Neo-parable Two
I met him around the street corner, I think I was about eight at the time.
He was a twenty year old street comedian, covered in rags, with dirt caked onto his skin like a face-pack. Broke and starving. The neighbors constantly remained pissed off with this deplorable, unemployed excuse of a young man, and tried driving him off with a garden hose. To their minute astonishment, and immense irritation, he stayed right there, getting drenched on their lawn. Later on, I remember overhearing them talking to my folks about it.
Neighbor: One would imagine that he would be scared of water, judging from what state he’s in, when he comes around the block for his “performance”…
Yes, quite, One may… I heard my bored Grandfather reply.
Neighbor: We must let the law handle this, I think… Don’t you?
Grandfather: Oh, I don’t know. He doesn’t seem to be hurting anyone, or as you suggested three months ago, that he’s a pedophile of some kind.
Neighbor: I still can’t understand why he didn’t abuse that kid we sent in as bait.
Grandfather: I still can’t believe the parents of this kid wanted to use their kid as a guinea pig for nailing a suspected child-abuser.
Neighbor: But he IS a child abuser.
Grandfather: Well, you see, Mrs. Richards, that’s where the Law doesn’t work. Because we still call this activity slander in this country.
Neighbor: Are you suggesting I lied?
Grandfather: No, of course not, dear Mrs. Richards, I was merely pointing out the fact that the law, does not cover, or indeed, punish, crimes of any sort, unless any evidence is presented at court. Until then, words of a penetrating, accusatory nature, such as the ones you use to describe him at the moment, could be treated as slander in court. You wouldn’t want to be jailed for your moral conscience now, would you, Mrs. Richards?
Neighbor: But I’m the secretary of this colony. I have a responsibility…
Grandfather: … indeed, of accumulating sufficient evidence, with which to prove in court, exactly the matter of the young man’s manner, or misdemeanor, as you put it…
Neighbor: He’s a social disease, Mr. Bennett. You have to take up a case against him…
Grandfather: … which I am not reluctant to do, Mrs. Richards, I assure you. Although, I cannot stress this fact enough, that to have a case in the first place, we would have to submit some substantial evidence in court, to prove the young man in concern, is indeed a pedophile.
Neighbor: Oh, couldn’t you just get him jailed or relocated to some place else, on the grounds that he’s a public nuisance?
Grandfather: Fair point. Although, we haven’t got fair ground to assume that anybody else does find him to be, as you so claim, a public nuisance. At your behest, believe me, I tried. I arranged for a town council meeting a week ago, and none of the attending personages had been emotionally nauseated, psychologically distraught, or indeed, epileptically traumatized enough by his sight, or thoroughly convinced of his pedophilic inclinations to send him to jail, or to be relocated. Am I safe in assuming that you’re the only one in this town, that does find him revolting, Mrs. Richards?
Neighbor: I am thinking about the children. Why wouldn’t anyone think of the children?
Grandfather: Everyone does, Mrs. Richards. You do a great deal more than others in this respect, I’m sure, and the town, gracefully, thanks you for it. However, I must say again, that unless you find something to prove he’s had a history of bad behavior…
Neighbor: You mean, copulating with children…
Grandfather: … which is included in bad behavior, I must assume. I plead you stop repeating the word pedophile over and over again, it’s getting me a little hazy, I’m afraid. You are aware I suffer from acute migraine, Mrs. Richards?
Neighbor: Oh, I’m sorry…
Grandfather: I’ll look into the matter, Mrs. Richards, I’ll see if I could find a legal loophole somewhere. In the meantime, look at the matter yourself, but not in a way as to arouse suspicion that we’re on to him…
Neighbor: Yes, of course. I’ll be back with concrete evidence.
The annoying woman left, and I still wait behind the door, so that once Granddad leaves the hall, I could cross it, and climb back to my room.
Grandfather: You could go to your room now, Marie…
WHAT??? He knew?
I sheepishly emerge from behind the door.
Grandfather: Now then, Marie, I have a job for you.
Me: Granddad?
Grandfather: You do know this person we were talking about, don’t you?
Me: Yes… I…
Grandfather: Good. Find him, and bring him back home. I need to see him.
Me: What are you going to do to him? I’ve seen him, he’s very funny. What did he do?
Grandfather: I just want to talk to him, bring him over.
Me: …
Grandfather: What is it?
Me: Granddad, that woman’s crazy… And she’s really mean to all the kids she’s ever met. Should we help her?
Grandfather: I’m not going to. I want to help Peter.
Me: Peter?
Grandfather: We were talking about him, just a while ago.
Me: Oh.
I walk out, and look for this Peter person. I find him, in the middle of a tiny crowd of older children, imitating Robin Hood, if someone called John Cleese would have portrayed him. The elder children spend a few minutes laughing very hard, and then leave him alone. Peter, I suppose, sees me standing a few feet away, and beckons me closer.
Peter: Hi there.
Me: … Hi…
Peter: And what’s your name?
Me: Uh… Marie…
Peter: That’s a nice name. Not original, but nice…
Me: Original?
Peter: It means you aren’t the only one with that name…
Me: I am. No one in my class has that name…
Peter (grinning): Maybe, but some people older than you do have that name… Most of them have been good-natured people, at least in certain canonical circles…
Me: Canonical circles… Who are you talking about now? I don’t know who John Cleese is either…
Peter: There goes my impression down the drain for one other person. Very good, Marie. Now, what can I do for you?
Me: You talk strange
Peter: I have to
Me: Grandfather sent me-to call you over to our house. Mrs. Richards talked to granddad about sending you to jail. And granddad’s going to take up the case. But he said he wanted to meet you-and talk to you. He sent me to find you-and bring you back to our place…
Peter: Whoa, calm down, dear. You say your grandfather wants to meet me?
Me: Yes.
Peter: Well then, let’s go.
We get back home, and Granddad’s making tea.
Grandfather: Sit down, both of you.
Me: Please, don’t take him to jail, he’s not a bad person.
Peter: Yes, thanks for that…
Grandfather: I will do no such thing… Now, Peter, that woman’s trying to make an issue…
Peter: How?
Grandfather: By proving you’re a pedophiliac.
Peter: That’s odd, considering I’m not…
Grandfather: I’m aware of that, but you still might want to be careful. This woman apparently thinks you’re a social disease, or wants to convince herself. Clean up once in a while, she won’t have a case if you could consider doing that.
Peter and I were friends since then. Peter got cleaner, people suggested some people in the entertainment business he could talk to. Ten years later, he was a relatively well-known comic. I had finished my primary education by the time, and was interested in pursuing Journalism as a career. Granddad slipped into a coma, over the summer holidays, and so, I went to Cambridge to study Anthropology as per his wishes. I’m not exactly sure of the reasoning behind Granddad’s sudden fascination for Anthropology, but I went along with it, nevertheless.
Four years hence, I moved into Freelance Journalism; an attempt to return to my career of choice, and a subsequent decision reached due to the realization, that I couldn’t make a living on my education in any other way besides teaching. Needless to say, I was pretty much down and out, until the war broke out and soldiers were recalled as part of a human rights issue. The wounded, and psychologically-desperate, or as they were talked about in media circles, the mentally-deficient, were sent back home. Friends and relatives of soldiers were delighted initially, only to lose interest after a few weeks of rather deliberate doting, when they found out stories about the war were usually drab and disturbing. Patriotism, or at least, the true advocates of Patriotism, didn’t paint a colorful, heroic picture. It was dark, menacing, terrible, and on hindsight, unnecessary.
The soldiers soon lost favor among the general public, because the soldiers now seemed devoid of any consequence in society. They weren’t fighting anymore, they were maladjusted to society, and appeared creepy to the kids. Some reward, for these kids who laid their life on the line, defending their countries from a make-believe enemy. Their condition; socially, physically, mentally; was pathetic. Of course, a society which prejudges and abandons some it’s bravest citizens, must be a heck of a lot worse.
It was around this time I found an American soldier who had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Or, in the sort of English everyone’s supposed to understand, Shellshock.
It is refreshing to hear an adult actually speaking sense to you. Most adults, by principle, or by outdated, illogical morals; whichever they choose to use for their Apathetic-to-everything-except-their-falsely-invented-social-self-image personal gains; talk bullshit, not as much to benefit us as we think. None of their rhetoric is relevant or sensible. The middle class rarely starve, nor achieve a lot of wealth in their individual lifetimes. Therefore, this class of persons dream of ways to achieve immense wealth, and fret over their nightmarish images of poverty. Everything else - building relationships, fame, alternate careers, alternate living, and every other kind of genuine choice / decision is, in their view, futile and meaningless; unless it fits in the category of something able to achieve immense wealth, with a megaton’s worth of security for the same wealth. That is a genuinely sad, pathetic, apathetic value system, and it’s weird to say; or the word that’s in fashion now, BELIEVE; that this is something that’s morally or ethically valuable. It is a value system that is built on very few things - Greed, Paranoia, Ignorance and Bigotry, melding into Extreme-points-of-view based on both Pessimism and Optimism. Which develops into a frame-of-mind which sometimes has less use for education and critical thought; but has more use for unfair advantages based on ruthless envy and dehumanized efficiency. It sounds juvenile perhaps, but it is fairly obvious that this is the way the world works. Most indicators of corruption lie right on the surface of most things, but we fail to notice them if we’re misinformed, or start to belief in illogical ideas.
Oddly enough, I learnt this off my parents.
My father’s British, my mother’s French. That’s why I have a French given-name and an English surname.
Historically, both countries have had a rich history of civil revolution, but in their case, I suppose it had slipped their genetic material altogether. I lived for the first seven years of my life in France, not a lot of memories by now I guess, but still, France wasn’t too bad. My parents were worse, so France didn’t bother me as much. My granddad came down for a visit from England, when I was seven, and soon convinced my parents to let me stay with him. Because of that, I never experienced being in the middle of a divorce, and never saw my parents again. I suppose Granddad saw the signs of break-up before it actually happened, and took me to England, my home. I asked Granddad about it when I was 10, and he explained he gained the custody to take care of me till I chose to leave his care in court. For a 10-year old, this was far more detailed than anything else I’d ever heard from an adult, and I started to notice that merging honesty with detail, usually kept ignorance-at-bay, even when I had to endure bullshit around me. It perhaps got me interested in news reporting, more than anything else. Not just Granddad, nor just my parents, nor just education, or values, or cultural shock, or ideas - prompted this new view of life. It’s the contrast that provided the insight to distinguish the substantial and the irrelevant.
By the time I was a raging teen, I’d already lived through rage and found ways to overcome it.
By this time, Peter had got to do a pilot for a sitcom. They filmed the pilot-episode, and he invited me for the taping. The premise simply was - it was set in an independent news studio, where the cast and crew worked from 3 AM to 4 AM, and it was titled The Twilight News Hour, where the news readers, the on-site reporters, the weathermen, and the crew - all appeared on the show, in their pajamas. They were all really sleepy, dressed like they were, some half-awake, some dozing off, while the high-on-caffeine producer of the show walked in the middle of the taping at certain intervals when he felt it’s necessary to wake some of the dozing reporters or presenters. I remember laughing my ass off at the taping. The rest of the audience, didn’t.
The show never got made, and Peter moved into stand-up comedy.
Anyway, back to real time, and my interview with the retired soldier…
Me: At what point, did you decide you were disillusioned with the war?
Soldier: I’m not going to pretend that I had a bad feeling about it from the start, because back then, we thought it was a just cause. Ironically, eight years later, I took part in the Winter Soldier event. It was painfully obvious by then that this was a bullshit cause.
Me: Could you describe the civilian casualties? If you want to…
Soldier: It was horrifying. Well, I suppose most of our guys lost touch with reality at some point too. There are mental casualties within every war among the soldiers, the ones who feel they’re somehow incomplete if they don’t massacre and torture the terrorists. What a dumb fucking word. I suppose it missed some of their demented attentions, that the areas we received directives to bomb, contain, or terminate, were almost always filled to the brim with unarmed civilians; so by default, we were the terrorists in most situations.
Me: Did you receive ample remuneration for losing a limb?
Soldier: Ideologically, sure. I guess it had a slightly redemptive after-effect. The things we did in the name of our country’s safety… It seems so perversely fucking unfair now…
Me: Maybe there’s not enough reporting of this, even after the Winter Soldier event, and countless books…
Soldier: Off the record, there’s this refugee camp really close to one to our base camps. I’ll pass you the location. A word of warning though, you’re not going to like what you see…
Me: Last question, I mentioned earlier that there were countless books written on the war. Most of them did seem like they were more than sufficiently editorialized, don’t they?
Soldier: Well… I would argue that people for and against the war wrote books about the war. Whatever their views are, I suppose they had to make their opinions quite deliberately forceful. Jeremy Scahill’s book was pretty accurate though…
I got to the mentioned refugee camp, the kids in there were cowering when I offered chocolates. The rest of it, I don’t even want to describe. Calm Down, Marie. I walked around looking at tragedy and despair with an objective eye, until I saw a seven year old kid, walking towards me with his eyes obscured by his long, shabby hair. I offered him a chocolate bar, he took it slowly and said, Thanks.
Me: You can speak English?
Boy: Yes, ma’am, I can… My father taught me English.
Me: I see. Where’s your father now?
Boy: He’s dead.
Me: Oh dear, I’m so sorry…
Boy: Don’t be, Ma’am. You didn’t kill him.
Me: Well…
Boy: Neither did the soldiers…
Me: Uh… Who did then?
Boy: Our own fundamentalists.
Me: I don’t understand. Why did they do that?
The boy waved his hand, almost accusingly, at the Base nearby.
Boy: He worked in there.
Me: In there?
Boy: Yes, Ma’am, as a fax-machine operative… I think that’s what he was… My father was poor, Ma’am, and he got the job, provided he stayed there for a month, and was allowed to come home to visit me after that, stay for two days, and then go back to work. Our clerics found out about this, and beheaded him, in front of me.
The boy looked at my shocked and bewildered expression, and changed his tone, Not because of you, Ma’am.
I stopped asking him anything since then, but I did try talking about his home. No home, Ma’am, the boy replied, Home Bombed… At this point, I gave up. He obligingly took a few more chocolate bars, and left.
I stayed a couple more days in that refugee camp, and I couldn’t find him anywhere. I visited the American Base, and asked for a jeep. I said I wanted to look at a site and take some landscape photographs, to showcase my story of how great a job the soldiers were doing in this desolate place. They believed it, so I got my jeep. I drove to a canyon, behind which the boy had said his home was.
I drove in the sweltering heat for about three hours, until I finally reached the canyon, and saw a tiny little silhouette in the distance. Looked familiar. I stopped the jeep, walked to the silhouette, and it’s the boy from the refugee camp.
Me: Did you walk all the way here?
Boy: Yes.
Me: To see your village again?
Boy: No.
Me: Here, have some water. What did you come here for, then?
Boy: To kill you.
Me: What? What are you talking about?
Boy: The men who beheaded my father recruited me. Trained me. Now, I’m required to kill you.
And he pulled out a rifle. He stared at me for a full minute, and aimed the rifle at me. Almost in a fraction of a second, he turned around and fired at something in the distance. I heard something hitting the sand, and he scurried off to the place he fired at. He was back in a minute, and said to me, He’s dead.
Me: Who is?
Boy: The man who was sent along with me, to make certain I had killed you.
I drove back to the Base, him sitting next to me. A tiny, fragile human being who’d witnessed far more than he had to, given his age. Or any age. I don’t really suppose there’s a proper age to experience beheadings, carpet bombing, and the responsibility of handling a terrorist directive, all at once. We got back to Base, and a Major met us at the entry gate.
Major (glancing at my name tag): Who is this supposed to be, Miss Bennett?
I narrated the story to the Major. He almost had an expression of bemusement on his face, as he alternatively glanced at me and the boy. After listening to the story, he asked us to step out of the vehicle.
Me: Excuse me?
Major: Step out of the jeep, Now…
As soon as we did, the Major pointed his gun at the boy’s head.
Me: Major, what are you doing?
Major: Taking care of business, Miss Bennett.
Me: Major, this boy saved my life…
Major: No question, but he is technically a terrorist…
Me: Major, please, you mustn’t do this…
Major: Private Rogers, would you escort Miss Bennett to the airport, and makes sure she gets back to her country?
As I’m almost dragged into the base, to an armored vehicle, I kept screaming at the Private…
Me: Don’t you people have a conscience?
Private: I do, Miss. All I can do is follow orders, otherwise I’ll be reduced in memory to a mere serial number on a dog tag. That bastard’s pretty fucking violent to deserters within the Army.
As I’m trying to recover my composure and understand what the Private’s saying, I hear a distant shot from the gate.
I got back to London, at three in the morning. Numb weather, for physical and mental numbness. That must be poetic.
Neo-parable One
Comedy is great to do. Comedians don’t necessarily have to give the viewers a detailed description of how their mind works around some idea, but they can create a strangely-possible altered vision of the conclusion they formed in their mind, to the audience. Whenever the joke, or comment, touches on reality, or obscenity, the joke or comment loses the humor, and becomes shallow material. Any thing can be made funny; it’s a wasted effort, therefore, when anything humorous is created solely for the sake of being realistic or obscene. However, when reality or obscenity are merely add-ons to the overall material; like good satirical shows are; a viewer must be retarded or grossly uninformed to feel offended. I think the reaction people have to honest satire makes us capable of understanding what kind of people those people are.
Oh well, screw reality for now. I’m on a TV interview. A thirty-minute appearance, apparently to showcase my talent, and so far, I’ve talked about where I grew up for five minutes, and it’s been twenty minutes of commercials. And surprisingly, this is fucking Live. Last five minutes. If I sit through this, my career’s set. I’ll get my own show, and then the host lands the clincher…
Host: So, Peter, are you a religious man?
Me: No
Host: Why not?
Oh, hell. OH, measly, crappy, fucking hell…
Me: In all fairness, this could take an hour to explain…
Host: Well, try three minutes…
Me: Are you sure about this?
Host: As a Christian, I’d like to know…
Me: I think inconsistencies are what I have pet-peeves with…
Host: Inconsistencies? You must be talking about the wrong book…
Me: Well, actually, it’s about believers…
Host: Could you elaborate?
Me: Oh, I don’t know… How about Christians opposed to both Masturbation and Abortion, resulting in a world crisis…
Host: … the crisis being…
Me: Over-population.
Host: You’re a homosexual, aren’t you?
Me: No. And I can’t see what that’s got to do with what we’re discussing here. We’re discussing inconsistencies. Here’s another. For years and years, the Catholic Church ate Puffins during Lent, because they used to think it’s a fish, instead of a bird, because of its rather strange appearance. I'm assuming Puffins aren’t mentioned clearly in Leviticus, so I suppose I can’t blame believers entirely for that.
Host: You closeted butt-floss, you can’t speak filth like this on TV.
Me: Apparently, the word butt-floss is common parlance in a sermon, is it? Oh wait a minute, given the constant news of child-rape in the last few years, it is common parlance in a church, isn’t it? You know, Woodrow Wilson once signed and implemented what was called The Sedition Act of 1918. It forbade the use of, in quotes, disloyal, profane, scurrilous, or abusive language… I haven’t mentioned anything that wasn’t factual in the last three minutes, you used a cuss word, and have continued to insult me on Live TV. I wonder, what would Jesus do, if he were around now? Condoms are another thing the pious seem to have a problem with, they work perfectly, to be honest, it doesn’t increase the chance of getting Aids, as the most recent Pope claimed…
Host: We don’t have a conclusive solution at the moment to curing Aids, so why not try abstinence?
Me: Not able to come up with a reasonable solution to an epidemic; like Aids is in several regions of the world; isn’t reason enough to distort facts, and then implement the first idiot-thought that enters a brain that’s closed off those neurons responsible for generating rational thought. It’s fucking ludicrous, to even suggest, that Censorship and flawed moralities are going to solve any of these world problems. Millions die every year from car accidents, we impose restrictions on speed, we don’t ban transportation, do we? The only reason certain drugs, or opinions, are banned, is solely because of religion’s stiflingly-obstructive influence on society.
The broadcast was stalled abruptly, and I was asked to leave by the studio head. I graciously oblige. I walked to my car, and got my first call. It was from the studio head of another TV channel. Would you like to do a Satirical Show, he asked excitedly. Sure, I’d love to, I answered, and fixed a meeting eight hours later. Then I got my second call.
Marie: I just watched the show…
Me: Marie? Hi, where’ve you been? Hey, have I got news for you, dear…
Marie: I need to see you…
Me: Uh… what’s up?
Marie: I just really need to see you. As soon as you possibly can.
Me: Where are you?
Marie: Home.
Me: I’ll be there in an hour, dear.
I got to Marie’s house, to see a very silent person staring at the floor. She passed me a cup of tea.
Me: Marie, what’s going on?
Intellectual Osmosis
I narrated my story to Peter, and he narrated his. He went for his meeting, and decided to do the show. I was so happy for him, and yet, I suppose I wasn’t really capable of showing it. That’s when Peter had his idea.
Peter: You know, it’s a satirical show. And you just got back from covering the aftermath of a war.
Me: So?
Peter: Why don’t you write some of the material?
Me: No. Heavens, Peter, I couldn’t.
Peter: Yes, you could. Probably better than anyone else, at this point of time. I’ll convert them into jokes.
Me: What I saw wasn’t exactly laughable, Peter.
Peter: Of course, it wasn’t. Since it’s quite clear loyal citizens have this weird attitude during wartime of ignoring the obvious, this is the best way to get them annoyed at the war and its effects, instead of sidelining it to blame soldiers, and anti-war protestors.
I agreed to be a shadow-writer, and refused to appear in the studio during the Live telecast.
I must say, I regret that now. After the show was completed, and the audience rose to a thunderous applause, Peter was shot twice in the head as he prepared to walk off the set.
As soon as Peter had been declared dead on Live TV, I turned off my Television.
END
I met him around the street corner, I think I was about eight at the time.
He was a twenty year old street comedian, covered in rags, with dirt caked onto his skin like a face-pack. Broke and starving. The neighbors constantly remained pissed off with this deplorable, unemployed excuse of a young man, and tried driving him off with a garden hose. To their minute astonishment, and immense irritation, he stayed right there, getting drenched on their lawn. Later on, I remember overhearing them talking to my folks about it.
Neighbor: One would imagine that he would be scared of water, judging from what state he’s in, when he comes around the block for his “performance”…
Yes, quite, One may… I heard my bored Grandfather reply.
Neighbor: We must let the law handle this, I think… Don’t you?
Grandfather: Oh, I don’t know. He doesn’t seem to be hurting anyone, or as you suggested three months ago, that he’s a pedophile of some kind.
Neighbor: I still can’t understand why he didn’t abuse that kid we sent in as bait.
Grandfather: I still can’t believe the parents of this kid wanted to use their kid as a guinea pig for nailing a suspected child-abuser.
Neighbor: But he IS a child abuser.
Grandfather: Well, you see, Mrs. Richards, that’s where the Law doesn’t work. Because we still call this activity slander in this country.
Neighbor: Are you suggesting I lied?
Grandfather: No, of course not, dear Mrs. Richards, I was merely pointing out the fact that the law, does not cover, or indeed, punish, crimes of any sort, unless any evidence is presented at court. Until then, words of a penetrating, accusatory nature, such as the ones you use to describe him at the moment, could be treated as slander in court. You wouldn’t want to be jailed for your moral conscience now, would you, Mrs. Richards?
Neighbor: But I’m the secretary of this colony. I have a responsibility…
Grandfather: … indeed, of accumulating sufficient evidence, with which to prove in court, exactly the matter of the young man’s manner, or misdemeanor, as you put it…
Neighbor: He’s a social disease, Mr. Bennett. You have to take up a case against him…
Grandfather: … which I am not reluctant to do, Mrs. Richards, I assure you. Although, I cannot stress this fact enough, that to have a case in the first place, we would have to submit some substantial evidence in court, to prove the young man in concern, is indeed a pedophile.
Neighbor: Oh, couldn’t you just get him jailed or relocated to some place else, on the grounds that he’s a public nuisance?
Grandfather: Fair point. Although, we haven’t got fair ground to assume that anybody else does find him to be, as you so claim, a public nuisance. At your behest, believe me, I tried. I arranged for a town council meeting a week ago, and none of the attending personages had been emotionally nauseated, psychologically distraught, or indeed, epileptically traumatized enough by his sight, or thoroughly convinced of his pedophilic inclinations to send him to jail, or to be relocated. Am I safe in assuming that you’re the only one in this town, that does find him revolting, Mrs. Richards?
Neighbor: I am thinking about the children. Why wouldn’t anyone think of the children?
Grandfather: Everyone does, Mrs. Richards. You do a great deal more than others in this respect, I’m sure, and the town, gracefully, thanks you for it. However, I must say again, that unless you find something to prove he’s had a history of bad behavior…
Neighbor: You mean, copulating with children…
Grandfather: … which is included in bad behavior, I must assume. I plead you stop repeating the word pedophile over and over again, it’s getting me a little hazy, I’m afraid. You are aware I suffer from acute migraine, Mrs. Richards?
Neighbor: Oh, I’m sorry…
Grandfather: I’ll look into the matter, Mrs. Richards, I’ll see if I could find a legal loophole somewhere. In the meantime, look at the matter yourself, but not in a way as to arouse suspicion that we’re on to him…
Neighbor: Yes, of course. I’ll be back with concrete evidence.
The annoying woman left, and I still wait behind the door, so that once Granddad leaves the hall, I could cross it, and climb back to my room.
Grandfather: You could go to your room now, Marie…
WHAT??? He knew?
I sheepishly emerge from behind the door.
Grandfather: Now then, Marie, I have a job for you.
Me: Granddad?
Grandfather: You do know this person we were talking about, don’t you?
Me: Yes… I…
Grandfather: Good. Find him, and bring him back home. I need to see him.
Me: What are you going to do to him? I’ve seen him, he’s very funny. What did he do?
Grandfather: I just want to talk to him, bring him over.
Me: …
Grandfather: What is it?
Me: Granddad, that woman’s crazy… And she’s really mean to all the kids she’s ever met. Should we help her?
Grandfather: I’m not going to. I want to help Peter.
Me: Peter?
Grandfather: We were talking about him, just a while ago.
Me: Oh.
I walk out, and look for this Peter person. I find him, in the middle of a tiny crowd of older children, imitating Robin Hood, if someone called John Cleese would have portrayed him. The elder children spend a few minutes laughing very hard, and then leave him alone. Peter, I suppose, sees me standing a few feet away, and beckons me closer.
Peter: Hi there.
Me: … Hi…
Peter: And what’s your name?
Me: Uh… Marie…
Peter: That’s a nice name. Not original, but nice…
Me: Original?
Peter: It means you aren’t the only one with that name…
Me: I am. No one in my class has that name…
Peter (grinning): Maybe, but some people older than you do have that name… Most of them have been good-natured people, at least in certain canonical circles…
Me: Canonical circles… Who are you talking about now? I don’t know who John Cleese is either…
Peter: There goes my impression down the drain for one other person. Very good, Marie. Now, what can I do for you?
Me: You talk strange
Peter: I have to
Me: Grandfather sent me-to call you over to our house. Mrs. Richards talked to granddad about sending you to jail. And granddad’s going to take up the case. But he said he wanted to meet you-and talk to you. He sent me to find you-and bring you back to our place…
Peter: Whoa, calm down, dear. You say your grandfather wants to meet me?
Me: Yes.
Peter: Well then, let’s go.
We get back home, and Granddad’s making tea.
Grandfather: Sit down, both of you.
Me: Please, don’t take him to jail, he’s not a bad person.
Peter: Yes, thanks for that…
Grandfather: I will do no such thing… Now, Peter, that woman’s trying to make an issue…
Peter: How?
Grandfather: By proving you’re a pedophiliac.
Peter: That’s odd, considering I’m not…
Grandfather: I’m aware of that, but you still might want to be careful. This woman apparently thinks you’re a social disease, or wants to convince herself. Clean up once in a while, she won’t have a case if you could consider doing that.
Peter and I were friends since then. Peter got cleaner, people suggested some people in the entertainment business he could talk to. Ten years later, he was a relatively well-known comic. I had finished my primary education by the time, and was interested in pursuing Journalism as a career. Granddad slipped into a coma, over the summer holidays, and so, I went to Cambridge to study Anthropology as per his wishes. I’m not exactly sure of the reasoning behind Granddad’s sudden fascination for Anthropology, but I went along with it, nevertheless.
Four years hence, I moved into Freelance Journalism; an attempt to return to my career of choice, and a subsequent decision reached due to the realization, that I couldn’t make a living on my education in any other way besides teaching. Needless to say, I was pretty much down and out, until the war broke out and soldiers were recalled as part of a human rights issue. The wounded, and psychologically-desperate, or as they were talked about in media circles, the mentally-deficient, were sent back home. Friends and relatives of soldiers were delighted initially, only to lose interest after a few weeks of rather deliberate doting, when they found out stories about the war were usually drab and disturbing. Patriotism, or at least, the true advocates of Patriotism, didn’t paint a colorful, heroic picture. It was dark, menacing, terrible, and on hindsight, unnecessary.
The soldiers soon lost favor among the general public, because the soldiers now seemed devoid of any consequence in society. They weren’t fighting anymore, they were maladjusted to society, and appeared creepy to the kids. Some reward, for these kids who laid their life on the line, defending their countries from a make-believe enemy. Their condition; socially, physically, mentally; was pathetic. Of course, a society which prejudges and abandons some it’s bravest citizens, must be a heck of a lot worse.
It was around this time I found an American soldier who had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Or, in the sort of English everyone’s supposed to understand, Shellshock.
It is refreshing to hear an adult actually speaking sense to you. Most adults, by principle, or by outdated, illogical morals; whichever they choose to use for their Apathetic-to-everything-except-their-falsely-invented-social-self-image personal gains; talk bullshit, not as much to benefit us as we think. None of their rhetoric is relevant or sensible. The middle class rarely starve, nor achieve a lot of wealth in their individual lifetimes. Therefore, this class of persons dream of ways to achieve immense wealth, and fret over their nightmarish images of poverty. Everything else - building relationships, fame, alternate careers, alternate living, and every other kind of genuine choice / decision is, in their view, futile and meaningless; unless it fits in the category of something able to achieve immense wealth, with a megaton’s worth of security for the same wealth. That is a genuinely sad, pathetic, apathetic value system, and it’s weird to say; or the word that’s in fashion now, BELIEVE; that this is something that’s morally or ethically valuable. It is a value system that is built on very few things - Greed, Paranoia, Ignorance and Bigotry, melding into Extreme-points-of-view based on both Pessimism and Optimism. Which develops into a frame-of-mind which sometimes has less use for education and critical thought; but has more use for unfair advantages based on ruthless envy and dehumanized efficiency. It sounds juvenile perhaps, but it is fairly obvious that this is the way the world works. Most indicators of corruption lie right on the surface of most things, but we fail to notice them if we’re misinformed, or start to belief in illogical ideas.
Oddly enough, I learnt this off my parents.
My father’s British, my mother’s French. That’s why I have a French given-name and an English surname.
Historically, both countries have had a rich history of civil revolution, but in their case, I suppose it had slipped their genetic material altogether. I lived for the first seven years of my life in France, not a lot of memories by now I guess, but still, France wasn’t too bad. My parents were worse, so France didn’t bother me as much. My granddad came down for a visit from England, when I was seven, and soon convinced my parents to let me stay with him. Because of that, I never experienced being in the middle of a divorce, and never saw my parents again. I suppose Granddad saw the signs of break-up before it actually happened, and took me to England, my home. I asked Granddad about it when I was 10, and he explained he gained the custody to take care of me till I chose to leave his care in court. For a 10-year old, this was far more detailed than anything else I’d ever heard from an adult, and I started to notice that merging honesty with detail, usually kept ignorance-at-bay, even when I had to endure bullshit around me. It perhaps got me interested in news reporting, more than anything else. Not just Granddad, nor just my parents, nor just education, or values, or cultural shock, or ideas - prompted this new view of life. It’s the contrast that provided the insight to distinguish the substantial and the irrelevant.
By the time I was a raging teen, I’d already lived through rage and found ways to overcome it.
By this time, Peter had got to do a pilot for a sitcom. They filmed the pilot-episode, and he invited me for the taping. The premise simply was - it was set in an independent news studio, where the cast and crew worked from 3 AM to 4 AM, and it was titled The Twilight News Hour, where the news readers, the on-site reporters, the weathermen, and the crew - all appeared on the show, in their pajamas. They were all really sleepy, dressed like they were, some half-awake, some dozing off, while the high-on-caffeine producer of the show walked in the middle of the taping at certain intervals when he felt it’s necessary to wake some of the dozing reporters or presenters. I remember laughing my ass off at the taping. The rest of the audience, didn’t.
The show never got made, and Peter moved into stand-up comedy.
Anyway, back to real time, and my interview with the retired soldier…
Me: At what point, did you decide you were disillusioned with the war?
Soldier: I’m not going to pretend that I had a bad feeling about it from the start, because back then, we thought it was a just cause. Ironically, eight years later, I took part in the Winter Soldier event. It was painfully obvious by then that this was a bullshit cause.
Me: Could you describe the civilian casualties? If you want to…
Soldier: It was horrifying. Well, I suppose most of our guys lost touch with reality at some point too. There are mental casualties within every war among the soldiers, the ones who feel they’re somehow incomplete if they don’t massacre and torture the terrorists. What a dumb fucking word. I suppose it missed some of their demented attentions, that the areas we received directives to bomb, contain, or terminate, were almost always filled to the brim with unarmed civilians; so by default, we were the terrorists in most situations.
Me: Did you receive ample remuneration for losing a limb?
Soldier: Ideologically, sure. I guess it had a slightly redemptive after-effect. The things we did in the name of our country’s safety… It seems so perversely fucking unfair now…
Me: Maybe there’s not enough reporting of this, even after the Winter Soldier event, and countless books…
Soldier: Off the record, there’s this refugee camp really close to one to our base camps. I’ll pass you the location. A word of warning though, you’re not going to like what you see…
Me: Last question, I mentioned earlier that there were countless books written on the war. Most of them did seem like they were more than sufficiently editorialized, don’t they?
Soldier: Well… I would argue that people for and against the war wrote books about the war. Whatever their views are, I suppose they had to make their opinions quite deliberately forceful. Jeremy Scahill’s book was pretty accurate though…
I got to the mentioned refugee camp, the kids in there were cowering when I offered chocolates. The rest of it, I don’t even want to describe. Calm Down, Marie. I walked around looking at tragedy and despair with an objective eye, until I saw a seven year old kid, walking towards me with his eyes obscured by his long, shabby hair. I offered him a chocolate bar, he took it slowly and said, Thanks.
Me: You can speak English?
Boy: Yes, ma’am, I can… My father taught me English.
Me: I see. Where’s your father now?
Boy: He’s dead.
Me: Oh dear, I’m so sorry…
Boy: Don’t be, Ma’am. You didn’t kill him.
Me: Well…
Boy: Neither did the soldiers…
Me: Uh… Who did then?
Boy: Our own fundamentalists.
Me: I don’t understand. Why did they do that?
The boy waved his hand, almost accusingly, at the Base nearby.
Boy: He worked in there.
Me: In there?
Boy: Yes, Ma’am, as a fax-machine operative… I think that’s what he was… My father was poor, Ma’am, and he got the job, provided he stayed there for a month, and was allowed to come home to visit me after that, stay for two days, and then go back to work. Our clerics found out about this, and beheaded him, in front of me.
The boy looked at my shocked and bewildered expression, and changed his tone, Not because of you, Ma’am.
I stopped asking him anything since then, but I did try talking about his home. No home, Ma’am, the boy replied, Home Bombed… At this point, I gave up. He obligingly took a few more chocolate bars, and left.
I stayed a couple more days in that refugee camp, and I couldn’t find him anywhere. I visited the American Base, and asked for a jeep. I said I wanted to look at a site and take some landscape photographs, to showcase my story of how great a job the soldiers were doing in this desolate place. They believed it, so I got my jeep. I drove to a canyon, behind which the boy had said his home was.
I drove in the sweltering heat for about three hours, until I finally reached the canyon, and saw a tiny little silhouette in the distance. Looked familiar. I stopped the jeep, walked to the silhouette, and it’s the boy from the refugee camp.
Me: Did you walk all the way here?
Boy: Yes.
Me: To see your village again?
Boy: No.
Me: Here, have some water. What did you come here for, then?
Boy: To kill you.
Me: What? What are you talking about?
Boy: The men who beheaded my father recruited me. Trained me. Now, I’m required to kill you.
And he pulled out a rifle. He stared at me for a full minute, and aimed the rifle at me. Almost in a fraction of a second, he turned around and fired at something in the distance. I heard something hitting the sand, and he scurried off to the place he fired at. He was back in a minute, and said to me, He’s dead.
Me: Who is?
Boy: The man who was sent along with me, to make certain I had killed you.
I drove back to the Base, him sitting next to me. A tiny, fragile human being who’d witnessed far more than he had to, given his age. Or any age. I don’t really suppose there’s a proper age to experience beheadings, carpet bombing, and the responsibility of handling a terrorist directive, all at once. We got back to Base, and a Major met us at the entry gate.
Major (glancing at my name tag): Who is this supposed to be, Miss Bennett?
I narrated the story to the Major. He almost had an expression of bemusement on his face, as he alternatively glanced at me and the boy. After listening to the story, he asked us to step out of the vehicle.
Me: Excuse me?
Major: Step out of the jeep, Now…
As soon as we did, the Major pointed his gun at the boy’s head.
Me: Major, what are you doing?
Major: Taking care of business, Miss Bennett.
Me: Major, this boy saved my life…
Major: No question, but he is technically a terrorist…
Me: Major, please, you mustn’t do this…
Major: Private Rogers, would you escort Miss Bennett to the airport, and makes sure she gets back to her country?
As I’m almost dragged into the base, to an armored vehicle, I kept screaming at the Private…
Me: Don’t you people have a conscience?
Private: I do, Miss. All I can do is follow orders, otherwise I’ll be reduced in memory to a mere serial number on a dog tag. That bastard’s pretty fucking violent to deserters within the Army.
As I’m trying to recover my composure and understand what the Private’s saying, I hear a distant shot from the gate.
I got back to London, at three in the morning. Numb weather, for physical and mental numbness. That must be poetic.
Neo-parable One
Comedy is great to do. Comedians don’t necessarily have to give the viewers a detailed description of how their mind works around some idea, but they can create a strangely-possible altered vision of the conclusion they formed in their mind, to the audience. Whenever the joke, or comment, touches on reality, or obscenity, the joke or comment loses the humor, and becomes shallow material. Any thing can be made funny; it’s a wasted effort, therefore, when anything humorous is created solely for the sake of being realistic or obscene. However, when reality or obscenity are merely add-ons to the overall material; like good satirical shows are; a viewer must be retarded or grossly uninformed to feel offended. I think the reaction people have to honest satire makes us capable of understanding what kind of people those people are.
Oh well, screw reality for now. I’m on a TV interview. A thirty-minute appearance, apparently to showcase my talent, and so far, I’ve talked about where I grew up for five minutes, and it’s been twenty minutes of commercials. And surprisingly, this is fucking Live. Last five minutes. If I sit through this, my career’s set. I’ll get my own show, and then the host lands the clincher…
Host: So, Peter, are you a religious man?
Me: No
Host: Why not?
Oh, hell. OH, measly, crappy, fucking hell…
Me: In all fairness, this could take an hour to explain…
Host: Well, try three minutes…
Me: Are you sure about this?
Host: As a Christian, I’d like to know…
Me: I think inconsistencies are what I have pet-peeves with…
Host: Inconsistencies? You must be talking about the wrong book…
Me: Well, actually, it’s about believers…
Host: Could you elaborate?
Me: Oh, I don’t know… How about Christians opposed to both Masturbation and Abortion, resulting in a world crisis…
Host: … the crisis being…
Me: Over-population.
Host: You’re a homosexual, aren’t you?
Me: No. And I can’t see what that’s got to do with what we’re discussing here. We’re discussing inconsistencies. Here’s another. For years and years, the Catholic Church ate Puffins during Lent, because they used to think it’s a fish, instead of a bird, because of its rather strange appearance. I'm assuming Puffins aren’t mentioned clearly in Leviticus, so I suppose I can’t blame believers entirely for that.
Host: You closeted butt-floss, you can’t speak filth like this on TV.
Me: Apparently, the word butt-floss is common parlance in a sermon, is it? Oh wait a minute, given the constant news of child-rape in the last few years, it is common parlance in a church, isn’t it? You know, Woodrow Wilson once signed and implemented what was called The Sedition Act of 1918. It forbade the use of, in quotes, disloyal, profane, scurrilous, or abusive language… I haven’t mentioned anything that wasn’t factual in the last three minutes, you used a cuss word, and have continued to insult me on Live TV. I wonder, what would Jesus do, if he were around now? Condoms are another thing the pious seem to have a problem with, they work perfectly, to be honest, it doesn’t increase the chance of getting Aids, as the most recent Pope claimed…
Host: We don’t have a conclusive solution at the moment to curing Aids, so why not try abstinence?
Me: Not able to come up with a reasonable solution to an epidemic; like Aids is in several regions of the world; isn’t reason enough to distort facts, and then implement the first idiot-thought that enters a brain that’s closed off those neurons responsible for generating rational thought. It’s fucking ludicrous, to even suggest, that Censorship and flawed moralities are going to solve any of these world problems. Millions die every year from car accidents, we impose restrictions on speed, we don’t ban transportation, do we? The only reason certain drugs, or opinions, are banned, is solely because of religion’s stiflingly-obstructive influence on society.
The broadcast was stalled abruptly, and I was asked to leave by the studio head. I graciously oblige. I walked to my car, and got my first call. It was from the studio head of another TV channel. Would you like to do a Satirical Show, he asked excitedly. Sure, I’d love to, I answered, and fixed a meeting eight hours later. Then I got my second call.
Marie: I just watched the show…
Me: Marie? Hi, where’ve you been? Hey, have I got news for you, dear…
Marie: I need to see you…
Me: Uh… what’s up?
Marie: I just really need to see you. As soon as you possibly can.
Me: Where are you?
Marie: Home.
Me: I’ll be there in an hour, dear.
I got to Marie’s house, to see a very silent person staring at the floor. She passed me a cup of tea.
Me: Marie, what’s going on?
Intellectual Osmosis
I narrated my story to Peter, and he narrated his. He went for his meeting, and decided to do the show. I was so happy for him, and yet, I suppose I wasn’t really capable of showing it. That’s when Peter had his idea.
Peter: You know, it’s a satirical show. And you just got back from covering the aftermath of a war.
Me: So?
Peter: Why don’t you write some of the material?
Me: No. Heavens, Peter, I couldn’t.
Peter: Yes, you could. Probably better than anyone else, at this point of time. I’ll convert them into jokes.
Me: What I saw wasn’t exactly laughable, Peter.
Peter: Of course, it wasn’t. Since it’s quite clear loyal citizens have this weird attitude during wartime of ignoring the obvious, this is the best way to get them annoyed at the war and its effects, instead of sidelining it to blame soldiers, and anti-war protestors.
I agreed to be a shadow-writer, and refused to appear in the studio during the Live telecast.
I must say, I regret that now. After the show was completed, and the audience rose to a thunderous applause, Peter was shot twice in the head as he prepared to walk off the set.
As soon as Peter had been declared dead on Live TV, I turned off my Television.
END
Truly one complicated, morally and ethically over flowing story I have read in a long while. The convolution of centralized theme to message that builds as it threads through the story makes for an intriguing, compelling read. Like a tapestry or quilt being constructed, each piece unique of itself yet beautifully blended to create a masterful story to the end.
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