Seymour Grass
2004-12-03 09:32:36 UTC
From: "Seymour Grass" <***@yahoo.com>
Subject: {Epitaph} We, the Dead {1,668}
Date: Friday, December 03, 2004 3:15 AM
Should any happen to suppose upon reading these first few paragraphs that
they have seen all this before, they would be magnificently mistaken. What
was originally posted first as "Beheaded!" and then as "Wet & Sloppy", has
since become only so much as a finished template, like a complete skeleton
upon which to hang the full flesh, and clothes of the larger story. Now I
suppose it's just all dressed up with no place to go . . .
--
Tomorrow, in the morning they are going to take off my head. And here I am,
the only journalist in the world who is on scene to get the scoop. All my
colleagues of the press will have to settle for a cold feed via videotape
over Islam Sat or the Internet, but lucky me, I get the exclusive--live and
in-action.
It should not be difficult to imagine the trouble I've had convincing these
guys to give me my laptop back so that I might continue in my work right on
up to the end. At first, they would not hear of it, and every angle I argued
was rejected until finally I hit on the one with the right appeal: "Beheaded
journalists don't reveal their sources."
This Jordanian fellow I have come to know only as "Zubair the Terrible," one
of my two night guards, is a graduate of Northwestern with an M.A. in
cognitive neuro-science, and so he, as a man who has learned to laugh right
into the face of--well, if not death itself, then how about Lake Michigan? I
mean, when frozen over with a frigid ice-wind blowing right through a person
when he's standing on State and Randolf trying to catch a bus? Such is the
mettle of a fellow like Zubair, the Terrible when it comes to what it takes
to appreciate the grim humor of in such a picture, of like, headless
journalists and protected sources. And that's why he was first to see the
beauty of it as he rocked on his haunches laughing his false teeth out with
that cocked Kalashnikov dangerously shaking on his knees. I just had to
thank my lucky stars that before he flopped over and went off like a
Palestinian schoolgirl in a crowded bus, he actually did manage to find a
way to slip down safely to his knees and elbows into a more sort of relaxed
posture over there on that lovely, but I must say, rather badly stained
Persian prayer rug of his.
Given time, I'll speak more of Zubair and his guard partner Uthman, but as
for now, considering the hour I can only say, 'fat chance'. Even so, as to
whether this report will ever see light of day, well, minus some unforeseen
Act of God, I should not be kidding myself, despite their having agreed (fat
chance) to send it off on disk (big fat chance) to the London
bureau--pending approval by the *Ummat* (huge, fat chance) of the contents,
of course. But, stranger things have happened, for example, the parting of
the Red Sea for Moses, the evolution of man from an amoeba or paramecium and
whatnot. I mean, you look at a paramecium, and what do you see foreshadowed
there, if not the very profile of Alfred Hitchcock? People like, oh, for
example, Josephus Flavius called that sort of thing a "prodigy" which means
something like 'omen', as a portent of things to come, sort of in the way of
a prophetic sign or 'wonder' as some would say. So, there's that.
Now, with slightly less than 12 hours remaining to my life (complete with a
head) it might seem that I am being rather inappropriately, if not wantonly
flippant about this whole thing--and wouldn't you instead expect to detect
some indication in my words of the inner terror that must lie behind all
this faux jocularity? In short, am I not afraid?
Let me tell you: two weeks ago just shortly after my capture, I couldn't
steady a cigarette to my lips or the flame of a match from my quivering
fingers to get it lit, I was so infused with a cold, crystalline intrusion
of fright. But as hours extended to days, seven days to a week, when the
teary, steamy clouds of self-delusion had dispersed to permit a view of
absolute, undiluted clarity revealing that neither my government nor my news
agency was about to ransom me, didn't I then sicken to feel my mind
descending to the horror of knowing that yes, nothing other than the
chopping block is to be my fate, so that nothing henceforth remains for the
intervening time of my life except to become finally resigned to just that?
And to what? Why, to nothing but the last few moments of life being spent
in a Moslem position of worship (whether facing east, I know not) but
definitely with butt in the air and nose to the ground, as I make my last
prayer that there may be such a being as "God" for me to praying to, and
further that if he really is "up there", that he won't be overly put off
with my having been forced to sort of "moon" him like that while I was
waiting to have my head chopped off--so a last prayer for his mercy of
forgiveness is what that would be.
You bet. If I was like these guys and believed that God was in Mecca, I
could do like them and get into that position five times a day and never
worry about a thing--not even after a supper of Boston Baked Beans. But
it's not like that, and I don't believe that God is in Mecca. In fact, I
figure he'd be more like to settle in Beverly Hills, or maybe up on
Mullholland Drive, you know, "up there"?
Anyway, none but the hard way have I learned how there is nothing that makes
these guys delight more in an intention to chop off your head, than for them
to see you put it, that is, your head, your face, your eyes and lips to a
purpose of begging their mercy. People don't much like being prayed to, no
matter what position you might try it from--and these guys most especially
don't like it. How they do despise the very sight of that, and I had hardly
got started sobbing my pleas--never concerning myself of course, you
understand--but for my wife you see, and my mother, and what the hell, upon
mention of my mother-in-law, I was just about to throw in my editor-in-chief
when I could see that if I didn't want the time of my execution moved up
abruptly to that exact moment, I ought to damned well turn off the
waterworks right there and then.
Since that day, I have been privileged to see firsthand, the "Stockholm
syndrome" revealed in all its pristine perversity, as I come more and more
to adopt the attitude of my captors toward myself. Now, any time I hear my
heart whining with hope, wheedling its plea to my mind that there may still
be a chance something I could say might stand to cause these guys to change
their minds--okay, that's when just short of trying to give myself a swift
kick in the pants with leg-irons on, I get a tight grip on myself, and I
say, "Mister, face it: your number is up, get used to it, and leave us not
be a big cry-baby about it, because it was bound to come around sooner or
later." And then as an afterthought, I add, "And besides, what's a few
decades more or less in the grander scheme of things?" And by this, I mean
to be saying that if you look at it in terms of the whole sweep of eternity
and not just within scope of the four billion years that the earth has been
here, then what have you got? Well, I'll tell you: you're going to be gone
from here a whole lot longer than you will ever get to stick around and so
the largest part of existence has been happening without you in it--or at
least so far as we in terms of our puny understanding may know.
So, what do we know? Well, right now, I'm taking some pleasure in thinking
of it like this: the whole of eternity is a whale of a long time to be gone,
and so just how long is that? How long is eternity? Why, it isn't even so
long as the snap of a finger, or the wink of any eye. How come? Because it
only exists so far as we are alive to know it exists, but when we're dead,
for us, we the dead, it does not exist. But once again, really, how long is
eternity; how long is it relative to ourselves? I'll tell you just exactly
how long eternity is: eternity is the length of time it takes for the
universe to open and close over and over and over again until all the stuff
that was in this universe, in this throw of the cosmic dice, the three of
the one die, and the four of the other to come up again, after the cosmos
had thrown boxcars and craps too many times, for this lucky throw should
come up again with the same stuff to make the same earth, same dinosaurs, to
bring the same comet in the Tertiary age to blow 'em all to kingdom come,
that Man might begin to evolve from another kind of mammalian creature, up
until the day on which every person presently reading these words is born
all over again, grows up, goes to work, or does whatever to sponge enough
bread off his folks to buy this computer and monitor you're looking at.
Eternity is no less than that. Eternity is no less capable than that or
else it is less than eternity, as eternity ought properly to be understood.
The Hindus and Buddhists have had it right from the beginning--it's all
coming round again. And you don't even need to have faith to 'believe' a
thing like this, all you need is the good sense to understand, to know what
the word 'Eternity' really means.
Subject: {Epitaph} We, the Dead {1,668}
Date: Friday, December 03, 2004 3:15 AM
Should any happen to suppose upon reading these first few paragraphs that
they have seen all this before, they would be magnificently mistaken. What
was originally posted first as "Beheaded!" and then as "Wet & Sloppy", has
since become only so much as a finished template, like a complete skeleton
upon which to hang the full flesh, and clothes of the larger story. Now I
suppose it's just all dressed up with no place to go . . .
--
Tomorrow, in the morning they are going to take off my head. And here I am,
the only journalist in the world who is on scene to get the scoop. All my
colleagues of the press will have to settle for a cold feed via videotape
over Islam Sat or the Internet, but lucky me, I get the exclusive--live and
in-action.
It should not be difficult to imagine the trouble I've had convincing these
guys to give me my laptop back so that I might continue in my work right on
up to the end. At first, they would not hear of it, and every angle I argued
was rejected until finally I hit on the one with the right appeal: "Beheaded
journalists don't reveal their sources."
This Jordanian fellow I have come to know only as "Zubair the Terrible," one
of my two night guards, is a graduate of Northwestern with an M.A. in
cognitive neuro-science, and so he, as a man who has learned to laugh right
into the face of--well, if not death itself, then how about Lake Michigan? I
mean, when frozen over with a frigid ice-wind blowing right through a person
when he's standing on State and Randolf trying to catch a bus? Such is the
mettle of a fellow like Zubair, the Terrible when it comes to what it takes
to appreciate the grim humor of in such a picture, of like, headless
journalists and protected sources. And that's why he was first to see the
beauty of it as he rocked on his haunches laughing his false teeth out with
that cocked Kalashnikov dangerously shaking on his knees. I just had to
thank my lucky stars that before he flopped over and went off like a
Palestinian schoolgirl in a crowded bus, he actually did manage to find a
way to slip down safely to his knees and elbows into a more sort of relaxed
posture over there on that lovely, but I must say, rather badly stained
Persian prayer rug of his.
Given time, I'll speak more of Zubair and his guard partner Uthman, but as
for now, considering the hour I can only say, 'fat chance'. Even so, as to
whether this report will ever see light of day, well, minus some unforeseen
Act of God, I should not be kidding myself, despite their having agreed (fat
chance) to send it off on disk (big fat chance) to the London
bureau--pending approval by the *Ummat* (huge, fat chance) of the contents,
of course. But, stranger things have happened, for example, the parting of
the Red Sea for Moses, the evolution of man from an amoeba or paramecium and
whatnot. I mean, you look at a paramecium, and what do you see foreshadowed
there, if not the very profile of Alfred Hitchcock? People like, oh, for
example, Josephus Flavius called that sort of thing a "prodigy" which means
something like 'omen', as a portent of things to come, sort of in the way of
a prophetic sign or 'wonder' as some would say. So, there's that.
Now, with slightly less than 12 hours remaining to my life (complete with a
head) it might seem that I am being rather inappropriately, if not wantonly
flippant about this whole thing--and wouldn't you instead expect to detect
some indication in my words of the inner terror that must lie behind all
this faux jocularity? In short, am I not afraid?
Let me tell you: two weeks ago just shortly after my capture, I couldn't
steady a cigarette to my lips or the flame of a match from my quivering
fingers to get it lit, I was so infused with a cold, crystalline intrusion
of fright. But as hours extended to days, seven days to a week, when the
teary, steamy clouds of self-delusion had dispersed to permit a view of
absolute, undiluted clarity revealing that neither my government nor my news
agency was about to ransom me, didn't I then sicken to feel my mind
descending to the horror of knowing that yes, nothing other than the
chopping block is to be my fate, so that nothing henceforth remains for the
intervening time of my life except to become finally resigned to just that?
And to what? Why, to nothing but the last few moments of life being spent
in a Moslem position of worship (whether facing east, I know not) but
definitely with butt in the air and nose to the ground, as I make my last
prayer that there may be such a being as "God" for me to praying to, and
further that if he really is "up there", that he won't be overly put off
with my having been forced to sort of "moon" him like that while I was
waiting to have my head chopped off--so a last prayer for his mercy of
forgiveness is what that would be.
You bet. If I was like these guys and believed that God was in Mecca, I
could do like them and get into that position five times a day and never
worry about a thing--not even after a supper of Boston Baked Beans. But
it's not like that, and I don't believe that God is in Mecca. In fact, I
figure he'd be more like to settle in Beverly Hills, or maybe up on
Mullholland Drive, you know, "up there"?
Anyway, none but the hard way have I learned how there is nothing that makes
these guys delight more in an intention to chop off your head, than for them
to see you put it, that is, your head, your face, your eyes and lips to a
purpose of begging their mercy. People don't much like being prayed to, no
matter what position you might try it from--and these guys most especially
don't like it. How they do despise the very sight of that, and I had hardly
got started sobbing my pleas--never concerning myself of course, you
understand--but for my wife you see, and my mother, and what the hell, upon
mention of my mother-in-law, I was just about to throw in my editor-in-chief
when I could see that if I didn't want the time of my execution moved up
abruptly to that exact moment, I ought to damned well turn off the
waterworks right there and then.
Since that day, I have been privileged to see firsthand, the "Stockholm
syndrome" revealed in all its pristine perversity, as I come more and more
to adopt the attitude of my captors toward myself. Now, any time I hear my
heart whining with hope, wheedling its plea to my mind that there may still
be a chance something I could say might stand to cause these guys to change
their minds--okay, that's when just short of trying to give myself a swift
kick in the pants with leg-irons on, I get a tight grip on myself, and I
say, "Mister, face it: your number is up, get used to it, and leave us not
be a big cry-baby about it, because it was bound to come around sooner or
later." And then as an afterthought, I add, "And besides, what's a few
decades more or less in the grander scheme of things?" And by this, I mean
to be saying that if you look at it in terms of the whole sweep of eternity
and not just within scope of the four billion years that the earth has been
here, then what have you got? Well, I'll tell you: you're going to be gone
from here a whole lot longer than you will ever get to stick around and so
the largest part of existence has been happening without you in it--or at
least so far as we in terms of our puny understanding may know.
So, what do we know? Well, right now, I'm taking some pleasure in thinking
of it like this: the whole of eternity is a whale of a long time to be gone,
and so just how long is that? How long is eternity? Why, it isn't even so
long as the snap of a finger, or the wink of any eye. How come? Because it
only exists so far as we are alive to know it exists, but when we're dead,
for us, we the dead, it does not exist. But once again, really, how long is
eternity; how long is it relative to ourselves? I'll tell you just exactly
how long eternity is: eternity is the length of time it takes for the
universe to open and close over and over and over again until all the stuff
that was in this universe, in this throw of the cosmic dice, the three of
the one die, and the four of the other to come up again, after the cosmos
had thrown boxcars and craps too many times, for this lucky throw should
come up again with the same stuff to make the same earth, same dinosaurs, to
bring the same comet in the Tertiary age to blow 'em all to kingdom come,
that Man might begin to evolve from another kind of mammalian creature, up
until the day on which every person presently reading these words is born
all over again, grows up, goes to work, or does whatever to sponge enough
bread off his folks to buy this computer and monitor you're looking at.
Eternity is no less than that. Eternity is no less capable than that or
else it is less than eternity, as eternity ought properly to be understood.
The Hindus and Buddhists have had it right from the beginning--it's all
coming round again. And you don't even need to have faith to 'believe' a
thing like this, all you need is the good sense to understand, to know what
the word 'Eternity' really means.
--
John http://jpdavid.freewebspace.com/ http://www.virtualtourist.com/m/520b8/
"They held even this, thus: namely, True Nature is that which does not
mislead another. And Wisdom is that which does not mislead itself. And
Conscientiousness is that which when it recognizes virtue, performs it." --
Zoroaster
John http://jpdavid.freewebspace.com/ http://www.virtualtourist.com/m/520b8/
"They held even this, thus: namely, True Nature is that which does not
mislead another. And Wisdom is that which does not mislead itself. And
Conscientiousness is that which when it recognizes virtue, performs it." --
Zoroaster