http://www.4shared.com/audio/mpt6s6vw/Casey_Jones_141111.html

http://www.4shared.com/audio/gX1YGc0z/Iko_Iko__141111.html

http://www.4shared.com/audio/Hnaw8W8a/Lean_On_Me_181111.html

http://www.4shared.com/audio/9nMtuk8w/Monday_Monday_181111.html

http://www.4shared.com/audio/wgUZgiuZ/Rubys_Arms.html

http://www.4shared.com/audio/SZQXdRJI/Simple_Game_181111.html

Casey Jones is one of my favorite songs from the Grateful Dead; Iko Iko is from the fabulous Dr John; Lean On Me is a favorite from the incomparable Bill Withers; Monday Monday is my version of a very famous Mamas and Papas song; whilst Ruby’s Arms is my version of an old Tom Waits ballad; and Simple Game, is of course, one of my favorite Moody Blues numbers… I hope you will all enjoy them.

by

DL Rowlands

(Part 30)

Now came the desired day! The skies were bright with the rosy luster of the rising sun: the neighboring people, roused by the local gossip of Trojan feasts and the name of the great Acestes, fill the crowded shore with their acclamations, partly to behold, and partly to prove their skill. First they place their gifts on public display: green laurel wreaths and palms to grace the victors. Within the circle lie arms and tripods, ingots of gold and silver, piled in heaps and vests embroidered with Tyrian dye. The trumpets’ clangor then proclaims the feast and all prepare for their appointed games. First four galleys carrying an equal number of rowers appear, advancing in the watery lists. The speedy Dolphin, that outstrips the wind, bore Mnestheus, father of the Memnian line. Gyas commands the vast bulk of the Chimaera, which stands like a floating city with its rising towers, with three Trojans tugging at every oar, in three degrees and three banks the sailors bore the roar of the billows beneath the sturdy strokes of their oars.

Sergesthus, who began the Sergian race took the leading place in the great Centaur, while Cloanthus, who draws his Trojan blood from Cluentius, stood on the sea-green Scylla. Standing out to see, against the foaming shore, there stands a rock; covered by the waves in storms, but when it is clear even its lower parts are visible. In peace below the gentle waters flow, while the cormorants above lie basking in the sun. On this the hero fixed an oak in his sight, as a landmark to guide his mariners while to bear with this the seamen stretch their oars. Then they steer round the rock to return to their starting-point. The places among the crew were decided by lot. Resplendent above all the others were the leaders of each ship, in his Tyrian vestments. The common crew crowned their temples with wreaths made from poplar branches to shade their sweaty brows: Their naked shoulders shine, besmeared with oil. All take their seats and await the starting signal. They grip their oars and every panting breast is alternately raised by hopes and depressed with fears.

The clangor of the trumpet gives the signal and at once they start, advancing in a line: the sailors rend the starry skies with their shouts; lashed by their oars the smoky billows rise as the briny main sparkles and the vexed ocean fries. Exactly in time they row, with equal strokes; at once the brushing oars and the brazen prow dash up the sandy waves and open the depths below. No fiery courser in any chariot race invaded the field with half so swift a speed; no fierce driver lends the lash with more fury, and before the blow descends, bends his pliant body low to the wheels.

The crowd choose their pick from among the contestants and noisily discuss their hopes and fears; aiding their favored side with their eager shouts as their cries, murmurs and clamors mixed into a noisy hum which resounded from the woods to the hills. Amist the loud applause from the shore the race started: Gyas, outstripping the rest, gained an early lead, while Cloanthus, better manned, pursued him fast, but the size of the galley, with its numerous masts, checked his haste. The Centaur and the Dolphin advance in a line abreast as their sailors brush the sea with equal oars; now the mighty Centaur seems to lead and now the speedy Dolphin gets ahead; now, board to board the rival vessels row as the billows wash the skies and the ocean groans beneath. They reach the mark! Proud Gyas and his team ride in triumph; the victors of the main; but, steering round, he orders his pilot to stand more close to shore, skimming along the beach.

Menoetes heard the order, “Let others bear to sea!” but he feared this shore’s secret rocky shelves, and in his caution he sought the deep and still steered aloof. With louder cries the captain calls once more: “Bear to the rocky shore and shun the main!” As he spoke he saw the bold Cloanthus astern, draw near the shelvings. Betwixt the mark and him stood the Scylla, plowing the flood in a tighter turn as he passed the mark and, wheeling hard about, gained the lead. Gyas blasphemed the gods, devoutly swore, cried out for anger and tore his hair. Mindless of others’ lives, such was his rising rage, and careless of his own, he threw the trembling dotard to the deck, then he hoisted him up and threw him overboard as he seized the helm while his fellows cheered as he turned short, madly steering upon the shelves. With only his head visible above the waves, the plunging pilot, clogged with his clothes and cumbered with his years swims ashore and, now dripping wet, painfully climbs the cliff as the crowd that saw him fall and float again shout from the distant shore and laugh aloud to see his heaving breast disgorge the briny draught.

The crews of the following Centaur and Dolphin renew their vanished hopes of victory; while Gyas lags, they rekindle the race to reach the mark. Sergestheus takes the place as Mnestheus pursues, and as they turn around the mark, comes up not half his galley’s length behind. Then on deck he appears amidst his mates, cheering their drooping courage: “My friends, and before that, Hector’s followers, exert your vigor; tug the laboring oar; stretch to your strokes, my still unconquered crew, whom I drew from the flaming walls of Troy. Let me find in this, our common interest, that same strength of hand, that same courage of mind as when you stemmed the strong Malean flood and rowed over the Syrtes’ broken billows! I seek not to gain the foremost palm… Ah! No! That is hopeless; let those whom the gods ordain enjoy it! But to be last… the lags of all the race! At least you can redeem yourselves and me from that disgrace.”

Now, one and all, they tug against the sea; they row at the full stretch and shake the brazen prow. The sea beneath them sinks; their laboring sides are swelled, and sweat runs guttering down in tides. Chance aids their daring with an unhoped-for success; Sergesthus, eager to push his beak between the rival galley and the rock, locks in the unwieldy Centaur. The vessel struck and with the dreadful shock shivered her oars and broke her head. The trembling rowers arise from their banks and, anxious for themselves, renounce the prize. With iron poles they heave her off the shores and gather their floating oars from the sea. The crew of Mnestheus, with elated minds urge their success and call the willing winds as they ply their oars and cut their liquid way in larger compass on the roomy sea. As when the dove, roused in fright, forsakes her rocky hold and shakes her sounding wings, the cavern rings with clattering as she flies out, leaving her troubles behind her as she cleaves the skies: At first she flutters but at length she springs to smoother flight and shoots upon her wings: So Mnestheus cuts the sea in the Dolphin; and, flying with a momentum that assists his way, they soon pass Sergesthus in the Centaur, wedged in the rocky shoals and stuck fast, vainly imploring the victor’s aid as he tries to row with shattered oars.

Then Mnestheus bears down on Gyas and outstrips him; the ship, without a pilot, yields the prize. Unvanquished, Scylla now remains alone ahead of him and her he pursues, straining with all his strength as shouts arise from the favoring multitude to which applauding Echo replies. Shouts, wishes and applause run rattling through the skies. These clamors the Scylla hears with disdain, for they begrudge their competitors’ this praise and even more so the possibility of being robbed of their reward: Resolved to hold their own, they mend their pace; all obstinate to win the race or die in the attempt. Its morale lifted with their success, the Dolphin ran swiftly, for they can conquer, who believe they can. Both urge their oars and fortune supplies them both; and perhaps both would have shared an equal prize, but then Cloanthus stretches his hands out over the sea and demands succor from the watery powers: “Gods of the liquid realms on which I row! If you grant me the victor’s laurels I shall sacrifice a snow-white bull on your shore and his entrails, cast as an offering into the sea along with ruddy wine, thrown from golden goblets, shall return my gratitude for your gift.” The choir of nymphs, and Phorcus, with the virgin Panopea, heard his vow from below; and old Portunus, with his broad hand, gave the galley a mighty push which sped it, swift as a shaft or a winged wind, towards the land and, darting to the port, obtains the prize.

The herald summons all and then declares Cloanthus the winner of the naval games. The prince crowns the victor’s head with laurel and three fat steers are led to his vessel; the ship’s reward, with generous wine besides, along with sums of silver, which the crew divide amongst themselves. The leaders are distinguished from the crew; the victor is honored with a noble vestment, in which gold and purple each strive to outdo the other in the costliness of its needlework; there Ganymede is wrought with living art, chasing a trembling deer through Ida’s groves; breathless he seems, yet eager for the hunt, when in open view, the bird of Jove, diving on his prey, carries the boy off in his crooked talons. In vain, with gazing eyes and uplifted hands, his guards behold him soaring through the skies as barking dogs vainly pursue his flight.

Mnestheus was declared the second victor and shared the second prize: A coat of mail, once worn by the brave Demoleus, until the braver Aeneas tore it from his shoulders in single combat on the Trojan shore. This was ordained for Mnestheus to possess, for his defense in war and for ornament in peace. The gift was rich and glorious to behold, but it was so heavy due to the weight of its golden plates that two servants could scarce sustain the weight between them. Yet, even thus loaded, Demoleus had pursued and lightly seized the Trojan train. The third reward consisted of two goodly bowls of massy silver, richly wrought with prominent figures; and two brass caldrons brought from Dodona.

Thus rewarded by the hero, they all bind their conquering temples with purple bands. And now Sergesthus, clearing from the rock, brings back his shock-shattered galley. Forlorn she looked, without oars as, with encouragement shouted by the crowd, she made to shore; as when a snake, surprised upon the road has her body crushed by the load of the heavy wheels; or with a mortal wound, her belly is bruised and trodden into the ground, she crawls along in vain, with loosened coils; still fierce above, she brandishes her tongue; glares with her eyes and bristles with her scales, but trails her unsound parts grovelling behind her in the dust: So the Centaur tends slowly towards the port. But what she lacks in oars is amended by sails. Yet the prince, happy that his galley has been saved, rewards the unhappy chief with the beautiful Cretan slave, Pholoe, and her equally lovely twins.

***** ******* *******

by

DL Rowlands

(Part 29)

BOOK V

Meanwhile, the Trojan cuts his watery way, fixed on his voyage through the curling sea; then, casting his eyes backward, he was astonished to see on the Punic shore the mounting blaze. The cause was unknown, yet his mind quickly divined the fate of Dido from the fire. He understood the stormy souls of women and the secret springs which move their eager passions; how capable they were of dying for an injured love.

The Trojans draw dire auguries from this until the fires and the shores could no longer be seen and only the seas and skies filled their horizons; an empty space above, a floating field around them. But soon the heavens were overcast with shadows; a swelling cloud hung hovering overhead, livid it looked, as if threatening a storm; then night and horror deformed the ocean’s face. The pilot, Palinurus cried aloud, “Those gathering clouds presage terrible weather ahead; already the tempest roars! Stand to your tackle, mates, and stretch your oars; furl your swelling sails, and luff to the wind!”

The frightened crew do as they are ordered. Then, to his fearless chief he said, “Though Jove himself has promised that we shall reach Italy, Heaven itself could not stem the torrent of this raging sea. Mark how the shifting winds are rising from the west, and how dark the sky has become! Our shaken vessels cannot withstand such a pounding, let alone make headway against such a tempest. ‘Tis fate itself that diverts our course, and we must obey. Not far from here, if I observe the stars aright, lies the coast of Sicilia, which we might reach with our oars.” Aeneas then replied, “It’s true we strive in vain against the seas and the wind; shift your sails; I’ll be content to make the shores of Sicilia, whose hallowed earth contains the bones of Anchises, and where a prince of Trojan lineage reigns!” The course now resolved, they scud along before the western wind to reach the assigned port.

Meanwhile, Acestes, from a lofty vantage point, beheld the fleet descending on the land; and, not unmindful of his ancient race, he eagerly ran down the cliff to embrace the hero, clad in rough Libyan vestments and carrying a pointed javelin in either hand. His mother was a dame of Dardan blood; his father a Sicilian by the name of Crisinius; he welcomes his returning friends with a feast from his homely stores.

Now, when the following morn had chased the flying stars away and light had restored the day, Aeneas called the Trojan troops around and spoke to them from a small rise: “Offspring of heaven, divine Dardanian race! It has been a full year to the day since this isle has held my father’s ashes; a day forever sad, forever dear. Even if we had been banished to barren Gaetulia, or caught on the Grecian seas or hostile lands I would celebrate this day with annual games; with gifts piled high on altars, and holy fires: But since this happy storm has driven our fleet, (not, I think without the will of Heaven) upon these friendly shores, which hide Anchises’ blessed remains, let us joyfully perform the honors that are his due, and pray for prosperous winds to renew our voyage. Pray that we might soon celebrate the name of great Anchises in towns and temples of our own with yearly games which may spread the renown of our gods with the sports of our race. Acestes is pleased to grace our celebrations with royal gifts: two steers the king bestows on every ship; his gods and ours shall equally share your vows. Besides this, in nine days’ time, provided the weather is good, I intend to grace the day with solemn sports: Light galleys shall run a watery race on the seas; while others shall run a footrace to see who is the swiftest; and others still shall contend with their twanging bows. The strong, armed with iron gauntlets, shall stand in combat on the beach. Let all be present at the games we have prepared and joyful victors shall earn a just reward. But now we shall crown ourselves with garlands to assist the rites.” He said, and, by way of example, bound his brows with myrtle.

Then Helymus and old Acestes, led by his example, each adorned his head. Thus young Ascanius, with a sprightly grace, tied his temples and all the Trojans did likewise. Aeneas then advanced amidst the crowd, which followed him by thousands through the flowery plain, to the tomb of Anchises; and when they reached it he poured two bowls of sparkling wine, two bowls of milk and two bowls of blood from sacrificed bulls onto the sacred ground as an offering to Bacchus. And thus, to his father’s ghost, he spoke aloud: “Hail, oh ye holy manes! Hail once more, paternal ashes, now reviewed in vain! The gods did not permit that you should reach the promised shores of Italy, or Tiber’s flood, wherever it is, with me!”

Scarce had he finished his prayer when a speckled serpent began to glide from the tomb; his huge bulk rolled on seven high coils; blue was the breadth of his back, streaked with scaly gold: Thus, riding on his coils, he seemed to move along like a rolling fire, which singed the grass. Through his body ran more various colors than Iris’s bow as it drinks the sun. Between and around the rising altars, the sacred monster shot along the ground: Playing harmlessly amidst the bowls, he tasted the holy food with his flickering tongue, and thus fed, the wondrous guest retired to rest within the tomb.

The pious prince, surprised at what he saw, renewed the funeral honors with much more zeal, doubting not that this was a spirit and guardian of his father’s sepulcher. According to the rites, he slew five sheep and as many swine and sable steers. New wine he generously poured from the goblets, invoking the presence of his father’s ghost. The glad attendants come in a long procession, offering their gifts at the tomb of the great Anchises: some add more oxen to the sacrifice, from which others divide the meat; some sacrifice horses on the grass while others blow on fires to broil their entrails.

***** ******* *******

by

David L Rowlands

(I wrote the following article on Dalton Trumbo about a month ago after watching a biographical documentary about the author; the kind of life he must have led as an ‘outsider’ reminded me somehow of a feral cat I once knew, so I wrote down my thoughts about ‘Feral Tom’ and have included them also as they seemed to me to go together)

I just watched the second half of a fascinating documentary TV program on ABC2, entitled, “Trumbo”, all about one of my favorite authors of (relatively) modern times… damn shame I missed the first half; I do hope they’ll show it again soon… perhaps on one of the other channels, although I don’t think there’s much chance of that happening really, as it’s a ‘load of leftie bullshit’…

For some of our younger readers who may not be familiar with the name, Dalton Trumbo is perhaps one of the most influential of writers this century, in spite of the fact that his work was usually credited under a plethora of pseudonyms because Mr Trumbo himself was suppressed, oppressed, repressed, unimpressed and depressed, not to mention frequently incarcerated, when not on the run or overseas, by the infamous Senator Joe McCarthy’s anti-communist witch-hunt.

Trumbo was so hated by the establishment that hate and smear campaigns against him were carried out so effectively that even his kids were systematically shunned and socially isolated even by the kids they went to school with, who aped their parents’ malicious gossip and social ostracism, systematically and completely refusing to speak to or play with them… His pre-teen daughter was so damaged by this treatment that she begged her parents not to make her go to school; treatment by medical health professionals was necessary, but who knows how effective? She seems, however, to be very sane and remarkably balanced now in her old age, but what she must have suffered!

Our younger readers may well ask, what was this witch-hunt all about? And why persecute anyone like this, let alone his kids, just because they didn’t like some of the things he wrote about, because it had a negative reflection on contemporaneous American society? Doesn’t the USA have ‘freedom of speech’, ‘freedom of the press’ and ‘freedom of association’? Well, the answer to that (said Sir Humphrey) is both ‘yes’ and ‘no’; yes it does in theory, but it doesn’t always pay to put the theory into practice… Even Socrates came a cropper when it came to criticizing his own society…

As a recovering anthropologist, I sympathize; they should put a government health warning on university courses in Social and Cultural Anthropology, stating that they could seriously damage your relationship to the society you lived in, unless, like Oedipus, you put out your own eyes… and simply choose no longer to see the world as it is, simply because it’s just too awful; far too oppressive; far too painful; and impossible to change…

You’d better cut off your ears too, or stop them up with wax, as Odysseus had his crew do, so they might not become entranced by the sirens’ songs and dash their boat onto the rocks. Odysseus himself of course, thinking man that he is, must first be tied to the mast and his own ears left unblocked so he was able to listen to those sirens’ songs… And Freedom, Democracy and Justice, the three most seductive sirens are closely followed by two pairs of twins: ‘History and ‘Mythology’ and ‘Anthropology’ and ‘Sociology’ and abandon hope all you who, entranced by their songs are lured onto the rocks of isolation and social alienation… for those who hear the songs of these seven sirens are given ways of seeing and understanding the world which often puts them at odds with even the society in which they may have grown up in and lived in all their lives, since analysis implies critique and in a scapegoating culture, anyone who offers any serious critique of it will be seen as ‘volunteering’ for the sacrifice, as was Dalton Trumbo…

Oh, and cut out your tongue too… The ‘Thee Wise Monkeys’ were right, only way to survive in today’s modern, western, postindustrial, capitalist-colonial-imperialist societies, is to ‘see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil’… And, since I write, and am ambidextrous to a degree, I suppose I’d have to cut off both my hands and possibly even my feet, ’cause I’m also that stubborn and persistent…

But what would be left of me but one big stump? A basket case?

Which brings me back to Dalton Trumbo… One of his best pieces of work was about a basket case and it made one of the most profoundly disturbing and effective anti-war statements I’ve ever read. “Johnny Got his Gun” is about a victim of a shell explosion in the trenches of WWI, who loses everything I’ve just mentioned. I should perhaps warn you that, although I’m not usually prone to nightmares, this slim volume gave me nightmares for weeks… I won’t spoil the story for you, but let you discover it for yourselves if you haven’t already read it… And the profoundly anti-war statement made by this book was so hated and feared by the McCarthy regime, that the book was banned for thirty years and its author incarcerated for many years too.

Now, I’ll bet you’re all wondering what he’s written under that plethora of pseudonyms, eh? Well, apart from books he wrote movies, here are the titles of just a few of them, “Roman Holiday”, “The Brave One”, “Johnny Got His Gun” (of course!) and, one of my all-time favorites, “Spartacus”… but there are dozens more (at least!), so if I’ve whetted your appetite for more, all I can say is, “Happy Googling!”

Oh! And:

“I’m Spartacus!”

***** ******* *****

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about a cat I knew… No, I haven’t reverted to the beatnik slang of the ’50s, I mean a real cat; a stray I brought home at the age of about seven (me, not the cat! The cat was probably significantly older!)

I’d just found it wandering the streets in the neighborhood, and, impulsive as I was then, I couldn’t resist a childish impulse to pick it up and cuddle it… But it didn’t want to be cuddled… not one bit! It bit and clawed and scratched at my face in its efforts to regain its lost liberty, yet I kept it cuddled so tight to my chest it couldn’t get away… Maybe it was scratching partially in an effort to breathe; I didn’t really notice at the time; but by the time I’d carried it the twenty-or-so yards to our back door, excitedly gasping ‘Can I keep it, Mum? Can I keep it?!” my face looked a bit like a red tartan shirt; criss-crossed with broad red weals.

Needless to say, Mum wasn’t exactly ‘enthusiastic’ about the idea, but after much persuasion, I made her promise a saucer of milk for the ‘poor critter’, and she made me promise I’d put the animal down and let it go if it wanted to… But I hung onto it until the saucer of milk was delivered, because I just knew that without some inducement, Tom, as I’d (very originally) thought of calling him, would be off like a rocket; and I’d gone to so much trouble to get him here, this durned animal was gonna be my friend if it killed me (And it might have if I hadn’t eventually let go!)

Now the word for lost and abandoned cats in the UK is ‘stray’, and in that environment that name suits most of them… But not Tom… Tom was a huge black and white cat with partly white legs and a white underneath; it’s face was mostly white with a perfect ‘pirate’s eyepatch’ over its left eye, which also bore a scar right down from its forehead to its cheek through its eyelid; fortunately for Tom the ancient wound had not been deep enough to actually injure the eyeball itself. When I first came out to Australia some thirty years ago, I found a cartoon strip called ‘Footrot Flats’, written by a Kiwi, I believe, in the Sunday paper, which featured a cat by the name of ‘Horse’… As soon as I saw Horse, I realized I was looking at the reincarnation of Tom. Almost as big and as strong as… well… in the northeast of England, lets say, a pit-pony, if not a horse.

Yep! ‘Stray’ is too tame an adjective for Tom; for Tom, the word has to be ‘feral’: Tom was most definitely a wild creature and most definitely his own master. He would not stay in the house very long at all, ever, but as he was lapping up the milk on that first occasion, he was too busy to object too strenuously to me stroking his back. As soon as he finished his milk, and some of our other cat’s cat-food which I used to bribe him to stay a few minutes longer, he was off out the back door, which Mum wisely insisted on keeping open. (Our other cat had another very original name; it was a black kitten we called, of all things, ‘Blackie’, who’d arrived in a similar manner to Tom, though with less blood!)

After that first time he’d come round of his own accord quite regularly, at first every week or so and this gradually shortened to every few days, and then gradually it became every day as visiting us to bludge food had became a habit with him… but he would never ever stay long; as soon as he’d eaten his food, drunk his milk and had his petting session, he was off out again; no way would he ever stay in overnight, though he roamed around the house like he owned the place…

The thought occurred to me even at that time, that Tom must have been ‘on the road’ for a very, very long time… since he was a kitten most probably, I thought; yet he’d not only survived, but thrived (actually the correct word is ‘throve’ as the past participle to the verb ‘to thrive’, but the spellchecker won’t let me use that!) and now here he was, big and strong and incredibly tough… But very canny, very smart and extremely non-trusting too… Not only ‘feral’ but ‘streetwise’ too… At one and the same time I admired him for his incredible strength and independence, yet pitied him for his inability to either express his own more tender emotions, nor allow such emotions to be expressed at or upon him…

Now, something close to half a century later, after having been homeless myself for several years and having discovered the virtual impossibility of ever being able to properly re-integrate oneself within ‘society’ again, I’m beginning to know just how he feels…

***** ******* *****

by

DL Rowlands

(Part 28)

The nurse moved onwards with officious care and all the speed her aged limbs could manage, but the furious Dido, her mind involved with dark thoughts, shook at the mighty mischief she had resolved to commit. Her face was marked by livid red spots; her red eyes rolled and her pace faltered; ghastly was her gaze and it was painful to breathe as nature itself shivered at the approach of death.

Then she passed swiftly to the fatal place and with furious speed, mounted the funeral pile, where she unsheathed the sword the Trojan had left behind, (though it was never designed for such a dire enterprise) but when she saw the garments which she had once worn, spread loosely on the conscious bed, she paused and embraced the robes with a sigh; then she cast her trembling body on the couch, repressing the ready tears and spoke her last:

“Dear pledges of my love, while Heaven so pleased, receive a soul, eased of mortal anguish; my fatal course is finished and my glorious name shall take its place with the ghosts below. A lofty city has been raised by my hands, which Pygmalion punished and my lord appeased. What more could I have done had the false Trojan never touched my shore!” Then she kissed the couch and said, “Must I die unavenged? This is to be doubly dead! Yet I receive even this death with pleasure: the false Trojan shall view these flames from afar; and these foreboding omens shall follow his base flight!”

Saying this she struck and the sword deeply penetrated her side, its piercing steel dyed with reeking purple: the cruel weapon sticks in the wound and her hands are covered with her streaming blood. Her sad attendants saw the deadly blow and shook the resounding palace with their cries. Distraught, they fled from the fatal sight to spread the dismal news through the town; first from the frightened court began the yell, which was redoubled with the groans of men, with laments and shrieks and the cries of mingled women as it was spread from house to house, ’til it mounted the vaulted skies, the clamor of ancient Troy would have been no less; nor would it have been any less than if the new city of Carthage had herself, together with the beloved temples of their gods, been set on fire by her foes.

Her sister hears and furiously she beats her breast and tears her yellow hair; and calling on Eliza’s name, she runs breathlessly to the place and breaks through the crowd. “Was all that pomp of woe prepared for this? Was it for this purpose that these fires, this funeral pile and these altars were reared? Was all this train of plots contrived only to deceive unhappy me? Which is the worst? Did you, in your death, make such a pretense to scorn your sister and delude your friend? Had you summoned me, your sister and your friend would have come; one sword would have served us both and we would have shared a common tomb! Was I to raise the pile and invoke the powers, not to be present at the fatal stroke? With one blow you have destroyed yourself and me as well as your senate, your town and your colony! Bring water; bathe the wound, while I lay my lips close to her dying lips to catch the flying breath.”

This said, she mounts the pile with eager haste and embraced the gasping queen in her arms, chafing her temples and tearing her own garments to staunch the streaming blood and cleanse the gore. Thrice Dido tried to raise her drooping head, and, fainting thrice, fell grovelling back upon the bed; thrice she opened her heavy eyes, seeking the light, but, having found it, sickened at the sight, and at last she closed her lids in endless night.

Then Juno, grieving that she should sustain such a lingering and painful death, sent Iris down to free her from her torment and dissolve her life. For since she died, not by Heaven’s decree, but as a human casualty of her own crime of rage and love that had plunged her into despair, the Sisters had not cut the topmost part of her hair, which Proserpine and they alone knew would make her sacred to the shades below. Downward the various goddess flew, drawing a thousand colors from the light; then she stood above the dying lover, and said, “I thus devote thee to the dead. This offering I shall carry to the infernal gods.” And as she spoke she cut the fatal hair and Dido’s struggling soul was finally loosened and her life dissolved in air.

***** ******* *******

HELL HOSPITAL

By Theseustoo

Episode 18

“Loreen, there’s something evil in the hospital… it’s possessing Catherine right now and if its hold isn’t broken soon it’ll possess her permanently… You must get her away from there; she needs to be in familiar surroundings… Maybe her own things might somehow get through to her; at the very least it might give her the moral support she needs to fight her demon…” St Helvi was insistent; she’d had a word with the Boss and he’d spoken to the Fates who’d agreed to put Paula’s fate into a ‘holding pattern’ for the time-being; so now she must drop all her other duties and pay particular attention to Catherine…

“But what about her baby” Loreen had asked… “Baby?” the saint inquired “Oh… that baby… Better keep your eyes on that baby too; it must be exorcised as soon as possible.”

***** ******* *****

“We have no record of a baby…” the receptionist told Loreen innocently, “Are you sure you have the right name? Or the right hospital?” Loreen realised she would have to find the missing baby herself; the logical place to look first was Catherine’s home so, taking his home address from his ‘clock-card’, which was still in the ‘on duty’ rack, now all she had to do was break Catherine out of the psych ward and take her home. This turned out to be easier than she thought it would be; borrowing a white coat from the laundry, with her hair tied back in a severe bun, wearing her reading glasses and with her staff id pinned to her lapel, she now looked so much like a doctor that no-one gave her id more than a cursory glance from a distance. No-one looked closely enough to read the bit that said ‘cleaner’. Whenever anyone checked her id she just said, “I’m just escorting one of our patients to a medical appointment at another hospital; there’s a new treatment they want to try with this case… The receptionist looked up at her briefly, nodded disinterestedly and said, “Okay, but don’t forget to do the bookwork on her… otherwise you know who they’ll blame!” “No worries… paperwork’s all taken care of…” Loreen lied, quickly whisking Catherine out of the ward and into a waiting taxi as the receptionist returned to her telephone conversation; a taxi which had, in fact, been waiting for another patient entirely, but which, Loreen generously informed the driver, “…would do anyway…”

***** ******* *****

Big Merv had opened well for the nurses’ eleven, with half a century clearly in sight when he was sadly dismissed for 46 by a stunning ‘yorker’ from Algernon, which exploded his wicket. The next couple of nurses were quickly bowled and/or caught and at one stage there, the nurses eleven were nine for a hundred and thirty… Hung One on put up a magnificent show as tenth man, however, finally declaring at 150, while Paula put up a respectable show as ‘eleventh man’ with thirty runs, leaving a total of 310 runs for the Swan kids to beat. The nurses were quietly confident that they had left their opposition an impossible task.

When the two smallest little-uns opened the batting, Merv made the mistake of thinking them far too cute to be able to do much damage and so sent down a couple of easy overs… the little-’uns smashed most of them easily for six, or occasionally for four; having only little legs, they disdained running, because they were quite disadvantaged in this respect; so they sought runs from a standing position, deliberately courting danger, but smashing balls through any and every gap in the field. Funston played a particularly strong opening bat, but not before a slight altercation with the referee, who had initially given him out for a duck, leg before wicket… but somehow was persuaded to change his verdict after Funston gave him the ‘fluence-eye’ and explained quietly, “Listen, this crowd have come here to see me bat; not to see him bowl…” The next thing the ref knew, he was listening to his own voice as if from the bottom of a well, saying, “Not out!”

John liked to make sure all the little-uns had a go at the bat, and they were all fierce risk-takers, but they could usually manage to do enough damage to the opposition to leave relatively little to do for the bowling partnerships of Algernon and Vivienne and John and Mary. When Algernon went to bat with only twenty runs to make, John and Mary knew they wouldn’t get a bat this game and started to prepare the sandwiches, looking forward to an early tea; a few minutes later Algae was borne in triumphantly on the shoulders of the rest of the team, until they suddenly and unceremoniously dropped him in favour of Mary and Vivienne’s sandwiches.

***** ******* *****

The novelty of having her own zombie-slave to do her bidding wore off faster than Elaine thought it would… corpses rarely make good conversation and even as servants they are less than enthusiastic; besides which, after a couple of days Swannee began to smell so she kept him in a chest-freezer until she began to worry about the health implications for the food that was stored alongside Swannee’s undead remains. Eventually she moved him back to the morgue, thinking it the only proper place for a corpse… outside the grave anyway. Here at least she would be able to keep him on ice and minimise the smell without risking her own health; and providing she timed it right, here would be the most convenient place for the next ritual…

***** ******* *****

The tiny part of her mind that was still Catherine had been warned by the gentler of the two voices in her head to be ready for the opportunity to escape, and though she still lacked any volition of her own, she put up no resistance as Loreen walked her out to the taxi and sat with her in the back of the cab while the driver took them to Catherine’s home address. Loreen had expected the house to be full of kids, but when they arrived they discovered the place was empty. However, Loreen found a window open round the back of the house and climbed in through it to let in her zombie-like friend. Where was everyone, Loreen wondered; it was Saturday afternnon; the kids should at least be at home… but the house seemed deserted.

***** ******* *****

By Theseustoo

(Simulated group of children; probably on their way to bed, or having just been given ‘out’ at cricket).

Episode 17

By the time the Reverend Petros Batty met Dr Frood at the hospital, the baby was still nowhere to be found. The nursing staff, following Nurse Paula’s suggestion, had decided that, for the sake of ‘keeping the record straight’ at the same time as avoiding the embarrassment the hospital’s board-members would inevitably suffer should the media ever get hold of the story about the missing baby, had decided it would be best to lose all records of the baby too; if anyone asked they could then simply say, “Sorry, we have no record of any such baby!” Such an answer would even, they assured each other, stand up to polygraph examination.

Fortunately, it was not the baby which the Reverend had come to see… and it was only Dr Frood who suffered any embarrassment as he explained to the Reverend the unusual circumstances of its birth and its recent disappearance, as they walked down the long corridor to the psychiatric wing.

“So… you say the mother was always placid and docile when feeding the baby?” he said, wanting to be quite sure of his facts… “Interesting… Tell me, did any of the other hospital staff suffer any of these psychic attacks?”

“No…” Dr Frood replied, somehow even more embarrassed that he appeared to be the only victim of Catherine’s telekinetic attacks. He began to wonder if the demented woman could be harbouring some unknown grudge against him…

Almost as if he was reading the doctor’s mind, the Reverend said, “Don’t worry; and don’t take it personally: in cases such as this, victims of possession often seem to reserve their attacks for what they regard as ‘authority figures’; anyone who tries to control their behaviour being seen as opposed to the chaotic reality the demon wants to create, you see… just as God and ‘Order’ is opposed to the Devil and the chaos he’d like to bring into the world…”

“I see,” the doctor replied, just as they entered the ward, “But doesn’t that mean that you’re likely to be attacked too?” But the priest was unable to answer him, as a stainless steel bedpan struck him with considerable force on the temple, spilling its noisome contents all over him and rendering him immediately unconscious. Dr Frood quickly ducked a number of other flying objects and, grabbing the priest underneath his armpits, swiftly dragged him backwards out of the ward.

***** ******* *****

At first, Warrigal had felt slightly out of place in Swannee and Catherine’s bedrooom, but it was the only logical place for him to stay; all the other bedrooms in the house being full of several children, but as he only had to sleep in it, he soon got used to the idea; after all, as the cricket team’s new ‘legal’ guardian, he was obliged to live with them in order to properly take care of them. John and Mary and Algernon and Vivienne had done a remarkable job, he thought, of taking care of their younger siblings in the absence of their parents, but as Vivienne had explained, “It’s not so difficult really; I mean, we’re used to helping Mum with chores and stuff already… and we pretty well know what needs to be done…”

“Yeah,” John interjected at this point, “it’s really just a matter of sticking to the routine… Well… except for me and Mary having to give up school to go to work…”

“Yeah,” Mary said, taking up John’s line of thought as easily as she might catch a mis-hit ball in the slips, “… the only real problem is that we were hoping to get into the University of South Oz on a cricketing scholarship next year, but that depends on me and John passing the end of year exams… But we’ve missed an awful lot of school now… though we have managed to keep up our cricketing practise, even through the off-season…”

“Season starts next week…” one of the little-uns piped up, with some concern evident in his voice.

“Don’t worry mate,” said John, “I’ve already enrolled us all in the Church’s Cricket League…” then, in an aside to Warrigal, he said, “The school’s run by the Church, you see, and they depend on us, ’cause we’re the parish’s ‘A’ team… This year we won’t even have to find an eleventh member, ’cause the bub can be our eleventh man…” To the rest of the team, he added, “He’ll make a good wicket-keeper for a start, I reckon, until we can find out whether he’s better at batting or bowling… though until he can walk, we’ll have to use a stand-in ‘runner’ for him, under the ‘disability inclusion’ rules… Still, that should be a ton of fun! One of the little-uns can push the stroller between the wickets…”

“Ton of fun! Fun’s ton…” Mary hummed to herself… then to the rest of the family she said, “That should be his name, I reckon… ‘Funston’… We gotta call him something, after all… ‘Can’t just keep calling him ‘the bub’… he’ll resent it later on, if we do… develop a complex or something…”

The team all nodded, automatically in sympathetic agreement, commenting variously, “Yep!”, “’Sright!” and “Good name!” As both a family and a team there was rarely, if ever, any dispute or argument amongst them; they all tended to agree, intuitively working in harmony for the sake of the ‘greater good’; for the sake of the ‘Game’… Warrigal had found it fascinating to watch such smooth cooperation among them; thinking they could probably teach a lot of adults how to behave… He could see now why both the school and the Church should come to depend on such a team; as an example of solidarity and team-work they were second to none…

“So!” Warrigal said, “First of all, John and Mary, you needn’t worry about the schooling you’ve missed; I’ll talk to your teachers and find out what lessons you’ve missed and tutor you personally ’til you’ve caught up; you’re both very bright and work so well it won’t take long at all… So you’ll still get to uni, okay?” The children nodded eagerly, simultaneously saying, “Thanks Wazza!” using the nickname they’d instinctively given their new carer, as the rest of the team cheered. “Now, down to more serious matters… When’s the first match of the season? When will little Funston get his first game?”

“Next Sad’dee!” the little-uns all chimed.

“So…” said Warrigal, “That gives us all a week to practice and get him ready! John and Algae, get the gear… stumps, balls, bats and pads; I reckon it’s time to hit the oval for a bit of a knock-about… ”

“Yaaaaaaay!” The little-uns yelled joyfully as they scrambled to change into their cricketing clothes, feeling better than they had felt for several months, while the older boys fetched the equipment and the older girls prepared a small mountain of sandwiches and several large flasks of tea.

***** ******* *****

“This is Warrigal Mirriyuula…” John said to the priest who organised the Parish Cricket League, by way of an introduction, “He’s our new carer…” Father O’Blivion shook Warrigal’s hand warmly as he replied, “Most pleased to meet you, Warrigal… May I call you Warrigal? Such an awful business about Mr and Mrs Swan…” Warrigal merely nodded, no wanting to say too much about this in front of the kids, who still expected to be reunited with their parents at some stage in the unspecified future… Then to the children, the priest said, “Your first game of the season is against the St Helvi’s Hospital Nurses team… I’m looking forward to a repeat of last year’s victory! Now, there’s someone I want you all to meet…” He looked around the oval until he saw another tall figure wearing a black cassock, “Father Batty!” He called, “Could you come here a moment, please…?” As the other priest joined the group, Father O’Blivion said, “This is Father Petros Batty… he’s come all the way from Rome to join our parish; he’s my new verger and he’s also volunteered to be our umpire this year…” As the children all dutifully shook hands with him, Father O’Blivion continued, “He’s our ‘Holy Roman Umpire’…”

***** ******* *****

by

DL Rowlands

(Part 27)

“‘It was dead of night, when the eyes of weary bodies are closed in balmy sleep; the winds no longer whispering through the woods and even the tides are too still to make the murmuring of waves. The stars move around in their silent order and Peace covers the earth with her soft and downy wings. The flocks and herds and the multicolored fowl which haunt the woods or swim in the weedy pools lay stretched securely on the quiet earth, forgetting the labors of the past day. All else partake of natures common gift, but the furious Dido alone is awake; unable to find neither sleep nor ease. Sleep flees her eyes as quiet flees her heart; despair, and rage, and love divide her heart; despair and rage holding some of it, but love the greater portion. Thus she said in her secret mind:

“What shall I do? What succor is there for me? Become a suppliant to Hyarba’s pride? And take my turn, to court and be spurned? Shall I go with this ungrateful Trojan, forsaking an empire to serve a foe? I gave him refuge, and relieved his train, ’tis true, but am I sure to be received? Does gratitude have any place in Trojan souls? Laomedon still lives in all his race! Then, should I seek this churlish crew alone, or pursue their flying sails with my fleet? The only forces I have are those who I recently drew reluctantly from their native shore; will they embark again for my sake to endure the seas once more, quitting this, their second Tyre? Rather invade thy guilty breast with steel and take the fortune though thyself hast made. Your pity, sister, first seduced my mind, or seconded too well what I had planned. Had I never known these dearly-bought pleasures; had I continued free, and still my own person, avoiding love, I would not have found despair, but shared the common air with savage beasts; like them, I might have led a lonely life, not mourned by the living, nor disturbing the dead.”

On these thoughts she brooded in her anxious breast, whilst on board his ship, the Trojan found rest easier to come by. Having made his decision to sail and made everything ready for his early departure, he passed the night in sleep, in which the winged god once more appeared to him, in the same youthful guise as before, invading his ears with this new alarm:

“Are you sleeping, oh goddess-born? And can you forget your needful cares so near a hostile town, beset with foes? Do you not hear the western gales which invite your passage and fill your sails? She harbors a furious hatred in her breast, and you shall discover the dire effects too late; she is fixed on revenge and determined to die… You must make haste to flee from here, while you still have the power to do so! The sea will soon be covered with ships and the shore will be kindled with blazing firebrands. You must prevent her rage, while dark of night still obscures the skies; and sail before morning’s first light appears. Who knows what hazards your delay might bring? A woman’s mind is various and very changeable!” Then, in the dream, Hermes once again took flight aloft in the invisible air, disappearing into the darkness of the night.

Warned a second time by the celestial messenger, the pious prince hastily arose in fear, then immediately roused his drowsy crew: “Haste to your oars! Weigh your crooked anchors and spread your flying sails! Stand to sea! A god commands us: he stood before my eyes and urged us once again to speedy flight! Oh, sacred power, whatsoever power you are! To your blessed orders I resign my heart. Lead the way; protect thy Trojan followers, and prosper the design thy will commands!”

As he said this, he drew forth his flaming sword and divided the anchor-rope with his thundering arm, inspiring in his crew an emulating zeal: They run; they snatch and headlong they rush into the main in their haste to leave behind the deserted beach as they brush the liquid seas with laboring oars.

***** ******* *******

Now Aurora had left her saffron bed, and beams early of light were spreading across the heavens, when the queen’s wakeful eyes watched the dawn from a tower. She looked seaward and saw that the sea was empty; the last of the ships barely visible now as they disappeared over the horizon. Stung with despite and furious with despair she struck her trembling breast and tore her hair,

“And shall the ungrateful traitor go, forsaking my land and betraying my love?” she said, “Shall we not arm ourselves? Not rush from every street in the city to follow him… to sink and burn his perjured fleet? Haste! Haul my galleys out and pursue the foe! Bring flaming torches! Set sail and row swiftly! What have I said? Where am I? Fury turns my brain and burns my distempered bosom. Then, when I gave my person and my throne would have been a better time to have shown this hatred and this rage! See now the promised faith, the vaunted name, the pious man who rushed through the fires to preserve his gods and carry the burden of his feeble father to the Phrygian shore! I should have torn him limb from limb and thrown the pieces in the sea; or left his remains exposed in the woods. I should have destroyed his friends and set the boy on a fire to burn before his father’s eyes! Events are doubtful, which wait on battles, yet where’s the doubt to souls secure of their fate? My Tyrians, at their injured queen’s command would have tossed their fires amid the Trojans and at once extinguished all the faithless; and I myself, in the vengeance of my shame, should have fallen upon the funeral pyre to feed its flames.

“Thou, Sun, who sees everything at once in the world beneath; thou, Juno, guardian of the nuptial vows; and thou, Hecate, hearken from your dark abodes! Ye furies, fiends and violated gods, all you powers, invoked with Dido’s dying breath, listen to her curses and avenge her death! If, as Jove commands and the Fates ordain, the ungrateful wretch should find the Latian lands, let a race of untamed and haughty foes oppose his peaceful entrance with dire arms! Oppressed by numbers in an unequal field, let his men be discouraged and himself expelled; let him run from place to place seeking succor, torn from his subjects and his son’s embrace! But first let him see his friends slain in battle and lament their untimely fate in vain; and when at length the cruel war shall end, let him buy his peace under hard conditions; and do not even then let him enjoy his kingship, but let him fall untimely by some hostile hand, to lie unburied on the barren earth.

“These are my prayers and this is my dying will; and you, my Tyrians, fulfill every curse! Proclaim perpetual hatred and mortal war against the prince, the people and the Trojan name! These grateful offerings bestow on my grave; let the hostile nation know neither fellowship nor love! Now and henceforward in every future age, when rage excites your arms and strength supplies it, let some avenger of our Libyan blood arise with fire and sword to pursue their perjured breed; let our arms, our seas, our shores be opposed to them; and let the same hate descend on all our heirs!”

This said, she weighs within her anxious mind, the means of cutting short her odious days. Then, to Sichaeus’ nurse (for her own was dead when she had left her country) she said, “Go, Barce, call my sister, and let her prepare the solemn rites of sacrifice; bring the sheep and the atoning offerings, sprinkle her body with living drops from the crystal spring; then let her come and with sacred fillets bind thy hoary brow. Thus will I pay my vows to Stygian Jove and end the cares of my disastrous love; then cast the Trojan’s image on the fire and as that burns, so too shall my passions also die.”

***** ******* *******

1) The UK has riots where other countries have revolutions. That riots are happening now is a sign that there is something SERIOUSLY wrong with the UK’s current political system. The riots of 1980/81 (also triggered by the ‘suss’ laws and the way they were implemented by Willy Whitelaw’s bovver boys!) during Maggie Thatchers’ reign of terror, plus increasing economic inequity under the same Iron Maiden, were what inspired yours truly to fly ‘over the rainbow’ to the wonderful land of Oz… The fact that such riots are happening again is a sign that the new ‘austerity measures’ are quite evidently perceived as unfairly targetting the poorer sections of society while the rich get suntanned in Torremolinos, or wherever it’s fashionable for British middle and upper classes to holiday nowadays…

2) Population pressure is not really the cause; merely an aggravating factor, along with the ghetto-isation of migrant populations; the real underlying cause however, is social inequity, made all the more galling by the fact that the rich (neo-Con) bastards who caused GFC#1 and were bailed out by the taxpayer, now look very likely to have caused, or at least to be in the process of causing GFC#2; and when asked by Obama to pay a little bit of tax, that they could easily afford, in order to pull the USA’s fat out of the fire, they refused, forcing Obama to make deals with the Tea Party (neo-Con puppets that they are) that watered down his measures to address what may now be called GFC#2, resulting in a downgrade of the USA’s credit rating and turning GFC#2 into what looks like it could well become a financial black hole… And guess who’s going to be paying the lion’s share of the taxes needed to pull the globe out of it! Any cutbacks, loss of business, and therefore jobs, will inevitably hit the poorest sections of the community hardest; that migrants happen to form a large proportion of these sections of the community is coincidental, rather than causative (and we must remember also that refugees themselves are often a byproduct of neo-Con foreign policies!); and, finally,

3) There are large sections of the Australian (and undoubtedly the British, and American) populations who see migrants (yes, even paler-skinned, English-speaking ones) as a resource to be exploited for all it’s worth… and pollies are among the worst offenders in this regard. Migrants who have no money and few or no contacts in their new home are extremely vulnerable to being ripped off by all kinds of people in all kinds of businesses, legitimate or illegitimate, because it’s just SOOOOOOOO easy to do so and get away with it; the migrants haven’t the money or the knowledge of the legal systems of their new ‘homes’ to do anything about it, and most don’t want to get a reputation for being ‘whingers’ to add to the already negative stereotypes and labels which they are inevitably obliged to wear… and in any case there is precious little, if any, help available for them and thus absolutely no possiblilty of redress…

4) What goes around… comes around… Treat people like shit and you can hardly expect them to treat you (or your possessions) with respect.

By

David L Rowlands

Yesterday, over at my favorite e-pub, the Window Dressers’ Arms, Pig & Whistle, fellow ‘piglet’ Vectis Lad asked me which explanation I favored about the slaughter committed by Anders Behring Breivik, number 1, he’s mad, or number 2, he’s evil?

Here’s my answer:

The answer is neither. You see, neither of these ‘explanations’ actually explains anything about his actions… why he did what he did… rather, they ‘explain it away’; they give a ‘plausible’ explanation, which satisfies people’s prejudices (prejudices born in their own epistemologies) but which really tells us nothing at all about the nature and causes of this rampage. They leave us thinking we have an explanation, but in fact all we have is confirmation of our own prejudices… which also need to be examined for the role they play in the social construction of the ‘psychopathic mass-murderer’.

Moreover, this phenomenon is a social phenomenon; a social problem; and as Emile Durkheim, in “The Rules of Sociological Method”, said, “Social problems have social causes”. The psychological ‘explanation’ (ie. ‘he’s mad’), however, seeks to locate the causes of the problem completely within the psyche of the individual and ignores the social nature of the construction of this monster. But the fact is ‘we’ (ie. our societies) create these monsters… So we need to look at how we do this if we want to avoid creating more of ‘em in future. And that means we need to look very closely at what it is he thought he was doing… and ask what is it about our societies which generates such a worldview. As I’ve already indicated on the Drum, the answer lies in his deepest beliefs… his ‘christianity’ and his self-concept as some kind of ‘knight templar’.

In my book ‘Aesthetics of Violence’ I show that human sacrifices and/or scapegoat rituals are in fact paradigmatic of violence, yet christianity itself revolves around the central human-sacrifice/scapegoat-ritual of Jesus… Is it so far-fetched to suggest that there’s a connection between this belief in salvation through human sacrifice and the slaughter Oslo witnessed?

Now, when I said ‘neither’, this doesn’t mean I don’t think he was ‘evil’, don’t get me wrong… He’s evil alright, but not in the sense that christians mean when they use that term… For christians evil is an absolute, which is personified in their ‘devil’; their ‘anti-god’; and this devil supposedly corrupts the minds/spirits of people, seducing them away from ‘god’ and turning them into ‘evil’ creatures… But once again, you notice how this lets society off the hook? How it may satisfy a christian concept of an ‘evil’ man and seems to explain it, yet in fact once again it actually explains nothing?

You see, the truth is that good and evil are NOT absolutes; they are relative concepts: Thus certainly this man and his actions were evil to his victims and their families and to anyone else who was moved to outrage at his actions (myself included!) But in Breivik’s own mind he was apparently doing something he thought was ‘necessary’… In his own mind he was fighting the good fight… (It’s interesting that in this little scenario we can also see the impossibility of separating ‘good’ from ‘evil’; in Taoist terms these exist as complementary opposites which actually depend on each other for their existence).

So, if we really want to find the true (social) causes of this behavior we need to look very closely at Breivik’s worldview; and if we want to avoid further future horrors, we need to deconstruct that worldview… This is not an easy task, because what it means is that we must deconstruct the whole militaristic mentality, with its Social Darwinist emphasis on ‘competition’: Far too many people think solely in terms of what Nietzche referred to as ‘the struggle of all against all’ (which manifests itself as ‘the rat race’ in peacetime countries and in total war otherwise).

‘Competition’, however, is only half of the story! ‘Social Darwinism’ is a worldview which lacks a proper understanding of the nature and importance of ‘cooperation’; ‘competition’s’ complementary opposite. The fact of the matter is that humankind would never have survived were it not for cooperation; the fact is that we are social animals who work together to achieve what individuals could never achieve on their own. In this day and age particularly, we need most especially to focus more on cooperation than competition, because it is the one-sided, Social Darwinist view of the sole and ultimate importance of competition which leads to things like the GFC, terrorism and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. More importantly, the global problems the world is currently facing require global action, which must depend on global cooperation, if we are to have even a snowflake’s chance in hell of our species surviving much past the end of this century. If we don’t ALL work together to fix these problems; if we continue to be concerned only about Number One and maintain a ‘grab as much as you can and to hell with everyone else attitude’, then, as Mr Frazer, from Dad’s Army was always so fond of saying, “We’re DOOMED!”

Anyway, that’s my two-penn’orth!