State of unBeing -- Issue #14 -- Apocalypse Culture Productions

Living in such a state taTestaTesTaTe etats a hcus ni gniviL of mind in which time sTATEsTAtEsTaTeStA emit hcihw ni dnim of does not pass, space STateSTaTeSTaTeStAtE ecaps ,ssap ton seod does not exist, and sTATeSt oFOfOfo dna ,tsixe ton seod idea is not there. STatEst ofoFOFo .ereht ton si aedi Stuck in a place staTEsT OfOFofo ecalp a ni kcutS where movements TATeSTa foFofoF stnemevom erehw are impossible fOFoFOf elbissopmi era in all forms, UsOFofO ,smrof lla ni physical and nbEifof dna lacisyhp or mental - uNBeInO - latnem ro your mind is UNbeinG si dnim rouy focusing on a unBEING a no gnisucof lone thing, or NBeINgu ro ,gniht enol a lone nothing. bEinGUn .gnihton enol a You are numb and EiNguNB dna bmun era ouY unaware to events stneve ot erawanu taking place - not -iSSuE- ton - ecalp gnikat knowing how or what 2/25/95 tahw ro woh gniwonk to think. You are in FOUR-TEEN ni era uoY .kniht ot a state of unbeing.... ....gniebnu fo etats a

CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE

Er... hi. Kilgore's brain dead. Oh well. Now's my chance to start instantiating my plan to take over the reins of SoB from under the unsuspecting nose of Kilgore Trout, that dirty bastard. In case you weren't aware, I was the one who called the FBI on those other literary Irish-loving dorks. They were gonna expose the WHOLE FUCKING RACKET--

I promise to be nice now. I was having a tiny little power trip there. Okay, well, here we go. As all you prolly know, guest editorials have usually nothing to do with the material or format of the magazine they appear in. It is my grim duty to follow this tradition blindly.

I thought I'd take this time to announce that I will soon be twenty. As I imagine, much of the audience of this 'zine are around this age. Growing older doesn't scare me, but what does scare me is what my age is supposed to mean in terms of my role in society and the world.

Fuck it -- growing older does scare me. I don't understand adults. Why should I? I know nothing about them, not even as reflected in my parents or my teachers. I don't understand them. But the thing I'm also noticing is that when I took at the younger generation, I don't understand them either. I'm falling out of touch with the kid-stuff I used to prize so dearly. I don't understand Pogs. I don't like Nintendo. I don't even read comics anymore.

Well, I suppose this is natural. I'm a member of my own generation, the generation of the twenty-fourth letter which I won't mention in polite company. I'm supposed to be a lazy, non-voting slacker. I'm not, though. I aspire to be, but I cannot. On the one hand, impending retro-conservatism is forcing me to make my small voice heard through the ballot box. I cannot let myself ignore the very 'adult' act of voting. On the other hand, being of adult age pigeonholes me into the image of a soon-to-be-totally-respectable -and-hirable student and worker. But I don't want to lose my childish enthusiasm and idealism. Do people force childishness out of themselves, or it is taken away? When I'm not watching out for myself, I inadvertently let both happen to me. That's what scares me.

Kilgore's waving his fist at me. Well, okay, I was getting a little emotional. I have noticed how dark the "Articles" section in SoB tends to be. Noted, there are important topics to keep informed about. The world can't be all glory and light. There is relatively little of it to go around. But within each of us, even if it has been almost smeared completely away by age, loss of innocence, or cynicism; we all still have some spark of youth left. This may be the only hope we have upon entering the next century. I urge you not to let it go. Keep your youth. Prize it and treasure it, for once it is gone, is can only be imitated, poorly understood.

P.S. from Kilgore (muttered in hitched breaths between gasping screams): SoB #8 will be out some time between the release of SoB issues 14 and 15. Be sure to catch it and distribute it.

P.P.S. from the Trout (he's very adamant to have his words expressed): SoB is no longer a zine limited to the borders of Austin, and we can't keep track of all happenings. If you write a review about SoB, or see one, please forward it to Kilgore at one of the addresses listed in the bottom of this magazine.

Let me give you a fair warning before I begin. For those of you who may be afraid of the truth -- do not read on. The truth is a scary thing. For those of you who think you might be able to handle it... prepare yourselves.

We all know that AiDS is a very serious, life-threatening disease which has affected millions of people around the world. We all know that a cure has yet to be found. This is most likely the most medically related catastrophe to hit the planet for an extremely long time. Doctors speculate that there are about 100 million people infected in Africa, 30-50 million in China, and at least 20 million in the U.S. Serious is an understatement. But the truth is, it is more serious than you could have ever imagined.

Let me just say it bluntly: there is astonishing, documented proof that the U.S. Government is behind the creation of the AiDS virus. For those who have trouble reading two syllable words: the government created AiDS. You may laugh now, or blow this off as a joke, but read on and see why I stopped laughing a long time ago.

In 1969, the U.S. Army requested $10 million to develop a virus that would destroy the immune system. And their request was granted. But do not just take my word for it. This is entirely documented in the Congressional Record of June 9, 1969. Around the same time, a group called the World Health Organization (WHO) promoted research of the same kind. More about WHO later.

In the early 70's, a one Mr. Henry Kissinger, along with General Brent Scowcroft (who was Bush's national security advisor), wrote a top secret document (National Security Memorandum 200) which indicated that "depopulation should be the highest priority of U.S. foreign policy towards the Third World." And guess what? That was adopted as the official foreign policy towards the Third World. And you know what else? None of this was known to Congress or, more importantly, the American public. This document, which was declassified VERY quietly in 1990 and can be attained from the U.S. National Archives. It also includes a map that indicates where depopulation would be desirable -- all the Third World countries. That's right, all the brown and yellow people.

Now, back to WHO. The World Health Organization went into Central Africa in 1972 -- an area now called the AiDS Belt -- and administered a vaccine to several thousands of Africans. Right after this event, the first outbreak of AiDS on the planet occurred in the same area. And it just so happens that this has never been mentioned in the U.S. media.

In 1978, WHO gave a vaccine to several thousand male homosexuals in New York and San Francisco. Every single one of them got AiDS. These were the first cases of AIDS in the U.S. And once again, this is all documented.

Let me go back to the first outbreak of AiDS on the planet -- in Africa -- and throw a few more bones in the grave. AiDS supposedly originated when a green monkey bit some poor defenseless African on the ass. BULLSHiT! First of all, viruses can not jump species. A virus found in a monkey can not be transmitted to a human. This is a law in the virus world. Second of all, the AiDS virus bears no resemblance whatsoever to anything ever found in any green monkey. What it does look like, though, is a cow and sheep virus that were somehow bonded together. And do you know the only way that those viruses could have bonded together? Someone had to have engineered them in a laboratory. Meaning that AiDS was man-made. Third of all, the AiDS virus started in cities. There are no monkeys running around biting people in the cities...

Have I planted an idea in your head yet? It is frightening, isn't it? Well, close your eyes, boys and girls, because we are about to dive deeper into the pit of government cover-ups. It seems as though our good ole U.S. Government has been suppressing information from the public. They have not been telling us the truth. I'll start with a simple example. A Kenyan scientist who has done valuable research on AiDS was refused entrance to international AiDS conferences in 1987 and 1991. Since he wasn't allowed to go to those, in 1992 he decided to take his research directly to the medical organizations in the U.S. However, for no reason whatsoever, he was refused entrance into the country.

It gets worse. The Royal Society of Medicine in Great Britain states without a doubt that "AiDS meets no criteria of a venereal disease... despite what is said by the American Government, AiDS is not primarily a sexually transmitted disease." Here are the facts: SALiVA is the second most infectious fluid in the body... blood is first, and genital secretions come in a good third. And yet Mr. Surgeon General states that AiDS can't be transmitted through saliva. Then why is it that the most accurate test to see if you have AIDS is a saliva test? Hmmmm?

In fact, it is stated in Congressional Record that AiDS can be transmitted by mosquitoes. How come nobody ever told us this? And to make things even worse, 16,000 Health Care workers contracted AIDS by just being around those who were infected. BY JUST BEiNG AROUND THEM! This means breathing in the same air as them. Maybe touching them every once in a while.

Wake up America!!! Our government has been lying to us... again. They have been stomping and spitting all over us for a hell of a long time. This isn't the first time the U.S. was subject to a germ warfare (if I may use that term) attack. In the early 60's, millions of unsuspecting Americans took a polio vaccine that was laced with a cancer causing virus. We are just now beginning to see the effects of this through leukemia and brain tumors.

Why? That's the big question, isn't it? Why is the government doing this to the world? Well ... it's not the easiest question in the world to answer. The best answer I can come up with is to depopulate the world. You see, in the 60's and 70's there was a huge scare of overpopulation of the planet. As I mentioned earlier, getting rid of some of the people on earth was a very high priority to the government. And what would be the easiest way to do this and have people think it's occurring naturally? Have them contract a disease of some kind. And what people would be the easiest to get rid of? Those who are unwanted. Namely minorities and homosexuals. This country has always been racist -- it still is. And this country has never accepted homosexuals as a normal person. So naturally, there wouldn't be a huge protest by everyone in the world if all of the sudden minorities and homosexuals started dying. Would you like a little more proof that AIDS was targeted at minorities? In Brazil, 40% of the women at childbearing age have AIDS. And 90% of those are black. And here is an even more alarming one: AZT, the main drug used to slow down the progress of AIDS is largely ineffective in blacks. In fact, it aggravates the symptoms.

There you have it folks. What can I say? It makes me want to cry. What can we do? Well, I do not know. All hope is not lost, however, for there are many independently funded research organizations not affiliated with the government who are desperately searching for a cure. My guess is, that sometime, some group, having ties with the government, will miraculously find the cure for AiDS ... after a billion or so people have died.

For those of you who are even slightly alarmed by this and wish to find out more, let me know.

Out of every one hundred people born, ninety will be fools, nine will be villains, and one will be a wise man. The villains will become politicians and bureaucrats, and the fools will go flocking to their banners like sheep to their leader, the wise man trailing unwillingly behind, knowing that if he doesn't go with the flock, he will be ostracized or killed. But the wise man is afraid. He knows that at any time, the villains -- the head sheep -- could lead them all off a cliff -- and the flock would follow.

So the wise man changes. He becomes one of three things -- a sheep like the rest, docile and servile; a cast out, alone and friendless, though secure in his knowledge of what is right; or a wolf. The wolf, as a predator, follows no rules but his own, no god but that of Blood. He spends his life, sometimes dressed in the clothing of the sheep (though he cannot eat their grass), destroying the flock. The wolf knows that if he kills enough sheep, eventually the leader will be alone, with no more lambs to sacrifice, and he will fall. If the leader of the flock is dead, the flock cannot be lead off the cliff, and it will survive.

With no politicians to lead us off the cliff of war and starvation with their rules and regulations and bureaucratic bullshit, maybe we will too.

This month, over in the States, they are celebrating Black History Month. Or Heritage, as some call it, "Because it isn't just about the past," or something. A nominal nod of the head is granted to the militants, such as Malcolm X, slain 30 years ago on the 21st, and the Black Panthers, though they are generally forgotten. Martin Luther King, Jr., and the Civil Rights Movement is remembered, and the usual encyclopedia Famous Black Scientists list is dragged out. The reason that there is a Black history month, though, the root cause, is slavery.

The existence of slavery, though, is not the root cause alone. Slavery has existed through the ages, and it is generally forgotten. In the U.S., slavery tore apart the white nation, and for this it is remembered. Slavery is not remembered because it is inhuman and barbaric. The Civil Rights Movement is not remembered because people were oppressed. They are remembered because they tore apart the white nation.

Case in point: If the point was that slavery was inhuman, why do we never hear about the Irish slaves.

American history books deal quite a bit with Black slavery, and this is understandable. Black slavery influenced the nation considerably. The Blacks were not the first, though, and the history books note that, too. A paragraph is usually devoted to how the Indians were enslaved first, and then a number of reasons are given for how easy it was for the Indians to disappear into the undergrowth.

A few Germans and a number of Scots were sold into slavery in the British colonies, but by far the worst European slave trade I have read about was that of the Irish. First, though, this should be set into an historical setting.

Ireland has been occupied for centuries by the hostile British invader force. One of the darkest points of this story was the period of Cromwell's invasion. Cromwell was sent to put down a revolt in Ireland, and took to it with all plans of genocide. His own words survive in some points, such as his letter to the Speaker of the House of Commons, where he speaks of the slaughter in St. Peter's Church, saying:

By 1652, Ireland's resistance had been crushed for that generation. Seumas MacManus reminds us, though:

First, the invaders, in their "mercy", allowed the Irish to avoid starvation by deporting such persons as had been soldiers for Ireland to leave the nation and join armies friendly to England. Many went to the Continent, including, for example, five thousand to Poland and thirty thousand to Spain. And not just to soldiery, but to all areas where trained people were needed. MacManus recounts one historian as saying:

After all this, it would seem a wonder that Ireland had any population at all, at all, let alone one that would continue to rise up generation to generation, and will continue to do so until the invader is repulsed. Nonetheless, Cromwell and the businessmen of Britain were not done yet. Having drained the blood of the Irish people, they took time to drain the very bodies of the people.

It is estimated that somewhere between thirty and eighty thousand of the children of Ireland were sold into slavery into the West Indies during the coming years. So many were taken that the tradition goes some of the smaller islands of the Caribbean yet had Gaelic speaking Blacks into the eighteen hundreds.

This was not an isolated event, nor was it small scale. The documents speak for themselves, and they speak of measurements in the hundreds and up for Irish men and women. For example, in 1655 the Governor of Jamaica put in an order for 1,000 Irish girls at one go, for, as MacManus puts it, "the most appalling kind of slavery." They would be joining thousands that had already been sent.

Another document, from Henry of the Uprighte Harte to Secretary Thurloe says in a letter dated September 18, 1655 [I have standardized the spelling]:

In all, as I have said, as many as eighty thousand Irish were sold into slavery in a few short years, decimating an already depopulated nation. And yet this barely even gets a footnote in today's textbooks.

And yet they'd probably still claim they mention Black slavery because of the "inhumanity" of it.

I have no great thoughts today. No revelations from a cup of coffee or a cigarette. I have no great End to which my Means, my writing this, will achieve. I blindly put my pen to paper and continue.

I am driven by something. Something that I feel I'm getting closer to by scratching my thoughts into reality. A numb ache inside that I relieve with every line, every word, every letter. Do I wish to be immortal, or tell you how I feel? Do I wish to change the world, or simply acknowledge the beautiful day outside? Truly, I do not know.

I want to meet Christ and Krishna. I want to follow the girl with the long brown hair back into the woods and play in her Imagination. I want to stare at the stars and scream to Heaven. I want to make love to her and wake up and have her still lying next to me. Asleep and beautiful. I want to speak and be heard and be accepted and be welcomed with a smile by those, who, to me, are intelligent and beautiful. I want to create. Not to be known or remembered, but because it is in my soul to create. God felt the most peace when he created the world. And the most love when he created Eve.

i sigh and look around and fumble for a cigarette today is a beautifully calm day and it is at odds with my soul i constantly wander and search for a place where I can stop wandering there is something beautiful to be said but i cannot say it not today please excuse my rambling it may be meaningless perhaps even to me but reight now it seems important...

I realized I am not a writer Writers are gifted They can speak and have substance I have substance and I can speak but rarely do the two intertwine I have substance now and am speaking now but I am not speaking with the substance The substance is lost to my soul I apologize

What will happen when I finish wandering and find that in my hand is nothing but a grain of salt and that I have cut my feet on a stone that signifies nothing? The void that swallows me is a ring in her nose and a stupid Bulgarian speaking of nothing and the broken connections between my love and my lust and my security. They are all beautiful girls.... I have lost my friends to a higher but meaningless purpose, but smile and suffer silently, all the while showing a drunken acquaintance how to play cards and take my new friend away from me, where I cannot speak to her. She wears Laura Shley and speaks of snakes the way a dog lover speaks of dogs. My glasses lie next to me and my drink is watered down and in the other room I hear the tribes of stupid, insecure, scared people proclaim their superiority by rejecting me. I wish to listen to Mozart coughing. The ashtray is full. But they are smoking and I wish to smoke. On the grounds with the refined, speaking coldly so as not to feel, I wish to look at my pocketwatch and patchwork heart and speak of gothic things. I want to shave. I want to retain the mask she gave to me.

Welcome to the second part of "Blood on the Streets." This chapter will deal with the organization of the guerrilla band in the early stages of the guerrilla war, which will be followed by a chapter detailing the band's organization during the later years of the war. Starting with this installment the parts have been renamed to chapters, and spellings have been Americanized for easier reading. Chapter III will deal with more of the technicalities of the guerrilla band, as well as its civilian backing.

The organization of the guerrilla band varies greatly according to the band's numbers, as well as the conditions under which the band must work. The guerrilla will rise from many different backgrounds and areas, and the band's organization must reflect all of these.

The crudest sort of guerrilla band is that which arises whenever any one group is oppressed, that being small cells of revolutionary fighters who work individually for their causes. Sometimes such groups work against each other, but in such cases the bands are not united, though they occasionally help each other. This is often what forms in the earliest stages of a guerrilla war, when the popular mass is agitated but still not generally willing to fight, and loosely favoring the status quo. At this time the revolutionary fighters work in very unfavorable climates, and stand the best chances of being turned in by the civilian population. They will be referred to as 'terrorists' by the establishment, who will offer large monetary rewards to any who capture the guerrillas. During this time period, each cell will plan and execute its own raids, without the backing of a central command. Such a force is the Weather Underground who, in their book Punch With the Red Army declared (quoted in Robert D. Chapman & M. Lester Chapman's The Crimson Web of Terror, pg. 32):

This organizational structure was also suggested by Abraham Guillen in Uruguay. While in exile from Spain, he saw the Tupamaro safehouses fall like dominoes when one was discovered. Believing that the city was the important sector from with to start a guerrilla war, Guillen believed that the guerrilla band should come together only to form attacks, then dispersing into the population, never relying on a single command structure. This was not only to avoid the linking of safehouses, but also to prevent arrested members of the central command from revealing their subordinates to the authorities. This method was also used by the White Boys, rural guerrillas in nineteenth-century Ireland, where members of the organization, calling themselves names such as Slash-and-Burn, Captain Starlight, and Captain Moonlight used a de-centralized command structure so as to avoid prosecution by the authorities.

While in this stage of development, much stress must be put on forming alliances for later stages in the war, and for mutual support. During this time period organizations cannot be completely discounted on trivial differences. Simply because a group has minor ideological differences does not mean that they are wrong or that they cannot help in the struggle. Remember, Capitalist and Communist fought side-by-side against the Nazis during the Resistance. However, too often one runs into a band such as Tito's (Josip Broz') Communists who, when battling the Nazis in Yugoslavia, would sometimes sit and watch as resistance forces of different ideologies battled the Nazis and were wiped out before attacking with his own bands. While the guerrilla must learn to work with comrades of different beliefs, he cannot be foolish and believe just any guerrilla he meets is to be trusted. The guerrilla must only align himself with those bands who stand up, like him, for the rights of the people. In this way, the bands will be brought more together by common toil in order to unite them into one mobile, more efficient force. Also, this leads to the ability to trade arms from one band to another. Unfortunately, in the early years of the war the bands arms will be a hodgepodge of whatever the guerrillas can get their hands on. Eventually these arms will standardize into whatever arms are used by the opposing army, for, since in a guerrilla war the guerrillas generally do not control the means of production, and must thus rely on the ruling army to supply ammunition. By forming such alliances, each group may form a squad, and, having prearranged a maneuver, perform it with more efficiency than a single band. Eventually these bands will evolve into a Liberation Front, which shall be described in more detail in the next chapter.

Also during the early development education must be stressed. All members of the guerrilla band must be able to use the weapons, and for this training camps must be set up outside the city. One tactic used by the Red Army Faction (RAF) of West Germany was to set up shooting ranges near airports, so that gunfire would be covered by aircraft noise. Also, troop maneuvers and drilling must be conducted, but in such a way so as to not arouse the authorities. While this is often possible for the rural guerrilla, the urban guerrilla must often learn combat in the field. Theoretics of warfare can be taught both through written works and through workshops set up wherever possible, be it in barns or in basements. This is also the time to educate the masses about why the guerrillas are fighting, for the guerrilla cannot win without public support. All the guerrillas must be trained in first aid to help injured comrades, for in the beginning doctors on the side of the guerrillas will be few and far between, and these will most likely be wandering, and not attached to any one particular unit. Later, when strongholds and liberated zones are established more stable training and medical zones can be set up, but in the earliest stages of the battle such permanent establishments are impossible.

While fighting with small decentralized cells is the only option in the opening years of the war, as well as in totalitarian regimes where any form of expanded resistance would immediately be snuffed out, this must eventually evolve into a larger force as more people join the movement and more land is captured for training. The problem with such a decentralized organization is that it means that, with so little organization, the bands often start working against each other and the common interest. One band could have an informer who is killed by another band. Also, business and government leaders who are generally benign or seen as benign cannot simply be executed without expecting reprisal. While this leads to good psychological warfare against the establishment, it also leads to a loss of support among the people, and the people are the ones who will win this fight. Also, all fronts, both legal and military, must be used to achieve humanitarian goals. And, without power behind them, the guerrillas have no weight at the negotiations table. While small units are the necessary beginning of a guerrilla army, they must eventually coagulate into a larger fighting force. Just as this will happen, the guerrilla band will eventually evolve into a regular army, as a guerrilla army cannot win a war. Small armies win small battles, but the war will be won by a regular army.

Slowly the curtains part. Only a millimeter at first, they open further and further as the person inside gains confidence that no one will see her. Once the crack reaches 2 inches, though, it ceases to grow. Outside her haven, the girl of about 15 watches the other children talk and play and tumble in the grass. She has no desire to be with them, but yet she cannot tear her gaze away. It is almost as if by observing these other creatures she lives their lives, escaping from her own dread existence. Though many look her way, they see not her curious eyes, nor even the crack in the curtains. Their gazes skim over her entire room in fact, not consciously seeing it.

Later, she changes for dinner and calmly walks to outside the dining hall, where all her fellow students gather before the doors are opened for dinner. Quietly she sits on one of the many benches, choosing one that is unoccupied, though it sits in full view of all, in the light. Even here, amidst the hustle and bustle of her noisy classmates, she seems forgotten. No one speaks to her, nor even seems to notice the small figure hunched there on the bench. Her eagle eyes dart here and there, eagerly drinking in the sights of the crowd. Her sharp ears listen to the words being spoken, though she does not remember their content. She remains physically motionless, though her brain races along the lives of all of the people here, their words and motions being filed away where she can easily access them if she needs to. Her actions are completely subconscious. Her conversant mind senses only that it wants to view these interesting creatures, while having no desire to run amongst them, mingling her talk with theirs.

Even at the dinner table she randomly chooses, she is unnoticed. Her classmates do not plan to ignore her, they just simply do not realize that she is there. Even were she to say something, they would not notice. Their eyes skim over her as something not important, her existence not even being excommunicated to the consciousness of their dimly lit minds. Yet the girl does not care. She actually is glad that they are unaware of her presence. She does not enjoy conversation, though if it confronts her, she will face it, seeming to be a shy, kind, harmless girl to those on the other end of the words.

The young woman has done this for most of her life, even as a very young child. She never tires of it, constantly taking in new information about her surroundings and her fellow humans. Perhaps by looking in to her past, this curious behavior can be rationalized. Could it be because of the many dinner parties she attended throughout her life, always being under the old rule "Children should be seen and not heard"? Could it be because of her enjoyment of books and computers, and other activities that were for one person, and one person alone, preventing her from developing social skills? Probably it is a combination of both of these factors. Perhaps her constant acclimation to being silent while observing people has caused that action to become a part of her person, wherein her lack of communication was transmitted to the outside world, so that they began to not notice her. Perhaps over time her entire being has been built around not being noticed, in such a way that she possesses almost a magical immunity to people.

Who can say whether this is good or bad? It is a perfect illustration of how easy it is for the species to adapt to its own environment. It takes less than a generation, less than a lifetime, barely 7 years.

The girl succeeds greatly in all of her studies, perhaps because of her incredible ability to tune out all things, concentrating on just one, and because of her amazing powers of recollection. She has no need to take notes. All the information gained in her varied readings is at her fingertips, available for immediate use. She is a genius, but even her parents and teachers fail to recognize this. Not even she knows it.

She lives her life. Surviving if you would call her existence such. But following Nature's rule, she will not pass on her talents. Her life, her being, have no use in her world. For her, they have meaning, they have reason. But they are in no way essential or helpful to the world in which she lives. So by Nature's hand she will be eliminated. Forgotten. But she will not care. For she will have reached the sweetness of Death. Soon perhaps... or not.... Her life depends upon her whim, and no one else's.

The principal washes his hands a lot. His half-hearted attempts to rinse them in a drinking fountain still leave traces of the gum and spittle which stain them, driving him into a frenzied puppet's-dance of scrubbing and shaking. When he turns around to face the audience of students that waits patiently for his decree, he can only wrench up a grim authoritarian smile, and tell them to go back to class.

Certainly the students grin at this. There's not yet a rule against it. Not to worry, a week's time will remedy the situation. The students live their daily lives, filled with not being late, not running in the halls, not chewing gum, not spitting, not wearing indecent clothing, not hugging or kissing, and not leaving the campus during lunch.

It is a highly rewarding education, one hundred and eighty days of study for four years or more. Their days are filled with brief mentions of the major ideas in mathematics, science, history, English, and art if the schedule allows. If their attention has lapsed, and they forget just what's being done with their lives, they may catch some of these glimpses into the human experience, which, without mandatory attendance they would have otherwise missed.

The teachers enjoy their jobs. Discipline is challenging and rewarding work. Since this art is one of the things still not taught in teacher's colleges, they are left unprejudiced in forming their own special styles of controlling their students. Duct tape, spankings, demeaning comments, F's, these are all at a teacher's dispensal.

After the teachers have maintained their students' attention long enough to teach them a thing or two, there is time for some superficial chatter. Questions such as 'Just what differentiates marijuana from legal drugs like cigarettes and alcohol?' and 'If gay teen suicide rates are three times higher than other teens, then why isn't there a school club for gay teens?' and 'Why do principals smirk when you speak of the Bill of Rights?' As certain well-meaning regulations provide, teachers can't talk about such matters, and send students with such questions to the guidance counselors. And the guidance counselors aren't allowed to talk about them either. So the superficial chatter stays just that.

The principal is perturbed with all the petitions, suggestions, and questions that reach his desk. The flow seems to be never ending, yet he doesn't understand what causes it. He reminds himself how he's in touch with the students and faculty, about the loving camaraderie the school shares, about just how positive the atmosphere is. He decides to think about the petitions, suggestions, and questions later. As he leans back in his large, stuffed chair, he notices his hands are grimy with sweat and dirt. He glances about; no one has noticed. So he wipes his hands on his trousers. There. The dirt is hardly noticeable anymore. No one will see it.

It is easy to forget the dead, I suppose,
Who never quit their silent repose --
Cold carven marble stones
On time-whitened ancient bones
Keep quiet the cries of the Dead.

And yet, in the midst of the dark night,
The haunted and the sensitive mind might
Catch a glimpse of something dim
And hear Dead voices calling him
Reminding the Living that the Dead do not eternal lie.

Shrouded Spectres, ill-remembered from youth,
And the recent Dead, grotesque and uncouth,
Warn us of Life's transientness
While they call us through Time's mists
And warn us to seize the day.

For, once gone, the past is Dead,
And when at Judgment our accounts are read,
We must answer for the deeds, both good and ill,
With which we our Lives have filled,
And our darkest deeds shall be cried from the highest hills.

And so for the future we must prepare;
The past is gone -- and must be repaired,
And we insignificant ones with our fleeting Lives
Must with our short limited Time
Do our best -- and then we die.

"There were the days when you peered into your self, into the secret places of your heart, and what you saw there made you fair with horror. And then, next day, you didn't know what to make of it, you couldn't interpret the horror you had glimpsed the day before. Yes, you know what evil costs."

Staring,
empty,
watching, breathing, hoping...

Slowly she turns, brushing the hair from her face.
She wishes the cars would stop
their beautiful chaos.
Sometimes it is too much for her.

Sometimes it is too much for me.

The crowd forgets me
and I sit among the vacant stares
as idle thoughts are spoken.
Random, meaningless noise. Not substantial...

I would crawl inside her head
and smoke a cigarette.
Listen to her echo
as I silently scream.

I slowly asphyxiate
and fall into utter sunlight.
I am not at peace with this peace.
I am peace with this war.

The world is a beautiful place
unless you are not removed from it,
unless you are removed from it.
Sometimes she is beautiful,
sitting in her room,
staring at the cars,
smiling at the trees,
and slowly leaving.

I see this river of blood
Running, chasing, eternally with me
I bathe in its darkness,
Enfolding my nakedness.
From the dark, it calls me.
It is never far away

In a trance, I float numbly
On a breeze of terror blown.
On bloody coast of loveless nights
Sitting in an easy chair.
Listening to the glowing darkness,
Effervescent, calmly rising.
O, the blood
The silver sword, the life drained
From a fellow man
Representative of a God, i roam.
I am the slayer,
the wielder of the scythe.
I will carry the Blood throughout time.
Eons of victims, drained,
Will fall unto me.

We looked into each other's eyes. Your's, dark like night, stared into my Soul and I knew we would never cross paths again.

I couldn't out of fear that I would drive you away. Even though I knew We would never meet again.

Later still, we walked hand in hand. Smiling at one another and exchanging Pleasantries.

Each of us afraid to say what we felt, yet our hearts exploding with the desire to shout it to God.

Guns on the roof
Keeping up the fight
Long after the rest give up
THEY have the might
To keep off the Oppressor.

Rifles to their shoulders
Squeezing off the rounds
Fighting a futile battle
While the Oppressor storms the grounds --
Death before dishonour.

Slowly they are silenced
One by one they go
Killed by the Oppressor's guns
As their families look on in woe
The streets are splattered red.

No white flag for them
Mourned by very few
They keep up the battle
While in the foggy dew
They lay dying, these brave few
For the sins of the Oppressor.

And yes I believe in what we had,
Christ on high, can you feel my pain?
In time, in my life, I am more than you could wish.
I am truth in what I see.
I am Rage.
Angel, can I call you that?
Can you feel my pain?
Can you stand to take so much?
I am more than your faith stealing God.
I am here, real.
In a moment, skeleton lust.
I rip, I tear.
Angel, oh Christ on high, can you kill me?
Kill me, can you dare kill me with your flesh?
Take me, can you take me and press more than you wanted?
And I am, in the last days, your god.
And you will fall to me and claw at my feet.
I am God.
I am Rage.
With nothing more than the sound of silence, I pass on.
Fifteen candles and my life is through.

They mixed the mustard gas with the laughing gas, and everybody around me is enjoying their demise. I'm immune to all of this, so I just watch. It doesn't take but a few minutes before the laughter stops and I'm the only one left standing. Praise God for this super-duper poison: grade A, recommended by the FDA. Too bad it doesn't affect me. Dying makes life so much simpler.

Across the street is a bar where I used to spend some of my free time. Never was a good bar. Only a few people ever went there -- mostly me and the bartender. Must be why the drinks cost so much.

When I walked in, no one stared. Janey looked up from behind the bar and smiled. She was in her fifties now: overweight, grey hair, t-shirt, blue jeans.

Don't you understand that when the clock strikes three time will stand still? People will freeze and life will cease. But it's only a temporary reprieve and then things return back to abnormal.

At my court hearing they wanted to know if I really had cut off Janey's head. I told them I had. They did not look pleased. Seems that particular action isn't something one does if he wants to be a respectable member of society. The judge didn't believe me and let me go. I protested, stating that I was not a liar and if I said I did something, I did it. He still didn't believe me. Even decapitating my lawyer on the spot didn't convince him.

Twenty years ago I owned a pair of red tennis shoes. They were made from canvas and I wore them everywhere. One day I realized I didn't know what the bottoms of the shoes looked like. When I lifted my foot, all I saw was the word "lucid" scribbled in blue ink. My faith in God died right there.

I burned the shoes. They were still on my feet, but that didn't matter-- I was immune. The children screamed and cried while a teacher put out the flames with a fire extinguisher. He said I shouldn't do stupid things like that. I didn't understand his logic.

My father placed me in one of the local labor camps when I was fourteen, right after my mother died. For eight hours a day I worked in the diamond mines. Deep beneath the earth, I fell in love with Melanie. She worked beside me. Melanie only had one pinky because the guards had sliced off her other one to instill the idea that it was wrong to steal diamonds. On our breaks we would hide and make love because she wanted to. When the guards found out that she was pregnant six months later, they shot her in the belly and complimented me on being so manly at such an early age. I never thought it would be this easy to make new friends.

--You only think you do. Love is dead. What you call love is really lust. You need me so you can use me.

Three men jumped me when I took a shortcut through the alley on my way home. One had a steel pipe and the other two had knives. They beat me into a bloody pulp. It didn't hurt. I asked them, "It does no good -- I have nothing to give you." They turned and ran away.

Three men jumped me when I took a shortcut through the alley on my way home. One had a steel pipe and the other two had knives. They beat me into a bloody pulp. It didn't hurt. I asked them, "Will you kill me? I want to be alive again." They turned and ran away.

Three men jumped me when I took a shortcut through the alley on my way home. One had steel wool and the other two had wives. They beat me into a bloody pulp. It didn't hurt. I asked them, "Have I not suffered enough already? Why don't you hurt me?" They turned into fish and swam away.

Three men jumped me when I took a shortcut through the alley on my way home. One had steel spikes and the other two had planks of wood. They nailed me into a bloody christ. It didn't hurt. I said to God, "Father, forgive them, for they know what they do." They rolled dice for my clothes and ran away.

The bombs fell two days later. Nothing was mixed with these bombs. This was real war, and people were definitely not having a good time. The streets became cratered and buildings grew huge, gaping holes in their sides. Bodies were strewn about everywhere. The usual. At least the flies were enjoying this new influx of food.

The end seemed near. But the finality of the situation only applied to those around me. They were temporary while I had somehow become a permanent fixture in this dying world. I needed to find a way out soon before I lost my chance to do so.

I invited myself to dinner. We decided on this little Italian place on the West Side. The drinks were waiting, and after our food was ordered, I looked at myself in helpless abandon.

--Why do you tantalize me like this? You of all people should know what I'm going through.

--I do. You suffer because you cannot suffer. You feel pain because you cannot feel. You don't live. You just are.

--Damn, I really am an imbecile. Wake up! You hide behind a shroud. Remove it and see reality for what it is!

--Exactly. Your reality is the absence of reality, and once you accept that and understand its implications, the answer will be obvious.

The reflection in the mirror glared at me without compassion. Was another me on the other side, or was it just what it appeared to be? The boundary of where I began and where I ended was becoming increasingly blurred. An explosion from outside shattered the window with a deafening blast. If only I were that window...

Life is cruel, but it becomes sadistic when there is only life. To be immortal is a curse, for he who does not die never rests, and it is that eternal sleep that I yearn for. People always say they want to live forever, but do they really? It is a hideous thing to hope for, an unnatural thing, an evil idea. From the moment one is born he starts dying, yet with that taken away he can never truly live.

Behind the toilet was a revolver, duct-taped to the wall, just like in the best gangster movies. I took it and walked out to the dining area. I saw myself and smiled.

I read the prophecy to the ones who follow me. Me! a man who in his life was a follower. "How times change," I think.

We don't believe some cosmic deity brought about this end so only to root out its followers.

We know that mankind killed itself. All the great nations fell; no one was safe. Even I contracted the plague. But I would not let something that this race has brought upon me I will survive. And I did.

"The prophecy was true but for one thing. We shall not forget the past for if we do we are forced to relive it," I said.

"Let us be off away from the carnage that the race known as man has done. We will live, thrive off the land and survive.

And with that I turned and looked at the fires and death that spread through the city. And tears came to my eyes of the remembrance of the dead.

It was a cold day in hell, and as I looked out my window, I saw the cows were coming home. As I stepped outside, I almost got knocked over by a flying pig. Walking to the garage, I stepped on a worm. I stooped down, looked closely, and--lo and behold--it had ears.

I gasped. I turned around, heading for the street. The mailman, Melvin, stopped, greeted me, handed me my mail, and started walking away. As he started treading down the street, he stopped. I heard a large rip, turned around, and he was writhing on the ground. I looked closely, and saw a head poking out of his ass. In a few minutes, out came a winged monkey! He was flying as gracefully as all flying ass-monkeys do.

I stopped just long enough to kick Melvin's skull in before walking back inside, drinking syrupy straight black coffee for a few hours, and smoking a big fat joint. I wanted to slaughter Barney the Dinosaur because he's just so damned corny. And then the realization dawned on me... the last thing I needed was another hit of acid.

Darkness fell. Slowly, he reaches out for her. She pulls closer, more instinct than emotion. He touches her. Her body is warm and giving. He takes from her. He gives to her. Her breath is hot on his neck. Her teeth bite, draw blood. She digs into his skin, pulling him closer. He swears he cannot get any closer to her. He is right. No spirituality. She tries to become a part of him. But he resists. He is scared...

Sometimes he wishes she were not alive. His soul is not his, but it is all he knows. She alienates him by forcing him to look at himself.

She cries. He touches her softly and whispers something to her that he cannot say to himself. He loathes himself through her. He hates her through himself. He continues the quest for denial... She is a saint...

In the cedar-studded slopes and ravines known as the Texas Hill Country, many a small town is hidden and almost forgotten to the outside world, tucked away down seldom-trod dirt roads and by-ways. Just such a hamlet is the town of Sageheimlich, nestled away along the Leiden River within the Illuch Valley, between hills which hide the valley from the world. Not much has changed in this town since the 1830's when it was first founded, due to the lack of contact with the outside world, and to this day it remains more a part of Germany (though more mediaeval than modern) than of Texas. Though the town's inhabitants have taken on the English language and some modernities, much lore has survived the transition from Germany to America. Centuries of inbreeding both in Texas and their native Germany, however, have made the townsfolk seem to take on a semi-human appearance, as though they were indeed not fully human, but had the blood of things best not seen running through their veins. Dark rumours of this town have been heard by disquieted ears around many a neighbouring hearth, tales told by travelers who, rather than stay overnight in the town, have chosen to speed their mount through it, despite the late hour. For, while the town's inhabitants have never been known to mistreat outsiders, something disquieting in their demeanor and the odd sounds heard from below have sped the traveler on his way. The ignorant hill-folk around the town, however, know these things first hand, and try to forget them in order that they may sleep without sordid dreams of hidden places.

Sageheimlich's strange inhabitants have had an aura of mystery about them even before the town was founded, for even in Germany were they seen as something other than human. In pre-Christian times these folk gathered in the Nordic hills, worshiping stranger Gods than did even the other Germanics, and called strange chants and wild songs. In the remote hills which they inhabited wails which could come from no human tongue joined in the din, and tunnels with inhuman inhabitants were rumoured to lie under the towns and under the great monoliths erected to forgotten Gods. When Christianity came to Germany, and the king outlawed pagan ceremonies, these people were among the first to convert, much to the surprise of the missionaries, but it was said that the Christian churches were built upon much more ancient entrances to caverns peopled with loathsome creatures which should not walk a healthy Earth, and thus, what outwardly seemed to be utter piety, was actually deepest blasphemy. The encroachment of civilisation and the urbanisation of the area, led to a series of violent clashes between the natives and the newer inhabitants, which led to a mass exodus of the entire tribe to find a new homeland.

When the churches were entered by parties investigating the sudden departure of the tribe, slabs were found set in the floors which were hastily opened and, once the noxious fumes, which caused the fainting of several party-members, had subsided, a party who entered the tunnels resurfaced prematurely aged and often insane. The group soon returned with axes and barrels of acid and said a fervent prayer upon reentering the charnel holes. That day the screams of creatures and men rose to the heavens, and many fewer men returned hours later from the churches bearing empty barrels and dead bodies. Those members of the party who did not go mad never spoke a word of what happened that day, but reduced the churches to rubble and erased every trace of the now-vacated tribe.

The relocated Germans soon established themselves in the hills of the newly-formed Republic of Texas, again isolated from the outside world, and again the night sky echoed with the beat of drums and the weird chants of human and inhuman voices melding together into a strange unwholesome medley. During the Civil War the Germans sided with the South (which was not surprising considering the amount of slaves who were brought into the region, though none saw the land being cultivated by them), and the tribe formed their own brigade. It was observed by their superiors, however, that they were fighting for themselves rather than the Confederacy, for more than once they turned on grey-clad soldiers who came too near Sageheimlich. So vicious were they in their attacks, massacring without regard to human life, that they were ordered to disband by General Lee himself -- an order which they ignored, merely throwing off their uniforms and fighting for themselves. At the end of the War, and the end of troop movements through the surrounding area, they retired quietly to their town and, despite outcry about their acts, they were left unmolested.

It was to this town that Gunther Meyrink came upon the death of his uncle to claim the ancestral lands. Meyrink's mother had been from outside the region, his father being a descendent of the original Germans to settle the area. Meyrink's father, however, was not of the temperament of the majority of those who lived in the area, and he left as soon as he could for the outside world. He never spoke of his past, and whenever the subject was brought up he would retreat into himself, until no-one asked. When Gunther's uncle died, the land lay vacant for over a year until census workers learned of his death and the state stepped in, despite protests from the townsfolk, to award Gunther the land. Being a childless widower, Meyrink retired to the ancestral land.

Upon his arrival in Sageheimlich, Meyrink was treated well, until his reason for being there was learned, at which time he was shown just how much he was not wanted there. Meyrink caused something of an uproar, for it was known he was a stranger to the area, as all those living there knew each other, but he had the distinctive features of those in the area: features which, though mixed with those of his mother, were very obviously those of a native of the area. The only person in the town who treated Gunther warmly was old Gustav Busson, the grizzled keeper of the only shop in the town, who claimed to have known Meyrink's uncle since he was a child. Gustav was one of those 'literate illiterates,' men of exceptional intelligence who, born in a place or a time against them, though not formally taught, have become wise in the lore left by mightier men of mightier times now long forgotten, contained in ancient and mouldering tomes abandoned and, decades later, rediscovered in ramshackle old garrets and cellars. His eyes hid secrets which his backwoods accent did not even hint at. Gustav, however, though he seemed to like this newcomer, seemed eager to speed him on his way. When, despite the coldness of the majority of the town's inhabitants, Meyrink chose to stay, Gustav reluctantly bid him welcome.

The Meyrink land was on one of the hills overlooking the town and the Illuch Valley, the house being built on the side of the hill. That day, a great fire could be seen for miles around as the horrified Gunther reduced to ashes the grotesque and blasphemous books and idols he found within the confines of that abode. Leering images which bore a terrible likeness to the people of the town, yet were very obviously not human, stared down at piles of worm-eaten texts: the Book of Leviathan, whose mere possession meant death during the Inquisition; Arkon Daraul's famous work on secret societies; the De Daemonialitate, et Incubis et Succubis of Sinistrari; the infamous Ubels Kulten und Ubels Zeremonie of Kleinkafer: books in German, English, Greek, and Latin, and even books in no alphabet which Gunther had ever seen, all went up in flames that day. That night Gunther's sleep was uneasy, with wails coming up from within the Earth while in his dreams the idols danced under a Moonless sky.

The following night was Walpurgisnacht, ancient night of sorceries, when that which should not be walks the Earth. No Moon rose to light Gunther's way as he walked slowly towards the bonfire on the neighbouring hill, careful steps seeming to pierce the night air with such a noise so as to be heard even over the din made by the crowd dancing about the fire. Carefully he mounted the hill, pushing his way through thorns and past impeding cedar trees, following that sound which is lost to all but a few mortal ears; that song which moves the darkest impulses of man's mind, that song which is sometimes heard upon the very borders of sleep, which causes a man to bolt upright screaming, covered with cold perspiration, as his mind tries desperately to block all memory of the song. The song too affected Meyrink, even more so than most men, having the blood of the townsfolk coursing through his body, his heart thumping to the beat. Having climbed to the crest of the hill, Meyrink gazed in fear and awe upon the loathsome things which danced to the Music of the Spheres, the unEarthly pipe and drum, as the whole company on the hill throbbed to the beat of the song, and as chants went up to Deities which should have been lost to the minds of men. Men and women danced with twisted half-breeds, and with things which should not be seen by the light of day, things which are banished to the darkest nether-regions, only to rise and plague the Earth again. All the people whom he had seen at the town, from the youngest child to the oldest widow, even old Busson was there, throwing their bodies into strange contortions, every part of them moving to the strange music as the whole company twirled and chanted and gnashed their teeth and rolled their eyes, all conforming to meet the unholy tempo. In the fire and tied to stakes nearby were the writhing figures of bound men and women, whose pale skin seemed not to have seen the Sun in years. Suddenly Meyrink could stand it no longer; he had no options but to either join in the bizarre frenzy or to put as much distance between him and it as possible. Screaming, Meyrink threw himself into the undergrowth, tearing skin and clothes as he dashed away from the scene towards his Uncle's house.

Meyrink sat, holed up in the house, bleeding from a dozen wounds, as the strange company moved down the hill towards his house. A rap at the door pulled him out of the dull stupor in which he sat, clutching the Crucifix which he had brought with him. While he had never missed a day of church, he had never been a religious man, and now that the time came to call upon a Higher Power he was praying fervently, though all of his religious beliefs had been turned upside-down. The door opened and in walked Busson, sweat dripping from his face.

"Next time check a house's locks before you need them -- old locks don't work so well," he said, almost humourously. Busson sat at the table opposite Meyrink, who merely stared wildly at his visitor.

"You shouldn't never've seen what you seen tonight. You shoulda jest left this ol' town and never come back. But it's too late for that now, ain't it?

"Oh, I see," Busson continued, looking at the Cross in Meyrink's hands, "yer gonna change the world, just like them others. All them missionaries an' all, well they tried -- what're you gonna do that they couldn't do? Well I'll tell you som'in': no-one can rid the world of evil, 'cuz there has to be evil for there to be good. You think God's gonna save you? Well, what you saw tonight -- that was our God -- yours and mine -- 'cuz we both got the blood in us -- the blood o' them things on the hill!

"Ever' time you open a Door -- whether it be in Magic or Religion, Love or Hate -- you have ta take whatever lies beyond, both good 'n' evil -- both parts o' the picture. That's what you don't seem ta understand. What you saw tonight was both good and evil, which we have ta embrace to evolve. And you think you're gonna change that? Well, look out that window. See them torches comin' up the hill? Well that ain't no parade. Now listen," he said kindly, as he pulled a revolver from his pocket, "you have two choices -- you can do it, or they can do it, and if they do it, it ain't gonna be too pleasant. You saw the fire on the hill. That'uz their livestock. How d'ya think they feed without people findin' out? There ain't no slavery no more. Nobody's big enough to change a damn thing here -- not me or you or anybody else. Yer father knew that -- that's why he left. Yer uncle knew that, and that's why he joined us. Now make your choice, or it'll be made for you."

And Busson walked out the door as Meyrink put the revolver to his head and leapt between the Spheres.

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-- State of unBeing is copyrighted (c) 1995 by Kilgore Trout and Apocalypse Culture Publications. All rights are reserved to cover, format, editorials, and all incidental material. All individual items are copyrighted (c) 1995 by the individual author, unless otherwise stated. This file may be disseminated without restriction for nonprofit purposes so long as it is preserved complete and unmodified. Quotes and ideas not already in the public domain may be freely used so long as due recognition is provided. State of unBeing is available at the following places: iSiS UNVEiLED 512.930.5259 14.4 (Home of SoB) THE LiONS' DEN 512.259.9546 24oo TEENAGE RiOt 418.833.4213 14.4 NUP: COSMIC_JOKE MOGEL-LAND 215-732-3413 14.4 ftp to io.com /pub/SoB World Wide Web http://io.com/~hagbard/sob.html Submissions may also be sent to Kilgore Trout at <kilgore@bga.com>. Thank you. --SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE

STAFF LiSTiNG