Cropduster Issue 7 >> written by a variety of authors and released unto the world 10/99     By STEVEN MEECE & OTHERS

Stevenmeece -- Liner Notes
Stevenmeece -- What's Happening Now
Allen Meece -- Gunmetal Blue
Stevenmeece -- Does Anyone Remember Louise Woodward?
Henry Parry Liddon -- Lying under Sentence of Death: The Last Days of Beale
eerie -- Sunday July 17th: The Chaos Theory
Stevenmeece -- Marriage, Monogamy & Adultery
Kia Mennie -- Drinker's Guide to Los Angeles
Stevenmeece -- You Want Fame?
anon --The Case of the Bothered Undergraduate
RS Narayan -- selection from The Bachelor of Arts
anon -- The Case of the Sultan
Stevenmeece -- Banning Theatricals
Stevenmeece -- Benedict Arnold & Ethan Allen: You be the Judge
Krisna Padmasola -- Chandra Prabha
Jimi Hendrix -- Jimi Hendrix Thing
Scott Veldhuizen -- NONE
various -- Teenage Angst, Scarborough
Fyodor Dostoevsky -- The Flying Banner
 
 

O Lord God
If I have done this
If there is wrong in my hands
If I have requited my friend with evil
or plundered my enemy without cause
Let the devil pursue and overtake me
Let him trample my life to the ground
And lay my soul in the dust
-- Psalm 7

If I keep fucking around with you people
You've got to fall me like you fall a tree
-- Jimi Hendrix
 
 
 

At this time we release into the world the seventh issue of the Cropduster Bedside Reader, once again stretching the bounds of xerographic expression, and disrespect for copyright.

Cropduster 6 was well received by the public, and I enjoyed making it. It is a document of which I am still proud, because it seems to accurately reflect some of the things that were going on at the time of completion. There are always things that you would change if you had the option, and I wish I had a little more time to edit it before it was released, but it stands as it is and has not yet become an embarrassment. I continue to hold an interest in it, and the kind people at the Maundy Thursday Society have once again provided me with the means to continue, so we do.

By now it has become abundantly clear that Cropduster will not set the world on fire or ever have any wide-spread appeal. Long-time readers will remember that we had great expectations for this at the time of the third issue, due mainly to successes with the then-nascent Internet, and of course the famous front-page article and colour pic in the Ottawa Citizen. The Internet attention came about mainly because the net was at that time a novel entity, and online activity was limited to email, Usenet, telnetting to library catalogues, and about 300 Gopher servers, usually university public-information sites. There were only about two dozen publications online for general access, one of which was ours, generously hosted by the University of Michigan. Well, today there are hundreds of thousands of publications online, and few folks come back to old Cropduster. Perhaps this less than stellar outcome has made me sluggish about it; there is no longer the great desire to trumpet this phantastic thing. Cropduster has returned to being a private letter and reader's digest for friends past and present. But it will not again be too personal; there have been criticisms from various parties that it once read like a long diary entry. There will be some of that stuff, but not too much.

This is the first and last and only time that we will publish a piece written in all lower-case letters. In the future all contributors will be required to make use of the shift key to magiscule their type where proper, even if they don't feel that they deserve it.

The next issue will be either a memorial to Melinda Sheppit, or will be straight theology and ecclesiology.

Cropduster ISSN 1190-8734 was established in 1992 and is not affiliated with Cropduster Records of the United States, or their web site, www.cropduster.com. Nor is it affiliated with a pop music group in the United States called Cropduster, or their web site, www.cropduster.net. Our web site is cropduster.web.com.
 
 
 

It has been more than two years since the last edition, and in that time more than a few worlds have come into existence and passed away in the continuing process of the unfolding of personal history. Several people died, several people were born, and one was both born and died.

About six months after the publication of the last issue, my common law wife and I decided to divorce each other, so out she went, and "our" apartment and cat became "her" apartment and cat. Such is life... It was a necessary decision -- I finally broke down and admitted that the idea of spending the rest of my life with her had too many dreadful aspects -- but still it hurt to lose something that mattered so much, and have to radically revise my conception of the future on a short notice. That dominated my brain for the springtime of 1998. But there was still life, still something to continue with and go on. There almost always is. We stayed for a year in the University Seminary and then moved out to be a Québecois in a one-bedroom apartment in the old section of Hull Québec. So at present we are living on the outer-outer-outskirts of Montréal, a little journey northwest of Dorchester Square. This is a neighbourhood unlike any other previously experienced, and perhaps in a future issue it will receive a write-up too.

Life looks so different these days; it goes on without the buttresses it once had. It is not the same as living as a student in a religious institution, or in a rooming-house, which was our previous experience with independent living (1993-4) before the marriage. School, parent, cohabiting girlfriend: There are none of those old-time benefactors, and when I wake up in the morning and go out with bare feet on cold kitchen floor there is nothing and no-one there but myself and a kettle to boil water for No-Name instant coffee. It will also soon be winter, and there is no winter like winter in Québec, where there is little vocal distinction between hiver and hiber [winter and hibernation.] Living like this has helped to understand why we stayed in a bad marriage as long as we did: It was fear of this sort of thing. Independence has lovely and glorious advantages and experiences, and delights unlike any other, but too it has moments of fear and trembling. It takes strength to live on your own without anyone to wipe your nose but you, but unfortunately that "strength" can merely be a form of being harsh and bristly. Independence must mean isolation, and isolation brings about mistrust and apprehension toward others. This edition's contribution from Mr Dostoevsky addresses this problem.

Yes, it's getting hard to be someone, but it all works out. There is life still, and some of it in these pages. I hope you enjoy the latest offering.
 
 
 
 

Steven Meece
Pontifical University of St Paul, Ottawa
October 1999
 
 
 

Here's an inspirational poem that I wrote myself. It was inspired by the altar fresco in the Sacre-Coeur chapel above Paris.

On gunmetal-blue nights of high starry skies
when the very ozone smells of incense,
you ask what you've done
to deserve all this... beauty.

And the answer comes;
"What will you do?" 
 
 

segment from the diaries of Steven Meece, 11/97

Recent story from the outside world: A British exchange student staying in Boston, age 19, brown hair, chubby, fairly attractive, name Louise Woodward, was charged for the stomping of the baby of the family that was hosting her. There was a long trial, she was found guilty, and there was much outrage not really because the public was familiar with the facts of the case, but because she looked so innocent and proclaimed such. There were huge rallies in the States and her hometown in the UK, and the people were mobilised to "Free Louise." The judge quashed the verdict and she eventually was.

So Louise is free to go back to England and then what? Become what she would have became anyway. Where will she be in a year? The same place every other 20 year old is today: Eating beans and rice while working at a retail shop for £3/hr and scrimping through classes at a place like Leeds on student loans. All that kerfuffle for this?

The same people who went out and waved a banner and honked a horn to give Louise Woodward freedom in 1997 will go up to her and value her as nothing more than a chick who hands them a fish and chip packet in 2001. Mark these words. "Oh? You're that girl? How neat. So, what was that, three quid and 50p?"

And I am sure that in 10 years or so, Channel Four will do a "Whatever happened to" story and dispatch a film crew to hunt down Ms Woodward and find her married with children and hair bonnet in Yorkshire or somewhere like that.

How odd that we should have a mass amount of congregated caring that dissipates so quickly. Maybe it would be more morally justifiable if the people of Great Britain adopted Ms Woodward on a permanent basis, and would take to the streets to protest and bang out her grievances for the rest of her life. "Give Louise a rise! Give Louise a rise!" or "What do we want? Boyfriend for Louise! When do we want it? Now!" or "Hey-Hey Ho-Ho, Louise's roommate's got to go!"
 
 
 

"you should really look for work."
"i know."

the thermometer said 85. i was still lying on the sweat stinking mattress, suffering from the heat.

"i'm gonna check out the ads in the newspaper, don't worry."

she left the bathroom dressed in underwear, still brushing her hair, & added, as if i needed to know:

"i can pay the rent for next month, but for the one after it's gonna be a little more complicated."
"i said don't worry."
"alright."

she went back to the mirror, while i was turning over myself, another time, just as i did all night long because of the incredible humidity. cynthia actually did sleep, though.

"what are you doing today, dear?"
"i don't like it when you call me dear."

she threw an inquisitive look at me by the bathroom mirror.

"why in hell? you've never told me that before!" "i'm tired of it right now. you get tired of everything, you know."

she went back to her hair. i answered her first question :

"maybe i'll stay. or else, i'll go. i've no idea." "i have to go at sophie's today."
"well, have a good day, then."
"tonight we could go out, though."
"uh-huh."

i pulled the flannelette bed-sheet and covered myself with it so i could hide from the morning sun that was roaming through the half-opened stores. i hate it when there's so much light in the room. but cynthia loves light. i have no clue about how she does it.

cynthia finished her hair, then her make-up, and she went back to the room to finish dressing up. through the transparence of the bed-sheets all i saw was a short blue jean covering her butt. haven't moved my head from its initial position. she bent forward, uncovered my head and kissed me, then she departed.

after the door closed i stayed for about half an hour, trying to understand my case. while i was kissing cynthia's skin, the night before, and even the day before at noon, it was annie's skin that i was feeling. while pressing my lips against the space between her breasts i was seeing annie's heart, under an ear lobe i was seeing her jagged cortex. while penetrating her i was feeling her cerebral space emptying itself, as a five-second liberation. cynthia never enjoyed it that much.

i finally went up and got dressed. ate something, i think it was peach yogurt. wrote a little message. then i left the place. i took the bus. there wasn't too many people. it was two pm.

when i got at her place, i knocked the door but she wouldn't answer. so i tried to open it, and surprisingly enough it wasn't locked. entered the apartment, called her name once. then i caught sight of her; she was lying, naked, on her bed, eyes closed, illuminated by the outside light, refreshed by the fan. didn't want to act as a voyeur or to interrupt her slumber, so i let her sleep, and went to the kitchen. once again i read the magazines so i could learn more about my future mental disease. i read about neuroleptics, a medication that is used to calm the patient in crisis that was introduced forty years ago; i read about the ratio of schizophrenics who can live a normal life: a third work without too many problems, another third are chronic patients of psychiatric institutions where the last third must reside regularly; i read about a team of scientists who located a gene in chromosome 11 that's involved in the disease; i read about side effects ascribed to the use of neuroleptics, affecting 20% of the patients, causing uncalled contractions of the face & the tongue; i read about the manifestation itself of the disease, which is something scientists know - they just don't know why it happens. how cool, don't you think?

haven't heard annie entering the kitchen. she said hello with a voice that couldn't mask the surprise. she was wearing a long blue t-shirt - well, not long enough to hide the lower part of her buttock. she took a pint of milk from the fridge & drank some. then she came near me to see what i was reading. i asked her how she was doing, she replied "fine, how about you?"

"i don't know."
"what time is it?"

checked out my watch. "quarter to three."

"i went to sleep at five this morning."
"i got in bed at three."
"i'm gonna take a shower."

she left me alone. i went to her room, sat on her bed, facing the window. while hearing the shower noise i observed the activity occurring in the alley outside. kids playing kid games ; & still, in that ultra-cliché scene there was something kind of affecting me about it. see, those children are built even more simple-like than the simplest creature. me, you, everyone knew that state of simplicity. however, time passed & our brains grew out of proportions, giving us the consciousness of the interior & exterior worlds, & while complexifying, our knowledge turned into failure at an exponential rate.

i felt on the mat, sucking up the bed smell, delicious imprint of her sweet skin, superb perfume. then i watched the ceiling & waited for her to be done. was still watching it when she came into the room & dressed up.

"why did you come here anyway?"
"wanted to see you."
"really?"
"yeah. actually i thought about you all of last night."

"when you're tired of the song, all you have to do is to sing it & it goes away."
"yeah, but it always comes back to you, y'know."

silence. it was somehow a kitch convo anyway. she too got tempted by the mattress & dropped sweetly on my side. the ventilator was getting her hair dry, & its steady noise was a lullaby that put us to sleep.

actually i could sleep calmly until an inhuman shriek woke me up, followed by another deadly call - her call - intermittent howls mixed with an abrupt breath. that was coming from the kitchen. i got up quick & found her crushed in a corner of the room as if she was thrown there, eyes like marbles, her cry turning more & more into a sickly orgasmic high-pitched squeal, trying to defend against an imaginary enemy. i tried to take her in my arms to reassure her but i'm the one who got the hysterical pokes in the face. i held her, panicked. her face was a quarry's face. i shouted : "SHUT UP! IT'S JUST ME! HE'S GONE! I DON'T WANT TO HURT YOU!" but she replied with wacks i couldn't understand & knocked her knee on my testicles. i fell on the floor, filled with loud pain. she stepped back to the wall, breathed hardly. the neighbour's complaints were crashing through the floor up to the kitchen, accompanied with thousand miscellaneous noises.

she finally shut her eyes down & fell on the floor too. i stayed there for a couple minutes, silently suffering, & when the pain started to lay back, i approached annie, checked out her pulse. correct, she's alive. i put her in her bed, then went to the bathroom to wet my face & check out my genitalia. it was almost a surprise that everything was still in place. her tee was in the shower, all damp. i took it & put it on my face, don't know exactly why. checked out the time: seven pm. remembered the projects i had with cynthia for tonight & forgot it just as quick. there was something more important for now. no matter the consequences.

annie finally woke up in sweat.

"w - what ..?"
"shht. nothing, just your aggressor. he's come here, but now he's gone."

she looked at me seeming amazed, as if she didn't really believe me.

"i have .. really vague souvenirs."
"forget that & sleep."
"why are you worrying about me? why are you doing this?"

didn't answer. "how about going to the theatre? i'm sure there's some decent flick playing tonight."

she smiled.

we parted fifteen minutes later. since we came back late, again i slept with her. the temperature was hot, & she was only wearing the room's half-light. she said i was gonna get tired of her. i said i didn't think so, well, not right now. she laughed & turned on the ventilator.
 
 
 

I got up early to finish an essay on St John Chrysostom (due at 1:15pm) that I don't exactly wish to write right now, so I've been poking around on my harddrive, trying to find little files to take up my interest before settling down to the task at hand.

Reading little bits and pieces of cw's old writings it is revealed that it was other people who made him what he is. This is the way of the whole world, and it means that our characters are sketched by our interactions and interplay with the other people that come and go through our midst. He wouldn't have been what he was if Shanta wasn't around in the function that she was. Shanta was perhaps the first of the little phantasy relationships that you strike up while you are married to someone else. There are ways to rationalise it to yourself and your GF ("she's my friend" "why should all of my friends be male?" "I need a social life besides just you" "she needs a friend" "we're not having sex or anything") but the core truth of the matter is that these things are an attempt to regain some of the lost novelty of courtship and wooing of a new person, even if the closest it comes to consummation is sharing an ice cream cone while holding hands and watching the sun set. cw had them with Shanta, Farah, Janice, and a few other work chicks. I nearly had one with Fleur and Meaghan, and did have one with Julia, Kia, and Jan. These are examples of a married man's yearning to be free to have a meaningful and interesting relationship with more than just one person, to eat something other than a hamburger. It is the instinct for diversification and it can seldom be denied. But as cw wrote in 1995,

the problem with this kind of thing is that it is all based on phantasy. You engage in exciting flirtations and innuendoes and it is all very nice until it comes to the crunch-time, when it invariably fucks up.

But now, as a single man again, my little escapades go through to fruition, or at least they did a month ago. So that at least is a change for the better. If only there was some medium, some form of living that provided for a base stability and continuity but also was interesting and exciting, and not the same thing day after day and year after year. Yes, there is such a thing, and it is known as the extra-marital affair; dishonest and secretive, but it is what between two-thirds and three-quarters of the married population choose to do. That can't be the answer. But I've seen so much adultery (in the heart or in the genitalia) and tedium contained in "monogamy" to ever have a faith in it again. Those seem to be the only two recourses for a long term relationship: You either dream of other people, or stop caring at all. It didn't surprise me in the least to hear that Jan and her cutiehead recently broke up; I was long expecting it. The very fact that she was doing things with me, and permitted herself to be so impressed by me, revealed that she wanted something more/different from the male gender than just cutiehead. She often gave glowing appraisals of her rel with him, which was not convincing because I said the same of mine with M. These were not lies direct, but instead based on selective revelation: Things that I wanted to be important were described as such, things that I did not like were not mentioned. The three hours of quality time on Tuesday at the Mayfair and the pub afterwards are emphasised, made important, and remembered, while the two weeks that preceded it are forgotten or explained away. You can fool yourself that way, and I didn't realise that I was fooling myself until afterwards. Everyone does that in order to defend their relationship as a decent one. Everyone who arranges "quality time" admits that normal and ordinary time is garbage time.

The good stuff is played up (in the head) and the bad stuff is ignored or excused or explained. For this reason there were moments in which I honestly felt that nothing was wrong; I somehow found a way to explain it all upon a bad week at work, lack of sleep, school stress, or a winter depression, and never-fear things will look up presently after pay-day or the weather turned sunny. You find yourself writing absurdities such as the following, as cw did to me in 1990:

I love Stacey. We have had some real good times lately. I think it is because we don't see each other as much so we spend good quality time togethor. Before it was too much. But then how are we going to survive living togethor?! Who knows. Well, I will have to work, and she will either be at home or at work. So I will only see her in the evenings, like I do now. That will be fine.

Yes, I made such justifications myself not that long ago: "This relationship is better now that we see less of each other." This is true for those who admit it and and those who do not. The sad truth is that I haven't seen any relationship, lasting for more than a year, in which the themes of tedium or adultery do not dominate. This seems to be a universal that impacts upon all age groups and all stations in life; it's the same in grade ten as it is when you're in your fifties. Everyone tries, but I haven't yet seen anyone to succeed.

I used to have a naïve view of marriage and sexuality, TV-type notions of what a marriage was and how sex was handled and whatnot, and the shit hit the fan if anyone transgressed that. But now I've come to see that our society -- and my Church -- have mapped out an ideal direction for connubial life, which is the straight line of heterosexual monogamous matrimony. If you don't want to follow that, that's ok, we can tolerate diversity in lifestyles, just admit that you are, in one way or another, "queer," and go on your way. But who really wants to be a minority? Everyone wants the reassurance of the main-line, and we cling to it, at least some of the time. What people really want is to be married yet still be able to have a little non-destructive non-apocalyptic flit now and again. The truth of the matter is this: Monogamous marriage is a social institution to which the homo-sapiens offers no necessary respect. Exclusivity is an aspiration of the brain, not of the heart, and especially not of the libido.
 
 
 

Pros: Patrons serve as entertainment, rarely a cover charge unless there's live entertainment, impossible to be the drunkest person in a city of excess.

Cons:  Idea of sitting down for a "few" "pints" lost on Angelenos, little in-between dives and hipster joints,"martini" means one of many sugary cocktails on a menu with outrageous prices, no good local beer.

Boozing it up in Los Angeles is a dodgy proposition, given that everybody drives and few Angelenos do things in moderation. This is not a drinker's town; few, if any, places have grasped the pub idea of good beer, chummy service and reasonably clean places to sit, respectable bathrooms and a small menu of tasty things to sop up the beer with; you are left with an assortment of dives or places where people squint at you unsettlingly trying to figure out if you might be "somebody." A strict non-smoking law has crippled the boozing industry, though searching for law-breaking places with ashtrays makes for good entertainment. Herewith a haphazard guide to a few select places, not written for daytime visitors or teetotallers.

North [Sunset Strip]: Oh, stop, already. Put your barrister on speed-dial on your StarTAC phone lest you get fed up and decide to just take a punch at somebody. A club for Beautiful People that boasts overpriced and poorly mixed drinks, mindless people who abuse plastic surgery, and too much of a crowd. Not worth the bother, though the people next to you might start telling you that they're dating even though they're cousins and there's nothing really wrong with that, is there? Meanwhile, you're trying to get outside to smoke, and somebody else is telling you that North clientele don't smoke because "them's quality people here." A circus of the idea that beautiful frequently means dumb.

Three of Clubs [Hollywood]: Owned by the same people as North, catering to a crowd only marginally fed up with North. Allows smoking in select areas. Loud, noisy, dark; good place to go if you have a large group and weren't expecting a place to sit anyway. Efficient bartending despite crowd; don't count on getting out sober. The previous tenant was the "Bargain Clown Mart," and that sign remains.

Coconut Teazer [Sunset Strip]: "Our Motto: Not As Trashy As You Thought." Overly efficient live music venue; noise will force most people, smoking or non, onto the patio. Beware fishbowl-sized beverages, but these are easily mopped up with one of the most clever bar snack concepts around, a non-stop quesadilla grill, dirt cheap, toppings aplenty. Recommended if you like the band, or are taking a tourist out on the town.

Sky Bar [Sunset Strip]: Oh, stop, already. Celeb-heavy. "Our Motto: Where The Stars Come to Misbehave." Menu pricing needs FTC intervention, drinks are uneven in quality, as is service. The amusement of crowds of 'beautiful people' trying to interact with other 'beautiful people' makes some of the pain of this place bearable, but make a reservation if you want to use a bathroom at any point. Arrive early for any sort of seating or standing room.

Farmer's Market [3rd & Fairfax]: Has karaoke on weekends. A historic dive, "discovered" by Hollywood types; look for celebs whose star is waxing or waning (Jennifer Aniston, previously; currently, that woman who was the school secretary in Ferris Bueller). Packed, beer and wine only, but large selection and cheap prices. A wild time on weekends unrelated to the write-ups of the Market in tourist guides.

House of Blues [Sunset Strip]: Iffy acoustics for the price crossed with an unsettling feeling that a "House of Blues" is not supposed to have restroom attendants. Bartenders have a bad reputation for "forgetting" to give back change; bring small bills. No paradise, but diverse clientele and size means anything objectionable is escapable, and it boasts the bar-none largest and most out-and-out luxe "VIP" area I've seen yet. (Dan Ackroyd! Sharon Stone! Plus relative tranquillity, plush sofas, and luxury-hotel-quality service. That area only, though.)

Molly Malone's [Fairfax]: Originally written up in The Economist for their strong pro-smoking stance, they are now apologetically asking people to step outside. Live music is far too loud, but patrons are friendly and this is not too far removed from an actual "pub."

Ye Olde Kynggs Headde [Santa Monica]: "An authentic British pub..." Every visiting Canadian is brought to snigger at what can be passed off as a pub here. Still, this remains one of the most relaxing places on the list. Clientele ranges from local Brit ex-pat regulars to French tourists. Menu is reliable pub fare, for once. Curry is within puking distance as it is with all British pubs; the Indian restaurant across the street is excellent.

Buchanan Arms [Burbank]: A probably more authentic British pub, or at least a pleasant middlebrow place that looks like small-town Canada. Friendly, greasy menu, actual quiet place to go and lift a pint or two with your nearest and dearest. There is a small import store adjacent.

The Cat and Fiddle [Hollywood]: Claims to be a British pub. The most laughable of the lot in that matter, not even a distant cousin thereof, but still a satisfactory experience nonetheless. Gorgeous courtyard which is sadly packed on weekend evenings; go in the afternoon or during the week if you'd like any sort of peace. Service varies wildly.

Canter's Kibbitz Room [Fairfax]: Rivals bars in bowling alleys for depressing atmosphere, and mentioned here only for that. Skip next door to Canter's for a sandwich and forget the drinking idea.

Barney's Beanery [Hollywood]: An "institution," albeit one that needs to clean their beer dispensing equipment more often. Wildly large selection of beers, bottled and on tap, available. Entertainment includes karaoke and lingerie shows, yet still manages to attract a moderately respectable clientele. Food is hit and miss but mostly hit for bar food. Ditto service. Last report is that staff tells you about the no-smoking law while handing you an ashtray.

Encounter [LAX]: This 1960s spaceship lounge means going to LAX, and the only reason to go there is to get the hell out of Los Angeles. It's rude and nasty like every other hip-looking joint here. Servers are abominable, there is no smoking and no menu of any note, cocktails are stupid invented girl things for eight bux a go. Disaster. It is the most fool thing in the world; a resto-bar outside of any other aeroport in the entire world would be a godsend, but this just sends you running back inside hateful LAX itself.

el Coyote [Beverly Dr]: Not strictly a drinking experience, but the food is so bad and the margaritas so cheap, potent and notorious that it seems to need mentioning. Notable for being where Sharon Tate had her last meal. The food seems to be more of a threat than anything else: tostadas piled high with canned green beans and no cheese? And why are there cheap plastic toys in the entrance? And just why do the margaritas glow, anyway? Drew Barrymore has reported to be a fan of them, nevertheless, and the place is probably more resistant to drought/fire/earthquake/famine/etc than cockroaches, so it seemed worth a mention.
 
 
 

As I continue in the process of aging, and note that not only are my 20's more than halfway completed but that there are only dribs and drabs left in the century, I realise that I probably am not going to become famous. This particular life, and whatever it can express, will not cause even a ripple in culture, and no-one beyond my immediate circle of friends will ever be my audience. In short, for the whole of my life I will be someone who buys other people's records, not someone who creates them for other people to buy. My destiny is to remain in the audience and not mount the stage.

Although this is the condition of nearly every other person (there are ten thousand in the audience to each player on the stage), the internalising of this is still a solemn occurrence, because there is a general understanding that anonymity is irrelevant, and your importance and relevance is measured by how many people know you, or otherwise consume a piece of you. Why is it important to get fame? Why do people want it?

Most famous people become famous, and move from general anonymity into public recognition. This is important, because it means that they become famous for something that they do when they are anonymous. They are specifically selected from the mass and given the spot-light. You hear these stories of Lou Reed and J Cale stumbling up to "Lexington, 125" to stand on a freezing-cold street corner in November 1966 and bang out Waiting for my man long before they obtained public recognition for it. That was the peak of their art, and then the spot-light was turned on to them, and they were ruined. Their expression was much more pure, and better artistically, before Andy Warhol ever came sucking around.

Almost all artists produce better art at the beginning of their careers than they do after recognition and fame. There are a few great exceptions (the first that come to mind are the Beatles) but they are very few indeed.

So why do we, as artists, aspire for fame? Does it make for better art? On the contrary, the paradox is that fame and public recognition are often the two things that kills art. Why is it that you hear stories of novelists agonising over rejection slips when those very rejection slips are the things that enable them to create art? Acceptance slips do not change your artistic view, they just replace artistic-inspiration with monies, fame, and luncheon dates with Gore Vidal. And as we all know, no good art has ever come from anyone who eats with Gore Vidal.

The life of a famous person is not an interesting life because it does not vary, nor does it provide enough material upon which to create an art. No less of a celebrity than Mickey Dolenz of the Monkëës (that pop group) said that his life as a celebrity consisted of crawling through a tunnel between hotel room, limousine, stage, limousine, and repeat.

Those who aspire for fame and public recognition do it not in service of art, but in hopes of gaining power over others.

Obscurity, poverty, destitution, and the unnamed: These are not the things that we should fear, as artists; on the contrary we should cling to them because they are what makes us authentic and enables our art. Those who are famous merely bank on their former days of obscurity, but we, the readers and writers of this zine, live on them. And it is much better to live on something than to reminisce about it, even if the latter gives you cash in the process.
 
 
 

A call was received by the psychiatric service from a worried member about an undergraduate student who had become increasingly restless, excited, and confused over a period of days. He had concern and suspicion about the telephone next door which he thought could pick up sounds from his bathroom. He noted that certain bulbs in the corridor of his dormitory were not burning and felt this had some special significance which related to him. When the water his shower began to run cold, he viewed the incident as part of a plot. His behaviour grew increasingly strange.

Late one evening he emptied the contents of his wallet onto a sofa in a school library and left abruptly. This odd behaviour was noted by some other students who picked up the money, identification cards, other contents of the wallet. They trailed the patient to his house, reported the incident to the housemaster, and gave him the articles.

The housemaster called the psychiatric service at once. A psychiatrist and the housemaster went to the patient's room and found him busily engaged in throwing books and other effects out of the door and down the stairway. He was also tearing up paper money and throwing it around the room. He said that the books were propaganda and that the money was materialistic and therefore he would have none of it. He was quite distractible and kept commenting upon casual happenings which he believed had specific reference to him. He talked in an expansive way of a mission he would perform which involved going to a foreign country and delivering it from the grip of Communism. He tended to be somewhat jocular. Fortunately, he recognised in a vague way that he was not well, requested medicine, and then agreed without question to admission to the college infirmary.

Soon afterwards he was admitted to a mental hospital and regressed to an utterly disorganized state in which he would lie on the floor naked, confused, and unable to care for his simplest needs. But he responded favourably to psychotherapy and treatment with tranquillising drugs and was able to leave the hospital after some three months. He was readmitted to college and is making successful progress toward his degree.

case study from Emotional Problems of the Student, © 1961 by Appleton-Century-Crofts Inc.
 
 
 

So maybe education will have to be its own consolation.

Within six months of becoming a graduate, Chandra began to receive suggestions from relatives and elderly friends of the family as to what she should do with herself. Till this time it had never occurred to her that she ought to be doing anything at all. But now, wherever she went, she was pestered with the question, "Now what do you propose to do?"

"I have not thought of anything yet."
"Why don't you goto Madras and study law?"

There was her uncle in Nellore who wrote to her that she ought to do something and try to settle in life. There was her mother's cousin who advised her to study law. There was her Madras uncle who said that staying in Malgudi would not lead her anywhere, but that she ought to goto a big city and see people. He had immense faith in seeing people. He himself volunteered to give a letter of introduction to some big man, an auditor in the railways, who could in his turn give a further introduction to someone else, and finally fix up Chandra in the railways. This uncle seemed to live in an endless dream of introductory letters. Several relatives, chiefly women, asked him why she did not sit for the Indian Civil Service or the Indian Audit Service examination. Chandra felt flattered by their faith in her. There were others who said that there was nothing like a business occupation; start on a small capital and open a shop; independence and profit. All sorts of persons advised her to apply for a clerk's post in some Government office. Nothing like Government service, they said; on the first of the month you were sure of your money; security. Chandra had a feeling of persecution. She opened her heart to her father when the latter was trimming the roses early one morning.

"I am sorry, father, that I ever passed the BA. Why should everyone talk about my career? Why can't they mind their business?"
"It's the way of the world. You must not let that upset you. It is just a form of courtesy, you see."

Then they began to talk of Chandra's future. Her father gathered that Chandra had a vague desire to goto England and do something there...

And now, without college or studies to fetter her, Chandra was enjoying a freedom she had never experienced in her life before... she became a member of the Town Public Library, and read an enormous quantity of fiction and general literature. She discovered Carlyle. She found that after all Shakespeare had written some stirring dramas, and that several poets were not as dull as they were made out to be. There was no scheme or order in her study. She read books just as they came. She read a light humorist and switched on to Carlyle, and from there pounced on Shakespeare, and then wandered to Shaw and Wells. The thing that mattered most to her was that the book should be enjoyable, and she ruthlessly shut books that threatened to bore her.

After spending a large part of the day with books, she went out in the evening for long walks, necessarily alone, since most of her friends had gone away. She went on long rambles by the river, returned home late, and sat up for an hour or two chatting with her parents, and then read a little in bed. As she settled down to this routine she got used to it and enjoyed this quiet life. Every day as she went through one item she eagerly looked forward to the next, and then the next, till she looked forward to the delicious surge of sleep as she put away her book for the night.
 
 
 

The classic case of this syndrome in our experience was nicknamed the "Sultan." This boy was the product of an old Main Line family. His great-uncle was a notorious Victorian character whose estate is still an architectural wonderment in the region. The Sultan did well enough in his Harvard courses without ever doing much work, though he always contrived to include one D or E among his B and C grades. He elected only advanced courses in his freshman year. His expectation about Harvard was, "Harvard men were known to be complete intellectuals and complete dopes." To his amazement, "The ones I've met have been colourful." He spent most of his time in the Club, where he succeeded in irritating the membership by his ability to luck out impossible situations at billiards. This was for him more fun than winning by orthodox skill of which he possessed an abundance. At home, the family played "devilish" bridge.

In the science laboratories, he could devise the most ingenious and entertaining experiments with real scientific flair. He never did his assignments. The Sultan was soon on probation for a string of minor breaches of discipline. He became a regular, and rather welcome, visitor to the offices of various deans. He was a big, warm fellow whose boyish appeal reached the paternalistic side of the administrators' hearts. Unhappily, none felt moved to abrogate the rules. Unhappily, too, the Sultan displayed a massive dose of what one psychiatrist dubbed traumatophilia (a liking for hard knocks). It is not clear that he really wanted the warmhearted reaction he evoked from all. At one point he was able to say that he realised that he had an irrational feeling that study was degrading. To open a book was "cheating." Also he knew that he "wanted to be scared" and that we "wouldn't oblige." He came to the psychiatric service by a fluke; ordinarily, this sort of boy does not come in to us unless sent. We were also warmly on his side but, loath to alter reality until it is no longer recognisable, we refused to keep the Sultan in good standing by asking for special dispensations on his behalf.

His creative genius was unexcelled. When not driving his motorcycle into a Harvard Square store, he was organising an expedition to climb the Memorial Hall tower. He was intoxicated on most week ends and one Monday morning appeared in the waiting room, drooped, teeth loosened, eyes black, head aching. Sympathetic inquiry revealed that he had recently attempted to fly! Since he lived in a second floor room and his flight was powered only by whisky, the results were pathetic to see. And so it went. At one point, he was going to enter the service before being fired; somehow that fell through. At another, he managed to get his parents interested enough to come to Cambridge to negotiate his case, but by then it was much too late. He was dismissed from college.

Since leaving, the Sultan has held a succession of jobs, briefly and spectacularly. As a freight clerk he moved pianos onto freight cars unaided; then he became vice-president of a sales agency. Then he decided to return to another school, where he made a straight A record for a term and quit while he was ahead.

In the end, he settled in Hollywood, living on an allowance, going to studio parties, and doing bit parts in films. He is universally acknowledged -- even in the gossip columns -- to be a genius at gin rummy. He applies for readmission to Harvard semiannually but, on being told the procedure to follow, never quite follows it.

Early in this story, the Sultan received psychological testing. His Rorschach was clearly neurotic. Very much in touch with decided not to face it. He was a fine instance of someone the first horn of Erikson's dilemma: avoiding the autocracy of conscience by submitting to the anarchy of impulse. His anarchic impulses were his retreat from the unhappy features of the world of living.

Why he needed such a dodge became clear at once when he began his Thematic Apperception Test. To the initial picture, a child looking sadly at a violin, he said assuredly, "But this is purely obvious! The child made the mistake of showing interest in a violin and lo and behold he gets stuck with a violin. At present he's trying to think of putting pennies in the violin and seeing how they'll distort the the noise." We could call that creative resistance. Later, in the same TAT story, the hero's fate is described. "All through his life, he's going to be pushed. By this time his family has decided he's a potential genius. He may be somewhat proud of that." The Sultan was, in objective fact, a genius. Like so many of these students with character disorders, he suffered from a plethora of assets which he never geared to productive use.

Later on, his TAT stories revealed a specific and usual sexual neurotic sexual conflict, whose repressed aspects had stimulated the boy's guilt, which in turn was atoned for by generating trials and tribulations he seemed to enjoy so much.

The boy fled from therapy, as his kind usually do. For this we all felt sorry.

case study from Emotional Problems of the Student, © 1961 by Appleton-Century-Crofts Inc.
 
 
 

When the position of cultural leadership was handed over to the Xians by Constantine's edict of toleration (313 CE) and Theodosius' suppression of paganism (354 CE) the Xians took the opportunity to forbid attendance and participation in theatricals. The theatre of comedy and drama, until that time a fundamental aspect of Greek religio-culture and social discourse, was prohibited under penalty of law.

History says that the primary motivation for this was the Xians' need to bring to a close the paganistic liturgies and rites that accompanied the theatre. In those days, plays were presented in the format of Bacchanalia festivals, and during the theatre season the drinking and feasting went long into the night. It was not feasible to have the simple dramatic presentations continue without these allied festivities, and so in wanting to do away with the latter the Xians also had to close down the former, or so says history.

Perhaps we owe the early Church more credit than that, and perhaps there was something more enlightened in this decision than merely the attempt to squelch the opposition and have themselves be the only game in town. Perhaps they were more intelligent than this, and had a philanthropic motivation in mind.

In our own age, one need only turn on the television set or survey the local Megaplex to imagine that sweeping these things into the rubbish-heap would do much more for our culture and our very psyche than simply free up some extra time to goto church. If you can imagine the benefit that would come with burning Hollywood to the ground, you can gain an added appreciation for the early Church, who effectively did the equivalent in their time.

The fundamental question is this: What is it with actors and acting that they are always such chumps? Why are actors always the creepiest people around? Why does an episode of Entertainment Tonight bring about the desire to puke? Dear reader does it not make you want to vomit that Winona Ryder is now openly boo-hooing about 'the system' and blaming it for turning her into a depressed little girl?

Perhaps there is something foul in the psyche of the sort of person that feels a calling to be an actor. I invite you to recall to mind the drama department of your highschool days. Did you notice that there was a real sycophantic group in accumulation there, and that the people who went out for drama productions were somehow slimy and unseemly? The people who had a lot of social popularity but were always edgy about it, always a little creepy. There's no people like show people: They smile when they are low.

The art of acting is that of having an audience believe, through suspension of disbelief, that a stage is the real world, and the rehearsed and planned-out events they see taking place there are actual taking place in the real world, which is by nature unrehearsed ad lib. More importantly than this: The art of acting involves doing all that the actor can to have the audience believe that said actor has ceased to be themselves and has become the character. The more of their self that they can replace with the character, the better the show.

But this is the very thing that poisons the actor and turns them into the problematic person that actors inevitably become. Once a person learns how to create the appearance that they are someone else, then they have loosened their grasp upon what they are themselves. When you know how to act like someone else, you do. Actually conducting yourself and responding to situations as "yourself" becomes an option, and later becomes impossible, as you find that "yourself" is just one of the characters you have in your repertoire, one that is often not very useful or beneficial for the situation at hand. Once you are bitten by the acting bug the acting never stops; the whole world becomes your stage, the whole population becomes your audience, and you never stop being a fraud and a phony, playing the character that you think is appropriate for the situation. Play concerned, ok, now play thoughtful. Ok, now play sensitive. Now play the fireman rushing in from the pouring rain, very strange.

This is why acting is a profession that is intrinsic to mental diseases. This is also why child actors, those people who started acting at such a young age that they do not even have a memory of what it was like to just "be normal," get into such trouble in their later lives. Also we have in the past worked in TV studios, and the hosts who are bitchy and cranky and ugly in the set-up time instantly become peppy and smily and bubbly-entertaining when the headlight (the red light on top of the active camera) turns on.

Acting is a pursuit that is pleasurable to those who dabble in it, but psychologically damaging to those who profess it. This is a fundamental.

We can think that the Xians had an insight about the human character if this realisation contributed to their decision to eliminate the theatre. Acting was also banned during the various French Revolutions for it was a medium of dissent; however it was still legal to ape and clown so long as you did not speak, and it is for this reason that the world has been blessed with the wonderful pearl beyond price that is pantomime.

We would do well, for many reasons, if Hollywood was swept into the sea again today. But acknowledging that to be an unlikely turn of events, I propose then a return to the roots of Greek theatre, and the device known as the prosopon, which was a large carved mask that actors wore over their real heads during the course of a performance. This would make it clear to both audience and actor that the events taking place on the stage are not real, and that the players are only simulating reality. It will emphasise that dramatics are false, and it will prevent the players from bringing the methods and tricks of the theatre into their real life.
 
 
 

Who was Benedict Arnold? When you, Canadian, hear that name what does it bring to mind, if anything at all? Why is it that most of us here accept the common American republican opinion of him, which can be found in The Blackwell Encyclopaedia of the American Revolution (Cambridge, Mass USA: 1994) as "quarrelsome, vain, and ultimately traitorous" ?

Benedict Arnold was no traitor, at least no traitor to the causes that this country was settled and founded upon. His only failing was one he shared with St Paul; he initially persecuted those that he would later join. He was a late convert to the United Empire Loyalist cause, and got himself tangled up with the republicans before he realised their folly. Canadians should not look upon Benedict Arnold as a traitor, for his act of deserting the real traitors (George Washington and company) was one of admirable loyalty to King and Country: He turned his back on the republican ruffians and their detestable revolution and moved north to join the other American refugees in the infant province of New Brunswick, the motto of which was and is Spem Reduxit -- Hope is Restored. He lived for some time on an estate just outside of Fredericton, and was later granted some land in Eastern Ontario that he gave to his family and their descendants. Why are Canadian schoolchildren not taught the story of Benedict Arnold, loyalist, patriot, and devoted subject of the King, who put his very life on the line for the ideals that he believed in, the ideals of our Dominion, Empire, and patrimony? Why are schoolchildren instead left to absorb, through cultural imperialism, the Americans' opinion of Arnold as traitor and villain, when for us he was so clearly the opposite? Why do we not celebrate Arnold in the way that we celebrate Laura Secord?

The only thing left for him now is suicide.
-- Geo Washington on BA

He was born in Connecticut in 1741, and came to some social status as a merchant in New Haven. When republicanism came about he was involved with it, and as a militia leader participated in some rabble rousing in Boston. When war broke out he joined arms with Ethan Allen (who himself was a skunk) and moved northwest to upstate New York where he could fight both the local loyalists and the loyalists descending from the Canadas to offer their defence. He captured Fort Ticonderoga on Lake Champlain in 1775. Later that year he co-captained the assault on Québec City which was defeated by the army of Sir Guy Carleton (he the namesake of that glorious and venerable academic institution Carleton University.) At Saratoga Arnold checked the British advance on Albany.

It is at this exact moment that the American history books change their tune about Arnold. Until that time he is the golden boy and the man of the moment. The reason for Benedict Arnold rescinding from the American Revolution? Could it be that, like the other million United Empire Loyalists, he thought that revolution and republicanism was disrespectful, disloyal, foolish and slaughterous? Was it that he questioned the wisdom of turning his back upon his King and Country and taking up arms against his brother simply because he didn't like to pay his taxes? The American history books, in looking for a reason why he might have backed out upon their "glorious revolution" blame a femme fatale, and attribute his turn to his wife!

He assumed teh debts of his second wife, Peggy Shippen, when he married her. Her debts were many as she was a member of the bourgeoisie, and Arnold had confusion sabout his class because he was still basicallyt a shopkeeper type, yet he was at the helm of a new nation. In order to either keep up with her demands, or realise them for himself, he had to engage in guerilla capitalism and was eventually done in by Continental Congress on charges of making personal use of government goods. Capitalism was even more rogue inm those days than this; these pedestrian charges were trumped up by those who wanted to eliminate him after he failed to rouse rebellion in the Canadas.

There was indeed a con man orchestrating the assault on Fort Ticonderoga, but he was not Benedict Arnold. Nay, it was Ethan Allen who was the skunk of that operation, and if the Americans are anxious to find themselves a traitor, they would do well to turn again to this so-called patriotic hero. Ethan Allen of furniture fame was a dangerous religious nut ball who wrote a bizarre Deist rant called Reason the Only Oracle of Man, and had a propensity to fire off his musket at those he felt were impeding his personal freedoms, which were not political but financial. Ethan Allen had no political interests or convictions beyond creating an environment that permitted him to make as much money as possible. He owned extensive land holdings and mining interests throughout the green mountains, and saw the breakout of the chaos of the American Revolution as his opportunity to consolidate his control of Vermont. The "American Revolution" was more correctly a series of uprisings and seditions breaking out in various parts of the couthern colonies that had as much to do with land-grabs, protectionism, strong-arming nad old fashioned brawling than it did political economy or the philosophy of Thomas Paine.

Ethan Allen roused his Green Mountain Boys and began to blast and shoot his way across Vermont. He became the leader of Vermont not by means of democratic election but because he owned the most land and captained the largest squad of mercenaries. He declared it to be independent of British control, but he did not immediately join the States' Union; for the years 1776-91, Allen was at the helm of the self-styled Republic of Vermont, his personal fiefdom. In 1791 the Republic purchased tracts of land outside Burlington upon which to build the Universitatis Verdis Monte; land which coincidentally happened to be owned by his brother Ira Allen. Ethan Allen's interest was with his domain, and so he resisted the United States as much as the United Kingdom, and was anxious to goto war with New York, Massachusetts, or New Hampshire if those states claimed any land in his Republic, which they all did for quite some time. When it seemed as if the cause was lost, he negotiated with Sir Frederick Haldimand (he of Haldimand-Norfolk County, Ontario, fame), to return Vermont to the Empire on the condition that he remain as governor and that his financial interests be protected. Haldimand told this creep that if that was the way he wanted it, he could goto the Devil or the Americans, for such potentates are not tolerated in this Empire, spot on lad, bugger off. The only reason that Vermont is not a Canadian province today is because we said good riddance to bad rubbish such as this Ethan Allen.
 
 
 

Let me tell you about a hiking trip I once took along with a friend of mine. This was in 1988, when I was studying in Benares Hindu University, sometime around autumn. By this time, I was in my junior year, and had gotten over my initial enthusiasm for studies in general and Computer Science in particular. Mostly, I would sneak out of the classes after the attendance was called, head for the Mandir with a few like-minded souls to observe life at first hand and discuss its implications/complications over a glass of tea. I say a glass of tea because tea is served in a glass in almost all of the innumerable dhabas which punctuate the street corners in most of India. The Mandir was an ideal place for such congregations for, besides being a focal point for a vast number of pilgrims who thronged it daily, it had excellent arrangements by way of refreshments, snacks, and of course tea.

One of the participants in these discussions was Sanjay Garg, about whom I will not say much now, except that he was addicted to tea, cigarettes, and fiction written by modern Indian authors. Perhaps I shall delineate his character in greater detail in a future report. Another was Balraj Singh Khehra, whom everyone called Khera, and who was addicted(?) to ganja, psychedelic music, peanuts, solving crosswords, and doing crazy things. For example, one night he climbed the long unused Benco chimney all the way to the top and planted a white flag on the top. This was a dangerous thing to do, since the rungs of the chimney were rust-encrusted and hence not very strong. Another time, he drank a glassful of pure Bhang, and got quite sick later that night. We were all worried, because he kept saying that he was dying. However, someone (I think it was Achal) got him some emetic, and he was all right afterwards.

Anyway, I came back one afternoon to the hostel, and I saw Khera leaving with a backpack. He asked me if I wanted to go with him to the Chandra-Prabha sanctuary. I said that I had not heard of the place. He told me that it is about 75 kilometres from Benares, and that we were going to walk the whole way. At this point, someone who was listening to our conversation said that it was a crazy idea, and that I should not get involved with it. Khera was angry, but said instead that the weekend was ahead, and I might as well come along with him, instead of staying there. So I packed a few things in my bag, and we set out for the sanctuary. Meanwhile, I learnt from him that Chandra-Prabha was a forest with lot of wild animals, a river with a waterfall, and rudimentary facilities for accommodation.

It was around noon when we set out, and we walked to Lanka and skirted the perimeter of the University till we reached Nagua ghat. Here, a temporary pontoon bridge was in place so that pedestrians and small vehicles could cross the Ganges over to Ramnagar. During the monsoon season, the bridge is dissembled, since the Ganges flows far too rapidly for the bridge to be stable. Ramnagar is a small town compared to Benares, but the Maharaja of Benares, who is also the Chancellor of BHU, has his palace here. During the Dussehra, he crosses the river in his boat, and there is a huge procession. We had seen the palace before, and asking the auto-drivers for directions, we set out for Mughalsarai, which was to be our next stop on the way to the Chandra-Prabha.

Dusk was falling as we reached Mughalsarai, and the sky was coloured ochre-red. We had some guavas on the way, but now we were getting hungry again. Mughalsarai is a fairly big town, perhaps comparable to Benares in size. We planned to get something to eat at the railway station, and stay there for the night. However, as we neared the town, we met a man who was evidently returning home from work. He walked his bicycle along with us, and introduced himself as Murlidhar Singh. With the typical honest curiosity one finds among the people who do not dwell in cities, he wanted to know who we were and where we were going. When he learnt that we were students at the University, and were hiking to the sanctuary, he was both surprised and impressed. He made an offer for us to stay at his place for the night, which we gladly accepted.

Mr. Murlidhar Singh owned a house and some cattle, so he seemed reasonably well-off. He said that his son also goes to the University, but last summer he had an accident while working with the hay-cutting machine, and lost the use of his right hand. He was now learning to do things with his left hand including writing, so as to be able to take the examinations for his degree. Listening to him, I couldn't help wondering why terrible things happen to good people. This man trusted that his fate was in God's hands, and this belief gave him the strength to cope with the tragedy. He is not unique in that respect; India has many people like him.

His wife cooked a delicious supper for us, and he urged us to eat well so that we would have enough strength for the rest of the journey. Their kindness was touching. They treated us like we were their sons. That night, before going to sleep, I reflected on the hospitality that was offered to us, and it reminded me of the stories I had read in the Indian mythologies. This was a scene from a living past, reenacted in a modern setting.

The next day we started at daybreak, and proceeded towards our destination with the anticipation of reaching it by the evening. On some stretches of the road, we were the only two people walking along it, and once in a while, a truck or an auto would pass us, its occupants casting curious glances at us as it sped by. Although it was cool at dawn, it got quite warm by the forenoon, and we stopped by at a wayside mango orchard for a brief rest. The cool breeze gently rippling through the mango leaves carrying the fragrance of the mango blossoms was refreshing, and for sometime, we just sat there, observing. There were some huge termite mounds, and also lots of long red ants running around in a hectic manner. Some unidentified birds provided soothing music in the background. It was quite restful. I was content to spend the rest of my life there, but Khera insisted that I should get up and start walking. Those were not the exact words that he used, but that was the idea he wanted to convey, and he succeeded.

I discovered to my horror that by this time there were some ants crawling around in my pants, and let me tell you that it is not a pleasant experience. I am sure that those of you who have had this experience will wholeheartedly agree with me. If you do not want to accept my statement at its face-value (strictly as a matter of principle), I urge you to try it out yourself. I would be happy to oblige in case you require my assistance in the purely technical aspects of selection of the right species of ants. For example, African army ants are highly recommended for the educational value of the resulting experience. But I digress. Khera seemed to find it funny and he exploded with unholy mirth, which I thought was in bad taste. Anyway, after some extremely complicated meringue steps, I managed to get rid of the nasty little insects that were trying to hitch a free ride with me, and once again, we were on our way. We passed a couple of villages, and some of the villagers had crushed sugar cane spread out to dry on their roof, and in their backyard. We munched on some, just to have something to do while trudging along. Perhaps they use it to feed cattle, or may be as fuel for their angitthis. I am not sure.

By this time, it was midday, and we had covered about 50 kilometres. We had some lunch at a village dhaba, and when we started walking again, we felt shooting pain in the knees for the first few steps. I guess that's one of the side-effects of non-stop walking. This was one of the times in my life when I exercised the power of the mind over the body. We had to will ourselves to walk, or we would have stayed there. Here I must acknowledge the fact that Khera's will was stronger than mine (may be his legs too). There were railway tracks in the distance, and a passenger train was crawling slowly along. We crossed the railway crossing, and reached the banks of an irrigation canal, along which we proceeded for some time. Now we had to rest more frequently, and we took a break when we reached the locks of the canal.

The locks of a canal are an interesting sight. There is a higher level of water on one side, which pours to the other side after passing through the locks. It gives rise to a great noise, almost like that of a waterfall. Also, the water on the other side swirls violently, and the spray splashes on you when you sit on the edge of the locks. We sat for a while on the edge and eating peanuts, dropping the empty shells in the water and watching them go round and round in the foaming coils of the water. Sometimes, you could see a miniature rainbow in the spray. On the other side of the locks, the water was more or less placid, with all kinds of junk floating on its surface, which got filtered out. I guess somebody cleans out the junk at the end of the day, so that the locks don't get clogged up.

We were now on the last leg of the journey, and looked forward to reaching the sanctuary by the evening. There were hills in the distance, probably the foothills of the Vindhya range. The sanctuary was located somewhere there. Plodding along, we were pretty much convinced that we would not do any exploration that day, but get a good dinner and much needed rest. Then we would be in a better shape to explore the sanctuary's secrets.

The terrain was hilly now, and we reached the bottom of the hill upon which Chandra-Prabha was situated. The sanctuary had makeshift walls made of rough stones all around and a dirt road leading up towards the top of the hill. By this time, it was twilight, and both of us were quite tired, so climbing the hill was literally an uphill task. We heard a truck coming behind us, which stopped when it neared us. The driver asked us where we were going. When we told him, he asked us to jump in and told us that he was also going to the sanctuary. But Khera said that we had come walking all the way from Benares, and would like to walk up to the top. The truck driver said in a concerned tone that it would take us another two hours to reach there, and meanwhile it would be dark and it would be very unsafe for us to walk in the night especially with wild animals roaming around. That argument and also the fact that we were tired and wanted to rest convinced us to accept his generous offer. On the way, he showed us big holes dug in the ground by bears searching for edible roots.

We reached Chandra-Prabha just at nightfall. It was a moment for thanksgiving when, after finishing a meal provided by the caretaker of the Visitor's Guest House in the sanctuary, we lay down to rest on the hard floor of the unfurnished dormitory, listening to the sounds of the wild in the enveloping silence, each of us glad that finally we were here.
 
 
 

"I wrote a song [Belly Button Window] about abortion. They should legalise abortion. See, evolution is changing the brain, so quite naturally you're gonna have hang-ups of thought, but still the whole past is going towards a higher way of thinking, towards a clearer way of thinking. But there are still some hard-heads that don't give themselves a chance to develop in the brain, or let their souls develop, or the emotions. This is a modern age and they do have pills for this, and some of these girls get very sick trying not to have babies. And who says that it's written that it's a sin to, what-they-call, kill off a 'child'? A child isn't a child until it comes out into the air. I don't think so. They have to think in a higher range of thinking. A lot of young people are. They're gonna get it together.

"So if you want an abortion, by all means please go ahead, because you know it aint kool to bring me up without bread especially when that world outside is so cold, hateful, and dead, so legalise if you're wise."
 
 
 

It was prompted by my inviting him to a party, him declining because his mom said he couldn't go, and me calling him a wimp, because I was pretty sure that he never even asked her.

That sounded idyllic. It kind of looked like another peer group passed by a few minutes ago. Or then maybe it's just because it seems to be past my bedtime.

Now the hostility. Who knows? Maybe you have found yourself another Comrade X to practice excreting on. Maybe I have personality problems. I think I badly need a peer group. And a Kleenex. Ugh.

Think I was at home playing with the Legos when this happened. Made the mistake of letting my mother know that I was actually going all the way to that god-forsaken tower of evil and immorality, Etobicoke.

It was a nice quote, Steven. You may pin it on the fridge when you get home. I don't have a fridge. I need one so I can drown my sorrows in submarine sandwiches. I was thinking about bleeding to death in the corner and then getting a new alias. Woolly Red Tag. Maybe I am going to ejaculate into someone else's body next year, pull on doc martins and find myself among similar peers, and every morning we can walk every morning to the sausage machine. In world war one, people called the western front the sausage machine. It was fed live men, churned out corpses, and stood firmly screwed in place. It was a great man who coined that one. Or woman as the case may be. In this sausage machine, it's fed 2 pounds of live watery mushy tissue with an infinite horizon, and maybe 15 years later it can be proud to churn out a badly malformed collection of ego alter ego emotion and blandness. I'm on the transition, and it hurts a bit. But I think that that's probably like abortion. It hurts a bit and then you probably forget about it.

My dad shook what he assumed to be my shoulder (it's kind of hard to find) and said "[gosh son] Glad you live in [that great country of Canada where we can dump all of our shit on everyone else and pretend not to know about it] Canada?" and I gave him a stupid look. Lots of Apathy. If I ever write anything worthwhile, it will be about someone apathetic like Billy Pilgrim. Intellectual people are impossible to write about for me. Probably because in order to be interesting they must be more interesting than I am.

The Lithuanian Soviet Socialist Republic decided not to be anymore today. 3 million people halfway across the world are fucking capitalism tonight and wait breathlessly for their colour t.v. sets and their pamphlets on fascist regimes in six easy lessons to be delivered in U-Haul trucks in the morning.

Tolling tolling away away away. There's a wall on my left, and it's a thin, graffitied wall made up sooperhard concrete about ten fight high and all sorts of people are scrambling all over it killing their livers with rat poison and beating at the innocent wall with chisels and bulldozers and themselves. The there's one on my right, and it's a massive thick wall, hundreds or thousands of years old. And it goes all before the Gobi desert and protects fucking Shanghai and Beijing from Manchuria. It did a couple of hundred years ago, but no one has gotten around to tearing it down yet. And now everyone likes it so much that they'd prefer it to hang around a bit. And behind me there's a little wooden white door that stands there looking silly and wonders what the difference is on either side of it.

Has it really only been fourteen some odd years since I slid less than smoothly from mother's vagina? How strange. You could sort of sit there back then, and you were attached to a big thick soft pink wall, and you were fed through a garden hose, and you didn't have to think, and couldn't if you wanted to.

Getting fed through a garden hose is kind of a neat idea. You could all reattach yourselves to your little pink walls and suck and suck and suck. Now you can paint the picket fence mauve and staple yourself to it, but all you'll get will be a certificate of insanity and a free trip to a big happy place full of confused people like yourself where you can wander around in fucking sterilised white corridors and drool and shit on the floor and get visited by confused relatives.

Confused of course because they don't know their place in life. Their place in life is to sit around, get blitzed on Heineken and see what they can come up with. Gaea has just about had it.

I think this message started about me and my peer groups but I'm stapled to a picket line and it's looking insignificant. Thank you.
 
 
 

These are some people I met through a board I helped to co-sysop in my mid to late teens. Three months after this episode it was me instead of Kathy that talked him out of his next suicide moment. I wish I was a better friend to them, but as you can guess we were all pretty hung-up upon our own problems and were sometimes quite selfish in that.

Jason to Toby
Well, here's another. I want you to tell her you like her and invite her over to your apartment this weekend for movies. BUT I bet your already doing that. I am sorry. It hurts so much you wouldn't believe. I rode up to her apartment building and sat and stared at it for close to a hour. Then I went to Kathy's and talked to her. I am must be insane feeling for her. I must be Suicidal Maniac

Toby to Jason
Jason, no...I'm your friend. Dana isn't going to chew you out tomorrow. I don't know what she'll say exactly, but I know for a fact that she won't tell you off. Dana you and I are sort of (sort of?) in a bad situation here, but I'm sure it can all be worked out without anyone having to be a social outcast. Don't apologise. So what did you do while you were out? Glad to see you didn't kill yourself. More than glad. Dana says that she knows that she's been, well, "not nice" to you for the past little while, and she is sorry. But you can't be nice to everyone all the time. Much like you, a lot of shit goes on in her life (in my opinion not a lot of shit goes on in your life, but you think so) and you must at least try and understand that she has a lot of mixed emotions inside her about different things... and well, this is what happened. She treated you badly. She realises it and is sorry. Speaking frankly, it almost feels like you are testing my friendship with you. I just wanna say that not matter what, I am your friend. You could piss me off, threaten my life, not talk to me, tell me your "terrible" life story, and anything else you can think of, BUT I WILL STILL BE YOUR FRIEND. You can't get rid of me. I am a curse on you. You shall never be without me as your friend. It's late at night, and I might have said something in here which you don't wanna hear me say... sorry if I have.

Jason to Toby
Oh so that's what you did while you were out. Okay, I see. Well as a matter of fact I did mention the movie thing. I don't think it'll happen this weekend. Speaking of this weekend, I wanna invite you, Andrew, and David over for the night to fart around and play some RPGs and order pizza and other such shit which friends like to do. So I'll try again. "You wanna do something this weekend?" No, I definitely won't be doing anything with Dana this weekend. I'm tired of this whole Dana BS for awhile, I think we both need a break from it, more you than I. So whaddya you and some friends come over here and have some fun? I insist you come. I feel like imposing on someone. YOU WILL COME. Why? Because I enjoy your company, you are funny, and well, don't you like pizza?

Jason to Toby
Ahgggggggggggg. Well, you and all the other "heroes" at that party should have let me go. I cried myself to sleep again and I am sick of going insane and running a mile in the morning. I hate life. For you its fine. You have a lot to look forward to... what do I? I mean your creative, I use to be, Your funny, I use to be, You have a girl that likes you have several that wish me dead. You think my life isn't full of shit? Well you can have it. I would rather have the life of a port-a-john.

Jason to Toby
Sorry I don't want to go. I am a depressing blob of fat. It would be bad for me to see you or anybody (including Dana) for a long long long time. If I can juts stay away from all. I will be fine I hope. As for suicide yesterday. I would have if had enough to drink. I was going to the bluffs or I was going to ride on to the 401. But instead I went to Dana's. Then Kathy's. Then home.

Toby to Jason
All right Satan, enough is enough. It's easy to get depressed about little things, if there are lots of little things. But you have to realise them for what they are: little things. So somebody hates you. I've been through almost a lifetime of hate. I was in a similar condition as you a couple years back. But you can't expect everyone to like you. It just never happens. That's how it goes. Dana realises she's not been nice, she's sorry. There, two little problems out of the way. You can insist all you want that Dana likes me, and for awhile I believed that too, but the truth is, she doesn't know why she picked on me that one night. I've asked her twice, and she's said "I really don't know... God my life is screwed up..." see? And now I am very firm on this one thing: even if she did like me, I just wanna be friends. I am not the kinda guy who needs girlfriends. I am happy enough with just friends. When you get a GF you have to pay "special attention" to them, which means that I'd have to neglect my friends. I don't enjoy doing that. Some people need GF's, some don't. Them's the breaks. I don't care what you think about how I feel towards her, because I am ME and I KNOW what I THINK. You gotta go back to what you were until you find another girl. You gotta give yourself a little push to get started, but it all comes back. Sometimes a big push is needed, but everyone is able to push themselves; some don't realise it, some do. A good time is staring you in the face (getting together on the weekend) and you are ignoring it. You feel depressed. FOR CHRIST SAKES, DO SOMETHING FUN! You won't be depressed. I have tried to be patient here. I have tried to be understanding. You have done diddly-squat on your side. I haven't even seen you try. I know you can try. I believe in you. Try. Last chance here, okay? If you poo-poo my help one more time, I WILL do as you wish, I WON'T talk to you. No joke. I will still be your friend, but it'll be damned hard for you to communicate with me. How could that possibly be what you want? After awhile of not talking to you, well, I'll consider trying to help you again. I try and try, and you keep banging me into a brick wall. I have a sore head now. You bang me into it one more time in the next little while, and I've had it with you, until my head is healed at least. Now come on, let's do something this weekend.

Jason to Steven
Well, Teszx I agree. My life is not so great but still better... as for Dana well I still would give my left Testicle to go out with her. She is really the only girl I HAVE REALLY LOVED. yes I know I am the one that says love is not really a force or existent. At a party before I was going out with her I feel asleep with my arms around her waist. I can tell truthfully that I would throw all my life away for her. But I wouldn't tell her that cause her life is screwed up as it is. As for my attempt at suicide I am afraid if I drink any more I could do it. You see I got smashed at my house and was riding to the 401 and was going to ride on to it. But on the way there I sobered up a bit and remember I would call a friend at 7.00. So i called her and she talked me out of it. I would have done it with out her. So I owe her. So after I decided I wouldn't do it I rode to Dana's and stared at her building for a hour then rode to my friends house. Now I have stopped for fear I might next time be drunk enough to just cut my writs (which I have done before but detest as away of dying). Well anyway I think I might have a party on the 6 my parents are going away. And was wondering if you would like to come. DANA WILL BE THERE. SO DON'T SAY ANY THINK ABOUT THIS TO HER, Ok?
 
 
 

"What do you mean by isolation?" I asked him.

"Why, the isolation that prevails everywhere, above all in our age -- it has not fully developed, it has not reached its limit yet. For everyone strives to keep his individuality, everyone wants to secure the greatest possible fullness of life for himself. But meantime all his efforts result not in attaining fullness of life but self-destruction, for instead of self-realisation he ends up arriving in complete solitude. All mankind in our age is split up into units. Man keeps apart, each in his own groove; each one holds aloof, hides himself and hides what he has, from the rest. He ends by being repelled by others and repelling them. He heaps up riches by himself and thinks "How strong I am now, and how secure." And in his madness he does not understand that the more he heaps up, the more he sinks into self-destructive impotence. For he is accustomed to rely upon himself alone and to cut himself off from the whole; he has trained himself not to believe in the help of others, in men and in humanity, and only trembles for fear he should lose his money and the privileges that he has won for himself. Everywhere in these days men have ceased to understand that true security is to be found in social solidarity rather than in isolated individual effort. But this terrible individualism must inevitably have an end, and all will suddenly understand how unnaturally they are separated from one another. It will be the spirit of the time, and people will marvel that they have sat so long in darkness without seeing the light.  And then the sign of the Son of Man will be seen in the heavens... But, until then, we must keep the banner flying. Sometimes even if he has to do it alone, and his conduct seems to be crazy, a man must set an example, and so draw men's souls out of their solitude, and spur them to some act of brotherly love, that the great idea may not die."