Twelve Plus One

This is the Prologue and Chapter One of a book (of sorts) I wrote a while back. Please tell me what you think:

Twelve Plus One

Book One: A Guide To Extremes

“Let us digress around hundred and fifty years: in the year 1857 a famous writer gave birth to a movement called ‘Realism’. His name is Gustave Flaubert (or however the French pronounce it!), and he wrote an extraordinary piece of work that some of us analyse today called: Madame Bovary. In a cliff note I found on the Internet, it says: “Flaubert depicted an entire segment of society and unmercifully analysed its people…” Which segment of society was analysed? “He created unforgettable characters from whom our own age can learn valuable and essential lessons…” Unforgettable characters in the form of a cheating wife who commits murder! It also states that: “…he took some mundane story and, thanks to his skill as a writer, demonstrated the potentialities of everyday life as a source of art…” …everyday life as a source of art!” (Introduction to ‘Mr. & Mrs. Smith’ More than a Movie Review, by CanguroArgentino@hotmail.com, 2006)

By Andres

Prologue

The rock floor was cold, grey and hard. They all just stood there, looking, staring at each other for the first time. Some were amazed, others stood open-mouthed, incredulous of what they were seeing, and two began crying, scared, lost, and unable to understand why they had suddenly blinked into that strange room. None of them knew each other; strangers trapped in a place they knew not how they had arrived.

It was an odd group of people, boys, girls, a young man and a young woman, dark-skinned, light-skinned, blondes, brunettes, a red head. Thirteen people all looking bewildered and scared.

The tallest male, a strong and handsome blonde figure, was the first to snap out of his stupor. He graciously shuffled towards the only apparent opening in that boxed room. It was a window-shaped space located high atop one of the tall stone walls. It had neither glass panes nor wooden borders, just an opening between the enormous rock bricks that made the wall. His hands, outstretched above his head, could not grasp the ledge, even on the tips of his toes. He tried finding a crack to place a foot, to hoist him that extra inch he needed, to no avail, it was too high to reach.

“What can you see?”

The voice shattered the awkward crying, breathing, sighing that had endured this long. Her voice seemed stronger than what she had anticipated, her eyes showing her own apprehension of how steady her question was released.

The tall blonde, standing directly below the opening, glanced quickly at where the voice had come from. Judging quickly who had spoken so clearly, he was amazed at her ability to speak when his mouth seemed so dry and unable to form coherent words. He stretched his neck as far as it could go and peered out the gap in the wall. As he wasn’t at a height to look down, he could only see what lay beyond the window-- in the distance.

“A forest…mountains…” He rasped, trying to form saliva to speak more clearly, “it looks like a picture on a postcard…it’s so green and colourful!”

A different voice echoed in the snug room. A boy’s voice: “It is Kenya. It is where I am from.”

“Kenya?” Many gasped, shocked and amazed at this outrageous claim. Clearly they were dubious about having been transferred so far from their homes.

A petite young boy made his way to the centre of the group.

“OK,” he said, “Let’s try to work this out. Where is everyone from? And, how do you think we got here? I’ll start…”

His analytical mind needed to piece the facts together, and from experience he believed sharing ideas was the best way to find solutions. He didn’t like standing out from the crowd, but this situation needed some kind of managing and he felt he was the only one able to do it.

No one commented on the language they were using, most for the very first time, yet they all understood each other perfectly, as if it were spoken throughout all time.

Chapter One: The Thinker

Part A: The End of the Beginning

Sam-Je was only thirteen, but even his teachers had observed he was much wiser than his peers. He came from a very humble home in Fairfield, a small suburb about 30 kilometres from the central business district of Sydney, Australia.

His parents, John and Mary, worked together in the local tiles factory, on and off, for the past twenty four years. Mary was John’s supervisor for the last ten years and had, just last year, become bedridden due to stress and anxiety. They had been together since leaving school at sixteen years of age. Their life together had been mostly hard and painful.

Through their many misconceptions, natural abortions and false pregnancies, they had fortified their bond and love for their only son, Sam-Je. His name was an amalgamation of all the other names John and Mary had thought of to name their lost children: Susan (died in the womb after only three months), Adam (a false pregnancy that lasted just six weeks), Mary-Jane (died at birth: cause unknown), and their penultimate intent at procreation, Elijah (which John mentioned as Mary missed her regular period, making her sob uncontrollably as this name was already in her mind for her last pregnancy with MJ, if she had been a boy). Therefore, not until Sam-Je was conceived, controlled and taken home that his unique name was decided upon.

Sam-Je’s parents raised him as if he were a blessing from God. After so much heartache and pain of losing their hopes and dreams, time after time, due to “unforseen circumstances” (as their councillor had called their struggle), Sam-Je was burdened with all their expectations and fears.

Mary had become overprotective of her son to a point where he could not even walk by himself, until he was at least five and a half. When he stood on his own two feet at eighteen months Mary scrambled around him placing cushions, pillows and blankets to break his fall. Her movements were so fast and jerky that they scared Sam-Je into a sitting position. He would not stand again until he was twenty months old. When he finally took his first steps Mary was right there to grab his hands after two small shuffles.

John was also protective of his son’s well-being and taped bubble-wrap to every piece of furniture that had sharp corners, curved corners, and protruding parts. When Sam-Je commenced crawling, John bought him a tiny helmet so that he wouldn’t hurt himself when bumping into things. When they had to go for a drive somewhere, something both Mary and John avoided unless it was inevitable, Sam-Je was strapped to his baby seat, helmet on, and a wall of bubble-wrap was placed over the window and the seat in front of him.

Many people who did not know what Mary had been through looked on with contempt, and those who were aware of her circumstances could not convince Mary to be any other way. John refused to listen to any advice and supported Mary’s decisions because he too believed Sam-Je was their last hope of having a family.

Sam-Je, on the other hand, didn’t know his name represented his parents’ previous misfortunes. What he did know was that his name presented a few misfortunes of its own. Ever since a little-known director from New Zealand had brought to life the forty-eight-year-old fantasy tale of J.R.R. Tolkien, with a leading hobbit character by the name of Samwise Gamgee, Sam-Je had suffered humiliating jokes, snide remarks, and unnecessary, let alone unfounded, comparisons to that short, strict, and somewhat annoying little hobbit that was to Frodo like Bonnie was to Clyde, albeit the same gender.

His name wasn’t the only contributing factor to his ‘loner’ attitude; his personality also played a vital part in his reclusion. As sports, playing outside near the traffic, and using blunt instruments such as bats, racquets and sticks, were extremely dangerous for an only son, Sam-Je’s physical development was limited. Lacking exercise to certain muscles, he trained one muscle more than the rest: his brain.

His indoors activities included watching television, reading from a very young age, playing games he’d invent, writing short stories for his own entertainment, and building complex structures with his enormous Lego collection. So when he took these skills to school, he found the only place to use them without being teased was in the library. So day after day, Sam-Je hid from his peers in the school’s library, and at the same time quenched his thirst for knowledge. The more he secluded himself from the world, the more he learnt about it through many significant books, novels, magazines and newspapers. His knowledge expanded laterally, not uniformly like many of his peers who became obsessed with one subject or topic and wouldn’t even think about anything else. Sam-Je liked delving into many subjects and topics, sometimes various ones at a time. He would be interested in rockets, for example, and then through the research on rocket building he would find that his interest diverged into combustion engine manufacturing, employee benefits in shift working positions, through to the cost of bread in other parts of the world. One thing would always lead him to another, and another, and so forth until something would lead him back to his first interest, like the rockets in the previous example.

The academic exams that measured IQ showed he wasn’t Einstein-smart; those scores told him he was average, or a little above average, according to his age. Sam-Je was knowledgeable, well-read, and quick-witted. The reason for his poor performance in controlled exam situations was his wandering mind. One question in an exam could send his mind wheeling to all sorts of ideas, concepts, theories and possible answers he had read from different perspectives than what the school had taught him.

By the time he reached high school Sam-Je’s inquisitive nature got him into more trouble than he needed. His constant questioning of his teachers, using real quotes from contradicting sources, made them all dread their fifty five minute lessons with him.

He would never accept an answer like: “because it is”, or “because that is the way it’s been forever”.  In mathematics, for example, when he was in year 8, the straight-out-of-college, mid-20, tall, blonde, very intelligent young teacher he had, taught the class Pythagoras’ rule. Even though it was a scientifically proven, world-renown formula to obtain the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle, until Sam-Je proved it for himself, he would argue non-stop with his teacher:

“How did he work it out?”

“I don’t know, but it works and is used in maths the world over.”

“But what if he’s wrong?”

“He isn’t! The formula works…every time!”

“Did he measure every triangle he could draw or find?”

“He used his brain to work it out. He came up with the formula by calculating the figures involved.”

And so the battering of questions persisted until Sam-Je himself had drawn 100 different sized right-angle triangles and had calculated and measured the hypotenuse in each one. Because he was using his standard school ruler, his results were sometimes off by one or two millimetres. When he finally verified that the sum of the square of both sides equalled the square of the hypotenuse, he stopped arguing with the teacher and accepted the rule.

This was the way he tackled each and every piece of information he was given. It was doubtful until he could prove it valid. Except, of course, those which he deemed were immoral, mean, bad or dirty. He never stole a bike, though he did enjoy the adrenaline a couple of lollies provided from the corner store, which, in fact, he later paid back by purposely leaving his change. He even found a wallet once with a couple of hundred dollars in it, and he thought of everything he would buy with them, all the way to the police station to hand it in.

To quench his zest for knowledge, he had read books on history, geography, literature, fiction, philosophy, biographies, theology, sports, medicine, politics, and much more, but he couldn’t find his passion in any of them. His teachers, worried that he wouldn’t hone his skills, sent him a number of times to the school counsellor where he was tested for intelligence, career paths, and, Sam-Je was sure he had seen an Attention-Deficit Disorder checklist on the counsellor’s desk, but was never tagged with it, nor was he given a specific path to follow.

Sam-Je was special. ‘Weird, wonderful and unique’, as his parents would describe him, or simply ‘WWW’, which he tried to argue was incorrect but was always responded in the same fashion: “the last ‘w’ is silent in ‘wunique’. Sam-Je himself had trouble identifying exactly what or where his parents’ mind-frame came from.

I must interrupt the detailed description of Sam-Je’s life to inform the valued reader of the narrator’s unorthodox method of perception, as I’m sure you’ll be thinking: “what a strange description!”

The narrator is an entity which informs the reader of all the information necessary for the story’s development; an all-seeing, all-knowing persona, much like a guide that enhances a tour. This particular narrator is weighed down in its unbiased portrayal of events by three very important voices it hears as it is observing: the good, the bad, and the balanced voice of reason. Each voice has its own interpretation of an event and how the character has reacted from it. Sometimes, the three points of view intertwine in one long sentence and/or paragraph, making it hard for the reader to form a strong opinion of the event and/or character. As the three points of view, or voices, will not be identified, it is up to the reader to assume which is which. Even the characters sometimes listen to the wrong voices and are lead astray by their persuasiveness.

Furthermore, you may read this story in differing layers, defined by interpretations of events by different viewpoints. Even if the characters choose a different path than the one you might have chosen, each of their decisions will be justified by their unique thought process. Sooner or later they will learn lessons that will guide them to the right voice, but until that time, your patience is greatly appreciated.

Ergo, Sam-Je’s childhood was littered with ‘events’ that made his disposition for learning all the more insatiable. His at-the-moment passions were varied and numerous. At the time when this story occurred, he was perfecting his skills on a computer game called Prince of Persia: The Two Thrones.

He also had a strong or extravagant fondness, enthusiasm or desire for reading texts reserved for people thrice (39) his age, watching, analysing and reviewing movies, collecting comic books, magazines, figurines, and dinosaur models. Please forgive my broad observations as I don’t believe some details are detrimental to the character’s development, like a physical description. It doesn’t matter if Sam-Je was skinny, chubby, fat, long-haired, black-haired, wore glasses or dressed in clothes two sizes bigger than him, his attitude towards life, as defined by his upbringing and perspective make a much more in-depth portrait than me telling you what he looked like. Imagine someone you know, who thinks or acts similar to Sam-Je for a mental picture of the character.

Sam-Je’s solitary existence at the school’s library extended to his home where most afternoons were spent locked up in his bedroom, avoiding the yelling and fighting his parents engaged in over trivial matters, such as who had paid the bills, whose turn it was to buy a carton of beer, packet of smokes, or the milk that week. These incidents, however, didn’t impinge on his belief that he was happy. Who are we to assume a pig isn’t happy with his mud just because we don’t like the mess?

His life was built on routines. He had come to a firm conclusion that if anything in his life wasn’t made up of certain rules and restrictions, his theories, goals, or aspirations would fail. This perspective came about from his extensive reading where every famous writer, poet, actor, philosopher, inventor, sportsperson, scientist, leader, guide and guru had prepared a plan, stuck to it whatever their obstacle to reach their dream. So, from peeing to fleeing the bullies at school, Sam-Je had worked out a schedule- a plan of sorts.

To exemplify this, his normal school day consisted of the following routines, in the following order; wake up at 6 a.m., toilet, shower, self-prepared breakfast, brush teeth, make lunch, pack school bag, take out trash, watch cartoons until 8:15 a.m., walk to school library until bell, classes, morning tea, library, classes, lunch, library, classes until end of school bell, library until 3:15 p.m., walk home, empty schoolbag, do his homework, make tea, watch TV for an hour, read in his room or play on his computer for an hour, dinner, wash up, freeze popper for next day, brush teeth, toilet, read in bed until 9:15 p.m., sleep. And thus he believed his life was on route to greatness, or somewhere in that vicinity.

The day he decided to be ‘naughty’ and took a longer, more scenic route to school was the last he remembered before ending up in that strange castle-like room with the other twelve strangers.

While the doctors informed his parents of his undefined state of coma, due to the impact of the vehicle, Sam-Je was taking control of his life in a far-away, mystical, magical place.

To all the women I've loved before

To all the women I've loved before, who would be surprised to learn I continue loving, albeit in a distinctly new manner, I apologise.
I apologise for loving you like a possession, of thinking you were mine to program and control like those new toy robots. I misinterpreted the concept of relationships to the simplistic notion that a woman needs a man to protect and takecare of her, in proportion to the amount of love-making the man gets! Indy, Han Solo, Fonzie, even Ritchie were my teachers!
I apologise for not trusting you, as I couldn't trust myself. After all the cheating women I'd met in those pub-crawling days, the baby-faced foreigner act that had gotten me laid still resided in my horny, nether region head. And every time I unintentionally pissed you off, when you looked at me like a sailor you'd never see again, the urge to go get wasted was just a reason to let baby-face out! I thought love-making and sex were plain simple synonyms!

I apologise for turning your anger around, using my guilt as combustion I'd burn through your head to unwire the connections you'd made. Using wordplay to muddle the facts, I'd sway your opinion by unprovable stat’s. Don't think me evil, I was just daft! I knew I loved you more than those brief horny nights, but part of me wanted to leave you in peace. If I knew then about the cycles and change that occur every day, the energies that flow whether you want it or not, the briefness of time that blossoms to love, the beauty you gave to my ego-warped mind, and the feeling of pain I left in our hearts, I wouldn't have learned the lessons I had!

I apologise for being naive, for thinking the exchange student, the hairdresser, the stewardess and our classmates' ONLY liked me as a friend! I thought there was a line a woman never crosses, which a man feels obliged to test. I was more surprised they did what they did to me, with so little suggestion, like a double entendre or two! You leaving me alone with them wasn't a very bright idea, either!

I apologise for loving the person I wanted you to be, more than who you were. I only pushed you to excel so you would love yourself a little more, and when the dream didn't materialise, I turned into a fascist regime to see if I could usher 'her' forth. I was so up myself I thought my name defined perfection! If only I took more time figuring out how I worked, rather than trying to decode your moods, I could've harnessed my inner Genghis much sooner!

I apologise for not understanding, listening, nor seeing your views. Because of feeling your thoughts, speaking them out before you've processed them, I believed I knew what your were feeling better than you did! How wrong I was, I understand, am still working on that ESP; like a 1950's radio, my tuning's a bit off, and the interference I get is overwhelming, but when it's clear, the connections are amazing!

I apologise for picking fights, out of guilt, revenge or a desire to push you away. Once I'd lied and 'got away with it' even though the guilt had already started eating through my heart, I wanted to save you from myself, but greedily kept you near. That nagging feeling you get when you think you've forgotten to do something was similar to that evil voice that kept pushing me to try it again, to see if I could get away with it just one more time. From the white lies to save myself from your jealousy, as when I used to go for a smoke during class and meet your mortal enemy in the hallways or balcony, and tell you I was alone, to the times I went clubbing with my mates while you had those 'family or best friends' night and thought I'd be playing cards. From having a smoke when I'd sworn I had quit 'for you', to the long, intimate conversations I had with your best friends. Mostly I believed I was doing no harm, until the lies got bigger and my guilt grew heavier and heavier until I'd crack and pick a fight. You lied to me as well, for probably the same reasons, but you never acted so bad to warrant the same guilt. Like a dog that marks its territory and shows his strength to the pack, growling and barking and peeing around, the days before a full moon, I notice now, my inner Cujo would rear its head.

I apologise for being hypocritical, narrow-minded, arrogant and overbearing. Learning is a life-long process. What I thought was gospel at 10, turned out to be fake at 20, and the new point of view from then, needed a few life-lessons to retract and/or edit. Being right seemed more important than being good to you, and this is the biggest misconception I've had. Studying human nature from the beginning of time distorted my opinion of what's normal and socially right. Instinct and choice were two different worlds, needs and wants meant the same thing, 'me' is in 'team' and 'I' in 'unite' so my perspective looked in before out! Your needs only mattered if gain could be made, if you asked me for advice I'd tailor it to suit my wants before your good. Selfish, egocentric, and self-absorbed defined my ways, but remember the studies that just enforced the myopic view! Generals, Kings, Presidents and Priests were all recognised for being so greedy and selfish, my ego determined my wish was your command. Young, stupid and gullible just as much as naive, I wish I'd listen to my heart instead of treating its voice like a freak!

Please astrally send me the remains of your hate, your anger and your pain that I have caused in your heart. Karma has punished me a lot, I understand, though I'd like to cleanse the remainder to give my daughter a fresh start! You may think I don't deserve your forgiveness, a kindness, nor a break, but please be mindful that like a ripple in a calm mountain lake, the waves not only drift towards the sides, they rebound and return to its creation's spot, like your thoughts good or bad which return in actions of the same brand!

I love you entirely and whole. Your spirit and soul have left prints onto mine, like an incomplete DNA strand they've melded and corrected it's function, but it's taken so long because I've treated them as foreign, different to mine. I send you warmth and light and deep-seated love, without want, need nor desire, just the pure unconditional kind. You deserved no less when you gave your heart to me, and though I feel I lost a whole lot more when I let you go, I had no right to treat your love like a device. I APOLOGISE.

My PATHETIC Truth

So I get offered a teaching job out west, get a loan from the Teachers' Union for furniture & move into a Rental. After confronting my Special Needs head of department for keeping a bright student from the “mainstream” after his parents divorce, being told “we need more kids to get more funding!” Also telling her what all her staff thought but didn't say, that every “staff meeting” (at least once a week, if not more, where they sit around gossiping about whose mother did what and which student is so and so) ran to 6 or 7 pm while nothing got done (she'd delegate work for our lunch times!). My daughter (Grade 3) in the next classroom, bored, watching DVD after DVD until we'd finish, hearing everything that BITCH said!! Until finally, one hot, humid day, I couldn't contain it any longer, and told her that unlike herself (who has an autistic son, which she desperately avoids at all costs), we actually LIKED going home! Only one other staff stayed brown nosing every afternoon, although she complained to us about it when the Head wasn't around!
On one occasion, a lady was verbally and physically abusing a grade 11 student outside one of my classroom's. All the other teachers in that block had entered their classrooms and closed the door. For a while I thought this woman was a teacher getting off on a student, until I heard her profanities. Then I see her poking and pushing the kid around, he not even defending himself. I send one of my students to get the principal and ,silly me, steps in between the two. I was kept on staff until the court hearing, where Mr Powell told me I should've kept my mouth shut! Still not sure if he was referring to my comments to the head Bitch or what I said to the mother's son (I'm so sorry for you, I had an overprotective mum, too!)
So wage less, single parent, renting a three-bedroom in woop woop, my credit cards (just 2) topped.
From there I get depression and a traineeship in the Caring Industry for 6 months. I get offered a job by one of the places I trained at. Start at two sleepovers a week (good money) and a few hours office work. But then, she ups my office hours (less per hour than the sleepovers) from 5 a week to 4 hours a day, 3 days a week, and takes me off sleepovers to make room for a new trainee (as the Govt pays her $5000). This is after she rents me a unit in a complex to supervise 2 units with Mental Health residents, at $350 a week! He paid the bond, I got stuck with the rent! Centrelink demands I work 30 hours a fortnight, but my job depends on work- no office work-no hours! When I finally get a sleepover due to staff holidays, one of the residents in the complex commits suicide- the same girl who would sometimes babysit my daughter while I worked! To tell you this threw my life into chaos is redundant.
My hours diminished in ratio to my attitude, until I was so in debt I ran away the night before the 2009 floods- I just needed to walk it off I thought! I left my wallet, ID, phone and keys at home, my daughter with my mum, and I jumped on a train. When I heard the ticket guy coming I hopped off the Ipswich to Caboolture line at Wooloowin Station, and walked to my old neighbourhood of Stafford. At the shopping centre I nicked a bottle of iced coffee for dinner and walked to my old primary school at Queen of Apostles State School, hoping my old priest and mentor, Father Kevin was there. Nope- it was closed for reconstruction. Raining, windy, wet and cold, I broke in and slept on the second floor of a building, windows and doors removed. I used wall fillers as a mattress, cardboard as a blanket and a paint rag scrunched up as a pillow. I slept until the storm was at it's peak, and it seemed the roof was about to cave in, then sat on the roof watching the rain come pouring down.
The next day I walked all the way to Chermside Shopping Centre, and slept inside K-Mart storeroom behind some crates, after helping the administration advise people in the cinema that all buses had been cancelled due to the floods. Around 3 am I woke up and set off the alarms. I played Fun with Dick and Jane, rolling around the aisles, getting smokes and toys until the cops showed up. As I came nicely, they took me to the Mental Health ward at a hospital where they gave me morphine and I slept it off. Next day I walked to the Emergency Flood Recovery Centre at the Ekka Showgrounds, burning my feet as the cops had taken my sneakers because they “looked too new”. Burnt soles of feet, sitting at St John's ambulance, Julia Gillard shows up with a mob of photographers and comes to say hello!
I stayed there, also volunteering, for three days until I could catch a bus back to Ipswich- luckily they were free! Few weeks later I get a great job caring for a great bloke.
Now that I'm “settled” and have regular payments coming in, direct debiting the minimum to pay off the credit cards, I cannot get a loan to fix my car because of one missed Mastercard payment- the Commbank have put me in “Collections” making it impossible to get a loan anywhere! No car- no job, no tutoring, no driving daughter to soccer- and FUCK BUSES- my job involves driving client shopping, etc.
Dog eat dog world, but they can go stick their rolled up cash up their huge flabby ass! Karma- pft! Doesn't exist for devil worshippers like bankers.
So if I can't make an HONEST living, it's time to break the rules! Time for another Walkabout and see what the tide brings! Hope you visit! And if you live in one of the “rich” suburbs, I'll be calling in soon, whether you're home or not!

EQUALITY MY FUCKING ASS!!!!!

Philosophical Podcast

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 Join Mark & The Professor and their special guests Andres and Eric, as they discuss recent stories in the news. A big shout out to all the crew at The Thought Academy on Facebook.

Relearning the Past - Grade 3 Writing

Relearning the Past

Grade 3 Writing

In 1980, at Queen of Apostles State School, my grade three English teacher said I would become a great writer one day. Short, chubby, scruffy-haired, “fresh-off-the-boat”, naive, innocent, tanned-skin, brown-curly-haired 7-turning-8-year-old kid in an all-blond-haired/blue-eyed “North-side” suburb of the last state in Australia to accept the inevitable flux of immigration the Government decided was essential to boost population, and more importantly, the gene pool. Queensland, the deadliest, most uninhabitable state after Western Australia and its desert, and the Northern Territory: gifted to the Aborigines so oil companies could purchase cheap mining grants. With the largest variety of deadly animals: snakes, spiders, fish, sharks, rocks; and even some vegetation, the inhospitable landscape and the unpredictable weather causing floods, hail storms and gale-force winds, the biggest trouble my family had settling in was the rude, arrogant, depreciating attitude of the human colonisers to any immigrant community in “their” lands!

"By 1977 Australia’s natural rate of population increase was down to zero and the net

migration gain in 1976 was only 39,000. Some 70,000 arrivals were expected in 1977, of which

less than 20,000 would have assisted passage. The main migrant groups were family

reunions, refugees and people with occupational eligibility."

(1977 CABINET RECORDS – SELECTED DOCUMENTS, www.naa.gov.au/collection/.../cabinet.../jim-stokes-transcript-77.aspx)

When Sister Jude, our grade 3 English teacher, gave us an assignment to write a short story about an experience, or adventure we'd had, using writing techniques we'd learn in class, and handing in a few drafts throughout the three week time limit, I was terrified. In grade one, at Darra State School, another, darker-skinned boy had bullied me all year. In grade 2 at Wooloowin State School, my distinct accent, pronunciation, and demeanour had made me that year's laughing stock. Although later in life I embraced my comedic timing, in grade 2 it was all a little daunting being ridiculed because I said 'shit' instead of 'sheet', or because my mum sent “smelly salami sandwiches” for lunch. A little hurtful being tripped, kicked, punched, and overtly bullied right in front of supervising staff, principal and playground staff doing their rounds, but never really getting involved in my scuffles until it was all hands on deck, in other words, when the bullies had got a few good hits into me. I remember the tall, gangly principle or deputy at Wooloowin telling me to man-up, stop crying, and face bullies head-on. Then I was suspended for head-butting said bully, because I didn't know what an idiom meant! When we moved to Stafford, my parents decided to put me in a Catholic School, hoping the religious principles were international. Even though dad wasn't very religious, he knew the most quoted bible lines that spoke of equality, love, and kindness. He'd say them ad-nausea every time he picked me up from school and I was crying.

“love thy neighbour”, “turn the other cheek”, “love thy enemy though know not what they do”

My parents worked all day, so it was up to my sisters to walk me home from school every afternoon, except when my dad was called to get me. At least once a month he'd be called, from a scraped knee, headache or cold to broken wrist, ankle or a head trauma, the school would get my dad out of work to come get his accident-prone child. Honestly, most of the accidents were due to my clumsy, hurried, distracted interaction with the world around me. The first time he was called, though, it was a bleeding nose caused by an angry boy's fist because I had retaliated. He had called me a fat wog nigga, and I had called him a skinny red turd.

Sometimes, when I'd come in late, or back from an errand, boys would trip me on my way to my seat. They'd pull the chair from under me as I sat, hide my books, pens and ruler, throw spit balls at my hair, chalk at my head, and when no teachers were around, bigger objects were hurled. Thus this writing assignment caused a lot more than apprehension, it sounded as if WWII bomb warning sirens were going off in my head, apart from writing the story we had to read it out loud, in front of the whole class, as well! Chicken or sitting duck were my only two options. I'd either not do it at all, chicken out of the whole experience, or do it and become a better target for their mean words and teasing. But my biggest fear was disappointing the lovely, angelic, and kind Sister Jude. I'd already let her down in history class when she put the Spain tag in South America and I argued with her about it. Also, in RE (Religious Education), I had been “inappropriate” when I called out “bullshit!” as she was explaining the wars between barbarians and Christians in Ancient Rome. Even then I knew who the real warmongers were!

A breakthrough came during the last week of the assignment deadline. Sister Jude elegantly taught us how metaphors used personifications to describe human affairs. With this knowledge I could write a story about an animal or inanimate object experiencing the world just as I had been. The story had to contain a moral or a lesson, and a bonus would be given if our presentation included an alliteration. Luckily, being a bookworm as I was, my keenness for rhyming words, spelling conventions, and Roald Dahl story arcs' enhanced my English, my proficiency in writing stories, and creating make-believe.

This is the story as I remember it:

The Colt that Craved Captivity

Once upon a time there were thousands of different types of horses. Not just colours or heights. There were horses with horns, some with wings, yet others had arms, and even human torsos, but the humans didn't want any of them, they just wanted the normal horses. The horses that the humans did take were given royal treatments. They'd be washed, brushed, have shoes put on them to protect their bony hooves, and even wear a regal saddle on their backs. For Buck, a young colt in a herd of wild Andalusian horses, those were extra luxuries in an already perfect lifestyle were he would be fed and watered every single day. Something that did not happen in the wild.
Bucks parents were exactly the opposite. Every time they saw a pretty, healthy horse, saddled and rode upon by a human, they would snort and exclaim, abhorred at their race being used as mere transport! Whenever a village or town sprung up close to our grazing area, Dad would march up to Mum and tell her we'd be moving first thing in the morning. No arguments, no complaints could even be murmured behind his back. His word was final! Buck would gaze longingly at the beautiful cavalry that rode past, shining in the bright light, on their way to destroy a barbarian village, or a horrendous beast that lived in the caves. Buck wanted to be as brave and beautiful as the 'captive stallions'; as his dad called them; but whenever Dad wanted to go, they went.

The season this story is set, the Last Season of the Old Age, when all species of mixed breeds were annihilated, Buck and his parents had found a small clearing in a dense forest on the southern mountains of lower Mesopotamia. They had migrated there having been persecuted all the way from Egypt by the Freak show hunters searching for rare beasts.

They were just galloping a few metres away when a mighty Minotaur was ambushed by huge bearded men using advanced traps and nets. What looked to be the wife and son of the Minotaur came to his aid, only to be shot down by tens of flying arrows coming from the treetops. About a dozen scruffy men came out from the bushes and quickly chopped the poor mother and son into manageable pieces, while the male adult Minotaur was shot with a dart, tied and put on the back of a stretcher-type contraption made of twigs and sticks, and carted off back into the forest with the severed parts of his wife and only child in canvas bags on the barbarian's shoulders.

That's all dad needed to see, and they didn't wait till morning, heading north through the desert in the cover of the dark starry night. Buck thought he'd die in that desolate, waterless sea of sand, that took three long, hot, dry days to cross. In an oasis, close to the border of the desert, they saw a caravan of barbarians marching towards them, exactly where they had come. “Our tracks!” Dad realised and led us to safety in a marsh tucked behind a mound and a huge tree. It was almost dark when we lay in the cool humid marsh grass as dad kicked mud and leaves over our bodies, and it was the last thing Buck remembered before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Soon after midnight, Buck was abruptly awoken by a bright, burning flame coming from the tree nearby. Curiosity got the better of him, unveiling himself as he stood to get a better look. What he saw was indescribable: an old bearded man, a flock of humans, a burning bush and a light so bright it seemed the sun was peaking through a hole in the tree's trunk, lighting the scene like a monologue in a Shakespearean play. Buck didn't wait to see what they would do next, he stomped his parents awake and made for the woods not far from there.

The next day they walked all the way to the Black Sea, and found they were in luck, the tide was very low and a narrow sand path was visible all the way across the strait. Buck was the only one that gave his past one last glance, and to his amazement saw the old white-bearded man running down a dune holding a huge cane staff, followed by the flock of humans he had seen previously, and even more disturbingly, behind them came a hoard of armoured troops hurtling towards them. Buck neighed and overtook his parents crossing over. They headed South-West for about a week when Buck stopped dead in his tracks. He had had enough of running and hiding in fear. His mother saw him first, and yelled ahead to dad: “Dad! The Buck stops here!”
They argued, dad even bucked Buck a few times, but eventually he gave up and looked for some kind of shelter near there. Loud trotting noises sounded around them, dad spinning in place working out which way to bolt. But it was too late, in seconds they were surrounded by about 50 captive creatures and their riders with sticks.

“Just get the kid, leave the old ones or kill them if they get in the way!” said a man on horseback.

A rope was flung around Bucks head, and as it tightened, Dad began to prance and stomp.

“No Dad!” Buck said, “I want this, I want to wear shiny saddles and horseshoes, be fed and watered everyday, sleep in a stable and eat fresh hay. I love you Mum, I love you, Dad. Please be safe”

And with that he dropped his head, turned and followed the light pull of his reins, leaving his parents speechless in awe, admiration and sadness.

Even when his back was bare from riding months without a break, his hump bleeding from the lashes of his riders' whips, and his hooves were cracked, bringing more pain up his legs, he walked tall and proud and wore a huge smile for his parents whenever their paths crossed. He hated his decision that very first night, when the captors whipped and beat him till his mouthpiece and tags were on. A burning symbol on his rump, nails dug into his virgin hooves, and his mane cut short with blunt blades put the nail in the coffin, his destiny made. His reasoning to stay, and look proud and content, was one and only one cause: He had abandoned his family to follow his dream, if he quit and returned, how ashamed his parents would be! So he swallowed his pride, took the lashings in his stride, and lived the life of his dreams, where they belonged, in his fitful, restless sleep!

The End.

Even before I had finished reading it I knew the outcome ahead. Sister Jude and a few of the front row girls loved it and clapped, but the boys at the back, whether they listened or not, showed their contempt by pointing at me with a fist, or making the sign of a throat slash, while Sister was distracted or looking away. I gulped and sat with a mixture of pride and fear. I had managed to get through the whole story without peeing, knees buckling, or breaking out in Spanish, but the teacher's joy, although motivating for me, surely motivated the bullies to get their dues at lunch. And so they did, for the next three lunchtimes and at swimming the next day. A combination of Chinese burns, random unexpected slaps, trips and round kicks, together with the verbal abuse, and the coupe de resistance- the pant-dacking as I came out the toilets to a packed bleachers of schoolmates. Cold or not, grade 3 penises are small pointy things that cause a laugh, whoever you are. I know that now, not then!

A week later, when Sister was handing back our corrected drafts, notes and palm cards, she highlighted my work as an example of A, and said as I retrieved my work from her hands, that I would be a “great writer” one day.

She was the first to mention this profession as my ultimate goal, but in grade 3 an outsider kid just wants to fit in. I wanted to be an astronaut, footballer, or Ned Kelly-type man, like the guys would say they wanted to be, in the changing rooms, line ups and sports games we played. I was embarrassed by her enthusiasm, and mumbled “I don't want to be a writer” as I made my way through the sneers to my desk.

The boys decided being a writer was “gay”, and surprisingly, I preferred that tag more than the “fat wog” one they'd used till then. Ah! Life! Full of surprises, twists and turns. Look at me now, writing away my nightmares to cleanse the negativity from my system, after years of forcing myself to do anything else! Still not gay, though...yet...

The History of the World

A collection of YouTube videos arranged in order of history:




More videos will be added as they are found, and arranged at the relevant point in time. The Ape to Man series, although not in chronological order in this playlist, represents two points in time- the nomadic Ape man existence, and the 18th Century race to discover the non-Biblical truths.

Knowing the thinking behind the discoverers of our world opens a debate on their interpretations of their findings. Comparing, for example, European archaeologists to Egyptian mythology and history reveal two very opposing sides to a same story! Both shedding their concentrated light onto some very relevant finds. Up to us to separate the wheat from the chaff!

The Help Stream of Consciousness

Originally annoyed at the stereotypical black-man, Forrest Gump-type English! 1960's and they tryin to tell me they all speakin like a dyslexic mountain plane-crash survivor found after 25 years in the wilderness! Along with the Driving Miss Daisy and Maid in Manhattan comparisons, the storyline so far seems a redundant reminder of the minuscule brain activity the Southern Yanks thought superior!

I believe one of the major reasons rich white folk disdain other-coloured groups is the understanding they are having so much more life than them with all those shiny possessions. All the non-greedy see are objects that can be exchanged for food, fuel, finer clothing, or a f'ing good time! When the Spanish conquistadors saw the grandiose display of gold in the Incan villages, ignoring the civilised way of life, structure and maintenance of the towns, they were already calculating how many bullets they'd need to own it all!

Why would any non-white want to discuss their views on white man’s small-dick, Napoleon-complex, with a white girl? Work to live or live to work- that's the real difference!

You ever been in the “wrong” part of town, suddenly lost and open to any possibilities? Has a bright light in a dark alley enchanted your footsteps towards it, till you're standing at the door of a foul smelling, noisy pub, so far away from anywhere you've ever been before, you don't even know where to tell the cops the ditch you're lying in is located! Fear seems to evaporate once you make your decision, once your foot crosses the threshold. Come what may...

If our brains could be described as endless corridors of varying types of doors, about three different-sized ones in three never-before-opened colours, all fly wide open in this out-of-the-way “joint”! Doors that lead nowhere, but everywhere all at once! Afterwards you're left wondering if it was the smoke, alcohol, women, your brand new mates for life, or the slip on the way out that has left your head reeling with unusual, breathtaking thoughts.

Skeeter, not the Harry Potter reporter, has opened a bag of worms without even wanting to go fishing! Husbandry debate in film while Minny revolutionises gossip and class warfare! And now she needs a dozen apostles to publish her work!

The total disregard for human life, a topic relevant in the story of the death of the maid's son at the wood mill. How can anyone blindly believe their blood, skin, hair, or height make them better and the rest animals? Psychopathic perception! Illusions of grandeur!

When my first “lust” broke my heart, I returned saggy headed to my parents' via an 8-hour train ride. Like a nose hair and your anus, when your heart breaks, it strings along your thoughts, actions and dreams with it, painfully tugging at all the wrong moments! Lack of concentration lost my job, drinking and finding consolation between bimbo's legs' lost my apartment, and living in a box in a damp, smelly alleyway lost my pride and motivation.

Sitting in the dining cart, on this rackety old shaking diesel train, ten in the evening, a good-looking bloke, about 7 years my senior, asks to join me. Like The Gambler, he asked me for a smoke, and instead of whiskey, he offers me a line. Having a pretty protected upbringing, I idiotically asked: “A line or verse? Like from a play or movie? A quote?” He smiles an evil grin and orders more drinks, without another word about the 'line'! As the train swayed along its predetermined rails, our conversation curved and bumped in much the same way. After a couple of Legui's I said I'd had enough, and told him of the times the drink made it easier for me to lose control. So he asks me where I'm going, where I came from, and where I've been before I get my chance to ask him what he's doing, where's he's going, and what the heavens was a 'line'?

He scrapes his chair a fraction closer, glances over my shoulder at the waitor and the guard, and tells me he'll answer all three questions in just one go, if I come with him to the loo down the back. “Sabes jugar al teto? Agachate y te la meto” loosely interpreted, You know how to play predict it? Bend over and I'll stick it! All of it went through my mind- a penis up my butt, in my mouth, in my ears and up my nose, but I wanted to know what a 'line' was, so I followed him measuring how much weight I'd need to put behind me to push him off the train and not go over with him.

When we reached the carriage with the toilets, I couldn't contain my anxiety and blurted out “I'm not gay and I don't want to prove I'm macho!” Because in Buenos Aires the saying goes that macho man is the one that's tried “it”, and didn't like it! He just laughed and slapped me on the back.

As he tells me he works in a “special” industry, he removes a silver pendant from his suit pocket, and his wallet from his jeans, and proceeds to sort a white substance into a straight line using two credit cards. Then it dawns on me, the recent death of a singer, a photo of him lying on a hotel floor, nose bleeding, flashing in my mind, Rolling Stones' Cocaine jamming in my ears, and I let go...

What else did I have to lose? Just minutes ago I was being anally raped and throwing myself off a moving train, a little white powder won't kill me...or so I thought!

He drew three lines and took two swipes, slowly pushing the third my way. He sniffles and he swipes his nose a number of times, looking me in the eye, and asks if I can trust him. I look at the line, look at his gleaming bright eyes, and hear the door behind the carriage crossing creak open. I quickly crouch and mimic the sniffing, blocking one nostril, just like he had done. I think he said wait, but the line was gone, the conductor nodded by and Alice's slide was a slip compared to the flight I took!

“You'd be pretty good at what I do” he says nonchalantly, while I'm trying to stop the liquid waterfall coming down my nostril. Like a boogie when you snort it into the cavity in your throat where your voice is supposed to come from, the bitter taste of resignation that the coke has formed becomes hard to swallow and control. Bright sparkly lights start whizzing around my interlocutor's head, and I can suddenly hear the steam hissing through the air duct on the train engine, 7 carriages up front!

“Guap bo yu dyo?” I stammer through my sniffs.

He must have been versatile at languages and accents to actually understand my question: What do you do?

“You like women?” he asks, as if it's a simple yes/no answer, and doesn't wait for my reply, assuming from my life story I'd just told him, girls were all I knew. “In my job you can have the prettiest girls for as long as you like!”

Child abductor, slave trader, drug Mafioso, Satanic cult worshipper, and magical centaur princess rescuer were all the things I thought he could be. The coke had by now made talking redundant as we communicated in a bubble of moving images and emotions. The job description he projected sobered me up as he was preparing another two lines. I was hoping he wouldn't share.

He told me he travels, every three months or so, with fake salesman cards, to remote towns and villages to scout well-curved girls. Like a talent scout, I thought, but was totally dumbfounded by what he does once he's found one. Like a kitten and a ball, his appealing good looks and “outsider” persona, he throws out his lines and catches a few open-mouthed innocents. With funding from afar, he seduces the naive young lass with booze, dancing and love-making that would rival Don Juan, then he moves onto another town. After a while he comes back to check if his seed has spawned.
Small towns equals big hell- the shorter the distance it takes gossip to reach that town's limits, the bigger the bitch fights that occur within it! Gossip, rumours, hearsay, suspicion and promiscuity are a town's worst enemy. To be a young girl getting knocked up by a travelling salesman, in a small piss ant village will get that girl into an institution, an abortion clinic, or a kick up the ass and to the streets! When Prince Charming returns, she'll do whatever he lovingly tells her,knowing she'll never see her family again.

Pushing him off that train would have been too good for this scum, because his boastful work-funded exploits didn't end there! He would make the girls pack a small bag of belongings, and get on the next train to Buenos Aires. He'd say he needed to tie up a few sales before meeting her there, but this was his address and phone number. As he related his technique I could see how a young girl could easily fall for his charm, the second line I had made him even lovable!

The lose ends were really the trips back to the other towns to collect the other girls he'd done the same thing. He bragged he once rode the train back to the city not knowing that there were three of his hits on that same trip, and he had hid at the station watching them gaping around.

The address these girls were given was of older pros who would take them in, have them abort, and teach them the trick of the trade while they dried up their tear ducts awaiting his return. They'd never see him again, and their lives were ruled by pimps that made them work to pay their keep.

By now I felt like jumping, I thought I could fly. He restrained me, and the next thing I remember, we said our goodbyes. As I stood on that platform, sobbing my downer away, seeing my parents, their pride in their eyes, nearly broke me in two. As I landed on my knees, I thanked my dad for being who he is. All of this when I was 19.

The movie has finished, and I'm not much impressed. So the white chick slept with another's guy, and the maids published a book about all their pathetic ways, yet the snobs are still rich and the blacks need their pay!

Skeeter is probably the only one who got anything from it all!

Me? I never stuck anything but my finger up my nose again! To get the ones that no amount of blowing will remove!

And if you need Help, it's because you should've been friendlier so you'd have more loving support to cope on your own, or the house you live in is two bloody big for your measly soul!

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