<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<feed version="0.3" xmlns="http://purl.org/atom/ns#" xml:lang="en">
<title>MungBeing Magazine: Authenticity</title>
<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/" />
<tagline>Gazing deep into the eyes of authenticity to decide whether truthfulness is a necessary quality, goodness a component at all, and how far back one must count to designate that something is 'genuine'.</tagline>
<modified>2007-08-06T12:08:07Z</modified>
<copyright>Copyright &#169; 2005-2007, Pencil Tenet, Inc. in association with Eschaton Media.</copyright><entry>
				<title>Forward -- Taping Authenticity</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=832&amp;subID=884" />
				<modified>2007--0-8-T07: 0:4:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.0.1</id>
				<issued>2007-08-07T02:08:22Z</issued>
				<created>2007-08-07T02:08:22Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"Cassettes: squeaky.  Creaky.  Archaic: obsolete in the age of CDs, DVDs, MP3s, podcasting.  The..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>jody franklin</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[Cassettes: squeaky.  Creaky.  Archaic: obsolete in the age of CDs, DVDs, MP3s, podcasting.  The magnetic tape collects dust, it bends and bunches up, it snaps in your tape player.  Sometimes, inexplicably, the sound recorded on side A bleeds over onto side B, or the ghost of a recording past makes a spooky return after being dubbed over umpteen times.  <br />
<br />
My first ghetto blaster, my first Walkman: both purchased in the eighties, as a child.  Remember that time, my fellow Generation Xers?  A time when cassettes were considered a valid method of sonic delivery, a time when cassettes were actually popular.  I could skateboard wearing a Walkman, I could pop a tape into the deck of my car as I banged my girlfriend in a church parking lot.  <br />
<br />
I never did get down with the whole "CD revolution."  I stubbornly stuck with vinyl until MP3s came along.  Now, in my collection of music, you'll find thousands of MP3s, hundreds of records, virtually no CDs... and dozens of random, broken and mislabeled cassettes: mix tapes long lost from their packages, with no markings, and odd big label cassettes that haven't been heard in fifteen years.  <br />
<br />
I associate cassettes now with the lowest of lo-fi technology, and the kind of cheap, independent bedroom music that utilized this medium in the early nineties.  For some reason, I came to hold a deep belief that this kind of music, recorded on one to four tracks by lone singer-songwriters or garage bands and the most obscure of artists, with authenticity.  Something about the cheapness of the medium made it more real: beyond the buzz and fuzz I could hear and feel real human voices.  Perhaps the "humanity" lay in the methodology: who but the impoverished, the true artist, the folk who really have to deal with the blues, would bother sitting alone in a bedroom with an acoustic guitar and a tape recorder on a Saturday night to record an album's worth of material?  Who else would put together a cheap photocopied and hand-coloured with crayons package to send out to fledgling punk distro services and perzines with tiny readerships?  This was personal: these artists were singing for themselves, but sharing it with a select few: the outcasts, the nerds, the nobodies.  And this worked very well on tape.  The slick production and commercial sound of major label releases were sooo made for CD, and tapes were quickly swept into the dark and dusty corners of culture.  <br />
<br />
Before the internet, cassette trading through the mail connected these marginal, strange and desperate souls. Wckr Spgt (the band our Editor-in-Chief is in), the Mountain Goats, Franklin Bruno all introduced themselves to me via cassette.  Daniel Johnston, who ranks as one of my favorite artists of all time, shared his earliest music on tape, and I hunted down every Daniel tape I could find.  Sitting on top of my stereo is a modest, unassuming cassette titled "some songs by Mark" by Mark Szabo, Vancouver's best kept secret, one of the greatest songwriters nobody's heard of.  And there's my broken copy of the only Espen Kloots cassette I've ever been able to find, a second generation copy of this most abstruse and arcane of outsider's sprawling, incomprehensible 1986 masterpiece Haggard Temple Whore Of The Sex.  <br />
<br />
I'm no scientician, it's a mystery to me, it's all hocus-pocus magic, how we're able to record sound and play it back in the first place. I'm a savage: these recording devices capture part of our soul, and I can feel that.  Turning on a tape machine is always a thrill, especially when I'm encountering something new.  Or hearing myself.  <br />
<br />
I had to phone Joe Matt to do a follow-up to our email interview.  As with all interviews I've conducted recently, I reached into a box of old tapes and pulled out the ones that looked most battered, useless, of least value to record over.  A fantastic surprise: the tape I selected was a documentation of the only session I ever had with a psychic.  I didn't even remember the tape existed, and I doubt I ever listened to it.  It's from January 1999, a session purchased by a girlfriend as a gift; the tape was included as part of the whole deal, I guess.  Hazy recollection as I heard the shuffling of the Tarot cards and my timid, cracking voice: her office looked like any other low budget office: white walls, cheap brown desk, folding chair, plastic ferns, flickering fluorescent light.  I laughed as I listened to her prognostications and rolled my mind back to that time.  Hindsight, now: it seems she was on target a lot of the time, although she spoke in a language vague and general, non-specific, open to interpretation.  But I was struck by the fact that, if nothing else, she seemed to have an intuitive enough understanding of me to tell me things that fit in with what I wanted to hear, or that fit my personality.  On the tape, I hardly speak at all, and when I do, I don't sound quite like myself.  "This is not your place, you need to be far away from here," she told me from this hateful, frozen redneck and strip mall town in central Alberta.  Wow.  Uncanny.  "You need to write, and share your intellect with the world."  Simple and obvious, maybe, but armed with empathy and good communication skills, she did charm me with some kind of magic. It strikes me the candor and rah-rah personal coaching I received in an hour-long session with someone many would consider a charlatan was perhaps more insightful and useful than any conventional therapist I've seen through the years, the psychologists and psychiatrists with their probing questions and long-term treatment programs.  Once again, a cassette gives delivers the real deal.  <br />
<br />
In time, that cassette will find its way back into one of my neglected cassette boxes, or find residence randomly in my household, kicked around from place to place, ignored by even carpet beetles and paper fleas.  It will remain unlabeled, and I'll rediscover it in ten years and pop it into a player.  I'll listen to a mystic "reading" my soul on one side, and Joe Matt and I discussing pornography on the other.  <br />
<br />
The music of  Mark's Wckr Spgt partner Joel Huschle's project Furniture Huschle is introduced by John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats in this issue of MungBeing.  I've been writing an essay on the cassette days of Daniel Johnston that I will publish in the future.  I hold out the hope that Franklin Bruno and Mark Szabo will one day have a conversation we can share with the world in the pages of MungBeing.  And Espen Kloots?  I've found his step-son and interviewed him, but if anyone else out there knows where I can find him or any of his dozens of albums, let me know.  I know it's going to take some time, but I need to authenticate the Legend of Espen Kloots, to me the biggest enigma in the history of modern music.    ]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title>Forward -- Honest. Real. Good.</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=832&amp;subID=885" />
				<modified>2007--0-8-T07: 0:5:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.0.2</id>
				<issued>2007-08-07T02:08:11Z</issued>
				<created>2007-08-07T02:08:11Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"Welcome to MungBeing #15. 

We're gazing deep into the eyes of authenticity to decide whether..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>Mark Givens</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[Welcome to MungBeing #15. <br />
<br />
We're gazing deep into the eyes of authenticity to decide whether truthfulness is a necessary quality, goodness a component at all, and how far back one must count to designate that something is 'genuine'. <br />
<br />
A great example of this can be found in American rock music. Rock and roll is an amalgamation of styles, the musical embodiment of America, a melting pot of ideas and cultures blending Blues (a combination of several styles and cultures) and Bebop (combining jazz and swing) with Country and Western (Western Swing, specifically - itself a combination of.. well, you get the point). As such, is there, can there ever be, anything called "authentic" rock?<br />
<br />
Listening to Kim Fowley, Joan Jett, and Paul Weller discussing punk rock with Tom Snyder in 1977 helps to put things into historical perspective as they relate to music classification. All three of them agreeing that "punk" was a "label invented and exploited by the media", Paul preferring to be called a "New Wave" artist and Joan claiming to be "just a rock and roll band." If you take the word of the people who were living it, if punk rock was a media term and not a movement on its own, can there ever be authentic punk rock?<br />
<br />
I've also heard people talking about the struggles of artists - how true artists suffer for their art and how that makes it more real. But is hardship a necessary component for something to be genuine or honest? The implication is that without turmoil, without hardship, there can be no authenticity, as if character and integrity are derived from struggle and hardship. This cannot be true, as I've encountered plenty of people who struggle and are faced with hardships and are not more honest or genuine than anyone else. And if we accept the premise that strife is essential to authenticity, we can safely write-off a large portion of the population for whom struggle and hardship are absent.<br />
<br />
These questions have spurred some interesting debates during the production of this issue. Amy Frushour Kelly touches on it with her piece about <a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1221">cover songs</a>, Alex Minoff discusses authenticity in African music, specifically how it relates to the project <a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1207">Extra Golden</a>, and Jessica Hill attacks the questions visually with her examination of <a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1236">American Gothic</a>. As far as authentic American Rock and Roll goes, I had the pleasure of sitting down for a conversation with <a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1216andsubID=876">The Henry Clay People</a>, a truly honest and realistic Rock and Roll band. Does that make them authentic? Well, they ain't lyin'.<br />
<br />
<br />
Keeping it real,<br />
Mark Givens<br />
Editor-in-Chief,<br />
MungBeing Magazine<br />
]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title>Announcements -- Propaganda III</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=833&amp;subID=835" />
				<modified>2007--0-7-T25: 2:2:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.0.3</id>
				<issued>2007-07-12T12:07:22Z</issued>
				<created>2007-07-12T12:07:22Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"Propaganda III, an..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>No Author Stated</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[<a href="http://www.startsoma.com/MOBILE/propaganda_III_07_6.htm">Propaganda III</a>, an uncensored, uncurated, political poster-art show has kicked off its world tour at The Phoenix Hotel in San Francisco.<br />
Check it out when it comes to your town or view the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/startpropaganda/">online gallery</a> now. ]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title>Announcements -- The Little Gallery</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=833&amp;subID=851" />
				<modified>2007--0-8-T07: 0:3:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.0.4</id>
				<issued>2007-07-25T02:07:58Z</issued>
				<created>2007-07-25T02:07:58Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"Work is almost complete on The Little Gallery. 
</summary>	<author>
				<name>No Author Stated</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[Work is almost complete on The Little Gallery. <br />
<img src='http://www.mungbeing.com/images/little_gallery-banner.jpg' align=left style='margin:15px;'><br />
Watch for the first opening, a group show, in early 2008.]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title>Announcements -- SUPERFROTHCO becomes world's first record label to switch to usb flash drive as an album format</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=833&amp;subID=852" />
				<modified>2007--0-7-T25: 2:3:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.0.5</id>
				<issued>2007-07-25T02:07:22Z</issued>
				<created>2007-07-25T02:07:22Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"On Friday, July 20, 2007 independent record label SUPERFROTHCO became the world's first record..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>No Author Stated</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[On Friday, July 20, 2007 independent record label SUPERFROTHCO became the world's first record label to completely switch over to the USB Flash Drive as the official format of choice for formal album releases.<br />
<br />
The first USB Flash Drive release will be the debut album from painter/jazz musician Jeffrey Scott Holland's JSH COMBO, a peculiar combo that weds experimental modern jazz to dixieland, cabaret and show tunes, and comes out in a whole new realm of sonic territory in the process. The album will ship on September 1st, 2007 but pre-orders are being taken and review copies are being sent to the media. This album will be available ONLY from Superfrothco and ONLY on the MP3-player-friendly USB Flash Drive format!<br />
<br />
All future Superfrothco releases, such as the long-awaited GRILLO THE CLOWN album, will be released in this format. Back catalog items like HASIL ADKINS' final album "Night Life" will be reissued in this format as well, with bonus material.<br />
<br />
Contact: <a href="http://www.superfrothco.com/">Superfrothco Records</a> or <a href="http://www.jshnyc.com/">Jeffrey Scott Holland</a> for information.<br />
]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title>Announcements -- The MungBeat! Podcast is on the air</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=833&amp;subID=886" />
				<modified>2007--0-8-T07: 0:5:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.0.6</id>
				<issued>2007-08-07T03:08:23Z</issued>
				<created>2007-08-07T03:08:23Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"All of the great music featured in this issue is available for all of your podcasting,..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>No Author Stated</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[All of the great music featured in this issue is available for all of your podcasting, time-shifting, listening pleasure. <br />
MungBeat!: <a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/podcast.xml">http://www.mungbeing.com/podcast.xml</a>]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title>Announcements -- 3-Day Novel Contest</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=833&amp;subID=883" />
				<modified>2007--0-8-T07: 0:6:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.0.7</id>
				<issued>2007-08-07T02:08:44Z</issued>
				<created>2007-08-07T02:08:44Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"Register Today for the 30th Anniversary 3-Day Novel Contest
</summary>	<author>
				<name>No Author Stated</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[Register Today for the 30th Anniversary 3-Day Novel Contest<br />
<img src='http://www.mungbeing.com/images/3Day_GIF_113x115.gif' align=left style='margin:15px;'><br />
Can you produce an entire novel in a mere 72 hours? Join hundreds of writers all over the world this Labour Day Weekend and find out for yourself! The 30th Anniversary event will take place September 1 - 3,<br />
2007 (registration postmark deadline: Aug. 31, 2007).<br />
<br />
Grand Prize: Publication (summer 2008)<br />
2nd Prize: $500 cash<br />
3rd Prize: A great literary prize pack<br />
<br />
And, in celebration of the 30th Anniversary of this notorious literary marathon, there will be lots of new prizes and fun stuff for everyone who makes the shortlist.<br />
<br />
MungBeing editor jody franklin participated in the 2006 contest and highly recommends it to any writer who wants a challenge.  "It taught me new ways to discipline myself.  When you commit to the process of completing a work within a such a short time frame, you learn very quickly how to deal with writer's block."  His novella <i>I Was A Teenage Communist</i> was a shortlisted finalist.<br />
<br />
Information: <a href="http://www.3daynovel.com/">3daynovel.com</a><br />
]]></content>
				</entry>
				
	<entry>
		<title>Illustrations</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1229" />
		<modified>2007--0-8-T26: 1:7:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.1</id>
		<issued>2007-07-11T01:07:52Z</issued>
		<created>2007-07-11T01:07:52Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Three Sisters" by Crystal Bretschger</summary><author>
		<name>Crystal Bretschger</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA["Three Sisters" by Crystal Bretschger]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Rock Star</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1239" />
		<modified>2007--0-8-T26: 1:2:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.2</id>
		<issued>2007-07-16T06:07:50Z</issued>
		<created>2007-07-16T06:07:50Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"I.
Once the first wave of tortillas was flung into the sun-baked crowd, the ensuing chaos..."</summary><author>
		<name>Kevin Ausmus</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[<h2>I.</h2><br />
Once the first wave of tortillas was flung into the sun-baked crowd, the ensuing chaos could be easily predicted.  Really, it was an innocent gesture, a gift to strangers, with the intention of having them stay for more - cake icing, chocolate syrup, whipped cream, G-strings, animal masks.<br />
<br />
But something got lost in the translation.<br />
<br />
First, there was the brown-skinned girl in the middle.  She became particularly upset.  Screaming at the top of her lungs, so she could be heard over the blare of electric instruments, she told of the starving millions in this world, most of whom apparently could be saved by a stolen milk crate filled with corn-based nutrition.<br />
<br />
I wondered perhaps if I were to provide her with more, she could leave that minute with a handful and start tending to the aggrieved.  <br />
<br />
She responded with a one-finger gesticulation that was quite rude.<br />
<br />
Then came the bottles, denoting every color in the rainbow - Aquafina, Arrowhead, Crystal Geyser, Gatorade, Powerade, Vitamin Water.  Many of the bottles found their intended target - my head.  Suddenly I realized I was fighting a war.  And we hadn't even struck the first note.<br />
<br />
<h2>II.</h2><br />
On the platform of the Red Line stood a young woman of stunning beauty.  She had long black hair, with just a hint of curls, which hung down past her shoulders.  She wore a white shirt with blue trimmings and a solid red skirt that fell half way down her long thighs, sturdy and enticing.  Her shoes were brand new, fashionable, alluring, conversation pieces, with colors that burst like fireworks in the dull darkened underground depot.<br />
<br />
She was a player.  Her shirt said "Hustler."<br />
<br />
I could do nothing but stare at her, slyly, without attracting attention, like I was just waiting for the train.  <br />
<br />
She eyed me too.  I could see her reading the lettering on my shirt, which read, "No Job - No Car - No Money - But I'm In A Band!"<br />
<br />
The beginnings of a smile pursed her lips, but nothing more.  She went back to reading her book.  Street Life it was called.  We had so much in common.  I had my book too.  War and Peace.  Practically the same.<br />
<br />
I thought maybe I could talk to her.  <br />
<br />
When the train arrived I followed her into the same car and took a seat one row away, as she placed herself perpendicular from me in a seat reserved for the elderly or disabled.  <br />
<br />
I sat, collecting my nerves.  What would I ask her?  Would it be about the book?  The shirt?  The shoes?  The monotone alert bell, denoting the closing of the train doors, rang.  I sat, pondering.<br />
<br />
A boy with a clean white tee, immaculate hair and a plastic bag with a box inside came and sat directly opposite her.  I hadn't seen him on the platform, he came from nowhere.  Their eyes met almost immediately and as I sat collecting and pondering, he leaned over to ask her a question.<br />
<br />
"Where did you get your shoes?"<br />
<br />
<h2>III.</h2><br />
I get love letters!<br />
"GO DIE!"<br />
"The vocals fucking suck!"<br />
<br />
It's so nice to be noticed!<br />
"Abortion poster child!"<br />
"Your absolutely fucking shit!"<br />
<br />
Attention that would make others cry!<br />
"Couldn't sing to save his life!"<br />
"Take the singer out!"<br />
<br />
Only emboldens me!<br />
"The singer sucks cocks"<br />
"Would go farther if they didn't have that dumbass singer!"<br />
<br />
And makes me stronger!<br />
"Worst crap I've ever seen!"<br />
"Lead singer sucks balls!"<br />
<br />
Sometimes shamelessness is a virtue.  I've admired it in others.<br />
<br />
<h2>IV.</h2><br />
I had a dream once where Paul Stanley came out in his makeup and started dancing for me.  I'm not ashamed to say it aroused me.  He was smaller than I imagined, really, just wafer thin, even with the platform boots.<br />
<br />
He swayed to a KISS song, one that I couldn't recognize, but it rocked balls and I stared transfixed as he hid himself behind two huge black, feathery burlesque fans.  There were many others there to watch him, yet I felt his right eye, the one with the star over it, was penetrating me only, boring a hole in my confused and overloaded psyche.<br />
<br />
Then he whisked the fans away and stood there, slowly, erotically, lifting the black vinyl gloves off his hands, one finger at a time, with the music cascading and the crowd roaring its approval.  He flung the gloves away, like discarded trash.  There was a fight for the scraps.<br />
<br />
It didn't stop there.  Suddenly he ripped off his bodice, exposing his bare chest.  It was thin and girlish and his nipples were covered with stars.  I wanted to reach out to touch him and fondle his tender flesh.  I wanted to feel his long sensuous tongue on mine.<br />
<br />
He strapped a device around his waist.  A long thin tube protruded from it and he started stroking it, gently at first, in time to the music, and as the song reached its peak, jerked it faster and harder until the lid of the tube popped open and a multitude of diamondback snakes shot out, fangs ready, into the horrified yet eager crowd.  It was a bloodbath and he rocked back on his platforms and posed, a rock star pose, and smirked, a shameless smirk, even as the blood of the innocent splattered everywhere.  I stood riveted until the pain of my own shame devoured me.<br />
<br />
I covered my eyes until I could wish the dream to another safer location.  The screaming stopped.  I dared to look again.<br />
<br />
I was in a bar.  I was standing across from a slender familiar looking woman with dark hair.  She was amiably chatting with two boys.  She possessed the same sensual aura as the androgynous Stanley and I was drawn to her in much the same way, yet completely unable to move, to speak, even to breath.<br />
<br />
I caught her eye for the briefest of moments.  A smile pursed her lips, then she turned away from me, uninterested.<br />
<br />
That is when I realized it was no dream.<br />
<br />
<h2>V.</h2><br />
The trash was stacking up ankle deep.  The brown-skinned girl was still screaming.  Something hit me in the head and knocked off my sunglasses. I looked down and discovered it was a hot dog.  This was wrong.  There are too many strarving people in the world for callous freeloaders to be gaily wasting precious and scarce resources.<br />
<br />
I picked it up and threw it back to into the crowd.  In return, a three foot tall square shaped cardboard box filled with vomit and rage hit the stage, an entire festival's worth of garbage spilling out, the most absurd move yet in an ever intensifying chess game.  <br />
<br />
I shouted "You Suck" one more time and walked over to get my camera.  I wanted to take a picture.  It was certainly a Polaroid moment.<br />
<br />
Just then they pulled the plug.  The show was over.  Everyone was in a quandry.  I stood defiantly, arms outstretched and waving at the crowd.<br />
<br />
"No Pussy Tonight!" they chanted, the anthem of the damned.  My anthem.  I closed my eyes and smiled.<br />
<br />
<h2>VI.</h2><br />
At Union Station I had to take a pee.  I had been riding the rails all day and had spent the afternoon in Hermosa Beach eating Ahi tuna, drinking beers and watching a cover band that played "Brown Eyed Girl" and "Get Down Tonight."  <br />
<br />
It was brutally hot all over the Southland but overcast at the beach, which was disappointing because all the girls cruising along the boardwalk wore towels over their bikinis.<br />
<br />
Then it was time to return home, a sketchy proposition for someone with a weak bladder like me, holding it in and swimming in my teeth until I could find an appropriate place to deposit my fluids.<br />
<br />
When I had finished I made my way over to the Gold Line, my final public transportation destination.  <br />
<br />
She was there too, the same girl in the "Hustler" shirt and red skirt that I found myself unable to approach earlier.  This time, another boy had already found her.  I was beaten to the punch again.  He was a little older than the last boy, with a Rick Fox like scruff of a beard and a bit of a brooding look.  A more formidable rival.<br />
<br />
Still, though, Hustler Girl spent most of her time on her cell, chatting with someone else.  When the train pulled up, we all boarded in the same car.  At first, hardly anyone came aboard and I sat with my back to Hustler Girl and her new suitor, Brooding Boy, who sat opposite each other.  I convinced myself I couldn't bear to watch.  I fell into my book.<br />
<br />
The train didn't leave right away, it stayed put until more passengers, likely arrived from the just completed Dodgers game, came in, hordes of them until it was standing room only.<br />
<br />
I wanted peace but I resigned myself to giving up my reverie, grabbed my backpack and cleared room on the seat next to me.  When the pretty Asian girl, perhaps Chinese, came in, my heart jumped in anticipation of her sitting next to me.  <br />
<br />
There had been a Japanese girl earlier on the Blue Line, with Disney charms, faded jeans and that wondrous innocent unapproachable facade.  Like looking at myself in a carnival mirror.  I cleared my seat for her, to no avail.  She sat away from me, staring intently and occasionally adjusting the volume on her iPod.<br />
<br />
Alas, later, this new potential transit neighbor also declined my covert invitation.  She stood close to the sliding train doors.  She had no iPod.<br />
<br />
In fact, it seemed no one wanted to sit next to me, even on a jam-packed train.  My vibe was repelling people.  My seat was the last one vacated until a large family came in and a haughty woman, somewhat by default, finally took her place next to me.  <br />
<br />
I looked back and Brooding Boy had moved next to Hustler Girl, who was still yakking away on her cell.<br />
<br />
Many conversations bounced along.  I stopped pretending to read and sat there and tried to absorb it all.<br />
<br />
In front of me, a woman was very loudly talking on her cell with her mother, trying to negotiate an apartment rental.  She was claiming hard times, though she mentioned a Saturday class she was taking.  There were equal parts love and agitation in her voice.<br />
<br />
Next to me, the haughty woman related to someone in her group how her $1900 watch almost got stolen.<br />
<br />
Behind me, Brooding Boy had his arm behind Hustler Girl but not around it.<br />
<br />
Now the train had started.  A few stops in, a family of blunderers came aboard.  Once moving, they immediately shouted at a girl, "You have to get off at the next stop!"  They had left behind someone.  <br />
<br />
It was so full in the train I could no longer see behind me.  Many stops came and went.  <br />
<br />
The hard times woman left.  The Asian girl left.  The blunderers left.  Everyone, it seems, left save for the haughty woman, who decided not to move to a seat closer to her husband.  I realized I had lost track of something important to me.  <br />
<br />
When the dust had cleared, Brooding Boy and Hustler Girl were both gone.  <br />
<br />
Whether they left together, I'll never know.<br />
<br />
<h2>VII.</h2><br />
My picture was in the paper.  I felt proud.  I wanted to show people.  I wanted to brag.  I wanted to turn a girl so dizzy with delight that she would want to kiss me.  <br />
<br />
I drove to a bar where a friend of mine worked.  I got out of my car and walked to the door and peered in the window.  Suddenly, I had no urge to enter.  I saw my friend working behind the bar, smiling and dispensing drinks.  The crowd was older, predominantly male, a bit disheveled.  Not my scene.  I left as quickly as I had come.<br />
<br />
I drove to another bar, where another friend of mine was working.  This crowd was more diverse, upscale, vibrant.  Yet I stood frozen outside.  <br />
<br />
It was like I was in a dream, where you keep running to a place and you get there and the place has changed, so you run again, and again and again, and fragmented three-word conversations converge and dissipate in the blink of an eye and you never get to where you want to go, until finally you wake up.<br />
<br />
Again, I declined to enter.<br />
<br />
There was a party I was invited to, where everyone wanted to see me.  I had my picture in the newspaper.  There was a story, a story of how I caused a riot and everybody either got cheesed off at me or thought I was a genius, the result of which provided me probably the greatest notices of my career.  I wanted to burst into the party waving it around like a cudgel, saying "See?  I am a rock star!  I am a rock star!"<br />
<br />
Yet I couldn't do it.  Suddenly I felt nothing but remorse, like I needed to hide my face.  Maybe if there was a stage inside the party, where I could just come up and grab a microphone and have a spotlight hung on me, and everybody would gather around, excited and anticipating something brilliant and controversial, that would have obliged me to stay.  <br />
<br />
There would be nothing of the sort inside, just people.  I would be forced to have conversation, compelled to explain myself.  I knew instinctively that I would have but ten seconds to speak my mind, then be cut off in haste, either by rolled eyes or the intrusive opinion of others.  I didn't want that.  The attention I wanted suffered no interference.  <br />
<br />
That's what I said to myself.  In truth, I was too scared.<br />
<br />
This time I didn't even get out of the car.  I just drove on.  I, the inciter, the instigator, a man not afraid to pull any prank, no spectacle too outrageous to perpetrate, for art's sake, for publicity's sake, the bigger the better, no holds barred.  <br />
<br />
I, the artist who will withstand a mountain of garbage, a legion of haters in cyberspace, the banishment from venues too tame for my act - I don't have the guts to talk to a pretty stranger, don't have the confidence to face friends in a public place, even when I am desperate for love and attention, yet have no problem floating anonymously through life, observing others, as long as no one deigns to observe me.<br />
<br />
I can't do it.  What is wrong with me?  Where have I gone wrong?  Who will save me?  Me, the rock star?<br />
<br />
<h2>VIII.</h2><br />
At home, safe in my isolation, I turned on the TV.  I had a choice between The Gene Simmons Show, America's Top Model, Sportscenter, Behind the Music, a variety program featuring a dancer named Diamondback Annie, a war movie and Seinfeld.  <br />
<br />
I chose Seinfeld.  Jerry was being vexed by Newman.  I laughed.  I had seen it before.  <br />
<br />
I was very comfortable watching it.  <br />
<br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>A 2000 Word Poem on Authenticity</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1237" />
		<modified>2007--0-8-T25: 0:3:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.3</id>
		<issued>2007-07-14T03:07:22Z</issued>
		<created>2007-07-14T03:07:22Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"The authenticity of dirty electricity
Is not easy to see
Stand your ground
Arms..."</summary><author>
		<name>Rik Albatros</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[The authenticity of dirty electricity<br />
Is not easy to see<br />
Stand your ground<br />
Arms open<br />
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx<br />
But walk away like you should.<br />
 <br />
 <br />
<div class='offset'><i>*****  notes *****<br />
The above poem was edited from the full version at 10.23pm during a storm.<br />
It should be noted the fifth line was self censored to prevent offence to electric eels.<br />
The rabbit w0rld and all those who inhabit it have no connection with this author on any documents or legal papers.</i></div><br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>If The Gods Themselves Are Ignorant</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1238" />
		<modified>2007--0-8-T26: 1:6:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.4</id>
		<issued>2007-07-15T10:07:20Z</issued>
		<created>2007-07-15T10:07:20Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Sammy came on like a plague of handshakes. "Hey, buddy. How're you? Say, did you hear about the..."</summary><author>
		<name>Ian Donnell Arbuckle</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[Sammy came on like a plague of handshakes. "Hey, buddy. How're you? Say, did you hear about the Wands kid?" I gave him a firm grip and lied that I hadn't; I barely got the words out before Sammy went plowing ahead. "Yeah, no, he got thrown out of class. Cheated on a test. You ever do that? Had drugs on him, too." I had no idea how old Sammy was. He acted twelve and looked sixty. Probably somewhere in between. I'd been hearing the story about the Wands kid for a couple of years now, and guessed it was quite a bit older than that. <br />
<br />
"Wow, man," I said. Sammy always seemed to be discovering conversation. Like a child, he never picked up on the difference between reality and fiction.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," said Sammy.<br />
<br />
"See you around, Sammy," I said. I was late for an appointment with my physician. Sammy tended to hang out in one of two places: the hospital and the food bank. Together, those two places gave him all the human interaction and sustenance he apparently needed. I would often volunteer at the food bank and, before my frequent trips to the hospital had started up, that had been just about enough of a Sammy dose for me. Seeing him in both places made it seem as if he were following me around, like a grade school hanger-on. I tried to gently remind myself that it was more like I had invaded his territory.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," said Sammy. I gave him a grin and edged past into the hospital waiting room. "Do you know him?" I heard him ask a middle-aged lady who had come up the walk behind me. "He's a good guy. He helps a lot."<br />
"Why doesn't he talk to one of you?" I asked my god as I waited for my turn at the admissions desk.<br />
<br />
"I was about to commend you on your charitable character," said my god.<br />
<br />
"Well, I sure don't mind helping him out now and then, if I can, but why doesn't he spend some of that babble on one of you?"<br />
<br />
"I'm not sure," said my god. "All I can tell you is that he has never spoken to me."<br />
<br />
"Downside of a pantheon," I said. Through a window, I saw Sammy make an unsuccessful grab for someone else's hand, and turn the gesture into a gracious unseen wave. As he did, I noticed a cheap, filthy bandage on his hand where his index finger ought to have been, paper towel and packing tape. "Was he in the war?" I asked my god.<br />
<br />
"He didn't talk to me back then, either," said my god. "I suspect he talks to you more than he does to any of us."<br />
<br />
After my appointment, I stopped at the hospital's cafeteria for a couple cups of coffee. As I had expected, Sammy was still hanging around the front door. He was picking at the cigarette stubs in the waist-high ashtray, experimenting with putting some of them in his mouth. I held out one of the coffees. "Hey, Sammy," I said.<br />
<br />
He took the coffee and saluted me with it a couple of times. "Hey," he said. "I don't drink coffee much, anymore, no. But it's the thought that counts." He took a big, scalding gulp and grinned at me. <br />
<br />
"I never noticed your finger before," I said. <br />
<br />
"It's good, it's good," he said, putting the wounded hand into one of the pockets of his army-green coat. Before he got it hidden, though, I got a glimpse of bright-red blood leaking through the bandage; the cut was fresh. "It's good," he said again. He may have meant the coffee.<br />
<br />
I gave him a nod in lieu of a wave and said, "See you at the bank, Sammy."<br />
<br />
"All right, take care," he said. I think he repeated it under his breath.<br />
<br />
As I drove home, I talked with my god. A while back, I noticed a tendency in myself not to talk with him unless I was also doing something else. I would chop firewood and talk to my god; I would watch TV and talk to my god; I would write in my journal and talk to my god. At bedtime, when other people would say their prayers and get a little advice on how to improve the following day, I would not talk to my god and he would not talk to me. <br />
<br />
That night, while cooking myself a meal of pasta and pie, I asked about the war, which led to a discussion of the necessity of violence, which was followed by an argument on the relative value of human beings. My god was gentle in his words, but by the end I could hear a near boil in his tone. "You all have different values," he said. "Empirically divined, but only for us, since you lack the necessary skills."<br />
<br />
"How much am I worth?" I asked as I put on my pajamas.<br />
<br />
"You are worth my time," said my god, after a slight pause. The heat left his voice, and I bundled myself in a cocoon of heavy blankets.<br />
<hr><br />
When I got to the food bank the next morning there was already a crowd out front. The director of the bank often plead for orderly lines, but he never got anywhere.<br />
<br />
I edged my way toward the front door, as politely as possible. Normally, the crowd was only too eager to let me pass through, recognizing my arrival as another step toward a meal; but today, there seemed to be another sort of hunger driving them. A couple regulars got me with their elbows and grumbled at me to keep out of the way. I felt as if I were fighting to the stage at a concert.<br />
<br />
Sammy was the object of the crowd's attention. When I emerged from the press of bodies, he grinned at me. "Did you hear about the Wands kid?" he asked.<br />
<br />
"Hey, Sammy," I said.<br />
<br />
"He got locked in a forest, yeah. His dad did it to him." His eyes were bloodshot and yellow just above the lids. He looked as if he had been rubbing grit into his tear ducts, all the red, scraped skin on his cheeks.<br />
<br />
"You feeling all right?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"He pissed on the wall," said someone behind me. "Gonna snap," said someone else. <br />
<br />
"He cheated on a test," said Sammy. Then, in one movement, he spun to face the brick wall and flung his left arm across it. With his other hand, he pulled a wide cleaver from inside his army-green jacket. Before I could do much more than realize my blood had gone cold, he brought the knife down on his outstretched wrist. Three sounds came up at once: metal on brick, on flesh, and on bone. He screamed, pulled his good hand back and let it swing again. This time, I only heard metal on brick.<br />
My startled muscles carried me toward him, but I tripped over the curb and went down. Sammy kept flailing with the cleaver, raising it only scant inches before smashing it into the wall, over and over, as if the number of swings were important. He must have passed out before reaching his goal, because as I reached him he toppled over into my arms, and I saw tears of frustration in his eyes, different from tears of pain in that they dried much slower and seemed to glitter much more sharply in the overcast light. <br />
<hr><br />
A few days later I had another appointment at the hospital. I went in a little early so I could swing by Sammy's room. When I asked after him at the nurse's station, the ward clerk said, "Thank you, god. He's sure in need of a friendly voice; he's worn out all the good humor 'round here."<br />
<br />
"She's been praying for someone to distract him," said my god as I made my way down the hall toward Sammy's room. Then, with a note of pride, he added, "I didn't figure you needed telling."<br />
<br />
The smell of sick exhalations coming from each room combined with the natural vertigo my meds gave me to leave a solid headache. It felt like a brick was resting at the top of my spine.<br />
<br />
Sammy was just coming out of his room as I arrived. His gown didn't fit him well, and his feet were only half-in a pair of hospital-provided slippers. He was holding a brown paper lunch sack in his hand. "I threw up some," he said, holding the bag out toward me.<br />
<br />
"The nurse will probably want to measure it," I said, taking it from him.<br />
<br />
"Well, they can't," said Sammy. "You're a good guy," he added, as if it were slightly less important.<br />
<br />
"You look a little pale, Sammy," I said. "Let's sit down, yeah?"<br />
<br />
"Okay," he said. I set the bag of vomit down on the floor as soon as his back was turned.<br />
<br />
His room was large enough for two beds, but his was the only one. I could see scuff marks on the tile where the other bed had been. The rest of the space was strewn with his clothes: shirt, torn socks, brown corduroys, tighty-whities, and the big green coat. They were spread out to cover the maximum area. It smelled as if the air hadn't been stirred in a long, long time.<br />
<br />
"They couldn't get your hand back," I said. I leaned against the wall. There was something comforting about the smell in the room; it was almost like being in the presence of something much older than myself.<br />
<br />
"Think positive," said Sammy. "Are you thinking positive?"<br />
<br />
"I try and keep it up," I said. "You having any problems? Anything I can help with. I can sneak you some coffee."<br />
<br />
"Hey," said Sammy. It sounded as if he had just realized I was in the room. "I've got a question."<br />
<br />
"What's that?"<br />
<br />
"Where is my soul?" he asked.<br />
<br />
I hesitated. "I'm sure your god could answer that a whole lot better than I can," I said. "I'm not even that clear on my own physiology."<br />
<br />
"It's not a place," said my god. I repeated it to Sammy. "It's hardly even a thing."<br />
<br />
Sammy stroked the bandage that covered the stump of his missing hand. "Cool," he said. "All right. Think positive."<br />
<br />
"Sorry, man," I said. "I guess that's not a lot of help." Sammy nodded, bobbing his neck kind of like a quail. "Got an easier one for me?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"No sir, all right," said Sammy. "It's good to see you, hey. I'll see you around." He sat down on his bed and kicked off his slippers. His feet didn't quite reach the floor.<br />
<hr><br />
The following weekend I had two hundred packages to put together so the food bank regulars would have something special for the upcoming holidays. Cans of spaghetti, small boxes of cereal with prizes inside, some ribbon. It was a big job, but I had somebody to pass the time with.<br />
<br />
Thanks to the situation with Sammy, my god was in a lamenting mood.<br />
<br />
"There was a time when we gods had power," he said. "We had our words, yes, but our words could do much more than just spark the neurons in the brains of our worshipers. We could conquer armies with a breath; we could lift mountains with a half-realized whim; we could lift the spirits of the downtrodden as lifting water from a stream in cupped hands."<br />
<br />
"So, what happened?" I asked. My god had often told me this story, but he told it like a gently senile grandfather; details changed at every telling, and each new wrinkle to the story made me feel closer to his true, unedited self.<br />
<br />
"What happens to a muscle that goes unused? What happens to a brain submerged in mindless activity? Our power atrophied. We had once been timeless; then, one morning, it was as though we had been pushed from a bridge over the river of time and were now adrift within it -- cold, restless, weary in motion.<br />
<br />
"We used to feed you as we would the fish, suspended above your strange and uncomfortable world. Then we were among your minds, but held distant from your world, and weakened by some force -- or lack of force -- that we did not understand." He pulled all other sounds out of my hearing, filling my head with silence. It was his equivalent of a sigh. "We learned, though," he continued. "Our power left us because we no longer needed to use it. Not for you, mad people though you are."<br />
His long monologue added a comfortable dissonance to my work, like an invisible hand keeping the curve of my emotion from exceeding its bounds.<br />
<br />
"That sort of power wouldn't be unwelcome, now," I said. "Cut down on my medical bills. In fact, I can't think of a single person who would refuse a miracle."<br />
<br />
"Unfortunately, you do not decide what is necessary, for us gods or for yourselves. That is a balance given over to some science that you are ill-equipped to test." Silence rolled through my head, again. "Miracles are slow wonders, kid," he said. "They're happening, but their birth and growth are far more deliberate than you are capable of seeing."<br />
<hr><br />
I read about Sammy's latest episode in the weekend paper. The dry, journalist prose put a welcome distance between the experience and me. "...white male in mid-thirties reported causing a disturbance on 300 block of Old Elm." Just a few blocks down from the food bank. I had wondered why Sammy hadn't shown up for our holiday celebration; I had also wondered about the sirens I had heard, but not so hard.<br />
<br />
"He prays to a loner deity," said my god. I was driving to the hospital to visit Sammy. After the doctors got him stabilized, they had moved him to the mental wing. I had one ribboned package left over from the party, and an empty prescription in need of a refill.<br />
<br />
"Which one?" I asked my god.<br />
<br />
"Not one I'm familiar with," said my god. "He refuses to speak with me."<br />
<br />
"Sammy or the loner?"<br />
<br />
"Both."<br />
<br />
I parked my car and shoved open the door. There was a solid wind moving over the asphalt like a brusque man in a slow-moving line, all low grumbles and thick skin. The sky was purple and seemed close, as if I could reach up and grab a fistful of lightning.<br />
<br />
"Can they reattach his leg?" I asked as I bundled myself, head down, to the front entrance. Inside, the air was thin and smelled of new carpet.<br />
<br />
"No," said my god. "His cut was too ragged and too slow. There was nothing the surgeons could do to save it."<br />
<br />
"That's a sort of power," I mused. "Defying the gifts of talented men."<br />
<br />
"That is not the sort of power that would rob us of ours," my god replied.<br />
<br />
Sammy was sleeping off some pain meds when a nurse showed me to his room. He wasn't classified as dangerous, but his remaining leg and good arm were strapped loosely to the frame of his bed. The straps meant for his other limbs curled limply on the tile floor.<br />
<br />
I sat down and waited for him to wake up. I felt my god retreat from my mind. Thunder shook the distance, crossing miles to growl weakly at the window.<br />
<br />
I thought about the stories of great, fickle gods of the past - told to me in deadpan by my god -- who demanded sacrifice and rewarded it with disinterest. I thought about the unassuming races of history who submitted their wills to the weather and the seasons, believing that there were gods who would take their offerings and transform them into longevity. I wondered if it might have been a temptation, to surrender control, like a child in its mother's arms.<br />
<br />
"Hey, friend." Sammy rolled his whole head to face me. "What's your name again?"<br />
<br />
"Come on, man," I said. "You remember me."<br />
<br />
Sammy showed me all his teeth. They were yellow and jagged and did a poor job of hiding his tongue. "I'm asking the wrong questions," he said.<br />
<br />
I smiled. I had a good smile, since I had to use it a lot. Some of the outcasts who would come by the food bank were in such a slur of alcohol, you couldn't make heads or tails of them. All you could do was smile. I had begun to think of my smile as its own word in the language; it changed its meaning based on inflection and, every so often, it dropped right out of my vocabulary, like when you can't remember a word that means "uneducated" but you know it starts with an S.<br />
<br />
It didn't matter what I thought my smile was. Sammy was deaf to it; he twisted in his straps showing me his back. I tried some other words.<br />
<br />
"Folks miss you at the bank, man," I said. "I'm supposed to take back good news to 'em. Have the doctors told you when you can go?"<br />
<br />
Sammy grunted. I could see his jaws working, bulging out the skin of his cheeks. I slumped down a little further in my seat. I see his sort of posture all the time in my volunteer work. He was giving up. It was a weighted silence, and seemed a reluctance to respond for fear of being lifted bodily from a comfortable hole. I had often seen it happen when a co-volunteer asked one of the unfortunates to talk about managing what little money the latter had. I hadn't once seen one of them gladly hand over the decisions that guided their few bills to the educated suggestion of a volunteer. It was about control; they would cling to the tiniest sphere of influence, and I had seen it many times pop like a soap bubble.<br />
<br />
Funny, though. I had never pegged Sammy as the master-of-his-own-destiny type. He was always far too generous with his thoughts, his history, his hand shakes.<br />
<br />
He made a noise, sort of a sob, and ground his teeth together so hard I thought I could hear the enamel popping.  <br />
<br />
"What was that, Sammy?"<br />
<br />
He turned his head toward me. Blood stained his chin like a red goatee; he spit a hunk of flesh from between his teeth. It landed on the sheets with the sound of heavy rain. It was the tip of his tongue. "Where is my soul?" he asked in a clotted voice, indistinct, as if he had lost interest in speech.<br />
<hr><br />
After that, I did a little giving up of my own. I had seen plenty of men and women at the nadir of their lives, but they had all known it. Sammy's bemused ignorance of the reasons for his self-destruction put a distance between us that I was hesitant to cross back over. <br />
<br />
That's part of a lie. Sammy didn't make the distance; I did. I walked out of his room. I rolled my eyes when the nurse asked how he was doing. I tried to spin my mind away from him by counting the seconds between lightning and thunder.<br />
<br />
That lasted for as long as the storm did. I had other things to occupy my time -- volunteer work, my health, the job that paid the bills -- but I kept coming back to Sammy. <br />
<br />
"You have taken your responsibility as far as you need," said my god. "There are others whose needs are much clearer." He told me about a few; the ones who had talked to him, at least.<br />
<br />
"Why not work a miracle," I said. I had meant it as a joke, but by the time the words reached my tongue they tasted much more bitter. My mouth twisted. My god couldn't see it. He backed away and left me in peace for a while. <br />
<br />
I passed the next couple of weeks with the inside of my head feeling like a desert. I could sense the natural mutation of the world around me, but it seemed no more important than the shifting of dunes. When I closed my eyes, even the colors there seemed flat and desaturated, like the screen of a dying television. My responsibility to Sammy had not been fulfilled; there was a contract between us, reaffirmed every time I stopped to listen to him. Breaking that contract would leave me stranded in the desert sensation, which is not so much devoid of water as empty of life. <br />
<br />
My god was the one to break the silence. "You do the things that we can not, you know," he said one morning as I brushed my teeth. "Your simple handouts are small miracles. Envy is not an emotion becoming of a deity, but perhaps we approach it. The act of raising a loaf of bread in thanksgiving is your greatest power."<br />
<br />
I spit toothpaste into the sink. "I don't understand the direction of my life," I said. <br />
<br />
"Life has no direction," said my god. "Life is not a journey; it is a shape."<br />
<br />
"I don't quite understand the shape my life is in," I said.<br />
<br />
"Then I am fully jealous," said my god. "You should be grateful for the chance to understand, because that makes times like this all the more potent."<br />
<br />
"Times like what?" I asked, just as the phone rang. <br />
<br />
"Your doctor," said my god, and I could hear the play of good humor in his voice.<br />
<br />
A little thrill sprang up in my chest. I picked up the phone. <br />
<br />
"Good news!" crowed my doctor on the other end. He was a serious man most of the time, but always had a glint in his eye that suggested he would only be too willing to run wildly through the streets. "It's my pleasure to tell you that your test results came back and you're finally in remission. Congratulations!"<br />
<br />
My heart pumped a salve through my veins, and I felt the shape of the world begin to soften. I felt relief like the victory of a gambler; it was sudden, unexpected, and I had no immediate idea of what to do with it.<br />
<br />
"If I could kiss you, I would," said my god, with a note of pride in his voice. "But don't think this lets you off the service hook." My doctor laughed at something only he could hear.<br />
<br />
"Why did you let him tell me?" I asked after I hung up the phone. <br />
<br />
"I don't abuse what power I have," said my god.<br />
<hr><br />
When I went back to visit Sammy, I felt buoyed by my good news. My good intention -- the one I pinned down in words -- was to share some of my mood with him, to see what minor joy might slough from me to him.<br />
<br />
"Don't," said my god. "The road to hell is paved with good intentions which were not realized."<br />
<br />
I didn't pay attention. I felt as if that wide desert in my mind lay between us. There was just a stretch of clean linoleum between Sammy and me. "He deserves as many miracles as I do," I said. My shoes made a pleasant click on the hospital floor.<br />
<br />
The nurses had been able to keep him from losing any more of his parts, but I wasn't fully prepared to see him again after having stashed him at the back of my mind. He looked thin from underfeeding, and his body couldn't quite square up with his bed. His head pulled to one side, and his stumps of arm and leg broke all hope of symmetry.<br />
<br />
"Don't," said my god as I paused outside the door.<br />
<br />
"I don't understand why not," I said. <br />
<br />
Perfect silence fell around me. "I said that I do not abuse what power I have," said my god. "Had I the desire, I could ball your emotions up and play with them like a cat with a toy, but I haven't that desire."<br />
<br />
I stepped back from Sammy's door and sat down on a nearby bench. "What do you mean?" I asked. <br />
<br />
"Your mood is the lens by which you perceive the shapes of everything. Your mood belongs to me, held entirely in the realm of your mind."<br />
<br />
"I can choose to be happy without your interference," I said. <br />
<br />
"That is a decision I wouldn't expect you to make," said my god. The silence came in, once more, and then my head was filled with his insistent words. If my time earlier had been a desert, this felt like a swamp, all curled decay and thick, complex patterns inside my eyes. "I have found the deity to whom Sammy speaks. He is a child god, a new birth, though old enough to your perception, and he is petty as his youth describes. He spins cruelty about him like carnival sugar, clotted and shapeless. He claims an insatiable curiosity, but my fellow gods do not believe that there is any motivation less than exercising a thoughtless power over the poor souls that trust him to be their guide."<br />
<br />
I sat back against the wall and let my head clear. "You gods are taking advantage of him."<br />
<br />
"I am not," said my god.<br />
<br />
I breathed out a lungful and was slow pulling it back in. "And to think I was in such a good mood this morning." I rose and entered Sammy's room. I felt my god withdraw, leaving noise where there had been silence.<br />
<br />
Sammy cracked open his eyes to look at me, then slid his focus toward the blank wall. "Hey," he said. "It's good to see you, man. Yeah." His words sounded drunk, coming off his ruined tongue. <br />
<br />
"Hey, Sammy," I said. I pulled a chair over to his bedside. Neither of us said anything for a while, but you couldn't hold it against us. After a while, I wasn't sure if Sammy even remembered I was in the room. I cleared my throat and asked, "Do you believe in a god?" It sounded stupid to ask.<br />
<br />
"I hear voices sometimes," said Sammy. His skin was gray as storm clouds. He coughed and then moaned, trying to lick his lips with the ragged line of his tongue. His lips were chapped and splotched with a deep red where he had been chewing. It looked painful; it looked like the least of his pain. I bent over him, we my own lips, and kissed him lightly. It was all I could do. Sammy just stared at the ceiling.<br />
<br />
"Sometimes I hear voices, too," I said, sitting back in my chair.<br />
<br />
A young man in a nurse's uniform rapped politely on the door and came in. "Hi there, Sammy," he said with an affected brightness. "Sorry, but it's time to check on your vitals again."<br />
<br />
"It's not a good idea," said Sammy. He scowled, as if unsatisfied with how the words had come out. "It's not a good idea," he repeated.<br />
<br />
"Well, we've got to know how you're doing, so we can keep you healthy."<br />
<br />
Sammy started to thrash around on his bed. The nurse gave me a look of long suffering. "Want me to give you a hand?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Can't do blood pressure, now," said the nurse. "Just hold his head still while I take his temperature."<br />
<br />
I got on my knees next to Sammy's bed and took his head in both my hands. His skin was rough, unshaven, and blotched with sweat. He stared at me and calmed slightly, our pupils reflected one another in the faint light. The nurse bent over and pushed a thermometer into Sammy's ear. A short beep, and then he was done. "Ninety-nine," he said. "Looks like the antibiotics are working, Sammy." <br />
<br />
Sammy didn't reply. He just stared at me. "Where is my soul?" he asked, slurred by his slow and damaged tongue.<br />
<br />
"I'll be back to check on your blood pressure, okay, Sammy?" said the nurse. "Thanks," he said to me. I smiled at him and pulled my hands away from Sammy's cheeks. <br />
<br />
"Where is my soul?" asked Sammy. He didn't break his gaze away from me.<br />
<br />
I reached up and tapped my temple. "It's here," I said. "It's right here. Keep that, all right? Let them take everything else off you. Let them scream themselves hoarse." His eyes unfocused. I laid my fingers on his temples. The nerves and tendons all up my arms shuddered with repressed energy, as if they wanted to act out all the things I couldn't figure how to say. "This wasteland . . . They have to cross it to reach you. It's yours." <br />
<br />
My ineloquent muscles -- tongue, arms, and heart -- sagged from exertion. I let my body sink back into the chair. <br />
<br />
Slowly, Sammy raised his one good hand to his head, index finger and thumb sticking out like a playground gun.<br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Authenticity</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1225" />
		<modified>2007--0-8-T26: 1:6:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.5</id>
		<issued>2007-07-11T12:07:11Z</issued>
		<created>2007-07-11T12:07:11Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Authenticity" by Skinny Gaviar, 1600 x 2500, digital, 2007</summary><author>
		<name>Skinny Gaviar</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA["Authenticity" by Skinny Gaviar, 1600 x 2500, digital, 2007]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>American Gothic</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1236" />
		<modified>2007--0-8-T26: 1:6:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.6</id>
		<issued>2007-07-12T12:07:26Z</issued>
		<created>2007-07-12T12:07:26Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"American Gothic" by Jessica Hill, acrylic on bad print of Grant's masterpiece, 2007</summary><author>
		<name>Jessica Hill</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA["American Gothic" by Jessica Hill, acrylic on bad print of Grant's masterpiece, 2007]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Extra Golden</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1207" />
		<modified>2007--0-8-T26: 1:6:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.7</id>
		<issued>2007-06-06T09:06:52Z</issued>
		<created>2007-06-06T09:06:52Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Extra Golden is a musical group consisting of two Americans (myself and Ian Eagleson) and two..."</summary><author>
		<name>Alex Minoff</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[Extra Golden is a musical group consisting of two Americans (myself and Ian Eagleson) and two Kenyans (Opiyo Bilongo and Onyango Wuod Omari).  The story of our formation is well-documented in other places, so I won't go into it here.  The issue of how four musicians from such disparate economic and cultural backgrounds are able to create sounds sympathetic to each other's ears doesn't matter now.  Instead, what I hope to address are the questions of Authenticity that relate to Extra Golden and our audience, as well as the general presentation of, and critical approach to, African music.<br />
<br />
One of the most frequent questions asked of me is:  "How do Africans react when they see a couple of white guys up on stage playing African music?"  This is really just a coded way of asking, "Do they think you're fake or do they accept you as one of them?"<br />
<br />
When I'm asked this question I usually explain that, at first, the Kenyans in the audience express a friendly disbelief, a sort of "I gotta see this!" mentality. But, after a few moments, any skepticism disappears, and they quickly revert to what they are there to do in the first place - have fun. That, of course, is the goal of the band.  However, it is also the goal of the audience, which is why you'll never find a patron at a Kenyan bar watching the band from a distance with their arms folded, scratching their chin.<br />
<br />
But there is more to this question than meets the ear.  To a lot of people, nothing oozes Authenticity more than a couple of poor, African musicians ("These guys are the real deal, man!"). There is a subtle racism at work here, presupposing some sort of initiation into a mystical cult of Africanness, which would explain why I've never been asked, "How do Americans react when they see a couple of Africans playing rock music?"<br />
<br />
Questions of Authenticity also arise when it comes to language.  On our upcoming record, Hera Ma Nono, all four members of Extra Golden sing in English, Luo and Swahili.  This raises all sorts of red flags with studious, world music types, and a recent review of a group called Toubab Krewe illuminates this point.<br />
<br />
Toubab Krewe is a quintet from North Carolina who perform songs from the West African repertoire, incorporating the indigenous instruments of the region (kora, kamelengoni, etc.).  They honed these difficult skills through various trips to Mali, Guinea and the Ivory Coast.  This hard work is not lost on the critic, who compliments the group for the results of their travails.  However, an interesting comment is added at the end of the review: <br />
<br />
<div class='offset'><i>"The decision to include no singing on the album was both brave and wise.  When Americans add English lyrics to African music, or sing in African languages, a line is crossed and a whole new set of compromises must be breached."</i></div><br />
I am wondering about this.  Earlier, the critic notes that Toubab Krewe, "have made this music their own with inventive, natural sounding arrangements that never lag or fall back on cliches."  What is it about singing that would make Toubab Krewe's efforts inauthentic? The irony, of course, is that this group is performing using the instruments and songs of cultures far removed from their own.  It would be easy for a cynic to label them inauthentic without ever hearing a note.  Yet, to this critic, the line between authenticity and inauthenticity is a lyrical one.  What is it about the voice that makes it sonically more expressive than a guitar or kamelengoni?  More important than a drum?<br />
<br />
In Extra Golden, everybody sings together because we are a team.  Sound is the most important thing, and everybody knows a chorus sounds better with four voices rather than two, no matter what language it is - it is called a chorus after all!  (A quick sidenote:  English happens to be an official language, not only of Kenya, but of such world music titans as Nigeria and Ghana, too.)  To me, only allowing vocals to be sung by native speakers would be the real "compromise".  Would it be a problem for me to sing in French? Probably not.  This point of view is consistent with the one that exoticizes the African musician as possessing some form of inherent purity or Authenticity, ignoring the fact that most would put a bagpipe solo on their record in exchange for a new set of guitar strings!<br />
<br />
So, does Extra Golden stand any real chance of being considered "authentic"?  Well, if the above sentiments are any indication, then the answer would have to be a resounding "NO". Of course, these assumptions, and what they imply, would mean that nothing really could be. Too often, Authenticity is really just a synonym for cultural ignorance or misunderstanding. Fodeba Keita, who almost single-handedly modernized (inauthenticated?) Guinean music in the 1950s and 1960s, asked:<br />
<br />
<div class='offset'><i>"How often do we hear the word authentic used here, there, and everywhere to describe folkloric performances?  Come to the point! Authentic compared to what?  To a more or less false idea which one has conceived about the sensational primitiveness of Africa?"</i></div><br />
In coveting what is essentially a colonialist's concept of foreign cultures, Authenticity discourages innovation.  In its place is a preference for stasis or genre music.  Even though Africa contains thousands of cultures, each with their own unique traditions, it is much easier to understand a continent of aural oddities populated with half-naked men creating rhythmic cacophony.  In fact, when I explain to people that I play with African musicians, the typical response is:  "So you guys have a bunch of drums?"<br />
<br />
Lost in all of these discussions are the musicians themselves.  I can confidently say that, for the African half of Extra Golden, music is a true passion - however, it is also a job.  This point cannot be emphasized enough, especially as it is ultimately the determining factor behind most decisions.  Authenticity can be a diverting topic for scholars to kick about, but for the working African musician economics will usually defeat academics.<br />
<br />
No finer example of economics factoring into the lives of African musicians (only to be misunderstood by Western critics) exists than the Congolese group Konono No. 1.  Founded almost 30 years ago, Konono play a form of traditional Bazombo music that features several likembes (thumb pianos).  In order to compete with the urban noise pollution of Kinshasa, the group devised their own collection of microphones and amplifiers built from spare auto parts and the like.  This helped create a unique sound but also, more importantly, kept the group working feverishly.  It also allowed the band to gain exposure in Europe, where their inventiveness earned them the dubious classification of "Afro-punk".  While it has undoubtedly done wonders for the group's wallets, this odious appellation is condescending and confused, representative of commercial considerations and unrealistic expectations.<br />
<br />
If a rock group from Atlanta or Amsterdam built their own amplification system, as Konono did, then they might be acting in the DIY spirit often equated with the "punk" movement. This implies a choice. Could they have opted for a complete backline of vintage Fender tube amplifiers?  Yes, but they made a conscious decision about their own identity by going against the perceived mainstream.  Many Western groups define themselves through decisions like this, their music a decorative afterthought. Konono, like most African groups, did not have the luxury of this kind of fashionable declaration.  For them, the choice was get louder or lose business.  Konono did what they had to do, and Western critics have placed them at the forefront of a punk/industrial/trance/experimental/electronica movement for it.  Won't they be surprised!?!<br />
<br />
Before I conclude, I must mention something that has been playing around in my head ever since I started contemplating the Authenticity issue.  Almost a decade before they became the Hollywood cocaine consorts of Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham, Fleetwood Mac were a rocking, British band led by the incomparable Peter Green.  They specialized in faithful renditions of the blues, exactly the sort of formulaic genre music that proponents of Authenticity tend to champion. Of course, until the sixties, blues had generally been the exclusive domain of African-American musicians.  In this writer's opinion, Fleetwood Mac's first couple of records stand as some of the finest recordings of blues music of the decade - from either side of the Atlantic.  While the idea of "British Blues" has always ruffled the feathers of true blues purists, anyone who has spent January in Birmingham (Midlands, not Alabama) can surely sympathize.<br />
<br />
Somewhere around 1968, Peter Green seemed to decide that a purely blues template was becoming a bit limiting.  He started to incorporate elements of pop, rock and even African music into the group's work, culminating in one of the greatest albums of the decade, 1969's Then Play On.  Hints of Green's boredom with the blues could be found on the single "Albatross", an astonishingly beautiful instrumental paean to the ambient resplendence of the guitar, released a mere eight months before what would be his last LP as a member of the group.  The song was a huge success in England reaching #1 on the charts in February of that year.<br />
<br />
Why do I mention all of this?  On Samba Gaye, his 1997 collaboration with wife Djanka, Guinean guitarist Sekou Diabate Bembeya recorded his own version of Peter Green's "Albatross".  While most critics reviled it as "tasteless" and "inauthentic", one could imagine Diamond Fingers (one of the many sobriquets Diabate's sparkling guitar work has earned him over the years) revelling in it, perhaps eliciting one of his trademark laughs that pepper the album. You see, Mr. Diabate gets it.  The question shouldn't be is it Authentic, but, rather, is it good?<br />
<br />
<hr><br />
<blockquote>The new Extra Golden album "<a href="http://www.thrilljockey.com/catalog/index.html?id=100842">Hera Ma Nono</a>" will be out October 9th, 2007. </blockquote>]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>the Fall</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1208" />
		<modified>2007--0-8-T26: 1:1:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.8</id>
		<issued>2007-06-11T11:06:20Z</issued>
		<created>2007-06-11T11:06:20Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"the Fall" by Adonis Massad, Mixed Media, 18 x 13 cm, July, 2007</summary><author>
		<name>Adonis Massad</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA["the Fall" by Adonis Massad, Mixed Media, 18 x 13 cm, July, 2007]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Declining and Falling</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1210" />
		<modified>2007--0-8-T25: 0:5:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.9</id>
		<issued>2007-06-11T11:06:52Z</issued>
		<created>2007-06-11T11:06:52Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"CONSTANTINE and LICINIUS
 Diocletian had been the first stage of the transformed Empire,..."</summary><author>
		<name>Buzzsaw</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[<h2>CONSTANTINE and LICINIUS</h2><br />
 Diocletian had been the first stage of the transformed Empire, and his transformation was consolidated and extended by its second stage, Constantine, through his founding of the city of Constantinople that would carry forth the Roman name in tradition if not reality until 1453, and, more importantly, his espousal of Christianity that would ultimately influence the course of the Empire and at length, the wider world. His motivations are the subject of dispute, by turns pious and unscrupulous, noble and manipulating. He quite displayed the Danube that cleaves the soul in everyone, dividing it into the realms of civility and barbarism.<br />
<br />
 By 313, the defeats of Maxentius, the attempted Emperor in Italy and Maximinus Daia, the legitimate successor to Galerius in the East brought the control of the Roman world into the hands of two men, Constantine and Licinius. Licinius was an old friend of Galerius; both had shared a tent on campaign and the rigours of many army encampments in the wilderness. In 308, Licinius had been nominated to the Imperial honours of the West, but unable to confront Maxentius' venality with his uncertain swords unable to cleave Maxentius' coins, Licinius consolidated his position in the Balkans, and ultimately, with the defeat of Daia, extended it throughout the East.<br />
<br />
 Constantine and Licinius now embarked upon an uneasy relationship that bore all the symptoms of a truce, no trust or friendship exhibited between them as prevailed between Diocletian and Maximian. The mere thought that another man controlled half the realm was an intolerable thought to them both, especially to Constantine, whom after his conversion to Christianity mounted a lofty height and cast an affronted glance far below him, to observe Licinius disporting himself in a slough of profanity and godlessness.<br />
<br />
 In 316, Licinius and Constantia's marriage bore the fruit of a son, and Licinius, proudly peering into the cradle at the slumbering babe, quite naturally saw the boy as his logical successor. Constantine, however, proposed one Bassianus, his half-sister's husband to the title instead. Licinius, picturing his boy, helpless to defend his inheritance, blissfully ignorant of his lofty fall from an Imperial height, at once broadcast his refusal. This word, communicated back to Constantine, prompted a smile to spread across his face fed by satisfaction. Licinius' refusal, eagerly hoped for, would provide sanction and justification for his invasion of Licinius' realm. Constantine raised his unique standard and in the fall of 316, led his soldiers into the Balkans. Presumably sped on by sword-wielding angels, their blades afire in Victory, their partiality was exercised  as Constantine's forces met their adversary near the town of Cibalae and won a resounding victory. <br />
<br />
 Licinius mounted his charger and abandoned his camp and the slaughter that abounded near it, making a rapid flight to the city of Serdica where dwelt a fresh legion of troops and one general by the name of Valens. Dusty and harried, Licinius tore into Valens' chambers who arose with a start at the sudden presence of the Emperor. Fastening hands onto Valens' shoulders, Licinius named him Caesar and successor, his predicament refusing to admit a vision of his boy into mind. With alacrity, Valens offered his soldiers who were at once mustered into the service of Licinius. In early 317, near Hadrianople, a second clash of aims between Constantine and Licinius. The vibrant angelic colour of partiality faded to the wan wash of indifference in regards to this second battle and it ended in a stalemate. As the dead were gathered off the field and swathes of wine-soaked bandages were applied to alleviate the sufferings of the wounded, Constantine and Licinius met in a conclave in Constantine's tent, and there, as the tramp of boot and stab of cry played out in the tumultuous environs, terms between them were arranged. Licinius flushed, lowered his head and nodded. He preserved his throne, but he was forced to abandon his benefactor as Valens' attention to duty was foully rewarded with the executioner's axe. Next, Licinius'  Balkan possessions were handed over into the keeping of Constantine. Licinius' infant son was confirmed in his title of Caesar, and Constantine's boys, the youth Crispus and his own infant boy, Constantius II, were also presented with the titles of Caesar. As none of these junior partners were yet of an age to exercise power, this last agreement was of little more substance than the creatures that were revealed at the bottom of a too-deep goblet of Mammertine wine.<br />
<br />
 For the next seven years, matters rested, albeit in surface detail. During this span of years, the ardency and sincerity of Constantine's embrace of the Nazarene increased dramatically. He aspired to be akin to an apostle, his papers and edicts a display of fidelity to the Christian revelation, praise of the deliverer of the Israelites and of the whole of mankind upon the mount of Cavalry. His  religious zeal teemed upon the papyrus as priests and bishops suddenly swarmed upon the marble of the palace, gamboling about amidst the fumes of incense and the hymns of devotion. Constantine declared himself the champion of Christians and Christianity. A flood of ecclesiastical building ensued in Rome, shrines and churches appearing in the outskirts, opposing the cluster of temples in the centre of Rome and causing a flutter in the glow in the eternal flame tended by the Vestals in the most sacred precincts of pagan Rome. A tide of treasure made possible by the sudden favour of the state enriched the churches in gold and silver and a flow of gems. Appearing in the Christian tabernacles, this was a different treasure than that advanced by an earlier Church, that compelled to surrender its treasures to the pagan magistrate, presented him with the assembled sick and destitute inhabitants of the city. <br />
<br />
 In the East, Licinius maintained a somewhat less partial outlook. In his portion of the Empire the Christians were tolerated and even allowed to establish themselves in positions of authority. In time, Licinius began to doubt the loyalty of these votaries of Christ and began to fear that they were working to advance the aims of Constantine, to despoil him of his crown and deliver the East to their champion. In 324, Licinius passed edicts that did not cast them before lions and the amusement of the mob, but did disabuse them of the offices of authority, the hand of a bishop removed from a lever of government.<br />
<br />
 Constantine roared with the vehemence of Moses before obdurate Pharaoh, and summoned both troops and their devotion to descend upon Licinius and loose the ties of the impious bondage of his decrees. Constantine donned his helmet, and below, his face betrayed an inner pleasure through the righteous fury over the pretext and sanction Licinius' legislation provided. News that Licinius, succumbing to the demons of paranoia sped on by Beelzebub himself, had lately increased the severity of his edicts and had sent soldiers on a deed of profanation, demolishing churches and presiding over the fall of axe upon bishop's necks, sped preparations, the chants of priests melded with the furious pounding of iron upon the anvil resounded throughout Constantine's half of the realm. When all was at last completed, Constantine appeared before his legions and bade all beseech the beneficence of their Lord, before charging forth to the East, his soldiers following behind, the tromp of sandal and boot thunderous. Licinius, alerted to the advance of Constantine, called forth his own army to the standards and the defence of his throne. The resulting clash was fought near Hadrianople, where in the early summer of 324, the forces of Licinius fell an easy prey to the sanctified steel of Constantine. There was a tumult and panic in the camp of Licinius, spears and bows cast away by the harried survivors as Licinius grimly looked on from his open tent. Begged to flee by his generals, Licinius pondered defiance before Constantine, before pushing an arm across the map table, inkpots and scrolls and goblets falling to the floor and bounding out of his tent, in flight to the eastward, Licinius again sought a co-ruler.  At length Licinius secured the assistance of one Martinianus, who possessing a fresh levy of troops, was named his Caesar at once. They were mustered, these uncertain peasants of Asia Minor with no vim or enthusiasm, the thought of battle with Constantine transmitting to one and a shared tremble. Licinius scowled at the display and only with exertion and execution compelled them to march forth, the stern and shrill cries of a centurion vainly attempting to dress the peasants in the term 'martial.' <br />
<br />
 Constantine had been in a rapid pursuit, bounding quickly over the Bosphorus straits between Asia and Europe. The drills of Licinius' centurions were still being conducted when the sudden approach of Constantine forced battle upon Licinius. The struggle was quickly resolved in favour of Constantine, the mass of Licinius' bloodied and harried army throwing away their shields and spears and making flight into the hills, trampling over their fellows in a bid for escape and in October 324, the uncontested sole rule over the Empire was Constantine's.  Speedily surrendering and soon thereafter captured, and bound in chains and affright, Licinius and Martinianus were brought before Constantine. There in the Imperial tent, along with candles and priests, could also be discerned magnanimity. Constantine arose from his campstool and addressed them in a mild tone, directing the fetters to be dashed away from Licinius and Martinianus.  Because of their rapid capitulation both men were, though compelled to surrender their titles, allowed to retain their lives and permitted to retire to a quiet obscurity. Licinius' and Martinianus' gratitude to the leniency of Constantine was a short-lived figment that fled before their ambition as both men soon chased after another spray of laurel leaves to press down upon their brows, Licinius still seeking the just inheritance of his son. Their revolt was a tenuous affair that collapsed, and severity succeeded the mildness of Constantine. Licinius and Martinianus were seized, made the sport of iron and fire and at length they were hanged, Licinius perishing with his boy, his life forfeit as the son of an outlaw, the full provision of his eight years elapsed.<br />
<br />
 The lordship of the Empire was Constantine's, but still enemies might be discerned by the eyes of Constantine that scanned with the most minute of examinations any sign of mutiny. At length these examinations fed a paranoia that ultimately would lead to the fall of his son Crispus. Crispus had grown into a sturdy young adulthood and much like his father, adapted well to the camp and engendered a devotion of the soldiers. Crispus played a leading role in the campaign against Licinius and in the aftermath of the war, was celebrated as a hero and was covered in garlands and glory. Constantine beamed over the achievements of his son and rewarded him with the West of the Empire and presented him with a court of his own. The future seemed assured for Crispus, but it was a future viewed with an extreme distaste by the wife of Constantine, Fausta. She had mothered a growing brood, Constantius II, Constans I and Constantine II. Fausta was an ambitious creature, and sought the accession of her sons to the Imperial power. Crispus was the fruit of an earlier marriage between Constantine and one Minervina whom Constantine was compelled to divorce in order to wed Fausta and advance his position, and Fausta was ill disposed for the issue of another woman to confound the ascent of her own boys with Constantine. Fausta resolved that Crispus must be ruined, but tread very carefully, aware of Constantine's devotion for the boy. Over several months she calculated and surmised the various courses of action, fingering her collection of glass figurines from Egypt and her coral dainties brought from a blistering Arabian shore. She had still not conceived of a plan when it was announced that Crispus would be visiting the court in May of 326. At once the insidious nature of her mind was revealed as Fausta sent word to Crispus to hasten his appearance and commanded the vast resources of the palace be committed to producing an elaborate banquet on behalf of the young hero. Crispus arrived to the cheers and applause of all, and the embrace of Constantine and indeed Fausta herself. Flagons of wine were drained at the feast, and flagons more summoned to the table, until Crispus, swaying with drink was compelled to retire. Fausta, desisting from wine herself and feeling all was prepared, pounced. Crispus was roused from sleep and bade to appear before Fausta in the Imperial bedchambers, and duly arriving, mind fogged and feet unsteady, Fausta at once conceived a false sexual ardour for the boy, and attempted seduction. This scene was carefully timed as to ensure Constantine's witness and indeed, Constantine, sodden in wine, having quit the feast and going to join Fausta, strode into the room presently to behold a scene of Fausta suddenly running in tears, issuing a cry. Fausta tore herself away from Crispus and threw herself into the arms of Constantine, screeching that Crispus had been the one guilty of the indiscretion. Constantine fastened eyes upon his son and became the chattel of rage. Constantine's arms shot out to inflict an Imperial punishment of death that was only interrupted by the speedy arrival of guards who conducted Crispus to a prison cell and soon thereafter to death. <br />
<br />
 Fausta triumphed but briefly, for on a visit to Rome soon thereafter, Constantine was made aware of the true facts through his condemning mother, Helena, who had been apprised through her spies in the palace put there to observe the machinations of Fausta that Helena had suspected.  Wiping angry tears from her eyes, Helena next informed Constantine of the true dalliance of his wife committed with Crispus' old tutor and Fausta's paramour, Lupus. Constantine again was the possession of fury, and such sped his return to Fausta in Milan, face hosting an ugly countenance of vengeance. <br />
<br />
Lupus was summoned at once before Constantine and dissolved into tears and cries as his crime was delineated and he was handed over to the executioner's axe. His anger rising to its climax, Constantine advanced upon Fausta, who, as usual, could be found luxuriating in the confines of her marble bath, drowsily idling away hours in the perfumed steam. She was only dimly aware of Constantine's approach, and in a tone reflexive, natural and seductive called out for Lupus. Confirmed in his course, Constantine bellowed and lunged, strangling Fausta to death, avenging Crispus and his own affront. Thus acted the First Christian Emperor.<br />
<br />
 Constantine's embrace of the Nazarene and the quality of its sincerity is fiercely debated. Constantine was well aware of this faith, as it had been steadily growing in the Roman world since the deed upon Golgotha. In its earliest days it was spread by the industry and the genius of Paul whose wanderings had planted its seeds in many portions of the Empire, and nourished by his epistles the sect slowly grew, firstly a community of slaves and fishermen and porters and eventually of their masters acknowledging one greater than they. As numbers expanded, and the scrolls of scripture-bearing papyrus increased in amount and in variety, men such as elders and presbyters and bishops evolved to ordain the forward course of the Church and discern orthodoxy and heresy and comfort their congregations as the eyes of Caesar would turn upon them in fury as the evidence of their obstinacy and hostility to the presiding and protecting divinities of Rome was discovered by the wider world. Nero had kindled the first persecution against them to divert his complicity in the Great Fire in AD 68, and flame and blade were summoned to chastise the enemies of the gods next by Emperor Domitian. A long peace ensued until intruded upon by the rancour of Marcus Aurelius who "despised the Christians as a philosopher and punished them as an Emperor" and loosed tribulation upon them. Another lengthy period of tranquillity then followed, interrupted by the persecutions of Decius, desirous of courting patriotism through the gods and of Valerian who viewed this stubborn sect as a poison assaulting and withering the hallowed foundations of Rome. <br />
<br />
 The chaos and horror of the times swelled the numbers of adherents, the truth of the Christian revelation professed by lips ever more learned and possessed of authority. Aurelian glowered and threatened harms to the Christians in order to advance the cause of Sol Invectus and at last Diocletian, influenced by the zeal of Galerius, launched the greatest of persecutions driven by the thought that if this burgeoning rival was not extinguished it would capture the Empire. And indeed, by the time of Constantine, the Church, strengthened and tempered by the tumult and trial, this example noticed by all, had become the most organized entity in the Empire other than the Army itself, with a swarm of bishops and innumerable lesser entities in the ecclesiastical hierarchy installed in humble country shrine and in the corridors of the highest powers expounding the nature of their creed.<br />
<br />
 Constantine had originally been a sun worshipper, a legacy of Aurelian, who although unsuccessful in imposing the will of Sol Invectus on wider society, did achieve the adherence of the Army. Apollo, as he bore the sun across the sky in his chariot was associated with Sol, and these names appeared on coinage well into Constantine's reign. Constantine was also well aware of the last great philosophy of the Ancient World, Neoplatonism, the conception of a divine One at the centre of the Universe who emanated forth through ever-increasing levels of corruption and failing light down to the earthly surface. The family of Olympus was but some of his emanations and indeed any other gods might be so termed. Constantine's initial embrace of the Nazarene might have gifted him with such a definition, and as such, he would not immediately have denied the other gods. <br />
<br />
 The conversion of Constantine came famously before the Battle of the Mulvian Bridge, when as he prepared his troops for battle, a vision of a cross of light appeared in the sky above Rome. Constantine was most intrigued and queried his advisers and ministers who at once returned that it was the emblem of Apollo, also represented by a cross. Constantine was inclined to agree and as the cross faded from the sky, conversation returned to martial matters. The day followed the cross, and Constantine, fatigued, weary and strangely disquieted, suddenly despairing of victory over Maxentius retired to his tent and fell into a deep slumber. In a dream, the identity of the cross was confirmed. Christ appeared, Cross in attendance, and Constantine was bade in all cosmic majesty "By this sign, Conquer." As the dream concluded, Constantine at once arose from his cot, suddenly secure in his vision and purpose. At once artisans and a bolt of purple silk were summoned, the Labarum or the Standard upon which the Cross would be displayed was hurriedly created as the soldiers were mustered by a trumpet blast and informed of Constantine's decision. He communicated to them of his new adherence to the Nazarene and assured them that their spiritual devotions were entirely their own to ordain. Constantine's religious acceptance was answered by a massed scratching of sword blade upon shield as they were marked with crosses themselves. Under this sign, Constantine did indeed conquer, as Maxentius, laden with the weight of defeat toppled into Tiber and was drowned with the slain.<br />
<br />
 Constantine, though now a committed Christian, continued to extend his tolerance to the wider Empire that still was predominately pagan, and above all to the still-powerful noble families of Rome that continued to kneel before the altars of Jupiter and Neptune. But within the Christian fold his affability was not on display, as he quickly adopted and championed the cause of orthodoxy. A unified church would be the partner of his labours, a prop and support of the State. Church councils and synods were convoked; schism was branded infamous and heresy was made outlaw and those deluded Christians who persisted in false practices and doctrines such as those that bestowed a too great or too little amount of the Divine in the Nazarene and those affirming a continuing stream of revelations, soon found themselves harried and persecuted, property despoiled and lives threatened.<br />
<br />
 After the defeat of Licinius, Constantine grew yet more zealous in his promotion of Christianity, and, in 324, issued the first edicts against paganism. The temples of the gods were divested of a sacrosanct protection and plundered. The priest decried the statues of Jove and Hercules as but habitations for demons and presided as the images were hacked to dust or melted down by the zealous, the treasures of gem and gold transferred to the formerly barren and homely churches and when the temples were denuded of possession the structure itself was molested to supply ready-made pillars to the new tabernacles. Such was required in an age when the skill of the craftsman was in signal decline and talent on the wane. The pagan magistrate and his rude, inexperienced fury was replaced in the judgment seat by a Christian magistrate and his more refined techniques of persuasion applied to the full against the yielding substance that comprised a pagan, in order to forestall the fall of an axe and their delivery into eternal flames. They cheerfully abandoned sacred prostitution and at least publicly heeded the laws banning sexual immorality. The shadow of the bishop's mitre thrust itself between Apollo and his votaries.<br />
<br />
 Despite these measures, the powerful families of Rome continued their devotions and in the Senate the Venerables persisted in their oblations to the statue of the Goddess of Victory, the incense still burning and the consecrated wine still being poured upon it seeking the good tidings of Nike. Constantine, closeted with his bishops, exploring points of an evolving doctrine, would pause to consider these defiant observations. Shifting uneasily in his seat, a glower stealing across his face, he realized that his edicts would require time in their goal of the transformation of Pagan Rome into Christian Rome, persuading the sensible and punishing the obstinate. A bishop, propounding upon a definition of an abstruse theological term might have noticed the glower on Constantine's face suddenly replaced by a more genial expression and been gratified; however it would be seen that was the occasion that Constantine resolved that a new capital must be built, a new city, Christian from its very foundation, a vast and opulent new metropolis that would bear the name New Rome. The bishops were dismissed, and his secular ministers were summoned to his chambers. All agreed with alacrity that a second Rome must rise from which the cause and the goals of the Nazarene, and of those who purported to advance them, might be broadcast over the entire world. There was a flourish of maps and stabs of fingers upon the papyrus as a host of sites were discerned, proposed and rejected. After an attempt to found the city on the site of old Troy, a perfect location was found upon the Bosphorus, that narrow strait separating Asia and Europe, where lay the minor city of Byzantium, eminently defensible and at a nexus of trade routes. <br />
<br />
 By late 324, a vast building project had begun, as mason and architect descended upon Byzantium on a deed of transformation. Over the next several years, marble was hewn, stone cut, the dust of construction rising up in a vast cloud, as forums were built, amphitheatres rising, palaces appearing alongside wide streets swarming with the worker and the overseer. The cloud did not clear until 330, when most building had been completed, and Constantine arrived to survey the creation, most pleased as he gazed upon the new conurbation, destined to outshine Rome itself. A lavish dedication was then held, with chariot races, wine sodden ceremonies, priests on parade, their censers swinging in blessing through the new avenues where the continuing sound of the ringing of chiselling upon the marble mated well with the chanting. Senators and other men of high position, forcibly relocated from their mansions in Rome to dwell in this new city attended by their trove of treasures, were to be seen in the procession as well, concealing their private indignation, publicly cheered Constantine's accomplishments, kissing the proffered cross of a priest. Thus was founded Constantinople, the Second Rome, the inheritor of the mantle of state and the mission of civilization as old pagan Rome had yielded and retired.<br />
<br />
 After a series of Danubian campaigns in the 330's, Constantine continued to advance Christianity through the guise of arms. A plan for the invasion and Christianization of Persia was proposed, and in the midst of the campaign, Constantine would display the depth of his piety and pause to be baptized in the Jordan River, emulating his Saviour. The devotion of the army had not faded for Constantine and they swarmed to the standard and upon fleet sandals, a rapid march to Palestine was commenced. In early 337, Constantine arrived in the stone and meadow clad Biblical fields, but oppressed by the weight of accumulating years, the upcoming campaign was beyond him to pursue, and, the grip of death fastening itself upon him, in May 337, Constantine retired to his bed at a villa of Imperial Standard at Ankyrona. There, the rite of baptism was performed, and cleansed of his crimes and the indictment of his misdemeanours, secure in his destination, Constantine then expired. His body was taken under a mournful guard to Constantinople and interred in the new Church of the Holy Apostles, built as a monument to his devotion, and perhaps to his vanity. It bore within it 12 false sarcophagi, representing the 12 Apostles, with his sarcophagus set in the middle, surrounded by the others as a planetary system about its sun, enrolling himself in their number, inheriting the earth without quite observing the injunction of meekness. <br />
<br />
 Diocletian and Constantine, emerging out of the Chaos, were the turning points of the Empire, effecting the greatest revolutions in its history since Julius and Augustus Caesar. The transformation of the Empire was well advanced in a haze of new concepts of law, of administration, of war. New styles of art, symbolic and otherworldly succeeded the optimistic naturalism of a previous age, political significance and the gods of Homer had fled Rome as a new Christian capital arose to ordain the course of the Empire. But the Roman Empire it remained, the name transferred from the world of Augustus and Trajan that had perished in the Chaos to that of Diocletian and Constantine that had been born in it. <br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Early Works</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1226" />
		<modified>2007--0-8-T26: 1:2:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.10</id>
		<issued>2007-07-11T12:07:19Z</issued>
		<created>2007-07-11T12:07:19Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Brown Bricks" by Ira Joel Haber, crayon on paper, 8 1/2 x 11, April 27, 1972</summary><author>
		<name>Ira Joel Haber</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA["Brown Bricks" by Ira Joel Haber, crayon on paper, 8 1/2 x 11, April 27, 1972]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1212" />
		<modified>2007--0-8-T25: 0:9:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.11</id>
		<issued>2007-06-11T11:06:29Z</issued>
		<created>2007-06-11T11:06:29Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"You've been dealt a bad hand.  You've gotten the short end of the stick time and again.  You were..."</summary><author>
		<name>David "Starchy" Grant</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[You've been dealt a bad hand.  You've gotten the short end of the stick time and again.  You were born miles up Shit Creek, and you never get that paddle you need for your birthday.  Let's face it: as a human being, you're screwed.<br />
<br />
Whether you're a Catholic, a Baptist, an Episcopalian, a Christian of any denomination, a Jew, a Muslim, a Buddhist, a Hindu, an Atheist or even a Zoroastrian, here at Hubris and Hubris we understand just how hard life can be.  We know that there's only one person responsible for it, and that person isn't you.  That person is your Creator.  It's time for Him to be held accountable in a civil court of law.<br />
<br />
Sinners, saints, paupers, princes, prostitutes and prudes are all eligible for a share of the expected reward in our class-action suit against JHVH.  If you've been injured on or off the job, a victim of disease or medical malpractice, wronged in love or just plain lonely, you've been hurt by one of the many imperfections in God's best-selling product, Human Life.  No other manufacturer or designer, not even a software publisher, could bring such a thoroughly flawed product to market.  We believe that no judge in the land could deny that Human Life is so defective, why, nobody can even agree on when it's operating correctly!<br />
<br />
Is your busted phone a part of Cingular's Divine Plan?  Did you have that stroke because Merck works in mysterious ways?  It's time we stopped letting ourselves be swayed by JHVH's disingenuous excuses and held Him to the same standards as all American legal entities, be they individual, corporate, or discorporate.<br />
<br />
Life is hard, but no refunds have yet been offered.  Let's get what we deserve, one eternal soul at a time.  Contact Hubris and Hubris, Attorneys at Law, sign up to be served a slice of the restitution pie we're cooking up, and sleep soundly knowing that we might just have a shot at getting Human Life pulled from the market before it can harm one more child.  Perhaps even your own.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
David Hubris<br />
Attorney at Law and Claimant no. 1 <br />
<br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>america, the new look</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1262" />
		<modified>2007--0-8-T26: 1:0:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.12</id>
		<issued>2007-07-29T08:07:46Z</issued>
		<created>2007-07-29T08:07:46Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"america, the new look" by Bruce New, hand-cut collage/photomontage on antique check board, 2007
</summary><author>
		<name>Bruce New</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA["america, the new look" by Bruce New, hand-cut collage/photomontage on antique check board, 2007<br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Chinese Coin</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1266" />
		<modified>2007--0-8-T25: 2:0:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.13</id>
		<issued>2007-08-01T01:08:08Z</issued>
		<created>2007-08-01T01:08:08Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"you
I've been with you since 1992,
but lost you in 1995.
I think I know who has..."</summary><author>
		<name>Frances Mai-Ling</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[<h2>you</h2><br />
I've been with you since 1992,<br />
but lost you in 1995.<br />
I think <u>I know</u> who has you.<br />
We've been inseparable since the first time<br />
I bought you.<br />
You bring me<br />
good luck,<br />
identity.<br />
If I don't wear you,<br />
I put you in my pocket or purse.<br />
When I lost you in June,<br />
It was as bad as losing a loved one.<br />
So sad...all coins are unique,<br />
You had a little acid stain,<br />
right by the phoenix's eye,<br />
and dragon's tail.<br />
I took your sibling out,<br />
I started new,<br />
and chose another you.<br />
We're still inseparable,<br />
you are with me wherever I go,<br />
Good Luck<br />
Identity<br />
is what it brings.<br />
 <br />
~ 1995<br />
 <br />
<h2>equals me</h2><br />
around my neck,<br />
 <br />
like a dirty chain.<br />
 <br />
leaving a darkness on my skin.<br />
the silver,<br />
the rubies,<br />
against my skin<br />
 <br />
and into me.<br />
 <br />
within me.<br />
 <br />
into my blood,<br />
around my heart.<br />
 <br />
<br />
the coin dangles with my memories.<br />
comfort and calm.<br />
always around my neck, never going .<br />
 <br />
anywhere<br />
 <br />
.<br />
 <br />
<br />
with<br />
 <br />
.<br />
 <br />
<br />
out<br />
.<br />
 <br />
 <br />
<br />
it.<br />
 <br />
dirty as it may be,<br />
the coin, golden...<br />
 <br />
true.<br />
 <br />
luck.<br />
 <br />
my name embedded.<br />
 <br />
meant for me.<br />
 <br />
traveling from place to place.<br />
 <br />
always.<br />
 <br />
never parting. in any way.<br />
 <br />
the chain might be different,<br />
the coin the same.<br />
 <br />
chinese, the coin.<br />
<br />
my symbol.<br />
 <br />
around my neck,<br />
 <br />
it's part of what and who i am.<br />
 <br />
i am half.<br />
 <br />
and<br />
 <br />
i am half.<br />
 <br />
I carry my halves with me.<br />
 <br />
chinese + polish = me<br />
 <br />
everywhere.<br />
 <br />
all day.<br />
 <br />
every day.<br />
 <br />
24/7<br />
365<br />
53<br />
 <br />
<br />
its who i am<br />
 <br />
its what i am<br />
 <br />
i am<br />
 <br />
i am<br />
 <br />
half + half = me<br />
 <br />
for the coin, makes me feel<br />
that people will believe.<br />
when i say,<br />
and they don't<br />
 <br />
and know that when i say,<br />
 <br />
its truth.<br />
 <br />
even if they can't see.<br />
 <br />
fity + fifty = me<br />
 <br />
its me.<br />
 <br />
with that dirty chain.<br />
the golden coin.<br />
 <br />
the ease i carry around with me.<br />
 <br />
its who i am.<br />
 <br />
this<br />
 <br />
= me<br />
 <br />
~ 2007<br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Claudio Parentela's eXTra finGer</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1213" />
		<modified>2007--0-8-T26: 1:7:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.14</id>
		<issued>2007-06-11T11:06:05Z</issued>
		<created>2007-06-11T11:06:05Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Claudio Parentela: Tell me something about yourself...What's your..."</summary><author>
		<name>Claudio Parentela</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[<div class="q">Claudio Parentela: Tell me something about yourself...What's your background...?</div><br />
<div class="a">Maura Holden: I was born in 1967. I grew up in white-collar suburbs and poor urban neighbourhoods in Philadelphia, PA. My father was a scientist and my mother was (and still is) a survey research analyst. I attended public school and a liberal arts college, but I learned to draw and paint on my own. Drawing was always my refuge. Even in school, I hid in the backs of classrooms, teleporting myself to other dimensions, sketching my daydreams. </div> <br />
<a href="right","http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?id=842&sub_id=836">link</a><br />
<div class="q">CP: When growing, what was the greatest force pushing you towards art?</div><br />
<div class="a">MH: My irresistible imagination. </div><br />
<div class="q">CP: Were you inspired/encouraged by any one person to pursue your craft?</div><br />
<div class="a">MH: My mother was the first to encourage me. She always seemed to understand that I needed to sit for hours, making art. From the time I could hold a crayon, I wanted to create something. She gave me art materials. She taught me to sew, and to mix plaster. She set up a craft and paint studio for me in the kitchen. Whenever I had a crazy idea, she would take me out hunting for supplies. She never questioned or criticized my designs; she just facilitated them. <br />
Of course, many of my early crafting experiments were absurd failures, but she let me go through the process uninterrupted - a blessing, because even as a child I was determined to learn by experience. Life itself was art to me. At age four I envisioned a fashion creation to express my ethereal persona: purple thigh-high stockings, a "fairy" dress, wings, and a platinum wig. Mom helped me construct this costume, and tolerated me wearing it in public. I have to think that this set a lifelong precedent.  </div><br />
<a href="right","http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?id=842&sub_id=837">link</a><br />
<div class="q">CP: How would you describe your art to someone who could not see it?</div><br />
<div class="a">MH: Psychedelic dreamscapes, photographed with a small brush.</div><br />
<div class="q">CP: Are there certain colours and shapes that you're drawn to?</div><br />
<a href="right","http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?id=842&sub_id=838">link</a><br />
<div class="a">MH: As long as I won't be consigned to a world of only this colour, I'll admit to loving electric purple (still). Not for home decorating. Not for food. But I love that purple stardust that sparkles in the night sky.<br />
I'm very attracted to circles: the feminine, the nucleus, the cycle, completeness... Round paintings are ideally suited to suggesting whole worlds. The platonic solids interest me too, in that they are ideal shapes, bristling with beautiful numeric patterns. The vesica pisces is a special friend, and I enjoy all of those ratcheted flowers you can make with a Spirograph, or by attacking a circle with a compass...  </div><br />
<div class="q">CP: What other talent would you like most to have?</div><br />
<a href="right","http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?id=842&sub_id=839">link</a><br />
<div class="a">MH: I wouldn't mind better writing skills. </div><br />
<div class="q">CP: What's your favourite mediums to work in/on?</div><br />
<div class="a">MH: Oil on wooden panels. </div><br />
<div class="q">CP: What artists influence or have influenced you (these need not be visual artists) and how have they done so?</div><br />
<div class="a">MH: In a roundabout way, I feel influenced by those chameleon-like actors (Meryl Streep and Cate Blanchett are examples) who create a whole world of manners and memory for each role. The thing that links their metamorphic genius with my painting is something in the way of losing one's identity for art. In painting, I want to abandon my personal trappings, and draw a different world from the collective unconscious. </div><br />
<a href="right","http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?id=842&sub_id=840">link</a><br />
<div class="q">CP: What non-visual art interests you and does this have an impact on your art?</div><br />
<div class="a">MH: All of the arts interest me, and they all have some sort of impact on my work. When musicians and performers play in the street, an ordinary day is full of poetry. The memory of it colours my thoughts during those long hours at the easel. When I read a great book, my mind returns to its passages while I paint... Art brings out the beauty and pattern of life; it intensifies feeling. The better the art I've recently enjoyed, the more sensitivity I bring to my own.  </div><br />
<div class="q">CP: What do you think about artists using the Internet as a forum for sharing their work?</div><br />
<div class="a">MH: Using the Internet is the best thing artists can possibly do for culture, and themselves. On the web, we are finally free to show independently, and free to meet other creative birds all over the world. Amazing synergies start in cyberspace: it's like street culture, only the neighbourhood is global. Creating websites and blogs can be an artistic activity in itself -- perfect for the aesthetic temperament. </div><br />
<a href="right","http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?id=842&sub_id=841">link</a><br />
<div class="q">CP: What is your favourite toy, game or other artefact from your youth (and do you still own it)?</div><br />
<div class="a">MH: My stuffed rabbit, Easter. He's still with us, bald and falling to bits.  </div><br />
<div class="q">CP: Got any new projects planned?</div><br />
<div class="a">MH: A new type of experiment: The Visionary Revue wanted artists' writings about Entheogens and Visionary Art, so I wrote a short story. It will be in the next issue, along with submissions from some wonderfully talented artists - I can't wait to read what they wrote. The anticipated release date is Spring, 2007. [<a href="http://www.visionaryrevue.com/">Visionary Revue Website</a>] </div><br />
<div class="q">CP: What advice can you give to other artists to help them improve their chances of survival in this global village we call our home?</div><br />
<a href="right","http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?id=842&sub_id=842">link</a><br />
<div class="a">MH: It is very difficult to survive as an artist. I wish I could say something more upbeat, but the last thing artists need is false hope. The only way is to accept no other destiny. If your greatest pleasure is creating, this will come naturally, and your enjoyment will sustain you. Conceive an irrational determination to make your visions reality, no matter what people say, no matter what obstacles or material poverty you experience. Money is not always an artist's payment; we are sometimes paid in friendship, skill, the development of our characters, and the joy of creating - a great bounty, really. Learn to live on and by those fruits, and you will survive anything. <br />
In art, all paths are customized. My own particular way of surviving is to work at part-time jobs, three days per week on average, and to paint during every other day. But I've had some lucky years when bunches of paintings sold, or financial angels gifted me, and these have been glorious. I quit, of course, and every day was filled with painting, or other types of creativity. I don't regret having had the jobs - I met my partner, Jessica, and a few of my dearest friends through work -- but it would be better for my wrists and brain to get free of non-art jobs forever. Most artists have to compromise this way, or by teaching, or by making commercial art. As long as artists continue their real work, they can consider themselves survivors.</div><br />
<div class="q">CP: Favourite books/authors?</div><br />
<div class="a">MH: All for completely different reasons:<br />
A Confederacy of Dunces, The Loved One, The Alexandria Quartet, The God of Small Things, Orlando, The Diaries of Anais Nin, Tales of the City, The Lord of the Rings, The Lord of the Flies, The Island of Dr. Moreau, Frankenstein, Dracula... Edgar Allen Poe, H.P. Lovecraft, Carlos Castaneda, Margaret Atwood, Jeanette Winterson, Sarah Waters, Flannery O'Connor, William Faulkner, William Styron, Jorge Luis Borges, Rudyard Kipling, Shakespeare, T.S. Eliot, Edith Sitwell, Leonard Cohen, Aldous Huxley, Anthony Burgess, Kurt Vonnegut, Milan Kundera, Hermann Hesse... Oliver Sacks, Joseph Campbell, John Michell, Colin Wilson, Manly P. Hall, Tom Wolfe, Joan Didion... </div><br />
<div class="q">CP: Favourite music?</div><br />
<div class="a">MH: Fragmentary:<br />
Yma Sumac, Dead Can Dance, Sevara Nazarkhan, Axiom of Choice, Diamanda Galas, Sandy Denny, Joni Mitchell... Calexico, Pixies, Bongwater, Kate Bush, Cocteau Twins, Throwing Muses, Belle and Sebastian, Beck, Moloko, Orbital, Morcheeba, Jamiroquai, Parliament-Funkadelic, Thievery Corporation, Elliott Smith, Jeff Buckley, Jethro Tull, Hendrix, Dylan, Peter Gabriel, Tool, Tom Waits, Billie Holiday, Abbey Lincoln, Django Reinhardt...</div><br />
<div class="q">CP: What do you fear most?</div><br />
<div class="a">MH: I've given up fear, since it seems to lead to the deaths of countless innocent people.</div><br />
<br />
<div class="offset"><i>Claudio Parentela is a prolific and productive artist who conducts interviews with other artists from around the world. Consequently, he has two sites containing his interviews. MungBeing is proud to work in cooperation with Claudio to present extended interviews with some of those artists. Please read more great Claudio Parentela interviews at <a href="http://theextrafinger.blogspot.com/">The eXTra finGer</a>, <a href="http://foggygrizzly.blogspot.com/">Foggy Grizzly</a>, and <a href="http://ladylambandpopsy.blogsome.com/">LADy LaMbandPopsy</a>.<br />
<br />
For more information about Maura Holden, please visit her <a href="http://www.mauraholdenartworks.com">web site</a>.</i></div><br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Coke Monster</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1264" />
		<modified>2007--0-8-T26: 1:7:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.15</id>
		<issued>2007-07-29T09:07:40Z</issued>
		<created>2007-07-29T09:07:40Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Coke Monster" by Jessica Hill, collage and acrylic, 2007</summary><author>
		<name>Jessica Hill</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA["Coke Monster" by Jessica Hill, collage and acrylic, 2007]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Revolting Literature</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1223" />
		<modified>2007--0-8-T26: 1:7:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.16</id>
		<issued>2007-07-02T09:07:29Z</issued>
		<created>2007-07-02T09:07:29Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"There is a spectre haunting the publishing industry: the spectre of the..."</summary><author>
		<name>No Author Stated</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[<div class='offset'><i>There is a spectre haunting the publishing industry: the spectre of the underground, the small press, the zine, the DIY ethos, the internet.  Throughout history some of the most experimental, subversive and original works of literature have been produced outside the canon.  Revolting Literature is an ongoing inquiry into books, authors and publishers rousing, transgressive and independent; creators who inflame emotion and intellect; bold iconoclasts, eccentrics and radicals re-visioning and reshaping the face of the literary world.  </i></div>]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		<entry>
				<title>Revolting Literature -- Modern Tribalism In Daniel Quinn's <i>Beyond Civilization</i></title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=1223&amp;subID=866" />
				<modified>2007--0-8-T05: 0:2:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:22.16.8</id>
				<issued>2007-08-05T12:08:46Z</issued>
				<created>2007-08-05T12:08:46Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"     

When I started reading Daniel Quinn's Beyond Civilization, I couldn't put it down..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>Zay Thompson</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[     <br />
<br />
When I started reading Daniel Quinn's <i>Beyond Civilization</i>, I couldn't put it down until I finished it. What a refreshing book! I find that it is very easy to find criticism of our civilization but practical answers are rare. I enjoy discovering working solutions that don't consist of dropping out of society and joining a hippy commune.  <br />
 <br />
 I first read Quinn's earlier book, <i>Story of B</i>, and I was ready to be angry. The <i>Story of B</i> had a condescending tone that annoyed me, but Quinn caught my attention with his point that our environmental problems are fundamentally due to overpopulation. After reading his indictment of our civilization and his theory that tribalism is a naturally selected way of life for humans, I was still irritated. Assuming tribalism is a good solution, I couldn't see any realistic way to reject this civilization and "go tribal" again. And typically, Quinn didn't provide any answer past the frustratingly vague answer, "the world will be changed by people with a new vision." <br />
<br />
Fortunately, friends highly recommended another Daniel Quinn book, <i>Beyond Civilization.</i> This book first delighted me because he answered <b>each</b> and <b>every</b> objection I had to the idea of "going tribal." I found that I had completely misunderstood the idea as idealizing a low-tech hut-dweller lifestyle. Likewise, I previously thought that the term "tribe" merely signified a close-knit group identity. The term "neo-tribalism" had always conjured up images of dreadlocks, big black and pointy tattoos, and large-gauge piercings. Quinn explained that tribalism is a way of living, a practical methodology. What really grabbed me is that Quinn proposes solutions <i>that I recognize</i>.  His idea of "living tribally" in the modern age is something I find myself and my friends already doing within the culture of Burning Man.  <br />
 <br />
 Quinn mainly focuses on tribalism as "making a living together." As he puts it, the tribal rule of thumb is, "can you extend the living to include yourself?" This rule of thumb strikes me as nothing less than personal freedom and rugged individualism applied in a collaborative, participatory sense. The individual must figure out how the pursuit of his or her personal happiness will bring value to the group, and then sustain it so that the group can help him or her further accomplish those personal pursuits. <br />
<br />
In <i>Beyond Civilization,</i> Quinn struggles to find modern applications and examples of tribalism. He mainly writes about the homeless, his experiment with a small newspaper, and circus troupes. Quinn points out that this idea of modern tribalism is evolving and we won't have a clear idea of it until it's already here. The few examples he cites may help people who are developing their own modern tribes. <br />
<br />
Quinn writes that groups of people who work separately and then live together are communes, not tribes. Tribes make a living together, and they may or may not live together. My current brand of tribalism in the Burner community consists of living and working separately, and then playing together tribally. The tribalism of my community is something that Quinn did not imagine in the book, but one may add it to the store of examples and experiments in this area.  <br />
 <br />
Quinn's writing really resonated with me because the Burning Man community is currently struggling with the challenge of translating our tribal way of play into a tribal way of making a living. We're trying to envision how commerce can fully fit into our community without devouring the community. We're attempting to re-forge the symbiosis of community and commerce, in which the community provides a way to make a living but is more than just a way of making money. <br />
<br />
Quinn, coming from the outside, gives us a taste of how that might work. I found h