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967 lines
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I n f o r m a t i o n, C o m m u n i c a t i o n, S u p p l y
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------------- E l e c t r o Z i n e ------------------------------
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********************************************************************************
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Established in 1993 by Deva Winblood
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Information Communication Supply 05/28/96 Vol.2: Issue 9
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Email To: ORG_ZINE@WESTERN.EDU
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Visit our Web Pages:
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http://www.western.edu/happen/welcome.html
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S T A F F : Email: ICS Positions:
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============== ============ ==============
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Steven Peterson STU000012255 Managing Editor, Writer
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Tim Halas STU000058410 Writer ...
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Joe Katz STU000051474 Tech Director
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Stacey Kuehnel STU000070412 Poetry Editor, Staff Writer
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George Sibley FAC_SIBLEY Editing, Faculty Supervisor
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Shane Wright STU000076067 Writer, poet, Iconoclast
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Others TBA All addresses @WESTERN.EDU
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_________________________________________
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/=========================================\
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| "Art helps us accept the human condition; |
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| technology changes it." |
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\ - D.B. Smith /
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\***************************************/
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_____________________________________________________________________________
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/ \
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| ICS is an Electrozine distributed by students of Western State |
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| College in Gunnison, Colorado. We are here to gather information about |
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| topics that are important to all of us as human beings. If you would like |
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| to send in a submission, please type it into an ASCII format and email it |
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| to us. We operate on the assumption that if you mail us something you |
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| want it to be published. We will do our best to make sure it is |
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| distributed and will always inform you when or if it is used. |
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\_____________________________________________________________________________/
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REDISTRIBUTION: If any part of this issue is copied or used elsewhere
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you must give credit to the author and indicate that the information
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came from ICS Electrozine ORG_ZINE@WESTERN.EDU.
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DISCLAIMER: The views represented herein do not necessarily represent the
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views of the editors of ICS. Contributors to ICS assume all responsibilities
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for ensuring that articles/submissions are not violating copyright laws and
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protections.
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|\__________________________________________________/|
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| \ / |
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| \ T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S / |
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| / \ |
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| /________________________________________________\ |
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|/ \|
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|------------------------------------------------------------------|
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| 1) First Word =-= Morphing the 'Zine: the times-are-a-changin'. |
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| 2) Three Poems =-= by Tim Halas. |
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| 3) New Prejudices =-= by Steven Peterson: Editorial commentary |
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| on domestic violence. |
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| 4) Parable of the Sower =-= Book Review by Joe Katz. |
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| 5) The Naked Moon =-= A Short story by Nicole Catalano: |
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| Minimalist fiction from the New American West. |
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| 6) Everything is Black =-= 3 poems by Stacey Kuehnel. |
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| 7) Terms of Psychic Warfare =-= by Steven Peterson: Editorial |
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| commentary on the media's Fellini nightmare imagery. |
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| 8) Three More Poems =-= by Shane Wright. |
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| 9) The Village of Renola =-= Short Story by Christopher Jones: |
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| Life in the Garden; a mythic tale of sorts. |
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| 10) Last Word =-= Requiem for a fantastic premise. |
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|------------------------------------------------------------------|
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+-----------+
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| First Word \
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+--------------+
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Well, friends and neighbors, kind readers and caustic critics . . .
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the times, they are-a-changin'. That's right, ICS is about to undergo
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a transformation of sorts; in fact, this may be the last issue we
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send out in this form.
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Sniffle. Before the requiem, let me tell you what's goin' on: last
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week, the 'Zine officially merged with the campus print magazine in order
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to prevent complete dissolution at the hands of indifference.
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The gist of the plot: our once-a-year sorta literary/yearbook magazine,
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the "Pathfinder," will produce several electronic issues in the form of
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Web documents for public consumption on the Western server; right now,
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people are debating whether or not to continue producing an ASCII version
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for direct-mailing to folks overseas (I've been leading that battle, but
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I'm about to graduate [yeah!], and so I won't be here to force the issue
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[boo]).
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Anyhow, you should receive some sort of announcement over the summer
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or early next fall once the details are hammered out. There's talk of
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installing a LISTSERV program, compulsory creative writing classes,
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whips and chains in the computer labs . . . ech, who knows?
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Enjoy the issue, it may have to last for a while.
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I'll save the requiem for the last word . . .
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--Ed. >8*)
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><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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************************* Poems By Tim Halas ****************************
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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Generic Bread and Marshmallows
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He cautiously crept up
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A burglar with his black mask
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Ring-tailed vandalizer of trash cans
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Awaiting the mother of domestication
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To slide open the door
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And toss a scattered bribe for protection
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-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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Christmas Light
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Somber shades curtain the living room
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Dim rays fade over mother
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Christmas is terminally decorated
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With a malignant ill-stenched hospital bed
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Her cancerous energy clouds the holiday
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and my heart grows dim with the room
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-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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Tell Tale Shirt
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Tattered threads tantalize tales,
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That deteriorate into decrepit red and
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Ghost green plaid, a few buttons short.
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Vacant, yet a vibrant old-timer.
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Tender - in the closet of
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Lost youth.
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--Tim Halas, 1996
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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******************************************************************************
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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New Prejudices _
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/|\
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+--------------------+ / | \
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| By Steven Peterson | /| | |\
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+--------------------+ | /|\ |
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|/__|__\|
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Television, America's great soporific, puts me under again. After
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a few hours, the dog wakes me up for her night-journey and I drag my
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carcass to the door; the cold air restores my vision. Back on the
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couch, I look up in time to catch a psychotic flash: a man, obviously
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drunk, is screaming incoherently at a woman off-screen. He is caught
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in the precipitous fragment of time before casehardened bones crush
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feminine flesh.
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A quick cut; the images fade behind a white screen, and a voice
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implores us to "stop the domestic violence, call 1-800 . . . Join
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the new peace movement." Late at night, during the "ayvil" hours, a
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Public Service message tears across the ether like a fugitive demon
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from our collective unconscious; with exquisite efficiency, the scene
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explodes and unfolds in the viewer's mind: from fifteen seconds, we
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infer the series of events leading up to the awful moment.
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The clipped image, the truncated drama, the holographic cell of
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this message depicts the final stage of an "action-chain" played out
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millions of times every year in this nation. Borrowed from ethology,
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the science of animal behavior, the term "action-chain" refers to a
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set sequence of events in which two or more people participate (for
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example: a handshake, courtship rituals, and a divorce all follow a
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basic pattern in a culture--actions are taken in a certain order).
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Action-chains can be simple, complex or derived (as in the examples
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listed above); these patterns saturate human social interaction and
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are generally understood implicitly rather than explicitly taught.
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The power these chains exert over our lives varies from person to
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person and across cultures; our commitment to complete the sequence
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is determined by personal, social and emotional contexts. Domestic
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violence, the daily transformation of love into hate, occurs in a
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bewildering array of permutations; however, from the kaleidoscope
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of terror, a symmetry emerges. Microscopically, the pattern mimics
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the social progression of apathy leading to violence as defined by
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the psychiatrist Rollo May. While May describes our shared reaction
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to the Vietnam conflict, he presents a series of stages common to
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the new war at home--
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The first step, a withdrawal from the active world, is a result
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of a failure to alter some existing reality. We do it protect our-
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selves from further damage to our egos, our spirit, our flesh. In
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domestic terms, communication, the lifeblood of love, stops flowing.
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The instinctive reaction sabotages reconciliation; the disruption of
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discourse begins, the first link in the chain is forged.
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May calls his second stage the "apathy of impotence." Unable to
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influence events or share a common semantic, we sink into pits of
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despair and frustration. Alienation feeds back on itself; we feel
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there is nothing we can do; we've exhausted the easy alternatives
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and set the stage for the next step.
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Third, the "apathy of hopelessness and despair" presents itself
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as a natural consequence of the first two steps in the chain. The
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home takes on the bitter flavor of Germany following World War I:
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under an impossible burden, we reach for the simple solutions--
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anodynes for their illusion of command, tyranny writ small for an
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uneasy sense of control.
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Finally, one reaches a state of numbness. Completely divorced
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from feeling, May states that the "pent-up potentialities turn into
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morbidity and despair, and eventually into destructive activity."
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Socially, this stage corresponds to the flashpoints of violence in
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our lives: In south-central L.A., Watts, and the bedroom, we witness
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the often terminal backlash of a process relegated to a portion of
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the consciousness over which people have little, if any control.
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In American homes, violence two-steps in a macabre dance that
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could have been choreographed by the Marquis de Sade. The statistics
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are truly shocking: the AMA estimates that almost four million women
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are victims of severe assaults in the home every year, others pin the
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figure between two and four million; according to police records, at
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least 1.1 million assaults, murders and rapes against women were
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committed in the home and reported in 1991; in a senate hearing last
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June, William Cohen observed that physical violence in America kills
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at a rate of sixty-five people a day (six thousand are also injured
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on an average day). Cohen notes, with chilling accuracy, that this
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is more than twice the casualty rate we sustained at the height of
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the Vietnam conflict.
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The Public Service message which caught me in the night is no
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figment of my imagination: it's part of an orchestrated campaign
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to confront the issue by our federal and local governments. In
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September of 1994, the Violence Against Women Act was signed into
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law by Pres. Clinton as part of a comprehensive crime bill; among
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the various provisions, the law pledges $26 million in federal
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funding for shelters, hotlines and crisis centers. At the state
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level, the current strategy is to enact mandatory arrest laws for
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cases of domestic violence; approximately half the states are trying
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this tactic with mixed results. Perversely, these laws often result
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in the arrest of the victims themselves; however insulting, this
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does at least bring people in contact with sources of assistance.
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Simple legislation such as this will not solve the problems of
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apathy and violent action-chains (we design our institutions to
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react, not intervene); however, it's not a bad place to start.
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Back on the couch, I reflect: perhaps the tidal wave of domestic
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violence is a natural consequence of our social organization and
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shared philosophy. In the Western world, we're taught to mold our
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reality to suit ourselves--the individual creates his or her own
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happiness. By giving free reign to a patriarchal, or male-dominated
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scheme of socio-economic organization, females in our culture are
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left without any direct means to alter their circumstances; therefore,
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they must use indirect methods to achieve change (i.e. the manip-
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ulation of men satirized in the media). The psychosocial edge rests
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on linguistic prowess; the shrew's tongue serves as a whip for her
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mule. Males, despite physical and other advantages, withdraw from
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the injury of a "semantic collapse" and begin to follow the chain.
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Progressing through the stages of apathy, they are often reduced to
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violence as the medium of last resort. In the post-linguistic jungle,
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we no longer tame the shrew, we beat her into submission.
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A slim ray of hope on the horizon: The anthropologist Edward Hall
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notes, "people held in the grip of action chains can never be free of
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AC's unless they see them for what they are." The implication is that
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there exists the possibility of freedom from our conditioned patterns
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of despair and violence; I will leave you with that hope, and a few
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addresses and references--use them, please.
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---------------------------------------------------------------------
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National Victim Center: 2111 Wilson Blvd., Suite 300, Arlington, VA
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(703) 276-2880
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National Clearinghouse for the Defense of Battered Women:
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125 S. 9th St., Suite 302, Philadelphia, PA (215) 351-0010
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Family Violence Prevention Fund: 383 Rhode Island St., Suite 304,
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San Francisco, CA (415) 252-8900
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Hall, Edward. Beyond Culture. New York: Anchor Press, 1976.
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May, Rollo. Power and Innocence. New York: W.W. Norton, 1972.
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McCue, Margi Laird. Domestic Violence: a reference handbook.
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Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-CLIO, Inc., 1995.
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^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
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******************************************************************************
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Parable of the Sower
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A Book Review by Joe Katz
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It seems to me that there is a major problem with book reviews.
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You spend your time looking through the New York Times Book review.
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You find a great book that you must read; except, it says "Viking. $22.95."
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So, as any cheap-skated American you say. . . I'll wait for it to come
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out in paperback. Well, you know what happens, six to eight months pass
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and you say the same thing about ten other books. RIGHT? And when you
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do go to the book store, you have forgotten about them and end up buying
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the next book in the _Star Wars Trilogy_ So here is what I will do;
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I shall give you a review of a paperback. This way, you can go to
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the store and pick it up right now. And away we go:
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PARABLE of the SOWER
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BY: Octavia E. Butler
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296 pp New York
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Aspect. $5.99 ($6 who are they fooling?)
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By: Joe Katz stu0000541474@western.edu
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There is more to _Parable_ than just a good story. Octavia Butler is
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one of the Best Authors I've read. Every book she writes leaves you thinking
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about humanity. I know the genera "science fiction" turns many people off,
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but as Octavia Butler says, "I write stories about people; if they want to
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call it science fiction, they can." For _Parable_, she has won the McCarthy
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Genius award. This prize grants the recipient an undisclosed amount of money
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so the "genius" will be able to do whatever they want for three years. As far
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as I know, no one who has read this book has hated it. As for me, I've read
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it 5 times now and I'm still moved by it.
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All that you touch
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You Change.
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All that you Change
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Changes you.
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The only lasting truth
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Is Change.
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God
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Is Change
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EARTHSEED: The book of the living
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These passages are from the opening of _Parable_, a story of a Journey of
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spirit and foot. Lauren Olamina is a young African-American girl growing up
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in a walled-in cul-de-sac in the suburbs of Los Angeles. This cul-de-sac is
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your average lower middle class walled-in neighborhood. Steel gates and
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laser-wire, topped with broken glass. Outside the wall, starving people
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want in.
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Behind these walls, Lauren is growing up. Her father is a Baptist
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minister and Lauren, well, she doesn't know what she is. Outside, people
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are starving and they use a drug that makes burning things better than an
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orgasm. People are burning the cities down. LA hasn't seen rain in six years;
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when they finally do, it comes in a hurricane. The only people killed in the
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Hurricane were the poor, who had no warning and no way to get out of the city
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to safety. Lauren wonders how in god's eyes is it a sin to be poor.
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The rich have food and water. The Rich have guards against intruders.
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But she is not rich. Every day someone else loses a job in their neighborhood.
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Every year, it is harder and harder to pay the property taxes. One day,
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they too will be on the streets. And if that day does not come, the people
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outside will break in and burn their home down. Her parents, on the other
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hand, do not see this. They have the wall, they have guns, they have some
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jobs. And this is why, when the walls did break and the Pyro-freaks burned
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down their homes, almost no one was prepared.
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Lauren with the first idea of Earthseed: she begins her second journey,
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the first being EARTHSEED. The second journey covers the highways of
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California in quest of a place with jobs, in search of a place where
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water is not as expensive as gasoline. And on this journey she will
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pick up the first few members of the Church or EARTHSEED.
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For Lauren, the god or EARTHSEED is change. Why change?
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Change is an idea, not a god, right? Maybe, but with change as a god you
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can shape it, nay, you have a duty to shape it. Lauren was prepared to face
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the outside world and she shapes it to suit her. Follow Lauren on her journey
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of discovery, through the highways of California, through the thoughts of her
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mind. Find out where she goes in this brilliant paperback gem (look for a
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gleam on the rack).
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+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)
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( ~ )
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>> The Naked Moon
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A short story by Nicole Catalano
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It was a nice night. Probably the nicest during our traveling.
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The stars shined their bright lights. The clouds disappeared.
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The stranger and I hitchhiked all day. We were tired. Our backpacks
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were heavy. Packed with food, water, and sleeping bags. I realized we were
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somewhere far different, in another country. In Another country, in another
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part of the world, yet, not so remote.
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We hiked uphill for the next few hours until we found flat ground to
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camp on. The coyotes cried. We were hiking in their territory, their
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wilderness. It was dark. All I could see was the stranger's dark figure.
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We made our place in the Utah desert. The stars shined bright, like a
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planetarium. I removed my backpack with great relief. A burden removed
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from my shoulder. The stranger did the same. I smiled. The stranger
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smiled. Both of us were hungry.
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"What's for dinner?" the stranger asked.
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"R-a-v-i-o-l-i." With a sharp knife, I opened the can, poured the
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contents into my tin pot and pumped the gas to start the stove. The wind
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did not exist that night. It was warm.
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I observed the scratches on my legs. Every bush left its mark. My hands
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were dirty from climbing rocks. I washed them with water. The stranger
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looked around.
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"Isn't this beautiful?" the stranger asked.
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"Indeed it is." I said.
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"This vast land, the red rocks, the landscape, the stars, away from
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civilization" the stranger said.
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"This is where we belong." I said.
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We observed the area. Large canyons, boulders, pinnacles, sand, cacti,
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bushes, and great stars encaged us. We discussed how it evolved: great floods,
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primitive oceans, ancient lakes, erosion, wind and water. The stranger studied
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the sky, then pointed out each constellation. I never got the main idea.
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Dinner was ready. We had to share my fork and pot. No plates. No cups.
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Simple. I would take a bite. Then he would. Then me again. That's how it went.
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We pulled our sleeping bags out and sat on them. They were soft as cushions.
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"Where's the moon?" the stranger asked.
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"Behind those cliffs." I pointed to the great rigid walls. They were like
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a fort around us, protecting us.
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I rolled a cigarette with Drum tobacco. I offered my stranger one.
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He refused. When I lit it, I saw the fat dreadlocks that framed his face.
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His beady eyes startled me. They were calm, beady eyes. The light revealed
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the lines that outlined his smile.
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We were out where nobody was. It was wonderful. And the stars shone
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bright as ever.
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"Shall we explore? " the stranger asked.
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"Sure. Why not!" I said.
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I undressed myself. And so did he. It didn't matter, for, we couldn't see.
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We were alone in the wilderness, him and me. I felt one with nature and so
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did he. Primitive we were. The way we should be. He would run. Then I would.
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He would jump. And so would I. Through the desert. That's how it went.
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We were like children playing in the meadows. Free as can be. Free from
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society, responsibility, and the world. Free to do whatever we want, according
|
|
to mother nature.
|
|
I landed in a cactus bush when I jumped. Painful it should be. However,
|
|
it wasn't. The pain was great joy. I laughed. So did the stranger. The stars,
|
|
too, laughed with me.
|
|
Together we ran, trotting through canyons and caves. Pretended we were
|
|
primitive men. How fun it was to be naked and running! We picked up rocks and
|
|
threw them like animals. We carved stones.
|
|
The moon had risen above the canyon walls. Vast light shone throughout
|
|
the sky. The stranger revealed himself to me: A young, oval-shaped face, a
|
|
wide neck, the muscles in his legs, his well-rounded thighs, his moon shaped
|
|
buttocks, a warm belly, a chubby chest, and tensed arms. He was not a stranger
|
|
anymore. He frowned.
|
|
But he saw me too. I was not in shame. We were humans, primitive men.
|
|
Our fun was over, and we closed our eyes.
|
|
It was a nice night. Probably the nicest since our travelling.
|
|
The stars shined their bright lights. The clouds disappeared.
|
|
The moon had risen.
|
|
|
|
|
|
(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\*/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)
|
|
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
|
|
{}{}{}{}{}{}{} Everything is Black: Poems by Stacey Kuehnel {}{}{}{}{}{}
|
|
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
|
|
|
|
Everything is black
|
|
Mist surrounding
|
|
Killing off the soul
|
|
Deciding it's too
|
|
much
|
|
All that's left is
|
|
the stains on the
|
|
wall, the floor,
|
|
and the bed.
|
|
Left a hole.
|
|
A hole that
|
|
stained the wall,
|
|
the floor, and
|
|
the bed.
|
|
The crying people
|
|
but is all
|
|
too bitter.
|
|
Seeking out
|
|
Finding nobody
|
|
to grab on to.
|
|
Slipping away
|
|
into the sky.
|
|
Unable to be seen
|
|
Dirt falling into
|
|
the hole
|
|
So hard to
|
|
understand
|
|
Into his mouth
|
|
it goes
|
|
Soon after
|
|
leaks onto
|
|
the wall, the floor,
|
|
and the bed.
|
|
Everything goes
|
|
away as the
|
|
trigger is pulled.
|
|
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
|
|
My mind is filled with sorrow
|
|
A sadness I can not hide
|
|
Silence
|
|
broken away from my
|
|
grasp
|
|
Have not heard his
|
|
sweet words in days
|
|
Have not touched his
|
|
perfect body in
|
|
so long
|
|
I hate the walls
|
|
This wall needs
|
|
to be broken and
|
|
become invisible
|
|
I can not have a
|
|
wall between me
|
|
and my mysterious fate
|
|
My undetected heart
|
|
can not endure any
|
|
pain or awayness
|
|
Will this torture
|
|
end. I do not know
|
|
It's so maddening
|
|
to think that my fate
|
|
may have blown away
|
|
|
|
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
Beware of the image unseen
|
|
It haunts and tortures
|
|
the bastard, the bastard
|
|
that ruins souls, makes
|
|
them bleed will die
|
|
soon. Will not live.
|
|
Hatred growing stronger
|
|
taking the place of love
|
|
hunger for the smell
|
|
of death, hunger for his
|
|
painful love. Can't take
|
|
this anymore, need to
|
|
seek revenge. No one
|
|
escapes my wrath of
|
|
death. No one doubts
|
|
the powers which I
|
|
have. Spirits, witchcraft,
|
|
demons, I have claimed.
|
|
Satan is at my grasp. I am
|
|
the only living rose in
|
|
his garden of hell, but
|
|
I am the rose that
|
|
probes one's mind.
|
|
Dreams become nightmares
|
|
because I am his one
|
|
night nightmare. The blood
|
|
is on his hand, he
|
|
will be so proud of
|
|
me. Love, I will never
|
|
give none, for my love
|
|
has died, died with the
|
|
bastard, the bastard that
|
|
has no feelings. Believe
|
|
he starts to feel it.
|
|
Beware of the image unseen
|
|
Won't get away from
|
|
its deadly freeze. The
|
|
coffin will come. This
|
|
world will darken.
|
|
Darken to my powers
|
|
that are slowly seeping
|
|
into your soul
|
|
for I am the evilest
|
|
living bitch that
|
|
ever roamed. Sacrifice,
|
|
kill, death, kill, love,
|
|
kill, The world
|
|
My Kingdom
|
|
My Domain
|
|
|
|
|
|
--Stacey Kuehnel, 1996
|
|
|
|
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
|
|
{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
|
|
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
|
|
*----------------------------*
|
|
\ Terms of Psychic Warfare /
|
|
\ By Steven Peterson /
|
|
*----------------------*
|
|
|
|
There it is, in the park.
|
|
|
|
A pale, industrial green howitzer. Next to the sign, about a
|
|
hundred yards from the playground: it's a gruesome lawn decoration
|
|
for a scary world. Perhaps, on the eve of Earth day, I'll grab my
|
|
purple crayon and scrawl "Peace Is Our Profession" on the barrel.
|
|
|
|
Sardonic vandalism: it's the crime of the nineties. In the war of
|
|
all against all, in the armed conflict between ideology and culture,
|
|
the danger of lethal symbolic gestures arrives in America.
|
|
|
|
Airplanes falling out of the sky, toxic clouds in a subway, the
|
|
charred, hollow shell of a building: we cannot explain, or accept
|
|
the casualties of a diffuse war of the few against the many. Lone
|
|
crackpots, religious fanatics and disorganized cults of all stripes
|
|
bring the battlefield to our front door; modern Visigoths, in the
|
|
tradition of Genghis Khan, practice a futile psychological warfare
|
|
across the face of the civilized world.
|
|
|
|
Modern terrorism defeats our capacity to understand history; we
|
|
cannot assimilate the intentional act of haphazard violence to any
|
|
of the "natural" archetypes. The essential absurdity, the awkward
|
|
and terrible reality becomes emblematic as the mass media saturates
|
|
our hypervisual world with an image.
|
|
|
|
Still frames from a Fellini nightmare: the frontline footage of
|
|
fear and pointless death creeps out and covers the pages of history.
|
|
Mircea Eliade, one of the foremost scholars in comparative religion,
|
|
talks about the "terror of history" in his books and lectures: man,
|
|
it seems, has always sought explanations, rationales and mechanisms
|
|
for tolerating the "increasing pressure of history." In the archaic,
|
|
or traditional societies, catastrophes and military defeats were
|
|
tolerated by viewing them as repetitions of actions first performed
|
|
by the gods. In a sense, man's suffering and defeats were granted a
|
|
symbolic significance against a mythic or religious backdrop (for
|
|
example, in Homer's tales, the Greek army pays the price when Zeus
|
|
is offended).
|
|
|
|
Terrorist actions, especially those committed by extremists,
|
|
attempt to use the archaic mechanisms for their effect. Listen to
|
|
the zealots who shoot doctors or bomb innocents: "I was acting as
|
|
an instrument of Allah's (or God's, the people's, my dog's) Will."
|
|
The indefensible is interpreted as a sacred or archetypal gesture
|
|
in the minds of those who commit atrocities. The burning building,
|
|
however, makes a poor substitute for the bush; modern man chooses
|
|
to live in history, and so we turn to our reason in the endless
|
|
effort to tolerate the terror of history.
|
|
|
|
Psychology, sociology, anthropology: we draw on the science of
|
|
man for an eschatology of the emancipated. Sadly, the theoretical
|
|
expertise of the soft sciences is thin gruel for abused souls--the
|
|
specific victims (those who lose loved ones) can't take comfort from
|
|
the clinical descriptions of sociopathic behavior, and the general
|
|
victims (the rest of the culture) feel powerless to use the ideas
|
|
of science in any preventive way. In its turn, television draws on
|
|
the experts to assemble a "theology of desperation" for stunned
|
|
viewers: the prosecution's charge of sanity is challenged by Dr.
|
|
Spock for the defense, the cameras roll, and we try to find some
|
|
measure of justice in the chaos.
|
|
|
|
Our efforts, in the end, are doomed to fail: the images of
|
|
Oklahoma cannot be reconciled with the story behind them. At most,
|
|
we can desensitize ourselves to the horror, we can force ourselves
|
|
to look at the carnage day after day on the six o'clock news until
|
|
the specters no longer haunt us. Trading our humanity by the pound,
|
|
we lessen ourselves by accepting the saturation coverage of horror
|
|
by the media. Personal example: a year ago, the image of the Federal
|
|
building in Oklahoma hit me hard, hard enough to bring tears; after
|
|
twelve months of almost daily exposure to that image, I'm calloused
|
|
to it--I can look at it for ten seconds before my stomach turns.
|
|
|
|
Watching television, reading Newsweek, listening to the radio,
|
|
we add black threads to the tapestry of our lives. On the precise
|
|
anniversary of the bombing in Oklahoma, our local radio station
|
|
gathered sound bytes from the evening news, spliced them together
|
|
and played them over Peter Gabriel's song "Red Rain." For a few
|
|
moments, I accepted this perverse combination without question:
|
|
the lush, sombre melody offered a certain comfort; then, the calm
|
|
voices of President Clinton and Peter Jennings undercut the atmo-
|
|
sphere and jolted my sensibilities--tragedy told through MTV-style
|
|
montages strikes me as another example of purple, sardonic vandalism
|
|
scrawled across the edifice of our collective psyche.
|
|
|
|
As consumers, we can at least slow down the barrage of images:
|
|
the media likes feedback. Write letters, call the station manager,
|
|
Email them daily--ask them if they really feel that it's necessary
|
|
to introduce every story about the tragedy in (fill in the blank)
|
|
with the most graphic, disturbing image available. Make frequent
|
|
allusions to the "pornographic editing" and sleazy tactics used to
|
|
boost ratings; in short, call them on their attempt to pollute the
|
|
public airwaves with profitable trash.
|
|
|
|
Another personal example: last winter, our local television
|
|
station was airing a commercial for "Titan: America's Silent Hero"
|
|
during the ten o'clock news every night. This ad, which resembles
|
|
an outtake from "Dr. Strangelove," fades from an image of children
|
|
in a field playing "rockets" to color footage of the real nuclear-
|
|
tipped thing.
|
|
|
|
I Emailed a set of pointed questions to the station, asking
|
|
how these ads fit in with their policies and ethics of business;
|
|
predictably, they sent no response. However, the ads were pulled
|
|
shortly after I sent my note--this may have been coincidental, but
|
|
I doubt that they really wanted to face those questions in a public
|
|
forum. As with the cockroach, we can drive the morbid image mongers
|
|
out from our living rooms by shining a light on them (and perhaps
|
|
threatening them with a mallet occasionally).
|
|
|
|
And while we're at it, we might respectfully contact the local
|
|
V.F.W. and ask them to put the war toys away--surely, we can find
|
|
a better symbol for their bravery, duty and sacrifice.
|
|
|
|
Until next time, Live Well.
|
|
|
|
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
|
|
Some Poems by Shane
|
|
-------------------
|
|
|
|
|
|
BIRDS
|
|
|
|
|
|
Why is it that you can get so fond of a beautifull bird that your heart
|
|
can hurt if it chooses only to fly in a direction you hadn't expected?
|
|
|
|
Can't we be satisfied enough in its beauty from afar in flight?
|
|
|
|
How your soul warms when its flight lands it singing sweetly on
|
|
your shoulder.
|
|
|
|
However, your heart will never grow fonder than the day,
|
|
|
|
you watch your beautifull bird fly away.
|
|
|
|
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
|
|
STARS
|
|
|
|
Beauty from afar
|
|
Is like the beauty of a star
|
|
Its light lights up your life
|
|
Though it can hurt you like a knife
|
|
For as wonderfull as it may seem
|
|
To touch it is only a dream
|
|
|
|
|
|
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
LIFE
|
|
|
|
RIDING WITH THE TIDE
|
|
|
|
FLOWING WITH THE SNOW
|
|
|
|
IN LIFE,
|
|
|
|
A TURN YOU MAKE FOR NO REASON THAN THE SEASON
|
|
|
|
IS A GLEAM OF PERFECTION
|
|
|
|
FOR ITS A TURN IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION
|
|
|
|
|
|
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
LOVE
|
|
|
|
I want to offer much love to the mother of the land.
|
|
|
|
What you create is so wonderfully grand.
|
|
|
|
In response to such enchanting days.
|
|
|
|
I can only offer proper praise.
|
|
|
|
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
|
|
|
|
>> The Village of Renola
|
|
>> By Christopher Jones
|
|
|
|
|
|
The village lay under the bright blue sky and the people of
|
|
the tiny community sat in a wide circle facing the man who stood
|
|
in front of them. The children stared in amazement and watched as
|
|
the tall, mysterious man paced back and forth across the grassy
|
|
courtyard. A long, red robe clad his wrinkled body, the skin tan and
|
|
course underneath. His feet were clad in brown, leather sandals
|
|
and large, yellow toenails were in great need of trimming.
|
|
"It was many years ago that we first came to this land and from
|
|
it's rich and abundant nature numerous generations have sprung forth.
|
|
But, and I am sad to bring this to you right here, right now,
|
|
surrounded by the summer and it's warm, inviting wind, but time has
|
|
quickly crept up on all of us," the man said, preening his long, gray
|
|
beard.
|
|
"Our once clean and thriving society has become infected by
|
|
treachery, disease, mistrust and corruption." He stopped and looked
|
|
hard at the people; several members turned their heads to the ground.
|
|
"As I walk through the village every day, I can turn to any
|
|
direction and see all of these things sneaking around the corner,
|
|
pulling the shades down, and screaming in the night." The eyes of the
|
|
children were wide with fear.
|
|
"Tomorrow we must manifest and each travel in a direction completely
|
|
opposite and away from each other. Nobler peoples have done the same.
|
|
We will circle, as we are now, around the perimeter of our village and
|
|
begin to take our own separate journeys. The children, though, shall go
|
|
out as a single entity, so if they should meet up with another peoples
|
|
they might be taken in. It is them, and their innocence, that need to
|
|
survive, more so than any of us."
|
|
The people's expressions had drooped and many sat there slack-jawed
|
|
and openmouthed. A little girl stood up from the crowd. She walked slowly
|
|
up to the old man. He eyed her introspectively and had to look down the
|
|
bridge of his nose to see her tiny figure. She tugged on his robe and he
|
|
knelt down beside her. "I would like to stay here, if I may," she whispered
|
|
into his aged ear. He thought about it for a moment and finally rose to
|
|
the other villagers.
|
|
"It has been decided that Renola will be the only one to remain," he
|
|
spoke loudly, "We, though, shall leave early into the meridian and travel
|
|
our separate ways. Take with you only the essentials of life, it will be a
|
|
long and treacherous journey. Go, now, and sleep; you will need the energy
|
|
and spirit." At that, the people slowly rose and returned to the huts. The
|
|
little girl stood in the same place and watched the procession. After a few
|
|
minutes she sat down and, a little while later, fell asleep. . .
|
|
|
|
When she awoke in the morning, the entire village had left. A blanket
|
|
was wrapped tightly around her body. She stretched her limbs and stood,
|
|
brushed the dirt from her downside and looked around. She felt like the
|
|
oldest of the village women: proud.
|
|
After eating the last pieces of her hidden bread she decided to explore
|
|
the surrounding areas. She walked out from the front of the village, and,
|
|
to her surprise, found the old wise man digging a hole deep in the ground.
|
|
Renola approached from his backside, "What are you doing?" She asked,
|
|
causing him to drop his shovel, startling him.
|
|
"What am I wha. . .oh . . . I'm digging my own grave. Would you be so
|
|
kind as to fill the dirt back upon me once I have finished?"
|
|
"Sure," she replied bluntly. She sat down on a small pile of grass and
|
|
watched the man.
|
|
"Thank you so much," he replied and began digging again. When the hole
|
|
was finally deep enough the man crumbled to a sitting position, gasping for
|
|
breath.
|
|
"Well," said the girl, "jump in."
|
|
The man sat silently, looking up to the sky, "It's only my duty," he
|
|
said after a short time, "It may be the second grave I've created, but it
|
|
was my courtyard; I should have the honor of remaining in the same ground
|
|
that I tread across each day of my life. I hope you have a pleasant time
|
|
looking over it." He stood up, held out his arms, and dropped into the
|
|
scarred earth. Renola picked up the shovel and went about filling and
|
|
packing.
|
|
When she awoke the next morning, a fabulous tree was growing from the
|
|
grave site. It's leaves were made of green sparkles and voluptuous yellow
|
|
fruit dangled from the growing limbs. The tree glowed a brilliant orange
|
|
and it heightened every second.
|
|
Renola ran into the jungle to escape the gigantic, spreading growth
|
|
until, finally, it stopped. She approached it cautiously. With short
|
|
steps, she carefully made her way to the mighty trunk. She put her shaky
|
|
hand to it and from the high limbs a child from the village landed at her
|
|
feet. He let out a loud, high-pitched yowl and from the lower branches
|
|
the other children began climbing down. . .
|
|
|
|
That starry evening the children danced around the glowing tree and
|
|
gave praise to the warmth and protection it showered upon them. Life under-
|
|
neath the leaves and limbs was mostly good and fair, although a few of the
|
|
children tried taking an ax to its trunk; others tried desperately to corrupt
|
|
it; the sick ones would slice deeply into their arms and bleed onto its
|
|
twisted roots; but these children were sent away, each time in a different
|
|
direction . . .
|
|
|
|
`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Christopher Jones, 1996 =-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
|
|
|
|
+----------+
|
|
| Last Word \
|
|
+-------------+
|
|
|
|
What a ride.
|
|
|
|
For the last three years, I've lived a writer's dream.
|
|
|
|
Talk about a premise: free access to a world-wide press with over
|
|
seven hundred readers in thirty different countries. Growing up, that
|
|
was science-fiction; going to college, it became a reality. And I have
|
|
to thank you, the audience, for making it happen.
|
|
|
|
I also have to thank Deva Winblood, the founder of ICS and Gonzo
|
|
VAX programmer who wrote the programs we've used to mail this ambitious
|
|
adventure out around the world. Then there's the good folks down at our
|
|
local computer services office--uh, Wes, we seem to have a problem . . .
|
|
And we can't forget all the writers and former staff members; without
|
|
them, the 'Zine wouldn't have had the style and panache required for
|
|
life out on the edge of the envelope.
|
|
|
|
What can I say about George Sibley, our steadfast faculty advisor
|
|
and my own personal mentor? Most of you will never meet him, but trust
|
|
me--his heart regularly threatens to overflow the vast expanse of the
|
|
Gunnison valley with tender warmth and humane understanding. He also
|
|
has the sort of mind which acts like a whetstone on young brains--
|
|
we all became a little sharper from rubbing against him.
|
|
|
|
Writers are like milk, in a way. We take on the flavor of those around
|
|
us, a topnote from those we read and meet, and motivation from those we
|
|
love and hate. Some people say that George is an acquired taste; me, I like
|
|
the subtle soupcon of Sibley which creeps into my work from time to time.
|
|
And besides that, he's the only one around here who _always_ gets my jokes;
|
|
What more could you hope for in a mentor? Thanks, George. For everything.
|
|
|
|
Sniffle.
|
|
|
|
I'm really going to miss this; after graduation, it'll have to be about
|
|
money and movie-rights and all that, at least to some extent. Ultimately,
|
|
I can't bring myself to go through the blood and sweat and real tears of
|
|
good writing for anything so petty as greenbacks--it's gotta be done out
|
|
of love, a transcendent love for my fellow human, or it ain't worth it.
|
|
|
|
There it is. It may sound a little sappy, but it's the truth. I write
|
|
to express my reverence for the nobility each of us carries within; this
|
|
is the key of my personal philosophy, and a window to my tarnished soul.
|
|
|
|
Thanks for the ride, people. And expect a note from the next generation.
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--Ed. Steven Peterson
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B.A. English '96
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>;*)
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ICS would like to hear from you. We accept flames, comments,
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submissions, editorials, corrections, and just about anything else
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you wish to send us. We will use things sent to us when we think
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they would be appropriate for the issue coming out. So, if you send
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us something that you DO NOT want us to use in the electrozine,
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please put the words NOT FOR PUBLICATION in the subject-line of the
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message. You can protect your material by sending a copy to yourself
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through the snail-mail and leaving the envelope unopened (the
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"poor man's copyright").
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--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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BACK ISSUES: Back Issues of ICS can be FTPed from ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU
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They are in the directory /pub/Zines/ICS.
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CSICSICSICSICSICSI/ \CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI
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ICSICSICSICSICSIC/ I C S \ICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSIC
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ICSICSICSICSICS/ ElectroZine \ICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICS
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\ / An Electronic Magazine from
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\ / Western State College
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\ / Gunnison, Colorado.
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\ / ORG_ZINE@WESTERN.EDU
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\/ '*' Visit our Web Pages:
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http://www.western.edu/happen/welcome.html
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