Thursday, February 12, 2004

Person A, chapter 8: The Return of the Repair Men

Director Stimos woke with a rush. He'd had another of those horrible nightmares, those returns of childhood indignities, that cursed evening. Stimos rolled slowly over in his bed an lifted the phone off the hook. It was this kind of business he'd hired Dr. Snout to rid him of.

Director Stimos had heeded all the advice he had been given. At first he had cried his bitter tears, but quietly, outside the possibility of being caught-out weeping. He had figured that he would have to "get over it", as they said.

The Stimos family was one of the founders of the TRU Corporation, and Director Stimos was expected to attend one of the Corporation's top business or law colleges. And he was expected to do well. The latter proved no difficulty to the young Stimos. It was deciding which college to attend that kept him occupied. At the advice of his childhood friend Tom, he'd decided to go to Woolbridge Academy, a combined law and business school specializing in game theory and the singularity of mind. A cornerstone of the TRU Corporation's School of Cogito, Woolbridge received corporate funded for range anthropological and financial research programs in the newly acquired businesses.

Stimos put all his energy into his schoolwork, and, at the age of 20, became a full member of the financial research team designated to provide a program to "Restructure and Capitalize Nam Viet Finances". Stimos' zeal and affective performance stunned his elder colleagues in the program, and he was elected manager of the program's "outreach and friendship" company in the midst of Nam Viet. There he met Michael K., and the rest is history.

Stimos had to take his part of the blame for the Nam Viet fiasco, and had to accept a number of back-office appointments in the decades following the outbid of the TRU Corporation. Employees of Nam Viet had secretly sold their private shares to Dong Tse Inc., enabling TRU's eternal enemy to secure a majority at the yearly convention. Stimos got out of the morass early enough to find employment with a fringe operation in TRU. Several of his colleagues from the Woolbridge program had ended up financially destitute and publicly ridiculed. The head of the program had committed suicide. TRU Corporation had changed management after the fiasco.

So Stimos considered himself lucky, after all. His lovely young thing of a wife was not to know anything of how close he had, in fact, been to the so-called "unsavoury methods" that had been used in TRU's attempt to gain control over Nam Viet. She would never know. And even if she knew... Well, it didn't matter.

His peer group from Woolbridge had emerged scarred but intact when they met at a college reunion party a decade later. The result of their friendship was the now much-discussed action plan for "The Third Empire: Project for a TRU Millenium". They had chosen Randolph Beaverton as their front figure and candidate for the ceremonial position as Corporate President, while Stimos were to coordinate New Acquisitions Policies.

In the mean time, Randolph's brother Julian, had designed a plan to intervene in the program that counted votes on the yearly convention, and, taken by surprise, Stimos found himself head of TRU's New Acquisition's Implementation Program. When TRU acquired EyeRak, Stimos was appointed Managing Director of the new merger.

Stimos set out to make the new TRU EyeRak not just another jewel in Randolph's crown, but a shining one at that. The new merger wouldn't just supply TRU with gold and diamonds, but also unlimited access to muses. The Spring of Muses, as you will remember from chapter one, having previously been under EyeRaki control. In short, Stimos sougth to make TRU EyeRak a model for new acquisitions and mergers. The corporate management were securely located inside the TRU Wall of Freedom, guarded by 2nd Division of the TRU Republican guard. Stimos spent most of his time at the Corporate HQ downtown Bagdad, in a building his father had erected during his time as corporate governor, as it was called then, of this area.

Stimos weren't as worried about hidden away shares on EyeRaki hands, foreshadowing a repetition of the Nam Viet fiasco. His was more concerned about the Deconstructionists, a fringe corporation where many of the previous managements' staff had found work. Their membership was elusive, and they would rarely declare themselves as such. But Stimos had a way of finding them out. He'd ask them about Maradona scoring with his hand in 1986, and if they refused to agree that Maradona was bad, they would loose all their corporate privileges.

TRU's top executives didn't believe the Deconstructionists would have any chance at regaining control of the corporation, not as long as Julian Beaverton was in charge of Democratic Procedures. At board meetings nobody would bring up precisely why the Deconstructionists posed such a threat, but when Stimos had suggested moving towards legislating them as 'formally terrorists', the board members had all nodded in relief. They all had their private reasons that shouldn't be Found Out.

Stimos' private reason had to do with the nightmares. When he relocated to Bagdad, he had secretly sought out the advice of one Dr Snout, who was the Head Psychiatrist of the Revelation and Re-Socialization of New TRU Subjects Program in TRU EyeRak. At was only triggered by finding himself on the brink of desperation one early September morning, when he hadn't managed to close his eyes all night, visions of doors hammering and rushed steps in the room above him. He couldn't keep his mind concentrated at meetings, and, yet, he couldn't sleep at night. Stimos would get into fits of rage, sometimes clearly uncalled for, yelling at junior members of the Management that they didn't try hard enough.

"Do you know how hard I have to try? Do you think this is easy?!" Stimos would shout, and send them off with some elaborate clerical work.

Dr Snout had recommended Stimos to get in touch with his anger, to let it's power reign him, so as to get it out of his body.

"For a man of your position," Dr Snout had said, "I would recommend attending, and, perhaps, even participating, in some of the Revelation and Re-Socialization Programs we have going now here in TRU EyeRak. What we got going here is far beyond the old hearts and minds-approach, I can assure you. We hold that it is also necessary to win their bodies. Yes, I can see your astonishment, but this is our firm resolution. We are using the most refined Re-Socialization Procedures in our Room of Revelations, and a man in such a prominent position as yourself, would not have a problem being admitted, I can assure you. It is completely legal, all within the provisions of the Anti-Terrorism act, I can assure you. It wouldn't be popular, one could assume, in the eyes of TRU Shareholders, I mean, if all details were to come out, so we practice strict discretion, of course."

Stimos had spent a good few nights in the Room of Revelations after this encounter, and found that he enjoyed it thoroughly. And the subjects did reveal what they were supposed to, finally, and they we're granted amnesia after a rather exhausting procedure. In fact, Stimos spent more nights in the Room of Revelations than at Home, having taken a dislike in the walls and the guards. It made the area seem somewhat, uh, dated and unappealing. And then he couldn't believe how churlish he'd been as to the policy of spatial control. It's all about Mind Space, control the Mind Space, and you won't need walls and guards.

It was a slower, but far more resistant method, Stimos had to admit, and he would implement it on a far larger scale. Stimos was, after all, a true child of modernity. Reflecting on his own artwork as Chief Inquisitor in the Drama of Revelations, he would go so far as to call his performance as modernist. They questioned the very existence of the individual. Since there is no solid ground for control in the individual it must come down on the body, Dr. Snout claimed, so as to alter mind-body relations. Oh, yeah, he'd let it come down on the body.

And still the nightmares didn't go away. He had been shifting around in his parents' bedroom. He couldn't have been more than 12, because he was still in Primary School. His parents had left for work, and in his mother's drawers he found a pair of lace panties that he wanted to try on. They felt soft and warm, and got quite turned on by the scene, and went over to look at himself wearing the panties in their head-to-floor bedroom mirror.

One day his mother must have had forgotten something or other at home, because she came back to the house, and, without any forwarning of any sort, had walked straight into the bedroom, while he was standing there with his erection and her lace panties. Oh, it was demeaning, all right.

Dr. Snout had encouraged him, then, to get in touch with this side of himself. Stimos went on to wear lace panties during the night sessions in the Room of Revelations. But it musn't come out.

*



Stimos had finally let his wife pull him to the opera one late night of Fall. It was a Brechtian rendition of The Repair Men are Coming, the 70s puppet show, but this time with actors with bodies as sumo-wrestlers. Pompel, the older repair man, had his small, comic hat on, and Pilt, the younger of the two, was adorned with curls. Stimos was both of them. He knew that, but would never tell wifey, of course, or anyone else for that matter, with the exception of clandestine occations at Dr. Snout's office and with the Brotherhood, as he liked to call it. They all knew, but, then, he knew things about them, too. Things that they wouldn't want to come out.

Anyway, Pompel was trying to repair a set of Domino pieces in one of the key scenes of the performance. He had just arrived at the moment when he's about to tip the first piece over so that the rest of them collapses with a long, satsifying drum roll, when the lights in the theatre went out. The audience started mumbling, looking for their belongings, rummaging through their pockets for their mobile phones, when all the strobe lights at the podium were turned on, pointing at the audience. A choir came on, dressed in tight-fitting blue uniforms and reciting:

The Repair Men are cumming and cumming (a literary pestish with notes and appendices, a Le Speranza)

Pestish being a portmanteau word consisting of pesto, and pastiche, the literary genre.

It was clearly about Lacan's signifying economy, and about how to exchange symbolic values. The choir continued:

The desire to alienate the mother is in fact a negotiated response to Mother's desire to reclaim and devour what was of the mother in a pre-symbolic stage. Hence, we are facing a tranference whereby the symbolic value of supremacy is exchanged from the Body-of-Mother (The Matrix) to the subject, in return for an iterable recurrence of this Other-as-Object in the originary locus of the dialectic!

Stimos' wife was crying as they drove home. He went to "settle some business" at the Head Office.

There had been reports that the Deconstructionists were making headway into the the relatively remote companies in the Uqbar division. Agitators had claimed that gifts may suffer multiple faiths, and that the gift of submission may not be the appropriate counter gift to the take over. Then, as if out of the blue, the TRU Times had reported that a group of Paracelcists were holding a convention in Uqbar. It would be impossible to charge the entire group with terrorism, so, after conferring with his councelors, Stimos decided that they would target their future leader, so as to make an example, as was the fate of Cardinal Mistos.

Dr. Snout had insisted that it was the most efficient way to make headway, and Stimos had no reservations. He charged Piece of Cholif Mundt with apprehending the leader, but quietly. A solid case must be brought against her before we let it come out, he declared.

Wednesday, February 11, 2004

There's a translation of the first episode of Pompel and Pilt online.

Thursday, January 29, 2004

What Ibsen never wrote about Kierkegaard (but Nietzsche thought)

1. Kierkegaard admired Abraham's leap of faith, while acknowledging he hadn't made it (for) himself.

2. Ibsen subscribed reincarnation. Was he aware?

3. Peer Gynt reworks Kierkegaard's required leap: Here's someone, like Kierkegaard, who hasn't made it. Is Peer Gynt the butt of a joke? Is he a weakling, a coward, someone who is not being there?

4. Is he like Borges' I:

I am he who knows himself no less vain
than the vain looker-on who in the mirror
of glass and silence follows the reflection
or body (it's the same thing) of his brother.
I am, my silent friends, the one who knows
there is no other pardon or revenge
than sheer oblivion. A god has granted
this odd solution to all human hates.
Despite my many wondrous wanderings,
I am the one who never has unravelled
the labyrinth of time, singular, plural,
gruelling, strange, one's own and everyone's.
I am no one. I did not wield a sword
in battle. I am echo, emptiness, nothing.

5. Objectify your 'I'!

What is 'I'? Lacan: Object a is the fantasmatic 'stuff of the I',
as that which confers on the /S/, on the fissure in the symbolic
order, on the ontological void that we call 'subject', the
ontological consistency of a 'person', the semblance of a fullness of
being.

"What is I but a metaphor?"

6. Let's vacate I

7. Appear in style

Tuesday, January 27, 2004

Nationalism as the discourse of a post-imperial community is not given in the academic literature. Several commentators have remarked on the dominance of eurocentrism in scholarship on nationalism, and in any case, as Ania Loomba have pointed out, it may be that nationalism is only one possible outcome of a "kernel" of resistance, to borrow from Zizek.

Monday, January 26, 2004

From last night's concert on lit-ideas:

Bloomfontein

Let's leave this place tonight Lazarillo said
We can't stay if we gotta keep a head
We packed up the car with drinks and smoke
And left the city as the thunder stroke
We were on our way...
to Bloomfontein

Lazarillo had a pipe it was made of bone
And he didn't wanna smoke it all alone
I was driving the car through the thundering rain
Swirling softly into another domain
We were on our way...
to Bloomfontein

Lazarillo had the munchies so we stopped by the road
Our hunger was about to switch to overload
But the guys at the station didn't like our guts
We left in a rush to save our butts
We were on our way...
to Bloomfontein

An hour later our car broke down
We decided to walk to the next town
But just outside freedom we were stopped
By two guys who wanted our journey chopped
We were on our way...
to Bloomfontein

The took us to a cell in the local station
Lazarillo said, 'hey, we're just on vacation'
But the cops said, 'You guys, your asses mean trouble'
Decided to add to the woe make it double
We were on our way...
to Bloomfontein

A bird was chirping in my ear when I opened my eyes
The first thing that I saw wuz Lazarillo's prize
He'd won a beating for his pretty face
So we lit up a pipe an left for outer space
We were on our way...
to Bloomfontein

Lazarillo and I hitched a ride to Bloomfontein
We thought it was the endpoint of our campaign
On observation in the streets, out of cash
Trying to make some dough in a flash
We were heading out...
of Bloomfontein

I also performed Suzanne Vega's Calypso and a recent composition, Departures.

It went well. Great audience. Keep singing.
From Thomas F's Last Notes to the Public:

The riot
by Kjell Askildsen

When I read or when I'm occupied by solving chess problems, I often sit and look out the window. One never knows if something will happen that's worth attending, even if it's unlikely. Last time it happened was three or four years ago. But then again it could offer some diversion to everyday life as well, and outside the window there is, at least, movement. In here it's only me and the hand of the clock.

But three or four years ago I saw something remarkable, and that's the last remarkable thing I've seen, even though, as I've pointed out, I'm not indifferent to more ordinary acts, such as people fighting, who are beating and kicking each other, or people falling over on the sidewalk and remain there because they're too drunk or ill to get home, if they have a home, many of them probably don't, there's not enough homes in the world.

But what I saw this time was different. It must have been during Easter or Pentecost, since it wasn't winter, and I remember that I thought that these kinds of acts were reasonably connected to one of the churchly high seasons.

From my window I look down upon a short, intersecting street, it is short enough for me to see the end of it without any difficulty, my eyes are good.

I had been keeping an eye on two flies mating in the windowsill, so it probably must have happened during Pentecost, it was a kind of diversion to me, even if they practically didn't move. I wasn't aroused by watching them, although I remember I often did when I was young, oh, yes, I remember it well.

So I was sitting there watching the two flies, and had just carefully touched one of the female's wings and then one of the male's wings without them taking any notice of it -- which I found a curiously strong commitment, it was after the male had sat on top of the female for at least ten minutes, I am not exaggerating, I should have spent more of my life studying insects, but, then again, why? -- when I caught eye of a man at the far end of the street behaving quite remarkably. He kind of waved his armes and then he cried out something, at first I didn't perceive exactly what it was. In certain ways he was systematical with a peculiar sence of geographic order, because he walked or dashed from the first window on the right hand side of the street to the first window on the left hand side, and from there to the second window on the right hand side and on to the second window on the left hand side, and so on, and he knocked on all the windows and cried something. It was unusual and strange, and I opened my window, it was before the hinges broke, and I heard him cry: "Jesus has come." But he cried something else, too, and I perceived it as: "I have come," and when he came closer I realized that it was correct, that was what he was crying. "Jesus has come, I have come." And all the while he dashed from one side of the street to the other and knocked on all the windows he could reach, it was upsetting to behold, religious lunacy is upsetting.

The first reaction was as surprising as it was adequate: a stool was hurled towards him from the third floor somewhere in the middle of the street. It didn't hit him, that was not the intention I would hope, but it broke into pieces, of course. It certainly was a waste of effort, the man only raised his voice, perhaps he needed a confirmation of his business being important.

The next reaction was related to the first, but less tangible, and not without a whim of comedy. A window burst open and a furious voice screamed: "I think you are stark, raving mad, my good man!" Only then did I realize that the man on the street actually was dangerous, that he triggered dispositions latent in some of his fellow people, and I thought: isn't there a sensible person with fresh legs that can go down there and end it all. Many heads were now sticking out of the windows along the street, but down there the insane man was in solitary charge of the ground.

I was facinated, I must admit it, but to an increasing extent more by the whole street scenario then by the main character. People had started making noises, they laughed and yelled to each other over the poor man's head, I have never seen such a sudden social encounter, there even was a man in the house closest to mine that called to me. I could only hear the last word, "blasphemy," and I didn't answer, of course. If he had, at least, said something reasonable, like "Emergency ward," then we could perhaps, who knows, have established some kind of exchange of greetings from window to window. But a grown- up man, he was old enough to have been my long departed wife's eldest son, with nothing more reasonable to say than "blasphemy," I have no need to exchange greetings with, I'm not that lonely yet.

Anyway. As I said, I sat there fascinated by the buzzing window-life, it reminded me of my childhood, it was probably better to be of old age at that time, I think, less lonely, and, first and foremost, one usually died within a reasonable time, -- when a man emerged from a gate. He was in a hurry and he was heading for the lunatic. He grabbed him from behind, spun him around, and hit him so hard in the face that he flailed sideways and fell. For a moment the entire street was quiet, as if everybody held their breath. Then the cacophony broke loose one more time, and now it was apparent that the disagreement had turned on the attacker. Subsequently, it didn't take long before people started emerging from the gates, and while the immediate cause of the entire commotion sat speechless and apparently immovable some meters away, a heated discussion was embarked upon, the singularities of which it was impossible to perceive, where it was obvious that the attacker also had his supporters, because all of a sudden two youths flew at each other. Oh, it was a black day for reason.

In the mean time the lunatic had gotten up, and while the youths were fighting, probably because of him, but possibly for entirely different reasons, and while some tried to go in between, he pulled further and further away, backwards, until he reached the street- corner closest to me, then he turned around and started running, it was a relief, and I can tell you that he could run.

When the flock down on the street became aware of the man's disappearance, it slowly calmed down, and one window after the other was closed. I closed mine as well, it wasn't a warm day. The world is full of unreason and confusion, unfreedom is deeply rooted, the hope for equality and a common worth fades, the powers that be are too great, it seems. We must be glad that we are as well off as we are, people say, since most people are in a worse situation. And then they take a pill for insomnia. Or for depression. Or for life. When will a new generation come that understands the meaning of equality, a generation of gardeners and foresters that can cut the large trees that put the lesser in the shade, and that can remove the suckers from the tree of knowledge.

[Translation by Torgeir Fjeld of Kjell Askildsen's "Oppløpet", first published in Thomas F's siste nedtegnelser til almenheten. Translated from the collection En plutselig frigjørende tanke, Oslo: Oktober, 1991, 199-202. A Sudden Liberating Thought available from www.amazon.com in Sverre Lyngstad's translation.]

Thursday, January 15, 2004

For Person A.

A call from the Head Office

Why was she here? Inta didn't know. When the head office had sent her to the biannual convention, they had offered no explanation, and had given no brief as to her endeavours. She turned to look out the window, and observed, with some surprise, that the moon was still up. Inta slid her feet into the slippers provided by Hotel Rio Grande do Sul, sauntered over to the desk next to the window, and contemplated the imprint she had found the night before, "hlor u fang axaxaxas mlo", and the scribble beneath, "upward, behind the onstreaming it mooned."

She picked up the paper and twisted it around between her fingers, when she came across a scribble on the flip side of the sheet as well. It looked like a poem:

Mooning

Yellow moon, yellow moon peeping through my window
Movie director, wheelchaired, observing murder

Keep it cool, keep it real (for real)
Stay where you are, moon
Be a moon, moon
Moon, moon

She jolted to the sound of the phone ringing.

"Hello, madam. Felix at the reception speaking. There's a call for you from the Head Office."

"Put it through," she said.

There was a crackling sound in her ear, a pause, and a deep, muscular voice, as if from far away, sighing as it uttered each word emphatically.

"Inta," it said. "You must make an appointment with the Master of the Mansion."

Pause.

"You will receive further instructions." Dial tone. Felix: "I guess whoever it was hung up."

Inta put the receiver down, a felt as if she was falling. She was nineteen years old and she was falling from a skyscraper, passing windows where single mothers changed their babies' diapers, where whole families had their breakfasts, where old couples stared at her, pointing at her, because she was naked, her arms tied together behind her back, still falling, falling, young men inviting her to stay awhile, falling and falling, now gagged, her speech incomprehensible even to her own ears.

"Funny," she thought. "I'm falling from the skyscraper and I'm perfectly calm, as if for every floor I pass I get older."

Inta observed her image in a fractured window. Her face look wrinkled, her hair short, and her arms bruised. She had to get out, but first she had to get to the bottom.

A knock on the door.

"Are you all right in there? Madam? Are you all right?"

Inta opened the door.

"Oh, it's you Felix. Just had a nightmare."

Felix slipped her a note.

"You received this message this morning. Can I get you anything? Would you like some breakfast brought up to your room?"

"Thank you, Felix, that would be lovely."

She unfolded the note. It read: "Who told you it was all right to love me? Certainly not me. Midnight. By the town hall." Signed Mundt.