n
E    exponentiation ezine [6.0]			ISSN 1555-693X
     http://www.anus.com/zine

Contents:
I.  News
II.  Culture
III. Features
IV. Literature
V.  Self-Sufficiency 

-------
News
-------
Neighbor Shoots Musician
August 27th, 2007

BURLINGTON, ONT. - On the afternoon of Sunday, August 25th, Ian P.
Bele, restaurant owner and Vietnam war veteran, shot and killed
twenty-four year old professional musician Donald Snapes while he was
playing an acoustic guitar in the back yard of his house in
Burlington, Ontario.  

What appeared to be a calm summer day in the suburban neighborhood was
transformed when several neighborhood households reported the sound of
gunfire to authorities. When police arrived they found Mr. Bele
standing over the victim. Officer McCrae reports him as admitting "I
shot him because he wouldn't shut up with that damn thing."

Some neighbours were seen standing at their fences, commending Mr.
Bele's actions.  Ivan Grange, an elderly man living next door to
Snapes, described him as "an unkempt hippie." He continued by saying
"he was up at the oddest hours, and his friends were weirder than he
was. I called the cops on him lots."

Officer McCrae confirms this, "Donald Snapes seems to have been
troublesome to the community here. We've received many noise
complaints since his arrival, and have had several issues with his
guests. While there's no excuse for Mr. Bele's actions, it's easy to
understand how this could transpire. It never works out when citizens
attempt to take the law in their own hands; sometimes, if you're
patient, the law works for you."

When Mr. Bele was asked more about his motivation for the shooting, he
responded "I had a hard night. Owning a business isn't very easy, and
last night things kind of got out of hand. I got drunk and carried
away, and I mean, if I'm not allowed to sleep into the afternoon with
a hang over then just what are these freedoms we've supposedly got?"

Given his comments and strenuous daily life, Mr. Bele's defense is
going to opt for a plea of temporary insanity. His attorney, Gordon
Blum, stated "I'm usually very successful in these cases. When the
jury sees all that Mr. Bele has had to endure in his life, they'll
likely understand him and make the right choice."

-=-

Man Suffocates Under Cloths in Closet 
August 30th, 2007

NEW YORK, NY. - New York salesmen, Sean Tempsta was found dead Sunday
afternoon at his home in East Greenwich.  Authorities report that Mr.
Tempsta was found buried under a pile of clothing in his home closet.
"It appears that Mr. Tempsta was attempting to place a new pair of
loafers on the top shelf of his closet when his wide assortment of
hand crafted suits, garments, costumes and shoes came tumbling down on
top of him" noted Karl Williams, the officer who discovered Tempsta's
body.  

Friends and family regarded Tempsta as being a clean and thrifty man
who liked to shop.  "He never got rid of anything" notes his mother,
Anna Tempsta, "he was always very fashionably oriented and kept every
shoe, shirt and suit right there in his closet in case he ever needed
it for the right occasion.  I always told him to just get rid of some
of it, but he just wouldn't listen."  Tempsta's closet was doublewide
and contained exotic clothing from specialty shops around the world.
The clothing apparently became too heavy for the racks, which seem to
have given way when Mr. Tempsta placed the new loafers on the top
shelf.

Only one month ago Mr. Tempsta won the Macy's "shop till you drop"
competition, in which he was awarded a three-thousand dollar gift
certificate to purchases cloths from any Macy's retailer.  It is
believed that the new shoes were purchased with this certificate.
"They looked pretty expensive," says Officer Willams, "and when I
found him, he was clutching to them so hard, I couldn't get them out.
The fellas at the morgue had to pry his fingers open with special
clamps.  I think if he had just let go of the shoes he could have
opened up an air pocket for himself."  Morgue authorities reported
that Mr. Tempsta died of suffocation and blood loss due to a punctured
lung he suffered after the five-foot fall.

Kip Dean, Mr. Tempsta's neighbor, believes he heard the incident the
night it took place, but he was unaware that Mr. Tempsta had been
buried under a pile of garments.  Dean had this to say, "well, I was
watching American Idol when I heard some desperate grunts coming from
next door.  It was hard to tell because some Spice Girls styled music
was blaring at the time.  Sean was sort of a tiny guy; he could barely
lift his newspaper off the porch in the morning, so I figured he was
trying to carry laundry up the stairs again or something.  He also
brought a lot of guys over on the weekends and I didn't want to judge
and go over to see what was going on."

Mr. Tempsta leaves behind an Australian terrier, a poodle, a havanese
and exotic garments, all of which will be put up for auction next
week.  The family refused to comment on burial arrangements but
disclosed that Mr. Tempsta will first be stuffed and dressed in his
finest suit before the burial so that family and friends can spend
more time with their departed loved one.  

---------
Culture
---------
Music:

Artist: Steve Roach
Album: Midnight Moon 
Release: Projekt Records (2000) 

Midnight Moon, being the partial break-off from the otherwise so
common New Age- themes sparked by this artist, is a gloomy dark record
of ambient spheres and full moons.

Slow, gazing layers of insomnia define these ambient stages of both 
earthly and unearthly existence. Co-working with occasional glimpses
of fretless bass and bows, this listening experience is full of life,
full of night. Where many ambient works achieve full effect from the
beginning of the songs, Steve Roach's "Midnight Moon" is the complete
opposite to this. By slowly emerging one layer, and letting that
define the basic theme of the song, he then breaks in more layers as
the maturity of the comprehension of each fragmented idea moves ahead,
hence the lengths of each piece.

What characterizes this work, is not so much the clearness of vision
and impact of intentional motive, but the strong sense of something
lively  wanting to break free from the calmness, yet keeping itself in
shape and order by the space and time allowed to play. This is most
times felt when the processed guitar makes its appearances to enhance
and provoke a certain mood within an already established general
feeling or atmosphere. It's  obvious where Steve Roach hints on this,
and so he admittedly does very well.

Surprising to many, the overall technique used on this album is that
of drone, yet, the music in many ways does not convey an experience
like that of drone masters such as Lustmord or Maeror Tri. On the
contrary, "Midnight Moon" safely accelerates within frames common to
the ambient artists that instead of presenting an immersive illusion
through the subconscious, aims on that which to the mind is known,
felt, perhaps experienced many lifetimes before. Listening to this
work does in most cases not baffle or surprise, but instead play on
things familiar with emotions induced at solitary  moments of peace
and inner harmony, and as such, the vision is always clear and honest,
while still keeping its integrity of wondrous space travels intact.

The atmosphere is dark and wondering, contemplating over its own soul.
The nature of this music can best be described as repetitive, but like
artists of a similar musical standpoint such as Ildjarn or Beherit,
this in no way intrudes on a hope for something profound and
beautiful. Steve Roach drags each piece out until there is no
beginning or end, until each ongoing melody and droning layer becomes
relevant in itself to the larger picture of the whole presented.
Through the constant recycle of slowly vibrating dark ambient layers,
magical guitar melodies defined by five or six notes taken to their
extreme lengths and the continuing echoes of these moments combined,
something wondrous, longing and seeking takes shape.

Indecisive, yet only to its benefit, as these special times of
midnight moons are as taking long walks through a dead and sleeping
city where the stars shine bright on the majestic nightsky; there is
no disturbance -- only a clear sense of that which is unknown, but
felt years ago. This paradox never makes itself a disturbance while
listening to this ambient-tribal opus, as it becomes a natural part of
its own creation, e.g. it wants to seek and find something unknown
while alone with the memories of the past.

But while these strange sounds and feelings are obvious to any
listener, the actual content or theme present in each piece, is that
of timeless,  spaceless experiences. "Ancestors Circle" and "Deadwood"
are songs that define this idea, and whereas other parts of this dark
ambient work are both lucid and hallucinating, wisdom of souls now
dead and gone come back to life, yet, only inside the mind of he who
is willing to listen and trust the soul of his intuitional voice.

Almost disturbingly unknowing, Steve Roach on this album presents what
should be his most worthy opus to date. The absolutely beautiful and
entrancing visions produced as a result of tiny magical melodies and 
out-of-space ethereal key layers, send the listener, either deeply out
of space or shortly into the mind of things that previously were
dead and  waiting. Haunting and encompassing a worldview beyond the
current  materialistic acknowledgements of those with ignorance and
betrayal of the past wisdom gained, nothing can save this work from
being a welcome experience a looming evening of afterglow wonder. -
Alexis 

-=- 

Artist: V/A 
Album: "Looking for Europe: The Neofolk Compendium" 
Release: Auerbach Tontrăger (2005)

"Neofolk" has always been a genre plagued, or possibly injected with,
a certain underpinning of ambiguity, be it musically, in imagery, in
attitude, and/or ideologically.  It is ostensibly the goal of the
"Looking for Europe" compilation to help provide - or maybe obscure,
depending upon your perspective - the meaning of Neofolk as a genre,
and to give ample historical context to its development and relevance.
According to the tastefully presented, 100-page bilingual
(Deutsch/English) perfect bound book included as the centerpiece of
this tome-like package, Neofolk is "defined more aptly in [such]
thematic commonalities than in a common musical language."  This
statement makes sense when one considers what is often classified as
Neofolk: everything from traditional acoustic-folkish acts (the most
oft-cited type), industrial, gothic, noise, synthpop, classical, and
ambient influenced creations, and a myriad of other styles and
hybridizations.  Most, if not all, of these are represented in some
guise on this massive 4 CD, 53-song volume.

The included text goes on to define the "thematic commonalities" as
"romantic, 'anti-enlightenment,' [with] and explicit demand to again
make room for a mythical worldview in this modern world," which
appears accurate upon examination of the booklet; perhaps more famous
to the uninitiated, though, is the (crypto-) fascistic imagery that
some of the more established and recognizable bands such as DEATH IN
JUNE and DER BLUTHARSCH have often used.  Unfortunately for the
"genre" as a whole, though not unexpectedly, this fact has managed to
overshadow many of the deeper currents expressed in Neofolk worth
exploring, such as traditionalism (Julius Evola seems to be one
particularly admired figure) including paganism/heathenism and other
pre-Christian themes.  Many other themes are also common, ranging from
the extremely esoteric to the frivolous; at their core, these themes
are oft of introspective and ascetic-type principles or pursuits;
highly "intellectualized," literate, and studied presentation of
mythological, are most celebrated.  These themes tend to be mirrored
in this regard fairly consistently by the corresponding musical
presentation despite some of the above-mentioned attempts at more
martial overtones, which are often understated.  An interesting, and
somewhat related, side note to this is that females are relatively
well-represented for an "underground" genre of music, often in highly
vocal or creative roles.  This also seems to be a reason for much of
the aesthetic and musical variety flourishing beneath the broad
Neofolk canopy.

The music on "Looking for Europe" is, thanks to such distinct variety
of presentation, aurally interesting and aesthetically appealing.
Most compositions can be described as melodically driven and focused,
with a plentitude of instruments (both traditional and modern) and -
principally - voice, used to color them, depending on the act.  In the
more folkish acts, as would be expected, percussion is often eschewed
wholly or reduced to mere accent, in favor of more open, simple
homophonic style working under its own momentum.  This includes SOL
INVICTUS, FIRE+ICE, CHANGES (a remnant of an era before "Neofolk" was
completely germinated), and some inspirational precursors given
tribute with tracks on Disc 1 such as SCOTT WALKER or THE STRAWBS.
Opposite on the spectrum is the school influenced more by
industrial/noise and synthpop, where percussion rises to the forefront
as pulsing ambience or in militaristic rigidity (including marching
snare or tribal drums).  This approach is utilized by the
above-mentioned DER BLUTHARSCH, and can probably be seen as a page
from the books of early industrial/noise acts NON or PSYCHIC TV, both
of whom also show up on this compilation as widely-recognized
influences.  In an approach bridging these percussive styles, DEATH IN
JUNE betrays their earlier post-punk influence in their included track
(from "The Brown Book"), which uses a modern drum kit configuration to
offset a gentle acoustically-strummed melody in repetition.

Other acts forge paths that cannot be described neatly by the above
dichotomy; often these are some of the most musically and artistically
interesting.  These acts often borrow heavily from a number of
traditions, creating what at first seems tragically recombinant
stylistically, but surviving on pure breadth of experience.  BLOOD
AXIS is the most prominent example, an act that has successfully
pursued ambient, folk/traditional, electronic, and others
simultaneously while managing to avoid sounding like awkward
piecemeal.  Their unreleased track "The Ride," which appears on this
compilation, is unfortunately not their best, but it is
representative: martial rhythms, commanding vocals, pre-Christian
themes and a great sense of musical movement.  Although this sounds
dangerously similar to the criticisms already leveled, it is assuredly
better than that in the whole.  Another standout band included on the
compilation is SCIVIAS.  More in the Eastern European folkish
tradition, in their track SCIVIAS enlist the aid of a violin playing a
sad countermelody over picked acoustic guitar, interspersed with
gently-spoken lyrics and light marching snare to create a desperate
and unique atmosphere.

Bands such as the aforementioned BLOOD AXIS and some others on this
compilation fall under what could broadly be called "Neoclassical" as
opposed to "Neofolk," which would better betray what is a more general
array of influence.  However, similar problems arise with the use of
this marginalized term as well: it is not so much the specific musical
approach, but overarching themes and threads of common tradition that
are binding, no matter what they may be called.  What the term does
avoid, however, is the inevitable (and agreeable) contention among
true folk-enthusiasts that the more folk-oriented of these bands
represent, at best, a departure from the true folk tradition in all
but some superficial ways.  One might argue that such a tradition has
been less relevant since the advent of recorded music, but this seems
another strike against the heart of certain "Neofolk" types: for all
their rallying behind tradition, some go a long way in unintentionally
mocking it with some contrived music and image, always trying to sound
"dark" in the mode of the more contemporary musics from which many of
them have arrived, but managing to sound like diluted and soft
rock-influenced music in the meantime.  Some of this need not be bad
in itself, but to settle on such a term as "Neofolk" for a style which
clearly has little in common with "folk" seems like pandering, maybe
an attempt to unite many disparate bands for the purposes of "scene,"
or at least simply a poor idea.  This compilation does well in making
it clear that the more aesthetically folk-influenced bands ("World
Serpent" bands) do not (or do no longer) necessarily comprise the
majority of what should be considered "Neofolk," which further begs
the question of the need for such a term and the oddfellow pairings
that come with it.

Semantic issues not withstanding, a few listens through the
compilation and a leafing through of the booklet gives one the sense
that as art, much of this, ironically, comes off as too inorganic to
function well.  There seems to be a pull from too many sides to bring
all of it properly to fruition; it is not quite popular music, nor
trained or traditional, nor something of universally grand
intellectual standing, but not much of it seems to possess an obvious
creative joy or spontaneity either.  While it is tempting to like a
lot of these acts on the basis of the combination of attractive
thematics and palpably enjoyable music, it is equally tempting to
brush all of it off altogether as too diverse in means and methods to
wholly appreciate at a greater level.  As a compilation, "Looking for
Europe" serves its purpose well by making these difficulties clear in
attempting somewhat clumsily to unite everything in a single large
volume, though it seems the effect could be more alienating than was
originally intended. -kontinual  

----
Books:

Title: "The Birth of Tragedy"
Author: Friedrich Nietzsche
Publisher: NuVision Publications (April 19, 2007)
Language: English

Endless amounts of philosophical analyses have been made about the
Greek tragedy and why it came to be. Modern attempts have for the most
part failed, as they've approached the works from a purely scientific
realm, thus disregarding the inherent artistic qualities to
masterpieces such as "King Oedipus" and "Medea." During a time when
Germany saw geniuses like Wagner emerge from the depths of the darkest
corners of German culture, a lonely romantic soul named Friedrich
Nietzsche released a work called "The Birth of Tragedy."

Drawing influences from renown pessimist Arthur Schopenhauer, the
astounding composers Richard Wagner, Ludwig van Beethoven, Johann
Sebastian Bach, and of course the brilliant poets by the name of
Friedrich Schiller and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Nietzsche
systematically builds up a philosophical-aesthetic manifesto to
counter the modern materialistic soul. His focus is on the Greek
culture and in specific the Greek tragedy, describing both its very
origins and historical development up till the Greek comedies.

The basis for his assumptions is the balance between two different
ways of artistically portraying life, symbolized by two Greek gods;
Dionysus and Apollon. Dionysus being the fierce, uncontrollable,
emotional god of wine and excess, and Apollon being the harmonic,
curing, self-controlled god of reason and rationality, Nietzsche
effectively connect these two deities to the basic two forms of art;
music and poetry. Backed up by Schopenhauer's conception of "the world
as will and representation," he claims that music is the highest
abstraction in art since it portrays the will of life "objectively,"
while poetry (including painting and sculpturing) relies on
representations of the will, thus concluding that music is the purest
form of art as well as the foundation to the poetic art form.

Nietzsche affirms this by connecting music to Dionysus and dreaming
poetry to Apollon, claiming that art is a balance between the two
gods, even though Dionysus remains as its underlying force. He then
applies this conception of art to the Greek tragedy and explains how
the Greeks successfully managed to celebrate the most inner secrets of
life, by worshipping tragedy, suffering and will power. Following the
development of the Greek culture into the era of Socrates and his
belief in human reason, Nietzsche sees a culture disintegrating from
within due to the force of Apollon growing too strong and killing the
tragic myths of Dionysus.

The despairing conclusion gradually evolves into an angry attack at
modern religious belief in the virtues of science; the limits of
rationality and causal logicality give birth to new myths within the
scientific culture, which Nietzsche seems to be using as a proof of
the power and inevitable presence of myth, at the same time declaring
its universal legitimacy; the more we believe we "know" about life
through science, the more we understand how little we actually know
about life as a phenonemon. Without myth we lose our roots and fail to
understand life as an organic process, instead - like the dissatisfied
Faust - locking us into our study chambers to categorize life instead
of living it.

As always, Nietzsche proves to be a provocative but enduring reading
experience. While magnificently and with an admiring passionate
defense of past wisdom, studying the Greek tragedy from an artist's
perspective, "The Birth of Tragedy" leaves us with a remarkably sharp
analysis of why our Western civilization is in decline, and like a
sheep in a wolf's clothing, pointing its aim right at the very basics
of philosophy and the metaphysics of existence. Controversial and
problematic but at the same time promising and heroic, Nietzsche
uncovers the secrets of the depths of art while dreaming of a new era
where the tragic myth may be reborn and achieve a raging, idealistic
artistic expression of the beauty that lies within the German folk
soul. Irrevocable and uncompromising as ever, this is a must-read to
understand myth and art in their mystic but proper context. - Alexis

-=-

Title: "American Gods" 
Author: Neil Gaiman
Publisher: Harper Torch (2001)

"This is a bad place for Gods."  America, it is posited, has forever
made it difficult for the survival of the Old Ones of any tradition.
The sprites, faeries, and leprechauns of the British Isles were
incapable of crossing the pond with the simple country peasant folk
and petty city criminals who came to the New World in search of new
life or in indentured servitude.  Where remnants of pagan heritage
survived for the Northern European immigrants of the 19th century,
America has leveled their memory to mere tales of fancy fit for
children's stories.  For those who continue to come, the demons of
lore from their respective homelands are forced undercover, weakening
as their demands for appeasement go increasingly unheralded.  The old
Gods, however, are far from dead, though many may believe it, or want
it to be so, including the new Gods -- those Gods to whom Americans
pay homage by toil and sacrifice so that they may be looked upon
favorably by them:  the Internet, Television, Media.  There is no
place for both, nor does either side wish there to be.  What seems
inevitable is a final conflict -- a Ragnarokian collision of Old and
New to determine the fate of the otherworldly on this continent.

Neil Gaiman tells of this through the tale of Shadow, a mostly
simple-minded jailbird who is released after serving a short time for
a crime of violent passion.   Almost immediately Shadow meets the
mysterious Wednesday, becomes his gainful bodyguard after a quick
series of incidents of personal tragedy, and finds himself entrenched
in an escalating war between mythic past and ubiquitous, technological
present.  The caricatures of the New Gods are amusing and not without
insight: the first encounter with a representative is with a fat,
pimple-faced teenager swigging diet Coke in a fiber-optic illuminated
limo; the thug agents have generic, interchangeable names like Mr.
Town and Mr. Stone.  On the other side are a series of entities from
every conceivable background: Nordic, West African, Slavic -- with
looks and mannerisms befitting of their legends, though nearly always
modern and human in form.  For even more divine subtext, tales of
American settlers and their encounters with these Gods are
interspersed with the story, all of which carry with them a
sacrificial theme, which offsets the more light-hearted nature of the
Gods presented in the main narrative.

Outside of these occasional forays, the plot moves quickly as Shadow
and Wednesday work on securing the allegiances of Gods in various
parts of the country as the war approaches.  Gaiman spends a lot of
time developing a thorough sense of place, which is integral to his
assertions of the importance of it in American identity.  Manifest
Destiny, the Interstate system -- these are but two outward signs of
the American desire to make subservient their geography which, unlike
the Gods, at one time presented a concrete threat to American
livelihood and, also unlike the Gods, have continued to receive blood
sacrifice to the present day.  So alluring are some places that they
approach the Divine by their nature, and serve as the gathering places
for the Gods in the story.  An early meeting occurs at House on the
Rock in Wisconsin, one of those places where unnamed inspiration
possessed someone to build a monument to nothing-in-particular that
inspires travelers to abandon the Interstate to find it, just because.
Eventually, Shadow is stashed in Lakeside, Wisconsin, an idyllic
Northwoods town in every imaginable conception.  Again, the primacy of
place in the story asserts itself; this is the town everyone in
America wishes could exist everywhere: picturesque, close-knit, and
for the most part immune to typical small town troubles.

For most of the book, Gaiman paints a picture somewhere this side of
that ideal.  Cheap motels, fast food joints, and the nameless towns
and dirty cities along the highway are there still there for our
contemplation, but we are constantly reminded of the presence of
greater things around and among them.  The divinities themselves work
their magic throughout, their idiosyncrasies keeping the story amusing
and enlightening.  Indeed, this book is at its finest when their
wisdom flows.  There are many instances of well-played, everyday
dialogue that reveal truth, as well as play on, sometimes too
"cleverly," the mythological history of the Gods involved.  There is a
sense at one point of a thorough distaste for modernity, specifically
American-styled modernity; later, a similar distaste for the Old
multi-faceted Gods is apparent, the reaction one would expect from a
detached, modern rendering of them as Gods of merciless bloodthirst
and death.  Unfortunately, the story falls apart as it nears
resolution by having an identity crisis, drawing itself out far too
long, and concluding ludicrously by pandering to cheap expectations of
plot manipulation and gratuitous action.  What had developed into a
Shamanstic journey for Shadow at that point ends up becoming little
more than post-script to the finale.  Without the final 100 pages or
so, this is still thoughtful commentary in pop-novel form, but even
with the unsatisfying ending the idea that the Old Gods remain among
us is a powerful one; we may only need to look more closely to realize
it. - Kontinual 
 
----
Cinema:

Film: Threads 
Dir: Mick Jackson
Release: BBC (1984)

This gritty movie was released in 1984 as a documentary movie, but for 
the sake of efficient and striking expression, it left out the talking 
heads and focused on communicating via aesthetics instead of gunning 
facts to the screen at a frenzied speed. Not obvious judging by the 
title, "Threads" aims to enlighten the viewer of the terrifying
effects of a nuclear strike.

The movie begins with a view of Sheffield, a gray industrial town in 
England, and explains with a handful of words the two-edged sword of
our complex societies: "In an urban society everything connects, each 
person's needs are fed by the skills of many others. Our lives are
woven together in a fabric, but the connections that make society
strong
also make it vulnerable". Jimmy and Ruth, who are getting married
soon,
live in the city among their parents, and as such are one of the many 
building blocks of the society. Ruth is also expecting a child, and by 
the purchase of their home it appears the sun is finally shining over 
them, gracious rays flowing past the cracks in the dense wall of 
industrial smoke.

The background plot tells of a conflict between the US and the Soviet 
Union on Iranian ground, and as the result of this, tactical measures 
are taken by NATO and the Warsaw Pact in West and East Germany. There
is a RAF base only 17 miles from Sheffield, so the city is highly
prone
to be caught in the blast if the base is attacked. The conflict
escalates, and the population becomes increasingly anxious to fend for
themselves 
under the nuclear shadow, stocking for provisions as recommended by
the government, but it breaks out as looting and felonies by the
panicked 
people. Soon, an open war bursts out, and the nukes are sent on their 
way. One detonates high over the North Sea, its EMP pulse knocking out 
electrical systems, stopping the now-constant broadcasts of public 
information; a few minutes after that, a missile salvo hits NATO 
targets, including a 150 kiloton warhead at the nearby RAF base. 
Finally, a one megaton nuke is detonated above Sheffield.

The nuclear exchange of 3000 megatons on overall between East and
West, 210 megatons for UK alone, leaves the country a barren
wasteland, 
decimating millions of people and razing cities with its sheer, 
unrelinquishing might. The war ceases, but the effects last for 
generations to come. All the threads that made the society function
have 
now been severed with one brutally simple attack, and the nation is
left crippled for a long time: casualties rise as the people who
weren't 
lucky enough to get shelter from a cellar are exposed to the fallout, 
and radiation sickness takes its toll all around whether you were 
sheltered or not. Nuclear winter ensues from the billowing dust clouds 
blocking out the sun, and temperature drops down drastically. Fallout 
reaps the land, and bodies litter the wrecked streets, providing
fertile ground for typhoid, dysentery and cholera epidemics.

Amongst the total ruin, some bonds of society are being resurrected,
and attempts are being made to gather people able to work. Looters
abound, 
of course, as the environment suits them fine, but harsh martial law 
catches some of them. Despite the hopes of reconstruction, there are 
still too many people left for the remaining food reserves to sustain, 
and so many perish due to this inescapable fact. Farming is continued, 
but it is found very difficult because of the lack of fertilizers and 
effective equipment. Eventually, though, the people manage to struggle 
through the tough times, albeit many succumb to the harsh winters.
Only the strongest survive because the environment wouldn't will
otherwise, 
and the population slowly rebuilds a cohesive society. Still, even 
though they managed to rise, the past still spreads its black wings
over them: radiation contaminated the soil, poisoned the people, and
thus 
left a permanent mark in the form of genetic mutations. Ruth managed
to give birth to a healthy baby, but after Ruth died of cancer, her 
daughter gave birth to a dead baby due to a mutation, distortion in
the genetic patterns.

In a way one could view a nuclear attack as purifying fire, as it
would cut a population down and keep it from bloating by demolishing
the 
necessities for upholding the modern society. In spite of the crash 
re-enabling humanity to flourish after the modern spiritual
stagnation, its touch would forever plague the survivors, and being an
even more 
undesirable course of action when one considers the irreversible
damage to the environment, which is required for our sustenance. Thus,
it is 
very doubtful that such a scenario could be regarded as a savior of
any kind, even though it is capable of wiping out untold numbers of
people, presenting a solution to the overpopulation problem.

The movie tells about the events and the aftermath of the explosion
with coarse realism, slipping tidbits of information in-between the 
apocalyptic aesthetics. Using nuclear attack as an example disaster,
it illuminates the factor that makes our society strong, but
susceptible
to harm at the same time. The many needs of our people are sated only
by 
many material possibilities, and the web is thus a rather complex 
structure. Like a cobweb, it will collapse to a greater degree the 
further away from the center a thread is severed. 

We are not immortal in our tower, as the construction is actually a 
prison we fortify and heighten every day, sealing ourselves from the 
green beneath. It provides safety from the beasts of the night, 
secluding us from the cold winds that roam the wilderness, but however 
awesome the tower may be, it is rooted to the very same earth that we 
are so afraid of - we are even nervously ridiculing the lowest levels
of our precious tower -, and should the tower lose foundational
support,
it would collapse and greet the earth it so sought to escape. The
higher 
the fortress towers, the more unstable it becomes, nearing the danger
of losing its footing, and thus leaving the inhabitants in an
environment 
that possibly cannot support their numbers, but takes its toll. -
Frostwood

-=-

Film: All About Eve
Director: Joseph L. Mankiewicz
Release: 1950 (138 minutes)

An actress, Margo Channing (Bette Davis), who fears aging, is landed
with a seemingly naive but kind admirer named Eve Harrington (Anne
Baxter). The latter retells the tragic story of her earlier life, and
Margo, who's tired of the falseness and hunger of the autograph
hunters, takes her under her wing; Eve very soon becomes Margo's
supporting handyman. Early on in the film, Margo's lover Bill Sampson
(Gary Merrill) teaches what the theatre really is: it's everywhere,
available to anyone. Something which, through the newcomer's anything
but flattering intent, appears to be quite useful even outside the
stage.

In the world of theatre and acting much is necessarily shallow. The
ambition to "be someone" in society takes on an almost ontological
character in this film, and toys with the metaphors of theatre to ask
us what is real and what is mere surface. It seems as though the
visible flaws in the long run can be completely irrelevant as long as
the essence is of superior capacity. We're given an opposite in an
orderly and modest person, whose "silent qualities" show a predator on
her way up the career ladder. "It is just as false not to blow your
horn at all as it is to blow it too loudly," says theatre critic
Addison DeWitt (George Sanders).

The conclusion is transferred to theatrical terms: the true star is
unchangeable and eternal (she doesn't get "old," after all), and
possesses a charisma that attracts people. The Machiavellian carbon
copy, on the contrary, hunts for prey and doesn't really become
anything more than the autograph fiend she always was. "The career" of
being human suddenly obtains a greater value, and when this is shown
as a contrast to "this megalomaniac society," the film is given a
slightly humanistic touch. This is nevertheless a pleasant idealism
celebrating everything genuine, but it is perfectly balanced by the
film's razor-sharp cynicism that gives us a much-needed look into the
reality that is society.

The dialogue is not entirely believable, but that was hardly the point
when making this; the theatrically emphasized lines are, more than
anything, meant to be the medium of the brilliant writer and director
Joseph Mankiewicz's ideas, which, in contrast, are eerily realistic.
The casting is highly satisfactory, with one exception: Anne Baxter's
acting is, especially at first, far from convincing. Only in part is
her superficiality successful considering the theme of this film.
Baxter's flaws are, however, solved by skipping the buzzed-about
scenes that Eve is said to play so well. (These gaps would have been
sensible no matter the quality of Baxter's performance, and on the
whole, the film is full of this kind of clever solutions.) Apart from
that, one could mention how the ending slightly exaggerates the theme
even if the symbolism in the mirror is quite striking.

The film brings up the fear of losing status and gaining age, and is
all in all most probably mainly a criticism of the American type of
nearly neurotic ambition during the 1940s and 1950s, but when seeing
it more than half a century later it has a more universal character.
With Davis and Sanders as spearheads, "All About Eve" is an
affrontingly entertaining journey through the psychology of a type of
person who uses all her talents to take revenge upon the world that
made her unable to love or be loved. Pretty soon one realizes that the
relation between effort and reward must have taken on peculiar
proportions when she crawls beneath the surface like an unconscious
warning of serious clangers in human evolution. "It's funny, a woman's
career. The things you drop on your way up so you can move faster,"
says Margo, as if she commented on the hurry of the whole of
civilization, and with a sad face watched everything we drop on our
way. -Ensittare

----------
Features 
----------
Tradition and Modernity

"All that is solid melts into air" - Karl Marx
"God is dead" - Fredrich Nietzsche.

These statements are perhaps the two most powerful characterizations
of the arrival of modernity and the depth of its implications, both of
which predate the resurgence of the study of the world's traditional
societies in the first quarter of the twentieth century. Both
Nietzsche and Marx are attempting to characterize the passing of a
point which cannot be undone, the emergence of a consciousness based
upon a lesson that cannot be unlearned. For these two thinkers, this
new malleability will need to be met not with denial and an aim to
undo the process of experience thus described, but to establish new
ways of being and new avenues by which to strive for fulfillment. For
Marx, the end lies in the realization of a rational and secular social
unit providing unprecedented human freedom, whilst for Nietzsche it is
in the replacement of hitherto accepted metaphysics with the fiercely
individualist project of overcoming oneself. Seeing as the
institutions whose death knells they herald were by their time already
suffering extended decay, and as "that which is falling must also be
pushed", there is little nostalgia or regret in each proclamation.
Insofar as the traditionalist thinkers subscribe to the cyclical
theory of history, there might not be much here about which they would
disagree, until one reaches discussion of the details of how the
future might play out. Nietzsche and Marx both envision this process
maintaining some stability, and both in their own ways see the change
as a step on a path to their ideal world, whether that is ultimately a
process (Nietzsche) or an end (Marx). The traditionalist viewpoint,
best exampled for our concerns by Rene Guenon and Julius Evola, holds
that the state in which we currently find ourselves, i.e. after the
dissolution of all tradition, is the penultimate stage in a great
cycle of history, with the following stage being the utter destruction
of the society and most of its people, which is followed by the birth
of a new golden age in which the ideals of spiritual tradition and
social order, authority and caste, and by extension, human
fulfillment,
are realized. 

Traditionalism thus treads a fine line between a moral condemnation of
modernity, a yearning for a return to a state of lesser experience (or
delusion), and an inner belief that this is all a part of a program
which is unalterable. The depth of study of the traditionalists is
invaluable to an atomized modern individual, even if only to teach us
the completeness of other ways of being and consciousness. It is my
contention here however, that the recent resurgence of traditionalist
thought is tending toward an unrealistic nostalgia for a dead past,
and moral condemnation, which threatens by its emphasis to forget the
implausibility of reinstating by force or any other means a society
modeled upon the traditional. The central limit to this, and the
reason that sentiments like Nietzsche's and Marx's carry such weight,
is the fact that our modern world is populated by people of a modern
consciousness, and here the traditionalists are no exception. 

Traditionalism as a resurgent movement in the late twentieth century
to the present has latched on to its forebears for their unparalleled
critique of modernity, and for the socio-political alternatives which
it affirms, which is only one part of the traditionalist teaching and
a secondary one at that. For the force of the critique relies on
eternal spiritual truth, as reliance on profane science (including
psychology) or progressivist history and philosophy are regarded as
being part of the problem, not a sufficient tool for critique. Yet it
is precisely the spiritual realm which has been unalterably
individuated (until such time as our civilization 'forgets'), as part
of a great process of secularization, which limits any possible
unified spiritual force and authority regardless of the traditionalist
opinion of the common truth of the world's Traditions. It is this
impasse which ensures that the determinist pessimism of the cyclical
view of history triumphing is the only path to a return to the
traditional way. Thus the central question for the student of
Tradition today is, given the seeming mutual exclusivity of modernity
and Tradition (that which gives the latter its potency but also
renders it pragmatically impotent), can traditionalism have any
legitimate socio-political aims, or if it does, has it already reached
the stage of heterodoxy?

The socio-political implications of Tradition may be briefly
summarized as follows; for further explication refer to Guenon's The
Crisis of the Modern World and Evola's Revolt Against the Modern
World. Spiritual orthodoxy is the unquestionable authority, against
which the truth and viability of all other ideas is measured. From
this there follows a spiritual and social hierarchy, determined by the
varying aptitude of different peoples for spiritual development. The
individual subject is regarded as secondary to the spiritual strivings
of the social unit, and the material component of the world and
existence is regarded as secondary to the metaphysical realm,
manifesting only the effects of the spiritual. The implications of
such a form are vast when considered from a modern viewpoint:
Tradition finds the concepts of egalitarianism, humanism, progress,
materialism, and secular science, politics and philosophy inherently
alien.

That these modern pillars are great mistakes and that the alternatives
of Tradition are ideal need not be argued for here, but I have
described the skeletal form above to illustrate a particular point
which contemporary traditionalists might quietly condone: such a
society might be imagined that fits this form without reliance upon
spiritual orthodoxy. Whilst the problem of consensus may ultimately
only be able to be solved by spiritual unity, a state that has learnt
from these ideals but manages to establish them in a secular age seems
to be more the concern of the current movement. Needless to say, the
great problem of authority remains unsolved, and it and its
installation of hierarchy must be derived by some other, most likely
modern, means. Such a project might be more of a midpoint between the
ideal of Tradition and Plato's Republic, which asserts a meritocracy
on more material and intellectual grounds. 

Evidently, without even the difficult deferral to the spiritual which
the scholars of Tradition utilized, the current movement has some
intellectual acrobatics to do if it is to present itself as a
legitimate alternative to modernity, which I suspect it does. Even
given this first step from orthodoxy, innumerable more compromises
would be required for traditionalism to establish credibility in the
modern socio-political arena. It would be firstly subject to the
modern political norm, perhaps its greatest adversary, and is thus
thrust into the undesirable position, like any move toward
authoritarianism, of having to lobby the masses on the platform of
their own illegitimacy for political decision. The modern political
system, which is the embodiment of the modern consciousness, reflects
the latter's assumption of choice, which all but invalidates an
intellectual as much as political acceptance of hierarchy. This
parallels the democratic problem, but at a much deeper level: we have
succeeded in artificially postponing what is in fact a necessity, and
we've re-established it as choice. Once that process is complete, the
only way to return is to exercise choice, as any perceived threat to
itself (the end of choice not sanctioned by itself, i.e. by force)
would be responded to with all the hostility of a being preserving its
own life. The great failure of democracy is also that which ensures
its continuance, as its fluidity can absorb and marginalize
innumerable antagonistic ideas, resulting in a terminally ill
political form that has the power do nothing but maintain its own
artificial life support. Tradition presents the alternative to this
horrible stasis, but cannot inaugurate it.

A secondary quandary for the would-be traditionalist is on the level
of the individual. If we are to accept the contention that Tradition
has value by it's potential to circumvent modern anomie and
atomization, it remains to be seen how the individuals of the current
movement are to act in order to best minimize these modern diseases in
a society void of Tradition. If one is to take solace in the latter's
lessons and remain uncompromised, one will certainly feel an increase
of alienation via social isolation, whereas if one compromises and
seeks modern institutions which may provide a limited but similar
sense of meaning to Tradition, one will certainly feel guilty at their
selfish concession, and no closer to fulfillment. These problems are,
to be sure, those of a subject in an individualist age and of an
irrevocably individualist mindset. Similarly, on the spiritual side,
traditionalists have varied interests, and in spite of the perennial
tendencies of scholars like Guenon, no traditional society has existed
with heterogeneous teachings co-extant. For a movement to solidify,
indeed, the most popular spiritual tradition would succeed in the
traditionalist movement, which, for reasons that should already be
clear, would not likely be an orthodox interpretation. We could not
escape the rule of quantity, even were we to isolate our concerns to a
particularly favored subsection of modern society. The plausibility
that Tradition might in any way deliver the modern subject from the
punishments of his world, arguably one of its chief merits, is thus
put into serious doubt.

The content behind the socio-political emphasis of contemporary
traditionalists runs dangerously close to what the scholars like
Guenon and Nasr would regard as heresy: conceiving of religion and
perhaps all metaphysics from an anthropological standpoint, regarding
it as a means to provide unity and coherence a society and nothing
more. This might be amenable to a majority of modern people, but it
also highlights the improbability of its own resurgence. The mutual
exclusivity of the two forms of society, modern and traditional, and
the paradoxes arrived at by a movement that attempts to bridge the gap
(whether it explicitly admits to it or not, it must), had a
predictable effect on the original scholars of tradition. Guenon
specifically dismisses the possibility of a "revival" at the outset of
his summary work, asserting that we've entered into a "state of
dissolution from which there is to be no emerging except through
cataclysm" (p. 11). Evola had an extended role in the politics of his
time, despite never joining any political party, though he ultimately
championed the withdrawal from modern processes at large, and the
adherence to "the Idea" rather than any political stance and
compromise in the realm of action. Both scholars conceived of their
work as merely maintaining a small flame that might outlive the
current society and be re-established after its dissolution.

Under this scrutiny, the traditionalist who can't endorse the
metaphysics of Tradition becomes predominantly the embodiment of the
modern quandary of navigating the profaned material world in search of
meaning, highlighting the tragedy of the minimal likelihood of even
realizing the vital form conducive to fulfillment. Tradition isn't
here
nullified; its critique of modernity remains supreme, but it becomes
splintered: one fragment remains of the ideals of what once was
(Tradition), and the other becomes mere reactive critique
(traditionalism). For the traditionalists, the latter must come to the
fore, due to the demands of pragmatism, but the critique is always
subsumed into its antagonist, as Marx and Nietzsche knew. In this
sense, traditionalism is indubitably a modern movement, a reaction
similar to Romanticism and Fundamentalism.

Evola, Guenon et al. realized this, and thus arrived at their
pessimism, but the traditionalists seem unwilling for the moment. The
former were specifically wary of the latter, with Guenon targeting
"traditionalists" and "traditional philosophy" (p. 23-4) as limiting
their activity to the profane realm. Reading this passage with
courage, we find that we're reading about ourselves. With this
distinction being so clearly laid out in a key text by a fundamental
scholar of Tradition, I believe we owe it to our own integrity and our
intellectual forbears, to accurately locate ourselves in this primary
aspect. From this clarification, our political engagement or
abstention can follow. To do anything less would be unacceptably
indolent imprecision. - Fieldmouse

-----------------
Self-Sufficiency
-----------------
Frugal and Sustainable Shopping Tips

For most individuals living in first world countries it is normal to
get food from supermarkets and clothing from department stores.  These
methods, while nice and convenient, can also burn holes in our pocket
books and cater to unsustainable methods of production/consumption.
Supermarket prices are often slightly higher than the products
themselves are worth due to the shipping and packaging costs.  Why pay
for these unless you really want that cool looking oatmeal or cereal
box? 

Do not feel obligated to buy buy buy, even though today's economically
driven cultures tell you it's the right then to do.  There are ways to
navigate around the shopping game in order to get quality sustainable
goods for cheaper than normal.  Lets take a few of the big resources
we all consume on an average basis and identify some methods of
consumption that are healthier and will make us more self-sufficient.  

I.  Food 

Obviously food and water are the most important resources we consume
regularly.  It's a scary thought that as little as one hundred years
ago, most individuals knew where the food they were eating came from
and they even knew how to produce it.  Today individuals have given up
this ability in favor of allowing someone else to do it for them.
Here are a few ideas for getting back in touch with what foods you
consume:

1. Grow your own food - Don't be afraid to start growing some of your
own foods.  This makes you a little less reliant on the supermarkets.
Obviously we don't mean you should produce all the food you consume
yourself, although that's a great ideal.  Shop regularly at the
supermarket, but substitute some of your purchases with things you
grow at home.  It doesn't matter if you have acres of land or just an
apartment balcony, you can grow some of the foods you eat regularly
for yourself, such as tomatoes, radishes, lettuce or carrots.  See our
article on "basket gardening" in issue 4.0 for more information on how
you can start your own garden at home.  

Not only does growing your own food give you the security of knowing
where the food comes from and what was done to it during the growing
process, but it also will give you a sense of accomplishment and
brighten your day.  Having a green thumb puts us back in touch with
other organisms we co-exist with and as such gives us greater
ecological insight.  It is also a cheaper way to get some of the foods
you like.

2. Join a Co-Op -  May sound too hippie for some, but then again the
hippies didn't do everything wrong.  A co-op is an alternative to
supermarkets.  It places you in more control of what kinds of foods
you are receiving and where they are granting you, the paying member,
as a co-owner of the market.  Co-ops generally have a wider selection
of good foods from local growers.  Buying locally is a key in living a
more free and sustainable life as it supports the economy of your home
and your local friends and family.  Local grown items cost less for
shipping as the distances to get the food to the market are shorter.
Co-ops often have a larger selection of these locally grown/made
products, which makes them another resource to consider when shopping
smart.   


3. Take up barter and trade with community members - This is another
method you might attempt in order to gain more control over the food
resources in your life.  If you are growing some of your own foods,
consider trading some of them with your local neighbors for other
foods they may be growing.  You might even be able to barter other
products with them.  Barter is a fine way to build community trust and
a community relationship.  If you manage to get a system going it will
be cheaper for all those involved and it will keep products
circulating locally.

4. Buy your food in bulk - This is one money saving strategy when
purchasing food.  Buying in bulk means you get more for less.  You
don't pay for shipping and fancy boxing like you do at regular
supermarkets.  Buying in bulk also allows you to create a storage
cache of food, which is helpful if any tragedies should befall your
community and there is a sudden shortage of food.  Bulk retailers are
everywhere and vary from more mainstream retailers like Costco, to
small local retailers in your area that very from co-ops to small
privately owned markets. 

II. Clothing

Most of us probably have closets full of perfectly good cloths we
never wear anymore, yet we still go out and buy new clothing at higher
prices than the clothing itself cost to make.  Let's discuss some
alternative ways to getting and keeping good cloths:


1.  Use it up, wear it out - This is a logic too few of us live by
today.  Why discard something just because it's no longer “cool, hip,
my thing?”  Use it up and wear it out.  Wear those jeans and socks
until they have holes.  This doesn't mean you have to walk around
feeling like a bum, it simply means all of your items get full use.
Don't give them up after a month of light wear just because you see
another pair of shorts you think are cooler.  If your pants rip at the
knees, turn them into shorts.  When your socks get ripped to shreds,
turn them into rags.  Applying this logic is both adaptive and
resourceful as it causes us to find alternative uses for objects than
they were otherwise intended for.  When you use something to its full
extent you save cash as you aren't spending it on new objects when you
don't need them.
  
2.  Thrift Stores - Don't be afraid to check out thrift stores for
clothing.  You will probably be surprised at the amount of quality
things you will find in a thrift store for cheaper than normal retail
stores.  If you don't find what you want in a thrift shop, then go to
your retailer, but check your local thrift shops first.  It's much
nicer buying a good pair of jeans for 4 dollars than it is to buy
relatively the same pair of jeans at a retailer for 15 dollars.  
 
3. Surplus Stores - Visit your local suplus stores as well.  You can
often find items there you won't find in a retailer.  Prices vary
depending on the surplus store, but they can often be cheaper than
retail.   

4.  Handed Down Items -  Why not pass down good clothing to other
family members if it is still good?  If little Johnny outgrows his
jacket, but the jacket is still good, why not give it to another
family member it will fit?  This is a two way street, give hand downs
when they are there to be given, take them when they are there to be
taken.  
  
III. Accessories 

For things outside of the two major categories we have just discussed,
the field of accessories, electronics, furniture, etc, the few
following suggestions yield universal help: 

1.  Look in dumpsters - Gasp!  Dumpster diving!!!  Yep.  In a time of
mass wasting, it is the waster who is to be shamed, not the individual
that salvages the waste.  Besides, we don't recommend the scavenger
behavior of eating half eaten apple cores,  or pizza that was resting
up against the side of the trash bin, we do however recommend checking
dumpsters for perfectly good and salvageable items.  Dumpster diving,
it should be noted, can be considered a crime in some areas, so know
what you're doing and do it safely so as to not break any of your
local laws.  

Often electronics stores will dump out electronic equipment that is
salvageable.  If you are constructing your own computer, look for
gadgets in dumpsters you might be able to use in building your own
computer or in upgrading it.  

You can find clothing, paper, linens, books, etc in dumpsters that are
perfectly fine.  Check your local college campus at the end of a
semester to find items such as these.  When students leave to go home
from the dorms, they often leave materials they find unable to pack
out.  These items are often left in hallways and in dumpsters.  

2. Buy straight from a manufacture - Avoid packaging and store
shipping costs when you buy items straight from a manufacturer.  Doing
so cuts out the middleman.  With the advent of the internet, it has
become much easier to buy products from the manufacturer.  

3.  Buy the longest lasting materials you can find - Remember, being
sustainable and self-sufficiency does not just mean getting more for
less, it means getting more out of less.  Sometime you must pay more
to get more.  When you purchase goods, purchase quality goods so that
they have a long life and don't break/fail on you.  When you buy light
bulbs and batteries, for example, pay a little more to get the longer
lasting brands that are more energy efficient.  This not only gives
you more out of less, it also gives you more for less in the long run.
A good ethic for the frugal individual to have is to look towards the
long term. 

4.  Surplus Store - As mentioned in the clothing section, surplus
stores are an excellent alternative to other retailers, especially for
outdoor gear. 

5.  Second hand shops - in addition to thrift shops, check out second
hand shops.  Second hand shops usually offer quality deals with
furniture and tools.  These shops are usually privately owned.  Look
into the second hand shop first as some are run by nefarious
individuals who will charge just as much for second hand goods as they
are brand new.  But a well run second hand shop or a pawn shop is a
good place to find tools, furniture, musical items and electronic
equipment.  
  
6.  Yard sales - Pay attention to yard sales in your neighborhood.
You can often find good things at yard sales and it gives you the
opportunity to strike up a relationship with other members of your
community.  

7.  Auctions - Look into auctions.  Auctions, such as those run by the
police, often allow you to get very expensive items for cheaper, such
as cars and electronics.

IV. Conclusion

These are a few ways you can increase your self-sufficiency, health
and sustainability in your purchasing and consumptive life.  Remember
that the healthier ethic of frugality is not to be miserly and cheap,
but it is to be adaptive, creative and resourceful.  Efficiency does
not just mean to get more for less, it also means getting more out of
less.  It is the later definition that separates the miser from the
strategist in the shopping game we all are obligated to participate in
to function in our societies.  

It should be noted that relying on others is not in and of itself bad.
No man is an island unto themselves as they saying goes.  Gaining
sufficiency from the retailer or the supermarket does not mean giving
them up and it does not mean giving up various luxuries and
conveniences of the modern world, it simply means gaining more control
over these resources in our daily lives so we do not become absolutely
dependent on them.  The strategist finds that should the system as it
is fail, they will be ok because they have the much desired skills of
adaptation and creativity.  

In becoming more sustainable and independent, we leave a
better mark on the world for our future generations.  We give them a
garden to tend and a positive ethic to live by when we live by our
codes of conduct, and express and adaptive and creative spirit that is
at the heart of our evolution.  Understanding frugal shopping
strategies offers us much more than just a consumer/producer logic and
strategy, it offers us a strategy for merging our many goals into one
holistic lived being. - Gestalt 

----
Food:

VEGETARIAN SPAGHETTI BOLOGNESE

Easy to make and the sauce is very nutritious.  Accompany with red
wine and
salad for added nutritional value.

Serves two (large portions).

INGREDIENTS  (use organic if possible).
Spaghetti
One largish onion
Cooking oil (pref Olive)
One can chopped tomatoes (or chop fresh tomatoes if preferred)
Mixed herbs (a bay leaf is nice too)
Ground black pepper
2 large cloves garlic - crushed
Fresh chilli (optional)
Some soya mince (I used the frozen kind)
Cheese
One vegetable stock cube

METHOD
1 - Dice the onion
2 - fry in a medium sized sausepan with some oil (about a tablespoon
full)
until starting to brown
3 -  Add tomatoes
4 -  Add vegetable stock cube
5 -  Add a sprinkling of herbs and a pinch of ground pepper (also bay
leaf
if wanted)
6 -  Add enough soya mince to thicken sauce to the desired
consistency
Add  a little water if there is any danger of over evaporation
7 -  Keep sauce simmering - and stir -while you prepare the spaghetti
according to the instructions on the packet

8 - When spaghetti is ready, drain it.
9 -  Switch heat of to the sauce, and add the garlic (it loses it's
antibacterial/anti viral properties when cooked).
10 -  Serve the sauce on top of the spaghetti, with a sprinkling of
cheese
and optional chopped chilli - Venus 

------------
Literature
------------
"Cabins in the Fog"

Here, the shadows, restless dwelling
are besotting and compelling.
 Darker dangers? Nothing compares
 to these cabins of our nightmares.

Thatched roofs are crumbling inward
where those shadow figures lingered - 
 still they linger! in decaying
 wood - a grim scene so dismaying!

Approach where logs and planks collapse,
where glassy eyes are, by mishaps
 destroyed and look as jagged tears:
 recalling sharpened woes and fears.

The doorway, but a feeble serf
invites us from the dampened earth
 and foggy air of dusk and death - 
 a sky as bleak as dying breath.

Darker, thicker now, the evening
fog descends, betraying meanings
 that this rotten, dreary dwelling
 shall unveil in whispered tellings.

Darkened azure, bloodied sapphire!
 Pall'rous glow of wintry maidens
are the hues, the evening's fire
 here imbued and burdened, laden.

Madness lingers in the framing.
 Wand'ring through the halls one harkens
evil whispers thrilled in naming
 everything that blights and darkens

men whose deeper natures, lacking
 fortitude to see, unclouded
simple truths. One's mind is racking,
damned, muddied, and self-shrouded.

The cabin's walls now groan aloud,
they bend and warp - oh! sight and sound!
 are tortured here as fog rolls thick
 so flesh is whitened to the quick

with tremors that no sense abates
until the body, all its hates,
 revolts against the crippled host:
 the body rots, the soul a ghost.

Now, the shadows, ceaseless growing,
serve the cabins, ever-knowing
 all the lower souls they shall consume
 that fail to wrench their wrists from gloom.

Still, not all are here devoured.
You and I? we've overpowered
 obstinately, that which towered
 o'er the weak who trembled, cowered.

Though this blued and gloomy structure
threatened to collapse and rupture
 screaming doom, pronouncing terror,
 screaming evil, sin and error.

Lo, what foolish geists assemble,
how they failed to make us tremble!
 'til our forms were nothing more
 than putty ripe to drink and pour.

To you, I say, my merry friend,
 come with me from door to door.
These carcass homes will never rend
 our essence. Through this fog: explore!

All structures insalubrious
 shall want in nightmares and their skill,
shall never quash the light from us
 who stand apart from good and ill,

defiant of the wills who call
 toward the sigil or the star.
Cabins in fog, they all shall fall
 in these adventures broad and far. - Risc 

-=-

"The Death of Elise"

Rain.

There was shelter under the slanted roof of a small transit
construct. Here, poking around in pockets, cigarette package
elusive, Ike waited. Can't do much else when the bus isn't around.
Fumbles inside his shirt pocket. A-ha.
Crumpled globs of the day's news, massive balls of industrial
mucous, cluttered around the pillars and glass. There was a smell
of old rain on the concrete, a dishonest smell at odds with the
violent torrent streaming before him. Less a patter, more a
crackle. Infinite blades of thunder; gleaming, street-lit bolts.
"Could you do me a favour?" a woman's voice inquired, "can you
pass me a cigarette?" She sat featureless on a bench darkened with
sourceless moisture. After-effects of rain. A heavy coat, to the
knees and black, and heavy, shining ebony hair made erratic by the
downpour.

Ike took a stride to her and held out the pack, an american style
10x2 case. The woman drew the cigarette that was protruding, and
Ike closed the case.

"Y'know this stuff'll kill ya" His flame breathed oxygen and
kissed the cigarette with luminous combustion. He leaned against
the glass, his coat tied around his waist by the sleeves.
"Funny thing to say" she remarked, simulating her acquaintance's
method. Ike shrugged.

A genuine flash of natural light, their contours mimicked by
jaunty, demonic shadows. He, with the curving, angelic ringlets of
hair, dark as bear's fur. An unholy counterpart jeered at him from
the shadow and certain cold eyes not unlike his own pried through
abysmal caverns of bone and flesh. A gaze of brooding, half-mad
calm. And then, only the impression, carved out with the flash and
eroded. Sad attempts at recreation by the street lights.
Water bubbled from the drains, inner city rapids swelling up,
lacking an allure of danger and excitement in its putrid, murky
foam. When the rain cleared the streets would reek of human
excrement for days.

The smoke from their cigarettes mingled under the safety of the
shelter. Clung to their damp garments.
"When's it gonna get here?" the woman inquired impatiently, mostly
to herself. Possibly attempting conversation to bide time.
Ike checked his watch. The silver band clattered as it rotated a
small degree around his bare and slim wrist. "A few minutes still.
These things are precise. Also - " index finger aimed at the stop
sign across the street. Signs bleached in sunlight marked the
epitaphs of many businesses that had once possessed the now
derelict building "it'll stop there. Not beside us."
She didn't answer but for a small unwilled vibration of her vocal
chords, as though she was trying to control very light breaths.
She bit her lip, shifted. Her arms crossed, she leaned against the
glass, hair falling back from her face.

"Not from here, are you?" Ike looked at his butt, which was
running close to the filter. Orange tobacco embers peeked through
clinging bits of ash. He took another drag.
"No...I haven't been here long. The school year's just started..."
"Ah, yeah. High school?"
"No, university." she faced him, but Ike continued to stare off.
"I'...I'm Pallas."
"Ever hunt?"
Pallas shook her head, her hair rustling and drifting. She looked
at him with cautious interest. Her arms remained folded. The rain
became thicker, and distant thunder rumbled the streets. Tiny
vibrations make your hair stand on end. It's enough to ruin an
otherwise normal (which may just as well mean, all jokes aside,
boring and pointless and uneventful) day.
"I'm Ike."
"Ike?"
"It's a foreign word. Means 'pond'." He paused. A smirk drew from
his lips and he glanced at Pallas, "I guess our parents were
idiots, huh."

Dimples beamed, she chuckled softly. The small triangular
shadow-to-light gradient of genuine amused tremors in vicious
darkness. She averted her eyes. The air was static warmth, the
wind passive and mild. The rain blazed before the eyes like signal
static on a distant screen. Furious. Hissing calumniously against
paved and raised sidewalk - like boiling, like steam, like
sizzling meat - the rain was accompanied by a dull throb, now
louder, nasal.

Ike dropped his cigarette - it rolled to the bevel of the sidewalk
where it sizzled, a juvenile mimicry of the enormous storm - Eyes
ahead. Pallas stood and brushed off the back of her coat.
The darkness swelled, ether pregnant with motorized light. The
rain was shards of crystal and diamond. A drenched figure exploded
in light, a dove fluttering from a deep abyss of suffering. The
bus screamed and squealed, chimerical bat-snake of weaving and
hellish sonar. Ike left the shelter, stepping cautiously to the
front of the bus. The driver wore a large, thick coat, blackened
by the evening rain. He stood over a disfigured woman, her blood
washing away in congealing tendrils, spraying up in the ripples of
the rain like tiny fountains. Her arm was mangled, her thin
clothing soaked through. The driver looked up at Ike. "Didn't see
a damn thing. She was just there."

Pallas stood a few steps from Ike. "Is she alive?"
Ike knelt down and moved the matted strands of the woman's hair.
"Well, not for much longer."
"Should we help her? I'm calling an ambulance."
Ike shook his head vigorously, the rain spattering from his hair,
"Elise was suicidal. Don't worry, driver. This wasn't your fault.
She wanted to die, and now she's almost there."

Pallas maintained her poise as she instructed an operator on the
receiving end of a silver cellular. She pressed a button and
pocketed her phone. "How can you say something like that? She's
dying!"  Ike stood and shook his head again. "No, she's not."
His neck was arched and the rain battered his spine.
And it fell, and fell.

"People ask me 'who are you?' and I tell em 'I'm Mr. Nobody! I'm
everybody!' Haha, I'm not quite God yet. Eh? I'm not quite God
yet."
"Huh, oh, yeah."
The old man obstructed the glass paneled door to the coffee shop.
Ike looked at the sky, bright blue, with soft loose clouds like
torn balls of cotton wisping east. Impatient, Ike lit a
cigarette.
"Spare a smoke?"
"Will you get out of the way?"
The old man bared his teeth in a yellow grin of poorly emulated
childishness. The fangs of senility cut through his brain as he
scrambled for the thrown cigarette - a perfect toss. "How
precarious."

Ike raised his eyebrow and returned his gaze to the sky. An
airplane loomed silently, jets a murmur against the clogged
arteries of the city. He finished his cigarette on the concrete
steps of the cafe and entered silently. The old man yelled and
charged a flock of pigeons in his smoke-scented armor, the worn
coat of pathetic homelessness. The idiot birds scattered and
descended lazily on the sidewalks of neighboring stores. Their
feet pattered against the drying pavement.

The cafe's inner walls were solid panels of wood with simple
lathe-work and a dark stain and varnish, so that even the nicks
and scratches glimmered after being buffed effortlessly with a
damp cloth. Ike saw Nolan at a booth and sat across from him.
"Gee Nolan, you look like shit. Ever hear of sleep?"
"Ever hear of consoling grieving relatives? Thought not, you damn
loner. Matt's freaking, probably slashing his wrists or something.
I tried calming him on the phone but his tone was pretty dead. I
wouldn't be surprised if he was dead. I'm not too keen on dropping
by his flat. 'Lise's parents aren't doing so hot either." He
recited a lengthy phone ordeal, like a great tragedy, like the
suffering of grand heroes. Only the first few acts were missing
from his account. Hands streamed through hair like ocean liners in
calm seas, spilling and contaminating. A strand of oily, pubically
thick hair fell into his coffee mug. "Ah, shit."

Elise's parents yelled at Nolan for a solid hour, using two phones
in two different rooms. Occasionally they would yell at each
other, and then one voice, and then the packing of flesh. Like
baseball bats hitting mud. Crying. Nolan hangs up and has a shot
of whiskey. Enough consolation for that night.
"I always knew that family was a little touched." Ike muttered.
The windows were fogged in streaks of salty and dirty water. He
examined a deep ridge in their table, spinning his coffee cup by
its cracking handle.
"Hhf. I hate sharing even some of their genes. I'll probably be
senile by forty."
"Not much longer to go..." Ike grinned. His coffee was pleasantly
bitter.
"Either way this is a mess..."
"Need any help?"
"Maybe planning the funeral."
Ike shrugged.

"I know you can barely afford to eat. Fuckin' freelance journalism
worked well for you, eh. I'm not asking for money." the waitress
refilled their cups. Tan rings stared up at her, like demanding
eyes of a past, how do you say, aggressive lover? (Poor turn of
phrase...) "I'll be able to cover it, I think. 'Lise's parents
don't seem like they're gonna do a thing, and for all I know
Matt's ODed or something. Anyway I'm just looking to make sure
things go smooth. You remember what it was like when Heidi died,
and the Colonel."
"Some soldier's funeral." Ike warmed his numb fingers against the
freshened cup, his thumbs like flags of surrender. He stared into
Nolan's eyes, averting the distraction of bloated sleeping bags.
"Sure, I'll help out. Anything else?"
"Feeling weird at all?"
"Nah. I've seen worse." Ike shrugged.
"Right. Well, I'll talk to you tonight at Sam's."
"He didn't get shut down?" Blinding someone with moonshine is bad
for business. Ethyl alcohol is for cuts.
"Oh yeah shit. Whatever I'll call your pad tonight. Later." And
Nolan was an apparition in a seat.

The cup of coffee was like a black, hypnotizing mirror. Many torments
of many lost spirits scried in the reflection - laughing
disfigurations of death and anguish.
Thoughts played in Ike's head like short experimental film. Montages
of death and loss, bitter memories blending together in superimposed
frames. Sneering face of death in Heidi's pallor.
"Ik?"

Faint ripples in the mug, a dark sort of silhouette, too dark for
mirrordom. Patrons chattered idly, the vapors of conversation
rising and falling, condensing into empty matter. Wallowing geists
of self-importance-deceit. Conversation amidst prying ears should
refrain from intellectual aspirations. Discuss family gossip,
shallow successes to justify destructive habits, sports. They rise
like soap bubbles in the summer sky, cleaning no conscious of its
accumulating filth. The reality of the being is displaced by
ground coffee beans filtered into a rejuvenating nectar.
Female fingertips, unpainted nails, spread themselves on the
table. A figure leaned over the table's width and shattered Ike's
void mind. "Oh my, Ike? Remember me? From last night?"
"Pallas" he smiled to himself "your hair is in my coffee."
Pallas blinked and shifted her eyes. "Ew! Geeze...I'm so sorry.
Gross..."

Ike handed her a napkin, "sit down. This'll do for now. I'll get
the waitress to get you a hot towel"
"You don't - "
"I know the people here." " - have to - " "It's no issue."
The waitress brought Pallas a coffee and Ike made his request. She
walked away, acceding.
"But I didn't o-" "It's on" "-rder an-" "the house," Pallas was
blank. Ike glanced out the window, "If you're a friend of mine, or
my friend Nolan - he just left - almost anything you want to drink
is on the house. We know the owners well."
Customers chatter, the door opens and closes. A mother and her
child leave the lavatory, bundle up, exit. Pallas plays with her
mug percussively, eyes wandering, fixated on objects of little
interest; drifting, feline caution.
"Ike."
"Just Ike. I hate how exotic Ike sounds...so Spanish, and it's not
even Spanish."
"Oh..."

Ike glanced at her, clearer now in the radiant haze of the filthy
windows. The sun illuminated her splendor and her flaws. Her
freckles rose from her cheeks like staring down at multitudes from
an airplane, or a bombarded surface of a distant, lonely planet;
small nose, inconsistently colored eyes, different shades of the
oceans and freshwater lakes. Traces of pale, swollen pimples
lingered on her forehead; tiny blackheads fortified her nose.
"Did you...know that woman?"
Ike nodded.
"Was she a...were you two together?"
"Nope. Mostly an acquaintance - too hard to get too close to.
Never tried."

Pallas shivered, a tingling ripple shot through her body. Blood
and water streamed together - and coffee. Thick oil coats an
unreceptive throat. It attempts to shut, but is willed open
through to the stomach via a scalded esophagus. Pallas sputters
helplessly. Looks around, embarrassed. "I, have never seen
anything like that before. A...well, a woman dying. Someone hit by
a bus like that..."
"Oh."
"I don't really know anybody here...I don't really have anyone to
talk to. It was so intense. I mean, I've had relatives die, but
I've never...seen death."
"It's nothing special." Ike rose. "And I have no interest in being
your counselor. Enjoy your coffee." the doors swung.
The wind hit him like a vengeful foe. He heard the door squeal.
"Hey!" Pallas sprang at him and tugged his shoulder; he spun and
stared down at her with thinned eyes. "If you don't want to be my
'counselor,' then could you at least by my friend?" she gave him a
small card. He examined it: a small typeface:
Pallas
902-941-9991

Card out of field of view, he saw Pallas walking in the opposite
direction, her long coat buoyant and gay.
"What's the difference..." he muttered. He probably dwarfed her by
almost a decade.
On his way home he disposed of the little card in a recycling bin
on one of the street corners.

Hi. You've reached Ike's answering machine. You know the trick.
Beeep.
"It's Nolan. Pick up, man."
Ike dropped the pot he was scrubbing into the frothing sink
"Hellooo? Iiiike."
and dried his hands. The phone was screwed to the wall. He picked
up the receiver. "Bad timing. I was doing dishes."
"Is she hot?"
Ike scoffed. "I see you're in a better mood."
"My day was easier than I thought. Uh, anyway I've taken care of
most the arrangements. She's being embalmed, prettied up, and
placed into a decent casket...the funeral home offered to be
pretty lax on the payment. I have no idea who's gonna be her
pallbearers, or what cemetery to put her in...before this, I
didn't think I'd ever have to plan the...transportation or burial
of a dead body."
"I suppose you and I can carry her out of the church..."
"But who else?"

Ike rubbed his eyes and stared at the swelling foam of his sink.
Nolan was stretched out on a discount couch from a recycle shop,
the only light in his apartment a dim halogen lamp against walls a
yellow of domestic beer and lemon. Grating buzzing of lights like
immortal trans-flies. Androsophela. They burned as they swarm the
bulb, silhouettes collecting against the glowing white-stained
glass.

"She's gonna have a small funeral..." Nolan stretched the muscles
and tendons of his ankle in different directions. "I dunno..."
Ike bounced up to his counter and sat there, taking a swig of cold
beer, the condensation chilling his hands tremendously. He held it
balanced on his knee.
"You still have a suit."

Ike examined the label "Yeah, probably the same threads
from...Heidi's funeral." Warm ichor poured from her gaping wounds
but she was oh so cold, like death, who already stole her, her
breathes consumed by the ether. Stale air filled her lungs and Ike
wallowed in her, in her essence, in confusion and loss. In
radiant, glistening ichor.

"Alright. Funeral's in two days. See if you can contact any of
'Lise's old friends. I'll see you at the cafe in the morning."
Ike recalled Pallas. "Yeah, see ya"

Quiet dirges and silent lamentation. A house to a Christian lord,
but none complained, that cavern of soul stretching wide and tall.
Byzanto-Gothic modern hybrid with electric heating grills. Light
pouring in colours dead against the plaster floor. Everything
silence, a preacher with his arms raised to the air. His useless
supplication and plea interrupts their thought.
"You must be brothers" a regular parishioner informs them. "It's
so sad..."

Ike flinches. "Brothers? We aren't uh..." In perceiving Nolan's
grim silence, he falters, "well, something like that, yeah."
The mass started eventless. Elise's mother and father were nowhere
in sight, and Nolan and Ike had to force Matthew into detox the
night before, flailing and screaming, biting punching drunk,
cursing his mother, himself, his god. Life, the world. Everything
damned and wrong.

A chorus resonated. Ike barely heard the back door creak open.
Pallas had attended. She caught his glance and walked to the front
slowly. "Can...may I sit here?"
"Yeah...if you don't mind carrying the casket."

Pallas sat. That made what, three? The preacher prostrated himself
on the altar when the choir ceased. He handed wafers to the clergy
and attending parishioners. Ike, Nolan and Pallas sat. There were
prayers, libations, cross gestures. The three stared at the
casket. Nolan shuffled and started coughing violently.

Massive cathedral doors roared and screeched, submitting to a
chaotic will. Elise's father stood in the entrance, his shadow
long and ominous down the row to the altar. Drunk in a blue dress
shirt and gray dress pants with hands stained dark red. He
stumbled and crashed into a pew, realigned himself and continued
down the aisle. The priest was silent, mid-gesture. He merely
stared, his disbelief mounting. Elise's father walked between two
pews and tripped over a missal. His face awash in colored light
of a crucifixion scene, he vomited on the floor.

"I had to punch-fuck that stupid bitch!" he yelled, "She wouldn't
stop BITCHING about a GODDAMN funeral so I shut her up and now I'm
here. Now what?" he stood and looked about.

"Call the police..." Nolan muttered. Pallas was already dialing.
Ike approached Elise's disoriented father. "Let's go get some
fresh air, sir." and the man swung at him. Ike narrowly evaded the
strike. He stumbled and then stabbed at Ike, cut through the black
jacket and exposed Ike's radiant ichor. Ike saw no recourse but to
knock him out with a clean punch to the face and then to drag him
outside while contracting the reek of vomit and sweat. His right
arm ached with strain and blood loss. Thick clouds shielded the
sky.

The father was taken by the police uneventfully, and Ike made it
inside in time to help carry Elise's casket to the hearse. The
choir leader, seeing the limited number of pallbearers, gathered
two small, grim altar servers. They offered their assistance.
Elise was buried amidst prayers and rain. Her carriers were
silent, watching as the box with her remains was lowered into the
earth forever.

There was dirt the height of a man, now, that separated Elise from
the surface. She was buried and she would decay.
"I'm going to wash up...and get really drunk..." Ike stated,
making for his car, "I'll give you a call, Nolan." he stopped
moving and stared at the sky, thick clouds spewing rain. He let
the droplets cover his face and descend in all directions like
rising veins that wanted to burst gore all over him, like
everything inside just wanted out.

"I want to join you." Pallas interjected
"You're a lightweight."
"I could drink you under the table." she retorted "look I was
about to do the same thing, there's no sense doing it alone."
"You didn't even know her, Pallas...why are you here." Ike
continued walking through the expansive cemetery "Because I'm
alone! Because I don't know anyone and because I wanted to pay
this woman her dues..."

"You owed her nothing," Ike unlocked the door to his car and
opened it, creaking in protest with rust and age and general ruin.
The car was old and brown and looked like decay. He stared inside
his car, his arm throbbed. Tore off the sleeve of his undershirt
and bandaged it. He would have to get the coat repaired at a
tailor's, if the damage wasn't too extensive. It was inside the
car, the tear rippling with fresh wind.
"May as well let her come, Ike...she'll see that she can't handle
it."

"You mean can't handle us. Yeah... ...yeah sure. You can join us
tonight." Ike snaked into his car and stared ahead. The ignition
battled with him, and he defeated it with sheer persistence. He
shifted the thick soaked locks from his eyes as he drove out.

Pan-fried eggs. Bacon.
Ike rose. His head throbbed. Body quivered. He promptly descended,
pillow gracelessly admitting him. Am I burning something...what
did I he willed himself up and grabbed the nearest pair of pants.
They didn't smell like vomit so that was good - he discovered that
all in all, his room smelled pretty clean. Good. He swaggered into
his living room and the smell grew stronger. His footfalls were
heavy.

"Uh... ...hello?"
Pallas peered out from the kitchen (shit) and smiled wanly.
"...this isn't happening." he said slack jawed and spiritless. He
fell into his couch and Pallas's eyes wandered. She returned to
the stove, where eggs sizzled and bubbled, and bacon hissed, the
fog of grease rising into the sunlight. Pallas turned off the
elements and entered the living room where she drew a tall set of
curtains to a balcony window. The sun was a sword, and it stabbed
Ike's pupils with an infinite blade. He cried out and turned his
face in, lying on his stomach, his feet dangling over the arm
rest.

"I guess you still...haven't recovered."
"Unh..."
"You've been like this since yesterday."
Ike turned his head and squinted only slightly to observe the
speaker. "Two days...?" he was still in pain, still trembling. His
neck blazed and his eyes refused to open further to admit light.
"Yeah" Pallas darkened the room again, the curtain swaying like a
summer dress "...at first we didn't know whether or not to send
you to the hospital but you finally started throwing up, and it
wasn't red, so ...we decided to take you home. Nolan went home and
I...just stayed to make sure you were okay."
Ike coughed and sputtered. "Uh-huh, is that all."
"Don't worry, you were a perfect gentleman."
Ike sat up and looked around, slightly dizzied, "and I was
responsive yesterday?"

"Yes. You probably don't remember, but Nolan dropped by. He was a
bit hung over. He brought food. And then I made you supper...that
didn't go over well. Um...breakfast is almost ready."
Ike sat at his table, in the dark corner of the living room. He
removed the various obstacles covering it - laptop, disks,
newspapers, forms. Pallas and Ike ate wordlessly. Ike stared at
his plate, his body vibrating, warbling. The sun oozed warmth
through the curtains.
"I'm going to sleep, if you don't mind...and when I'm awake, you'd
better not be here."

Pallas looked at him, saying nothing. She scooped the mouthful of
scrambled egg that was in her raised fork, placing it on the plate
as she did so. "Okay, did y-" "Don't come back."
Pallas rose and gathered her purse and coat from the coffee table
in front of his couch. The television stared at them, omnipotent
watcher in the dark. Pallas stood in the room and looked at Ike
for a few minutes. "Nolan left a message on your answering
machine. I didn't listen to the whole thing." Her voice was
choked. She then departed, lips quivering, heart palpitating.
Minutes passed, and Ike trudged to his room, where he slept for
many hours. He expected that he would never see Pallas again. The
sun rose and the sky was a shimmering baby blue, a godlike azure
that none could touch; and Ike's dreams were pleasant.
When he was confident of his recovery, he walked to his kitchen
and listened to the message. The digits 01 flashed bright digital
red.

"Hey! Hey Ike, it's me! Hahahah! We're drunk right now! You and me
and uh... ...Pallas! Yeah we're at...I don't know what bar we're
at, but we always said we'd do this to each other so here goes!
You're puking right now I think, so I'm gonna leave this message
okay buddy! Hahahahaha, stop that! I gotta think of something.
Okay, okay. Now...I know things are heavy. Elise died and
all...but just remember buddy, we're in hell now! We're in hell,
but soon we'll be outta here, you know it! Soon we're gonna be
done! And hey, we're immortal! Always remember that when you wake
up feeling dead! We're immortal, we're the gods! Nothin can stop
us, no sun no moon, no rain no hail! Nothing! Take care my
brother, take-" There was a long beep as the message cut off. A
computerized voice announced an incorrect time and date. - Risc

-=-

"Play of Winds"

The storm that gathered,
reaching far and wide,
catching your form
this woeful night,
a hammers' final blow:
had it not been waiting,
preying like a thief
who wishes to feast,
to sate his hunger
with his poor fellows'
ill fortune?

You might be wanting
to dismiss life, perilous
as merely a fool's game,
trickery in chess,
you as a simple pawn
"Woe to the victim
of a dismal chance,
driftwood far away
from the shore!"

But did the darkened clouds
not stare at you?
Was it an illusion,
that sight beyond your vision?
Doomed to struggle
since the beginning,
the first breath of life
Winds pushing clouds,
dragging long shadows
over the silent skies

How surely you play
your evening role;
how strong, steadfast
you keep your course
on these fierce waves,
fateful hours:
certainly your flesh
isn't just a few,
plain dice humbly thrown
Ready to submit
to some idle numbers! - Frostwood

-=-

"Love Story"

Dave Schuyler loved the way Mary's eyes would flicker whenever he
softly stroked her inner thigh, with the first three fingers of his
hand. They had not yet slept together-that would wait, of course,
until marriage-but they often lay together, naked, kissing each other
for hours. Or at least, what would seem like hours; time means very
little. They had known each other throughout childhood, as Fairview
was a rather small community in western North Carolina, but they had
only recently become enamored with each other's existence during a
youth night dance hosted by the New Hope Protestant Reformed Church.
That was eight months ago, in early September. The winter had passed
quickly, and spring was beginning to exert its influence, as the balmy
weather from the Deep South slowly crept into the county, which lay in
the shade of the Blue Mountains. Dave knew he was in love with Mary...he
had told her this many times before, but unbeknownst to her, he had
been saving his earnings for an engagement ring while working at Tom's
Hardware Store. His parents weren't aware of his plans either, as far
as they knew his $6.50 an hour would be going towards paying for
community college next year. This was their final year of high school,
and Mary would be attending Davidson College, which was a hundred
miles away, but Dave had a gut feeling that they could make things
work, even with the distance. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder,"
they say, and Dave believed this with all his heart. He loved Mary,
and everyone seemed to be rooting for the two. They were perfect
together. 

Mary sat fidgeting with the eraser end of a pencil, looking out the
window of her second-story bedroom. Dave would be arriving soon with
his old '84 Chevy pickup, and memories of their trials and
tribulations, the whole of their experiences and adventures,
overwhelmed her at once. Memories had never been so vivid, not before
she and Dave became an item. She knew that he was 'the one'. She loved
him, even if she knew that she would not be able to explain why or
how, or what love even is..."but if not this, then what?" she thought.
Mary was an exceptionally bright girl, and quite active within the
community, and what Dave lacked in academic integrity he more than
made up for with his diligence and charisma. Both were beaming
personalities, and to everyone, including themselves, they were the
face of eternal youth and vigor. Here in Fairview, there was no way to
fully comprehend any larger world than the one they perceived, and
what use for it to begin with? Life was a slice of heaven, especially
for these two. 


Still, in accompaniment with the pleasant memories and projections of
the future's serenity, Mary felt the anxiety of having to part with
Dave come the end of summer. Granted, that time was what would once
have seemed like an eternity away, but the past eight months with Dave
rushed by without regard for her wishes and pleas. A moment could last
forever, as when they were engaged in the most sincere of kisses, but
somehow time managed to compensate for this courteous pause by sifting
away as if with a predetermined cause or destination. And time was
late for wherever it had to be...

No sooner had this little aphorism crossed Mary's mind, Dave's
familiar old wagon, which served as a sort of extension of his own
adventurous and bright-eyed personality, had rolled into the short
gravel drive with a joyful raucousness, bouncing along the way,
conforming to every depression and peak the treads encountered, never
straying from its path. Mary's eyes lit up, and she picked up her worn
navy duffel bag and made her way out of her room, bounding down the
stairs and out the door. She leaned heavily into the passenger's side
window and pressed her lips into Dave's, lightly made her way into the
seat. The door had to be slammed, however, as it had a tendency to
stick, but the stereo system, which was playing a Crosby, Stills, Nash
& Young tune, faithfully followed its own way, weaving a simple story
the two could easily relate to. Things continued on without skipping a
beat; in the midst of these two, loud sounds did not serve as brash
interruptions to a quiet life, but instead seemed to bubble up every
so often to announce the very real energy that enveloped them. 

"Honestly Dave, I don't understand why you wanted to drive me out to
Davidson when I could just as easily have taken the bus or train-it's
not like I would have been there for long, it's just a weekend visit
after all!" 
This is what she said, but deep down inside, Mary was glad,
overflowing really, to be able to spend an hour or two driving along
the roads with Dave to her future alma mater. Whether in silence or in
conversation, Dave's thoughtful eyes and quick-draw smile served as an
ultimate source of comfort for her, lying against him in embrace, she
felt unconquerable yet protected. She felt as if she was in the
presence of some inextinguishable, unwavering essence, and whether or
not Dave felt this way about himself she was uncertain-but this only
added to his appeal to her. 
	"Could you have seen things being any other way?"
	"No" she grinned. It was as if he had read her mind, she thought.
	"Well then, I guess that settles that matter, doesn't it?" Dave
	flashed a smile that lingered in his eyes and the corners of his
	mouth as he returned his attention to the road ahead. They sat in
	silence for some time, and a few love songs drifted by, their
	message only retained long enough to make way for the following
	song. The lyrics didn't matter; the music mattered even less,
	perhaps. These songs were about these two, even if only each
	individual understood this on a personal level. That went unsaid.

After a while, Dave nudged the silence in order to make way for words
that had been carefully placed side by side within the confines of his
mind:
	"Mary, how would you define love?" This was a question that
	confounded even Plato and his contemporaries, a question that
	remained the focus of Shakespeare's plays either at the forefront
	or the periphery. Mary had been contemplating this question
	herself, as lovers do, should the need to defend such a fragile,
	sacred little thing from a cynical, scoffing world arise. This was
	Dave, her partner in crime, and as is characteristic of a loving
	relationship, her heart spoke in her stead with the confidence of
	an auspicious young philosopher-queen:
	"I have been thinking about that a lot. Falling asleep I think of
	you, you know...I almost think myself in circles, really. But
	somehow, it never gets old. The memories we've made together are
	more vivid than any I can recall, from the long weekends to the
	short moments, they all weigh equally within me...It's strange how
	we've known each other for so long, but somehow something changed
	between us all of a sudden, and now here we are."
She wasn't yet finished with her thought, but Dave quickly
interjected:
"Well, to tell you the truth, I've had my eye on you for quite some
time. That's why I hadn't had a girlfriend for the past few years;
eventually everyone thought I was already taken...
"I did."
"But it was because I was getting ready, waiting for the right moment
to tell you how I felt. And what a feeling it was! Like having to
carry a bag of stones to which a new one was added each day-and then
all of a sudden being told that you wouldn't have to carry them any
longer. And that it was springtime, to boot!"

Mary smiled with a sincerity that only fresh love could afford, a
smile that radiated from the core of her being. And all of a sudden it
dawned on her. This is what she said:
"Love is being able to feel what you feel, whether good or bad, and
whether or not I like it. It's a constant ball of nervous energy in
the pit of my belly, it aches when things are going rough or when
we're not together, and it elevates me when we are. It is seeing far
into the future and having the comfort of knowing you'll be there."
Dave liked this. He would meet her monologue with his own:
"To me," he said, "love is the strongest form of faith and hope I can
image. I'm sure you've heard the saying, 'hate destroys, but love
creates.' What greater truth is there, really? And what greater power
than being able to create...to create new worlds, a world of our own; as
well as to create new life, should we choose to do so? You know, these
next four years will be the most trying for us-whether or not you
would like to admit it-so I'm going to tell you something that I want
you to remember always, because it is important; Mary, I've never seen
two souls such as ourselves long for each other as deeply as the two
of us, and when we are apart you may feel the physical distance
bearing down on you. But to me, true love is a substance that carries
us from one meeting to the next. Do you understand that?"

The two looked into each others eyes as deeply and for as long as it
is safe while one of the involved is driving on a road. Dave was
strong, but he knew he would have shed tears if Mary didn't maintain
her own composure. But apparently his words struck a chord within her,
and this resonated between them; it was a song fitting for the
season-light and soft, its beauty lingering as unimposing as dew
resting on the budding branches of saplings. If ever humankind and
nature reflected their purest essences in utmost synchrony and
concert, surely this must have been such an instance! The Greeks have
shown Eros to be an archer, but perhaps he should be depicted as a
weaver instead. What fine threads! And what beguiling tales he spins! 

Soon than they would have wished for, the two arrived at the gates of
Davidson. Its campus was pristine and its environment receptive of
these two young lovers: quiet and introspective, graceful and
unassuming. It was late in the afternoon, around four o'clock. They
found the girl who would be hosting Mary for the night, dropped off
what few belongings she had brought with her, and took a private tour
of the campus until dusk had settled. There was no need to rush, but
as the young are both impatient and insecure, Dave decided that he
ought no longer to keep Mary from establishing her presence and more
intimately acquainting herself with her future home for the next few
years. He bid farewell, an affair which took upwards of a half hour,
and implored her to enjoy herself and remember their conversation. A
well-versed rehearsal for the end of the summer, he had thought, but a
night is no comparison to the months which lie ahead. The promise of a
lifetime would have to suffice for these two, carrying them moment by
moment if need be.

After dinner, Mary and her young hostess lazily reclined about her
room discussion everything and nothing in particular, all at once. As
it is the organic nature of conversation, their attention made its
orbit around the present, although here and there their thoughts would
collect and pool in the remote areas of the past. And, of course, when
the present fails to pull one strongly enough to its unassuming
existence, the future steers both undisciplined and adventurous minds
in its direction. In Mary's case, all of this was arbitrary, and
despite her pretending to be interested in this girl's spectacular
chattering, Dave's immanence in her thoughts consumed her being. That
is until the conversation turned a different shade, beckoning Mary's
participation in present affairs:
"Say, you want to check out a party with me tonight?"
"Hm-excuse me?" Mary lifted her gaze, which she had allowed to become
unfocused.
"A party. Wanna come?"
"I'm not sure, what for exactly?" This was spoken with equal parts
innocence and avoidance.
"Well, it's Saturday night, silly! We can get drunk together, it'll be
fun! Have you ever been drunk?"
"Erm, no..."
"Well then, now's as good an opportunity as any for it to be your
first time..."
"No, you don't understand-I don't want to do it. I'm sorry, I don't
mean to be firm, but it's just that my parents seldom drink, and I
just don't find anything appealing about it. Not to mention that I'm
worried about the possibility of someone taking advantage of me in
such circumstances. I have a wonderful boyfriend, you know. I wouldn't
want to make a stupid mistake that I would regret forever."
"Oh, um, okay." There was a split-second of the most awkward silence.
This girl seemed as if she had been personally attacked, and she
avoided making eye contact thenceforth. "Well, you've gotta understand
that this is college, and these are the only years in your life where
you can forget about being responsible and just let go...you're going to
have unwind sooner or later, you know! Well, whatever. I'm going to
get ready-if you change your mind then I'll be at the Gamma house-it's
the building with the upside-down 'L" above the door, just a ways
down." She flashed a quick smile, as if she'd forgiven Mary and
forgotten what had passed between the two of them.
"Okay, thanks." She did not plan on taking up her offer, but instead
hoped that their differences would be forgotten, and that they could
continue the weekend on good terms come next morning.

So the night wore on, and Mary sat at her hostess' desk reading young
Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights and taking notes in her journal. Such
a strange love, she thought. She could not relate to the violent
passion between Heathcliff and Catherine, but it appealed to her as it
was a story of love. She could not discriminate from its many forms,
to her its essence was pure and everlasting. She looked out of the
window, and decided that a good walk would aid her in digesting both
her less-than palatable college fare, but more importantly to
excitedly recount her many overwhelming thoughts and to herself. She
grabbed a light jacket-it had cooled significantly since the sun had
set-and headed downstairs and out the door into the commons. She
looked west and saw the line of frat houses with glaring lights and
blaring music, and decided to head in the opposite direction, towards
the playfully rolling hills that bordered the southern end of the
campus. 

Asher Philips was sitting in the bushes of a recess in the
architectural form of the residence building but a hundred yards down
the path Mary was headed. He had spent many weekend nights during his
three years at Davidson just sitting there, watching people stagger
drunkenly from parties back to their dorms. It started as a personal
project in studying group behavior-he was a sociology major, after
all-but he soon found that he enjoyed sitting in the shadows,
invisible to passersby. From his many nights as sentinel he was
surprised at the frequency of drunken girls treading on their
lonesome, making the stalwart solitary journey in the twilight hours,
the world as merry-go-round with each step deceitfully promising solid
ground. As the nights wore on, Asher found himself intrigued by the
strange beauty of these drunken young goddesses, their shirts soaked
with sweat and beer, their skin shining in the moonlight. Especially
their breasts. At first, he started off simply by masturbating to
those images that lingered long enough in his mind, his eyes set on
exploring the curves of these imperfect bodies which were still supple
and filled with youthful vigor. Sometimes a girl would lean forward to
retch, and her ass, stuffed into tight-fitting pants, would be in
clear view. Stretching the imagination was unnecessary. And when they
wretched, he would see their shoulders and ribs heaving helplessly, as
they dispelled their demons from the previous hours. Once, he decided
to approach a girl who was looking especially unwell, and when it
became apparent that she was still willing to engage in deviant
behavior, as he was not an unhandsome fellow, he took her to the
bushes, ripped her jeans and panties to her knees and her shirt up
past her breasts, and molested her violently. She did not seem to
mind, he thought, since she did not make any sounds. She was too
sedated to comprehend the absurdity of the circumstances, and he did
not imagine he was doing any wrong. The next day, however, the girl
reported that she had been sexually harassed, showing bite marks on
her belly and hips. He encountered such situations twelve times in the
past three years, although most often he would settle for masturbating
into his hand. The incidents were considered unrelated, and there was
no reinforcement of security, so he continued his weekend night
ritual.

This night would be entirely different.   As Mary approached, Asher
knew from the absence of a stagger that she was perfectly sober. He
became nervous and feared that he would be seen. He spotted a large
rock just a few feet from where he sat, and picked it up. He took in
the sight of Mary and was immediately taken by how beautiful she was,
and how gracefully she carried herself. A strange feeling flooded his
brain: he would have her. Not simply molest her. He had to fuck her.
He began to tremble as she walked by, and, catching the scent of her,
he was overcome with voraciousness and leapt from the bushes, quickly
striking Mary in the back of the head just as she was about to turn to
meet her attacker. He did not dare look her in the eyes.

She fell, and although she was not unconscious, she incurred enough
trauma to incite a headache and leave her in complete disorientation.
Still, she would remain conscious. 

Asher stood over her, just for a moment, taking in her essence. She
was positively glowing. He quickly took her and dragged her to his
bush. He ripped her pants in half and similarly did away with her
underwear, and he violently removed her garments from the upper-half
of her body. He even removed her shoes. He was, in the complete sense
of the term, hungry, starving. For a moment he had forgotten what he
had intended to do, hovering over her pale form. He looked at her
face, and saw just how truly beautiful she was. So he turned her away
from him, placed her on her knees leaning forward, and began to anally
rape her. Her face was digging into the ground, and she tasted dirt.
It was the only sense she had at the moment. As he came, he thought
for some strange reason that she would be a virgin, and became excited
about this notion, so turning her onto her back he let her legs dangle
awkwardly and penetrated her from the front. Mary felt shame-no
thoughts of David would comfort her. She became an individual, and she
could only consider that she was being violated in the most vulgar
sense of the term. As this nameless figure penetrated deeply into her,
she could think of nothing else but to resist-resist what? She felt a
tingling rising from the base of her spine, from the base of her neck.
Her eyes began to flicker and she began to tremble; she was beginning
to orgasm. She felt sick of herself, and suddenly she was flooded with
the realization that she was helpless in betraying her love, her Dave.
Still, she as unable to resist, and unwillingly, she climaxed while
the rapist continued his animalistic plundering of this serene figure,
this innocent dreamer. As he reached his own orgasm, which had been
delayed from his previous exploitation, he quickly withdrew and
ejaculated into his hand. He would not leave evidence here. There was
blood on his member; so she was a virgin after all. Upon concluding,
he became furious with himself and with her, and picked up handfuls of
dirt and rubbed them over her body, shoving them into her intimate
orifice. His act was completed, and he left her there; not quite
satisfied with himself, but by no means guilty. He would never been
found out.

Only after this ordeal had Mary lost consciousness completely-biology
seldom acts in accord with individual desire, and her case was no
exception. She woke up early in the morning, and, in her weakness,
crawled back to her hostess' room. She wanted to take a shower more
than anything, and a good many hours later the girl would find her
passed out in the shower, with cold water raining down on her pale,
naked graceful body. Her faced looked quietly pained, and the water
which streamed down her face made it seem as if she was silently
shedding tears. The girl was still hung over, so she could not surmise
anything particularly odd about the scene. She simply turned off the
water and went back to sleep.

It was early afternoon by the time Mary's condition was assessed to be
critical, and so she was immediately sent to Lake Norman Medical
Center a few miles from campus. Her parents arrived as quickly as they
could-truth be told her father was pulled over, which is quite a rare
occurrence in these parts, but was quickly exonerated and sent on his
way once he related the circumstances to the well-wishing officer.
When they arrived late in the afternoon, they entered the barren,
unlit room as if it was a sacrosanct shine, or a Romanesque church.
The intensity was borne from the utter simplicity of the scene: A
child whose dreams of innocence and purity had been dashed from her
careful hands, parents who had invested such love into creating the
world which nurtured her for so long; a room which would not absorb
the pain of any of these three, with any excess of upholstery or
furniture that so commonly fills a human void. Mary lay there, as
beautiful as ever, but she was no longer radiant. She had faded. Nor
did she speak, and she would not speak for three days. When she
gathered the will, she made a simple request from her parents: to
summon Dave to their home.

Dave had found out about Mary on Sunday evening. What withered words
would be able to describe the heavy, swirling agony that clawed,
crawling from the depths of his being? In such instances words would
not suffice. All he could do is expel the contents of his stomach, and
even after exhausting himself completely, he retched furiously for
nearly half an hour. Then, he held vigil in his room for three days,
his suffering aligned with that of his love, barely eating, seldom
sleeping, and never speaking. When we are forced to remain still and
silent-or if one should choose to do it out of one's own volition-we
find that we are filled with thoughts. As we remain in such a state,
and as thoughts continue flowing and overwhelming our mind, we are
forced to do something with them. They may be externalized, or, as is
more characteristic of most men, we gingerly handle these bits like
broken glass, from which we emerge with one of two outcomes: either a
bleeding mind with thoughts still sharp and untamed, or a calloused
mind with smooth, well-worn objects of inquiry. Dave made a mess. Fine
gossamer formed and encapsulated his being; it was a dark scarlet and
pungent, if not completely putrescent. He would not have been able to
see it, nor would anyone else he'd encounter-for these were his
thoughts. If one was to tell this young man that the web we weave, the
silk we spin, are our own, and that we are very much the masters of
our circumstances, he would not understand, and in doing so he would
only be able to laugh. And indeed, during this period it was not on
rare occasion that Dave found himself chuckling silently to himself,
wringing each hand within itself on his lap or at his temples. Who
could truly say what this boy was thinking with such an absence of
words? He bore whatever he was feeling within himself; here there
would be no psychoanalysis on the part of this author-that much could
be said, and judged truthful in its sincerity. Only one thing was
certain: Dave was mourning.

Could the reader excuse one last analogy? It is human nature to
foreswear phenomenal experience for abstraction or illusion, the
justifications for which are many and seldom adequate. In this
instance, it merely wishes to compensate for intuitive misgiving into
altogether unfamiliar circumstances:

A fisherman casts his line and waits. Just as sudden as the waiting
had been long, and how long it has been he knows not-the line becomes
taut. And, just as sudden as he had no consideration in particular for
what the future would hold, he now became entangled in the tension of
this moment. As the fish draws the line further and deeper into the
ocean, the fisherman can do nothing other than hold tighter; it is as
if in their opposition they do not become two entities struggling in
opposition, their individual existence foregone for the facilitation
of this one phenomenon, the tension itself. And it is through this
tension that the being on either end of the line fulfills its duty for
the moment. For the fisherman, it is this reality which validates the
fact that this fish is there, and likewise it is the case for this
fish. 

And just as sudden as the moment came, the line is torn. Bereaved of
this fleeting purpose, the fisherman is left to wonder: had this all
been real? He does not dare to draw in the line to observe the frayed
tip of the end, which would only serve to amplify a growing emptiness
and confusion within. This was Dave. 

The fish had returned to the line and pulled with a greater force and
velocity than he could comprehend, and so Dave found himself standing
at the door of Mary's house that Wednesday night, then beckon inside
by her parents, and finally he stood outside her bedroom. Emotion
flooded his lungs as he knocked on her door.
	"Come in." Her voice was meek.
As he entered her room, he kept his focus on the foot of her bed in
which she lay. He would not make eye contact during this conversation.
	"Hello." His own voice sounded muffled and distant, as if he was
	observing the world through plastic wrap. There was silence for
	many moments. If Dave had looked up, he would have found Mary's
	eyes filling slowly with tears, and her soft jawline tensing under
	the weight of words she bore within her mind. He would have seen
	the knuckles of her small hands growing white as they nervously
	played with the edge of her blanket. And if he was of a
	particularly observant disposition, he would have noticed that her
	breathing was favoring inhalation, whilst her breath barely
	escaped her. But he did not. There can be no assignment of blame,
	a story tells itself through the actions of those involved, and
	not the other way around. An invisible thread draws each of us
	toward a destination which, while unknown to any man, cunningly
	satisfies the story's desire to hear itself told. Here is no
	exception (my hands are now tied).
	"This wasn't how things were supposed to turn out."
	"I know..."
	"I feel like I've betrayed you Dave..."
	"No, Mary, that's not..."
"No, you don't understand! I told this to a counselor woman and she
told me that I was the only person betrayed. She said I only have to
worry about this for my own sake, and that support is the most
important thing for me to get through this. But if she would only
understand that up until that very point I had been thinking about
you...how could I...?" She trailed off, but the absence of words went
unnoticed. 
"Mary it's not your fault. Please..."
"It doesn't change what happened, not at all, not in the slightest.
David, I want to make this right. I want you to undo what bad things
that boy did to me, to reclaim what he took away from me, from us."
Mary had sat up and moved to the edge of her bed now. In her eyes
there was such desperation, such imploring. She reached out and held
Dave's hands in her own.

Dave was overcome by this display of emotion, and his own eyes became
blurred with tears. He could not return the warmth her hands provided;
his body became cold and rigid. This was not a time for a loss of
words, and so Dave mustered what he could from the sea of emotions
that had tossed his mind for so long. He lifted his eyes to meet
Mary's, and with a burdened, shaking voice this is what he said:
	"I do not take leftovers." - Faustian Dreams 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- 

[ exponentiation ] 

Issue 6.0 September 1st, 2007

Published Quarterly
by the Corrupt: A Civilization Watchdog
http://www.corrupt.org

With assistance from
Forest Poetry
http://www.forestpoetry.com
and
The American Nihilist Underground Society
http://www.anus.com/ 

Editor: Gestalt 

Writers:
Risc
Fieldmouse
Venus
Alexis
Frostwood
Faustian Dreams 
Kontinual 

[EOF]