the saliva’s dome. Thousands of gold and silver pentangles were suspended in the void beyond like some sort of celestial minefield. Each luminesced with an inner radiance. Some caught and crumpled in the invincible hair, their inner bulbs winking out like dysfunctional Christmas lights. The quadrant of stars passed soon enough, like the span of some yuletide asteroid belt. Then it was just black, and this too was soon swallowed by the encroachment of the frosting. An enormous half-sphere of organic ice-crystal now arced above their very strange tea party. Fush poured the Boy a cup of steaming tincture.

“The beginning of the bend,” he toasted.

I noticed the fuzzy image of the moon inside the node of jelly. It seemed to be approaching he head slowly. Fush noticed the Boy’s sudden interest.

“I always collect the snapshot moons,” he chattered away conversationally. “Good market for them Out-There…I know some feller cut surgical cross-sections and re-directs his blood flow through the shapes, blood on the moon…go figure.”

The Boy stared at him, harnessed awkwardly in his tight-fitting parachute.

“Drink up,” the Fush muttered dismissively, adjusting items on the table like a waiter.

The decapitated woman sat regally, as if awaiting the arrival of someone or something. The Boy watched as the enormous, lipsticked mouth of the head slowly kissed open and closed over the moon. He then ate many grapes and drank the cup of tincture, making sure to chew each seed to a pulp before swallowing. Some time passed before the Boy noticed the bubble beginning to melt. As the frosty swathes steamed back into transparency, he saw that the snapshot-Earth now hung mysteriously above them. They had somehow swung upside-down during their ascension. The snapshot-Earth was also incongruently small, disproportionate in size to the time it had taken them to leave it’s surface. It was almost as if the entire globe had shrunk. Now it loomed overhead like some ghostly football in the gulf of perfect black. The bubble abruptly popped. Ghostly strands of saliva wisped off into the forest of hair. Fush stood up, reached over his head with both hands and clasped the snapshot-Earth in his white gloves. The Boy was stunned to see him place the football sized globe on the wrought iron table. It wavered uncertainly between the popcorn and the ornate tincture pot.

“What…” the Boy stammered, staring at the now miniature world.

“Never mind,” the Fush said curtly.

He leaned over to the Boy and snapped his gleaming fingers before his face. The Boy blinked out of his trance.

“Listen carefully, “The Fush said quite evenly. “Take the path out to the hairline, climb down to the eyebrow and jump off the head.”

The Boy stared at him in vague comprehension.

“Count to fourty four and then pull the ripcord,”

He motioned to the orange ripcord tab which the Boy had been fingering for the last half-hour.

“Comprénde?” he asked the Boy.

The Boy seemed almost hypnotised by these orders, incapable of either movement or reason.

“Go now!” goggled the Fush.

The Boy rose on a sort of shaky autopilot and stumbled off into the rosebushes. The wind machines still wheezed uselessly through the empty hoops. He paused near the treeline and looked over his shoulder. The Fush motioned dramatically for him to go on. Beside him, the headless woman sat motionless in her seat, legs crossed elegantly at the ankles. They formed a bizarre circus-like tableau. Fush waved again, as if signalling aircraft. The Boy disappeared into the trees and vaulted over the fence. The blonde forest was dense and warm. Soft, dewy mushrooms of perspiration had ballooned along the surface of the scalp. A blanket-bound, inviting scent rose in maddening waves from these pearly globules. The Boy located the path with little difficulty in the wan, bluish light of space. Its open curvature stretched off toward the Boy’s uncertain fate. He began to run along the soft skin highway, slipping on blossoms of oil and perspiration. The yawning hairclip bridges lurched shakily over his head as he ran. He reached the hairline with his breath heaving in ragged gasps. Far below the head, yawned a vast, milky expanse. The Boy peered in closer to see the mysterious scallops of dunes, stretching off into eternity on all sides. The atmosphere up on the hairline was cloying and temperate. Spikes of hideous clarity rose up off that strange, pale land, piercing the alien night in cones of unnatural coolness. The Boy found the rickety ladder’s moorings and began to scrabble and jerk down the flawless brow. The entire universe seemed to resonate with silence, and every sound the Boy made became obscenely magnified against that immensity. He reached the lopsided couch panting and fell upon it for several minutes. Smooth, white-blonde coils fanned their celluloid architecture far above him, framed by a luminescent infinity of blackness. And there he was, the Boy, at the end of his tether. He took one deep breath and rolled off into space. His stomach lurched as he fell between the eyelashes like a tear. He hit the creamy slope of the high cheekbone at a violent angle. The wind buffeted from him as he rolled crazily across the warm, powdered gradient. Then the ridge of the cheekbone caught him and he was flung headlong into the close, jagged serenity of infinite space. He watched the beautiful face flutter away between his kicking legs. And he could have sworn that she was looking down at him as he spiralled away into the drapery of the night. That panoramic vista of scalloped paleness also danced above and below him as he turned and turned in the void. He counted, panicked, lost count and yanked the ripcord with all his might. Ropes and silk vomited from behind his head. This was followed by a tremendous lurching motion which almost crushed his ribcage. He clung on for dear life as the fall settled into a broad, curving drift. He opened his eyes and gazed fully upon the milk hued wastes which approached like a dream or a vision. The fluttering cap of silk rustled and billowed noisily above him. And he descended like some desolate seed pod. The measureless white zone faltered, hovered and then gradually swept up to engulf him. He hit the dunes with the velocity of a pebble across a pond. He was surprised to feel these dunes splatter across his legs as he struck them. He careened through the rises and dips of this cool, creamy medium, finally coming to rest, half-submerged in the crest of a large swoop. He struggled to disengage himself from the straps and crawl out of the pearly ooze. He squelched to his feet and dizzily surveyed the expanse of smooth white forms. The substance of the white matter had the viscosity of congealed paint, yet it did not stain or cling. It slid and parted as neatly as mercury, rejoining into itself without a trace. The Boy looked back to see the rude streak of his landing closing over on itself like the underside of a snail. The dirty parachute drifted lightly upon the surface of the white, rejected like the rope-ridden corpse of some giant squid. The Boy noticed, with a faint sense of wonder, that the dunes were all moving gradually. He realised that they were in fact not dunes at all, but waves, waves which somehow operated in some slower, denser time frame. The Boy then saw the great head, suspended above the white vista, descending slowly, some distance away. He began to hurriedly make his way over to where he estimated it would settle. Slipping and squalling, he began to draw near to the head’s projected landing site. When he was only a few waves away, he saw that the head had in fact stopped sinking and was now hovering in the impenetrable blackness like some strange balloon. He continued to close the distance, finally making out the tiny figures of Fush and his headless companion. They were positioned directly beneath the enormous face, standing at the very tip of a smooth curve of whiteness. When the Boy was close enough, the Fush spotted him and waved. The Boy waved back and hastened his approach.

“Some folks call this an ocean of milk,” Fush announced when he was within an earshot.

“But its not anything you or I would understand as milk,” he finished succinctly.

The Boy caught his breath beside them, his hands trembling on his knees. The diamonds on the woman’s wrists glinted in the starry light. The Boy turned his head upwards, his breathing coarse and conspicuous in the unearthly silence. The head floated above them, made smaller by distance, seeming to have shrunk to the proportions of a natural head. The Boy watched as the Fush reached up, deftly took the head in his white gloves and replaced it on the woman’s beautiful shoulder’s. He then dusted his palms together for no real reason. The woman inclined her fine featured face and winked at the Boy. He saw her cough something delicately into her gloved palm and hand it to Fush. As the Fush pocketed it, the Boy caught a glimpse of the moon shining between his gloved fingers.

“Let us be upon our merry way,” Fush nodded to the Boy. “There’s a boat here some where’s…”

The Boy gazed wistfully at the woman and her halo of platinum shapes. Who would believe that there were thousands of unattended popcorn machines inside her head?

“Let’s go,” the Fush insisted. “She belongs here.”

The odd pair began to move off into the pale, creamy scape. The Boy noticed that Fush’s wingtips also sank and squelched in the amorphous substance of the place. At some point, the Boy looked back to see the woman silhouetted against the recessions of gleaming scallops. She stood naked, bathed in the mother-of-pearl light. And it was as if her softly rounded forms had already joined together with those lunar recessions. Rejoining into themselves without a trace.

October 3, 2008

THE HOUSE OF SCALPEL VALENTINES

Filed under: literature,nikhil singh — ABRAXAS @ 2:18 pm

(from the secret diary of Tiffany Twisted)

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There are many faceless drones like you. But there is only one of me. And you will never ever learn my secret name. Acquiring knowledge of faerie monsters like me is like going against the law of gravity. You think that maybe that you’ll have me, when I’m pinned beneath you like a rare butterfly, or perching pretty in the gilded cage you have bought for me. But then some strange light will glint through the chinks, and you will realise that you have seen but one room in an enormous house. And you will become lost in that house. You will even hear others, trapped like you, in the house that is me. You will all avoid each other like the plague, those of you who are caught. Each prisoner will secure their territory and then wait for doom, both obsessively curious about the other rooms yet terrified to the core to see them. For to see those places is to understand that they belong to others; to understand that I was never yours in the first place. I am a monument to futility, to absurdity, to the great cosmic comedy that is creation. And you will wait for death inside my webs little, shiny beetle, waiting with your hands drenched in the blood of friends and strangers. Waiting for me to send word through my vines, or visit you in your sleep like a vampire.

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But enough of the witchety-routine, let’s instead talk about Alex (the corpse). Slap a mosquito and there’s always a moment when you’re not sure if the blood on your hand is yours. Poor thing. I picked him out of a photo because his eyes were an almost colourless blue. It happens, like stepping on snails in the dark. We would drink latte’s in sunny cafe’s and fuck to classical music compilations. It was the kind of intimate thing you lose after a few days, like a rented ballgown. Tentacles disappear – the movie ends, all you are left with is popcorn. The first Alex ever saw of me was a byte-size, grainy picture in an anonymous electronic gallery. ‘Tiffany Twisted’ was the rather unbelievable name I had assumed in this gallery. The cosmic absurdity I spoke of earlier was present in that eskimo pie of a pseudonym. A rather sugary feeling which suggested an inexplicable private joke; a jibe in which the rest of mankind was somehow not included. Only one monochrome image of my smiling lips guarded the threshold, but it was enough to pique Alex’s interest and make him want to creep deeper into the saccharine mystery I had invented. He wasn’t alone. Thousands of names lined the ephemeral, neon shrine I had erected to my body. Some were never sure if I was a robot, but they all requested access anyway. The anonymity of these systems brought the Jeckyll up to the flesh. And those who ate regularly of this electric vine had long since shod their old protocols. Repulsive honesties spilled over into everyday interactions, tainting reality like a subtle, yet inescapable infection. We trawled these mind-pools like those despicable, translucent creatures one see’s in undersea documentaries. Those see-though faces full of glassy teeth and captivation-organs who trawl their whole lives away in search of endless new ways to soothe their savage appetites. Nature was alive in this invisible, somehow cellular world. The jagged, hungry aspect of nature which see’s creatures eating each other in the filth of creation.

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Thoughts like this must have occupied Alex, when first he saw my smile beckon at him, from the other side of nowhere. It was a dense night as I recall and he was on his phone in the city, killing time before a meeting. The sordid, anodyne heaviness of the urban nightmare was weighing down particularly on him that night. He took refuge in his electric universe, in his many identities and the fleeting, intellectual transactions which occupied them. But even these familar opiates were not enough to numb him to the inevitablity of what he had in store for himself. You see, he had planned to meet a lover later for dinner in Soho and was preparing to end the liason. They had been flogging a dead horse for several months now, attending forgettable films and indulging in the kind of clinical sex favoured by glossy suburban publications. She had a terrible, toothpaste-white smile which, he claimed, made him often contemplate killing her. She worked in advertising and joked about lying for a living. In two weeks they would have forgotten about each other and he would spend his seed on electronic shrines like mine, till the next episodic fling shuffled wearily in. Permamanancy was threatening him with immanent collapse. He was ripe for the plucking. You can imagine his vague excitement when the request to enter Tiffany Twisted’s magical gallery was not only accepted, but accompanied by a short message:

[My GPS app tells me yur in the same city. I like yur eyes. Want to tangle?]

I imagine that all men find this directness titillating. For all he knew the pretty monochrome face he was communicating with was a sixty year old pervert in a hotel on the other side of the world. I once knew a girl who took great pleasure in arranging anonymous liasons with men. She would bake them in promises but fail to consumate their eventual plans to meet. She told me that she would loiter across the street from the arranged rendevous point and surreptitiously film them waiting. She told me that it made her feel strangely fulfilled, watching them grow more and more uncomfortable as the glaze of fantasy dried out, revealing the bitter flesh beneath. She told me that she would often watch these recordings in times of stress and take great comfort in them. Stories of this sort were plentiful. They had hardened boys like Alex, forcing them to skirt risk like a disease. All those boys who thought themslves such clever rascals by avoiding reality are those who maintain an alleycat prestige in it’s deficit. They, like so many others, preffered to play the voyeur, remaining on on the boundary of real events. And like most modern men, Alex was a coward. His experience was limited to the intricacy of his lies. Constant social obsessions with the notion of substance had only made facetious secret agents of the majority of ‘that other gender’. Society had perfected the concept of substance and they had constructed a thousand escape hatches back to the empty pavilion of the inner self. Exposure was taboo; the bull-ring of Fame was testimony to this. Everyone’s alternate identity was famous to some degree, but we were all still after-images of ourselves, living in the ghost-hotel of the shadows we had created. Alex’s grim liason with his soon-to-be-ex lover was testimony to this persistant perpetuation of illusion. He and his beau were running out of hidey-holes, and a new refuge was desperately needed. But such is the pasteboard upon which the modern lover builds their life. Over-population had tuned natural mating responses into a disease of inertia. The inevitable outcome could only be extinction. That evening found Alex unusually grim, doused in thoughts such as these, almost suicidal (as his vanity would prefer to say). Temptations of obliteration flickered inside him like rogue cats. He needed some form of distraction – And what better distraction than a pretty package of candy? He found himself replying automatically to my ghostly monochrome voice.

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[Sure - I'm free in an hour. Lets meet]

He must have put his phone back in his pocket, not expecting a reply. But he had to pull it out only a moment later.

[where] I asked, smacking down the glove.

He arranged to meet me at a cocktail bar and began to scour all the information he could have gleaned about me. He knew that I had been going through all the online pictures of him, picking at his background life like a magpie. My tracking devices registered him tracking me, as I rifled quickly through some of his personal information. The reality of the situation would have begun to occur to him by then. He would suddenly begin to feel a little excited. The drossness of his mood would dissipate and he would feel vaguely thankful toward the mystery girl for stroking his ego across the night. His doubts however would remain; like ink-stains on an otherwise pleasing picture. In all likelihood, to him, I was just a bored teenager. This is what his mind would say. It would tell him that I was some little zombie looking for caustic antidotes to her immediate boredom. I mean he wasn’t particularly attractive, either phsyically or financially. If asked to describe himself I could imagine him saying that he was ‘expendable’ (with a rehearsed smile of course). He probably anticipated a drink or two and some meaningless flirtation before this little fantasy-teen of his mind’s eye got cold feet and vanished into the wasteland of short-term memory. But even that would be enough to lighten the spell of inertia which had clogged his evening. I was like a neon nun of the underworld. I could wipe away misery with one flash of my wand. It wasn’t any wonder people thanked me so profusely after abusing the images of my body. It was in the nature of men to worship the eternal feminine. Even misogyny was a bastardised version of this lustful sacrament. He cancelled his meeting and began to walk to the cocktail rendevousz, just like a good little pagan.

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The place was in Kingly street. The walls and ceilings were plated in LED screens and spacious video booths lined the walls in the manner of some futuristic, orbital diner. Within the enclosure of the booth, one could toggle through background scenery and ambient music to create a variety of atmospheres and moods. He went in, ordered a drink and thumbed an image of the rolling sea onto the walls around him. I was watching from the bar. He opted for a beat-less shakuhachi soundtrack while high-resolution waves crashed soundlessly against an illusory distance. This isolated and superficially spiritual mantle was of course, a common starting point with many men upon first meeting a woman. The agony of the would-be pilot, or the cowboy betrothed to his own special electronic horses. The predictability of the act probably nauseated him, but he was obviously too demotivated to court orginality. He spotted me almost immediately as I detached from my perch. Many people do not resemble themselves in photographs. They manufacture facial expressions and body alignments harvested from the outer gardens of transmitted imagery. But their natural inclinations/faces always betray them in real life. I, however, had been educated by witches. In the kingdom of predatory insects and spiders, superficial attractiveness is sometimes the most fatal weapon. And it is a craft not lightly undertaken. I had been shown how to fold myself in, like a magician’s handkerchief. In appearance, I was a perpetually maintained hologram of Tiffany. I wore my Daemon familiar like an automatic illusion. And I held myself behind this forcefield at all times, letting the occasional wild feather of personality jut from beneath the armour of her, like a sliver of insubordination. Tiffany’s hair was platinum, bordering on a pale gold or silver. Her face was always doll-like in its cultivated glassiness. This threw all my emotions into focus by avoiding them. Undercurrents whiplashed about like caged fish, threatening constant breakage (Such is the gravity of high magic). But Tiffany’s enforced blankness created psychic screens which deflected the thoughts of others like a water-tight surface. It was a vaguely magnetic technique which Madre Sanguina the witch had taught me in the casinos of the Cote D’Zur. Nothing like a Blackjack table to sharpen a girl up like a knife. Alex saw me and I crossed over. We shook hands and I sat, smiling vaguely. He was ill at ease, threatened by my casual command.

“How did you find me?” he asked as I ordered a drink.

“I’m a friend of Jessica Brandt,” I lied.

Jessica was a good-time girl I knew he knew from the boat party circuit. I had met her once at a dress-up one or two weeks ago and she had pointed him out in passing. I remembered his eyes – and London is a smaller town than you would think (especially in profile-world). She told me that they had slept together and that he had a rather pleasant cucumber-like cock. We were talking one-night-stands at the bar and she gave up the most outrageous details. She also mentioned that he was disease-free so I knew I could go in guns blazing and keep him on edge. My mention of Jessica instantly quelled whatever reservations he had about the stranger infront of him. He sort of melted into it. He now had references and vainly assumed that he understood my motivations (that Jessica had boasted about his prowess or something). We were suddenly in second game, past the darkness of the woods and playing sexual tennis.

“Is your name really Tiffany?” he oiled.

“No, of course not.”

My drink arrived; pale liquid set amongst lacerations of ice.

“Do you know what this is?” I sipped, switching the background walls to the gaping vertigo of a Grand Canyon flyover.

“I’m not sure,” he captioned. “A Vodka mixer of some kind?”

“It’s Shochu,” I answered pertly. “A Japanese spirit brewed in clear glass casks. You can drink it straight all night without getting a hangover.”

“You accent is strange,” he frowned. “Where are you from?”

“Africa,” I smiled. “Where the wild things walk.”

He smiled back. And some inner stop watch started ticking down.

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He had a flat in Kensington, an address he was relatively arrogant about. I wasn’t impressed, though pretended to be. We took a cab and didn’t talk much. He said I was supple for a beautiful girl. He told me that in his limited experience, cosmetically attractive girls were like porcelain figures. You could place them anywhere and they would adorn the space around them like a shrine of some kind. But if you bent them they would always break.

“You’re strong…” he muttered, locked beneath the grinding axis of my pale limbs.

A flicker of sweat caught like syrup in the minimal light. It left my shoulderblade and licked at his eye like a bluebottle. I laughed. In the confined space it was a rather brutal coughing sound, like

the bark of a hyena.

“Yes,” I gritted from the shadows above.

“I’m very strong.”

He wasn’t fit enough for me. He said that it had been a draining day and that the stress had worn him down to almost nothing. I rolled off him and crawled over to my things. In the blue shafts of light, he was like some sort of beached fish. He glistened as I moved, watching me, perplexed. I extracted a dark glass ampoule from my purse and turned a frozen face to him.

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“Cum in this for me,” I whispered.

He was about to protest, so I slid back over the sheets like a cuttlefish. My muscular fingers coiled and clutched around him, flicking off the moist latex membrane. My mouth must have moved like a hot, open wound because primal responses flamed vividly in the darkness. ‘She is milking me’ I felt him think, in a split-second of delirious telepathy, ‘milking me like an animal’. Then something small and potent burst, emptying the whole night into the small bottle which I angled carefully between his thighs. Whatever last vestiges of strength he had left, drained away like gutter water. I retracted, an underwater thing and changed in the darkness. My clothing rustled, as his eyes kept closing with sullen heaviness. He listened to my heels as they clocked down the passage, entering the kitchen. The light of the fridge blushed the darkness open like an eye. And I could hear him listening as I drank ice water in the pale light. Glass after glass, clinking and swallowing. He fell into a dream which he would later tell me about. A vision of glaciers and large roaming octopi which were hunting the last survivors of mankind; hunting them for their blood.

A word or two about reptiles before I tell you about The House of Scalpel Valentine’s (and the cum thing). It was reptiles who got us all into this mess in the first place. Once the world was ruled by insects and plants. No birds, no animals- zip. All those things were in the sea. The sea was where it was at baby – Mama Eternal, the lap of the Lady herself. But Those reptiles had another idea of course. It was the bugs that did it. Those juicy, buzzing kingdoms were thriving like fast-food franchises up in the world above. Can you imagine a world ruled by insects? Some strange sea monsters did. They changed they way they breathed to get at the gourmet shit. That’s how intense a reptile can be. They crawled out of the ooze and colonized. The rest is speculative history. We are the natural progression of insatiable appetites. And this is why we have no future.

Once mothers ruled the world. The universe was one gorgeous tapestry and the Goddess-Spider from whence we sprung was worshipped accordingly. It was like a return to the sea, that time of feminine power. The reptile in us managed to harmonise with the maternal and thrive…Oh we are such pretty pagans, we Sisters of the Scalpel. We remember that time like it was yesterday. And we worship a secret face of the Holy Virgin, Our Lady of Sorrows; the Surgeon Mary. We live in a dark age, you must know that. Look out a window and see the future, freezing on your ledge like some mutilated cat. Once we understood that our bodies where given to us by the Earth and our Spirits by the stars. Now we are the crumbs under Satan’s fingernails. Alot of people took to hidey holes and secret systems. I tried alot of them, especially in California. But I settled for the Sisters when I met Sanguina. She brought me to London and got me out of the mirror-verse which threatens every girl. We had a big house in Hampstead, on Templewood avenue, quite near West Heath road. It was a fortress and used to belong to a diamond magnate. There were two towers and too many rooms to count. The upper floors were reserved for new girls, who weren’t allowed to leave for nine months (the time it takes to be born anew). And yes, we had rituals and special robes and all that stuff which makes every cult so darn special. Every belief-system has it’s fancy dress. I got there and was buzzed in by the guards. Celeste was in the kitchen overseeing the preparation of lunch. Large, white slabs of marlin lay around like tombstones. I asked her if she would help me perform a sigil ritual when she was done and went up to the Lab. It wasn’t really a laboratory, but we called it the Lab because everything in it was just such an operation. I turned on the radiators full blast, disrobed and washed myself in an adjoining steamroom. I bathed with a bucket of steaming spring water and giant chunks of lemony glycerine. Then I took a good half hour to scrub every inch of myself down with rock salt and rose petals – to get into that spell casting groove. When Celeste came in I was lying naked on the heated black marble altar, half in and out of sleep. This state, which we Witchies call the Liminal Zone, is a tough place to get to and maintain. Don’t get me wrong, we all fuzz into it around sleepy-time. But to get into it and stay there took a little sweat. I learned the Liminal Gnosis on a boat in the Meditteranean. I would swim every day and then lie for hours in the sun, sometimes well into the evening glow. I would doze, trying to catch myself in the webby nexus of pre-sleep so I could hold it around me like a rare gossamer garment. It took some weeks, but I got my sickle shaped scout’s badge on that boat. Now I was slippery in the spell of hypnogogia; my limbs weightless and warm, my mind expanding like a slow balloon. The black bottle of harvest-sperm was in it’s niche beside me and all was quiet in the Lab. I could hear distant, sparse traffic and the trees on the Heath. Everything was tuned to a terminal relaxation up in the Lab. The dark wood pannelling and black pile soaked up the all the sounds like blotting paper. Celeste disappeared into the washroom and emerged later, unclothed and steaming. I was so in and out that she seemed to quiver between two images of herself. Her slanted eyes made four and every sound that came off her was as crisp and freshly peeled as a sweet wrapper. She uncapped scented oils and began to massage me in a rather pornographic way. This might seem pretty B-Grade to the casual esoteric, but I assure you, kinky arousal is Gateway Number One to Liminal Land. So it wasn’t long before I was all cookies and cream. Sexual electricity had gathered all over me in a kind of waspish, pink static, and I manouvered and swirled it around in buoyant mind-tides. Sleep came at me occasionally, like a starving pet. It snuck up, inflicting bouts of vertigo. But I was a veteran of Never Never Land and held fast between worlds, grinning like an imp. Celeste had an expert touch and inflicted the kind of secret pleasures only witches know. My comatose moaning and ooh-ing and ah-ing slowly started to turn into strange words. These ecstatic vocalizations; this Glossolalia, fountained out of my sleeper’s mouth. The sonic vibrations became visual, forming into cubic shapes above me. It was like watching sugar crystallize in a highly illuminated solution. I slowly focused my electric sex-sugar into the long video form of Tiffany Twisted. She grinned down blonde fire above me, turning in space like a hologram. Somewhere in another world, Celeste uncapped Alex’s rehydrated ejaculate. She rubbed it into my solar plexus, spiking it with a lashing of Myrrh-y oils and mentrual blood. The sticky, sulphuric substance broiled on me like an egg as I saw Tiffany whip down with a sly little purr. She regarded the offering for a moment before squeezing open like a kitten; lapping up the long glowing strands of vital energy from the saucer of my stomach. A cord tightened across the city; from Tiffany’s puppet finger, through the lens of my perfect tummy and through the streets to Alex. And as soon as Tiffany was fed, Celeste’s warm palms left me. I back-vaulted into luminous dreams of underwater palaces. Mysterious places which I somehow felt I’d visited before. And all through this, Tiffany Twisted held my hand, wafting above me like a radio-angel from le Universe Perverse.

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I woke up satisfied and yummy, curled like whitebait across the marble slab. By now it was dusk. I could see a thin red line smouldering behind the branches outside. I left the Lab and took a bubblebath in one of the boudoirs upstairs. I came down when it was dark. Some girls were in the lounge flicking through magazines and trying on expensive pairs of shoes. Someone was playing a harp in one of the downstairs chambers. I went into the kitchen and found a teenage girl eating a sandwich in a tracksuit. She waved, nibbling at her olive bread like a mouse. Long furry angel wings had been harnessed onto her, and they bumped the counters whenever she moved. I opened the walk-in fridge and extracted some marlin left over from lunch. We ate together in silence and then I left, lighting a cigarette at the door.

So I’m one bullet-proof chiquita huh? Well, even titanium Barbie Dolls have their one fatal crack. It’s never all blueberries and blue-steel (unfortunately). Karma has a way of nosing in like a sacred snake, invading the nest and eating all your eggs while you lie helpless, watching. I could lie and just play peachy, but this is a secret diary and all the dirt and dead skin has to be scrubbed off and scrutinized. For starters, I’m not as heartless as I play. My heart was locked up in a cage. And the name of that cage was Etienne Juniper (and no, it’s not his real name). None of my Scalpel sisters knew about Etienne. And I think I even managed to keep him a secret from Sanguina. You might think it’s impossible to keep secrets from a witch like Sanguina, but let me tell you now: Nothing’s impossible! I met him when I was a complex gypsy of a thing, lost at sea and chainsmoking by rainy windows. At first it was just because he was so pretty. And Etienne was a pretty little prickle-pear – all pinstripes and werewolves. And he knew how to fuck his way into a girl’s heart. Alot of boy’s think they know how to pull the love-lever. But let me tell you it’s a one in a million. Most girl’s don’t even know that they have a lever. But when a lady finds her system controls, she wants the best car on the block. Now firstly, Etienne was genetically blessed. And many ‘sensitive’, oestrogen-mimic enfused, mag-reading males might dispute this endowment factor, but let me assure you: the love-garage is built to spec. And no matter how sweet or touching the flame, it all boils down to animal courtship rituals. Mother Nature is in the driver’s seat down here on Planet Dirt, and let’s not forget it. So, like I said before, human mating rituals are now the evolutionary joke of the century – But despite this fine comedy, primal programming still held the biggest megaphone. At the end of the day (down by the inescapable pond), the female frog is still going to choose the male frog with the biggest croak. It’s built in baby. There are secret buttons all along the inside of my kitten; set out like an express elevator all the way up to the womb room. And each cosmic button has to be activated to achieve escape velocity. It therefore takes a fine cat-burglar to lockpick the universe (and having quality gear is just the first step). I mean even a stallion has to know how to jump! What’s the use having a Ferrari if you’re only going to drive it to the shop? No babe, a machine needs to be taken down to the highway and opened up. And that’s the secret sauce with boy’s and their toys: sensitivity to the secret rhythms. No man can enter the Temple of Venus without first recognising the Anima within, the triple faced Goddess which bequeathed the body unto him. And that combination of self-knowledge and material ability was rare as blue butterflies. And Etienne had both in spades. There was a snag of course (there always is). His profusion of knowledge came with a heartlessness which was positively fictitious. He took his time with me, soaking up my dry heart in glowing slashes of textbook romance and play-play love. I was young, lonely and foolish and fell right into the web. It reached the stage when I would do anything to be near him. He took me down to the bottom of the well and I learned about the blackness of love-mud. I used to call him ‘Frankie Teardrop’ because he’d play the song sometimes when we did it and I started to cry. He had it on an old white cassette with the word ‘SUICIDE’ scrawled across the plastic in silver marker. That tape got so chewed after six months, you could hardly hear the words, only Alan Vega’s occasional jagged scream. It was Lisbon in 1999. I was eighteen, reading Neil Gaiman and dying my hair every second week. The future looked bleak. Everyone had end-of-the-world fever and I was in love with a secret cyclops. I found out about Etienne’s pirhana-side from a friend who waitressed in the waterfront area. She’d eavesdropped on him and some of his port buddies while they played cards. The whole web began to unravel but I didn’t care, I was besotted. It turned out that my Frankie Teardrop was a rare fish indeed, one of those homosexual barracudas who turned over rich housewives for guilt money. After two years of fucking desperate debutantes and loaded ladies, Etienne learned almost everything he needed to know about getting a girl onto her knees. He studied the art of pleasuring women with a white-hot battery of hate. And his application of romance was diabolical. His conquest of the female erogenous zones was approached with clinical detachment, and a with a veiw to material gain. He was an exquisite misogynist, and each heart he invaded gave him a spiteful satisfaction beyond mere physical pleasure. Etienne had transgressed genders and arrived at some strange and demonic androgyne of the soul. Soon he would start seducing girls just for fun. He would enter into long and complicated relationships with them, hiding his heartless nature behind a chocolatey facade. This conflict of pleasures made him an outcast amongst the gay community. People argued that whichever way he cut it, he took more pleasure sleeping with women than men. No-one could understand him except me. And it made me love him all the more. I fell into that let’s-save-the-broken-bird syndrome, which so many girls got around the demonically possesed. Etienne became my special project, and so I fell in deeper. His ability to be honest with me and still maintain a sexually parasitic relationship opened up the red door of sadism. And it’s shocking what love can give a girl a taste for. He was in and out of my life for a decade, coming and going like a cyclone, keeping a long grip on the leash. I don’t know why, But I couldn’t deny him anything. I often hated him. But then he would smile and charm his way back into my bed. And whenever the tip of his devil cock knock knock knocked at the painful portal of my womb, it triggered some kind of physical response which went way beyond sense. He had all the crazy keys to me; my very own personal devil in velvet. So when he called and told me that he was in London I ran to him like a lost thing. It took just one phonecall to betray my oath to the Sisterhood – That’s how low and fickle I am. We started up again like an infection. He had a coke operation running in the party circuit and told me he had plans to start up a high-class, online escort agency. I knew what he had in mind for me and tossed it around before he even asked. I needed money and, in a way, my time with Sanguina had trained me for the shark tank. There were no accidents. And at moments of revelation, I somehow knew that the old Basque witch was still walking me through the wood, smiling at my false sense of privacy. Etienne had no idea about the Sisterhood and I played it weak and medoicre when I was around him. I told him I’d been here for a couple of years, writing copy for an ad agency and taking acting classes. He had no reason to disbelieve my story and set about degrading me with reptilian relish. He knighted me with the incredibly unimaginative name ‘Candy Glass’ and sent me to an out of work fashion photographer to get some lingerie shots done. He told me that he had to build an online escort profile and needed oiled-up pictures of me immediately. It all started with a metallic bang; a cold night in Maida Vale, on my knees in a white limousine, listening to hip-hop while an as-yet-unamed Turkish producer stuck his perfumed cock up my ass. Etienne must have enjoyed seeing that security camera footage. I couldn’t walk for two days, made over two grand in one night and decided to lay down some ground rules sharpish. Etienne was always wondering how much abuse it would take to chase me away, but I wasn’t about to break. God knows what would happen if I did. The rules of the universe would invert, polarities would shift. So we played our game of terrible chess. I took the calls, prepped my pussy and set about gorging Tiffany with the cream of London’s sleazy seed. And there’s nothing like fast food to make a daemon familiar grow big and strong. Tiffany grew larger in her astral sphere, easier to slip on than a fur coat, more ferocious than a tank full of white tigers.

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I stopped at the apartment in Belgravia, went online and re-entered the artficial world. I kept this apartment exclusively for Candy and my Etienne cover story, and it often gave me a sort of, I don’t know, Monosodium Glutamate kind of feeling. Etienne had a date lined up for Candy at midnight. I unsealed my patent leather spike heels and microscopic Prada combo. I selected a diamond choker and made a hair and nail appointment (Rituals always fucked up my hair). I then decocted a Chinese Angelica potion, downed it and went to do my witchy stretches. I still had an hour to harmonise my meridians before zooting down to the 24hour hairdresser/manicurist which Etienne kept on ice for his bitches. I don’t smoke, but Candy Glass does. I would light up an Yves Saint Laurent by the window before I went out as Candy. And I often cackled as I blew smoke at the not too distant lights of the Grosvernor hotel. How the Sisters of the Scalpel would retch if they saw me now; a glazed up sweetmeat, all ready to play doll with all the dogs of the universe.

Candy is my name in the pink fur. Poison is my name when I hipswing. Loitering in the shiny boxes of elevators, smoking delirious curls outside red velvet doors. I move through people, shimmying hip-deep into the narrow, jelly-channels of nocturnal circulation; filter feeding myself to the animals who roam the galactic corridors of moonbase hotels. I drag fingers and thighs along every eye, as I tick night after night in the labyrinth; the splendid theatre of never-ending rooms. Candy’s origami fingers are stiff with gleaming hotels and baby oil. Her body moves like a construction of snakes and soft plastic. Candy is the the name of a girl who has no name. Who prefers to forget that she ever had a television addiction or a warm pillow to swim into. Candy is the name of sugar that has dissolved in water and reconstructed itself around whatever objects have drowned. Candy is sucked in the mouths of strangers and kept in boxes in bedroom containers; left on pillows as presents and eaten out of guilt.

Sometimes I am lost in the waters. Down in the deep shark tanks, suspended beneath the futuristic dream city. I float-out aimless in the medical depths while distant searchlights throw skyscraper pillars of high resolution into the endless successions of glass tank systems. Each room is a shark tank, each mark is a shark, every interaction a minefield and my throbbing heart a hydrogen bomb. I wear my black bottles of pilfered fluid like oxygen tanks while vast mantas of lost hope flicker out across the drowning people. Nobody really knows how old sharks in Sharkville are. I mean some sharks ate dinosaurs in the womb. Sharks are ancient visitors. They were around thousands of years before mr Tyrannosaurus Rex even evolved. I mean they have it down babe. And I eat sharks with my daemon, bumping against plexiglass planes like a weighted doll, slowly unclipping my skin to show sugar crystal bones. And the water floods into me, making my skeleton thinner with each swirl. Fleshtone erodes in syrupy tentacles and I dissolve into the murk and gloom, travelling in seams of sweetness which tiny parasites cling to and feed off. Candy is not a name which anyone would wish upon themselves. Because sugar rots your teeth. And people who lose their teeth have to suck their fluid foods behind closed doors. People who live off sugar are doomed to become insects; mutating in tiny rooms, feeling their organs cramp and rearrange as they bloat in the flickering lights. Hatching every night into a frenzy of technicolour vistas and peeling flesh palaces. Falling out of high and tiny windows and fluttering through the shambling carcasses of vast structures, vomiting over Candy to encourage dissolution. First: guilting into their switchblade situations in some feverish trenchcoat scene, then: spilling out the trenchcoat treasure in some airtight room. They unwrap back the glittery translucencies and strips of foil and shedded predator skins, trying to get at my soft center which need not be dissolved. But there is never a soft center in true candy. Candy is hard and glassy and needs to be shattered first to be properly engorged; eaten till sick with sticky fingers and scattered in broken pieces across a wilderness of burned carpets and heavy neon decay. Candy will pull out needle blowtorches and run them along her spine to melt herself for fun sometimes. Feeling the crystals in her back break apart into slag and tendrils which ooze out all over the tables and flowers like a lethal meltdown (Heavy smell of caramel tainting the air into poison gas…), Feeling arms and legs soften and run as she is consumed by the glittering insect which drops down violently from the walls and ceilings. Speeded up wings flutter against a white neon wall as the luxurious suite shakes and dislodges from its moorings; tumbling through endless rotting basements and sewer cathedrals to catch in the world of cobwebs beneath the streets. The distant tremors of approaching spiders inflicts tiny geometric earthquakes in the web strata. And the trampolining becomes rythmic and sickening as the figure in the trenchcoat writhes and gibbers in the hardening swamp of sugar. Old wooden cupboards clatter and trampoline as the walls are explored by an anemone of shiny stylus points and icy limbs. The spider licks tiny Tiffany lips, which are cusped by razor cheekbones. A crown of tiny eyes is set in her head. The spider gets in and taps the insect because that’s just what always spiders do, with a languid and mindless prescision. But spiders don’t eat Candy so I always just stand there watching, while the legs stilt and rearrange about me. Spiders don’t need sweets to catch things. Spiders are born without teeth. Mandibles give you fingertips in your mouth. And everything the spider say’s is in fact a hand, reaching out slowly to pull you in. And the mouth that the spider speaks through is mine.

I intercepted this broken English email which one of the Eastern European Sisters sent to a fellow Scalpel Valentine :

‘I witness another sigil ritual for the Sister I was telling you about last week. I think she is feeding her imp so much vital jism that it makes me concern. I worry she might be possesed by it. There is always such danger when dealing with helper’s and shadow people. I prefer to practise dreaming navigations rather than to toy with things from other worlds. These things come to you as your sweetest friend and then turn you to the food-finder, like cats. I don’t know maybe if I should talk to the Scalpel Superior about it. Maybe I’m just being paranoia, you know how much gossip there is in the House. I’m just a bit concern that she might be demon sleeper. What you think?’

Paranoia is like an infectious disease. And the message made me nervous for a number of reasons. Superficially, I couldn’t have any rumours circulating about me at the House. If anyone found out about my Candy Glass routine, I would be subjected to all manner of occultish punishments which would no doubt result in some form of horrific exile or termination. Secondly, I had to admit that she had a point. Before Etienne came along I was balanced in my witchiness. But Candy had thrown a real Stegosaurus bone in the soup. Was I really being manipulated by Tiffany? Was Candy really Tiffany running wild, acting through my weakness for Etienne, compelling me to acts of wanton degradation? Knowing Daemon’s, I could only assume that this probably was the case. The only problem was that I was loving every minute of it. I had stockpiled a nebula of vital energy and was luxuriating in secret meltdown. I had become a delicious liability, a hidden cancer, a Wicked Witch of the West! I decided to threaten the letter writer, whose name was Nadia.

I found Nadia in the sprawling gardens behind the House of Scalpel Valentine’s. It was near evening and she was gathering herbs in the nursery behind the poplar grove. It was a habit of hers to gather herbs at this time each day for the evening broth she drank. I slipped off my shoes and walked barefoot through the trees. I was ‘walking cat’ and she didn’t notice me at all until I was right behind her. She got a shock and dropped her sheaves of greenery. ‘Cat walking’ always gives one a magical advantage when stalking prey (I highly recommend it).

“Sorry,” I whispered.

“It’s fine,” she mumbled, kneeling to gather the delicate, fallen fronds. She was wearing a long black cape which pooled around her as she stooped. I squatted, in a feline fashion, and helped her to gather them up.

“So you think I’m a demon?” I asked casually.

She froze in the gloaming light, blinking at me in stuttering succesions. It was growing darker in the gardens, a thin mist forming in the shadowy masses of foliage. A bird called from somewhere in the Heath and I could feel time slow as our awarenesses altered into a vaguely predatorial gear. It was the state of two animals who sight each other in a wood, unsure who will attack first.

“Are you reading my mind?” she asked quietly.

She had a musky, Slovak accent which somehow lent a murderous gravity to her question.

“No,” I smiled. “I just hacked your mail.”

“Why you do that?”

“I heard you were starting rumours about me, I just wanted to make sure.”

We stared at each other as the light got dimmer, glazing the contours of our faces and eyelashes in a smouldering amber.

“I’m not sure about you,” she said frankly. “Maybe I go tell Scalpel Superior what I think.”

“Well, what can I do to convince you of my innocence,” I smiled breezily.

She snorted, a little like a horse. My element of surprise was wearing off, but she still had not noticed the little bundle of stalks which I had slipped into her fallen items.

“Maybe not to hack into my message box,” she muttered.

“You don’t work with familiars darling,” I replied. “Whereas I do, and furthermore, I’m perfectly in control of mine.”

We both stood slowly in the shadowy light.

“I’ll walk you back,” I said.

We strolled through the grove of poplars and I absent-mindedly plucked a small green apple from a familiar tree. After a moment’s hesitation I picked another and offered it to her. She hesitated for a moment, eyeing me in the chilly gloom.

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“I can’t stand gossip,” I said wearily.

She nodded and took the apple which I held out to her. We munched our way across the long lawns. At the top of the slope, the House of Scalpel Valentine’s stood like a Roman ruin pierced by glowing, church-like windows.

“Maybe I am being, how you explain; paranoid,” she mumbled, chewing thoughtfully. “I have not left House for three months and jump at shadows.”

“Cabin fever is a terrible enemy,” I reciprocated, slinking over the cropped turf.

Her apple was down to the core now and we were in near darkness. Her face was a grey smudge of confusion when she found a length of cotton unravelling from the core and in between her teeth. She stopped abruptly, swiping at the strand which was jammed between her molars and incisors. I was giggling now. She swore under her breath, her cloak swishing to and fro like the wings of a trapped raven.

“Let me illuminate you little Sister,” I smiled, flicking open my slim gold lighter. The buttery flame caught on the sallow ovals of our faces, casting us against the night like forms in an old oil painting. There was crimson smudged all over her mouth and fingers. She gazed down at the blood soaked core of the apple in terror, fingering the black and red cotton threads which sewed up the interior of the fruit.

“Demon!” She choked, unable to bring her voice above a whisper.

She was clearly unaware of my careful timing and studious observation of her daily routines.

“You know what that blood is don’t you little Sister,” I whispered, flicking us back into blackness and squatting down to where she had sunk to her knees.

She was scuffling at her face, trying desperately to untangle the bloodied cotton from her teeth.

“It’s my Menstruum,” I smiled, stroking her scalp.

She coughed and spluttered under my fingers, like a troubled pet.

“I have bound you Nadia,” I whispered viciously into her ear. “And you shall comply with my will.”

She whimpered beneath me, sinking against the grass, seeming to have lost all inner firmamnent. I could feel the breeze sifting through the trees, as it had done around noon when I had climbed into the apple tree to inject my menstrual fluid into the fruit of my choice before binding my will into it with needle and thread (oldest trick in the book really). I stroked her hair heavily, as though she were a sick dog, reaching under her cloak to clutch her sex like a ripe fruit. She flinched, but did not resist. I held her like that while I spoke.

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“Don’t worry,” I whispered soothingly. “I’m not a demon, though I can’t have you tarnishing my good standing now can I?”

She quivered in assent, head on knees against the grass, while I coiled warmly up against her from behind. Trees bristled darkly overhead as a car passed in the road beyond the ageing stone wall.

“I will call on you if I have need,” I smiled, kissing her back lightly whilst squeezing my false nails into her tenderest of flesh. A strangled sob escaped her, diffusing into the damp grass. Ants scurried across the pale of my arm, made vivid by the darkness.

“Meanwhile…” I added. “You keep nice and quiet about my private life, understand?”

She nodded furiously and I released her, wafting soundlessly back through the trees up to the house. In my pocket was a slim loop of black and red cotton, twined. All I had to do was slip it on to affect her. I left, fully aware of her movements. She would cry for awhile, out there on the dark grass. Then she would pull herself up and rush back to wash the blood from her mouth and hands. She would make her nightly healing broth and, in her nervous state, overlook the bundle of herbs which I had mixed in with hers. The herbs would cause her to sleep and their fragrance would create an atmosphere which would lead her to specific dreams. Much as the sound of an alarm clock is incorporated into a waking dream. She would drift unmoored into this place I had prepared, unaware that Tiffany would be waiting, poised like an enormous, glassy spider, waiting to encapsulate her in a specially constructed cocoon.

Dark sides are a little like old black nail polish. The bottle should have run dry ages ago; but there always seems to be enough to cover all your fingernails…One last time.

September 25, 2008

The Optical Bomber

Filed under: literature,nikhil singh — ABRAXAS @ 2:04 pm

I have listened at the windows. And I have heard the stories of wreckage. I have become haunted by the notion of places which do not truly exist. It was almost as if I awoke one day to find my life cluttered with the presence of these places. I watch them fleuroesce like bleak Christmas lights. The passive nullity of petrol stations shining bright as open fridges in the night. The infinity of a highway in darkness. The pressure tube of television. All these forms, locked in plastic and shiny as tomorrow. They seem to have been constructed to take full advantage of the elasticity of my time. Their functioning seems to allow them to speed up existence by slowing my awareness of it down to a virtual standstill. Hence, when I am enclosed within the stasis of a non-place my perception homogenizes into a series of automatic, vegetative routines. Time speeds up and chunks of my life are amputated in the painless stupor of repetition.

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Once, aboard an airplane, I suddenly became aware that I was above the Sahara desert. The enormous immediacy of it became suddenly monstrous against the stasis of the long cabin and its capsuled food. A vast ocean of winds was roaring outside the pressure seals. Out there in the actual world, I was falling across the sky. But the desert had effectively been amputated from my perception. I must have in fact visited many countries which I have not even seen. Countries across whose skies I have slept, like a ghost or a drowsing god. I started to nurture secret dreams. In my dreams I will be on an airplane with every person I have ever met. And we will crash in the dunes of the Sahara as I drink my cocktail. Then I will watch all these ghosts come sickeningly and slowly to life. And I will play flute for them as the ragged hostesses scavenge for supplies in the merciless winds. We will share spoiled food and hitch lifts from passing Tuareg caravans. And watch the sun rise in a real world.

It is a still grey morning, laden with all the prickly tension of a corporate take-over. The first thing I notice are the dense nodes of people clustered around the blaring radios of parked cars. The foreigners are nervous. I pick catpaths through the backstreets as the orange-link security barriers start to clog up the alleyways like cobwebs. Everyone’s on a phone muttering tactics and looking for the nearest station. And as the helicopters multiply like carrion insects, the street energy begins to wasphive toward a sort of overload. I dip in and out of the camera crews as the troop carriers come into veiw. Time is slowing down, condensing as the mood intensifies. Luminous crowd control spill like white blood cells down the wide and sloping perspectives. Everyone is expecting another bomb.

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There is a tarot card called the Tower. It is the sixteenth card of the Major Arcana and is related to the fiery Mars. It is represented in the Hermetic Qabala as a manifestation of the twenty seventh path of the Tree of Life, the path of Peh. That which connects the Sephiroth’s Hod (splendour) and Netzach (victory). It is in some aspects the worst single card a person can draw in their future sphere, as it indicates an unexpected and negative transmogrification with devastating consequences. The imagery on the card indicates a tower whose crown has been struck off by an unanticipated bolt of lightening. The tower stands in a desolate and forbidding landscape. A man and woman fall from the tower toward an ambiguous fate. The card foretells destruction and calamity. But it is a card of initiation. And its original title was The House of God.

I once spent a year in the sweat lodge of an actor’s life. This gruelling year culminated in a series of performances in an airless basement theatre sequestered below the city’s grand opera house. One facet of the performances which struck me resoundingly was the experience of being backstage. The backstage area was dusty and hung with endless reams of faded black cloth. These created that sound-dampened hotzone peculiar to the theatre. Large, formless chambers adjoined the dressing rooms. These were mostly used for the storage of disused props and partially dismantled sets which were left to gather dust in the convoluted bowels of the great theatre. I found solace in these shapeless rooms, in the intense silences between scenes. The claustrophobic stairwell offered little relief and all too soon became hazed with the cigarette smoke of nerve-stricken actors. I could not concentrate there. I had constructed the characters which I had to play as painstakingly as one might erect a house of cards. And after endless rehearsals, these characters began to refine themselves and become as familiar to me as neighbourhood cats. Their existence, freed from the constraints of chance and free will, became sharply defined against the dictates of their scripted fates. They existed as a sort of sentient sculpture of space and time. A construction of carefully orchestrated emotional patterns. Forms which I reconstituted each night and inhabited against the spotlit ground zero beyond the faded drapes. By the third performance, these characters were as easy to slip on and off as items of clothing. I noticed a curious detatchment filter over me as I stepped into livid glare that night. I receded and allowed the character and pre-ordained situatoin to completely govern my material existence. I hovered beyond this, shifting and tweaking my sculpture, but transient as thought. I expected this detatchment to lift as I exited the stage, but instead it intensified. Backstage I was freed momentarily from the confines of my character and its repetitive segments of mock-fate. Here I realized that I was also temporarily released from my own fate, held in a sort of stasis by the infinity of crystallized time in which the backstage continuum existed. Here I was no longer an actor. I was merely waiting to be an actor until I was back under the lights, or until the performance was over. Reality consented that I was here waiting to act and thusly ignored my existence. Here I simply existed, liberated from the constraints of fate and choice until time shuffled me relentlessly toward the vast arena beyond the drapes. Backstage I could do or be anything. Here was a realm of limitless possibility. Here were the bars of the cage of time. And it was through those bars that I glimpsed the strata of the Gods.

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Nine hours after the tower collapses and the media is already waving around their chosen scapegoat. The news machine unreels its brain tape and the button-pusher programming with surgical timing. I fade in and out of the gigantic tributaries of human existence. And I hear the stories of wreckage. Ebbing and flowing on crowd energy, I watch every fainling heart pilot us all to a distant neurocropolis of crystallized time. And everyone down in the arcades and the chain stores and the cinema queus and rush hour clog-ups is spluttering within their precise conversation parameters. The Non-places hum like so many neon obelisks against the darkness of the world. The riot squads form impermeable membranes around the roiling masses. Floodlights are mounted and counter-mounted. But no amount of showmanship can dissolve behaviour protocols, the deep set reflex of reality. The muses have drowned in an avenue of franchise soft drinks and halogen splendour. And the only poetry one can find is in the technicalities. An awe-inspiring nebula of infrastructure death and dust fountaining from a concrete suture like a biblical polaroid. The Tower of Babel loses its crown again as the ticker tape runs out.

I’ve been trying to leave the carnival for ages. But I seem to be drifting in circles. Its uncanny how easy it is to get lost in carnivals. The usual logic of lostness does not apply. I have to stop many times to catch myself. And in the midst of one such reprieve I glimpse a goat being led through the maddening vistas to a cooking tent. And I am reminded of the ancient rites performed of the Day of Atonement. The high priest ritually confessed the sins of the people and then transferred them to a goat. The goat was then driven out into the wilderness to die. i can envisage carnivals where one goat wouldn’t be enough to carry all the sins of the people. And these carnivals are coming. And we will witness men of power put on their brightest plumage to drive their chosen scapegoats into an information wilderness. And then cheer when the applauseisigns flash. And we will applaud as the congregation arranges hunts to see who can bring back the heads. But there will be no walls to nail these heads to. Because by then our ivory tower would have fallen by the wayside. And we’ll all be lost in the wilderness.

Passengers gaze at my reflections in the mazy trains. And when the train grinds inexplicably to a standstill in the blackness of a pipe-ridden tunnel, everyone begins to come slowly and sickeningly to life. I’ve noticed whole stations, whole airports being shut down for alleged refurbishments and reconstruction. But there is no smell of concrete dust and ozone. No orange-suited, faceless construction drones. No sound of discontinuince. No evidence of hardhat zones.

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When I was in another country, I thought I heard a bomb go off in the city once. Lucid blue forevers and then an implosion of sound which rang through the corridors of buildings. A blanket of psychic shock descended, and then nothing but morning again. Distant racing cars, sirens and bad signals in my solar plexus. Someone mentioned later that it was not a bomb at all. They told me that it was simply a demolition downtown. But this fact was sour and insubstantial for me. I felt that it was some kind of red herring from God. A bomb had detonated somewhere in time and I had felt it in my stomach and ribs. The echo of an explosion had co-incided with my morning. The time was different, but the moment was still the same.

I built my first bomb when I was in school. I had no illusions of putting it to use though. It was an experiment I was conducting on myself. I had made sure that the bomb was lethal to as large a radius as the componants would allow. And I fashioned a one second fuse out of a pocket torch with a cracked bulb. The trigger was a little silver switch. The very notion of a bomb in your pocket while you drift through a crowd floods the nervous system with a fire of thorns and gasoline. A thousand empty speeches flash and fade along your neural pathways. Religion appears like a fantastic ghost. A catastrophic high begins to bloat around the bilious, brittle edges. Death becomes a little friend.

My reasons for performing this experiment are unclear to me, even in retrospect. Needless to say, my dreams in the following weeks were laced with high resolution scenes of time-freeze explosions. And I would be floating like an astronaught through the shatterings and the flexing walls and velocity objects. Everything was suspended within the deconstructing scenario in scalpel edged clarities too bright to crystallize into sentences.

My experiment left me with a relapsing condition which I have come to refer to as the Optical Bomb. The Optical Bomb is a reality filter which flickers through my sense of time and space whenever I am in airports or bullet trains or electric monorails or similar transit scenarios. I feel my entire being lighting up with alien electricity. (I become hideously aware of the structural spaces around me, feeling every rivet and support beam and hydraulic as though they were intergral to my being and body. I feel the passive nullity of someone who has willingly resigned themself to smoke drowned dismemberment. This detatches me from everything. And chilling futurist visions kaleidoscope conceptually through the optical centers of my brain. Freeze frame explosion scenes of high resolution destruction, scientifically and aesthetically precise. Veiwed from every conceivable angle.

People cluster like organs in the steel tubes that rocket and shuttle ceaselessly below the terminal cities. And each time someone leaves behind a suitcase or a brown paper bag, eyes fix upon it. And it lies temporarily out of synch with the flux and ebb of rush hour. And people sometimes find my nostalgic smile ominously jarring, like an empathic hiccup. And I watch them all from behind my sunglasses as the sound of atrophied machinary fills my head. And I see bowler hats dented in the delicate spikes of flamewhich corona from the ruptured steel floors. Four dimensional mosaics of crashing glass flowering glittering helixes down the yawning shadow drowned tunnells. Fractal arabesques of falling neon and distorted blast shadows. Zero gravity passengers suspended like ballerinas in the enclosed spaces. The vast silences of freeze-frame. Terminal Nebulosity.

I recently met an astrophysicist who told me that roughly one white dot in a hundred on a screen tuned to white noise is a residual signal from the Big Bang. An original signal. And if there is truth to this, then perhaps you can understand how everything you have ever seen and done has occurred within the quantum confines of an Optical Bomb. And how existence itself is just a partially realized footnote in an unimaginably vast and utterly inescapable freeze-frame explosion. And that although you are maintaining the illusion of keeping still to read these words, your body and the area you occupy are spinning through space at an obscene velocity. There is no stillness. There is no movement.

An explosion is a rip in time.

And there was no time before the Big Bang.

September 19, 2008

THE CROCODILE QUARTER

Filed under: literature,nikhil singh — ABRAXAS @ 9:20 am

(a prelude to THE DYING SWAN)

There was a plague in St Cecilia. It had not reached the city, but instead fermented in the outlying rural areas, breeding in pockets and occasionally claiming entire farms. Symptoms of the sickness included hallucinations and a swelling of the brain. These disturbances were followed by discolourations, fever and eventually madness. A dramatic scaling of the skin was also recorded. Coma descended quickly after these effects, followed in turn by slow deterioration and finally death. The sickness had been diagnosed as an obscure affliction familiar to certain jungle dwelling tribes. It was similar to malaria and could be treated with innoculations. Treatment was limited to the alleviation of certain symptoms after a certain period of infection, and the malady remained incurable once contamination had occured. The tribal people of the region saw the disease as an affliction of the spirit rather than the body. They believed that the material world was mirrored in an immaterial, dream realm. Their view was that this dream country had been invaded by demonic beings; creatures which had been allowed access by the strangers in the city. They felt that the disease was a scourge, the effects of a wounded dream. They bore it’s onslaught with quiet stoicism, carrying their afflicted to the rivers and abandoning them to the murky water. The crocodiles would not touch these carcasses, and the currents would often drag the corpses into the antiquated canal systems of the distant city. It was not unusual to wake in the slum regions and see deformed bodies drifting between the streets.

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I live in the smoking ruins of myself. Eating memories till I’m sick. I lit another cigarette. The room was starting to get stale with them. I had been thinking about Vivienne. I got off the black leather couch and walked to the window wall. The blinds retracted like razors, and the large room filled with blue light. I depolarised the glass slowly and watched all the shadows change. The dark gardens seethed below, rich with blackness. I hadn’t left the apartment for three weeks and the walls were closing in on me. I had decided to finish the triptych I had been working on, but my energy was fading. The first panel of the piece was a crucifixion scene, like the other two. It was of a thin figure, nailed to a Moorish cross of arabesqued bronze. The figure still needed a face, and I had not found an appropriate one for it yet, despite my searching. The cross was hung high, along the vast and shadowed walls of an underground vault, deep beneath the earth. The vault was depthless and the crucifix appeared a small and desolate ornament in all that featurelessness. I had put the paint on thin at first hoping to get the necessary depth with a series of glazes. But by the time the first coat dried, I was feeling bored and restless with the entire project. That had been two days ago. My satellite aerials have malfunctioned. I had recently discovered an icebox filled with dusty video tapes. A previous tenant must have left them behind. They were wedged next to the geyser, behind a mess of pipes. It took a week to find a machine old enough to play them. Most of them were permanently damaged, others grainy and indecipherable, blurred by time and neglect. The tapes which functioned were in languages I couldn’t understand; dialects sibilant and guttural, made even more distorted by the bad dubbing/playback quality and the condition of the actual tape. They sounded like dead languages. My attention was abstracted by confusion, drawn instead to random sequences of images and visual symbols. The lack of context gave these tapes a haunting, dream-like quality. I had been watching them for the last couple of days. Some were outtakes from propaganda reels and ancient pornographic material. Others were random clips, taken out of context and edited roughly together on outdated equipment. I had difficulty watching them. And it was a difficulty I was not able to define. Being alone for so long affected the way I handled my emotions. I noticed that things, which wouldn’t normally concern me, were starting to get me on edge. I had been in and out of a succession of gradually thickening depressions. Thick like tasteless syrup, like fog. They came episodically and without much warning. The slightest, most unanticipated things set them off. Often they were blurred around the edges, so I had difficulty telling whether they had actually ended or not. I finished the cigarette and decided to try get started on the glazing. After about half an hour of staring at the eight foot painting, I gave up and went and lay down on the couch. I didn’t notice I’d fallen asleep till the buzzer woke me up. I stumbled to the intercom and answered it, trying to shake the sleep out of my head. It was Elusina.

I buzzed her in and cocked the front door. The wafting corridor outside was silent. I hadn’t seen Elusina Elseware for over three months. In the distance, far below me I could suddenly hear the sharp, languid clicks of her needle heels. They came to me through the intercom, as she walked across the featureless lobby toward the antiquated lift. The building was over a hundred years old and wore it’s acoustics like hidden jewellry. One became attuned to them only by touch. I heard the distant depression of the button through the intercom and felt a heavy electric hum. Faraway clanking resounded as mechanisms activated in the structures above. The elevator had begun its slow and measured descent. I knew that she was aware of my eavesdropping, but she always maintained a pretence of unawareness. It was a private, unspoken ritual of ours. I never failed to gauge her mood by listening to every nuance of her entrance. This way I had always been able to prepare a strategy of defense. I knew that she hated that I had the advantage. But that was the way it would always be when she visited. I was up here and she was down there. The lift began its ascent. I closed the door and waited on the couch. After a while, I heard her knocking. I got up, walked back to the door and opened it. The first thing I noticed was that she’d cut her hair. It hung in a short black cleopatra bob, framing her eyes at the cheekbones and cutting darkly against a pale profile. Hairline cracks of jet sliced across her ears. The nape of an unnaturally long neck glowed under fleoroescents. She was carrying a battered black suitcase and a cigarette smouldered in her stained fingers. I noted these details clinically, automatically. I had grown accustomed to sketching her, and my eyes contained reflexes too deep-set to decode. She wore a frown which I had come to associate with states of desperate introspection.

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“Iwy em hotep,” she muttered ironically.

I must have looked at her quizzically, but she simply brushed past, dropping her small, black suitcase in the hall. I automatically went to the kitchen to make espresso’s, while she collapsed across the couch.

“Cain please, no more coffee,” I heard her moan.

I abandoned the machine and opened the fridge. I retrieved a partially consumed pinotage and drifted back. There were no echoes in the lounge. The soft surfaces soaked them up like blotting paper. Her coat lay messily against a wall. She had made herself comfortable, with one needle heel trailing a lazy stylus across the floor. The shoes were brand new, expensive little devices which she would no doubt lose within a week. Camera poises still haunted her movements and expressions, fluttering half-on/half-off. It was like watching a moth struggle from its coccoon. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror across the room and changed her face immediately. Mirrors trapped Elusina’s attention like quicksand. Something definitive was always missing.

“You look dead,” I thought out loud.

She grunted concisely and I passed across the bottle of wine.

“How was your flight?” I asked conversationally, snagging a tiny, snakeskin purse from the floor. She had thrown it arbitrarily against the glass panels and it had landed messily. I was sensitive to things being out of place. I think it amused her. It was probably only due to the fact that I hadn’t slept for so long, but I already felt myself growing irritated for no definitive reason. She took a long swallow of wine.

“Eight hours on the plane,” she murmured, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

“I lost my phone in the airport.” she added softly.

I opened her purse and found the light cigarettes she was smoking. I took one and lit it out of curiosity. I could hardly taste it.

“Have you run out of cigarettes?” I murmured.

“No,” she said through the painless smoke. “Just wanted something pale and Northern after all that good Arab shit.”

After a moment she slouched up. She abruptly drained more wine, reached over and extracted her cigarette from the ashtray. There was something quite out of place with her. Something I couldn’t put a finger on.

“How was the shoot?” I enquired, hoping to get something out of her.

She took a drag and sank slowly back.

“They are re-writing some scenes,” she frowned. “…I think I’m done though.”

She trailed off for a second. I took a drag of the airy cigarette and watched the smoke dissipate from my mouth like steam. I realized that she was looking at me with a dark and measured sneer playing across her wine stained lips.

“What is it Elusina? What’s wrong with you?”

But she just sat there staring, like a doll of herself. I reached over and took the bottle from her loose fingers. I drank a bit of the bitter, chilly wine, avoiding her gaze. She was still sort of sneering, like a teasing child.

“Things got out of control.” she said after awhile.

An ugly pause lay on the table between us. She turned away, picking at her eyes with an uncomfortable delicacy. She finished the wine and took another drag or two.

“You don’t have to be cruel,” I grumbled quietly.

Her eyes were red from staring. Her mouth was blue with wine.

“Lets go to the Quarter,” she suggested. “I’ve missed it.”

She began to pull on long, white satin gloves. But I was too busy studying her expression to answer immediately. The face she will wear when she is nailed to a cross. Somewhere in a void beneath the earth.

We take a taxi down into the Crocodile Quarter and cross familar alley’s to the Pandaemonium Cafe. We drink absinthe in the wine coloured booths and then stroll through the narrow cobbled streets of the Quarter. I walk her through the slum galleries, outside the smoke and the noise. She smiles in the dull neon glare and we sit at an outside cafe. She lights a cigarette with an elegant gesture and I sit beside her, in the shadow of the antique locomotive. Racks of pale neon flicker off into eternity. I first met her just a few streets from where we sit and smile now. Then she was just another schoolgirl who cut herself on week-ends and wore gypsey hair down to her hips. I still see her smiling wickedly, like she held all the cards over her dead-end friends who will probably all grow up to become travel agents. I’ve given her a thousand pet names, but I never speak her real name. The night we first met I was dressed androgynously. My face was cast in the grim monochromes of sexlessness. I still retain flashes of myself in that webby black; rubber boned as a cat, wearing girl’s shoes and brimming with bad intent. I caught her out of the crowd like a slippery fish, and dragged her laughing to the vast empty spaces which lay dead in the dimness beyond. Here, far from the storm of faces I pinioned her wrists to the rusty, barbed wire fences which slag and collapse all the way down to hell. I stared into those shining, shivering eyes and told her fortune while cameras shuttered and winked from the flytrap light. Her smile dissolved and we became lovers, much in the same way as insects hatch, or a finger breaks. Suddenly and vividly. A crystalline and yet somehow unhealthy reckoning that carried with it all the death and charm of wild youth. Rust flecks caught in her hair as I saw my face slipping like a fish across her eye. Now she sits gloved and elegant with her Cleopatra hair slicing at her cheekbones while the animals shriek and die at the plastic counters. Cages of oil soaked cake and food that no stomach can ever decode loom in the back of our conversation. Petals of ash flake from her and catch in her dark mascara. At one point during the conversation, I see that her hand is scribbling words onto a dirty napkin while she is talking to me. She seems somehow oblivious to this, speaking in soft, slow slurs while her hand goes over each letter two or three times, pressing the words almost through the paper. I ask her what she is doing and she glances down at her hand with something like shock. Then a wistful mood overcomes her and she stares out into space. Her hand continues to write, almost with a will of its own.

“Sometimes things speak through you,” she replies.

She tells me about the rape while we loiter in the slum galleries. We talk in the men’s bathroom of a cocktail bar while people cluster anonymously. I can’t help indulging in her new hair, black and shiny as a helmet. She’s drinking martinis and telling me about it in slow, orchestrated movements, like a snake swallowing a mouse. We chainsmoke in dirty mirrors. She says she has been working deep in the desert towns, in the wilderness. She say’s that that’s where it happened. She tells me that the stage-name she uses in the wilderness is Na’amah. She comes home with me and we drink in the darkness of the garden. She drinks a bottle of vodka with her gloves still on. Then she sheds all her clothing like a reptile and lies down on my bed like she is expecting something unforeseen, a child before a car crash. I can’t help noticing that parts of her body have become unnaturally disproportionate since I last saw her. I tell her and she agrees coldly. Yes she says, it is remarkable how much she has changed. I also notice that her eyes, which were once ice blue, are now vaguely yellow. Strangely enough, it is the first time I notice this anomaly. We are suddenly aware of how many months have passed since last we met. Time stutters and leaves us stranded in this moment of isolation. The obscene distortions of her body seem to have some sort of ominous significance for me. But I can’t say what exactly. I fill her a bath. I can’t stop staring at her hair. She falls asleep in the water, wakes up later and sleeps across my bed like an enormous reptile. I stay awake into the night. I have been working on a painting of a vast snake. It is dim and sunk deep into halls of mythological proportions, skeletal in places. It has a humanoid head. I make it all the way to a broken dawn and fall asleep beside her unmoving form. I wake to find her dressing against the television. Cartoons race across the screen. She puts on bright black lipstick. There is no-one available to give her a lift, so I walk her down to where the taxis nest. She walks barefoot, her heels dangling from her little finger. I can tell the rape has made her nervous about being alone in the street. Her unnatural body hangs from the creased evening dress. She is skirting the ice of a derelict universe. I watch her climb into a taxi and vanish off into the highways leading back down to into the city. Even now, I am remembering her wrong.

I went back to sleep with the windows open. The rich currents of air brought the dense smell of jasmine up from the gardens. When I woke up it was dusk. The light through the window’s lent the chamber the underwater atmosphere of a large tomb. I awoke in a profound state of anxiety, moving around in that cloying light. The television showed soft white noise and I turned it off. Elusina had left a pack of foriegn cigarettes on the coffee table. I weighed them in my hand, lost in ragged thoughts and a vague sense of undefineable loss. Her confessions had grown into me whilst I was sleeping, like the roots of a poisonous orchid. When I awoke I was thoroughly infected by what had happened to her, by the sight of her. I vomited bleakly and then found myself crying. The sun was dying in fire over the broken back of the city. I realised only later that she had taken several folders of my finest drawings. She must have hidden them in her briefcase while I was still asleep. I was about to call her when I remembered that her phone had been lost. The theft was very much out of character for her, and I couldn’t envisage what she was plotting.

I left my apartment at about seven, with a veiw to calling at Boris’s house. Boris lived a little out of town, in the wooded regions between St Cecilia and the neighbouring town of Ambarvalia. Public transport to his borough was a nightmare of rusty busses and it was far too expensive to take a taxi. My usual route was to jump the logging train which ran from Ambarvalia to the Quarter terminus. The tracks passed through the woods, several kilometers from his estate. From there I had a personal route through the forest to his garden. I walked North, skirting the city’s inner edge. I passed Florentine Square, where Svetlana Duprey the theatre critic lived. It was not known to me at the time, but it was to Svetlana’s apartment that Elusina had fled. She must have in fact been sleeping close by when I crossed the leaf swept square, heading for the Crocodile Quarter. I thought about Elusina when I entered the square, cheifly because I had noticed a large bill advertising a film she was in. The sight of her features was rather disorienting after the night before. The lurid bill was plastered across a wall, beyond the foliage of stately trees and large, airbrushed eyes followed me as I walked. As though trying to communicate something which could not be then verbalised. I ignored her, finning down well-worn routes, trying to get my head together. Svetlana’s apartment was situated one phonebooth east of Florentine square, a cosmopolitan district, where the avenues sweep with drowsy sycamores and plane trees. She calls it a ‘quartier’ apartment at all the right society functions because no-one with a good chaueffeur is likely notice the transgressions. In actual fact, the Quarter only starts to insinuate it’s peeling plaster plazas and wrought iron balconies some streets away. The beautiful shrub nested maisonettes and vane crowned tile of the Florentine neighbourhoods become gradually punctuated by mad angled alleyways. And the loomings of those inevitable quartier borderposts: the wild night bistros and bordellos, become apparent. You could glimpse their gaudy neons, tucked like spider’s nests in the innards of the side-streets. One begins to notice all the questionable cafes, which in the afternoon spill clusters of shiny black tables out onto the cobbled byways. From these shadow-eaten sidewalks at night, you might hear the distant tattoo of tom tom drums, or broken glass tinkling in the depths of an alley. The bubbling up of a faraway girl’s drunken giggles give way to the cough of an exhaust pipe. The roar and recession of engines. Here, in the hard honeyed noons, you will find the obligatory shaven waiters, skulking gaunt in doorways. With fouled napkins on strings and nicotine stains along their fate lines. You will see all the mulato fruit hawkers with their varicose calves, and the raggedy Pan children who kick pebbles down corners and chase pigeons into cul de sacs. Those drained vein side-streets where the sewers begin to open out like badly hidden knife wounds. Sinking beyond the fringe, the Quarter develops into a chaotic squalor of grimy merchant districts. These franchises multiply as heavily as scar tissue along the broken boulevards. Crumbling flights of stairs straddle antiquated canals. The thresh of detritus is foamed in by sewage, hemmed by the pig-iron teeth of tortured grates. Somewhere from the mess of rooftops, tin flutes cut clean across black widow fire escapes and chicken bone chimney stacks. Indecipherable voices drip in strands, from the countless cagey balconies all postage stamped one across another to the sky. Here the decayed labyrinth divides and subdivides, attatching it’s dense nodes of path and way to snakish canals, in the fashion of gut parasites. Dead ends and leaning roofs pile across each other like a thousand sagging cakes. Catchwire washing lines riddle the streets, all rotted and rained into indefinable silhoettes, choking the grumbled throat of perspective. And somewhere in all of this, toward the mangrove encroachment, is the old slaving ghetto. Sending out its precarious jetty’s into the swamp and squatting like a shrunken head on all the district maps; The Downtown Frown, Cecilia’s juju backyard, or as it is now known; The Crocodile Quarter, where the railways terminate. Many freight trains despatch regularly to and from this bleak terminus. And this is cheifly because a large and unsavoury portion of St Cecilia’s industrial district lies within the immediate vicinity of the Crocodile Quarter. When people talk about going to the Crocodile Quarter, they will often mean the cafe districts which border it. Very few people had business of a personal or recreational nature down in the old part of Quarter. All you could see were clanging factories, rising out of the swamp like strange, smoking fortresses. You could stand out on the rickety wharves, observing the batteries of barbed wire which ran all the way out to the lagoons. Heavy marsh birds circle endlesly in the rift above. Freight cars creak and rumble into the yawning concrete station regularly, often at ungodly hours, bearing strange cargoes for the smokestack bellies of these monsters. Startled, sickly horses bound for the glue works and dogfood slaughterhouses, lead in wooden crates for a pencil manufacturer, barrels of syrup for the flypaper factory, and of course, immense quantities of lumber to feed all the dingy furniture chopshops along the wharves. All these items would be offloaded onto filthy platforms by sour faced workmen who smoked hand rolled cigarettes in silence. The garble of radios leaked dismally out of the watchmen’s shacks as they worked. And once the freight cars had all been cleared, they would then be immediately restocked. It was the digestive system of St Cecilia at work. And I would watch it closely, waiting on the platform with the others, observing shiny packages of pencils and jars of cataract coloured glue. Counting the ballbearings and packaged flyswatters, the featureless tins of meat destined for inland label manufacturers. The hundreds of nameless cardboard boxes. The sickening endlessness of industry would sink into me, and I would smoke cigarettes with the vagabonds, waiting like the horses for my turn on the train. And when the loading process was finally complete, a steam whistle would blast. The box cars would be set upon by all the mangy vagrants hovering on the side of the tracks. Groups of boys would travel in packs, some returning home from work on the wharves. Security was so lax and the trains so slow that the cargo line proved a popular method of transport for the disenfranchised. Hundreds passengers rode the ‘Ambarvalia Express’ all the way to the mountains and back, huddled in coats and scarves and jackets pulled tight against the night. I would squat among them, between the cracked carriage doors, watching their clattering faces with a finger on my knife, watching the Quarter inch gradually past. Flurries of brake sparks would light our faces at intervals, as the train agonized onward like a bloated worm. Tattered figures would be dropping or attatching themselves like flies throughout the entire course of this laboured journey. I would wait, and the tracks would eventually scrawl out of the city. They would enter the woods, dipping through gloomy tunnels and between the trees. The tracks would skirt the affluent borough of Palmwhelm, where Boris kept his large and mysterious house. Billowy Palmwhelm, which lay just outside of St Cecilia, a stole shrugged from the shoulders of a jaded actress. Palmwhelm, with its many mansions secreted about its forest vista, like gaudy surprises in an Easter egg hunt. The train would chug quite indifferently past all of this, turning and crossing at some point, over a small elm encrusted bridge which spanned the highway. And it was at this point where I would ready myself and leap, landing in a flurry of gravel, stealing into the thin spires of the forest.

I crossed the river and entered the dark, nether regions of the garden. The house was large and boat-like against the velvety night. Dim paper lanterns were burning, and a faint tigerish glow laced the broad, waxy leaves outside the observation lounge. Boris had been relatively young when he inherited the house and the estate which came with it. His properties included a factory in town, some farmland and this estate. He was loathe to leave it, and it became a world all on it’s own. He had a sick aunt who kept a room in one of the turrets and almost never came down. The house had a dream-like, almost unreal atmosphere most of the time. A large pool brooded, dismal with fallen leaves. Roman statues lay where they had fallen, gorged by creepers. He staged seasonal art exhibitions in the halls and atriums of his abode, and had acquired, after a time, the reputation of being a tasteful patron. But I am of course biased when I say this. It was after all Boris who supplemented my income and funded a large number of my personal projects when no-one else would touch them. Perhaps it was his youth, or simply the disgust he harboured against the state endorsed ‘culture’ of the Mangrove Institute, which lent a certain cavalier edge to his endeavours. Whatever the case, he was passionate about this quiet rebellion of his, more often in speech and monetory support than action though. When it came to action, Boris was a habitual starter of projects. An infrequent opium eater, he haunted his habitat like a lanky black spider, leaving unfinished artefacts here and there, fretting constantly over misplaced, but somehow tragically vital baubles. He had studied electrical engineering for a spell and was obsessed with radio transmissions. He concieved devices which emitted the radio signals of distant stars. He was fidgety and sensitive to light. I had seen him become enraged at occurences others would deem arbitrary. He would come over to my apartment and loiter for hours, trying to remember where he was supposed to be. I would visit his house and we would drink cocktails all night. It was a friendship of desperate times.

He wasn’t in the downstairs lounge. The large sliding doors were open and a greenish smell of flowing water had invaded, nudging the crimson drapes with it’s breezes. Birds called from over the river. Low, inhuman sounds which penetrated the night. I found him in one of the garages, dragging a collection of rusted girders across the tiles. I helped him get them onto a shelf and we retired to the glass-roofed conservatory to drink a couple of White Lady’s. It was muggy, despite the chill. Autumn was on top of us.

“Elusina is back,” I mentioned, cracking an egg.

Boris had retrieved a half bottle of Cointreau and was busy unscrewing it.

“I know, ” he grumbled, pouring the liquor into two heavy tumblers. “She called me from the airport, mentioning something about an exhibition she was planning for you.”

“That would explain why she made off with all my drawings this morning….without asking I might add.”

Boris hovered without eye contact.

“Did she…stay over you mean?” he asked quietly.

I hesitated, overcome by a inexplicable sense of having said the wrong thing. I was secretive by nature, even paranoid, about the most trivial of things. This lent an unwarranted mystery to many of my relationships with people. It was not a quality I cherished, for it drew more attention to itself. It made me feel weak when people penetrated into the circles of my life. It threw entire orbits out of kilter.

“She did.” I replied awkwardly, unable to bring myself to explain further.

The admission somehow re-activated Elusina’s unspeakable confessions. It brought back the distortions of her body. I could tell that Boris had caught a fleeting, psychic impression of these abherrations. The bleakness of the morning suddenly found me again, cornering me as a cat corners an injured bird.

“What about Vivienne?” he asked weightily, crushing a lemon into a pewter bowl.

There were times when Boris displayed an aristocratic naivette, especially when it came to relations of a personal nature. There was a girlish curiosity in his observation of supposed amorous encounters. A curiousity which lay, clumsily stashed, behind the Nordic facade which he constantly maintained.

“It doesn’t matter,” I muttered, and we finished mixing the drinks in silence. We drank them in the garden, staring out across the river. Dark shapes brooded in sullen brown depths, hovering and darting beneath the waters. Large mangrove birds fluttered in the ragged tops of trees. Before I knew it, it was midnight.

I sat in one of the upper rooms, paging through a nineteenth century bestiary. The volume was an eccentric publication, printed in the monastic style favoured by the scholars of the Middle Ages, yet illustrated in a Rackham-esque fashion of the time. It had been ill cared for and was now utterly ravaged by the incessant dampness of the house. I had to turn the yellowed vellum pages with great care to avoid damaging them. Boris was working on some device in another part of the house. I could hear the occasional fizz and crackle of speaker cones as instruments attuned themselves in regular intervals. Despite the fascinating illustrations of the volume in my hands, I could not bring myself to concentrate. The mention of Elusina’s plans for an exhibition had come as a mild shock. Independently funded cultural events were rare in this city. The state endorsed Mangrove Institute was seen as the vanguard of culture, and the press and powers that be acknowledged it thus. Outsider creativity was generally frowned upon. I had visited the Institute’s Art section once or twice. It was housed in a large concrete keep on the edge of town. Racks of barbed wire and impenetrable walls gave it the atmosphere of a prison. I could not help but marvel at what grim dreams might gestate in it’s dismal hatcheries, but flights of fancy were not at a premium in the Mangrove Institute. It was a cold harbour of concept. And the conceptual notions it fostered had made an enemy of St Cecilia’s old legacies of craft. I knew that whatever Elusina was planning would involve the Institute. It was unavoidable, for Elusina only did things on a grand or semi-grand scale. And anything on such a scale would not escape the tentacles of the Institute. Yet her decision to involve me spoke against the doctrines of the Institute. What strange counter-terrorism was she planning? I felt trapped, and somehow, inexplicably guilty. There was a knife-edge to this guilt. The sickening experiences she had undergone made me feel as though I, and indeed the whole of mankind, were unavoidably indebted to her. The memory of the previous night still clung to me, like the insoluble odour of burned food. Elusina’s willpower was an overwhelming force, and I was very much afraid that I would be made to pay for her pain in some indefinable way. I needed to see Vivienne. Only the proximity of Vivienne could ease this black tide upon which I floated. I began to think again of the video tapes I had discovered. They spoke of a hidden symmetry to things, an unavoidable accidentalism which claimed everything into it’s weave. Elusina’s chaotic nature had always been finely tuned to these secret tides, and they had bourne her far. Was I now to be drowned in the churning wake she had created? The sense of darkness was like a stain. I felt the close sensation that she was standing in the room with me, smoking one of those invisible cigarettes of hers, naked and malformed. By some quirk, I opened the bestiary upon the very creature from which she had derived her name; Melusina, the Sometimes Siren. The drawing depicted a winged and shadowy girl, brooding beside the ruins of a fallen city. In myth, Melusina was a fairy who was said to scream three times before a great disaster. She would conjure up armies of faceless workers from nothing and then have them erect strange buildings overnight. These workers would dissipate like chaff at daybreak and the citizens of the town or village would be left to wander in awe amidst the enormous structures which had sprung up whilst they slept. She would sometimes foster illegitimite children. And these children would always be born deformed, or with some severe mishap. The same could be said of her buildings, which were always spoiled by a fatal defect of some kind. A defect which would inevitably cause great injury, when the magical structures collapsed.

I went down to the Red Room, where Boris was adjusting a fine spray of copper wiring.

“I need to borrow a car,” I announced.

He glanced up at me in a fidgety way.

“Where will you be taking it?” he enquired, fully aware of what I had in mind.

“Ambarvalia,” I admitted weakly. “I have to see Vivenne.”

He paused for a second before agreeing, stroking at a passing cat. I went back upstairs and eventually fell asleep on a faded chez longue. I awoke well after noon. Hard sunlight painted the room in livid stripes. It caught in the half eaten remains of a savaged cake. It was a repulsive, almost sexual sight. I awoke disgusted. Boris was nowhere to be found. I drank some tea, wrote a note and left the pack of Egyptian cigarettes which Elusina had supposedly forgotten at my house. The gesture was meant as a tribute of some kind – even magic castles needed upkeep. I took the brown Bentley, angling it down thin, forest roads, heading back for the highway.

The drive from Palmwhelm to Ambarvalia took just under an hour. The highway unribboned, spooling its curves into a wildly ascending woodland. Occasionally, the forest would thicken into dense wildernesses, and then break itself in the teeth of outcrops and wind splintered cliff faces. Animal haunted gullies ghosted by, clotted by dairy outposts, and parched dirtroads. The rusted nerve mesh of the railway dissected distance at times, passing close and then vanishing without a trace. I was almost calmed now, sedated by the grubbing of the engine and the rip of a chinked window. The sun was hazing the soft, nougat horizons like fresh, golden kettle steam. Blank eyed flashes of cow splattered meadows marked my passage, the jigsaw ravelling of fences in the slipstream. I adjust my sunglasses as I turned into this dusky light, flying west, cupped in the palm of the soft car. I had not spoken to Vivienne the entire week, and our last conversation had been remarkably unpleasant, even desperate on my part. I wished again that I could be rid of the spectre of her. But somehow, whenever I wished that, she would be drawing closer, as she was even now. Her cruelty was milk compared to the bare bones of silence. And I felt so much safer because of it. She was an addiction, and this I had come to understand and accept. She was a richly twisted lie, more a personal invention than a real person. I had made her into a crucifix dropped by a saint. And I clung to this remarkable effigy, as a sailor clings to wreckage. To the outside observer it is simply wreckage, dismal and shattered. To the sailor it is a whole world, the only possibility of salvation in the face of the raging sea. I may have been a deluded fool, but I was drowning. And a shattered piece of debris is better than a chartless ocean. I was able, for a moment, to reject my cup of fear and drift into the west like a swallow loosed. The empty worlds yawned passed without pause. The drowsy hollow of Ambarvalia formed across the faintly glowing distances. A signpost blur and a corner overlooking grain silos. An offramp peppered with jacaranda blossoms. And then, with almost no sense of transgression, the highway melds into quiet, mazy roads shrouded by sleepy trees and lit by old, clicking streetlamps. Petite little houses set together like teeth. Pretty, white verandas erasing into the oncoming evening. Jacaranda blossoms like blushes of lavender snowflakes on anonymous corners. The great, billowing plane trees heave their dry cargo of early winter above the nameless cul de sacs and endless parks. The hawking call of an ibis echoes in the worlds above them. Figures in coats bleach to beige, and then grey, as blue rumours of twilight melt the bands of salmon pink. Around the valley, dusk is falling. Mysterious little Ambarvalia and its galactic dimness. A town which has over the centuries become less of a town and more a half remembered story of one. An insubstantial place filled with a mythological quiet, and the tolling of distant bells.

September 12, 2008

Steve Biko’s paradise lost

Filed under: andile mngxitama,politics — ABRAXAS @ 9:57 am

This extract from Biko Lives! looks at early black consciousness and today’s South Africa

“This is one country where it would be possible to create a capitalist black society, if whites were intelligent, if the nationalists were intelligent. And that capitalist black society, black middle class, would be very effective … South Africa could succeed in putting across to the world a pretty convincing, integrated picture, with still 70 percent of the population being underdogs.” – Steve Biko (1972)

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The 30th anniversary of Steve Biko’s murder in police custody (on September 12 1977) comes almost 15 years after the formal ending of apartheid in South Africa. This fact alone raises several fundamental questions: how do we remember Biko? What contributions did the black consciousness movement make to the course of black liberation in South Africa and the world? How does the conception of black liberation, as enunciated by Biko and his colleagues, square up against the realities of post-apartheid South Africa?

Indeed, Biko lives today in South Africa, but so do the material outcomes of colonialism, segregation, apartheid and – most recently – neo-liberal economic policies. South Africa continues to be characterised by sharply contrasting realities.

Under the terms of the negotiated settlement of the early 1990s, the ANC won political – but not economic – power. Less than 5 percent of the country’s land has changed hands from white to black since 1994 and four white-owned conglomerates continue to control 80 percent of the Johannesburg stock exchange.

Black economic empowerment (BEE) schemes have created black millionaires in the thousands, making South Africa the fourth-fastest growing location for millionaires after South Korea, India and Russia.

But the vast majority of South Africans remain at the other extreme – these are the 45 percent of South Africans who are unemployed; the one in four who live in shacks located in shantytowns without running water or electricity. This is the country Biko continues to haunt, and to inspire …

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Rather than a stage of psychological liberation, Biko considered “real needs” – the experience of “our common plight and struggle” – the challenge for black consciousness philosophy. At the same time, he insisted that radical intellectuals not only reject the racist regime and its invention of “Bantustan” politics but play an important role by using what they have learnt in the apartheid schools and colleges against the regime itself.

Biko’s concept of black liberation anticipates the post-apartheid reality of black poverty and exclusion alongside white wealth, legitimised by a black presence in government.

It has often proven difficult to describe this phenomenon, especially since the 1994 “miracle” destabilised discourses and ways of seeing which were rooted in the black experience such as black consciousness. How do we name a social political formation that is managed by former liberation fighters, but remains in the service of the apartheid status quo?

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When black consciousness appeared on the scene [in the mid-1960s] it loudly proclaimed its own name in its own language and created a new black whose raison d’être was the audacity to be, particularly, in the face of white supremacist power. When young activists of the black consciousness movement entered prison on Robben Island, they confronted the old political leaders who had been sitting in jail for decades with little hope and little fire for rebellion.

The new blacks appeared like a whirlwind, confounding the old leaders. Listen to Nelson Mandela recall the shock of this defiant quest to claim one’s right to be:

“These fellows refused to conform to even basic prison regulations. One day I was at head office conferring with the commanding officer. As I was walking out with the major, we came upon a young prisoner being interviewed by a prison official. The young man, who was no more than 18, was wearing his prison cap in the presence of senior officers, a violation of regulations. Nor did he stand up when the major entered the room, another violation. The major looked at him and said, ‘Please take off your cap.’ The prisoner ignored him. Then in an irritated tone, the major said, ‘Take off your cap.’ The prisoner turned and looked at the major and said, ‘What for?’ I could hardly believe what I had just heard. It was a revolutionary question: What for?”

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There are at least three main memories of Biko contending in South Africa today. The first finds expression in the black business class, through its claim to be entitled to the white wealth created from the exploitation of colonialism and apartheid. The BEE programme mobilises the common historical experience of oppression and exclusion by black South Africans to carve for itself a slice in the white world. The 1994 political settlement made it possible for those blacks most prepared to occupy the position of the whites in society to do so in the name of transformation without transforming the very structures of accumulation, production and redistribution created by colonialism and apartheid.
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Biko advocated the rejection of such a scheme: “We believe that we have to reject their economic system, their political system and values that govern human relationships … We are not really fighting against the government; we are fighting the entire system.”

Biko had foreseen that an economic model which integrates blacks into the very structures of colonialism and apartheid would create an unhealthy and self-defeating competition among blacks: “It is an integration in which black will compete with black, using each other as rungs up a stepladder leading them to white values. It is an integration in which the black man will have to prove himself in terms of these values before meriting acceptance and ultimate assimilation, and in which the poor will grow poorer and rich richer in a country where the poor have always been black.”

The second contestation of Biko’s memory comes from the state-linked political and bureaucratic classes. Their ascendance into the higher echelons of the post-apartheid bureaucracy has in practice also mobilised a version of black consciousness which, on the face of it, privileges blackness. The discourse of “transformation”, “representivity” “and reflecting the demographics” of society are the concepts employed in the process …

As a bureaucracy, this confronts the majority of blacks as a cold, arrogant, often violent and indifferent system. The Biko who these two main post-apartheid black classes have appropriated is a Biko who is mute in the face of continued black suffering, exclusion and humiliation.

The business and political classes have nothing to say to the multitudes who live in the shacks and the RDP [reconstruction and development programme] houses that have been described as dog kennels; who continue to suffer unacceptable infant mortality rates; whose hospitals are less than places of abandonment and death; who continue to die from Aids. In a sense, Biko’s thought has been reduced to slogans on T-shirts weaned of all its radical content as a philosophy of black liberation, and images of Biko have come to adorn glossy magazines.

The third contestation of Biko is the shout of the black majority for whom the formal ending of apartheid has not yet altered circumstances in any meaningful way.

This living Biko finds expression in the everyday struggles of the black masses for dignity and freedom. As Imraan Buccus writes, “Since 2004 an unprecedented wave of popular protest has ebbed and flowed across the country … This makes South Africa ‘the most protest-rich country in the world’.”

It is the explicit contention of the editors that Biko lives in these spaces of resistance which now appear and disappear and are revived in different forms and different parts of the post-apartheid society. The legacy carriers of the black consciousness philosophy are the excluded majority who continue to make life under extreme conditions and who, as Frantz Fanon once put it, cannot conceive of life otherwise than in the form of a battle against exploitation, misery and hunger.

An array of movements and organisations are demanding a dignity and a recognition that fundamentally challenges neoliberal post-apartheid South Africa. Every election cycle since the 2004 national election has seen movements across the country lift cries of “No Land! No Vote!” or “No Housing! No Jobs! No Vote!” signalling their refusal to participate in an unsatisfying “ballot box democracy”.

Instead, they demand a genuine reciprocity, a different notion of politics, “a true humanity”, as Biko puts it “where power politics will have no place”.

If a politics that transcends the current reality is to emerge, it would in all likelihood emerge as these new movements and forms of self-activity continue to develop their own voice.

# Biko Lives! Contesting the Legacies of Steve Biko is edited by Andile Mngxitama, Amanda Alexander and Nigel C Gibson and published by Palgrave Macmillan

this artixcle was first published by the sunday independent

September 10, 2008

MINOR VICTORIES

Filed under: literature,nikhil singh — ABRAXAS @ 9:54 pm

It was because I knew Hitler you see. We frequented the same brothel, and at one stage had developed a minor, shall we say ‘artistic’ infatuation with one of the girls. A rather quiet, intense creature called Mima. Mima became quite good friends with him at a later stage and they used to compare sketches of bridges. Hers were quite polished as I recall and put me in mind of Piranesi’s early scribblings. But perhaps I am simply being kind. Youth tends to dull one’s sensitivity to aesthetic balances. I didn’t see her again and only visited Hitler’s mangy apartment once to see his paintings. We drank together a couple of times and I suppose we became friends in a way. I remember once we were crossing the city at night, through a warren of cobbled passages which led to the canal. There was a sound of glass breaking somewhere in the streets and Hitler stopped to listen. He had a mouse-like passion for details at times and I remember stopping too, trying to tune into the distant sounds.

“There are old one’s among us you know,” he muttered inexplicably.

I kept quiet, thinking that it was merely the hour and the wine which was speaking. Wine troubled his delicate stomach, often rendering him strange and somewhat unbearable.

“There are those who have kept this city even before it was a city.”

I began to grow cold and irritated at his eerie tone and ventured deeper into the muggy alley, trying to decipher the direction which we were to take.

“We are nothing but puppets to them you know,” he said, somewhat sadly.

I detested his obsession with the occult and decided to keep my mouth closed.

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I married an English girl who I came to loathe and moved to London in my early twenties. We both had money, she family and I an unquenchable thirst for nothing. I say this because it was always in ‘nothing’ that I hoped to find ‘something’. There is an irony in this which makes me black and bitter now. I came to loathe England as I loathed my wife. For me, all it’s inaccuracies and petty middle-class attempts at industry seemed to coagulate in her. I saw the endless traffic of umbrellas and omnibuses and time-keepers and came only to associate it with her. I see now that I had no right to hate her, we were simply ill-matched. Nevertheless I took the first opportunity to leave and we spent a bitter week-end in Brighton discussing the terms of our separation. She could not understand and neither could I. I procured a modest flat in Highgate and England set in like a plague. I was working as a buyer for a small, but eclectic gallery in Mayfair and liked my work. I specialized for awhile in classic Italian Automata and Flemish tableau’s. One of the clocks I discovered in Luzerne even found its way to the vaults of the British museum. I came to miss Germany and often thought about returning. But it was the late thirties then, and with the economic situation being the way it was over there, it simply made no sense to give up my comfortable lifestyle in favour of nostalgic longings. London cast it’s blight of repetition and drossness upon me and I settled like sediment into a lifestyle which curried no feeling for me whatsoever.

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I was taking lunch in my usual spot near the Heath when I realised that a man was observing me from another table. We were sitting outdoors and the day was bright and blustery, with a vague threat of rain. It was a small cafe, one of those with a striped awning, advertising sausages, eggs and ice-cream teas etc. The man seemed quite out of place in his well-cut suit and fine hat. He caught my eyes and shot me a brief smile. I realised then that he knew who I was. I mistook him for one of the customers of the gallery [almost all of whom were affluent and forgettable] and greeted him in a friendly way. He took this as an invitation to join me and walked over to my table. I realised that I was now under an obligation to invite him to sit and did so with a vague sense of annoyance. I did not like my lunches interrupted, for in truth my lunch hours were something of a respite to me. Even more so than my nights, which seemed always to be vacant and dreary. It was only when he spoke that I realized that he was German.

His name was Volker, though he encouraged me to call him Harrison for some reason. He smoked incessantly and apologised for it even more. He had impeccable taste in tailoring and I caught myself being envious of his ensemble more than a few times. He was friendly and detached that first time at the cafe. He said that he ‘recognised’ me and simply wanted to speak to another German. I accepted this, sensing that this was simply an overture to deeper dealings. We spoke of art and the weather, and all the while I could sense that he was observing me with an attention akin to that which I gave the items at the gallery. My idea was that he was simply a homosexual who was also nostalgic for his home country. I have always hated the senseless hedonism of homosexuality, but opted to be friendly to a fellow countryman. I was surprised to find myself enjoying his company. He asked if we could meet again and I agreed. He suggested a restaurant in Covent Garden the following day and I acquiesced. Perhaps it was boredom which made me agree, or the superior vanity some men feel when they feel they are being admired by the very things which they hate. We shook hands and I watched him disappear down an avenue lined with plane trees.

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It was at the restaurant that he revealed his true intentions.

“We have a mutual friend,” he confided over his veal.

I did not ask who, and in truth did not much care at the time. He asked me if I was aware of the situation in Germany and probed for my loyalties in a very, polite and roundabout sort of way. My nihilism must have been very stark for he came to the point rather quickly.

“I understand that your gallery supplies artwork to many influential people,” he mentioned leadingly.

“That’s true,” I replied, refusing to play this inane game of show and tell.

“I understand that the wife of ____ is one of your personal clients, I am told that she buys and services her collection of clocks though your connexions?”

“Yes, she does.” I replied, recalling the grim-faced lady of which he spoke.

The conversation continued in this insipid vein for some time before he came to the point. I was asked if I would assist in placing listening devices in these and other clocks/artworks, a service which I would be recompensed generously for. I realised then that Hitler had remembered me.

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I agreed, once again, out of sheer boredom and a general disgust for the country. I was not invited to dinner again and my following meetings with the Volker/Harrison entity were always in either art Galleries or museums. His manner also grew substantially more curt once a monetary transaction was formalised. I did not much care and went about the task in an off-hand way. He put me in touch with a creature called Fleming who took lodged in a repulsive apartment near Chancery Lane. I was to deliver the artworks to him and supervise the installation of the devices, ensuring that they remained undetected to the layman’s eye. I was dubious that this was even possible, considering the fine craftsmanship of the clocks. But then I had not reckoned with the almost inhuman skill of Fleming.

This agreement which I had entered into seemed to blossom like mould in a dark place. My professional abstraction was appreciated and I was asked to do more and more. I agreed and was shown how to transcribe the data received from the listening devices. The conversations all had to be transcribed in a form of code. No recordings were made to protect against discovery. Fleming was the builder and cipherman all in one, till his duties pulled him into other, more covert arenas. He was overweight and also smoked alot. His crowded flat was in a terrible state and always seemed to reek of metal parts and stale tea. He was always at a table with his tools, fixing things or scribbling furiously. He too came to enjoy my company for some reason. What is it about impervious nihilism and bitterness that is so comforting to the perverse? I disliked his character, but admired the genius he had for his craft. And what a dimly-lit, ill-founded genius it was. The devices he crafted were nothing less than the clocks I supplied. Delicate formations of hair-thin copper and inexplicable mechanisms. He asked me if I would like to earn some more money by learning how to encode the transmissions and I agreed. When the war broke I was one of the most trusted and active ciphermen the Nazi’s had behind enemy lines. This is what sympathy for struggling artists will bring. Those tacky paintings of Hitler’s…If only someone had bought them.

I spent more and more time with Fleming as the war intensified. I spent alot of time walking to and from his abode. You could feel the excitement in the city. The signs had gone up on every street corner and people were feeling wrathful and giddy with the prospect of divine retribution. It might be paradoxical to say that I felt this excitement too, but one must remember that I was not patriotic. My feelings for Germany were nostalgic. It’s true, I did want them to win. But these were simply selfish feelings which had to do with my sourness for Britain. The more I saw of Volker/Harrison the more I realized that Germany had become much the same as England in it’s obsessive expansions and industrialization’s. My Germany was a country of memory, an ill-founded place adrift somewhere in the reckoning of my youth. People were beginning to speak of the Jewish and Gypsy deaths. But they had not the elevated numbness of the historian who remembers the billions of slaves who died at the hands of British colonials. I saw no difference between the Nazi’s and the British. My allegiances were purely for my own entertainment. And in truth, I hated them all.

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The war seemed to have little or no effect on Fleming, other than to make him more busy. He was always preoccupied and spoke in snatches of mumbled rhetoric and technical jargon. In the beginning, his methods of speech were irritating to me. But prolonged exposure to his company developed an unspoken simpatico between us. And it was this, I felt, which led to his trust in me. He was not a person who trusted easily and I could tell that his recruitment of me into the secret world of ciphers had impressed Volker/Harrison and his superiors. They now saw me as an operative who could be trusted. Indeed they had no reason to dispute my loyalties. I did not overreach myself or demand more money. I had no friends or social meetings with anyone save the odd harlot. I simply carried out my orders in a mechanistic, clinical fashion which they must have mistaken for unconditional servitude. I was also a former drinking chum of Der Fuhrer [however tenuous the link] and this must have also carried with it some unspoken weight. The secret, spider-like activities multiplied with the progression of the conflict. Everywhere and everything held a special tension, as in metal which is pummelled and stretched too far.

One day I discovered a strange implement in Fleming’s quarters. He had nipped off down the road to collect his tea and sugar rations and I was left alone with the cipher-board and a large pair of headphones. I stepped over to the grimy windows, which overlooked a bank of soot encrusted brickwork, for a cigarette. I noticed it hanging limply over a chair. I sauntered over and picked it up. It was a dark leather harness of some kind, inlaid with tiny clamps and studded shackles. My immediate realisation was that it was an instrument of torture; some kind of mutilating device designed to inflict discomfort and pain on another human being. A feeling of coldness crossed over me and I replaced it as quickly as I could. It had not crossed my mind that Fleming could ever be involved in any form of torture or physical injury. It was only then that I realised that there was a war going on and that we were, in effect, spies. Someone might have died in this very apartment at the hands of Fleming and his associates. I could not concentrate on my work and smoked cigarette after cigarette, waiting for Fleming to return. I decided that the best course of action would be to confront him about the implement and set my fears to rest. It was near dusk when he returned, filmed in the thin layer of sweat which physical exertion unfailingly produced on him. He entered quietly, like a fat dog, and wordlessly placed his cardboard box on the table in the small hall. He saw that I was glaring icily at him and paused, regarding me with sudden caution. I crossed the room and picked up the implement.

“What’s this supposed to be then?” I demanded.

His reaction was unexpected to say the least. He blushed a sallow shade of pink and sagged like a big, fleshy flower under immense heat.

“I…I’m sorry about that.” he gibbered and waddled over.

He snatched it out of my hand and disappeared into his dingy bedroom, slamming the door behind him. I was left baffled and oddly relieved. I went back to work and he appeared some time later. He pretended that nothing had happened and I played along, curious as to where this was all leading. It was only when I was walking home that I realize that it must have been an instrument of some private and unspeakable pleasure.

Around me London was being beaten like a woman. And yet it was I who was directing some of the blows. The sour fortitude of it all made me think of Mima. All the crowded underground platforms and shattered churches, all the buildings like broken teeth; they all seemed to collect in my memory of her. Hitler and I used to discuss our love for her, the degradation she was perpetually forced to undergo to sustain our private illusions and lusts. How many bitter men does it take to change the world?

One day I shall endeavour to write a memoir of the Devil. It will document a fascinating campaign of attrition. For despite what many think, the Devil cares not for glorious triumph. His war is an endless cabinet of minor victories, soon forgotten, long remembered.

August 25, 2008

Conflict, otherness, and the Afrikaner: an in-depth analysis of Sasol new signatures award winner richardt strydom’s work

Filed under: art — ABRAXAS @ 8:05 pm

Louisemarié Combrink, Vaal Triangle Technikon, South Africa

I would like to begin by quoting a modified graffiti slogan found in Sandton, an elite suburb of Johannesburg. The original slogan, chanted by black liberationists, went One settler, one bullet. Its contemporary version as noted in Sandton goes One settler, one Prozac.

Being a South African these days is not necessarily easy, no matter which side of the colour divide you find yourself. In particular, a great deal of water still needs to run into the sea before the Afrikaner can be said to have found peace with the past and can face up to the future. Rian Malan, confronting his own Afrikanerness in his unflinchingly honest book My traitor’s heart states unequivocally: “I am a white man born in Africa, and all else flows from there”. This confession is indicative of the inner conflict that is, I suggest, present in a more or less pronounced way in the minds of many Afrikaners.

Graham Leach asked in 1989, in a book entitled The Afrikaners: “Who are today’s Afrikaners – these stubborn and often infuriating people who defy the world? One hundred and fifty years after they mounted their journey (the Great Trek) in search of liberation, the Afrikaners are still in many ways a homeless people – still seeking that elusive final and secure resting-place which prompted their exodus from Europe and their flight from British rule” (1989:xii).

What is the Afrikaner? We can’t say for certain, since there are so many definitions of this term – based on language, race or personal preference, one could arrive at various possible groupings that would constitute the “Afrikaners”. In its more general usage, it could refer to white Afrikaans-speaking South Africans, and this is where my focus today lies.

As early as 1992, Elsie Cloete has remarked in an article entitled “Afrikaner identity: culture, tradition and gender” that “Afrikaners had always been fairly certain of what they were. Nowadays, they are no longer so sure”. In fact, having recently relinquished its long-held position of power in South Africa towards a more democratic and independent situation, the Afrikaner’s position today has been complicated further. Richardt Strydom – the artist under discussion today – puts it thus: “By the summer of 1994, South Africa had seen the dawn of a new age. Under the glare of a democratic rainbow, huddled under a multicultural umbrella, South African society suddenly found itself to be post-everything: … post-modern, post-Apartheid and post-colonial”. The pertinent question is: what is then the position of the Afrikaner in contemporary South African society? In order to negotiate such a position, it would be necessary to address a number of issues, which will be some reference to the historical position of the Afrikaner and post-colonial re-positioning, with the resultant questions regarding settler/invader issues, the mutated nature of Afrikaner identity and otherising processes which result in a feeling of a loss of space. The position that I will postulate as a possible one for the Afrikaner would be that of a post-colonial cultural hybrid construction which negates simple binary positioning regarding coloniser/colonised and insider/outsider discourse. In a sense, the search for a new identity for the Afrikaner is inextricably bound by the confessional mode, which has emerged as a salient feature of recent white cultural production in South Africa, and particularly among Afrikaners, and which can be related to the confessional nature of the proceedings of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Many of the ideas presented here emerged as part of Richardt Strydom’s personal search for identity and should be read concurrently with his artworks, which I will discuss during the course of the presentation.

Some historical aspects

The construction of Afrikaner identity since the later half of the nineteenth century and particularly since turn of the twentieth century has been a conscious one which involved notions of Afrikaner homogeneity, unity and predestination, which would culminate during the later half of the twentieth century in a systematic attempt to claim a dominant position for the Afrikaner in the spirit of Afrikaner Nationalism. It has been postulated that the creation of the Afrikaner “volk” was an attempt to unify a large number of scattered non-English speaking European settlers who shared the Afrikaans language, previously referred to as “kitchen Dutch”. In this attempt to create a unified Afrikaner volk a number of historical events (such as battles) and figures have been rescued from historical obscurity and given mythological status in order to suggest a sense of predestination for the Afrikaner. This was further reinforced by notions that the Afrikaner was in some sense a chosen people, which resulted in a certain affinity with the Israelites of the Old Testament. Parallels were found between the Israelite’s epic journey through the desert towards the promised land and the Great Trek of 1838.

Further parallels with the Israelites can be found in the Afrikaners’ unshakeable obedience to its leaders (volksleiers) in their pursuit to defeat all that threatened them – the British, the threat of Roman Catholicism (Roomse gevaar), the black people of South Africa (swart gevaar) and communism (rooi gevaar). These echo the Israelites’ unrelenting resistance against Egyptians, Philistines and other threats to their nationhood.

Nonetheless,

The creation of the Afrikaner volk, despite popular myth, was not an instantaneous occurrence. In fact, so diverse were the social and political opinions and so large the gap between rich and impoverished white non-English speakers (especially after the Anglo Boer War of 1899-1902), and so drastic the mass urbanisation of largely unskilled young Afrikaner men and women, that the path to volkskap was an erratic and often tempestuous one until well into the 1950’s (Cloete, 1992-46).

It could therefore be assumed that, based on a number of Afrikaner myths and the moulding of “distinctive features” of the volk, that the creation of the Afrikaner was by and large an ideological project. Its premises were based on three core beliefs: that there has always been a sense of belonging to a group since the earliest European settlement at the Cape; that this belonging would prove that the Afrikaner volk has been in existence for centuries, and that the volk has always existed because destiny or God willed it. This sense of a God-given task in Africa justified many of the questionable endeavours of the Afrikaner, most particularly Apartheid.

However, quoting Cloete, “the Afrikaner’s fears, anxieties, feelings of predestination, and the need to ‘bear the lighted torch of Christianity and European civilisation to the African continent” are not exclusive to the Afrikaner and echo directly the opinions and slogans of all Europe’s colonising nations, whether they were active in Africa, America or the orient” (1992:43-45). However, with the introduction of the discourse of colonialism and post-colonialism into the present discussion a rather complicated situation emerges, but more about that later.

From the settlement of the Dutch at the Cape in 1652 up to the nineteenth century the trekboers who would become the Afrikaners were mostly rural; scatterings of people based on a subsistence economy. As such their lifestyle tended to echo that of their indigenous co-habitants – they favoured pastoralism over agriculture in the fashion of semi-nomadic cattle herders. They tended to live in temporary dwellings similar to those of the black tribes of South Africa. The English explorer-artist Thomas Baines, who came to South Africa in 1842 bringing with him all the imperialist assumptions and self-righteousness of Victorian England despised the “Dutch” farmers or trekboers as much as the Africans – for their lack of education, for living in unpainted mud-walled houses or transportable reed huts and for drinking brandy at breakfast-time.

Sparks (1990:69) has suggested that the early trekboers became a “white tribe of Africa”, echoing the indigenous peoples of the country also in the sense that they for the most part lived in partnership with their environment rather than trying to tame it as British imperialism would. This process, which could be coined self-othering or self-deculturation, constituted a distancing process by the Afrikaner – a self-imposed difference from the European homeland that meant that the invaded land was embraced as the new home. The Afrikaner differed from most of the British colonists in that they could not go “home” – it is remarkable that generations of English South Africans would talk of England as “home”.

The trekboers’ association with their new country can be seen clearly in the words of the Xhosa war-prophet by the name of Makanda who stated the following after being captured by British forces during the fifth frontier war in 1819:

When our fathers, and the fathers of the Boers, first settled in the Suurveld, they dwelt together in peace. Their flocks grazed on the hills; their herdsmen smoked together out of the same pipes; they were brothers …

Having said this, however, the warming notion of brethren sharing a land in peace should be regarded also in light of the fact that the Boers viewed themselves as racially superior to the indigenous Africans, and that their identification with the African continent as such took precedence over the people of Africa. In any event, the numerous battles of the Great Trek and the slaughter of seventy-odd men – among whom Piet Retief – by the mighty Zulu King Dingaan while trying to negotiate land rights with the Zulus – testify to the fact that the peaceful co-habitation was always tainted by severe struggles for power and land.

These struggles were of course not limited to the indigenous peoples, but also included resistance against British colonisation of South Africa and the concomitant Anglicisation policies (the Afrikaans saying “nou is die Kaap weer Hollands” attests to this). One could suggest that the Afrikaner was occupying two positions: that of “the colonised” under British Imperialism (final independence was only attained in 1961 when the Republic was proclaimed) and that of “the coloniser” of the indigenous black population. Seeing the Afrikaner as colonised other complicates postcolonial discourse in which self/other and coloniser/colonised binaries are structured around the Manichean black/white division, and begs the question of the extent to which the Afrikaner had become fully “indigenous” to South Africa. The Afrikaner thus walked the almost impossible line of being both self and other, both insider and outsider. It could therefore be argued that it is precisely this position of uncertainty that sparked and fuelled the mobilisation of Afrikaner Nationalist ideologies and Grand Apartheid in order to proclaim a sense of space for the Afrikaner that would be more stable and secure.

Within this project, the homogeneity and unity of the Afrikaner were projected as truisms. However, this unity has long been contested – Afrikaners are, actually, a “bastard race” but it is proclaimed, rather ironically in the Groot Trek Gedenkboek (the Great Trek Memorial book) that “ons is trots op ons Hollandse, Duitse en Franse oorsprong, en wil hierdie bloed suiwer hou” (we are proud of our Dutch, German and French origins, and want to maintain this purity). Furthermore, as early as the Great Trek (1838) there are numerous accounts of fierce disagreements which resulted in trekker parties splitting off to pursue their own routes towards the promised land. More recently, the schism among Afrikaners is even more pronounced, with reformist, centrist and reactionary stances assumed by different elements within the larger Afrikaner contingent. Apartheid, and with that Afrikaner Nationalism had run out of currency, and this is where we find ourselves today – in search of a sense of space and identity.

This brings me to the particular position of Richardt Strydom and his search for identity as an Afrikaner. I will discuss a selection of his artworks from the early 1990’s to 1998 in order to demonstrate some of the questions, commentaries and negotiating stances that his works present as criticism from within. (Safari suit) – Untitled: Drag

Amblyopia (early 1990s) (Slide 1)

This work was executed in his first year at the Vaal Triangle Technikon. Amblyopia means “loss of vision in one eye”. It is a medical condition which is used to comment metaphorically on the loss of vision he associated with mainstream Afrikaner society and its nationalist preoccupations. The skyscraper represents high ideology – the toppling Afrikaner right wing – as opposed to the people in the street. He represents himself as the masked carnival figure in the background. The crudely fashioned “mythical” gun is an image of cultural and ideological weaponry – (as recently as 1998 a right wing political poster read: Afrikaners, olie ook julle geestelike wapens). The Afrikaner stereotype, used ironically and cynically, questions and challenges both the right wing Afrikaner and the commonly held stereotype of all Afrikaners being militant fascist clinging to the dregs of past ideologies.

Communist – 1994 (Slide 2)

In this photograph Strydom represents himself with red paint on his face, tongue literally in cheek. The work, which is presented as a pun, refers to an Afrikaner tendency, especially during the mid-eighties, to call anyone who questioned Afrikaner ideology a communist or a “pienk boetie”, referring directly to the “rooi gevaar” (pink being the colour one gets by mixing white with red). What is being addressed is not communism as such, but the issue of in-group self-othering. The individual who rejects the master-symbols and bastions of Afrikanerdom is sure to be exiled from the confines of the group.

Tweespalt – 1998

(Great discord over volkstaat) – the envisaged all-white state for Afrikaners – a right-wing project)

Strydom calls this an “appropriated newspaper poster” or a “found print” or a “stolen object” – he found it on a lamp-post. The poster in question is one of a Pretoria newspaper called “Afrikaner” and the caption refers to the long-standing inability of Afrikaners to be unified. The constant schisms opening up between the Afrikaners make it impossible to typecast them as a group, and as such it is liberating that one needs not identify with all aspects of Afrikaner culture in order to be an Afrikaner.

Born and Brewed in Africa (1997) (Slide 3)

(the slogan used to sell Lion Lager)

This is a digitally manipulated photograph where the dramatic background has been added to recreate the feel of gimmicky advertising photography. It is both an affirmation of the African identity to which many white people lay a claim, and an ironic reversal of what one would expect when reading the words “born and brewed in Africa”. Lion Lager is a popular South African brand aimed mostly but not exclusively at the white consumer.

Strydom consciously plays with notions of racial purity in this work. It has been noted that the Afrikaner has always been a bastard race – consisting of various European ancestries, and assimilating a number of other bloodlines into its present composition. Strydom therefore does not use models with racially pure Aryan features, but rather features himself (an Afrikaner with some Jewish ancestry), a Portuguese lesbian, a bilingual South African and an English South African who has strong ties with the English motherland to suggest hybridity. All this said, the rather lily-white complexions of the sitters comment on the absence of indigenous South Africans and invites the viewer to ask questions about the construction of an African identity. The absence of people of colour also comments on the attempts by the media and government to represent South Africa as a “rainbow nation”, in order to erase the old all-white images that were prevalent in the media and government organisations. Currently, one would often find advertisements for cigarettes, the post office or voter’s education which present a neat package of one or more blacks, an Indian, a white person and possibly a coloured person – the rainbow nation. Strydom subverts the new stereotype, and in so doing he reverts to the old one, to draw attention to the contrived nature of all image-making and to present his doubts as to how much has really changed since the advent of the rainbow nation.

WWJD (What would Jesus do) (Slide 4)

This work shows an image of yet another battle (an appropriated image referring to no particular battle) between indigenous Africans and white settlers with a found sticker superimposed upon it. The artist expresses his concern with the way in which religion has been used by the Afrikaner to justify oppression and Apartheid. Strydom questions whether anyone really asked what Jesus would do, and accuses his forefathers of having twisted religion to suit their purposes. He feels that religion had literally become, during the oppression years, an opium of the people, obliviating white guilt and justifying black subservience.

Surrogate (1996) (Slide 5)

This is the first work in which Strydom distances himself consciously from his own people’s Eurocentric ties. Africa as represented by the black woman becomes the surrogate for her white child. Like the embryo of a surrogate child invades the body of its mother, the white man in Africa has invaded the continent, grew in her and was reared by her, learning to love her as its own. The image above the mother figure shows the physical difficulties encountered by the trekboers in the process of entering the land and making it their own. Africa has become a surrogate continent with a hybrid child.

This painting is one of the last of its kind in terms of technique and process. Strydom would hereafter reject easel painting as a Western tradition in search of a more hybrid technique that would communicate his search for a hybrid identity more clearly.

The box paintings

This series of paintings were produced after “Surrogate”, and have become the signature style of Strydom. The artist’s desire to rid himself of the conventional European mode of easel painting lead him towards the exploration of an unconventional surface (boxes) on which he paints with oils, in order to achieve a hybrid superimposition of a high art medium on a crude throwaway everyday surface.

Whitewash (Slide 6)

While living in crime-ridden Brixton, a racially mixed suburb of Johannesburg, Strydom found the Omo box one evening lying in the street, after a rather windy Highveld afternoon. Realising that this box could have been a homeless person’s bed before, and seeing the traces of human contact in the form of footprints and smudges, he was confronted with his own rather cushy lifestyle as white South African. Having recently moved himself, he was reminded of the fact that he used boxes as containers for his possessions, after which they were discarded. It was the implication of rejection and litter that triggered in him the possibility of a new surface that would serve as a convening point for all classes in society. As such the box surface became a field for Afrikaner mythology to play itself out: both trashy and elevated, the surface embellished with oil paint seemed like a meaningful inroad towards his own construction as post-colonial hybrid.

The images he typically selected for the boxes were generic “precious” landscapes appropriated from anonymous artists. These landscapes portrayed the Afrikaner trekboers and their romantic sense of connectedness to the land; images that had indeed assumed a certain kind of “holy cow” status – which were newly interpreted by placing them onto a surface that alluded to the evanescent nature of both the surface and the ideological content of the images. As such his work approximates an iconoclastic dimension as it attacks not only Afrikaner imagery, but the notion of Afrikanerdom itself. This results in an othering process in which Strydom self-exiles himself ideologically from constricting notions of what it means to be an Afrikaner. His self-othering further implies a painful process of distancing himself from his roots in order to search for a new identity while coming to terms with his own history.

In terms of the surface Strydom employs one finds a number of clues regarding this process of facing up to his own demons. The box displays the name of Omo, perhaps the most frequently used detergent in South Africa which is promoted for its ability to make whites whiter – in fact, a recent advertisement on national television asserted that it would elevate your whites to new heights (related by a black woman). The superimposition of Afrikaner imagery opens numerous possibilities for an intertextual semiotic play which demands a great deal of participation from the viewer, and in fact requires that the viewer be knowledgeable about both Afrikaner culture and the social realities of contemporary South African society.

The work further demands a post-colonial reading, for the content and technique are informed by the discourse of postcolonialism. In the first instance, the hegemonic position of the English language in contemporary South Africa, at the expense of both the indigenous African languages and Afrikaans is reflected in the English type on the box. The text is manipulated in that bits are typed over, so instead of “micro powder” one reads “micro power”. Words like “brothers” were left to suggest both the patriarchal nature of Afrikaner culture and the difficulty in establishing a South African brotherhood of people. Certainly, an allusion to the clandestine Broederbond would also be appropriate. This could also be associated with the physical application of white paint in thin layers – a literal whitewashing that seeks to cover up the text beneath, much like many atrocities in the country’s history have been covered up, leaving only traces of untold stories behind. The ambiguity of this device of whitewashing could also be read as a pun on white trash, given the throwaway nature of the surface.

The play of type against image in “black” and “red” alludes to notions of binary opposites but also refers to the rooi and swart gevaar. Numbers were left on the box and are open to interpretation – they could refer to racial ratios or casualties in battles. By leaving unfixed interpretative clues, Strydom wishes to communicate his own unfixed position. As such, this highly wrought work is both confessional and confrontational.

To conclude, I would like to give Strydom the second last word: “No degree of second language academic muttering can explain the great sense of displacement, the careful tiptoeing as to avoid every utterance acquiring the ring of a victim cry. This makes the admission of guild seem like an easy politically correct manoeuvre to shortcut a self-proclaimed position of moral amnesty. The admission to inherited Apartheid privilege presents an essential starting point in the process of deconstructing my own past, present and future, but also threatens to present a quick exit or to become an emotional and spiritual endgame. In the absence of tenable answers, guilt melts into fear, insecurity mutates towards paranoia and honest sentiments tend to slip into cliché.

Having arrived at the realisation that the Afrikaner will have to redefine him and herself from within, the search begins in which a new identity needs to be negotiated; an identity that would resist hi-jacking postcolonial discourse for self-righteous purposes, but would transcend the Manichean divide of fixed boundaries between self and other. In so doing, the myth of the Afrikaner nation will have to be further deconstructed, so that individuals may begin to earn identities, that of Africans.

the dying swan part deux

Filed under: literature,nikhil singh — ABRAXAS @ 5:47 pm

I

With Yvette’s hair on the pillow beside me, I awoke to filtered gold-red light. The autumn sun was glazing down, dappling through the plane leaves outside her decrepit window. She was curled up against me, sleeping with her mouth open. We had blundered into a spell of affectionate numbness before the slumber spilled down, covering everything with a concrete of inertia. Her flat was a tiny and cluttered nest of a place. She lay in it like a wounded baby griffin while plants died along the windowsills. We were both still dressed, hadn’t even taken our shoes off, simply fallen into an abrupt sleep. I remembered her kissing me like a stray cat nuzzling to be let in. I lit a cigarette, trying not to wake her. In the light I could see her drawings plastered all over the walls. Large portraits in oil crayon and bronze washes, charcoal street scapes and some detailed studies of birds. I was not surprised at how good she was. You could smell ability on her. It had left elegant scar tissue all over her character like some form of parasitic vine. I needed to get out without waking her so I stood creakily, exhaling smoke into the chilly air. Doves called from the trees outside and I could sense the pale sky draining itself of colour, questing for the eventual dark beyond. How long had we slept? I was about to step for the door when my phone rang. The sound woke her and she watched blearily from the autumn fire of her hair. I sat in a nearby chair, knocking over a well-thumbed volume of anatomic studies by Versalus. I saw that the call was from Boris and answered it while she motioned sleepily for the cigarette I was holding.

“Hello,” I said into the phone, passing her the cigarette.

Boris sounded uncharacteristically disturbed.

“Who gave you those cigarettes?” he asked.

“What cigarettes?” I asked, momentarily confused, watching Yvette puff muggily at the cigarette I had just handed her.

“The cigarettes you left behind?” he said.

“Elusina gave them to me,” I frowned. “I thought you might like them.”

“So you have no idea what’s contained within them?” he pressed.

“No,” I snapped. “What are you taking about.”

There was a pause.

“If she left them for you then you should come here at once, they are some sort of witchdoctor spell.”

“What do you mean?” I asked in a numb tone.

“I think it’s best if you came here,” he said. “I’ll explain everything, there are a few things you are not aware of.”

“Like what?” I asked testily, observing Yvette as she blew thin clouds against the frigid glass. Her sleeves were pulled up to obscure her waxy fingers and her collar was inside out. She had drawn her legs underneath her, knees to forehead, dirty boots pigeon-toed in the yellowed turbulence of the sheets behind her. I was sketching her in my mind. I realised, with surprise, that she was probably doing the same.

“I asked Elusina to conclude some business for me whilst in the desert,” Boris elucidated vaguely. “It had to do with the expedition I made to that area some years ago, it seems that one of my old dinosaur skeletons has turned up.”

“Ok,” I answered, rubbing my temples. “I’ll be back in Palmwhelm before midnight.”

“See you then,” he said and hung up.

Yvette and I stared blankly at each other in the icy light. I realised how loudly I must have been talking.

“It’s freezing in here,” I said quietly. “Don’t you get cold?”

“I don’t mind the cold,” she answered.

She all of a sudden seemed to grow concerned and searched around, mumbling something about a blanket for me.

“Don’t worry about that,” I said. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

Evening had by now completely enveloped the town into its fallen shrouds. Autumn in Ambarvalia; when the night sky became so impossibly black, that it seemed as though the entire valley had slipped between the backdrops of reality, wavering like a dream. Structures congealed in the pure and freezing air, existing in suspension, misplaced somehow. An unreal form of clarity had dislodged from the nullities above, descending upon the ramshackle stone bridges and petrified trees, settling into the leaf strewn streets like a sort of fixative, crystallizing time. We walked through this in silence. The muffled cough of a car travelled across the canal, disturbing some water birds. The Bentley was parked downtown, so we had pick our way down cottonwool quiet streets toward the waterside. Our breath hung a sequence of slowly dissolving ghosts across the cobbled stillness as we strolled. Boats passed as though in a dream. The crisp echoes of our heels followed us over the broken back of a little bridge. The precise tocking of her footfalls chased my thoughts around like little animals. Her prescence was like heavy jewellry, an unwanted gift of some kind. I glanced over the stone balustrade which spined across the murky current. It was unusual of me to suddenly allow a stranger access to the privacy of my micro-universe. Yet there she was, breaking cosmic rules, following me cautiously, watching everything like a stray cat. The water chill sifted in fields as we crossed. I gazed at dense and sluggish surfaces, too cold to think. The movement of the water was akin to the thick oil of my thoughts, reflecting shivering paintings of antiquated houses and branches. She snagged my sleeve with icy fingers, pointing out the smoky yellow glow of a café on the opposite side. Within minutes we were thawing pleasurably at a table near the windows. She ordered a chocolate, leafing absent-mindedly through a newspaper which she discovered abandoned on the seat beside her. I watched, wondering what thoughts lurked beneath her crust of introspection. The café was relatively quiet, despite the hour. A few boatmen drank ales in the corner while some students held a discussion infront of the roaring hearth. I found my mind drifting uncontrollably back to Vivienne as we waited for our order. Perhaps she sensed this. The proximity of sleep had undoubtedly attuned us. Her eyes began to stare bleakly out at the decaying cascade of rooftops beyond the glass. She paged mindlessly until her attention was unexpectedly pricked by a glimpse of something in the print. I caught her eye and she showed me the article. I was shocked to see a drawing of mine, framed by turgid write-up. I practically snatched the paper from her, scanning it swiftly.

“I thought you didn’t exhibit,” she mentioned blankly.

“I don’t,” I muttered.

Her chocolate arrived and she began spooning vast quantities of sugar into it.

Visibly stricken, and with the threat of impending horror cast upon my brow, I rifled through the article. But the shock was quickly replaced by a sense of incredulity. How banal it was, to find myself in the Arts and Society section, drowning quietly in Svetlana Sondheim’s society column; which was almost entirely dedicated to the sugaring of Elusina’s new film, and of course the forthcoming exhibition by a certain ‘reclusive artist’. I read it with a mounting sense of futility and confusion. It was absurd that Elusina had kept me ignorant of this inexplicable caprice of hers. The entire scenario did not resemble anything in the way of sense. Especially the fact that this exhibition was purported to be staged at the debut of a new monthly event called ‘the Rythym Hive’, which according to Svetlana Sondheim, was almost purely funded by the Mangrove Institute; an organization for which Elusina harboured an almost irrational loathing. I remembered all her episodes, curled in the corners like an old envelope, sunk in the peat of a child-like dismay. Her famous eyes deer-wide in the half-light of the Pandaemonium Café, chasing some random point with canine tenacity. Obscure rantings followed these lulls. She would painstakingly chronicle the parasitic energies she had seen at work in the vast concrete chambers of the Institute. No-one would listen. We had often danced after these lace-ups of hers, somewhere in the dark, swimming in shadows. The entire concept of the exhibition seemed to me to be nothing short of unthinkable. I was once again filled with the uncontrollable need to confront Vivienne, as though she were now the official scapegoat of all my woes and misery. The waitress appeared through the mesh of my thoughts, placing a cup of coffee before me. I absently stirred the mixture as the waitress receded. Yvette observed me like a child, waiting for me to talk. We were both evidently of the silent variety. Centuries could pass and we would both still be sitting here, like stone statues, awaiting some ambiguous apocalypse. I began to experience the sense of moving into a sort of fog which seemed to only thicken at each turn. Things were shifting somewhere, just beyond the scope of my vision, leading me toward a place of change. A place in which I sensed I might become permanently lost. I sipped the fragrant warmth into my cold face, feeling it light each nerve individually, scalding my tongue.

“Are you going to go through with it?” she asked quietly.

“I don’t think I have a choice now,” I replied. “Elusina usually gets her way.”

“I think you secretly want this,” she answered curtly.

I eyed her irritably for a moment before conceding.

“I would like to exhibit of course, but the whole business conflicts with my position regarding the Institute.”

She rummaged around for a cigarette.

“Everyone seems to hate the Institute,” she slurped. “I really don’t have a problem with them.”

“Fair enough,” I sipped, taking one of her cigarettes.

“Aren’t you going to try convince me otherwise?” she joked slyly.

“I don’t need to,” I sighed. “You have plenty of sense, sooner or later you’ll cotton on to what they’re trying to do.”

This mollified her somewhat, and her age began to show around the edges.

“Shit,” she muttered, lighting her cigarette. “Now it’s like a riddle everyone except me knows the answer to.”

“Don’t worry so much,” I mentioned. “If you can survive within the system, stay there, it’s safer.”

“I don’t want the quality of my work affected.”

“You’re too good for that,” I said in passing.

She stammered for a second, before brooding over her chocolate once more.

“So how do you know Vivienne?” I asked.

She glanced up at me in vague annoyance.

“Must we discuss her?” she said sulkily.

I apologised and then kept quiet.

“She wasn’t very nice about you, you know,” she added.

I was surprised at how much this little statement hurt me. Well I suppose it wasn’t a surprise, but it still came as something of a minor blow.

“What did you do to her?” she ventured, refusing to drop the subject she herself had forbidden.

I leaned back into my seat, staring out into the blackness of the canal.

“I believe that there is a sphere just beyond the moon,” I said quietly. “An invisible cosm some of us have come to call the Eighth Sphere.”

I drank some of the bitter coffee, watching the stars contort in the dark waters.

“All the things dreamed in the human imagination are, in a sense, born,” I murmured.

“Each sexual act produces an offspring, material or not. These offspring, or ‘Qlippoth’, live in that which is called The Eighth Sphere, a secret place which is counter balanced by our moon, a Vacant Star which doubles our world.”

I turned to look at her. She was staring at me warily.

“These Qlipppoth float half formed in the tundras of the shadow land,” I whispered. “Bringing one to Earth is forbidden.”

She continued to stare, unspeaking and quietly enraptured by the visions I was evoking.

“When I met Vivienne I could tell that she was the perfect Vessel for one of these beings,” I continued, blowing a tentacle of smoke across the table toward her.

“When the Dark Moon shows its face, a hole is opened in the ether, many things escape their cages. The black light of the Dark Moon is taboo, passage from the Moon to the Earth is long and fraught with difficulties…The wings grow ragged.”

She took a drag on her cigarette, looking away from my eyes.

“Please stop,” she whispered. “I’m starting to think you’re mad.”

I smiled and drank a large draught of the coffee.

“I’m afraid that I can’t stop,” I answered petulantly. “You see, I have started a game which I cannot hope to win or finish, a game which you are now silently asking to be let into.”

She practically sneered at me when I said this.

“I didn’t ask to be indoctrinated into some sleazy witchcraft circle,” she snapped. “You can keep that voodoo shit to yourself.”

“You have such a depressing veiw of it,” I smoked, beginning to enjoy myself a little.

She stared at me plainly now.

“You are a beautiful human,” she said. “Stop trying to be a God.”

Her candour interrupted my smile, derailing my sense of playfulness utterly.

“Did you try this shit with Vivienne too?” she pressed. “Is that why she thinks you are such a disaster zone?”

I began to grow annoyed, more with myself than anything else. Perhaps I had always been deluding myself, papier-maching magical enchantments over what was essentially an irreperable item. The hard focus Yvette brought to my delusions was making me feel unmoored and paranoid.

“I didn’t have to try with Vivienne,” I answered. “She wanted to lure something, anything, special down into herself to make her different.”

“Even you?”

I stared at her, feeling somewhat provoked by her ceaseless onslaught of hard truths.

“Sorry,” she mumbled glumly, cradling her chocolate with both hands. “I don’t know when to shut up.”

We sat there for awhile and she sort of started to come slowly into focus. I realised that despite our night together, I had still not really seen her. I signalled the waitress and ordered an English breakfast. When I asked Yvette what she would like she refused, avoiding my eyes. I realised that she didn’t have any money and felt a twinge for my lack of tact. I explained that I would be more than happy to buy her a meal. It took some convincing, but I eventually persuaded her to order the waffles and ice cream she had been for some time eyeing on another table. She finally started to smile when the food arrived.

I explained that I would have to walk downtown to retrieve the car and she quickly offered to walk with me, prolonging our departures. I wasn’t troubled by her presence anymore, so I happily agreed. We drifted toward the rambling passages of the downtown area, following the water. Having her around suddenly felt somewhat talismanic, as though she were keeping the unholy force of Vivienne at bay simply by being there. We reached the Bentley and I offered to drive her back to her flat. She agreed glumly and we climbed in.

“What are you going to do tonight?” I asked as we drove along a side-road leading toward the canal.

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “Draw I suppose…I have an assignment due for next week.”

I nodded, becoming aware of the unspoken obligation I now had to come see her again. She had not said anything, but the weight of her thoughts was creating a vague gravitational force which tilted everything toward it. It was not that I had anything against seeing her again, but this unspoken pressure had begun to seep into the air between us, creating a gulf. I turned into the road leading past the botanical gardens and resisted the urge to drive past Vivienne’s. We parked outside her building and I turned to her.

“Could I come with you?” she asked abruptly, haloed vaguely by the pale glow of a streetlamp.

I was unsure of how to react to this and hesitated for moment. She picked up my sudden discomfort and opened the door.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Sorry.”

She lingered by the door, waiting for me to speak.

“I just don’t know when I can bring you back,” I said.

“I’ll stay, it’s fine.”

“No, you’re welcome to come with me, it’s just that I wouldn’t want you to get stuck out in Palmwhelm.”

She looked in at me, a faint twinkling catching in her eyes.

“You mean I can come?” she sort of smiled.

“If you like,” I shrugged.

“I don’t want to trouble you,” she persisted.

“It’s really fine, I think you should meet Boris anyway. He has a keen interest in art.”

She reached over unexpectedly and pulled a lock of my hair. It was a touching, child-like display of affection which made me feel somehow indebted to her.

“Just want to get somethings quick,” she said and scampered upstairs.

I waited in the car, watching a swarm of moths surge unexpectedly around a streetlamp.

She was happy and talkative all the way to Palmwhelm. It was evident that she hadn’t been out of her private world for awhile, and I was pleased to provide a means of escape for her. She had saved me the night before and I was not ungrateful for her attentions. I simply felt that I was dealing with an innocent heart; a heart which filtered vast, oceanic currents. And the last thing I wanted was to be responsible for a whirlpool. Yvette, I felt, could be capable of enormous self-destruction. The mood altered as we approached Palmwhelm, as it always does when one reaches the vicinites of St Cecilia. The lower altitude and sudden humidity created another world entirely, and it consistently felt as though one had dropped from an upper world to a lower one, by means supernatural.

Boris was in one of the lower observation lounges. He was wearing an enormous bearskin coat, eating a large bowl of oats. I noticed Pablito skulking in the corner. Both seemed surprised to see that I had brought company. This was unusual, as I often brought people to the house. I sensed immediately that there was a vaguely conspiratorial atmosphere about the gathering, especially due to the manifestation of Pablito, who only ever gravitated toward troubled areas. I introduced Yvette to them. She nodded vaguely, wandering about the enormous chamber with a sense of wonder, stopping every now and then to inspect one of the large Egyptian statues Boris had festooned about in glowing niches.

“What’s going on?” I asked, puzzled.

Pablito slunk out of the shadows. He was wearing a familiar yellow, chequered suit along with bruised ox-blood wing-tips that made panicky clicking noises whenever he moved. His habitual sardonic smile played over his face, as though eternally questing for chaos.

“Look here,” he said, holding out a hand upon which one Elusina’s cigarettes had been unrolled.

I peered down at a slender line of what appeared to be cobalt coloured sugar. Boris handed me a magnifying glass and I immediately saw that the cigarette had been filled with a strange form of blue crystal.

“The resin has many names,” Pablito said in a hushed tone. “I’ve never seen it of course, but I know that it is a mixture of various animal secretions and some rare plants that grow in the desert.”

“It comes from the desert?” I asked.

“Well it’s certainly prepared there, but the origin of the recipe is mysterious,” Pablito replied theatrically. “Some people in the West have called this preparation Blue Jade, the nomad’s mix it for shamanic purposes.”

“What kind of shamanic purposes?”

“Well it’s difficult to say,” Pablito sniffed. “Much of the shamanic world deals in communications beyond speech, they discuss things in sounds or fractured images, they evoke complex emotional atmospheres pregnant with vast amounts of information…”

I looked up at Boris, who was staring fixedly at the mutilated cigarette.

“Did you try some of this?” I asked.

He nodded, slurping at his milk-sodden cereal.

“It was a mistake,” he mentioned. “I lit one thinking that it was a cigarette.”

“What happened?”

His brow knitted and I could see Yvette pausing at the corner of the room, tuning into our discussion.

“It’s difficult to describe,” Boris began. “But among other things I became aware of many openings, tubes if you like, which exist around us, leading other places.”

“Tubes? What do you mean?”

“Well, as I said, it’s difficult to describe,” he munched. “Perhaps it’s only because I took a single drag before putting it out, therefore imbibing but a miniscule dose, but it felt as though I were somehow becoming unmoored within myself.”

“I think that the Jade seperates a person in a way,” Pablito said, fingering the crystals. “I think it allows the nomads access to other worlds.”

“You mean bodily transportation?” I laughed.

“No,” Pablito muttered. “I think it involves a transference of consciousness to a sort of dream-body, a double if you like, which can move into these other realms whilst maintaining a link to the corporeal host.”

“What happens to the bodies which are left behind?” Yvette asked.

Pablito looked up.

“Well,” he floundered. “I’m not sure exactly, perhaps its similar to an opiate and the bodies are left in a sort of stupor, maybe it’s worse, like a miniature coma.”

“Sounds interesting,” she said, drawing closer.

“Yes it does,” Pablito grinned up at me.

I looked at Boris, who was thoughtfully chewing at his spoon.

“I get the sense that some preparation would be in order,” Boris finally said. “We would need to set the stage somewhat.”

“That would make sense,” Pablito argeed. “From what I’ve read, the nomads used to erect temples specific to the effects of the Blue Jade, there would be large stone portals inscribed with heiroglyphs, opening out into specifically crafted landscape gardens, or gnostic labyrinth-like structures.”

“You mean that they would mimic the world they wanted to enter,” Yvette frowned. “Sort of create part of it in miniature so that it would invoke a gateway to the actual zone?”

“Exactly!” Pablito said excitedly. “It’s the essence of sympathetic magic, though utilized here, in what would appear to be a purely exploratory sense.”

“We would have to create a sort of dreaming zone, to use your terminology,” Boris nodded to Yvette. “A place with tangible links to spheres we hope to explore,”

“You have those old microscopes in the pantry,” I suggested. “That and the crystal collection from the mountains.”

Pablito slapped me on the back.

“Yes!” he exclaimed.”Excellent!”

Boris got up and paced around.

“I have film and slide projecters, and we could of course explore the gallery of miniatures upstairs,” he mused.

“Gallery of miniatures?” Yvette perked up.

“Boris has some fantastic collections,” I smiled.

Boris set down his empty bowl of oats and stood up with sudden focus. Our entry into the house had clearly catalysed some sort of reaction.

“Cain, lets go up to the kitchen,” he said. “Pablito, get this room in shape and Yvette, feel free to..”

He trailed off when he saw that Yvette was already bustling around for artefacts in a far corner. We all seemed to have clicked into a sort of preparatory auto-pilot. Boris and I slipped up a narrow stone stairwell while crackly Bossanova wafted in from one of the higher areas.

“Is there anyone else in the house?” I asked suddenly, unsure of where the question came from.

He seemed vaguely disturbed by this.

“I don’t think so,” he answered, but with a disturbing lack of conviction. “Except my aunt of course, but we shan’t see her.”

We reached the long, low kitchen. The far end was in darkness and the flicker of a pilot light haunted the large black stove. Strings of purple onions, garlic and salted fish created grotesque daisy chains in the dimness. Boris lit some small lamps, intensifying the areas of blackness.

“Why do you think Elusina left the Blue Jade for me?” I asked, lighting a cigarette of a nearby candle.

“God knows,” he sighed, filling a large copper coffee pot.

“But there are one or two things I should fill you in on.” He added, changing tack.

I sat in a squeaky chair, smoking, watching pale moths tap like fingertips against the windows. The gelid, underwater atmospheres of the house had begun to soothe me, slowly amputating the outside world in long, dreamy slices.

“Do you recall the expeditions I made to the desert?” he asked, rummaging about in several wooden cupboards.

“That was before I met you,”

“Yes, some years before,” he added.

I began to help him prepare a large pot of tea.

“The last time I went was with Blignaut and a chap called Johnny Edgerton,” he continued. “Edgerton died on that expedition, fellow wandered into a system of rock passages, fell down a hole and and starved to death. The thing is, before he died, he discovered the skeletal system of an enormous Thalattosuchia. The specimen was an anomaly, a previously undiscovered strain of Dakosaurus from the Tithonian period, similar to the Andiniensis genus, but different in certain aspects… ” “I don’t understand all the terminology.” I broke in. “What exactly was this thing?”

“Well, it was a sort of large aquatic predator, one of the forebears of the crocodile lineage, it had paddle-like appendages and a vicious toothy snout. It was thought to hunt other sea reptiles. The one Edgerton found was over thirty feet long.”

“Quite a sea monster,”

“Indeed! He discovered it in a shallow cave system in the heart of the wind-carved passages. His dilemma was whether to abandon in search of a way out it or risk his life unearthing it.”

“He stayed?”

“Yes,” Boris answered grimly. “He died in there, shuffling around the bones of a forgotten monster. It’s one of the reasons I gave up on archeology.”

He diced savagely at a bulbous root with a small, serrated knife.

“Anyway,” he continued. “The ownership of the skeleton was conferred onto me, possibly because I was the one who funded the dig in the first place. At the time, I was horrified by the whole situation and arranged to donate the remains to a local museum before leaving. I forgot about the whole business until a few months ago when I recieved a message from the curator. The museum was apparently going to rack and ruin and the powers that be were attempting to return all the donated items, possibly to avoid any shipping costs, a return makes the item the responsibility of the owner you see.”

“I see,”

“I knew that Elusina was going to the desert to work on that spy film, so I asked if she could perhaps negotiate with the museum in my absence.”

“She agreed?”

“Well, I offered to recompense her well and I think she enjoyed the idea.”

“Yes I can see how she would.”

“Well, she sent word that Edgerton’s journal had turned up in one of the crates and had it couriered over to me.”

“You have the journal?”

“I do,” he sighed. “Though the bones will only arrive in a week or so.”

“Have you read it yet?”

“It arrived while you were sleeping,” he explained. “I had to pop down to the post office to collect it, then read it through the night. It details, amongst other things, his last days in the cave.”

“I’d like to have a look at that if I may,”

“Yes I thought you would, I’ll give it to you later,” he replied, lacing the pot with viscous fluids and large wreaths of dried herbs.

I noted the additions to the pot with interest.

“What exactly are you cooking up there?” I asked.

He looked up and motioned for me to pass him a large jar of what appeared to be glass marbles.

“Pablito did a little research on the sort of potions one has to drink before taking the Blue Jade,” he explained. “I’m preparing one of those concoctions, along with a decanter of that Maté I brought last year from the jungle.”

“Fantastic,” I nodded as a large black cat whisked through the room like lightning. There were squeals and several loud crashing noises from the adjoining room. It wasn’t long before the underwater silences re-asserted themselves. We stopped looking and went back to preparing the potion.

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” I asked. “Something has happened to Elusina. She’s changed, and I don’t know if it’s wise to follow her into this.”

Boris looked up at me with a dreary expression.

“Well what else are we going to do?” he asked bleakly.

There was a long silence, permeated by the lyrical washes of a faraway Bossanova. I noticed that Yvette was standing by the door, leaning against the jamb.

“Your house is so magical,” she grinned at Boris.

He gave her a polite smile, lighting one of the stove plates.

“Why don’t you have a look at the river while we get these things ready,” he suggested.

She cackled for a second, threw me a look, and then vanished into a labyrinth of unlit rooms.

We moved the projectors into the bottom chambers and opened the veiwing ports in the observation lounges. I went to the swithboard closet and activated the garden lights. A greenish glow gloamed in through the large waxy leaves, creating underwater shadows out of the swaying trees. Short, glass-walled passages joined the lower lounges. These had a vaguely Japanese atmosphere and smelled mustily of chlorophyll. Foliage closed in on the foggy glass at all times. At night, when the lights were on, they completed the aquatic ambiance of the house. We traversed one of these corridors, entering into a small ante-chamber which Boris had filled with all manner of bric a brac. He unlocked a binocular cabinet and showed Pablito some infra red goggles he’d acquired from a naval surplus store. I unearthed an entire trunk full of mouldy slides and began to rummage through them. The room was infested with large globular spiders. Some of the lower bundles of slides were by now utterly useless, having been destroyed by fungal growth and seepage. I selected one box labelled ‘Tibetan Mandalas’ and another with the words ‘Satellite imagery’ scrawled across in black marker. I saw Boris stacking film reels beside the projector, but could not make out any words on the cans. Pablito busied himself by bringing a pair of large wooden speakers down from the sound-room above. I noticed Boris shooting him nervous looks as he traversed the chamber, with the antique speaker boxes. It was not unknown for Pablito to destroy at least one item a night, in little bouts of over-enthusiastic clumsiness. There were times when he reminded me of some form of malicious parrot, pecking constantly at what was before him, pacing his cage with useless wings. I selected some vinyls from the cosy sound-room upstairs, noticing Yvette at one point, curled before a large Polynesian idol, sketching it brazenly into a pocket sketchbook. I became suddenly quite glad that I had brought her into this situation. A self-satisfied, almost patronising sense of having pleased someone other than myself elevated me momentarily out of the cold memory of Ambarvalia. The everpresent desire for revenge Vivienne had left disgusted me. Under no circumstances could I allow Yvette to become the scapegoat for Vivienne’s vapid cruelties. I lit another cigarette and continued with the preparations. We soon created an aquarium-like zone of abstraction. The muted hum and chatter of the projectors strained in from another room, over the slow, drugged rhythms of another faded record. Analog crackling followed the sudden influx of moths, drawn by the subdued glow of the garden lights. I noticed fat gekkoes patrolling the walls, observing the flight patterns with chilling interest. We sat at a wrought iron table on the dark grass outside, overlooking river. Boris poured the fragrant tea into delicate china while Pablito gave us each a Blue Jade cigarette. I lit mine with an ivory lighter and took a deep pull. The taste was pungent and waxy, cloying instantly at the back of my throat like the fumes of a freshly extinguished candle. A library of taste sensations immediately began to code into me, provoking a flurry of strange emotional responses. I heard a crash and saw that Yvette had dropped her cup. Pablito was running calmy toward the river. I saw him vanish into the dark, heavy trees. I inhaled sharply and an icy heat concentrated behind my eyes. The pressure dissipated and I had the sensation of my head expanding suddenly, like a balloon. Boris was reclining peacefully in his seat, smoking in long, steady draughts. I saw that Yvette was on her knees, beneath the table. She was holding onto a chair-leg and laughing hysterically. The Blue Jade cigarette clung off her lip at an obtuse angle, throwing out beautifully spiralling veins of smoke. Forms began to distort, cleaving vaguely inward, revealing networks of moving virility beneath. The effect was not unlike footage I had seen of cellular activity within organisms. I was suddenly in a translucent world, calmly sipping tea while moths tangled up the light overhead. A tiny buzz began in my left ear and spread suddenly, gaining cathedral-like dimensions before settling into a gentle ebb. I realised that I was on the ground, clutching at my head. I wafted up, reclaiming my seat. My fingers found the tea cup and I once again lifted the aromatic fluid to my lips. I saw Boris beaming like a Cheshire Cat and attempted to return his cheer. At that point I noticed a vague wind, blowing from somewhere behind me. The wind was somehow silvery, as though composed of tiny frosty particles which would dance around magnetically when they struck me. Something caught inside my body like a sail and I felt the wind part me like a stage curtain. A large fragment of my senses suddenly squalled out of my left side, billowing out across the river. I became aware of the tops of trees seen from very close. I pressed my face into the cool, dampness of the leaves and watched the quiet progress of many ants along a dark, but somehow illuminated limb. Everything seemed to be illuminated from within. My hand found the table and I retracted into myself like an octopus. Boris was standing, performing some yoga position I had known him to use in times of stress. Yvette and Pablito were nowhere to be seen. I pivoted, rather like a helium balloon I thought, and wafted into the zone we had created. And how marvellous it all seemed to me then, at that first and fractured moment. The dimensions of the room had elongated, and the light sources all had a physical tangibility to them, as though the illuminations were orbs of sugar, melting slowly in a heated solution. We had laid out various items and apparatus at intervals throughout the lounge, and each area of interest was like a different planet in a complex solar system. These various device-worlds spread below me while I wafted in the outer void of indecision. Movement was very liquid. Whenever I chose to aproach an area, a faint suction would trawl me there instantly. Only a little later would I feel ‘myself’ stumbling in my wake. This experience of extreme disassociation was nauseating and threatened to overwhelm me at intervals. I realised that I was still holding the Blue Jade cigarette and sucked in another blinding lungfull of smoke. A calm cloud of veined, white stillness seemed to envelop me like a membrane, quivering and then retracting. I was holding a microscope, calmly placing a tray into the clip. I activated the tiny light contained within the device and leaned toward the veiwing aperture. As I was doing so I suddenly noticed a small tunnel beneath the table. I paused briefly, swaying to and fro like a boat. The apparatus was arranged on a narrow glass table against the wall and the tunnel which I had noticed was quite low, almost like a sewer grate. I was perplexed. I had used this table many times before and never once had I noticed a tunnel beneath it. I knelt down slowly to inspect it. The air semed different closer to the floor, thinner and more volatile. The tunnel was only a couple of feet high and across. One would have to crawl on their stomach like a lizard to enter into it. The edges were rimmed in flagstones quite unlike the architectural features of the house. The stones were a heavy, orange colour, almost like nougat. I reached out and touched one. The stone had a smooth, sandstone texture and seemed quite dense. The placement of these stones was also strange and the geometry of their placing was somehow foriegn. I could not at that moment think of a better word to describe it. I stared down the length of it. The walls were smooth and vanished into darkness like a train tunnel. I became aware of movement somewhere in the depths of it at some point and leaned in closer to get a better veiw. Something low and heavy was moving quietly down the dark passage, approaching the lounge. It’s head was wedge-like and animated, flickering to and fro in the half-light. Golden highlights caught in it’s eyes as it moved, swinging it’s long spine to and fro. I observed a gekko about the size of a child emerge. It’s skin had the grotesque resemblance to plucked chicken skin and it was trawling a dog-like tongue across it’s golden eyes. It stared at me placidly before flipping slowly around and crawling up along the wall. I watched it’s nimble progress, realising that many of these large, white crocodilian creatures were in motion. They shuffled like strange cats along the yawning walls, gathering at the light like beasts at a water pool. I rose again, feeling quite magnificently small at this point. Despite my feelings about my size I was able to place my eye to the aperture of the microscope. The world abruptly closed, flashing open once more to reveal a brilliant porthole into a vast landscape. The veiw was framed by a circular blackness; the passage of yet another smooth-walled tunnel. Beyond this chute was a depthless vista of moving geometric shapes. These shapes comprised heavy cubic formations which drifted like asteroids in a brilliant light. I could hear the sounds of them clinking against each other, like ice-cubes in some galactic vacoule. Faraway tropical music underlay all this, echoing like the wash and pull of an ocean. I noticed that I was slipping slowly down the tunnel. I fumbled giddily around, feeling the cold metal of the tube slide past. I had a sense of tumbling velocity and almost screamed out loud. Then the constrictive metal flashed away, flushing me out into open space. A moment of vertigo followed as I gradually slowed, slewing giddily amongst the glassy, edged boulders. The medium I found myself floating in was amniotic and slurry, slithering with static electricity. It was also hot, paradoxically wet and dry at the same time. The geometric crystalline formations were tumbling slowly though this seemingly limitless nebula. They wafted as though in a vacuum, yet with a yaw and pitch which suggested great density and weight. The harsh, prismatic light refracted confusingly through the crystal masses as they revolved, blinding me with rainbows. I reached up to rub my eyes and the action somehow transferred consciousness back to my body. I was left staggering beside the microscope, having sucked back up the tube at a tremendous speed. The cigarette was miraculously still in my hand and I reached up to take another shallow drag. The smoke washed into me like a wave. I retreated from the magification device. The treasure-feast of the lounge-zone was suddenly overwhelming and I was tempted to engorge myself on a banquet of esoteric sensation. I delved into the puppet stage Boris had erected, absorbing myself into a dusty galaxy of still, malformed mannikens. I brooded amongst the sullen woolen shapes as they waited for animation from hands in the sky. I drifted across the cardboard stage, staring up at the closed off heavens. I had a sensation of being there for many months, so intraevenous was the sensation of alien time. I glimpsed the death of childhood down there amongst the toys and was forced to retreat. My hands came for me like helicopters and I was all of a sudden on one of the long couches. Boris had entered the lounge. I looked up in slow jarring movements to find him investigating a small collection of swords he had upon the walls. He would draw one down and the sword would then suddenly become a strange metallic extension of him, as though he had physically metamorphosised. He waved a rapier around like an insect, grinning with delight. He saw me watching and spoke:

“This is incredible,”

His words entered my brain like a train into a station prompting all sorts of minute, ant-like protocols and receptive functions. I was unable to reply and rose on shaking legs, feeling all of a sudden inexpressibly human. Light tremors were travelling up and down my legs and arms. I was all of a sudden aware of many extra doorways and archways positioned around the chamber. Some were low and close to the floor, like the lizard tunnel, others were long or gaping. One bisected a formerly smooth wall, receding like a narrow alleyway. A trapdoor lay ominously beneath a chair.

“These fucking white crocodiles…” I muttered, glancing up at the swarms of enormous gekkoes which travelled like sinewy cattle about the vaulted ceilings.

“What?” Boris cackled.

I looked down to see his enormous figure shaking with amusement. I took another draw on the perfidious cigarette and crossed over to him. He had begun to enter one of the glass-walled passages and I followed him into it. All the acoustics of the lounge-zone receded and we were surrounded by the quiet of cold glass and closely pressed leaves. The air smelled of old paperbacks and mould.

“I don’t remember this passage being here,” Boris mumbled over his shoulder.

I peered through the glass. Dark foliage smothered the panes of both the walls and the conical roofing. The faint viridian glow of garden lights still trickled through, but even this evaporated as we pressed deeper into the passage. A cool darkness filled the air, and the only light came in diamond-chip highlights, glinting off glass and the movements of our hands and faces. We passed broken panes, where creepers and leaves had spilled through. Birds called from without these fractures, their cries echoing in the stillness beyond. I also noticed that the passage seemed to be widening gradually, taking on the resemblance of a peculiar greenhouse. Boris stopped me at one point, drawing my attention to a large shattering in the passage. We stopped and regarded a hole which stretched from wall to ceiling, as though something large had thrashed through the glass. A cold little box of fear awoke somewhere, growing arms and legs and moving around. Boris peeked out through the broken glass, avoiding standing on the bits and splinters. He pushed aside some heavy, succulent lamina and exposed a moonlit forest scene. Tall, unidentifiable trees receded into a silvery gloom. Mist was travelling in tentacles and the outline of mountains was discernable beyond some trees. He stepped out cautiously and I followed, navigating the damp undergrowth and fungal forms which carpeted the forest floor.

“Is it real?” I asked quietly.

The harmonics of my voice were incorrect. My vocalisations sounded boxy and tinny, as uttered in an enclosed space. And when he replied it sounded as though his mouth were full of syrup.

“We must still be in the passage..” he garbled.

We began to walk through the trees, entering into an area of thick mist. I noticed that he still had the sword, only it was larger now, more distorted and obscure, somehow affixed into the bone of his arm.

“It’s exactly like a dream…” he seemed to say.

I gave an approximation of a nod. The trees were thinning and glimpses of a valley were becoming slowly apparent. Large, spiky cycads stood at intervals, glooming through the mist like strange creatures from another world.

“I recognise this species of fern,” Boris was saying. “It’s from the early Cretaceous…”

I raised my arm to take another drag and the cigarette met my lips in the glass passage. I looked around, vaguely disorientated. The lounge was only a few paces away and the light from the adjoining room was clearly visible. We had advanced only a small distance down the passageway. I looked at Boris before sucking in more of the cloying smoke. He was standing beside me, staring ahead with half-lidded eyes. The sword dangled from his fingers and his mouth hung slack. His eyes roved back and forth behind their lids as though in an advanced state of REM. I turned around and went back into the lounge. The dimensions of the chamber seemed to have increased exponentially. I ignored everything and crossed to the stone staircase, ascending to the unexplored quarters of the house.

There were too many rooms, places I didn’t recognise. I kept leaving my body, unsure of what was real or not. Entire universes passed me by and I constantly saw figures moving though the half-lit corridors. I became lost and emerged on one of the long balconies which serpentined about the house, overlooking the passage of the river. Trees shuffled and whirled darkly below, rich with dream-cargo. The balcony was one of those antiquated colonial affairs, wide and pillared, wrought with slim iron filigree. The air sparkled faintly with the passage of insects and a rich current of fragrance and scent. In the dark, these odours enlarged, slowly encompassing the entirety of my attention. My eyes closed and bright starry patterns began to kaleidoscope madly behind my lids. I found that I had sunk to my hands and knees, skittering to and fro as the rivulets of scent beckoned me this way and that. I opened my eyes a fraction and caught a glimpse of the moon. It clung like a god-sized spider to the fabric of night, emanating a continuous rain of small phosphorescent tadpoles which wafted in rays through space, catching in everything. Some of these landed on me and I gathered them in my clawed hand. Some predatory instinct I did not know I had caused me to inhale them. The vivid lunar emmissions coursed into me, brightening my senses to a fine pitch. Colours refined and sounds clarified as I seemed to attune into a sort of feline frequency. I felt incredibly strong all of a sudden. A quivering springiness impregnated my body and I leapt quietly onto the railing, balancing precariously there as the trees spanned below. I was suddenly overcome by an almost uncontrollable urge to spring into the treetops. I flexed, and was about to leap, when an odour became suddenly apparent, captivating my attention. I turned my head this way and that, snuffling about for its source. I found it quickly; a creamy, intensely magnetic little tributary of perfume was flowing in from my left hand side. I ignored the carpet-weave of all the other smells and followed this slender lace of scent off the railing and down the length of the curving balcony. I slunk around the cusp of the dark house and spied an open set of double doors, through which the fragrance seemed to emanating. I entered the house on all fours, scuttling quickly from shadow to shadow. Movement was dream-like and came without any effort. My body seemed to have fused with the mercurial, shifting aspect of my ‘dream body’, intergrating harmoniously with it’s ebb and flow. I realised dimly that this was how animals must feel. I saw how animals ‘dreamed in the flesh’, living materially within their astral selves and reacting accordingly. I wanted to hold onto this revelation, but it was hard to maintain thought in the frame I had put myself in. My mind dissolved like so much burning paper against the hot engines of sensory reflex and instinctive movement. I slithered across a constrictive passage, through dark rooms and down a spiral staircase. The scent was very strong now. I entered into a chamber populated by moonlit marble statues and saw Yvette at the far end, sketching furiously. The complicated fragrance, which I had focused upon so intently, fountained off her, trailing through space like the long body of a jellyfish. And it was almost as if she had sent one of the tendrils of this body to find and draw me to her, as though she were looking for me. She had not consciously registered my entrance though, and so I drifted from statue to statue, low to the ground, moving closer to her in silence. My state had engendered me with a sort of invisibility, a sense-cloak, which somehow sheilded my presence from the awareness of others. It was a deep reflex, beckoned from primordial basements, eclipsing all mentality in an ancient internal hush. I watched her working from a corner, disguised by the oily shadow of a dancing caryatid. She perched in my field of vision, fragile and unbalanced as an autumnal leaf. And as I hovered there, my observation of her began to awaken faint sense-memories of the night before; the smell of her hair and density her limbs, the oyster-shell taste of her teeth. These various impressions slowly deactivated the animal form I had cloaked myself in and my breath changed. She swung about suddenly, dropping her pencil in fright.

“Where did you come from!” she whispered frantically.

My hands found her instinctively in the darkness, smoothing away her shock like wet clay. She stopped trembling and our physical attunement re-asserted itself powerfully. Portions of her perception seemed to overfill and spill into me, snagging around my consciousness like ill-fitting clothes. I gazed around, over her shoulder to see the statues moving slightly upon their pedestals. I noticed that they were gradually adjusting their positions, as though experiencing discomfort. Her hot little hand found my hair once again, disappearing into it’s depth like a spider down a plughole. Papers fluttered to the floor like frightened birds and the dense aroma of her flooded into me, encircling each thought like a fiery tentacle, paralysing it. I felt her burning mouth cleave open like the chest of a sparrow, her tiny, sharp teeth crushing against my lip. Her desperation was a hidden hearth in an abandoned house. Everything in her flooded to it, warming favoured sides at it’s crowded grate. I was sucked into this vortex she had created, unable to resist the gravitational pull of her salty lonliness. My palms scraped the flagstones as we turned slowly. Her hand cleft snugly under my ribs and felt her dextrous knuckles brush the surface of my heart. I shuddered, recoiling giddily as her fingers scuttled around inside me. I felt her fingernails snagging clumsily on delicate internal muscular structures, trying to gain a purchase on the organ which beat within my chest.

“Yvette…” I hissed. “Yvette stop!”

She calcified in a heartbeat, drawing away like a blanket. A sort of coldness washed in, seperating us like hot wax which is plunged abruptly into water. She shrunk away across the floor, small and rodent-like. The gravitational force of her body drew me still, keeping my hands around her. We spilled across the floor like some strange fluid, changing in the moonlight.

“I was trying to find you…” she breathed.

This vocal expression seemed to alter the frequency of the situation, and I was able to draw myself up to my knees. I could see her smiling maniacally in the painted moon-glow.

“The statues were talking to me,” she giggled.

I pulled her up and the room swayed like some top-heavy boat. The sounds of all the flexing marble limbs moving brought back the memory of her teeth against mine; the mineral grinding of opposing forces.

August 22, 2008

The Dying Swan

Filed under: literature,nikhil singh — ABRAXAS @ 9:41 pm

‘The wild swan’s death-hymn took the soul
Of that waste place with joy
Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear
The warble was low, and full and clear;
And floating about the under-sky,
Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole
Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear;
But anon her awful jubilant voice,
With a music strange and manifold’
Alfed Lord Tennyson

II

Vivienne became vaguely enamoured of Yvette when she first saw her sketching the chocolate factory beside Ambarvalia’s botanical gardens. It was not a physical or emotional attraction, and if you suggested that to her, she would have simply laughed. Though she was drawn to the wave of Yvette’s dense, rust coloured hair and her pale complexion as a child is drawn to a doll they would wish theirs. Part of her attentions came from a vague, primordial sense of competition. And Vivienne liked to draw those whom she considered a threat close. This was because their power fascinated her. If a person seemed a threat, it was simply because they had acquired some aura she was not yet familiar with. Life was a book of spells to Vivienne, and this gave her a genuine love of existence and its inner workings. This love made her seem more alive than most in the eyes of others. She blazed with vitality, reflecting nature’s wonder’s in all she said and did. She felt she was born to be adored, and the world in some way reciprocated this. Hearts were rooms in an enormous, fabulous hotel, and Vivienne wanted to stay in each one. She gathered admirers in a natural and abundant way. Suitors became mesmerized by her reckless abandonement to the world of the senses, and to her faery power, which she wore like a cloak of enchanted spider’s webs. Girls were arrested by her easy command and the insoluble appreciation she had for herself. Her Lapis Lazuli of personal focus sheened out all other colours, drawing and spectralising hues unto itself, as by some magical osmosis. Painting interested her intensely and she applied herself to it’s conquest, but not it’s practices. She had a true admiration for those who had been able to weather the severe demands of thought and spiritual energy which the practice of painting required. Demands which she simply could not meet. Her attention was a fine work of blown glass, and could not be fitted through the wine-press of practical application. She was an obsessive dancer however, and fashionable in character and appearance. Her joi de vivre and modest dancing reputation had made her very noticeable in the cosy University town of Ambarvalia. She studied history and painting, attended church regularly and was a ranking member of several feminine-interest organisations. She was well aware of her techical failings as a painter, but drew an atmosphere of mystery around her work and ideas, hinting at much but offering little, creating an irresistible illusion of creativity where there was in fact nothing. She did not think herself at fault for this subterfuge. To her, painting was a decorative feature of character. A wonderful addition to the printer’s tray of the soul. She could not have Art’s sacrament, so she would wear it as an ornament. Yvette on the other hand was not crafted in this manner. She shared Vivienne’s drawing classes and attended the same Ballet school as well. Vivienne had heard tell that Yvette was a very competent dancer, a student who applied herself rigourously to her practice. She also possesed a flair for draughtsmanship and had quickly rose to prominence in the Arts faculty. Her paintings were balanced, studious and spoke of Continental experience. She was elegant in dress, possessed of a fine ballet-sculpted figure and beautiful in countenance. Her features had a sorrowful, vagueness somewhat reminscent of the charcoal works of Khnopff. Her face was mask-like, often devoid of expression and carried with it an appearance of porcelain. Some freckles floated like across her nose and shoulders, tiny motes trapped in this porcelain medium. Her eyes were a cat-like green, and seemed always to be roving, absorbing the universe around her in steady, unflinching currents. The fact that she was one or two years younger than Vivienne, added also to the discomforting interest she had cultivated in her. It would be malicious to say that she developed designs on bringing Yvette into her confidence, even though it was exactly what she was planning. She was genuinly interested in this pretty, young flame who had wandered in from afar. A flame who’s russet glow she would feed upon the sprigs of companionship, and whose light she would ultimately seek to reflect.

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Vivienne had finished her dance class early and was taking some papers to the Bursar. She was not dressed yet and still wore her ballet togs beneath a hastily sashed coat. Her passage took her across the circular macadam drive and through a series of quads. She had not visited this part of the school in some time, and the retracement of her steps brought back images of her first dancing years, when she was a still a little girl. Vivienne had grown up in Ambarvalia, and the old ballet school had become a fixture in her life. The majority of her initial training had been undertaken in these brick halls. All those indelible hours of light and mirrors whose imprint she could never dissolve. She listened to the sharp voices of the instructors above distant pianos. It was a secret, sacred place for Vivienne, for it was here that she had undertaken one of the only true paths of her life, that inner voyage across the secret quadrants of the body. Her body was the seat of her power, and the school had come to it in childhood, opening up mysterious tracts and pathways contained within it. She quickly became mesmerized by the possibilities of her flesh and suffered at the yoke for it, straining her will beneath the towering racks of white light. She had gradually hammered herself across a tide of mirrors, deep in the primeaval forge of muscle and sinew, realigning her very structure and scape toward an avenue of power. She learned to flex her body like a wing, to drift upon the cascading sounds like a brilliant feather. And synchronised within the plumage of the other dancers, she would shoal with the synchronisation of limbs, unburdened of her power. It was a religion of perfection for her, echoed by reflections and made made almost unbearable by its monstrous cult of repetition. But it was perhaps the only place Vivienne had felt truly at home amongst people. For in truth, despite her array of lovers and friends, Vivienne was always at a distance. She pulled long strings, but did not touch, or let herself be touched. She had reserved her complete openess for the stage. And the stage had reciprocated in kind. Thoughts such as these occupied her mind as she walked toward the Bursar’s yellow office, in the Western Wing of the building. It was quite by chance that she glimpsed Yvette through a window. Yvette was in a long line of black-clad dancers. The figures flexed like flowers, and the line began to unfurl in duplications. Vivienne’s breath fogged the glass softly as she watched. They had met briefly, once or twice in class, exchanging friendly smiles, but Vivienne had not had the time to initiate anything. She found herself standing very still in the corridor, her energy focused in a leonine way upon the dancing figure. Her absorption had made her forget her vantage point,and their eyes met for a brief second. Yvette registered faint startlement at the realisation that she was being observed. Vivienne broke contact just as some girls appeared from a nearby class, gaggling together like pigeons in a park. She crossed the corridor and flitted down a nearby stairwell.

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She saw Yvette in the parking lot half an hour later and smiled broadly in greeting. Yvette, who was wrapped in an enormous beige scarf and taken somewhat by surprise, smiled back and waved. When Vivienne enquired, Yvette explained that she had been waiting on the steps for the bus which would take her back into the village. Vivienne offered her a lift and she agreed, glad to escape the cold. Together they drove down the tree lined avenue, weaving into the green, oak-heavy woodland which partitioned the school from the rest of the world.
“Where do you live?” Vivienne asked, over the rush of freezing wind.
She drove an old cream coloured cabriolet whose top took manual cranking. She left it down most of the time and drove, wrapped in a thick white coat, sunglasses and gloves. Yvette peered up out of her scarf, arms folded tightly around herself, feeling the bite of the slipstream.
“I live near the gardens,” she replied, her voice obscured by wool. “My flat is a few streets from the chocolate factory.”
“Amazing,” Vivienne smiled. “My parent’s house is alongside the botanical gardens, we are practically neighbours!”
“You still live with them?” Yvette asked.
“I have plenty of space there, and it’s a nice old house.” she replied cheerily. “My father is out of the country most of the time, and my mother is more an item of furniture than anything else.”
Yvette smiled slightly. Vivienne suggested that they stop at a small cafe along the way for a hot chocolate and Yvette agreed, pleased at the prospect.

Yvette was trying to explain, but became constantly distracted by the sunset. It screamed at her across the forest like a thousand shattering stainglass windows.
“If you become four-dimensionally aware of an object,” she was saying. “Your perception would have to map this object atmospherically, as there would be no other phsyical point of reference available…”
“Okay,” Vivienne nodded, fluffing the cream off her cup of chocolate.
“The emotion of this atmospheric beat is far more potent than all that tedious second by second hand to eye rhetoric you know,” Yvette continued, chewing a lock of her hair, much to Vivienne’s distaste.
“It would be like a glimpse of all possible veiws of the object simultaneously,” Yvette continued. “A pocket just outside of time, a kind of four-dimensional photograph.”
Vivienne watched her as she stared out at the red death of sunset, warming her spidery hands against a cup of coffee. There was something unexpectedly feral about her appearance when veiwed in close proximity. Grime lurked beneath her untended, mishappen fingernails. Her lovely, red hair hadn’t seen a wash in weeks. She was fidgety and intense about things. Her clothing had small holes and rents which she had not bothered to attend to. Vivienne became suddenly aware of the fact that, despite her many attractive qualities, Yvette did not have many friends or speak to others very often. She was reminded unexpectedly of Cain.
“Do you practice this four dimensional technique when you are drawing?” Vivienne asked.
Yvette smiled self-consciously.
“No,” she answered. “I’m afraid I might get self-indulgent.”
She slurped at her coffee, extracting a cheap cigarette from a crumpled paper pack.
“It’s awfully easy to get self-indulgent with conceptual methodology,” Yvette mentioned, gazing out across the woods, her green eyes narrowed to hawkish slits.
“I want to stay in the world of form for awhile,” she mused, circling her unlit cigarette around her mouth. “Explore the secret language of matter before trying to leave my body.”
Vivienne chuckled at her intensity. Yvette glanced up warily.
“Sorry darling,” Vivienne smiled. “But it seems to me like you need a bit of a break from the fourth dimension.”
Yvette smiled sheepishly, lighting the cigarete.
“I think the thing is just that I can’t stand how people use conceptual art as a crutch,” Yvette exhaled. “I mean it’s just so dead easy to fake an inner vision that no-one else can see…These days, if you are a student of a respectable institution, you could vomit engine oil onto the side of a wall, write a flashy statement, wear a whatever’s in the mags and people will treat you like an artist.”
“Oh it’s not quite as easy as that,” Vivienne mused with half a smile.
“I suppose,” replied Yvette, breathing smoke over the surface of her black coffee.
“I read an interesting comment Picasso made to Giovanni Papini in 1952,” Vivienne said.
It was almost comical the way Yvette’s ears pricked up. Her entire head seemed to narrow when something caught her attention. Like a scruffy little fox, Vivienne thought to herself.
“He said ‘When I am alone with myself, I have not the courage to think of myself as an artist in the great and ancient sense of the term. Giotto, Titian, Rembrandt were great painters. I am only a public entertainer who has understood his times and exploited as best he could the imbecility, the vanity, the cupidity of his contemporaries.’”
Yvette blinked a few times, dragging on her cigarette.
“Must have been pussy-whipped when he let that one slip,” She muttered.
Vivienne spluttered some foam.
“No seriously!” Yvette grinned, as Vivienne chuckled into a napkin. “Picasso was an appreciator of the secret language of matter. He wasn’t speaking in a modern language, he was using an ancient one; the language of atmosphere. Those paintings of his are reminder’s that even in chaos there still exist the checkpoints of harmony, balance and aesthetics. Those three things chart atmosphere, they are the rudders we use to steer.”
Vivienne was listening intently, but with the half-smile of an affectionate cynic.
“Darling, All that still doesn’t explain his statement.”
Yvette drained her coffee and signalled for more.
“I just think it sounds like he just needed a bit of a break from the four dimensional,” she replied haughtily.

They met again, two days later, at a life drawing class. Yvette was already treating her like an old friend. She’d even brought Vivienne a cheap little chocolate from the tuckshop. She offered it to her with a meek little smile and Vivienne saw how lonely she actually was. She evidentally did not make friends easily and was grateful for any attention offered her. Yvette’s world was a shifting zone of abstraction and aesthetics, and she could only relate to those who could speak the dead languages of that realm. Vivienne ate the chocolate and they sat beside one another in the class. It was a large, antiquated space, and the domed ceiling emitted a wintery light into the frigid dustiness of the chamber. Some dried leaves skirled on the old tiles. A naked woman huddled on weathered velvet with goosebumps rashed along her thighs. The instructor kept bringing her tea, apologising guiltily for keeping her in the cold. Yvette darted sharp glances at Vivienne’s drawing, making her somewhat uncomfortable. She attempted a thick lined, simplistic style to conceal the inadequacies of her ability, watching her new Yvette’s hand out of the corner of her eye. Yvette drew in loose, long strokes which tightened into vortcies of concentrated attention when they met in places of detail. Her fine accuracy in detail was almost insectile. She would stick out her long tongue when she drew. She finished before everyone else and got the highest mark. Vivienne kept expecting her to make some sort of remark about her the half-hearted sketch it took her most of the class to complete, but Yvette did not seem to notice. They walked across the lawns afterward.
“So what are you doing tonight?” Vivienne asked. “It’s Friday.”
“I have nothing to do,” Yvette shrugged.
“Don’t you go out anywhere?” Vivienne smiled. “There are one or two decent places…Ace of Jacks even has a eight-piece swing band on Friday nights.”
“I suppose,”
“Super, come round to my house at six and I’ll take you somewhere.”
Yvette looked at her helplessly.
“But I have nothing to wear,” she protested.
Vivienne put a friendly arm around her and was surpised to feel how hollow-boned she was, despite the dancing muscle she must have tucked away.
“Don’t worry about all of that,” Vivienne smiled in an overly feline fashion.
She noticed a couple of admirers watching, as they walked together across the grass. Some of Yvette’s energy was already starting to soak into her, as warmth travels from a sun baked stone into a cold hand.

Yvette left her tiny flat as the sun was embering behind the trees of the park. The warm smell of melting chocolate wafted through the trees to her as she crossed quiet pavements. It infiltrated the briskness of the Autumn air, filling the gaps between the perpetually falling plane leaves. She smoked a cigarette on the way, marvelling at how the aroma’s mingled. Vivienne’s house was an enrmous colonial affair. The long garden was as neat as a freshly shaved jowl and attended to by sprinklers, which Yvette had to avoid. Pruned hedges marked the paving stone path up to a large oak door lit by brass lamps. She banged the knocker and was surprised to be greeted by her History of Arts lecturer, Mr Antonioni. Mr Antonioni seemed equally startled to see her and mumbled a quick hello, before retreating into the spotless dollshouse corridors. Yvette was left abandoned for several seconds before Vivienne appeared with a grin. She took her by the hand and whisked her up a large staircase.
“What’s he doing here?” Yvette hissed.
“Oh he’s fucking my mother,” Vivienne chuckled.
“What!” Yvette blurted. “What about your father?”
“Shh! They have no idea that I know…they pretend to be playing bridge, you know…”
Yvette did not, but let it slip past. The house was huge and pastel. She was bundled up another flight of steps and finally deposited into the airy, converted attic which served as Vivienne’s eagle’s nest. It was a long and woody space, lit by several, brass lampshades and draped fairy lights. Some Victorian furniture lay scattered about; one or two chairs, a calico sofa, a writing desk and a small boudoir. Mysterious cupboards brooded in half-shadow. Her bed was vast and white, like a defiled wedding cake. Vivienne planted her in a chair and disappeared into an adjoining bathroom. An angled skylight looked out over the park, letting in the haunting smell of chocolate.
“Your world is so beautiful,” Yvette whispered.
There came the muted sound of a bath being drawn.
“What’s that darling?” Vivienne sang from the bathroom.
“Nothing, can I smoke?”
“Of course.”
Yvette went to the skylight and lit a cigarette, peering out across the tops of the trees. Vivienne emerged naked, tocking across to the sound system in a pair of tiny, heeled slippers. Yvette saw the slightly warped reflection of Vivienne’s body in the window glass and was mildly startled. Vivienne seemed not to notice, humming lightly to herself. Over-driven synth bled melancholically into the room. It surged over the repetitive clockwork of an antiquated drum machine, creating an atmosphere of nostalgia. Vivienne smiled at Yvette’s discomfort, vanishing back into the bathroom. This little performance of hers was a well worn power ploy, designed to elicit submission from the unwary bystander. Her unexpected, unclothed beauty would evoke a primordial response, a shift of power and attention. Naked, she radiated power and subtly took control of her observers.
“Come in here,” she called to Yvette.
Yvette hesitated and then slouched into the large bathroom. Vivienne was in the water, frothing her arms lightly. A breeze stirred through the window, mingling pleasantly with the steam and the aroma of soapy water. Yvette sat on the toilet lid and crossed her legs.
“I’m a bit bewildered by you Vivienne,” she confessed. “It’s all a bit much for me.”
“Nonsense,” Vivienne crooned. “You just need a holiday from that little hole of yours, that’s all.”
Yvette suddenly noticed the large framed drawing of a Sphinx which hung on the wall of the bathroom. She rose quickly, inspecting it.
“Jesus Vivienne,” she muttered. “This is an original Nemorensis Cain.”
“Yes,” Vivienne replied in that strangely lilting voice which she only ever used when in the bath. “Poor baby’s a little besotted with me.”
“Do you mean that this supposed to be you!” Yvette exclaimed excitedly.
“Doesn’t it look like me?” Vivienne frowned over her soapy shoulder.
“No..I mean yes, it does, but no that’s not what I meant..” she realized she was babbling and sat clumsily down on the edge of the bath, beaming up at the large drawing.
“He’s one of my favourite’s you know,” Yvette said.
“Pity he’s such a strange little fool,” Vivienne splashed.
Yvette moved to the floor, where she could see both Vivienne’s face and the drawing.
“What do you mean by that?” she asked Vivienne.
“I mean he’s completely obsessed with me,” Vivienne answered.
Yvette stared at her for a long second before letting out a caustic laugh. The acidic tone of her mirth took Vivienne by complete surprise.
“Do you mean to say that Cain the well-known artist is in love, with you?” Yvette chortled.
Vivienne was flabbergasted that Yvette even knew who Cain was, let alone award him such acclaim and distinction. The fact that she held him in higher regard then she infuriated her wildly.
“Were you lovers?” Yvette asked, now curious, her eyes sparkling like little mirrors.
Vivienne found herself lying on reflex. It wasn’t that she thought about it, her pride simply reached in and made her speak before her mind had a chance to react.
“Yes of course,” she answered flatly.
Yvette seemed to melt. The reaction disturbed Vivienne entirely.
“You are a very lucky girl Vivienne,” she said. “He’s a passionate artist, and it’s an honour that he chose to depict you as the Sphinx, it’s a very special symbol in his ouevre.”
Vivienne was almost sneering at the presumption of this girl.
“He’s a complete perversity, a parasite, a vampire!” she spat.
Yvette blinked this all down.
“Well his art is very turbulent yes…”
“He’s a monster Yvette! I know him, you don’t!”
Yvette got up off the floor, staring in a cool, clear manner at Vivienne, as if seeing her for the first time. It was the clinical look she acquired when drawing something, a look whose intensity Vivienne could not rival.
“He is a unique talent Vivienne, and that has to be respected above personal foibles.”
Vivienne’s better judgement took over and she smiled, but inside she was furious.
“I do respect the talent, just not the person.”
“What’s the difference?” Yvette grunted coldly.
She turned back to the picture.
“What did he do to you that was so bad anyway?” she murmured, engrossed in the linework.
Vivienne stared into the waters. Cain had fallen pathetically in love with her, wasn’t that enough? His pleading letters and endless telephone exchanges were an eyesore on the neat printer’s tray of her life. And eyesore’s were an intolerable nuisance to Vivienne.
“I can’t really talk about it,” she muttered mysteriously.
Yvette took a drag of her momentarily forgotten cigarette and glanced back at Vivienne.
“Well, you shouldn’t hang this in the bathroom, even if it is framed so well,” she said matter-of-factly. “The moisture is going to ruin it, and it’s a lovely piece.”
She walked out of the bathroom, leaving Vivienne in a state of volcanic vexation.

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Downtown Ambarvalia was a warren of dingy, facebrick passages and crumbling, shambolic structures. The night had grown bitterly cold and the air was as still as that of a curtained stage. Squat, colonial facades lurked in the tenebrous passagways, looming out of the shadows like ruined opera sets. The Kismet was sequestered within one of these unilluminated courtyards, at the end of a narrow arcade. The arcade served as book-seller’s market during the day, but in the hours of darkness it was chained and gloomy. A small Tudor-style inn stood across the darkened facade of the Kismet. In its heyday, the Kismet had been a small, independant theatre. It fell into disrepair, had to be shut down and was boarded up for over a decade. The velvet rotted and rats infested the lower regions. It became a haunt for students and reckless youths. They would break in through cellar windos and enact obscene underground poetry readings (and other less savoury activities) on the small stage. They gallavanted in wreckage of the booths and had allnight booze-ups in the destroyed gallery. It acquired a rather notorious reputation via word-of-mouth and became something of a destination amongst disenfranchised Ambarvalians. Someone eventually took it upon themselves to buy the property and attempt a restoration of sorts. The plaster was stripped and chandeliers resurrected like ghostly chrysanthemums. The new establishment embarked upon a dubious career as a burlesque house. It was a well attended, if somewhat shady venue which saw a steady stream of students and single men. Factory workers visited from the Industrial districts, to drink and watch the revues after their shifts. Yvette had heard of it of course and was surprised when Vivienne smiled her little smile and told her that it was where they were headed. They parked in the sullen thoroughfare’s some streets away from the Kismet. The black hood of the cabriolet had been cranked down, and they sat in the cloistered darkness of the car. Yvette wayched as Vivienne began to tie a large black velvet domino mask across her face.
“Allright Vivienne,” Yvette snapped. “Enough mystery and game-playing, what are we doing here?”
Vivienne gazed at her from the shadows, her face obscured completely by the slit-eyed mask.
“This is my secret world,” she smiled. “I dance here every second Friday.”
“You dance here? At the Kismet?”
“Yes,” Vivienne smacked. “I go on stage masked, so no-one knows that it’s me, except the boys that I tell of course, the boys that I want to know…others suspect of course, and come to see, but that merely heightens the tension.”
Vivienne was positively glowing with mischief. She had drawn on an enormous white wig, coiffed in the seventeenth century manner, and was whitening her face.
“Why are you showing me all this Vivienne?” Yvette asked cautiously.
Vivienne shrugged open her dark velvet cloak and began to powder the tops of her breasts.
“Because I like you,” she answered matter-of-factly. “I wondered if you might like a dancing slot here.”
Yvette burst into a sharp laugh.
“You’re utterly possesed Vivienne,” she declared.
“Yes!” Vivienne sniggered, cracking her door and sweeping out into the freezing air.
She took Yvette by the hand, her long, black cloak sweeping the mouths of grim passages, her step as light as a woodland animal. The hood of her cloak had swallowed her head into it’s shroud, and the whiteness of her throat and collarbone showed ocasionally beneath the dark mask. Despite her guardedness, Yvette was quite taken with the apparition Vivienne had suddenly become. Here, in the sullen, seedy corridors of brickwork and trailing heavy black robery, she was suddenly transformed into an Elfin Queen, a grinning Titiana whose gloved fingers she felt in hers, urging her deeper into darkness. Yvette let herself be swept in the wake of this phantom, beneath corroded arches and past tiny, shadow clotted squares. They travelled through a labyrinthine network of dingy passages, infested with tiny merchant’s shops, whose dirty windows displayed cheap trinkets, locksmith services and dreary tailor’s mannequins. Broken gutters soared overhead, silhoetted against a stygian Autumn sky. Yvette caught a hurried glimpse of the Kismet’s facade and the courtyard facing it. Three sallow-faced youths dressed in scarves and matching blazers were smoking cigarettes beneath a vintage streetlamp. They watched the girls pass, their heads synchronised, like lizards on a rock. Yvette was then yanked into a dingy side-alley, emerging into a tiny cul de sac. They stopped before a peeeling black door. Vivienne rapped on the wood a few times and a bolt was drawn. The door was opened by a thin figure in a coal coloured suit. A livid blue glow illuminated him from behind, blotting out the moonwashed perspective of the cobbled yard. He ushered them in without a word and Yvette saw that his skin was oil-dark, made almost pure black in the cobalt light. Large gold rings and lockets covered his left hand. He disappeared down a narrow passage and Yvette was dragged in the opposite direction. It was warm inside the constricted spaces, and the air smelled strongly of age, smoke and alcohol. It was a beery, grimy, woody smell familiar to decrepit pubs and bars. Distant music could be heard, along with the inebriated vocalisations of a small crowd. The pair brushed past three pasty women, smoking hashish in robes beneath a rusted EXIT sign. They greeted the girls in passing, blowing aromatic smoke into the red glare. One of them passed Vivienne a small hand-rolled cigarillo, which was lit almost immediately. Vivienne drew in a deep breath of the pungent smoke and then passed it to Yvette, who dragged on it without comment. They moved on down the corridor. Vivienne tossed opened a low door and they entered into a small, bright room. Yvette gazed around as the door clanged shut. The hashish was already blossoming behind her her eyes, and she had to sit down. The walls of the room were dank and rimed with fungal growth. It was also overtly warm, crowded by a dresser and some open wardrobes. An electric heater hummed in the corner. Some chairs lay entrenched, trapped in the swirling mess of strappy costumes, fabric and props. A large, square mirror framed with lightbulbs bathed the room in a solar glare. Vivienne shed her cloak in a heap, rummaging naked amongst the clothing. Yvette was not taken aback this time. Her surroundings and situation were so strange that it all seemed somehow perfectly natural. She withdrew a tiny moleskin book from an inner pocket and fumbled for a pen. She then tasted another biting draught of smoke, and began to draw, in a loose, lightheaded manner. Vivienne’s long body was powdered a bony white, and the lack of colour bled disorientingly into the pale, intricate wig she wore. The evoked image of a spectral creature was now vaguely disturbing. Her lips were a cupid bow of startling black, her eyes bird-like glitters behind the inhuman mask. The avian appearance was enhanced by the beakish elongation of the Venetian mask’s nasal area. Tiny china-white slippers clung to her long, prehensile dancer’s feet, and she stalked about the cramped room like a caged, alabaster cat, snatching at things. Yvette scribbled slowly while Vivienne slipped on a thin garter, dusting herself liberally with a crushed white cosmetic.
“I think..I recognise that wig,” Yvette mumbled, sticking her tongue out in concentration.
“It’s off one of the Bizet leads, from the costume department,” Vivienne laughed over a pale shoulder. “I lift a different item from ballet school every week and replace it on monday…help me with this glitter would you.”
Yvette shook her head in amusement, assisting clumsily in the application of some pearly residue. She sank back down, realising all of a sudden how affected she was by the powerful hashish tincture. She began reshaping the composition of her drawing with a flurry of thin lines. She became so involved that she did not realise that the sound she was now hearing was Vivienne’s voice. She looked up blearily to confront a dream-like creature from some spectral realm. Vivienne’s unearthly poise was so overwhelming, so alchemical, that it startled Yvette in a silent part of herself.
“I have to be onstage soon,” The apparition’s voice seemed to echo over the buzz of the lightbulbs.
“Be a darling and wait in the auditorium,” it smirked, helping her up.
Yvette arose on helium legs, dropping her moleskin a couple of times. She began to apologise for herself, but Vivienne hushed her with a warm finger. The proximity of Vivienne’s body was like being at the zoo, Yvette realised. It felt like watching large cats patrol, from as close to the bars as possible. Vivienne rattled off some confusing directions and then pushed Yvette put of the room. Yvette stumbled like a balloon in the half-light. She took a corner, completely in the dark as to where she was supposed to be going, and emerged in a stained stairwell. A bright pink light illuminated the wet walls. Yvette floated mindlessly down into this rosy glow, sensing the proximity of a crowd, somewhere in the world below. She discovered a large black door on a self-closing mechanism and opened it, plunging into a dense, crowded space. It was dark and sulphuric without. Bass-heavy music thumped through the ambiguous chambers at a deafening pitch. A long, antiquated bar glowed through the smoke, as coated men drifted past. Yvette became suddenly and acutely aware of her femininity and began to search desperately for an exit. She began to imagine eyes clinging like soft barnacles to her and crossed the room. A staircase arose out of the mugginess, describing a horseshoe gallery dotted with broken chandeliers. She grabbed at the balustrade without thinking, scrabbling up to a mezzanine level. Partially decayed decorative features spoke of the old theatre. Their ruin conjured up an atmosphere of fatal decadence. Faces floated behind sallow glass panes, yelping incoherently in the stink of spilled liquor and sweat. The cave-like aperture of a fire escape beckoned from a corner and she traversed it, bustling past warm, smoky bodies into blackness. A heavy velvet curtain parted and she found herself in a soft, empty corridor. The monstrous music was muted, creating a blood-like thumping in her head. A staircase wound up from the far end of the passage. She hunted up it like a lost creature, emerging into a raw-walled chamber. The chill of the night invaded this strange, cavernous space through holes which had been smashed into the left wall of the long, unlit room. These rents peeked down to the shadowy courtyard below. The wind skirled dry leaves into the uncarpeted area. They dusted around her ankles, irritating her balance with their constant movement. The far wall was awash with light and moving pictures. The ratchety whirr of a projector filtered from somewhere above her, gushing images like a burst tap. There was a gaping abyss in the ceiling, and the luminous blackness of the sky was discernable beyond. She stumbled further into the sudden chilliness of the room, revived somewhat by the air. A couple twisted to one side, jerking in silhoette, passing the holes in the wall. They crawled onto what appeared to be a rickety bench, and collapsed in on each other like fat spiders. The projected images fluttered and collapsed, rearranging the shadows around them in a somewhat queasy fashion. Yvette looked away, to the grainy film. A luminescent scene described some popular actress, hiding in an immense, ruined temple. The actresses eyes were large and haunted, as she gripped the edge of a stone pillar. The nape of her unnaturally long neck showed white in the stark lighting. A man in a trenchoat hunted for her with a drawn knife. The film was bright monochrome, and the succulence of the grey tones began to mesmerize Yvette. She thought that she reconized the actress, and felt she would have been able to identify her sooner, had not the image been obscured by a figure who stood in the beams. The face of the familiar actress coiled and slid over the thin, coated figure, almost melding with his form. He cast a spindly shadow which cut cleanly into the picture of her, very much like the gash in the ceiling of the room. His cigarette smoke also travelled in her glowing blurs, as moths daubed and collapsed in the lighstream, mixing their shadows with his. The face of the actress, whom she now recognized as Elusina Elsware, moved along his back like a disease. Faceless characters began to stab her repeatedly and she screamed silently, for there was no accompanying soundtrack. Yvette left the room on rubbery legs and threw up in the corridor. She went down the wrong flight of steps and found herself in the courtyard. She leant back into a pool of shadow, wiping her mouth, catching her breath. The vomit had purged her, crystallizing certain thoughts. Her doubt of Vivienne’s inentions returned with a full force, plunging her into little stammers of paranoia. She wasn’t even completely sure what she was doing out there, in that grimy little corner of nowhere, alone in the dark with a head full of smoke. She looked up into the night, seeking solace in the constancy of the sky. The battered, grand piano countours of the Kismet loomed behind her, stretching off into fathomless reaches. She disengaged herself from the peeling curves of the old theatre and entered into the courtyard. The three youths were still positioned beneath the streetlamp. They hunched in their blazers, as motionless as horses, puffing wordlessly on thin cigarettes. Spitcurls fell across their foreheads like question marks as they loitered in the dim radiance. She realized that they had been staring at her for some time now, observing her in silence. The realisation would have under any other circumstances made her feel shy, but here, on the strange stage of the gloomy courtyard, she felt another spirit overtake her. Perhaps it was the transferred essence of Vivienne, which caused her to smile almost flirtatiously at them. Her actions shocked her. What had been gnawing below had suddenly surfaced; the petulant fact that her womanhood had been belittled by Vivienne’s display of plumage and power. Her pride had rebelled, painting unexpected solicitations into her. The trio did not respond. She was about to speak when a slurry moan distracted her from above. She peered up at the inn, following the sound to the blue-ish square of a lit window. Soft creepers twined over the entire facade of the building, blanketing it in a webby network of tiny leaves and greenery. A weathervane creaked from the world above. She made out the garrulous outline of a long-limbed man, leaning on the sill of the lighted window. He moans again.
“Hello,” she chirps up at him, suddenly conscious of breaking a peculiar silence.
She became aware of having adopted the manner and voice of Vivienne. Mimicry was a thing which came naturally to her. In fact she often employed this mercurial talent in anecdotes, for humourous and satirical effect. But the effect under narcosis was suddenly uncontrollable, a mockery of itself, almost as if the spirit of Vivienne were channelling through her of it’s own volition. She was trying to claim energy back, but somehow falling deeper into a spell. A spell which continued to hold her attention, for Vivienne was a somehow fascinating influence, an opener of secret doors, a siren wet from the rocks of ancient power. It was almost impossible not to follow her once her will had been fixed. The three youths continued to stare grimly, taking little or no notice of the figure in the window.
“Why don’t you come down,” Yvette suggested to the man.
He gave a long drawn moan and slumped onto the sill.
“Yi ham lucked hin!” he declared in a braying whine.
Yvette rocked playfully on the balls of her feet.
“I beg your pardon?” she frowned.
“Lucked hin! Lucked hin!” he guffawed in a heavily accented voice.
“You’re locked in!” she chortled.
She put a finger to her lip in mock-thoughtfullness, a mannerism which was not entirely familiar to her.
“Why don’t you telephone down to the concierge and get him to let you out?” she called.
The man gave a howlish moan.
“Ah!” he declared. “He is late.”
Yvette started chuckling, lightly at first and then in inebriated spurts.
“I really don’t see how he could have locked himself into his own hotel room!” she whispered to the trio.
But the dour youths did not acknowledge her attempt at conversation. They continued to stare, with an atmosphere of unfathomable heaviness. Her smile faltered a little in the face of this oppressive lack of response. She glanced from the silhoette to the scarved boys as though trying to unravel something hidden.
“Yi ham lucked hin!” the voice mooned into the night.
Yvette approached the inn, inspecting the chiselled doors. She saw that the deadbolts had been drawn and that the ground floor interiors were lampless and deserted. The cool, soft heads of the creepers gave off a crisp aroma of chlorophyll and damp stone. She peered through a succession of latticed windows, discerning only dim outlines in the darkness beyond. Eventually she pushed away from the breath clouded glass. She was about to announce her findings to the boys when she slipped on the slick cobbles. She fell to her knees, scattering pens and moleskin. She broke into reflexive laughter, lifting wet palms from the grime, massaging her knees. She realized gradually, as her laughter faded, that no-one was coming to her aid. She hoisted herself up, drying her hands on her thighs, gathering her fallen things. She frowned at the dark figures who watched from the pale glow.
“That was extremely ungentlemanly of you, ” she snapped.
“We lost the regatta today,” one of them mentions unexpectedly.
Yvette looked up in surprise, brushing bits of rotted leaf from her sleeves.
“Oh,” she stammered. “I…I’m sorry.”
She regarded them in confusion while they slowly exhaled smoke into the cold luminescence.
“Who’s a pretty pussycat then?” another murmured quietly.
Yvette’s face went slack before hardening. She turned back to the window, now determined to release this man from his bondage.
“I tried to look in the lobby area, but I think…” she began, before being interrupted by yet another wailing lament.
“Yi ham lucked hin!” the voice crowed pathetically.
Slivers of silvered drool leak from the barely visible mouth of the man, catcing in the lamplight like cobwebs. Yvette was forced to take a few steps back to avoid being laced by them. The weathervane creaked again, uselessly. The absurdity of the scene and her failure to intergrate with it left her feeling weak and persecuted. She abandoned the courtyard, retreating swiftly back into the Kismet.

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She found that a strange, electric silence was spreading within the establishment. The music had been shut down and a hush had invaded in its wake. The lighting had also changed, localizing around an ancient stage, drenching the rest of the space in an anticipatory darkness. To Yvette, it felt as though she had passed through a looking glass somewhere, penetrating into another realm. She wafted into this faery arena like a ghost, observing. Around her milled factory workers and teenage boys, student dregs and shifty men in coats. But none of them paid any attention to her, all their attentions were fixed on the distant stage. Yvette was able, for the first time to make out the details of the antiquated proscenium. Some footlights illuminated a drawn scarlet curtain. Faded tassels clung to it’s worn velvet, and burgundy wings closed around it like the fleshy folds of an exposed clam. The stage was raised to chest height and rotting plaster cherubs roosted beneath it’s grimy lip. A large, destroyed golden arch encapsulated the performance area. There were no seats in the audience pit and the large crowd milled slightly, like lost penguins. The galleries above were also haunted by these bird-like apparitions, who peered out of the dimnesses, entranced by a single spot which lit the curtain. The illuminated curtain gave off a sulphuric and hypnotic shimmer, like something underwater. Yvette heard the voices around her murmuring a repetitive phrase, which she eventually came to recognise as ‘The White Lady’. She drifted closer to the stage and noticed the thin,coated figure she had seen in the upstairs room, the one who had been smoking in the projected images. She realised with a faint surprise that it was Cain himself. Their conversation had conjured him from the ether and delivered him into her circle. She observed him closely in the dimness. She had seen his face in periodicals and papers, but never in the flesh. His pale blue eyes were shadowed with restlessness. His skin had the sallowness of candles and his fingers were like restless spiders. He wore an old-fashioned frock coat with knee-length boots. A poppy blazed at his lapel, twining into black locks. She came up close, sidling behind him till she was almost pressed against his back in the crowd. An air of anxiety breathed off him, tainting his proximities with a nervous tension. She was about to draw alongside to catch his profile when a rolling snare drum called for silence. All eyes switched to the stage. The snare snapped dead and the curtains swept back. In the spotlight stood the poised figure of a mythical creature. It was hard, even for Yvette, to name the captivating figure as Vivienne, so removed was her stance and appearance from reality. She stood naked in the beam, her gleaming arms drawn back like wings. The masked, bird-like face was tuned full force into the prismic light, thrusting her blinding white body into the glare. Her arched ribs and sculpted thighs vibrated with a barely perceptible stallion-like tension, while long feet held the stage on knife-ish pointes. Her obscured eyes and painted lips presnted a trinity of glowing black almonds, set in a slender oval of luminescene. Yvette would have expected bawdy calls or lusty choruses from such a dingy establishment, but rapturous silence weighed supreme. The grimy, liquored faces regarded this visitation with a palpable reverence, watching it as expectantly as children. Tape began to play through a sound system. Analog crackling blossomed into the charged air, announcing a vintage recording of some kind. Strings rose from the ghostly swell of scratchy noise, and Yvette recognised the piece as ‘Le Cygne’ by Camille Saint-Saëns. She realised that Vivienne was about to attempt ‘The Dying Swan’, that mysterious and legendary peice of choreography which Anna Pavlova had taken to her grave. The poignant dance which Maya Plisetskaya had immortalized on grainy monochrome recordings and on stages around the world. Vivienne’s long arms became lucid and weightless, coiling upward as her thighs fluttered in a slow constancy, as though adrift on rippling waters. Her control was superb, and Yvette realised that it was an effect which Vivienne had achieved through countless nights upon this filthy stage. Seeing the famous peice performed without a costume, gave it a primal urgency which was profoundly unsettling. The animistic undercurrent of the choreography arose like blood from a wound, leaking into the witnesses with a promise of scars. Here in the seedy underverse of canals and alleys, Vivienne had sumoned the spirit of a perpetually dying bird. And the naked majesty of her body was unspeakable in it’s possesion. Yvette glanced to one side and saw that Cain was weeping faintly. The dance continued, as if in a dream, the shining figure moving in suspension, sinking inexorably toward it’s death throes. Her spine became elongated, folding unnaturally back as she quivered a final time in her descent. The music faded out and the chamber was plunged into darkness. From the sickening pit of silence issued forth delirious applause, the glory of the obsessed and wounded, untrammelled by civility or any form of social decency. The house lights came back onto an empty stage and the bestial crowd was awakened completely from it’s hypnotic reverie. They reverted to animals, squalling and screaming inebriated delight at the closed curtains. Cain broke from the drunken horde, his hands to his face. He ran out into the courtyard and Yvette followed him blindly, without recourse to thought. She followed him down winding, moonlit passages, past tattered shop fronts and across cobbled tracts. He was running silently through the deserted streets and Yvette had to race to keep him in sight. They passed like spectral forms beneath the twisted trees which marked the edges of the alleyway warren. The more respectable quadrants of Ambarvalia were visible above the canal, a darkness jewelled with streetlamps. He entered into the passage which ran alongside the canal, disturbing the fine tentacles of mist which exuded off the surface of the waters. Some swans were moving in the shadows, like flaws on celluloid. Yvette watched from the bank as he stopped beneath a small and ancient bridge, pushing his head against the blackened stonework. She paused, leaning on a cypress, breathing raggedly. He was still now, seeming not to be moving. She approached cautiously along the paved walk. He did not notice until she was very near and started like an animal.
“Who are you!” he hissed.
“It’s allright,” she answered in a whisper. “I’m a friend of Vivienne’s.”
The sound of her name brought about a talismanic change in his demeanour. The wildness left him abruptly and he straightened out, emerging from the darkness. He scuffed glistening moisture from his face and extended his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he coughed. “I’m…I’m a little outside of myself.”
She shook his cold hand awkwardly and he cleared his throat. He rummaged in a pocket and then blew his nose quietly in a peice of tissue paper. They stared out across the black waters while he lit a cigarette.
“Would you like one?” he offered, proffering the pack.
She accepted with a word of mumbled thanks and they smoked for a moment, in silence.
“You haven’t told me your name,” he mumbled, his pale face still half-cast in the heavy shadow of the bridge.
“My name is Yvette,” she said quietly.
“You know who I am don’t you,” he asked gloomily. “I mean…she’s told you about me.”
“Yes,” Yvette answered.
He was sullen in the half-dark.
“I see,” he said after awhile.
It was clear that he had misunderstood her, thinking perhaps that Vivienne had mocked him and that she had joined her in scorn of his affections. A build-up of unknown feeling soared in Yvette, compounded by her long chase after him. And having no way to flow, the feeling re-directed itself, seeking release. She leaned clumsily forward, took his collar and kissed him. The action shocked him into querulous submission. His lips parted, melting like wax before the flame of her mouth. They were unbalanced against the rail, and the surge of his pent-up emotion added colour to the moment. She tasted tears. There was a delirious desire in his touch, but not for her. Confusion seemed to suddenly descend, paralysing their hands and mouths. They withdrew, leaning on the rails. She was breathing heavily. Her cigarette had fallen in the water and the sluggish current had already swept it beneath the bridge. He remembered that he still held his and took a shaky draw upon it. He offered it to her and she accepted, her fingers trembling slightly. He lit another and they stood for several moments while their breathing evened.
“Shall we walk back?” he suggested after awhile.
“I don’t think I can go back there,” she muttered.
He leaned on the iron railing which spanned the length of the canal, almost in relief Yvette thought.
“Neither can I,” he sighed with weariness.
They began to stroll along the canal, passing beneath a succession of decrepit, moonwashed bridges. The effects of the run had subdued the giddy surge of the hashish somewhat. It had subsided into a thin, hallucinatory sheen which still afforded visual phantoms and subtle dilations of time. She would watch each ornamental bridge as appeared in the distance, swelling in perspective as it wafted closer to swallow them in it’s pitchy shadows. And each gulf of shadow was almost like a physical substance to her, a medium, like a fluid which left no trace. Outer sounds would dissipate behind the damp stonework and the sharp silence and clarified clicking of the waters against the walls would solidify. This shadowy trench would last only a few moments before they emerged once more into the moonlight. Then the process would begin again, as though they were passing through a sucession of gates toward the cusp of another world. After awhile it began to feel as though they had been walking for ages. He had withdrawn into himself, a silent shadow, more a part of the aphotic world beneath the bridges than of the waking world without. She glanced at him from time to time as they strolled, and his face was as waxen as before. A thing formed of a passing flame and then left trapped in a cold, melted state. She noticed that a swan was following them along the waters. It remained in the distance, drifting silently in their wake, lingering in the shaded parts of the canal. She imagined that it watched them closely while they walked, as animals often do, observing their every movement and subtle interaction; a very palpable third party. The prescence of it disturbed Yvette vaguely, who felt the need to be unmoored. She was passing etheric gates toward another realm and needed no trailing spectre, who would doubtless follow her across the threshold.
“Do you see that a swan that is following us?” she whispered dreamily.
He did not turn his head, or even seem to register, though he answered promptly.
“It’s impossible to escape her,”
Yvette felt a heaviness, like an anchor dragging across the waters. Once more she was overwhelmed by the languid power of Vivienne and her magnificent reach. She looked over her shoulder, at all the crumbling districts which had passed. This kingdom seemed to somehow belong to Vivienne, a province of shadows and barely realised forms, over which she presided like some unreachable, ministering angel. And, as though in a dream, she began to recognise the buildings and street-corners. That which was previously so foriegn became suddenly familiar to her. She realised that they must have wandered far, and were within the vicinity of the botanical gardens.
“Come this way,” she murmured, taking his arm and leading him up a flight of stone steps. They crossed a quiet intersection and entered mazy, silent suburbs. Vast trees ghosted overhead as they walked. For a while she led him on her private routes through the streets, but then the lead slipped subtly and she found that she was following him. He walked without a word, down debris choked paths which linked the streets through tracts of undergrowth. Gusts of leaves from tree-lined avenues blanketed the pavements and tarmac, rattling underfoot. They soon found themselves across the road from the enormous house of Vivienne’s parents. All the lights in the street were extinguished save her high attic window, which burned with a soft light. Her cabriolet was also parked across the street, confirming her presence. He had stopped and was standing very still, as though trying to catch any sounds that might fall from above. The misery of the scene suddenly woke Yvette from her trance, and she took his arm once more.
“Come,” she commanded gently.
He resisted at first, but then allowed himself to be led back along the lanes, glancing behind occasionally, as though hoping to catch a glimpse of her at the window. For the first time that night, Yvette felt herself breaking free from Vivienne’s circle of enchantment. By placing her physically in the world, she had been able to retreat. She drew Cain to a place where she knew of a collapse in the botanical garden’s fence. The large, wooden pickets had fallen, creating a clandestine entrance into the park. Clear moonlight washed over skeins of ivy and illuminated the distant glintings of running water. They picked their way across the ruined barricade, stumbled though a trench and emerged into large, open park lawns painted silver in the lunar radiance. The moon was now visible above a faraway line of pines, cloyed in chocolatey web of cloud. Yvette breathed a heavy sigh of relief. She felt awake and alert in the park, safe within the bounds of her own private haunts. A skin of sleepwalking had broken, exposing her to the events of the night, as though they were scenes in a book.
“How long has Vivienne been dancing at the Kismet?” she asked.
He exhaled a long plume of cigarette smoke, which rivulated back across the grasses like a phantom loosed.
“She has been dancing in places like that since she was twelve,” he replied bleakly.
Yvette was shocked at the depth of Vivienne’s secret life. Her strength had to be admired, her willingness to study at the hard bench of experience.
“She is a very talented dancer…” she said.
Cain gave a bitter chuckle.
“That’s the irony about Vivenne,” he said. “She can’t recognise that she is talented, she only sees her body as a weapon.”
“But how can she not realise?”
“Vivienne only sees visual art and the like as talent,” Cain explained. “Perhaps if she was a prima ballerina in a well-known company she might eventually recognise her abilities, since recognition is so important to her.”
“I don’t see why she hasn’t been accepted by such a company,”
“She hasn’t approached one, so enfatuated is she with her idea of what an artist is supposed to be…She’s so obsessed with embodying this imagined ideal of artistic perfection that she is willing to fake ability, forsaking the true power nature has given her.”
“But she hasn’t forsaken her power at all…”
“No, she hasn’t,” he admitted. “But she is like a child with matches,”
“It’s all so ironic, considering how much time and energy she puts into dancing.”
“She doesn’t see it that way,” he replied curtly. “To her, she’s investing in power, people fall in love with her when she dances so she dances all the time. She canot see what she is doing, only the effect it causes. But she becomes better and better every day, for all the wrong reasons.”
“In a way, she is more of a true artist than most so-called artistic practitioners,” Yvette smirked. “There is no sense of class or pretension about what she does, the only rules being the one’s she has made for herself, the only measuring bar is the quality of her performance. It is art for the sake of art, a complete reversal of her daily life, which is pure pretense.”
“Yes…”
“I can see why you love her,” she whispered.
He was silent, gleaming pale in the wan light, brows knotted with shade.
“You want to save her don’t you, show her who she really is…”
He remained silent.
“It won’t work,” she continued. “Vivienne is completely lost within herself, she’s more in love with that figure on the stage than you are…She can’t let anything come between that, don’t you see?”
She reached over and took his unmoving fingers.
“Like you,” she said intensely. “Would you let anything come between that figure and yourself?”
He caught her eye and slowly withdrew his fingers, drifting down a stretch of leaf littered turf. She was perhaps being cruel, but the sensation felt right to her under the circumstances. Somebody must be the candle in all this mist, she thought. He stopped beside the edge of a stream. White flowers gleamed supernaturally from the water’s edge. She came up beside him and once again took his hand. This time he let her for some reason. They stood for long silent seconds in the ebb of silent waters and downpour of still, silver light. Then she began once more to kiss him, like a child eating something it has never tasted before. And he allowed her to, remaining closed all the while, like an old cabinet which has been stuffed to capacity with dusty, indecipherable items. Her eyes opened at one point and she saw the swans, a large cluster of them, sleeping with their heads folded beneath their wings. They cannot see me, she thought. They cannot see me.

the secret diary of tiffany twisted

Filed under: nikhil singh — ABRAXAS @ 12:00 am

2. A WEEK-END AT CASTLE W

I unexpectedly found myself in a castle in Scotland. Two weeks had passed since the incident with Nadia and life quickly settled back into the vaguely cognac-coloured groove which usually precedes Spring. I had been toying with the idea of travelling to Paris for Fashion week, but some vague impulse kept me from confirming any of the invitations. I was skrying in my crystal ball (I love my crystal ball!) when a call came in on The Candy-Bar. The Candy-Bar is a very loud, fuschia coloured Blackberry which I purchased exlusively for my sugary alter ego; Miss Glass. It was Etienne.

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“Hello Dolly,” he chirped in a well-modulated Russian accent.

Etienne had a bizarre, bird-like interest in mimicry and often spoke for weeks on end in strange accents. I found this quirk particularly entertaining, and often the two of us would pretend various nationalities to strangers (It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye).

“Hello Dolly,” I parroted.

“So how’s your constitution this week?”

I could hear traffic behind him. He must have been on the move.

“My kitten is fine, thanks for asking, what’s up?”

“I have a pigeon up in Scotland asked for you by name, offered ten grand for a week-end trip, what do you say?”

I could practically hear him salivating.

“Oh I don’t know,” I grinned through a fake moan. “I planned to go to NUKE EM ALL with Mona.”

“You coy fucking blonde bitch,” he muttered. “This is motherlode of the month.”

“Yeah for you maybe Fagin baby,” I cackled. “But didn’t you hear my rich aunt Haversham died, leaving me an island in the South Pacific?”

“Oh whoop-di-fucking doo. You’ll be fending off Octogenraian Japanese deserters who think the war isn’t over, battling cholera and getting raped regularly by illiterate Pygmies; just say yes please.”

I umm-ed and ah-ed a bit just to piss him off but eventually agreed.

“Now why do you think he wants me?” I asked.

“Christ, I don’t know,” he smirked. “You’d think for that kind of wad he’d demand quality.”

I hung up instantly. He just kept on smirking I know. I could practically see him cackling up the High Street, winking at stupid chicks. Fucking life man.

Mona (my best friend since I was nineteen) was in town for two weeks. I had planned to see her on saturday, but had enough time to postpone till next week. So I took a rain-check and flew to Edinburgh on friday morning. All the way in I was watching clouds with a funny feeling in my tummy. Something odd was up and I couldn’t place a finger on it. I decided to play Candy Glass safe on this expedition and had myself got up in a nice white suit with my faithful Burberry coat for company. Big sunglasses and a scowl seemed to follow this ensemble wherever it went (like errant pets). Christ was there trouble brewing; of that much I was certain. I was met at the airport by a sour type by the name of Lucas. The signpost he held up read ‘MISS GLASS’ in an ornamental font. He also appeared to be haunted by sunglasses and a scowl and ushered me and my matching luggage into a black sedan. We started to drive, bypassing Edinburgh and turning onto the A68. The day was turning grey and bright. A stainless steel sky cleaved in places, flashing blinding blue; like the plumage of some unearthly bird.

“Where are we going?” I asked Lucas.

“Castle W,” he answered quietly. “It’s just over an hour by car.”

His accent was noticeably un-Scottish, though I decided not to comment on it.

“I’ve never stayed in a castle before,” I mentioned conversationally.

“Mister Psalmanazer has hired the castle for the week-end,” The man replied. “It’s not much more than a glorified hotel, used mostly for marriages and the like.”

“A hotel for one is still a castle,” I quipped merrily.

I saw him scowl distastefully at me via the rearview and lasped back into mischevious silence. We passed quaint stone haunted towns and rainy moorland, leaving the highway near Duns and entering into the wooded regions of the Eastern Scottish borderlands. A long drive soon furled out of the moist greenery, terminating in a large masonry arch. Beyond the walls of this portico, the castle itself loomed; an enormous, pinkish/grey chess piece of a place. The facade was twelve to thirteen windows across and flanked by twin turrets. I had been expecting a gloomy, Dracula-like atmosphere, but was almost disappointed by the sense of transient luxury which the estate evoked. I could now understand Lucas’s hotel comments. We pulled into a circular drive and parked in front of the covered entrance. He unloaded my bags as another man emerged from around the edge of the far turret. This suited figure approached and began to gather up my luggage with a faceless efficiency. Lucas addressed him curtly:

“Take Miss Glass up to Bedroom Three,”

The suited figure nodded and began to trudge up toward the main entrance.

“You must be tired and hungry,” Lucas said. “I’ll arrange for some lunch to be sent up to your room.”

“And then what?” I asked innocently enough.

“You will meet Mister Psalmanazer at dinner, I’ll send word up to your room.” he said. “But for the moment, rest.”

He strode off with a ‘go-to-your-room’ sort of gesture, heading toward the far turret. The suited figure was waiting stonily by the door, so I complied like a good little luxury item and followed him in. The doors led into a quiet, stone flagged hall. Afternoon light entered from the windows above, falling solemnly upon twin white staircases. These swooping structures encircled a pot-planted reception table, converging overhead at an imposing Ionic portico. There was an air of sudden abandonment about the place, a fire-alarm kind of feeling; as though the building had been left abruptly deserted. The figure mounted the right stair and ascended like some sort of gloomy pack animal. I let out a theatrical vampire chuckle which echoed dismally and elicited very little in the way of a response from my bag bearer. So I followed him up, tocking my needle heels as loudly as I could against the stonework in the hope of attracting the attention of any others contained within the walls. But a sense of emptiness prevailed and I soon stopped. The Ionic pillars gave way to an long gallery which seemed to run from turret to turret. This Georgian avenue was quiet with mahogany and ebony. Furniture lurked all down it’s length; long, low tables haunted by pale busts, child-sized vases in niches and long windows overlooking the antiquated courtyard area. My porter drifted ahead of me, passing portal after portal in slow succession. One or two of the heavy doors were ajar and I caught glimpses in passing. An enormous, utterly vacant ballroom held my attention for several moments before I was forced onward. We ascended another flight of steps, navigated a passage or two and eventually arrived at the door of Bedroom Number Three.

“Charming name,” I muttered. “Are all the rooms numbered?”

He looked up at me with hangdog eyes and set down my bags in order to open the door.

“The Army numbered the rooms in World War One,” he murmured quietly. “This place was used as a sort of convalesence hospital.”

“I see,”

“I’m George,” he said awkwardly, glancing around like an animal before opening the door.

A long room strewn with sofas and headed by three enormous leafy windows emerged encouragingly. A rather spooky four poster bed brooded in the center, surrounded by vintage furnishings. Despite the ample sunlight, the two bedside lamps had been switched on. This subtle illumination did much to falsify the luxury of the chamber, creating a vaguely unpleasant feeling of entrapment which reminded me of the true purpose of my visit. Large, soft carpets covered the wooden floors. A floor-length mirror waited ominously for tonight’s performance. George set down my bags and waited as I switched off the lamps.

“I’ll bring you up some lunch,” he said and closed the heavy door behind him. I waited a moment before slinking over to the windows, collapsing onto the thick carpet in a welcome release of tension. I stretched like a cat, purred and rolled over onto my back, staring up at the underneath of a polished boudoir table. The sky glinted beyond, passing like luminous porcelain behind a never-ending succession of disturbing clouds. I levered off my soul destroying heels and flexed my toes into the pile. A nervous tension had gotten hold of me somewhere, and despite my many magical advantages, I still felt as though I had wandered into a trap of some sort. I felt around inside for Tiffany and took comfort in her warm, white fur. If I was cast into a chess game, what piece was I now being forced to play?

A light knocking awoke me from the doze I had slipped into. I got up off the carpet in a second, momentarily disoreintated. The flight and drive had tired me a little more than I had anticipated and I felt suddenly foolish for letting myself be lured to this strange, vacant place. I opened the door to find George bearing a tray and avoiding my eyes. He came in, crossed the vast room and deposited the tray on the table by the windows.

“Dinner will be at eight,” he said. “If you could be ready at seven, someone will be along to fetch you.”

“And how am I expected to be dressed?” I smirked.

He blushed rather re-assuringly and fled.

“Someone will be along at seven,” he repeated nervily, closing the door behind him.

I sat down and lifted the lid on Tweed river salmon and a dark, leafy salad. A small bottle of pale Chablis nestled alongside a decanter of Swedish sparlking water. Some tablets of dark chocolate lay scattered about impersonally, almost like a careless afterthought. I eyed the meal suspiciously before deciding to make tea. There was a kettle in a discreet corner, on a small metal service. I withdrew my special ceramic mug (the one I made in Pottery class!) and a bundle of herbs. I boiled some tap water, eyeing the food and weighing the delicious aspect of it against the grumbling in my tummy. By the time I poured the water I decided to be done with it and just devour the luncheon. But as I sat down to dine, the surface of my tea caught my attention. I inspected it closely to find a mercurial meniscus shifting along like the faint slick of a soap bubble. The usually clear tea was also vaguely milky. I emptied the kettle in the en suite and carried it into the day light. There, in and amongst the dirty stainglass of limescale beside the element I could detect several tiny slivers of some pale root or bone. These fragments had been twined in dark wire and attached surreptitiously to the element. I went numb, sat and flipped the salmon upside down. The tender pink fillets had been poached lightly and it was initially quite difficult to detect the slits which ran their length. I flapped one delicately open and traced the residue of faint white granules. I abruptly decided to leave. The heavy door was predictably locked and the windows too high to escape through. I also realised that I was probably being observed via closed circuit cameras. I had no choice really but to play along at this point. Rather than curse my foolishness and ponder my imminent rape and dismemberment, I decided to take a bubblebath. Luckily I had my own sparkling water and a stash of pink and white candy coated almonds to sustain me. I played Marie Lafóret on my Ipod and zoned out while the afternoon lingered beyond the pretty tableau of my poisoned meal.

Relaxing under such stressful circumstances is hardly easy, and even the best of witches is prone to fits of panic. So, despite my best intentions, I suffered all manner of manic guilt trips and escape plans whilst soaking in that spacious old bath. This was the karma kick-back for Nadia I told myself. No wicked deed goes unpunished. I got downright biblical at one point and had to force myself to do breathing exercises just to keep from bursting into tears. I popped candy almonds in gloomy successions of alternating pink and white till they were all finished. If only that poisoned salmon didn’t look so tasty. In a fit of rage I hacked it into pulp and flushed it down the lavatory, along with the beautiful salad. I emptied the bottles into the sink and threw the chocolates into the bin. Despair descended along with the sun. By nightfall I was frantic. Somehow, witches had learned of my clandestine Candy routine and kidnapped me for all manner of vile esoteric torture! My only concern was whether they were Scalpel Valentines or sorcerers of another sect entirely. Whatever the case, none of the alternatives boded well. I had been so careful to keep Candy a secret, yet now, I realised that I had probably been observed all along. I half expected Madre Sanguina to waltz in at any second, laughing her head off. As Seven O’Clock approached I decided to dress for dinner. Resistance would only be met with hostile force, of that I was certain. Besides, there was a certain steely glint in Lucas’s eyes which I did not have any wish to explore. I decided to make getting ready an act of power and accentuate every ounce of my Daemon attractiveness to it’s fullest potential. I streamlined my hair, executed my make-up with a microscopic intensity, ensured the utter hairlessness of my body and slid Tiffany on with a pressurized hiss. I opted for a small black Italian ensemble which seemed to scream ‘Mafioso Bitch!’ in block capitals. By seven I was pacing the room in panther black and needle heels. A trail of Missoni fragrance blossomed amberishly over my fear, coating it in the cold chocolate of false security. I felt like a fragmenting comet, burning up in the Outer Darkness. And so I drifted through this icy fugue, waiting, becoming more and more aware of Death; as one often does in situations of incarceration. Tiffany was whispering in between my breasts, creating a faint tickling sensation. I slowed my breathing to hear her, and under her persuasive tactile suggestion, began to suddenly imagine the feeling of Death as a violent lover. The idea seemed to catalyze a series of physical reactions within me, locking out my reason in a sudden trapgrate of imaginative fancy. My new Death hovered beyond these whispers, a burning angel of smouldering sensation and white hot ferocity. It’s proximity began to melt the ice-cage of fear and I felt an involuntary shiver; produced in part by Tiffany’s mastubatory movements. The dangerous pleasure which Tiffany had introduced ignited an unexpected bout of laughter. She was squirming slowly around in my tummy, making me vaguely slippery. I was shocked at my transformation in mood. It was as though a switch had been thrown inside me. Strength was building like a wall of boiling water. I heard a key rattling in the lock and watched as the door creaked open. Lucas and George entered in black chauffeur uniforms. They eyed me warily, as though expecting some form of attack. I noticed that they were carrying truncheons. Adrenalin was pumping like holy water. And Tiffany squeezed internally, transmuting the lead of my fear with this unholy stimulant. I was shaking inside, but outside I was all ice-cubes and diamonds; just like Sanguina showed me.

“Get that dress off,” Lucas muttered irritably.

I hesitated for a moment, caught off guard.

“I said off with it,” he repeated.

I smiled accomodatingly, reached behind and unclipped myself. I tossed the garment onto the bed, standing hands on hips in my black silk and satin. George was staring at the floor, his face as red as a plate of soup.

“The underwear and stockings as well,” Lucas nodded. “You can keep the shoes and jewellry on for now.”

I turned around, sat on a chair and began to slide off my stockings.

“You don’t have to make a show of it,” Lucas said. “Just get it all off as quickly as possible.”

He glanced at his watch and I made haste so as not to aggravate him further. Within minutes we were crossing the long Gallery below. Very few lights had been lit in this part of the Castle, and the gaping chambers were hollow with shadows. Lucas walked ahead of me while George took up the rear. Draughts skirled about from distant, open windows. These icy breezes caused me to goose-pimple rather severely, and I had to wrap my arms around my chest to keep from shivering.

“Sorry about the chill,” Lucas said over his shoulder. “It will be warm where we are going.”

This remark did little to soothe me, although Tiffany was still at work, fluttering about like a moth on fire, keeping me somehow safe. We ended up in the ballroom, as I somehow knew we would. A large fire was blazing in the hearth and a dining table had been placed a comfortable distance before it. Crystal chandeliers hung dim and ghostly, swathed and clotted with shadows. A pudgy man in a chef’s uniform hovered at the table, fussing over an over-laden trolley. Flat, obsidian coloured rocks had been piled enigmatically on the surface of the stout mahogany table. These formed a calculated cairn-like clutter, creating a rather surreal rock-garden effect. A middle-aged woman in a polo neck detached unexpectedly from the shadows and met us by the door.

“I’ll take it from here,” she murmured to Lucas, who nodded and left the room, taking George with him. The departure of the men instantly dissipated my fear. The spectacled woman took my arm and led me to the table. The large slabs of black, glassy rock had been laid across the surface of the table in a naturalistic fashion, creating lounge-like hollows, seemingly sculpted to support a reclining body. They piled against one another, covering the table-top entirely.

“Feel stone,” The woman said in her strange accent, guiding my hand toward the nearest slab.

The rocks were warm, resonating with a mysterious inner heat.

“Volcanic,” she smiled. “Retain heat all night no problem.”

I noticed that the chef was co-ordinating a vast array of sushi. He seemed not to notice my presence at all.

“Shoes please,” the woman signalled.

I removed my heels and she took them, placing them in the large leather satchel which she carried around her waist. I realised that it was a hunting satchel; the kind in which riflemen would carry fallen grouse or pheasants.

“If you please,” she smiled, indicating that I should climb up onto the table.

I began to understand what was expected of me and shimmied onto the deliciously warm rocks.

“It is of vital importance that you are comfortable,” she frowned. “For you must try not to move during meal.”

I lay down on the comfortable arrangement of volcanic shale and the woman positioned my limbs in what I assumed was an aesthetic fashion. In the end, my back was supported snugly, throwing my breasts, stomach and hips up while my limbs inclined vaguely downward, palms up and feet folded against each other like lilies, knees slightly apart. The radiant glow of the rocks had a very calming effect and I soon realised that I was very comfortable indeed. The woman confirmed this before brushing out my hair and re-touching my make-up. A chair had been placed at the area of the table just before my stomach and hips. My head had also been tilted to face whoever took the table’s single seat, and I stared at this chair, wondering what manner of person would soon occupy it. The comfort of my position quickly reminded me of other biological functions (the smell of the fish was making my stomach grumble!). The woman heard this and frowned at me.

“You have eaten?” she asked.

“I haven’t eaten all day,” I answered pitifully.

She shook her head at the chef, who shot me a glance. He whipped out a sheet of Nori and quickly created a large impromptu American-style roll with random ingredients. He handed it to the woman and then returned to his work without a word. She passed this creation to me with an aunt-like smile.

“Eat fast so that there is time to touch up,” she nodded, leaving me to devour the succulent morsel.

I ate one-handed, with a sort of ‘I-cheated-Death’ relish, trying not to move too much and watching as the hunched woman crossed to the far end of the enormous ballroom. Large windows looked out upon illuminated trees. Empty chairs waited like trained dogs. I noticed the chef standing over me, studying my raised hips with clinical detachment.

“Try not to move dear,” he said in a surprisingly gruff voice.

I watched as he began to lay pieces of finely sculpted Nigiri and Maki around my pelvic region. I watched with vague amusement as these colourful items began to gradually frame my navel and genitalia in almost psychedelic patterns. They felt clammy against my skin; a little like enormous slugs. The chef worked with precision, apologising occasionally for the coldness of the fish. He placed twin abalone over my nipples and one in my belly-button. He lined my ribs with red clam and Anago. A jewellry of gold and crimson roe travelled in swirls around my breasts and along my collarbones. Sashimi of various description ornamented my tummy, frilled with quail eggs, oyster and crispy tofu pods. The woman returned to fix my face and soon I resembled a refugee from a Bosch painting. Bowls of tamari, wasabi and other less recognisable condiments were placed on tiny laquered platforms along the rock before the seat. These, I noticed, were cooled with ice to counter the effects of the warm rock.

“Fifteen minutes I think,” the woman mentioned to the chef.

He nodded, completed his edible adornment of my body and arranged a side-table with flame heated tea and saki. There was a knock at the door. I looked sideways to see Lucas signalling the woman in the polo-neck.

“He’ll be down soon,” I heard him mention to her.

The chef was soon done, wheeling his little magic trolley out into the hall. The woman paused to double-check my appearance before gathering any unwanted items into her satchel.

“Remember to stay comfortable and relax,” the woman announced crisply. “Try not to move too much.”

She departed abruptly and I was left alone with the roaring fire and the enormous, empty ballroom. The absurdity of my situation began to occur to me as the minutes passed and I had to suppress one or two chuckles. The passage of my fear had left me feeling vaguely euphoric and I was afraid that I might get the giggles and simply not be able to stop. The creak of the opening door silenced me immediately. I looked up to see a pair of woman in traditional Geisha dress entering the ballroom like large, exotic birds. They glanced absently at me before tottering to the center of the room on their clogs. One unfolded a small tatami mat and knelt, producing a Shamisen from the folds of her Kimono. The other assumed a statue-like poise, seeming to await a surreptitious signal to begin dancing. A long fan hung loosely in her fingers as she balanced on the balls of her feet. Their white faces glowed at me out of the dimness, like disturbing dolls. The seated figure began to play her instrument and subtle cat-like sounds invented alien emotions which simmered and tousled like fog within the sullen chamber. I lay listening to their evocation, feeling the strange mineral warmth of the rocks permeate to me to my bones. Outside a rain began to fall. I did not notice him enter. In fact I only became aware of his presence when he quietly moved the chair back to sit. I watched as his face as he moved. He seemed old, yet possesed a remarkably unlined skin. His features were swarthy and very definitely of Japanese origin. His hair was oiled and brushed into an antiquated side-parting. He wore a simple black suit and spectacles. There was something vaguely nineteen-fifties about him, an unearthly timelessness which got under your skin and lingered, like a fungal growth. I observed as he poured out a thimble of saki. His movements were measured and insectile and I could smell the aromatic aftershave and hair oil which he had doused himself in. The dancer had begun some sort of cormorant-like activity in my far peripheral vision, flashing in the near-dark like a large-finned fish. The man unclipped porcelain chopsticks and selected a small sliver of fatty yellowtail from my pubic region. He still had not looked at my face, and I began to feel sculpture-like in my inactivity, almost as though I weren’t really there. He chewed and swallowed the fish fragment, selecting another with slow, reptilian movements. I felt the chopsticks slip over the exposed fissure of my genitals like the pincers of a highly polished China crab. Outside, the rain had intensified, dappling the foliage with a sleepy tattoo.

“You seem quite lucid my dear,” he announced in a quiet, highly aticulated voice. “I take it you discovered the mahou I had placed in your salmon?”

“Yup,” I replied. “The one in the kettle as well.”

He gave me a strange look when I said this, staring into my eyes for the first time. His pupils were like tiny, dark glass slits which seemed to vibrate with an almost inorganic intensity. I quickly glanced away, nerve-racked by their inhumanity. He continued to stare for some moments, scanning my body like a robot before returning to his meal.

“What do you want with me?” I whispered quietly.

He nibbled one or two more tidbits and drank his saki before speaking.

“Do you not think Psalmanazar an unusual name?” he asked unexpectedly.

“I suppose,” I answered. “It certainly isn’t very Japanese.”

“Exactly what I thought,” the man answered vaguely.

His chopsticks lifted an Awabi clam from my left nipple.

“At some time in the Seventeen Hundreds a character with pale skin and distinctly European features arrived in London,” he said. “This man claimed, rather absurdly, to be Japanese and went by the name of Psalmanazar. He told people that he hailed from the island of Formosa – a then unexplored place – And that the natives hunted serpents for food, wore only gold plates for clothing and ate their unfaithful wives. He claimed that the priests sacrificed eighteen thousand young boys annually and then devoured their roasted hearts. He consumed great quantities of raw meat in public, published several books on the subject of his imaginary country and was held in such high acclaim by the English that even the Bishop of London and many members of the Royal Society believed him to be a perfect specimen of a Japanese gentleman. I often take his name when I travel to West, as a reminder of the perpetual, unflinching stupidity of the British.”

“Hay that’s pretty funny!” I cackled. “Are you going to rape and kill me?”

He gave me an unfathomable look and returned to his gastronomic exploration of my tits.

“I mean this is all very fucking hip hop for a Japanese Warlock, or whatever you’re supposed to be…”

“When I eat off a woman, I remind myself of the beauty of the Earth, and that whatever sustenance she offers is derived from her celestial body.”

“Oh, right, I see,” I nodded. “And is that how you justify the sushi-porn routine to the other Warlocks in the sect?”

He ignored my teasing and chewed up another clam.

“Look what do you want from me?” I demanded. “And how do you know so much about my secret life?”

“I know a great many things,” he explained. “And what I want is for you to assist me in the murder of Etienne Juniper.”

I blinked a few times.

“Surely someone as powerful as you doesn’t need someone as insignificant as me for that…sort of..thing?” I mumbled with an all of a sudden dry mouth.

“On the contrary,” he replied. “As a Sister of the Scalpel Valentines, and based on your personal relationship with the person in question, you are perfectly placed.”

“But why?” I whined. “What did Etienne do!”

He paused to stare contemptuously at me.

“What hasn’t he done?” came the blank response.

“I suppose there are always reasons with that boy,” I sighed. “but what am I expected to do? Knife him in his sleep! I’ve never killed anyone before you know…I just can’t do that sort of shit!”

“It’s nothing so complex,” he replied, and went on to explain:

“I want you to put him in contact with an aquaintance of mine in London. You will introduce this person as a narcotics shipper – the person who supposedly invited you here this week-end trip. You will then broker a deal between this person and your friend Mister Juniper. It will involve convincing Juniper to deliver a shipment of narcotics to a buyer in Cairo; for an enormous fee. This shipment will of course be tampered with, placing Mister Juniper in a very uncomfortable position with the buyers in Egypt. They will deal with him there, and you will be free of any further responsibility. You will also be compensated for this trouble. So as you can see, there will be very little blood on you.”

The chopsticks slid like spider’s legs across my stomach, nipping up fish roe with a nimble flickering. The man sucked up these minute eggs without any sound, moving his jaws like a mantis, watching me think.

“What if I refuse?” I murmured dangerously.

The man slowly set down his chopsticks and raised a napkin to his mouth.

“Allow me to demonstrate,” he replied quietly.

He reached into his blazer and withdrew, rather surprisingly, a somewhat out of place pudding spoon. It was one of those old Victorian porridge spoons you could imagine a rosy cheeked child weilding on a box of oats or an old syrup advert. He touched it against my nipple and I flinched from the caress of the cold metal. I realised that my body was oversensitized, charged to the brim with nervous energy. I watched as the man lifted his long, heavy implement into the air between our faces, swaying it gently back and forth, as one does a pendulum. I became vaguely mesmerized by this display, eyeing the spoon as a child observes a poised snake. A vaguely magnetic layer of static began to charge the skin of my chest, throat and face, creating a very palpable sensation of electricity. I watched in horror as the heavy substance of the spoon began to undulate in very vague, almost imperceptible syncopations. ALmost without warning, the entire utensil wilted, like a flower under immense heat. A ragged sound burst involuntarily from me, and sushi dripped from the parts of my body which had jerked up in fright. The man touched the fluid spoon to my navel and I flinched, expecting it to somehow feel unbearably hot. But the metal was still cold, and as inexplicably hard as before. I watched dizzily, tense with shock as he drew the spoon down toward my pubis. The implement had coiled in on itself, doubled around like a broken spine. Without warning, the man forcefully slid the metal object into my vaginal opening. The inner flesh of my passage was dry with fear and this entry was savage on my fragile tissues. I could hear my false nails scraping across the volcanic shale as my hands seized. A simmering sweat erupted across my tensed back and abdominal muscles. The man locked eyes with mine, half-risen from his chair.

“This is what will happen,” he hissed.

I started to shriek as I felt the spoon begin to uncoil within my delicate tracts. It flexed like a living thing; inorganic matter made flesh. The discordant clatter of the shamisen falling to the ballroom floor distracted the attention of my captor, disrupting the unnatural furling of the metal within me. The geishas were hovering like stricken birds. My screams had knocked them quite out of character. The fearsome man abruptly plucked his mangled spoon out of me and exited the room. I was left shaking in a mess of fallen food while the geishas fled the chamber. I felt my genitalia tenderly and saw my fingers come away, smeared with a thin smattering of blood. I was crying and swiping raw fish off me when the doors crashed open. Within moments the two chandeliers were glaring, flooding the entire chamber with yellow and white light. The bright wash of electric light lent a starkness to my nudity and vulnerability; a sensation which I was totally unprepared for. Imagine my surprise when a fully grown white tiger smacked it’s forepaws down onto the volcanic plates and began to lick the sushi from my feet with a sandpapery tongue. I staggered off the warm stones in shock, watching as the gleaming tiger mounted the table, devouring the fallen array of raw flesh with gusto. I became aware of laughter and looked up to see Lucas, George and three other uniformed men standing around by the door.

“If you could see your face!” George spluttered.

Their laughter sounded dead and tinny in the vast space, made all the more implausible by the gobbling sounds of the tiger. I stumbled backward, trying to cover myself and wipe away my tears and blood; all in one motion.

“He wouldn’t hurt a fly old Simba,” George giggled, almost apolagetically.

“Get her out of here and hose her down,” Lucas muttered. The other three men moved quickly. I tried to run to a window, but they had me in seconds. They dragged me kicking and screaming and biting down long halls and through limestone vestibules and enormous shadowy rooms lined with musty bookcases and mounted stag heads. We passed through several stone passages and emerged into clear, cold moonlight. I heard the whinny of horses from somewhere nearby and felt my feet slide around in chilly, black mud. I fell several times and had to be dragged at one point, shrieking all the while. The men pulled me into the blackness of a barn which smelled of sackcloth, manure and hay. The lights came on abruptly, illuminating ragged bales, cobweb and broken barrels. Rough stone walls reached up to a raftered ceiling medallioned with bird excrement. I was pulled to an open space, forced to my knees and lashed to a post. A sort of chemical reaction occurred within me as my wrists were bound. It melted my fury into a hysterical fear. I began shaking and weeping uncontrollably, gibbering half-formed sentences as one of the men removed his jacket beneath a naked bulb. Another lit a cigarette and uncoiled a dusty hose. Some chickens fluttered in the shadows of the loft, disturbed by the commotion below. I looked up involuntarily, but was struck unexpectedly by a jet of freezing water. It melted everything away in a starburst of nullity, twisting me down with the force of it’s gush. But then, without warning, it was all over. The water ebbed away and I could hear voices arguing. I rubbed my face against my shoulder to clear my eyes and made out the blurred image of the woman in the poloneck. She was engaged in some sort of disagreement with the men. Within moments she had intied me.

“Get up now,” she whispered in my ear.

I struggled to comply, even though my limbs had gone numb and rubbery. The men were chuckling and sharing cigarettes as the woman led me back out into the darkness of the yard. We passed over the muddy stretch as though in a dream and re-entered the house. All feeling had left my legs and feet and I stumbled naked through a gloomy succession of shadow drowned halls and chambers. I realised at some point that we had reached the long Gallery, and this was where the woman stopped me.

“You can find your way back to Bedroom Number Three from here?” she asked in a clipped voice.

“Yes,” I rasped.

She pressed an envelope into my waxy fingers and pushed me down the avenue. I went as quickly as I could, down the carpeted stretch and up the spiral stair. God knows how I located Bedroom Number Three, but when I did I threw myself into it. I turned on every light, barricaded all the loose furniture against the door and fled into the en suite. I turned on the bathtaps full, slammed the bathroom door so hard it broke and collapsed crying into the tub.

I half expected the door to be smashed down at any moment. But after half an hour of soaking in steaming water I started to calm down and get inquisitive again. Out of nowhere, I remembered the envelope which the polo-necked woman had pressed into my hand. I craned my head around and saw it lying on the carpet beside an overturned bedside table. I must have dropped it in my rush to uproot all the furnishings. I splashed out, retrieved it and got back in the bath. The envelope was gilted and opened with a crispy little crackle. Inside was a tiny card with some writing and a telephone number. The writing had been printed in blue ball point and was almost mechanistic in its lack of character. Devoid of any curlicues or personal characteristic, it looked as though the note had been written by a robot. The message it gave was simple:

‘neutralize what is behind the painting of the stag. call me on this number once it is done.’

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I blinked a few times before clambering out of the bubbly water. I wrapped a huge white towel around myself and inspected the bedroom. A portrait sized rendition of a stag hung on the wall opposite the four poster bed; just above the spot previously occupied by a single sofa (which was now rammed against the door!). I hefted the oil painting down to reveal a black box affixed to the wall behind it. A green LED flashed faintly on it’s matte surface and several wires spidered out of it’s casing at various trajectories. These wires burrowed beneath the wallpaper, becoming almost invisible in the embossed patterning. I followed one of the these wires with my fingertip, all around the wall to a corner. The tiny glint of a lens flashed out of a miniscule hole in the wooden skirting. Another led to a carefully disguised microphone. Without further ado, I picked up one of my Pompili stilletto heels and hacked at the box until it was spitting sparks and falling to peices. To make doubly sure, I uprooted the ends of all the wires and slashed them with my cuticle scissors. I then picked up my Candy-Bar and dialled the number on the card. I listened to the dial-tone and quickly became aware of a phone ringing somewhere very near to me. I spun around to see the woman in the poloneck balanced precariously outside one of the three windows! How she could have scaled an almost perpendicular wall was quite beyond me, but I rushed to unlatch the window and allow her in. Cold air gusted and billowed as she leapt nimbly from the sill to the floor. The dexterity and recourcefullness of this stocky, middle-aged schoolmarm-type was amazing! I shut the window and turned to witness a startling transformation. What I took for a hunch and a small potbelly, shifted as the woman straightened, realigning her posture to reveal her true form and figure. When I first met her I assumed that she was shorter than I was, but now saw that she saw almost a foot taller, and slenderer. She picked off spectacles and wig to turn, beaming at me with madly flashing eyes.

“Madre Sanguina!” I ejaculated, throwing my arms around her muscular ballerina shoulders and bursting into tears of relief against her familiar breast.

“You are still dripping Babushka,” she muttered in that husky Basque voice which I had missed so much. “Lets get you back in the bubbles before you catch cold.”

I sat swishing bubblebath around, utterly overjoyed, while Sanguina sat barefoot on the floor rolling a joint. In appearance (and without her camoflague), she hadn’t changed one iota. But then again, as we all know, witches age incredibly well. All those potions and magical yoga shit made a hundred and fifty year old lady look not a day over fourty. She sat with her fading tan and leonine cheekbones, grinning mischeviously at my happiness. I had been decieved by her disguises before, but never as acutely as this.

“So they all think that you’re this middle-aged Hungarian stylist?” I giggled.

“Effectivement,” she nodded. “Nobody in the castle knows that I am here except you Bebe.”

“Do the face again!” I implored like a mad child.

She hunched down, screwed up her eyes and somehow sucked in her cheeks and pouted simultaneously, creating an uncanny impression of advanced age. Her nostrils dilated and her forehead receded with a subtle flexing of scalp muscles. Sanguina had developed her facial muscles so expertly that she was able to maintain these characteristics almost indefinitely – even in sleep if necessary. The control she had of her body was nothing short of impeccable. And with the wig, accent and perpetually maintained posture, it would be virtually impossible to identify her in passing – Perhaps even under close scrutiny. She shrugged off the character like a coat while Ennio Morricone’s soundtrack to the film ‘Teorema’ slotted onto my Pod.

“So you know all about Candy Glass?” I asked, hiding behind a tentacle of foam.

“Certes oui!”

“And you’re not going to excommunicate me?”

She laughed raucously at this.

“Of course not cherie,”

“But doesn’t it go against the whole ethos of the Surgeon Mary!”

“Let me tell you a little something Bebe; the old Druids of this land used to segregate the male and

female neophytes into two magical schools. The men would wear white. They would be stationed up on the isle of Anglesey and tutored in all manner of exterior monastic skills – like tree lore and masonry etcetera. The women on the other hand, took up residence in the low Southern marshlands of Avalon, wore black and emarked on internal avenues of power – sexual gnosis, dream manipulation and all that monkeying about. The course we follow here is similar, as we have to keep in step with the magic of the land.”

“But the girls at the House would totally fuck out if they found out about me being a high class hooker! The Scalpel Superior would have my ass!”

“Laskovaya moya, what you have to understand is that the Physical House is but the entry hall into the true House of Scalpel Valentines – which is more of a state than a physical place; a dream temple which stands outside space and time. The physical Houses are like a sort of magical rehab. We introduce girls with promise, decontaminate them, introduce magical fundamentals and then watch,”

“Like bacteria in a Petrie dish…”

“If you like yes. But it is up to each individual fish to leave the pond and find the ocean nést pas?”

“So it’s not wrong to peddle my kitten to rich weirdos?”

“What is this right and wrong!” she cackled. “Perhaps it would be wrong for another mad little chicken! But you have turned it into an act of power and fed your familiar. You must get out of this right and wrong conditioning of society – we live in a predatory universe Bebe, and a witch must survive any way she can.”

“I can’t get my head around this Sanguina!”

“Il est cinglé!” she cackled. “Your body will learn and your head will follow!”

“I’m a fallen woman!”

“My little Soap Star! You just adore feeling sorry for yourself! Indulging in this whole broken doll routine…Don’t you realise that it is the Reptiles who have done this to you? As they have done this to legions before? The Reptiles and their Grey Men who have invented and then fashioned society for thousands of years; creating all these little collars, like money, guilt and fashionable morality to keep the Goddess in line. Break your chains Babushka…”

“But I totally fucked with Nadia!”

“I don’t get involved with schoolyard squabbles,” she said haughtily. “You can sort out those lunchbox arguments on your own, besides you now have bigger fish to fry…Like your little Etienne.”

I blushed deep scarlet, sinking deeper into the foam.

“So you’ve always known about him?” I whispered in vivid embarresment.

She laughed her head off, lighting up the joint with a flick of her strong wrist.

“This Etienne Juniper is a transformative force in your life, a figure of power for you. He has played mercury to your sulphur for years, provoking you to all sorts of acts of change. And as all good alchemists know, mercury must act on sulphur to transmute lead to gold. Yes, I knew about him from Day One, but I kept quiet so you could summon your own Fate-Gate.”

“What do you mean summon my own Fate-Gate?”

“You must surely realise by now that Fate is a malleable thing? A force-machine which we can activate and utilise? The deeper you go into Wonderland the more co-incidences you accumulate little Alice. And now Fate has acknowledged your power and set up a Co-incidence Gate for you to pass. You must pass through the Gate and enter a higher frequency of energy. Failure will be terrible for you, whichever way the cards fall.”

“But killing Etienne in Cairo!”

“That alley cat has had it coming for years cherie, and you will lap up his demonic power like a saucer of milk.”

“But I don’t understand,” I complained. “What’s going on here Madre Sanguina? And what’s with the spoon bending seafood freak!”

“Oh yes, him,” she muttered. “All your arm waving has attracted some rather large sharks.”

“He spiked my salmon! The kettle too!”

she looked up sharply.

“So you found what was placed in the food? Ma petit chat blanc! You are getting sharp, though it was I who spiked your kettle – to counter the effects of the salmon.”

“Oh shit! I told him about that!”

“Anafora mă-tii!” she muttered. “Then we must assume that he knows another witch is in the Castle. I doubt that he will try stop me from contacting you though…We didn’t interfere with his proposal so I can only assume that he is letting this interaction pass as some sort of professional courtesy. Though it probably means that my stylist routine is blown.”

“Eek,” I muttered unconvincingly. “Sorry babe.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m quite re-assured that you found both the little hexes, a nice display of plumage little bird- Your familiar must be looking after you.”

“Oh Tiff’s a doll.”

“I’m sure,”

“So back to the seafood freak with the spoon…”

“Yes, well that is a rather long story, and we haven’t much time. So let me trim all the fat; Your little Etienne is, as you know, quite a greedy little boy. He married his way into a very influential family at one point and became involved in the family business; which involved, amongst other things, drug and organ trafficking.”

“He’s married!”

“Concentrate! The family, which has been based in the Vatican City State for the last four hundred years, is a very powerful organisation. It operates as a subsidiary front for a Grey Man known only to us as The Old Egyptian. This Psalmanazer is, how we say in the old way; an Eye of the Old Egyptian. The Grey Men have many such aides, allies and antiquated organisations, all created for one purpose only; The Gradual Distraction of Mankind by Methods of Persuasion and Saturation via Stimulus. It’s an old project for the Grey Men; going all the way back to the Euphrates. Some of these organizations are the old mining families who helped create the original gold and diamond markets – the people who run the global economy. Others are Media and banking conglomerates – all very, how you say, old hat. Anyway, Etienne, who is by now used to double-crossing and vanishing without a trace decides to sell detailed information about the trade-routes of the family to a narcotics competitor in the Middle East. Unluckily for Etienne though, he has underestimated the family he is working for. And worse; this competitor to which he is selling is another front. They are in fact not drug peddlars at all, but an underground cell of Hashashin Ptero-rists who wish to infiltrate and destroy the Vatican family! These Ptero-shins have set up a fake narcotics deal designed to lure Etienne to Cairo, where they plan to go through his memory-body at their leisure, and utilise him to their fullest advantage. Maybe they plan to send him back as a Sleeper? Who knows with these crazy Hashashin boys. In any case, the family had Etienne under observation since the beginning and soon discovered your double life with the Sisters. They contacted the House discreetly and we agreed to let them use you.”

“But why?! Don’t you hate each other?!”

“Even the worst of enemies can still have tea darling. It’s a quirk you acquire after a hundred years or more of witching about…In any case, it was a simple matter of etiquette for them to contact us. Had they approached you without telling us first, we would have probably annihilated a large number of their minions and small-scale operations.”

“Yeah!”

“Though, of course, if we had stopped them from propositioning you they would undoubtedly have done the same to us.”

“Oh…”

“Don’t vex dear, this sort of nonsense happens all the time. Everyone is always looking for some threadbare excuse to annihilate their enemy and still be able to keep a straight face at the dinner table. It’s really nothing new, so lets get back to the stew you are in; what did Psalmanazer say?”

I quickly related the proposition which had been put to me. She smoked all the while, squinting thoughtfully between puffs. A light and flowery aroma cascaded off the joint; herbs I did not recognise. When she handed it to me the smoke tasted sweet and cleared my head, crystallising my thoughts instantly.

“Well,” she hummed, once I had finished. “It sounds like they are creating some sort of ambuscade; a trap. I don’t believe this tampered shipment story, it all sounds somewhat off-key. I even think that they might even plan for you to accompany Etienne to Cairo.”

“Yike,” I splashed. “Why?”

“My guess is that they will try divert attention from themselves to the Sisters of the Scalpel. If the Ptero-shins suspect that we are somehow in league with the Vatican family, it will spark a skirmish.”

“Sneaky little fuckers.”

“Absolument,” she nodded. “Super sneaky…And there is probably another cake layer I have not yet seen. But we witches are sneakier than the lizard boys.”

“Well isn’t there some way I can sneak out of this?”

“Non. Fate has arranged this tournement for you. And everything you need to survive and conquer is at hand. It is a test of high magic arranged by spiritual agencies. You have no choice but to accept.”

“But I can’t kill Etienne!”

“Don’t think about that now…Let’s just see how events unfold. Perhaps it can all be avoided. Fate is fickle and full of smiles; both wicked and benign. But for now you must humour her wiles and step into her parlour.”

“Eek.”

“Remember Cherie, If you are going to do something wrong…You might as well do it right.”

She stayed and joked around for another half an hour until I got out of the bath. She then surprised me with a foil wrapped package of sushi sandwiches, some minute pears and a small thermos of tea which she had secreted in her volumous jacket. I could have hugged her head off, and made a valiant attempt to do so. She prised me off rather indelicately.

“Really Cherie, you are far too exuberant.”

She climbed out onto the ledge and balanced there like some strange bird.

“Psalmanazer will soon discover the falsity of the little Hungarian stylist. In fact I have no doubt that he began investigating as soon as you mentioned the kettle to him; so I shall have to manage a little vanishing act. But never fear Cherie, I shall stay on the Castle Grounds and keep an eye on you.”

“Will I be in any danger do you think?”

“I doubt it, they will want you to perform this service for them…The danger will come later, in Cairo. Psalmanazer will probably speak to you again tomorrow; but just act docile and agree to everything he demands. We’ll sort the details out later.”

“I’m so happy that you are with me now Sanguina,” I said, like a happy child.

She hung there for a moment, a dark vulture of a thing, her eyes flashing in the moonlight. Her inhumanity frightened and thrilled me at the same time.

“Really cupcake, you are too sweet.” she breathed huskily.

She then turned on her heel and swarmed down the sheer wall like some gigantic hunting spider. I saw her flick soundlessly to the courtyard floor and flash across the open gravel like a fish across a pond. There was a minute rustle of foliage as she sucked into the leafy hedges; and then nothing but wind-swept silence, the moon and the enormous, pale flank of the castle.

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I devoured the food and fell into a deep sleep. I was awakened some hours later by the strange sound of distant chanting. I awoke instantly to see the room bathed in the faint, flickering light of distant fires. I quickly gathered my wispy nightgown about myself and ghosted to the long windows to see what was up. Out on the rolling lawns before the facade of the castle I could make out the shadowy forms of several hundred black-robed figures. These writhing persons were grouped infront of a ring of bonfires, bowing and scraping in a melodramatically servile fashion. Each one was hooded, and facing the enormous effigy of an owl. This construction roosted in the center of the fiery ring, underlit by the shifting, hellish glare. The owl must have stood a good ten meters or so, and towered above the dancing mob like some monstrous, mythological faux pas. The crowd was chanting in unison; some strange sibilant dialect wich I could not make out. A figure was also standing atop the head of the monstrous owl, directing their worship, waving something above its head. I padded quickly to my vanity case and extracted my Hello Kitty binoculars. Through the jiggling chaos, I could make out the red robed figure of Psalmanazer, towering atop the owl with a vacant expression on his face. He was hoisting a wilting and twisting metal pitchfork above his head with great alacrity. I abandoned the binoculars, squeezed in ear plugs and pulled one of my airplane blindfolds. This secret society nonsense was really starting to annoy me. A girl NEEDS her beauty sleep!

The next day was even less complicated than I could have imagined. I slept like the dead and awoke unmolested. After a little stretch and a shower I decided to extricate the furniture from the door. I found an envelope outside the door on a small push trolley. It was accompanied by a silver service breakfast which I ignored utterly. The note inside the envelope was hand-written. It read:

‘I’ll be waiting to take you to the airport around 1pm. Meet me downstairs. Lucas.’

I checked my Bulgari and saw that I only had half an hour to get ready. Yippee! The sooner I was out of this gingerbread house the better. I was also dying to see Mona and tell her all about the spoon-bending seafood freak. I met Lucas at the appointed time and we drove off down the long drive in an icy and rather melodramatic silence. I gazed out at the rolling lawns for some sign of the satanic shenanigans I had witnessed last night, but everything had predictably vanished. Why are satanists so anal about their stuff! Well anyway WHATEVER, I was so out of there. A few kilometers out of Duns, Lucas handed me a black glossy gift box.

“What’s this? Post date-rape chocolates? Lucas! …You shouldn’t have.”

He shot me a poisonous look.

“It’s from Mister Psalmanazer,” he explained. “It’s a satellite-phone. He told me to tell you that he will call you on it and asks that you check it once a day for messages.”

“Hmmm, presents! ” I purred, tearing the box open. Inside, on a cushion of satin-y material was the most gorgeous black steel cellular device. I mean you just wanted to fuck it. It was small and slender and weighed quite heftily in my palm, like a little pistol.

“It’s bullet-proof and able to be used underwater or even in a vacuum.” Lucas said. “It also has a self-contained plutonium grain power source which never needs recharging.”

I squealed with delight.

“It’s tied into a specialised satellite relay system and calls can be made from anywhere on Earth – even several hundred feet under the ocean. You could probably place calls or use the internet on the surface of the moon since there is so little satellite-transmission interference.”

“Imagine the download rate! Or the bill for that matter…”

“There no charge for any calls you make – Though you cannot recieve calls on it; except from programmed numbers. This item is standard issue amongst members of Mister Psalmanazer’s organisation.”

“Well Psally sure knows how to make a girl feel better after sticking a spoon up her snatch.”

He cleared his throat in distaste and continued.

“Mister Psalmanazer considers it a gift and a useful tool; a down-payment if you like for the favour he has asked of you.”

“Uurgh!” I scowled. “You have to spoil it don’t you Jeeves.”

“Just check it daily.”

“Of course – though now you can GPS my ass wherever and whenever; what’s to stop me throwing it out a window?”

He half-smiled cynically at this.

“A girl like you? Throw an item like that out the window? Hardly.”

I pouted, tossing the phone from hand to hand.

“That handy little plutonium cell is probably rigged to go bang if I annoy anybody right?”

“Probably,” he smiled.

August 21, 2008

AND THEN THERE WAS JESUS: akin omotoso on “jesus and the giant”

Filed under: akin omotoso,south african cinema — ABRAXAS @ 1:53 am

Aryan

I have no idea what I said to Aryan Kaganof one afternoon as we had drinks at the café ‘Boat’ located at the 44 Stanley Avenue complex in Milpark. I remember we spoke about life and film quite passionately. No matter, whatever it was I said, it convinced him to give me his script called JESUS AND THE GIANT to read. I read it and was immediately blown away by it. It was raw and daring, controversial yet it had something important to say about violence in our society. Having read Kaganof’s script, my first thought was that I wanted whatever short I did next to be in the vein of the story.

It’s Yours

I gave him a call to ask him whether he had shot the film already. He told me it was mine to direct. Since I hadn’t imagined such a scenario it caught me off guard but I was really happy. I knew then that it was going to be a special project and also I felt that I shouldn’t rush into it. We signed a contract that allowed me to do as I pleased with the script and Aryan left me alone. I always kept in touch every now and again via phone or if I bumped into him socially to keep him updated on the film, because I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t serious about his script. He was always very gracious but he left me to my own devices.

Changes

The major change I made was changing Jesus from a black man in Aryan’s script to a black woman. And that woman was going to be Mandisa Bardill. I had worked with Mandisa on my previous two shorts ‘The Kiss of Milk’ and ‘Rifle Road’ and I had seen ‘Jesus And The Giant’ as a conclusion to this trilogy on violence. I wanted her to be the through line even though she played different characters.

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Casting

Casting The Giant was a no brainer for me. It had to be Sonni Chidiebere Ochuba. He was starting to come into his own as an actor and I really liked his style. I told him at some club that he will play the Giant in my next short. He nodded and smiled. This was of course in 2004 and every time I saw him over the next three years I told him the time was coming. He always smiled. Mary was not so clear to me. Also I changed the beginning to have a run naked through the streets. In Aryan’s script the film started with Mary arriving at Jesus’ flat. It’s there we meet Jesus for the first time. I had read that a basketball player had kicked his wife out naked and bruised one night I thought that horrific image was one to start the movie with. It meant that I needed to find someone that was not only a great actress but that she was brave. I knew it would be tough. I also told myself that because I wanted to do this project right, I would wait. A friend had suggested a dancer for the part. A date was set for the meeting but before that date I met the dancer by chance at a dinner party. She seemed very busy and wasn’t able to commit to the dates we were thinking of at the time. I guess I also wasn’t convinced that she was right for the part. When Mary presented herself I would know. In 2006 I met a waitress at an Ethiopian restaurant and for the first time I felt I had met Mary. She had a striking face and the innocence I felt Mary had and I immediately set up a meeting. Turns out the waitress was an actress/dancer back in Ethiopia so she had some experience. She read the script and liked it but she wouldn’t go naked. She spoke of her family and her husband and her father all of which I totally understood but I had compromised a lot in my past work and that always caused me a lot of grief and I had promised myself that I would never compromise this film. She really fitted into my vision of Mary and the fact that she was Ethiopian was great because one of my first instincts was to shoot the film in Ethiopia. I wanted take it out of Joburg and set it in those old churches in Lalibela. We met several times to see if there was a middle ground. In the end neither of us would budge and we left it at that. I continued the search. At a rehearsal for Paul Grootboom’s play ‘Cards’ I found the actress that would play Mary. We were casting for something else and we were looking at a young Nigerian actor called Hakeem Oyedeji who was also in the play. When I saw Lesego on stage I immediately thought she could play Mary. Her face was mysterious and her eyes spoke of pain. From that play I was able to cast Lesego Mabilo as Mary. Lesego was a new up and coming actress and she was fresh and fearless which was what was needed for this part.

Funding

I knew that making this film demanded absolute freedom. I needed to be able to free myself to make the film I want. That is it would be the kind of film people would have to see first because it would be hard to explain. I felt that once it had been shot I would have to apply for post production funds etc but the initial shooting had to be independent. My first thought was to ask all my friends for R100. I figured at it would cost R100, 000 to shoot the film. Post production I was going to apply to the Hubert Bals fund or the National Film and Video Foundation. I felt I had enough friends in my phone book to reach R100, 000 if I asked everyone for a hundred rand. I went through my phone book. I got to 9,000 rand! Not looking good. So I felt my approach would have to be multi pronged. I knew it would be long and stressful but it was the only way. I lobbied my friends Tunji Omotola and Valentine Alily to begin with. Tunji, being in investment banking, pounced on the project with his usual zeal and before long he was hosting a wine tasting fund raiser for the 27th of December. I dressed up and took a copy of RIFLE ROAD to screen and borrowed some wine from my father for the event. Before we started he had a guy give us R15, 000. This was a great boost. That night another friend Tumi suggested we throw a fund raising party on the 27th of January. I agreed. Because I had started training as an amateur DJ I knew I won’t have to pay a DJ to play that night meaning that I would be able to throw the money back into the film. The date was settled and I was ready to rock and roll. Shakir from Roka then called and said he was moving the date to the 14th which I protested about because the notice was short. At the party we raised R9, 000 at the door. I lobbied family and friends hard and raised in total R80, 000 over nine months! Winning The Standard Bank Young Artist Of The Year Award For Film meant that the Bank was able to contribute some money which was great and they put me in touch with some of their patrons. I sent out eighty two letters to the patrons and only two responded contributing R9000 which was great.

I always had the Hubert Bals in my sights for post production and when the time came to apply I did so with so much confidence you would have thought my family owned Hubert Bals. I was sure that the film was strong enough to get funding. Turns out the Hubert Bals fund doesn’t fund short films! Nowhere on their website, that I could see, does it say this and I was totally crushed! In fact I think I was paralyzed for a week because I had lost my one major sure banker! In the interim I had back up of course but I wasn’t aggressively pursuing it-seeing it more as a safety net to fall into to help some of the shortfall from the Hubert Bals. Mandisa had put me in touch with Wanda and he had suggested throwing another fund raising party but this time more focused and concentrated. He was throwing his party on the 4th of Aug and thought I should come and lobby names and email addresses to people that would be able to support. I hired Mandisa’s cousin, Naima for the night to collect names and addresses. We had a lot of names but when the time came and I threw the fund raising party hardly anyone came. We only raised R3000. All in all the process was long and difficult but necessary. What it taught me was that there are people out there willingly to support and to those ANGEL DONORS I say THANK YOU! To finish off the film I applied to the National Film And Video Foundation and got a grant which made it possible to mix and grade the film.

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The Process

I spent three years meditating on the film because I wanted to grow not just as a person but as a filmmaker. I wanted it to as good a film as it could be and I wanted to be sure that I was in the right space creatively to do it. I had rushed my feature film GOD IS AFRICAN and I had rushed to some extent my next short RIFLE ROAD. I wasn’t rushing this. I knew from the beginning that I wanted Eran Tahor to shoot it. Eran has a sensitivity that I like and he and I come from the same film of thought. I gave Eran the script to read and afterwards I told him that we would take a long time before we start shooting. He was okay with that. We had our first meeting at Seattle Coffee in Hyde Park where we spoke ideas. I told him about my images of Fire, Water and the fact that I wanted the film to be cinematic in the true sense of the word. I wanted to make an emotional powerful film that was epic in stature. 12mins but epic! He agreed and we spoke about what that meant. We wanted to shoot 35mm so there would be no half stepping. After that meeting, I would let the film slip to the back of my conscious and got on with the rest of my life but the film was never far from my mind. In Barbados in the summer of 2005 I took the script and wanted to start storyboarding and brainstorming ideas. I only got as far as the first page during the holiday. I poured the internet for stories, different stories about Jesus and Mary. Found lots of interesting things but nothing that gave me a hook. When I knew that I was doing the story there were a couple of things I knew I wanted to reference. I knew that I wanted to reference the old Yoruba myth about creation. Olodomare (God) sends his eldest son Oranmiyan to create the world and on the way he stops by a pub and gets drunk from plamwime and his brother Oduduwa who had overheard Olodomare’s instructions created the world instead. The idea that someone has a mission and they dilly dally for me was important. In Aryan’s script Jesus sets out with a clear focus. I wanted more ambiguity that she is isn’t sure of her mission and that it is a struggle. She wouldn’t go to a bar but she would walk the city and we won’t be sure why until later. I also wanted to heavily reference Ethiopia because of the Bible links. My first thought was to shoot the film in Ethiopia but around the time they started dropping bombs on Somalia I thought that won’t be a good idea. I wanted the tea cups to be small glasses like they do in Ethiopia. I wanted to see if I could work the Coffee Ceremony into the script but I couldn’t find a place and all of this was important for me because in the past I would just put that in but my key focus was only doing what was right for the story-that was it. The story had to come first. I had grown to admire films that were not only very story driven but extremely well told. No shot wasted, no line said that wasn’t important. For me the waffling of GOD IS AFRICAN was to be in the past. This was the future and I was determined to be the coach of my filmmaking game and be a strict coach. I also knew that while the film was set in Johannesburg I wanted it to resonate to the continent. I wanted in it’s simplicity to speak to a greater world. One of my first thought was to make it a movie with no dialogue, but some of Aryan’s dialogue was so beautifully written that I wanted to retain some of it not all. I thought of mixing language so Jesus would speak English, Mary Ethiopian or whatever language the actress spoke and The Giant would speak Pidgin English. I wanted the story to marinate in my body so I braced myself to embark on a journey I wasn’t familiar with. Being patient! As the years ticked on I knew that once I felt the impulse to make the film it would be too all consuming and I won’t be able to ignore it.
After the Toronto Film Festival in September 2006 I started feeling ready. My documentary had shown there and I left Toronto with a renewed spirit and vigor for the creative process. So I started going through pictures on the net to start getting a visual picture. A more concrete picture. Over the December holidays I just spent hours on the net pouring over pictures and articles linked to the imagery and story I wanted to tell.

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The Fund Raising Party

For that party Eran and I thought it would be a good idea to project off the wall some images from the not yet shot film. Sort of like a promo. Also to give people a visual reference when they ask “What are we raising funds for?” we would point to the wall. So we took Mandisa out and went and shot some stills. We took them to graphics man extraordinaire, hereinafter referred to as The Editor, to prepare a collage that we could project on the wall. He put together a wicked 2min promo with text and stills which looked great on the wall. I had invited Aryan to the party so he could see what we were doing. As the party progressed, more people asked about the images and the main question posed was whether we would shoot the shot with stills. I thought it might be interesting but didn’t attach much importance.

Digital Stills

After the party I wanted to raise more money. I felt that what The Editor had done was great but maybe we needed to bring Mary and The Giant in so that the two minute promo told a story on its own. The good thing about it was that it would give Lesego an opportunity to practice the first scene. It would give us an opportunity to also see how far we could push that scene. We had to be up at 4a.m because the makeup would take about an hour and we had to shoot as the sun rose because we had no permission to shoot in Melville talk less of having a naked bleeding woman running down the street. It was a very tense shoot because up the road from where we were shooting was the police station. I kept on joking to everyone the day before to keep their phones on in case they had to come bail us out. Thankfully for us (but maybe not in terms of a great story!) we got all the shots we needed. The Editor then put this all together in a kickass promo which I was going to use to sell the film. I was waiting to hear back from one of the Corporations an Auntie of mine was approaching. The more the Corporation delayed the more we had discussions about shooting on stills but nothing concrete. In the meantime I watched the Chris Marker’s 1962 short La Jetee and it blew me away. It was shot with stills and was amazing. Then the Corporation disappointed us by not coming through. I felt that we would have to wait some more. Maybe another year? The thought of shooting on stills was still there and La Jetee had inspired me. Then we had BC (who I admire and respect) over for dinner and showed him the 2min promo. He practically insisted we shoot it on stills! That was all I needed to hear.

The Last Temptation

I really enjoyed ‘The Last Temptation of Christ’ so I checked it up on IMDB. In the Trivia section, it claims that Willem Dafoe who plays Jesus Christ couldn’t see for three days because he got too many eye drops to dilate the pupils of his eyes in bright sunlight to achieve a superhuman effect. I thought the eye drops was a good idea and tried it on Mandisa during one of the scenes. She didn’t become any more superhuman than she already is. It taught me a couple of things. Martin Scorsese definitely knows what he is doing and I don’t. Plus is it possible that IMDB could be just messing with my head?

Music

I obsessed about music for this film. My main idea as that I wanted a score that haunted me like Nicolas Ray’s ‘King Of Kings’. I wanted something that would pack an emotionally punch and long after you have watched Jesus And The Giant, the music as well as the images would stay with you for a long time. I first started listening to a lot of Ethiopian music and fell in love with that. I would have the CD’s in my car for weeks and just let the music take me to the movie. Initially I had imagined that if I had cast the Ethiopian girl I had wanted for Mary, she could sing for the soundtrack. Somewhere in our interview I thought I had heard her say that she could sing. Turns out she could dance but not sing. I then felt the thing to do would be to get an Ethiopian choir, but I wasn’t quite convinced. I decided to let it come to me. After one of my meetings with Eran, I mentioned my search for music and he said I should listen to the ‘Stabat Mater’. He described it as the best music ever written. The Stabat Mater was a 13th Century Hymn that describes the sorrow of Mary at the cross. I went straight to Hyde Park and at the ‘Look And Listen’ asked whether they had a copy. They did and I listened and was blown away. It also took me to places that I can’t describe. During the shoot I thought Mandisa could sing something for the soundtrack and I gave her the Stabat Mater and asked her to give her interpretation of it. She combined with Hlubi and they produced one of the most beautiful pieces I have ever heard and it was then I knew that the film would kick. Much later in the process I related the story to Aryan and he then told me that he had played the Stabat Mater to Eran and Jade one night. It was them, the music and a fireplace. It’s funny that it had come full circle.

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The Editor

The shoot was spread out over a couple of days so that we would always have enough time to look at what we were doing, see what was working and what wasn’t and then fix and tweak as we went along. The most important part of this was the editing of the film. The Editor was moving to Cape Town and had a few days, 10 days to be exact, to edit the film or take it up to a rough cut. We agreed that this was what he would do and we agreed on the money he would be paid. I started getting worried when I watched what he did. There was no passion in it at all. He wasn’t focused on the story, he wasn’t focused on the images. It was a mess. And I was really disappointed.

Picking Up The Pieces

After I told The Editor I wasn’t happy with what he had done I needed a timeout. Usually what that means for me is to forget about the project. Usually starts with basketball. I escape to the courts. So for one weekend I forgot there was something called JESUS AND THE GIANT. On Monday I decided to approach the Video Lab and see whether they had some people that could work on a project like this. After discussions with Robbie we agreed that this was an opportunity to start again. Relook at the project. I thought of a few people I could approach. The problem of course was that because The Editor, Eran and I had been intimately involved in the film it was going to be difficult to find someone to come in and be at the same level we were at. In fact Eran had some doubts about replacing The Editor. For me it was a no brainer. The man hadn’t delivered and he was moving to Cape Town. I didn’t want the agony of traveling two hours to Cape Town and then being totally disappointed and then coming back to Joburg depressed. The Editor was out. Even if we had to wait for months I wasn’t going to rush into this. I was going to take my time and find the right person. I spoke briefly to Mic Mann but we could never get together because of schedule conflicts. I met with Tracey at the Video lab and while they were excited they didn’t want to edit it. They thought we could come back when we were ready to online. The good thing about meeting with Tracey was that she sent me some links to YouTube which had films shot on stills. This was an eye opener because for the first time I didn’t feel alone. I could see what others had done and were doing. This was great! In the meantime I thought I should meet up with Aryan and talk to him about some of my frustrations. At that moment he sent me an email saying he had heard that I was searching for an editor and would I consider him? I hadn’t thought about that but I felt that it was an interesting proposition. Of course I would have to have a serious conversation with him first. At the time I had to leave for the Grahamstown Festival to showcase my work as part of the conditions for winning The Young Artist Award, so we decided to meet when I got back.

Aryan Kaganof Again

This time the conversation was very different. In the beginning he had given me his script three years ago and now three years later we were sitting discussing the film only this time it was mine and I had to be sure that he would be editing my film and not trying to make his film. In Grahamstown one film critic had been a bit skeptical about the union in fact he found it hard to believe that Aryan had kept his distance over the years as I developed the script and now he wasn’t sure how it was going to work with Aryan editing. There was a part of me that was worried but I wasn’t too worried because he had shown me great faith during the first three years. I felt that he wouldn’t suddenly change and want to control the film. However, experience had taught me to be cautious. Also the spirit in which we discussed the initial contract was so straightforward that somewhere in the back of my mind I knew it would be fine. We sat and talked. I spoke about my concerns and he answered much like I expected. The minute he had given up his script he had given it up. All he wanted was to make sure that the film I wanted to make was realized because he had heard about how pissed I was about The Editor. We drew up a contract and he got to work. I slept very well that night because I knew that no matter what happened there was no question about Aryan’s commitment and passion and also his craft. The film was going to be alright.

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Reshoot

From the earlier shoot there were a couple of things we didn’t get. For instance when we were shooting at Teddy’s place we blew the electricity so we couldn’t get the shot of Jesus and The Giant through the kettle as it boils or her reaction to the kettle boiling when she has beaten him up. So that was a pickup. Also we didn’t shoot the end of the film on 35mm. The last shot of the film is on 35mm and that stock was being sponsored by producer Tendeka. He was graciously giving us some left over stock from the ‘Jerusalema’ shoot. We didn’t get to it because I wanted time to think about it and didn’t want to rush. Then I was never really happy with the walking shots in town. I liked some of them but others I hated. I felt we were missing another layer and we decided to shoot in Rockey Street. Also I wanted to get some more gritty imagery of the city. So Eran and I started walking up Empire Street with the camera and shot as we walked. We walked past the Nelson Mandela Bridge still shooting and then we discovered a taxi rank and we shot in there and it was amazing! Suddenly the film started coming to life for me. Later that day in Rockey Street just walking with Eran and Mandisa and the security guards of course, was almost a religious experience for me because it gave the film soul. It was what we had been missing. For the first time on this shoot I felt I was a filmmaker.

I hated the first shot of the film when Jesus is introduced because the sky was grey and I wanted clouds so I wanted to reshoot it. I was never really happy with how we shot Lesego running because it was in the early days so I wanted the possibility of reshooting that. Of course during the winter, shooting that scene with Lesego was out of the question. Eran had to travel to Cape Town to shoot a drama so he was only back in September which was good for me cause it gave Aryan and I time with the edit to craft and mould the picture and also so that we would discover what we needed additionally to pick up or to reshoot.
In earlier discussions with him I thought I would reshoot the entire beginning but as he worked on he found a way around the beginning which worked for me.

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Single Frame

The edit has been challenging for Aryan. It is forcing him to work in a very different style and he has found it challenging and exhilarating. For me it has been a joy working with him because we both care about the story. Every discussion we have is passionate and inspiring. In a way The Editor not delivering was the best thing to happen to me.

Warrick Sony

I had always fantasized about making a film with no sound and creating the sound from scratch. In fact in my earlier dreams about the film I thought of shooting on 16mm without sound and creating it later. In a way that aspect has played itself out here because there is no sound when shooting with stills. From the jump Robbie suggested Warrick Sony. I was intrigued. I had never met Warrick but since Robbie was convinced that this was his thing I knew he had to be right. I phoned Warrick cause he lives in Cape Town and we had a great opening chat. He was coming up to Joburg the next week and he said we could get together then. We then met the three of us Warrick, Aryan and I and watched some of stuff and just spoke about possibilities. It was very exciting and he was very excited. He had collaborated with Aryan in the past on SMS SUGAR MAN so they were familiar with each other. He was on board which was exciting. The process would be that Aryan would cut and send down stuff to him and then he would add the music and send back up to us. After the December holidays Warrick had a gap in his schedule that allowed us to set a date. Originally I had wanted Warrick and Yoav working at the same time. Yoav doing the grade and Warrick doing the sound however that changed because it was likely that we would change some things in the picture and that would create an out of sync problem so it was decided that after Yoav, Warrick was up next. He had already laid down some sound samples from previous cuts but nothing final and the Monday before he was to start fully we had a screening of the film for him, Robbie and Kgomotso. When I flew down to Cape Town we spoke about the process. He would strip the film of the music and slowly build the tone and feel and if we needed music we would add it later. This worked extremely well. When I heard the opening drone over the rising sun I knew we were in business!

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The Cut

I always knew going in that I won’t have any idea how the film would turn out. I only knew that it was going to be tough because of the medium we shot it in. Lots of decisions would have to be made as we ourselves began to understand this beast that we had shot. The first thing of course that we could learn from The Editor’s cut was timing and pace. Because in a single frame the challenge is that it has no pace, we determine it. The first couple of sessions included looking at some scenes isolated and also to determine the style. I always liked the jagged style and encouraged Aryan to go with that. He wanted to be sure that he heads off in the right direction. Once he knew I was cool with the jagged style he felt more comfortable. A lot of our decisions were based on re structuring the film. The script had said one thing, I had filmed one thing and now we had to put the film together with the material we had. The editing process was given 5 months. I was happy with this because it meant that we could go back and forth and not rush into things. What transpired over these five months would be difficult to explain without being melodramatic.

Aryan and Akin

Our industry is stressful. You never know whether people are being genuine or not. I am always interested in the search for people that are all about the work. My love of basketball informs my love of the process of filmmaking. In basketball in a pickup game you select players that have the ability to make you win. The rules on the court are that the winning team stays on so if you don’t want to be sitting the whole afternoon you pick the right team. It has nothing to do with ego – it’s about winning. What Aryan and I shared during those five months was for me the equivalent of a well played pick up game. Sharing, laughing, arguing, intense debates about film and lots of ginger tea. Even as I write this I smile remembering that room. Life, when it’s sweet, it’s sweet. And that time of our life was sweet.

Jesus And The Giant premieres at The 2008 Toronto Film Festival in September.

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