Monday, February 28, 2011

Nadir Telescope


I open my eyes to the riots on the street
Up through hope where the highways meet
The fabric of my life torn and incomplete
The cards arrayed at my shackled feet

These men in the city showing only the whites of their eyes
These abuses of power with the proliferation of spies
These children of privilege abusing with lies
These contrails distant roar that dissect the skies

These voices here raised in the disintegration of days
These fences these foils these isolationist ways
These faces on the street whose anxiety betrays
These somnambulant feet that negotiate the maze

These memories of rain on parched lips sky raised
These fields of ochre pattern cracked and overgrazed
These wells and rivers all but memory erased
These feet of clay this sad malaise

I close my eyes and let it slip away
Down through hope where corners fray
The fabric of my life with thoughts in disarray
And the cards will fall just where they may

Friday, February 25, 2011

5.2 Captivity is a State of Mind

Man on the Ceiling ~ Christopher Gibbs

Atom operated the door mechanism, it swung open smoothly; No.3 smiled: I told you so. NOM’s 1 & 2 remained on their bench, arguing.
“Who died and made you King of the World”
“Who died and gave you the right to question my authority”
“Authority? Authority? You couldn’t author your way out of this cell – too busy lording it over me.”
“Lording? That’s not even a word Mr Atom-come-lately; I didn’t notice you engineering an escape plan.”
No.3 shrugged and followed Atom down the corridor.




Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Smoke 'n' Mirrors

wet into wet ~ Nikki Dalke


There must be an underlying conviction that we will live a good life. It remains to see how we interpret that premise.
The boy who expected nothing sat on the grassy bank that his father had made and looked out over the hollow of suburban houses. Sometimes he would wonder how he would react if his parents didn’t return from the supermarket, if the white beetle should fail to cross his vision where the road snaked around the hillside.
Sometimes he would shout down to the English boy across the road:
“M-i-c-h-a-e-l”
Pause to hear his voice echo near the station hidden down in the trees at the valley’s funnel.
“M-i-c-h-a-e-l”
Michael rarely responded these days, especially since the incident with the WW2 fighter pilot’s headgear being swapped for one of Johan’s con jobs. He’s got that blame for that, not Johan; shit, it had been between Michael and Johan, he’d had nothing to do with it save having been present at the negotiations.
Sometimes he watched the clouds, but not for long, he always got dizzy lying on the bank and watching the clouds; as if he were going to fall into the sky.
Sometimes he just watched.
Nothing ever happened.
The man who expected everything to happen to him grew to have his expectations fulfilled.
His expectations misguided perhaps, but delivering nevertheless a good life; a life full of change; a life not spent in the one place his boyhood had never wanted to leave.

This post is Bio related.

Monday, February 21, 2011

Existence is Elsewhere


She ran him down to alien town
Where he helped her build the moon
Draped in a golden buttoned gown
His time had come too soon

And all she knew and all she had
She owed to Che Guevara
And those amber days in Leningrad
That named her Cait O’Mara

She ran him down with ill intent
For the accumulated fate
He’d pushed her way from armour rent
By the act of being late

Late for school and late for learning
Late for heading home
Late to feel the need for turning
Away from pastures known

She ran him down in pale blue shark
That she’d bought from André Breton
Arrived before the dawning dark
and hoped that they would get it on

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Hey!

Friday, February 18, 2011

Second Last Life


Ten days previous, while mooging the southern spiral, he’d run into the Exactor’s trace elements and picked up a Trojan the size of forever.
Nine-times out of ten that would have been enough to bypass the hex and leave a man in the abyss without backup, but Mikael-Eight was built of sturdier code and they ported him a new shell before the virus could do its work.
Seven decimal places of tolerance served him up with synaptic loose ends and a porting hangover the size of Greenland.
Six hours of backup and he was none the wiser as to the Exactor’s intentions but did have a hookup arranged with a promise of payload.
Five minutes to hookup, the transporter delivered him to the street, his armour undefining him, merging him with the vapourlight orange and black.
Four levels up, he took the stairs with measured strides and on the landing he was surprised to find the corridor clear.
Three steps from the door and his head was removed by the blade of the Exactor’s wrathcode.
Two lives from the abyss his reassembly came with a government health warning on bodycare and maintenance.
One more month like this, he thought, and I’m gonna have to get out of the business.


for the attention-span deficit

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

5.1 The Problem With Space

(...is that there is not enough of it for two men to live alongside one another in harmony)

Hermetic Art 3 ~ Alex Andreyev

“Okay okay, keep your beards on, ‘cat’ is not a four letter word you know,” Atom closed his eyes “no need to expose your wrinkly bits.”
“Ginger cat?” said No.3, “Balls the size of coconuts, shitty attitude?”
All three leaned forward in anticipation.
Atom realised that they all looked (give or take a few decades here and there) very much like the face he had found in the hotel room’s mirror. “You know him too?”
All three sank back.
“We’re all in the same boat” sighed No.3.
“The three, erm now four of us may be in the same boat, but what about them out there?” said NOM1 jerking his beard toward the door, “ever thought about that eh?”
“They’re not important,” said NOM2, “They’re here for our benefit”
“And they say wisdom comes with age?” said No.3, “Seriously: you should be talking to me, I only just got here the other day”
“Three years ago” said NOM1
“Three years and two months” said NOM2
No.3 looked at Atom with eyes that called for help.
“What about them out there?” said Atom, “Who are they?”
“Guards!” said NOM1
“Dogs!” said NOM2
“Actually it’s just the policeman” said No.3, “I went down the corridor the other day and saw him sitting at his desk blowing softly on his whistle and fondling his baton”
Atom winced and NOM 1 & 2 clenched their jaws and eyes at the word ‘baton’.
Then as the information trickled through Atom felt compelled to ask: “You went down the corridor? How did you open the door?”
“It’s got a nifty mechanism on it,” said No.3, basking in Atom’s recognition of his genius, “You push it down with your hand and you can then pull the door open."
“W-h-a-t-?” sang NOM 1 & 2 in chorus, “You never told us about that!”
“Couldn’t get a word in edgewise with you two old cunts twaddling on for ever about spheres of influence and international boundaries and who’s entitled to fucking what in this shithole.”




Monday, February 14, 2011

View from the Treetops (14 Feb '11)

Sometimes I Wander


The guitar comes through as if it’s been recorded in a bowl of smog. Nobody does it quite the way they do; nobody has the balls.
The mythology and the myth that rock ‘n’ roll is dangerous is not always a lie but to bite through the manufacturer’s wrapping you have to have a voice.
Something to say.
A purpose.
( bullshit)
We create because we have to, we all create in some way, but when we create for the sake of creating we call it art.
(Possibly bullshit)
We create because it amuses us; it makes us feel as if we are using our time well. It makes us feel good.
We are not all the same, but we are similar – some are transmitters and some are receivers.
The creative urge is restless, it sleeps lightly and is at home in the darkness of an early morning. The creative urge can be lazy, believing as it does, that it answers to nobody and will survive in a hostile world. It will survive in a world that is hostile toward creativity. But then survival in this western civilisation is easy when compared to those whose survival is a far more visceral experience.
So perhaps the creative urge is survival.
Just for the record: making babies can only be classed as a biological and technically creative urge – so sex is not art… unless it is practised well.
A drum beats through the living space, as a horse on an antique film: all flickering legs and rocking horse head.

------------------------------o0o------------------------------

U.S.-Egypt: Cookie-Cutter Cuisine

By Eric Walberg
via alJazeera

Quiet tourist backwater Tunisia under its only rulers since independence -- Habib Bourghiba (1956-1987) and then Zein Al-Abidine bin Ali (1987-2011) -- was a much appreciated ally of the United States. However, as bin Ali fled to Saudi Arabia last month, U.S. leaders suddenly were hailing those who defied his U.S.-trained police with their U.S.-made tear gas and guns, including the 100 they killed.

Two weeks later, after almost identical developments in Egypt, the U.S. found itself poised to repeat itself, praising the now millions of protesters, including at least 300 who so far have died, though stopping short of pushing Egypt’s President Hosni Mubarak (1981-2011) to follow his colleague’s steps into exile, fearing the collapse of its Middle East order.

Now mainstream U.S. pundits strategise about how best to shape the new political playing field to continue to meet U.S. needs. In the New York Times Mark Landler worries about “potentially dangerous directions” for the U.S. He quotes United States President Barack Obama’s new special envoy to Tunisia Jeffrey Feltman on the need to “support pro-democracy forces”, though Daniel Shapiro cautions against “a cookie-cutter ideal of how to approach it”. And Aaron Miller tells Landler they must find the right balance between “identifying the U.S. too closely with these changes” (read: continuing to support the government) and at the same time “not finding ways to nurture them enough” (read: controlling the pro-democracy activists).

Martin Indyk, adviser to Obama’s Middle East envoy George Mitchell and former ambassador to Israel, weighed in definitively on Egypt in a CNN interview 30 January when he called Mubarak “a dead man walking”, saying “We have to get on the right side of history.” In other words, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

Even without a “cookie-cutter” it is clear in Cairo that the Landlers and Indyks advising Washington on its policies towards Arab countries are following a well-defined recipe not concerned with Arab democracy, but Israel’s best interests, even as the policy zigs one way and zags another.

That bin Ali’s staunch support for the U.S. war against Islam (excuse me, “terrorism”) just might be an important reason why Tunisians risked life and limb to overthrow him hardly seems to enter the U.S. radar screen. Bin Ali’s willingness to persecute his own people while serving U.S. Middle East interests also goes a long way towards explaining his lack of qualms about stealing their wealth and ignoring their basic needs.

Ditto Egypt. Shapiro’s insistence that no cookie-cutter is adequate to the complexities of the Middle East is belied by both the uniformity of U.S. Arab allies’ domestic and foreign policies and the quick succession of almost identical protests. The last 30 years have witnessed a cookie-cutter scenario of a U.S.-supported secular government which persecuted Islamists and opened the nation to the depredations of neoliberalism and tourism through a US-educated and armed elite which amassed vast fortunes. It is hardly surprising that the dispossessed finally exploded in fury.

There are differences -- Egypt has a large peasantry, by definition conservative. But it also has memories of socialism -- land reform and the relative equality of the days of Gamal Abdel-Nasser. In addition, Egypt has a long history of political plurality. Spurred on by mass movements Kefaya (Enough), ElBaradei’s National Association for Change, and the April 6 Youth Movement, the venerable Wafd (Delegation) Party, the Muslim Brotherhood and several more recent secular parties such as Al-Ghad (Tomorrow) and Tagammu (Alliance) will hit the political ground running when the dust finally clears after Egypt’s popular uprising.

By all rights Egypt is the most important player in the Middle East, but since president Anwar Sadat signed the Camp David accord in 1979, Egypt has been intimately tied to the U.S. as the only Arab country, along with Jordan, to sign a peace treaty and recognise Israel, and thus was sidelined. The revolution of January 2011 has suddenly thrust Egypt back into the Middle East’s “great game”, much as the ascendancy of Nasser in 1952 in reaction to British domination made it a key player in that era’s great game.

As it has done throughout the post-WWII period, Washington is hedging its political bets. Until the last moment in both Tunisia and Egypt, it strongly supported the government despite an increasing pattern of repression and corruption in both countries, while also backing and financing the regimes' detractors, primarily through the activities of Freedom House and the National Endowment for Democracy (NED), recognising that the end must come at some point.

According to a Wikileaks 6 December 2007 cable posted by Norway’s Aftenposten, USAID budgeted $66.5 million dollars in 2008 and $75 million in 2009 to Egyptian programmes promoting “democracy and good governance”. “President Mubarak is deeply sceptical of the U.S. role in democracy promotion,” reads another cable from the U.S. embassy in Cairo dated 9 October 2007. “Nonetheless, (U.S. government) programmes are helping to establish democratic institutions and strengthen individual voices for change in Egypt.”

Virtually an adjunct of the CIA, the NED funnels funds to all the region’s countries. In 2009 it gave grants to more than a dozen opposition groups, including Al-Jahedh Forum for Free Thought, the American Center for International Labor Solidarity, the Arab Foundation for Supporting Civil Society, the Arab Society for Human Rights, the Egyptian Union of Liberal Youth, the Project on Middle East Democracy and the Youth Forum. The complete list is at ned.org/where-we-work/middle-east-and-northern-africa/Egypt.

Under the auspices of Freedom House’s New Generation programme Egyptian visiting fellows from civil society groups came to the U.S. for training in 2008, including meetings with U.S. secretary of state Condoleezza Rice and White House National Security adviser Stephen Hadley. In May 2009, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton met a delegation of Egyptian dissidents, just prior to Obama’s visit to Egypt. Sixteen activists met with Clinton and Acting Assistant Secretary of State for Near Eastern Affairs Jeffrey Feltman as part of a two-month fellowship.

However, even as the governing National Democratic Party’s rule falters, the U.S. has prevaricated, scrambling to regain control of the political process, clearly concerned that its chosen democratic protégés were perhaps not that reliable (or in control), that the pro-democracy movement could well end up in a new government reversing Egypt’s pro-Western policy.

It goes without saying that the world’s sole superpower does not want to let such an important player as Egypt go its own way. But officials should remember that the term “blowback” was coined by the CIA itself, and its relevance only increases over time. Yes, any new government in Egypt will be anti-Israel. Yes, it will have a strong Muslim Brotherhood presence.

But, ironically, this new face for Egypt is one that any U.S. president should embrace, and not just cynically like Indyk. It will force Israel to finally negotiate a reasonable peace with Palestine, giving backbone to other Arab governments, and -- most important -- undercutting the Indyks. It will be the U.S. president’s best ally in the long run.

An openly operating Muslim Brotherhood will contribute in a host of ways to solving Egypt’s horrendous poverty and social degradation, giving Muslims a new confidence and pride. Sectarian problems, also ironically, will fade as Muslims take control of their lives after decades of neocolonial humiliation.

-- Eric Walberg writes for Al-Ahram Weekly http://weekly.ahram.org.eg/. You can reach him at http://ericwalberg.com/

------------------------------o0o------------------------------

Byrne & Eno ~ America is Waiting

Friday, February 11, 2011

In The Realm of the Censors

I Have Been Wrong ~ Martin Stranka

‘Cos Papa don’t allow no new ideas here
And now he sees the news but the pictures not too clear
Mama Papa stop.
Treasure what you got
Soon you may be caught
without it
The curfew’s set for eight
Will it ever all be straight
I doubt it

- Rodriguez

Just for the record: Apartheid is correctly pronounce apart-hate, not apart-height.

South Africa’s Nationalist government resisted the institution of a television in South Africa until the mid 70’s, proclaiming it a dangerous (evil) medium. Ironically it was only once they’d introduced state TV to the country that they reached their true heights of propaganda, realising it could be used to their advantage as long as they maintained absolute control over what was broadcast.
Absolute control is what they tried to establish; non-state broadcasting was prohibited and programming was kept under the vigilant eye of the censors. The nightly serving of the imaginatively named South African Broadcasting Company (SABC) showed us a dangerous world, where the only safe and peaceful place was South Africa. Political debate was of the scripted variety and interviews with politicians were strictly controlled with all questions being submitted for review prior to the interview taking place.

For the Nationalist Party Patriarchy respect for authority was high on their agenda, since a population with a fearful respect would be less likely to question that authority. Young men were brought up to respect women, to open the door for her; not to swear in front of her; the sort of superficial bullshit which admittedly most woman do find appealing. The reality of course was that there was very little real respect for anybody, least of all woman, in the realm of Apartheid.
Nevertheless we were required to respect authority, our prime ministers were addressed by two initials and a surname, D.H. Malan, P.W. Botha, F.W. DeKlerk, and let’s not forget B.J. Vorster whose initials were not funny in any way; his regime was one of the most brutal, effectively defining the ‘hate’ in Apartheid; fellatio was, after all, illegal.
These were our leaders - unquestionable, unapproachable, gods in black suits and hats.
These authorities were paid-up members of Die Broederbond (The Brotherhood) which was a sort of Afrikaaner Masonic society and many of the older members had been members of, and had been imprisioned during WWII for being members of the Ossewabrandwag (Oxwagon Fire Dept), an Afrikaner organisation that sympathised with the Nazis. This will perhaps give some indication of what sort of nationalism we were dealing with.
On Sundays they would attend kerk in their dark suits and hats, which they would doff to the ladies – whites only, of course, while during the week they would legislate to enhance their powers while paranoidly denying all citizens the right to think for themselves.
South Africa was declared a strongly Christian country: gambling was illegal, except for the state owned Tote, where good upstanding citizens could have a flutter in the horses (nothing too ungodly there, just good Christian fun). Blasphemy was strongly censored, as was nudity, and all things sexual. Of course any media that even hinted at political/sexual/religious diversity was banned.

This climate of censorship, (books, magazines, newspapers, movies, television programs) seemed to instil in the white population a perverse sort of self-censorship, we daren’t think that there may be something wrong with the way we lived, on the contrary, it was in our interest to believe that everybody else was wrong, their evil gambling ways, their homosexuals, atheists and communists and loose moral standards were the road to chaos and upheaval – we were good people.

The censors were not infallible – things got through, if you were willing to look for it – you could find banned literature if you trawled through the second-hand bookshops, you could hear things that the censors had missed in songs or see things they’d missed in the movies; and somebody’s dad could always be relied upon to have some hardcore porn in his bottom drawer.
Music especially drew attention to the fact that there was more to life than the South African Way.

Censorship created in the white population a climate of ignorance, an unwillingness to tolerate the unusual, a narrow minded mental laziness. There were those amongst us who were willing to fight the system, and many of them suffered exile, house arrest, brutality and death at the hands of the various agencies of state. My courage did not extend that far, being willing only to be a un-guided non-conformist and to argue with my work colleagues whenever they exposed their ignorant prejudices.
It’s difficult to be a revolutionary when you don’t even know such a thing exists.

Anyone who believes such blatant and essentially unsophisticated propaganda is easy to spot from those living under its umbrella should not be fooled. Anyone who doesn’t believe that they are being manipulated by what they are fed has been overcome by the sedative effect of television.
Every government will use the media to its advantage and ownership of that media, while making output easier to control, is not necessary. The use of propaganda in Europe is varied in its subtlety but nevertheless used on a daily basis to align and channel public opinion through the gates of political will.

When presented with political news I no longer ask myself whether this is propaganda, but merely: What is the agenda?

This post is Bio related.

Wednesday, February 09, 2011

∞.4 Mad Scientist's Notebook


At this juncture it is entirely relevant to question whether the concept of authority serves a true purpose in the maze. As with many of the specimens, this latest is finding the barriers of authority to be problematic. At the moment our Atom is solving this problem by being ‘fast’. In other words, his physical survival gene is causing him to evade the intellectual questions. This I believe may be his strength. We must not, however lose sight of the fact that that which we delineate as the ‘physical’ is merely the intellect at its most basic level.
To elaborate: A peaceful man, one who has no true experience or will in the proactive art of violence, but who attributes his peacefulness to the intellect may find himself trying to talk his way out of a violent confrontation. For the very wiliest of intellects this may well serve to save his skin, but for the rest, the fight/flight decision will flip to flight.
In other other words; you can be as smart as you like but when they’re going to kick your teeth in, the best reasonable response is to run.





Monday, February 07, 2011

A Single Frame from a Foreign Film


He saw her on the skywalk
She looked so pale and thin
He tracked her down through alien town
But she would not let him in

And all those clues nailed up like shoes
Upon a wall of wooden doubt
Wouldn’t do to shake the blues
Nor turn her inside out

The lock she stole from wonderland
Served it’s purpose well
Kept him on the back foot
But served not rumours to dispel

Rumours whispered in the skywells
And shouted down the night
That her heart was cold her purpose cruel
That they ever had the right

To judge her by actions perceived
With gloating eyes that peered
Through the wrong end of the telescope
Through magazines revered

He saw her on the skyway
His camera bit the night
White on black up-lit looking down
Her soul had taken flight

His office strewn with litter-news
He smoked her down his eyes
Her seed a high-lit lover's lip
Whose whisper shouted “lies”

And stood behind that lock
A life in disarray
Where cell-lit walls would stutter
“There are other ways to pay”

Pay in paper. Dressed up as gold
From the of shadows on your shelf
A price that can’t be satisfied
By photos of yourself

He saw her from the skybridge
Awaiting chalk outline
His camera jammed between his teeth
In a moment he would define

As the moment of his wonder
Where all futures did depart
The thin edge of the wedge
A stake right through his heart

But behind her on the billboard
The sky is always blue
Perhaps a puffy cloud
For authenticity to imbue

Friday, February 04, 2011

4.8 Fractal House (for the Marginally Stupid)

Mountain Man ~ Kristyna Baczynski

“Where’s my fucking suit gone?” Atom asked himself even before he had fully regained consciousness. His head hurt like a hangover from a week-long bender and the air was hot and humid (definitely not sore-head weather). Atom decided it would be unwise, and probably too difficult to open his eyes but that the wooden slats that dug into his loosely folded body meant he would have to move – sitting up seemed to be the only option. This act served to make his head throb slightly less and he sat with said head in his hands, elbows on knees.
“There goes the neighbourhood” said someone.
Atom scrunched his eyes to slitted open, finding himself facing three naked men.
“You say that every time” said another voice, emanating from the really old bloke on the left.
“And it remains a true reflection on the ever decreasing sovereignty of this room” said the first voice, a slightly (but only slightly) younger bloke in the middle.
“You lookin’ to me?” said the young bloke on the right, squinting down one eye.
“Where is this?” said Atom.
“What does it matter where it is” said NOM1[6]
“The question is ‘what’, not ‘where’ said NOM2.
“You talkin’ to me?” said No.3, “You should be talking to me ‘cos these two are fucking doolally
“I think I preferred talking to that fucking cat” thought Atom (or he thought he thought it, perhaps he said it out loud, he couldn’t be sure as his head chose to remind him that it was in pain.)
“Cat?” said all three in unison.

[6]Naked Old Man No.1




Wednesday, February 02, 2011

Bite the Hand

Leonard Freed

Storm against
The bars of your cage steel
Like the teeth of snarling dogs
Tethered to your schooling

You are not
Fodder for the warring steel
A docked tail of snarling dog
Tethered to your schooling

Powerless
Against the razor steel
Raised hackles of snarling dog
Tethered to your schooling

Rise up
Twist the bars of your cage steel
Red eyed rage of snarling dog
Tethered to your schooling

You are
The key to the caged steel
Muzzle for a snarling dog
Tethered to your schooling

Free
To destroy your cage
To steel against the leash
Tethered to your schooling