MungBeing Magazine: Exclusivity and Closed Systems

MungBeing Magazine: Exclusivity and Closed Systems a network of dead-ends, group after group that will not let us in, cliques and clocks that tick and talk and eventually break, not bend. http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html Copyright © 2005-2008, Pencil Tenet, Inc. in association with Eschaton Media. Sun, 03 Aug 2008 00:31:46 -0700 Mon, 04 Aug 2008 20:44:08 -0700 Forward
You've all heard me prattle on about how closed systems are ruining the virtual world and how artificial pockets of privately-owned "public" space are destroying the real world, so I won't bore you with that again. But I would like to address the topic briefly before we all dive into this issue (there's some great stuff in here so I don't want to keep you long.)

I spent some time in the non-profit world, working for a large corporation responsible for funding and supporting other non-profit agencies. We often spoke about "the community" and having an impact on "society". We discussed the greatest challenges facing our community - homelessness, lack of access to resources, educational hurdles - and looked for ways to address these needs. "As long as you're a contributing member of society," people would reason, "you should have access to the resources you need." "Ah yes," I would point out, "but if you add the stipulation that one must be a contributing member of society, you are no longer addressing all people but only those who contribute." "Yes, that's true." they would counter. "But all people are able to contribute. So if they want to receive the benefits of society, they must give back to society." "But what about those who are not contributing?" I would say. "Are they no longer entitled to the resources we have? Don't they have a need to access these resources to?" Because if we believe that one must be a contributing member of society to receive assistance then we need to eliminate the pretext that we are talking about providing services for all members of the community and just discuss those in the club.

And that's the the thing about forming a club - even if there's a pretense of inclusiveness, by definition some people will be members of the club and some will not. If you can get kicked out of it, it's not an open system. To form a club that insists it's "open to all" means that it really isn't a club at all, but merely a different way to say "everybody" or "society". If, for example, we are actually concerned that people don't have access to health care, we would remove all barriers to that access, make health care free, and get rid of the insane insurance compuckibles (if it's free, there's no need for "insurance" because care is already ensured). Which always raises the question of monetary compensation because after all, if you use a service or resource, you must pay for it. And then we're back at the beginning.

All right, enough of my rambling. There's some great stuff in here and I don't want to be a barrier to your access to it. I hope you enjoy your time here and come back as often as you like.

See you on the other side,
Mark Givens,
Editor-in-Chief
]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1316rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Mark Givens) Announcements -- Eisner Award winner Douglas Wolk
Full List of 2008 Eisner Award winners: http://www.comic-con.org/cci/cci_eisners_08win.shtml
]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1317&subID=1225 Announcements -- PostSecret Event Tour Schedule 8-27-08 Kutztown University of Pennsylvania
9-9-08 Wake Forest University, NC
9-11-08 Old Dominion University, VA
9-15-08 University of Richmond, VA
9-18-08 West Chester University, PA
9-23-08 USC, CA
10-2-08 University of Wisconsin, WI
10-7-08 University of Virginia, VA
10-10-08 Vanderbilt University, TN
10-16-08 Clarion University, PA
10-30-08 Florida Gulf Coast University, FL
11-5-08 University of Missouri, St Louis, MO
11-6-08 University of Missouri, Columbia, MO
11-10-08 James Madison University, VA
11-12-08 The College of Charleston, SC
11-14-08 Illinois Wesleyan University, IL
11-17-08 Eastern Michigan University, MI
11-20-08 LSU, LA

A PostSecret Event in the UK?

Check the PostSecret Facebook Group for details.]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1317&subID=1226 Announcements -- Objectified, a new film by Gary Hustwit Helvetica comes Objectified, Gary Hustwit's forthcoming documentary about industrial design - the manufactured objects we surround ourselves with, and the people who make them. It's about the world of creativity behind everything from toothbrushes to tech gadgets, featuring some of the world's most influential industrial designers. It's also about consumerism, sustainability, and identity.

The cast of designers and design experts so far includes:

Paola Antonelli (Museum of Modern Art, New York)
Chris Bangle (BMW Group, Munich)
Ronan and Erwan Bouroullec (Paris)
Andrew Blauvelt (Walker Art Center, Minneapolis)
Anthony Dunne (London)
Naoto Fukasawa (Tokyo)
IDEO (Palo Alto)
Jonathan Ive (Apple, California)
Hella Jongerius (Rotterdam)
Marc Newson (London/Paris)
Fiona Raby (London)
Dieter Rams (Kronberg, Germany)
Karim Rashid (New York)
Alice Rawsthorn (International Herald Tribune)
Rob Walker (New York Times Magazine)

More information at the Objectified website: http://www.objectifiedfilm.com
]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1317&subID=1227 -- Kazoomzoom

On July 1st, the world's first netlabel for children launched! It's called Kazoomzoom and it's a really wonderful site with music, audio stories, videos, printable books and paper toys. All of it is free to stream and download. No one makes any money on this non-commercial site and nothing is being sold to children. Stop by and congratulate Katya and crew on a job well done!

More information Kazoomzoom.com

Also, check out the first release from Kazoomzoom, available as part of this issue's MungBeat!.
]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1725&subID=1228 Modern Primitive Abstract Paintings http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1691rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Erik Von Ploennies) Solar System http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1697rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Nelly Sanchez) Three Poets of the Union
During the decade of the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln, Walt Whitman, and Herman Melville each tried to render a new vision of the Union that would not only survive the war and reconstruction but also enshrine itself in the memory and practice of the nation for generations to come. When the political and poetic texts that these men created during the 1860s are considered together, Melville emerges with a new vision of the Union that is the most complex and daring in its conception of the American polity, the most tragic in its assessment of the war, and the most expansive in its vision of the future.

There are three fundamental aspects of the Union that the Civil War settled by force of arms, as none of them could be confirmed by national consensus in the decades before the war. The first is that the Union among the states is to be perpetual, even if the Constitution was not explicit in this regard. The second, a corollary of the first, is that any attempt to dissolve the Union will be met with overwhelming force by the Federal government and all the resources of the states that it controls. The third aspect of the Union that was confirmed by the Civil War (and which took on added significance in the decades following World War Two) is the investment of "the proposition that all men are created equal" with something like the force of law, with the intended consequence that no person born inside the United States would be deprived of the status and rights of citizenship, merely on the basis of race.

Lincoln, Whitman, and Melville essentially agreed to all of these propositions, but their expressed visions of the Union's perpetuity, its right to use force, and the inclusion of former slaves among its citizenry were remarkably different.

Lincoln's conception of the Union's perpetuity is first expressed in the legalistic and vaguely tautological reading of the Constitution that he presents in the First Inaugural in the spring of 1861. With the resourcefulness of an experienced barrister, Lincoln posits that secession is unconstitutional for the simple reason that the framers would not have bothered to draft a fundamental law for the United States if they did not expect it to be binding in perpetuity. He cannot cite any specific reference to perpetuity in the Constitution, so Lincoln leans heavily on the phrase "to form a more perfect Union" from the Preamble and argues:

But if destruction of the Union by one or by part only of the States be lawfully possible, the Union is less perfect than before the Constitution, having lost the vital element of perpetuity.link

In essence, the new president, faced with a rapid series of secessions across the lower south, is claiming that supposed right of states to secede from the Union is in fundamental opposition to the spirit and purpose, if not the actual letter, of the U.S. Constitution. Because he claims to discern so much intent from syntactically peculiar phrase "more perfect" in the Preamble to the Constitution, Lincoln's vision of the Union in this address is as much an act of divination as of legal interpretation. The new president, faced with an unprecedented crisis as well as the prospect of war, closes his speech with a metaphysical appeal to " the mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every heart and hearthstone all over this broad land." For all of his previous emphasis on law and on the protections that the Constitution affords to slavery, even in the free states and territories, Lincoln believes that he must make something more than a merely legal and linguistic case for the Union if he is to keep allegiance of the upper south, especially Virginia.

Walt Whitman's vision of the indivisible Union, rather than being grounded in a close reading of the Constitution or in a shared memory of the Revolution, is exemplified in his "Song of the Banner at Daybreak" by a child's brave and intuitive reading of a cherished national symbol. As a poet of the nation's emerging commercial and cultural capital, Whitman was very familiar with the idea, advanced by a number of prominent New Yorkers, including the mayor, that the southern states should be allowed to secede and that New York City should even contemplate its own secession in order to maintain its advantageous position in trade and finance.link In "Song of the Banner at Daybreak" Whitman personifies this pragmatic case for secession in the voice of the father who identifies the greatness of America with its material wealth: "Look at these dazzling things in the houses . . . the money shops opening / . . . the vehicles preparing to crawl along the streets with goods . . . How envied by all the earth." In response to this appeal to prudence and materialism, the child identifies with the expansiveness and spirit embodied in the American flag flapping in the wind above them:

O my father I do not like the houses,
They will never be to me any thing, nor do I like money,
But to mount up there I would like, O dear father, that banner I like ...

And knowing that war will be necessary to save the nation that the banner represents, the child is willing to embrace the symbol of the coming struggle, "the sword-shaped pennant for war". He concludes the stanza by declaring: "That pennant I would be and must be."link

Whitman's political position is identical to Lincoln's, but the poet's argument is dramatic and symbolic where the president's is legal and linguistic; also, Whitman's patriotic child is forward looking while Lincoln hearkens back to the framer's intent and the sacrifices of the American Revolution.

Herman Melville's vision of the Union is neither as legalistic as Lincoln's nor as ethereal as Whitman's. In his crowning poem to Battle-Pieces, titled simply "America", Melville employs an allegorical image of America that was common in the nineteenth century and which would find its apotheosis in Bartholdi's Liberty Enlightening the World: the stern female bearer of light, law, and liberty. For Melville, the greatest emphasis here is upon law, and his poetic achievement here is to combine Lincoln's emphasis on law with Whitman's drive for mythmaking imagery. Where Whitman had found his strongest voice in a child's innocent declaration of loyalty, however, Melville's figure of America possesses a tragic wisdom that has been purchased at great price:

At her feet a shivered yoke,
And in her aspect turned to heaven
��No trace of passion or of strife--
A clear calm look. It spake of pain
But such as purifies from stain--
Sharp pangs that never come again--
��And triumph repressed by knowledge meet,
Power delicate, and hope grown wise,
��And youth matured for age's seat--
Law on her brow and empire in her eyes.link

In light of the drive to attain overseas colonies at the close of the nineteenth century, it is worth noting here that Melville was never an advocate of colonialism; the "empire" he speaks of here is the vast nation between the seas, not beyond them.link

The second premise about the Union, that its integrity would be maintained by military force if challenged by secession, is inherent in the first, but the consequences of this corollary became so severe as the war progressed that it deserves special consideration. Lincoln's most famous and concise expression of this premise was his eleven-sentence dedication of the cemetery at Gettysburg in November of 1863. While the first inaugural had reflected Lincoln's attempt to save the Union without recourse to war, the Gettysburg Address exemplifies his new position in the wake of the Emancipation Proclamation: the war that he sees as necessary to save the Union will not only save it but transform it into a new entity with a global mission. Where the president had initially attempted to use linguistic arguments and inspiring words to avoid the war, he now concedes, in a gesture of self-deprecation that is a standard trope of oratory, that the soldiers' deeds upon this battlefield have rendered his words practically superfluous. Nonetheless, the president employs the power of his words, as well as the power of the setting, to invest the opening phrases Declaration of Independence with the status of law and to invest the ongoing mission of the Union's armed forces with a new and universal significance: to insure that "government of the people, by the people, and for the people shall not perish from the earth."link Instead of parsing the Constitution and its Preamble for reasons why slavery is constitutional but secession is not, Lincoln now emphasizes the shocking proposition made by Jefferson in the Declaration of Independence that "all men are created equal," and cites it, as no president had done before, as the fundamental proposition upon which the Union itself is based. As the old Union was consecrated by the memory of patriots who died in the Revolution, the "new birth of freedom" Lincoln hails here is consecrated by those who "gave their last full measure of devotion" at Gettysburg and the other battlefields of the war to save the Union.

Lincoln's eleven sentences at Gettysburg are justly remembered as immortal, but they do not--and cannot, given their political function--acknowledge the cruel irony of a fratricidal war waged for the cause of brotherhood. Whitman's meditations on the human cost of preserving the Union through military force come closer to acknowledging the paradox of fratricide in the name of brotherhood, but they do not register its tragic irony, perhaps because irony is rarely, if ever, part of Whitman's register. In "Over the Carnage Rose Prophetic a Voice" he declares, "If need be a thousand shall sternly immolate themselves for one"----a stunning and beautiful line in the context of this poem, but not one that indicates the whole truth: these thousands will immolate each other for the cause in question, not merely sacrifice themselves.link Whitman's "Reconciliation" is a haunting acknowledgement of the war's cost, but it portrays, without any sense of the scene's implicit irony, a solemn moment of reconciliation between a living northerner and a dead southerner.

Herman Melville renders essentially the same scene with frank clarity and a bitter gallows humor in his poem "Magnanimity Baffled": a Union soldier offers his hand to the defeated southerner, only to discover that his refusal to accept it is not the result of recalcitrance but of death. The poem offers a brilliant counterpoint to the magnanimous phrases that close Lincoln's second inaugural address: "With malice toward none, with charity for all . . ." which immediately follows the president's implicit promise to prosecute the war to the point of complete and unconditional surrender.link As both a loyal Unionist and a committed Democrat, Melville perceived that the realities of total war, as evidenced by the siege of Vicksburg and Sherman's march to the sea, made such grand gestures of magnanimity echo with a cruel irony, even if they did spring from a sincere desire to move beyond the tragedy of the war and begin the work of national reconstruction.link

The final and most revolutionary revision of the Union imperfectly begun by the American Civil War was the expansion of the concept of citizenship to include former slaves and their descendents. With the exception of a few Radical Republicans, it is safe to say that the vast majority of white America, in the north as well as the south, was unprepared for this final and most significant change in the laws and customs of the Union. By contemporary standards, Lincoln, Whitman, and Melville all show a remarkable reluctance to explore the meaning of the war for Americans of African descent, even though more than 200,000 black Americans took arms on behalf of the Union from January of 1863 until the end of the war.link

In the one hundred and fifty years since the Civil War, this redefinition of the Union to include all citizens regardless of race has become the single ideal for which the struggle is best remembered, and Melville, among these three men, appears to have most instinctive understanding of this fact. His writing exhibits not only a greater empathy for black Americans, but also a greater intuitive sense of the vision that their unique experience would bring to the American drama.

Lincoln, in his Emancipation Proclamation of January 1st, 1863, is nearly as vague as the Constitution itself about who exactly constitutes the population of slaves in America.link This carefully crafted document promises to erase slavery as a legal institution in the rebellious territories, but, but remaining silent on the question of race, it does nothing to confront the practice of slavery as a social, economic, and political fact. Furthermore, such vagueness about the system of racial caste that makes slavery practicable in all the states where it is practiced (north and south) threatens to conflate the slaves themselves with the evils of the institution in which they are enmeshed. This linguistic conflation is evident in Lincoln's second inaugural address, when the president almost appears to blame the Civil War on the slaves themselves, even as his explicit purpose is to condemn the institution of slavery: "These slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew this interest was somehow the cause of the war."link Slaves and slavery are referred to interchangeably to the effect that black Americans are implicitly confused with the tragedy of the war itself, while they are never acknowledged as active agents in its resolution.

Like the president whom he admired with a frankly religious fervor, Walt Whitman portrayed the Civil War as essentially about the maintenance of the Union, and barely if at all about the expansion of citizenship to include Americans of African descent. In Whitman's poem "Ethiopia Saluting the Colors" which he added to Drum Taps in 1881, an old black woman in a turban who remembers being kidnapped from Africa as a child now takes in the sight of Union soldiers marching through the southern countryside. In the first and last stanzas, Whitman repeats the refrain that she is so old that she is "hardly human" and throughout the poem she has no insight to offer but her age, her memory ("they caught me as a savage beast is caught"), her bafflement at the sight of so many Union troops and, presumably, her gratitude.link

Melville's "Formerly a Slave" also considers the visage of an old black woman, but instead of looking backward to the slave trade in Africa, she looks forward to the expansion of civil rights in America. Not only does Melville invest the woman with a humanity that is largely absent in Whitman's and Lincoln's portrayals of African Americans, but he also invests her with a sense profound wisdom and prophecy. Not the prophecy of one who is more than human, but of one who is fully human:

Her children's children they shall know
The good withheld from her;
And so her reverie takes prophetic cheer--
In spirit she sees the stir

Far down the depth of thousand years,
And marks the revel shine;
Her dusky face is lit with sober light
Sybilline, yet benign.link

This woman is neither a goddess, nor a sentimental archetype, but merely a soul who has found wisdom in long and bitter experience. Her "sybilline" vision of a future in which "her children's children" will know "The good withheld from her" shows a simultaneous and clear consciousness of two opposing things: the great promise of America, and its failure hitherto to meet that promise for all of its citizens. This ironic sense of America's promise viewed through the prism the racial divide is precisely what W.E.B. Du Bois defined as "double consciousness," in his book The Souls of Black Folk.link When Du Bois argued in 1903 that this double consciousness was the basis for a new and important cultural contribution to the national culture, he was making the unprecedented argument that black Americans had something to teach to the rest of America, by virtue of their long and unique experience in this country. It is impossible to say whether Melville's poem fully prefigures this revolutionary idea, but it is interesting to note that other female visage that he presents as having been made wise through tragedy is the face of America herself.

In his treatment the Union, of the war to preserve it, and of those who became its newest citizens in the war's aftermath, Herman Melville's poetic vision anticipated a number of trends in American literature and thought in succeeding decades and in the century that followed. His vision of an America "With Law on her brow and empire in here eyes" seems to resonate with the progressive vision Teddy Roosevelt's and Woodrow Wilson's generation, though he would not likely have approved of all that generation stood for. His bitterly ironic rendering of modern war in poems like "Magnanimity Baffled" seems to foreshadow the writings of Ambrose Bierce and Stephen Crane in later decades and the whole genre of hardboiled combat fiction that followed them. Finally, his rendering of race, though it occupied scant space in Battle-Pieces, far outshone the writings of Lincoln and Whitman and in some ways anticipated the thinking of W.E.B. Du Bois. And yet, as if to confirm Shelley's dictum, Melville's writings on the war and Union, compared to those of Lincoln and Whitman, were the least acknowledged in his own time.

WORKS CITED

Du Bois, W.E.B. "The Souls of Black Folk" in The American Intellectual Tradition. Charles Capper and David Hollinger, eds. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001.

Erkkila, Betsy. Whitman the Political Poet. New York: Oxford University Press, 1989

Garner ,Stanton. The Civil War World of Herman Melville. Lawrence, Kansas: University of Kansas Press, 1993

Lincoln, Abraham. "The First Inaugural Address" (March 4, 1861). www.bartleby.com/124/pres31.html

______."The Emancipation Proclamation" (January 1, 1863). www.bartleby.com/43/34.html

______."The Gettysburg Address" (November 19, 1863). www.bartleby.com/43/36.html

______."The Second Inaugural Address" (March 4, 1865). www.bartleby.com/124/pres32.html

McPherson, James M. Battle Cry of Freedom: The Civil War Era. New York: Ballantine Books, 1988.

Melville, Herman. Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War (1866). New York: Prometheus Books, 2001.

Schlesinger, Jr., Arthur M., ed. The Almanac of American History. New York: Barnes and Noble Books, 1993.

Whitman, Walt. Leaves of Grass and Other Writings. New York: W.W. Norton and Company, 2002.
]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1667rss_feed@mungbeing.com (R.S. Deese) New Pieces http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1702rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Simon Dion Redekop) Through The Circle I
The Circle appeared before Finbar's eyes unexpectedly. The Minstrel had been walking the whole day in the hot, dry weather; at mid-day, having taken a long draught from his water bottle, he climbed a low hill, and gazed at the wide valley that opened before his eyes on the other side. Green patches promised the possible proximity of water, and he rushed down the hill toward them. He arrived at some tall reeds and parting them, looked with relief at the small brook that flowed there, hidden among the rushes. He kneeled down to drink, sprayed his hot face and filled his bottle, and only then he stood up and looked around him. The patches of green were bunches of tall reed and high grass, through which flowed that meandering stream, its water sparkling in flushes of blue with dots of gold from the sun rays. Then Finbar noticed a tall rock standing upright among the green; wondering for a moment at its incongruous appearance, and sending a searching look beyond it, Finbar saw that this rock was not the only one. Another upright stone was standing not far from the first, and another and another. At last, he spotted a whole circle of such tall rocks looming from the flat land of the valley.

The Minstrel pondered on that phenomenon that had appeared before his eyes. In his traveling, he had heard mention here and there of such stone circles; but, not only had he never seen it with his own eyes, he had also never learned about its purpose or meaning, either from the writings of fables and myths from which he had drawn many of his stories, or from local gossip and anecdotes. Now, as he saw it himself, he thought it was up to him to find out all he could about it.

Slowly, the Minstrel advanced toward one of the stones. There was very little life in the valley; the season of bird nesting had been long over, and no chirping was heard. Some sparrows flew among the rushes, and a larger bird of prey hovered in the sky; a very light breeze barely touched the reed tops making them sway and wiping the sweat off the Minstrel's face. Otherwise, the world was almost standing still, waiting for Finbar to act. He arrived at the northernmost stone of the circle and stopped, the sunrays hitting his eyes. He had put up his hand to shade them when a sense of magic touched him from the direction of the circle, and he hesitated before entering it. Was there really something special about such construction, so different from anything he had ever known or seen?

A light cloud passed over the sun, and the Minstrel removed his hand from his eyes. He made a few more paces, reached the stone and touched it lightly; another step and he was inside the circle...

II

"Here you are," a woman's voice addressed Finbar; "you know we couldn't have started without you."

"Started what?" he asked in amazement, and thought, 'Where have all these people come from?'

Indeed, the circle was crowded with people, all dressed in gaudy clothes, shouting with words he could not understand. The woman who had spoken to him stood out as if she were their leader; she was tall and majestic, dressed in a mauve color robe and wearing a colorful crown on her dark red hair. "It's time for Midsummer sacrifice, and the prophecy claimed you were going to attend this time."

"Me?"

"Aren't you Finbar the Minstrel? There you are, then, it was you we've been waiting for. Now, take this knife and cut the victim's throat. That will dedicate you to the Goddess, whom you've been worshipping all your life!"

"Indeed, I don't know what you're talking about! Me, cut a victim's throat? I'd rather die myself!"

"Very well, then, he will cut yours, although that was not the occasion we've expected. But there is no difference to me, you know, one of you must die at this hour!"

"No! You can't do that! I'm only here by accident!" the Minstrel cried out. Indeed, he was never a real hero, only a teller of tales and a singer of songs. Who was he to be a victim at Midsummer?

"Then be a hero for once, and cut his throat! Now! Take that knife in your hand! That's it! Do it, now!"

She was leading him by the hand. He had shut his eyes from fright and alarm, but the woman held his hand tight and led it to the spot. He felt it hit, and a hot gush splashed in his face. Opening his eyes, the whole world had turned red around him. Blinded and feeling faint, Finbar suddenly felt himself all alone in the circle. The celebrants were gone, as were the woman and the victim. He sat down on the ground beside the upright rock, his heart beating fast and his thoughts in a swirl.

III

Under the hot, midday sun, the Minstrel had fallen asleep. When he woke up, the sun was sinking in the west. Opposite, in the east, a round full moon appeared; the combination of rays from the setting sun and the rising moon fell on the westernmost stone, crowning it with a soft, silver glow. Finbar rose to his feet and, as if compelled by an unseen force, walked toward that upright rock. The circle was filled with people again, all dressed in gray and black, and as he walked through them to reach the westerly stone, they cleared the way for him. When he reached that stone, he was astonished to see a wide stretch of water open beyond it; he was absolutely certain there could be no such stretch of water where they were - certainly not anything that looked more like the sea than a lake.

"There you are," he heard the same voice again, and the majestic woman appeared before his eyes, dressed in dark blue with many stars shining all over her robe. The crown on her head glowed silver, and she was holding a torch in her hand.

"What is going on here?" he asked, his voice hoarse from worry. On the water before him, not far from the shore, a highly decorated boat was floating, and in it lay the figure of a man.

"What is he doing there?" he asked the woman, than added, "and who is he, anyway?"

"He is your victim, remember?" she answered, handing out the torch to him. "Here, you must complete your task, now, and set fire to the boat."

"Set fire to the body of a man? Are you crazy?"

"He must burn, you know; otherwise, his soul will never reach heaven." she insisted. "Here, take it!"

Her voice was as compelling as ever and Finbar felt he had no choice; but as he had taken the torch, he stood there, frustrated, unable to move.

"Come, we'll do it together," she said, taking his arm and pulling him toward the boat on the water. They waded through the shallows to reach it and the woman, still pulling at the Minstrel's arm, directed it toward the boat's single sail. It immediately caught fire and they retreated. Finbar watched in silence.

The boat, wrapped in flames, started sailing by itself toward the sinking sun. As it burned, silvery smoke rose from the fire and filled the air with its thick, sweet smell. It stung the Minstrel's eyes and obscured his sight. Nodding on his feet and tired from the day's events and impressions, Finbar dropped to the ground and shut his eyes. Unheeding the sight of the vanishing crowd, he slept alone in the circle of upright stones.

IV

The first ray of the rising sun fell on Finbar eyelids and woke him up. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, wondering about what was happening inside the circle. A distant upright stone on the eastern side of the circle was touched by a golden ray, shining like a jewel and beckoning to Finbar. He started walking toward the easternmost rock, and by the time he reached it, the sun was over the horizon, promising another clear and hot day.

Drawing near the upright stone, he saw at its foot a shallow dig covered with golden straw; on it lay a woman, obviously in labor. She was stark naked, her skin gleaming blinding white. Some women were attending to her, caressing her body and splashing it with water from the stream; other women helped her spiritually, uttering encouraging and comforting words; still others were busy with her surroundings, seemingly preparing them for the new mother and son.

As Finbar approached, the laboring woman suddenly stopped in her effort and called out to the Minstrel, "There you are! I've been waiting for you, you know the child cannot be born until you are hear to welcome him!" He noticed then that she was the same woman who had helped him in killing the victim and in burning his body.

"Will she be all right?" he asked someone next to him, who laughed in his face.

"Here he comes, and they are both in clover, as you can see," she said, pointing out to a picture of mother and son wrapped in golden halo.

"What now, then?" the Minstrel asked.

"Now, we follow the sun," the women sung out and arranged themselves in a process. The sun was climbing up in the sky, and they were parading toward the southernmost side of the circle.

Finbar did not know how long they had been walking. It seemed rather a long time to walk from one side to another of a circle that could be viewed in one sweep of the eyes. But many astonishing things had happened since he had entered it, and he stopped questioning what was going on.

At last, the procession reached the southernmost rock. By that time, Finbar noticed that the child had turned into a boy, then a youth, then a young man who looked very much like the one who had been burned in the boat. As they approached the upright stone, the Minstrel noticed that it had assumed the shape of a throne. On that throne sat now the same majestic woman, looking young and glowing with happiness. She was dressed in red, and a gold crown sat on her dark red hair. As the procession drew near, the stone chair widened up and the woman invited the young man to sit on it.

"Here you are, Finbar, just in time to celebrate our wedding. You are the best man to sing us songs and tell us stories, to make this day the happiest in everyone's life."

And so he did. As long as the sun was up in the sky - and to his astonishment, it seemed to stay there a long time indeed - Finbar sang his songs and told his stories, while breaking only for some rest and refreshments. At last he grew weary, and a little tipsy from drinking an unusual quantity of wine. His head got dizzy so he shut his eyes; his knees buckled and he fell to the ground, to sleep off the events of the last couple of days.

When Finbar woke up the next day, the sky was cloudy and threatening with rain. He sat up and found himself by the northernmost stone again, just outside the circle. 'Have I ever been inside it?' he asked himself. "But," he said aloud, "if I haven't, I don't think I'll ever try entering it again."

He rose, put on his coat and threw the bag over his shoulder. Then he started walking, taking care to go round the circle of upright stones rather than walk through it. 'Just the same,' he thought, 'I really have a glorious tale to tell, be it true or a dream I dreamed.'
]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1666rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Tala Bar) Recipes
Fortunately for you, the MungBeing readers, a copy of the infamous Drink Menu was discovered deep down in the murky depths of the Cache Cow Archives. The original copy was salvaged by a peculiar sailor named Kenny and his boyfriend Paul in the last few months of The Barber's Closet's life and has been stored, seal unbroken, for eleven years. It is with a mixture of profound sadness and nervous excitement that we are offering to you the last remaining vestige of this long-lost and much loved watering hole, available in the coming months, one piece at a time.

With only one further ado, MungBeing Magazine proudly presents the Barber's Closet Drink Menu!

Here is a detailed description of Glass Classifications and Garnish Specifications.

Previous Chapters
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6

]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1322 Recipes -- Two's The Limit Oscar

22 oz. Oscar Glass
Fill with ice
3/4 oz. Vodka
3/4 oz. Gin
3/4 oz. Cherry Brandy
3/4 oz. Grenadine
O.J. and P.J. to 1/2" below rim of glass
2 long straws
Garnish: Butterfly

Electric Koolaid

22 oz. Oscar Glass
Fill with ice
1.5 oz. Southern Comfort
1.0 oz. Midori
1.0 oz. Amaretto
Cranberry juice to 1/2" below rim of glass
7-up to 1/4" below rim of glass
2 long straws
Garnish: Lime and Cherry

Shipwreck

22 oz. Oscar Glass
Fill with ice
1.5 oz. Southern Comfort
3/4 oz. Yukon Jack
3/4 oz. Jack Daniel's
1/4 oz. Cuervo
Bar Sour and P.J. to 1/2" below rim of glass
2 long straws
Garnish: Cherry and 1/4 Lemon

Swampwater

22 oz. Oscar Glass
Fill with ice
1.0 oz. Lime Vodka
1.5 oz. Apricot Brandy
3/4 oz. Vodka
Bar Sour and O.J. to 3/4" below rim of glass
7-up to 1/2" below rim of glass
2 long straws
Garnish: Cherry and 1/4 Lime

Bahama Blues

22 oz. Oscar Glass
Fill with ice
1.0 oz. Blue Curacao
3/4 oz. Malibu
3/4 oz. Vodka
3/4 oz. Rum
Bar Sour to 1/2" below rim of glass
2 long straws
Garnish: Cherry and 1/4 Lemon

Boston Tea Party

22 oz. Oscar Glass
Fill with ice
1/2 oz. Brandy
1/2 oz. Vodka
1/2 oz. Gin
1/2 oz. Rum
1/4 oz. Triple Sec
1/4 oz. Tequila
1/4 oz. Grand Marnier
1/2 oz. Tia Maria
Bar Sour to 3/4" below rim of glass
Pepsi to 1/2" below rim of glass
2 long straws
Garnish: Cherry and 1/4 Lemon

Pizazz

22 oz. Oscar Glass
Fill with ice
3/4 oz. Blackberry Brandy
3/4 oz. Hot Shot
3/4 oz. Smirnoff
1.0 oz. Captain Morgan's
7-up and Lemonade to 1/2" below rim of glass
2 long straws
Garnish: 1/4 Lemon squeeze

Baltimore Zoo

22 oz. Oscar Glass
Fill HALFWAY with ice
3/4 oz. Vodka
3/4 oz. Gin
3/4 oz. Rum
3/4 oz. Triple Sec
1/4 oz. Tequila
3/4 oz. Grenadine
Bar Sour to 1 1/2" below rim of glass
Customer's choice of domestic beer to 1/2"
below rim of glass
Customer continues to add beer as drink is emptied.
2 long straws
Garnish:
Ambrosia
22 oz. Oscar Glass
Fill with ice
3/4 oz. Vodka
3/4 oz. Gin
3/4 oz. Amaretto
O.J. and P.J. to 1/2" below rim of glass
2 long straws
Garnish: Butterfly

Jackie's Fall From Grace

22 oz. Oscar Glass
Fill with ice
1.0 oz. Peach Schnapps
1.0 oz. Smirnoff
1.0 oz. Hot Shot
1/4 oz. Peach Brandy
7-up to 1/2" below rim of glass
2 long straws
Garnish: Cherry-Lemon-Cherry

Mutiny in The Tropics

22 oz. Oscar Glass
Fill with ice
1.25 oz. Captain Morgan's
1.0 oz. Dark Rum
1.0 oz. Malibu
1/2 oz. Grenadine
Papaya juice to 3/4" below rim of glass
7-up to 1/2" below rim of glass
2 long straws
Garnish: Lemon, Lime, and Cherry

]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1322&subID=1168 Iridescent Paintings http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1689rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Callie Danae Hirsch) The Club That Wouldn't Let Anyone In After a suggestion by P. K. Levang

I

Okay... I'll confess. Can you just tell that copper to stop staring at me, okay? People who stare, it's bloody rude.

It was me and V.V., we started the bar or club or whatever you want to call it. But it was just a joke, you see? We were just playing a prank. Nobody was going to get hurt. I didn't want anyone to die...

V.V. and me, we became friends when we were students in England. He was American, but people didn't think of him as American. We always cooked up practical jokes and gags. It wasn't like anyone of us was the leader. We acted together. I knew him since I was... eighteen, I think.

He told me that in America people like us, guys with ideas, had opportunities. Not like in stuffy old Britain. The more I heard it, and the worse our grades got, the more I believed him.

After we dropped out of the university and moved to America, we shared a cheap apartment near the old industrial park. Great view of an abandoned warehouse just outside our window. Over on the next block, some of the old warehouses had been converted to rave clubs. Five and six in the morning, the doped-up ravers walked home beneath our window.

V.V. and me, we shouted at them sometimes: "Come buy best Jamaican spliffs, ya? Simpson's the name, mon!"

Simpson was the guy living next door. We heard the occasional raver ring on his door and ask to buy drugs, and almost wet ourselves laughing.

Then one morning, we were on our way to our jobs, we saw the clubbers stagger home past the abandoned warehouse... and I got an idea.

"See that door?" I told V.V. and pointed to the graffiti-covered door right across the street. It was made of solid metal plating with bolts around the edges, and it had no door handle. "What if we put a sign on it: 'New Club Opens Tomorrow!' Imagine the rave-heads standing in line all night, for nothing!"

V.V. and me, we were on the same wavelength about these things. He continued my train of thought and said, "Yeah! And let's nail a broken security camera on top of the door, so it looks authentic!"

"And maybe," I riffed, "we pay some moron to stand in front as a bouncer -"

"I'll do it," V.V. said. "I was a bouncer once."

"Yeah, for a whole two hours!"

V.V. had lost his only bouncer job when he started collecting phone numbers from the girls who stood in line, and he only let blondes in.

"So what're you gonna tell the clubbers who want to come in? That it's real exclusive?" I asked.

He thought about it for a moment, and burst out laughing. "Better! We can't open that door, right? So I let nobody in!"

"Nobody gets in?"

"Nobody gets in! That's the joke!"

"Fokkin' brilliant!"

So we high-fived each other and almost forgot about going to work.

I came home from my burger-flipping job around eighteen o'clock. V.V. had gathered all the stuff we needed for the prank, and carried it home. From the paint shop where he worked, he'd taken a few cans of spray paint. From the dumpster outside an electronics shop, he'd salvaged a broken surveillance camera. Hell, we'd scavenged practically everything in our apartment. You Americans throw away stuff that's practically new.

The Salvation Army had provided V.V. with a worn-down leather jacket for that "tough and stupid" bouncer look. He already had shades.

And so we went to work in a hurry: the clubbers mustn't see us.

A few hours' work later, we admired our prank.The metal door and surrounding brick wall had been sprayed black. Along the edges of the doorframe, we'd added a kind of halo of glow-in-the-dark blue... it made the door stand out at night like the monolith from 2001.

And on top of the door that wouldn't open, we'd rigged the broken security camera.

To perfect the illusion, we'd hid a boom-box behind a trash bin, muffled by padding. When it played, it sounded like thumping music was leaking out of the warehouse.

"Fokkin' brilliant," I said. "But something's missing..."

We both said it at the same time. "A name!"

V.V. suggested "Shangri-La."

"Taken," I said. "I got it. 'Hellfire Club'."

"Wanker name. How about... wait! I got it! Nothing."

"Club Nothing?"

"No name. The club with no name. It'll create an aura of mystery."

We agreed on 'The Club With No Name' and didn't make a sign. The show could begin.

I did suspect that V.V. might get tired of our gag after the first hour. I mean, nobody tried to get in - at first. The clubbers just walked past, pretended not to see the new black door with the blue halo and the bouncer with the shades who guarded it.

I watched it from our apartment window, and called him on the phone every hour. Just had to tease him a bit: "Hang in there, V.V.! Maybe some senior citizens will think it's a bingo hall and drop by!"

"Laugh it up, wanker," V.V. replied on the phone, and gave me the finger across the street when nobody was watching. "If you build it, they will come! I have faith in this place!"

"If they try to break in, should I call the cops?" I joked.

"Nobody gets in alive!" he yelled and hung up.

In the morning he got home to sleep, and he never complained.

"It was fun," he told me. "You feel this power when you're a bouncer, even if you're guarding nothing."

So he wanted to do it again the next night, and who was I to stop him?

The next night, when I spied on him from our window, I could see the first line of people materialize by the door. It was like watching one of those nature documentaries: the party people formed little clusters, at the opposite side of the street, from a safe distance, and the clusters sent out spies to test the bouncer - V.V., that is.

The spies returned to their clusters, and I expected the groups to give up and go elsewhere. Some did - but most of them stayed, and drifted closer to the entrance and formed a line.

It made me so curious. This must be how people who photograph animals in the wild feel. I had to move closer and hear what the people on the street were saying - probably just gossip about what a jerk the bouncer was...

I put on a pair of shades light enough to see in the dark, went outside, made a circle around my apartment block so nobody would notice where I came from, and strolled over to this cluster of young people who stood near the dumpster where we hid the boom-box.

The thumping music played, and two girls in tight dresses were pretend-dancing to it with each other. Teenagers, I thought.

"What's this new place?" I asked a girl, playing dumb.

"Haven't you heard?" she said, chewing gum while she was talking. "It's the Dark Door. They don't let anybody in. Someone says they saw someone famous walk in."

"Are you sure?" I said. Almost let my act slip. "I never heard of a place by that name."

She gave me an annoyed look. "You're from Europe, aren't you? Just arrived, huh? You sound British, or French. It's new and like, really exclusive. I'll bet they deal coke in the VIP room."

I wanted to roll my eyes, but I was having too much fun. Had to really stop myself from laughing. I walked past V.V., who stood in front of the doorway, and pretended I didn't know him. V.V. didn't so much as wink at me, but kept looking forward with that perfect bouncer stare. He totally got into the act.

I walked over to another group of people. Naturally, they were mad at the man who wouldn't let them in. They wore expensive clothes, gold watches and jewels, and talked in their fancy little cell phones. When they saw me coming, they turned their noses up - I didn't look as well off in my jeans and leather jacket.

"You wanna get inside?" I asked them.

"You know a way in?" said a tall blond guy with capped teeth. I hated him already. "I've been calling all my connections. Some of'em swear they've been there already or know people who've been invited."

"There are ways and means," I said, and had to work really hard not to laugh. "You need to get on the member list." Pure improv theater. Did I tell you my grandfather was a vaudeville actor?

Some of the other rich wankers warned Tall Blond Guy that I didn't look like an "insider," but he wouldn't listen. He produced a thick wallet and handed me a ten-dollar bill.

"So spill it," he said.

"I dunno..." I said. "I have to put in a request, it could take a few days."

He immediately put another twenty dollars in my palm. I swallowed, and took a good look at the six young men and women. That's the kinda situation where my upbringing saves me face, Guv'nor - I never let my jaw drop.

The way these people looked at me, in complete silence, with those desperate looks on their faces... suddenly our little prank had turned a bit creepy. Didn't they have anything better to do with their money and time than hang around a closed door, dreaming about the never-neverland of Hip on the other side?

But there's nothing like taking the piss out of rich wankers.

"Okay," I told them. "I know this bloke who knows the owner. You have to buy a place on the bottom of the list, and only the top fifty on the list get in."

"What, only fifty people get to have the place to themselves?"

He started, but I was just getting warmed up. "No, no... the names on the list are shuffled around, see? It's a complicated system, but eventually everybody gets in. And there's the entertainers... know what I mean?"

I nudged him with my elbow, and he gave out a nervous laugh.

"Only fifty at a time doesn't sound like much fun," someone said.

"I see you haven't been... inside." I gave them a sneer which they mistook for experience.

"So how does the bouncer know he'll let me in?" asked Tall Blond Guy.

He nearly had me stumped there. I glanced at the doorway, where V.V. was standing immobile, cell phone by his ear, while the two dancing girls I spotted earlier were squeezing their bodies against him. A bouncer sandwich.

"See there?" I said, and pointed.

"What, the girls?"

"The camera, stupid. You send in your photo with your name. When your name is up, you just look into the camera and they call the doorman who lets you in. And you're made."

"Of course," said Tall Blond Guy, and tried to look like he had been in on the secret I just invented. "I know. So, do I give my photo to you, or can I just phone it in...?"

It was the first time, I swear, that an honest prank turned into a scam. Somehow I felt I was doing these suckers a favour - giving them something to believe in, y'know? I gave them one of my e-mail addresses, and told them to send the photos there.

II

After the second night was over, I showed V.V. all the money I made - we made - on selling slots on the "member list" to the hangers-on who'd gathered outside. We shared equally... I'm no Scrooge.

But when V.V. counted his share of the cash, over and over, he got that gleam in his eye.

I told him that we could stop now while the going was good, before someone inevitably would get suspicious and call the coppers.

"Those two girls gave me their phone numbers," he said, and gazed at the dollar bills in his grip. "They said they're into threesomes. I've never had two girls."

"You wouldn't prefer a day job?"

"Screw that. This is the greatest job I ever had."

"But what if the coppers do come and ask to have a look inside? There's already talk about drug dealers inside... inside the hot new place that doesn't even exist!"

V.V. pursed his lips, frowned and looked at the open window, making sure no one was listening. He turned to me and lowered his voice.

"If the cops come, we close the place down. Closing it is easy. Opening it... that's the hard part. I tried the door. It won't budge."

He went back to counting his cash, and said, "Do you think I should buy new threads for the job? I'm thinking purples and leather, like Larry Fishburne in The Matrix. And some cool shades to go with the threads."

The job. He was already calling it "the job."

The thing about selling non-existent memberships to people who hang around outside your home night after night, is that they might recognize you in the daytime. Every time some clubber took a snapshot of her friends outside the place, I jumped.

I imagined my photo and V.V.'s ugly mug were being shown all over the Internet... and that any moment, someone would pin down our real identities - two nobodies - and call the coppers. The best I could hope for was being thrown out of the country.

The first week of the scam was awful. I saw imaginary police spies in every corner. V.V., though, he had this weird Zen aura around him, like he completely had gone into his role.

On Thursday he brought home boxes from a tailor shop, and locked himself into his room to try on the new threads. When he came out of there, he was wearing his normal shabby clothes.

"Why can't I see'em?" I asked.

"Not now," he said. "It's my secret identity. In the daytime, you call me V.V. At night, I'm..."

"Superwanker."

He smiled. "I'm The Bouncer With No Name."

"And suppose someone recognizes V.V.?"

Now he chuckled, like he knew a secret. He paused for a moment.

"Guess who dropped by the other night I was standing there, out front? My own brother, Gordon, just home on leave from Iraq. Bastard didn't even recognize me! He walked off when I said he couldn't come in. I never even smiled at him."

"You could've told him, mate. It's your own brother."

"He would've ruined the whole setup. Don't worry. I'll give him a call. But don't tell him about the job. You gotta promise!"

"Okay, okay..." We hadn't cooked up any new pranks since this scam started. V.V. was changing, getting more serious, made fewer jokes, and laughed much less at mine.

But I couldn't give up on the scam just yet. The money was too good - and the ladies, of course. We only had to be careful not to take them home to our apartment, but home to their places.

Practically every night during the next week, V.V. followed some girl home. When he did, I didn't see him until a few hours before his "night shift" started. He dressed meticulously for the bouncer job, in his leather coat and purple silk shirt and tie and matching boots.

We chatted about the crowd that seemed to grow bigger with each night, how much cash we expected to make, and what escape routes I should choose if someone came for my blood.

And I checked all the photos that people had mailed to me. Hundreds of photos. All those hopeful faces. Sneering, trying to tough it up for the camera, or with happy grins on their faces... I started to have dreams about the faces, staring at me, lining up in front of the door, and I couldn't open it.

There was always the risk of violence. You could feel it in the air. I didn't show up too late, when people were drunk and all wired up.

Already by the end of the second week, someone threw a bottle that landed by my feet. But maybe they were too scared to hit me, because they might "drop off the list."

I kept telling myself each night: this is the last night. We've taken this as far as it can go. We can still bail out and nobody gets hurt. Hell, maybe someone would buy the place and start a real club there, after we'd left.

Anyway, on the last night of the second week, something happened that made me realize how far out of control we'd gone.

Around one in the morning, a warm night, rain had just passed and the streets were slick like in the movies, and the crowd was having its own little party outside the club door. They played their own music from car stereos, people cruised by and waved at the young women who danced in the street; a street vendor was selling snacks in a corner.

Then the limo rolled in. It was white, long as three normal cars, had a real quiet motor. It stopped near the door where V.V. was standing, his arms crossed, his shades revealing nothing. The smoked backseat window slid down, and someone glanced out. The party people went quiet. They recognized the man in the limo. He was still quite famous.

He made a gesture, and some woman exited the backseat from the opposite door. She was famous too, at least for dating the guy in the limo. She wiggled over to V.V. and said a few words. From where I was standing, I saw V.V. shrug. She put her hand on his arm. Still a shrug. She offered money.

You tell me: How could V.V. allow even a celebrity inside? And he never smiled. I would've. The bimbo gave up and stormed back into the limo. The celebrity poked his head out, gave V.V. the finger and shouted that he didn't give an effing eff about that effing place anyway. The window went up, and the limo rolled.

But when the limo rolled away the crowd cheered, clapped their hands and threw beer cans after it. V.V. gave them a cool shrug. They were on his side now: nobody got in, and if he had the nerve to refuse a famous person, it was somehow better than standing outside to see the "beautiful people" come in.

I went around a corner and called V.V. on the phone.

"I've had enough," I told him. "Keep the money. This is getting out of hand."

"Are you sure?"

"This is me, V.V.! Can't you see? It's only a matter of minutes before the paparazzi get wind of who you turned down. And then the coppers will be here to look for drugs. And when you won't open, because you can't, they'll nick you. Do you want to go jail?"

"I've got it under control."

He had made me mad before, but never this mad. I shouted to the phone: "You're crazy! Sod this, I'm moving on. Bye!"

I packed two bags with my clothes, and moved out of the apartment that same night. And I blocked his number from my phone, so he wouldn't be able to reach me.

You don't have to tell me I was a lousy friend for abandoning V.V in that position. I felt lousy. If you'd been in my shoes, would you have done any differently?

I swear I didn't tell anyone about the club until now. And I didn't hear about it again until a few days later, when it got all over the news.

Yes, the bloody drive-by shooting. No, I don't know who did it. Could've been anyone of the local drug-dealers that V.V. wouldn't let in... can't you see? It was bound to happen! There wasn't a single dealer in town who didn't think V.V. was standing in their way.

III

As soon as I heard about the drive-by and the police raid, I wanted to call V.V. - never mind that you coppers couldn't find him. But I got scared. So I walked down to the block, and saw how you'd taped up the area for investigation.

It amazed me then, that you had left no marks on the door. I only saw the bullet holes in the bricks, and the dents the bullets had left in the steel plating. I tried to pass the police lines by pretending to be a reporter for that local tabloid rag, The National Surveillor. And that copper, Bolland, he let me inside. I just thought it was going to be a good laugh... to see the look on your faces when you break into the place you think is a club or disco or bar where drugs are being sold... and there's nothing inside. Just an empty old warehouse.

So when I stepped into the posh lobby with the red carpet and the wardrobe desk, and the wall poster claiming that Lou Reed was playing next Saturday... at first it didn't register in my brain. Like it passed right through me.

The copper followed me into the bar. It had a gleaming counter, and a whole wall stacked with every kind of beer and booze bottle, and a sign above that read "NOBODY GETS OUT SOBER."

It sounded just like one of V.V.'s jokes.

Then I saw the empty dance floor and stage, and slowly it dawned on me... I turned around and faced the copper, and asked him:

"This is a joke, right?"

He didn't get it.

"You can tell me now. You put this stuff in here, right?" I went over to the bar and banged my fist on the counter. It was solid. I went behind the counter. Everything was there: beer dispensers, glasses, sinks, fridges.

"What's this place called?" I raised my voice a bit more than I ought to.

Finally the copper got it. "Sir," he said, "This is not a joke! This is the club that was subject to last night's drive-by. We couldn't find a name sign."

"Who owns this so-called club?"

"We don't know, sir."

"And who was the bouncer in front?"

"According to witnesses, he fled into the club when the assailants fired at the entrance. The small blood stain on the doorstep suggests he'd been injured."

I started to laugh. "Come on! V.V. couldn't have opened that door... not from the outside! This is bullshit! There never was a place inside this place! It was only a joke, ferchrissake!"

That's when the copper arrested me.

Joke's on me, eh?

It's got to be V.V. He played his best prank ever on me. Probably watched me from nearby, laughing at how he set up a real club without me knowing it. When you find him, he'll tell you, I'm sure.

That's the only rational explanation, right?

No, I'm not pulling your leg. Honestly! You've got to believe me... I don't know anything about drugs inside... how could that happen at a club that doesn't let anyone in?

He's not dead, he's just hiding. You'll see. He'll turn up. Any moment now...

IV

Detective Garris left the interrogation room and took a look at the suspect from the other side of the one-way window. The young man in the room, skinny and short-haired, hunched down across the table and began to weep. His name was Graham Feckham.

"Could he be telling the truth?" he asked McKinnick, his superior. "That he really doesn't know where V.V. went?"

She took a sip from her coffee mug. "Beats me. Wanna do a polygraph test?"

"Sure. And if it doesn't produce anything, maybe this case should go to Franklin and the narcs. I can't prove a murder without a corpse, and we haven't found one."

"What about the bloodstains?"

"The lab says it came from a human, blood group A. Some traces of amphetamines in it. But it's so little blood, it doesn't look like V.V. was killed. And the stains ended in a backdoor. I called up the hospitals in the whole city. Nobody turned up who matched his description. So all we can hold this Feckham on is drugs, maybe."

"Surely someone must own that club. Somebody paid for the interior. Someone built it."

"Nobody in the official files, anyway. That's hardly news - this precinct used to have a speakeasy in every basement, back in the 1920s."

McKinnick's features hardened and wrinkles appeared on her forehead. "I don't intend to lead a sloppy department, Garris. Don't let this one slip between your fingers, like that last missing person on your watch."

Garris held his breath for a moment, visibly shaken. "I won't. He won't leave the room until I've made him talk." He checked his watch. "Have Melvin bring in a pot of coffee and donuts. And tell Bolland he can go home. I'll handle Feckham."

"Good luck." She exited and went home for the evening.

At eight in the morning, Garris had coaxed a taped confession from the suspect, of drug possession and peddling diluted drugs to minors.

The police officer on duty led Feckham away to the cell block to await his day in court. Garris stopped them in a doorway. "Wait."

He walked up close to face Feckham and gave him a cop stare with bloodshot, tired eyes. "Come on, Graham... you know something about V.V.'s disappearance." He stifled a yawn. "Tell us now, and you'll get a much shorter sentence. You don't have to protect that creep! He conned you, started a club behind your back, made you look like a fool. You don't owe him this."

Feckham laughed - not a sane laugh. He looked past Garris and talked incoherently. Garris could only make out fragments of what Feckham said:

"Something's wrong with this part of town..."

"We all wished the club to exist..."

"V.V. went inside before it had fully materialized..."

"Throw me in jail... I don't care. Get me out of here."

Garris gave up and let the man have his wish. Then he picked up his jacket and gun, and headed for the parking lot. Outside, Sergeant Bolland came after him.

"Sir, you shouldn't be driving in your condition. Let me drive you home. And I just got the fingerprint report from the club." He handed a printout to Garris. In his groggy, sleep-deprived state Garris didn't know whether to read the report or hand it back.

He got into the patrol car and let Bolland drive him, while the report rested in his lap.

"I had a peek, sir," said Bolland. "Our technicians, they've got this amazing new fingerprint scanner that connects directly to the national register. Like a barcode scanner, they just run it over the dusted prints and it goes into the FBI computers..."

Garris drifted between sleeping and waking. "Did they find V.V.'s prints?"

"They found his prints, sir. There's no doubt he got inside after he was shot, and walked to another exit, and touched the door handle from the inside. But..."

"Hmm?" He thought he heard Bolland clear his throat - or was he already dreaming?

He thought he heard Bolland say: "Apart from V.V.'s fingerprints, and those of our own personnel... the club was completely clean. Like nothing living had ever touched it before..."

]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1670rss_feed@mungbeing.com (A.R.Yngve) Paintings http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1677rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Matt Sesow) MungBeat! -- Song for the Mended Heart
Maybe this is for the exclusive few, but I think there are more out there who have been there than we realize.

Download: link]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1323&subID=1206rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Frances Mai-Ling) -- Silly Songs Kazoomzoom.com is the world's first netlabel devoted to children and features music for kids (by kids and by cool grownups), audio stories, videos, printable books and paper toys. All of it is free to stream and download. The Kazoomzoom website and content is all created and shared by volunteers. No one makes any money on this non-commercial site and nothing is being sold to children.
link
SILLY SONGS is the first collaboration issued on Kazoomzoom.com. Selections 05, 07, 09, 10, 12 and 13 debut in this collection. Songs 08 and 14 are soon to be released commercially.

These kind people heard about the world's first netlabel devoted to children, and they could not wait to make it happen! They made this compilation come together in only a couple of weeks. We hope you enjoy their silly songs!

]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1724&subID=1209rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Various Artists) Stuckist Paintings http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1705rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Jacqueline Jones) Claudio Parentela's eXTra finGer link

Claudio Parentela: What is your name?

Anne van der Linden: My name is Anne van der Linden

link

CP: Where do you live and work?

AvL: I live and work in Saint-Denis, suburb of Paris, France

link

CP: What is your creative process like?

AvL: When boredom and anxiety are strong, I try to find a survival strategy, which usually takes the shape of a choreography:
I explore visually all the strange meanings by which individuals interact, may it be love, hate, cannibalism or incoherent reasons. In those visions the bodies become the mannequin of bizarre metaphors, can be distorted, opened, modified as much as needed. Usually I search ideas with drawing and then I develop to painting on that basis.

link

CP: What is your favorite medium?

AvL: I like the smoothness of oil painting

link

CP: What is your current favorite subject?

AvL: Swallowing-defecating is one of them

CP: How long does it take for you to finish a piece?

AvL: I am slow, it can take weeks (also because the oil painting dries slowly)

link

CP: What has been your biggest accomplishment so far?

AvL: Maybe I lie a little less than I used to, not sure though.

link

CP: Are there any contemporary artists that you love?

AvL: Philip Guston, Sue Coe, Robert Crumb, Costes, Allemane, Angelo, Ernest T, Feebrile, part of Kiki Picasso

link

CP: Can we buy your art anywhere?

AvL: You can buy my art in galleries (I am at the Galerie les Singuliers in Paris), at my studio, on my website and sometimes in auctions

CP: Anything that people should know about that we don't??

link

AvL: I am NOT an erotic painter

CP: What is your best piece of advice for those who would like to rise in
their level of artistry?

link

AvL: Bon courage and trust nobody

CP: What inspires you to keep going when the work gets frustrating or
tough?

AvL: Painting is sort of an addiction, a bad habit, and when things become difficult, I take a rest and then go back to it

CP: How do you describe your work to those who are unfamiliar with it?

AvL: Figurative, tough, obscene and dreamy

CP: What kind of training did you have which helped you achieve your current level of artistry?

AvL: I did 2 years at the Beaux-arts school of Paris, which did not help me much, except that it showed me what I did not want to do, a comfortable pre-programmed art

CP: Is there a tool or material that you can't imagine living without?

AvL: my tooth brush

CP: Who are your influences?

AvL: Medieval art, poetry, mythologies, religion, body functions and the sight of this trash world

CP: What inspires you to create?

AvL: Death

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 The eXTra finGer, Foggy Grizzly, and LADy LaMbandPopsy.

For more information about Anne van der Linden, please visit her web site and her page on MySpace.

]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1324rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Claudio Parentela) Being For The Benefit Of Mr Kite!
[...fairground atmosphere burlesque hand-operated steam organs calliopes cut and spliced reversed harmonium kaleidoscopic grotesque waltzing carousel...]

PABLO FANQUE'S CIRCUS ROYAL

Grandest Night of the Season! and positively the LAST NIGHT BUT THREE! being for the BENEFIT OF MR.KITE, and Mr. J. Henderson, the celebrated somerset-thrower! Wire dancer, vaulter, rider, etc. On TUESDAY Evening, February 14, 1843
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The late show: discerning gentlemen only. From out of the clearing stage-fog emerge Sophia and Lena. Identical twins in diaphanous robes. They delicately embrace and they slowly kiss. Like graceful ballerinas they separate to reveal Descroix. Black hair parted in the middle. A cadaverous face. Cruel piercing eyes. A single raised finger stills the audience. He produces a gun. And points it towards the audience. His outstretched arm describes an ominous arc. Slowly backwards and forwards. A drum roll on the snare. His arm abruptly stops. His victim chosen. Sophia and Lena escort the frightened man to the stage, and lead him to Descroix. A bullet is initialled and placed in the gun. Sophia disrobes, and Lena binds her ankles and wrists to the wooden frame. Persian silk. A plate of glass is wheeled on stage, in between Descroix and Sophia. Lena kisses Sophia, and moves away. Descroix extends a steady hand. Complete silence. A shot. The glass shatters. Sophia's head jerks backwards. Slumps forwards. Blood streams from her mouth and cascades down her body. Descroix bows to the hysterical audience. Lena kisses her lifeless sister. Desperate hands through long dark hair. Sophia spits out the bullet. The marked bullet is confirmed.

End of Act One.

[...grotesque reversed waltzing burlesque harmonium hand-operated steam organs atmosphere fairground carousel calliopes cut and spliced kaleidoscopic...]

Mrs. Kite and Henderson, in announcing the following Entertainments ensure the Public that this Night's Production will be one of the most splendid ever produced in this Town, having been some days in preparation. Mr. Kite will, for this night only, introduce the celebrated HORSE ZANTHUS! Well known to be one of the best Broke horses IN THE WORLD!!!

The late show: encounters with the spirit world. A half circle of chairs around the raised centre stage. Descroix sits on a carved wooden throne. Serpents coil around the legs. The gaping jaws of dragons on each of the arms. A snap of the fingers. Sophia and Lena carry a child's casket to the feet of Descroix. Thirteen volunteers are positioned in the semi-circle. Sophia opens the lid of the casket. A ventriloquist's dummy in the image of his master is lifted from the casket and placed on the lap of Descroix. The doll's arms hang limply. Who wishes to know what cannot be known? Books and pens are passed to the volunteers. They are requested to select a page, and to circle just one word. Lena inserts a rubber ball into the mouth of Descroix, and secures it in place. Egyptian silk. Descroix turns the dummy to face each volunteer in turn. The dummy speaks. Twelve words. Abstaining. Hearken. Jasmine. Gondola. Venerated. Devastation. Sacred. Nuances. Corrupted. Reflection. January. Forbade. Twelve nods. The dummy stares at the final seated man. Unblinking, unnatural eyes. Silence. One of the lifeless arms rises and points. 'Death!' the dummy deeply intones.

End of Act Two.

[...reversed hand-operated steam organs carousel calliopes atmosphere waltzing harmonium fairground burlesque cut and spliced kaleidoscopic grotesque...]

Mr. HENDERSON will undertake the arduous Task of THROWING TWENTY-ONE SOMERSETS, on the solid ground. Mr. KITE will appear, for the first time this season, On The Tight Rope, When Two Gentlemen Amateurs of this Town will perform with him. Mr. HENDERSON will, for the first time in Rochdale, introduce his extraordinary TRAMPOLINE LEAPS and SOMERSETS! Over Men and Horses, through Hoops, over Garters and lastly through a Hogshead of REAL FIRE! In this branch of the profession Mr. H challenges THE WORLD!

The late show: not for the faint hearted. Descroix throws a rope up into the air. The rope remains suspended. Sophia and Lena once more disrobe. They wrap Egyptian silk around their hands. Together they climb the rope. A shout from the audience. Be careful of rope burns. Descroix points his curved sword. Silence. The women climb into the darkness, and out of view. Descroix orders them down. Silence. Descroix sheaths his sword and climbs. Out of view and into the darkness. Terrible silence. A scream. More screams. Legs and arms fall to the floor. Blood and entrails. Descroix descends alone. The rope slowly descends. Like a serpent. Descroix places the robes over the disembodied limbs. The robes slowly rise. Sophia and Lena join Descroix in a final bow.

End of the Final Act.

[...cut and grotesque hand-operated atmosphere harmonium fairground calliopes reversed steam burlesque kaleidoscopic carousel waltzing spliced organs ...]

...Calliope screams.

]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1661rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Pablo Vision) the princess, the devil, the fool and the truth http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1681rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Kelly Moore) Psychedooolia Drawings http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1726rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Owen Plummer) Thanatopsis H. functions without memory, as though her only means to decide upon a course of action is the sensitized layer of her being that records scent, sound, taste, and touch. She makes her way into my mind with no knowledge of inhabiting me. The morning tea is set down on the table with my own hand, but it is into her mouth I pour the warm liquid. Her presence provides no clues as to whether she exists or not.

The senselessness of the world begins to contaminate me; it doesn't matter to what extent I strive to shield myself from it; the senselessness seeps into me and H. just the same, a slow trickle of poison too insubstantial to bring either of us death, only the sad craving for it. Any exit from my mind which may provide relief from this thanatopsis is blocked by the sheer but impermeable chaos of existence. Life seems already obliterated, and the collapse of bodies an irrelevant gesture of beings long before emptied of thought.
]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1663rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Jennifer Chesler) Pen Drawings http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1698rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Bruce New) The War you undulate beneath your dress,

surviving yet another war
that i committed to rage
for a heart promised
to a friend,

ghostly and roaming the interior
i long for your whimper
in the climax of the struggle.

a secret love
burning brighter than baghdad
that fears utterance
and waits in the wings
with the artillery.
]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1723rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Adam Bray) Campfires http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1710rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Scott Gray) Two Poems about Ancient Rome A Roman Senator, After the Death of Caesar Augustus (AD 14)
Since Augustus died my face has been tired--my face and the muscles of my neck that make me bow in mourning or gaze up at glory. It's exhausting.

We must mourn but not mourn too much: we must mourn but not appear too sad, since Tiberius is in his place: so glad he's there now but not glowing that Augustus has gone. To save our own lives, joy and mourning over life and death must appear perfectly balanced.

So with one eye we cry and with the other gaze and gaze: with one side of the mouth pity and sob, and with the other flatter and flatter--we must mourn and swear and bow with our entire bodies--but always with the head back: always with the ears all around: always with the back stiffened and ready.

Gaius Asinius Gallus Addresses Tiberius in the Senate (AD 14)
I only added to what the Emperor said himself: I only flattered and went on with what he seemed to say. He says his will shouldn't rule all the government, so I said it: I said it before all the senate and before Tiberius himself--I asked what of the government he wanted to be given? What part? What branch? What piece, folded over and placed in his hands?

(Isn't this what he's saying: doesn't he want us to give it to him so it doesn't appear as if he's taken it?)

But now he looks at me--and I've offended him--and he looks at me. Have I been too direct? Is there a ceiling for flattery? Is there a ground level for groveling? Should I have asked--and should we offer--and should we give to him what he already has, a subtler way?
]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1664rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Tim Miller) Masks http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_21.html?articleID=1711rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Liz Parkinson) Three Romes PETRONIUS MAXIMUS
Assisted by the infamy attached to the murder of A�tius and the violation of his wife, Petronius Maximus assumed the Imperial title. He boasted of an ancient and noble lineage and also of much wealth and this was expressed in a lifestyle of opulence. The palace in Rome was again the scene of sumptuous dinners and the gratitude of clients and sycophants who extolled the generosity of the new Caesar and his prudent exercise of power. But power was a notion foreign to Petronius, as he was in fact a prisoner in the palace, held captive by duty, the secure station of his previous life now fled him as he was now the avowed enemy of Eudoxia, the widow of Valentinian III who had openly suspected Petronius of the assassination. Petronius' open admission of this ensured his reign would not exceed months.

Eudoxia viewed with horror the very thought of the marriage of her daughter into the family of her husband's murderer and sought assistance to compel Petronius to withdraw his suit. The opprobrium affixed to Valentinian extended to encompass Eudoxia and allies were not to be found. In her desperation, Eudoxia sent a secret message to King Gaiseric of the Vandals entreating his aid. Gaiseric, since the establishment of his kingdom had laid waste the slopes of the Mauritanian mountains in a bid for timber and trolled the streets of Carthage for sailors in order to assemble a Vandal navy. This intention was maturing as Eudoxia's letter arrived in Carthage, providing a valuable pretext for an attack on Rome itself, and the full measure of Gaiseric's avarice to be gratified.

Petronius greeted the tidings of Gaiseric's landing at the Tiber's mouth in a deadpan manner, devoid of expression. Only the clamour of the populace parted Petronius from his lethargy, and with a sigh more genuine than most in this narrative, Petronius departed the palace and proceeded in a sluggish manner to the Senate House, cutting a desultory figure before the ivory beards and informing them that he intended to flee the city and recommended that the Senators adopt his sensible course of action. Petronius left the chambers and appeared atop the stairs outside the building where he was met by a hail of stones and tiles from his subjects, offended by his supine behaviour in the face of Gaiseric's approach who then proceeded to tear him into gory shards, abetted by some hands belonging to a few supporters of Eudoxia who were instrumental in exciting the public outrage.

AVITUS

Avitus was an elegant descendant of a wealthy Gallo-Roman family, even in this age, cultivating a society of books and friends and ultimately successfully entreating King Theodoric of the Visigoths to join the Romans in repelling Attila. One of the few deeds of Petronius recordable to History was his promotion of Avitus to the command of the Roman forces in Gaul. There, in the midst of a comfortable villa in the woods by a waterfall, he sipped wine and discoursed on Horace and Virgil as Petronius was devoured by the fury of Rome. He did not immediately succeed to the throne, as first Rome was to endure the sack of Gaiseric.

Gaiseric, after a few days in Ostia at the Tiber's mouth, commenced his march on Rome. It was the nature of the times that a determined emperor did not meet his enemy with a provision of martial youths attired for battle, but only by a procession of unarmed priests garbed in thoughts of peace. The formidable Bishop Leo, who again faced a barbarian king, led them and although his second encounter with a savage majesty could not prevent Gaiseric's entry into the city, Leo was given assurance that the churches and the inhabitants would be protected from violation. Gaiseric followed closely as Leo led him to Rome. The city gates were thrown open obediently for Gaiseric, and he began a thorough pillage that lasted two weeks. The promises and vows of Gaiseric did not impede an avaricious glance at the riches and wealth that had been with the utmost difficulty restored to Rome since the time of Alaric. Gaiseric ordered the Pantheon stripped of its bronze tiles; the Senators were compelled to yield up all their gold, silver and gems and at length Eudoxia was induced to emulate the ivory beards example. The old palace, the opulent home of Commodus and Elagabulus and Carinus was reduced to an empty shell, its plate and furnishings and silks stolen away to adorn Gaiseric's palace in Carthage. A vast amount of plunder was collected and it required the impressments of a fair number of Romans to assist in conveying it back to the Vandal fleet, and thereafter they were transported to Carthage. On their arrival they were embraced by Slavery, although the local bishop ultimately ransomed a few and saw their return to Rome.

In August, 455, Avitus was informed of the events in Rome. His prudent exercise of his Gaulish position won him the goodwill of the Visigoths, something Avitus saw as essential to the Romans. He soon enjoyed the friendship of the Visigothic king Torismond who saw in Avitus the fateful prospect of filling the vacant throne of the West with a Visigothic nominee. Avitus' ambition was agreeable to such a development, and at a local assembly presided over by Torismond, Avitus was proclaimed the Emperor of the West, and the Eastern Emperor, Marcian, soon ratified this. At Rome, the Senate met in their own assembly to denounce and jeer a Gaulish pretender, but their utter helplessness forced their acceptance.

The reign's energy did not attend Avitus to Rome, but followed Torismond to Spain, who in the name of his Imperial creation passed the Pyrenees in order to guard that province from any further extension of the Suevi realm. This had been created when the Suevi, having crossed the Rhine with the Franks and Vandals, swarmed to the southward, and established a kingdom in the northwestern reaches of Spain, radiating a threat across that province. The Visigoths were successful in this and more, as wherever they advanced, Roman authority expired.

The power of Avitus followed suit. Once arrived in Rome, and established in the barren palace, Avitus was soon aware he was the object of scorn for both Senate and people who resented the rule of a barbarian-appointed Caesar. However, the vigour required to revenge this offense had long fled Rome, and Avitus might have survived had not affront found a tool in one Count Ricimer, a grandson of the Visigothic king Wallia, and the Commander of the Roman Forces in Italy. He too resented a Caesar that had been appointed, in his case by another Visigoth, as he presumed that such power must be his prerogative as well. In October, 456, after driving away a Vandal raid from the shores of Italy, his position was elevated from Commander to Deliverer, and assured of his increase of clout, he wielded it with zest, striding into the palace in Rome and with haughty tone, making plain to Avitus that his reign was over. To oppose Ricimer with struggle was entirely beyond the abilities of the feeble Avitus, and his only option was an ignominious flight. He meant to seek sanctuary in the shrine of saint in a woody Gaulish grove, but the powers of this martyr did not extend their protections to Avitus and before reaching the Alps, he fell, either to illness or to a sword, the imperfect knowledge of his reign preventing me from being clearer.

MAJORIAN

Majorian represents the final emperor of the West to display any symptoms of independence, or of any affinity for the exercise of arms. He was related by marriage to the great Theodosius and was worthy of such a connection by his frequent displays of valour and intrepidness, using them to great advantage in the service of A�tius, until his ability prompted the envy of his commander, and Majorian was induced to retire from the army. The death of A�tius allowed his return into a public sphere and a relationship with Count Ricimer. He served under Ricimer's command in Italy during the fall of Avitus and Ricimer's subsequent administration of Italy, until in early 457, Majorian, who had fed the esteem that already flourished about him with a victory over the Allemani, was being cried for as Caesar. Ricimer, whose barbarian extraction prohibited him from donning the purple himself, graciously consented, and at an assembly at Ravenna, Majorian was confirmed in an Imperial title. The devotion of the Romans to him was most justified. The tax collector was hindered in his forays and debts were forgiven. His arrival at Rome was a cause for celebration to all, who discerned in him the sunset glow of the vaunted heroes of a long-dead past. It was a cause of a private despair for Majorian as he cast a sad eye about the decay of the city, beholding an exploding population of ruins housing a declining one of humanity. He resolved to protect the remaining monuments to a glorious past from being used as a substitute for a quarry, cheap and easily accessible. He fined severely those who esteemed the marbled porticoes of Hadrian as nothing more than a source of lime, saving many libraries and temples, although these were regarded as curiosities by a generation that had become ignorant of their use.

Despite Count Ricimer's victory, the Vandals continued to molest the Italian coasts; one landing to the south of Rome was met by a fierce rebuff administered by Majorian and clear indication of the future nature of his reign. He assumed that Italy would not be secure until Gaiseric was overthrown and his African domain returned to Roman control. The spirit that imbued Scipio Africanus was long a stranger to the Romans and Majorian was forced to assemble an army out of the various barbarian tribes who knew of Majorian's valour and above all, generosity. In the hope of reward, they streamed through the Alpine passes, a furred and guttural amalgam of Gepids and Ostrogoths and Burgundians. Majorian awaited them in his encampment in the valley of the Po, arranging them under his standard set in the midst of a bladed expanse, inwardly cursing the decline of the Italian martial spirit that might have provided him with a Roman army.

The signal to march was soon thereafter given, Majorian disdaining the privileges of his title, marching in the van of his troops, trudging through the Alpine snows up to his knees in frost and then passing the wide and rushing rivers of southern Gaul where he smote King Torismond in battle and impelled the Visigoths to join him. It was, however, impossible to achieve the extinction of the Vandal kingdom without a navy, and Majorian, in a tent with the royalty of Gepids and Visigoths, dispatched orders for the forests of Italy to be felled, their timber delivered to the shipwright. The forges of Misenum, long cold, were ordered stoked and to spew out sword and shield, and the nobles of Rome were compelled to empty their purses and finance the venture. Majorian carried much authority for such a late Emperor of the West and this served to ensure that over the next two years, a vast fleet gathered in the harbour of Cartagena in Spain, manned with warriors assured of victory.

In Carthage, by 459, Gaiseric was vexed by the certainty that his Catholic subjects would at once aid any landing of Majorian's on the African coast, as they saw Gaiseric as a heretic and a tyrant. Gaiseric in his desperation considered the destruction of Carthage, emulating Scipio's sowing of salt upon the desolated fields before he bettered Scipio inflicting ruin upon the whole of Mauretania. After further reflection, Gaiseric rose from his throne and bellowed for his sword and the need for Carthage to be first crimsoned in the gore of traitors. The denizens of Carthage were saved by the timely arrival of a secret missive from the court of Majorian sent by some of his ministers who had conceived a bitter jealousy of Majorian, and for whom his further success was intolerable. They informed Gaiseric of the Roman fleet at Cartagena, and guided him to it, where the Vandal navy suddenly fell upon the unsuspecting Roman ships, putting them to the flames and sending to the bottom this final expression of Roman military enterprise in the West.

Circumstances induced Majorian to seek a treaty with Gaiseric, while making initial preparations for a second fleet. He departed Spain with a heavy sigh, and returned to Italy, to nurture his African plans, save broken pillars from the kiln and enjoy the solace of his friends and wine at table, unaware that Conspiracy had fixed its intentions upon him. The loss of the fleet had removed the aura that attended Majorian and his disloyal ministers beheld opportunity and Ricimer a chance to rid himself of a Caesar that dared to exercise the full authority of his office. They worked as one to foment mutiny in Majorian's barbarian army and in August, 461, the rebellion broke out in Majorian's camp and stole into his tent and cut down this last vestige of a glorious military tradition that had subdued the world, admitting him into the company of heroes in whose age Majorian had deserved to live.

LIBIUS SEVERUS

In 461, Count Ricimer had become King of Italy in all but name. The Senate was directed without delay to gift the purple upon one Libius Severus, a nonentity of such obscurity that I can say nothing about him, other than he expired in 467 when his life became a hindrance to his patron. But as Ricimer trampled upon the ruins of Italy and his creature Libius reigned in the deep shade of obscurity, in Gaul and Dalmatia, two generals rejected the authority of Libius. Egidus, in Gaul, proclaimed himself the avenger of Majorian and to pursue his justice assembled a hearty host of Franks. Their passion, and Egidus' vengeance was unable to pass through the Alps, and confined to Gaul, Egidus assumed the position of King of the Franks during a time of royal upheaval, and when, after he was compelled to yield the throne to its rightful occupant was presumed to have fallen quietly to the assassins of Ricimer. Marcellinus in Dalmatia was more favoured by Success. His at least, affected attachment to Majorian was rewarded with the governorship of Sicily, an army command, and after the fall of Majorian, Marcellinus eluded the rebellious soldiers that sought to extirpate all of Majorian's ministers, escaped to Dalmatia and established his authority and a fleet that frequently hoisted sail and fell on a deed of plunder upon coasts as far away as Mauretania. These coastlines were already the unhappy scenes of desolation, as Gaiseric, delivered from Majorian's threat, had redoubled the raiding of his Vandal navy, even at his advanced age, presiding over the landings and the seizure of silver and slave as well as the butchery and the gratuitous casting of the remains of those who dared resist the Vandal assaults over the cliffs into the foaming waves.

Left bereft of a navy, Italy implored aid from Constantinople; its court recently reinvigorated by the accession of Emperor Leo, a man of ability and of a vigorous race not seen in the West since Theodosius, or at least, Majorian. As terror stole between the heaps of the slain on an Italian beach, Ricimer, reduced to the status of a supplicant, begged Leo to intervene and save Italy from utter and irremediable destruction. This was assented to; the one condition being that Leo would name his new Western colleague. Libius was dispatched in the shadow from which he never emerged and Count Ricimer inwardly seethed over his weakness and the disgrace of his appeal for aid.

ANTHEMIUS

The nominee of Leo, one Anthemius was connected to the Eastern throne by marriage, and this familial convenience assisted his rise to ever increasing positions of authority. This ascent concluded with his nomination to the Western throne, Leo beaming proudly as Anthemius' ship departed from the harbour in the midst of celebration and honours gifted to the Caesar of the West.

Leo's felicity was also on display as Anthemius arrived in Rome in early 467, attended by an armed procession, and the desperation of Rome ensured a glittering welcome. Again the chariots thundered before the roars of a diminished crowd in the Circus Maximus, and more beasts were felled in the Coliseum to equal approval. The last vestiges of the wealth of the Roman nobility were expended to garb the wedding of Anthemius' daughter and Ricimer in a thin opulence and to disguise their future poverty. Having exhausted its resources, Italy now expected the deliverance promised by Constantinople.

Leo obliged by assembling a fleet that numbered over a thousand ships, awing the populace of Constantinople and draining the treasury, introducing privation to many an Eastern patrician. It was placed under the command of one Bassiliscus who peopled the decks with many of the subject races of the East, crowding together under Bassiliscus' orations, soon imbued with the necessity to overthrow the kingdom of Gaiseric. Soon oars dipped into the water, and the fleet made a rapid haste westward. The Arabian subjects and allies of Constantinople were summoned to the Eastern standards and pounded across the burning sands of Libya to join in the assault upon Gaiseric, meeting up with a second fleet under one Heraclius that disembarked its fighters on a Tripoli shire and then marched together in rapid stride, unopposed, to Carthage. Bassiliscus' fleet, had decided against a direct landing in the harbour of Carthage, a bold move that would have destroyed the Vandal kingdom, and landed some distance away. Gaiseric exhaled a small gust of relief, but still considered himself little more than a morsel to be speared on Doom's fang. He at once consulted the catalogue of guile, and signaled his submission to Constantinople, begging for a few days to compose terms of surrender. Bassiliscus assured of victory, agreed, and already styling himself a second conqueror of Africa in the tradition of Scipio, let slip the security of his ships. Gaiseric at once threw aside the false mask of spinelessness and donned a true one of intrepidness. His own navy again put to sea, Gaiseric once more on deck directing the venture. The Vandal fleet drew behind it several large barges filled with combustible materials under the cover of night, and once arrived at the fleet of Bassiliscus, set the alight the contents of the barges, cast them adrift to collide with and set alight the unsuspecting Roman fleet. Soon a vast conflagration swept over the ships, screams and cries erupting with the bursting tongues of flames, the few sailors eluding the fires, subject to the Vandal sword. The force of Heraclius retired, and animated by the spirit of revenge, the Vandal navy soon renewed its raids, and indeed they were conducted in the spirit of capture, the islands of Corsica, Sardinia and Sicily added to Gaiseric' realm.

The Empire of the West was inexorably contracting. In Gaul, the demise of Majorian dealt a fatal blow to whatever Roman authority remained there. Contemptuous of Anthemius and his inability to defend the Roman possessions there, King Euric of the Visigoths further extended the frontiers of his domain. He led his warriors across the Pyrenees, and they easily overcame the feeble resistance of the nobles of Tarragona and the Visigothic standard was firmly planted in Spanish soil where it would abide until the coming of the Banner of the Prophet in 711. Another campaign directed the march of Euric's fighters to the northward, and the greater portion of Gaul now found itself subject to the Visigothic king, the obstinacy of a few cities that persisted in Roman allegiance overcome by siege. Euric was correct in his assertion; Anthemius was quite content with the remaining scene of his authority and dimensions of the Western Empire, now little more than the Italian peninsula.

Contentment was not a commodity to be afforded Anthemius in Italy, only Discord and Division. By 471, Count Ricimer looked upon Anthemius as visible reminder of his disgrace and was concerned lest Anthemius one day decide to imitate the example of Majorian and exercise an independent authority. Ricimer thusly withdrew from Rome and fixed his residence in Milan, essentially cleaving Italy in two. Fears of civil war were kindled, and at length, Ricimer was entreated to allow the Bishop of Milan to mediate and restore an amity. Seeking an increase in his power and authority, the bishop readily assented and made haste to Rome. Arriving there, he was received with all the honours and comforts that the stripped and decrepit palace could afford. The bishop urged Anthemius to put aside his rancour that along with his reign and life would only be devoured in a contest with a habitually violent barbarian. Anthemius waxed indignant for a moment, bellowing over the ingratitude of Ricimer, before the awareness of the truth of the bishop's words compelled Anthemius to seek a reconciliation.

Ricimer requited Anthemius' magnanimity by assembling an army of Burgundians and Suevi outside of Milan and then led them in a speedy march, soon assembling their camp outside the walls of Rome. Their immediate entry into the city was contested by a stout detachment of Visigoths who supported the cause of Anthemius, also espoused by the Senate and a vast swath of the Roman populace. Ricimer settled down into a siege, extending above three months until in July of 472, the scantiness of the provisions the surrounding country offered introduced hunger and disease into Ricimer's camp. Such compelled either direct assault or retreat, and Ricimer resolved to attack. His troops stormed the Bridge of Hadrian and engaged the Visigothic defenders in a ferocious battle until the Gothic leader, Gilimer, fell. This opened the helpless city to Ricimer; his men swarmed out over the city in search of meat and drink as Ricimer presided over the smashing of doors seeking Anthemius. At length, Anthemius, along with his son-in-law, was discovered in the midst of the greater violence as homes and stores were plundered, their defenders soon translated into the slain. Anthemius' screams before the blade only added to the ghastly din sounding forth throughout the city as his reign was brutally concluded.

OLYBRIUS

Olybrius was another creature of rash, insensible ambition. He was keenly aware of the lofty position his marriage to Placidia, Valentinian III's younger daughter provided him and dwelt comfortably in Constantinople. When Count Ricimer began his revolt against Anthemius, Olybrius, with his enviable connexions to royalty seemed the perfect candidate with which to oppose Anthemius, and an invitation was sent to Constantinople encouraging Olybrius to mount the Western throne. Although his caution over plunging into the dangerous scene of a civil war might have informed his decision, his vanity, aided by his wife and friends, prevailed. With the connievance of Leo and of Gaiseric, who owned the waves, Olybrius boarded ship for Italy. He landed at Ostia and hurriedly appeared in Ricimer's camp outside Rome, expecting to enjoy to the full the blessings of an Imperial station. After Ricimer's sack of Rome concluded, Olybrius was permitted to enter and was aghast over the misery to be seen within the walls. His benefactor, Count Ricimer, shortly thereafter expired, in August, 472, and Olybrius became the puppet of Ricimer's successor, one Burgundian soldier by the name of Gundobald. The full impact of his tenuous and theoretical authority was debilitating in the extreme to Olybrius, and it was sufficient to carry him off by October of 472, and once again Italy was the complete and utter possession of the barbarians.

GLYCERIUS

After the death of Olybrius, Gundobald was content to exercise sole authority for some months, and not until early 473 did he deign to nominate another slave to don the purple, one Glycerius. Glycerius was a soldier of such obscurity that all that can be mentioned of him is that when in 474 Gundobald quit Italy and crossed the Alps in order to secure the possession of the Burgundian kingdom, and the nominee of the Eastern Emperor, one Julius Nepos, marched to Italy, escorted by an impressive army, Glycerius was induced to surrender the throne. As compensation, he was offered the post of the Bishop of Salona, a position more certain and powerful than the expiring Western crown, given and withdrawn at a barbarian's whim.

JULIUS NEPOS

During the latest vacancy of the Western throne, Verina, wife of Emperor Leo, promoted the cause of Julius Nepos who had wed one of her nieces and had assumed control of Dalmatia after the demise of Marcellinus. Nepos was encouraged to add the title of Western Emperor to these distinctions and at length agreed. But celerity and efficiency were not descriptions applied to the Leo's court and the demise of Olybrius and the tenure of Glycerius ensued before a sizeable martial escort was at last attached to Nepos and he finally landed at Ravenna in 474. Glycerius then traded purple for bishop's mitre and the Senate in Rome acclaimed Nepos as their sovereign. A procession of fictitious virtues were invented to raise the meagre bellicose standing of Nepos in which he would not hesitate to draw the sword to defend his dominion and smite his enemies. Nepos' blade remained sheathed, when after, in 475, cravenly surrendering the last fragment of Roman authority in Gaul to the Visigoths in order to prevent an Italian invasion he could not oppose, a march of barbarian confederates under one Orestes, a rare Roman general, advanced upon Ravenna. Nepos was ignorant of the ability of Ravenna to function as fortress and he at once prepared for his evacuation from Italy, tearfully screeching for a boat to set sail without delay. This pusillanimous display was sufficient to carry Nepos back again to Dalmatia where he extended his days until 480, there maintaining the fiction of a Western Empire after its extinction. At length, Nepos fell to the hand of an assassin, one thought attached to Glycerius, seeking a promotion to the Bishopric of Milan through this criminal means.

ROMULUS AUGUSTULUS

Orestes, the father of Romulus Augustulus, the last Emperor of the West, was a man of marked ability, a rare late Roman specimen of military skill and bearing much intrepidness. He had been a leading citizen of the province of Pannonia, later to be known as Austria, and when this was added to Attila's Empire, Orestes' abilities were immediately apparent to Attila who installed him in the midst of his ministers, and after a further display of his skill, Orestes was promoted to the post of Attila's private secretary. The fall of Attila freed Orestes from a Hunnish domination and he refused to withdraw with the Huns into the steppes of Asia and journeyed to Italy, there to serve the successors of Valentinian III in a decidedly more favorable clime, continuing to amass esteem and honours. These eventually succeeded in giving him the Command of the Soldiers of Italy. Orestes used his long association with barbarians and their princes to great advantage. He knew their language and manners; he affected their garb and achieved their support. This was employed, when in 475, Orestes bade the troops to march on Ravenna and dispossess Julius Nepos of the purple. Nepos' panic-stricken flight quite facilitated matters, and after refusing the title for himself, Orestes directed the soldiers to acclaim his son, Romulus Augustulus as Emperor of the West.

These same warriors were aware of their power, were desirous of reward, and resolved to use the first to extract the second from the boy-emperor who would either be their puppet or their victim. A demand for a third of Italy to be placed into their permanent possession and divided up amongst them was soon presented to the throne in the manner of a bill. Orestes refused this demand to mutilate the remaining sliver of the Western Empire; unlike Gaul or Spain, Italy, imbued with history, tradition and authority, was NEVER to be submitted to the rule of barbarians. In 476, one of the Italian garrison, Odoacer, sensed an immediate opportunity to raise his station far above that of his fellow troops. He declared to them that if he were made their leader, the whole of Italy would be theirs. This settled affairs; Odoacer was elevated and thereafter he directed every camp and barracks in Italy to swarm to his standard and secure his promise. Surrounded by this seditious host, Orestes quit his embrace of valour and fled to the fortress-city of Pavia, seeking the defense of the local bishop and his words that might together emulate Bishop Leo before Attila. The bishop might rescue the plate of churches and a few virgins from violation, but Orestes was beyond sacerdotal protection. The surrender and the execution of Orestes was the only inducement by which swords might be returned to hilts and the rebellion ended. Augustulus, now alone and helpless, could only beg the mercy of Odoacer.

Such was granted, though Augustulus was commanded to abdicate. Odoacer had decided that to continue the office of the Western Caesar was a pointless exercise and one that obscured his desire to rule Italy directly. An embassy was sent to Constantinople, which was received by Emperor Zeno, who had recently succeeded Leo upon the Eastern throne. Zeno glowered at the messengers as they unrolled their scrolls and declaimed that the West had no more need to continue the Imperial succession and that the sole rule of the Emperor in Constantinople was sufficient for the entire Empire. A humble tone succeeded to the emissaries' lips as they asked if Odoacer might be confirmed as Zeno's Imperial Vice-Regent in Italy. Zeno might have berated these Western officials of seeking the extinction of his legal colleague; but sole rule appealed to his vanity, and Zeno assented. Zeno's rule in the West was entirely theoretical, however,