Zeitkolonie

This guy sits in solitary confinement for twenty years. It would’ve been for eighty except it’s proved more enough beyond a reasonable doubt than was in the case against him that somebody else had committed the crime for which he had been sentenced. The state’s attorney — three state’s attorney’s removed from the one who’d led the prosecution — filed a plea for early release before the circuit judge, along with the request that the defendant be granted said release under special circumstances, yet not have his judgment overturned, since neither the state’s attorney’s office, the original prosecutor, nor the presiding judge in the case under review should be construed as liable for having contributed willfully or otherwise to a miscarriage of justice, which interpretation might be so enabled were the ruling to be vacated. The public defender acquiesced in the interest of expediency, having extended this recommendation to his client who had long settled that resistance was futile. It was therefore argued that it would be in the interest of the state judiciary and law enforcement if the guilty verdict remained in tact, which argument whatever it’s worth the judge interpreted as well-reasoned and so ordered.Thereby released, this newly freed man found himself in a position to reap just the kind of attention one would hope for — at least as one not affected might reckon — when a human rights lawyer applying pressure with just the right balance of ruthless tact and diplomatic expression convinced the court that it would be in the interest of the state to provide a penury allowance commensurate with the length of the term of imprisonment and successfully negotiated financial compensation for time served. It was clear to the parties when the sentence was to be suspended that the preponderance of prospect lie therein that the defendant’s ability to find gainful employment would be infringed. His lawyer was able to accentuate that fact not only with meticulous clarity, but persuasively.

One might say the settlement was handsome, but then twenty years is not something that’s easy to evaluate or — put another way, it’s hard to prove that the burden of the twenty years was equally as bad as the recompense was ameliorative. It is at any rate with great difficulty that one should consider freedom under the aforementioned circumstances on par with one’s being lucky, save for when one is speaking of the objective odds in a game of chance, all things in this case, however, being unequal. The monetary sum did afford him a roof over his head with steady meals for a lifetime, which as irony dictates was what he had before his release; it was in fact that around which his punishment was crafted. Nevertheless, one substantial distinction would be how post-incarceration he would arrange his living space and the time within it.

The first thing he did was acquire twenty years of lost history in the form of mostly out-of-print nonfiction reading material, which, nomenclature aside, was fiction insofar as the digestion of such would give its readers — amongst whom numbered the accused’s next of kin — the impression that our then not-yet newly freed lifer had been, beyond the kind of doubt maintained as reasonable, guilty of the crime for which he’d been judged: He gathered two decades of daily & weekly newspaper- and monthly & bimonthly magazine back issues and arranged them in a library of sorts that he had furnished with wall-to-wall shelves from ceiling to floor. As timing would have it, it was still just easy enough with a certain sum of money and the use of the postal service to obtain in pulp form everything he considered necessary to catch up on the past.

Adjacent to the makeshift library — to previous tenants a bedroom — was a walk-in closet that served a threesome of panels on which to pin and notate developments of interest, of which he would feed one above all. This habit eventually expanded, then relocated to the living room cum bedroom cum catchall for hanging periodical clippings and observations thereof. The bathroom remained a bathroom, the kitchen a kitchen. This aside, the living-working space diverged from its occupant’s previous quarters by an additional four hundred square feet that accommodated the aerobics that succeeded the prisoner’s calisthenics.

He didn’t subscribe to any contemporary journals. Correspondingly, he made no use of television except as a monitor to watch archival video footage of newscasts and special reports of both the local and not so local sort. His idea was explicit: He’d start every day with the morning paper, each week with a few magazines, and a recorded broadcast in & between. One’d think he might not be disinclined to skip forward, or peek to the most recent publication, which’d be the paper from the day before his release, and work backward, but he began and pressed steadily onward vacant evident temptation to deviate from the plan. Day 1 was to be the date he served his first day behind bars. He scheduled twenty years to get caught up — only to be still when he finished twenty years behind.

It was however the choice of the convicted in this case to take back the past taken from him, and in a manner befitting that of a free person unencumbered by undue haste. He had anyway no interest in the life outside, although it was exactly this life outside that was denied him by a sentence sufficient to balance the severity of the series of felonies that had been hung upon him, justly unjust as that latter rendering would have it. The time churning outside his window manifest so little in his outward bearing irrespective of his actual interest, which had been decisively tempered by the dearth of personal contact for over seven thousand three hundred and twenty-two days and nights. It shouldn’t surprise one that it turned out to be the routine outing necessary to purchase provisions for nourishment and hygiene that loomed in an increasingly burdensome manner in very short order. He had over the course of one hundred seventy-six thousand hours learned the odd, involuntary art of not breathing the abundance of outside air. With a refresher of a mere week under the broad light of the partially cloud-covered sun, and the general public he was at nerveracking odds to be around, did he manage to arrange full service of grocery and drugstore delivery and never left his apartment unit again except twice.

This was a further movement now forgone to additional irony, for in jail he was led daily from his concrete cube for a walk around the correctional complex, in lieu of which now emerged skipping rope and running in place. Another aspect diminished, human contact, went from six trips a week in the company of a prison guard to roughly one encounter with a delivery person in the same stretch of days.

In view of the ostensibly extreme approach of our recipient of off-the-books vindication, one might wonder with what temperament this ‘not getting on with his life’ would carry forward. Let alone concurrent with his backhanded deliverance, that which could be determined as justifiable embitterment towards a family who, in their absence of faith in the innocence and concomitant worthy humanity of their offspring, sibling, husband, and father, and their eventual abstinence from afforded visitation without which the prisoner in devastating degrees advanced in social petrification, it might be assumed that his days and nights would advance in anguish or hostility.

At the outset this assumption would bear out to be mistaken on the surface as our ambiguously liberated ex-con pored over his freshly funded free press articles with the enthusiasm of a dedicated historian, albeit as quasi real-time annalist. So too was the ritual that book-ended his frequent eighteen hour days disciplined. It commenced with Jane Fonda for fitness, continued through breakfast over the morning paper, made its way along with a stand & stretch break during the Lunch Hour Traffic Report, and kept itself abreast of frequent video news segments from a not quite concealed benefactor regularly delivered to the address sometimes in the nick of time for the analogous date, a day whose exercise was preceded by the marking of the calendar and which ended with the setting of the alarm clock.

 

Der Parkbank Pinkler Kapitel XVII: Grund genug

„Es ist die Frage, weiter, rücksichtslos weiter, oder aufhören, Schluss machen.”

—Thomas Bernhard
XVII.

Er sitzt auf einem Bett allein im Haftraum. Es liegen gegen ihn Hinweise für drei verschiedene Straftaten vor. Das ist Grund genug, ihn hier zu behalten. Verdächtigt ist er, einen Obdachloser in Hafennähe erschlagen zu haben. Der Verdächtiger wurde aufgefunden, mit der vermutlichen Opferjacke bei, samt Blutflecken. Er hat die Tatsache weder eingestanden noch bestritten. Wie er in den Besitz vom Bekleidungsstück kam, hat er bisher geschwiegen. Präzisere Details zu den Vorwürfen gibt es auch noch nicht.

Vor etlichen Stunden am Uferweg hinter Märkischem Platz wurde er von einem Streifenpolizist wachgerüttelt. Vielleicht ist es schon ein Tag her. Wenige Tagen davor war dieser Wachmeister auf den relevanten Ermordeten gestoßen, auf den selben Bank liegend, Kopf in Richtung Jannowitzbrücke zeigend, wie später der vom vermutlichen Täter, was der Blauer nicht umhin kam zu bemerken, wenn auch nur nebenbei.

Nun ist es unserm Verdachtsperson nicht entgangen, dass dieses Bett jener Schlafbankfläche in Größe und Form entspricht. Es ist wohl von dünn gepolsterten Brettern im Knast die Rede, aber den eckigen Latten gegenüber, was nicht unerheblich zu Hüft- und Nierenschmerzen führt, fühlt es sich hier behaglich an.

Er wägt das Für und Wider weiter ab: Hier gibts Schlafplatz und Essen. Wärme. Ein Klo. Eine Dusche. Selbstverständlich, nimmt man an, jedoch Schurken, die einem eventuell Gewalt antun. Doch draußen gibts sie auch. Und Mord ist grad angesagt. Dafür ist die Zeit irgendwie. Schlafplätze und Essen sind scheiße und stets aufdringlich im Kopf anstatt im Magen. Matratze wird irgendwann immer geklaut. Auch wenn es nicht kalt ist, ist es manchmal kalt.

Außerdem gibts keinen Blickkontakt mehr, geschweige denn das Miteinander. Ob es hier drin gibt? Auf der Straße wird es sich überall vor Unbehagen bis Ekel abgewendet. Dadurch wird sich die Minderwertigkeit andauernd verfestigt. So bloßgestellt zu werden, dass einer in diesem Welt versagen hat. Dass einer den Wille nicht besitzt. Dass man ab irgendwann diesen Wille als unerreichbar erlebt und auf dem Gehweg sitzt und Blickkontakt meidet auch nur kurz zu sehen zu bekommen.

Und das noch indirekt gegenseitig von der breiten Masse, indem sie den Blick meidet auch nur kurz zu werfen, um nicht selber bloßgestellt zu werden, dass sie einiges erkennt. Dass zum Beispiel Wohnungslosigkeit eine Ursache des Alkoholismus sei, ist Quatsch. Weil, was auch nur teilweise Quatsch ist, ist schlicht Quatsch. Dass obwohl es sich allezeit besoffene Penner gab — mit Leberzirrhose bis in der rot befleckten Nase erscheinend, die den größten Schauplätze der Erde schmücken und besudeln —, dass eine ursprüngliche Ursache tief in sich herumtreibt und sich wiedererkennt in den menschlichen Steinen, die in den Weg liegen.

Dass, was teilweise Quatsch ist, ist schlicht Quatsch, insofern Symptome zur Ausrede werden, Grund genug, dem Bettler keine Hilfe zu leisten und, wenn schon, nicht weil er damit Alkohol sucht, sondern weil er nicht im Besitz von diesem Willen ist. Tief im Inneren erkennt man den Unterschied zwischen diesem Willen und dem Lebenswillen. Ersteres ist Lebenslust, was unser Gefangener vermutet, nur gerochen zu haben. Gesehen. Gehört. Davon gehört. Observiert.

Zwischen damals, als er glücklich genug war, Unterlage und Wände unterm Dach zu haben — Grund genug, glücklich zu sein und trotzdem nicht glücklich —, und seitdem er auch ohne dieses weitermacht, ist der Lebenswille ohnehin de facto vorhanden. Und nun, obwohl das Ernähren eine Frage von Ob anstatt Wann und Wo und Wieviel ist, eine gewisse Ungewissheit herrscht über alles, die sagt, falls einer zuhört, warum man so treibt. Warum nur?

Diese allmächtige Ungewissheit heißt Todesangst. Ebenfalls darum wird den Blick abgewandt. Überdies ist das Augenkontakt soweit verloren wie es aus dem Gedächtnis unsrer Verdachtsperson verschwunden, wann er das erste Mal erkannte, mit dem Fluch von Lebenswille ohne Lebenslust beladen zu sein.

Zumindest von der Lage her sind alle Gefangene einigermaßen gleich. Ob sie vertraut verkehren ist rein akademisch. Das Arbeitsrätsel erledigt sich auch. Hier bedrängt der Wille nur die, die auf freiem Fuß wollen. Heute Nacht wurde gegessen und gut geschlafen. Grund genug zu gestehen ist seiner Gedanke, was sich von selbst versteht und auf ihn wirkt geradezu wie eine gewaltige Erleichterung.

Mit einem aufschreckenden Knall wird die Flurtür aufgesperrt. Widerhallende Sohlen begleiten einen schleppenden Schlüsselbund und kommen der Zelle nah. Der Schatten des Wärters kommt zuerst an, dicht gefolgt von seiner Gestalt. Sie versammeln sich vor den Gitterstäben und werfen einen neuen Schatten dahinter. Der stoppt, schließt um, schiebt auf und meint, »Die Beweiskraft der Indizien reicht nicht aus um Sie hier weiter festzuhalten. Sie dürfen nun gehen.«

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Incredible sorcery ≠ credible sources.

There are so many things that make the current American president unacceptable to me, but I don’t see them taken up by the resistance to his presidency (hash-tagged or otherwise). Such an issue is conventionally disregarded, not because it’s buried by distraction (which it is) but because it does not rise to the level to meet with the resister’s resistance unless it’s been hammered into their consciousness parallel to their first learning to form full sentences, like the issues of national allegiance, federal law enforcement, and espionage.I really couldn’t care less about the state of the FBI. The only good that’s come out of that organization is seen through fictional depictions and Eliot Ness’ Wikipedia page. Theirs is such a deep record of oppressive behavior, blowing the lid off of the occasional crime ring cannot make up for serial entrapment and murder. But I’m even more sceptical about the virtue of US intelligence or the sanctity of its sources. The mere fact that these statements are potential enough to reap my own harassment &/or surveillance might land me broader sympathy if not for the short circuit of intellect that takes place when such topics arise.

It’s the result of lazy thinking, which in fairness to the lazy thinkers is the result of social conditioning, which, given where this has led, functions now like an authentic incantation that manipulates the emotional mind of its subject-objects, who take their views for rational rather than the affect they really are.

As to the things distracted from, their extant state in the public record would be well enough to get the consideration they deserve were it not for counter-conditioning that keeps them clear of the emotional radar the subject-objects are disciplined to react to. For example, the president’s readying another hundred billion dollar death package to Saudi Arabia is standard operating procedure. Mundane even. Boring. Coupled with the inbred acceptance that secret state science saves humanity from the bad guys, questions of credibility don’t involve having to think.

I’m not trying to assert that there are not categorical differences of real and potential illegality at play in the current White House. On the contrary. I just don’t care about them. Nor are the constitutional matters coincidental. They underpin the problem I’m complaining about. The shadiness seen from political actors in my lifetime most often conveniently lands linguistically, and therefore legally, in the area of mistakes made: irresponsibility, negligence, maybe recklessness. Even then the language is spun by those absolved of crossing statutory boundaries. You know, politics.

But more frankly I don’t give a shit about Russian spies and oligarchs because the American ones and the ones of their official allies have acquitted themselves horrendously as it relates to the state of the world today, and their only answer is to do battle with the symptoms they’ve caused rather than address their own complicity. Not that I would expect them to.

The last thing I expect, however, is a people trained to think a certain way to recognize its least comforting manifestations. The current phenomenon suggests monumental peril at the hands of a historically duplicitous acting president. That this might be beside a certain point, that his presidency in and of itself might be extraneous to the world’s problems seems to occur to almost no one.

Of course, this is only my version of a plausible explanation for the popular state of mind. I am not convinced that the people who are actively railing against the shocking traitorous criminality of the American president even care about his implicit disloyalty. They’re just responding to stimuli. And it sure gives them good cause to care that much less about things he has in common with his predecessors, which is something his removal from office would do less than zilch to mitigate.

 

Matryoshki Eggs o’ Jesus

“Io, their soft inheritance is bound to unfounded prospect.”

Sheets of Prometheus Unraveled

To say it had been a hard fought primary campaign that effected a bitterness that led to the most vindictive convention that threatened to split the party apart once and for all — not just the way it’s said to be every primary season but most verily now — would be understating the treacherousness of the path traversed. Now, two and a half months later, upon the evening of the general election, the gathered felt certain of that path’s fortune. Not only had they stuck together to their principles and overthrown the corrupt party leadership, but their unlikely August triumph had manifestly inspired the entire nation, sailing their candidate into office with a majority that even the general opposition admitted amounted to a mandate.

With this seismic success at hand in mind, the frenzy smoldered from within the hall when the brand new president-elect took to the podium for a victory speech that given the circumstances probably would be the most genuinely worthy of any assembled hyperbolic cliché in the history books. Once the noise had ebbed such that it seemed the speech would begin, the collective set of tear streaming eyes summoned a symbolic vision from the depth of meaning behind their witness: no longer a political victory speech, this was a priestly observance invoked by the unprecedented level of emotional energy yet concentrated in any such proportional space.

The effect was both real and hallucinatory. The collective eyes of misty enthusiasm virtually lifted off the outer shell of the figure at the microphone, which optics realized at once a representation of the old: the tribulation of the previous eight years; the internecine torture of the last eleven months; the politics of the past — to reveal a raw looking duplicate within. It sported an identical color pattern and design, the same smile-risen rosy cheeks, but a befittingly smaller frame.

Immediately the thought sneaking into many minds on hand was a hint too obvious to ignore: the familiarity was an omen. Just as efficiently as that thought was inevitable, it was brushed aside for the sake of something between where sanity and faith never quite capably meet (that last bit ignored completely if at all manifest). A few of the dedicated who were worrying still entertained one last brief absurdity before they put it completely to rest: If this nested doll isn’t the real deal, once removed, the next one will be better. Some already explored that campaign in whispers and tweets — for progress’ sake, or, if forsaking progress, for continuity of purpose. For posterity.

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“One can’t have been around to work for McCarthy yet not have heard this argument before. I do wonder myself just who all the non-corporate Thems would be and how they’d fare, assuming they weren’t really corporate Thems at heart. America needs a complete conversation change. Each Warren and all the Sanders are as a gate before the gates of Nan P. Losy and Dee Finestone whose congenital function is to smith the chains of stricture upon that which national dialog is held. Behind every Paris there’s an Elision who serves well as a placeholder for misplaced dreams.”

—Cody Cray Z.

The subtext of the finding of Lone Hapless Osmosis guilty of the murder of the sitting king was that the dramaturgic control of its investigation was covering up the assassin’s facilitation by a menacing cabal of meddling Coloreds, the revelation of whose involvement would have increased tensions between the cool battle nations that surely’d’ve led to atomic annihilation. The general pretense of Lemley Briscoe Jackson’s purported unease with the Warring Committee Release was that it was missing something, which was as camouflage draped over the performative cover-up. What’s been alleged through continual leakage and over the years has accumulated into waves of publication to satisfy the desire that a conspiracy finally be admitted to. The only thing revealed however is a cover story, which is as aged as the conspiracy itself. That the story today appeases the reemerged zeitgeist may or may not be relevant.

Like the metaphor of peeling back the layers of the onion, the uncovering of each doll carries the liminal expectation of revelation. If one were to recognize reality through this model and follow its logic to conclusion, they’d find at the core of the innermost doll beats the heart of a MacGuffin, for dolls and puppets don’t have hearts. The agency behind this model, however, is not the construct of super-surreptitious long-term planning, but the representation of wholly natural processes of organisms and their composite structures.

For example, the simplest solution toward the continuity of a state’s best supplied beneficiaries during times of enlightened consent — when extortion and misappropriation of the citizens’ lifeblood is met with new forms of unpredictable resistance — is to stratify the subterfuge, to bring the mass of consumer-laborers into union with the validity of the implied face behind the mask in such cases where the mask is not to their liking.

Aside from its obscuring the obvious, an additional utility of this multilayered costume ball is that critics come off as party poopers, and any such malcontent who acknowledges its depth of display is certifiable enough to be removed from the premises.

 

Organic Gates of Matryoshki

just look at the reds
our story paints a picture
cloak over veneer

uppermost frameup
of vast southern exposure
dulles does dallas

their cover stories

disclosure gag reflexes
told in drips and drabs

always smaller shells

placeholders for misplaced dreams
limited hangouts

the cap in the hat

for each intrigue a russkie
warring commission

pointing fingerprints
modern stench revolution
preemptive pretense

 

The Fist of May

As it relates to the fruits of labor beyond just harvest, this first day of May means a number of things, down to nothing, depending upon where one comes- or is coming from. Being an American by arbitrary birthright I can observe the spectrum from ignorance to disregard. The European perspective — which, perspectives being as they are, one should in no way claim capacity of even the most far-flung interpretive representation — is hardly of one voice as to the significance of International Workers’ Day, or how it should or shouldn’t be observed.There are non-Europeans who think they know how things are different in Euroland and are comfortable acting as authority on the matter. There are non-Euros who know better, but act as authority all the same. There are those who admit ignorance, but will say they get the general idea and don’t have too big a problem arguing a viewpoint on it. There are those who are less comfortable in this final regard, but not to the extent that you won’t hear plenty of peep out of them. Wherever the end of this line is, it doesn’t have anyone on it who’ll admit they don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about, counting myself. If there’s a silent majority, they ain’t sayin’ shit.

About the First of May: it’s easy to bear distant witness to people throwing bottles at cops or breaking windows and setting things on fire and saying that this isn’t what the celebration is supposed to be about. If there’s any safer an utterance on the subject than, “It’s supposed to be a peaceful demonstration of (compete cliché here),” I can’t recall hearing it. On the flipside, there’s no rounder a rebuke guaranteed than if you were to state certainly that breaking shit is in fact what it is all about.

Take the events 131 years ago surrounding Haymarket Square in Chicago as substantiated origin of today’s holiday in Europe and you have a parallel of competing stories as to what inspired what took place then — including who was involved and why, and what ultimately resulted and who all were instrumental in that — that lend remarkable credence to the appropriateness of this recurring annual symbolism of “we just wanna barbecue” vs. “get in line or stay away” vs. “peacefully demonstrate” vs. “stand up and be counted” vs. “make a ruckus” vs. “break the fucking system”.

If, on the other hand, the aforesaid safest interpretation of the meaning of these gatherings is the one viable demonstration, it seems to me like an awful lot of marching under the aegis of advertising democracies whose backdrop is an infrastructure of hierarchy that democracy is helpless to change more than indirectly rearrange.

Enter the Strike: standing up to sit down, walking in to walk out, shouting out to shut down, fully embracing boycott. These are all actions that, even if you see them as passive resistance, will most certainly beget an increase in violence one must be prepared to withstand in order to remain resolute enough to make a difference. Unfortunately, this threat of reactionary beatdown does not, in my opinion, factor into why the workers of the world will never unite to overcome those who own the right to hire and fire them under conditions that mutate with the times. Moreover, the lack of solidarity is not only due to inadequate organisation, but down to lack of unity of enlightened desperation: It requires the participation of a broad range of people of centuries-long indoctrination who are everything from too in need of their income to feed their own, to comfy enough in their consumer habits and don’t want to rock the yacht.

The most quickly dismissed are the ones who stand up. Given that the elections that dominate much of the world’s news these days are in a myriad of ways rigged at their outset, voting is anything but standing up. It serves first as an outlet of plausible freedom. If we really wanted the world free of its oppressors, the world’s workers’d be on strike and her unemployed boycotting everything else.

And the action alone is not enough. If it’s true that the price of liberty is eternal vigilance, the strike would have to be permanent.

solidarity forever