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Free Word Press Volume One - Issue Four

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Free Word Press

· 9 Feb 2024

THE FREE WORD PRESS
Volume One - Issue Four
September 1999

fwp@freewordpress.com / http://www.freewordpress.com
Also available in www and pdf flavors

PRECLUSION!

In the interest of arousing your interest in this exceptionally interesting issue, I shall present to you a syllogism, for your pleasure. Berate me not that it is naught but a twisted fallacy, a stark manipulation of words and wisdom, and, indeed, the logic of which it itself is constituted. Note the lack of mention of Ray Charles, as well as my sly lack of use of post hoc ergo propter hoc; sly, that is, because you won't get to say the infamously smartass 'ha! he committed post hoc ergo propter hoc!' Ha!

God is just
Justice is God
God is holy
Justification makes holy
The Free Word Press Issue Four justifies itself
Therefore:
The FWP is SACRED!
Quid pro quo, habeas corpus, e pluribus unum, ergo cetro fuergo shmergo

Justifying one's actions is always much more difficult that committing them. More difficult, of course, if the justification is even slightly more valid than my poorly executed example (ouch - see above). Yes, that is the intention of this issue: justify our existence.

Had the FWP been attacked at any point thus far, the attacker could name us, perhaps, 'rebel without a cause' or 'jerk for no reason' etc. Why are we what we are, a haven for nullifying the inhibitions blocking the voice of people of a smarter breed, a megaphone for the repressed? Why amplify their voices? Why let them be heard? Why don't I get a *real* job?

In this issue, this, yes, godly issue, is the reason the Press *must* exist- the justification of my thankless, payless days spent making this publication my megaphone.

This issue ...

00001 From Primal to Press by Elliot Cole - the justification of the existence of the FWP
00002 The Unbound by Amanda B. Reckondwith - The Sanctuary, and the Reconciliation.
00003 Portrait of an American Peg
00004 GAINSAY: The Fourth of July by Amon Frederick
00005 Liber Poetae - this month's feature poet: Lacey Volk
00006 The Spider's Web - Michael Hugen mounts the soapbox in defense of the art of journalism.
00007 The Verdict - "Stor Smorja" - Renan McFarland
00008 Kommunist Korner - Are you free? Noame Ghregardus whips out all the self-righteousness he can muster to dispel this dangerous myth.
00009 Friends of the Family - short sci fi by Renan
00010 Literary Regurgitations - Looking Forward >>>
00011 Hydration

(00003 and 00011 are available only in pdf and www versions)

The FWP Are:

Amanda B. Rekondwith
Amon Fredrick
Michael Hugen
Markus

Lacey Volk
Noame Ghregardus
Renan McFarland
Elliot Cole

Editor, photographer, layout designer, secretary: Elliot Cole
Web design: Renan McFarland

From Primal to Press

Why we are here.

When the kind Titan fashioned all of the creatures of the earth from clay he took from his basket all of the tools those creatures would need to survive. Wings, fangs, compound eyes, swift legs, scales, spines, spots, flippers and hair he distributed among his creation. But when he came upon man, his favorite, he looked back in his basket to find it empty. He apologized to man for leaving him naked and weak, but there was nothing he could do. Man was kind:

"No, it was no fault of yours, and there is one thing you can do. Give me what has been given you: the ability to esteem and value, to choose between that which is dark and that which is light, strong and weak, eternal and contemptible?"

So the Titan gave man a soul.

Now mankind had a choice. His thoughts could now reach beyond those necessary for survival, and could instead turn to the higher things - joy and power and art. The question changed, as Adams shrewdly demonstrates, from when do we eat, to how do we eat, to where shall we have lunch. Lunch also changed, from whatever is edible, to whatever is pleasing, and man could choose between the two. More, even; man could create the latter as it suited his taste. With this choice, man was able to break away from natural cause and effect, and do what had never been done before by anything that existed anywhere else, and what was impossible: the arbitrary. There was more to life than survival and procreation; actions stopped being simply reactions; desire turned from 'enough' to 'more.'

This power inspired actions as a means of the manifestation of itself, from gestures to dance, speech to music. They were the soul's logical consequence; they were extensions of it, spiritual tentacles reaching into practicality. Mankind was and remains the most advanced, intelligent, spiritual being - infinitely resourceful, infinitely profound.

The profundity of mankind has been questioned and placed under attack. After all, are we not simply walking chemical reactions, only, at heart, beasts with primal instincts and tendencies, controlled only by the constant mixing and remixing of the chemicals in our brains? Is our history and evolution not just a succession of accidental discoveries encountered in the primal search for food, shelter and space - farming, the wheel, fire, crop rotation etc. - and is that not what it continues to be? The more 'enlightened' of us believe so. They are not enlightened to the true manner of life, or of God, or what you will; they are diseased souls who would rather believe that we have no real thoughts or choices, that we are slaves to natural laws, and that we should not fool ourselves into believing we are anything more than well oiled machines of complex proportions. These are not skeptics, they are the deadly cynics, for whom death is not good enough, for whom life is only a miserable mistake.

Linguists gauge the age of a word by the level it has been corrupted and they agree, the oldest word, representing the first, most basic human concept, the one most deeply embedded into our being displaying our purpose and intention, is not, as some would like to believe, 'food' or 'space,' the most basic wants of all other creatures, but that of the affirmation and confirmation of the dignity of the self: I am.

Say it to yourself and thing on the paradigms complexity: 'am' becomes 'are' becomes 'is'. And the plural does not match the singular: 'are' falls across the persons. To step back two thousand years when all the forms of a verb nearly always had the identical stem and predictable endings: sum, es, est, sumus, estis, sunt. Taking all other tenses and moods and variants into consideration, there are hundreds of forms, eons of corruption. Imagine the first true human, standing upon a mountain having just climbed it, looking out over the sea having just swim it, in the evening glow of a watercolor sunset, trying to justify the pride he felt in his actions as the conqueror - there must have been pride - searching for some worth in his toil and finding existence enough. Did he whisper it in awe, under his breath, humble before the elements? No, he shouted it at the sun, daring it to rise again for any reason but him: I AM.

Of course he didn't actually say it; his mouth formed no words, his throat gave no sound. The words themselves are secondary, the manifestations of the spirit. The thoughts they represent come first, but the words must follow. The first coherent thought was the proud affirmation of existence, the first expression of the power of free will that distinguishes us from beasts, our soul; that man had no choice but to name that thought. The feeling of I AM was common, shared by all, so the word came to be.

Words are not powerful. Man is not powerful. Only the soul within man, the power to esteem and choose and create, is powerful. Words, communication, are only valuable in terms of the souls they link and the soul's ideas they hold. The physical human body is only valuable as a medium for the work of the soul: he is beast without. It is the nature of the soul to express, to reach out of the body in this way; the ending of that expression of the soul's choices is the death of the soul, monotony and boredom fills the vacancy. The soul is in its speech, the speech must be free.

'Freedom of Speech' has become a buzzphrase. Used to glorify the United States and denounce its enemies, it has become an opiate of propaganda, as revered as any god or dictator and treated similarly, therefore a hideous contradiction. Its worshipers have made the grave mistake of worshipping not the freedom of speech, but its earthly counterpart, its legality. Do they then infer that the government is the ultimate decider of the existence of all things, and that by making something legal, speech, it springs to life? And that the greatest opponent of free speech is law? No - the greatest opponent to all things is the timidity of the soul, the limitations it feels, and its desire to put well being before all else.

When the soul is strong it will say its peace regardless of legality. But when the soul says to itself, 'I should not speak,' that SHOULD is the stopping of the soul's free will, and its life; when the soul feels threatened by circumstances it will not speak; that fear is personal. If a state punishes dissidents, it is not the government's policy but the people's fear of it that is the true suppresser of dissension. The state, therefore, does not kill the soul, the soul annuls itself when its fears block its function. Conversely, freedom of speech is really the freedom from personal inhibitions.

It is for this reason that the United States is not responsible for the freedom of speech, nor are other nations guilty of suppressing it: it is first the responsibility of the individual to speak uninhibited.

The freedom of the press is the freedom of speech writ large, greater in size and importance. Speech multiplied over and over, by the thousands, one soul sending, many receiving, the great speech; that is the miracle of technology and the miracle of man, first writing, then the press. Just as the press is speech writ large, so are the inhibitions multiplied. The publisher castrates himself when he sacrifices his own want - the words he wants to say - to 'common decency' or 'popular opinion' or the most horrid 'it just isn't done.'

Be fearless! Your power, your joy, your self, speaks - let it. Woe if we ever lose that!

THE UNBOUND

by Amanda B. Rekondwith

Once again on my journey I found myself interrupted, this time by a stone sanctuary, intriguing in its silence. I stepped inside. There were a few inhabitants of the spare abbey, a few holy men with broken backs and self-mutilated spirits. They brushed by me unnoticing my presence, irrelevant, and therefore invisible. I thought to myself: "What has happened to me, that they do not acknowledge my existence?" But the question changed in my mind: "Or, rather, what has happened to them?" I wished to find someone in authority to speak with - and he does exist, I knew. Why else would there be so much servitude? I asked the nearest monk.

He thrust his hand towards a small door nearby, without a word, and I entered.

Inside, a tiny, fragile man sat amongst candles and censors, meditating devoutly before a rough, squalid altar. Presently, he ended his prayer and turned to face me. "What are you, and who's finger points you to the moon?"

He spoke long about joy, love, shame, pain, blood, worship, fire, persecution, redemption, and triumph, yet I had heard it all before. I have often laughed at the weaklings who think themselves good because they have no claws. I could see clearly that finger pointing to the moon, and there they were, staring at the finger. Imbeciles. His vigor, though, was admirable, and I left the sanctuary with a new resolve, and a new enemy, whom I have proven has done me good.

Soon after, weary from thirst, I collapsed to the sand. Time passed. When the world reappeared I lifted my head and opened my blurry eyes, to see a demon with three faces rise up from my bowels. Drums began pounding and they began to sing.

I am the oathbreaker - the hatemaker - the painfaker
I am the love raper - the gold taker - the time waster
I make your heart ache
I am red blood lake
I am the love inside your head
the love that said
good-bye

I am the crutch that fits your fracture
I am the laughing mind contractor
I am the killer "accident" disaster
I am the drug: the idiot relaxer.

I am what-you-are, your emotions that rule your very actions and thoughts. I was born in you with your first rebellious thought, and have been thriving ever since in your fertile heart." I cried out, for I recognized it too well. It was the one who tormented my youth, as it still torments me now. I begged it to leave me, to find another soul to burn, but it laughed at me. "Go back to the market," it urged, "where you belong. The desert is the place for camels and lions, but you are superior to them - and should not content yourself to this place."

I awoke with a gasp - and choked on a pool of water that had collected around me. I looked up into an oasis of shadows, dark, for it was night. I smiled at the comfort, and relief, and stood up to return to the marketplace to which I felt destined. Then I realized what I was doing, and who I was kneeling before, and I cried out, wept and spat. "Where is the moon?" I asked myself. I looked all about me, and then caught sight of it, right before my feet. I kneeled down to drink.

GAINSAY: The Fourth of July

Amon Fredrick

Whenever a person lives in service, there is always someone being served.

Whenever a person learns to find pleasure in the actions or accomplishments of another, he becomes a puppet: a slave.

Whenever a person becomes a slave, there is always a master.

When a nation falls to collectivism, the dumbing down of the people, the entertaining of the masses and weakening of their will, the future is clear:

When the sacred symbol of a nation becomes a trick, a show to fill the citizens with awe, to instill in them that puppet mentality, something is wrong.

*****

Sit down and watch TV. Fall in love with the sweethearts, hate the bad guys, feel crushed when something goes wrong, elated when it works out. It always works out.

Sit down in the bleachers. Buy a beer when the man shouts at your. Cheer when something goes right, stand when a play is well done, boo at the referee for being too just. Wear the team jersey, recite statistics, chant along with the crowd.

Do things only because you were thusly conditioned; there's a man behind the game pulling strings: stand, sit, shout, root root root, buy those cracker jacks, string after string. Be a puppet.

Walk down the street. Your Nike string has been pulled, so has your Jeans and look-decent-in-public strings. A billboard calls a name to you, a name that you are forced to remember, and forced to think of when you step into a drugstore. Be a puppet.

This is America, boys and girls, both an insult and a compliment at times, of course. This is every day you've ever lived. But you're not complaining. I am.

*****

On July 4, 1999, America celebrated its 223rd year. 223 years ago people rejoiced, sang songs, lit fireworks, marched. They loved their newborn nation duly - no second of time had tarnished its virgin reputation. It was hope - the celebration of a potentially great nation. They had freed themselves, they felt, from all the world's tyranny and oppression and injustice, and they were committed to working hard to keep that weight lifted. They were true patriots, for they loved not what their country was, but what it could become.

It became.

Today citizens should feel the same pride for their country: not what it was, which could only be worshipped by depravity, but what they could make it. That is, if there are any citizens left.

The concept of a citizen is outdated and quaint. The citizen is the building block of a state. Nations are now, first and foremost, economies: he 'consumer' is now the building block of a nation. Suckers used to be born every minute. Today its every second, and then some. Corporations don't see 250 million people in this country, they see 'charge a buck...$250 million. Charge two..." Neither does the government: its no longer concerned with the people - only their income. The grand old US of A has become a pigpen: toss in anything and we'll eat it, and dispose of the wrapper. Those of us who aren't puppet consumers are the real citizens, yet they are shunned as 'unpatriotic.'

So to be a patriot, one must be a consumer, not a citizen. What does one receive as a patriot? The right to consume, and a nifty little celebration called the Fourth of July.

It used to be the other way: the citizens were patriots. They would revel in the streets, march in parades, wave flags, salute and sing, truly proud of their country, or, more accurately, their country's ideal.

Consumers have no concept of ideal; they see only what is before them, no thought to a meaning or purpose. So the celebration turned from pride for the American ideal to the appreciation for America itself - as a place to consume.

*****

This year on the 4th of July I happened to be with a group hiking in Rocky Mountain National Park. As the sun set, pinkening the entire horizon as it does in the mountains, someone suggested hiking another four miles to the peak to watch the fireworks of a nearby town. This simple, innocent request knocked a vaguely apparent rift in the group wide open, a great division between the citizens and the consumers. There were four of us and six of them - surprisingly disproportionate ratio when compared to the general population. Those six felt very strongly that they should do what was right and watch the fireworks - and that we were extremely un-American to do otherwise. One hinted at deportation.

We stayed, they went. I wandered out into the sage field with my guitar and wrote a song, my comrades did similarly productive things. Then we all converged around the fire ring and had a terrific time.

The consumers reached the top just in time to see the fireworks end. They laid back, propped up their heads and opened wide, consuming the pyrotechnic display like just another TV sitcom. Behind the bromide I saw the vague figure of a puppeteer, expertly tugging on a fistful a strings, spoon feeding patriotism.

Liber Poetae

Lacey Volk

"her heart's gone flat line"

I dreamed I was cancerous, I dreamed
about the cold antiseptic room where
you came to visit me, where I lay
waiting and dying and wasting away.

Tears and a few sobbed love vows
saturated our faces and the dangerously white linens
as we embraced, despite
the plastic tubes which ran from my pincushion arms.

I dreamed we drifted
off to sleep holding hands.
You lay sweetly crumpled in a chair nearby,
sharing the thin hospital sheets.

I awoke- you weren't beside me.
I think I died a little more.

"kamikaze heartbreak"

I used to be an airplane,
'til I tried to fly to you.

My black box was discovered
in the midst of some charred remains
by a rescue team in orange vests
bearing flashlights.

They plugged it in and extracted
the data from my flight. They released
a press statement the following morning,

deeming it a suicide.

The Spider's Web by Michael Hugen

"Happy News."

I forget who the efficiency expert who actually invented the concept was, but the legacy of that idea has left us bereft of an honest news organization. What we've got now doesn't compare to what Ed Murrow or Walter Cronkite did. They weren't perfect, but you at least got news!

For everyone who cringes when a reporter pushes that microphone into a face decimated by grief and asks the perennial stupid question "How do you FEEL?" let me proffer the following: you created it! By not calling the station and complaining and by watching that newscast again. The people in charge of news want it to be a profitable block of programming.

They want to sell more ad space for more money. They do this by not making you chuck your dinner. Instead, they give you happy news. Remember how disturbing those reports from Viet Nam were? Remember how dinner didn't look so good after you'd seen the carnage there? News is supposed to be uncomfortable! It's supposed to make you think! So TV takes it to the lowest common denominator and asks the mother of a drive-by death how she feels.

We asked for it by accepting the fact that a solid female TV journalist who hits the streets and writes her own stories can be fired for turning 40 years old. Or not having big breasts.

If you've ever seen "Murphy Brown," you'll remember the mashed-potatoes-for-brains Miller. I have worked with guys like this. They exist! Example: Big earthquake in California. A certain so-called blonde, so-called anchor woman spent most of the damn newscast fiddling with her earrings! The story wasn't as important as her appearance.

Once upon a time, we didn't write innuendo. Once we verified our facts before they could see print. Now we have veteran editors who know how to run a news organization forced to listen to some college whiz kid who wouldn't know a lead from a bridge if one of them crushed his pelvis! There are journalism school graduates who literally can not write a simple sentence. I once applied to a newspaper and before getting in to see the editor, I read one of the front page articles she'd written. It was framed and hanging on the wall.

I counted seven basic errors in the first paragraph!

In an effort to get a fast first, the profession has prostituted itself. It's one reason why I became a freelancer. Now I only occasionally feel the need to strangle some "editor" who mangles my copy. Which is why most of my contracts have a "no-editing" clause. If I screw up, I'm to blame. If some heavy-handed idiot makes me look foolish, I can't come back and say "Hey! Not my fault!"

Why are newspapers becoming as banal as TV newscasts? I remember when USA Today hit the streets. All of us journalists laughed at the mindless way it was laid out. It was the "Dick and Jane" of newspapers and wouldn't last. How were we supposed to know our readers were tired of having to read solid news and wanted to be fed pabulum? I believe USA Today is the top-selling daily newspaper in America.

I cry at the thought that "Uncle Walter," America's Most Trusted Man for decades, can't get an invitation to a CBS news party. That he has to do his first interview in umpteen years on a rival network! When they asked what he'd do to improve TV newscasts, he looked at the camera and said he'd start broadcasting news. Just that simple. Tell people what they need to know, NOT what they want to hear. Let's hear it for Walter Cronkite, who has more journalistic ethics in his little toenail than the rest of the damn profession! Me included.

News has become about entertainment. If the facts interfere with what the writer wants to say, they don't get included. Some of us remember a time when we'd have been fired for lying to the public.

Publishers are invading the newsroom. It all starts with "Big Ed's Emporium just bought 26,000 column inches of space. I think we should do a story about Good Ol' Big Ed." I know editors who have quit over things like that. Not to mention all the REAL journalists who run screaming into the night to escape the prostitution of having to write such twaddle and pass it off as news.

Why are our news organizations doing this to us? Because we are begging someone to tell us what to think, to do, to buy! Guess who gets to sell that concept? Remember when Johnny Carson cracked a joke about a toilet paper shortage and created one? People thought it was real! They bought out the stores! I've done advertising sales copy. My one goal was to convince you to buy the product. Whatever it took.

For those who want to see some real news, start by refusing to accept the "If it bleeds, it leads" mentalities in the newsroom. Every good journalist knows that good news is boring and won't sell newspapers. But do we really need to see the graphic detail of exactly what the baby must have felt when the drive-by bullet passed through the paper-thin wall and splattered baby brains all over the kid's mother? Do we really need the pop psychologists telling us the shooter isn't to blame society is to blame? Hadn't we ALL better wake up and DO something about this?

I'll get off the soapbox now. My shoes are wet with tears and my shoulders ache from the tension of clenching my fists. I need a drink.

Maybe a lot of drinks. Sometimes I repent me my profession.

The Verdict "Stor Smorja"

Renan McFarland

Stor Smorja: Swedish for great stuff. It could be a phrase used by lovers of the cruelly over-underexposed SWEDISH INDIE MUSIC scene to describe the content of the best bands to come out of Sweden since Orebro Nyckelharpsgille! But you don't want to know about old Nyckelharpa do you? So here are some reviews of the most popular unpopular bands of Swedish Indie music:

AQUADAYS- This three-member band originating in Alingsas started out small and has ended up ... well the same really. They have released five impressive demo tapes since 1993 (two under their old name Somersault) and have appeared on the Dorian Records compilation CD "A Chance To Shine". Even though the recent departure of one of their vocalists (Sarah Assbring, who now sings for a dub/trip-hop band called Sadovaja) has left the band with three pitiful members, they still have managed to put out their first album: "Electric Songs", which features the ten best songs from their demo tapes. But this does not seem to be enough, the band's popularity is quickly falling from it's once not-so-great status. In their not so hey-ish "heyday", Aquadays sported a lovely upbeat sound; blending the droning of the Farfisa Organ with various guitar and synth sounds, the talented drumming of a rhythm machine, and the incomprehensible peaceful mutterings of female vocals. You can buy their latest CD if you want to, but don't expect it to go up in value any time soon.
THE VERDICT: 5.5

CRESCENT VENUS- This band describes the music they play as psychedelic indiespacepopmusic. What can I say, I like their sound.
THE VERICT: 7

BAXTER- This drum & bass band seems to be the only one of it's kind in Sweden. Slowly but surely their kind of music is gaining ground in Europe, and it is partly thanks to Baxter. Their debut self-titled album has become somewhat of a hit, and has given birth to two fabulous singles: "Television" (Which can also be experienced visually) and "I Can't See Why" (Which is also available in a 12" version). You should buy the album just to hear their great drum & bass technoish sound and droning vocals. Okay, so maybe they aren't quite indie, but they are good, and they deserve to be heard by the likes of you.
VERDICT: 9.5

Well, that is all the underground Swedish bands I have time to review right now. There are ALOT more though, so maybe I'll continue this. Go out and look for these artists, some are worth it. If you aren't impressed then why don't you just go and listen to American Indie Music. Hmmph...
-Renan McFarland

.guilty innocent guilty!
1 ... 5 ... 10

Kommunist Korner

Noame Ghregardus
ARE YOU FREE?

When over 40% of your hard earned is stolen by fraud, via income taxes to support a central government bureaucracy bone mad?
When you cant travel on "free"-ways or public streets with out a drivers license and vehicle registration or be thrown in jail?
When you must pay a "ransom" to the insurance company monopoly before you can travel in your automobile on public streets or highways?
When you must send your children to a state licensed school or the state will confiscate your property, kidnap your kids or put in jail?
When your state approved "tax exempt" church teaches only the one world religion of obedience to man's government?
When the nations police are more of a threat to life, liberty, and the property than so-called "common criminals"?
When you must ask the state permission to marry?
When you cannot practice "free" enterprise without being regulated, licensed and taxed by the government?
When you buy "freedom movement" or underground publications to learn the truth because the "controlled" media prints only propaganda?
REVOLT!!!

FreinDs oF tHe fAmIlY

By: rEnaN

"One fact that is not widely known: the 'face' that NASA discovered on the surface of Mars was in fact a result of something the creatures that inhabit the planet Earth did, and not a result of anything that the creatures inhabiting the planet Mars did. And they do alot. These creatures call themselves Martians. Actually that's just a presumption, they most likley call themselves something completely different. In fact, they express words much differently then we do; with different characters which we are not even capable of imagining. One might ask how they are capable of being so much more advanced than us. The answer is not that they have a higher brain capacity, nor is it that they have existed for a longer time. They appeared at about the same time as the human race, they even look similar, the reason they are more advanced than us is because they do not sleep. This has allowed them to gain a significant amount of advancement on us.

It is a good thing that they do not know that we exist, because they would most likly take over our planet. It is also a good thing that we do not know that they exist, because we would try to make them aware of our existance. But the rub is that we do know that they exist. This part of my short story is rather long, so I will try to make it short by speaking with metaphors and similes:

In this Universe there is an exclusive high school club. It is called "The Intellegent Life Club". Before we discovered the Martians the Human Race was the only member of this club (And the club treasurer might I add!). We were very lonlely, and we tried to get some other members in our club, but nobody in our "school" made the cut. They just couldn't live up to our club's rules and policies and responsibilities. We got so lonely that we tried to get people to join from other high schools. This was futile since we could not go to these high schools (we don't have a car yet), we could only send out little flyers that had a bunch of mathematics on them. (The Intellegent Life Club is kind of like a math club.) No body responded to our "flyers" because the could not understand the math or they couldn't come to our high school because they did not have cars. And even if they did have cars or their mom drove them or something then it would still take light years to get a school transfer. But as it turns out, another high school had an Intellegent Life Club too. So it was only a matter of time until these clubs met and united to form The Universal Intellegent Life Club. You see?

The martians live under the surface of Mars. They look just like us, except with larger hands, smaller eyes, and a strange looking mouth. After we discover the existance of their "Intellegent Life Club" we decide, after much debate, to detonate a series of low-powered explosives on their planet, as a way of "knocking on their front door". This strategy is conceived by Earth's greatest mind at the time: Albert Einstein. Mr. Einstein lives in America. He had come there from Europe when he was young. He has a great interest in physics and came up with alot of ground-breaking scientific equations. He is not related to Albert Einstein who came up with the relativity theory.

His plan (code-named 'Operation Front Door') is succesful, and the Martians come out from under mars in a rush to see who is knocking on their front door. Even though Earth's greatest mind at that time: Albert Einstein, thought up 'Operation Front Door', it is an idiotic thing to do. If the martians slept, that is: if they were only as advanced as us, they would have surely taken this as an act of war. We are very lucky that they are a peaceful, non-sleeping race of beings.

Earth unanomynously votes for the President of the United States of America to be the planet's ambassador. At this time it is a fellow known as Chance F. Kennedy (no relation to John F. Kennedy). He is a plump and jolly man, a member of the Effort Party (our traditional party system was abandoned after World War Three). He is very excited about seeing these Martians in person. However, on the day he is to meet their leader, he is assassinated in Dallas, Texas. The Vice president, named Al Gore, promptly replaces him as President of the United States of America. He has not rehearsed what he has to say to the Martian Ambassador, so he has to wing it.

The meeting place is in Geneva, Kosovo (there is no Switzerland anymore due to some border changes after World War Three), in a large auditoreum once used for the United Nations. The former Vice President waits there, attempting to memorize the words on the sheet of paper which was thrust upon him as he entered the building. There is no audience, except for television cameras and some very important people. Outside there are tanks prepared to fire at these Martian creatures on command, and a huge landing strip for the Martians' spacecraft. Alot of people did not want to have tanks there. They had all protested earlier that day, but were quickly dispersed. They believed the Martians would be afraid of these war-machines and not be our friends. The fact is that the Martians did not care. They knew what tanks were, and they knew what war was, and they expected to be greeted this way. They would have been more afraid of the protesters anyway.

Suddenly a voice warns bystanders that the Martians have entered our atmosphere. It is not long before their spaceship can be seen. Right before the Martians land however, one of the tank protesters runs out on the landing strip. He is killed instantly when the Martian spacecraft runs over him. It looks like a highly advanced version of our Space Shuttle (the space ship, not the protester). After the Highly Advanced Space Shuttle lands there is a long wait. Some people dressed in white uniforms carry the dead protester away, then the Martians appear. Earth's reaction to the spacemen is a mixed one.

It seems that some people think that it is creepy how much they look like us. Others like them for this reason. They looked like us because God, who created both us and the Martians, was too tired to redesign the whole model for anthropoids, so he just put the same model on both planets and we took off evolving and adapting to our different environments. The only difference was that we decided to sleep. This was because we had a light source that disappeared on a regular basis, and since we had nothing better to do in the dark, we slept. The martians evolved underground with a light source that never went away or hid behind anything. They could close their eyes, but they didn't go to sleep.

Back inside the building there is little commotion. As the Martian leader enters the room, Al Gore realizes that he has to go to the bathroom. This makes him even more uncomfortable than he already is. The Martian leader has a big bright hat on. This is how our former Vice President knows to shake his hand instead of the other Martians accompaning him. The Martian leader knows about shaking hands. It was an ancient form of greeting on Mars. He shakes Al Gore's hand, then he shows him the current formal Martian greeting. Al Gore never got the hang of it.

'We, the People of the Planet Earth, welcome you in peace.' says Al Gore stoically.

'Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm...' the Martian Ambassador laughs politly. This was not recieved well by the People of the Planet Earth, who thought he was mocking Al Gore.

'Your people have much to learn.' says the Ambassador in perfect English.

The following month is spent trying to teach the People of the Planet Earth things that are centuries ahead of them. Such as Specter Telephony, Interdimensional Telekenesis, Afflatusism, and Anti-Philosophy. The Martians soon decide that Earth is not capable of learning these things, so they take it over. They do not make us there slaves though. They allow us to live as we were living before they came. With minor differences in our governments. Every now and then somebody would mysteriously vanish, but it was no big deal. Also, it turns out that the protester who was killed by the Martian spaceshuttle was none-other than John Lennon, a musician and an advocate of peace at the time of his death. Although his quietus was much lamented, it was never held against the Martians, who had run him over on purpose."

EPILOG: "A little while after the Martians took over, a team of scientists decided to try to create a time machine with some of the information given to them from the Martians. They knew they had to keep it a secret because the Martians would not approve. They finally got it built and one of the scientists was chosen to test it out. It was Albert Einstein. He strapped himself in and turned it on. Instantly the whole universe had never existed. God slapped Himself on the head and let a profanity slip out of His mouth."

[The story you have just read is true. The names have not been changed to protect the innocent. However, there is no doubt that they will remain both innocent and protected. ]

Literary Regurgitations

Markus

I am currently working on:

Herman Hesse: The Glass Bead Game
Tom Stoppard: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead
Alan Brunton: Moonshine

See you next month with my esteemed opinions, ingenious thought processes and sardonic conclusions. Enjoy.

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Closing notes, Speculations

I'll bet that if you watched the earth at a more geological rate it would appear alive. Ever second spring would arrive and the earth would be green, summer would burn it brown, fall red, and winter white. The surface of the planet would pulsate as if the heart in its core were pumping blood to the surface. All the tiny creatures that infest it, because they all live a very short time, feel time to be moving slower, and only see a handful of pulses.

Is it not the same, then, for us? Is it possible that the tiny mites and bacteria that live on us find us an unliving planet? Are we? Or is the earth alive too? Is this all life is, the combined lives of smaller bits (cells)? If we (a colony of specialized cells) are alive, then: the earth is alive (a colony of specialized bits) then: the universe is one big organism - with each bang the beating heart, followed by the crunch.

Or maybe we aren't alive and we're just a colony of very well organized cells? But maybe that's all life is. But then are those bits alive? Or are they just colonies too, then? Of what? Who cares?

All we can know is that we haven't the slightest clue of what's really going on. Science is biased towards mankind's promised omniscience; it is based entirely upon the assumption that everything a human observes exists, and everything not observed does not. Its the best we can do, but we haven't a clue.

The End.

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