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The Neo-Comintern 140
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t h e n e o - c o m i n t e r n e l e c t r o n i c m a g z i n e
I n s t a l l m e n t N u m b e r 1 4 0
We Are the New International
February 4th, 2001
Editor: BMC
Writers:
Melatonin
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;P Featured in this installment .b
$ $
$ Selected Excerpts from The Luddite's Diary - Melatonin $
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EDITOR'S NOTE
Ok this editor's note reminds me of this guy named Nicholas from
Sweden who stayed with my then-girlfriend's parents for a few weeks and made
fun of my wool socks.
"Those are rag-socks," he would say, "for they look as though they
are made of rags!" I hated that guy.
Then there was the other one, Petter...
- p a u s e d -
(I just ate a mouthful of salt and now I feel very sick and
I realize that eating a mouthful of salt is a bad idea)
- r e s u m i n g -
...yeah that Petter, he was something else. He never said much but
"Yep." (That is an actual quote from him.) In his later weeks here he
admitted that he understood English quite well but never really learned to
speak it out loud. It was funny when we would hang out at the pub or
festival, because I would tell a joke and if it wasn't funny I would just
say, "Right, Petter?" He would reply "Yep" and save unfunny me from making
a complete fool out of myself.
(I'm still sick from the salt)
Anyway, that reminded me of today's editor's note.
I've got more little stories about them but I will save them for
another time if anyone wants to hear them. Otherwise I'll just forget them
with time and time will forget Nicholas and Petter.
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;P SELECTED EXCERPTS FROM THE LUDDITE'S DIARY .b
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Feb. 8th
I arrived in this world in the 1950s, and I've spent the last 48
years watching it decay. I've seen cultures rise and fall, movements grow
and die, politicians come and go, and I've never been a part of any of it.
I've witnessed it all as an outsider -- a recluse, some of my students might
say -- and I believe it's for this reason and this reason alone that I'm
able to process things as they truly are; I may have missed the boat, you
understand, but I'm the only one who can see the sea.
Now this paragraph here -- this is where I'd tell you a little bit
about myself: my appearance, my background, where I grew up, who my friends
are, how I dress, where I eat, what my favorite color is, and so on and so
forth in a superficial display of what writers like to think of as
"characterization." But I'm not going to do that. I'm not a writer and
besides, it's a waste of time. The fact that my hair is a salty brown and
swiftly disappearing from my head, the fact that I opt for loafers over
sneakers and cardigans over sweaters, the fact that I prefer my meat charred
and my vegetables wet -- these are all things that will only distract you
from what I have to say. I am my words, my words are me, and good fucking
riddance to all the rest.
Does my language shock you? I should hope not. "Fuck" is just a
sound you make with your tongue. Without our ears it is meaningless. It is
we who give the words context and power, and not the other way around.
"Fuck" can mean whatever we want it to. So can "flower." Everything's
relative. I need to sleep.
Feb. 9th
Last night I started working on a rough draft of my anti-technology
manifesto/novel, but I grew tired with my own inner voice before I reached
the end of the page and the material quickly degenerated into random
nonsense. These ideas have value, but how do I put them down in an
effective way? Who do I turn to? My blood boils with the passion for
change -- for meaning -- but it never comes out as I'd like it to. I
lecture my students about Aristotle and Descartes and Mander and all they do
is sit there and stare, as stone-faced as the walls around them. Sometimes
I try to jolt them out of their unending blankness with a sudden shock -- a
curse word, a fist slammed on a desk, a shout -- but all I get are snickers
and giggles. The more emotional I become, the funnier I somehow appear to
them. It is ridiculous. It is absurd. The female ones look at me with
slender eyes and a smile on their lips and I can feel their mocking gaze on
my back every time I go to write on the board. I hear them whispering to
their friends in the halls. "Look at him," they say, "Look at him. There
he goes. There goes the funny little man."
These girls are nice to look at, but their skulls are so full of
bubble gum it must come oozing out their ears every single time they set
head to pillow. I don't know. I suppose I should probably just ignore
them. In the end, it's hardly worth thinking about.
(P.S. You must remember to buy more Tidy Cat tomorrow. Sophocles' litterbox
is really starting to smell.)
Feb. 11th
The Neo-Luddite Manifesto
As children, we are born into a world which we are told we cannot
change. Our own incompetency and impotence is hammered into us day in and
day out until finally -- finally! -- self-doubt sets in and we pick up that
hammer for ourselves. We are led to believe, by a variety of forces I will
address in Chapter Two, that we are little people. Common people. Mindless,
inefficient consumers who will never amount to anything. We are told that
this world, as full of opportunity as it may seem, is simply not for us --
that any issue that truly matters is, and will forever be, in the "highly
qualified" hands of others. We have our big-screen TVs, our five-minute
microwave dinners, our glossy entertainment magazines, and that, we are
informed, should be more than enough.
The great and prophetic Noam Chomsky has correctly identified these
figures as being creations of the
The great and prophetic Noam Chomsky has correctly identified these
figures as being nothing more than media creations of the academic
propaganda establishment, and I couldn't agree more.
In his prophetic _The Chomsky Reader_, the great Noam Chomsky
correctly identifies these political figures as being nothing more than
manufactured creations of the academic propaganda establishment, and I,
personally, couldn't agree more. (Then why are you writing this? Idiot.)
Note: Ignore. Am Having Problems. Will Try Again Later.
Feb. 13th
An uneventful day. It amazes me how boring life can sometimes be.
It is without a doubt the most precious thing in the world, and yet tonight
I spent thirty-five minutes staring at a spot in the carpet because I didn't
feel like looking away. Bizarre.
Incidentally, the radio says another plane went down near Maui. Why
does anyone think these mechanical beasts are the safest way to travel?
They seem to drop out of the sky every other week. But I haven't heard of a
cruise ship sinking since Titanic. People have no sense of the past.
Hmm. I notice my calendar says it's Friday the 13th. Perhaps this
wasn't the best day in the world for long-distance air travel.
Feb. 14th
Valentine's Day and I'm stuck in a shopping mall with a bag of Tidy
Cat under my arm and an ache in my tooth. Saturday is no day to leave the
house. That's when all the morons come out to play. I was stuck in line at
Safeway for fifteen minutes. The ten items or less checkout aisle and it's
full of people with more than ten items. The woman in front of me -- an
ugly old hag with an overbite -- I specifically counted everything she put
down on the conveyer belt. I counted exactly eleven items. Eleven! The
sign says ten. Not eleven, ten! Can't the old hag count? Probably not.
She probably quit school in the second grade and spent the rest of her life
sponging money off the government. Stupid old hag. I wanted to follow her
out to her car and kick out her teeth. Ugly old hag with the fat teeth.
Kick them right out of her skull.
I'll be honest: today was a bad day for me right from the start. I
woke up from one of my reoccurring nightmares to find my bottom left wisdom
tooth in a dull, throbbing pain. I imagine it had something to do with the
nightmare; in it, my top and bottom teeth become magnetized to each other
and I have to pry my mouth open with a crowbar every time I want to say
something. It's extremely painful, as you can imagine. My ex-wife once
told me I grind my teeth in my sleep like some kind of wild, gnawing coyote,
so I assume I'm grinding away every time I have this dream. Maybe that
sounds ridiculous, but it's the only thing I can think of to explain the
pain.
Saturdays are the worst. Traffic everywhere and sun in my eyes. I
have to remember to stay indoors on Saturdays. I hope Sophocles appreciates
her kitty litter.
Feb. 15th
The Neo-Luddite Manifesto
by
Charles Michael Lavoire, Sr.
INTRODUCTION
Every single day, without fail, corporations of all shapes and sizes
somehow find it in their busy, overworked schedules to ravage and destroy
the environment, polluting the air we breathe and infecting our waters with
a cornucopia of poisonous toxins. This has been going on for years now --
nay, decades -- and yet, for some reason, we as a society choose to put up
with it. We watch as our spouse's hair falls out in clumps and our
children's teeth rot into a rainbow of tiny black stones and we live with
it. We accept it.
We tell ourselves that this -- this! -- is The Way That Things Should Be.
It's enough to boggle the mind, as well as to
Every single day, without fail, corporations of all shapes and sizes
of all of all shapes and sizes of of of all
fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuk [sic] fuck fucketty fuck fuck fuck
what do you do
when the words won't come?
where do you go
when you're out on your own?
who do you love
when there's no one around?
why do you move
when you keep falling down?
Every single day of
Every single day, without fail,
Every
(Note: Have come up against roadblock. Will continue with this tomorrow.
Paths of Glory coming on TV anyway.)
Feb. 16th
Can't write. Woke up this morning in enormous, stabbing pain. My
tooth again. Even now, with a stomach full of Tylenol, can barely make out
words on page. Will have to miss class. Damn this body of mine.
Feb. 16th (cont.)
Hallelujah, I've discovered the wonders of ice. The Tylenol wasn't
doing much for the pain, but a small shard of ice pressed to the problem
tooth is numbing everything. Finally I can write again (though not well
enough to continue with my manifesto). Sophocles keeps begging me for food
and water -- I can hear her distant whines from the kitchen even as I write
this -- but I can barely bring myself to stand up, let alone prepare her
another meal. I'm sorry Sophocles, honey, but it'll just have to wait.
Papa's in a lot of pain right now.
Had to take the phone of [sic] the hook. Logic 115 students kept
calling, asking me endless questions about next week's assignment, demanding
to know when the mid-term grades would finally be posted. Would it horrify
them to hear that I've barely even started? Would it kill them to show a
little sympathy and ask why I wasn't at class today? Typical self-absorbed
college kids.
Took some sleeping pills a half hour ago. Can already feel them
kicking in. Eyelids growing heavy. Meow some more Sophocles, I want you to
[indecipherable]. Meow. Meow meow meow sad the cat. Walk down the line,
eat in the seat. That's what its their for. That's what I'm in bed for. I
can barely
Feb. 17th
Last night I woke up at three in the morning, again in enormous
pain. The Tylenol had worn off and the bucket of shredded ice had melted
into that much tepid water. There was no time to make a new batch and the
agony in my tooth had reached such a tremendous peak that I was forced to
swallow my disdain for the world of modern medicine and seek out
professional help. I threw on a jacket and scarf and went bicycling around
the empty city in search of an all-night dentist. Turns out there's no such
thing. I then went down to the local emergency medical center and tried to
get a doctor to look at my throbbing jaw. But they turned me away
outright -- said they don't deal with teeth, said it's not their area of
expertise. "Well listen," I told the lady behind the counter, "Of course
it's not your area of expertise. Of course I need to see a dentist and not
a doctor. You don't think I know that? I'm not an idiot, you know." Sir,
no one here thinks you're an idiot, she interjects. "Did I say you thought
I was an idiot? Did you see those words come out of my mouth?" Sir,
please, she says. "Don't go putting words in my mouth," I told her. "I'm
not your little dancing puppet. I'm not going to do a little jig for you.
I'm not going to put on a little show."
Around this time a particularly gruff-looking security guard came
out and asked me if there was a problem. From the way that he addressed me,
I could tell that he was a man of reason and intelligence, and wasn't likely
to mock me the way that the nurses had. I calmed down and told him my
story. He nodded kindly throughout, then asked me what I thought they -- a
bunch of doctors -- could do about a simple toothache. I informed him that
a) this wasn't your ordinary, run-of-the-mill toothache, and b) that as
doctors they would almost definitely have access to certain types of
medication, certain forms of painkillers, that could very easily alleviate
whatever misery I was in.
And that was that. They didn't even let me finish. As soon as they
heard me say "painkillers" they assumed I was some kind of delusional junkie
and proceeded to throw me out of the waiting room. I couldn't believe it.
Over and over, all the security guard kept saying was, "It's time for you to
go, sir. You're disrupting the other patients. It's time for you to go."
Well, let me tell you: I looked around that waiting room and I didn't see a
single patient in the whole damn place, so I don't know what he was talking
about.
It is now nine in the morning and I'm lying in bed, fully dressed,
waiting for my first class (Environmental Philosophy) to begin. I have a
dentist appointment scheduled for tomorrow afternoon, and until then I've
been told that ice, Extra Strength Tylenol, and perhaps a bit of alcohol
should be enough to get me through the next twenty-four hours. I've also
found that pushing the tip of this pen into the fat of my thigh helps to
dislocate the pain in my mouth. I think it's all a matter of control,
personally; pain you inflict on yourself is somehow easier to absorb than
pain inflicted by others.
But I've gone on too long this morning, and I'm going to miss my bus.
(Addendum: spent most of class behind my desk, a smile on my lips and a pen
in my leg. Answered students' questions diligently and without
condescension. On the way home blacked out for a few minutes. Driver had
to pull bus over, make sure I was lucid enough to continue. Apparently you
can't sleep on buses -- likelihood of injury and, more importantly, lawsuits
becomes too big an insurance risk. What a joke.)
Feb. 18th
Just got back from the dentist. Jaw is still quite frozen. This
morning I couldn't find Sophocles anywhere. Went through the entire house,
singing her name; finally checked out back and found her sleeping in the
grass. Quietly woke her up and she just looked at me and purred, her two
yellow eyes glowing like a pair of melancholy half-moons.
At the dentist's office, the odious Dr. Taverd did a quick
examination, an extended x-ray, and informed me that my left wisdom tooth is
impacted -- that over the years it has gradually twisted onto its side and
is now pushing against my other teeth in a desperate attempt to burrow its
way into my gum. He also told me that although the pain would most
certainly be immense, he wasn't qualified to do anything about it. And with
that bit of disappointment aside, he sent me away, an antibiotic
prescription in my hand, an oral surgeon appointment on my mind, and a two
hundred dollar hole in my pocket.
Feb. 23rd
Sophocles has stomach cancer. For the last week or so she'd been
acting strange -- refusing to eat her food, clawing at her belly, whining at
the back door for no discernible reason -- but I was always so busy with my
manifesto and my tooth that I hadn't been able to pay much attention. Then
one night I was lying in bed, grading papers and listening to Charlie Rose
interview James Carville when she got up from my lap, took a few shaky steps
across the bed, and quietly vomited a tablespoon of blood across the sheets.
I took her to the vet the very next day.
The vet -- apparently as unqualified as Dr. Taverd -- sent me to see
Dawn Clarke at the College of Veterinary Medicine in Westlake, where a team
of oncologists diagnosed her with lymphoma of the gastrointestinal tract.
Needless to say, I've spent the last few days chartering back and forth from
class in the afternoon to the hospital at night. They finally released her
a few hours ago and she's now home with me, still very sick but at least
back where she belongs.
Right now I'm sitting in the backyard, listening to the crickets
chirp and watching Sophocles slowly eat grass (the vet tells me it's a
common animal behaviour, as it helps neutralize painful stomach acids). But
the truth is, my mind isn't on the grass, or my aching tooth, or even the
nineteen essays I still have left to grade. No, it's on the repugnant
little decision I've been asked to make: do I pay for the chemo, surgery,
and radiation therapy needed to combat the growth in her stomach (which, in
the end, may not even work), or do I use that same money to operate on my
impacted tooth (which, in the end, almost certainly will). It's a difficult
decision to make, and I truly don't know what I'm going to do.
Actually, that's a lie. I know exactly what I'm going to do. I
just don't want to have to admit it yet.
Feb. 26th
I've spent the last three nights in bed, nursing my tooth, grading
papers, and dealing with Sophocles. The accursed essay pile has finally
been whittled down to nothing, but it was no easy task. Have [sic] these
kids are silly, sub-literate mongoloids without an original thought to their
names. And some of the handwriting is enough to send you screaming naked
down the street, clawing out your own eyes and shouting nonsense about
semi-colons and sentence fragments.
Ah, the boundless joys of being a teacher.
Feb. 27th
Butted heads with Jonah Albertson, Department Head of Philosophy
today. Apparently I've gotten a few too many "unsatisfieds" from spiteful
students and now my tenure is up for re-evaluation a year sooner than it
should have been. Now I get to look forward to some clown administrator
coming into my classroom, pouring over my credentials, and coming back with
a one-page checklist that is somehow supposed to dictate my value as a
teacher.
I went to see Albertson in his office to protest the decision. He
was sitting behind his desk, eating his lunch, and I told him, flat-out,
that I was the best damn mind to step foot on that campus since Greg J.
McAllister back in '84. I told him all about my manifesto, how near it was
to completion, and just what it could do for the school once it was
published. I even told him about my cat and my tooth and why I'd been
missing so many classes lately. I hadn't told anyone about that stuff.
And he listened to me, and nodded, and swallowed his food, and when
I finally finished he just chuckled and shook his head and turned around in
his chair. It was as if I didn't exist. As if my remarks weren't even
worth his addressing them.
Have you ever wanted to reach inside someone's skull and pull their
brain out from the inside? Have you ever wanted to chew it up and spit it
out like some kind of fleshy mouthwash? Have you ever felt your fingers
tingle with the rage of an animal? The acids in your stomach gargle with
fury? The bones in your jaw crackle like a forest fire?
You see, now my tooth is starting to bother me again. This diary is
a waste of time. It's burning me out. I should be working on my manifesto.
I need to get it finished. I'm running out of time. March is coming.
Sophocles is dying. Frustration frustration frustration. Fuck fuck fuck.
See the frustrated old man's head explode.
See the children lick his remains off the floor.
See the world crumble in spite and disease.
See me close this book and throw away the key.
Mar. 9th
I put Sophocles to sleep today. It was a horrible thing, but it had
to be done. Last month's bills have finally arrived and, as if plumbing,
heat, and electric weren't enough, I still have my alimony and child support
payments to look forward to. Add to this my upcoming oral surgeon
appointment -- which is likely to cost me a good five or six hundred
dollars -- and suddenly that cold, hard wall of realization slams down in
front of you and there's nowhere left to turn. There was just no way I
could have afforded the ongoing surgeries and treatment Sophocles would have
needed to survive. Especially not now, with so many of my key funds wrapped
up in investments and RRSPs. And I can't deny the amount of time it would
have taken, either. With my manifesto still stuck in the mud and this
sudden triptych of Stull evaluations coming up and a new set of finals right
around the corner, I'm sorry but there was just no way for me to
I don't know. At the end of the day, maybe I just did it out of
sheer laziness. It's a tough thing, you know, trying to force-feed an
animal food it can't even keep down. Plus there were the horrible baths and
the constant diarrhea and the whining in the night and those stubborn little
yellow pills that kept slipping out of my fingers. Eventually it just got
to be too much. I couldn't keep up the pace. I'm not a young man anymore.
I didn't take her to the vet, though. I wouldn't give those greedy,
no-good incompetents the satisfaction of putting my own cat to sleep for me.
No, I did it all myself. After class today I stopped by the supermarket and
bought some fresh fish fillets and some nice raspberry wine and cooked a
beautiful cuisine meal for the evening. I stuffed Sophocles' serving with a
few crushed sleeping pills and together, by candle light, we shared our last
meal together, me at the table and her curled in my lap, slowly nibbling her
life away one bite at a time.
It's now a little after nine and I'm just waiting for the moon to
come up and the city to go to sleep before I head outside to bury her in the
backyard. I've already picked the spot. It's in the garden, beside the
fence and under the shadow of the old wet stone. It's the same place she
used to spend her summers as a kitten, and I think it's where she'd like to
stay now. Now that everything has ended.
Mar. 10th
The reality of last night's actions is hitting me pretty hard in the
harsh light of day. I had to miss class. The world suddenly seems so grey
and lifeless. I can't see the point in getting out of bed anymore. I'm
angry, but more than that I'm just tired. I feel hollow.
I need to find a purpose. I need to use the rage and
dissatisfaction of Sophocles' death to propel me through my manifesto. I
need to get it finished.
Mar. 11th
I've just returned from the oral surgeon and I suddenly find myself
in a state of confused euphoria. I'm not sure if it's the painkillers they
sent me home with or the brilliance I've just been witness to, but something
has done this wonderful, horrible thing to me. I walk through my home and
study my surroundings and it all looks like nothing I've ever seen before.
Who owns these objects? What purpose did they ever serve? Even this book
seems to exist on a different plane of reality; this pen is lighter than I
ever remember it being, and the words it's scrawled out seem to have come
from the mind of another.
Where do I start? Let's see. It began on the ninth floor of the
clinic this morning, where after filling out an information sheet I was
asked to make a decision. I could go through the surgery completely sober
and simply endure the pain, I could have them give me a few shots of
laughing gas to dull the edge, or I could go all the way and have them put
me under with a general anesthetic. I would have gone with either of the
latter two -- and in retrospect, maybe I should have -- but the risks just
didn't seem to outweigh the benefits. The laughing gas may destroy valuable
brain cells and the anesthetic -- well, they can put you under, but they
can't always pull you back up.
After a short stint in the waiting room, a female assistant led me
into an oversized office and told me to take a seat in the leather dental
chair. I smiled and sat down and laughed at her pleasant chit-chat, all the
while thinking nasty thoughts about the inside of her skull. Then she left
the room and I was alone. It was such a strange room; at least three sizes
too big, with an odd, raspy apparatus to my left and a massive, wall-sized
window directly in front of me. Outside, the entire crumbling city was
spread out before me, its great desert dunes of brick and stone disappearing
into the horizon. My thoughts turned to Sophocles.
Then Dr. Awhl came into the room. He entered without a sound, his
entire being simply manifesting by my side like a ghost. He explained the
operation, double-checked my dismissal of anesthetic, and then proceeded to
remove the impacted tooth. It was an amazing experience that mere words
can't do justice to. Right from the very first moment, when he slid his
slender fingers into my mouth, I was transformed into a child. I lied
there, silent, my mind rapt with attention as I stared up into his oval face
and he peered down at me, his red hair outlined by the blue sky outside, his
eyes focused with an intense burn.
The entire operation only took a moment. Within seconds, an entire
forest of metal had sprouted in my mouth as Dr. Awhl worked his tools with
the speed and grace of some glorious sea creature. He seemed to switch from
saws to picks to tubes with more hands than any human being has any right to
have. Blades whirring, enamel flying, water spraying, he separated the
tooth into four sections and tore each piece out with nothing more than his
own brute force. The crunching, snapping sounds this produced were
shocking, unbearable, even comical -- and yet pure and dignified in their
swiftness. And then, as quickly as it had begun, the blades came to a
stop, the water slowed, and the symphony was over. The doctor was finished,
and I was healed.
This man -- this Dr. of Awe -- was an artist, a painter. His
brushes were hard and metallic, his paints wet and bloody, and inside the
canvas of my mouth he laid out his greatest masterpiece. He cut me, sewed
me, changed me from the inside out. He infected me with his art, and for
the first time in my life, my bones know real poetry.
Where do I go from here?
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___________________________________________________
|THE COMINTERN IS AVAILIABLE ON THE FOLLOWING BBS'S |
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|___________________________________________________|
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Copyright 2001 by The Neo-Comintern #140-02/04/01
All content is property of The Neo-Comintern.
You may redistribute this document, although no fee can be charged and the
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