Cityscape: New York, Church of St Luke in the Field

In a far corner of the walled garden the tallest of the trees stands shaking its pyramid of green against the rich blue of the sky. The wind rushes against it and its leaves bowl and tumble back and forth.

Ivy climbs the crumbling brickwork of a small cave-like building that could once have been a stable. The leaves hang over its entrance, the thick climbing branches stretch like fingers accross its windows.

From the beds of lush green foliage the sudden red and purple of unknown flowers spring forth. Smaller kindly looking trees lean in to offer them shade, their branches drooping like a dog's uncut fringe, as if they are hiding eyes.

The shaded bench is wet, the gardener's hose must have swung past this spot only recently. The effect is strangley tropical and allows one to imagine a lake or pool, as if these small fragments of water could be the memory of something larger.

The traffic washes by, the birds screech and chirrup. One bird stands out above all others. It whistles and repeats:

Woop! Coo coo coo coo coo

As I write, she lowers her voice as if she knew I were listening and taking this as a cue, I check my watch and make my way over to the river.

Writers 3-2: J.M.G. Le Clézio: The Vortex of Circumstances

The pine covered mountain disappeared in a flighty cloud of thick mist, enclosing the surrounding bushes and schist rocks wildly in an apparently chaotic curling and drifting wind within seconds. Eye sight became impossible beyond a few meters, disintegrating the basic notion of direction, even when walking down the hardened channel of the asphalt road I had walked down a hundred times. The wind started singing and dancing around the house, knocking on the doors, trembling the glass panes in the window frames, slamming them out of their places, rattling the shutters and hinges, breaking off every obstacle on the house. The mountain spirit remained silent during this engorging prelude, but once hidden by the full cover of its breath, the air started to rumble and grumble like a ravenous lion. At ever increasing intervals, the lethargic drumming rhythm of loud bangs could be heard in the sky, falling down like meteores, as if the wind picked up the schist rocks that had broken off the mountain skeleton, and threw at the concrete boxes that caused it to itch, immediately dying out while lingering in the air all around, absorbed by the mist again, diluted in its void, the intestines of the mountain that had turned inside out. No lightning, the sky itself had been swallowed, imploded, vanished, never existed but in the fata morgana of a temporary breach, like a gap in the weather, a glitch of lucidness that allowed for only a day a view of the coastline and the horizon.

Rolling Dice

A man grabs the wooden case of a backgammon game from the pile of boxes on the corner table. He opens it on the small wooden table where his friend is seated, and sits down himself. They place the white and red stones in their respective corners, and throw the dice. His friend collects the dice and throws again, the pieces start to hit the board with loud splashes, followed by a short silence. The conversation falls silent but for the mocking comments that accompany each move. On the small table inside the taverna two little children play cards. In the kitchen a woman pulls up her socks and straightens her dress. She picks up a booklet of cross word puzzles and a pencil. Stares at the list of hints, at the grid of randomly placed, checkered black and white squares and puts the pencil's end to her lips. With a sharp reflex her hand jumps to the paper and scribbles a word down, and she crosses the hint out with a firm stripe. At each side of a narrow, fold-able table four black men sit down to play domino, their feet pointing outward at the table's legs forming an uninterrupted eight pointed star from tow to crotch. A snake pattern of white plastic squared stones emerges on the table, under the nervous rattling of stones being shuffled in their hands. Loud voices shout over another, followed by a deep, billowing laughter. How light must they look upon life, how meaningless does their existence become, to play games and avoid any serious effort to pursue a higher dream. They fill their lives with rolling dice and forming meaningless patterns of endless silliness in these children's games; Life must bore them utterly, they must bore life. How are you doing? Good, good, but they bore me. How is he? What is he doing now? He's winning, losing maybe. Playing poker, smashing a card with a dull echo on the table as if he battles on life and death, with an expressionless stale face. There is the pride to remain stoic, what stoicism has become, to not flex a muscle, to hide the inner excitement, the crunching disappointment at the randomness of the hand being dealt, to vein control over chance in life. But it is a philosophy without sophism. I find it impossible to withhold my boredom, it gusts out, to not express remaining absolutely unstirred by this silliness. To live life to gamble on a lucky lot to fall into your hands.

The Great Mediocre Novel

One day I will write a novel with ordinary protagonists and common antagonists, with a neighbor of whom we only are informed about the shape of his face but come to know nothing else, and where the only events take place on or around the corner near home or inside the living room of an apartment on the second floor, and the twists out of which the plot is constructed form a straight red thread around which the characters with their simple tics and predictable habits are build, the only actions that the characters undertake consist of the collection of their waste in their trash bin in the kitchen or the bathroom or bringing their garbage to the general red or yellow dumpster on the street corner, meeting one another casually on their way to post a bill payment or while washing their hands in the public bathroom, listening to the flushing of water from the toilet cell next to them staring at the shuffling of two pair of unknown brown leather shoes, a man reflecting on his laundry spinning in the laundromat, looking at a woman folding her colored knickers on the plastic table top, the heroine taking her clothes off before taking a bath, in the morning the day starts with a shower of lukewarm water on a cloudy day, a line of people waiting for a stranger rummaging in his purse for the exact change at the grocery store, while the fingers of the cashier run over the where the drawer of the cash register, then the plot seems to unravel, tension is building when the ATM is out of order and the protagonist has to walk half a mile for the nearest bank office in order to withdraw cash, where one sits in an office with beige desks and white walls all day watching the price of stock going up and going down again, where the main topic of conversation is the weather of that day and the coming weekend, where the critical dialog takes place during a flighty meeting where a shallow greeting is exchanged without any feelings attached, while someone walks through a red light and a car beeps its horn while everyone goes their own way, except for one blurred face staring out of the window from the third floor, drawing nobody's attention at all, with a preface thanking this and that unknown person, and finally culminating in an ending at the last line of the last page with the words 'to be continued' and three single dots.

Barbarism Begins at Home

Mrs Thatcher, show us exactly where you were when you gave the order to sink the Belgrano.

I was exactly here. This is the chair I sat in when I decided to sink the Belgrano.

How many were killed, I forget?

Oh, let me see. Between 320 and 360 I'm not sure exactly. A triumph for Britain.

And of course for yourself.

In a way. But one must understand that Britain could not look weak in the public eye.

And it was important that you not look weak too I suppose.

But the important thing was to protect our boys in the area. That is all I cared for.

Right. Although the ship was moving away from the Falklands Islands when you ordered it to be sunk. Away from 'our boys' as it were.

Thank you so much for coming.

New York Welcomes Post-Industrial Men

Candidates MUST:

be hardworking
be a team player
be energetic
be highly motivated
have a great personality
be pleasant and efficient
have experience in fashionable, socially dynamic environments
possess a personal sense of style and hospitality
speak fluent English
be comfortable in a fast-paced environment
be able to take initiative
be passionate
have common sense
be self motivated
have excellent communication skills
be efficient at multitasking
have a good memory
be bright and motivated
be organized
be self-proficient
have a clear speaking voice
be reliable
be responsible
be computer literate
be a self starter
be well organized
be capable of handling a very busy calendar
be a pro-active problem solver
be detail-oriented
have the ability to follow instructions
have the ability to follow through on projects
show commitment to accuracy and detail
have the ability to work well independently as well as with other staff members
be dynamic and proactive
be thick skinned
have the ability to stay calm under pressure
be flexible and adaptable to change
have a “do whatever it takes mentality”
be able to work long hours
demonstrate a corporate and highly professional presence
be able to prioritize and execute multiple concurrent activities
have experience in troubleshooting technology software/hardware
have high level of interpersonal skills
be able to work quickly and accurately in a demanding environment

Landscape 7: Concrete Living

A wall of wooden planks is erected straight upward into the air, at the oblique side of the mountain slope, in an apparent random location in the landscape, a wedge of air in between the wall and the mountain, then the dirt road, next to it, a pile of shattered limestone rocks. The planks are gray and dusty, worn and torn, covered by traces of prior usage and concrete. Near Polikarpos the top of the limestone rock of the mountain pyramid has been scraped off by the dental shovel of a bulldozer. The hill sides run out into the open sea like the barbed tail of one of Poseidon's monsters. At random locations around the island in the pristine ridged mountain range random squared boxes have been scraped and hollowed out of the massive rock. Transformed into several new shapes of popular construction the limestone has been resurected into hundreds of white washed family pensions with little balconies with white taverna chairs at the doorside, green or blue shutters, homes half under construction, never to be finished, the steel rods rusting like newly constructed ruins on the rooftops, empty skeletons in the maquis landscape devoured by the goats. A little further, leaning against the stapled rock, brown red matrices of woven steel rods, leaning against the rock, unused, along eight concrete tubes of one meter in diameter for rain water drainage. Out of the concrete ceiling, electrical wire hangs down, hastily attached dangles a light bulb without shading. A hole in the wall crumbles open, and the television cable is led loosely on the ground to where the television now temporarily stands. In the bedroom facing the south east, from where the tormenting winter rains flooded the mountain slope, black stains of mold have formed. You could paint them over with white paint when spring comes, like the rest of the house, but they would return the next season again. When it rains, the walls suck in the water, until saturated, they burst like blisters, the rain pours directly into the hall, the supporting wall that separates the kitchen and the living area, until the towels are drenched too, and the blankets, and the shoes, the suitcase. Concrete is the lego of the islands. Bridge railing and bridges, road sides, dividing walls, the staircase to the beach, roads, squares, the moles at the harbor, the dockage, the ferry landing, the ramp up the mountain, transformer houses, the hydro-electric dam, the pig stable, the water reservoirs to irrigate the olive grove, the balustrade, the balcony, the chapel, the church, the belfry.

Best Wishes, Henry Louis Gates, Jr.

Dear Sir,
Thank you for your letter of April 24th, and for your response to my recent NY Times article. I also appreciate your sharing your views with me.
Best wishes,
Henry Louis Gates, Jr.

Quoting:

Dear Mr. Gates,
I enjoyed reading your provocative op-ed article in the NYTimes, using the insightful research by David Eltis. In addition, I wanted to add a small comment to your thesis that reparations would not be practical. This conclusion is fully based on the premise that the origin of slavery represents the damages, but I believe that the bulk of the suffering took place in the upkeep of slavery in the United States. Hence, reparations should largely be based on further research in the geographical concentration and nature of slavery in the US. I personally disagree therefor with your reconciliatory tone, justified by the ratio of practicalities.
With kind regards,

Individualism: Part 1. An interview with Wilde, Huxley, and Rand

INT: Good evening. Tonight we are going to talk a little about individualism, the extent to which man can raise his voice above the crowd, and can come to understand his position within the world. Joining me this evening to discuss this, are three of the worlds most prolific writers and thinkers from the last 150 years; Mr Oscar Wilde, Aldous Huxley, and Ayn Rand.

(Applause)

Oscar, we're all individuals aren't we?


OW: Are we dear boy? How extraordinary. No, I think one could argue that Individualism can and does exist but is very much limited to the few and specifically, those who can afford it. The true individual is able to lift himself above the clamorous claims of others, to rid himself of the need to live his life for other people. There are some great men of science like Darwin for example, or poets such as Keats who have managed to stand, as Plato says, "under the shelter of the wall" and so to realise their true potential, the potential of what lives inside one, but no, sadly the vast majority of the population, of this country at least, exists in a world of unhealthy and exaggerated altruism.

INT: Are you saying altruism is bad?


AR: I want to pick up on a point here, just to answer your question briefly - yes, but more than this existing in a world of forced altruism, forced physically by a state or self imposed by religion is worse than unhealthy, it is evil. Man should exist on his own merits alone, should be an end in himself. By that I mean that man should hold the right to pursue his own happiness, that this is indeed his moral purpose in life and this being the case, that laissez-faire Capitalism is the only environment in which man can flourish as an individual human being.



AH: But I think I would take issue there insofar as Capitalism, as a backdrop to pursuing individualism, can only lead to clusters of petty dictators, lording over groups of workers in much the same way as we understand totalitarian Communist dictators to and I really don't see a difference in the structure of oppression.


AR: Free, laissez-faire Capitalism does not lead to monopolies and dictators as Communism does. Marx posited the opposite. He was wrong but we have clung to that idea as if it were gospel.


OW: Not so. Socialism, or Communism, or whatever you want to call it, ultimately leads to self-governence and freedom from any structure of power. Not only that but it frees one from property by converting it into public wealth. Property is demoralising, public wealth eradicates the vulgarity of charity - which I should say perpetuates the very core of the problem. No the key to Individualism lies in what man is, not what man has and he should be able to rise from the torpid groove which pushes him to accumulate more and more material wealth without addressing what he is truly capable of.


AR: I agree on your points of man understanding 'what he is' and 'what he is capable of'.


AH: Also, I think it's fair to say that laissez-faire capitalism can only force man to live on a global scale, further disenfranchising him and disconnecting him from the world and others immediately around him


AR: But not if you disconnect economics from the state, then it would be impossible.


AH: But it can only lead to an understanding of Individualism on one level, that is, the individual's pursuit of money...


AR: The individual's pursuit of happiness...


AH: The individual, so far as I see it, can only exist when he contributes directly to society and he can only do so once 'the crowd' is done away with. By this I mean, that majority rule on mass scale can not be accepted. With decentralization, which I strongly advocate, man works within a group - smaller and more distinctive that the crowd, his voice is heard and his voice matters. From here, from this direct contribution to the world about him he comes to believe in himself as an individual. Ms. Rand's particular brand of Individualism can only lead to Napoleans and Hitlers. I have always failed to understand why society celebrates those who trample upon others and clamber to the top of the pile.

INT: I'm afraid we have to cut to a commercial break.


OW: Oh, how vulgar.


AH: You wouldn't get this on the BBC old boy.

Writers 3-1: J.M.G. Clézio: Checkers

I look out from a window at the corner of third avenue and forty ninth street, all is unraveling, there is decay, past tense, promises not kept. The impossible feeling that I see every one and everything, it all is possible only because it is disintegrating already, the yellow cabs, venomous fruits of a tin landscape covered in lead clouds, an Indian prince his lungs already in a state of collapse behind the drive wheel, giving instructions for software customer support through a hand-held to recover a hard-drive already erased by a virus, the meter for a Mumbai wedding ticking, a wedding with an already unhappy wife with a happy lover and a deceived husband, the sky nothing more than a bumped Roman mirror, reflecting the folly image of the glass checkers board of city offices, one stone jumping over the other, the clicking on the pavement, like the stone hitting the board by force to speed the loss, of three girls in high pumps, one already moaning under the weight of an overweight, overpaid, overconfident executive, her overestimated love for the night enhanced by twelve dollar cocktails, all paid for with laughter and smiles in return, not knowing to choose from which, loveless, I choose to look away at the herd of lighted and darkened offices, guarded by security officers with intimidating badges, labels and stitches, with broken up families, not certain what to do with their lives, they too, ordering drinks, four dollar beers, one fool jumping over the other, and finish my glass of red wine, Vinsantos 2004, from Santorini, because I only drink wine from grapes grown on the ashes of vanished civilizations, dried in the sun, an unbroken genetic line of descend, but on this board no kings, no queens, no knights, no castles, we are all unnamed pieces, not even pawns, soulless, already dead before the game starts, sushi rolls on a black plastic tray with transparent cover, fake crab, avocado and cucumber, fake ginger, a Korean smile and thoughts about the family capital of twenty thousand dollars and a college fund, not even good enough for community college, but even suicide cannot evade such a shameless death of living, so I look away, but the split image of souls and bodies, false forms of truth that race up and down the thousands years old city plan of squares, is even out there, now and then, I close my eyes, and every time I skip, I blink, I miss a piece, and another wretched man is born, the first act of each new born, to tear apart his mother's vagina, and every one screaming, crying, tears flow, and a slimy miser makes an impression, for the hundred and billionth time a new unique moment, we keep believing it, and we go and drink, and fuck and fall in love, and I don't even dare to go out anymore.