Saturday, April 18, 2015

Why do 40 something men kill them selves?

Water in the Great Plain - 2

In the 1930s and again in the 1950s,  and exodus occurred  taking people out of the Great Plains,  and arriving them, mainly,  in California.  and with that shift,  the  droughts that had  in the great plains moved to the  West.  with several companies,  such as Nestlé,  continuing to tap  Into what should have been protected water.  but in any event,  the drought was precipitated by mankind,  who wanted structures in place,  such as property,  which did not meet the  needs of the great plains aquifer,  nor natural San Francisco bay,  nor the artificial  aquifer in the Las Vegas region.   in the 1980s and now in 2010's,  the damage has moved from  the Eastern to the Western.  and with it,  the damage has moved from Eastern,  which was actually very rich,  to a much poorer aquifer that settles in the West.  shows how water is piped in from the north and from the West to keep the Los Angeles area in water.  what it says is that water is rapidly  piped in from outside.

US geological survey publishes a series of papers on various topics, including  this one on the geo-hydrology of the central and west coasts basins around Los Angeles.  it admits  that " historical ground water development of the central and West Coast basins in Los Angeles county,  California through the first half of the 20th century caused large water decline levels,  and introduced see water intrusion."  this was before anything had occurred.  but land use was not as prevalent during this time.  after the 1930s and 1950s, however,  it became a crisis,  and nature came down with full force.

As a result,  the great plains suffered more droughts,  though they were not as severe,  and California suffered droughts which were devastating,  indeed they are in the most severe drought in a long time. it is not, again,  the water,  but mankind pillaging the water,  that is the basic question.  as a result of corporate business consuming most of the water,  California is becoming dry.

Even with regulatory benchmarks ( maximum convenience  level)  the area which is San Francisco Bay his becoming depleted.  the standard unit of inorganic constituents is transgressed in over 7% of the primary aquifer system and moderately in over 37%.  what this means is that natural sources to groundwater have enough salt water  in inordinately large amounts.  basically,  people in the bay area are drinking saltwater a quarter of the time.

Again,  this is a man made  problem.

What this means is as follows,  individual planters violate the system,  and agribusiness violates the system even more so.  and both together stack the deck to violate the system time and again,  knowing that eventually there will be a turning point.  but each individual makes the best that they will get out,  possibly by making promises that can't be kept.

With the ground water reaching critical,  and in some cases more than critical,  levels,  it may be 20 years from now when the time comes.  or it could be now.  remember that in the back room deals,  a structure is hammered out between individuals and agribusiness,  which will make it impossible to know when this turning point in his reached.

Friday, April 17, 2015

Das Urteil - Part I

-It is dawn. I think it is dawn.
I think it must or ought to have been
dawn. Perhaps the streaks of growing
light show that it could be dawn.

-But what light does not grow
stronger it its force -- which draws
not from passing time the power of
the coming of the sun.

-It is dusk, I know it to be dusk.

It was this instant that one Alban
woke from tortured reveries into the
silence of a spring. He glanced out
of the window to see the light of
the dying day pour through the
window. He realizes the sun has set
and that the first glistening of
Venus falling towards the Western
Horizon has pierced the glare of

He startles and looks towards the
door frame. It is his wife - wearing
a sour expression that said she was
disappointed that he had dozed off
on the sofa again, papers scattered
before him, notes scrawled on some -
numbers on others. He hunched
protectively over them. Even though
she could not have divined the
secrets on the pages. Even though he
knew that she already knew them.

It struck him at this instant how
much she and Maestro Schönberg were
alike - she could not have learned
the sour look from him, nor he from
her. It must be something from up
out of the unconscious of man - a
shape that reached the face - a sour
fear brought to light.

"Manon,” his wife gave a pause, “has
died. I heard it only a few minutes
ago. The sickness has claimed her.”
Alban Berg came slowly and groggily
to realization, the way people who
are used to stimulants do when they
do not have the substance of their
thought to hand. When their world
seems hazy and dark, and the blood
of thought does not flow within

He furrows his brow.

“She has gone to be among the other
angels then, first Gustav, then her.
Soon the whole world I fear. Will
there be no joy left within it?”

The wife turned.

“Not if the least and lowest spawn
of Vienna's artistic community has
much to say of it. I find it hard to
understand how Anton has such
admiration for him.”

Alban reached a standing state, his
rumpled clothes were creased from
having been sweat in and then slept
in. He pushed his steel-wool hair
back and moved up behind his wife,
grasping his arms around her.

“Do not talk of such things.
Politics passes, only the infinite
will remain. And all we do, “he
waited for an instant - a pause in a
phrase such as his mentor loved so
much, “and all that we write - will
only last in so far as it reflects
that infinite perfection.”

The last sentence brought a sigh,
and having stated as he wished to
state - he the began to cry and his
weight collapsed downward on his
wife, and his embrace became a
grasp. His sobs were short and
broken sharp by wheezing and

The light had faded and the piercing
veil of the evening star was clearly
visible. Gradually the brightness of
Orion's red eye came forth and the
arc of the end of winter stars above

Alban pulled himself to standing,
looked out the window straight at
Venus in the west.

“Goodbye my angel. For the last
time - goodbye.”

The calendar showed the date of the
22nd of April in the one thousand
nine hundred and thirty-fifth year
of the current era. The clock ticked
with its sharp slicing clicks and
showed the time to be half past

- someone must have been telling
truths about me - or else how could
she have known?

- Moments ago she came to me in a
uniform. I had drifted to sleep upon
the couch after having thought and
sketched for several hours - and
then she came and woke me. And she
was staring at me. I looked at her.

- “What do you want?” “Weren’t you
supposed to bring me some food?”
“How do you explain this?”

- Behind her where there had been
the little wall cluttered with
little books - there instead was a
vast gaping emptiness. I could see
all of Vienna that lies to the south
and east - at first I thought how
strange for all those chimneys to be
lit - for the night was not cold.
But it was no wafting, wafting smoke
- but buildings and bodies and all
of a block by burning - transformed
into soot and ash.

-The tableau it framed her face as
she looked at me.

- “I meant well.”

And then Alban awoke again. There
was tea laid out. He stood up and
went out to get a bit of air, and
smoke a cigarette in that air. He
descended down the curving steps,
down the creaking wooden boards of
tiny steps. Tiny steps.

Outside his head began to clear and
he looked out over the east - just
smoke from fires - for the air was
crisply cold. He turned his eyes to
the west, toward the country side,
which he could not really see, but
only imagine.

There in the sky, angry red Mars
glared down upon him.

He drew deeply down upon the
cigarette. His mind’s eye was a play
- he could see the movements of the
young girl Manon imitated in the way
the shadows played from lamp light.
He decided to walk quickly around
the block - to clear the head. The
head - clearing the head. He turned
the corner too quickly and was
startled when he encountered at eye
level a grey feline that stalked the
neighborhood for mice.

For a moment - super imposed upon
the soft features of the real cat -
was the scowling visage from
Schönberg's “The Happy Hand” - a
cat a cat a cat that cat that has
its fangs sunk into an artist's

He stared at the cat. The twitching
of its tail reminded him of the
movements of an arm - then of a leg.
A reverie transported him high among
the hills far from the city. Back to
places where one could still hear
folk songs woven amidst people's
speech and the old dances in their
steps. He saw Manon's sharp pointed
face and wicked grin as she had
first smoked a cigarette he had
provided for her.

Outside of view - just barely - of
so many other people - people who
were dancing, dancing, so happy, so
joyous. And he was not. He had come
to the country to be with Hanna, but
had taken Manon along as somehow of
a cover. He had wandered from the
wooden floors soaked with beer and
sweat to look out at the open air
and the stars hanging the bleak
late summer twilight.

She had stolen in upon him and
touched his shoulder. He neither
remembered her coming towards him,
nor lighting a cigarette. He turned
to look at her. With her mother’s
face and features, but her father’s
piercing architectural eyes. Eyes
that saw the shape of things. He was
never certain how much of her grace
was really just seeing faster than
everyone else.

There was a point of awkwardness. As
a girl she was never an adult -
merely a child in the company of
adults. Here she was alone. He could
not help but see her as something
other than a child. He fumbled and
pulled out a cigarette from a case
and offered it to her.

She took it out and ran her fingers
along its length - looking at it
sideways. She considered it and then
placed it in her mouth with a
nonchalance born of observation
rather than practice. He lit it and
she drew in. Not so deeply as to
cause a cough, not so long as to
make her too heady. Long enough so
that smoke was wine in the air and
the breathing of it was to make one
drunk. She touched it lightly at its
base and took it out of her mouth.

- “I had never smoked before. This is
my first.”

Alban nodded. “You’ll find that they
become your master after a very
short while. It is something that is
unbearable if not repeated.”

She blew smoke outward sharply. “Yes
I can tell that.” And placed the
cigarette back in her mouth, and
holding it between her two fingers
drew another short breath in. Her
chest pulling upwards as she did. He
watch the rise and fall, and
could feel in his throat that
dryness born of expectation. She
drew in her breath and her body
pulled in the smoke, tensing in
concentration, the expectation
growing as her lungs filled, and
then loosing out. As her mouth
smoked the cigarette, Alban's eyes
smoked her form.

He shook himself, and fell into
merely staring.

He stared at the eyes, and the mouth
that richly held the cigarette, at
the pointed small nose.

And then all of this resolved back
to the face of the cat. Suddenly he
was staring at the cat, as if the
face in the dream had been overlaid
upon it, and then vanished.

He stared and stared - only the
calling of a voice wakened him
again. A voice he barely caught the
tail end of.

“You can’t go out like this.”

His wife’s voice caught him, he
wakened from the memory. He turned
to face her. It was painful.

“Obviously you are upset at Manon's
leaving us. Everyone is. Why not
come back in. It is late and you
have much to do tomorrow.”

There was no arguing with her. He
allowed her to lead him back in tow -
all the while thinking about how her
block movements could not compare.

He looked again out on the city, a
cough - a spark from a factory smoke
stack burned upwards in an arch - a
short streak of light in the soot.
An arch, an angel, a vision of a

That night Alban stayed awake
looking at the ceiling as his wife
slept peacefully. He could not
sleep, as he feared the return of
the dreams the dreams, the dreams -
the dreams.

Instead he stayed awake with the
memory, not the memory of the girl
who was - but the memory of the
reverie remembering the girl who was.

Alban spent that night sleepless.

Paint the walls, you dawn, ending sleepless
night and fading into drowsy day. Wishing will
not end the fatigue, but concentration of
misery might well reanimate the limbs of the

She, the long suffering wife, found him seated
at the edge of the bed. his trousers drawn on,
his shirt, half pressed drawn across him, his
suspenders cast loosely over his shoulders. He
was hunched over and staring out the window at
the coming light.

“We need to pack up today, and leave for home.
I want everything to be clean, it was very
nice to be able to use this place, but the
weather is such that my breathing cannot stand
another day like yesterday.”

Alban turned to her mid-way through this
speech. It was strange to hear complaints of
health spoken of in such an energetic whine,
and laying out such a large agenda as the
ordering of a very disordered life. Merely
glancing around the room would cause the piles
of clothes, cast hither and yon, helter-skelter,
to assault the eye and create that
pressing, pressing; pressing: pressing in that
such disorder pushes in. Alban focused his
vision on the stern birdlike features of the
woman he had married and could hear the
drumbeat thought that was pounding in her mind
and marching on her face: “I shall order make,
order make, order, order, order, order.”

Which came out to him as “I shall orders give,
orders give, orders, orders, orders, orders.”

Softly up and down the tones of his voice
carved the words out:

“If that is what you wish. I will be amenable.”

She had drawn her knees up to her chest, and
in so doing sat up straight, and wrapped her
arms to embrace those legs. Her face rested on
her knees.

“I hope you won't go off driving about in your
motor car when the work must be done, you know
I hate doing it alone, and you know that we
ought not to spend the money having a girl
come in and help me. It would be a waste.”

The magpie had stolen in to the loft, and so
stealing, stole the precious hours that would
otherwise have been filled with work. How doth the
busy bee move hither thither on appointed
rounds. But bees could only hum, and not
compose. The disconnection between his mind
and his face was so much, that not a muscle
flickered to match in any noticeable way the
sour scowl that spread across his mood. He
could see in his min’s eye the face he wished
he could be making. But he did not.

And so the moment hung in silence, so locked
was he into doing nothing, that nothing was
all he could do. So active in focusing his
energies that sitting there, not moving,
became an exhausting battle. He felt his foot
start to shake and shimmer, the intensity
of maintaining languor reached into his bone and
was draining away the strength. He was waiting
for her to continue on, and thus relieve him
of saying nothing.

Since she was merely waiting for affirmation,
it cost her no great energy to wait, and wait,
and wait, and wait.

Finally the straining to maintain the
immobility collapsed and Alban with it,
hurling him onto the bed, sprawling.

“Later. I will help you later. I am too tired
at this particular moment.”

She drew her breath in and began to form an
"O" to sing out a rebuke, but it was too late

- he had fallen into sleep before the first
syllable could form itself into air.

Her mouth closed, she tousled his hair with
the remnants of affection, drew on a silken
robe frocked with floral pastel patterns and
backed with black, drew it tightly to caress
her skin as she walked down the hall intent on
performing her morning toilet. Once in the
small cramped bathroom she noted that there were
clouds, they were as grey fingers of a crone,
the crone of winter tearing at the sky. It
would be colder, and there would be a storm.

She turned back to face the sink the moment
she realized that her glance out the small
comer window had become an empty stare. She
focused her self on the mirror and checking
every blemish and wrinkle on the skin, her
eyes flicked over the curve of her cheek, and
to the flat under her eyes, and to places that
every woman knows, but men have not bothered
to give names to. The public history of men is
geography of land over time. The private
history of a woman is time over the geography
of the face. The hollows that grow up at base
of the eyes, the gradually swelling under the
lids, all carefully noted and fretted over.

She realized that she did not have so long
this morning, her offensive against the
imperfections of her face ended, she went to
the kitchen to heat up water, and heard
somewhere in the distance the soft turning of
Alban in a restless dream, and the vague
emanations of Vienna rousing itself to
activity. It was a hollow sound that echoed
inside the house, and inside herself.

A moment and then its gone, the fingers of left and right hands. Each hand striking each note exactly once, and only once. It was the discipline which Schoenberg had still in his pupils, a fixed structure which allowed them a perfect kind of freedom, which would come and go. But Schoenberg also selected a view pupils to learn the inner secrets of what he called the method of 12 tones related only to one another. In this world, which had mystical significance, each note was sounded once per 12 note. Now in this structure, once each had been sounded out, the next structure began. It might begin with the same note. Or it might be any one of the 12 notes, though once it's started, it went along and sounded out the same notes. For example, let's say the first note was C, and the second note was E. once this note had been sound out, then another would begin, but if it started on E – for example – then note C would be the last note sounded. Or it might not be if notes were being sounded in inversion, retrograde, or some combination of notes.

This discipline had rules which they were inventing as they went along. Schoenberg made many mistakes, that was his gift; Webern made no such mistakes, and is pieces reflected back on Palestrina, only with 12 notes. But with Schoenberg and Webern there was a crude high discipline; with Schoenberg it was the polar regions which bit in. in actual fact, there was a misguided allegiance to the monarchy, even though Schoenberg was Jewish; and no monarch would completely trust a Jew. It just was not done. In the case of Webern, his anllegiance was to Der Fuehrer, even though that was also forbidden, because Der Fuehrer did not like the music of the second Vienna school. This made no difference to Schoenberg or Berg, but it wrestled Webern almost frightfully. He wanted to be both artistically one of the group of men which were involved with the 12 tone revolution, and politically wanted to be accepted as a good Nazi. Unfortunately, in this world, you can't be both.

But this wasn't on Berg's mind at all. He had a “row”, as it is called in English, and wanted to fill out each possible construction of that row. There was the row, itself, then their was ordering it backwards, and reversed, and both at the same time, and each row starting on the same key. Then ordered by each key. So they are was a myriad of notes which all reflected the major row. It wasn't just repeating the row indefinitely, which if it were repeated would a tuneful experience, even by the standards of 12 tone music.

Each of the myriad of rows which reflected the primary row, were the basis of the peace. One would think that it would be monotonous. And in fact in the hands of most composers, monotonous would be a step up. In fact, many composers tried to write in this way, just to prove they could do it. And then failed, what they did not realize, is it took a special kind of composer, not just a good one, or even just a great one, but one who was bent in this way.

Sitting at his chair, and thinking about driving is Ford motorcar, a model T, up and down the hills and dales, and realizing he should make a waltz to the music, he felt the fact that he wanted to be opening up the piece, in that way that Puccini did, but was having problems. He wanted to reach the major, and then shift to the minor, and then back again. But he saw Schoenberg's face, and heard Schoenberg's voice, and listened to Schoenberg's neurotic figure; which was really his own voice superimposed on Schoenberg. This was because actually, it was up from himself; not really from Schoenberg; that the maniacal; almost frantic – exhortation to maintain the row at all cost. Even Schoenberg didn't do this. So Schoenberg was hard, and even harder then any person was; but he was not fastidious in the way that Berg thought he was. In short, he had a figure which was the worst of Schoenberg and Berg.

And he worshiped this as the God of gods, taking his gift and displaying it; knowing that it was not to be good enough, even by half. It was almost as if he had an episcopal fallow tale attached to his hindquarters. Ripping him from stem to stern; not at all giving him faitour.

I am alone, completely alone. I wonder if my wife knows what was going on between myself and the girl's mother. I certainly hope not, it would be a humiliation beyond all others.

- It so lovely here, in here the woods. With high polonaise exculpate nomenclature rushing from my eyes.

What saltarello hold did it have, with Primavera steps along a prismoid trail, which wonders fustigate along the rhododendron dream that he was in. listening very intently to the violin as it wanders through the deep edge brush. it is traditional and traducianism in its ever flowing jasper ware. An enigma would be to unreal, as speckles all aglow danced down from midday morning sun. was a trance dreaming of a dance for the memory of an angel.

- What did I do that was so wrong? what purpose does it serve, what duty does it entail? I must know if when finishing this solace, what is to become of me? the same as the angel?

He looked over at his wife, streaming and with attention paid to her fingernails, he assumed that somehow she knew. the sly look, the grimace dance about her things, would that she knew and would that she say so to his face. but in his gut she would not say so to him.

- What does this power that controls her life condemn me to know, but not see it in her face? what power does it possess when AB and HF would be so aligned, but never embrace.

Hanna, what has become of you? It was a whisper in proper tonality, before being submerged into a distant clanging, but softly, chiming chord.

Memory steals soft as he looks in to his wife's eyes, knowing what she knows about him. Without pleasure, without piteous pleasure he girds his buttocks into the seat cushion, betraying the ludicrous notion that all was new again, and that automobiles could play a part in the monopode eye that was Lulu, his unfinished work for stage.

Crunching, smashing, with purpose, and without, a slighly taken tale of his own device. Addict to emotion, and stilted by a presence that could only be a dry heave. What could the 20th century the without pictures that distorted?

He once again looked over at his wife, burning intently on what she knew, which was already decided in her mind, but she would leave him guessing as to the ornate subterfuge which rolled instead on the tremendous sticking out of the tongue.

Without further applause, without hint of desperation, imagined that tse-tse fly alighted on his significant other. Then to ravish her as he once had done, so long ago in his youth. It was encouraging, and delightful; but also disgusting, as any memory of someone he did not want any more would be.

- Why is the memory of wanting her displaced from actually wanting her?

It was just the beginning of twilight, and all the mimysgrove were rising up through the gladed would and stared at him. It was morning, it was twilight, it was anything but the sun.

- It so lovely here, in here the woods. With high polonaise exculpate nomenclature rushing from my eyes. Thinking about my wife, even though I don't love her. But Something in my fabric wants to be my wife, my lover, everything that pertains to myself. They want to her kisses in to me, and ravish her with gay abandon.

He thought the thought of how it would nestle in to him, and for just a moment, he would respond the way you used to respond. Even though on the other hand, the very thought of it repulsed him.

The reality of the situation was that he would shimmy off these pants, and with a twinkle in his eye, make the kind of advance that was proper in this Viennese standard way of the world. So he looked at his wife, and even if he did not love her, stilted way of the world, made him tip His hat in her direction. And thus a dance not of love but with affection, again to royal in his gut.

- Yes, I would have her, though her mouth discussed me, though there are plenty of women who appeal to me, though I could think of a dozen reasons, why I should want to do anything else.

So took the row and reset it, and then begin to dance the beginning, one step off, and it sounded like a waltz, in proper style, once upon a time, when the music was yet young.

- Pique hainaut, in the C cleff. A gargoyle in profile.

Das Urteil VI
- for this terrible year has passed you and your husband will be able to hear, in the form of a score which I shall dedicate to the memory of an angel, that which he words I cannot express.

He drafted a letter in his mind to the wife and the father, of Manon Gropius, who once upon a time was husband to the dearly beloved Alma, who was why of Mahler before being wife of Werfel. He was intent on the woman he desired, not to possess, but worship from afar, as Brahms had worshipped Clara Schumann.

- I must talk with someone, and confide in him, that the first part of this concerto, depicts the angelic fragments of motion, of the beloved Manon; capturing the graceful movements of a round dance; a picture of the unaffected and dreamlike quality of a Carinthian folk tune.

He noted this, to explain to Willi Reich, when next he was with him. But he did not expect it to be so soon. After the drive, in fact, he got a call. He was in the apartment with which he shared, when ringing ringing ringing came the phone.

  • Yes, may I help you?
  • Yes, Willi. what can I do for you?
  • I suppose. I could stop by the expressive shop, though I was not expecting you so soon. (actually he had welcomed this to gather his thoughts together.)
  • Willi, I have some fragments, but it is rather early to tell. Only April in fact, and you know how slowly I work on this.
  • Well you know how Beetheven says: replace days with months, comparing an Italian composer, with a Germanic composer. I think I will be done mid-August, at the latest.
  • No, I'm sure it will be done by August, or maybe September at the outside.
  • Its all jumbled up, but I have a commission from the American violinist, Louis Krasner.
  • No, he isn't very good, but that's the point of thing. It will be a fluid expression, and not the simple, but simple enough.

This was all Berg. He was talking to Willi, but Willi was indistinct, and garbled. You had to stretch your ear to its maximum, to realize that it was a male.

Soon he was at the espresso shop, and Willi was with him. The thrum of the simple folk tune was drilling into his ear, but as yet, Willi did not hear it, because, for the moment, it was in his ear alone.

But not for long, though the War that was coming would interact with the music, and interrupt the lyrical counterpoint, and crunching noise from the orchestra.

The conversation was one-sided, because in the view of the Second Vienna School, name they had come up with themselves, after the first Vienna School of the old Masters, though excluding Shubert, who did not quite fit in with their view of history. Remember, it was not the view that many people would take, but they were persistent in taking it.

Not many years afterwards, Willi would copy down what was think, remember, Berg enunciated, and he copied, such was the way of SVS word to God. It was almost, no it was, as if communication flowed exactly one way, from Schoenberg, to his disciples, from his disciples to communicants, from communicants to listeners. And not the other way around. In the view of the disciples, there were two functions: the performers, and the explainers in terms of what was written on the page. And not one word went the other way.

“At the time of this first communication, he, that is Berg, had not realized that the Cantata, “O Ewigkeit...” , would be the ending to the piece, he was still searching for fragments, and he did not realize that 'du Donnerwort' would fit in with the fragments, and properly promenades in his row.” of course was thinking of “ it is enough! Lord if it be thy will, give me rest!” he imagined that the solo violin would join the rest of the violins, and then the violas, “ audibly and visibly” 'in a just a demonstrative manner”. Willi also remembered this lesson from Berg: “ truly, I know go in peace, leaving all my troubles here below. It is enough. It is enough.” the words come from, of course, Bach.

The words were also used by another voice, in another context, describing how Bach mirrored Goedel and Escher.

It is as if Willi opined ( free from the expression and command that came with talking with a disciple) : “Groans and shrill cries for help grow in the, orchestra, to be smothered by the oppressive rhythms of impending ruin”. But then become a prayer from the Master of Harmony.

This, amissed all the clattering and clanging of little cups of espresso, who did not know that a great Violin Concerto was being born.

"In so far as transcription into words is possible at all, the town - a favorite expression of Berg's - of the whole work may be described as follows: delegate andante melodies emerge from rising and falling of the introduction." Willi Reich

But now Alban needed to make a personal connection in a very short space of time. he did so at a shot, when Manon died just after he started after some scribbling, but nothing substantial. but Alma was grieving and more than just grieving, it was almost as if she wanted, not to die, but dedicate herself to the memory of, what Alban said was her Angel. and from that moment, the angel was almost a prayer, is a macroscith, something that consumed his entire being. he knew that a personal handler would not be out of the question. so Willi Reich became such a thing. getting books, scores, and hunting down the great Bach corral which the envisioned as the pinnacle of the movement. he did not know what, exactly, he would do with this, but in his mind he knew it was special.

Only then did he Alma if he could dedicate this holy Grail to her daughter. and of course she rapidly accepted the gift. it was at this point, without question, he bashed and berated himself into and orgy of previous submission to one thing: a violin concerto, setting aside Lulu, and it's taunting gymnastics.

At night, when the light was just barely above dim, when his wife was dozing off, he made dozens of sketches of the first row and it's variance. Each one would be a specific theme in what would be a short concerto, as Mendelssohn was, as many had been. He knew that he didn't want to cast what would be a bravure gem which on the stage would be to preen highlights of a master fiddle maker, that just would not do. But neither did he want something dry and cerebral, as was the custom, for at least the feign custom of what would be called the second Vienna School. He wanted it to be tonal. He remembered the, call it fight with Schoenberg, as to stripping and striping, at least the illusion. He remembered making a suggestion of melody and tonality, and wish point Schoenberg went off on how that missed the point, that would be for the underlings to present, Berg would be a different order of composition.

- Nien! Nien! It must be new! If you must have a new sense of order and pathos! Why bring in old tonality when there are so many more vistas yet to be explored! What are you? When something new is crossed over in to the void, and you come careening back to the old tonal words as a school child would?

He went on and on in that vein, after all this was Schoenberg. And while his followers lent a certain air about his pronouncements, they were in fact quite rude and pointed.

But Berg submitted, and scratched dozens of attempts. But he also did not submit, and caressed the tonal qualities in his particular row, which he imagined was a sacred figure, like God, or the Mystery.

- I'm sure Schoenberg will like the row, and understand that this is an introduction to the ministries of the tone row. I'm sure that will like it, he has to, you must, I will argue for it, but I must press these tribulations out of my mind. It would not be sacred.

But try as he could, he could not get it quite right, each time just a bit off.
- I'm sure Schoenberg will like the row, and understand that this is an introduction to the ministries of the tone row. I'm sure that will like it, he has to, you must, I will argue for it, but I must press these tribulations out of my mind. It would not be sacred.

So he prattled, cavorted, extorted, and everything else besides. But he also wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote.

- I must make this better, this is not very good, it must be better, B-E-T-T-E-R I will be juvenal afterwards, but while I write the concerto, everything must be perfect.
Then he heard the rustic dance, and new that now he would make a great commotion, and begin the second act.

So he dropped the solo violin, and almost pianoismo gave the orchestra a ruinous figure to represent the crawling strings and then there was a shrink, but only in his mind, because he had not written yet...

Are we going to bomb or not?

Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Bob Brueckl

 ones a very long time ago,  say 200 years from now,  critics will not remember the day,  when they didn't know certain figures,  which we do not know.  I think that one of these figures will be Bob Brueckl.  I mean this with complete sincerity.  I will get permission to post some of his work.  like Ishmael,  and Lillian,  these are the works of  imaginative people,  who I just happen to be  one of the first ones to encounter.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015


While the new joint  notations about Foyle's War are in general quite,  the last episode of season seven is quite bad. The Wikipedia is slightly in error,  the uniform color is not relevant, because the black  uniform is from a clearly demented person. If it was from an objective Birdseye view,  then it should be grey.  But it wasn't,  it was from the viewpoint of a deranged man.  therefore,  it could be argued that uniform color was transposed,  as everyone was.

The real Sonnenblume   was in 1941,  and I think that the creators knew this,  so they is another wrinkle in the fabric. And I think that this  is part of it.

Monday, April 13, 2015

Guenter Grass...

Phobos and Deinos

Is obvious by now that the moon was an  interloper,  that originally earth was a single planet,  and smashed in to  the moon.  We know it was early on.

Its seems Reasonable to ask a question,  was the inner solar system once larger then it is now,  with the outer solar system more  distant.  that would mean that Mercury and Venus were farther out, there to be compressed as Jupiter moved inwards.  it meant that the asteroid belt was further afield,  and compressed inwards by the outer solar system.

 that would mean that  the moons of Mars would be formed,  and reformed,  perhaps several times. 

40 years ago today

No I'm not going to say " Sgt. Pepper taught the boys to play..."

But it was 40 years ago today that the Lebanese civil war again,  and it marked a turning point in the mood of a generation. People who came to consciousness before this line saw the Jews and Christians as a sad people,  fighting terrible  odds,  and sometimes winning. After this time people saw Christians and Jews as terrible people,  destroying Arabs,  particularly Palestinian Arabs. It is not reasonable to either think of Christians and Jews as either schmucks, or as world beaters, but as a group which before faced terrible odds,  and afterwards  as bearers of cold machine Death, manufactured in the United States.

This was the day that they thumbed  there noses at United States,  and said they were going to do what they wanted the Palestinians.  and we, the United States,  were going to like it.  I knew,  and perhaps know, both  Christians and Arabs in that conflict.  and all of them were trying to survive.  but now it is in time for a new generation to set aside the last 40 years,  and negotiate a settlement.  this because war will not stop until we do.

A World Without Fire - 10

Murshidabad - Bengal - Along the River Ganges

4 April 1871

In the northern kingdoms of India the earth can be acid and dust barren, or it can be ripe with the wash from the mountains. Corruption is in the soil, where it is poor, the people are poor, and work with diligence - where it is rich, the people are poor, because the princes are ripe with greed. The golden wheat is harvested to make golden bread - which is taxed and turns the rich earth into gold that ornaments the wives and mistresses of the greater lords.

But where the earth is richest of all, the people are poorer still, not in coins, but in another sense - for their lords and masters dream, not of mere decadent pleasures - but of power.

You can tell this, not by map or intelligence report, but by smell and sound and sight.

Where there is hard earth, the women's faces are hard as well, their eyes will stare out at you as you walk down the dusty roads, you hear the buzzing of insects as the scrounge and search for any touch of sugar or wind blown food. The animals have hides taught across their ribs and hollowed across their hips. The men are gaunt, but have a strange softness to their eyes and features, as if they are stone that has been weathered by wind and rain, assuming soft curves between straight lines. The men have hollow cheeks and bony knees and elbows. It takes a moment to realize why - they do not have the look of war, for they are useless for fighting. The smell is of dust, that seems to rob all other scents from the air. There is the hollow yapping of hungry dogs - and the sounds of activity fall at slow and even pace. Nothing stirs more quickly than there is need for, and time itself becomes viscous.

Where the earth is richer, the smell is of fullness - the air is filled with moisture that jumps up from the ground in the heat, of early morning, and presses down on it during the day. The women are not hard, but soft, soft with full breasts - on the young women they seem suspended almost as if the statues of rounded stone were brought to life and walk, on older women they hang like full ripened fruit. But all the women, young and old, walk with that peculiar sway of the hips that is like the tolling of a bell - steps secure and forceful. The men are different as well - fuller of face and muscle.

Where the men of the poor districts are straight - in the hollows of the cheeks, they have curved flesh - where the men of the poor districts are soft, in the eyes, they are hard. And sprinkled here and there, are the cuts and scars of knives and bayonets - for the hardness is the look of battle, which sweeps through these districts like the dry season fires or monsoon rains. For while it is clear the people eat well, it is clear too to the bandits, and the tigers. And the distance between being master and being morsel is very small. And that is why they go about without ornament, save only the red dot on the woman's forehead. Nothing that is not nailed down is safe. Nothing that can be pried loose, is nailed down.

You hear this in the sharp barking of the dogs, aggressive in staking out their territory, in the sharp braying of the donkeys, and in the buzzing of the bees. Each thing has its weapons at the hand, and the sounds have none of the weariness. Instead everything is like the american porcupine - quills ever ready to be spread.

But in the last - the smell is overwhelming, of the smell of life run riot, of weeds blooming and rotting, of young women blooming and rotting, of feces fallen and returning to the earth. The sound is pure cacophony, as every cry races out to do its work in the smallest moment it has between being released into the air, and being bludgeoned by the overwhelming throng. In jungle it is the cry of birds and the click of frogs, the roar of elephants and the rustle and tap of branches. In the fields it is the bells and chip, chip, chip, chip of hoes that turn the earth - and in the city is the roar that becomes one voice.

The women? The women are like rolling hills, each turn falling on another - the do not pad as in poverty, nor sway is in prosperity - but sidle, as if they were attempting to seduce every man they walked up against, draw every eye. They seem as if poured into their clothes - and fill them as bursting wineskin - liquid passion waiting to be drunk. The men are barrel curved - and their eyes are prying, spying and lancing, as if to attack each thing they see. No gaze is innocuous, and to navigate between them is to be a spider dancing on another spider's web.

The animals too take up this different cry, they do not whine, nor growl, but bay. For amidst all the plenty there is something lost - a heart that was ripped out years before - that no filled belly can return.

Where in poor lands there is pallor of dust, and in richer lands the patina of dirt - here there is a shield of filth that covers all. The flies do not buzz, but swarm, the birds do not peck here and there, but mercilessly plunge their beaks into the furrowed ground. The sun does not shine, it pours its rays upon the land. The air seems ever laden with rain yet to be, or rain, or rain just past. The first clings and cloys like clothes too tight, the second cools as if to expose naked flesh to the world, the third oozes up from the darkened red soil, reaching tendrils into every pore.

This is Bengal. and Bengal is to India, as India is to the whole world. What makes India, India in comparison to all else, is found in every degree higher in Bengal. Where India seems to move with deadly slowness, in Bengal all moves with the powerful sinister slowness of the constrictor or the cobra - where India seems hot and oppressive, Bengal seems to bear a crushing weight, and yet stand beneath it like a pillar. Where India seems filled with wildness just beyond the reach of town or hamlet - Bengal is the tiger tracks left by river at night.

Of the last there will be time to speak of it anonce - but it is to Bengal that the narrator turns his gaze, and hopes that you can see its patchy pattern of jungle and tilled field, with the jungles clinging to the labyrinth of rivers, and the fields spreading out like crystals of sugar growing on a glass - spikes that rip into the jungles, and then are devoured in turn as they age.

Above the buildings seem a clutter of lesser ants that surround a queen - the central houses just somewhat larger and prouder than the rest - and the temples only slightly prouder still. But the cities are not like this at all - but huge and sprawling clutter of buildings that have grown and grown from the centre, until they seem to choke the rivers like weeds. And in them there is a constant slow motion to and fro - everywhere in cool morning and evening, and from shadow to shadow in thick of afternoon.

This is Bengal, turn your gaze to a small boat upon the river, one as thin as a sliver, and driven only by the muscles of one oarsman - a small canopy of white linen set in its middle, and beneath it, a face the colour of chai and milk, his eyes neither hard with war, nor soft with acceptance, but like a magpie - bright with the lust for acquisition. His nose, too, is sharp and beaklike - almost hooked. His fingers fat and stubby though, as if that which the eyes crave, and the beak pecks at, cannot quite be grasped by the talons. He flexes them constantly as he sits, his body quivers. He shuttles his hands over newly bought clothes, and a pouch that is half hidden in his sash - his hands ignore the knife attached to that sash, as he has not the smallest idea of how to use it on anything more aggressive than a mango. He is impatient of the waiting to meet the girl he has bought for his pleasures, since he finds his wife unsatisfactory - and the money in his pouch was given to him for this express purpose by his lord, who intends to taste the fruits as well.

Who is this man, and why should we care about this turn of the great dance? Out of so many turns that weave and wind around him - this man is of interest because he is the hand of Gayatri’s husband, and he has other business in addition to a concubine’s acquisition. But let us focus our ears like the mouse upon him, as we have already focused our eyes like a hawk.

“I can see her now, so tender and yet frail.” He mumbled to himself, in a rather wheezing way. There was sweat rolling down from inside his arms, he could feel the beads slowly traverse downward. It was hot outside, but that is not why he was sweating. Even he was aware of the rank scent he exuded - there was hot sweat on his forehead, and a cold sweat across his back and on his hands. He brushed them repeated against his cotton jerkin, that hung loosely over a dirty shirt, but it had done no good. So finally he accepted the eel like feeling of the skin.

“I can feel her now.” He looked at the dock, he hoped to see her, but knew in the back of his mind he would only see someone who would lead him to where the exchange would take place. At this he moved his hand over the money sewn into his shirt and then he relaxed again.

The boatman pressed to one side on the tiller, and the vessel began to glide toward one of the floating docks in the water.

His eyes moved over the crowd - the Moghuls had, some time ago, set stone barriers between the street above and the river - the floating docks were crowded with people holding their hands out. Some were rail thin porters hoping to be the first to carry a person’s bag. But the discerning eye would see that some of those who seemed like porters were a bit too well fed to live on the scattering of copper that a porter would make, and would note the scars which a humble porter would not likely have. But his eye was not discerning - so busy was he looking for the go between, that as he pushed...
It was obviously some time later when he awoke, his first instinct, being a fool, was to rub his head.

His second instinct, being a bigger fool was to move his hands to where his money pouch had been, thus telling everyone in eyeshot where it was, and being a larger fool still, he checked the hem where some few additional coins had been stored in the event of theft. Having practically shouted his position, location of valuables and condition, he found he still had a head on his shoulders, he did not have a gold pouch, and he did have the coins, which he fingered momentarily and let drop. Moments later two hands reached down, and he instinctively reached up to grab them. By the time he was standing, a knife had slit the hem, and he was without coins, though he did not know it yet.
It finally occurred to him that since he was not dead, he had been kept alive for some reason, feeling again for his hem, he realized the coins were gone. Finally the few molecules of sense which he held within him made him realize that he should not stand there like a complete idiot, and should, instead, make his way to where he was supposed to be going - to a safe house where he was to deliver a message, and, perhaps, receive further instructions.

Once away from the water, the streets here were very closed and tight together, in places barely the width of two men with outstretched hands. The grey stones that made the streets, combined with the canopies draped from windows made the entire coursing movement of people a perpetual jostle. Now that he had been thoroughly robbed, his heart pounded and his eyes flitted about, first landing on an emaciated beggar, then on a couple copulating under a drape of canvas, then to a dog barking from a door frame. All around him were smells - urine, defecation, death - this last pungently pressing on his nostrils - but also the sweet smells of baking, and the heady scent of vegetables roasting, fresh out of clay pots and giving birth to steaming breath that laden the air. And spices, such spices as few could afford.

He very slowly realized that this was far beyond the means of the people he saw around him, the honey and bitter smell of saphron. He must be near where he was destined to go. If he had been craftier, he would have realized that everyone else knew that there was one door, which though as humble as any to either side of it, was the entrance way to far more sinister inhabitants, and that its riches did not just extend to the sweetness of spices.

But, being the man he was, he was oblivious to all of this, and knocked upon the door. It opened without any formality or delay, and before he could do anything, two strong hands, far lighter in colour than his parched skin, dragged him in, and unceremoniously dumped him on a carpet in a heap. He was dizzy for a moment, and then the rich smell, now overpowering, revived him.

He stared upwards at a gaunt figure, with cold blue eyes, and a richly tanned skin that made the whites of them seem to glow. At his side was a long l shaped knife, such as was carried by the Gurkas - elite troops from the north, but it was clear that he was not one of them, but instead, an Englishman. This had not been expected. The scowling features, and the accessibility of a cane - propped up against a great teak desk, that dominated the back wall of the room - made the messenger wince, he expected to be beaten like a dog. It was a treatment he was familiar with. He tried to crumple himself even smaller, as if to work himself into the luxuriant wool of the carpet, which had a bristly touch, but was also softened by use - and to block the line that a blow would come down with his hand.

He was in this twisted position for almost a minute, when he realized that the man was not going to hit him, nor was he about to be berated with words. Finally, in accented, but acceptable, hindi, the man began.

“You have been extremely careless.” The words were soft, not a rebuke, but a statement of fact - “and have made your presence quite visible to all concerned. Everyone knows you came here, and everyone knows what you were sent here for, and everyone knows that you came here.”

It was at this point that an older woman, wrapped in a common, but serviceable, sarong, walked out with mincing steps, carrying a bronze platter with a thin bronze vessel that could only contain coffee. There were small round coffee cups in the turkish or arabic style. She held the tray with one hand, poured with the other, and then gently bent down to hand him the cup of steaming sweet elixir. He had gone from cowering, to a relaxed seated position, one leg bent upwards, the other on the ground. He was comfortable for the first time, as he sipped the deeply boiled coffee, laden with sugar. She then left and exited into the courtyard.

“I would like you then, to wait here, and leave at sundown.”

The messenger blinked.

Friday, April 10, 2015

Warrens of Undercurrent - VI


Then he came upon a very interesting set of pages. At first he did not know who the main characters were, and he story was quite ornate. And it launched in to a story which was not of the main characters, for which he act depended on for a marker. Instead it introduced characters which were avian, three crows and an owl. And what's more speech was not human at all, they talked like birds, and acted like birds. This alone was enough to pique his interest. They seemed to be talking, and scheming, has to how to bend the others to their point of view. But again, not in the human way.
It took three times through the story to finally get all of the nuances. Once he did so, it was obvious that none of the human characters would have done this in this way. For just a moment, he saw a face, and then it was gone. Death and the other characters were subservient to this unnamed main character. It was he that chased mere human characters around and a twisted plan, which only he knew about.

But on his trail came Jehanjir, trying to figure out who was behind this. it was obvious that Death and Life-in-Death were only a reflection of who was behind this. But he realized he would have to keep reading to find out who that was. he realized, once again, that he had slowed down from the long years of life which he had, and there was no going back. However, very few of his elders reached his age, and that could definitely be called a delight. Think of how many had died, and how many more would continue to die, while he plodded on like a tortoise, or a whale. There is definitely something to be said on this.

At this point, he reflected that it was probable that whoever was behind this must also be old. he remembered something about replacing Death with a new one, so it had to be someone who was capable of remaining on this sphere. This was progress, but only just. there had to be more hints as he read.

There were three crows, one black as night and young, one middle aged and gangly, and one which was almost white is you places, and was very, very old indeed. They were high up in the trees and they thought they would not be noticed. You want young one pulled his brothers with a twinkle in his eye, the middle aged one was resigned, and said nothing, and hunched over. The eldest one was broad and extensive, and looked like he was about to speak, but never did. The were huddled because it had started raining, and the it was cold, the screaming cold which ran down there others, and screamed at them. The they huddled together for warmth.

The middle bird chirped first, is long call in the distance. He had been talking with his wife, who made all of the decisions while he went around, and got the agreement, to get the Council of crows together. The make their own decision, which some reason always detailed with what she wanted, since the Council of owls could not be trusted to see things their way.

“Anyway as I was saying,” He being in the middle of his discourse, “we need to have a better way of making these decisions, but be that as it may we have to make this decision as best we can. And that means we cruise need to look out for ourselves because most of the birds go along with most of the rest of the birds. And that isn't what we want.”

The youngest pipe up, “So what do we want if I may be so bold as to ask you?” In fact youngest was exactly sure what the oldest one had said, in fact he was sure that he did not understand, so was going to slow the conversation, and tell he caught on.

Straight up ahead there was hushed noise, or at least it was to their ears but not to the owl, which had better ears then crows. To the owl it was the screaming mess, and signaling that it was gradual in nature. It screamed as if they two or three were curbing up the place, with their unusually shaped beaks. He closed one eye and then the other present to say what screaming mess was it.

The old bird said “Well why didn't you listen instead of popping up instead. Don't you know he was going to get to it after a brief pause?” the owl began to explain that he had better hearing, and it was a call to attend the Council in half an hour. The crows were not listening, and owl was distracted by a large beetle crawling up his foot, and decided to eat him, instead of telling the others what he had just heard.

So the middle crow trampling his way through the conversation, “Thank you, thank you very much, you are right it was just a figure the speech. What a mean to say now that you'll let me is we crows' and some allies want things to change all abrupt and suddenly where as most of the birds one change to come gradually. And this death would like to do and we, we crows that is, want to help him a in any way we can, especially by mobing birds of prey like the Eagles.” If that seems a mess, it is that it was. Birds do not build sentence rationally.

Their was nodding from the other to quite distinctly on this point. Very little had actually been decided, but what had been decided was to decide the question in front of group. Which was actually the reverse of the position that they had started out with.

But the eldest crow wasn't amused, so he decided to make the decision to reverse, and see if it stuck. “So since where not going to get reaction you want from the whole of the tribe of birds, we have to go it alone. So I we should do so tonight and have a firm focus on what on the rest the birds do, or they will make a mess.”

“Can't we just sneak out? And make the decision before hand, is that what you are implying? I don't think I want to be a part of that.” Youngest crow had made up his mind, just now, and he wanted all the birds to agree, though he wanted them to agree with him. In other words, he wanted it both ways.

“No we can't you young folks our all fidgety about such things.”

“No we can't because we one an agreement from the other birds as to what the will and they won't do to us, because after all were still birds even after this alliance will be kaput. And it cannot be decided on in advance to come out of the meeting.”

The youngest one was crushed, what good would it do to put things to of the, if it was decided beforehand? Before you laugh, realize most positions are made in advance, and only submitted to a vote when everyone news what the outcome is.

“And we would like a chance to convince others of the birds that they will join with us and go to death and reap the rich towards ourselves “ The eagles and hhe hawks would like them together with them, and the perhaps one or two of the owls, and do something ugly.

“Yes, just ghastly.” One of the crows squawk, and then lick off caring nothing about what anyone had mentioned, though he listened very closely for any details that might be of interest, sometime later on when they were gabbing.

So the older crows thought that they had taught a lesson to younger crow, then they then flew off together to find some warmer branch.

“Well that was odd to say the least.” Began in a falsetto, stopping as she did so, in case someone wanted to speak at the same time, but no one did.

The owl piped up “You don't know that, or even an eight of what goes on in these conferences. There will be different conferences, and you'll only know what's been decided by what is said.”

“You don't know which you have decided still you read what you wrote?”

“That's a human way of putting it suppose. But yes that's exactly what we mean.”

In this goes on until the morning, or longer?

Indeed so it goes on until the morning or even past, because there are quite a few birds there that have their minds made up and have of their brain wants one thing all the other half of their brain wants to, every single brain wants different things were not like you panels which leave the decision to only a few cells.

He realized, that is Jehanjir realized, that birds decided as a group all the way from top down to the bottom, where as human and other mammals used only the tip of their brain and of view loose cells in they are time got.

The rain got even harder and they would have to look for a new lower branch as well. One that was not part of ring but among the trail made thicker by being dense because the calling hadn't happened yet and there word still many branches going this way and that way.

Jehanjir began: “What do we do now report standstill or what do you suggest?”
The owl turned his top away from J and then back again and said: “You want to go tell your folk what you have done?”

He thought about this, and realized this was not the way birds thought of it in the very least, they wanted to know everything and everybody felt and then make up their own mind out of reasons of it. This meant that they would gradually come from knowing about something to be about something in a very short stretch of time, that is why they do things the way they did, until finally the whole bunch of them go and go and go. He realized that birds and people were very different indeed and they were as close as anything else would come to be.

Among these treetops that were only five or 6 feet off the ground they were still cold, the owl having his knees almost freezing and the human with his arms and knees.

He stared at the owl was blinking not as humans to but with one eye and then the other and rotating around the object in question must, because there was always an object that he was looking for even if he doesn't know what is, an even though it may be a mile away, or more. And he was looking at least this far.

“What do you see out there? May I know for his something private that I should not know of?”

“You can know of this. There is an eagle on a branch bow and he is looking for us and has leapt in to the air and will be honest. I think want talk about something, though I do not know what.

He nodded and set to waiting for Eagle to arrived. He gradually saw something and then saw that it was a bird, and then saw it was eagle, and finally that it was the largest Eagle he had ever seen.

The Eagle branded on a branch on one of sturdy branch bow , and peered towards them, he was 20 away from them at but he could only barely recognize them, but was being considered to mammal which he knew what the recognizing that much further away.

He nodded and then he began to speak: “ I would like to commend you for taking the time to explain to us that was good of you. But I have a question of all this which many of my people would like to know the answer to.”

“What is I am sure that it's something important so by all means ask away.”

What will happen if almost all of the birds will join you but some will oppose you?

“You mean the crows, I presume.”

“And other people as well. “

“We would welcome all who come with good intent.”

“What would you do to those who oppose, anything.”

“I cannot say what would be done with those, I don't have the authority, that would be something for the gods and goddesses to decide.”

“I do not mean to presume but may I point out that the gods and goddesses barely plan for before night for they want to rest and we would like so that this would be decided among mortal people instead of gods and goddesses.”

“It sounds as if one someone more like yourself.”

“The birds ruled this place but no longer, so would like to know what you do if you were in my place instead.”

He thought about this, and realized the birds were indeed once the finest species and it was man and Gods will were overtly installed. He would note this and see who he had to ask about it, because he was sure that there was someone to be asked about it.

“I am sure that we can work something out but realize there is no time to waste now. could be under an accord to work something out with certain parameters”

It was the Eagle turn to think about this because indeed there was no time to influence the course of events and it was also clear there was no time to waste. But there needed to be something. He just didn't know what because the humans had writing which was not something which Eagles and owls put up with. Even the agreement was under discussion, the had their own way to do things which was not humans with a of seals and such.

“All right I accept subject two later approve of the Council of birds and some office that you humans could recognize.”

He knew it was going the a mess but it was a mess that other people would scratch there heads and see it threw, is part was to take the action and others could decide what the action meant. Because otherwise there would be know action at all.

“Then come with me, I will fly with you under my wings.”

He did not need to say that the owl could fly with them as well - even though he would be a pain and neck.

Up over the air and down the branches up over the woods and over looking treetops they traveled. They went up over the mountains and dropped down onto a barren that was ringing into the distance. There is life at all just one tall human, and a fistful of birds.

Lady was tall and thin, straight and tall and with a great collection which was mixed between ivory and brown as if shimmering so that one person could see it is one way and another person as different way but agree on almost all of the specific details of her complexion. Her eyes were like but Brown in their aspect, her complexion was light and dark at the same time. He realized that she was a goddess in the flesh. She wore many robes each one of them was black with trends of hermetically sealed devices which were in gold and silver.

“So our you?” The goddess spoke.

He realized that he was not change your but changing, but J was good enough for now

“You may call me J for the time being, though different times will have different names which in due course I will tell you.”

“And you know something of your name then, that's good I wouldn't one to have a person with only one name trying to tell me that one name would suffice for all eternity. But my time is short so speak your question in the moves on.

It was both a ringing endorsement, and accrual twist of fate in the same breath.

“Three questions,” this was not out of his voice would rather deeper it was the voice of the King. She knew that and tilting on her fan answer without answering. “First,” the commanding voice rolled, “I wish to know what and who you are on this planet.”

“I am the outer shell of this planetary ring, there is inner that is my opposite.”

“And then then can I speak with you, or with the inner voice, or both?”

“You will need both of us, if you want something which will be held as a Goddess.”

He nodded, to both man and King. He had one more question.

“Birds, gods, is there any other forces which I can command.”

“Birds go the flock, of God's will make their own choices, men will go with goddess, and the demons will go against you. So you have only one person left to talk to other than me, and she is on the inside of the planet.”

Became doffed his hat an left alone immortal man who had many questions but there was no one to answer them just to birds the Eagle and the owl.

“I think I must be getting back to the college of birds, and we need to form a plan to get most the men together. You been most helpful though, I wouldn't know to ask the goddess, of a place herself. Indeed I didn't know she just walked around.”

The owl spoke up and said “We knew all along its the men that they hide themselves from.” This made more sense than it should, since nothing went on without bird watching it. “I will take a look around for returning, and pick you up to return you up for the next meeting of the bird counsel, and all of the arguments that that contains.” with that he he flew off.

“I hope that was useful to you many times. I've wanted to save some trouble, but not wanted to introduce someone which they don't know of.”

“I thank you very much, I am sure there is protocol that provides more than I would to know about this” Protocol is such a rich word among birdlike language, it is a rich tongue in each of its many tongue, and of itself. In this case drew on many connections which were special to what can be described as the unity between what could be termed as the manipulative, and tactile station which was the tongue itself in bird, and its vocabulary.

The old Owl looked halfway around his body, because it can do that, and then a full way in the other direction , “We could best not speak of this because I think there is another one listening to us.” And so they take back, in two white stone background, and listened, and listened, until finally they got the answer that they were talking about. It was to produce one of which they knew as younger one in one, of which was equally as young, but they did not notice him from their memory.

“Well as a I was saying, this was the they knew, we have that have younger sort of rather than leading the crows with the tattered and torn top hats in tow.”

“What do you have in mind? “

“What we need is to have all the young crows date stand and require all of those to whom on the issue not just sign things to committee which will mean that things will get talked about for all eternity that means they will be talked about the death by the other crows while younger crows will be nodding off.” His companion nodded and then chimed in “So you'll vote on the floor everything in instruct everything be clear and then cleared again by committee.”

“What about the other friends, will we have any in the least, or is this the crows, and that will only mean only a crow.” Actually, the crow, since it was a specific crow.

Exactly, precisely, indubitably, that is how it has to be done because. They have about of the great committee, but the subcommittees, and so on, will be dominated by the old birds. Which will mean that any time there is power, if it is decided, it will be the old birds that have the power. And as for friends will see, but I think will get at least a few of the thousandths, at most. There not so much a member of the doings of the other birds.

“So what to have two why are we hear.”

“The need to get permission from great goddess herself that all will be decided going back either to counsel of birds or from a committee.” That will best way to go.

And that way the real key power in the hands of younger crowd. Exactly precisely, indubitably. They then flew off to tell more of the gang of friends of their plan, and get them to agree to it, because they knew it was not going to go over well with the more superannuated members of the coalition. Not in the least, one might say.

The owl spoke first: “That will put a kink in this match, if it grows divide evenly be an awful mess.” 
But which way, it could be the older bunch against us or the younger bunch against us we do not know which. Either way with be better than having all crows go to the other side.

“I suppose at least the would be true, better to have a true friend then all of the enemies against you.” At this point the Eagle flew in again, and offered his back so he could mount to. And then go back to all the birds. Here what they had to say, really there was nothing anything to say to them. So J merely greeted the eagle. He, in turn, produce himself of all the plumage.

And flew.

And flew. 
It is at this point which he stopped. first of all there were materials that needed to be organized, though they were a different hand then for. this was not his material, or even remotely resembling it. He realized of course that he was not the producer of the material that he sorted through in the first part, but it wanted to fool him that was. He did not know what this meant in his stream of the dream, but it was clearly important. The next section was in light a different hand, it was petit, almost demure, and if he had to make a guess, feminine in its production. Is own hand was spiderly and more feminine than most men's hands, but not exactly feminine. He was old and tired, more than you could imagine, but none the less there was just a trace of masculinity about him that could not he erased.

He began a complex dance, entirely of his own design, which mixed steps which were very slow, but he could do them, with imagined steps which he could only dream of. It had been longer than you can imagine it since he had executed moves like this. They were not unlike moves by the Sufi, with engaged hands and long fingers stretching out, and then pulling back in. Their was sweat on his face as he imagined doing routines that he, ever so long ago, could do with his body. A long time indeed.

But what was apparent, was that he was not alone in his dream. Most of the time, you, or I, or anyone, knew that they were alone in a dream. That is the central point of it - out here in the world, there are other players doing their parts. But in a dream, once you have establish this, you are alone acting out your free will, without any interference. When you are reading a book, for example, you know you are alone but hints of other people reading the same book capture, and vanish in the blink of an eye. You are not really alone, because there is an effervescence which holds a distinct reality which cannot be denied. So while you are alone, the words on the page meeting that other people interacting with the same design. but in a dream, in a dream, you are truly alone.

And this is what bothered him - there were traces of other people, which meant that he was in, somehow, a book. But he did not know how this could be, unless of course he was a character, and the other people were readers of his book. This depressed in enormously. Normally, characters in a book do not realize that there being read. it simply does not occur to them, because the author will not let them make that realization. Forces his will, so that the characters will act, if not normally, at least with the appearance of it. And the readers give the author that right. But the author can open the window between readers and characters, and obviously that is what has done here.

Which, as I said, was enormously depressing. Because it meant that he, Jehanjir, was not a real person, which you can put out of your mind for chunks to get at the story, but he knows what you know all along: he's not real person, but a character in a book.

He looked out to the vanishing point of the world, it was early twilight and the other suns were visible. and he realized the work not other sons but fictions in the authors mind, which was a character that he had not wanted to think about. But, there was, an author which would be ever present. He wondered if the other could look in to his thoughts, and realized that if he, that is the author, wanted to do so at any given moment, the thoughts would be rape and pillaged, even if the author said would not do so, because after all, the author could do what he wanted, with no say from the character.

He looked out, and only then did he realize, that he had to get away from the author. Because as long as he was here, there were only two characters: the author and the character. But if he could make the book escape from the others and, at least then, other authors would be able to take over, and direct the action. Then there would be a myriad of characters, each one doing things with a different author, who might not like everything that the first author had envisioned. And as a set, that became a burning focus.

To be free, and so what was around the next page would be what ever the author intended. The primary author would only know what he envisioned, but each other was different. He would be loose upon the world. He looked back down at the pages, and realized that there were only a few left which could be called "his", and he wondered what this would mean. Because obviously, the primary author had a plan.

So he would set his will against the primary author, because once there were more authors, he would in fact be free. Or at least as free as he could be. He wondered if the author actually intended this, and he thought probably so. To the author, having other subsidiary authors take the reins, was an inordinately powerful gift. One which should be used for characters which had enough imagination to go from the primary author to subsidiary authors. Then that way the author could share his imagination with others.