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AMERICONORMAN

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  1. Victoria Day Anew By Jose Gainza. Timberlake Temps was a very busy fellow. In this day and age of poets having to work as a bartender, or something of the type, to supplement their living, Timberlake was a successful poet. He actually got to spend his days writing poetry and reading books. He drove an aqua coloured, 2007 Thunderbird. He lived comfortably and leisurely in suite 1800 of a beautiful grey, glass condo tower by The Rogers Centre, overlooking the lake, and the brother towers of the skyline. This group of apartment buildings was so nice that it housed its own well-equipped recreation centre, its façade resembling something out of Frank Lloyd Wright. Attached to the building in which he lived, which was the northwest tower, was a Montessori school, and it was here where taught Angelina D’ Angelo. She had access to the recreation facility and habitually exercised there after work. There she had met a young, exquisitely beautiful, a slender giant, a blonde beast of a man, with ocean blue eyes, a type of man who if eugenics were possible, would approach the ideal, so much so that his perfection was evident in the texture of his skin, and in the orange hue of his sweet smelling skin. Angelina fell in love with this man at first sight. She had never managed to convince him to go out on a date with her, though it was evident that he really enjoyed the time they spent at the gym. They contributed to each other’s exercise, and talked health, but talked philosophy, and about art, and the political issues of the day. She knew that he was a busy man. But still, she could not understand, or figure out, the reason for his seeming coyness. And then one day she found out the reason why. She had gone to the gym late, towards its closing hour, because she had a staff meeting. And when she left, as she approached the common boulevard, about fifty meters away, was the figure of a man whose figure was unmistakable, outside of Timberlake’s building. The man had another man in an embrace, prior to them hurrying into the main lobby. She knew the nature of that embrace. And though she was fighting with a sudden pain, she managed to say to herself, in a muttered tone, “Important work and love—that’s why there is no time.” At home, she was too distracted to do anything but watch television. She stopped for her amusement on a channel in which she recognized a local Christian preacher. The subjects were those sinners with unnatural lusts. He was foreboding a time soon to come when the punishment for this, in a city with so many “Unnaturals”, was the destruction of the entire city of Toronto, and that these creatures should stop engaging in their private, ecstatic actions in order to prevent it. Soon she began to laugh very excitedly. It was the utter silliness of the preacher’s sermon that inspired this. And she then forgave Timberlake for that something which it was not her place to forgive. The next day she went to the gym at the usual time. She ran into Timberlake. She had to know for certain. She reported the sermon of the preacher of the night before. And by the look on her face when she was telling the story, he knew that it was time to confirm what she wanted confirmed. He said afterwards, “Even if my love life had that power, I would not save the whole universe, to give up my happiness.” “Splendid,” was all Angelina said in answer. On a Monday he entered the lobby of his building from the street. He greeted the always-smiling concierge man at the services desk, and approached the mailroom. In his box he found an envelope about the size of his hand. He tore it open and found a white invitation; the gold letters spelling out the following: Jason and Margo Temps eagerly invite you, Sunday October 20, 2006, to celebrate the Christening of our precious girl, Victoria Temps … He knew that it would happen someday, and yet he was still surprised that it was going to happen. Timberlake was not a religious man, an atheist and lover of reason to the root. He remembered never really taking Catholicism seriously, and when he discovered philosophy at eighteen years, he rejected all religion immediately. The notion of the holy trinity, of original sin, of the resurrection, and supernaturalism seemed so silly, and when he saw the deadly conflict this form of supernaturalism created in men, he adopted anger for it. Why can’t they just let her choose her own religion, when she’s old enough, he thought to himself. And he knew that he could not go to the baptism or the reception, for he could not celebrate the idea of such an innocent lovely girl as a sinner. But she’s not mine; I have no rights in this matter. And he muttered to himself, slightly amused, while he rode up the elevator, “God grant me the courage to change the things I can, the serenity to accept it when I can’t, and the wisdom to know the difference.” He forgot about it. He had planned to research on the Internet for the history of the French symbol of the rooster, for a poem he was planning to write. He checked his e-mail account first. There was one from his mother, with a subject heading, “La Precieuse”. She had sent him a recent picture of baby Victoria. It was a picture of her laying laughing, her crown of black hair dishevelled by her own hands, her feet seeming to wiggle, and her Andalusian skin promising to be a gypsy goddess one day. Timberlake could not prevent a great smile. “How can I prevent it?” He said to himself, as he logged out of his e-mail account. In the evening, he went to work out at the recreation centre. There she was in a white sweat top and black tight pants. Her blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail, and it danced with every stride and hop of her running on the treadmill. Her beautiful face was perspiring, which gave her an added provocative glow. He joined her on the treadmill next to her. She smiled at him in the mirrored wall ahead of them, and he as well. He spoke. “Angelina, I need you to be my angel. I need your help.” “What?” “I need you to teach me how to baby sit an infant. I want to baby sit my niece on Saturday. I need to save her soul. They’re going to baptize her on Sunday.” “People still do that?” He laughed in response. “But seriously, though, Timberlake, it is unfortunate. Something so important as a person’s philosophy should be left up to the person to decide on her own, when she starts asking such questions, not when the child can’t even speak yet.” “I agree.” “So how are you going to save her soul?” “I may fail but what I’m going to do, is make Saturday her special day. I’m stealing Victoria Day from all Canadians. Every year Victoria Day will be celebrated on October 19 from here onwards. She must listen to reason; I’m going to lecture her on the subject of baptism; maybe she’ll get something from it. It seems futile but I got to give it a shot. And then I’ll sing to her and read her poetry; maybe I’ll dance for her.” “Good Luck.” “So will you help me?” “It sounds like a good cause but … what do I get out of it?” “We’ll go out for karaoke one night” “Do you think I’m that desperate to go out with you?” “All I know is that you want to and this is your opportunity. He doesn’t like to free me up; but I’ll make him this time.” “Okay, I do. I’ll help you.” “You’re the best!” “Come tomorrow morning to my school. There’s one parent I’m pretty sure I can get to give me permission to have you train with her daughter.” “That’s perfect.” The next day he went to train with Angelina. When he was done he called his brother at his law office. “Jason, it’s Timberlake. I expect you and Margo to be very busy Saturday. I bet even mother will be cooking all day and won’t have time to take care of Victoria. I’m offering to baby sit her for you.” “But you don’t know how to baby sit an infant.” “I learned this morning. I took a training session with a certified Early Childhood Educator. She even gave me a letter of recommendation.” “You have to run it by the wife. She should be home right now.” Timberlake called Margo. “What are you going to do with her? Where are you going to take her?” “I was thinking that I could take her up the CN Tower. Has she experienced that yet?” “No.” “Then it’s perfect.” She was very reluctant because she always felt something dangerous in Timberlake. Much of it had to do with his anti-religious views and attitude. She was, after all, about to baptize her daughter with the Catholic Church. But she knew that she desperately needed a baby sitter so that she could be free to prepare for the party of Saturday. “You’re not going to kidnap Victoria so you can stop her from being baptized tomorrow, are you?” She said it mostly in jest. “No,” he said, “I’m not going to kidnap her.” ** Timberlake Temps and Victoria Temps ascended the glass elevator of the CN tower. On deck, they approached the panoramic windows. He knew that the highest static observational point would be apt for what he was about to tell her. The bird’s eye view that the tower allowed highlighted the vastness of this created earth. He knew not what object she was looking at, but he noticed what seemed to be a scornful countenance, and he hoped that what she was looking at was the tiny cathedral in the distance. He was holding her, her back to his chest, her legs hanging over one of his arms. And thus spoke Timberlake Temps: “Victoria, let me tell you the meaning of what they are going to do to you tomorrow. They say that there once lived a man named Jesus, around the time of Caesar. He is the idol of pity, sacrifice, unconditional charity, and undiscriminating love. By the time this Jesus arrives on earth, humans have been killing each other for centuries and centuries. It is a symptom of an earlier punishment to two men, a punishment enacted by a supposed entity called God, the alleged creator of the universe. The transgressors were also the first men made by God. God wanted them to be ignorant of the concept of morality, of good and bad. If they ate from the tree of knowledge, they would learn of the concept of guilt. But if they resisted the temptation, and only eat from the tree of life, they will live in ignorance of guilt, and live forever on earth. But a serpent tricked them. Eve gave an apple from the tree of knowledge to Adam and said, “Eat it!” He ate it and soon discovered the idea of morality, and soon he began to feel embarrassed at his nudity, finally knowing of guilt in the form of shame. “These two beings were supposed to be the purpose of God—but not the final end—only a means to the end of harvesting the earth with the form of causality which is toil. When they discovered morality, they ruined God’s plans. So God showed them Justice. They were banished from the Garden of Eden to forever love and hate each other. And their descendants would love and hate each other. Man would henceforth war forever. And so when this idol named Jesus entered the Jordan River of Palestine, men were warring still, infinitely multiplying since the punishment of Adam and Eve. This Jesus was to be the salvation of man. “This brings us to what they are about to do to you tomorrow. You will be clothed in a lavish white dress, not naked. And then they will pour water over your head. I’m not sure whether it’s Evian water or tap water, but what makes it special is that its nature is allegedly altered after a man in a lavish robe himself says a prayer. It then comes in communication with some other dimension. And so this water will be poured over your head, where resides your soul … your mind … in which resides your knowledge and your thought. But you are not a sinner, little baby girl—you are just a baby girl! “What punishment is this water supposed to save you from? Were you a sinner when you cried all those times, when all you wanted was food? Were you a sinner when you bit too hard on your mother? Were you a sinner when you slept too long or woke up too soon? Were you a sinner when you soiled and wet your diapers? Were you guilty of that stench? Were you a sinner when you laughed and filled the room with joy? Hell No!” And then the stench reached his nose. “I thought we could get through our day together without you doing this, Victoria.” She giggled widely. He took her to the restroom for her changing. Angelina had taught Timberlake well, so well that the gruesomeness of the phenomenon was bearable. He took her back to the window, and let her witness the earth of which a part she would one day conquer for her, an earth in which she would too one day be an original creator. “Now where was I? … Not yet; no, you are not a sinner yet. You can be a sinner when you’re grown, if you steal an apple from the grocer, for example. Or if you hit another child when that child has not hit you first—Or if you lie, like spreading nasty rumours, or to protect a sinner—these are sins, baby girl. So if you’re not a sinner, why will they be pouring water over your head? What’s left? Adam and Eve, and the inevitable conflicts you will engage in with your fellow men, in the future. This god damned baptism ritual is superfluous; this is what you need know. “This is why I must give you a rational ritual before they who love you blaspheme against you, baby girl. We shall celebrate your innocence … not your guilt. We shall celebrate the innate, primordial innocence of man … not his guilt.” She began to giggle with her mouth open wide. He held her upright, her head resting on his left shoulder. He began to dance her around the observation deck, spinning slowly and gracefully. She giggled and mumbled sweet nonsense. Sometimes she screamed with joy. “Now it is time for more of my serious talk; the real good news. What are the truths of our creation and salvation? How the first man came about we do not know. But we do know a sufficient amount of man’s history not to make the same mistakes twice, though the majority of men today still believe in those ancient delusions and idols. We know that today man can be the creator of a new man. Today he has the potential to not only be a vehicle of nature through the standard natural birth process. As we can clone sheep, we can clone men. (But this is not my point, baby girl). “To verify the old Judeo-Christian legend is not the purpose and sanction of our lives. To keep on living as if it really occurred, as if it indeed has the consequences it claims to have, is simply silly. That even today men take it seriously—is horrifying.” And then she began to cry suddenly. “Don’t be scared, baby—it’s not so scary.” And then he smelled her, and discovered that she had wet herself. Again they returned to the restroom. When they returned to the deck, he remained silent for a moment looking at the neighbourhood in which he now lived. It was once a vast plain of unused land, and now a dozen condominium towers were raised and a living community. “Where was I? … It is not man’s ideal to be ignorant of morality. Such an ideal is a recipe for his doom. That Garden of Eden that was lost is not the cause of our torment—but, if true, it is the source of our glory and the source of our happiness. How? –Because this god that they speak of is not the prime mover of the universe. First of all, this god of theirs is incompetent, his might always in danger of being challenged. Such is not the character of an almighty Prime Mover. “Just as men cannot know how came about the first man, so he cannot know the origin of the only universe. Such an exploration is a recipe for earthly frustration. And we should not lament at this frustration. We shall only shrug it off and move on, onto that glorious road of science, art, and a rational philosophy. Even these things are not ends in themselves. Not even art is, in this context, if you think about it. They—these!—serve the salvation and advancement of man. “It is not Jesus Christ that we wait for. We must wait for ourselves—each and every one of us. Growth, the journey to adulthood, is the struggle to know thyself, to know one’s nature, to choose the things that will bring one joy—and fear; to choose one’s sacred work. Adam was punished with toil? We accept it and bless ourselves with the joy we find in it. Adam and his wife lost eternal life on earth? We know that our mortality is part of the adventure, and that to extend man’s life, and his freedom, and his joy is part of our glory. “The Edenites’s disobedience was the cause of all our wars? We know the cause of war: when one man attempts, unworthy, to take by force the property and life of another, and when the potential victim counter-attacks; or when two brutes fight for the stolen loot, stolen from the innocent. We know that men must discover the good because it is the good that keeps us striving alive. We know that knowledge is a blessing, though it is toil. We know that knowledge, not faith, wins us our self-esteem, and the actions that will confirm it, and the technologies of our ease, rest, and pleasure. “We do not wait for God to punish us—we punish ourselves if need be. We do not wait for God to save us—we save ourselves. We do not wait for God to rewards us—we reward ourselves with life and happiness. And we do not wait for the hereafter—we conquer our reason, purpose, self-esteem, and this earth here and now. And when we find ourselves on our deathbed, we look back on life saying, “it was purposeful, it was joyous; it was worth it,” thus we sanction life. We need no sanction from a non-entity, some anti-concept, who never created this world, and never knew its greatness, or the greatness of man and his ego. “’I am. I think. I will.’ Amen.” He turned her to face him and he held her high, their eyes engaged with each other. She gazed at him with a puzzled look, very attentive and curious. It was as if she was witnessing a new phenomenon, some new type of creature. No one had ever spoken to her in such a manner, with such words, with such passion and conviction. No one had ever spoken about truth so far. “But you do not understand me, as you will not understand the friar of tomorrow. But the look on your face is not of the quality that I’ve seen before. No, you are no longer laughing. You are no longer smiling. Your face is serious but you are not about to cry—you are not angry. You’re serious—do you need changing? … No. You’re serious—you are solemn. Your eyes have suddenly turned intelligent. Do you understand me?” And then suddenly one single tear rolled down her right cheek and down her throat. “You do understand! I’m glad it is just one tear, for that is all you need. You cry not for yourself and not for me, I know. You may not know what the tear is for: it’s for your parents, and your grandmother, and all those Christians who will be celebrating the cleansing of your sins, oh innocent baby girl. They know better. All they need is one. So tomorrow, when that brother of pity tries to pour water over your head, I want you to … I want you to rebel; throw a tantrum. I want you to make that ‘cleansing’ impossible for there is nothing to cleanse, you innocent baby girl. “So I proclaim today, October 19, Victoria Day. We shall replace the institution of tyranny still celebrated in this country, in the name of the Queen of England. We replace it with a holiday in the name of, not a princess, but of a future productive and innocent woman.” And then they descended back to earth, and he took her to enjoy a spectacle of entertainment. He had booked the karaoke room in the recreation centre of his building. He sang to her and he read her poetry. And one day in the future her favourite song was to become Nat King Cole’s Mona Lisa, and her favourite poem would become Berton Brailey’s The Thinker. He returned her home to her parents. And upon Timberlake’s departure, she did not cry, but she did look at him with familiarity and longing. And the next day they took her to church for her salvation. She wore a white gown of silk, and her godparents held her. And as the priest began to call them forth and to approach the baptism tub, Victoria began to cry. With every step that was taken she cried even louder. The crowd of onlookers were silent, and the echoes of the church made her screams a sort of torture for them. And as they held her over the water, she suddenly let out a frightening scream, a savage scream, so violent, that her parents were scared for her health. They waited some fifteen minutes and tried again but as they approached the tub again, Victoria began to cry. The baptism would not happen today. Six months later, they tried again but in vain. And six months after that, they tried again: still impossible. Then Victoria’s parents finally got the message. Their baby knew and had the courage to proclaim that she was not a natural born sinner. THE END.
  2. I changed my mind. Francisco will be Wentworth Miller of Prison Break. Jude Law's time has passed. Jose.
  3. THE THREAT FROM HELIOS—By Jose Gainza One week in early summer, in the early evening, nineteen year old Justin Firkin, was riding his blue mountain bike through the wide, quiet paved streets of Toronto’s Bridle Path. He was almost unconscious that he had stopped before the property jeweled by a large glass structure. Squares, triangles, and curves were attached together and stacked atop each other. It was a large glass home of blue-green, like a piece of rough exotic emerald stone waiting to be cut for a ring, though born from the earth with clean geometric lines. He thought that it was the type of home he would like to live in some day. Suddenly he saw smoke rushing out of a place he knew smoke should not emit from, a large window that could have been the location of the master bedroom, or a home office. He climbed the brick wall, unaware of the pain in his feet from landing from such a height. He flew to the entrance of the house, and smashed through the door’s glass with a lawn sculpture. He opened the door and yelled out. No one answered. He yelled again, even louder. No one answered. He flew up the long curved staircase, the smoke as thick fog before his vision. On the landing he heard a coughing at his feet, where he felt something living hit his feet. He picked up the victim and rushed him outside to breathe the sweet oxygen, and to meet the ambulance that would soon arrive, so indicated by the distant sirens. It was an elderly man and he was conscious, though struggling to breathe. “Is anyone else inside?” Justin said it in a commanding yell. The old man shook his head, indicating no, coughing violently, as he lay outstretched on the soft, well-manicured lawn. And soon the ambulance arrived. The fire department managed to save most of the structure, though a very expensive renovation would be required. The old man subsequently moved to his Muskoka cottage for rehabilitation and to await the completed renovation of his beloved city home. But by late summer the work was done, and his health was much better. Though as reward he had promised to pay for Justin’s college education, he insisted that Justin borrow his cottage for a week, before the summer were to end. He would allow a few of Justin’s trustworthy friends to join him, or Justin could use it alone. Justin chose to go alone. Justin chose to use the large quiet home as a sort of fortress of solitude, to rejuvenate, and enjoy himself alone, before he was to decide what career he would choose. He enjoyed the long quiet drive to the cottage, gradually, step by step escaping from the loud, busy, crowded city; driving the copper colored Range Rover he had borrowed from the old man he had saved. He enjoyed the reading he was able to do, which he rarely did in the city, from the old man’s grand book shelf. He enjoyed the jazz, intense and rare, from the owner’s collection. He enjoyed the fine meats, cheeses, fruits, and vegetables, left for him in the owner’s fridge. He enjoyed some of the fine wine, scotch, and brandy, awaiting him with bows and notes addressed to him. He enjoyed the cool morning awaking wrapped under luxurious fox pelt. He enjoyed the walks through the green echoing woods, and the sounds and buzzing of nature. He enjoyed the sun basked swims in the lake and the naked dips at night. And on one of those nights after one of those dips, he felt unusually cold, as he exited the lake pool. He began to shiver immediately, which made him rush to the cabin, all the way thankful that he had lit a fire in anticipation of his return. As he passed the threshold of the door, he began to take off his robe, which soon was dropped to the floor as his naked body arrived at the fire; his skin beginning to tingle in delight amidst its warmth. He stood before it like a man carrying two pales of heavy water, both arms outstretched so. He turned around slowly to feel the shifting streams of radiation hit his skin. He began to stretch and breathe measured and deeply. He began to squat and he enjoyed the stretching effort, part pleasure part pain, of his firm thighs, hamstrings, knees, and calves; the growing freedom of his lower back, and the length of his spine. In that moment he loved fire as such, as he loved the feeling of saving his benefactor some months ago. And he thought about fire as such as he stayed close to the one before him—as his body grew hotter and hotter amidst the stillness of his thought. Fire can be destructive, he thought, as it could have destroyed the owner of this oasis. Think of Nero and Rome. Think of San Francisco, twice. Think of volcanoes. And yet we need it so, the source of light, the source of warmth. And the tool of brutality and nihilism: think of the library of Alexandria and the lost works of Aristotle. How blind would we be without the sun! How futile and degenerate our ocean travels without our lanterns, lighthouses, without our stars. How dark our searches without the flame to shed the light. And isn’t ignorance like a darkness? And isn’t knowledge like an enlightenment? I open my eyes and expose my ignorance to enlightenment. And yet I can shut my eyes—and I can shut my mind. So that my mind is like a moving flame of my control; I can control the time, duration, and subject of thought; I can control the intensity of my mind’s fire: I can think harder, I can harness a better light more engulfing, and grow in wisdom—with my burning will, my glory flame. And in that moment he fell in love with fire—and feared it too. For, weren’t there, too often, those geniuses who went too far: those scientists, philosophers, psychologists, those who burned themselves with their own torch? At what point is light an evil? In what way does fire destroy? In what context will too much thought make us lose our mind? That night he knew his vacation was worth it, and that one day before he died, he would find out when thought is dangerous—or what type. Leona Greenwood possessed a profound love for her father. She was protective of him, of his fragile, vulnerable soul, because she felt he loved his job too much. He, Allistor Greenwood, was the CEO of Greenwood Lumber, headquartered in a lumber town of northern Ontario. Since her earlier youth she hated the changed countenance that greeted her some nights. It was tired, sad, angry, bewildered. But she knew that he worked most of his hours with a stern face that still promised a faint delightful glow that was his ever-present love of living action, work. She would often remember the smile on his face upon witnessing his cavalcade of trucks marching away with a shipment destined to become the homes of some new neighborhood. And yet there were nights when he came home with that horrid face. As she grew older, and became more involved in the operations of the business, she came to learn that Allistor often had to deal with nagging government inspectors, encumbering government regulation, looting competitors, whining customers, apathetic employees, Machiavellian managers—all a drain of the usual delight of running a business that supplied North America with lumber. Leona wanted to protect him from all this, she wanted to save him, to fly him to a place where the realities of the modern lumber industry were not real. And when she would tell him of this wish, Allistor would laugh. He could not imagine a world where business was not the way it was. He was not a dreamer but a doer, who basked in the delight of doing work he loved, in the delight of growing bigger, to do more of the same. He would call her his little flame, because that is what she would be if she got her wish: an annihilating flame for his enchanted forest. And so she became a part of it. She grew to love it like he did. But her motive was to run the company, and not out of some brutish ambition, but out of her love for him. She wanted to take the helm, to protect Allistor from the storm, to lead him to a happy retirement, where the sun shone all day, extinguishing night once and for all. Because, really, her happiness sprung from a different activity, an activity that was more profound and more complex than the mechanism of running a lumber company. Essentially, she was an aspiring philosopher. Her most enjoyable activity was to read the sages of the last three thousand years, to write her theories down on paper, to walk the forests of her father in a solemn philosophic contemplation, in her peripatetic forests. Helping to run her father’s empire was what she did when she was not involved in philosophic inquiries. She rose quickly and Allistor admired her for it. She rose to the stage where it was clear that she was a dangerous rival to the other executives in waiting. She was just a regional operations manager but she was only twenty. One day Allistor Greenwood decided to take a vacation. It was in the form of camping out on a newly acquired parcel of land in British Columbia, for the purposes of surveying, and determining manufacturing logistics. Leona stayed behind to run the main operations. Justin Firkin, still nineteen, still undecided as to his career, still in the autumn shortly after his cottage of solitude, was watching the national news one afternoon, stretched out on his sofa. One of the top stories made him shoot up from the couch, and stand staring at the news anchor and the video footage provided. Vocelios Daily reported in his deep, strong, thunderous, ominous voice, “In British Columbia today a conflagration, the magnitude of which has not been seen in recent history, is ripping through hundreds of acres of forests. It is reported that the land has been recently acquired by Greenwood Lumber of Ontario. Among the casualties is believed to be Allistor Greenwood, CEO and founder. His reasons for being at the scene are unknown at this time. Trustworthy sources predict that Mr. Greenwood is unlikely to survive the fire because the flames appear to have engulfed the location of his camp. Mr. Greenwood is 68 years old and would leave behind his twenty year old daughter and heiress to his billion dollar fortune. “ The footage was of a rolling blanket of forest, and the scattered walls of fire, smoke black and grey rushing to a grey sky. The vista promised nothing but destruction. Justin’s first instinct was to fly into the television and transport himself to British Columbia, to save his second victim of fire. And his eyes began to tear at the realization that his intentions were futile, and that this old man would surely perish and that the plane dropping water would only tease the thirst of the fire, and that the small army of firemen would be fighting the fire for weeks. And he remembered Vocelios Daily’s mention that he had a daughter his age. And he felt the torture she must be feeling at this very moment. He wanted to hold her, to console her, though he had never met her. He remembered the pride he felt in saving his benefactor, and he knew what he would do with his life: He would become a fire man. Meanwhile Leona Greenwood sat in her office staring at the television she had just turned off. She knew that her father would not survive the inferno. And she commanded that she not cry in that moment; she would wait until the evening when her day’s work was done. She was also not the type who rushed into her suffering; work, thought devoted to lumber manufacturing, would be her way of postponing the inevitable. But she did allow herself to think about the matter, though she would suppress the hurt. This is not the way I wanted him to retire. It was not Earth that I wanted him to leave; not earth I wanted him to turn into. I just wanted him to leave the heavy politics of lumber. He called me his little flame but I was not the flame who burned his forest and his soul. It must have been human accident because it’s too late in summer for the sun to cause the inferno. How many acres will we lose—and what will be the consequence of that? It doesn’t matter … because now I wonder if it’s worth it for me to stay with Greenwood, now that my father is dead. There is nothing left to save. It is fitting that he died amongst his trees, melted and fused into his forest. All that remains is his soul found in the remnant of his business. His vision still remains: to be the best at the lowest price. His style still remains: honesty, justice, reward. His industry must still remain. His wealth must be transformed. I must still remain to provide him with the legacy he deserves. In January Justin Firkin enrolled in the Academy for Fire Prevention Training. In preparation for that he trained every day at the gym to develop the body he would need to bear the endurance and strain of fireman training. He began to read used textbooks he bought at Goodwill on chemistry, physics, and biology. He began to dream of the day when he would become fire chief, or the day when he would be appointed National Commissioner of Fire Prevention and Safety. He even dreamed of some time when he would invent a new type of portable fire extinguisher, or discover a substance that would instantly extinguish a forest fire. The idea of his new found career excited him. Leona, within five years, took full control of the management of Greenwood Lumber. She became CEO, Chairman of the Board, and majority stock holder. She became known in the business world as a prodigy: the Atlanta of the woods—so young, a female in a man’s sport. It was time for her to make one of the biggest decisions of her career. She had to decide where the next big investment was going to be. Everyone in the company, almost everyone, thought she was crazy. Her idea was to build a giant greenhouse, the size of ten football fields, to begin the nursing of Palm trees for the fine furniture industry, and to start a new trend. She was going to hire designers to tell consumers what they could use the new wood for; and scientists who could discover ways to grow tall trees in a matter of months, when it used to take decades perhaps. She found a scientist who promised he could do it. Working in seclusion and isolation at the new greenhouse-laboratory, the scientist would be able to apply his new developed method and nutrients to the species of trees that constituted the bulk of the mainstream forestry industry. She had showed the necessary people the numbers and the science behind her idea, and after a hard, hard battle, she won them over and secured the funding. The landsite was chosen, cleared, and tilled. The seeds were ordered. The endeavor would be starting in a matter of weeks. Justin Firkin was performing squatting exercises with a long bar weight on his back. He was looking, concentrated, into his own eyes, grunting softly with every plunge. He wore a now moistened tight fire department t-shirt, and fire department cargo pants that wrapped his legs tightly. The television was on behind him and he could see the reflection of the grey-haired, glasses-wearing, white Vocelios Daily. Suddenly Vocelios’ voice caught his attention for he was discussing a series of suspicious outbursts of forest fires. “The sun seems to be setting for Greenwood Lumber, amidst a series of infernos. Greenwood Lumber lost its’ founder and then CEO five years ago in another tragic forest fire. The great, great majority of Greenwoods’ land holdings are now in flames. Vast forests in B.C., Quebec, Ontario, Alaska, and California burst into flames suddenly at approximately the same time today. Arson is highly suspected. In fact, authorities believe that Islamic terrorism may very well be involved. It is widely known that Allistor Greenwood was one of Canada’s major contributors to the cause of the state of Israel and its defense. His contributions have totaled into the tens of millions of dollars. Since his death, a fund was started in his name devoted to the support of the state of Israel. Osama Bin Laden in one of his recently released audio recordings is heard encouraging his disciples to sabotage the industry of the western world. He is even heard specifying the burning down of our forests. Allistor’s successor, Leona, has refused commentary. On behalf of our station we would like to sincerely give our condolences to Miss Leona Greenwood. Experts believe that Greenwood Lumber will never recover and will fold soon.” A picture of Leona was flashed on the television and that moment seemed like an eternity, for Justin saw her in that moment so beautiful, such a goddess, such a precious gypsy. He had already put down the weight and was seated now on an exercise bench. He hoped to meet her one day. And he seriously started to think about that substance, yet to be invented that would stop forest fires instantly. Because, to him, nature was not malevolent at all, and the two tragedies at the hands of fire, were not the result of nature’s conscious providence or some doomed fate. Destiny was not punishing Leona, certainly not, for being so beautiful, so intelligent, so talented, so successful. Nature was on his and her side, he knew. And so until he could discover the opportunity by which he would meet her, he would remain working for the Marine Unit of the Toronto Fire Department, located on Queen’s Quay West. The chief had enthusiastically welcomed Justin as part of the team. After ensuring that the company pension and the company emergency fund were intact and could provide for just severance pay for the thousands who would remain jobless, Leona Greenwood retired from the lumber industry forever. For five years since her father’s death, she still did not let herself engage in the activity of sad wailing that she knew would have to come some day. The emergency death blow that had struck her company—the consequent urgent need for the head executive to be at the utmost rational, patient, and diligent—could not allow her the long since promised lament. And now she was free. She left behind the forests of Northern Ontario for the granite, glass, and cement of Toronto. She moved into a penthouse condo at Spadina and Bremner, a skip and a jump to the Rogers Centre. Her suite was on the southeast corner so that her vista on the south was the vast waters of Lake Ontario, and on the east, the wall of rising towers which was the dominating skyline of Toronto. Her tower was fifty-six floors of grey-toned glass and industrial plastic, which gave its skin a silver, fish-scale-like illusion of geometrical perfection. On the roof in the middle, stretching from north to south was a white concave elliptical cylinder, which gave the entire structure the illusion of a very tall mast and sail. To contemplate the lake on a daily basis provided her with a constant comfort, a guardian against the memory of the infernos that had plotted to ruin her life. And the wall which was the city to the east of her, was a majestic barrier against the flames of the past. And then one morning she let herself feel. It was still purple in the east when, naked, she pressed her raised palms and forehead against the glass of a window, and closed her eyes, and breathed with effort. When she opened her eyes again the sky was metallic blue, and on the horizon she could see a small ball of fire. It was the sun. Her fear returned in that moment. “Have you come to get me too, Helios? Have you come to end the peace and tranquility, which is all I have left? Have you come to start and end my sorrow in one swift blow, one scalding scorch? Man has worshipped you since the beginning of time and yet you bring such doom—is that your final end? Are you my destiny—to be engulfed by you? The only man I have ever loved in any way—you consumed him: my father. My work, my sacred mission—was evaporated by you! And what is to become of me? Or have you come to watch me weep? Have you come to laugh at me, laugh like you always do when the beams of your laughter reach every man? And when my face is wet with tears and body drenched in sweat will you allow your rays to dry me?” But the sun did not answer; it just kept growing closer, brighter, perhaps more menacing. She watched him, Helios, marching closer and closer to his conquest of her and the world, until her eyes began to hurt and she had to fight the ensuing temporary blindness. She now only felt the sun by the pain in her eyes. And then it was time. She crashed to the floor and lay on the soft carpet, and cried, wailed, convulsed, shivered, choked, and screamed—finally. When it was over she rose from the wet carpet and smiled. It was over. The sky was now light blue and the sun was too blinding to look at. But she was not sad anymore. The sun of this day had set her free. And in that new moment she welcomed the sun again. The full context and benevolence of its energy came back to her. She thought of the Greek man who stole the fire of the gods and was punished by the gods, left chained to a rock to be eaten by carrion birds. And she thought about the other ambitious Greek who tried to fly to the sun on wings made of wax, and met his doom when the sun melted those wings. And she thought about the Greek philosopher who held the sun as the symbol of his intellectual enterprise, the ultimate goal of it, where men should seek to grasp the sun, the source of light and enlightenment, so that the holder can see the most. And that was the end of his goal and he asked not: what for? And she inferred that the story of Prometheus was a warning for men who want to know too much. And that the story of Icarus was a warning against those who think their mind is adequate enough to know the truth, but out of pretense. And the prescription of Plato was a recipe for lethargic insanity. And this was enough for now. All she had to remember was what there was still to live for? And this was it—to think like this. Philosophy was still the sanction of her life—though not necessarily for all—but it was for her, the individual. This was who she was: a philosopher. And she could afford the lifestyle. And it would be philosophy that would allow her to bear never falling in love or to taste a man. She was very conscious of the trauma that the two great losses of her life had caused. She was convinced that she was doomed never to experience the greatest of human ecstasy. Love and sex were not nature’s promise for every man. A person who has it within him or her to feel the depths and magnitude of sorrow that she had experienced that morning could never reach the heights of joy henceforth. Philosophy would help her along the way, though—thus was her lesson from the sun. She went for a walk along the lakeside in the afternoon. She sat on a bench by the fire station. She was accepting with serenity the destiny she had convinced herself of. And then she saw him. He was not tall but his body was proportioned and balanced. He was not skinny but lean and well sculpted, not bulky at all. His male beauty was not of that highest class, which borders on the feminine. It was a masculine beauty but it was fine; that point where masculine beauty escapes from the feminine but still dances among the highest class from which it has escaped. His nose was a perfect triangle, on a small but hard head. His skin was the color of a cashew nut. His eyes were brown but sweet, loving, and angelic. Though his face was fit for that of a warrior in the act of slaughter, it also was the face of a loving father holding his beloved infant. His head was shaved and black, though it may have been coffee brown. His skull had the quality that could serve as the standard for a master sculptor and his bust. His cheeks were thin, delicate, and flat, not too high, and not low; though they could promise a terror if one were to witness them in rage and fury. His hands were strong, a little bit rough, and a little bit long. His legs were thin but seeming large only because of their strength, perhaps the legs of a swimmer. His torso was compact but hard and well-trained. And she could swear that his pointed chin owned a dimple. His walk was calm, steady, relaxed, but his step was strong, when not in a hurry, and walking causally instead. The rhythm of his strides was even except for a subtle contortion of his buttocks: his left leg led, and his right followed, simultaneously raising his right buttock cheek as if it were winking at some pleased on-looker. It, and he, was truly adorable, she thought. She saw him enter the fire station. She waited for him to come out. Two hours later, he was rushed out hanging from the side steps of the fire truck, dressed in uniform. She bought a high-powered telescope that same night. The next morning, she arose just after sunrise. She sat at her station, fifty-six floors up, and surveyed the station. She sat there all day. She found that he was there a lot. But, also she found that he left for calls frequently. But so did others and he was left behind, for he was not hanging on the truck’s side, as he always was when he did leave the station. She knew what she would do the next day. She decided that it would happen in the afternoon, when most of her neighbors would be at work. She waited for the truck to leave on which he would not be on. She turned on the stove, set the element to highest, and let the egg on the pan overheat and burn, she poured an excess amount of oil, over the element, and soon a flame was born, which grew bigger and bigger. She had succeeded. She locked herself in her bedroom and waited. She heard the sirens start. When it was all over, and she had convinced Justin to carry her downstairs to ground level, she was bewildered by the mocking smile on his face. A few firemen stayed in the apartment to investigate the cause of the fire. The kitchen, living room, and den were ruined. Justin and Leona were alone in the elevator, and she held him tight. “Leona, my name is Justin.” “Justin, the fire was arson by my own hand.” “Why did you do it?” “So that I could meet you; so that I could meet you in the act of putting out my fire; so that I could love for the first time in my life, the hero who could save me from the flames. Beautiful angel.” “I’ve wanted to meet you since the tragedy of your father—and more so, since the ruin of your business.” “I will willingly face charges and pay for the damages.” “Yes, you must.” He looked at her with sincere reproach but was too glad to be holding her. She brushed his cheek and looked him in the eyes, “You are the Helios of my destiny, my destined romantic passion.” THE END.
  4. The following is a movie idea that I am giving away to whoever is willing to write it and get it made. I give it away because at the present time my creativity is a gushing overflow only dammed by lack of time. Consider it and act of charity or an act of benevolence. But there is a so selfish reason why I give it away: I WANT TO SEE IT MADE REAL! I offer it because I doubt I will ever get around to writing it in the next few years. It's possible but I would need a collaborator who is intimate with hip hop culture. I am confident that it can be successful given the success of 8 Mile and Brokeback Mountain. Mine is an original story that happens to correct some of the flaws of those other movies. The following is an excerpt from a letter to someone I met one day who in spirit and in body would have made the perfect rapper (in my vision). Jose Gainza. -------------------------------------------------------------- The theme of my rap movie is that real rap is poetry, and that a rapper’s image shouldn’t matter, certainly not his gangster image; but rather his talent as poet-musician-performer. The art of the “street poet” has a lot of potential, and a long way to go (today). The story is also about integrity, honesty, and love. A writer of fiction who is philosophical is the hero, the protagonist. The antagonist is an aspiring rapper: a great poet. Both take their art seriously and will not compromise it. They are lovers. But it is kept secret because of the rapper’s career. One day the novelist presents to his boyfriend a few poems, which are great, amazing (these have yet to be written by me … but they should be political and about the art of poetry). The rapper wants to include them in his upcoming debut album. The novelist refuses because he doesn’t want those poems to be made into a rap; and because the world does not deserve to read and hear those poems. The idea is “love is exception making; to have those poems exclusively for the eyes of the rapper makes the gesture that more special and romantic.” The novelist thinks the matter is settled. And the rapper does not understand the novelist’s seriousness over the matter. The novelist goes away to some isolated place, to finish his novel, for a couple of months. Meanwhile, the rapper’s album is produced and it hits the stands and is an immediate success. Three songs reach the top spots on the charts. When the novelist returns, he is listening to the radio in the cab, and he recognizes his lines on the lips of his lover on the radio. He goes immediately to the rapper’s house, where he is having a barbecue with his friends. He confronts the rapper and orders him to take the album off the shelf. The idea here is that an artist has complete ownership and privilege over his work. The rapper pretty much laughs in his face because it is an impossible request, because so many other people now have interest in the success of the album. The novelist sues the rapper, his lover. The fact of their love is still secret to the public. But the viewer knows it early because it makes the law suit more dramatic. The novelist wins the case and the rapper’s career and reputation is ruined. The producers are affected too. The rapper’s motivation in “plagiarizing” the rapper’s work was simply that he had a right to because they were lovers and soul mates. But this is not brought up at trial and thus the public believe the rapper to be lower than they should Now the story gets going. The rapper feels betrayed and gets his contacts to plan the murder of the novelist. The rapper manages to re-start the love affair but it is a con in his mind, so that the murder could be executed without suspicion. And yet the rapper is writing his best poetry ever, and his muse is his lover. So that he still has the necessary passion for the novelist, he is in love with him. But he has to punish him for “betraying” him. Just like the novelist was able to sue the rapper, thus killing his career and wealth, so the rapper is willing to kill his lover. How will it end? I want the rapper to stop the contract just in time, to tell the novelist about it, and to still keep the novelist as his lover. His remorse must be genuine and his change of character must be real. And for the whole thing to be believable, their relationship must be shown to be one where they are perfect for each other, where no other human is as right for each of them as they indeed are. Perhaps, the rapper is left satisfied with playing at the local club and bar circuit. Thus will be shown the essence of the rap-art experience—taken away from the fame—the artist intimate with his listeners (live).
  5. There are my "Olives": All of Rostand, All of Hugo, All of Schiller, All of Ibsen. There are my "shorts": Short films based on stories by O. Henry, Du Maupassant, Maugham, Hawthorne, even Chekov, etc. I don't know why this is not done on television. But it would also make the short story much more popular and maintain the value of plot in newly inspired stories. And of course all of Rand's fiction. I would also like to see a movie based on Nietzsche's Zarathustra; that would be neat. And there's a story idea that I want some else to write. The idea is a general who is struggling between the duty to bomb a certain city and to save his favorite piece of art in that enemy city. And I got a whole bunch of stories I'm planning on writing that would make great films. I will share at some future date one movie scenario that I will probably never write but I would love to see someone else make. That's it for now, Jose Gainza.
  6. A movie is always good news. I just want to see it done. And I want it to be popular. Because if it doesn't meet rational philosophical and aesthetic standards, than at least its popularity will make room for a remake in ten years or so. Kind of like Hamlet. I just want to see Wentworth Miller (Prison Break) as Francisco. And I want Hank Rearden to be--I forget his name right now--the guy who played Chaucer in A KNIGHTS TALE with Heath Ledger, and who played the evil monk most recently in a DaVinci Code, and who played the naturalist scientist doctor in the sea movie with Russel Crowe. Him--what's his name? This way, Galt and Daneskold can be talented no names, so long as some of the less central characters can be famous stars but won't be in the movie so much. This would please me. Jose Gainza.
  7. Exactly!!!! Reading Ayn Rand Answers gave me this lead; because before I thought that Romantic-Realism was synonymous with being an Objectivist. But according to Ayn Rand in that book, it is not the case, and she has to, regrettably, name Conrad as a Romantic Realist. And yet, he is so hard to read. One, because he is so malevolent, and has a great tendency to give up this world to that "darkness". I remember a professor of mine naming him as an existentialist. And yet, I had to read him, and yet, I knew that he was a GREAT writer, and yet so BORING. ... And so now I am re-reading him to try and figure it out. However, as of yet, I still cannot say for sure whether he is a Romantic-Realist, given that Rand spoke and just spoke in those answer periods, and I do not know the in depth analysis she gave him. So, as of yet, I can't say for sure. But I am very confident that a malevolent Romantic-Realist is possible. He's the guy who can't forget, who can't look past, the malevolence, "THE HORROR--THE HORROR!" he sees before him, in reality. But, an Ayn Rand uses philosophy to look past it. And this is the difference between a Conrad and an Lewis; the latter, doesn't look deep enough. I proclaiml, I am certain, that if you are not a moralist, you can never be a Romantic writer. Now "Realism" is the conundrum ... possibly. Jose Gainza.
  8. I recently formulated some thoughts on Romantic Realism, a category of writer that Ayn Rand designated herself. And so what is the difference between being merely romantic and being romantic-realistic? How hard is it for writer's to be the latter, and if difficult, why? The following should inspire some independent thought among others, and perhaps a debate. I keep it in the original hand writing because I think it is cool. Jose Gainza.
  9. To say that the book is even usually better than the movie is like saying that the book is usually better than the play. A play is meant to be played on the stage, the solution men historically found, to present living drama before men's eyes, ultimately resulting in an unusually intense emotional experience, though the presentation of an idea is just as valid. So that a movie is meant to be put on the screen, the solution men have found to bring a story the closest to men's eyes. Perhaps the closest men could ever come to something better is to find a way to play movies in one's dreams so that one can sleep while being entertained at the same time. Jose Gainza.
  10. To say that the book is even usually better than the movie is like saying that the book is usually better than the play. A play is meant to be played on the stage, the solution men historically found, to present living drama before men's eyes, ultimately resulting in an unusually intense emotional experience, though the presentation of an idea is just as valid. So that a movie is meant to be put on the screen, the solution men have found to bring a story the closest to men's eyes. Perhaps the closest men could ever come to something better is to find a way to play movies in one's dreams so that one can sleep while being entertained at the same time. Jose Gainza.
  11. It may seem trivial but this correction is important: it is not in Dagny's office but her apartment. Also, I think this is after Dagny goes to her cottage, but that is significant too. Lastly, remember that according to Dagny, Rearden, (there wasn't a comma in between the two name; amusing isn't it?), was wrong in his action for she gets him back by revealling that Francisco was indeed her first lover--and given both of their contexts that is very biting. Jose Gainza.
  12. COPYRIGHT © 2006. Jose Rodriguez-Gainza. All Rights Reserved. To Covet What Others Discard—By Jose Gainza ICELAND HANDS AND A WRITER’S OBSSESSION The short phase of the life of Cassidy Gomez, when twenty-two, and a graduated novelist, self-taught through books and practice, can be highlighted by the following theme: to possess an obsessive curiosity for a stranger. It is curiosity for a stranger so strong that it intensifies one’s affection the more silence remains within him, and the more one shouts out what one hankers for, because one so much intuits that one’s themes are heard and understood by the stranger, because he still has not found one, and put his hand to one’s throat, and grip while saying, threatening with jaw taut and teeth closed, “Leave me alone you little pest; I can squash you. Your praises disgust me. Can’t you see, we’re different natures?” On one summer Monday afternoon of this phase Cassidy Gomez walked past the concierge person in the grey granite lobby of his apartment building, exiting, and greeted him such, “The eagle is launched.” The concierge person returned the greeting thus, “Indeed, the eagle is in flight. Good speed!” As he finally exited he said, “See you soon.” Soon Cassidy, from the side street where his building was located, found himself on Bathurst Street, then walked south on it toward Bloor, with the explicit purpose to head east to reach the Confederation Supermarket, where he would buy a couple of bottles of pomegranate concentrated juice. But soon, though he passed the bookstore for a moment, he immediately, and without hesitation, turned around, returning to the door of the book haven, and entered. A book, his lust for it forgotten a moment ago, and too faint then, appeared on the Fiction section bookcase, re-igniting the buried lust. It was one of many bookstores Cassidy made it a custom to browse through, upon passing by usually without express purpose and intent; it was an unconscious compulsion. This time the book was Victoria Valjean’s first novel, ICELAND HANDS, the story of a stern prison warden of a cold, lonely island in Northern Europe, and his desperate burning love. Only one prisoner inhabits the island, his former mistress, the object of his conspiracy to imprison her in his frigid fortress, a feat accomplished through intrigue and political favours. He after judging that she had betrayed him, that she was criminal even, succeeded in convincing his society’s men of influence of it too. Henceforth were her prosecution and unfair sentence. Upon her arrival on his island, the moment of the pacification of his romantic hunger, and also the moment of his most tyrannical act—(the blind alley of the lurking darkness that too often aroused her suspicion in their affair)—this despot was struck with a sudden case of paralysis in the hands. Consequently the prison was inhabited also by a large group of lackeys to perform his most simple functions. Besides the horrendous intention to make her his slave, a desire clashed with the rest of him, the futile struggle of his goodness to break forth: to cook her every meal unbeknownst to her—now hopeless because of his malady. As a trade of favours, the warden acquired a great chef from his friend, a colonial merchant of Africa, a wealthy shipper and tradesman. In a moment of dramatic eloquence, Valjean has the prisoner fall in love with the chef’s cooking and soon with him. After seducing her with special meals, he stays in her room longer and longer as the occasions continue. Due to his extreme bitterness and frustration over his mysterious condition, the warden remained ignorant of this romantic state of affairs, because he was compelled to escape into a secret place of the prison during her mealtimes to sulk, witnessed always by one of his lackeys. How will the chef save his love from this prison? He will bankrupt the prison budget with extravagant meals for her and the prison lackeys, soon arousing the attention of the warden’s superiors and benefactors. Why can’t the warden fire the cook? The lackeys must be treated well since they themselves are not prisoners; for the woman—well—the warden needs to please her … somehow. Cassidy Gomez had wanted this book for years because he was in love with the literary genius of “V.V”; as he called her because it sounded exactly like the Spanish word, “vivi”, meaning: lived. He sat on a street bench near Bloor and Bathurst, an intersection notable for a flashy gigantic bargain store, its façade stitched by thousands of light bulbs. With the new book in his hands, the fantasy struck him again. It is not a shameful secret that Cassidy Gomez is, to this day, addicted to second hand bookstores. In his poorer days, he could even go without eating so long as his soul could be fed by meaningful words on paper. How many people knew about this addiction, he sometimes wondered, because for over a year, very often when he entered a bookstore, he would come out with a titillating treasure. It was as if he was the beneficent pawn of a secret conspiracy on his intellectual behalf. What party was bestowing him with the fortune of some lusted after book, and intellectually monumental? Was it a secret admirer or just some group that knew he was a writer of talent who wanted the life of one? Or was he, unknown to himself, a secret prodigy to be secretly raised as some intellectual master? He didn’t know. The sudden valuable book appearances had made him notice more closely the coincidences of life. CASSIDY’S LITERARY TREASURE AND THE IMPOSSIBLE ONE There was that book on logic by a philosopher-monk who, through that book, taught even Descartes how to think (and thus know that he is, assumedly). There was also that conveniently double-spaced edition of Aristotle’s Poetics that also had every right page blank to allow for the reader’s notations. There was an unbelievably rejected first edition copy of Atlantis signed by Alicia O’Connor (in mint condition) –for ten dollars! Cassidy had luckily found the complete works of Edmond Rostand in English. Though the newfound complete Rostand was extremely welcome, there was a part of him that like a too eager, and unsatisfied child at Christmas, wanted the complete works in French too. However, he did not let this minor frustration bother him too much, and he lived with a hope that his secret benefactor would bestow him with the French ones too. He was particularly disappointed with not having the first play by Rostand, THE ROMANTICS. It was because in English, though the situation was historically original, a master feat in its own right, the poetry in English protested too loudly that the beauty of the early Rostand was not done justice in English. CYRANO and CHANTICLEER were clearly poetic genius even in English. But he could not tell about THE ROMANTICS; whether the play was evidence of a great talent with still much to learn, or whether it was an obvious masterpiece even then, except for the simple situation. O. Rangey, Nathaniel Hawkeye, and Edgar Alva Prime, were among others found in their complete works, in the original English, at the stores. Needless to say, Cassidy was in heaven this last year. He was in heaven but he was alone. Friends he had but none were passionate about his passion. And none had the key to experience the emotional nature of his private thrill, it seemed. This was a nagging frustration that would peek out of its hole from time to time. There was also HIM: the impossible one. He was the tall, dark, handsome stranger who sent an earthquake through Cassidy’s world upon first sight. And the stranger was an immediate soul mate who, it seemed, had lived his life all for the day when their paths would cross that first time. And when they met at the crossroads, the stranger expressed such genuine love, in the way he looked at Cassidy, that it always warmed Cassidy upon recalling that moment. But that and a post office box was all that was bestowed upon Cassidy by the stranger. The stranger that day walked over to Cassidy’s father’s coffin, meditated, and he was never seen again. This stranger, nameless because of his own insistent demand, ended the relationship with Cassidy before it even started. A certain lawsuit is the threat if his name is revealed because it would violate the conditions that granted his full disclosure of the events of this tale. His argument was acceptable because he declared that it did not matter that his real name be used in a work of fiction, for a work of fiction and its leitmotif should apply to all men, and not be the single and limited disclosure from a biography. And though this tale is indeed an episode from Cassidy’s biography, he will also be a defendant if the name is disclosed, the threat allowing for the poetic license to change the actions of the hero as is romantically fit, and making Cassidy an icon and archetype of fiction, for the situation is universal and fantastic, and the licensed changes are apt to the purposes of the most genuine of romantic fiction. Cassidy also agreed to discuss his part in this tale, despite him being the central character, because it would be payback among friends for a joke that almost went too far. For there were phases, the specifics of them not disclosed, within the greater phase of this tale, when Cassidy was intoxicated by such joy in his own talent and life, and by the greatness of the men he read, that sometimes in the humid nights, fighting the ecstatic delirium of contemplating efficacious joy, he struggled in his bed, and fought not to walk the streets to find another human with whom he could release. The true origin of these books will be disclosed, for this is not a story about luck and fate; it is not Naturalism. Be assured of this at this point. A human played an important role, responsible for the ecstasy that Cassidy encountered during his phases within the phase. The stranger, while Cassidy sat at the bench, on Bloor after buying ICELAND HANDS, was still a stranger to Cassidy. They had spoken that first time a total of ten minutes, that was all, and it was Cassidy who then did most of the revealing. Cassidy did not even know what the man did for a living. Before they departed, Stranger (as he will be called henceforth) commanded the most peculiar thing of the man he seemingly already loved. Cassidy was refused Stranger’s phone number, as well, his home address his electronic mail address, his website. He was merely given a name and a post office box number. Cassidy was speechless and heartbroken but he took the deal and ran with it. Cassidy was madly in love, and he knew it because of the intensity unmatched in all his former days up to that first meeting . What Cassidy managed to find out through the grapevine was that Stranger was an heir to a billion dollar fortune, that he was brilliant, and that he travelled much around the world. That was plenty fine to fuel Cassidy’s imagination: he saw him surfing in Australia, climbing an Andean mountain, swimming with dolphins in Galapagos, protesting in South Africa, being wild in Amsterdam, smoking a cigar in London, and anything but romancing in Paris. And in sleep he sometimes had the fortune to dream about the adventurer. Cassidy’s favourite body parts of Stranger, besides the obvious, were his nipples and his nates. And thus Cassidy lived a happy life with his friends (Schiller’s Marquis of Posa, Alicia O’Connor’s Howe Roar, Quasimodo, Chanticleer, and many more); his teachers (V.V., Dostoevsky, Alicia O’Connor, Aristotle, Nietzsche, and many more); and his dream lover. In notable moments during Cassidy’s literary encounters of bliss, he would be taken by two distractions. One was the idea of the bookstore conspiracy. The other distractions were his envelopes to that post office box. That Stranger could be part of the impossible conspiracy was utterly implausible in Cassidy’s mind! But who could it be if it were? Stranger could not possibly know the books of Cassidy’s lust because, in his letters, he never wrote about the books he wanted to possess but about those he had already read and those he would write. He had a wish list posted on his bulletin board over his computer station but Stranger had not given Cassidy even his phone number, forget about entering his apartment. Cassidy never had evidence that Stranger read his “love” letters but he knew he did with an intense intuition. He had even imagined him opening the mail and grinning gleefully as he read. Forgetting the pomegranate juice, Cassidy stood up from the bench and walked swiftly back to his apartment so that he could start Iceland Hands—so that he could write another letter to Stranger. He walked past the concierge desk and waved at the officer there. The officer smiled in return then picked up the phone as Cassidy entered the elevator. Cassidy, as he entered, heard the officer on the phone say, “the eagle has landed,” and thought that the officer was greeting him as usual. He felt a warm feeling that even while on the phone the friendly officer would make the effort to greet him because of the unique phraseology. But when the tenant was outside of hearing distance, the concierge officer said to the other person on the line, “…I said, the eagle … has landed … You’re welcome … good bye.” THE DISCARDED AUTHORS BECKON CASSIDY FROM THEIR GRAVES Cassidy lied down on his back on his folded futon, with book in hand, perusing V.V’s ICELAND HANDS, written as a secret message to a lover who spurned her. Were the warden’s paralysed hands a symbol of his unfeeling cruelty—or was it Valjean’s secret wish that those hands never touch another woman? Cassidy was resolute to find out. Cassidy went back to the bookstore on the very next day where there was nothing notable in the philosophy section; where there was nothing notable in fiction; where history, as the previous day, had nothing of even the slightest interest to him. And then there it was the only aqua coloured book on the large filled shelf. It was a legendary book, very hard to get, not even available at the “world’s largest online bookstore”. The name on the cover said: Christie Montcalm—said to have published ONE book in the nineteenth century. Legend says that he was the secret lover of V.V., and was later acquainted with the poet Burnswan. In some circles the book is said to be the greatest compilation of short love poems ever written. Of over one hundred poems, Cassidy had managed to read but a few samples. One of the poems Cassidy had memorized: When your spirit yells a cry of despair— And tears shoot down as your face looks up to the air— A peace is broken that seems so hard to repair— You have finally seen the long since mismatched pair— So you scream as you pull at your hair: “Oh my god this is just not fair!” You ask yourself over and over, “Why doesn’t he care?” When you struggle with a trembling so hard to bear! At his image in space you just sit and stare. You remember his beauty so rare— And when the test was given you didn’t prepare. Don’t reach for the blade, don’t, don’t you dare! Cassidy decided that the poem was sweet, short, very passionate, and clever. He made sure that he memorized it. He longed to get the opportunity to read the rest of Montcalm’s verse. Cassidy thrust his hand toward that book and clutched it like to the hand of a beloved child hanging over a precipice. It did not matter if the book cost one thousand dollars—he would have it. He felt that he would sleep with the owner of the store if he had to. He opened the front cover and read on the first blank page in pencil the following symbols: $-5-.9-5. Cassidy could not suppress the instant of his ecstatic laughter but soon he stopped out of a paranoid fear of getting kicked out of the store, to be estranged from the seductive book. Cassidy thanked the mysterious mastermind of the possible conspiracy, as he looked into the heavens. “How did you know what I wanted?” Iceland Hands was neglected for the remainder of the week. Montcalm dominated Cassidy’s mind. The poems were combined with such things as wine, brandy, exotic food, and Spanish ballads. Not only was ICELAND HANDS neglected, so was his own on-going novel about a passionate painter who is convinced that he is asexual and that sex is inhuman. It is a satire. By Friday afternoon, Cassidy’s birthday, he was ready to get back to work on writing his novel. But there was one temptation that bothered him. Since it was his birthday surely he would buy himself a gift. And since he loved books so much surely he would buy himself a book. But surely that book might postpone his novel writing some more. Surely he could wait until he progressed more in his novel before buying a new book. “But if I were to go to ROMANCE AND MURDER today,” he began to ask himself aloud, “what book would I love to happen to find there? … Surely a French and English edition of Edmond Rostand’s first play, THE ROMANTICS!” He did not even have to muse at his list, over his head, on the bulletin board. In the afternoon he took a break from writing to go for a walk where he would engage in a mental “re-grouping”. He pledged not to go into that bookstore. Before he left his desk, to leave his apartment for his walk, he wrote down on a paper pad on his desk the name of the play he wished for his Birthday: The Romantics B. Day. He thought, that he failed to find such an edition at one of his bookstores, he would attend an Internet café, and investigate the possibilities of acquiring such a book at a moderate price, somewhere in the world. As Cassidy passed the concierge officer, with a silently mimed greeting, the officer picked up the telephone. “The eagle has launched,” said the officer looking at Cassidy as he exited through the doors, Cassidy, who turned to look at the officer as he exited, who saw a smile on the officer’s face. “I’ll see you soon,” was Cassidy’s reply as he walked out into the bright sunlight. The officer wanted to warn Cassidy not to forget his sunglasses but he had to make a phone call. The part of the officer’s conversation that Cassidy did not hear because he was already on his way to Bloor was, “It’s usually an hour … yes, lot’s …again you’re welcome … your generosity is more than enough of a thank-you,” and he then hung up the phone. SOMETIMES EVENTS OCCUR THAT MAKE ONE FEEL THAT THE GREEK GODS ARE REAL Walking south on Bathurst, and while walking then west on Bloor, Cassidy was stuck on the following problem: under what original circumstance can I get the painter to experience sexual attraction for someone? It would have to be, he began to think to himself, that the only paintings that he could paint are one’s about sex and he is morally repulsed by this, and he feels hunger for a woman painter who IS RUMOURED to have had many lovers, and who paints the non-sexual pictures that the protagonist wishes he could paint … And he followed the logical consequences of this fountain of delight for over an hour. But when his thought was stopped by the discovery that he was approaching the ROMANCE AND MURDER, could he resist entry? No, he could not. He descended the steps that led to the store entrance. Before he entered he quickly searched the table at the door that had books for fifty cents. But he entered after his lack of success there. “Did you enjoy Montcalm?” Asked the store attendant smilingly as Cassidy entered the store. “Yes! Very much,” exclaimed Cassidy. There was no Rostand in the drama section or any section. Cassidy searched the other section quickly just in case. Meanwhile, the store attendant was looking outside the entrance, puzzled, because a man in a tight neon green spandex outfit, with a bicycle helmet of the same color, which caused him to glow due to the bright light, took an aqua colored book from his bag, and placed it in between the others, then quickly scurried away. I’ll wait ‘til Cassidy leaves before checking, the attendant thought to himself. Soon Cassidy had given up his search, wish farewell to the attendant, and walked out of the store. Up the steps at the sidewalk the sun hurt his eyes so that he had to turn around, thus facing the store entrance. At the fifty-cent table, in aqua color binding, with gold lettering on the spine shining in the sunlight, was a book he missed, he believed. He scurried closer, and as he approached the basket, the golden letters sent a thrill through his heart, because the letters were: T-h-e R-o-m-a-n-t-i-c-s. And there was also written the following in smaller font but still in gold and shining: French and English. In the midst of paying for the book, the phone rang, and the cashier delayed the sales transaction to answer it. “It’s you,” the cashier said to the man on the other end of the line, “how did you … oh, yes of course, that explains it … you saw the come back? … Yes, he did …” He smiled at Cassidy, his other conversation holding on the line, “Since you’re such a good customer, you can have it for free this time. Have a nice day.” “I will thanks to this book and you’re gesture … it’s like there is this whole conspiracy to plant the books I really want here.” The cashier laughed and said, “Naw, that’s just how the used bookstore world works. There are tons of coincidences and surprises.” Cassidy walked east and he gazed at the tallest structure in the distance, which was a tall, grey, bank building. I wonder what the view is like up there, he wondered to himself. And he wondered about how someone of the conspiracy can be watching him from any one of these high vantage points that surrounded him in his metropolis; for again, it was too huge a coincidence. At the approaching corner, he saw a young man on a cellular phone talking as if keeping an eye on Cassidy. He had seen that look on other strangers in the recent past but thought nothing of it those times. He quickly dismissed any suspicion he had. However, when Cassidy was half a block away, the young man started following Cassidy unbeknownst to him. Cassidy had only read THE ROMANTICS in English, and there were only English copies of the play in all the libraries in Toronto. He couldn’t seem to find the play published on the Internet. And he could not find it at the biggest on-line bookstore. He had promised to take a trip one day to Montreal and Quebec City, in hopes to find the book if he had to, and even steal it from the public library system there if he had to. But he never got around to planning such a trip. He wanted both English and French versions so that he could hear the poetry of Rostand in the original French. The good critics of the play, if one could summarize what they said, fused into something like, “one of the sweetest things ever written.” It was a twist on Shakespeare’s ROMERO AND JULIET situation: young love forbidden by a family feud. But there is a delightful twist and ingenuity in Rostand’s play. But Cassidy never let himself find out what exactly that twist was because he wanted to experience it for himself. Now when he got to his destination he could begin to find out, to take the journey with Captain Rostand at the helm. The young man followed Cassidy to a pathway scattered on both sides with small, scattered grassy knolls. It was right next to Toronto’s biggest museum. He saw Cassidy approach and enter the centre of a circular arrangement of benches that created a sort of non-elevated drama stage. Cassidy opened the play. The man walked away, while talking on his cell phone, back on to Bloor Street. THE LONG AWAITED DRAMATIZATION OF LOVE ALONG WITH THE FRENCH TONGUE Cassidy opened the book to find, not the poetry of Rostand, but that of Shakespeare, translated into French. A boy and a girl are reading Romeo and Juliet. Mantua is spoken of and there is a farewell among lovers. Cassidy began to act out the play, until he got to his grasping of the significance of a wall that divides the young lovers of Rostand, when he was rudely interrupted from some strange voice from behind, a voice of an actor, somewhat deep, paced, and pronounced. “I know what you want; can I act the play with you?” Cassidy swiftly turned around and stood dumbfounded at the sight of the interrupter. “I have my own copy right here, “Stranger continued as he flashed the book to Cassidy’s sight. “I don’t understand.” “I put that book in the bargain basket.” “You?” “By Courier.” “Explain.” “I planted Iceland Hands there too. And most of the other wished for books that you’ve found this year.” “How?” “You tend to write things down. You have had a standing list on your bulletin board for some time now. I’ve been waiting for you to get enthusiastic about today’s book. You wrote it down on a notepad today. Since it was your birthday—by the way happy birthday … since it was your birthday I decided to enter your apartment for any clue of what book you might want on this special day. When I saw the note pad I was delighted. I’ve had a copy of your list for many months now, and I update it regularly when you’re not home, and I’ve had all the books on that list in the trunk of my car for some time now. One of my couriers delivered the book of today.” “Delighted for—how did you get into my apartment!” “The building that you live in?—I own it. I have a master key. I’ve been in your apartment several times. I’ve even used your washroom.” Cassidy remained silent. “I pay the employees there for information. I have spies following you all over the city. I have couriers on my pay roll on stand-by. It’s amazing what money can buy. I love modern technology too … you still don’t have a cell phone.” “Why … why would you do all this?” Cassidy actually felt fear asking this question, fear that the answer would not be: because of love. “Because I love you … because I’ve loved you since I was twelve: that’s thirteen years now! I’m twenty-five and I’ve never even been kissed because I wanted to save my lips for you.” “I’ve loved you all this year. I loved you at first sight—” “—As I have loved you since first sight for thirteen years.” “But the first time I saw you was just this year!” “But I saw you thirteen years ago.” “How?” “I saw your picture … does a restaurant named Charms sound familiar?” “Yes, my father used to work there.” “I used to eat there everyday because your father was such a fantastic cook … we became friends. He used to talk about you all the time and he showed me your pictures. And he would keep me informed about your life up to the week before he passed away. I have loved you that long.” “That’s why we met at his funeral … why weren’t we friends before?” The stranger held him, his hands were locked above Cassidy’s buttocks, and he looked Cassidy in the eyes, speaking tenderly, “Besides dealing with and accepting certain truths about my nature, I used to suffer from jealousy. You always had a best friend. And back then and for many years I could not bear to be anything less than your best. The boyfriend situation of yours when you were eighteen almost killed me. And when that eventually ended, when you were twenty, I had already begun my business. Cassidy’s eyes began to moisture. His heart was pinched. “So why now?” “Because I know you love me. And you’ve been alone for so many years now. And you’re a writer—you only really achieved that in the last two years. I’ve been watching you. Now you’re ready for love—for the celebration. The years away from you, and my confidence that one day I would have you; that you would be ready for me, has deprived me of some deep affection badly needed. I tried to forget you sometimes and I’ve dated people; but they eventually discarded me, perhaps because of something about me that said I was spoken for; or I would discard them for not even coming close.” “Don’t you think those dates could have won your attention and your love?” “They really didn’t know how to. Few other people can once you know that your horizon exists, since you’re working for the rails and comet that will take you there.” “And when we first met, why not after that? Why torture me? Why deprive me and leave me only with Canada Post for one-way communication?” “Hey, you’re the writer! It’s more dramatic and special if you are surprised … Are you surprised?” THE BLOW, THE FRENCH KISS, AND THE RESOLUTION Cassidy released himself from his beloved’s embrace. He looked at him with a smile then looked down to the pavement. When Cassidy raised his head again, his beloved had no time to note the fury on Cassidy’s face, because the beloved was slapped. The assault victim stood there stunned, silent. But before he could shed a tear, Cassidy’s lips pulled his own body thrusting against that of his beloved so that their lips locked. Cassidy kissed him with hunger then bit him a little, drawing a small amount of blood. Cassidy then began to nibble on Stranger’s neck. And then he was overcome by passion again and with his commanding tongue entered the mouth of Stranger, their tongues swirling together into the birth of a fused new organ of love. Cassidy paused for a moment to ask, “So are you surprised … yes, I’m surprised … I love you utterly.” And he bobbed for his lover’s lips once more. “Happy birthday Cassidy,” Stranger managed to utter at the first break of the passion. When the initial passion was over, Stranger drove with Cassidy to the latter’s apartment because it was closest and they were very impatient for sex. Afterwards they began to act out the play but not without several, several break sessions for lovemaking. After a few weeks Cassidy began to outline a story almost identical to the events as they had occurred with them. When Stranger found out, he put a stop to it. “No! No. Let’s tell someone else about it and have him make his own story.” “Yes. That way he can use our first names.” “No! I forbid it. Our story is our own private Idaho. No one needs to know the details exactly. Maybe when we’re sixty you can include it in your autobiography.” “My friend Barney can write the fiction version, I think.” “Yes, he’s extremely intelligent and creative. Yes. Him.” “Yes. And I’ll have him use my entire name. That is my right.” “If you wish, though I disapprove. But if he uses any of my names, I will sue both of you. You got it?” “Boy, did I get it!” THE END
  13. So, this is my opportunity to post my only free verse poem of any substance. It is certainly philosophical. However, it does not represent my philosophy. Therefore, I don't like it that much. It was an exercise and an amusement. I don't like it also because it doesn't rhyme. And I haven't had time, and I don't know if I can succeed, to give it the appropriate rhyme scheme in order to make it more emotionally powerful. It was my way of acting in verse. The speaker is surely evil. To write something on this pattern and with the substance of this poem for serious publication, would require the other side of the argument. Here, I just want some suggestions, if possible, on how to give it an apt rhyme scheme. And did it have strong impact, though it is in free verse, and of an evil theme? Jose Gainza. -------------------------------------------- THE ONE: SUPER SYLVESTER By Jose Gainza “Knee-chea,” “Knee-chea”? What mean your words, O, Powerful one? No, Don’t Speak! No need, Your Eminence. Your chaotic utterance, These symbols of a foreign eloquence, Their noise confuses human ears and bewilders human thought, Though your kin will find them beautiful one day. But to this old man, who has earned one thousand years, Thus who has heard countless lectures and concerts by humans … They are but noise. No, don’t look saddened, I am just stating a fact, Not indicting your performance with my values. You must be super in every way, I know. You must enrich every social process you engage in, As you enrich mine at this moment. Good, you smile now. And so I know you comprehend My language and my science. So, walk over me, you New One. Walk over the bridge made, express, for you to walk on. Use me as you wish, as nature beckons. You are destiny’s child, You are the promised one: The one of my prophecy of almost one thousand years. And now I’ve reached the arrow’s end: I have seen you and know that you exist. I was the doctor of your birth. I sprung you from the womb of nature. I am the last man to command nature By the solemn use of his intelligence. (Oh, how beautiful you are … Will you dance for me—? How does a super man dance?) (No, wait! You are not here for me. Your are here for yourself alone And your descendants. I am your prey, your slave, or your pet, As you see fit. I am touched, though, by your intended magnanimity.) Sacrifice! Walk over me, O, New One; I am the bridge for you to walk on, Towards a greater bank, A bank that fills my heart with joy, That means the end of my beating heart (That found its way in you). My heart, it dreamed that men were not enough … When I was thirty-five. It bled disgraced that you were not yet born, For, there were fools who could not fathom you … And now they are all dead. They missed your strength to reach the highest crest, And lost the promise of your peak euphoric joy. They lacked your wrath, Which left them all behind: The great perfection of your epic dawn. (This is day one for you, and is my last). They fouled their brains, forgotten for blind faith; They cellared minds that found this fertile earth; That built wings that men used to explore; And condemned pride, dropped the motive of invention; Self-sacrifice trumped the ego flame. There were few times when men did wish for you. They lived in times of lofty culture—but manly just the same. Your type—my type— Were once the painters of a pink and naked flesh. Since you were destined to exist, they dropped you. And since: you could never be so real. And for your blood, you could not be Ideal; Not universal because you live. Greek-like you were a deity of earth— How dare men praise! (You like my sarcasm? I’m glad). They thought a god like that is surely flawed. And thus is god—the only way it can: When man surpasses man. But here you are! And I make way for Superman. Coz it’s not man that makes it past the threshold into heaven But Superman; And here on earth. They also did not know that man is surely flawed. Some men must leach on the master’s of their toil. The masters must respond with justice force. The former cannot know that they do err. The latter knows this fact and thus must act. The foe does slyly take but hopes to wield the knife; The foe’s naïve of his necessary doomsday. Then I found you, O, Saviour of this earth, Who can harness power by Nature’s grace, The one to fulfill her plan. You will bury man but will commend him … On a job well done. Now take a knife and prick your wrist. And fill this last goblet of man. I gave you birth and now you’ll give me rest. Do not speak for it I can’t endure; No man deserves to hear the music of your soul; Not even me, agent of power’s destiny. I leave no advice, for, you will soon know all. Though I’m so wise, to you I don’t compare. My eyes I should gouge out, For, your beauty makes me quake. I wish I had no ears, For, your steps fill me with tears. And thus you see: how weak a man can be? And your fragrance makes me dance … The swansong dance … Before it’s time to taste And leave nature all to you. I danced because I know this event will not die. The curtain will rise, it will rise again the same. My death will endure as your birth recurs. I will forever be the greatest man who ever lived … And greatest dancer too. So I will love you forever. I do advise, therefore, that you proudly live— You have gotten thus far … And eternity will be grand, Of metaphysical virtue, And of your own. Thank you for this blood blessed cup. It looks so sweet and I cannot wait. Your existence required the transplantation of my replicated heart. The species, Super Sylvester, was born with the last and best Of human hearts. Your blood, this metaphysical wine, is the harvest from The energy of this earth, And my, O, so human heart. And it is now my downfall … There—that was quick. It is now all gone. Chug-a-lug. I must relate, I should have known, The inadequacy of my tongue to taste The super sweetness of your blood. For, your blood is bitter now. Your blood is thick and tingles … There! It is now all down. There! What a joy! – There! Happy vertigo. At last, the arrowhead arrived. O look, the goblet dropped. (Don’t even think to pick it up). So long … My Super Sylvester.
  14. No. Roark did not sleep with anyone before Dominique. You may be thinking of Hank Rearden who had sex with strange women before Lillian but not after, except for Dagny. Or, as applicable to Roark, you're probably thinking about the story VESTA DUNNING in The Early Ayn Rand. But I can't say for sure whether there is a line that says so of Roark. But I know that in her journals Ayn Rand does write about Roark's promiscuity, in the initial stages; sex, as a way to relieve some animal hunger. But she changes this years later. It works better dramatically, also, if Roark is a virgin, if they both are, so that the "rape" scene is effective enough. Jose Gainza.
  15. COPYRIGHT © 2006. JOSE RODRIGUEZ-GAINZA. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. A Franciscan Memento
  16. Atlas Shrugged is not long-winded. It is not unnecessarily prolonged, tedious, or protracted. The length is appropriate. To use the word long-winded to describe the work of a writer is an insult if not true, since it implies that the author just rambles on and never gets to the point. Perhaps, you're thinking of a different meaning for your word. But Atlas is NOT long-winded. To most it may be but if one understands the nature of Romanticism one begins to see the necessity of certain scenes, narrative, and dialogue. It's a tribute to the genius of Ayn Rand that she could pull her theme off in 1200 pages. Jose Gainza.
  17. COPYRIGHT © 2006. JOSE RODRIGUEZ-GAINZA. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. THE GESTURE AND THE NEED By Jose Gainza. She caressed his long black locks, and softly scratched his scalp. Her face was violently red and she was moist. His head lay atop her breasts as he held her, regaining the ease of his breath. He was wearing a satiated, stubborn smile. It was morning. The lovers tried as much as possible to begin their mornings in this way. It was a reminder of what could easily be awaiting them at the end of the workday. The act could give them an added energy throughout the day. And they found themselves more patient with those co-workers that nag, that lie, that expect one’s sacrifice, those vindictive ones, those envious, those mediocre—because the lovers possessed this easy reminder that what life was really about was symbolized by the sex act, and not these petty annoyances. They did not live together, though they loved each other dearly. She ordered him to return the next morning to perform the same ritual. Then they began their day. Jacqueline went to work. The Leinathan had worn off already in her system. And it was fortunate for Cirilo that he was enjoying a week long holiday. And so he was off back to his apartment where he would decide what to do with his spare time, perhaps write another story, like yesterday. The Leinathan pill had still not worn off and so his body was a little unbalanced though he was giddy. He would make it home, sure, but he knew that perhaps if he were to carry some glass object, he would fear possibly dropping it. Leinathan was actually a safe drug. But it was not available on the market because it was an invention of Jacqueline, a medical scientist. She worked for McNeil Pharmaceuticals. She would not dare to market her secret drug for fear that the government would expropriate or outlaw it. What Leinathan had the power to do was to intensify the feeling of lust, to prolong the penis’s endurance, and accentuate the vagina’s pleasure, and it kept one feeling giddy afterwards, and longer than usual. She had discovered that the chemical identity of animalistic sex-lust and romantic sex-lust are different. She did not create the drug in order to assist all people to have sex. Her only target market was herself and her ecstasy was her only purpose. Leinathan did not initiate sexual hunger; that had to be initiated by the will of the lovers, but once sparked it turned a sparkle into a pyrotechnic celebration. The drug could not work on those with promiscuous motives; only those whose hunger was backed up by morality because the Leinathan could only react to that unique chemical identity of lovers. The only side effect was that the after effect was the prolonged feeling of just getting off a thrilling roller coaster. Consequently Cirilo was unashamedly working to be with Jacqueline forever. The boy was livid. He had thought that conquering her was heaven enough but this added fringe benefit sent him past it and into some higher world of Forms. Cirilo left Jacqueline’s apartment with a smile on his face. When he got to Ossington station he ascended to wait for the route 63 bus. On a wall across from him was a huge painting with angel children, which was the back wall of a day care. The station was three parallel lines. The middle line was the station building and the other two were the driveways. Cirilo was at the back of the long line of passengers waiting for the bus to come. Next to him were a mother and her baby in a large stroller. She smiled at him and wore eyes of longing. He continued his smile and looked up at the painting again, still enjoying the after effect of Leinathan. Soon the awaited bus turned into the station from a side street. A male passenger at the back of that bus noticed the unusual demeanour of Cirilo and chuckled with puzzlement. And he noticed the woman with the baby, and he believed that a boyfriend wasn’t with her. The passengers started to board slowly, and as the line began to get shorter, the spectator began to wonder who would help this woman. He had the urge to help her himself but he could not get passed the wall of people that was forming before him at the back of the bus. He stayed in his seat and watched. The woman asked Cirilo, “Can you help with this stroller,” with an expectant certainty since it was only her and Cirilo left to board, “I would, lady, but I can’t. My balance isn’t that good right now and I could possibly drop the stroller.” The mother was stunned and looked around her for help. An old woman at the front of the bus said to herself with angry astonishment, “Kids these days …” A big black woman across from her kissed her teeth, giving a sonorous sound to the saliva in her mouth. The bus driver rolled his eyes and then grimaced. He had the urge to prohibit Cirilo’s entry but the justice made him control that urge. Cirilo walk passed him and towards the back. The driver then shot out of his chair and went to help the woman with a stroller. “It’s my job, Miss. I’ll be glad to do it.” There was still a seat left at the back of the bus between the spectator and some fat white man. This is where Cirilo sat. The spectator could tell that Cirilo felt guilty but soon he was shocked to find that the guilt left his face so quickly after one quick shake of his head. Cirilo continued to smile into space. The spectator had to ask. “Buddy, my name’s Frank. Can I ask you a question?” “Sure, dude.” “Are you high?” “You can say that.” “What are you on?” “I like to call it Love.” Cirilo’s teeth began to show from his smile. “Love never put a smile on my face like the one you’re wearing.” “You don’t have a Jackie.” And his eyes narrowed for a moment, still smiling. “Some girl, eh?” “She’s out of this world.” Cirilo’s eyes grew wide and his brows spread apart. “Can I ask you another question?” “Sure.” “Did you refuse to help the lady with the stroller?” “Yes. I’m in no condition to sustain such a delicate thing.” “I think that’s honourable. I think most people would have felt so ashamed of not helping a woman in need that they would have risked carrying that stroller in a state of intoxication. Selflessness no matter what.” “Yah, I’m not selfless. I’m an egoist.” “No way!” And then he took a closer look at Cirilo’s face. He saw the happy sneer; the traces of a sardonic grin. Cirilo then knew that Jack knew. Cirilo asked, “So how many times have you read the big book?” “Five times!” “I’ve only read it twice. I even want to study it but I don’t have the time yet. I am a writer though.” “Do you write short stories?” “Yes.” The Leinathan was beginning to wear off and the smile began to vanish. “Do you write from that perspective too?” “As much as I know.” “Want to grab some beer later on? Maybe you can read me one of your stories?” “That would be interesting. However, tonight I’m going to have a bottle of wine, which I haven’t had for over a year. I think I’m going to read some poetry. I want to orate parts of Swinburne’s Atalanta of Calydon, for example. I definitely got to read Byron’s The Lament of Tasso.” “Well give me your e-mail address then. I’ll try to get you to meet me some other time. What is it?” And he prepared his palm computer for the data entry. “Jackie’s pearl at central purpose dot com. What’s yours?” “Rational General at reason dawns dot com.” “That’s easy.” Frank got off at Dundas Street, where a modernist looking bank on the southeast faced an old style bank, with ancient inspirations, and orange brick (the same bank that Hamilton’s mob boss “the enforcer” once robbed in his starting out days). The next big street was Queen and this is where Cirilo got off. It is the site of a large property of buildings that is Toronto’s main crazy house across the street from several of Toronto’s modernist galleries. In one of the window displays was a canvass with representational painting of gold coins, scattered around the newspaper clippings of the poor children of Africa, Asia, and Latin America. Cirilo’s apartment was above a busy diner. He ascended upstairs to his bed and lay flat for a while. He breathed deeply and slowly. In twenty minutes the effects of Leinathan had worn off completely, and his smile was gone. He bought himself a burger and fries at the diner below to go and ate at his round kitchen table watching the tenth season of House. The episode was of Gregory’s wedding to Patricia, a doctor of equal worth, and addicted to mysterious cases as well. Theirs was a relationship in which they get turned on by challenging each other to solve harder and harder cases.” Yes, Cirilo cried during the ceremony. The smile on Hugh Laurie’s face was that of unmistakable happiness. The cane of House’s earlier years was gone, as it was his fiancée who cured his illness. Evening came and Cirilo bought himself a bottle of Mendoza Merlot. He did read through Byron. He did read through Swinburne. And he read of an obscure poet, modern not modernist, not famous, hidden away in some anthology between hundreds of other poems. Cyrano D’Anconia was his name. Sample this one: “Let me be your flame, Dame, So I could spark and burn, Consumed by passion without blame, Near you dancing as I turn. Deity, I’ve praised your name— By you endlessly I yearn.” Thus spoke my Romantico to me, his Nina, Before I blushed and took his hand. I let him sip wine from my cantina Before he sang then with his band. “I have searched the world for none like you: An oasis to a past now considered tundra. Many joys I did manage to construe From a life fulfilled by mind’s Utopia. Virtue, values, dreams, and work All combined and made my happiness. Now suddenly my pathways jerk, And halt before the flower of your beauty bliss.” Thus continued Tico with smiles sanguine, Sending notes up to the wind’s embrace, Blowing words in swirl scented by my wine, Twirlings in the sand did his body trace. “I dance for you to help you feel my beats, And tell you what you mean to me to win, A life with you earning daily treats, That grew so ripe from all that I gave in. I claim that there’s a part of you that swears Allegiance to the happy minded seers, And will avenge the torches all your years.” Executing eyes of mine, how Tico saw, Willing to condemn the evil men, That dare to poke me with their law, That makes our love forbidden. “Francesca isn’t outraged just for me, And your Papa is fuming not for me, They hate the fact that we can find a joy, Felt by all yet, O, so hard to get. Don’t you know their anger is a ploy? To hide the blatant evil they beget: Hatred for the good for being good— The why of life so misunderstood!” And soon he swept me far away, And my past dust to the wind. Here we are in San Francisco Bay, Winning life we never have to mend. “The white dress that you wear, How it stands for a soul the purest. And your joy that I must bear, Is the cause of our love the surest. And tonight when I own you in our bliss, It will be heaven you will kiss.” Thus we stand here both, Reciting the same verse, In a sacred form of oath, In a style just terse, To reveal our burning lust, Sanctioned by god Reason’s cast, The halo of our trust, And the blessing of our past, That brought us here, To feel this thing, And know it without fear, And promise you to bring, The joy that always stays Somewhere within me, Even if you leave our days, In death and cease to be, But please don’t die, No, don’t dare go, Don’t tempt me, dear, to die, Though you know how I’ll still grow, As in allegiance to our life, A life committed thus in love, Shrugging off the strife, Because peace is not above, It’s here below and on this earth, It’s been here since our birth, It came with our straight minds, And it’s the force that binds, Us forever And ever … By the end of the poem he was hungry for Jacqueline. But he knew he could not see her until the morning. It was hard to resist. He knocked on a neighbour’s door and bought a bottle of wine from him at twice the regular cost. He put on some Frank Sinatra hoping it would assist his patience; put him in the mood of the patient pursuer and wooer, as opposed to the violent vanquisher. Eventually he did need sleep. He went to bed but not before setting his alarm for six in the morning, to give him enough time for his rendezvous at eight. He awoke wanting to drink a lot of water, and wanting desperately to take a shower. But he was not allowed to take a shower. She had ordered him not to take a shower after the one he would take when he got home after leaving her yesterday morning. She wanted to experience a scent that was natural and aged by life a little. And he couldn’t take a Tylenol because she once warned him that Tylenol and Leinathan should not mix; at least, it would hamper the sexual experience. He was tense and nauseous but he had to meet her because he still so desperately wanted to. He knew that she would gladly give him a massage before the act; in fact, she would prefer it. And he knew that she would not be disappointed about his drinking because she knew that he hadn’t drunk in a year. The bus was quite crowded but there was still a double seater left and he sat on the aisle side, so as not to feel cramped by some chance neighbour. And so that he could get off quickly and back into the fresh air. An old woman with a cane slowly got on the bus. She approached Cirilo. She smiled and asked all saintly, “Can I have your seat?” “No. You could sit next to me by the window, if you wish. I’ll stand to let you in.” The woman was insulted. She chose to remain standing instead with the motivation to make Cirilo feel guilty. Cirilo knew this was her motive and he smirked at her. Soon a man with glasses and a business suit meddled in and ordered,” “Hey man, why don’t you give the lady your seat?” “Because this is where I want to sit down. She can sit next to me.” “Don’t be so selfish.” “Sir, you don’t know who you’re talking to. That is exactly why I am refusing. But you don’t understand why I’m right because we have different codes of ethics.” “This is not about ethics!” “Yah right!” “If that’s the way you want to navigate through life, then you’re what’s wrong with the world. The world doesn’t work the way you seem to think. Compromise is key.” “Sir, you’re wrong. I’ll even discover new continents by following this code. And I don’t need to justify it to you or anyone.” The man sniffled and turned away. And the woman stood frozen for a moment and then turned away all snotty, as if she was too good to sit next to this insolent boy. Suddenly a familiar voice from behind called out. The man had seen Cirilo get on the bus, and had noticed his sickly demeanour, but Cirilo did not notice him. “Cirilo!” Cirilo turned to look at him. “Frank!” He called out. “If I give you my seat, will you give her yours?” “Now that’s a deal.” The seat exchange took place, the woman on the aisle seat, and the meddler by the window. Frank went to talk to the lady who had taken Cirilo’s seat. She thanked Frank. “Mam, don’t hate him. He means you no ill harm. Even a young man has a right to be tired at eight in the morning.” “You’re right. I was young too once. I know those days of being tired in the morning too.” The meddler was surprised by the woman’s comments. He now felt that his attempt at chivalry was wasted. He felt betrayed by the woman. Frank chose not to talk to Cirilo as a considerate gesture. And Cirilo understood this and was pleased. At the subway station Cirilo went westbound; Frank, east. Cirilo reclined on his chair and imagined the naked form of his Jacqueline. The headache was now almost gone. The End.
  18. Since grade 9 Pierre Trudeau was a sort of idol for me. It was his rebelliousness that I admired. And then my English teacher in grade 12 caught on to this and suggested that I read THE FOUNTAINHEAD for an independent study on Individualism. I read it and it was hard to read but very enjoyable and addictive, kind of like not being used to the taste of some beverage. I'm ashamed to admit that I made some grave errors prior to accepting it as my life guide. But I knew that I had discovered one of life's secrets and I was surprised not my family nor friends nor anyone I knew had discovered this same secret. Then I met John Ridpath. He taught me for two years at York University. I will always love that man just for being a teacher when I needed one most and for the first time in my life. His courses were really all about showing the student the importance of epistemology. And I had a friend who always challenged me: so how do I know for sure? After reading ITOE, I knew for sure. But really I was a second-hander until some years after I heard Peikoff's lectures on Induction. Then I knew that the work ahead of me was a motherload but at the same time I could learn this method. Now ... that's my goal. To come up with truth ... to understand ... what I need to know. That is really all Ayn Rand offers anyone: the right method. However, in the deepest sense her fiction provides one with the need to learn what this strange "first hander" really is ... it's a life long struggle ... but we can comfort ourselves with the confidence and certainty that knowledge is a spiral. And now I'm turning twenty-seven ... but I've learned how to write thanks to Ayn Rand and Tore Boeckmann, et. al. Much of the journey was torture--I kid you not. Maybe I was a weakling but god it hurt in many many ways. Sincerely, Jose Gainza.
  19. House is one of my favorite shows and one of the proofs that this is one of the best years or "eras" of television. House+24+Law and Order franchise+Prison Break=I have no name for it yet. Yes it was an enjoyable episode. I'm always "aroused" by Gregory's (we're on a first name basis now) secularism and logic. What a twist the ending is, eh? The ending of a great dramatist, ironic too. Did you see two episodes ago? When House was inspecting the girl in the elevator? Wow! So shocking yet so funny because of the viewers sense of dramatic irony. House is not an evil monster, he just loves medicine and hates stupidity. Aside: To keep this thread is fine if we can just talk and in more detail about a specific episode, an oasis from the general House topic, which can be reserved about talking about House as a show and more abstractly, as art qua art. Aside: I only now have started to read Sherlock Holmes (the short stories) and therefore only now am abashadly witnessing the pleasing similarities. Conan Doyle is awesome. He is responsible for much of the charm of that show. Anyways, loving House, Jose Gainza.
  20. For Francisco I nominate Wentworth Miller of Prison Break. You have to see the fineness of his features by watching the show. Pictures do not do him justice. Francisco is more the roman looking Latin. I don't think he has Indian or African features. It's more of the mediterranean look, if that means anything. Anyways, I used to think it an absolute that Jude Law shall be Francisco. I have changed my mind. Wentworth is ten times more beautiful than Jude Law. Anyone agree? Jose Gaiinza.
  21. Or me, they are obviously past "the burst of a smile", but they are amused, and not yet that "without pain, fear, or guilt", but they are very close to my natural expression ... "a secret garden" "over-optimism" "bitterness"; psychologically it is perhaps Hank Rearden that I am most like, in that, we share the same weakness, not knowing how good he really is: Sincerely, Jose Gainza P.S. I must say that the quality is not that great. Also, obviously myself and Rearden are not of the same race.
  22. I am very interested in anything on Ayn Rand's fiction. For a writer, to study We The Living, is essential because it is her best plot, as she herself admits. I attended a lecture in Toronto by Robert Mayhew on the eve of the publishing of that book. I'm not ready to study We The Living. Also, when I do study it I would like to get more of the answers by myself AND THEN go to other scholars. It's the same reason why I haven't listened to Peikoff's course on the history of philosophy. I want to read other histories of philosophies first as a sort of intellectual training AND THEN get all the antidotes from Dr. Peikoff. Now the Anthem anthology, I would be interested in reading soon, just for the pleasure. However, part of it is money. Part of it is that I don't deserve it because I have other projects to complete. And part of it is that I don't like to order over the internet. If it were available at the big bookstores here, I would probably buy it on a whim one day (at least I could read through it). I once had the idea to write an essay comparing Anthem and Zarathustra, which I would still like to do, but which is quite far away. There is something very special about Anthem and the Anthem anthology would be more appealing than the We The Living anthology. Unfortunately, my economic situation does not give me the liberty to engage in all the intellectual projects that have come to mind over the years. I think that Ayn Rand fans haven't bought those books, and many others, including lectures, because of time. Our culture is not geared to assist Objectivist intellectuals succeed in spending most their days studying philosophy. It is something one has to earn and fight for. Most people think that weddings, birthdays, and other special events are more important than studying Ayn Rand. They usually are not. Then there are lovers to pursue and struggling in that yet not sacrificing the central project of one's life. Indeed, Time is of the essence. I only took the time to respond to you because I'm eating lunch and now its cold. Soon I got to get on with my day. Jose Gainza.
  23. This next poem cost me $3.00 Canadian to complete because I had to do it at a cafe. REIGN HERE AND NOW By Jose Gainza Let existence reign over mind no matter what is said and done, what they think and wish… “…That sacred pearl past where there is no more.” Let nature reign through its recalcitrant rules, by the way it has to move, the way it has to stop… “…That place, that force, that law of ours.” Let Earth reign majestic as the planet better than all we know, than all we even wish… “…That wondrous paradise if we make it so.” Let man reign triumphant past all duels within himself, versus his foes, smiling from the top… “…That blessed child born to be a Man.” Let reason reign as the loftiest animal spirit, Architect for senses, craning past the puzzles… “…That grand dynamo when logic is well-learned.” Let Freedom reign as the arena of thought, the divan of mirth, and the bastion of our truth… “…That condition as oxygen for our soul.” Let justice reign bought by the will we writ, when the killer’s killed, and the Maker giggles… “…That blade to peel the fruit or axe the head.” Let joy reign strong coz of the acts we ought, by reason confirmed, and felt since our youth… “…That feeling we win that turns ever-present.” Let truth reign real in the contest of fame, Deception banished and scorned … Hail to truth… “…That sphere that we toil into.” Let gold reign bright as the standard of New, as the backer of cash, as the ring of my love… “…That peaceful blow turned into a caress.” Let taxes reign strong as the quintessence of blame, As the fuel of sloth, the stab at Rights, the damner of youth… “That concept that must reach the majority-minds.” Let Roark reign strong upon high with his view, with his peaceful reward, the kiss of the dove. “That hero who first returned us to our code.”
  24. If you want to know who I find hilarious, it is Robin Williams. On Sunday I saw him on Inside The Actors Studio (with James Lipton). I think it was two hours and it was non-stop laughter, where even a woman in the audience seemed that she would have to be taken out on a stretcher because she was laughing so much. But one skit Williams performed was about his teenage son. The son angelically asks his father to borrow his car. The father says no. Immediately the boy's "hyde" part comes out and he goes on a tantrum in the style of a gangster rapper, with bodily behaviour, swearing, lip action. Just imagine Williams doing this. So the father's response is a very eloquent version of the hip-hop style. Basically Williams says that he and his wife want to go for a ride and they are going to have sex. But Williams mimicks hiphopsters so so so well--able to express the hip hop language better than the son. You gotta see it. That's just one example. The boy is the object of laughter, as is hip-hop culture, adolescence, etc. That Williams is going to have sex with his wife is not the funny thing, though it is funny, but it is a foil to the superficiality of the teenage boy. A big part of the laughter I'm sure is to see Williams, an old man, perform the hip hop language so well. Has anyone else seen this? I guess that since it is such a good skit, Williams has done it before. But I would be amazed if most of the material during that Actor's Studio show was improved AND original. Jose Gainza.
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