AMERICONORMAN

The Prize of Reflection—By Jose Gainza I sought through her the power of reflection … I, through him, myself outside of me … She’s the copy that exists beyond my will … I, like him, have made myself perfection … She’s the mirror that can make me delight see … He—we—are strong by our own will … ................We have grown, ........We are two and alone; ................We have seen ........What our true love does mean. What I see in her is my good attainment … He has struggled, oh so hard, to win this day … She has withstood the tempting from them all … Looking in him is such great entertainment … Kissing her becomes a pride-filled play … I won him by still staying on the ball … ................We have known; ........So then we two are prone ................To be keen ........To maintain our love clean.

I first found Edgar A. Guest in a large anthology called "The best loved poems of the American People" (Doubleday). "It Couldn't Be Done" is the most noteable at the moment from that collection. I was impressed by him. But, coincidentally, I found "A Heap O' Livin" the other day at a used bookstore and bought it immediately because I was confident I would like his poems. Then when I read the first two poems I was very happy. Both are quite beautiful in their own way. By the time I got to "Home" I was crying. So I recommend that you look through that link provided. http://jollyroger.com/library/AHeapOLivinbyEdgarA.ebook.html Enjoy, Americo.

I wrote this poem for a friend, thinking about a romantic dilemna of his. And now I realize that perhaps, even I, am in the midst of such a dilemna. And surely many men suffer from a similar dilemna. This poem competes for my best so far. Mother, May I? By Jose Gainza Stern mother, don’t you know ....... I want your girl? If you knew what we unfurl, And how I treat your girl, And how she makes me dance and twirl— Oh, how your tears would flow. You would be weeping, you should know, Not in terror but in fright Of our love like dynamite, That could blow your mores away— Prehistoric as they are, so blown away. Stern mother, you should know ....... I need your girl! I need her sacred pearl, For its scent does make me whirl; But one reason why I love your lovely girl— And I go “woh … ah … woh …” When I penetrate her core—oh! And her nails sink in my back As we engage our lust attack, Sending fire through our blood, Making “heaven” seem like mud. Deaf mother, you should hear ....... Your baby scream ....... While both eyes of hers do gleam, Intermittent, as she does scream, As I fulfill her grandest dream. It’s not the nightmare of her fear But the worship of my dear. I bestow her with my kisses of delight, And she bites me with a justice, Oh, so right. She endures the countless rounds of our affair But too often she just has to pull my hair. Snotty mother, you should smell ...... Our aftermath … ...... But I’ll spare you from that path, And just say that she does make me take a bath. And please don’t think I utter this with wrath. But there is still more to tell. And I have so much more to sell. I declare that I loved my prior gals, So much so, that I’m the envy of my pals. Coz I’m pure beyond belief and quite honest; And brilliant, funny, charming—go, do test. Blind mother, you should see ....... How much we do! Everything that lovers do and often do: Debates of life, jokes, inductions so much new; Sports we’ve played and fights ensue Coz we’re growing, and enjoying, and we’re free. Yes, we’re lovers, but we’re friends—don’t you see? There’s true love that keeps us hungry and content; So much joy from life that we shall not repent. I have seen her naked body but her soul Is so also, and is pure, in our control. Sweet mother, don’t you know ....... How nice I feel? When I rub her back, and legs, and seal The comfort that is ours—and yes, it’s real. Layer upon layer of her soul I learned to peel. All four oceans of her soul I fought to row. And her heart I won by stealing Cupid’s bow. We cuddle as a movie flashes in the dark. And we picnic, munching tasties in the park. I am hers, and she is mine, as you have yours. So correct and change your “godly”, stupid mores!

Nice and sweet poem. It is nice to read of another poet from Toronto. I just noticed some spelling mistakes that can detract from the full meaning of the poem. Message: Commitment to reason despite the obstacles. Message, layer 2: Commitment to RAND'S epistemology despite the obstacles. Spelling: Stanza 3: "then" should be "than". Stanza 5: "dieing" should be "dying". Stanza 6: "braking" I think should be "breaking" but you may mean it as to stop versus to damage. Stanza 8: I think you mean "throne" as where a king sits, instead of "thrown" as in to toss. Jose Gainza.

My Love Song—By Jose Gainza Sometimes I feel like screaming, Or I feel like crying. Sometimes I feel like laughing, Or I feel like dancing, All for this lovely boy, Though I feel like a toy. I want what I cannot have, And see it, and hold it, and taste it— Dream of it much, too much, Caressing it touch to touch. I feel every movement; I want it, I peel off the clothes but can’t have, I see the black locks as they dangle, Features that please at every angle, With curves over lines that sting— Oh, the joy that my love can bring! : From the depths of me shouting free, And my body that dances with glee, For brown eyes that do arrest me— My speech, and my breath, and my heart— By a being that makes me make art That can influence others to love, And gaze at the towers above, And work everyday with such joy— Oh, the power of my lovely boy! Sometimes I feel like screaming, Or I feel like crying. Sometimes I feel like laughing, Or I feel like dancing, All for this lovely boy, Though I feel like a toy. I think it’s driving me crazy— This longing for loving, This wishing for cuddling, These kisses to nowhere— For a face that is fair, Though its gesture is not— Though I can’t loose the knot, That keeps me in worship, Like some blinded bishop, For this god upon high— Oh, he gets me so high! I am thrilled by his vision, And I work with precision, I create so much beauty, It seems it’s my duty, To make him a god, To make him a man, For I am his fan, And this isn’t a fraud, I swear by my life. Though I suffer in strife, I love what I see, I feel all the glee, That is erupting in me, That is flying so free! I create too much beauty, It’s as if it’s my duty, That might drive me insane, If my love does not wane, But keeps on waxing, While I’m not relaxing, But am tense as a bow, Writing with flow, Shooting my love, Like some rabid dove, That is hungry for man, Set on a plan, To conquer his love, An asexual dove That is driving him crazy, That loves him so lazy. Sometimes I feel like screaming, Or I feel like crying. Sometimes I feel like laughing, Or I feel like dancing, All for this lovely boy, Though I feel like a toy. I will conquer his peace, I will win my release, Because I soar to the sun, With a heart filled with fun, A determined mind, And a passion so kind, That will make him believe, That I will not thieve, But cash in my note, And embark on my boat To an isle just with he, Where we shall love free. Sometimes I feel like screaming, Or I feel like crying. Sometimes I feel like laughing, Or I feel like dancing, All for this lovely boy, Though I feel like a toy.

Yes, the United States should defend Taiwan in the case of a Chinese invasion because of the principle of world liberation that sent them into Iraq. I watched a recent documentary on Canada's CBC, and they interviewed a Chinese official, who said that all it would take for them to invade Taiwan is for Taiwan to declare their independence. Taiwan is independent de facto, and Taipei is one of the strongest economies in the world. Just like France helped the revolutionary America, so the United States should defend Taiwan, and more, because its heritage is one as the first free men in history. My understanding is that Nixon is the guy who opened up trade with China, perhaps because other of America's trade partners were already trading with them. So for decades the best weapon against a communist regime has been de-activated: economic isolation. Now China is an important aspect of all the economies of the world. A devasting war in that region will be devastating to all the world. I think the best thing is for capitalism to change the political climate in China. I think an internal revolution would be best for the world. However, if China were to attack then we must defend Taiwan, and I think this is the United States' stance today. The world is not going to stop trading with China, no matter if that is the moral course. If China invades Taiwan then Taiwan must be defended. This war would be bad for the world. But the United States is partly to blame given their foreign policy after WWII. The devastation to the world economies is the price the world will pay for their mistakes in the past. The proper action would be to defend Taiwan, and defend it with vigor and moral confidence.

This is my latest poem. It is self introducing. I would just like to say, though I cannot apologize for the line 6 of stanza eleven because it fits quite well, I have not intention of offending anyone. So if you have trouble with the imagery it invokes, just change the last word's connotation, in your own mind, to intellectual-moral pride, in the Rostand's Chanticleer sense. Mrs. Dominique Roark!—By Jose Gainza She makes me will I be a hero Almost more than I have willed myself: To show her that there’s more to life than pain Despite the terror-envy bugging us. Loving her does tame the sorrow Of not yet owning her myself. That she is utter bliss is plain; Her laughter and her beauty binding us. She binds me with the grace by which she stands, And the moisture of her skin of humid days, And the bareness of her form in clothes of white, And her fury when I love her so too much. I love it when we fuse our greeting hands, While its duration I do raise, When I’m first noticed by her eyes’ might Screaming that she hungers for my touch. I know that she must love my works of art, And damns me for my genius and my grace, For they, tempting, beckon for my fame, A fame that she could never bear to share Because her truth’s passion wants me all alone. And yes I love her for her art: The role she plays with steady pace, The passion that exhausts her tame. Her worship she must hide with so much care, The act for which I’ll make her so atone. It’s true that on rare days there is a pain, On early mornings lying in my bed, Not knowing where she is or what she feels, Dreading that she might have lost her soul, Submitting to that melancholy realm. I dream that she is standing in the rain With thunder, lightning flashing past her head, Her body bearing pounding hail that reels: Her self-lashing for her blessed soul, Her joy that seems to overwhelm. Dream I: the reality I live: Every time I break into new ground, And plot the girders of my next achievement, And lay the floors on which I’ll strut, Raise the walls—protection for the storm. I live this height that I can give, I made this view that’s all around: My love, my promise, testament. This promise will remain my life-long rut. I will be her malevolence’s storm. Yes, it’s true I cry some seldom nights And miss the beauty she won’t let me taste, Or miss the passion I can’t dare to take— Just yet— Because she still can’t bear to see the light, Or accept that bliss is my sweet cock. Consider Isolde, her Knight of Knights, And how quickly to their death did they make haste, All for a promise he could not retake, Like my promise yours for which I fight: My love for you that isn’t just my talk But my set. Now I wait …

I still don't understand why the images of war would haunt a soldier. Perhaps one has to be there. Well, there is that killing field scene in the movie The Killing Fields that "haunts" me. And an Objectivist professor I know told me that there are still parts of Ominous Parallels that he cannot read, and that he could not watch Schindler's List, because his mind disturbed him. Perhaps there is a numbness I still suffer from.

There is a greater drama in having such a choice. I don't see how a man should feel any guilt if he let society drown but saved his love only. If one has no known personal attachment to that society, what difference does it make whether they live or die, so long as one is a first-hander who can live with nature alone? Your last sentence: So the CHARACTER of Spiderman wouldn't have been able to live with it. A selfish man could easily live with it, I think. Americo.

Something occurs to me now about the necessary nature of the crime fighting superhero: the necessary ineptitude of the police. This is not a romantic theme. This ineptitude did not have to happen. A free society would have solved this problem. I wonder what most people prefer, crime drama or superheroes? Certainly a good crime drama is preferable to the stories about superheroes? IN the latter one can highlight the universal theme of good versus evil. But in the former, it is closer to the potential of the individual and should be more inspiring? Comment? Americo.

Although Spidey did not kill the car jacker technically, he did play a large role, in his death. And while he is pursuing the cab, while swinging down the street, he does want to kill the man. It is only when he sees the man's hair and face that he knows that he could have prevented it. He would have killed him but for the recognition of the car jackers identity. Now I forget what exactly happens. A gun is pulled and Spidey is momentarily paralyzed, and then the guy falls out the window. Would he have fallen out the window if Spidey wasn't there, and if Spidey wasn't Spidey. Now about the choice at the end. I would have liked to have seen a choice where one or the other is to die, the society or the girl. And I would have liked Spidey to have chosen the girl with pride and no guilt. Granted, that when he manages to save both it did mean for me that both could be saved and that there doesn't have to be a conflict between personal values and that of society. Americo.

If A is non A then Rand can be exactly like Dostoevsky, and yet not like him, and yet we could neve compare the two, and yet we must. Well they're both Russian so I guess they share some A-ness.

"The second category of reasons that people might be 'unconvinced' about objectivism relates to the people who purport to follow it. First of all, a minor writer of fiction (and an even less authoritative philosopher) has been installed as a cult figure, her works quoted like the bible to establish the truth or fallacy of arguments. This is a puerile response which emanates from the same psychological place as all religions and cults - overdependence on authority figures and the refusal or inability to face life's problems independently or with original thought." I'll take a shot at the above quote for now. To say that she is a minor fiction writer may mean that she is unpopular. But I think you mean that she is not as good as the other writers in history. How will one gauge the grandeur of any one of her books. Is she unintelligable? Does she not paint for you the actions, the drama? Is it hard for you to understand what her character's motivations are? Do you not see what the big theme turns out to be? Is her style ungrammatical and flights of fancy? Have you ever seen heroes like she portrays? And maybe that's the problem--you never have--and now a challenge is put before you, like those dreams of god many people have? How will one achieve that character? It's much work? And look how lonely they are. "Nobody likes them." Look at the hurt that is thrown at them, look at the obstacles, see how people wish them dead, annihilated. And see how they fight back. And see how they win. Perhaps the problem is that they win, and so suggesting that theirs is the right moral code, and method of thinking. I will tell you that Miss Rand is talented enough to write a story where her heroes lose in a world that is set against them, in a world in which they have no will that is free to think and guide their actions. She can but she doesn't. The reason she never has is because of her different values, her different philosophies. She is just as good of a writer as Edgar Allan Poe but she prefers not to focus on death, loss and misery. She is just as good as Hawthorne but she is not a Christian and prefers to dramatize the important parts. And she is just as good as Moliere, except she would have the Misanthrope as a minor character as a foil for a man-worshipper. And she is just as good as Victor Hugo, except she does not have this Christian ideal, but she understands the role of conflict in plot, and how to integrate the theme and characterization, to have a profound effect just like Hugo. And she is just as good as Dostoevsky, only instead of following the struggle of a tragic murderer to deal with his guilt, she would create a new plot where maybe the murderer was justified, or she would accept Raskolnikov's premises, but the detective would have HER philosophy. And she is just as good as Edmond Rostand but Cyrano would not choose to keep the secret of Christian's poetical talent, and he would not wait over a decade to finally tell Roxanne how much he loves her. And she is just as good as Schiller except the Marquis of Posa would not be an advocate of Kantian freedom, and perhaps Don Carlos would choose Queen over the mission to free Holland. She is a major writer, who has done the necessary studying in both literature and philosophy. She has mastered the rules of grammar in at least three languages that I know of. And she mastered English in her twenties as a Russian immigrant. And if you think she is just a minor writer it is because you have not read her. You have merely been intimidated by some chance passage ... I guess. Now the decisions she makes in her stories are based on her philosophical values. This is true. And to argue against those decisions one should argue against her philosophy. There is ample opportunity on this forum to do so. But you have chosen to walk into a heavily armed camp of intellectuals with rifle in hand to take random shots not knowing of the arsenal that is stored away in the minds of the intellectuals. You obviously have specific opinions and there are plenty of threads to elaborate on them here. And the people here are very generous. For example there is plenty of opportunity to discuss specific of your notions about her literature and people will be glad to respond (I suppose). Your approach reminds me of those people who would call a guy's mother a dirty name. Obviously the initial reaction is annoyance, that will be automatic. But the son has plenty of evidence to prove that his mother is not whatever is connoted by the vulgar word. Americo.

Someone sent me a personal message asking for more poetry. This one I wrote around March. It was very difficult for me. It was my attempt at integrating Romantic Love and the Objectivist theory of concept formation (as I understand it). The Will As Ego—By Jose Gainza I My will is my ego; It happens to be A ball to and fro Burning so free. It shows me sweet life Aided by eyes Sharp as a knife. And so too it relies On the function of ears; Life’s sounds it does catch All through the years. The stench of the match Is caught by my nose That aids my taste buds. The wine that I chose— How it floods— Sweetens my tongue; And flushes my skin. Caught by my lung Is the smoke I take in. Lay do I on our bed Massaging your hard will, Preparing your head For the quest we will will. II The tables they turned When I won your sweet soul. The table we learned Written on scroll Reads, “I think for myself so to live”. Our table of values Is one from Atlantis superlative— Not Plato’s but ours we choose. Smart, fair, honest, Proud, solely, strong, Ruthless, just, the best Committed, hardly wrong, Independent, able, stable, Loyal to our love, Yes, reliable, Like a god from above, Keeping up my head, Oh, so wonderful in bed, (Or, yes, right on the table)— Always on my mind: Are the contents of your table. I table this proposition kind: I will stay with you forever. The table is set— A sweet liqueur Caviar on baguette, Calamari, Shrimp, Lobster, Crab, Olives, Wine Hot sauce, Lime, and Oyster— Come on let’s dine! Now—And later when I’ll “eat” you On this cleared table. Have you grasped this concept through? Know the meaning of this label: “table”? III “Two plus two equals four”: This is the essence of thought. To make one and one adore— To string them as a knot— To add a second pair to “two”; Thus makes four, another group With the same traits: two. To tie like things we swoop. To collate tables from chairs, Merge wood with plastic tables Under “table” and not “chairs”. Then to complicate labels As in the stanza prior Written for you, my flame. Sense levels rising higher; Multiples almost same. So this is thought, The process I can will. IV A concept we fall under Is the blessed “lovers”. And you’re my speaking thunder. Your voice it hovers In my mind and soul, The depths of me, When you speak your scroll, And inject it into me. Though we are two as one, Conversation is your cubbyhole, My niche is my pen so fun. I write plot stories whole, While you are mathematical; Yet both of us are rational. Yet we are both aesthetical. Fusing us together is the form Of “exception”, beyond your friends. Swept you away, did I, the storm; Thus your god descends. Before me was a sunny day, And thus was your standard, But I blew you away. It was me, your awesome bard, That came on you as darkness, To foil the joy of longing: You and happiness. My thunder came knocking And you opened your door. I blew you a kiss. You then looked to the floor. I was not your nemesis. V Freedom have I to walk, As I want when I want, For I am chained to no rock. I’m a man—this I flaunt. I like what I like when I like With unfettered evaluation. The ugly I out strike— But beauty’s a revelation. No appraisal or action is free. Every word is a demand. I demand to open each eye— And I see. I demand my forms to fly And they’re free. No thoughts without your say so— Look, just try, observe! Volition thus you’ll know. Turn gleam high or light reserve. You can expand the vista, You can narrow the scope, Relentless thought insist, uh, Or sleep, you dope. VI But how did I win You? Some might ask: The way a concept is formed in— Two units of vision fused is the task. I saw you and you saw I; We placed that we were like. Spoke of books did I And thinkers we did like. I spoke with wit and irony; My songs to you I sang. I won some games expertly And you too beat me with a bang. You sampled my thrilled dances But I saved some for our peace. And we did swing our lances; And we did lose some peace: We spoke with indignation, We spoke of villains that we hate. Power-lusters? Condemnation! We did know of man’s happy fate. VII I did not have to think of you. I willed it just the same. I did not have to dream of you; I willed it without blame. I did not have to introspect And ask ‘why’ to what I felt. The passion strong was circumspect Even if you made me melt. I looked inside and found that your were there Unyielding though I saw you oh so quick. Your face was hot and your soul was just as fair. You did hit me like a brick, And left a bruise that made me see you more. I asked and asked and still I could not kiss. I feared that in your eyes I was a sore, Never to be taken thus to bliss. But you saw that I had talent, That I was lonely, strong, That I hardly could repent For reading you my song. It spoke of what you needed, A will that stood alone, Like yours that hardly heeded, Even to my passion tone. But then I held you, And you obeyed your will like mine. You said, “I need you,” And my kisses were so fine. I willed this romance, You willed it too. No need for temperance: You did deserve me too. We willed the concept “love”.

No I have not but now I definately want to. I hope they do take Nietzsche seriously and follow the logical consequences of his philosophy. It could be a great expose. It is what happens before the "Nietzscheans" that is most horrifying in his philosophy. When are humans wiped out and how? In Andromeda, are humans still alive? When is this show on? Americo.

Yesterday I had the good fortune of watching SpiderMan, after Superman on A&E, on The Superstation. The story kept me watching, and it was the second time, the first time being one night while I was putting together a futon. The way the character' are fused together is quite appealing. Peter Parker has discovered his accidental powers, just as Mr. Osbourne has been injected with a psychotic double personality. Mr. Osbourne's son is Parker's best friend. Both Parker and his friend are in love with the same girl. And Parker's love for this girl threatens to bring him down at the hands of the Green Goblin. When the Goblin is first introduced to the public during the grand unveiling on the balcony. What surprised me is The Goblin's unrelenting evil because he is even willing to killing his son, as part of collateral damage, while killing the board of directors. I had little sympathy for the board but his willingness to kill his son is remarkable. So you want to keep on watching to see how evil this guy will be. I was surprised when Spidey kills Uncle Ben's murderer. As soon as I heard that it was a car jacking, I knew that it was the thief from the wrestling place. When Spidey was chasing the thieif's car, in a wonderfully shot scene (where one wished one had spider webs oneself at one's wrists), I thought that he had figured out his own connection to the murderer. This reveals Parker's rage, his weakness to his emotions. He could have easily left the murderer for the police but he is willing to kill him even before he finds out that he could have prevented the murderer, if he just acted like a Christian. He left the thief go after the victim of the robbery ripped him off as a form of justice. "Explain to me how that is my problem". By acting justly with the swindler, he let's possible the murder of his Uncle. If he would have just forgiven his enemy and helped him out in the face of the thief he would have prevented the personal blow. But it is comforting that he pursued the murderer in a selfish way. However, it is amazing that Spiderman is portrayed as Above The Law, so blatantly. This was the part of the movie that kept me watching. Just for dramatic and thematic purposes I would have loved Spiderman to choose his love over the soceity in the trolley car at the ending. Now I want to watch Spiderman 2. By the way, Willem Defoe was a wonderful villain. Do you remember the mirror scene, his evil stare, his evil eyes? Americo.

1. I remember in the 80's I watched the Hulk real life series, so there must be tons of stuff stuffed down in my subconscious, though it is hard to recall much. 2. I can give you a whole list of things to read, Rand and non-Rand. But first and foremost given the foreign quote you provided towards the end, read Rand's early play called THINK TWICE, about a murder of someone involved in a kind of Manhattan project. It is found in a paperback collection called THE EARLY AYN RAND edited by Leonard Peikoff. 3. The Romantic Manifesto is required reading because it is so historically unprecedented and we have Ayn Rand at her most passionate in article-prose. You can read an article at a time and in many different ways and different order. The book is actually something one will read over one's lifetime in layers. Everytime you re-read it you will expand your knowledge. It is so rich and fruitful but it may take years to cultivate the soil properly. 4. If you're interested in writing, then the editions of her lecture course by Tore Boeckmann called THE ART OF FICTION is highly recommended. a. but I most recently found that if one wants to start to actively write, one should begin with people like O. Henry, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Edgar Allan Poe; De Maupassant, and even the other naturalists that Objectivists are taught not to like. b. the reason is that one should first be familiar with the type of story one personally likes, and one should indulge in writing that. What is a short story--for you? Then you can read Rand's theory and see if she has anything to teach you. She will, trust me, I know ... but it may not happen for everybody. 5. But I don't know what you are all about so it really depends on that for what you should read first. If you're interested in politics, read CAPITALISM: THE UNKNOWN IDEAL. If ethics, then THE VIRTUE OF SELFISHNESS, etc. 6. But definately it is always a good idea to read her fiction. Do that! My personal favorite is THE FOUNTAINHEAD. I am literarily intrigued by the grotesque in the souls of individual characters and how that provides interest and helps move the story through conflict. Howard Roark's best friend is spiritually half a monster! Don't get me started on his 'broad'. Howard Roark is sublimity. I may take the time to look more into this Hulk guy and add something else. But I can't promise anything. Americo.

"I want to switch gears back to the Hulk's earliest tales to further show how that Hulk is an individual fighting against a world that wishes to control him and make him a slave. After the Gamma Bomb, Bruce Banner is sealed in a room with Rick Jones. When night falls and Bruce Banner first becomes the Hulk, the Hulk's first question is: "Where am I? Why am I locked in here? I want to get out!" And the Hulk smashes through a brick wall like cardboard. The Hulk's overwhelming desire is not for destruction, but for freedom. When the Gargoyle attempts to use a pellet gun that saps an individuals will, the Hulk proudly shouts "The Hulk is no man's slave!" And when the Hulk barges in on Igor trying to find Banner's hidden gamma ray formula, Igor shoots the Hulk. Hulk grabs the gun and crushes it, asking "So! This is what the puny humans fear!" The gun, and the force it represents, has been used (either by criminals, OR governments) to control men. However, the Hulk is a creature that cannot be hurt by the threat of force, who does not fear looking into a barrel of a gun. He has the power to break the control of force over his life to be independent. Perhaps that is why the military, and other authorities, lash out at him. He is something they cannot control." -Nate Shapiro In enjoying a story such as Jekyl/Hyde mutations, one must take for granted the belief that men can mutate themselves. One can look at the effects of high levels of radiation on people and their limbs, and one will be left satisfied to continue on with the story. The only problem with believing in this fictional creature is the fact that his transformation is instantaneous and occurs without his will. But using my imagination's fantasy I will be satisfied with this puzzle and continue forward. It seems logical that if the mutation occured to the scientist by accident, then he would have trouble accepting his new form, the monster. He would even fear it because of its unpredictability, its affect on the fears of society, the persecution that may be involved, and the possibility that one may lash out at an innocent individual. The question becomes: whether the monster will defeat the scientist and whether that is a good thing? Is the scientist seeking a cure, and is the monster (which is now a part of him) interfering with that endeavour? So, is the dual nature unchangeable, has it now become metaphsyical and beyond the will of the scientist? So, is the beast the ideal? It seems that the beast represents the ideal of individual freedom, freedom from the fist of our fellow brothers, driven by their igorance and their fear? If the monster becomes the more benevolent character, the more heroic, what was wrong with the scientist, the mere human? Why couldn't he achieve the physical victory that the beast could? Must man's nature now be condemned--man within his own skin must be condemned and replaced with the brawny mutation beyond man? Yes, there is an obvious mind body dichotomy, it seems. Victor Hugo was conscious of the fundamental necessity of integrating the grotesque with the sublime? But what is grotesque and what is sublime? Can a non-grotesque human achieve the sublimity of the grotesque Hulk? Are the Hulk's achievement's sublime? You suggest, Nate, that the Hulk's subliminity are in his ideals that he shares with Objectivism. The fact that the beast and the man are the same form but switch by an unnatural whim, suggests an indeciveness in the creator of the Hulk myth. At any moment, the Hulk can be Banner, and vice versa. If the story line keeps it like this, we certainly do not have an answer as to which is better, the mind or the body, reason or emotion. If this whim of form persists, there is no metaphsyical appraisal on the question of whether man has free will, he does not. Is the Hulk a man or a "superman"? This is the uninspring part about the Hulk. A much more inspiring one is that of Quasimodo in Notre Dame de Paris (Hugo). A man born of a deformity, bring him to modern times, but with the soul of a human still intact, struggling for happiness, deserving and capable, but impeding by society and its erroneous norms. In this situation the man, on the surface, seems a beast, but he is utterly a genuine human soul. Victor Hugo seems to have a fascination with this for he repeats it in The Man Who Laughs, with Gwynplaine, whose mutilated face was done by the hands of an evil surgeon. And I suppose, Dumas, had the samething in mind with The Man In The Iron Mask. Let's give the guy super strength, i.e., powers that most men don't have but can be created by the innovative scientific inventor. I am uncomfortable with the source of superpowers being some accident, something unknown to humans, or non-human. Humanity erred and now he has gone beyond himself, and I don't know which is better, to be human or to be a beast, and I don't know whether they are even different, or even the same! The instantaneous transformation allows for too much mysticism and supernaturalism. This comic is surely a fantasy, and I am not saying that their is no value, or not much value, in fantasy. I'll admit I haven't read much fantasy. I acknowledge the parallels with Objectivism, and seeing the connections made were very pleasing. But I can't help but begin to think about a new comic hero, better than Hulk, better than the Bat, better than Superman. And perhaps it is time for a new myth, an new comic hero? We can call him Mr. Green. I would prefer the idea of the beast being unable to go back to being a man. Let's make him a giant, but not one as massive in width as the hulk. I want him more slender. I want him to resemble Michaelangelo's David but I want his skin Green. I want his struggle to be a definately human one. I want him suddenly to be injected with this overwhelming passion and physical strength. I want his struggle to be to learn how to tame his now superior human body. I want him to struggle with understanding his now upgraded mind, requiring a manual of operation known to no other man before but completely human and possible. (The idea that men only use 10% of their mental power--and what about their physical power?)The story of the human mind finding the way to the promise of gianthood promised at the birth of man. So, Nate, what is the Hulk's experience and view in romantic love? Americo.

I have recently realized that THE COSBY SHOW is brilliant. Even in its earliest years, which is what syndication has allowed me to watch recently. I recently saw the episode where a very young Rudy wreck Cliff's juicer: the ending is romantically extraordinary and delightfully humorous. I see why Bill Cosby got Mrs Rashad to join his later show called COSBY. (This show, eventually and every episode shows Cosby's comedic talent). Americo.

So I finally read your story. Stylistically you are a good writer definately. In terms of plot, I await to find out if Colin and Eric will ever meet. And what actually happened to Eric on the subway and why the cop let Colin go. But you're a good writer. Americo.

After EIGHT (8) years! of studying Ayn Rand, only now have I discovered a grand RECOMMENDATION of hers: O. Henry. Read his stories. This is why: because Hugo, Dostoevsky, Schiller, and Rostand are too long relatively. These people are great but HUGE! O. Henry is so short and yet so benevolent (in the Ayn Rand Sense) that one wonders how he could accomplish so much (rational) delight in such limited space. I like best, so far, because he's written hundreds, BY COURIER. Americonorman.

A ONE DANCE STAND—By Jose Gainza An absolute fact about the culture you find yourself is that an individual has to work. What for? The saying goes, “To fill his sac”: a filled sack, among other things, will keep one living. This fact is so obvious that most people are barely aware that they already made the choice to keep on living, and breathe the air of this delightfully scented earth. Our entire education system, even those schools that are on the free market, is geared around the student getting a job. Teachers get paid to teach. This has been the case for at least two hundred and thirty years. And this seems to be a principle of man’s nature—because even the Greek, we can read, received metals for trading some other party his function. I n the first sentence I spoke using the word “yourself”: I was even speaking to a man reading this tale 1000 years from now. I am confident that the responsibility of work applies to my brothers a million years down the road. Walking the streets of Toronto will grant the observer a constant opportunity to watch human beings pursuing their place of work. People have homes too. But work is a primary for there are no houses without money. In fact, there is such a large degree of an implied selfishness in our culture that most people don’t go around building homes for free. The average guy, who has the necessary funds in his bank account, will not just write you a check just because you need it, or because you’re pretty. Some rich fathers make their children work for their first car. And there once lived a wealthy father who had an artist as a son; very proud; the industrialist gave his son as payment a very expensive gift for each masterpiece he managed to create; as a typical father would give allowance, the father we speak of bestowed gifts upon his son, such as a condominium, three high end vehicles, and a one year stay in Hawaii. This artist boy, by the time he was thirty, had produced ten great works. Working is a moral lesson—always. And then there is the almost organic function of money banks in our cities! … As pseudonymous, turn of the twentieth century short story writer, O. Rangey, once pointed out in a story, a city has a voice. You can hear the voices as one whole, the most dominant of premises combined to express the majority’s theme and style, even by synonyms. Ridley began his morning singing in the shower, a few tunes by Nat King Cole. The highlight, the one by which his voice sounded the best, was one called Love, “… even more than anyone that you adore/can love/is all that I can give to you/ Love is more than just a game for two/ two in love can make it/ take my heart and please don’t break it/ love/was made for me and you …” Ridley now walked down the cemented path on his way to work, wearing a plush grey tracksuit, with 7 thin white lines running down the length of the garment’s side. The rhythmic tapping was coming from his big bleach white tennis shoes. A woman remarked with an unusual “wow!” at the sight of a man with orange hair. The sides and back of his head were cut very short flowing into a top that was exaggeratedly long in relation. His hair waved towards the sky. She had reached the end of the path at Niagogreen Street, when she stopped suddenly, realizing that she had to talk with the man with the hair. She ran in a proficient style to him who was still walking south, while the giant needle dominating the vista sped towards her—Toronto’s unique observation tower; the tallest thing in the city. “Buddy, wait!” He stopped, turned to the caller, and smiled at her instead of speaking in response. She continued, “How did you get your hair like that—it’s awesome!” “Thanks. I rather not say.” “Why not?” “Because I rather not have anyone else in this city with hair like mine.” She looked at him puzzled then asked, “Isn’t that selfish of you?” “Yes it is.” He walked away. She remained stunned, just looking at his departure, ashamed that he was indifferent to her. “I’m a dancer!” She yelled out almost desperately. “Orange” stopped suddenly and turned around. He walked back to her. “So am I.” “I have my own studio. I have my own style. I combine tap, jazz, swing, and orchestrated Latin American tropic jazz.” “Sounds fun.” “Come to my studio some time, we can dance some time together. Where do you normally dance?” “I dance in my living room alone.” “Ha! You admit that?” “Yes. I go to movies alone too, even though I don’t have to.” “So how about it?” “That is improbable. I’m very busy this year.” She remained silent and her face almost revealed her sadness. He smiled at her, “Let’s dance now.” “What! here?” “Yes, of course. Look at the museum over there. Look at the north wing. They’re building a new wing. It will look like a glass crystallization from the original boring structure, like a star bursting out from the past. When you walk here some day in the future, with your husband, you can tell him that you once danced here with a stranger, while the star was being built, ‘we danced during a sight that will never be seen again unless men decide to tear down the new, expose the wine coloured beams in removing the glass that is now there.’” “That’s beautiful … what shall we dance to?” “This morning in the shower I was singing Cole’s Love. I’ll sing it for us.” There was a woman in existence with whom he had wanted to dance to this tune but who has always refused out of shame for her lack of grace and loathing of embarrassment. This was an opportunity the orange haired man did not want to pass up. Besides, he was impressed by his confident spontaneity. “I know it. Sure. But do it with great enthusiasm and more speed. We’ll dance holding each other, spinning, and twirling.” “Yes.” “What’s your name?” “Ridley.” “Baila.” He took her by the hand. A young man, dealing with a psychological problem, one of repression, in his own mind, witnessed this spectacle. He heard Ridley singing, “… ‘L’ is for the way you look at me/ ‘O’ is for the only one I see / ‘V’ is very very extraordinary / ‘E’ is even more than anyone…” He saw them spin and turn with expertise. He could not move; he had to watch. He felt ashamed because he knew he could not dare to dance like that in public. But the sight gave him courage. He decided still to give the couple their privacy. He thought they were in love. Walking away he knew that he would have the courage to tell the people who mattered to him what he had been keeping a shameful secret for years: His desire for happiness. A ten year old girl who was with her mother noted Ridley’s hair, and saw the dancing as something perfectly natural. The mother found primacy of this question order peculiar. “How did he get his hair like that?” “His eye brows are very dark. It would take some time to get his hair that orange. I suppose he dyed it blonde first, then red, then orange. Notice he has blue highlights. His hair looks like fire … especially in the sunlight.” “I want to dye my hair that colour!” “We’ll have a debate at home.” They decided they would wait until the show was over. An old cane burdened Italian man, dressed like men of the 1920’s, in earth tone colours, stopped with delight at the sight of the dancers. Instantly, he began to tap one leg and snap his fingers, his emotion more mobile than that now possible by his body. Seeing this old man gave the young girl the idea to dance where she was. Her mother joined her. The breeze began to grow in strength and the weeping willows began to dance themselves. And the leaves on the maple trees shook, glistening in the sun. A woman at the observation deck of the CN Tower watched them too with the power of a good telescope. She was so shocked to see the couple dance that she dropped the instrument on the floor, shattering the lenses. She ended up paying with a twenty dollar bill to rent the telescope of the stranger next to her to continue watching. The tower stood at the edge of Lake Ontario, and the dance floor lay several miles North. The observation deck stood 100 stories high, and the dancers from that height were microscopic. The power of her telescope gave her the capacity to see them magnified in size. She first noticed Ridley enter the small long park at Niagogreen Street, and follow the path south and towards the spy miles away and miles high. She had witnessed the female dancer approach him. And in a moment she saw them dancing. A pause in her sight occurred suddenly, and a money exchange later, she regained the sight of the spectacle. Knees oscillated forward, heels tip-toed and quickly rested only to raise again, arms gliding vertical and horizontal, forming semi-circles and sometimes full ones. Hand met hand, they held, they tightened grip to extend the other’s arm away, then to bring it back spinning. Pelvises pressed for a moment then spread apart, wiggling a little. Bodies separated from each other and tapped away wiggling to their own theme, their unique interpretation of the music. What the dancers had in common was a deep joy that they expressed, always glad to show itself; for one, though glad, she was very reluctant to express it, except in her studio (for her a special realm where she escaped to). The woman spy saw the dance end in the man’s dipping of the woman. Soon after, they walked away from each other as if they had never even met. The woman wondered what song the man sung to this seemingly stranger dancing girl. She looked at the sun to hurt her eyes. Thus, with “…was made for you and me,” ended the dance Ridley and Baila. Ridley’s body ended it with a dip. Ridley shook her hand and walked south alone, looking up at the tower with a smile on his face. The orange of his hair had only occurred this morning. When his roommate left in the early morning, he took the opportunity to prepare his hair. He was looking forward to surprising her later in the afternoon. He made it a habit to pass through the pathway beside Toronto’s biggest museum on his regular peripatetic walks. His latest hairstyle had great symbolic significance for him. It was an emphasis on the current stop that his life had taken. It was not that the engine of his mind stopped achieving. It was rather that so much had been achieved and his rise needed a momentary rest to contemplate the struggle. The plateau was that he was now a full time novelist. A year ago he was married to a woman he loved. He had a confidence that every subsequent book would be a best seller. He had recently finished his second. The sales of the first book were still supporting his life. His spirit was beaming. Two years ago he would not have danced with that woman on a bright sunny day for other eyes to see. Then he had no time. The hair also symbolized the idea of not having to impress one’s bosses. The morning meditations were his way of pinpointing the most crucial literary duty of the day. Some days he decided that he needed poetry, on others one of his still not completed stories, and there were days when art was completely discarded for the tasks of strict philosophy. The woman with the rented telescope up in the tower saw the beaming smile on his face and let out a grimace. It is safe to say that the woman was not a misanthrope. As he walked away while the woman on the tower still watching, his smile turned into one of worry. Ridley felt guilty. He was aware of it as guilt because it was rare. “Why? … That song!” he spoke aloud to himself. “I shouldn’t have danced to that song with a total stranger or another woman at all.” His frown turned back into a smile for he had found the solution to the bothersome feeling. His place of work was a writing nook in the attic of his house sitting in front of a large window in the ceiling of the house, a bay made out of an addition of finely designed wood. Ridley’s writing was disrupted in the afternoon by a previously scheduled meeting with his publisher. He went to the fridge, took out a brown paper lunch bag, and left his house. He entered the office of the “beautiful witch” but gave the secretary the proper name of the woman. That was her office nickname. She was so beautiful but she was very commanding of her subordinates, and often aroused fear; she made clear the urgency of the tasks at hand. That she was the boss but so young inspired an underlying resentment. “Go on right ahead Ridley, she’s expecting you.” And she giggled, probably at the spectacle of his orange hair. When he walked into Rebecca’s office, he noticed immediate anger on her face. He put down the paper bag on her desk and stood to face her. “Why are you angry?” He demanded. “I broke my telescope today.” “What did you need your telescope for … how did you break it?” “I was attacked by a moment of jealousy.” He smiled and sat down on a chair in front of her desk, reclining casually, with an obvious face of curiosity and amusement. She continued. “I went to the CN Tower this morning.” “Did you have a breakfast meeting? I didn’t know.” “No. I went alone. There was something I had wanted to see for a long time.” “What?” “I saw you walking at Philosopher’s Walk.” “Really—what else did you see?” “I saw the whole thing.” “It is too bad you couldn’t hear what was going on.” “I’m curious.” “She said she was a professional dancer. She has her own studio.” “For a moment I was horrified to think that you were another playboy.” “I was playing though.” “Then I put myself in your dancing shoes. I asked: would I ever dance with a stranger on a sudden whim? … There could be circumstance for such a thing. I thought that if I ran into Cyrano DeBergerac I would surely dance with him, no matter how bad I felt I looked. And I thought that if you ever ran into Dominique Francon, that you should certainly dance with her (if you could even get her to dance). And I was up on the CN Tower because I wanted to see you from that distance, so close by the power of my telescope, yet so far, invisible, by distance and height. It promised to be a very erotic vision. To see you dancing so expertly when I wasn’t expecting it blew me away.” “So I’m glad you’re not mad.” “There is one thing that I’m upset about. I will not tolerate regular such occurrences. I don’t like other women touching you, being that close to your sweat. Remember, when you have those moments of spontaneity, that you’re mine.” “Yes, dear … I did feel guilty for a moment afterwards—” “—That’s what the grimace was about.” “Yes! Guess what song I sang … Love by Nat King Cole.” “You sang that in the shower.” “Yes, the shower which you would not take with me … no matter how beautifully I sang … I know; you had to get to work.” “It was painful refusing you.” “The thing is: that’s the only way we ever dance. Granted, we dance that way a lot. But we never actually dance like I danced with that stranger girl. I thought that you would by now lose you fear of learning how to dance, and looking mediocre in front of me.” “I’ve already signed up for dancing lessons … I found the place in the telephone directory. Baila’s Dance Studio.” “I would like to go with you.” He said this grinning. “Of course you are! I love you too.” “Riddie, I have to tell you something before I forget later on. Later on your way home can you pick up some honey? I want to make up for not joining you this morning in the shower.” “We’re out of condoms too.” Ridley looked at the picture frame on her desk. He was wearing a black tuxedo and his hair was black, long before he had died it orange. Rebecca was wearing a white gown, long with a leg exposed from her thigh down. “I’m glad I married you,” he said as he blew her a kiss. “You’re hair looks nice. How long are you planning to keep it?” “When my work speeds up. How long do we have before we have to meet with your colleagues?” “40 minutes.” “Why wait ‘til you get home tonight? I brought vanilla pudding.” And he flicked with his middle finger released by his thumb the paper bag he had brought. “And then we can use the honey when you get home tonight.” “Lock the door.” She ordered. The secretary outside that door heard a metal clicking sound, and the rushed sound of heavy feet marching away from the door, her smile reflecting on the computer monitor as she typed a marketing letter for Ridley’s upcoming book. Soon in Rebecca’s executive office could be heard clearly the opening of the violent concerto by a nineteenth century barely know master. THE END.

The Struggle For Your Love—By Jose Gainza We metamorphosed into Superman. Combined, we are exclusive members Of the creature called Love that can Inspire each as everlasting embers. In relation to the mass who seldom passion find Our superb love is the rare trophy of the mind. Just remember when we were still apart, How you made me long and hurt, Dreaming of your gun fire start To send me racing, ending the flirt. Then I could sing my verses in our bed And you showed that you had a poet’s head. Now In my inbox I can find your lyrics sweet, Not those curt responses harder than Morse code, Filled with proclamations of your steady heat, And promises of dancing for me in a sexy mode. I no longer wait a lifetime for a chance reply, Now without my kisses you will surely die. I knew how hard it must have been for you, To hate the world and think that love was luck, Yet still there was a slow picture that you drew, That at completion hit you like a speeding truck. Your hunger drew the visage of this singing boy Thus tearing down the wall that made you coy. With my hammer I struck down at your idol. I knocked the head right off Frustration. Envy met severely with my wrecking ball. Injustice would become a conflagration. I consumed your trauma with my burning fire, And pierced the wall with work that could not tire. Despite the anger as the limelight of your theme, There always was the gossip of your eyes That did confirm what seemed to always seem: That you caught from me the burning of your thighs. Those irises let out the truth that they were mine, “Condemned” for life to only on me dine. When you first saw me gazing, dressed in black, Suddenly, right then, was loose your happiness, For it was clear you could get me in the sack— For that I would give my life and nothing less! But if dead I am I’ll cease to taste your juice, So with Death now I have to make a truce. I must now sell my soul to happy Life, And treat myself to growing nutrients, And make sweet Brandy my ex-wife, And lay bare all my won achievements, And contrast the splendour of your taste To the bitterness of Dionysus waste. I now feel what mothers get to feel Upon seeing angel babies the first time; And the mountain climber’s thrill; Or the sun, to which Edison did climb— For at present I have reached the height When I command and need to hold you tight. Feel!—my hands holding tight your back. Feel!—my wetness on your biting jaw. Feel!—the hunger that you cannot lack. Feel!—the satiety that is our law. Feel!—my manhood in your deepest part. Feel!—the heaven now to where we dart. Free!—the thoughts to plead my case. Free!—the time to have me close. Free!—the blushing of your face. Free!—your love for one more dose. Free!—the dialogues so wise. Free!—the sundering of lies. Think!—that once we were apart. Think!—and know we are the same. Think!—on all the gold that’s in my cart. Think!—of how you used to give me blame. Think!—that Apollo blessed our earth. Think!—that now we’ve earned our mirth. I!—know you want me hard. I!—is where your love grows from. I!—am a persistent bard. I!—cannot bear a crumb. I!—need the feast that’s you. I!—will always digest you.

At the various levels of advancement in learning Objectivism, I found it easy, and so obviously true. I understood early that I shouldn't take ideas on faith. But how not was hard to grasp exactly. It was always great fun to delve into all the paths that the literature plunged me into. One problem was that countless projects kept popping into my head and I soon grew impatient, with an implicit idea of it is really all hopeless. One othe problem was that I was always a rebel at heart. And so very often I rebelled, privately, against the ideas of Objectivism. I called them experiments. I often treid Hedonism. But Objectivism is the practical way ... because it is true. I always went back to it, the solution was always by it. At this stage of my life the greatest benefit that I achieved via Objectivism is learning how to write fiction, and to engage in independent fulfilling philosphical projects. For example, on in the future, is to compare and contrast the books, The Anti-Christ and The Age of Reason. And there are so many of these kinds of projects. It took me a few years to genuinely enjoy, in a consitent manner, such activities. But there is so much room for so much more joy. One of the biggest intellectual challenges that I will face in the next years is to actually learn logic via Aristotle and Ayn Rand. There is so much beyond my reach without this one crucial achievment. I can't say I'm happy happy. But I am serene, a level of serenity that I thought I began to fear I would never reach. Yes, Objectivism, when you own it, and you have integrated it into your psychology, will necessarily make you happy. This was the promise at the beginning. I know now it is possible. It's all up to me. If I fail to reach it, I know that it is not human nature that is damned, it is me. Americo Norman.