Category: Books

Review: Washington: A Life by Ron Chernow (2010)

Some Presidents age better under scrutiny than others. Despite well-known faults, I’ve found that a John F. Kennedy or Abraham Lincoln holds up the more I read about them, and in fact my opinion may actually improve. As far as Richard Nixon goes, the more I read the more appalled I become.

George Washington has always been a hero of mine. I found myself lured back to Ron Chernow’s massive biography because frankly I’ve become disillusioned with the whole party system in this country, especially the cult of personality around one man undeserving of our devotion. Reverting to backwards customs and prejudices best left in the 19th Century is not the way forward and will not advance our nation’s progress. Reminding ourselves of the integrity, decency and civility of the Founding Fathers, as well as their faults, might engender some much-needed humanity in our future leaders.

This biography is dense but engaging. In terms of bias, the author is clearly in love with his subject, though he’s not shy about expounding on his contradictions and failings. While Washington didn’t originate radical ideas, he had valuable coaches in the Revolutionary period like George Mason, and once these ideas were formulated he was able to express them eloquently. Reading about Washington, I miss the grace and humility of our forefathers. Although he began the Revolutionary War with disdain for the soldiers he had to work with, by the end of the war he had so thoroughly bonded with them, they could truly be considered this country’s first ‘band of brothers.’

Young and brash, he was only 21 when he involuntarily launched a world war, the Seven Years war, known in America as the French and Indian war. The death of the French ambassador led to a humiliating defeat at Fort Discovery, a swampy piece of land poorly situated for defense. He learned from the experience but British General Edward Braddock was unwilling to listen.

At the Battle of the Monongahela River, Braddock’s reliance on European imperial battle tactics was defeated by the frontier tactics of Native Americans and the French. Braddock fell back dying while his men deserted en masse. Washington had two horses shot out from under him yet somehow seemed impervious to harm—well, despite the fact that he went into battle exhausted from dysentery. By the time he retired from military service at the age of 26, he’d survived smallpox, pleurisy, malaria and dysentery. For a time he settled into domestic tranquility by marrying the widow Martha Custis in 1757.

The Revolutionary War period takes up the better part of the book, as it should. He served eight years as commander in chief of the Continental Army. By 1780 Washington was stymied by lack of support from state legislatures and “Congressional ineptitude.” He repeatedly had to exhort Congress and the states to remedy desperate shortages of men, shoes, shirts, blankets and gunpowder. This meant dealing with selfish, apathetic states and “bureaucratic incompetence in Congress.” Sound familiar?

After the war, his hopes for a peaceful retirement last only four years, after which he was drafted as president of the convention to devise the Constitution, then essentially drafted as the first President of the United States. He was aware the world was watching everything he did as President and set precedents for the conduct of future Presidents that mostly held.

Jean-Antoine Houdon life sculpture of Washington, perhaps the best representation of how he actually looked.

The best one can say on one subject is that while privately he despised slavery, he was ambivalent about making any effort to eradicate it nationally or on his own plantation. He frequently displayed a schizophrenic application of liberty. One week after the first Continental Congress in October 1774, he sold off property on behalf of his partner George Mercer, including ninety of his slaves. His views evolved in the course of the war; his actions were negligible. The very existence of his plantation, Mount Vernon with its five farms bound him to that ‘peculiar institution’. He was only able to free his own slaves (not the dower slaves from the Custis estate) by writing it into his will.

Partisan infighting is no stranger to American politics. In his second term the press, especially the Aurora, had pretty much declared open season on Washington, denigrating him in ways that would make Fox News blush. In the course of his two terms, he was backstabbed by Jefferson, Madison and Monroe, as well as Thomas Paine, who never learned to tamp down his revolutionary fervor. In his notes on an early draft of his Farewell Address, he complained that the newspapers “teemed with all the invective that disappointment, ignorance of facts, and malicious falsehoods could invent to misrepresent my politics.”

The most important precedent was his decision to step down after two terms. The Presidency is a killer job that wore down every man who answered the call of office. It’s important to remember at that time, in the 18th Century, no leader had ever voluntarily relinquished power. Not only did he surrender power, he welcomed the relief of that burden, looking forward to the bliss of retirement after two decades of public service.

Washington was not perfect. He took a great deal of time to come to decisions; he often suffered from feelings of inadequacy, both qualities I see in myself; and frankly he had a tendency to live beyond his means. It’s those imperfections that made him strive to better himself, make the best decisions possible. For that we should be grateful he was first in so many things, and that he put country before himself.

Houdon’s life bust of Washington.

Thoughts on The Ten-Cent Plague (2008) by David Hajdu

Let me tell you a story. I grew up reading comic books and oh, I could tell you stories, but only one is relevant to this blog. I’d just entered high school in the fall of 1979. My father, brother David and I had just moved into a house in University Place. While I’d always loved comics, I also bought into the thinking that they were immature, just for kids. I had a collection at this point of about 700 comics.

One day I let my brother Kenny into my room and said, have at it. He tore into them with glee, literally, ripping my collection to shreds. I’d kept a few hidden, just for sentimental reasons. At the time I thought that was what I was supposed to do, that I needed to grow up. For the next eight years I didn’t buy another comic book.

This book by David Hajdu made me mad. Not that it wasn’t enjoyable—it was—it was written almost in comic book style. It seemed appropriate to read this now, as we’re pulling the same shit all over again. In the early 50’s across the United States, states and municipalities were passing vsguely worded ordinances to ‘protect children’ and our morals. It wasn’t simply the politicians. Police, PTAs and the Catholic Church were rising up in scenes reminiscent of Nazi Germany.

Like Nazi Germany there were book burnings. Not just bannings, which is bad enough, but actual bonfires rising to the skies, under the old saw, ‘our morals are being corrupted!’ This began as early as 1948, only three years after the death of Hitler and his notorious band of hoodlums. The narrative demonstrates how easily masses of people can be manipulated by vague culture war polemics.

I saw some names I knew, like Bill Gaines, the head of EC Comics and the father of Mad Magazine. There were future sci-fi giants like Harry Harrison and Henry Kuttner, forced out of the comic business by the uproar capitalized on by Fredric Wertham and his book The Seduction of the Innocent. The introduction of the Comics Code Authority led to a bowdlerizing of comics that wasn’t overturned for 14 years.

The real irony of this was that none of these high-faluting critics of comic books had bothered to read what they were castigating, the same way none of these so-called Moms for Liberty bother to read LGBT themed or Black History books before throwing a hissy fit and pressuring librarians to ban them. 800 artists and writers never worked in comics again. The kids involved in these book burnings only realized this was wrong after the fact, and then they got mad.

“Though they were not traitors, the makers of crime, romance, and horror comics were propogandists of a sort, cultural insurgents. They expressed in their lurid panels, thereby helping to instill n their readers, a disregard for the niceties of proper society, a passion for wild ideas and fast action, a cynicism toward authority of all sorts, and a tolerance, if not an appetite, for images of prurience and violence. In short, the generation of comic-book creators whose work died with the Comics Code helped give birth to the popular culture of the postwar era.” [pg. 330, The Ten-Cent Plague]

Too bad for those cultural purists that you can’t kill ideas. You can suppress people, you can bury history but you can’t erase either people or true history. Even in the 1950’s, the seeds had already been sown, and Rock ‘n’ Roll was right around the corner.

Review: All Boys Aren’t Blue by George M. Johnson

I’m a little disappointed here. I was led to believe there was some pornography involved, and I’ll be damned if I can find ANY pornographic material AT ALL!!!

Truth be told, I had two reasons to read Mr. Johnson’s excellent book. One, he’s a fellow author and I’m going to support him. Two, I was told by some jackass in Florida, the guv or some flake, that I wasn’t allowed to. So I said, pfff, that so? Try an’ stop me, Desantutts.

I think the reason All Boys Aren’t Blue is on conservatives’ hit list is that it’s truthful. That’s probably the same reason Huckleberry Finn, The Grapes of Wrath, The Diary of Anne Frank and so many more have been banned and are being banned this very second. A good book is truthful and shines an unpleasant light on the reality of our society. Though to be honest, All Boys Aren’t Blue is not unpleasant reading at all. Far from it.

This is a memoir for young adults; it’s probably too mature for preschoolers, but that’s not the point here. It’s about a young black man growing up, finding his queerness but frequently having to suppress himself. The author is not alone. The prevalent theme in his story is family. Back in the 1970’s my brothers used to say if someone messed with someone in our family, we could get about a hundred people together to settle this. We had a lot of more of us then; I don’t know if that’s true now.

George Johnson has always had the support of his family; brothers, cousins, parents. And especially his Nanny, his grandma, that older person every family relies on; the one who takes you to flea markets, teaches you stuff, encourages you in everything you do, and is always proud of you, no matter what. That’s what family is for, to tease you, rough-house, to fight with and to fight for you

There are a couple of cuss words, not to excess. I can get more profanity from a Star Trek movie. A couple of chapters made me uncomfortable, maybe because these were private things you don’t ordinarily share with the world. You’ll find out, if you have the courage to read it. My discomfort is not the point. What matters is representation, and I believe George Johnson has done a hellava job.

John Lennon on Not Only…But Also (1964-66)

British comedy takes some getting used to. It’s more outrageous, wacky, and not as straight jacketed by puritanical impulses as American media, then or now. The secret lies in the fact that in the 1960’s, the people making these programs didn’t take themselves too seriously. Try getting Franklin Graham to guffaw along with Benny Hill, Monty Python or Red Dwarf. Hah. Good Luck.

First edition of In His Own Write (1964), and Signet reissue following John’s assassination, late December 1980 or early 1981.

John Lennon’s first book, In His Own Write, was published in March 1964, during the filming of the Beatles’ first movie, A Hard Day’s Night, which also began in March; both shortly before I was born, I might add. 1964 would be the group’s busiest year, and John was still very much invested in their success. And it was grueling, with their world tours to America, Australasia, and Europe, three albums to records along with various singles, television appearances and radio shows, endless interviews in every stop on the road, with only two roadies to assist. Not to mention their legendary first appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show in February and two Christmas Shows bookending the year.

By a strange coincidence a young performer named Dudley Moore was looking to begin his own solo project, but unsure of going it alone, he enlisted a fellow colleague, Peter Cook, his partner in the stage comedy revue Beyond the Fringe (1960+). And thus began the comedy sketch program Not Only…But Also. For three series transmitted in 1965, 1966 and 1970 we were treated to their warped sketches and musical performances, which was very common in shows of that period.

John was acquainted with both Dudley Moore and Peter Cook, as well as Norman Rossington, who appeared alongside him in A Hard Day’s Night. On November 4th Norman and series producer Joe McGrath visited John backstage at the Ritz Cinema in Luton and invited him to participate in the first edition of the new series. John agreed. The first part involved the filming of an outdoor surrealistic sequence on November 20th, to accompany the reading of his poem “Deaf Ted, Danoota, (and me). Shot at Wimbledon Common in Southwest London, this involved John, Dudley and Norman bicycling (over a fence at one point), swinging, dancing with balloons and strolling over the grounds.

Part two was taped the evening of November 29 before an audience at the BBC’s Television Centre in West London. Among the items read to the camera, from In His Own Write, was “About the Awful”, read by John himself. This was his own mangled autobiography, from the book’s back cover.  

John’s prose is not for the linear-minded. His work tends towards the surreal, more like a stream of consciousness with a dash of the comedy troupe, the Goons, thrown in. It’s best experienced as it is here, as spoken performance, or as with his poem “Good Dog Nigel”, with Norman Rossington and a wriggling basset hound in John’s arms. “Unhappy Fred” is a two-hander shuffling back and forth between Dudley and Norman while John, Norman and Dudley do a back and forth to “All About Speeching”. John deadpans his way through “The Wrestling Dog” while Norman barks and ducks in and out. While Dudley mangles and shrieks through the closing number, the other players prance in front of his piano, ending with John flitting manically across the stage.

This first edition was broadcast on BBC2 on January 6, 1965. John enjoyed the experience so much he returned for the Christmas Special, broadcast on Boxing Day, December 26, 1966. John recorded his part on November 27, appearing briefly as Dan, a doorman in a 15-minute segment, a “Swinging London” parody masquerading as The Pipesucker Report, from Idaho. Cook plays an investigative reporter and towards the end of the sketch he approaches an exclusive club, the Ad Lav only to be stopped by Dan (John). He is only allowed access once he convinces Dan he is the Duke and Duchess of Windsor—and also offers John a small bribe. (The Ad Lav is a spoof of the Ad Lib Club, which was much visited by the Beatles.)

While these had little to do with music, they stand as John’s first public appearances outside of the Beatles.  Dudley Moore and Peter Cook would enjoy many years, together and solo, as actors and comediennes, notably in the original version of Bedazzled (1967). Moore might best be remembered for his role as the titular alcoholic in Arthur (1981). Sadly all three of these greats are no longer with us, but their works will live on.

Available On: Much of this series is lost, due to the shortsightedness of the BBC. From 1970 to 1974 it became official policy mandating that recordings of programs deemed of less historical or commercial importance be wiped, a cost saving measure so that the master tapes could be reused. Priority was given to preexisting national or local news items; comedy was not considered of cultural value among the BBC higher ups. Peter Cook offered to buy the existing prints for Not Only…But Also from the BBC, but was turned down flat.

What we have, as with the slaughter of 1960’s Doctor Who, The Avengers and other programs, is items recovered from foreign networks and the remaining 16 mm film inserts. These bits were collected into six 100-hour episodes called The Best of What’s Left of Not Only…But Also. These episodes were subsequently released onto a VHS of the same name. In 2003, a 90 minute Region 2 DVD compilation was released as The Best of Peter Cook and Dudley Moore. In America this would see a DVD release as The Best of…What’s Left of…Not Only…But Also by BBC Worldwide in September 2008, featuring all six compilation episodes, with certain edits due to rights issues.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/notonlybutalso/index.shtml

Review: George R. Stewart, Earth Abides (1949)

(Original printing by Random House in 1949)

One might ask, once you’re done Googling the given title, why the HELL would we be interested in a book published 72 years ago. That was before the Red Scare of the 1950s, before fears of nuclear war overtook all future versions of Armageddon. There is wisdom in old works, perhaps more than can be found in contemporary books. I found for myself this is a more timely text than was seemingly possible.

The back cover of the 1976 edition I read describes this as ‘a novel about a tomorrow that could happen today’. After the events of 2020 it seems very close to home. Our protagonist, Isherwood Williams, spends some time in a cabin in the woods recovering from a rattlesnake bite. He comes back to a city that appears deserted. Scattered newspapers, what’s left of them, tell of a ‘new and unknown disease of unparalleled rapidity of speed, and fatality’. Unlike in 2020, in the novel there was a concerted and competent government response, although this pathogen still wiped out the better part of the population of the late great United States.

I saw a lot of myself in Ish. He was well read, and probably more mechanically inclined than I. Basically he’s a good person trying to make sense of an impossible situation. At first he was all right with solitude, he could do without loads of people and their problems for a while. Peace and quiet were nice, and he was free to do what he wanted. Some inhibitions had to be broken, such as when Ish had to start breaking into stores to get canned goods, just for his own needs, now without fear of prosecution. Given that all means of mass production were essentially gone, canned goods were all that city people had to live on.

But no one can live alone forever. That’s how Ish was adopted first by a homeless dog, Princess, which lead him to Em, his future wife and the woman who would become this novel’s Mother of the community they gather together in an old California suburb. . As the first, original Mother, Em becomes the heart of what they call the Tribe, probably the most intuitive person and the one everyone defers to in matters.

This community Ish gathers, this Tribe, is comfortable, too much so perhaps. Even when a crisis arrives, when the reservoirs have dried up and no more water is to be had from their taps, it is very hard to stir the people to make an effort even to dig a well.

I can see this–I believe it. For a novel written seven decades ago, it has a clarity and insight. These are average people with average goals, without much ambition to rebuild civilization as they knew it. Ish’s efforts to educate the children of their small Tribe come to no avail, until he settles on more basic–and potentially fun skills, such as bows and arrows. And of course there is the Hammer, which Ish has carried with him from the beginning. This becomes an unconscious symbol of power, a tool as well as a faithful companion that Ish has to pass on in the end.

I would highly recommend Earth Abides. There is more truth, more humanity there than a lot of the propaganda we’ve indulged in for the past several years.

(The 1976 Fawcett Crest edition)

Lianna in the Microverse: Conclusion

Soon as this was over she wanted to get stoned again. So much had been real…so much surreal: the heft of Kali Ma’s sword in her fist, the cool solidity of the pommel. Cradling Lady Smirnoff to her chest, her weight in her four arms evenly distributed, drooping like a lazy cat…

Four…arms–!

The Professor and Dr. Chen bumbled into each other as Lianna jumped up. She tossed off the blanket, then immediately tugged it back to her naked chest. She took in the bland white medical cabinet over a sink behind the medics, the stiff sheets under her legs.

Dreamy, fuzzy images floated in the periphery of her thoughts; an emergence of some kind on the main floor of the observatory, her tail swishing between her buttocks. No tail now, she thought. Some wise ass must’ve thought it’d be a good idea to get her to the outpost’s dispensary. That was probably a good idea since she didn’t remember much after first she dropped Lady Smirnoff, and then collapsed herself.

She slapped her left shoulder, groping for ridges, skin folds, anything that would be indicative of a scar. She came up empty. “Professor, how many arms did I have when I got back?”

Their distended eyeballs gave the game away. Troopers that they were, they kept up the pretense. “Two, of course,” the Professor replied, lifting his arms. “Just two. Right, Chen?”

“Oh yes, yes! How many arms were you expecting to have?” His forced laugh reeked of fear and barely suppressed hysteria. And then Petersen burst in.

“Got the stills developed! They’re gonna love this at the…” he frowned, first at the two scientists waving their hands like livid sports coaches. His eyebrows raised at Lianna, nodding at her cot. “Oh. Hi, four-arms.”

That earned him the double sock in the arm that she’d been waiting for. “I knew it!” Lianna bounced off the cot, pacing the room despite the Professor’s efforts to keep up and drape his lab coat over her. “I knew it! It’s the first proof that the Hindu cosmology has a basis in fact! I gotta write this up in the Physicists Quarterly–“

“Lianna…”

“Mom would shit if she could see this! This would be the best–!”

“Lianna!”

Both bare heels slapped on the deck. The Professor stopped himself just in time, finally succeeding in wrapping his coat over her. “Your other limbs disappeared shortly after we had you settled,” he said.

“What, they melted?”

“No, they…how do I say this, dissipated. I can’t explain it better than that. They seemed to vanish as soon as you came off your high. Umm, how much powder did…?”

“A snootful.”

“I thought it’d be a bit much.”

Lianna crossed her arms with a smirk. “And if there had been evidence of a transformation, I suppose you’d keep it from me anyway?”

The Professor sighed. “Lianna, cultivating a personal relationship with Kali is not something I’d encourage.”

“But isn’t that what Mom and Poppa wanted to investigate? Surely that’s the reason they kept such extensive notebooks.”

The Professor nodded to both points, though his downturned bushy mustache suggested he now wished that he’d never let her get her hands on them, let alone follow the hints and star charts highlighted in red in the margins. ‘What happened to my tail? And what about Lady Smirnoff?”

“First, allow me to congratulate you on the successful conclusion of your extraditionary mission. She’s in the next room. Would you like to see? We can discuss the, umm, other item after that.”

Her deep crimson skinsuit glistened even in the dimmed lighting ordered for her recovery room. What was left of it, anyway. Lady Smirnoff looked like she’d been through a war and lost. Her right leg was a purplish stump below the knee. Her left side wasn’t in much better shape. The skinsuit over both her left shoulder and breast was torn, exposed to the dangers of the Microverse. In fact, her left breast appeared to have been punctured by a barbed shaft. Tardigrade, Lianna deduced silently.

Further puncture marks could be found in both wrists, another in her suit through the crotch. Some repulsion prevented Lianna from examining that hole too intensely. Lianna took a scanner from a young medic in training, which enabled her to probe the puncture just below Lady Smirnoff’s breast that almost reached through her chest cavity to her heart. Curiously, all these puncture wounds had been plugged with a flexible, indigo-tinted foam. Further proof, to Lianna at least, of Kali’s charity, or malice.

The medics stepped aside to let Lianna in, but not too far from the floating examination table. They were keeping her in an induced coma for now, they told her, pending a decision by the outpost’s chief of staff toward what exactly they were supposed to do with her; whether her punishment by Kali had been sufficient, if indeed that would factor into any subsequent care she’d receive at a better equipped facility.

Her hand squeezed the smooth blotchy stump, just above the knee. Lianna peeled back one of Lady Smirnoff’s eyelids. Her pupils had shrunk to tiny dots. Her facial features, usually so stern, was relaxed in sedated rest. She hadn’t been prepared for this, Lianna thought, her hand lingering for what little comfort it might offer. Sweet Kali, what a state her mind must be in.

“Baby, come on,” the Professor said, gently taking her hand. He led her along the main corridor to the Specimen Lab. Normally this was where cultures were housed in specialty racks, behind vacuum sealed doors housing the wall-mounted coolant cells. He fixed on the third coolant door to the right, grunting as he yanked the handle down.

A tray rolled out containing no racks full of specimen trays, only an extra-large storage bin, about the size of Lianna’s upper torso. With the input of a code, the top was forced wide open as a bushy something arched out of its confined space.

“It didn’t dissipate…”

“Presumably Kali wanted this preserved, as a keepsake,” the Professor muttered. “So we’d know this wasn’t entirely a dream.”

The thick fur yielded several centimeters to the touch. Moments passed as he watched her stroke the reddish streaks. The end where it should’ve ‘connected’ seemed evenly cut, or partly healed. “Did you guys…?”

“We didn’t have to do anything. It sort of popped off as soon as you two hit the floor, just as a chameleon’s would.” All latches shut quietly, efficiently as he tucked the fur back under the lid and shoved the tray door shut. Lianna drew the lab coat closer, almost disappearing inside it.

“Professor, this isn’t a surprise to you. None of it. I’ve given you probably the most absurd, unscientific reports you’d ever seen, about things that would normally get a gal shipped to the nearest funny farm. And you…you just accept them. How much did you know, before I started out there?”

He kept his hands in his pants pockets, then adjusted the online scribbler in his top shirt pocket with a smile. “I had a more adventurous youth than I’ve let on. Several of my experiences could be described as humbling. I’d like to tell you I was never…hmm, intimate within my interpersonal contacts, but,” he shrugged, “I could never lie to you, child.”

“But you’re never gonna tell me about those experiences, are you?” she asked.

Still smiling, perhaps a little more warmly, he held out his hand to her. “There’s too much to cover in one afternoon,” he said. She clutched the coat to her bunched in one hand, while with the other she took his proffered palm. “But I see no reason why we couldn’t start.”

Continued from ‘Summoned by Kali’: (link)  https://mike3839.com/2021/01/18/summoned-by-kali-a-story/

Here’s where it all began: (link)  https://mike3839.com/2020/02/11/lianna-into-the-microverse-introduction/

Barack Obama A Promised Land review

This has been a hard book to get through. It’s not a difficult read; President Obama has a way of drawing you in, making the hard choices easy to understand. His conversational skills haven’t failed him.

I suppose the problem, for me, was that I remember those years and the bullshit thrown at both he and his wife Michelle. For the first time Obama seems free to express his frustrations and disbelief not only at the continual obstructionism, but also his personal struggle with racism.

What’s also made it hard is the fact that the same dipshits are still in Congress, still spewing the same toxic nonsense they had 12 years ago. If anything, the recent crop of Republicans is 100 percent worse.

I’ve gone on but honestly, it is worth the read. We are guided from his early days as a senator, on through the first presidential campaign in 2008, and closing with…nahh, I won’t spoil it. Can’t wait for the second volume. Cheers.

Excerpt: Midnight Interruption

A short excerpt from my next novel in progress, Sanity’s Edge. Enjoy.

midnight interruption 300

I slipped off the ship after dark, once I could sense that everyone in the village was asleep. The forest was new but Mama had found me a new friend. We stared at each other under the shade of a mango tree as the Moon climbed into the sky.    Its tongue flicked the air in the three-meter space that divided us. This wasn’t one of the gen-altered snakes I was accustomed to from my home. This bugger was all wild, possibly the first of its kind that I’d seen since childhood, possibly the first I’d ever seen in my life. Sweet Ngai, was she massive! Her trunk was thicker around than my thighs.

I sensed her full belly, so I had no worries on that score. Her scales had a fresh gloss, as though she had just completed shedding not too long ago. I suppose she wouldn’t object to a warm body to enfold. I closed the distance between us and stepped into her embrace.

I knew this would be a problem as soon as a hundred kilos seemed to land on my hips, pressing me down. My knees buckled at first, but I kept to my feet as a second curl of muscle wound behind my legs, brushing the skin of my thighs before plopping atop the first coil, in the process pushing up my breasts.

Both were solid rippling muscle. A thrill shuddered through my chest, and perhaps a little excitement. I’d never given myself to such a beast before. A third coil slipped past my shoulders, pressing my breasts into flattened ovals between them. Sweat trickled over them and down the middle of my back; but that was probably just the heat of this place. For now, I was content.       As I held out my hand, the last meter of its tail settled in my palm, circling twice before cinching tight. With my eyes shut, we dropped as one bundled mass into the soft grass.

Of course that wasn’t the end of it. When was it ever so? The sun had barely emerged as a pink fingernail on the horizon when my hand comm chirruped in my waist pouch. This was ten meters away, along with the rest of my clothes.

Brutus, for so I named her, showed no inclination to release such a rich source of warmth, and gods, I didn’t want to leave this body hug just yet, either. Oh well. I stretched forth my free hand, the new new left one.

The hand comm made an oddly hard thump as it whipped through the grass into the false meat of my false hand. I settled back in Brutus’s coils, pillowing my neck on hers as I put the comm to my ear. “Jambo?”

“The correct greeting would be I ni sogoma, young miss, but we will let it pass this time,” a firm male voice replied. “Am I speaking to Miss Jamai Dlamini?”

“Yes,” I said, suddenly a little nervous.

“My name is Magistrate Oumar Hadad, the local prefect for this hamlet. Would it be possible for you to spare me a few minutes?”

“H-have I done something wrong?”

“Not at all. Your Captain Ismalla discovered you missing this morning and got it into his head that you would be in the fields, with a snake. And so you are.”

My body seemed to have frozen, even snug in Brutus’ coils, though my stare darted left and right. “Don’t be alarmed. The local children spotted you sleeping from some trees they were climbing. They almost took you for dead, but for the fact that you were snoring.”

“I snore…?”

“My deputy has been watching you via long-range glasses, to see to your safety. He will escort you to my office, in your own time.”

My own time…I could make them wait another hour…No, best to be done with it. “Whenever he’s done masterbating, I’d like to dress in peace.”

A deliberate pause followed. “Let me speak with him. You can pull yourself together while I’m berating him.” And the comm chirrped off.

mango-trees

Overview: ‘Disturbing the Peace ‘ by Vaclav Havel

Between 1985 and 1986, Karel Hvizdala conducted a book length series of interviews with playright and reluctant human rights activist Vaclav Havel, via underground mail. At the time Havel was living in Prague, Czechoslovakia which was still under communist rule; Hvizdala was corresponding with him from West Germany. The book that came from these questions was first published in Czechoslovakia in summer of 1986. Later it would be translated by Paul Wilson and published in the West in 1990 just as Czechoslovakia’s democratic revolution was underway.

I thoroughly enjoyed Havel’s candor and modesty, even if it was only evident on the printed page. He describes his parents and grandparents as enterprising men born to create. Despite an admittedly privileged upbringing, in his childhood Havel says he “felt alone, inferior, lost, ridiculed, ” emotions I’m all too familiar with. Perhaps those feelings are the bane of every writer’s existence. He also touches on the depersonalization of modern society, of losing touch with our fellow man and losing a connection with the work we do, whether it’s in a communist or capitalist state.

He remains hopeful in the power of the masses, which had to be a hard thing as he’d been imprisoned three times for his activities, which would probably not raise half a fuss in our country, even today. “All power is power over someone, and it always somehow responds, usually unwittingly rather than deliberately, to the state of mind and the behavior of those it rules over. One can always find in the behavior of power a reflection of what is going on “below “. No one can govern in a vacuum. ” That gives me some hope too, and believe me we could all use some of that right now.