ATMOSPHERICS Volume 1, number 4 Spring 1995 __________________________________________________________ Table of Contents: Susan Keeping Editorial Allegra Slomana fable, with appendices Ayli Lapkoff Exercise in fear Decisions David Dowker from-MACHINE LANGUAGE John Landry From SCONTICUT Jon-Paul Therriault For Art's Sake Mornin' An Illumination of the Discourses Concerning the Inverse Proportional Relationship Between Life and Fairity Die With Me Jake Wadland maclean's november fourteenth nineteen ninety-four page ten second paragraph second sentence period omitted Underfoot Resilience UPC ________________________________________________________________ This text may be freely shared amongst individuals, but it may not be republished in any medium without express written consent from the authors and advance notification of the editor. Rights to stories remain with the authors. Copyright 1995, the authors. _________________________________________________________________ Editorial: Welcome to Atmospherics number 4! Well, we've made it to the end of Volume 1. I'm still very surprised that the journal has lasted this long. I guess it's the pessimist in me. Thanks again for all the support you have all given to the journal. I'm republishing David Dowker's last submission. I was unaware I hadn't receive the entire file of his selections from "Machine Language". I'm really sorry about that David. It won't happen again, I promise. Two of Ayli Lapkoff's poems appear in this issue. Please, send me more! Allegra Sloman has written a very intriguing thought piece in "a fable, with appendices". This story is very pertinent considering controls being proposed for e-mail right now in the US Senate. John Landry has contributed a poem. Jon-Paul Therriault has also contributed a few poems. Jake Wadham has contributed a few poems, also. As always, the contributions are first rate. I'd certainly welcome more from each of the contributors and, of course, I would love to receive submissions from anyone who takes the time to e-mail them to me. Atmospherics is available through anonymous FTP at: etext.archive.umich.edu; it is also available through WWW at: http://moesbooks.com; and http://www.bprc.mps.ohio-state.edu/cgi-bin/hpp/Daedelus.html (this is the Atmospherics home page) it is available through Gopher at: etext.archive.umich.edu. Requests for subscriptions and submissions should be sent to: Susan Keeping (keeping@library.utoronto.ca or billie@idirect.com) Susan Keeping, editor _________________________________________________________________ A fable, with appendices This morning around 2 am I was just finishing up an email to my mother in Victoria, when I gradually became aware that there was someone else in the room besides me and the cat. This feeling of uneasiness mixed uncomfortably with exhaustion. I felt myself drop off, and then realized to my horror that two strangers were sitting on my sofa. I knew instantly that I was dreaming, but it was a wonderful dream, so I happily greeted my insubstantial guests. "Emma! Kropotkin! What are you two doing here?" Kropotkin had a radiance of intelligence and compassion which made me feel happy to be near him. Emma just looked mad. "Woman, what are you doing?" she asked, impatiently. Kropotkin looked at her quellingly, deploring her brusqueness. Then he said, "We are curious. This is obviously an electrical typewriter, but what are you doing with it?" I can think of few people from the early part of this century that would have been easier to explain e-mail to. They looked at each other, and then at me. "Are there any restrictions on who may use e-mail?" Kropotkin asked. "Time, money, literacy, a phone system and access to a computer," I replied, patting the keyboard. Emma was stroking the cat and staring off into space. Kropotkin was thinking hard himself. I had a premonition that two very good teachers were about to scold me for not doing my lessons, and after a minute, alternating, they began to pepper me with questions, which I tried to answer as best as I could. My dream of meeting the two greatest anarchists who ever lived was turning into a nightmare, as I was forced to confront their expectations of me and see that I was no better than the parasites I satirized. In the end, Kropotkin summarized his findings, quietly and without rancour. "You have access to the most sophisticated, decentralized, if I may say so, anarchistic," and he put a delicately ironic spin on the word, "system of communication yet devised. It is virtually instantaneous, yet allows each correspondent to develop ideas without interruption. It has evolved even as an organism evolves, feeling its way through an environment toward survival, and is a group of cooperative, mutually supporting entities. To destroy it one would need to destroy the world as it stands right now. Universities, libraries, individuals, government bodies and fraternal organizations use it. It is possible to send coded messages of such complexity and volume that no single organization or person could ever hope to control or censor them. Ideas move freely, research into the important human problems is assisted, yet the overwhelming majority of traffic between individuals consists of discussions of the meanest possible sort." "I meant for a woman's sex-desire to be openly discussed for the purpose of freeing women from the institution of marriage, not to be turned into yet another bourgeois fetish," Emma said, rolling her eyes. I was going to assert that I had been married once, and now lived in unwedded bliss, but she said, her earlier asperity contained, "And what role do women play on this marvellous creation you call the Net?" "Ah, well," I said, fidgeting. "Most of the traffic is generated and most of the nodes - post offices, you might say - are run by men. But it's not very sexist, and there are lots of places for women to discuss issues of concern to them, without having to have men around." Emma nodded, and then looked at Kropotkin. "I see that many matters of a technical and scientific nature have seen a great progression. What problems remain in this age of marvels?" Kropotkin asked gently. "How much has changed among our fellow humans?" I took a deep breath, and said, "Things are mostly worse. The problems are of such magnitude now that even a brave spirit will quail in the face of them. Poverty of a kind unthinkable in your day runs rife throughout the world. The goal of world wide literacy is a like a half-remembered dream, and yet without it women are subjected and the population skyrockets. The Earth, our sustaining mother, is poisoned and skinned, and the destruction breeds want and envy and war. The weather shows signs of becoming more unstable. Many people live in areas that are threatened by hurricanes and earthquakes; still more live where plague, cholera, tuberculosis, poisonous earth and AIDS run rife." "Aid?" Kropotkin asked. "You speak of aid as if it was a disease." "When it's brought by Christians, it is," Emma said, under her breath. "Or missionaries of any kind," I said, smiling a little. "No, it's a sexually transmitted disease that is very slow acting and fatal, and has a very long latency period, during which you can infect many, many others," I said. Looking at the problems of the world hurt so badly that I began to sniffle to suppress my tears. Kropotkin produced a handkerchief, and all of us were surprised that he could not actually give it to me. I felt the warmth of his hand without actually feeling any pressure - a very odd but somehow comforting feeling. I found a tissue and sat back down. "Many people cling to beliefs that no longer serve them or their children," I said. "Circumcision of both male and female children, mass education for the purpose of producing slaves to mass consumption, religious sentiment that breeds war and repression, cutting down trees, overfishing the sea -" "Overfishing the sea? How is that possible?" cried Emma. I explained factory fishing to them, and they tried to imagine the scale of pillage that would empty the sea of fish. I explained how the biosphere, which contained answers to many riddles and cures for many ailments, was losing its diversity as thousands of species, some never identified, vanished to take their place in the fossil record, or were utterly consumed. Kropotkin was much more disturbed by this than Emma. I told them about the implosion of the nation state, the awful roar in the distance as the debts incurred by all nations threatened to rise up and destroy every good thing that had managed to come from our 20,000 years or so of city dwelling and 'civilization'. I told him about the coming race war, the doors slamming in immigrant faces, the faceless capital that swooped down on profit and left behind chaos, and the ever growing desire of those exploited to be revenged by exploiting others, rather than massing together and building according to their own immediate needs. I told them about nuclear weapons and nerve gas, and Chernobyl and the growing number of countries and individuals who would think nothing of holding a jewel like Rome or Paris or New York to ransom with a few kilos of poison in a suitcase. I told them about genocide and terrorism and journalists getting shot. I told them about how mass culture was so trivial and degraded, and yet so subtle in its blandishments, that only a saint or a fanatic could resist it, and I was neither. "I am living in a small, quiet, relatively safe backwater in the world," I said. "There is poverty, there is want, there is ignorance, there is poison, but for the most part I am safe, and I want to stay that way. My two children are asleep two rooms away-" Kropotkin said, "Let me see them!" Dreading what was coming, I pushed the bedroom door open and let them see my children as they slept curled up in the same bed. "So these are the two innocents your irresolution will abandon to the twenty-first century," Emma commented. "That's not fair," I sobbed. I was now crying too hard to speak coherently and fled back to the living room. Emma stayed on her feet. "It was not fair that my comrade and I were jailed, exiled, reviled and impoverished. It is not fair that the world has, as you say, indeed become worse since we left it," Emma said, and the passion in her voice was like a cold wind blowing through me. "You must use your gifts to help end this horror. You must stop paying lip service to anarchism, only appreciating it as an ideal because it somehow puts you in an intellectual vanguard. A vanguard that does not move is merely another brick wall to be torn down and thrown aside. Perhaps you think that the only revolution is the one that occurs in the human heart, but there is still work to be done," Emma said. "Comrade. Hear us," Kropotkin said. "There is much to be done. Put fear aside, put doubt aside, put your bourgeois concerns aside. Many are living now who do not understand that the chains that prevent them from assisting others are half a link away from being severed. Let your actions and your words break those chains - but start on your own chain first." He stood, and placed an hand on Emma's shoulder. They gestured a farewell, and were gone. I woke up on the sofa a few hours later and couldn't sleep any more. I had never in my life had such a real dream, recalling the flash of Emma's glasses, being able to recall their sober dress and their accents, and their final appeal. So I have written it down, for what it is worth, and I append a list of names, places, and ideas, which I hope will help me break the chains I can no longer ignore - the doubt and fear that Red Emma and Prince Kropotkin helped me to face last night. This morning, my daughter said to me at breakfast, "Who were you fighting with last night?" After a minute, I said, "Myself," because it was the truest answer I could make. @ppendices Dreamtime village, c/o Xexoxial Endarchy, Rt 1 Box 131, LaFarge, WI 54639 USA, 608-528-4619, email dreamtimev@aol.com Dreamtime village is a place in Wisconsin where a family/clan is building a permaculture reality. Dreamtime village produces an eerily beautiful and inspiring newsletter. They offer apprenticeships in permaculture, hypermedia and construction, and are looking for both visitors and permanent residents. Visitors are welcome, but are required to give a daily stipend. Black Rose Books, 3981 St Laurent #888, Montreal, Canada (still!). Bring a chequebook - they don't make change! This is the editorial office of a major anarchist publisher. Pretty Good Privacy. PGP is a shareware program which allows military specification (ie, damned near uncrackable) encryption of computer files so that they can only be decrypted by the persons to whom they are being sent. Absolutely a requirement for secure transmission of files over the Net. Persons who believe that the right to determine the content of information rests with individuals rather than governments are advised to obtain a copy - and use it. Consult your local BBS for availability and upgrades. American citizens should be aware that Mr.Zimmerman, the man who wrote the software, is currently under indictment for exporting cryptography software. Possession of this software may shortly become illegal, so govern yourself accordingly. Earthship. This is the name of a house built out of used tires and pop cans. This house, if constructed properly, does not require fossil fuel for heat, supplies the inhabitants with water, and can be made independent of the power grid. I have actually seen a house built this way for the Canadian climate, in Paisley, Ontario. (E-mail the author for further details on tours). Information about it can be obtained from Solar Survival Architecture, PO Box 1041, Taos, New Mexico, 87571, Earth. The first two books detailing construction rationale and technique are ISBN 0-9626767-0-5 and -1-3 respectively. Anyone disgusted by the inefficiency of modern shelter construction is URGED to read these books. Build with something garages will PAY you to haul away! Allegra Sloman _________________________________________________________________ AN EXERCISE IN FEAR Your eyes fell shut Like birds who crashed out of the sky They have holes in their useless wings Holes in the second hand clothing That gathers dust in the basement of your fear. Your soul was washed up Like jellyfish on the shore Or the boats of lovers Who clung to each other while they drowned Martyrs for your fear. Your ashes were blown apart Like travellers who parted ways Fate wished that they met Luckless patterns in plaid Pointless because of your fear. Ayli Lapkoff ________________________________________________________________ DECISIONS The philosophical daffodils Implore me with shadowy eyes To learn to read the river's mind The candle burns upside down Stand on your head The words on the page merge into oblivion The clock's hands turn backwards Chekov, the Pope, Sacrates and Monet Lie interwoven in my skin The spider's web will catch the spider My integrity lies bloodied and mangled Like the corpse of my great great grandfather In the wheat field behind my house Turn the other cheek? Ayli Lapkoff _______________________________________________________________ _from_ MACHINE LANGUAGE I would perpetuate this myth. The metanymph by the tousled waterfall, weeping. While calm beyond her soundshell, bees and breezes drowse, dappled with laughter. Paradoxical sleep beneath so many eyelids. Caterpillar dream in which we participate. Our paradigm poised upon an improbable joy, nimble wisdom hidden in the phenomena. Echoes through the gene-pool. Water ponders over stone, dopplers into day. Radiant agency of flesh, flowers. This consensual apparition glistens in the polarized air. * NEUROMANTIC circuits o p e n and close, supra- liminal information transfer, cellular net -work. Ovular, oracular . ore from the m i n d f i e l d transformed, cerebrospores or meta-euphoric seed in the head, swollen sun within The wind 's eye allows the honey in, heaven's s p e c t r u m splashed across the floor OR Translate this: . (This is the ineffable pineapple, aboriginal plasma of the actual, the statistical sublime.) * THE GORGON APPARATUS The mask bit is a diversion, a ritual horror for the normalized, the usual bag of tricks: eye and tooth of the Shrouded Ones, a mirror and sickle, helmet and sandals and various interpretations of the flight of birds: analogical engine of legendary beauty turned inside-out, translated. We come to the dance (masked) as heron or automaton, solar lion or autochthon, controlled by a hierarchy of demons: the dragon pattern in the blood programmable, the butterfly in the back of the brain, the hippocampus and other ancient river gods: indeed, the entire pantheon of hormones and neuro- transmitters. Under Her aegis. Imagine if you can: a Pleiades of eyes in an artificial forest, a flutter of doves, a quiver of arrows upon a starry altar and over the altar (oDiaNADoNAi) a charmed column of fire quivers, hovers there, immaculate in the _live_ air. You are. David Dowker _______________________________________________________________ from SCONTICUT as it turned out there were not *more fish* in the sea Georges Bank overdrawn none innocent of an appetite bordering ichthycide everything that's wrapped around the secret core we are the manifestering belief in the tools & techniques [all evasive action fails] [the determination of the state] the exploratory surgeries continue [the riddle we are is its answer us] monks are growing ostriches in Georgia 3 bent stems (some brown, some green some flowering) the collision of their separate angles dance [in the end what's in us eats us] like the open ocean could not be interred *nature remains* John Landry _________________________________________________________________ For Art's Sake We should not discourage people from jumping off the Empire State Building. But rather, when they splatter, enshrine the smear they leave and put it in a gallery somewhere. we could call it "corpse-art" (go ahead, whisper it to yourself it's alright, your dog will not condemn you for it) and give them the praise they so clearly missed in life. Jon-Paul Therriault _________________________________________________________________ Mornin' six o'clock in the morning, out of bed; somebody, quick, shoot me dead; it's too early to be alive. resurrect me, if you can in time for my nap. Jon-Paul Therriault _________________________________________________________________ An Illumination of the Discourses Concerning the Inverse Proportional Relationship Between Life and Fairity Life is Fair. There. _Now_ it's written somewhere. Jon-Paul Therriault _________________________________________________________________ Die With Me we walk the streets in orgies of mutual masturbation; oneness, pure and clean and free, elusive. I want to slash our wrists, and press them close together, and die with you. our life one, running red and full and free, over twinned flesh and drip-drip into the rich spring earth. Jon-Paul Therriault _________________________________________________________________ maclean's november fourteenth nineteen ninety-four page ten second paragraph second sentence period omitted In fact, we have hundreds of satisfied clients and testimonial letters on file from people just like you, specifically outlining how our carefully-structured Investment Programs have met their expectations Jake Wadland _________________________________________________________________ Underfoot Resilience The weeds that grow and spread Across the deep green perfect Ordered sea of suburban Imagined joy and misplaced loyalty The weeds that turn their perfect Yellow faces Unflinchingly towards The poison sun that Burns the day Burns the skin Fearless anywhere Their omnipresence mocks Ordered beds of tulips Wilting in the sun Mocks the tending Mocks the tender Idly sowing idle seeds In vast, limitless Gardens of corruption Behold our cancerous, Rotting irony Where dandelions dare to grow Between cracked concrete slabs With will and means enough to Outlast any pestilence Jake Wadland _________________________________________________________________ UPC small and eager faces beside the UPC what's your number pouting prog-rock little faces beside the bars and numbers hear you in your bars and numbers you're a universal product what's that code assigned, accepted moment of weakness moment of greed a fashionable X your UPC-inventoried 3-note-bass-line insurrection a hook scam to walk my angst strings up to that UPC scanner It knows your number It sings your song Jake Wadland _________________________________________________________________ Contributors to this issue: Allegra Sloman argella@smegheads.montreal.qc.ca After 17 years in the work force, Allegra Sloman is now interacting with western civilization in Greater Montreal, as a housewife and mother of two. Her interests are so diverse that an accurate representation of them wouldn't be useful, and it would not describe the smells emanating from her kitchen or her very loud laugh. A truncated list of interests follows: anarchism, sf, pestering friends & relatives to get email addresses, and staying warm. "My eight year old son outed me as a marijuana user at school recently in a fit of pique after being cut off from TV. Life is full of weirdness!" Ayli Lapkoff av841@freenet.carleton.ca This is the second time Atmospherics has published Ayli. The poems "Coffee", "Circle" and "Red" were published in Atmospherics number 3. From this issue "An exercise in fear" has previously been published in Fiction-Online. This is the first time "Decisions" has been published. Ayli has also been published in GraffitiFish, Box 77 and Saccharine. She also has a chapbook due out in April called "Red Paper Dress." David Dowker david.dowker@canrem.com Atmospherics has published excerpts from "Machine Language" in previous issues. David has recently been published in inter\face 9. "Machine Language" is on hiatus. "I have been preoccupied with a series of _cut-up_ poems and related investigations and continue on with the continuing (SF) story." John Landry jlandry@umassd.edu "JL from New Bedford, MA. A shore-dweller primarily. Have been coordinator of Patmos Press since 1975. Have had poems in Exquisite Corpse, ContactII, Beatitude, Poetry Motel...have given readings at City Lights(SF), coffeehouses, galleries, bakeries, bars all over US, and at the Library of Congress at the invitation of Gwendolyn Brooks (then Poetry "laureate" Consultant). Have lived in San Francisco, Louisiana, Austin Texas, Washington D.C., on the Greek island of Patmos. Have been addicted to poetry and social action . Been employed as a quahogger, scallop-shucker, factory-worker, library assistant. Arrested at the White House protesting the admin's lack of compassionate policy for the homeless while ear-marking $100 million for aid to the Nicaraguan contras. Worked as a StreetOutreach Health Educator on D.C. with the Whitman-Walker Clinic, offering info, resources, etc. to the street population in the prostitution zones. The civil-disobedience goes way back, but most recent was with the Community for Creative Non-Violence in D.C. mentioned above." Jon-Paul Therriault thanatos@gold.interlog.com Jon Therriault is an Anthropology undergrad at the University of Toronto, but prefers to work on his 'artistic' projects more and more. He writes, both poetry and prose, paints in oils, is beginning to sculpt in metals, and is currently, _desperately_ trying to learn the alto saxophone. His only previous publication is in a small, local work called Jeremiad(#2). Jake Wadland s766184@aix2.uottawa.ca "Jake is a student (of sorts) at the University of Ottawa. He writes stories and poems on a wide variety of topics, but is generally too chicken to even show them to other people. He has never been published before, and thus would like to thank Susan Keeping for giving him his BIG BREAK. If anyone has comments about his poems, or suggestions about what he should do with his life, they should e-mail him".