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posted by Zsallia Marieko 4/17/2004 11:45:00 PM

. . .

There is no good way to bring anything to an end for any endeavor will always leave a gap, an emptiness, when it is concluded and put to rest. This journal is no exception. I noted before that I launched it in order to test the waters and that I had not found things entirely to my liking, but bringing this to an end is only somewhat related to that revelation. I did indeed desire to learn what reaction, if any, my existence might elicit and in that the results were almost universally encouraging; however, by its very nature this journal cannot provide me with a deeper understanding of what I could expect should I publicly proclaim my existence in a more direct fashion. The Internet is too fast-paced and far too ephemeral to provide me with the certainty I had sought. I believe I knew this going in, but as an incremental step it was most valuable.

What have I learned? Most cryptically I have learned that which I needed to learn. It has always been apparent to me that this little exercise had far more to do with me than with the outside world. The reflection upon my past, the episodes I chose to share, and perhaps more importantly those I have chosen not to share, all led me to a certain place within myself, an understanding that has likely always been there, but that I never once visited with any seriousness. Until now. I understand now that this chameleon’s life I have been living is a loser’s game. I always knew I was angry; that the need to pick up, let go and move on was the source of a bitterness that colored my relationships and robbed me of the happiness I felt I had a right to. This sometimes erupted in bouts of truly embarrassing self-pity, and sometimes in an almost pathological misanthropy.

To those readers who have found me an entertaining raconteur with perhaps a hidden softness inside I can only say that had I been less circumspect in the tales I chose to tell you may well have been disgusted, perhaps even horrified. Three and one half millennia afforded ample opportunity to fall in to monstrous depravity: my hands are stained with the blood of innocents.

That is not so easy to admit, here in this space. It has been my existence in this little digital arena that has led me to this. I have so many entertaining and informative tales to tell; glimpses in to lives past and cultures remembered only by graves and refuse. But I have found that the good tales are no longer so easy to tell. The weight of my sin grows heavier with each carefully crafted, carefully neutered tale I tell. The murder of Clayton was a glimpse of that darker portion of myself, but even that was chosen because it afforded me the cover of a somewhat moral act. I dealt out death because it felt good to do so, but perhaps he deserved it, so perhaps it was not so terrible a thing to do. I tried again, describing my eight-year murderous rampage through the streets of Ostia and Rome, but I seem incapable of finding the words to make the horror of what I was in those days clear. I lack the courage to face it squarely.

I am a moral coward.

All of this- this journal, my stories, and this confession: it all comes back to Jeremy. He understood me, both the good and the bad. In the end it was he who set me upon the path I walk today. After Clayton, after feeling the shame that act brought to my heart whenever I thought of Jeremy I came to believe I might be standing at the cusp, at the point of something momentous. The world had already plunged deep in to a whirlwind of change and I was caught up in it, blown upon the bitter storm. Just as Jeremy had predicted in those final days before he passed away. And in the end he betrayed me for my own good. I am still unsure as to whether to forgive him for that. Time will tell.

Now it all makes sense to me. I have now an understanding I had despaired of ever achieving. I know what I want to do. I know what I am going to do.

I am going home.

I am going to make my stand. Watch for me, those of you who are young enough. In thirty, or forty, or perhaps fifty years it will come out- the questions, the little tabloid stories, the speculations. Then some enterprising journalist will decide it is time to rip the top off the charade and will dig deep in to my past. I am looking forward to seeing the expression on his face when he comes to the inescapable conclusion.

Life should become terribly interesting at that point.

I remain faithfully yours,
Zsallia Marieko

posted by Zsallia Marieko 12/08/2003 10:23:00 PM

. . .

Money is an odd thing. It is such a measure of power or worth, yet it is intrinsically nothing, particularly in the present day western world. The possession of monetary wealth is nothing more than a representation upon a digital ledger in some bank computer, yet it confers so much upon those who control it.

I am wealthy by any reasonable standard one might care to apply; yet I am powerless. I own my fate, but nothing more. Do not misunderstand- I believe that to own one’s fate is a precious thing, and I remember when (oh-so-very recently) this was not so, and it was the accumulation of money that initially made this possible. Yet when I calculate the sum total of the wealth I either own or control, that value is meaningless to me. I do not feel powerful regardless of what the numbers imply. I cannot relate to that sort of thing- it is an innate failing on my part.

I understand that money affords me freedom to ignore certain restraints. My apartment, for instance- I pay about six thousand dollars a month to call it home. I do not love it, it has no true hold on my affections- it is simply convenient to the places I like to visit, and I enjoy the view. Due to my account balance I may avail myself of this convenience. Six thousand dollars might seem a great sum, but it is meaningless to me- all it represents is a short walk to the rail station and an ocean view. I know that these things are desirable and hence command a high price, but how can that price be paid in something that has no intrinsic value?

I remember the first time I was sold for a handful of coins rather than bartered for real things that could be touched and measured- it was the first time I felt shame at my place in the world. I did not understand money then, and I still fail to fully comprehend it now. I understand that I need it. I comprehend how to earn it through labor or create it through investment. I understand its nature as fuel to the engines of capitalism, but when I attempt to put that knowledge in to some concrete form, to make it real, make it visceral so that I can feel the truth of it as I do other things, I fail.

I am sufficiently knowledgeable to manoeuvre within the framework defined by money, but I cannot believe in the basic precepts that make this possible.

This frustrates me. I cannot escape the notion that this is something I must overcome, and soon.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 12/04/2003 09:59:00 PM

. . .

The desert offers solitude, and a simple mode of existence: mere survival. Granted this is a somewhat moot point for me, but it acts as further guarantor of my privacy, for the desert is both swift and merciless in its dealings with fools.

Modern society has effected sufficient intrusion that it attempts to protect those so unwise as to venture in to the desert unprepared. This is not an act of altruism rather it is simple efficiency. Every preempted lost hiker represents concrete savings in search time and potential bad publicity. That it also saves lives is a secondary, albeit welcome benefit. As a result of this well-developed attitude towards tourists I elected to abandon any idea of walking to my chosen spot, opting instead to pay a young man to fly me out and return to collect me a few days later. Profligate waste, but necessary.

I could have locked myself away in my apartment. I have access to other places, properties I either own outright or have an interest in through membership in assorted foundations and organizations. There is a particular monastery where people are welcome to come and find the solace of introspection amid the grounding rhythms of a simpler, less hectic life. There are numerous parks, forests, jungles, and mountains… all are accessible to anyone who might seek a few days or weeks outside the sphere of the modern.

I prefer the desert. It is something about the hardscrabble nature of the flora and fauna, and the stark beauty of the landscape that suits me when I need to be shuck of mankind. It is dangerous for me- I could set out for a week or two and stay for a decade or longer. Even this little expedition- after three days I found myself musing on the notion of heading deeper in to the wild, finding a cave and sitting out the next fifty years. Fortunately (or not, depending on how you choose to view it) I had left far too many loose ends to merely walk away. It was deliberate on my part for I know myself well enough to anticipate that urge. I may yet indulge it, but not this day.

It was a desire to take some time, put things in to perspective, time away from my normal haunts, away from e-mail and computers and the web, away from the lawyers and that bloody fool of an accountant who is determined to prevent me from doing as I will with my own money. Away from all the yammering, and posturing, and postulating… I needed years, but I allowed merely days. I suppose it sufficed.

I am in love with the night sky- one of the things I truly despise about living in the North East is the lack of any truly clear, dark sky. Civilization’s fascination with light renders the canopy of the heavens a pale mockery of itself. Ever since my earliest memories I have been fascinated with the stars. I ran to the desert so that I could lie beneath them in their glory and seek… something. Balance, I suppose, though that is a poor descriptor.

I needed to know I was doing the right thing. As important, or perhaps even more so, was I doing it for the right reasons? Somehow sitting beneath the stars smoking Camels seemed the proper avenue for pursuing that thought. Warm, sunny days; cool, clear nights with a sliver of moon and a dazzling array of stars- there were no answers, but there certainly was peace.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 11/30/2003 09:31:00 PM

. . .

Some random notions that have come to the fore as a result of comments, events and other factors:

I am frequently surprised. One would think I should be beyond surprise, but one would be wrong. One would think I would be coolly in control of my emotions, having had so very long to come to an intimate understanding of my own inner landscape, but one would be wrong. One would think that thirty-five centuries would smooth the contradictions from the fabric of my soul, and one would be wrong yet again.

It seems some are convinced that one such as I should be either above human foibles, or incapable of them. They are wrong. There are those who insist that one such as I must view all those about her as nothing more than mayflies, lesser things to be used for amusement and hardly missed upon passing. I would ask them how they have come to such an understanding, and I would tell them their assumptions speak volumes regarding their own private demons, but they say nothing regarding mine.

I protect myself. I protect those I consider to be my friends. Those people are few and thus precious to me.

I am immortal, not indestructible.

I am often asked if I am bored and I always reply in the negative. Boredom is not the problem I face, and no one seems to be inclined to ask regarding what that problem may be. I understand this since it is likely unique in the acuteness of its manifestation with me; however, I still see it in others from time to time. It is not loneliness. When I become aware of the weight of ages upon me, what I feel is desperately tired.

Thirty-five centuries have taught me useful things, but not so many as some seem to insist must be the case.

I understand people- my ability to interact on a personal level borders on the telepathic. This is not some mystic ability, but the simple byproduct of millennia of experience. It is an ability that is limited to personal, face-to-face, situations. This also makes me a rather entertaining bedmate.

Conversing via the written word is an extraordinarily poor cousin to personal interaction. At the same time it offers a separate set of tools, and a different level of nuance that cannot be dismissed.

I am merciless in self-analysis- my ability to delude myself is limited, but when I indulge it the results are usually disastrous. I take no pity upon myself, for I posses the ability to outlive my errors. Others do not.

I understand that nothing ever really ends. Everything that has preceded this moment in time forms the foundation upon which the next moment must stand.

I have noted before that I view myself as primarily a destructive force in relation to those with whom I interact. There are those who disagree with me. They lack my perspective on this subject. This extends to this journal: every post I make, every comment left on any site constitutes an act of almost criminal selfishness on my part.

I never share everything with you. Never.

There is more to say. I choose not to say it.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 11/25/2003 09:15:00 PM

. . .

“I know who you are.”

I said nothing, allowing Edna’s quiet words hang in the air behind me as I gazed upon Catherine’s final resting place. Her marker was large, yet very simple- a granite spire, somewhat weathered as were all the stones in this corner of the cemetery, with just her name and the dates: b 1831 d 1896.

“She was only sixty-five. Even being wealthy and protected, the damned winters were like a scythe, weren’t they?”

“I know you heard what I said, so don’t pretend you didn’t.”

I had been feeling something from her for two days now. It was the only reason I had not left yet- I had to know what it was. Her certainty was so strong and it excited her so. I turned to face her.

“Who do you think I am?”

“Great Grandma hired a Pinkerton man to track down Elaine a few years after the War Between the States. He went to Boston, found her lawyers’ offices, but they were well paid, quite reputable and very tight-lipped.” She paused then and said, “I think I need to sit... could we move to that bench?” She gestured with her cane and I nodded. Edna shuffled over, suddenly looking every day of her ninety-eight years, and settled down with a sigh, placing her cane before her with her hands perched atop. She waited until I took a seat beside her. “Where was I? Boston. You always seem to go back to Boston. The Pinkerton man was no slouch, and you’d a way of impressing people, of course. He found a name: Melissa Burns, and there was some talk of Georgia. It took some doing but he tracked you down to a plantation where you were hired as a tutor in literature and mathematics. Then he discovered that you’d murdered a man named Clayton Williams. You were caught, tried, convicted and hanged. End of story, or so he thought.

“I have to wonder what he thought when Catherine sent him back to Georgia and told him to dig up your corpse, if he could. He went back and started asking more questions, spreading around money and liquor, until he bumped in to these two gents who’d had a near religious experience. Neither of them’d had a drink in years before they ran in to him- reformed men, they were. But his questions shook them up, and the whiskey was good, and the tale they told him… well, he’d never heard anything so wild and unlikely in his life, but he had his orders, and like I said, he was no slouch at his job.

“He tracked you to a border town in Texas. A pretty young redheaded prostitute named Molly, sweet and kind and very quiet, and sporting a hanging scar. Only by the time he got that far poor Molly’d had an accident, took a spill in to the river and drowned. Body never recovered. Of course, it couldn’t have been the same woman, because everybody swore she couldn’t be more than eighteen and Elaine’d have been close to sixty by then, except that Melissa Burns hadn’t been more than twenty-five…”

“He would have had a very difficult time following me after that. Molly was a throw-away…” I stopped there because there was no point in continuing. Edna’s gaze was fixed on me, waiting. “How many people know this story?”

“Just me. It’s been passed down through the women in the family. Honestly, I didn’t really believe it myself until you showed up, and even then I wasn’t sure until just now. I haven’t told anyone; Sarah would be the obvious choice, but she’s such a Chatty Cathy I just couldn’t trust her with it.” She sat up straighter then, and took a deep breath, “So, if you wanted to you could shoot me with that ugly old pistol you’ve got your hand on and the story’d die with me. I suspect you’d be able to get out of town before anybody caught on.”

I snatched my hand from my bag- I had not even realized I had my hand on the gun. I was embarrassed that she had noticed, that I had even unconsciously considered…

And then I was shaking, trembling so violently that I could not even speak. It was not fear, or anger, or joy, but simply conflict. I did not know what to do. Then a sharp pain exploded in my shin and I cried out as Edna drew back her cane after striking me with it.

“Get a hold of yourself! Lord, you’d think someone as old as you’d be beyond this kind of thing!”

I laughed out loud at that. “I’ve heard that before… I should introduce you to the Yeti!”

“The who?”

“Yes, never mind, it’s too hard to explain.”

We sat for several minutes before Edna finally asked, “So, what’re you going to do?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? It’s not so easy as Jeremy thought it might be.”

“Sure it is. My son had you checked out- you’re loaded. I name you as my successor in the trust and then you can do what you want.”

“Really? It’s not that simple at all. Everything I know is telling me to leave, now, and never come back! I have rules I live by and I didn’t come up with them on a whim!”

“And you married Jerome- what’d your rules have to say about that? Why’d you do that? Seems pretty stupid to me. Be careful what you answer because Catherine had an idea and I think she was right.”

“I fell in love with him. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Honestly? Yes, it is hard to believe. Catherine believed you were just lonely, and tired. Marrying her uncle was almost like trying to kill yourself. Just look at the trouble it’s caused you. Look at where you are right now, honey. Sure you loved him, but you loved him because it gave you a taste of something you couldn’t ever really have. You were trying to destroy yourself. Or at least destroy your life. You wanted an end, and Jerome was just the right man to help you find it.”

She sat back, her shoulders sagging. I could see the exhaustion radiating from her and suddenly I was ashamed again. How could I not see how much this was costing her? To be out here confronting me… Without another word I helped her to her feet and steadied her as we made our way back down the path to my car. She settled in to the seat and I buckled her in, then came around and started the car. Edna had her head back against the headrest, her eyes were closed.

“See, I think you’re going mad. All that running and hiding can’t be good for a body.”

“Do you understand how… how impudent it is of you to presume to speak to me like this?”

She laughed quietly, opening her eyes to look over at me. “Do you think you are wise?” she asked.

I thought about that as I maneuvered down the narrow drive to the cemetery’s exit. “About some things, yes. Others, no.”

“Good answer. I am wise, and about a lot of things. That cemetery makes me wise- I know that’s where I’m headed, and soon, too. Focuses the mind, assuming the mind still works of course.” She chuckled then at her own little joke.

“And that’s something I lack, is it?”

“It’s not just something you’re missing, it’s something you need.”

That was not a new thought for me, so why did it disturb me so to hear it from this woman?

“A cemetery’s not just a place of endings,” she continued, “it’s a symbol, a place of roots. Kids today just don’t understand this stuff; they go wandering off in all directions and don’t give a thought to their family or their history. My daughters… I haven’t seen either of them in five years, or the grandchildren. All picked up and moved off to California and Hawaii… I kept hoping that one of them would get the notion to come home, but it’s never happened.”

“Yet here I am.”

“Yes,” she smiled, “here you are. I’m fit to be pickled now that you’re here. I honestly never believed it was possible, just some funny folk tale, or better yet a practical joke.”

I considered that for several minutes as we drove on in silence.

“So, if I were to say I was merely humoring you…”

“I wouldn’t buy it for a second. I saw the look on your face when you were touching that pistol- you’re first thought was to kill me and run like the dickens.”

“I would never have…”

“I know, but you thought it. So why are you here?”

“I needed to know how much damage… no. I wanted to come, to see what had happened to the people I cared about. I was here a few weeks ago- I visited Jeremy’s grave. I thought that would be enough…” I stopped then, feeling tears coming from someplace unexpected. I pulled to the side of the road and parked the car, then just gripped the wheel, desperate to compose myself. Why was this happening? Why was this woman, somebody who was still just a child in comparison to myself, having this affect on me? Why was I so damned angry?

“Don’t stop now.”

I looked at her, uncomprehending for a moment, and then I asked her, “What would you do if I took you home and then left, and never returned?”

“Nothing. I’d go to my grave knowing that I’d been privy to a great secret. Of course that’s easy for me to say because we both know you’re not leaving. C’mon dearie, stop trying to nice to the little old lady and spit it out- why are you here?”

“Because I was never ready to leave!” It came out so suddenly and so succinctly that it drew all of the emotion out of me in a single statement: I had never wanted to leave. I left because it was my way, a habit, a rule I lived by. It had never been a problem before, but so much had changed since the early centuries of my life…

“Then why leave?”

“That’s enough,” I snapped, my voice dropping in to a peremptory tone that made Edna sit back a bit. I put the car in gear and pulled out again, unwilling to talk any further, or to listen for that matter. Edna attempted to engage me, but I tuned her out so thoroughly that she soon gave up.

What was wrong with me? I had been willing to reinsert myself in to this family so long as I could do it on my terms, maintaining this thin fiction of secrecy, holding myself aloof from them. Why did Edna’s knowledge change things so? Why that sudden impulse to murder and flight? It was clear to me, unmistakably clear that she posed no threat. Even if she did choose to tell her family what she knew, what would they think? She knew this, I could tell she knew this.

I am terrible at snap decisions. Every one I have ever made has turned out to be ill advised in one way or another. I needed time to think. I arrived at that terribly insightful conclusion as I pulled in to Sarah’s driveway. Edna sat beside me, radiating dismay.

“I am going back to Boston,” I told her, making my voice as gentle as I could.

She emitted a quiet sigh of resignation, and then visibly nerved herself to ask, “And What will you do there?”

I paused, unwilling to be short with her again, and then gave her the most honest reply that I could: “Think. Decide. Act.” She nodded at that, and allowed me to help her out of the car and up to the house. At the door something suddenly occurred to me. “You never visited your husband’s grave…”

“Oh, that’s not important. Perhaps next time…”

“Yes, perhaps.” I turned to go, but I could feel her eyes on me, as if they sought to pull me back.

“Genevieve… now that can’t be your real name, can it?”

I paused and turned back to face her as she stood framed in the open doorway, looking small and frail and forlorn. “No, of course not. I don’t have a given name that I can remember, but I chose one, long ago,” and I told her my name, the name I chose that I have called myself for more than two millennia. Then I turned away and walked to the car. It was time to go.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 11/22/2003 03:41:00 AM

. . .

Morning arrived clear and delightfully cool. I took an early stroll about the center of town before checking out and loading my things in to the car, and then I set off for Sarah’s home to pick up Edna. I was not particularly eager to make the visit to the cemetery, but it seemed a small courtesy to these people who had been so willing to accept me- call it recompense for my necessary deceptions.

I have never made a habit of visiting my dead; it always seems so pointless. Even my visit to Jeremy’s grave, so stylized and staged and Hollywood-dramatic was really nothing more than a lark. I was content that I had done it, but I believe I could have found as much closure reminiscing in my own living room with a bottle of brandy to mellow the mood. That I had been drawn back to this place so soon afterward was nothing more than the natural consequence of finally putting that entire episode of my life to rest.

Jeremy is dead. Catherine is dead. I could fill many, many pages with the names of those who meant something to me in some way who were now dead. To visit their graves would mean nothing to me. I understand that graves have meaning to those who are left behind, but I believe I have spent so long watching as one generation after another are returned to dust that any possible meaning has been diluted beyond detection. Cemeteries are packed with the dead and empty past. I choose not to dwell there.

Edna was already up and waiting for me when I arrived. Sarah had departed early so it was just the two of us sharing coffee and light conversation as we waited for the day to warm a bit before setting out. Edna seemed in very good spirits, commenting that she had felt guilty for neglecting her duty to visit her relatives, in particular her husband, over the past years.

“Henry’s been gone over thirty years now, so I suppose he forgives me, but I’m glad you were willing to come. I think Catherine would have been pleased to see that somebody from Elaine’s family had finally found this place.”

We were in the car and I smiled at Edna’s prattling. It is a common delusion of the living that the dead are witness to the day, but Edna seemed to take particular delight in the idea of me standing over Catherine’s grave. I felt better then- I have nothing against making a kindly old woman just a bit happier. We turned in to the gate of the cemetery and she directed me up towards the back, where the older plots were laid out over and about a low hill.

We parked at the foot of the hill and I helped her out of the car, then we began walking up towards the McAllister family’s section near the crest of the hill. As we passed various other collections of stones Edna pointed out families and individuals. I had known several of them personally.

“Surely your husband is not buried here?” I asked, “These are all quite old.”

“Oh, no- Henry’s down by the western lawn. I thought we’d stop up here first. See that tall spire? That’s where Catherine and Jonathan are buried. Why don’t you go on ahead- I’ll catch up.”

This was all so odd, and I found myself just a little more curious than I would have admitted earlier. Edna had stopped to admire the carvings on a stone near the walkway so I strolled up the remainder of the path, and found that brief segment of my past laid out in neat rows.

Catherine and her husband were together. Off to one side were two small markers: young children, neither more than four years old. There were other pairs, more husbands and wives, and solitary markers of those who never wed, or who met untimely ends only to have their loved ones make new lives when they were gone. I knew some of their stories from Catherine’s letters; others were a mystery to me.

I heard Edna come up behind me. We both stood quietly and I began to remember times when such places had held meaning for me: never the same meaning they held for others, but meaning nonetheless. Then she spoke, and everything became deathly quiet.

“I know who you are.”

posted by Zsallia Marieko 11/20/2003 11:22:00 PM

. . .

The town bore only a passing resemblance to what I remembered. The old church was still there- I wondered if people still worshipped in those same pews Mrs. Tremblay had gifted to the church so very long ago. When I had paid my visit to Jeremy’s grave more than a month before I had done no more than drive through- I had known then that the land was wrapped up in a dispute so I had come cross-country from a neighboring community. Still, there were enough familiar things and I found the Historical Society easily enough.

The building was easily a hundred years old and not well suited to its purpose as a museum of sorts. This had been some sort of a meeting hall, but I could not be certain, as it had been built long after I had left. The door was unlocked so I entered and found a table by the inside of the door with a small basket labeled “Donations Welcome” the sole decoration. There did not appear to be anyone about. I dropped a few hundred dollars in the basket and set out to explore, making enough noise to ensure that anyone inside would eventually take note.

It was typical fare. Flags, documents, war memorabilia, some pictures, pieces of furniture, all of it documenting the passage of more than two hundred years: the town was older than that- perhaps the oldest pieces were stored away some place. Still, it was somewhat unsettling to be wading through pieces of lives that I might have touched so long ago. Things were familiar by their type and form, but nothing that I might point to and say “I remember that.” Then I entered the main hall.

I felt it before I saw it. Everything in the room was so very, very familiar. There was furniture from the south parlor, the large dining table, my harpsichord… so many things that had been ours. I turned and froze, for hanging on the south wall there was a portrait of a young woman, decked out in Victorian splendor, her hair piled high in scarlet curls and ringlets… me. Jeremy had commissioned that portrait on our tenth wedding anniversary. The artist had paid particular attention to the eyes…

“Mesmerizing, isn’t she?”

I turned to face the woman who had spoke and saw her start nearly as badly as had I. She was older; perhaps fifty or sixty, with dark hair going gracefully gray worn in a very modern style. Her blue eyes were open and friendly, though somewhat startled and there was something about the shape of her mouth and the angle of her jaw… I had to stop myself from commenting on it as her gaze tracked back and forth twice between the portrait and my face.

“I… I believe she was my great-great-…” the lie refused to fall gracefully from my lips, but she interrupted me as I stumbled on it.

“Oh, Lord, I believe it! Just look at the eyes, my dear!”

“Not to mention the hair, of course.” I smiled then, back at ease now that the moment had passed. “I am Genevieve Baker.”

“Baker? Oh! You’re the one who’s got Josh in such an uproar!” She laughed then and the sound passed in to and through me, calling up memories- young Catherine at her wedding, her laughter as she danced with Jeremy. I was in control of myself now, none of this showed on my face. “I’m Sarah, Sarah Jameson,” she turned towards the back of the hall and called out, “Edna! Edna, come and see who’s here!”

“I’m out front!” came a dry, yet sprightly voice, then an elderly woman appeared in the entrance to the hall. She was small, and clearly closer to one hundred than to eighty, but she was spry and her eyes were clear. In her left hand she wielded a cane that certainly had to be a mere prop for her stride was brisk and her gait even. In her right hand she waved a clutch of bills. “Somebody dropped five hundred dollars in the… Oh! Oh my word!” She stepped closer and looked me up and down, just radiating a mischievous delight as she grinned and said, “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t bump in to you alone in here- I’d have figured I’d finally had The Big One. And that straight hair does nothing for you, dearie.”

They offered me coffee- we sat at a table in the kitchen at the rear of the hall and they both began asking and answering questions. Edna was Edna Carstairs. Josh was her eldest son, Joshua, and co-executor of the McAllister Trust along with his mother. Sarah was Edna’s niece. Edna and her late sister were the great-granddaughters of young Catherine. I felt somehow lacking in the presence of these women who knew their ancestry and their family histories, where I was forced to lie and in turn keep my stories simple and boring. Despite this Edna seemed fascinated with my story.

“And you had no idea about the trust, or your connection to this place until you found Elaine’s diary?”

“That’s pretty much it, yes. Oh, I knew a little about the family history, but it wasn’t until I found her diary and the legal papers that I had any idea what had happened. Even then, the diary only covers the year 1843. I assume she kept a yearly record, but I’ve not found any others.” Another lie- I had all twelve volumes, but this was the only one I could safely share with anyone.

“Did you bring it with you?” Sarah asked, “I’d love to see what it has to say.”

“I don’t have it here- it’s back at the hotel, but I’d be happy to let you look it over after I’ve met with Joshua. I’m assuming he’ll want to see it as well.”

“Oh, don’t let yourself be too concerned with my son,” Edna commented, “he’s really in no position to argue with you and he knows it. Truth is the trust is nearly bankrupt. He couldn’t afford to put up a fight even if you were a fraud.”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about…”

“Oh, piffle! It’s not a secret. Lawyers should never try to be investment brokers. We sank a lot of the trust’s money in to Internet stocks- lost it all. Since then with the town putting the squeeze on us we’ve barely kept up with the taxes. We tried to take a mortgage on the property, but the trust’s got no income to speak of…” Edna trailed off, but I could see the wheels turning in her, thinking about the money in the donation basket. Somebody who dressed so nicely and could drop five hundred dollars in a charity basket on a whim might just be in a position to ease some of the financial stress. She smiled again. “Does my son know you’re in town?”

“I called his office when I checked in to the hotel, but he wasn’t in…”

Both of them laughed at that and Sarah said, “Oh, he’s in, he’s just avoiding you. He’s afraid you’re somebody the real estate developers dug up to try and break the trust…” At the same time Edna was digging through her bag and finally produced a cell phone, which she opened up and put to her ear.

“Joshua? It’s your mother. I’m at the museum with Sarah… yes, I know you’re busy, but I need you to come over right away… Now don’t be like that… I’m not getting any younger and you’re wasting my time and I haven’t got a lot to waste so stop complaining… of course, dear, I know… now don’t dawdle…” She folded up her phone with a sigh, “Don’t misunderstand, Jenny, he’s a good man. It’s just that he seems to think all the problems in town are his personal responsibility.”

Joshua Carstairs arrived within a few minutes. I was seated at the table having a second cup of coffee when he walked in and spied his mother over by the sink. He was tall and handsome, and quite distinguished looking with his thick silver hair and ruggedly lined face. His voice was quite warm and resonant- it must have been quite a boon to him in court.

“Okay mother, I’m here, now tell me what’s so important that I had to hang up on Jim Kelleher up in Boston?”

“Ah, talking with your spy? And what did he have to say? But you might want to turn around before you answer that…”

Joshua turned and stopped for just a second when he saw me, but no longer. Then he smiled and stepped forward, extending his hand. “Miss Baker, I presume?”

I rose and took his hand, smiling as openly as I knew how, “I hope you understand this was not my idea- I had planned a more formal meeting.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I know my mother’s handiwork when I see it. I had intended to call you after I, uh, finished conferring with my colleague in Boston.” He took a seat and Edna brought him a cup of coffee, after which she and Sarah departed without another word.

“Don’t be embarrassed. You’ve done your research, and I’ve done mine. Perhaps we should just lay out our cards and see where we stand?”

“Directly to the point, I like that. Okay, Jim Kelleher seems to feel you’re a legitimate heir, and now that I’ve seen you I certainly agree. You’re obviously not after any money, not with your bank accounts. So tell me: why are you here?”

I sipped at my coffee and read him for a moment. He was unconcerned, actually relieved, which was good. His curiosity was certainly piqued, but he was absolutely unaffected by my looks or demeanor. He had a wedding ring and unconsciously fiddled with it- a thoroughly married and honest man.

“You and your family are well-off, but the trust is broke. You can’t afford to keep it afloat and you can’t get financing. Four years, perhaps five and you’ll have to default on the taxes and be forced to dissolve the trust and sell the property.”

“That sums it up nicely, yes,” he sighed, “I’ve considered selling some of the pieces in storage, both to raise cash and save money- museum quality storage space isn't cheap. But that would be little more than a stopgap measure, and mother would never permit it in any case. Now, you haven’t answered my question.”

“No,” I smiled, “I haven’t. I am not entirely certain what I want to do, but I think I’d like to help save the house. Once the pressure is off we can discuss the future.”

With that we agreed to leave any further discussion until the next day when I would present the trust document I possessed, just to make everything legal. Edna and Sarah rejoined us, having been not-to-secretly listening outside the door and the afternoon ran in to evening as we talked about the past and they filled me in on all the details of the family’s history they had collected. I had so little to offer them I again felt embarrassed, but Edna soaked up every little scrap I offered and was clearly eager to see the volume of the diary.

The next morning I met with Joshua at his office and we signed the various papers that made me an official beneficiary of the trust. I had already made arrangements with my bank so we were able to make a transfer of funds to the trust’s operational account- not a lordly sum, but enough so that Joshua could make the next few quarterly payments without having to liquidate any more of the trust’s dwindling stock holdings.

The remainder of that day I spent with Edna and Sarah, first letting them pour over the diary I had brought with me. Sarah was in heaven- it was filled with all sorts of minutiae regarding the daily activities of the family, both the children of the household as well as the activities of the other adult relatives and their families. Edna was quite please as well, but there was something overriding her happiness at having this piece of her family history in hand. She questioned me repeatedly about what I thought of this passage or that and I had to be very careful to avoid offering anything even remotely detailed, particularly when either of them got some piece of information egregiously wrong. Edna seemed to delight in having an outsider of sorts past whom she could run her historical narrative.

We took lunch together at a local restaurant and they took great pleasure in introducing me to any who happened by. After that Sarah drove me up to the house, Edna choosing to sit out that trip, as she was not up to “traipsing through the wilderness” that day. I had been there just a few weeks before, but it was enjoyable still, as Sarah was able to tell me where work had been done, what had happened to the barn and stables (a fire in 1956), and other details. The house had not been lived in since 1951, but the family had used it as a reunion spot for twenty or thirty years after that time. It had not been sealed up for good until 1985, which explained why it was not in far worse condition.

Sarah and I returned to her home in the early evening and I prepared to take my leave. I would be driving back to Boston the next day.

“So soon?” Edna complained, “I was hoping tomorrow Sarah and I could take you up to see the family plot- Catherine and her husband are buried up there, you know.”

“Oh, why go up there? You haven’t made that trip in over ten years,” Sarah protested, “and I can’t take you- I have to go in to the city tomorrow.”

Edna looked at me and I could feel her anticipation. I smiled. “I could stop by in the morning- I wouldn’t mind visiting the graves if that’s what you would like. I can leave for home after lunch.”

That night I was actually quite pleased with how things were going. I still had no firm idea what I would do beyond helping the family keep hold of the property, but I was already considering making some major investments to restore the house and the surrounding land. Perhaps we could move the Historical Society’s museum in to the house itself- the town had a tourism industry of sorts. A restored Victorian era home might make a nice addition. I took some time to review my cash status and see where I could gain liquidity without drawing too much attention. Then I started packing for the trip home. I hesitated over my pistol- I had been carrying it illegally for the past two days and it seemed silly to do that given the circumstances, but I am always reluctant to have it out of reach in situations like this. I do not like guns, and that makes me very, very serious about them. In the end I left it in the bottom of my purse. When I got home I would lock it up again.

I went to sleep that night with a smile on my face.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 11/17/2003 01:48:00 PM

. . .

What follows was not easy to recount. I have alluded to such things before, but I have never been explicit, and even here I find myself forced to soften the words and the images. I nearly posted this elsewhere to keep it off of this site, but that would be inappropriate. If what follows offends or disturbs I can offer only that life often offends or disturbs. If it makes it any easier to accept, know that I still carry the sickening weight of this monstrosity. It haunts me to this day.

---------------------------

Roughly two thousand years in the past, I was quite insane:

It is a game, nothing more. I slip out in to the twisted labyrinth of the city’s stinking streets and drop my lure- in this case, myself. Naked but for a scrap of linen, or perhaps something finer, a little jewelry, and a pair of sandals I stroll the winding sewers that make up the Eternal City, centre of power and all things glorious. They think me a slave, a prisoner of their power, a thing.

I hate them. I hate their pretensions to civilization; their fascination with blood sport, their arrogant assumption of superiority. The very soul of their culture is warped and diseased and I had allowed it to infect me, to deceive me in to believing that I could become a part of it. Then I watched it destroy the first person I had ever truly loved.

So I play my part, enticing the lust-addled simpletons to my bloated mistress’s wretched establishment where lesser creatures sweat and toil for the pleasures of beasts. I bring a high price the nights I am there, but I serve my mistress better as an advertisement, and this permits me to satisfy my own need. Every day I seek what I crave, some misbegotten fool believing he has a right to my body, to my undivided attentions. I entice him with the easy promise of fulfilling my duty.

It is always the same, yet it is always just different enough. Each is unique in his own way. A dark corner, or a back room, private and unnoticed, a perfect place for his brutish pleasures, except… It is always such a surprise. Private for him, perfect for me- I delve in to my deepest place and produce a work of art. I never use a weapon; I delight in taking my prize with my bare hands.

A soft caress transforms in an instant to a sharp blow to the throat. Perhaps he is confused, not understanding what I have done. Then the panic sets in, the fractured airway sealed forever against the precious release of life-giving breath. Some, the pathetic ones, clutch at their throat, struggling to breathe, thrashing and kicking as I laugh, taunting them. Others are more entertaining, spending their last moments in a rage, trying to lay their hands around my pretty neck and send me to Hades before them- and they learn I am swift and strong and disinclined to die. I take small pity on those, as their strength fails and they fall, easing them to the ground, whispering to them, telling them how they have lightened the day of an ancient creature.

Playful wrestling, a game of chase that incites his lust until that moment when I dance in to that one spot, poised just so, where I have all the advantage and this fool is at my mercy, confident there is naught to concern him in the form of this curvaceous, giggling wench. I slip my arm about his neck and he laughs as I trap him, then stiffens as I pull. There is a spasm of reaction as I apply all my strength in a single, savage wrenching twist. Flesh tears, gristle popping, and bones grinding until the sudden deep, thick crack of separation is felt and he goes limp in my grasp. I let him fall, grinning, gasping as the laughter forces its way up to my lips and I am trembling from excitement and exertion- it is no small effort to break a man’s neck. It lacks the artistry of other methods, but the pure adrenaline, the sudden contest of strength with the certainty that I shall not be denied my trophy, it is the closest this comes to a pure sexual thrill, and it surpasses all in the sense of being suddenly, vividly alive when it is done. Again, I lower my lips to his ear, and whisper the secret I shall allow him to take to his grave. A parting gift he hardly deserves.

“Die quietly like a good fellow, yes? You have fallen prey to a Goddess…”

Let my whispered words mock them and their worthless gods.

The first few become a dozen. The dozen become scores, then hundreds, and then many hundreds. This city is an abattoir- a few extra murders per week can hardly be expected to elicit concern. Still, eventually they come to suspect something is amiss, and even then they have no inkling. My score stands at Eight Hundred and Forty-Six the first time anyone thinks to question the pretty slave seen here and there where the corpses are discovered, and yet all they ask is “Have you seen anything?” I am too small, too feminine, too submissive and far too deft at manipulating men to become a suspect, even when so many things point directly at me. It is a blindness born of arrogance, and fully thirty pay for that with their lives, tortured to death by frustrated agents of the law and other interested parties determined to punish somebody while I add another fifty or so by my own hand.

It had begun slowly and so does it end. Even one such as I cannot ignore the growing scrutiny and my pace slackens, and with it the madness that drives me ebbs, until one day when I draw a man in to my net… and then let him go. He would have been number Nine Hundred and Thirteen…

Eight years of homicidal madness, arguably the price paid for my first taste of love.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 11/16/2003 01:21:00 AM

. . .

This is proving to be quite vexing. I should put this behind me and think of it no more- let it lie as quietly as it has for a century or more, but it will not allow me to do that. Retrieval of the records was no mean feat itself: a company that specializes in the safe keeping of museum-quality historical documents stored them. One does not simply drive up and haul away cases of old records from a facility such as this. Nonetheless I was able to get at them after some hours of effort.

Thirteen large cases awaited me: the accumulation of over two hundred years of documents, books and letters. What concerned me would be contained in one of two particular cases and I set about the task of sorting them out once I had had them moved to my apartment outside the city. I suppose those who first collected these at my behest had been methodical in dating and storing them, but over the years as they were moved from one place to another they had become somewhat jumbled. Still, my money had been well spent- they were in remarkably good condition.

I started with letters dated after I had ended my contact with Catherine. Even after she was certain I was unlikely to respond she had continued to write in a most conversational manner. I nearly became ill when she mentioned that she had co-opted her son in to the task of ensuring I would be welcomed should I ever choose to return- this was written in 1890. Not once in any of her missives to me had she made any overt statement or even hint that she was aware of my secret: it was clear to me that her son was a lawyer and she had merely employed him in the creation of a trust to hold the family property inviolate for a great span of years, until 2050 to be exact. Unlike her words, her actions made it unmistakable that she had indeed been told, and that she believed.

Her last letter was dated December of 1896. Following that there was a letter from an attorney, informing me of her death and that I or my descendants had been named in a portion of her will. Two further letters followed, requesting a reply, then a final large packet.

Catherine and her son had been quite clever. The family fortunes had apparently grown quite large by that time so they set up a trust to hold title to the house and property. I am no legal scholar, but it appeared to me the trust stipulated any family member could reside in the house at will, but that efforts must be made to maintain the current structure and properties as they were. The trust also endowed a Historical Society for the town with a stipend for a museum. Finally, almost as an afterthought, it was noted that any person in possession of a specific legal instrument could present it to the trust as proof of descent from Elaine in order to take full advantage of the trust and its assigned properties. That instrument was sealed within an envelope in the packet.

It seems Catherine had been quite thorough.

I had already been aware that the property was in a trust- I had quietly engaged two different law firms to look in to the status of the property back when I decided to visit Jeremy’s grave. Now I was faced with having them probe more deeply, investigating the financial status of the trust and the Historical Society, as well as determining the legal status, if any, conferred by the instrument I possessed. These could conceivably be very dangerous acts on my part. They could also quite easily come to nothing. I found it hard to believe that whoever was holding the trust at this time would suddenly agree to surrender use of the property to somebody who arrived with a letter over a century old.

I chose to tackle the simplest task first: the instrument. A few hours huddled with some fine (and expensive) gentlemen determined that the instrument appeared to be valid, assuming the provisions of the trust were properly described and had not been changed; however, to execute it I would have to become personally involved as it could not be done by proxy. What surprised me was how easily I made my choice. I then set them to the task of learning everything they could while I set about making my own preparations.

Common sense tells me I should leave this be. Whatever threat there may have been is obviously minimal- digging in to this can only serve to make it worse. So why am I unwilling to walk away? Why am I so excited?

posted by Zsallia Marieko 11/12/2003 09:12:00 PM

. . .

It could be worse.

More lawyers, then decisions must be made.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 11/11/2003 08:42:00 PM

. . .

Jeremy betrayed me. He told me he had done it in a letter he wrote some few days before his death, but in that letter he made it clear he expected I would not learn of his act for some time:

“I know you, my love. I know this missive shall remain unread for decades, perhaps centuries. It is conceivable you might never read it, and never know what I have done, or why…”

He was correct on both counts. I had only recently begun carrying bits of my past forward, storing them against future need. Oh, I have left hordes in the past, but I have never returned to them- best to leave the past behind, let it remain dead. Only over the past few centuries have I made an effort to change this, with some success, I might add. Thus I still had my diaries from my years with Jeremy.

I retrieved the first volume of that diary some months ago, along with the letter he wrote on his deathbed. At first I had not opened it because my grief was too deep. Later I was afraid to read it and reopen the wound his passing had left in my heart. Finally, I had set it aside as part of the dead past. When recent events lured me in to revisiting that time the letter was still there. Once I had made my peace with my past I decided it was time to read it.

I cannot begin to recount it in its entirety for it is too detailed and I am loath to remake his words for my own petty needs. I am also somewhat at a loss to describe how I feel about this.

Five children survived the fire that took the lives of Reginald, Clarice and their youngest child, Sarah. I have made little specific mention of them for several reasons, none of which I am at liberty to discuss here. The eldest I shall refer to as Joshua, the youngest as Catherine (named after Reginald and Jeremy’s sister). Joshua was fourteen when Jeremy and I arrived in his life and while he respected his uncle he absolutely despised me. His intense dislike persisted until the day Jeremy’s Will was read and he understood that I had been left nothing of the family’s fortunes, and that I had been pleased to have it so. After that day he subsided in to simple irritation with me and with his youngest sister who, along with her husband, inherited the family home and its lands.

Catherine had always adored me, something I am sure contributed to Joshua’s dislike of me. After Jeremy died she insisted I remain with her and her family at the house, and I did so for one year, mostly in response to this odd feeling that she desperately wished me to remain more out of concern for my welfare than for her own purposes. When I did choose to leave, journeying to Boston, Catherine went to great lengths to maintain correspondence. We exchanged frequent letters for several years and when I was ready to set aside my identity as her Aunt Elaine I actually went to the trouble of hiring a law firm to collect any further letters or packages from her and hold them indefinitely until I sent an agent to retrieve them. I then became Melissa Burns and disappeared.

I had always wondered in an offhand manner why Catherine had been so concerned with me. Now I know why.

Jeremy revealed my secret to Catherine just over a year before he died. That I did not detect this I attribute to my foreboding of his coming end. He was still healthy, but he was no longer young. At sixty-one years of age he was now prone to infections in his lungs during the winter and I knew that it was only a matter of time. Preoccupied with what for me was an immanent change I failed to notice or properly account for Catherine’s change in attitude. In the wake of his passing, well, everything had changed for all involved.

His letter explained that he was not content to have me wandering the world, hiding here or there, always lost, always alone. He wanted to provide me with a refuge, a place to come to whenever I wished where I would be known and accepted. He wanted me to have a home. He charged Catherine with seeing to it that our home would always be available to me. He laid that obligation upon her because he knew she was fond of me and because she was such an extraordinary woman herself (a trait he insisted was my doing), having studied literature and law and the sciences at an advanced level despite her youth. He trusted her with my secret because he felt he knew her heart nearly as well as he knew mine. What surprises me most is that she might have believed him at all.

My very first instinct was to disappear: to drop everything and go underground in Eastern Europe or South America. I thought better of that- the secret had been “out” for better than one hundred and fifty years to little or no effect so there could be little harm in taking the time to examine what this meant. Still, I did make certain arrangements against possible need.

Then I returned to Boston to sift through everything I had from Catherine.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 11/09/2003 08:50:00 PM

. . .

On the naming of names, and the placing of places. As I go through my narratives I deliberately obscure certain facts. Jeremy, for instance, was not named Jeremy, Catherine was not Catherine, Rufus was not Rufus… I do believe the pattern is clear. Locations are obscured as well as specifics as to dates, particularly as I speak of relatively recent events. You may take this as an expression of a desire for security, or as simple sloppy storytelling- either conclusion suits me.

Despite this I do pay attention to detail, so the naming of names and the placing of places are consistent within the narrow context I provide. I mention this only because what will follow is rife with names and places to the point of encouraging one to attempt to parse out the truth. I would spare anyone that trouble, if I could.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 11/09/2003 05:30:00 PM

. . .

Interesting (actually, somewhat disturbing) developments over the past two days. As a result I shall be wading through a sea of lawyers. Posting will be light to non-existent until some time next week. Do take care.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 11/05/2003 10:09:00 PM

. . .

Mr. E asks: can one argue the predisposition to love as being a more likely attestation of evolution or of creation?

You may argue whatever you like, but since you are asking my opinion the short answer is “no”.

I am afraid that I am about to disappoint a lot of people with my thoughts on this subject, as they are by no means original nor terribly unique.

It seems to me that the notion that Creation and Evolution are mutually exclusive is indefensible. Allow me to synthesize the arguments in extremely simple terms. The Creationist argues that Evolution strips Man of his unique spiritual nature, denying him the grace offered by his creator. The Evolutionist argues that Creation strips man of his critical nature, rendering the evidence of science at best a carefully constructed set of fallacies, at worst as a construct of the Father of Lies.

Where can we go from here? How can we reconcile these two viewpoints?

We need to decide if Man as an intelligent creature is unique. Consider the implications if we were to discover that Man is alone in the Universe as a critical and self-aware creature. This is not idle speculation for if we decide that science will answer this question, so far the answer is that we cannot prove that he is not. Before you all tell me- yes, I understand that proving a negative is logically impossible when all possible scenarios are outside the realm of testability; however, lacking evidence of extraterrestrial intelligences we cannot discount the possibility that Man may indeed be unique.

There was a time not very long ago when writers of speculative fiction used a certain hypothetical formula to suggest that the idea of Earth as the only inhabitable or inhabited planet in this galaxy was patently absurd. I believe the calculation was similar to this: There are approximately 400 billion stars in this galaxy. If one one-tenth of one percent of them has any kind of planetary system, and one-tenth of one percent of those has a possibly habitable planet, this results in 400,000 possibilities. Expand this to include the billions of galaxies that comprise the Universe and it seems absurd to think that there is no life anywhere else in the Universe.

It seems reasonable, yes? The problem with this calculation is that it makes broad assumptions that are quite unwarranted regarding the nature of stars in general and the observable requirements for the existence of life. Where just Earth-like planets are concerned it turns out that the possibilities are becoming more and more limited as Man’s understanding of those requirements expands. We can all speculate on the possibilities of forms of life that might exist outside the sphere of the carbon-based water band; however, such speculations themselves face their own limits as the unique nature of carbon becomes more and more apparent. Proponents of alternate-chemistry life forms refer to this “carbon chauvinism”, but a catchy phrase does little to lessen the reality that carbon does seem to be unparalleled both in its ability to form long chains of complex molecules and its ubiquitous nature in the Universe.

What we face here is a lack of sufficient discreet subjects to form a baseline of scientific knowledge. You and I have only a single instance of an inhabited planet from which to draw conclusions. We have only a single race of beings possessed of the gift of rational thought and a demonstrated ability to manipulate their environment. Given these limitations science is unable to provide concrete answers to questions such as mankind’s status in the Universe. Hints and trends and possibilities yes, but no certain answers. Nothing even close.

So, science has nothing to say regarding the uniqueness or lack thereof of Man, but it has plenty to tell us about his development. We have growing mounds of evidence that Man is the product of an evolutionary process set in motion by a confluence of near random and highly unlikely circumstances. While there are those among us who would argue that the picture is by no means complete I think most of us probably can agree that the image is there for any who are willing to see it.

And here we are, right back where we started. Science has plenty to say about evolution, but very little to say about Creation. And here is where I generally get myself excommunicated, assuming of course that the Catholic Church would have a creature such as me in its fold.

The idea that God, if he exists, created the Universe in seven days is nothing more than metaphor. Any creation myth is metaphor, a construct of minds too primitive, too ignorant to have any understanding of the nature of the world and the Universe beyond that which served their very practical needs. They had imagination and they had a thirst to know, but they had no tools sufficient unto the task of answering their questions. So they fell back on myth, on metaphor, because they had to have an answer. Men are quite stubborn that way, you know.

I have no difficulty eschewing the Creation as described in Genesis in favor of a far more complex, far more miraculous act where God sets the Universe in motion several billions of years ago, setting the stage for the eventual ascent of Man from the primordial ooze of a tiny planet in one spiral arm of an unremarkable galaxy amongst billions of galaxies. That seems a much more impressive feat than simply willing it all in to existence over a week. It also puts to rest the need for God or the Devil to have put in place all the evidence of evolution, geology, chemistry, biology, physics, and astrophysics for Man to discover and puzzle over as some test of faith. Any God I might be tempted to believe in would be above that kind of foolishness. In this context since Evolution is merely part of God’s plan it cannot separate Man from God’s grace, and accepting that Evolution is God’s plan in no way robs Man of his critical nature since science becomes the primary tool Man uses to read the Gospel According to Physics. Finally, since we cannot prove that Man is not unique in the Universe our critical nature requires that we at the very least consider that Man indeed may indeed be unique. We do not have to accept it as fact, but we must admit that it is possible. Failure to do so in the face of a lack of any evidence to the contrary risks replacing one myth with another.

All of this leads me to the conclusion that asking whether Man’s predisposition to love is more indicative of a Creation origin or an Evolution origin is an exercise in futility. My opinion is that they are one and the same.

Bearing in mind, of course, that I have no firm opinion on the existence of God to begin with. And of course my own existence within the framework of this argument could be somewhat problematic. My faith rests on my observation of Man and my belief that Man does indeed have a destiny that is beyond mere propagation. Whether or not Man fulfills that destiny is pretty much up to you.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 11/01/2003 03:30:00 AM

. . .

In response to Mr. E’s comment on a previous post:

If I were insane, how would I know? You and I could sit over coffee and have a nice chat and at the end of it you might be tempted to tell me you were fairly certain I was off my rocker, but would I be able to believe you? In my case I have lots of history to look back on and that gives me some perspective on myself. I can look back and say “Oh, my! I was certainly not thinking too clearly, was I?” It is all relative, after all.

So what about love? I have offered a few paragraphs here to describe my understanding of the nature of love and its effect on Man and I know I have mentioned that there is a difference between this love to which Man is predisposed and the Romantic Love that is the source of such joy, such excess and such sorrow. I understand that first love- I rely upon it when I try to understand you and everybody else surrounding me. The second love, let me spell it Love for clarity’s sake, is something I try to avoid. It is dangerous to me. It is madness most raw.

Just so that you do not begin to think I am talking nonsense, please understand that what follows applies strictly to me and not to others.

Love is an invitation to pain and despair. When I allow myself to fall in Love I am guaranteeing myself a painful ending, one that is not possible, but inevitable. Tell me, please, what is rational about willingly inviting such horror in to my life? Given that, is it at all surprising that I have only had Love in my life four times?

Each time, I fooled myself in some way.

The first time was easy- when I confessed to him that his slave was immortal, he nodded and pronounced me Diana for he had encountered me as a huntress in the wilderness. Somehow my lack of chastity did not deter him in his conviction. When over the next few years our mutual foolishness made itself clear he ordered me bound hand and foot and forced me to watch as he opened his veins and bled to death. He believed he was doing the right thing.

I was none too eager to repeat that experience, but I did, three more times, the last being my Jeremy, whom I have discussed at some length. Each time I told myself that I could grasp those brief years of delirium, that the pain waiting at the end would be bearable, that this time I was far too mature to allow the inevitable to scar me so. Each time I was wrong. Oh, to be certain with the passage of time the pain eased, to be replaced with a certain rueful recognition of my own foolishness, but the memory of those times…

Only the last time came close to breaking the pattern, but I begin to suspect that there is more to play from that episode in my life. Jeremy is not through with me yet.

So, Love lures me with the promise of decades of joy and blinds me to a century of pain in payment. Self-delusion indeed. Do not seek to find flaws here, instead recognize that what I say of myself does not apply to all- it cannot for reasons I do believe I have made explicit.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 10/30/2003 09:30:00 PM

. . .

Well, this has certainly been an invigorating twenty-four hours or so. I must express my thanks to Dean Esmay for his kind words regarding my thoughts offered here- praise is always that much sweeter when it comes from one you respect. As for the readers he has sent to this humble site, I believe their comments speak for themselves. Quality shows, people. Of all the accusations hurled at me over the years “I would suppose that you have a doctorate in either philosophy or history” certainly takes the prize for most unexpected and delightful.

I am not usually a political writer, but I find the subject immensely seductive due both to the immediacy of the topics and the fervor of those who willingly delve in to the debate. Somehow I doubt I shall be able to remain silent on these topics as the season progresses.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 10/27/2003 08:28:00 PM

. . .

I am so terribly sorry. I did promise no more politics until the new year, but that persnickety Dean Esmay has been posting things that make me go "hmmm." So, with that said:



These assorted assertions regarding lying to the public and the reflexive disdain for the current President are unusual only if one fails to take in to account the unique nature of the approaching election season. Consider: this is the first election in three decades or so where you have both a state of war and an incumbent seeking reelection without even token opposition within his own party. Throw in the spectre of the Florida fiasco and we have set the stage for an interesting (i.e. contentious and divisive) election. Add to that the unprecedented access to broad audiences that until recently were essentially denied to the extremist fringes and it becomes certain that a circus is in the offing.

It seems to me that in the long run this process of extreme rhetoric could conceivably transform itself in to a positive outcome. Let us be honest and admit that the fanatics on both sides of the spectrum have become essentially interchangeable. This was not always so easy to discern as the fringes were so effectively marginalized in the past- they made their voices heard at the political rallies and in the caucuses, but otherwise held no firm political power. The information age has made the sound-byting of the outrageous profitable for the media companies and the political entities seemed to be content to allow the hot-heads to take to the airwaves in excoriating their opponents, assuming that the old dynamic was still in play and that their words would not have any method of sticking to the eventual nominee or his party. In doing this the parties both exposed their ugly underbellies to the light of day and could now be forced to deal with their Anti-American, Anti-Constitutional and Anti-democratic elements by either openly embracing them and admitting that their causes were concomitant with their own, or by openly marginalizing them.

It seems to me that the conservatives got a head start on this process and have been slowly isolating the worst actors on the religious right from the centres of power. They still have their problems, and by no means have overcome them; however, with the advent of the war those close to the President have had the opportunity to make an even bolder move to increase this separation, the current anti-abortion legislation notwithstanding. There are those who see the upcoming procedural ban as the “nose of the camel” and fail to understand that while a majority of their countrymen support the ideal of a woman’s right to choose, they also see the need for some sort of line to be drawn and they look to the government and the courts to draw it. Taken in that light this current affront to leftist sensibilities becomes nothing more than another small step in the completely American process of defining a consensus that both sides will eventually be forced to live with and within.

The liberals in this nation are facing a far more acute problem; however, the benefit of the acute is that it can often be dealt with swiftly. Whereas the conservatives are incrementally marginalizing their fanatics, the left may yet be able to excise theirs in a single political season. Unfortunately, the cost of taking advantage of this opportunity is likely a humiliating defeat in 2004. The danger is that the more rational elements of the left might fail to see that opportunity and act upon it in which case they are doomed to the political outlands until either the economy once again succumbs to the business cycle or the conservatives egregiously overstep themselves. One of the necessary elements of a recovery is to stop fearing the defection of the Greens and their ilk. Those fanatics have already left the party and will continue to field candidates who theoretically sap strength from the Democratic candidates. The Democrats are not capable of placating that faction without thoroughly alienating the centrist voters they need to win the Presidency. By attempting to straddle the fence they achieve the worst of all possible outcomes, hence their current sorry state. The same logic applies to the other fringe groups that have been categorized by commentators on the right as the “victim movements”, or some such. The left in the presumptive form of the Democratic Party must find a way to separate themselves from these factions and return rhetorical control of the political argument to more reality-based hands, or else must face the unpleasant prospect of a long stretch in the wilderness likely ending in the dissolution of the extant party structure in favor of something more workable.

I understand that the above seems particularly harsh in regards to the left whilst affording the conservatives somewhat of a pass; however, both analyses have bearing upon their opposite numbers. The fanatics still exist within the power structure of the Republican Party and there is no guarantee that this gradual marginalization will continue. One of the requisite factors for success in this endeavor is a resurgent and credible force on the left, shorn of its fanatic fringe elements and capable of bringing a coherent and believable message to the voters. The same is true of the Democratic Party: one of the reasons it faces such dire straights is that for some time the Republicans were essentially no threat. The lack of a credible political opponent let the poison of factionalism and fanaticism scar the soul of a great and majestic institution. Had the right been unable to articulate a message that resonated with the bulk of the voting population the left would still be ensconced in the throne room, and the rot would have continued to spread.

The thrust of all this is nothing new: in America the left and the right need each other to survive. The American people need both to be viable, honest and trustworthy. Both parties must abandon the deplorable practice of assuming that their own failures are the result of trickery on their opponents’ part. And finally, both parties must learn to trust the people.

That final requirement is likely to be the most difficult. Throughout the extraordinarily brief history of this nation the various iterations of the political opposites have harbored a foundational distrust of the voters. This was not always so blatant, particularly when the vote was restricted to male property owners, but it has always been thus. This distrust of the voters has been the driving force behind the various manifestations of the parties that sought to shape the course of the American Experiment. This is the paradigm which must come to an end, for failing that this interesting experiment in self-rule could very well collapse, and what replaces it is doubtful to be to anyone’s liking.

Follow-up: Dean Esmay replies

posted by Zsallia Marieko 10/25/2003 03:33:00 AM

. . .

Hmmm...


Firesprite.


What magical female creature are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

I came across this quiz at Etherian's Island where I shall, in a bit of coincidental magic, be guest blogging for the next few days, along with others.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 10/19/2003 10:14:00 PM

. . .

I need to say something, to explain something, but I find myself reluctant. No matter how many attempts I make at putting this in to written words it comes out as somewhat arrogant and condescending. Would that I could meet with every reader who happens across this journal, sit down and explain in person- that is my personal strength. I can communicate with a gesture what I cannot describe in pages of text.

Complaining of the inadequacy of the only medium afforded me is pointless. Arrogant and condescending are all that are left me. So be it. Here is my gentlest iteration:

Do not attempt to understand me. You are by your very nature incapable of understanding me. This forum is woefully ineffective in providing you with what you would need to understand me. If you believe you understand me you are mistaken. All you have are fragments, musings, disjointed pieces and tattered remnants of the tapestry of a life too long to be fully described in a few dozen pages of digitized text. This is not your fault, nor is it mine. It simply is.

This does not give me satisfaction. It brings no joy to my heart. I began this site with the expectation that I might somehow make myself known- to test the waters as it were. I have tested those waters and found them not entirely to my liking, mostly for the reason that the waters were not what I expected them to be. I need something more concrete, more visceral, and I fear I know exactly what that something may be. I wrestle with that fear for I am above such things and they should have no hold on me. In this particular struggle I shall certainly prevail.

Finally, what I attempted to do when I began this site eventuated to be the opposite of what I seem to have accomplished. Rather than make myself known to others, I have made myself better known to me. The mirror of others’ regard is a powerful thing indeed.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 10/19/2003 07:30:00 PM

. . .

The bottle sounded against the rim of my glass, a single clear ping, and then gurgled quietly as I poured. I took up the glass and brought it to my lips, tilting it back to let the clear brown liquid burn down my throat and in to my belly.

“What’s with you and whiskey?”

I turned to face Gregory and found him sitting on the bed wearing his boxers. He is young, just twenty-one, barely sentient by my standards. His hair is brown and short with golden highlights and he wears thin sideburns that cut over in to an angular fringe along his jaw, meeting a neat, severe goatee. His mouth is stern without being narrow, set in his angular jaw below his fine, straight nose. His hazel eyes are likewise quite intense; dominating his face with his high forehead- in short he radiates the aura of Angry Young Man, yet his voice is surprisingly soft and resonant, and when he smiles all that angry intensity leaves him. It is quite becoming.

“Whatever do you mean?” I replied, grinning as I refilled my glass yet again.

“I’d be on my knees if I drank as much as you.”

There was a note of concern in his voice, not overarching concern, just that little bit. It was sweet, and it made me giggle a bit before I drained the glass again. Alcohol makes me giddy, not drunk, and anything less than a steady flow of liquor has no effect on me at all. But when it has me in its grip I can be quite… impulsive.

“It fuels my madness,” I laughed and strode over to the balcony, throwing open the sliding door and stretching out, my feet and hands at the corners of the doorway, letting the cool breeze of the autumn night slide over my skin, drinking in the sight of the harbor below. “I love this view.”

“Not bad from here, either… and I’ll bet the neighbors like it, too.” He came up behind me and slid his arms about me, drawing me tightly to him. It felt wonderful, his head resting atop mine, his body warm and firm behind me, his hands tracing lines of goose bumps up my belly and over my breasts. His timing was impeccable- the warm rush from the whiskey suffused my body and I let my arms fall, melting in to his grasp as I turned to face him. I licked his chest, letting the salty flavour of his skin and sweat mix with the smoky aftertaste of the Crown Royal.

“You taste so good,” I murmured as I lifted my face and then found his mouth with mine. He was surprised. Surprised at his powerful response, at my animal hunger, at how quickly a casual gesture escalated in to forty minutes of exertion, sweat and pleasure. Such is life with one such as I.

“No,” he said, seizing my wrist as I reached for my bottle, “every time you open that thing we wind up in the tangle again, and I’m starving.”

“I’ll call room service…”

“Oh. man, no more steak, no more lobster- I need real food… pizza. I know just the place.”

I let him shower first as I drained the last of the Crown Royal and called the desk to have the room serviced and the bar restocked. I love good hotels- twelve-thirty in the morning and they did not even blink. Of course, they knew me at this one. I slipped in to the shower while he was getting dressed and took it first at full hot for a minute, then warm for a quick wash, then dead cold to rinse. In and out in under five minutes. My wardrobe was limited, but a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and my jacket seemed just the thing for a pizza run.

Gregory watched me tuck a half-litre of Jim Beam inside my jacket and drop five one-hundred-dollar bills on the table. I saw the disapproval there, but I countered it with a grin, and we were off.

It turned out he not only knew where to get pizza at one in the morning, he also knew where to find his friends. That saddened me; because I knew that it was likely Gregory and I were now done. I seldom survive contact with the peers in situations like this, but I was well fueled, and quite mad.

An hour later I was deep in to the discussion of Marxist theory with a child who had no clue what Marx was all about, and thought that Stalin was simply misunderstood.

“Marxism can work,” he insisted, “if it is properly applied. The Soviets and Mao were too concerned with the maintenance of power to make an honest attempt at true Socialism.”

“That’s the problem, honey,” I replied, “you don’t seem to understand that it’s all about the power. Can’t make a Marxist Utopia without holding on to the reigns of power, and it becomes the center of everything.”

“That’s an old argument,” he rebuffed me, “in a modern society…”

“You can use technology to keep tabs on the untrue,” I interrupted him. I paused to drain a glass of Stoli on ice, then continued, “It’s like this, boy: you think that Marxism can work if they just give you and yours the chance to do it because this time you’ll do it right, but, not to be crude here, that’s the political equivalent of promising not to come in my mouth. You may mean it, you may be sincere, but once things get rolling and you taste the power, all the soft caresses and teasing will turn in to a fist behind my head. Only in this case the aftermath is not a funky aftertaste and a stain on my blouse, but a mountain of corpses and a population in chains. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt, and fuck you if you think we ought to try it again, capice?"

Gregory intervened at that point and I let him defuse the situation, but his friend gazed upon me with eyes alight with the fire of fresh hatred. Poor child, he had no idea whom he was dealing with. I have no real political persona, but I know balderdash when it is laid at my doorstep. We left his friends and he walked me back to the hotel, but when I reached the suite, I was alone…

posted by Zsallia Marieko 10/13/2003 09:27:00 PM

. . .

I have been dreaming of late, dreaming of the sea.

I have a confession to make. Nothing earth shattering or terribly revealing, just a quirk… or perhaps more correctly a phobia: the sea terrifies me. It is not a fear of water, for swimming pools and lakes offer no problem, nor does swimming at the seashore, rather it is the open sea that contains horrors for me.

There are easy theories as to why this should be so, but the reasons run deeper and are not all clear to my understanding. I remember the first time I crossed the Atlantic, on a contract bound for the Virginia colony as an indentured maidservant. The smell is the first thing that comes to mind, but fast on the heels of that is the Sea. The certain knowledge that beyond the hull was the cold, deep, gray and merciless expanse of heaving water, like some malevolent beast hungry for my very life- I remembered how eagerly it had claimed me before, how grudgingly it had given me up. Ever since then the idea of being lost in the open sea has sent shudders down my spine. Suffice it to say that when we reached Virginia I was never so happy to be sold in all my life.

I spent seven weeks in that stinking hold, clinging to a post or huddled in the bunk I shared with four others. One of the women would force me to eat or take a little water from time to time. I doubt I slept more than an hour at a stretch. I hardly noticed that a third of the crew and half the human cargo succumbed to disease, or that I had so callously broken the neck of one young tough who thought I could benefit from his special sort of “comforting”. I cannot even begin to accurately describe my state of mind- I have never been in such a deep and prolonged state of irrational fear. Suffice it to say that since then I have ventured on to a ship only three times, and never for long voyages.

Yet here I am, dreaming of the sea. Not just waking in the morning and remembering dreams (which is something I never do), but waking in the middle of the night shaken from slumber by vivid images of the sea and myself. And I am left longing for the sight, the sound, and the smell: I ache for the Sea. Yet the sea still terrifies me.

Someday I am sure I will understand it.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 10/12/2003 01:12:00 AM

. . .

E-mail seems to be working again, though Hushmail still has their disclaimer up. I have received two messages today, though not from Loren or the Yeti. As I noted a few moments ago- you get what you pay for.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 10/09/2003 07:47:00 PM

. . .

I am slipping in to insanity. I can feel it stealing up behind me, stray thoughts and desires, those things that make up the normal background chatter of an active mind are beginning to press their way to the fore. Irrational urges I am unable to ignore. The other day a realization that a young man had made a habit of admiring me as I took my morning latte mushroomed in to a ruthless seduction I was helpless to stop. He did not deserve this, to have me sweep in and out of his life like an emotional wrecking ball. He should have spent the weekend with his friends, spouting his silly politics, chasing after some doe-eyed freshman girl, not crashing about a hotel suite with me.

I expect better of myself, but such things have happened before. My grasp over my emotions slips, and it snowballs out of control, sometimes destructively so. At least this time it is only sex.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 10/07/2003 10:50:00 PM

. . .

I encountered a new blog yesterday, and I find it quite intriguing. He moves me, deeply, because his writing is so intensely personal. Go visit The Beast.

UPDATE:

Having had time to review everything I do believe I have been timid in my recommendation. Allow me to redress that now: Travis seems to be unwittingly engaged in the task of defining the art of being Man. That his words are so wrenchingly personal is testimony to his courage and generosity. I wept when reading his offerings, and not out of joy, or sorrow, or pity, but out of gratitude that he chose to share so much of himself. I am willing to consider that it is perhaps just a personal preference on my part, but I believe that not to be the case. I believe Travis and The Yeti and Etherian could have quite the correspondence. Would that I were a fly on the wall…

posted by Zsallia Marieko 10/06/2003 02:38:00 AM

. . .

Somebody who shall remain nameless insisted I take this personality test(Be aware that this site repeatedly asks you to install various not-so-friendly plugins- ignore them). These are rather difficult for me as I generally approach tests of any kind with the intent to obtain a specific outcome. Furthermore, several of the questions either provided no method for me to reply truthfully (Age being the first one), or simply did not apply. Still, the result was interesting, if generic.

Like just 4% of the population you are an EXPERIMENTER (Dominant Introvert Abstract Thinker). Although you're slightly shy (admit it!), you love control. When a problem comes in your way, you stomp on it swiftly and decisively. You are bothered easily by failure in others and failure in yourself. You don't like people that you don't think are intelligent. Rather than arguing with them, however, you would just as soon ignore them altogether.

In relationships, you have a strong heart. And because you're introverted, people take you as someone they can trust. But the fact is that in addition to solving problems, you like to create them. So there's a decent chance that you'll cheat on a loved one. If you do, you'll likely get away with it.

You're a good person at heart, but then again, who isn't?

I suppose I create problems simply by existing...

posted by Zsallia Marieko 10/05/2003 02:32:00 AM

. . .

Regarding Love, Hope and the nature of Man. What follows is a synthesis of two letters which are my end of an on-going correspondence with another blogger, whom I quote here only briefly as I never requested his permission to post his letters entire.

----------

It pains me to think that my tales here might be cause for consternation amongst others- I have always assumed that I would be taken as a fanciful diversion. That I allow mystery to surround myself could be defensive, or a necessary part of the fantasy. Either way, it serves my needs and I will never make a definitive statement on it.

Regarding the nature of Man: the view of Man as animal, slave to a genetic imperative and playing at games of morality and civilization has always seemed a desperate ploy to legitimize the despicable in their own eyes. I have read your site, watching you cast out questions of moral weight, and I have refrained from commenting as I felt that by the very premise of my identity I would be somehow impure, contaminating the flow of the debate.

Modern (and by that term I refer to post-Renaissance) morality seems overly concerned with concepts of life, death, and the right of one being to place bonds of obligation, consensual or otherwise, upon another. This has become immensely intensified in the past century, as the religious and political spheres have separated to some degree. In America it is quite acute and has been for some time. This serves to de-focus the understanding of morality and how it relates to everyday life and the choices made by sentient beings. By casting morality in political terms it becomes simpler to eschew it.

Let us consider love. You recently questioned your readers regarding the relationship between sex and love, with somewhat predictable results. The problem, from my perspective, is that you muddied the real question (What is Love?) by casting it in the context of sex. A recipe for unsatisfying results. I would have asked simply this: what does love mean to you?

Let me see if I can offer a cogent answer to that question.

Love, in its simplest form is a recognition that others matter. That their tragedies are your tragedies, that their triumphs are your triumphs, that their sorrows and joys are yours as well. Love is the fundamental connection between human beings, beyond all other things. It takes many forms and it hides in many places. Suggest to your local police officer that he engages in his profession out of a fundamental love for his fellow man and he may scoff, but inside he will recognize that there is a grain of truth to it. These are small relationships. Should we be tempted to blend emotion and physics we might call this the Gravitational Force of Humanity. This small love is what makes it possible to live in towns and cities, and to pass strangers on the street without fear or confrontation. This small love fails sometimes, tragically, but overall it seems to prevail.

Let me approach this from another perspective: do you on a daily basis desire to harm others? Do you seek to place your fortunes always above those who surround you? Would you deliberately harm a man who was looking you in the eye for petty personal gain? I submit to you that a significant majority of people would not. I understand that there have been psychological tests and experiments that might seem to bear out the opposite, but put the question in the terms in which I have stated it and ask yourself honestly what the answer would be? Then ask yourself the most important question: why?

The answer is again, love. Not that you love the man you might harm, but that you yourself seek to be loved and that such an act could not only harm the love you feel from others, but that which you feel for yourself. Self-love is powerful- just ask anyone who lets it get out of control. Look at those who do abuse others, those who would take the advantage that casual harm might gain them. Look at those who clearly place themselves above others in all things. They have common traits, not the least of which being that they find themselves surrounded by people who pretend to love them, people who are motivated by the same thoughtless need for themselves as the man or woman who has clawed his way to the top across the shattered lives of his betters.

What to make of this? Nothing more than that mankind seems to be as hard-wired for love as he is for procreation. If there is no hope for you in that statement then I doubt we could profitably continue this discussion.

Love manifests itself in many ways. Sacrifice, either of a lifetime or of life itself, is the most visible manifestation. The religious leader who gives up the chance for a wife and family in order to answer to a higher calling- he acts out of love for his faith, and that is by extension a love of Man. The clichéd soldier throwing himself upon the hand grenade to save his fellows, is that not an expression of love? The doctor who daily grinds against the depredations of nature upon the human body, what motivates him? If you think lucre is all, then you do not know many doctors. And what of engineers, electricians, carpenters, dressmakers, pastry chefs, cobblers, stevedores, drovers… it is the satisfaction of being part of an overall good that drives them far more than simple greed or need. It is the understanding of that basic connection that lets one take satisfaction in a job well done, regardless if that job entails shaping the foundations of a nation or merely stacking those bails in the barn.

In the end, just about every profession practiced by men is a manifestation of that overreaching force of love: none of it direct or even truly presenting itself openly to be seen, but I submit that it is utterly essential to making civilization work. When that love is sundered, civilizations fall.

Romantic Love is a construct of modern civilization, a mixture of the carnal with this smaller “l” love I have been discussing. That it can usurp all common sense, bring down the mighty or elevate the base shows how powerful it can be, but it is not the driving force of civilization. It is not at the heart of what it is to be Man. It is the advent and the elevation of Romantic Love that provides the despicable with their wedge to separate Man from Morality- pointing to this beautiful confluence of the carnal and the spiritual and calling it the mere satisfaction of genetic imperatives. If one must find the Devil whispering in the eaves, this is where he lurks: it is that which points to the underside of civilization, those dark and festering swamps where Man and love often fail, and calls that the norm, the nature of Man- there is the true voice of evil, the antithesis of love.

My point is that love is deeply written into the smaller parts of day-to-day life. Love is a basic function of human existence. As such it lends credence to the idea that there is an overall purpose to that existence. Not proof, just another hopeful sign.

----------

I oft am concerned by the reactions I engender in folk, even when I cloak myself in the guise of the ordinary. I dislike the way my existence can warp the lives of those who stray close. Another scientific metaphor: my life as naked singularity for the human spirit.

Enough of that.

The question of my existence seems almost inconsequential to this discussion. I feel certain that the notions I presented could as easily have been born of a life in which one’s own demons had been unleashed, confronted and eventually overcome. This is germane to the reason I noted for declining commenting on your posts directly- the stated nature of my existence tends to distort the discussion. Either my words carry added import due to my immortality, or they are rendered suspect by my charade: a classic example of Catch 22, and another reason why I am enjoined against ever answering the question in an even remotely dispositive manner. Mystery makes me what I am in the virtual world. This pains me, but my choices in this matter are nil.

I hide from the world, my only exposure a web site upon which I spin tales and occasionally opine on the nature of Man. What would be the reaction were I to become publicly known as a verifiably ‘immortal’ being? That my freedom would be forfeit is a given. That my destruction would be sought is to be expected for my existence would threaten too many hide-bound ideologies. You would likely be surprised to see how many people considered rational and thoughtful and committed to the scientific pursuit of knowledge would become irrational when presented with the certainty of my existence. I would become a symbol and a tool claimed by every faction as proof against others, or denounced as an incarnation of evil, some diabolical manifestation to be eradicated as a test of faith.

Could the Devil not dangle eternal life upon the mortal Earth as a lure to damnation? Do not misunderstand- I do not believe in the Devil, or in Evil as some coherent force, rather I use the terms because they are easy and recognizable, despite their ability to fracture the discussion. Nonetheless I believe my point is valid: there are those who do believe in Evil as an active force and my existence would be an intolerable outrage to them. I know this from bitter experience. Furthermore, there are those who would stop at nothing to possess what I have, my warnings as to being careful what one wishes for notwithstanding.

All in all, I am again left with no choice.

It was noted that I dwelt on the darkness without considering the balance of light; however, I believe my position is consistent with the idea that love counters evil, that hope counters fear. I find it odd that in my recent spate of bitter unhappiness I still seem more disposed towards taking a kindly and optimistic view of both the nature of Man and His prospects, than are you. Perhaps I misunderstand? My comment that you should be able to find hope in the statement that Man is as predisposed to love as he is to procreation was offered in the smug assurance that there would be no disagreement with the premise. That you might disagree with the fact is another issue entirely, for I am in no position to expect that anyone should accept my words as indisputable. My arrogance does have its limits.

You said:

As for the nature of man, I must disagree. There are many people who might justify their actions on the basis of simply being animals. The question is not their intentions- but rather what “despicable” could possibly mean if there is no greater purpose. If we are animals, then all we can do is follow our instincts. If we are hardwired towards behaviors, then how can we follow a construct of morality that is not completely based on pure utilitarianism or genetic success?

The argument becomes circular, and for most the only escape from the circle is faith. Faith is a lovely thing to behold for it provides courage in the face of hopelessness and stands as a bulwark against fear. In the age of ignorance it was sufficient unto itself; however, in the modern arena of ideas the critical thinker cannot easily dismiss the evidence of science. Being a person of faith the fear is that science is merely a tool of damnation, seducing one away from that which has served him so well for so long. It is a frightening dilemma and for those who fall prey to the idea that Man is naught but a somewhat more ingenious animal the slide in to darkness can be short and steep.

That there are those who justify their perfidy on the basis of the animal nature of Man does not lend credence to the notion. If Man is naught but a clever beast why does he possess a sense of right and wrong? For he certainly does. What purpose does it serve? Is it truly just a construct designed to give institutions such as the Church or the Prince control over the populace? How so? Why would a moral sense be required when the threat of death is as easily at hand? It seems to me that the question to be asked is not why so many are capable of such evil, but why any one man would eschew the practice of evil when all around him embrace it? Furthermore, why would any nation elect to abstain from the Empire of Power, why would any collection of peoples elect not to slaughter their foes en masse upon victory in war? Ask not why there is Evil, for the answer to that is the submission of men to the notion that their acts have no consequence beyond the pleasure they obtain and need no justification other than the ability to commit them. I include in this those who commit evil in the name of their faith. Ask instead, why is there Good? That is the difficult question, and the one worthy of the thinking Man.

Hope for Man can be found in a single man, and be valid for all Men. The Christians out there would be nodding in agreement; however, I see Jesus only as an example of something I see manifest all about me. Hope for Man does not require that all men be capable of choosing Good over Evil, just that some are, or even one. For if one can, others can, and that is the essence of Hope.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 10/04/2003 07:10:00 PM

. . .

I said no more politics until January; however, I did not write this, so I did not actually break my promise. Besides, he invokes Mark Twain, and I dearly love Twain's work.

Bill Whittle writes regarding Power.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 10/01/2003 01:50:00 PM

. . .

Who was Jeremy? Why did I love him? Why is he such a powerful presence in my life? Why am I so inadequate to the task of describing him?

Jeremy was the eldest son and expected to take on his father’s law practice. There were his younger brother Reginald, and Catherine, the youngest of the three. There were two more siblings, but in the cold mortal calculus of the age they did not survive past early childhood.

He was a good student, but his heart was elsewhere. Jeremy saw the world shrinking before his eyes and he desperately wanted to see it, all of it, before it became commonplace and familiar. He left school, and his father’s good graces, and set off on a twenty-year journey around the world, paying his way with labor, skills and the occasional stipends from his brother. He began with wanderings across the frontier in North America. He joined the fighting in the War of 1812 where he served with distinction in the Northwest Territory before mustering out after the Treaty of Ghent was received in the States. After the war he traveled east, across the Atlantic and North Africa, into the Middle East, then Turkey. He entered India, and then went on into Asia proper, through China and then south to the British colony in Australia. From there he took ship via a rather meandering route to North America, where he ran in to me


Sounds simple, does it not? Consider that many of these lands were dangerous places for white men and Christians. He was on his own for much of that time, and on several occasions he found himself imprisoned, even facing death. Each time by providence or guile or both he managed to find his way to freedom. Never once did he consider ending his trek.

Consider further: in twenty years he saw more of this world than did I in three thousand. No mean feat that. Even our own jaunt across North America was the stuff of popular adventures. Jeremy could have had fame from writing his memoirs, but he did not live his life of adventure to seek out fame or fortune. He needed that time to nourish his soul. To see wonders. To see horrors. To see humanity in all its glory and despair, so that he could finally fully understand himself. And when he had that, when he felt complete, when he was satisfied, that was when he met me.

There I was, deep in my blackest, foulest of spirits, brimming overfull of disdain for men and Man when this confident, energetic, shockingly whole human being knocked on my door having chosen it solely for the fact that my lamp was still lit. I had never met a man like him. Let me repeat and emphasize that last: I had never, in three thousand three hundred and fifty-odd years met a man remotely like Jeremy. He shattered my angry wall of self-pity and cynicism with his courtesy and deference. He was grateful for my willingness to take him in. He accepted me in the guise I inhabited for he understood that sometimes, often times, women on their own were left with no good choices.

In appearance he was not remarkable, no more than half a head taller than me, and deceptively slender for he was quite strong as more than one ruffian discovered to his dismay. His eyes were pale blue, almost gray, his face was narrow, lending him an almost preacher-like severity that was shattered when he smiled, for when he did his face would light up and all the warmth within him shone through. His smile was quite disarming. He was well acquainted with the art of the fistfight and the blade, as well as being an accomplished marksman, but his greater strength was in negotiating his way out of the need to fight. He understood people. He understood me even when he had no inkling of the secrets I held.

He entered my life and in typical gallant fashion took me under his protection. In just days he came to understand that I did not need protecting and he took me to his side as a lover and partner in adventure. When he learned the truth about me he was afraid- afraid for me, not of me. He understood instinctively what loving him would ultimately cost me. He tried to protect me from that as well even knowing how futile it was. He loved me.

Yet some wonder why I loved him? Some wonder why losing him was so devastating? I fail to convey just what he was, try as I might. Were you a drinking man, you would have found him an able companion for a night of carousing. Were you a scholar an evening with him discussing the histories and foibles of man would have been counted as the best spent hours of your life. Were you a crusader for justice his thirst for the recognition of the innate nobility of all men would have set you on fire. Were you beset by misfortune his charity would have been easy to accept, for you would have understood his gratitude for being able to do so. Were you a scoundrel, an abuser of others, a thief and bottom feeder, you would have feared him. Were you as I, you would have had little choice but to love him.

Perhaps that last does say it best.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 9/29/2003 01:32:00 PM

. . .

Why would I allow myself to love? For me love is both a selfish indulgence and an invitation to despair. It is destructive to the object of my affections, for if they return my love they make themselves a part of a relationship that will can only leave them childless and in their grave. One could cogently opine that for me to allow anyone to love me borders upon naked criminality.

In very condensed form those are the arguments I use with myself when I find myself tempted to fall in to that delusional state. They carry no small weight with me, both morally and intellectually and I wield them as a club to destroy any hope I might foolishly allow myself to hold when it comes to the subject of love.

But love is an insidious creature, determined to have her way, undaunted by the most vitriolic attacks and desperate defenses. Love is as much my nemesis as Time, seeking to draw me in to a state of madness from which I fear I may never escape, taunting me with the promise of happiness, then fetching me up upon my personal Scylla and Charybdis of reality and despair.

Love and Horror: opposing faces of the same bitter coin.

So, why? Weakness, selfishness, narcissism, jealousy, all those apply.

Weakness and selfishness are self-explanatory. Narcissism plays its part, as my vanity would demand that somebody could love me. But those are truly weak forces in comparison to the lessons of my life. They have little sway over me.

Jealousy, there is one monster that gnaws at me. It is difficult beyond description to live amongst you, to interact with you, to become part of your lives even in the simple, mostly tangential ways I do. To see your friendships, your loves, your crises, and your tragedies… and know that there is no way that I can ever truly be a part of them. To always stand apart, knowing that all of what you call your lives will flow past me and vanish in to the mists of what was but is no more. And I will remember, at least that small slice that I was permitted to share. And I will be alone, insulated from your fate, an alien in every meaning of that word.

And in those times when my heart is cold and my thoughts are dark and lonely, I will hate you for that.

Hardly sounds like a recipe for romance, yes? Yet that was precisely where I was when I encountered the last great love of my life. Forced to abandon my situation because too many years were piling atop me, lacking the resources to reach a place where I could tap what monies I had stowed away I found myself in a Mexican frontier port selling my body for food, whiskey and what coin I could muster to gather what I needed to make an attempt for the East. To say my mood was foul would be the understatement of the ages.

Enter Jeremy, facing arrest for not being Catholic and desperate to head in to the wilderness before the commandante’s men caught up with him. Hardly the time for a man to take up for a night with a young red haired whore with a reputation for surliness and a sharp tongue. Yet there he was, and because he was courteous I took him in. Because he was gentle and kind he touched that part of me that despised my own self-pity. Because he was a unique man, he ripped open my oh-so-carefully constructed armor of cynicism. And when he had done all that, and I lay helpless and defenseless, I foolishly let just the slightest glimmer of hope grow in me. Not love, not yet, just some hope of getting away from the hell I was trapped in. And in two days and nights together, Jeremy never laid a hand upon me.

“Your brogue is atrocious,” he commented, “any real Irishman would catch you out before you spoke five words.”

“Lucky for me then that I’m dealing with Mexicans and lost boys from Philadelphia, yes?”

We were packing to set out for the United States, cross-country via Mexico. We had pooled our money to purchase supplies, and one very sturdy mule. Jeremy impressed me by what he bought- shot and powder, blankets and canvas, spare clothing, tools, some dried and salted beef and pork- it was clear to me he was ably prepared to live off the land. I could feel his apprehensions about me- I was still an unknown to him, but his sense of honor would not let him abandon me, particularly not after taking my money.

I excused myself as he finished tying down the packs on the mule. Back in my little hovel of a room I gratefully stripped off my dress, petticoats, and corset essentially losing all the useless acres of clothing. I put on my last good set of undergarments (think a neck to knees linen garment, somewhat akin to a union suit) then leggings, over which I wore a simple homespun skirt hanging halfway down my shins and a loose blouse that tied high about my neck. My hair had to be unpinned and let down and I was a bit surprised that I had let it get so long- nearly touching the floor. Quick work with a knife brought it to just below my shoulders and I tied it in a ponytail. I finished off with a leather wide brimmed hat, thick stockings and a new pair of sturdy boots, then slung my own rickety pistol in its holster over my shoulder along with my powder flask and shot bag, stuffed my knife in my boot, fetched up my last two bottles of whiskey worth the name and strode out the door.

“My, my!” Jeremy exclaimed, “Let me see what we have here.” I turned for him, smiling because I could feel his approval and relief at seeing me properly accoutered for the wilderness. “You look like a boy,” he finally commented.

“Moi? I assure you I have had many comments upon my appearance, but never that!” but I was laughing because I could see the jest in his eyes.

“Have you ever fired that?” He asked, gesturing to my pistol.

“Umm, not recently, no.”

He took it from my holster and examined it with a practiced eye. “French,” he noted, “this was a nice piece of work. Have you ever fired it?”

“Once, last year,” I confessed, “It nearly broke my arm.”

“Well then, we will have to make a point of teaching you the proper handling of a firearm, once I get it back in to proper condition.” He handed it back to me and I returned it to its holster, then he swept his arm in a broad arc to the east. “Shall we?”

It was a long walk.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 9/25/2003 11:53:00 PM

. . .

Comments are up again.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 9/24/2003 07:26:00 PM

. . .

Awakening. Imagine you have slept with your arm under your body, squeezing off the circulation so that the limb is completely insensate. You roll off your arm and it flops free- you can feel the circulation returning, fresh blood rushing in as your arm returns to life in a tingling rush, sometimes quite painfully, stinging as if infinite pinpricks were assaulting you.

The first awareness is that of nothingness. I am numb, like that arm, but throughout my body, to the very core of myself I am numb. I recognize this; I know what it means even though I cannot remember exactly how or why. It slides in to the very center of me, a tiny thread of sensation, first warm, then achingly hot. I am drawing air, oxygen setting me ablaze from within. Pins and needles and fire and throbbing pressure are the total of existence for an indeterminate length of time.

I am on my back, with my hands folded across my chest. My ears ring so that I cannot determine my surroundings, but even though something covers my face I can taste fresh air and suddenly I am drawing in great draughts, my lungs eager for the taste of breath again. There is thirst; burning, raging thirst, and I can smell water.

Motion is pain, but I am incapable of resisting the babbling call of the nearby stream. My arms clumsily draw away the blanket that covers me and my eyes slowly focus on… stars. The canopy of the heavens is ablaze above the trees. Something calls to me, trying to force its way to the forefront of my mind, but I cannot think, only move, crawling towards the tantalizing scent of running water: sweet, cool water, sparking and wet and delicious, and irresistible. It is a journey made in increments of inches, but I arrive, first my hands are in the stream then I plunge my face in to it, sucking in water and grit, my body shuddering in the first sensation other than pain since returning to awareness.

Jeremy.

That was the first coherent thought, forcing its way up past the now relieved thirst and the gnawing ache of hunger in my belly. I was shivering and weak, but at least I could think, and my head was clearing, I could hear the sounds of the night; the horses shuffling nervously, a rhythmic buzzing sound… snoring. Jeremy. I crawled towards him, my limbs stronger, but my right side still very much weaker than my left. I could smell the fire now, smoldering to one side, could see the silhouette of a sleeping man, recognized the strong scent of brandy.

Of course: Jeremy only snored when he had been drinking.

Then the hunger was too much to ignore, but our supplies hung from a tree, out of reach even if I could stand. I crawled to Jeremy’s side and lay there, warring with myself, frightened to wake him but unable to do anything else.

I pulled myself up to a sitting position, and laid my left hand on his shoulder.

“Jeremy?” My voice was a dry croak and I cleared my throat, “Jeremy, you have to wake up.”

His snoring abruptly stopped and he stiffened. I pushed feebly at him again. “Wake up, Jeremy.”

With glacial slowness he rolled on to his back and looked up at me, his eyes wider than I would have thought any man’s could be, his face… unreadable. He pulled himself to a sitting position, staring at me. His eyes flickered over to where I had lain covered, then back to me. There was so much I wanted to say to him, but I had not the words and my hunger was driving at me…

“Jeremy, help me…food…”

He stood and walked to the spot where the rope suspending our food was secured, releasing the knot to spill the packs to the ground. It took all the willpower I possessed to keep from leaping at them. Instead I waited until he returned carrying bread and jerky. He held them out and my control was gone- I seized them from him and tore in to it, ravenous, almost choking as I forced the bread down my throat in seven or eight large mouthfuls, then taking on a strip of jerky, pulling at the dried smoked beef.

“I thought I was deluding myself,” he whispered. I stopped for a moment, the need to speak, to say something, nearly overwhelming the hunger, but not quite.

“You just didn’t look dead. I kept uncovering you and looking at you… I’ve seen my share of dead men, in the War and through the years…you just didn’t look dead, even with that hole through your chest, and your spine snapped…”

He stopped then, regarding me as I choked down the last of the jerky, my belly finally full enough, at least for the moment. Almost immediately I felt the urge to sleep coming over me so powerfully that I began to sway and Jeremy reached out to steady me. It was so comforting to feel his hand on my arm- at least he was not afraid to touch me. I could not give in, not yet. Not until he understood.

“Jeremy, I am ancient.” I was whispering, unable to summon the energy to speak any louder, but I had his attention. “Rome was but a cluster of huts when I had seen a thousand years pass by.”

“Why? What are… why are you here, with me? What can I have that you desire?”

I felt tears hot on my cheeks. This was wrong! So wrong! “I don’t want anything but what you’ve already given me! I love you…” I began to sway, unable to hold myself upright as torpor settled over me, a thick blanket of exhaustion enveloping me… just as Jeremy’s arms encircled me. He picked me up and I curled in to his grasp, feeling him shaking… he was crying. He carried me to his bedroll and set me down there.

“You sleep,” he whispered in my ear, “I’ll be here when you wake…”

He bathed me in my sleep, removing my bloodied clothing and cleansing away the stains of my brutal misfortune. When I awoke, he brought me food and water and brandy. When I was lucid, he listened, and I told him all there was to tell: all my joy, my fear, my shame, my sorrow, my hope, and my love.

“You have been injured like this many times?”

“No. I’ve been hurt, left for dead, but it was seldom so traumatic. When it was I usually took months to fully recover,” I smiled then, “I usually haven’t anyone to take care of me. How long has it been… how long was I down?”

“It’s been three days since you fell. Do you think you can ride?”

I lifted my right arm, feeling it shake uncontrollably. “I don’t think I can manage a horse. If we doubled up I think I would be good… you sat with my body for two days?”

His eyes dropped to the ground and I could see the raw emotion rippling across his face as he tried to work up the courage to lie to me. To his credit, he failed.

“I was nearly insane,” he whispered, “and I kept telling myself that you did not look like a dead person. Your face… when a man dies his face grows dark. Two days dead and you didn’t look… there was no scent of death… do you understand?”

“Of course I do.”

“You did not look… I thought I was deluding myself. It hurt so much. I could not just wrap you up, but inside I was afraid I really was going mad. You had to be dead, so I must have been… That night, last night, I opened the brandy I had brought for us and I began drinking… and I did a fine, thorough job of loading my pistol. Couldn’t have a misfire, you see? I was going to put it to my head…” He stopped then, and a single, gasping sob shook his body. The understanding of what he was telling me sent a sickening chill down my spine. That I could have brought him to that, however inadvertently…

“But you did not do it…”

“No? I pressed that barrel under my chin seven, eight times, but… two things stopped me, even as drunk and as miserable as I was. First, there was Reggie and the children. He trusted me to do right by them. And then there was you: I couldn’t shake the conviction that you would be ashamed of me. Eventually I packed the pistol away and I went to sleep, knowing that in the morning I would have to bundle you up and take you home.” He paused then, his eyes wet; yet very, very firmly fixed on mine. “When you woke me, for one long horrible moment I thought I had done it.”

“Jeremy? Can you ever forgive me?”

For the first time since I had crawled to his side that night, he laughed. “Forgive you? Forgive you for what? Not dying? Elaine, I know you planned to tell me. I knew when we set out on this little excursion that you were prepared to share with me that great, brooding secret you kept locked inside. The anticipation was writ all over you in your face, and your words and your bearing,” he reached for me, taking my hands in his, “I just never imagined… this.”

He believed me. He accepted me. He understood me.

He feared me.

I was content with that. Of all that he could have felt, fear I knew I could overcome. For the nemesis of fear is love, and that we had in abundance.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 9/22/2003 09:43:00 PM

. . .

We were riding together. It was the spring of our second year and the house was rebuilt, the children were as settled and adjusted as anyone could expect and we finally had some time to devote to ourselves. No genteel traveling for us, instead we packed up what we needed and struck out on our own, determined to put as much distance between civilization and ourselves as we could for the next ten days.

It was a delightful time, a small taste of our past years together, though certainly made much easier by ample provisions, sturdy clothing and fine mounts to carry us. Catherine was horrified, of course, but she knew better than to try to stop us, instead insisting that Jeremy provide some clue as to our destination and coming away with no information of any real value. This was a chance to relax, and a chance to finish something I had been working towards for several years by then.

“This reminds me of you,” Jeremy commented as we rode away from our third camp, beginning our climb in to the low hills. It was late spring, the air crisp and cool with just a hint of the coming warmth filtering with the sunlight through the trees above, and the taste of resurgent life permeating the air. Nature was done with her first wild explosion, preparing to settle in to the long grind of summer- kill, eat, die, and be eaten. I love the wilderness.

“Really? How so?”

“So calm and peaceful on the surface; beautiful and lively and inviting, but underneath it all, seething with all the passions and tragedies of the finest Shakespearean dramas. Nature has secrets hidden from the eyes of the common man… just as do you.”

I turned to look at him, knowing the question I had heard in his voice, but desiring to see it in his face. I said nothing. I wanted to see how much he had figured out for himself. Not that he could have possibly discerned the truth, but knowing his thoughts would help me with the remainder.

“It made sense to me at first, your being with me. You were so young and alone in that festering pit. I offered you a way out and you seized it,” he laughed then, just a chuckle, “you know, I nearly left without you? I thought you might be too much trouble.”

He stopped then as the trail disappeared and we had to guide the horses through a spot of rough terrain, letting them pick their footing. Once on better ground he picked up again.

“Later, once I realized how unique you were, I started to fear you would leave once we returned to civilization. I was so hopelessly in love with you and I had no idea how to tell you. I hadn’t felt like that since I was a boy of fifteen. I took as long as I could making our way back. As it turned out, that was unnecessary.

“The strangest part is even though you are such a mystery to me, I’m still absolutely certain that I know you, that I know your heart.”

Fate has never been a factor in my life. I have never once felt that some higher power was watching me, prodding me along one path or another, or placing obstacles in my way out of malice or any other motivation. I reject that, have always rejected it, even in light of what happened next.

I turned to smile at him, to begin to tell him things I ached to share with him… Something spooked the horses. Jeremy’s mount shied hard, but my Melody reared with a screech, turned, bucked, and I was airborne. I tucked in to a ball, arms covering my head just as I hit the soft loam. I bounced once and unfolded as my spine slammed up against something hard and unyielding, the blow driving a red fog across my eyes.

A scream splits the air, something primal, horrified, agonized: Jeremy. Jeremy is screaming my name. I try to draw breath and sickening agony is my only reward. My sight wavers, red to black. I try to move and fire ripples through my belly, the bitter salt of blood and bile filling my mouth as I try desperately to call out. My eyes lower and I stare at the glistening crimson stained spar of the broken tree limb upon which I am impaled.

Jeremy. He runs to me. His face… horror, pain, tears… I try to speak, but only blood… only blood… my right arm will not move, the left flails towards him and he falls to his knees. My lips try to mouth words, his name…

Jeremy… secrets…

He is talking to me, holding me… the pain shudders through the core of my body as he draws me off the limb. I collapse in his arms, my blood, everywhere, covering his coat, his trousers, his hands... He is weeping as I find the strength to grip his coat, to raise my face to stare in to his eyes…

Jeremy… don’t leave me… don’t leave me…

Lungs scream for air as the cold seeps inward, slowly at first, then faster and faster as sight darkens and contracts, the roaring in my head drowning out the words he whispers in my ears. I am fighting, terrified of this, terrified of this for the first time in a very, very long time, but there is no strength left, there is nothing…

Jeremy! Don’t leave me!

posted by Zsallia Marieko 9/19/2003 10:40:00 PM

. . .

“I have been wondering, is there anything you cannot do?”

I lifted my eyes from my book and smiled at my husband, “Whatever are you talking about?”

“Mrs. Trembley. A woman who could not bring herself to offer a civil hello to the new Pastor for three years invites you to join her for Sunday Tea after only six months,” he settled in to his chair by the fireplace and stretched his hands towards the flames, “it’s a miracle.”

“Oh, not at all. It’s simple self interest and nothing more,” and with that I returned to my reading, but I was laughing when he swept out of his chair and caught me up, then pressed me to my back on the floor, his hands pinning my shoulders back.

“I’m afraid I require a little more detail in your answer!” He was grinning down at me as I struggled in his grip.

“Oh, very well, if you must know. Mrs. Tremblay’s oldest son is in the business of importing lumber from overseas, amongst other things. It seems he had an arrangement to procure a fairly large shipment of mahogany for a certain individual. Said individual turned out to be somewhat of a braggart and hasn’t the means to make payment. Now, I‘m certain that given some time another buyer would present himself, but there seems to be a problem of capital. The young man in question was faced with having to go to his creditors and ask for an extension of terms.”

Jeremy sat back, releasing my shoulders, laughing. “Why do I begin to suspect we are going to have many, many mahogany treatments in our new house?”

“Because you are a man of astounding perspicacity. And we are getting a reasonable bargain as well. All because I was able to approach Mrs. Tremblay in all innocence and enquire as to where she had obtained the beautiful pews she donated to the church.”

“I can imagine,” he reached for the top button of my nightdress and playfully worked it open, “and are you certain that there were no… overt application of feminine charms involved?”

And so it progressed, until an hour or so had passed and we were both spent, curled together on the bed. His right hand traced a lazy loop about my left breast, then down to my hip… and paused.

“Your scar is gone,” he noted, his voice a mix of tired happiness and curiosity, “I’d have wagered a healthy sum you would have been marked for life.”

“Are you complaining?” I asked, my voice light and amused.

“Hmmm, you laugh, but you’re blushing,” He laid his hand firmly over my left breast, “and your heart is racing.”

“My heart always races when you touch me,” I whispered, emphasizing the point by stretching, my body out against his, rolling on top of him again. I dropped my lips softly on to his, feeling him rise delightfully to the occasion.

“Be mysterious if it suits you,” he sighed, “Besides, I prefer you flawless.”

“Prove it,” I invited him. And he did so, splendidly.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 9/19/2003 03:32:00 AM

. . .

How do you tell somebody you love that you are not what you seem to be? How do you tell anyone that you are immortal?

I met Jeremy in California in 1829. We journeyed together across what was then northern Mexico, pretending to be an Irish couple to avoid problems with what few local authorities we encountered. Most of the land was wide open then and we managed to avoid the natives, who were somewhat of an unknown for me since I had had no dealings with them at all, though Jeremy claimed he had and I believed him. From the Pacific coast to Jefferson City it was an adventure the likes of which I had seldom experienced, and by the end of that trek I knew that I would be spending many more years with him.

He was an odd man. Not handsome by any measure, and small, barely taller than myself, but possessed of a wiry strength, wily mind and an optimistic wisdom that shone through whenever he graced me with a smile. In short, he was infectious in his likeability and somewhat of a rascal in his behavior. A Gentleman he was not, but he could fake it, and when people deserved it he could mean it, heart and soul.

We traveled across the States, staying wherever the night found us, sometimes under a roof, often under the stars. We huddled together through miserable rain and blinding snow with naught but our shared warmth to hold us against the chill. I nursed him back from the edge of death when his lungs were assaulted by pneumonia of immense virulence. By then we had been together for six years and he had begun to suspect that his lovely and fearless young lady had secrets both deep and profound.

That is how I told him, or at least how I began to. I let him see the true me in small pieces, and every part of me that I gave to him, he returned to me in his devotion, his trust, and his admiration. He never questioned how I had come to learn to survive in the wilds, or how I had learned to handle even the most bizarre situations with learned aplomb. He accepted it and adored me all the more for it.

Then came Philadelphia, 1836. Jeremy had an attorney in Philadelphia who handled all of his correspondence. He tried to check in with him yearly, but oft times it was longer than that. He would collect his letters and spend a few weeks composing responses, or writing to his family- then he would entrust those letters to the lawyer for delivery. In this case it had been a full two years since they had corresponded so we traveled to the city to meet with him personally. It turned out to be a fortuitous choice.

I remember the look on his face when he returned to the Inn- there was pain etched in every line of his countenance, but there was also an aura of anticipation, something immensely hopeful. Without a word he took my hand and led me up to our room where he motioned me to sit by the fireplace.

“What has happened?” I asked. He knelt before me and took my hands in his, his eyes moist with tears barely held in check. I could feel him trembling, and even though the confused pain he radiated I knew what his next words would be.

“Elaine, would you be content to settle down with me? To end this vagabond life and be my wife, the lady of my house? Will you marry me?”

“You already know the answer…” I began, but I could see his need to hear it, so I said it, “I would be proud to be your wife. I will be content to be by your side wherever we may be, whatever we may do. I will be your bride. Now, tell me…”

“My brother is dead… and Clarice as well.”

“Dear, Lord! How? What…”

“There was a fire. Five of the children escaped, but Reginald and Clarice could not find little Sarah. They were trapped…” he gasped then, deep wracking sobs shaking his body as he laid his head in my lap and I folded my arms about him, holding him, just holding him until his sorrow was spent enough to let him speak again. He slipped from my arms, standing and composing himself and I could see a definite change in him for he had made several decisions, and now that his first had been made real, he knew he could move forward with the remainder. He knew that I would be beside him.

“I’ve been a very fortunate man. I was never able to sit still, I always wanted to see what was over the next hill, what was beyond the horizon. I have sailed the seas, and visited lands most people only know through the tales told by great men. My father never accepted this- he always thought me a failure, but not Reggie. Reggie envied me. He loved his wife and adored his children. He was a farmer and a gentleman through and through, but he would have lived my life if he hadn’t found his love first. He is the one who made my journeys possible; always willing to part with a little treasure just so he could receive letters from far-away places. In very many ways he bought me a freedom I could never have earned for myself.

“I’ve always known that someday I could be called to stand and account for his patronage of me. It’s somehow unseemly that I should be the benefactor of a man ten years my junior, no matter what the reasons.”

“You’ve spoken of Reggie before. I know he never once resented you, never once begrudged you the money he provided.”

“Of course not, never,” he smiled at me then and I saw that he was content with that, “but there is a debt, a moral debt. A debt of honor.” Somehow he seemed taller, stood straighter as he continued, “ I am responsible for his legacy. The news only arrived here three days prior. Mr. Hannaford was just setting about hiring men to find me when I arrived at his door. I am executor of Reginald’s estate and responsible for his children.”

He grinned a bit sheepishly then and I laughed. “You already wrote back, didn’t you!”

“Yes… I told them that I would return home… with my wife.”

“Presumptuous man!”

“I prefer ‘prescient’. Elaine, I am forty-six years old. I have never married, and I have no children. I know that you can give me none. I am content with that. I crave only your companionship…” and then he was silent for my lips were on his for a very, very long time.



The first year was wrenching for everyone. Jeremy’s family was wealthy, but wealth is a relative thing when counted in the context of that time. They had land and crops, and social standing, but Reginald’s accounts were hardly overflowing and Jeremy desperately wished to rebuild the house and move the children back to their own home though his sister, Catherine, was somewhat mistrustful of Jeremy’s judgment and even more so of me. I could hardly blame her on either account for Jeremy had remained in contact only with Reginald. Catherine insisted we remain in the guesthouse on her husband’s estate and much rancor ensued.

Four months in things were getting out of hand when I finally took receipt of a package I had requested from a law firm in Boston, Massachusetts. It arrived at Catherine’s attorney’s office, a deliberate act on my part for I needed her cooperation. We took a carriage together in to town and at the lawyer’s office I opened the package with Catherine in attendance. It contained a small locked wooden chest, which I opened with a key I had been carrying for years. The chest contained 300 gold coins, Spanish doubloons to be precise.

“My word!” Catherine exclaimed.

“My dowry?” I offered.

“Jerome never mentioned a dowry. I thought you had no family living.” Catherine was probing, trying to be polite, but desperate to learn all she could. She knew Jeremy from her childhood, but despite the past months she knew little to nothing of me. I was about to test her taste for scandal. I asked the lawyer to excuse us.

“Jerome never mentioned a dowry because I never told him of it.”

“You never…” her blue eyes widened, “You have kept this a secret for six years?”

“Not at all. You see, this money, it is no inheritance. It is my money. I earned it.”

She digested that information, then her eyes narrowed a bit and she asked “How?”

“I spent a few years in the British ruled islands. The Gentlemen from London pay handsomely for comely whores with refined manners. Less unsightly, you understand, easier to pass off as a visiting niece should the wrong people take notice of the goings on.”

She started to laugh, derision lighting her face, then she saw my eyes. “Oh, my God! You’re serious! My brother… oh!” This last came as the inevitable result of the combination of shock and tightly laced stays- Catherine wobbled and sought a nearby seat. I took little mercy.

“Your brother, my husband, is well aware of my past. Remember, we met in a Mexican port. He had some money and I had a supply of fine whiskey and a warm bed. We bonded instantly and after just a week he invited me to leave my sordid past behind and join him on his journeys. He knew a kindred soul when he met one. We have been inseparable ever since. When news of this tragedy reached him we married at once and travelled here.”

“Why…” she gasped, slowly recovering her breath, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because Jeremy and I love each other. It is a love born of our own pasts, a love that we could never have found with anyone else. I never expected to find myself in a place like this, in a situation like this. I did not marry your brother to better my place in the world, I married him because he needed me to be his wife, so he could face this and conquer it, and because the thought of being apart from him was too painful to bear.

“You don’t trust me, Catherine, and if you started snooping about and having me investigated… things are already too sharp between us, between you and Franklin, and Jeremy and I. This must stop. I am being as honest as I can be with you because I hope you might understand that neither Jeremy, nor I, are looking to make off with the family fortune or to ruin reputations. We are here because we see a responsibility to Reginald, and Clarice, and the children. I am giving this money to my husband because he needs it to rebuild the children’s home. I am giving you the truth because we need you to be a partner in this, not an obstacle. Your distrust breeds ill will amongst people with whom we must live, who form the circles these children should be part of. If you can find it in your heart to believe we have no intention other than to do right by Reginald’s trust, then that, too, can spread amongst your friends, and perhaps then they can accept us freely and without reservation.”

Catherine sat very still, very silent and I could almost see her mind working, feel the conflict in her beginning to resolve. I took a seat across from her, quietly waiting for her to speak.

“I know that you love him,” she finally whispered, and then in a firmer voice, “it shows so clearly. And he adores you, that is unmistakable.” Her eyes lifted to meet mine. “I cannot even begin to… no, that is not what I want to say…”

“You will help us,” I whispered, but it was a statement, not a question. I had read her correctly.

“Yes… yes! We will put this behind us, a secret that none need know of,” she nodded, her conviction growing, “and you and Jerome will make your home here, and we will be family. I can respect your honesty with me, even if I can’t imagine… never mind, we should not speak of this again.”

Together we took my small treasure to her husband’s bank while I quietly patted myself on the back for working out a resolution to one of our many problems. Unfortunately I still had one very large secret to share, but that would have to wait.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 9/18/2003 02:44:00 AM

. . .

Greetings to those who found their way here from Dean's World. I am afraid that my political commentary has been sparse of late, but please do take a moment to browse.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 9/14/2003 08:10:00 PM

. . .

I made a brief visit to Boston where a certain Safe Deposit Box contains certain things of little value to anyone but myself. From that box I retrieved a Diary, and a letter. Both are quite old, but the script on the diary is still familiar. I can remember the first line without looking:

“I am most insanely foolish to keep a reckoning such as this, but my Jeremy insists, and I shall deny him nothing.”

Should any care to know, this is all Etherian’s fault. Her fault, and the perverse creature Fate, turning my thoughts to love lost and pasts left to dust. Once I set the issue of William Travis to rest I found myself drawn to this place and these desires.

I spent a quiet afternoon on the Common reliving two glorious decades. And when I was done I had made a choice without ever realizing there was a question before me.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 9/12/2003 11:42:00 PM

. . .

September 11, 2001

I tend towards the emotionless when it comes to world-changing events. I was watching on television the morning of September 11, 2001, at a fitness center of all things. The news had cut to the story of a plane colliding with one of the towers while I was listening to some very well educated and very well meaning woman moan on about how horrible things were going to be under George W. Bush as we both sweated atop our LifeCycles. She was not one of those rabid ideologues, but she certainly disliked the man and his party.

The second plane hit the South Tower and I instantly put two and two together and came up with four. She did as well, just a few seconds later. She looked at me, slack-jawed, the understanding of what we had just witnessed clear in her eyes.

Understand that when this unfolded I never once doubted that the President had the mettle to face this challenge. I will go even further and tell you that had Albert Gore been President, or even William Jefferson Clinton, I rest assured that they too would have proven to be as American and as resolute as George W. Bush has been. You Americans always tend to underestimate your politicians.

The woman was looking at me, in shock.

“It looks like you have a war on your hands,” I told her.

“Oh… oh my God!”

“Don’t worry, honey. George won’t let you down.”

I left the gym and never went back.

I am not the person to commemorate this date. If you are looking for something more, something with the meaning and gravitas I cannot provide, I strongly recommend visiting two places. First, this excellent entry at The Lemon, proving that satirists understand the world at a level some can only dream of. Second, the Voices project by Michele Catalano of A Small Victory, where you can read the words of many people who seek to express their feelings or share their experiences of that day.

In the end, this date belongs to all of you, American and otherwise. Try to learn the lesson it offers.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 9/11/2003 01:00:00 AM

. . .

No more politics until January. I promise. The pain is too deep.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 9/09/2003 12:24:00 AM

. . .

Only fools expect that good deeds exact no cost.

Americans must recognise such costs, and count them in the pantheon of Nike. Should you fail to comprehend, the loss is surely yours. Embrace your Heroes. In the end, what else have you?

posted by Zsallia Marieko 9/09/2003 12:20:00 AM

. . .

I have been a good girl. I have avoided politics and world events for some time now, concentrating on what I most desired to write when I started this site. Still, there have been some tentative questions sent my way from those who found this site when I was initially dealing with the upcoming war in Iraq, and it has been a while, so…

Handicapping an American Presidential election more than a year before it takes place is an exercise for fools and masochists. Rather than look at the relative merits (or lack thereof) of assorted candidates, I would like to look at two core issues that must be dealt with by American voters in the next election.

One oft-noted characteristic of American politics is how the economy reflects on the President, even though the President has relatively little to do with the strength or weakness of the economy. In 2000 the world was witness to an incumbent Vice President losing the Electoral College vote while coming off of what was arguably the greatest economic boom in the nation’s history. Much has been made of how Al Gore essentially squandered his powerful advantages, and of course there is the on-going and moot non-debate regarding the Florida ballot; however, it is my contention that in 2000 one thing caused the Democratic candidate more pain than any other and that was the American voter finally seeing past the idea of the economy reflecting upon the relative merits of a Presidency. Failure to recognize this created an ideological blind spot for Gore and his campaign. They assumed strength of support that was not actually there and hence were vulnerable.

The upcoming election will not turn on the economy. For one thing the economy does appear to be improving and any candidate seeking to make hay against the incumbent by arguing the economy could be stripped of the weapons in his arsenal. Conversely the incumbent President can count only on less animosity and not some great ground swell of support from a resurgent economy. The 1992 admonition of “It’s the economy, stupid!” has lost its ability to motivate since the American voter finally seems to grasp just whom the word “stupid” actually referred to. The politics of Economy may yet return to the forefront, but not in this election. Bear in mind, of course, that I have been wrong before.

The obvious fulcrum of this election is the War on Terror, but it does not break down neatly in to a “for and against” dichotomy. For one thing all of the serious candidates opposing the incumbent President are essentially in favor of prosecuting such a war. Instead of promising to end the fighting and bring the troops home, they are arguing that they are better suited than the incumbent to handle the complexities and make the tough decisions. This is a shrewd move on the part of those seeking to unseat the current President. It is also an immense boon to the American voter.

These days I am a woman of leisure. I spend my time at the University, at the shopping malls, in the parks, at the movie theaters and the like. I spend my time listening. What I am hearing gives me hope. Americans, whether they are old or young, concerned of the world, or hedonistically aloof, seem to have a fairly firm grasp of what is at stake, a far better understanding than either the media or the politicians give them credit for. They fear the war, some even despise it, but consciously or subconsciously, they all understand what is at stake.

So the stage is set.

There is no certain method to determine if any given event is a cultural or historical turning point. One can see the signs, the hints of gravity surrounding events, but it is history and history alone that passes final judgment on such matters. Still, I can taste the suspense in the air surrounding this election, not only from the fanatical fringe elements of the political spectrum, but from all corners.

The question of this election is who can best prosecute this war to a successful conclusion. The best choice is by no means clearly defined. While I have been generally approving of the conduct of the current President I do hear the criticism of those who claim he has failed to make a strong case for sacrifice in the pursuit of the enemies facing the West, and I do not find their concerns to be unfounded - premature perhaps, but not unworthy of debate. For without the commitment of the American people this war can most assuredly be lost, and with that loss the best hope for the future of humanity could be lost as well.

At the peak of the power of the Roman Empire you would have been hard pressed to find any who would openly entertain the idea that Rome could fall, that her power could evaporate, that she could cease to be the center of the world. Oh, certainly there were some for the Romans had been taught the classical meaning of Tragedy by the Greeks, but by and large the response to such a notion would be to cast about and point to the magnificence, the wealth and the power on display as if that were all the response required.

You Americans are subject to the same sort of blindness. If the troops come home and Iraq is left a chaotic mess in the hands of some feeble United Nations protectorate, so what? What impact would that have on the average American? Would there be no television? No Super Bowl? No tacos at midnight? No Senior Prom? What would be the evidence that some classic Tragic Flaw had been allowed to go unchecked and uncorrected?

Again, history would have to be the judge.

Yet as I listen I discern the evidence of understanding: the realization that for good or ill the die is cast and to withdraw now would be folly of the most egregious sort. It is an uneasy sort of acceptance for this generation of Americans is not so accustomed to the concept of non-retractable acts. You are used to the concept of Warranty, and Insurance, and the protection afforded by the skilled attorney-at-law. Nonetheless, you are aware that a line has been crossed and most of you seem to understand that it was not your political leaders who crossed it.

The political process in America is chaotic by design and this causes some discomfort for those who feel they know with absolute certainty what should be done regarding the War. That the conduct of the War should be at the mercy of the political process at such a critical juncture makes many people uneasy regardless of their political orientation; however, this is the proper place for this debate. It belongs squarely in the political arena of a Presidential election for this is the only way for the clear consensus of the American people to be heard. The notion to fear is that no such consensus will emerge, but I suspect that will not be the case.

Americans need to become deadly serious regarding this struggle. You need to understand what is at stake, and what may be required of you as a people and a nation. At this moment in history America stands at the apex of world power. You are the wealthiest nation on Earth. You are the most productive people on Earth. All who hunger for education and desire to be at the cutting edge of research and discovery in the hard sciences seek after your universities. Your military power is unmatched. Your culture is unique in the world in its regard for the rights of the individual and its glorification of individual initiative and effort.

You Americans consume so much. You Americans produce so much. But that is not enough. You Americans are being called to step in to the cross hairs of History, to Stand To and march deliberately in to the crucible. The mission of forging a hopeful future for all of humanity is yours because there is no one else who can shoulder that task. Only you have the power to act. Only you have the treasure to spend. Only you have the cultural and political philosophy that can lead and prevail in this fight.

So, if the war is the central point, what is the question? Simply this:

Will you be warriors? Or will you be slaves?

Americans need to choose a President who can stand before them and tell them that there are real sacrifices to be made. Not higher fuel prices, not extra hassles at the airport, but Sacrifices with a capital “S”. Loved ones overseas. Loved ones lost. Lives on hold and dreams deferred or lost forever. Americans need to choose a President who can tell them these things and explicitly trust them to understand. You need to choose a President who will trust you to step up to the challenge.

You Americans need to understand that such leaders do exist, that there are some small number amongst those who will stand for election in November of 2004 who can do this. There are also several who cannot.

Choose wisely.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 9/06/2003 06:02:00 PM

. . .

Awareness is an odd thing. One is tempted at all times to draw a fine, bright line between the time when there was no awareness, and the time where there was. Unfortunately, awareness is seldom so neatly defined. Even in the most extreme cases, there is a disconnect between when reality reveals itself and the mind recognizes and accepts that reality. Think of the crash victim who recalls the violence of an accident as something he witnessed rather than experienced, or the cuckold spouse who has all the evidence of unfaithfulness before him, yet cannot comprehend the betrayal.

By my loose reckoning it required nearly half a millennia to understand what I was and even longer to fully accept it. The evidence was there almost from the very beginning, but I was too addled, too primitive in my thoughts and emotions to comprehend my uniqueness.

Consider the following:

I came in to consciousness naked, swathed in furs, uncomprehending as an old woman bathed a wound in my scalp. She spoke to me in gibberish. All of this is very simple, very primitive- I had no language, no internal dialogue with which to make sense of what I was experiencing. The memories are jumbled, almost abstract- impressions of occurrence rather than narrative recollections. I remember Gtochk, the sour odor of thin brew on his breath, rolling me to my back, dumb and uncomprehending as he opened my thighs and taught me the first lesson that would guide me in my relationships with men for nearly three thousand years. I must have learned that lesson well for he named me his Precious Flower and kept me by his side for many winters despite my fruitless womb.

Gtochk’s people told tales. From them I learned that I was taken in a chance encounter with a wandering band, but the details were sparse, or else my recollection is poor. When famine threatened I was sold to another clan where my existence was more wretched as there was no one man to protect me, but I was desirable so I could survive by playing on the lusts of the younger men.

That which made me acceptable to men made me despised amongst women, but I was a hard worker as well and able to ingratiate myself to some small degree, deflecting the worst of the animosity by taking the most arduous and unpleasant tasks without complaint. It was always a selling point when I traded hands for my childlessness could not be concealed: no one willingly parted with healthy and desirable woman unless she was barren. I was sold as whore and beast of burden many times over and it never occurred to me to resent it. It was the way of life for me.

The first hint came the day an odd traveler guested in the roundhouse of my master, a man small and swarthy with a lilting cant to his voice. I was sent to entertain his bed for he had found favor with our chief and shaman, no small feat at a time when strangers were habitually slain. In the dwindling light of fading firelight, in the idle talk after pleasures taken he asked my age and I could not tell him for I could barely count beyond my fingers and toes. He taught me the basic skill of counting (incidentally doubling my value in years to come) and I totaled the winters I could remember, then lied and told him thirty-three because one hundred and thirty-three seemed a ridiculous number. Even then I understood instinctively that honesty would not serve me well in that regard. To be unusual was ill advised.

A second clue. For the first time I was turned out in to the cold of winter- food was short, I was a luxury, and there were no buyers. I knew enough of the basic skills of survival to find shelter and fire, and I did not starve though there was little of nourishment to be found. I slept through much of that time, rousing only when fortune brought some prey close enough for my sling to fell. When spring arrived I knew better than to seek out those who had abandoned me to the wilderness. I struck out on my own and passed ten winters in solitude- the first of many such interludes over the centuries. By then I was counting myself at nearly three hundred and I wailed to the sky, pleading to know why. What had I done to deserve such misery?

A hunting party gathered me in, a fair bit of prey for their entertainment. I could have eluded them. Perhaps I could have killed them as I had become quite skilled with my small bow. But I hungered for the company of people, even for the brutal lust of men, and in the end they were not so brutal, being amenable to my charms. I entered again in to the dangerous game.

I knew I was older than anyone I had knowledge of. There were myths and tales of ancient ones, but they offered nothing to me. Those of legend had power, what had I but a comely form and a strong back? Every new clan, every new cult, and every new god I preyed to, sacrificed to, pleaded with. I sought deliverance, and end to this pointless existence. Yet it never occurred to me to deliberately attempt to put an end to my life by my own hand. It was just as well.

The final clue, the one that crystallized my understanding, came after many decades of dwelling with people. Another terrible winter after a terrible harvest. The man who called me his own led me out in to the wild in the company of one of the elder women and I thought I was to be turned out again. I had seen this coming of course, so I had a good idea of where I would go, but something was wrong. He was tense, far more upset than I would have expected and the woman, Katka, radiated a certain malevolent pleasure that I at first attributed to my departure- she despised me, and she was a vicious, vindictive sort.

“Far enough,” she said, and I looked to my man, then gasped as Katka’s wiry arms seized my own, drawing them up and back behind me, “This is the end of the trail for you!” she laughed in my ear.

“I don’t understand!” I cried, but then I saw the blade. I looked in to his eyes; saw his unhappiness, his determination as he reached for me, pulling open my cloak and my tunic to expose my chest. I smiled at him. “It’s better this way,” I whispered, “strike true.”

I could feel Katka’s disappointment. She had so wanted to hear me beg for my life. I trembled in fear and excitement, an intensely sexual thrill coursing through my body as I lifted my head, arching my spine to offer a clearer target. I could feel the conflict rising in him, but Katka broke the spell.

“Do you expect me to hold her forever? Do it!”

“Makta!” he cried, and his fist lunged forward, plunging the blade in to my chest, the edge perpendicular to my breastbone, entering inside the curve of my left breast, seeking and finding my heart in an expert stroke. It did not even hurt; rather it drove the breath from me, my chest collapsing inward from the force of the blow. Breath would not come and my knees buckled as Katka released me, letting me drop to my knees as he stepped back, drawing the knife from my chest. Vision wavered as I saw crimson stained snow, then I could support myself no longer, falling forward in to the cold and darkness, a throbbing, pulsating roar of sound filling my ears as their voices receded. I embraced the darkness, welcomed it, invited it to envelope and consume me, erase me, make an end to this, to everything…

Cold and pain and aching pressure in my chest dragged me from the embrace of the nothingness I craved. My body shook and I could feel the thin stream of air torturously drawn in to my lungs, slowly filling me with breath, then a wracking, agonizing coughing exhalation; thick, vile goo spitting from my throat, fouling my mouth, forcing me to full awareness. Hands sought purchase, trembling arms lifted me and another breath entered me, much easier now that the clotted blood and mucus had been expelled, then made its exodus in a scream of rage and anguish. I probed at my chest with numb fingers- the wound was barely perceptible.

Cold, and starving, and betrayed I tried to stand, but slipped and fell back, landing across a frozen hump in the snow. Rolling over I struggled to my knees, feeling fur under my bare hands. Uncomprehending I swept aside the snow to reveal… Katka? She was on her back, but her head was twisted, her neck quite emphatically broken, shock frozen on her face. In my state I was unable to appreciate the irony of it all. I began tearing at her clothing, stripping the furs from her frozen body, wrapping myself in a desperate attempt to shelter myself from the biting cold. And through it all the gnawing ache in my belly grew stronger, more insistent, a scent touching my nostrils through the dry, frosty air: tantalizing, intoxicating. Raw meat.

“I don’t think so!” I shrieked in to the coming darkness. Not that cannibalism was new to me: it happened, on occasion. But Katka, and uncooked? No.

Forcing myself to my feet I sought my bearings and set out west… but stopped after only three steps. I could not think, could not force my feet to move, my body trembling violently as the hunger became like fire within me, warming me even as it sapped my strength further. I felt under my garments for the knife I had secreted there what felt like an age ago. I drew it out and turned- Katka’s body lay stretched out in the snow.

After all, what difference did it make? He had left us to be food for beasts. I sank down beside the body- once the decision was made I wasted no time. The knife bit in to the frozen meat of the thigh, cutting, tearing at the tough flesh until a strip came free. The first mouthful was the hardest. The meat was grainy and tough, and so cold it was tasteless, at least at first. After that it did not matter what it tasted like: I fed like a starved animal…

I had a small cave in mind- easy to seal off from the wind, if not terribly roomy, and far enough from the village to avoid being detected. I dragged Katka’s carcass behind me, my mind fixed solely upon my destination and reaching it before dark. The sky cleared offering bright moonlight to make the last leg of the trek possible, but the temperature plummeted as well. The cave was south facing, really just a depression in the hillside, but I had spied it years before and any time I had a chance I had done my best to prepare it against need: there was wood and flint and soon there was a fire.

Katka’s frozen, colorless eyes regarded me from the edge of the circle of firelight.

“You don’t know how lucky you are, old woman. And how did you wind up dead, anyhow? Did you put him up to killing me? You always hated me, so I guess that’s probably what happened. I’ll bet you just laughed a little too loud, and now there you are, and here I am. You know, if I could give you back your life and take your place out there, I’d do it. But since I can’t… if it’s any consolation, you taste terrible.”

The fire snapped and muttered at me, only just blunting the bitterness of the winter night. I was alone in a way I had never truly allowed myself to understand before. When he produced that knife I was so certain that finally, finally this would end. Instead here I was, with only flames and the dead for company.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 9/01/2003 03:03:00 AM

. . .

A conversation between Loren and me:

I have allowed Loren’s words to stand uncommented upon by myself for a pair of days, waiting to see if anyone else had something to say. The silence is deafening, but not entirely surprising. In the end, this is my forum and hence the responsibility for all posted on the open pages is mine and mine alone, as is any obligation for response.

I must admit that when Loren and I began correspondence I was relatively dismissive of him, as was he of me. In my position I am not permitted the luxury of trust. As open as this forum is it is still fairly secure in its own right as I can expect everyone who views it to see it as fiction at best, delusion at worst. I am satisfied with this.

Loren has a keen mind. He delves beneath the surface of the accepted reality and produces insights both exceeding strange and tantalizingly familiar. Despite this, I had not even begun to entertain any kind of hope regarding him. Time and patience are my most potent tools and I abandon them for no one. Still, my heart sank when I read the post he submitted to me and encountered a key phrase: “inverted faith.”

I have encountered such notions before. Where they are the musings of individuals they are mostly harmless, though they often lead to much personal horror and despair. Where those in positions of power propagate them the result has always, I repeat, always led to widespread and indiscriminate death and destruction. The assorted Heresies of the Catholic Church are but a taste of the wreckage foisted upon humanity by the idea that what is accepted as good is actually evil, and what is feared as evil is actually good.

This actually corresponds neatly with my own problems with organized religion: that any one faith could be so arrogant as to claim that it alone has intimate knowledge of the mind of God would be hilarious were not so many graves dug as a result. Take the word of one who has lived through such times- there is no greater horror than finding oneself in the midst of two religious ideologies at war. Anyone paying attention to the on-going slaughter generated by Islamic reactionaries should have at hand the barest hint of what I mean.

So, I reject the notion that what passes as religious faith today is some perversion of the true relationship between Man and his Creator. It may be wrong, if you choose to be vituperative you may wish to call it ignorant, but to suppose that is in and of itself evil is… arrogant. Forgive me, Loren, but that is what I taste in your words.

Over thirty-five centuries I have listened as one faith after another, one civilization after another has prophesied the immanent End of Days. This is what Loren apparently refers to in his closing statement. I have no foreknowledge of such things, but I can say with some certainty that the ever-upward progress of humanity since descending from the trees can come to a halt. After that halt, there is only one direction in which to go. Humanity has suffered many setbacks throughout its history, but there has always been some culture, some civilization waiting in the wings to carry the torch of cultural progress forward. With the growth of an increasingly interconnected global community the danger is of a collapse from which nothing can arise but anarchy and despair. I personally believe the chance of such a collapse is relatively lower now than it has been in several decades, but that is no guarantee. I am no Oracle. The End can come, but it does not have to, and I reject categorically that all of this is the work of some benevolent (or malevolent) alien race.

Loren's reply:

Greetings!

You're being harsh? There's nothing here to be offended about as far as I'm concerned. My use of the word "inversion" with respect to Christianity has little to do with religion as a concept and much more to do with litteral fact within the given context. Allow me to explain: Judaic religions are by definition inversions of the religious systems and belief-structures of elder times. In no negative or positive sense.

Your comments are perceptive in every way, but you're sort of making a mute point since I simply don't disagree with you. I don't think I do anyway.

Human history at a social scientific level is, among other things, a series of revolts against past established orders - within religion as within politics etc. So it happens that (for the sake of our subject) older Sumerian faiths are sort of "up-side-down" as compared to the faiths of today - i.e. the entities praised as good before are today litterally held as "the devil". Names are different, naturally, pluralistic states have become singular (and vice versa) but the underlying themes remain.

I hope I have at least clarified this. As for them "aliens" and so forth, I think it's safe to say that only that which has been verified is worth believing in. The term itself is hampered by the perspective of those who coins it - wouldn't you agree?

Imagine humanity leaving this planet a thousand years from now, how do they deal with the somewhat more developed lesser primates upon stopping by in a million years or so? I'd be pretty faced if a gorilla in a suit ran away screaming "impending doom!" upon seeing me walking down the street - I would also be rather numbed by historical lessons posed by such folk, and I think I would laugh myself to death at their half-blind half-guess theories regarding who I was.

But that's just me. And I know I'm a pretty bad guy. Sorry for any disappointment I have caused you.

I think those are the relevant perspectives here, for whatever reasonings such as these are relevant at all - since the only interesting perspectives would be unknown ones. Essentially, the scope of those that simply "know better" beyond reproach or discussion.

"Our" perspective, if you will, regardless of our life-spans and the finer details of our existence, is all but too well known to us - anything superior to us (be it by age, technology, or even divinity for lack of better words) must be met in its own light for dealing.

Everything is relative, no? A demonstrating question to pose is whether existence is manufactured as a scientist would pet a herd of rats in a laboratory, or in the ways parents would nurture a group of children, or the manners by which life-forms usually Seem to be alone at the whims and chances of chaos-math and basic universal physics.

In my experience, one not seldom finds exactly what one is looking/wishing for in conducting investigations such as these. Which is why one so rarely hear of devout religious people "changing their minds".

So you do not believe in "aliens"? Good for you. Neither do I. I find it pointless to name things for which one has little or no conceptual understanding. Hell, as I've made clear before, I'm having a hard time fingering a definition of my self - let alone you yourself. Still, for the sake of argument, with your accutely original qualities (for which the only verification to date is my own) let's look at the possibilities here:

Would a singular mutation randomly grant an extreme minority of a given population such extreme qualities as the ability to live virtually forever?

Maybe. Why don't you ask yourself. Experience is something you've got and experience counts a long way when it comes to wisdom.

So what seems to be more likely here?

A vastly more advanced race (that's really all we're talking about here, "aliens", "gods", "demons", are just examples of rationalized words used to describe things for primates when "spelling everything out" would just be futile or even destructive to the 'cause of the explanation) gives evolution a little nudge and then lets time take its part in the process - or genetic mutations spawn a species big-headed enough to argue existence into serious questioning simply because "the real world" didn't seem to offer enough stuff to be remotely interesting.

From Sumerian gateways and lengthy incantations using cannabis and self-starvation as boosters, to Christian angels with flaming swords and golden trumpets, I sometimes sit back and marvel at how incredibly bored humanity must be with herself on a cultural collective level.

I find my misanthropy warranted. We have dwelt on this before.

As for pretty much everything else you mention, I'm right with you though probably a bit more extreme. Religion is protection for slaves and petty masters - synonymous to the word stagnation and yet none the less crucial for keeping order in less than educated collectives.

And I do agree that Christianity's notions are amongst the more insane ones. The very word "catholic" translates "universal" - I'd say they are destined to take water well over their heads (again, again, and again...)

Still, with the clarifications and ramblings above taken into account I sense nothing in your comments that doesn't fall to my liking. You are after all the one individual on this forum who has both the authority and the alledged experience to separate the weed from the crops, in a matter of speaking.

Finally, whether your faith in me as a person is restored or not, everyone is cursed with their own opinions and ideas. I for one think the medium of our correspondance does much more to confuse things than the other way around - be it secure or not.

Security is not really the issue, by the way - the issue is mostly dealing with at least half-serious topics in manners that easily puts them on the same level as all the other mindless gibberish on this global network of ours.

Then again, you're correct, the diffidence with respect to truth and verity amongst mortals certainly serves as our protection. As long as I don't exist, I can say whatever the hell I want - and so can you.

Best wishes,
Loren


And finally, my reply to Loren:

Consider this matter closed between us. I believe I committed the sin of allowing my own past experiences too deeply to color your words. Modern science refers to this as projection and it occurs to me that they may indeed be on to something. I spent a large portion of my life in thrall to the adherents of the Christian and Moorish ideologies. I witnessed vast slaughter between them, as well as the internecine warfare and purges within the Christian faith as various heresies were propagated and brutally suppressed. Prior to those times the clashes of cultists were only lesser evils for being smaller in scale, not for lacking fervor or blood lust. When I read your initial offering it brought those times front and center in my mind. I sent my message to you because I felt that I was indeed missing some aspect of your analysis and I was hoping for clarification. You delivered an admirable recapitulation, such that I rather enjoyed being shown the error of my analysis.

I dislike the written word for correspondence- my forte is the interpersonal, close physical contact, and the ability to discern an individual’s internal dialogue through body language and intonation. The written word lacks this entirely; however, it is useful in that it forces me to be as precise as I possibly can as I attempt in my own meandering way to tell the tale of my life.

As to your misanthropy, I may yet come to rely upon it. I certainly do not hold it against you and I do not think of you as a “bad” person. I do look forward to conversing with you again.
-------------------------------------------------

It is an interesting world out there, even for one such as I.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 8/30/2003 05:43:00 PM

. . .

My new email address is available at the right. My thanks to Isabella for the suggestion. Hushmail has problems, particularly the plug-in they always insist on installing, but it is workable for my purposes.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 8/27/2003 10:27:00 PM

. . .

The following is a letter from Loren, whom I have mentioned tangentially in previous entries. He and I have carried out an interesting, though somewhat one-sided of late, correspondence regarding who and what I am. We are wary of each other and he has requested that I respect his wishes not to have his true name or e-mail address posted. Regarding his true name, I am certain I do not possess it, but Loren is simply another layer of anonymity I have layered upon him. His address shall remain secret. Have you any desire to respond to him I am certain the comments will do. All that being said, Loren has proffered the following in response to the conversations I have posted between The Yeti and myself:

This time I actually have a comment of quite a precise nature. Eyed through the last entries on your forum and the careless ramblings of "the Yeti" truly caught my attention. This is with regards to his theories regarding the origins of present day humanity, the artificial breeding of such as imposed by "aliens", and how this commonly ludicrous though perceptive "mix" of facts and fiction seems as the most plausible explanation to these questions.

Sadly, I must confess that the Yeti is on the money in his conclusion - my stated sadness relates to my extreme skepticism about dealing with these matters on a public forum, as I have amply explained to our hostess privately.

Without going into too much detail, I can verify the Yeti's conclusion by stating the following: After conducting studies similar to his and cross-referencing with material both uncommon and widely used by historians and archeologists etc. I soon came to an identical conclusion.

At this point, I will point out that I have not gone into detail when it comes to the Yeti's presentation in this forum - not for lack of time ;) but rather because the nitty-gritty details of what diety was called what in Sumer is of little or no relevance to the greater scope of things. In my opinion, that is.

These "aliens" we so ignorantly call them are named "the liars in wait" in some old (partly reproduced) texts. Naturally, the inversion of faith that modern religion represents deems them as "demons" and so on.

This is all very interesting. It is always nice being further verified by others making sound conclusions on forlorn subjects.

Excuse my satire on the subject. It's a pesky side-effect of things I'd rather not go into publicly.

Perhaps the Yeti has come far enough in his understanding of things to comment on the following: As far as my investigations has taken me, it would seem likely that the activity of these "aliens" stretch for purposes far beyond just mining - everything I've found actually points to regular primate life-forms being "test-subjects" of theirs. Put on a time-line granted the correct perspective, and starting at the point where monkeys were upgraded to "being aware of their own awareness" (i.e. homo sapiens sapiens) the next INTERESTING step in this species evolution clearly seems to be the point where this awareness also begins to incorporate knowledge/understanding of their veritable creators.

The pointless side-tracks of this perticular subject are many: The converging of Armageddon-theories in inverted modern faiths with the progress of the "educational revolution", for example, not to mention the "eternal reoccurance" noted in certain Eastern creeds. It is not for such reasonings I find all this interesting, however.

Given my circumstances, I've spent a few decades plowing though everything I have been able to find regarding this civilization's past.
With all this lore and symbolic gibberish put into perspective compared to its singular source one is provoked to emphatic laughter.

What we're dealing with here is wisdom beyond the whims of most human scholars, which is why I find it questionable to deal with it at a site as open as this one, but while the above stated (whether one is educated enough to grasp it or not) is as truthfull as can be, what I'm about to linger on below is nothing but my own theories.

I both suspect and hope that these fabled "liars in wait" are nothing but waiting to reveal themselves to the primates on this rock. They are waiting for time to take its tool on the fallacies of common man of today, primarily religion and other pipe-dreams, since their appearance in public would cause too much fuzz around Jesus-shouting mobs and vagrant flower-power-alien-lovers.

The world we live in today is for the most parts uncivilized, ignorant, stupid, religious, and really quite primitive (something PC-progenies often forget) - pretty much where they left it back in the days. If modern civilization overcomes the problems it faces today and manages to sort out the petty struggles of monkeys else-where I for one find it perfectly within reason that the rewards bestowed upon our hosting species will be far beyond their highest notions of fiction.

Having said as much, I would just like to extend a greeting to all partaking in this forum - keep your heads down and your eyes open!

Our noble hostess will surely explain why.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 8/27/2003 08:04:00 PM

. . .

I am flattered when anyone takes the time to speculate rationally regarding the nature of my existence, particularly when one goes to the lengths The Yeti obviously did in his missive to me. That having been said, I hope he does not take what I have to say about it as dismissive or disrespectful.

I have several problems with the theoretical premise and it begins in the very first paragraph. Cro-Magnon man likely did not suddenly arrive 35,000 years ago. The same mitochondria DNA evidence that excludes Neanderthals from the ancestry of modern man also pushes the emergence date for modern human beings back to as far as 200,000 years ago

Ignoring that for the moment (because evidence of this type is still in a state of flux) we have to understand that none of the “facts” are fully established. What archeologists present for both peer and public consumption are at best highly educated guesses and attempting to draw hard conclusions based upon those data, or for that matter attempting to categorically refute such theories is an exercise in futility.

Given the above, I am not going to argue the scientific merits of what The Yeti has proposed. I will point out that he and the authors he references seem to suffer from the common human predilections towards compression of history. “Suddenly, civilization appears in Sumer.” While Sumer and Pre-Dynastic Egypt certainly pre-date my memories I can assure you there was nothing “sudden” about their rise. Modern humans’ major advantage over Neanderthals seems to be an innate ability to deal in abstract concepts, particularly numbers, symbols and historical trends. When these abilities developed and were honed, the rise of civilization would seem to be a natural consequence. But it did not happen suddenly, of that I am certain.

The point I am attempting to make with the verbiage above is that the entire record of evolution and the birth of civilization are still too rife with holes to be bent to any one purpose or another.

Whenever I am confronted with theories about anything to do with human beings, or theoretical intelligences, I always fall back on a basic tool of analysis: motivation.

What motivated the hypothesized aliens to come to Earth? Mining metals is suggested, but it seems to me that any race capable of space travel, even if only within the Solar System, could much more profitably mine metals from the asteroids. Consider: once out of the gravity well of their own world, why descend in to another just to collect raw materials that are so much easier to obtain in space? If they can travel from their planet to Earth they can travel to the asteroids and reap the cornucopia of materials available there. As such, the idea that such beings would go to such lengths solely for metals seems unlikely. If they desired a race of slaves it seems to me they have been dangerously neglectful, as their beasts of burden have developed some interesting habits and abilities likely to make them unsuitable for coerced labor.

Perhaps these aliens acted out of mere altruism? They came across proto-humans and saw potential there, so they meddled in order to give them an evolutionary nudge in the proper direction? There is little to be gained in speculation on this point as we can easily imagine that such actions were taken and the theorized benefactors of humanity then moved on to let Homo Sapiens find its own way towards full sentience. Unless we uncover 100,000-year-old genetic laboratories buried under the ice cap of Antarctica (or elsewhere) there is no empirical method of proving or disproving such a theory and no profit in debating it.

But where does this leave me?

Am I a failed genetic experiment? A pet left behind and forgotten by my masters when they left this world? An autonomous monitor, unaware of my underlying purpose? I am viscerally inclined to reject all of these possibilities; however, honesty requires that I not do so. By my own admission I have no knowledge of my origins, or even of my true age. I claim thirty-five centuries, but this is merely an informed guess- perhaps I am far, far older, but my memories were erased when I suffered that head wound so very long ago? Short of submitting to full genetic analysis I am unlikely to come to any definitive answers in the near future.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 8/25/2003 08:22:00 PM

. . .

The Yeti writes, offering the following theories and speculations. The links are my own, just to provide some background. I have comments to make; however, I will offer them seperately.

Man's ancestor apes are now placed at a staggering 25 million years ago. Hominids appeared about 14 million years ago. 3 million years created the first Homo species, followed by Australopithecus. 1,000,000 years later, we have the first evidence of Homo Erectus. And finally, after another 900,000 years, primitive man, known as Neanderthal. The difference between Australopithecus and Neanderthal is noticeable only in evolutionary terms. They used the same crude stone tools, and had no civilization that we would recognize.
Suddenly, Cro-Magnon man appeared 35,000 years ago. Discoveries in the last two decades have shown that Cro-Magnon is a different offshoot than Neanderthal. Originally, it was thought that Cro-Magnon was our progenitor. Now we know that there truly is a missing link.

And then suddenly, civilization appears in Sumer. I've been reading a lot of my old texts and some of the new articles out. There's a lot of study that simply does not make sense - and can't be fit into the accepted view of civilization. So why did I bring this up.

Because the accepted views of mankind’s origins are not complete. And you maintain that you truly do live a different life than any we've heard of.

If what you say is true, perhaps so is some of the research done by Sichin and Velikovsky and Fromm.

Allow me to throw something out there. Ralph Solecki had evidence that man had actually entered a regressive period through time. Then, inexplicably, "thinking man", Homo sapiens sapiens appears, with a high level of cultural sophistication in relation to what had been a regressive culture. Almost as if man had received a boost.

Do these names sound familiar? Anu, Enki, Enlil, Ninlil, Ea and Ishkur. They're the name of Sumerian Gods. They also have a significant role in what I'm going to suggest.

The theory is that real live aliens came down and utilized prehistoric man as labor to mine metals. They used their knowledge of genetics to create "man" in their own image, using the "clay" of prehistoric man.

This would explain the regression of man, as different types of men would procreate like animals, and be abandoned by their creators.

Enki was the God if the Underworld, and it seems he was in Africa working the mines, away from the original landing places in Mesopotamia.

We know that every culture has Gods and Kings, and all of the ancient literature, from the Iliad, to the Egyptians, to the Bible, to the epic of Gilgamesh to the Indonesian legends all talk of Gods intermarrying the females of man.

Even in Genesis, the sons of Adam left the Garden and went out to procreate with men.

Anyway - that's a lot of information. But the specific understanding, is that Enki was the great protector of man. And also responsible for disobeying Enlil, giving man the secrets of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, which were assumed to be increased intelligence and the power to procreate.

Some texts, including that of Berossus, talk of genetic manipulation that included men with two heads, with animal parts, and also, something that we could easily describe as cherubim and seraphim. Manlike creatures, created to serve the Gods, without the power of reproduction, but with other skills according to their need. Say, recreation and a gene that prevents the aging gene from turning on and destroying cells?

Sumerian texts describe men created by Enki and Ninhursag (a type of Female mother Goddess), including one that could not hold back his urine, a woman who could not give birth, and four others, including those who were old too soon, and another with neither male or female organs.

The animals did not work well, but perhaps this explains the artwork and statuary of the time. The Gods realized that they had to mix the ape-men of the time with their own genetic material. And this was Homo-Sapiens created - millions of years ahead of when evolution would allow them to, and without branches leading from Homo Erectus to Homo sapiens.

Straight forward readings of the Bible, the Greek legends and the Egyptian ones actually make sense. It's only when we claim that they had to be myths and legends that they suddenly become convoluted and no longer fit the historical record.

Knowing that this is possible, or probable, or at least no more strange than a woman who claims she is 3500 years old - could it be that you are literally a creation of the same gods that created man, made in their image (God always seems to speak in plural), but bred for a different purpose? The Nefilim, which is the name Sitchin gives them, return every 3600 years, based on the non-elliptical orbit of the Twelfth Planet. In the last six months, we have confirmed the existence of a large body in an non-elliptical orbit that affects Uranus, Neptune and Pluto.

Now - obviously this is pretty far out. And it is not "accepted."

Then again, how would the human race react to finding out we domesticated pets and workers? How would this affect our religion, and our government?

This is the information that is supposed to reside in the secret societies of the Masons.

Interesting, No?

Try finding a copy of the Twelfth Planet, by Zecharii Sitchin. Then look into studies of current astronomy on Planet X, theorized in the 1980's, and recently in the news.

Fascinating. I eagerly await a reply.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 8/24/2003 12:54:00 AM

. . .

Let us assume it is late spring. Morning comes before the sun is above the horizon. Usually the adults rise first; however, in short order the children are up as well. Breakfast is simple and seldom hot- bread, fruit or nuts, dried meat (jerky, if you prefer) if there is any about and perhaps the milk of goats or cows, depending on the time and location. It is a quick meal for there is work to do. Always.

The men head out to their chores, be it in the fields with a plow or other tools, or in to the wilds to hunt, or to the river or the shore to fish. It hardly matters for the type of work is merely a particular iteration of the uniform struggle to wrest the essentials of life from the world around them.

Back at home, the women and children are just as busy. Carefree childhood is a modern construct, in these times any child who can walk and carry is put in to service, perhaps to gather fuel such as fallen branches or animal dung, or to tend to livestock or to whatever garden plot may exist. There is wood to be moved, water to be hauled, feed to be poured, bread to be baked. There are always things requiring mending: clothes, tools, dwellings, and even weapons. Often the older men remain behind to handle the heavier work while the women do finer tasks, but all are hard at work long before most modern peoples would have stirred from their beds.

Food storage is primitive. Human beings are ingenious and bend all sorts of knowledge to the task of taking what is in hand today and storing against need for tomorrow, but it is all labor intensive. Drying, smoking, salting (assuming you happen to have salt), mashing, cooking, preserving… as the technology grew more sophisticated the options grew broader and more effective, but not particularly easier.

Midday often produces brief respite. In warmer climes it is best to stay out of the sun if possible. The concern is not skin cancer; rather it is simply the heat. Chores that can be attended to indoors might be left to that part of the day. Perhaps a midday meal, usually more substantial than the morning meal, is prepared. It depends on the nature of the village or clan, whether the men will return to eat or will take whatever food they might need with them so as to remain at their own tasks.

Afternoon progresses and it is time to finish what tasks must be completed before nightfall. There is a constant bustle to get things organized for the evening meal, see to it that the animals are secured, sort through whatever has been gathered and see that it is properly stored. If the men are hunting or fishing there will be the day’s catch to be properly dealt with, and whatever was gathered fresh for the day must be prepared.

Evening is the only regular moment of respite, and it is brief by comparison to the day. A meal is taken- perhaps large if times are good, but more likely simply adequate. Sometimes, in bad times, it will be desperately sparse. As darkness closes in perhaps there will be rituals to whatever spirits your people pay homage. The hope is always essentially the same though: “Dear Lord, please keep the monsters at bay.” When it is time for sleep it settles quickly, the reward for a hard day’s work.

The routine varies with the seasons. Harvest time means twice the food, but four times the work. Winter in the cooler climes means cold and darkness and often worse. A bad harvest means deprivation no matter where you may be- not losing the farm, but perhaps losing your life, or the lives of your children. In my case a poor harvest almost always meant I was on my way out, either driven away or sold for whatever value I might bring. Summer in a farming community means pleading with fickle deities for rain. Everywhere summer means fear of disease. Spring means you have survived long enough to start this all over again.

One constant companion is death. Throughout the years babies are born, and babies are buried in the ruthless calculus of reproduction and mortality. Adults fare only slightly better. Once past puberty life is often just a span of thirty years or so. Hard living breaks bodies so that a man of thirty would seem far older to modern eyes, and in a relative sense that judgment would be accurate for at 45 years most are facing the end of their days. Some live far longer, but most do not. Burying the dead is a regular part of life and death is not so much a spectre as an accepted fate, surcease to the struggle of carrying on from day to day. There were times when I saw death as immensely desirable.

Of course, random events can break up the routines of life, forcing people out of their accustomed rut (random events being war, plague, disaster, and the occasional celebration). It was not all toil and drudgery, but the vast balance was and that made the bright spots that much the better, while placing the darkness in some kind of proper perspective. Still, all in all the routine remains constant, day in and day out, with minor variations as the seasons progress.

The paragraphs above are a fairly complete description of the first ten centuries of my life.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 8/23/2003 05:05:00 PM

. . .

Just to restate, since I have received a number of inquiries:

I have no secure channel for outgoing mail at this time. It has nothing to do with being “hacked” or any such thing; rather I lost use of the machine I used to send mail. I am naturally quite paranoid regarding my privacy, and until I can parse through the arcana of mixmasters or find some other suitable alternative, I will refrain from sending mail to anyone.

So Loren, Joe, James and those who desire to remain nameless: stop fretting.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 8/23/2003 03:49:00 AM

. . .

In the end the crisis point of my latest little misadventure stole up behind me on quiet feline feet. Several days had passed without any activity, meaning that none of my few very modest “monitors” had detected any action regarding inquiries in to my name, or my finances or my history. So of course early Saturday afternoon my doorbell buzzed.

I regarded the intercom for a full minute, fully aware that if the person who rang the buzzer was truly looking for me my days in this city, in this identity, were quite likely over. The buzzer rang again.

“Yes?”

“Miss Baker? I need to speak with you. My name is Roger Travis.” There was no anger in the voice, perhaps just a trace of apprehension. With a heavy sigh I triggered the latch for the security door and then opened the door to my apartment. Mentally I checked the location of my pistol, then examined myself in the mirror- I was wearing a light white sun dress as I had been preparing to go for a walk and enjoy the summer heat after so many days of rain. I was not made up. I appeared painfully young.

The man who arrived at my door was nearly forty, tall and in good condition- barely breathing hard after climbing four flights in the heat of this summer day. He bore a strong resemblance to his father, handsome in that square-jawed, steely-blue-eyed quintessential American Cowboy way, all of it accentuated by blue jeans that had obviously seen their fair share of hard days’ work and a crisp, clean khaki shirt open at the neck and sung about muscular biceps. There was the scent of fresh hewn cedar about him, enticingly masculine.

He introduced himself again and I invited him in. We exchanged pleasantries and he commented on all the boxes still stacked in the kitchen and the hallway.

“Moving out?”

‘In, actually. I’ve been in Colorado for several months- I only returned two weeks ago. Everything was in storage so I’ve been sorting out what I need and what can go. I just made a pitcher of iced tea, would you care for some?”

“Yes, thank-you,” he smiled then, put at ease by the nicety of domestic hospitality. Just as I had intended. It was a dance, each carefully feeling the other out in a game both ancient and tantalizing. I poured a tall glass over fresh ice cubes and handed it to him. He took it in his left hand and I deliberately noted the lack of a wedding band, allowing my index finger to trace the length of his ring finger. I produced a bowl of sliced lemons and sugar and we fixed our refreshments to taste then took our leave to my living room. There we sat, and an uncomfortable pause stretched out for several seconds.

“I hope your father was not terribly put out by my behavior the other day. I’m not normally so easily flustered.” That drained a great deal of the tension from his face and I began to hope just very, very slightly, that this might turn out well after all.

“My father…” he began, and then hesitated before starting again, “It’s been a very tough year for him. For all of us. Four months ago my mother passed away- she’d been sick for nearly a year, bone cancer.”

“Oh! I’m terribly sorry.” I did not have to feign sympathy- mortality always strikes a chord within me and I let it show clearly. I have seen so many times where death has wreaked havoc in otherwise normal, happy lives that it always leaves me feeling at least a little compassion towards those left behind. It is odd, but it is innate. Furthermore, I had suspected this was the case. “You all must miss her very much.”

“Yes, especially my father. They were inseparable…” he caught himself then, unwilling to offer any more to this stranger than he had to. “When he showed up at my place last week he was so badly shaken I thought he was sick. He wouldn’t talk to anyone about it, he just said he couldn’t be home alone.”

“He did seem very distraught.”

He ignored me and went on. “That night, he told me about Claire. Mind you he’d never mentioned her before, I don’t even think my mother knew about her. It’s not like it’s some giant scandal in the family or anything like that. Hell, it’s just something he never, ever mentioned… ‘til he ran in to you.”

I could see everything coursing through him: concern over his father’s reaction to me, relief that I was so obviously not some youthful-looking sixty-something, an uncomfortable and titillating awareness of how thin my dress was and how neatly I curled in to my chair. I drew him out with a dangerous and carefully applied mix of genuine concern for the words he spoke, inviting sexuality, and open friendliness. It was an elixir he was ill prepared to resist, assuming he had cared to. Men cannot be badgered in to opening up, instead they must be invited, seduced.

“He had a photo album, pictures from his racing days I’d never seen before because all of them showed your mother. You really do look exactly like her, you know.” I nodded and he went on. “I can see how he might mistake you for her at first glance, from a distance… but after he introduced himself? What happened?”

I recounted the meeting in full factual detail, only prevaricating where my own internal reactions were concerned. Roger nodded and I knew he had already spoken to others about it, ticking off facts in his head as I replayed the scene for him. I could sense his concern deepening and once again I had to review my own impressions, but I saw nothing beyond what I had originally surmised.

“Damn,” he sighed, “I don’t know what to think. I thought he’d bounced back as well as anyone could expect after ma passed away.”

“He still thinks I’m Claire?” That thought disturbed me immensely, not so much for its implications for me, but rather for William.

“No… at least he understands that it’s not possible that you’re her, but…”

“He knows it up here,” I whispered, touching my head.

“But not here,” he finished, touching his chest, “exactly. I’m not sure what to do. Hell, I’m not even sure why I’m here, telling you this. I have to wonder if there’s something wrong, something psychological…”

He said psychological, but he was thinking Alzheimer’s. It was a possible out for me except that it was absolutely untrue, and I knew that for a certainty. I could have let Roger continue thinking that, perhaps go and convince his father that something was wrong… and curse him as fully as were I some ancient shaman of myth and lore. Such doubts could become self-fulfilling prophecy. No matter how much I desired to see this episode filed away as something innocuous I simply could not purchase my security at such a price.

“You said yourself that your father has been through a lot. What if he actually was sick that day?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, his eyes looking directly in to mine, piercing, searching. It was all well and fine for him to privately consider his father’s mental state, but he would brook no disrespect from me on that topic.

“You said he looked ill when he got to your place. What if he was? Has he been sleeping well? Has anyone been looking in on him to make sure he’s taking care of himself? What if it was just a long day and he was coming down with something? He saw me and got one shock, then was told something he certainly didn’t want to hear, that had to be another blow, and then I got all defensive when he wanted to meet again. So for a moment he thought he saw something that he knows he couldn’t have seen, and now it’s something that he can’t let go of because it upset him so much.”

Roger was nodding because it had a certain consistency about it, and because I was prodding him as hard as I possibly could with body language. No man truly wants to be in disagreement with an attractive woman, particularly when she is telling him something he desperately wants to hear. He mulled it over for all of thirty seconds.

“I have a favor to ask…”

“Of course. I would be happy to meet with your father again.”

“Thank-you,” he said, smiling. I felt myself blushing. This was growing more complicated by the second, but I did not let that stop me from returning his smile.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 8/18/2003 05:34:00 PM

. . .

Fate smiled upon me: the bus was preparing to pull out and I caught it just in time. Even then I was soaked to the skin from the downpour. The weather fit my mood perfectly as I took a seat in the back to wait for my stop and attempt to sort out what had just happened. I wanted to believe I had not seen what I had in William’s eyes, but I am far, far too old to deliberately deceive myself.

Throughout the ride I went over the events in the restaurant, assessing what problems I could expect, drawing out every shred of information I could recall. Part of me was screaming to drop everything, take the thousand dollars in my purse, get out of town and never look back. This was actually the most reasonable part of me. The colder, more calculating, more selfish part of me wanted to stay and tackle this head-on. That part of me could be quite dangerous and had to be held in check.

I do not remember getting off the bus. I became aware that I was standing in my apartment, staring out the front window with the lights off. The air conditioner was running and my clothes were becoming clammy from the chill. I undressed in the bathroom and turned on the shower as hot as it would go, but before stepping in I went to my bedroom and took my pistol from its drawer. Nothing fancy: a model 1911 Colt .45. Large, unlovely and utterly reliable it had been my companion on and off for over eighty years. I loaded it, chambered a round, verified the safety was on, and set it on the vanity in the bathroom.

The scalding spray cut in to my skin, shocking, invigorating… cleansing. I flipped the control over from full hot to full cold, turning as liquid ice coursed down my back, then over my shoulders, across my breasts, down my belly. It centered me, driving away the uncertainty as I let it cool my scalp and my face. Five minutes was all it took, five minutes to bring logic and order to the chaos that had forced its way into my life unbidden. Even then, it was too long.

I slipped into my bathrobe and took up the pistol. I felt silly now for taking it out- by any objective measure I had little to fear tonight. I secured it and slipped it back in to its holster, but I did not put it away. I had to consider- instinct made me take it out. Instinct told me to run in the restaurant, I ignored it, and that turned out quite badly. I am no huge fan of guns, instead I accept the basic truth about them: when you need one nothing else will really do.

What course to take? The encounter in the restaurant could conceivably turn in to nothing, depending on who and what William was today. Both the hostess and the manager of the restaurant had recognized him and from their reaction I knew he was more than just a regular customer. As chaotic as things had been that still came through unmistakably. I went to my computer and called up a search on the mall- I did not dare to search for his name, but instead began methodically browsing through the information on the web site. I found it almost frighteningly fast.

General Manager: William Travis

I began a mental inventory of my visits to that particular mall; when, what stores, what purchases. I always pay cash so there was no easy way for anyone to come up with my name… I nearly laughed when I realized my largest problem was sitting directly in front of me: the cherry wood computer desk. Paid for with cash, of course, but delivered and assembled in my apartment only a week after I returned from Colorado. The panicked voice that wanted to run began piping up again, and this time I listened a little closer, but still…

Running posed a problem, just as it had in the restaurant. If William did search for me my disappearance would make the mystery more intriguing. Furthermore it would mean leaving the country, for I currently have no new identity prepared that would allow me any degree of security. I do have an escape route prepared against need, but… I do not want to go.

With that decision made I began to prepare for a confrontation, should it come to that. The story regarding “Claire” was verifiable- it was how I had transitioned from that identity to the one I currently wear. The best lies are always spun about a framework of truth, after all. I could produce everything short of a grave to prove that Claire had lived and died in Guatemala and that I was her daughter. My financial records would hold up to an audit, but not a criminal investigation, at least not a determined one.

The time I spent in Colorado could be problematic, but a phone call or two would help to close any holes in the time line. Once again I was forced to confront my foolishness: what had ever possessed me to go skiing? It had not been a bad fall, but I fractured my left leg in three places. I can only imagine the perplexity of the doctors when I failed to follow up with them or anyone else- hopefully they were used to injured vacationers going home to their own doctors. Perhaps those doctors sometimes failed to request records and X-rays. It was plausible, but I should have been more diligent.

Of course the problem was more complex than that: the injury had healed rapidly, but I had also dropped a number of years in appearance as well. It happens and I have no control over it. While my birth certificate and driver’s license said I was twenty-four, without make-up and a conscious effort I looked all of eighteen. Not a huge difference, but enough that the last time I presented an ID to someone he had looked twice.

Despite the cumulative effect of these issues, I felt I had a very good chance of defusing this if I held my ground. Most in my favor was that no reasonable person could seriously entertain the idea that I was over sixty years old. Most likely William would wake up in the morning feeling foolish for having accosted that girl in the restaurant, for thinking even for a moment that she might be other than she claimed.

It made sense. All I had to do was sit tight and most likely this would pass.

Still, I slept with the .45 under my pillow.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 8/10/2003 08:06:00 PM

. . .

It was a chance encounter, all the more unnerving for that. I was at a mall shopping for some replacement items for my wardrobe. Since returning from Colorado I had been feeling an urge to make a change in my daily attire and I finally decided to indulge it. As it was well past dinnertime I decided that I could stop for a bite at one of the restaurants just off the food court. I am not terribly fond mass-produced food, but this mall is rather upscale and the dining options were fairly attractive. I took a small table looking out upon the mall that allowed me to engage in my favorite hobby: watching people.

I was waiting for my meal, sipping at my tea, casually looking over the passers-by while avoiding any direct eye contact. It actually works better if I have a magazine or a book, but I can put forth an expression of bored indifference well enough to convince anyone that my gaze in his or her direction must be nothing more than coincidental.

I spotted him as he left the food court, and he instantly made eye contact. His reaction was so startling that I nearly reacted myself, but I let my eyes slide off of him as if he had not come to my attention. Still, in my peripheral vision, I saw him stagger over to a bench and carefully take a seat. Alarm bells began ringing in the back of my head after another pass revealed him to be sitting, staring at me intently. Then I recognized him: William Travis.

William and I had shared one very short, exquisite year of hedonistic pleasure together in Southern California on the cusp of the 1960’s before I had ended our relationship for his own good. He had promise, and he wanted children, eventually. It helped that I only liked him, I was still too deep in the grip of my last true love to be foolish enough to let it go any further, but he had felt otherwise. Or at least he thought he had. How could he love me when he knew only what little I had been willing to show him of myself?

Our eyes locked. I gave him a “confused, why you are staring at me?” expression I hoped would convince him to move on, but as he rose to his feet again he made straight for the entrance to the restaurant. For a brief moment I considered fleeing, but I knew that might make matters far worse. I pretended not to notice as he came in, waving off the hostess who addressed him by name, saying he was here to meet somebody and, oh, there she is right over there, thank you very much.

He came to my table and I looked up in to his earnest, questioning face.

“I’m so sorry to bother you like this, miss, but… you wouldn’t be related to Claire Simon by any chance?”

Lie? Or deny?

Lie.

“Claire Simon is my mother,” I replied, smiling, “and you are?”

“Will, Will Travis. I knew your mother many years ago- I would have guessed you to be her granddaughter, rather than her daughter, but the resemblance is… striking.” He gestured to the empty chair, “May I?”

“Please, yes,” I smiled at him. This had the potential to be very, very painful for him, but once begun there was no way to stop it. “My mother was forty when I was born. It came as quite a shock to her, or so she said.”

“I’m sure it was. Your mother and I… Claire was very important to me. We were very close…”

He seemed at a loss for words, trying to put it in to some sort of context he thought I might understand. I had to help him out, so I offered, “Mom always thought she was sterile. She said she had ended more than one relationship because she couldn’t have children…” His eyes were still so very blue, and the way he looked down at the table, the set of his jaw, was the pain still so sharp? How deeply had I wounded this man? And I was about to multiply it, for there could only be one answer to the obvious question he was about to ask.

“How is your mother? I would love to see her again.”

I let my face tell him before I uttered any word, waited for him to see, and to draw the obvious conclusion. “My mother died several years ago. She was doing medical missionary work in South America at the time…”

We had dinner together and talked about Claire as I tried my best to ease his pain, but there were problems. He kept coming back to how uncannily like my mother I seemed to be.

“I noticed you in the window here, but it wasn’t so much your appearance at first, as what you were doing. You were people-watching, weren’t you?”

“Well, yes, “ I smiled, letting a little blush show.

“That’s what startled me so- Claire used to do the same thing, sometimes she would be very dramatic about it, telling stories about people who passed by, stories that you always had a feeling just might be true. When I saw you, the way you were sitting and looking over the people walking past… it was such a shock of recognition… though Claire usually had a newspaper or a magazine in her hand when she did it. At first I was sure you were her, then I realized how young you were…” but he was looking in to my eyes. Always in to my eyes.

I could see the wheels turning inside him and I knew this was becoming more dangerous by the moment. William was never stupid, nor was he given to flights of fancy, but at such close proximity, the two of us talking about my “mother”, his senses were picking up all sorts of signals from me, unmistakable signals that kept drawing him towards a conclusion that his rational mind had to deny. Suddenly he inhaled deeply.

“You wear your mother’s perfume,” he commented.

Oh, Dear Lord, if you exist, please, you have to help us both! Right now!

The check arrived and he insisted on picking it up. He wanted to continue our conversation, but I pleaded other commitments. I tried to make it clear that I had enjoyed meeting him, but that there really was no reason for us to make plans to meet again. He became insistent almost to the point of rudeness. I could see the turmoil inside him, the certainty that there was something more he needed from me, the inner shock at his own behavior and the irrationality it bred. Every attempt I made to circumvent, to handle and direct him, was overwhelmed.

It was becoming a scene; people in the restaurant were turning to see what was going on. The hostess and a man who had to be the manager were approaching, discreetly, but deliberately. William was known to them- the hostess had greeted him by name. It was time to leave.

“Mr. Travis, I’m certain that your memories of my mother, and the news of her death have upset you, and I am very sorry for that, but I must be going.”

I snatched up my bags and rose to leave, but the manager was in the way and as I tried to brush past him he caught me by my arm.

‘Just a moment, miss…” he stopped in mid-sentence because I had his wrist in my free hand and had twisted it from my arm, turning it just enough so that he knew another inch would make it quite painful.

“Jack! No!” William cried out, “Let her go… let her go.”

I released the manager, and the tableau froze- William’s eyes and mine locked for the second time that night. And he knew. The manager made no move to stop me as I sped out the door and made for the nearest exit, fleeing in to the rain-soaked night.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 8/09/2003 12:28:00 AM

. . .

What destiny awaits mankind? This is a question that often occupies my mind and I can see no purpose to avoiding it.

Destiny and spirituality seem to be linked for most people. If one contemplates fate, one is often drawn to further consideration of the nature of God, or the problematic existence of any deity or deities. I have commented upon this before and I restate here that I fall firmly in to the camp of “I Do Not Know.” I have no intention of abandoning that position here tonight so please understand that what follows is nothing more than rambling.

Honest atheists understand they cannot disprove the existence of God. With that in mind I have to wonder if we have not all been somewhat misguided regarding the plan of some theoretical supernatural being. For instance, why would a creature capable of creating all of what we know to be reality care one whit about the morality or lack thereof of any given act? What motivates Him? I know that the devout response is to admonish, “Who are you to question God?” but that tends to offend my critical nature. I do believe that this incongruity often precipitates questioning of the existence of a deity- once the question is asked it becomes increasingly clear to those so predisposed that God seems to be standing by whilst all sorts of chicanery is propagated in His name or against those who believe in Him. Once that becomes firmly entrenched in the mind it is a quick step to rejecting the existence of any God on strictly empirical grounds and coming to believe that whatever destiny awaits a man it will be one of his own making and not the result of some divine plan.

This is always where I begin to have questions.

I do not believe that God, if He exists, takes a personal interest in me; however, if God does exist, perhaps He takes an interest in mankind as a whole. In this case God has no interest in men. God’s interest is in Man, the complex totality of humanity. In that case the destiny of Man would be tied to the future progression of the species, rather than to the subjective successes or failures of its individual parts. This is essentially what I was referring to in an earlier post when I mused on the existence of a “racial soul”.

Let me be perfectly clear on this point: I do not expect anything I might say here to be taken terribly seriously. I am no theologian.

That said I do not come to such speculation lightly, instead it is the result of three-and-one-half millennia of observing the human condition. Mankind has shown a drive to expand, to improve and to manipulate that is so innate that it moves me to speculate it is by design. Of course there are examples of human cultures that do not appear to be driven in the manner I describe; however, said cultures appear to have no part to play in any grand scheme of overall human development. Just like myself, they are an evolutionary dead-end.

The judgment that some extant cultures are essentially “dead” may seem harsh, particularly if one is deeply ensconced in the “equal validity / equal value” meme that defines part of the multicultural values craze currently infecting the west, but one must understand that reality usually is harsh. Ask any existing members of the homo erectus branch of hominids what they think of homo sapiens sapiens… but of course, you cannot: homo erectus was an evolutionary back water once the new hominids arrived in town. Cultures locked in stasis face the same fate. They may totter on for decades, even centuries, but eventually they become extinct.

My take on all of this is simple: cultural evolution, just like species evolution, is not about fairness and equality. Instead it is about progress towards a goal, a destiny. It is quite likely that when humanity makes the next great evolutionary step, be it as a species or as a culture, only a portion of humanity will actually be involved. Indeed, it is hard to imagine how it could be any other way. When that happens, the remainder will be as homo erectus: obsolete and left behind.

Of course there is a corollary position to be argued, that being that cultural evolution does not always have to produce something better. Evolution of species is rife with examples of plants or animals developing in to specific niches in the environment, becoming tightly bound to the conditions that drive their evolution. When sudden change comes the highly evolved species are suddenly too specialized to adapt. The niche disappears, and with it the species. Specialization equates to rigidity, which in turn seems to limit adaptability, or as author Robert Heinlein so aptly put it: “Specialization is for insects.” The same is true of cultures. New cultures can arise which at first appear to be an improvement, but eventually prove to be unsustainable for being either too rigid, or flawed in conception, or both. Old cultures that have endured for centuries, even millennia, can also be shouldered aside by changes to which they cannot or will not adapt.

What has all of this to do with destiny? Humanity seems to have some greater goal in its collective future. What that goal ultimately is cannot be known; however, some of the upcoming steps can be seen vaguely. One thing is certain: to remain tied to this globe is a dead end for the race of Man. This is not a matter of resources, or environmental degradation or any of the assorted causes of the day embraced by one activist group or another, rather it is a question of probabilities. Any number of calamities might befall the Earth, all having absolutely nothing to do with the presence of human beings. I will name just three here:

Impact of celestial debris
Solar Irregularity
Supernova

We know that large asteroids have impacted this planet in the past, the most popularly known instance being the speculation that an asteroid strike was responsible for the extinction of the dinosaurs 65 million years ago. While many see this threat as the province of fiction any person whose worldview is rooted in reality knows that the possibility is quite real. Solar irregularity would be things such as flares, or sudden changes in the sun’s output- I include this only because I have seen it mentioned from time to time both in fiction and in science journals, most of which would put this threat far below that of an impact event, at least over the next few million years. Supernovae are a problem in that the energy output by a nearby (in celestial terms) exploding star could very easily sterilize this solar system.

All of these scenarios are predicated upon very low probability events; however, if you project out past the foreseeable future and in to the very far future the chances go up measurably. Proceed far enough and you come as close to certainty as the assorted theories of probability will allow. Hence the determination that to remain tied solely to planet Earth is to accept a racial death sentence.

The ultimate destiny of Man may be shrouded in mystery, but I am certain that God, if He exists, expects Man to reach for the stars.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 8/04/2003 08:58:00 PM

. . .

Minor administrative toothache: my outgoing channel for e-mail has been compromised. (Compromised. Sounds so mysterious, yes?) This means that while I can read e-mail I cannot securely send it for the foreseeable future. Those several people who regularly e-mail me: I have received your messages, but private replies will not be forthcoming. My apologies.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 8/04/2003 06:03:00 AM

. . .

Etherian asked me about loneliness. It defines my life, but not in the way one might think. Early on, after I came to understand what I was, every dislocation was wrenching and death came to take on an aura of a prize that I had been deliberately denied. I have never had children, but I raised many and to have to leave them… to this day that is the single most difficult act I have ever committed. So, the short answer is yes, I am terribly lonely.

Despite this, loneliness does not cripple me. I know that death stalks every relationship, that friendships are ephemeral, but I am blessed as well: I have had so many friends, so many interesting people in my life that I have to count the balance as in my favor. I met Samuel Langhorne Clemens. He took my hand and smiled when I offered up the notion that his writing was timeless and he said, “Perhaps it is, my dear. Unfortunately, I am not,” and he chuckled. I remember his scent and the twinkle in his eye, thirty seconds of time locked forever in the vault of my treasured memories. Who is there living today that can recall that day? (And before anyone asks, I have just described the entire encounter- he was a magnificent man.)

There is a secret inside me that aches to be told, to be shared with people who, when they look upon me, see an object of adoration, a partner in their journey of life, someone they love. I have had that precisely four times in my long life, each time an all too brief episode of delirious joy, followed swiftly by devastation. Each time I swore I would never again allow myself to become so delusional as to love anyone. The interludes between those times grew longer, but I am afraid I crave the wholeness that is part of being in a loving relationship and I will stumble again, and again I will weep for a century when my nemesis, time, steals away all I hold precious.

I loved them, and more important, they loved me. Rufus, who swore he only learned to love a woman in my arms. Robert, who gave up the only chance any mortal has for immortality to be true to his love for me. Genevieve… sweet, gentle, laughing Genevieve with her emerald eyes and golden hair. You saw right through me, so perceptive and so warm. And Jeremy. Good God, Jeremy, I still weep for you. So wise, and strong, and gentle, and firm… Jeremy, if the world desired a King they could have found no better than you. So desperately I tried not to love you, but you were in my soul, and you are there still. I stayed with you to the bitter end though you tried to send me away. You gasped your final breaths cradled in my arms, my tears the final blessing to fall upon your brow, and you told me you were immortal now, for I would always remember you. And your words were so true. I remember the promise I made you and here today, this day, I honor it again- you will never truly die, my love. There will be others, but never another Jeremy, or Genevieve, or Robert, or Rufus…

Loneliness. Loren was right: you people cannot truly fathom loneliness. Be thankful for that.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 7/29/2003 08:32:00 PM

. . .

I am not an easy person to like, at least not for the past three hundred years or so. I spent the vast majority of my time hiding or as an add-on to somebody else’s life- it was a habit, and an excruciatingly difficult one to break. I do not believe you the reader can fully grasp the enormity of the challenges I faced when the need to re-establish myself in a new life forced itself upon me. That is why I was drawn to the Americas, and eventually to the North American colonies- it presented an opportunity to be less a slave or a servant and more an independent entity.

There was a television show I saw once a decade or so ago, the kind of silly, mindless entertainment that I mostly cannot fathom, but there was a character in this show that struck a chord with me- she was a creature destined to be paired with a man to whom she would bond completely by adjusting her personality to become a perfect mate for him. I did not watch the entire show (I seldom watch anything but the news) but that character stuck in my memory because that aspect of her was somewhat similar to my experiences through most of the centuries of my life. I adapted and ingratiated my way from one situation to the next, always making myself in to what I felt my new master/mistress/husband/duke wanted me to be. It was something I never questioned, my modus operandi, and I stayed with it because it worked. It also made me very popular so long as times were good.

When I first broke with this tradition I came as close to a mental break as I ever have. It was unnerving to be in a position to simply speak my own mind rather than carefully calculating the expected response and delivering it with a smile. Suddenly I could take lovers who interested me rather than seeking out those who would be least likely to ask uncomfortable questions. Having money helped as well. Needless to say it did not always go smoothly at first and I was run out of more than one community to cries of “Harlot!” or the like. As I ran I laughed with every step I took. It was pure exhilaration, a sense of personal freedom the likes of which I had never truly allowed myself to know, and it nearly drove me mad.

The Yeti asked me how I found the will to go on, century after century. I never answered him in any direct way for as I look back upon it now I simply do not understand it myself, at least not entirely. On an intellectual level it is clear that I maintained a survival mind-set and made choices that maximized my comfort, where comfort was defined as not having to move on every few years. Any time I remember feeling truly happy directly correlates with being able to spend twenty or thirty years in one place. Placed in the context of my life over the previous few centuries, that past bears a disturbing resemblance to Hell. It does not surprise me in the least that breaking with it proved so wrenching. My only regret is that I left so much wreckage in my wake as I worked out my new sense of self. Many good people tried to help me and most of them received far, far less from me than they deserved. My only consolation is that the vast majority of them never expected anything from me to begin with.

So, I am not easy to like, and I am nearly impossible to love. I have no real sense of humor and I do not suffer fools gladly. Furthermore I have it on reliable authority that my definition of “fool” is exceedingly harsh. I have been called “cold” and “aloof” and “spaced-out” and I deny none of those characterizations. Oddly enough I now spend less time intimately involved with people than ever before yet I feel far more engaged with those around me. I do keep people at arm’s length in as much as there is a secret I decline to share, it is a requirement, but I no longer have to hide my personality behind a pleasing mask in order to preserve my place in society and that has a value to me that I do not expect anyone to fully comprehend. I still have my moments (sometimes even decades- the late 60’s and early 70’s come to mind) when I simply wallow in decadence, but my life is much more deliberate now- I drive my own destiny and in a delightfully expressive turn of phrase I just “make it up as I go”. I like it this way.

Perhaps that is why I took exception to suggestions that I might have some larger role to play in the future of mankind: I have become quite fond of being my own mistress and I dislike the idea that I surreptitiously, even unknowingly, serve a higher power. I noted before that if I was created to a purpose, my creator is likely disappointed in me. Let me venture further to say that should this creator appear and demand its due, it will be disappointed further still.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 7/27/2003 05:29:00 PM

. . .

E-mail from John at Weekend Pundit:

I’ve enjoyed all the speculation and “what-if’s” proposed by other readers that you’ve been posting lately and your responses seem geared to making everybody take a kind of laid back attitude. You seem to be in some sort of “whatever” mode regarding what you might be. In particular I liked the Yeti’s comment that perhaps you were some sort of “key”. So far everyone seems to be acting as if this were all benign, so let me get all dark and paranoid, since somebody’s got to do it:

What if you are simply a Judge? Seems to me you'd be uniquely qualified to pass judgment on the human race as a whole.

I take exception to that characterization, but not with any ire. Perhaps I would be qualified to pass judgment on the direction of cultural development in the western world, but the human race? I think not. Consider: my experiences have been mostly confined to broader Europe, the Mediterranean area, Northern Africa and the Americas. On reflection I have spent less than two centuries in the Middle and Far East, and that in bits and pieces. Hardly an all-encompassing worldview, to be certain.

I understand that you might have assumed that I had traveled the world extensively since I have never offered any detailed accounting of my travels. This is partly by design and partly out of necessity, as I could not truly give anyone an accurate accounting of just where I was for the first ten or so centuries of my life. I have done some research and what I recall versus what is recorded in the historical and archeological texts fails to match up at all neatly. I could make some educated guesses, but that is all they would be.

Finally, I existed in what would best be described as semi-civilized barbarism for a large portion of that time. Not that there was no social order, but my own place in that order was always very low and constantly shifting. As a barren woman I was at the mercy of the men surrounding me- unable to bear children I was either sport or burden, but seldom if ever considered exceptionally valuable. When food became short, or other dire circumstance arose I was always expendable, hence my prolific wanderings between clans and villages. Given the suspicious and superstitious nature of folk at that time I was often forced to live on my own, in some cases for decades at a time, scratching an existence out of the wilderness and meeting only the occasional passer-by who might shelter in my hut out of need or desperation. After that time I was still a dweller on the outer fringes, but civilization advanced to the point where it was easier for me to ingratiate myself: civilization leads to wealth, and with wealth comes the ability to afford such luxuries as myself. I became more valuable as sport, and less of a burden: a gritty calculus, but one that I accept. It allowed me the time and opportunity to prove myself to be more than what I had been before.

So were I a judge, upon what should I pronounce judgment? What constitutes desperation? Or despair? A properly run brothel? A worthwhile civilization? And to whom would I render such a judgment? God? No matter what form of deity you choose to believe in I find it hard to comprehend why the Alpha and Omega would choose such a one as myself for that task.

Forgive me my stridency. I have had those in whom I have confided seek to twist the fact of my existence in to some form that would concur with their own understanding of the world and reality. I do not resent it, but neither do I enjoy it. I simply am what I am and I have yet to find any great significance to my existence. In the unlikely circumstance that I was created to some purpose I can only assume that I have proven a disappointment to my creator.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 7/19/2003 02:28:00 AM

. . .

The bath was finally ready, the water heated with stones from the fire until it was just shy of painfully hot, and scented with the oils of flowers. The rising steam was fragrant as a garden in spring- Rufus would be pleased. For such a hard man he had an abiding love for nature and things of beauty. He surrounded himself with art and exquisitely crafted wooden and stone furnishings, as well as beautiful slaves. His banquets were famous for providing all sorts of fine food and wine as well as offering up satisfactions of all sorts of carnal appetites, of any nature. Of handsome young men and women he owned dozens.

I had become his slave almost by accident. I had been living a solitary life after washing ashore many years before. The urge for human contact had remained dormant in me until the day a ship laid anchor near the beach I called home. I had come out to greet the strange men who came ashore and there Rufus had first laid eyes upon me. We shared no language in common, but the attraction was powerful and I stayed with him that night. In the morning he made it clear he expected me to accompany him. There was no force involved, just his calm certainty that I would not deny him. He named me Felicia.

Rufus sauntered in just as the preparations were complete. Two young men relieved him of his robes and sandals and he walked with practiced ease down in to the steaming bath. He motioned to me and I stripped off my tunic then slid in to the water, suppressing a small gasp as the heat sank in to my skin. Rufus grinned at me as I took up a decanter of oil and waded to him.

“This is perfect, Felicia,” he sighed as I slid in to place behind him.

“Thank-you. We worked very hard, we know how much a good bath means to you.”

“Yes, still, I should take you with me when I travel to Rome- the great baths are magnificent!” He continued to talk as I began massaging his broad shoulders, working the warm oil in to his skin as I worked at the hard knots of his muscles. This was really a man’s job, but Rufus enjoyed my personal attentions.

“It is a place where more true commerce is conducted than anyone would care to admit,” he continued, “I have made some impressive contacts just by frequenting the baths… I had hoped to build something like them here, but there are so few true Romans about. Who would come?”

“Perhaps if you were to build something as magnificent as you dream of then more would come just to behold them?”

“You think like a man, Felicia,” he smiled, “but in the end it would come to nothing. Some would come, and they would marvel, but every praising word would be followed by ‘But in Rome…’ and they would be right. My pride would not willingly endure that,” he sighed after that statement, then continued, “But of course, I will build baths. Magnificent baths. My pride, again.”

“You war with yourself even here, when you should be relaxing in my embrace.”

Rufus laughed and turned, his muscular arms drawing me close as he looked in to my eyes.

“I’ve warned you before, Felicia: this is a bath, not a brothel,” at which point I burst out laughing because his left hand had slid up between us to cover my breast. I rubbed up against him, the firm muscled mass of his body setting my skin to tingling. All he ever had to do was touch me…

But he was serious: this was a bath. He pushed me off, gently but with firm strength and I made a show of pouting before taking up the soft spiny brush he preferred and setting about the task of bathing my master. He appreciated the flirtatiousness. He also demanded that I respect his preferences- later there would be time to light the lamp and pay homage to Venus.

Rufus was very serious Roman. He had a wife and three children in Bruttium, but had accepted a post in the “hinterlands” on the request and advice of his patron. It had been on his journey to this place that he had encountered me on that beach and as I came to understand his language I had to wonder what kind of man it was who would profess such admiration for his wife while openly keeping time with me. It took time for me to understand the he admired his wife as mother to her three children, and respected her as one who was adept at maintaining the proper social ties and proprieties, but of love there was nothing, merely an agreement to share a household and have children. Among the upper classes this was not so terribly unusual.

As for his relationship with me- Rufus had fist been intrigued by the idea that I might be a manifestation of Diana, appearing as I had clad in skins and carrying a staff. My willingness to submit to him had quickly disabused him of that notion, but he still considered it small twist of luck and fate that we should meet, hence his chosen name for me.

For me, it was all delightfully, refreshingly new.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 7/16/2003 10:28:00 PM

. . .

Joe Bowers offers the following:


Eu li apenas sua resposta a Yeti em seu blog. Eu suponho-o acredito que h? alguns para fora l? do esse o acredita. Quando você diz que somente a lata m? vem deste blog, eu n?o sigo completamente. Eu sou certo que se você sentir ameaçado, a coisa l?gica seria abandonar apenas o blog, paro de escrever. I, para um, faltaria realmente suas entradas, mas você deve proteger-se. Yeti menciona que seu corpo pode ter sido habitado pelos esp?ritos estrangeiros, mim perguntou-lhe uma vez que sobre o Nefilim... você n?o comenta naquele. Você n?o acredita em tal "absurdo"? Eu sou muito curioso sobre seus pensamentos no Nefilim. Você acredita-os existiu, e se você acreditar, n?o é ele poss?vel que você pode ser um produto deles? Eu esperarei sua resposta, se você escolher assim. Obrigado fazendo exame do momento de ler minhas perguntas.

Joe

I say that only bad things can come of this exercise in writing, and I do believe that; however, I am not so terribly concerned that I would be moved to stop just now. It is merely that there are essentially four responses to what one finds here: critical curiosity, acceptance as fiction, angry rejection, or delusional acceptance. To date I have been fortunate in encountering only those who seem to have a firm grasp of their own reality and do not feel threatened or outraged by my scribbling here. Those who would become angry over this are easily ignored. Those who are delusional can be… difficult.

As for the Yeti’s references to the Scientologists’ belief that proto-humans were invaded by alien spirits, or any reference to Nefilim, I do not hold to that belief any more than I do to supernatural manifestations such as vampires, werewolves, zombies and the like. While those tales are somewhat ubiquitous it has always seemed to me that they are more related to ignorance and are often encouraged by those in power as a method of keeping the lower orders in thrall. The idea that aliens were involved in the early development of humanity is an attractive conjecture, but lacks any truly debatable facts and as such cannot be proven or disproved nor even profitably discussed. I am aware of the stories of St. Germaine, and the various iterations of The Wandering Jew, but these have nothing to do with me. I cannot explain why, but I harbor a certainty that I am alone and I have never expended a great deal of effort in the search for others such as myself. For that matter how, exactly, does one go about tracking down an immortal being? Remember that it is only fairly recently in terms of human history that record keeping, communications and travel technologies have advanced to the point of making such a search conceivable.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 7/12/2003 06:36:00 PM

. . .

Comments from The Yeti, and my responses:

On your peculiar regenerative condition.

It indeed sounds like you do not die, but rather consume fuel, which would not make you human. You could perhaps be an intelligence inhabiting a human form that was reduced to a simple parasitic state in the distant past. It would explain your comments on how you thought you were rather stupid when you first remember consciousness.

There are plenty of science fiction stories from the 60's that theorize this kind of possibility. I could look them up if you are interested.

Other possibilities - that you are what was once perceived as a minor God, as you thought yourself for a while. The Scientologists teach that precursors to human beings were invaded by alien spirits. Perhaps they are not entirely wrong, and only a few people were. Those few are destined to wander?

You raise some interesting points; however, I am not quite prepared to abandon any claim to humanity just yet. The idea that I consume fuel and that this would be sufficient to distinguish me from humankind seems a bit rash. Let me propose that you allow me to lock you in my basement and feed you nothing but water for three weeks. I daresay you would come out of it alive, but with a noticeable loss of body mass. Would I be justified in saying that you consumed your own mass as fuel?

Do not misunderstand- I freely admit that my continued existence is in and of itself sufficient to raise suspicions as to my humanity. Add to this that I apparently cannot reproduce and I have to conclude that if this is a mutation it is a singularly unsuccessful one. While immortality might seem a desirable goal for an individual it appears it would be terribly inhibiting to a species, an evolutionary dead end.

Or perhaps anyone like you truly does just learn to lay low. With the vast amount of experience gained over time, they would seem god-like to others. Or demonic, as you have found.

Jesus Christ? Mohammed? Buddha?

Of course one might begin to remember what happens to those who step forward to show a new way for humanity. Christ the Almighty has risen? How hard would that be for you to pull off?

Or perhaps myths and scary stories.

Vlad the Impaler? Zombies? Werewolves?

No doubt a person with your peculiar talents would easily inspire stories among illiterate peasants. But what might it do to a philosopher with an ability to write and on whose writings portions of societies are created.

Why did I “lay low” for so long? It was not a conscious choice at first, just a seemingly fortuitous set of coincidences which led me to move from one situation to another in a way that served to protect me from scrutiny by those too primitive to understand my nature. I am willing to entertain the idea that at some subconscious level I was aware of the danger presented by staying too long in any one place; however, by my reckoning it was some four hundred years or more before I came to fully understand and accept my condition. This implies more than just subliminal understanding, almost a programmed response. I dislike the idea that I might be some semi-autonomous device gone slightly awry.

As to myths, scary stories, etc inspired by me, I tend to doubt I have had such influences. I recently recounted probably the most public and untidy of my exits from society and that failed to generate much in the way of folklore. Of course since I make a habit of avoiding returning to places I have dwelt in the past it is possible that I did leave such things in my wake without being aware of it. Still, I tend to discount it for as I have noted before I have steadfastly avoided bringing attention to myself. Even in those rare circumstances where people began to suspect something was odd and acted against me it was never a momentous event. In most cases I was simply banished. On occasion it was worse.


What would Voltaire, or Emerson, or Thoreau have done with this knowledge.

And if there are more of your kind, is there some impulse that leads itself to eventually outing yourself to the world - like you have just done on your blog?

You count on hiding out in the open - and I'll respect your choice whatever it may be and never ask you, the suspense of not knowing of course being a fantastic creative engine on its own for me. Well done, Methuselah's Daughter. Here's to another 3500 years.
-TheYeti

As to what impulse has led to this “outing” of myself, who can truly tell? Perhaps it is a subconscious urge to self-destruction. It is certainly frightening to be so open (and believe me, I am being deliberately obfuscatory in both my replies and my recounting of events), and in all honesty I can only see bad things coming of it. Yet still, here I am.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 7/11/2003 08:56:00 PM

. . .

Acidman asked 25 questions. I heasitated, then chose to answer as best I could.

1. Do you have a personal hero? If so, who is it?

My first real husband. He was a farmer and a father of five when we met and he devoted every moment of his life to making his little corner of the world a better place for his children. He married me to fill the void left by his late wife and never stopped showing me how much he appreciated me. In a very real way he set the tone for the vast majority of my following years.

2. What is your favorite book of all time and what made it so fucking good?

Plato’s “The Last Days of Socrates” , in particular Crito where Socrates defines his respect for law even though it demands his life.

3. What does “diversity” mean to you?

Freedom and respect. No more, no less.

4. What is the wildest thing you’ve ever done?

Oh, my. I am not certain the provider’s TOS will let me be explicit. Does scratching my way out a shallow grave count?

5. Do you regret doing it?

NEVER.

6. Can you drive a stick shift?

Of course

7. What’s the highest speed you ever traveled in a car?

135mph

8. Were you driving, or riding at the time?

I was behind the wheel but I am not certain you could truly call it driving. It was more of a desperate struggle to stay on the road.

9. Which is better: snakes or spiders?

Snakes- they make a better meal.

10. What is the most disgusting thing you ever ate?

Oh, the possibilities. Raw human flesh, I suppose. It is not so bad when cooked.

11. Have you ever shit your pants? Be HONEST!

Yes

12. Was losing your virginity an enjoyable experience?

Immensely, if I was actually a vigin at the time. It was all so confusing.

13. Should oral sex be outlawed or encouraged?

Encouraged. Silly question.

14. Name one man with a fine ass.

In the modern pantheon? Ah-nuld, circa 1980

15. Do you watch golf on television? If not, will you iron my shirts?

No and No.

16. Who is Martha Burk?

A very earnest woman with a chip on her shoulder the size of Texas. She means well.

17. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

Physically? I wish I could have children. Personally? I would like to sharpen my wit and stop sounding so arrogant when I write.

18. Do you eat raw oysters?

Yum.

19. Are you claustrophobic?

No.

20. If you rode a motorcycle, would you wear a helmet even if the law said you didn‘t have to?

No. In my case it is somewhat pointless.

21. Name five great Presidents.
Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Teddy R. and Nixon.

22. Name three shitty Presidents.
Grant, Taft, and Nixon

23. Now call me fanny and slap my ass. Just kidding.

That will cost you $1500 in advance.

24. This is the 4th of July. Did you set off any fireworks?

No. I leave it to the professionals

25. If you could have dinner and conversation with anyone in the history of the planet, who would you choose?
Sulla. He dared to flirt with Empire and had his name damned for it.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 7/07/2003 08:30:00 PM

. . .

More e-mail from Joe Bowers, whom I have mentioned before. He touches on some topics that I have been reluctant to speak to:

Do you keep friends that are ignorant of what you are? Telling untruths to hide your nature? Destined to leave them after a decade (or a little more) and never to meet them again? That has to be hard on you, not being able to get close to anyone, not having something lasting. It must be incredibly lonely to be immortal

Those I would call friends are few and very far between. Friends must be confided in, and even those whose company I truly enjoy usually cannot be trusted with the truth. I do not enjoy lying and I go to great pains to avoid situations where I would be forced to lie to someone I care about. Most times this is accomplished by remaining aloof and refusing to care, painful as that can be. In the end it is the most merciful solution for all involved.

I have married, but I have always chosen my husbands carefully- men who already have families, who are looking for a surrogate mother for their children or grandchildren, or who realistically have no prospects of ever having a family. I am not so cruel as to deny a man his chance at the only form of immortality available to him simply to satisfy my own emotional needs; furthermore, the deeper my ties the harder it is to move on. Better that I be the young bride in a May/December marriage.

Loneliness. There is a topic I deliberately avoid dwelling upon. I cannot truthfully say that I experience loneliness because my life has been so solitary for so very long that I am not sure I have any true understanding of the concept. Do I enjoy the company of others? Yes, I most certainly do. Can I tolerate being completely alone? A meaningless question for I am completely alone and so far I have tolerated my existence quite well. And yet… I keep this very public journal, something I have never done before in any way, shape or form. I keep no written diaries, no journals; I leave no traces of myself in the history books, but I decided to begin this site. It is addictive- I enjoy telling these tales, discussing things with strangers that I have kept from all but a few confidantes. It occurs to me that I have never in my life gone in to such detail and the act of revelation is thrilling in a way I have not experienced before. I know the day is coming when I must abandon this and for the first time in a very, very long time I feel reluctance at the thought of moving on. Perhaps when I do I will again become acquainted with loneliness?

posted by Zsallia Marieko 7/05/2003 01:42:00 AM

. . .

It is time to update the blogroll. Generally I will link to anyone who links to me so long as I find his or her site interesting. Fortunately for most people my tastes are broad and I enjoy topics from domestic realities to engineering to politics and beyond.

I did finally remove Glenn Reynolds since it seemed somewhat pointless to include him. I rest easy with that choice, confident that should he notice (quite unlikely) he would understand.

New entries include Etherian's Island and Dreaming Witch, sites I encountered via my referrals and which I enjoy reading. She's a Flight Risk I found via Pointy Ears after I noticed a flurry of referrals. If you read Isabella's tale you might understand my affinity for her. Finally, The Yeti is simply refreshing- my thanks to Weekend Pundit for guiding me there.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 7/04/2003 10:51:00 PM

. . .

The last two posts were supposed to be a single entry, but suddenly Blogger's new and improved tool dislikes large posts. I would complain, were it not a free service.

As always, one gets what one pays for:).

posted by Zsallia Marieko 7/04/2003 12:34:00 AM

. . .

Part 2

“Think she’s got any jewelry on ‘er?” Lester asked. I felt the hands reach for my arms and I let him pull them forward, then opened my eyes and drew a loud rasping breath through my ruined throat as I cocked the pistol an put the barrel firmly against Lester’s forehead.

For a full second, two seconds, the tableau was frozen. Lester’s eyes went wide and Zed froze. Even in the moonlit darkness I could see the color drain from their faces. Then Zed screamed. Lester’s eyes rolled back and he simply crumpled to the ground in a dead faint. I shifted my aim to Zed, but he was already scrambling backwards out of the grave, twisting around as he lurched to his feet. He made two steps and tripped over one of the shovels, hitting the ground with a sharp ‘crack ‘ as his head struck a pickaxe lying on the ground.

I pulled myself free of the casket as Lester moaned at my feet. I gave him a good thump with the blunt end of the chisel to ensure he remained out until I could decide what to do. Climbing out of the hole I grabbed Lester by his shirt and dragged him up next to Zed, then set about collecting the contents of my bag. Next I took the lid of the casket and did the best I could to pound it back in to place. Finally, I managed to work it back in to the grave just as Lester began moaning.

Time for hard choices to be made.

Lester struggled back to consciousness and promptly began retching up the contents of his stomach. I stood back until he finished and he finally sat up and looked about him, seeing Zed still unconscious on the ground, then turning and seeing me, my pistol trained on him. For a moment I thought he was going to faint again, but he simply stared.

I motioned for him to get up and he crawled unsteadily to his feet. I tried to speak, but all I could manage was a rasping croak, not at all helpful under the circumstances. I motioned to one of the shovels and to the grave. Warily he took up the tool and began filling the hole.

“I don’ know what the hell you are, lady, but Zed an’ I, we wasn’t tryin’ to be… disrespectful…”

I had to grin at that and he saw it, and it seemed to make him relax a bit. I let him go on as he filled the grave because it told me what I most needed to know. I had made certain that a rumor spread that I had been buried with an unspecified treasure in a bag. It had been easy to do- an offhand comment here, a little slip there- just enough information so that after I was buried someone might get just curious enough to decide to see if it were true. Had I been able to escape on my own they would find an empty casket and assume somebody had beaten them to it. Otherwise it was my back-up method to escape; a very messy back-up plan, but a functional one. After all, here I was on the proper side of the grass again, yes?

Zed began stirring and soon was busy filling in the grave beside Lester. It was clear to me that the two of them had heard the rumors, gotten all liquored up, had somehow managed to figure out where Joseph had buried me and had come to see if there was a fortune to be had. In all honesty my plan had been that if I had to wait for somebody to dig me out they would be going in to the grave in my place, but the two of them were just so… pathetic.

When the hole was filled I stood and walked over to where they had tied their horses. I picked the better of the two and mounted up, every muscle in my body sore and protesting. My mind was in a fog and I still was unsure I was doing the right thing, but there had been enough killing in this sad little episode of my life. I trotted up to the two of them and lifted my purse. I still had no voice, managing only a hoarse whisper.

“I suspect the two of you may be wise enough to avoid ever speaking of what happened here tonight.”

“I wouldn’t dare, ma’am.”

“No, ma’am, not a word.”

“Good,” I tossed the purse on the ground before them, “you might want to give up drinking, too. Just a piece of advice.”

With that I wheeled the horse about and set off. The sky was growing light behind me as dawn approached and I had a keen desire to put distance between this place and myself. I had a destination chosen and this time, with just a little luck, no one would be on my heels.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 7/04/2003 12:32:00 AM

. . .

Part 1

Warm, dark and quiet- I could hear the slow rhythm of the beating of my heart, hypnotic in its promise of new sunrises to be seen. Awareness came upon me slowly, stealing up on quiet paws to slowly, carefully prod me back towards understanding. Finally I took in a slow, ragged breath, my chest relaxing as air finally streamed in to my lungs. Oxygen invigorates me and I was finally cognizant of where I was.

The casket was small and I could not easily move. I had to force myself to be calm, to move slowly and deliberately- the supply of air was very, very small- each breath gave a burst of energy that had to be husbanded and applied in a tightly focused manner.

My hands were crossed over my chest, but something was underneath them, between my palms and my breasts- my bag. Joseph had not failed me. Stiff fingers were forced in to painful action, pulling open the loosely sewn seams, allowing me to draw out the small, flat iron tool. I reached up and traced my fingers across the lid inches above my face, feeling in the utter blackness for the edge that I knew must be there… yes, just there.

My casket was plain, just a pine box with no fancy adornments. But in the lid I had had the carpenter cut out a section and put in an inlaid design- a stylized family crest. Not mine, of course, but he had accepted my desire to have it on the casket, though he questioned why I would want it placed as in insert rather than simply attached to the top of the lid. Money had been enough to quell his curiosity and I could now tell that it had been money well spent.

The tool twisted in my grip as I worked it up against the edge of the insert, worrying it in between the lid and the plaque. I had to be careful not to over exert myself- if I used up what little oxygen there was in the casket I would slip in to stasis again and then my only hope for a quick escape would be a very shaky and messy back-up plan. As I pried at the joint I became concerned: the carpenter had done a very thorough job. I was going to have to work a lot harder to loosen it than I had planned.

A noise intruded. Thumping, irregular, scraping and growing louder: Good God, somebody was digging! Had it been that long?

I fumbled with the bag again, caution gone now, for the next few minutes were going to be ugly in the extreme. I clutched the tool in my left hand and in the right I gripped a small one-shot pistol. It could drop a man at close range; otherwise it would merely be an annoyance. I had wanted something larger, but had been constrained by my desire not to provoke Joseph’s curiosity.

I listened carefully, trying to count how many were digging. As they got closer to the casket I could tell there were only two of them, and from the sound of them, they were likely drunk. I jumped when a shovel blade struck the lid of the casket.

“Here it is, Zed!” one grunted. The sounds of scraping and digging continued, the two men muttering to each other in slurred speech.

“C’mon Lester, gi’mee a hand up with this.”

The casket lurched up at the head as they drew it up to an angle, with the head end perched on the edge of the grave. Then they attacked the lid with a pry bar. I closed my eyes and held absolutely still- it was possible I could get out of this cleanly. Unlikely, but possible.

The lid came off with a creaking protest of nails drawn from wood and cool, sweet, fresh air caressed my face, tempting me to draw a deep breath.

“Well, will you look at that,” the one named Zed declared, “she sure don’t look like she been in the ground two weeks.”

“I would’n know, Zed. Damn! There’s the bag!”

I had let the bag drop to my feet. My arms were crossed over my chest, the pistol and the chisel as concealed as I could manage. One of them fetched up the bag and tore it open. I heard my money purse hit the ground and Lester giggled as he hefted it.

“Now why would she be getting’ put in her grave with all this gold?”

They were laughing, counting their treasure and I kept hoping that they would take what they had found and go. But they were greedy.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 7/04/2003 12:28:00 AM

. . .

Having studiously avoided commentary on world affairs for some time I feel it is proper to weigh in briefly on the situation in the Middle East in general, and Iraq in particular.

The current situation in Iraq comes as no surprise to anyone who takes a realistic view of the challenges ahead. While the military victory was a foregone conclusion there is no one of any note who believed that once the major battle was won the aftermath would be any less difficult or bloody than it now is. Every death in Iraq, be it of a Coalition soldier or an Iraqi civilian trying to make life a bit better today than it was yesterday constitutes a tragedy: Families are devastated, loved ones are bereft and it can become difficult to understand what the ultimate point is to all the struggle and suffering.

What we see now in Iraq is the predictable aftermath of the overthrow of tyrants and their power base: those who once walked as princes in Baghdad are not inclined to go meekly in to irrelevance. This is exacerbated by the commitment of the Jihadis who now flock to Iraq determined to undermine any peace and stability that might set in, regardless of whether it is driven by the occupying forces or ordinary Iraqis simply attempting to get back to the business of living.

The war itself was a simple matter that could be won by tactics, strategy and application of hard resources. The aftermath, the winning of the peace as it were, carries a steep price, and the only coin that can pay it is blood. As tragic as every death is each one is part of a necessary chain of events, an unavoidable cost on the road to true peace and security in the Middle East. This is not an easy path, and it calls for fortitude and determination on the part of the United States and those allies who have chosen to step forward and shoulder their part of the burden. The ultimate result will be worth the cost, and those whose lives were given as a precious sacrifice upon the altar of freedom shall not have died in vain.

We have seen the military prowess of the West. Now we must see its courage. There are forces in play, both from the reactionary fundamentalist circles and those whose concepts of reality have been twisted by the shattered curse of Marxist socialism, which daily seek to convince the peoples of the west that they have failed, that the struggle was a lie foisted upon them by a deceiving government and that there can never, ever be a free and democratic Iraq. They seek to make such a prophecy self-fulfilling by sapping the will of the American people with a drumbeat of accusation, innuendo and despair. The courage required is that which stands in the face of such adversaries and declares: “The path is long, the choices are hard, and the cost is dear, but the fight is ours to win and we are determined to prevail.”

Time, of course, will tell the tale of victory or failure. I remain optimistic.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 6/30/2003 09:19:00 PM

. . .

“They gonna’ hang you, Missy Burns!”

The pastor looked up from his bible with a pained expression, but I simply smiled. “Give me just a moment, pastor.” I stood and stepped up on to my seat so I could see out the barred window in to the alleyway. There at the end was Timothy, all twelve years and 90 pounds of him, looking all bedraggled, yet grinning like a Prince counting his horde.

“Thank-you, Timothy,” I called in a cheery voice, “It had nearly slipped my mind.”

“I don’t know how you can be so cheerful with that little beast,” the pastor sighed as I took my seat again, “cruel he is to be taunting you so.”

“It’s somewhat complex- he was my little project you know. I was trying to draw him in, get him back to school, and I was making progress before all this unpleasantness.”

In the end, I simply had not run far enough, had not covered my tracks sufficiently, counting on the aftermath of the war to muddy the waters. It is a lesson I had learned the hard way once before, but time has a way of blurring the hard-won wisdom of years past, even in one such as I. Mr. Cletus Williams had pursued me for more than two years, convinced (correctly, of course) that I had murdered his brother Clayton and (incorrectly) that I had made off with his fortune. I had made an assumption that the Union Army would sweep through town and Clayton’s death would have been lumped in with any other misfortune that befell the community; however, the Blue Coats had simply destroyed the local militia and moved on, leaving the town virtually untouched but for one fresh corpse and witnesses telling of Missy Burns galloping out of town on Clayton Williams’ own horse.

“A Christian act of kindness? You repeatedly show me that you are so much more than the murderess you have been named.”

“You do need to stop fretting so much over the fate of my soul, Pastor. I appreciate your concern, truly I do, but there are others who could benefit even more from your attentions. Timothy, for example. I’m afraid I have disappointed him, betrayed him, even. Right now he needs guidance and comfort far more than I.”

The pastor was not elderly, perhaps fifty years old, but at that moment he looked ancient. He had been coming to visit me in my cell every day for the past week, since the day it became clear I was destined to hang. Partly it was rote discharge of duty, but there had been a bit of curiosity as well and our conversations had become quite intense as he probed my own understanding of faith and morality. It pained me that he labored under the erroneous assumption that I was soon to die for he took my calm acceptance of my fate and my concern for those who might be harmed by my death as something far more meaningful than it actually was.

Mercifully for all concerned the deputy interrupted us, tapping on the bars to my cell he said “Miss? Sorry to interrupt, but the undertaker is here.”

“Oh! Excellent. Thank you, Pete. Pastor, I do believe I will be seeing you tomorrow at the gallows, yes?”

“Of course, my dear,” he sighed as he rose to leave, “and if you feel the need, please send someone for me, at any time.”

“That’s very kind of you, and I may, perhaps if I have trouble sleeping.”

Pete opened the cell and led the pastor out, then returned a moment later with Mr. Burke, the undertaker. Contrary to stereotype Willy Burke was a smiling, rotund and jovial man, though he possessed the unique ability to project profound concern and sympathy at will. It was all an act, of course- he was a pure businessman, but he understood that concern and empathy were part of the business. He had a contract with the town to dispose of the remains of the condemned. Me, in this case.

“Miss Burns! So nice to see you in such good spirits so close to your Final Day On This Good Earth!”

“Well, Mr. Burke, I don't see any purpose to being in anything other than good spirits, do you? The sun is shining, and so many good folk such as you are coming to visit this day. Tell me, is my casket prepared?”

“That is why I am here, to see to it that you are satisfied... though I do wish you would consent to allow mw to handle the burial. I know you trust that Negro, but...”

“Now, now, none of your 'but’s', please- I have made my own arrangements and I beg you respect them.”

Pete had opened my cell and Mr. Burke stepped inside, collapsing in to the padded chair the Sheriff had so kindly provided for my visitors.

“Of course, Miss. Just that Joseph is such a slow sort and all... I could at least check up on him and see that the job is done proper.”

“That's very kind of you, but Joseph knows what I want. I'm the first official hanging this little town has seen- the first murderess convicted in the fine new courthouse. I would like my grave to be a private place. I’m certain you understand and you have been more than adequately compensated…”

One thing Clayton’s brother had failed to accomplish had been to deprive me of my fortune- every penny of Clayton’s gold had been accounted for and he had no claim on my estate. I had arranged to have a delightful elderly Negro named Joseph (“Not a bit more, not a bit less, jus’ Joseph if you please, ma’am”) claim my body in a casket I purchased from a local carpenter. Joseph had tearfully memorized my instructions and I knew I could rely on him. Joseph was the heir in my will, keeping my few possessions and a tidy sum of money, the rest being given to the Pastor to further good works in the town. Such arrangements made it terribly difficult for Mr. Williams to gain any sympathy for his outrageous claims.

So I signed Mr. Burke’s contract after carefully reviewing the terms and ensuring nothing was amiss. Pete witnessed the document for us before escorting Mr. Burke from my cell. Once he was gone the Deputy returned.

“I do trust him, Pete, but if I might impose on you, I would dearly appreciate it if you could make certain he respects my wishes?”

“Oh, don’t you worry yourself on that, Missy. I’ll see that ol’ Willy stays in his place…” his voice trailed off.

“What is it, Pete?” I asked, my voice oozing concern for his wellbeing.

“Mr. Carlton wants to see you.”

“No.”

“Missy…”

“No.”

“He’s just tryin’ to do his job… he’s your lawyer…”

“I know that. There is nothing more for him to do. I admitted my crime- I murdered Clayton Williams. The jury heard the case and rendered its verdict. It is done.”

“But he… Clayton tried to…”

“It makes no difference, Pete. I knew what Clayton would do when I confronted him. I went there to kill him. I’m guilty.”

Pete stopped then. It was tough on him, being only nineteen and so smitten with me, but he also had a deeply abiding sense of duty. In a way my insistence on seeing my sentence carried out made sense to him in a way that others had a very difficult time understanding. Mr. Carlton was trying to do his own duty as well- he certainly had enough to work with what with my extradition and trial; however, for me this was not at all about justice. I had allowed him to make an appeal, but the result had been a foregone conclusion given the turmoil after the war.

The day passed quickly enough as I was treated to a steady parade of visitors. It came to me via some of these folks that Mr. Williams was quite put out by the way people were treating the woman who murdered his brother. I actually had some sympathy for his position for I, too, wished this episode were not attracting so much attention. This was going to be very public. That was a source of some trepidation for me.

When night fell it was a relief. The visitors stopped coming and I could begin to prepare for my upcoming ordeal. I requested an immense meal, heavy with beef and eggs, milk and nearly a pound of fresh baked bread. Pete watched in amazed disbelief as I methodically dispatched a feast fit for five men. We talked well in to the evening and I found myself feeling deep regret that come morning I would never be able to spend time with Pete again.

Morning came quietly. I had not slept; rather I meditated in a semi-conscious state I had learned to employ centuries before. The execution would be unpleasant to say the least: I can tolerate a great deal of pain, but this does not mean that I enjoy it, and this promised to be particularly difficult. I knew how my body reacted to injuries and I was not looking forward to returning to consciousness. My meditation was directed towards preparing for those first moments of pain and disorientation.

I had set out clothes for this day and I dressed at the break of dawn. I let the sheriff know that I would prefer not to be disturbed until it was time to go to the scaffold and he agreed to keep people away, including the pastor. In a deep state of relaxation I let my senses expand, drinking in the sounds and scents of the new day. As morning progressed I could hear the crowd growing, people conversing- speculations about how I would comport myself, or would the hanging be clean. I could pick out individual voices, people I knew, some somber, some not. I could hear Timothy, suddenly a subdued little boy, not coming to taunt me from the alley outside my cell, and the murmured tones of the pastor speaking with first one person, then another.

They began testing the gallows and the crowd began to swell. Though destined for greatness this was still a small town, people were coming from some distance to witness this first hanging. I listened to the mechanical release of the trap, the plunging of the weighted sack, the sudden taught snap of the rope. Calmly I analyzed the information, the time elapsed between the opening of the trap and the snap of the rope- the hangman was adjusting the drop and I trusted he knew his business. I was light enough that I need not fear decapitation (something I am certain I could not survive)- I simply hoped that the end would be as swift and painless as those who extolled the virtues of the long drop claimed.

Finally, a tap on the bars brought me back to my immediate surroundings. I looked up to see the Sheriff and the Judge, along with Pete.

“It’s time, Missy,” Pete whispered.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” I sighed straightening up and brushing at my dress to smooth the pleats and folds, “Shall we?”

The sheriff took me by right arm and led me out of the cellblock. The door to the office was open and bright sunshine spilled over the scarred wooden floor and dusty furniture. The sky was perfectly cloudless and brilliant blue, the day warm and dry with just enough light breeze to render it delightfully comfortable. We stepped out on to the porch and I saw the crowd turn to stare at me as I was led down the steps and across the center of the town to the gallows. I found myself counting my steps from the porch to the base of the steps to the gallows- 169. I gave a small laugh and Pete must have heard me because he reached out as if to steady me, thinking I was becoming emotional, perhaps.

“I’m fine, Pete,” I whispered, “I was just admiring somebody’s attention to detail: 169 steps to the gallows, thirteen times thirteen.”

The Pastor was there and overheard. He looked stricken, but he held his bible to his chest and began a quiet invocation to God as I was led up the steps (thirteen again- somebody had far too much time on their hands). The Judge turned to the crowd (I would estimate no more than five hundred souls) and began reading out the finding of the court. I searched faces in the crowd and finally found Timothy off to one side near the front. He was crying and it pained me more deeply than anything else about this entire sad affair.

It was the Pastor’s turn next and he led the crowd through a pair of Hymns that I found to be peculiar, but not inappropriate. If anyone had doubted the Pastor took a dim view of the day’s proceedings they could hardly doubt it any longer. Many were the uncomfortable faces below me, and what little there had been of an air of the carnival had fled.

“Does the condemned have any last words?”

“Please, yes,” I replied, then raising my voice, “I murdered Clayton Williams and I have never maintained that I did not. He was a coward, a lecher, a thief and a brigand and if any of the men in this town had had a single shred of decency they would have spared me the trouble of putting an end to the blight his miserable existence inflicted upon the world. This town is the better for him being in his grave.”

The Judge looked grim as he stepped back and the Pastor followed me to the trap over which the noose hung.

“Pastor, do promise me that you will look after Timothy?”

“Of course, my dear, of course. If you have any final desire to cleanse your soul before going to God, now would be the time.”

My hands were drawn behind me and bound at the wrists.

“You do the praying, Pastor, I’ve never been particularly good at it. And thank-you again.”

The Sheriff wrapped a cord about my ankles and cinched it tight, binding my feet. A hood was offered and refused and then the Sheriff settled the noose over my head. Another pair of hands adjusted it, placing the large looped knot behind my left ear and cinching it down so as to prevent it slipping off over my head. There were murmured protests from the crowd.

“Missy,” Pete’s voice sounded behind me to the right, “I think you should have the hood.” He sounded as if he were desperately trying to avoid being ill.

“I don’t need it, Pete.”

“It’s not for you, Missy- a hanging is an ugly thing…”

“So they’ll come to see me hang, but be upset if it’s not so pretty? Can you imagine how little I am moved by their plight?”

“Missy, please… I don’t want to see your face.”

That made me reconsider because it was clear Pete was having a terrible time with this, so I relented and the noose was removed and the hood descended over my face, sealing out the light. The noose was placed again, and positioned.

Everybody stepped back. Despite everything, all the preparation, all the certainty that this was nothing more than an inconvenience, my heart began to pound. I might know that death had little hold on me but the primitive, reflexive parts of my mind were not interested in the nuances. I forced myself to remain still, breathing evenly as I waited. What was taking so long? What more could they possibly-

A mechanical “clack” signaled the tripping of the trapdoor and I instinctively tried to throw myself back as my footing failed- weightless, falling then pain exploded in my head as if I had been struck by a massive bell clapper and the rope snatched about my neck like the gnarled fist of Hercules…

posted by Zsallia Marieko 6/24/2003 10:35:00 PM

. . .

Joe continues our dialogue by posing some questions:

With the information age, I suspect that assuming a new identity will become more difficult-

Indeed. In particular the recent unpleasantness with regards to the reactionary Islamists has made travel more problematic. I am entertaining the possibility of relocating to a less technology-pervasive locale, but I am relatively proof for the near term future. Who knows what the next few decades will bring?

I was wondering why you would put yourself out there on public display… You are stating your nature to a very public forum...I am sure you are counting on most that see this post as the musings of someone a little unhinged-

I wonder myself. I have learned to trust my instincts and I felt that this was a worthwhile exercise, hence the weblog. I do not count on being considered unhinged; rather I count on being simply dismissed. To date Joe is the only person ever to engage in any sort of conversation regarding this.

How many others through the centuries have you "came out" to…In one of your posts, you said that you have revealed yourself to a "Mr. & Mrs. Professor", of course they didn't really believe you until you showed up on their doorstep half a century later looking as young as you last left them. (BTW, how goes it with "Grandson"?)-

Very few, for obvious reasons. Even those I have confided in have mostly viewed me as simply a harmless eccentric except in situations where my nature was undeniable. Mr. And Mrs. Professor did indeed believe me, but even belief can be an ephemeral thing- it lodges in the brain and is held as some kind of phantasm until confronted with the indisputable. As for my efforts on their behalf, I realize I have revealed far too much (despite my deliberate obfuscations) and I shall comment no more.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 6/13/2003 10:00:00 PM

. . .

Joe comments again, asking about Comte Saint-Germain, a name I have heard more than once. At the time of his influence I was living in the North American colonies, but I was aware of him. My take on him is that he was a fascinating and eccentric man living in a time and circumstance when those about him were exceptionally prone to wild theorizing. The European aristocracy of the time was… somewhat unstable. The passage of time and the desire of some to believe such things make the tale grow, and grow and grow.

As to the nature of my “immortality”, I never claimed to be immune from death. I am convinced that I can die. In the instance that Joe commented upon I certainly did drown- I remember it happening. I am a slave to the very same laws of physics as all others- when I crawled from the sea I was emaciated, my feet were gone, my skin sloughing off my body- it took months to regain my full strength.

Whatever mechanism allows me to cheat age and death still requires fuel and raw material and some basic structure to begin with. Were my body thoroughly destroyed there would be nothing with which to begin anew, no reasonable starting point. My memory goes back only as far as the head wound I mentioned in my previous entry, a wound so grievous (my skull was split open, from what I was told) that it left me insensate and amnesiac- I am certain I came as close to death as I ever have. Furthermore, on those occasions when I have lost limbs, the severed members did not persist, and the process of regeneration was closely related to the availability of both plentiful food and ample rest. Needless to say, in any such event I was required to relocate or be forced to answer questions I preferred never to see asked. If the wounds I suffered were sufficiently severe I would fall in to deep shock and would be taken for dead. I have clawed my way out from more than one shallow grave.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 6/01/2003 12:19:00 PM

. . .

Joe Bowers asks a very reasonable question in the comments to my previous entry:

I happened across your post; you have some interesting tales. Have you "ran across" others of your kind?

The short answer is “no”.

I need to clarify a number of issues:

My early life is a mystery to me as I came to consciousness in the lodge of Gtochk after having been taken as loot in a raid on a band of wanderers. Many had chided Gtochk for carrying away an obviously dead girl, no matter how comely, but I recovered from the terrible head wound and became his prized possession. That is the beginning for me, and most of that itself is lost to the mists of ignorance. I had no inkling of my nature for several hundred years. This might seem absurd, but I was not terribly intelligent then and I seemed to have a natural talent for relocation every fifteen or twenty years. Perhaps an innate understanding that to remain in any one location for too long would be ill advised?

Enough on that.

When I realized that I remained as others withered and passed, that my life spanned the rise and fall of Kings and Empires, I assumed I was some sort of lesser god. Mythologies are rife with the offspring of the dalliances between the Gods and mortals- it was not an unreasonable deduction. I became an acolyte and minor priestess to more than one odd deity before I came to understand that whatever validity (or lack thereof) might adhere to any cult, none of them had anything to do with me.

Most of my life I spent in bondage of one kind or another- I seem to have a knack for catching the fancy of powerful men. I can read others in a way that those who know of my nature swear is nearly telepathic. In reality it is just a manifestation of millennia of experience in dealing with mankind. I am terrible at prognostication in regards to those I have never met, but let me speak with you in person for ten minutes and I can predict you with relative ease. It is simply experience; there is nothing mystical or supernatural about it. It serves me well and I leverage it for my own comfort, and lately to build my own wealth.

I began to actively seek evidence of others such as myself some sixteen centuries ago. I have encountered more than one trail of evidence, but never anything that gave me any realistic hope. In a way, it makes perfect sense. Immortality is a dead end for any species. It brings the evolutionary engine to a halt. I am sterile (trust me on this) therefore if my condition is due to mutation the genetic defect is absolutely detrimental- no reproduction, no benefit of genetic replication.

So, that constitutes the long answer. I suspect I am alone. Perhaps this very unusual activity of mine, placing my thoughts and words in a forum for all to see is merely a final attempt to settle the very question Joe raised: am I alone?

posted by Zsallia Marieko 5/30/2003 08:40:00 PM

. . .

I am not a terribly spiritual individual and I suspect that is a natural consequence of my unnatural condition. After reading some of the more methodical and non-proselytizing descriptions of atheism I find myself forced to admit that I am not an atheist, either. It is not that I believe in a God or assorted gods which hold supernatural sway over the events, debacles and progress of humanity, rather it is that from my perspective mankind does indeed seem to be moving towards something and that in itself begs the questions: towards what, and why?

Those two questions never cease to fascinate me. From a purely Darwinian perspective I suppose one could argue that the seeming progression of the species is simply a factor of homo sapiens sapiens which led it to become the dominant large land mammal on the planet. Indeed, Occam’s Razor would seem to demand such a conclusion as it very neatly obviates the need for any further consideration of the topic. Mankind moves forward because moving forward makes mankind what it is. Simple, neat and understandable.

Yet still…

I have seen good and evil in Man. I have seen peasants stand and fight and die in the face of impossible odds. I have seen warriors leave the field of battle on a whim. I have seen the innocent triumph and I have seen them slaughtered without thought or cause or care. I have seen the religious lift the dumb and pitiful from the depths of despair and I have had the religious condemn the pious to the sword. I have seen the face of evil upon the land, crushing the hopes of generations only to fall in the end to the inevitable march of human progress. In short, I have seen torturous manifestations of this thing people have created which we call civilization and overall the trend is towards the better.

This does not mean that I suffer under the delusion that the entire world is now at a better place than earlier in history, nor do I suppose that things are perfect, nor do I presume to claim that Western Civilization is the best course to follow, though I might be tempted to wager on the last assuming I could find another who would be around in half a millennia to settle the bet.

So, how does this lead me astray from a purely mechanist view of the world? It is simply that I feel that the past lingers with humanity far more than as a mere collection of facts. Race memory? I would hesitate to call it such. Perhaps I am foolish enough to believe in something such as the soul, or perhaps something even more metaphysical. Can an entire species share a common “soul”?

I do not spend sleepless hours in such consideration, but when I do turn my thoughts in this direction I always end the same way: questions, and no answers.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 5/23/2003 05:35:00 PM

. . .

It seems that I may yet have both the time and the inclination to begin posting again

posted by Zsallia Marieko 5/21/2003 01:37:00 PM

. . .

Twenty-three days, give or take. The inevitable disorder that follows any invasion is the current focus of many in the hand-wringing crowd at this time, and in a small way they are doing good service by keeping some public focus on that issue. It is not that I believe the Coalition would not restore order as soon as possible, but that the media might be inclined to stop noticing before that particular job is done resulting the in the world missing the second (or would that be the third) major accomplishment of this war. My track record on detailed predictions is as spotty as any other, but I do believe that within thirty days life in Baghdad, and in Iraq in general, will be far more relaxed and enjoyable than it has been for the past few decades.

As for the future of this journal- I intend to set it aside at this time. This was never more than experiment for me and I must admit it was more enjoyable than I had imagined it might be; however, pressing issues require my full attention. My thanks to those who have made a habit of stopping by regularly. I may be back once certain difficulties are resolved, but for now... adieu.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 4/17/2003 04:03:00 AM

. . .

It was not that people did not feel the War was real, rather the War was news of far-off battles, exhortations by hotheads in meeting halls and preachers from pulpits, young men now gone to fight; with the elderly, the children and the womenfolk left to carry on. It was hard on everyone, as society seemed to slowly disintegrate. Not a huge collapse, just the realization that today was not so good, not so carefree as yesterday, yet better and more carefree than the morrow. Trips in to town were no longer routine stops for supplies and gossip, but a strenuous search for staples and any kind of hard information. And from the last few such forays in to town there came a single word, a name: Sherman. The Blue Coats were coming.

That suddenly, the War was knocking on the door and the results were near panic. Old men and young boys took up what arms they could and marched out to do battle while the easily deluded pretended this ragtag militia could turn the Union Army aside. Those with more sense prepared to take flight. I mulled taking to the hills, knowing that one way or another I could make myself safe, but there was a small piece of business that needed finishing- just a promise that I had made myself a year earlier. A better opportunity would never come.

Clayton was a nasty, vicious, hateful man. Strong and handsome with a terribly deceiving smile that melted the heart of more than one regretful miss. He was wealthy enough to buy his way out of military service, sending poor men in his stead while he remained at home playing on widows and amusing himself with negro women. I swear you could find him at any time by following the tears of those unfortunate enough to catch his eye. In the modern world he would represent the epitome of everything vile in a man who would own slaves, except that he was, as I noted earlier, devastatingly handsome.

A year before I had interrupted him in the act of assaulting a negro girl no more than fourteen years of age. He had had business at the Manning place and she had the misfortune to wander by when he had an idle moment. To make matters worse there were two others there, watching with amused interest. I was not part of the family, having been hired as a tutor for the Manning’s two youngest daughters, so I had no real standing with those men, but I laid in to them with the utmost indignation, and I must ask you to trust me when I say that I do indignation quite well, thank you. They scattered, all but Clayton, who kept right on with his business until I planted a well-aimed heel in the lower side of his rib cage, being unable to aim where I wanted to most without harming the poor girl.

He was tossed to his side by the blow, but then exploded to his feet, his face twisted with the kind of rage that nearly always precedes murder… except that with his trousers undone he tripped and fell to his face before he took a full step. I danced back and hiked back my skirt; my foot poised for another blow as the terrified girl pulled her shift together, stumbled to her feet and fled. His eyes flicked after her, then back to me, and the hot anger in his face suddenly turned icy cold.

“I’ll not be forgettin’ this, Missy Burns,” he said straightening up.

“I trust you won’t. And I’ll be bringing this up with Mrs. Manning, whom I am certain will not be forgetting this either.”

With that I turned my back on him, but as I stormed off he called after me, “Got a mighty fine leg there, Missy Burns. I’ll be lookin’ you up sometime, you can be sure.”

On that day I vowed that Clayton would not live one day longer than I had to permit. So while all were either preparing to fight or to flee I arrived in town and handed my buggy over to the livery boy.

“Just tie her up here and leave some water- I shan’t be long.”

There were still many people about, mostly women, but the air was electric. I was stopped more than once and forced to engage in the obligatory hand wringing and it was in the midst of just such a conversation that a ripple of gunfire was heard breaking from the northwest. Every conversation stopped. Another volley, carried on the wind, almost ghostly in the way it settled over the landscape and in to nerves already strung taught and rubbed raw. I left my partner in conversation and made my way directly to my destination.



Clayton was loading a packhorse. No one ever accused him of being stupid- he had what looked like two packs full of provisions as well as gear for rough living. Obviously he was intending to strike out cross-country. As I approached a much louder barrage of gunfire rumbled in the distance. Clayton looked up, saw me, and smiled.

“Looks like our boys must’a dug in good up at the bend- Yankees are turnin’ cannon on ‘em. Surprised, though- would’a thought they’d only have scouts this far down the road.”

“My, my, all that military know how and here you are fixing to run, rather than out there fighting. I’d heard it, but I had to come and see for myself.”

“Now, Missy, you just keep that sharp tongue in your head- I know you’re no daughter of the South. Makes no nevermind to you if the Bluecoats march on in here, does it?” He finished tying down his pack and stepped closer. His face was open and friendly, but I could sense the tension underneath. Tension, and something else.

“I expect it means even less to you. I wonder what the good ladies here will think when they see you turning tail and galloping south?”

Had he simply brushed me off and mounted his horse that would have been the end of it. Had he shown that much good sense- he knew he was a scoundrel at best and I was not telling him anything he did not freely admit under the right circumstances. But he had his pride, and I had just poked it, hard. He also had a grudge to settle and the sudden change in his eyes told me he had just made the last bad decision of his miserable life.

He moved swiftly, stepping forward and seizing me by the front of my cloak and bodice, hands twisting the fabric to close my throat, silencing any cry I might make as he dragged me back in to the stable, then he held me, my feet dangling a good foot above the floor for he was quite tall. I grabbed at his wrists, struggling to break his iron grip and he laughed.

“I told you I‘d be looking you up, Missy. Now you just be quiet and I won’t have to mess up that pretty face.” With that his arms wrenched violently apart, snapping the button of my cloak, tearing open my bodice and blouse, baring my chest as he tugged the garment down my arms, then threw me to my back on the hay strewn floor of the stall. I lay still, apparently stunned in his eyes as he dropped his coat, fell to his knees and began working his suspenders off his shoulders, then reached down to hike up my skirt and begin tearing at my undergarments.

He was not a stupid man. He simply had no idea whom he was dealing with. I thrashed beneath him as if attempting to pull away and he forced me back with one hand, cruelly twisting my left breast. The pain only served to give me focus as I finally freed the slender steel pin from my right sleeve. He descended upon me, his mouth crushing against mine, leaving him open and vulnerable. Time seemed to slow as it always does in these situations: my right arm grazing his left, as if attempting to find purchase to push him off but using the line of his shoulder to find the proper position, rising above his back as the pin turned in my fist, the point aligning with his spine.

With a smooth, swift stroke I jabbed it forward and down, striking his neck in the soft spot where it reaches the skull. I am very strong, and the pin was very, very sharp, puncturing the flesh and gristle, lunging in to the brainpan. Without any sound, or struggle Clayton fell instantly limp, dead weight atop me. I held him like that, twisting my mouth out from under his now flaccid lips, brining my lips to his ear.

“I made a promise to myself, “ I whispered, “because I know that many good people who deserve a better end will die before all this is done. I promised that regardless of events I would send you to Hell if I could. And I would have let you go, I would have, but you are just too violent, too much the slave of your ego and your lust.” I lifted his head with my right hand so I could look in to his eyes, still moist, not yet glazed with death. I smiled at him and touched my lips to his cheek. “Nobody will ever know why this happened, why you died, who killed you. I am unimaginably old, Clayton. I have seen despots, and horrors through the ages. I have lived in chains. I have loved and hated, saved the worthy, abandoned the worthless, and every now and then, just like right now, I have taken a tiny piece of evil and erased it from the world of men. Think of it as my good deed for this day. Goodbye, Clayton.” With that I wrenched the pin first left, then right and his eyes rolled up and back as the last breath wheezed from his chest, then withdrew it and struggled out from beneath him.

The wound was tiny, no blood, hardly noticeable particularly once I straightened his long, dark hair. I stood and pulled my clothes together as best I could, then dragged him fully in to the stall. Using a pitchfork I broke up the hay bail in the stall and covered the corpse. Not a very stealthy burial, but under the circumstances it would suffice. I could hear the rumble of another cannon blast in the distance and when I peered out to the street there was no one to see. In the brief minutes since I had confronted Clayton everyone had fled, or at least moved indoors. I clasped my ruined cloak across my breasts and made a dash for the livery where my buggy was still waiting.

In the buggy I donned my riding cloak then wheeled about and trotted over to Clayton’s building, maneuvering out to the stall in the rear. There I took my bag from the rear and stepped in to the stable to change in to traveling clothes, grateful to finally lose the extra fabric acreage and get in to a pair of trousers and a shirt. Just for a last measure of spite I took Clayton’s hat and tucked my hair up under it, then secured my bag on the packhorse. The buggy would have been more comfortable, but the riding horse and the pack animal were far more versatile. I unhitched my horse from the buggy and left her in the stable, then mounted Clayton’s gelding and struck out to the south, leaving behind the swiftly ebbing reports of the skirmish now drawing to a close to the northwest.

And the oddest thought feeling suffused me: “My, how I hated riding side-saddle!”

posted by Zsallia Marieko 4/09/2003 07:55:00 AM

. . .

Time for another view of developments in the Iraq campaign. I note that the general American public seems to be reacting to events with a degree of sophistication that the modern media usually assumes them incapable of. There are lessons to be learned there.

I noted last week that it is very difficult to form a coherent opinion or sense of what is happening based on the hourly reports of the news media and nothing over the past several days has dissuaded me from this view. Last week there existed a nearly morose atmosphere amongst large segments of the media, yet just over a week later the Coalition is on the move, engaging and defeating Iraqi forces in detail. I am not a military buff, nor do I pretend to any great knowledge of tactics or strategy; however, it seems to me that the initial push served to essentially freeze the larger Iraqi units in place, then came a few days of re-supply and reorientation, and now the next phase appears to be under way.

In short, I would be very surprised if the media are given the gift of the huge “Battle of Baghdad” they seem to be anticipating. Instead the Coalition will likely proceed as they have to date: swift moves, consolidation, continuing pacification of the rear areas. They will eliminate the Republican Guard units one at a time, then possibly just sit and wait to allow those remaining in Baghdad to embrace the inevitable.

As always, I await events to prove me right or wrong.

I do have to express a minor bit of irritation with the press regarding the rescue of PFC Lynch. Excellent news, no matter how one chooses to take it. Still, the press has done this woman and for that matter all women serving in uniform a disservice. Please, please stop referring to her as Jessica. She is a soldier. Her rescue, as welcome as it is, is no more remarkable for her gender. Those who set out on that mission did so not for Jessica, but for Private Lynch of the United States Army.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 4/02/2003 11:14:00 AM

. . .

What constitutes mercy? Under what circumstances does mercy become an ill-afforded luxury? Is there intrinsic value in sacrificing soldiers in order to retain a moral imperative? Does that value persist if exercising mercy may prolong the combat and prevent an immediate peaceable solution, post conflict? These two posts on Weekend Pundit and The Truth Laid Bear have turned my thoughts to this topic.

One of the overarching concerns of the Coalition has been to minimize civilian casualties as well as to avoid wholesale slaughter of Iraqi troops. The feeling is that most of the rank and file of the armed forces would just as soon go home as die fighting a futile war to preserve the reign of the tyrant Saddam. On the surface this seems a reasonable expectation, but as has been clearly demonstrated, the situation in Iraq is far more complex: it defies simple pronouncements and therefore confounds simple solutions. Offering troops the opportunity to surrender in a situation where the Coalition cannot guarantee they can be prevented from rejoining the battle, willingly or otherwise, renders the practice virtually meaningless and ultimately foolhardy. The desire to show mercy in these cases is counter to the objective of de-mobilizing the regular Iraqi Army.

Despite the above, mercy is ultimately the best weapon the west can wield against the reactionaries, both religious and socialist. The cost is high in the short term, both in blood and treasure and there will be absolutely no short-term reward. That bears repeating: There will be NO short-term reward. Those whose cultures are too diseased to see anything other than weakness in the willingness to forgo killing, just this one time, will exploit acts of mercy. A policy of mercy requires an acceptance of the vulnerability it imposes and an understanding that the ultimate reward will not be realized in days, or weeks, or months, but likely in decades.

Mercy does not require prostration to those who would abuse it. The hand that firmly clutches the sword can deliver mercy, often times far more effectively than the hand that refuses to wield one. Mercy is possessed of more meaning when it comes from a position of strength and determination and it is most effective when it constitutes a central pillar of a policy of reconstruction and reconciliation. Mercy can be given with the full intent to severely punish those who abuse it, but one must be willing to accept the cost, and must be willing to follow through with consequences.

An interesting (and admittedly not perfect) parallel to this can be found in the history of crime and punishment in the United States during the third quarter of the twentieth century. Increasingly the experts in criminal behavior were putting forth he idea that there were underlying causes that went beyond simplistic explanations that some people were simply “bad seed”. Doctors became involved in attempts to truly rehabilitate those involved in a life of crime. Attempts were made to determine root causes, tie anti-social behavior to childhood traumas, find ways to allow the alienated to express the rage the experts were certain lay at the core of their misbehavior. Adjunct to this there were moves to loosen the penal system, to allow experts to pronounce on the worthiness of the rehabilitated. In short, there was an attempt to make a systematic application of mercy in an attempt to turn the tide against the undercurrents of criminal behavior.

The attempts to make mercy a more central part of the criminal justice system are generally considered to have been a failure. Central to this assessment is the idea that mercy had transformed the penal system in to a revolving door through which offenders were cycled through the system and released in to society when “experts” decided they were ready. Ten years in prison no longer meant ten years in prison. Mercy had been expanded to a point where it ceased to have any true meaning. It is almost tragic that the experience was perceived as such a failure by the public because those who attempted it had the right idea, but lacked the science to back them up. Today the west understands far more about the biochemistry of mental illness, but routinely locks up the mentally ill in holding pens where the emphasis is solely on punishment and lip service (if any) is paid to the idea of rehabilitation, but that is a topic for another day.

The lesson is that mercy was applied without a firm understanding of how it should work and with a popular perception that there was no great consequence to abusing the mercy one was shown. The result was a failure that the United States struggles with to this very day.

Military strength can crush armies. Economic prosperity can entice. But only mercy can begin to cure the disease of fundamentalist reactionary resentment. The reactionaries will not respect mercy shown by those whom they perceive to be weak- hence 300,000 soldiers march on Baghdad. The west has the strength to crush them. The west must also have the strength to offer the firm hand of mercy; the kind of mercy that is a second chance, not a third or a fourth or a fifth. Mercy that offers not blind forgiveness, but the chance for redemption. THAT is the great task of western society.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 3/27/2003 04:06:00 PM

. . .

Steven Den Beste recently suggested guidelines for reacting to news reports on the war:

For any of the following reports, allow at least six hours before you even begin to take them seriously:


Any report of a Scud
The first three reports of mass casualties by anyone


For these, wait 12 hours:


Any report of an attack against a city outside of Iraq
Any report of use of chemical weapons
The first two reports of mass surrenders
The first two reports of use by the US of "wizard weapons"


For these, wait 24 hours if not even more:


Any report that a "name" in Iraq has been killed, captured or has defected
Any claim by the government of Iraq which looks good for them or bad for us
Any report of atrocities
Any report of Iraqi "scorched earth" destruction, especially oil well fires
Any report of mass Iraqi civilian casualties


For all of these, the proper response is to go take a nap. I know it's tough, but that's the best thing you can do.


My own feeling is that one should wait far longer; however, I am enough of a realist to recognize that this is nigh impossible for most people. With that in mind I have kept my opinions largely to myself over the past few days. Now enough time has passed to take a more detached and reasoned view of the opening phase.


I am surprised by the progress made by Coalition forces. While I have very little in the way of martial history in my past I must imagine that those in charge of executing this war are satisfied with how matters are unfolding, particularly in view of the lack of a realistic northern front. War is never an exercise in “going through the motions”, despite the opinions of a few that this fight should be over in a few days. It has always been understood that resistance by the Iraqis would stiffen as forces approached Baghdad. From the reports over the weekend this is indeed the case. Nonetheless, the outcome of the war is not in doubt in any way.


To be very blunt: I expected things to be worse.


One of the problems facing the public as the war progresses in its normal, untidy way, is that they are forced to view that progress through the lenses of media structures ill-suited to the art of dispassionate analysis. The assorted news organs are placed in a rather distressing position: they have a competitive need to be the first to break any unfolding stories, they do not have anything even remotely resembling a reliable source of information even in the form of their own “embedded” reporters, they are unable to reliably project in to the future, and as a result they are not able to seamlessly integrate their reporting in to the overall political spin desired by the editorial decision makers.


The above is NOT an indictment of the press, rather recognition of objective facts. Every news organization is guided by some overarching political agenda. This is the unavoidable result of the fact that these organizations are run by human beings. In some cases the guidance is less stringent, in others it is far more egregious, but it is all real and it often drives the news organizations to make leaps of illogic that can boggle the mind of a truly objective observer. News reports have been exhibiting classic examples of bipolar disorder as they move from upbeat to downbeat and back again with every new piece of information that scrolls across their screens. Sunday night, the gloom was palpable on American news broadcasts, a complete turnabout from the previous days, yet the only objective change had been the broadcast of the news that Coalition soldiers had been captured and that the Iraqis had apparently executed some while exploiting others on television. This is absurd on its face, but given the nature of the news cycle in modern societies it is entirely predictable. Modern news reporting has no reliable intrinsic mechanism for dealing with long term, real-time crisis situations.


At the risk of sounding callous, it is important to put the notion of prisoners in to perspective. There is simply no way to wage war without Coalition soldiers falling prisoner to Iraq. Their plight is unfortunate in that they are now in the hands of people with a proven record of inhuman brutality, but the only remedy to their plight is to continue with the careful, methodical execution of the war and press onward to complete victory. Anything short of that puts them, and for that matter everyone in the western world in very grave danger.


In the meantime, my suggestion would be to seek to adjust any opinions regarding the war on the basis of three or four days’ events, rather than hourly news reports.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 3/24/2003 10:01:00 AM

. . .

In the end, I suspect the truly definitive question regarding the War on Iraq will revolve around the Turkish invasion and the US response to it. I have sent out questions to several trusted correspondents and bloggers requesting input. Nonetheless, my feeling is that this will define the ultimate outcome of the current hostilities. Will the United States of America and her Allies prevent the wholesale slaughter of the Iraqi Kurds at the hands of the Turks? I suspect that in the end, they will. But this is by no means assured.


UPDATE: a slight miswording, there- substituting permit for prevent. Terribly sorry about that. As to the question of the Turks, it still remains to be seen if they are intent on a large scale deployment in to northern Iraq. I was somewhat surprised to see indications that they might be doing just that, particularly in the face of fairly stark warnings from the US and her allies. As in all such times, the details remain unclear. I am not seeing any unified analysis of this development, but as of this writing (7:25AM MST) the Turks are denying that they have entered Iraq. I cannot begin to stress strongly enough that it is crucial that Turkey be kept in check as thier relationship with the Kurds is so historically bad. Crowds may cheer coalition forces in Baghdad, but the news will be filled with pictures of Kurdish bodies if things spin out of control in the nort, and the political cost will be immense.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 3/21/2003 09:51:00 PM

. . .

I remember the drums. Sometimes they were actual percussion instruments, beating out a rhythmic call to arms. Others were more metaphorical, shouted out from criers, or pulpits, or newspapers, but always- drums. War is an entirely human enterprise and it serves a valuable function in a purely Darwinian sense: both individually and in summation it weeds out the weak, the defective, and the misled. It serves to move vast sums of materiel and wealth across large distances. It mixes the gene pool in a very brutal and straightforward manner.

War brings vast misery and suffering in its wake, particularly when waged by those whose ambitions are grand and personal and vainglorious. War brings peace, prosperity and security in its wake when waged by those whose purpose is clear, communal and preservative. No war, not one that has ever been launched by any nation or any group in all the history of mankind was entirely of one type or another. Not all the Germans in 1939 were Nazis. Not all the Colonial Militia of the late eighteenth century were liberty-loving Patriots. Kahn, Cromwell, Alexander, Suleiman, Mao, Roosevelt, Caesar… In the end it was the aftermath of their actions that led to history’s just conclusion regarding the worth or lack thereof of the characters and actors involved.

Still, there are precedents. There are trends. When Freedom calls her sons to war she has to answer to a people whose very political existence is steeped in the ideals of personal responsibility and Freedom as a birthright. It is hard for many to understand- they have not lived the centuries in between and are caught in the mortal trap of their own contemporary viewpoints. This is not the fault of the living; rather it is the way of natural order. Let history alone be the constraint from the past, and leave the modern at the mercy of its own choices. So it is simple to dismiss the modern Free World as self-absorbed, self-indulgent, isolated and indifferent. It is an easy judgment made by those who purport to gaze down from higher ground upon masses they despise for the very power they wield in a Freedom loving Republic.

The Free World now embarks on a mission that will last a decade, or decades, and require battles fought not only on the fields of martial contest but also upon the merciless gridirons of philosophy: a war of Ideas, and Ideals. The tools of this war are more than physical weapons, they are the razor-sharp cry of the tortured oppressed, those who some feel have not the will or capacity to love Freedom, to embrace Her, to make Her the heart and soul of new, Free, modern nations. But Freedom knows these peoples. Freedom has not turned her back, nor deafened her ears, nor cast her eyes aside. Freedom abides.

Freedom calls her sons to war and will allow history to be the final judge.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 3/18/2003 05:26:00 PM

. . .

The rolling and tumbling tore me from frigid oblivion and I gagged as seawater sprayed from my throat, burning in my sinuses. Again the waves tossed me against hard sand and this time my hands dug in, holding me against the backwash as water retreated from the beach. Sick, trembling I pulled myself up the beach, my hands still bound with slimy, rotting leather cords. Each pull of my arms drew me a bit further up out of the water, up in to the warm sun, until I reached dry sand and collapsed in to a shaking heap.

My mind tried to focus, unable to hold on to reality, fading in and out until the warmth of the sun began to seep inward, loosening the grip of the deep cold. With focus came the recognition of ravenous hunger, thirst so intense my throat cracked with every breath. I tried to pull myself up only to fall again- my feet were both missing from above my ankles. Dimly I recalled Gott’s cruel strength as he bound my feet, pulling the cords tighter and tighter until I shrieked from the pain…

They had tied a sack of heavy stones to my feet, those people… they had been pleased to have a young healthy female, but when years passed and I remained barren, and youthful, and healthy, there had come suspicion, then fear. Seven men in a long boat took me out to sea. They rowed until the land was but a smudge on the horizon. I begged them, offering all I had of myself to them, but they were not swayed. When they dared go no further Gott seized me by my waist and tossed me in to the cold gray water. I struggled in the foaming waters as he lifted the sack. His shoulders heaved and suddenly I was torn from the surface, darkness closing over me, cold and pressure growing, growing, darker and darker…

The hunger refused to allow me to sit. There were trees further up the beach, almost impossibly far, but I forced myself to crawl, my skin cracking and peeling, sloughing off in great scabs, the sun burning against the newly exposed flesh. I reached the tree line after what had to be hours of effort and continued inward, my nose leading me towards a tantalizing scent of rot until I came to a fallen trunk, half sunk in to the sandy soil. I cast about and spied a stone, seized it and wielded it with desperate strength, splitting the rotted wood to expose a wriggling, crawling mass of protein.

I lunged at the insects, gathering them in my cupped hands and shoveling them in to my mouth, chewing just enough to let the foul juices moisten my parched mouth before swallowing, then digging greedily for more. Next was water and I had good fortune since it appeared there had been rain very recently- small pools of rainwater collected in puddles and hollows cooled the burning thirst.

It was fully a day before I had the strength and clarity to examine my situation- the flora of the area was foreign to me. The night sky was strange and the sun was more directly overhead- I was far from the lands I had known. Could I have drifted so long? The cords on my wrists had parted easily once I had the strength and will to try- how long would leather retain its strength? And my legs; assuming I had been held fast until the flesh and bone parted, how long had I been lost? All questions I desired answers to, but all secondary to finding enough food to fuel the furious pace of recovery now remaking me by the hour.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 3/14/2003 07:14:00 PM

. . .

I have noted several times that I dislike the concentration on politics that has overtaken this project nearly from its opening day. After posting earlier today I found myself decidedly displeased with myself for having dipped in to the well of such commentary yet again.

It is not that I feel political discourse is beneath me, or unseemly, rather it is that I cannot believe that there is any point to laying out opinions on a regular basis when I honestly believe I have little of any originality to offer.

Pursuant to that I am going to eschew any further commentary on current political events for a time and concentrate on other writing. At least until such time as something truly momentous unfolds- and in case you might wonder, no, I do not include the initiation of hostilities with Iraq in the category of “momentous events.”

Originally I wished to write of the past, and culture, and entertainment, and sex, and food- I wanted to be hedonistic and debauched. Instead I waste my time being pompous and stuffy. Let that be a lesson to all and sundry- never let events sway you from your dreams.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 3/10/2003 10:16:00 AM

. . .

I am not a terribly political animal, despite the apparent leanings of my writings to this point. It is the times, I suppose. Now I find myself considering what the post-UN world will look like. I still suspect that the United States and the United Kingdom have some hope of prevailing in the UNSC; however, such a development would in my opinion merely serve to postpone the inevitable. As I noted some time ago, entities such as the United Nations and NATO rarely cease to exist overnight, rather they die by degrees, with the dénouement arriving publicly long after all parties privately acknowledge the beast is no more.

What comes next is an interesting question. The United Nations’ major flaw is its need to treat all nations as essentially equal, even if it treats five members as more equal than the others. Any cretinous thug who manages to seize power must eventually be treated as a legitimate head of state possessing sovereign powers within his borders. This was necessary when the UN was formed, but it has become an outdated and dangerous practice over the past few decades. Anything that follows after the UN will be required to make distinctions between such nations.

Very loosely I suspect such an organization might form around requirements such as these:

Member nations would be democracies.

Member nations would guarantee freedoms as defined in terms of western liberal political systems.

Member nations must maintain a credible military force, most likely with a requirement that there be a credible “Ready Force” for expeditionary operations.

Each of these requirements poses problems. What does one say about China, which lacks any credible claim to democracy, but which is clearly moving in the direction of open capitalism? I would expect that the definitions of the terms in question would be loosened just enough to recognize reality; however, it is just as likely that the UN could be replaced by a number of organizations, perhaps regionally based. Either way what results is an organization that discerns between governments that serve the public and governments that the public serves.

The critical issue is that whichever organization forms around the United States immediately becomes the organization of choice for nations and peoples interested in maintaining their own security and prosperity. Many would be able to make the choice to join without huge changes in policy. For others it would be a more wrenching decision. Most of modern western Europe would be faced with a choice between a US/UK centric organization which requires a step back from the socialism-light which currently prevails, or they can continue to cling to a European Union which would demand much and provide little in the way of security or prosperity. This is not a clear-cut choice- the EU represents a familiar framework that would be very, very seductive to those political entities most resistant to change. Again, it promises much, but it is structurally incapable of delivering.

David Gelertner posits an organization built around the US, the UK and Russia that could slowly, but inexorably rise to replace the UN. This is as likely (probably more so) than what I have speculated upon. I am also heartened that he also has the “credible military force” requirement included. He relates that the UN’s problems are deep-seated and once again, that it is the idea that member nations are sovereign by right of holding power that begins to poison that institution at its very roots. That is the issue that must be corrected, either by reform or replacement, in order for an international organization to begin to hold forth the promise of a safer, more secure, more prosperous world.

This is a discussion that needs to be on going in the upper levels of the US government. Given the predilections of the current Secretary of State, I suspect it is.


The link to Gelertner's article in the Weekly Standard was found at Occam's Toothbrush

posted by Zsallia Marieko 3/10/2003 08:00:00 AM

. . .

There is a thought I have run across once or twice in the past several months that seems to be missing from the general debate regarding the upcoming war to remove the current Ba’athist regime in Iraq. This is simultaneously disturbing and understandable. Disturbing in that it appears rather simple and straightforward to me. Understandable because where politics are concerned western peoples tend to immediately discount the simple and straightforward analysis, eschewing directness in favor of more convoluted explanations taking in to account all sorts of conflicting and esoteric political motivations.

The thought? That the current President of the United States is more intent upon accomplishing a task he views as absolutely necessary to the security of his nation and the world, than he is upon securing his reelection in 2004.

I had this reinforced over the past few days as those dedicated to maintaining the processes of the UNSC to the detriment of the world in general and the Iraqi people in particular have maneuvered to ensure a nineteenth Security Council resolution on Iraq fails before it could come to a vote. When I see this and I listen to the unhappiness of those who understand the necessity of war and the glee of those sworn to maintaining the status quo I have to realize that many, many people who claim to have an encompassing world view have missed that one fundamental fact. George Bush has already decided that the time has come. The new resolution move served two purposes- an attempt to provide additional political cover for the United Kingdom, and a distraction to keep those determined to protect the current world order safely ensconced in the illusion that they actually have something to say about it.

I am not entirely delighted that events have unfolded as they have. There was a time not so long ago when I entertained the hope that other western nations would come to understand that the time had come to begin eradicating the brutish thug-ridden cesspools dotting the face of the earth. Unfortunately there is still a deeply entrenched cadre of nations whose view of world power includes recognizing regimes whose sole claim to legitimacy is that they have managed to rape, plunder and slaughter their way to the top of the rock pile in their tiny corner of the planet. How supposedly liberal and sophisticated polities can countenance such attitudes in this modern age is almost a mystery to me. Almost.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 3/06/2003 05:31:00 AM

. . .

I know it is a modern sin, but I absolutely love to smoke. I love the taste, the way a cigarette’s aroma permeates my lungs, the chemical/sexual thrill of nicotine’s grasp as it envelops my sympathetic nervous system. The slow, subtle arousal of both the body and the mind, combined with the relaxation of the muscles, the suppression of anxieties. It is delicious and decadent and absolutely one of my favorite vices, coming in third behind sex and alcohol.

There was a time before society in America became so health obsessed and puritanical when cigarettes were sexy and cool. I understand the reasons why this has changed, but I must admit I miss the days when I could render a man speechless just by casually drawing a fag and lighting up. Men have always been obsessed with women’s mouths and cigarettes always provided such a straightforward and powerful prop for seduction. The simple act of asking for a light, eyes wide and bright, lips full and inviting- in that moment, I own him.

The Second World War, what a delightful time for a girl who could handle a smoke! Red hair, green eyes, everything momma warned her boy about, I loitered alternately between the East Coast and the West Coast, fulfilling the dreams of soldiers and sailors and especially Marines. Oh, I had a special place in my heart for Marines- always first to fight and first to die. Always so polite, at least in the first few minutes- it seemed to me that Marines never failed to understand exactly what I meant when I asked for a light. They would proffer a match or a Zippo or even a brand from that night’s fire from the luau on the beach and I would draw with my mouth pursed just so, and the smoke would curl upward and I would breathe out, sighing in delight, my gaze meeting that of the young man who might die just a few weeks hence, gazing in to his eyes through a curling haze of blue smoke…

“You would die to defend me...”

“That’s what this war is all about…”

I forgive the hyperbole and invite him to my home and the night is an exquisite expression of my appreciation writ in the art of tangled sheets and bodies desperate from lust and fear and hope. A single night; sometimes two, or three or perhaps even a week, then goodbye and a promise to write. Then after a few days; I ask a sailor, or a GI or a Marine, “Got a light?”

It was all I had to offer, and I gave it willingly, eagerly. The War was beyond my control and the Peace was something only mortals could create and define, but for a few hundred boys in those terrifying years I could fulfill some dreams, relieve some fears, instill perhaps an extra ounce of already abundant courage. Most of all I could remember. I remember them all…

posted by Zsallia Marieko 2/28/2003 08:56:00 PM

. . .

It is beginning to look as if the western governments have come to the understanding that the United States and the United Kingdom are deadly serious regarding Iraq. While nothing is ever finished until the votes are counted it appears that the French were not quite as prepared to sunder the United Nations as I had posited earlier. In particular I believe it was the recalcitrance of the Vilnius Group nations and the Gang of Eight that brought the French President up short. The truly indignant replies to Mssr. Chirac’s astoundingly arrogant and ill-advised outburst left France facing not only a loss of international stature via making her veto power in the Security Council irrelevant, but also a European Union in crisis. Between the two it is likely France shall yield, and with that done the Chinese and the Russians will decide they have had enough entertainment at the expense of the Americans and find a way to fall in line as well.

The Chinese veto in particular was never a very serious threat: they are as concerned about the North Koreans as everyone else, particularly since they are rightly seen as the North Korean’s major patron at this point: their mess, their responsibility.

The next ten days or so should by quite interesting indeed.


AFTERWORD: Pay no attention to the Russians right now. Unlike the French they have been consistent in opposition to military action and they will make crystal clear that any change of opinion is the result of events, not political shifts on the part of the French.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 2/27/2003 04:54:00 PM

. . .

My apologies to anyone who has attempted to leave comments over the past several days. The good people at Haloscan are having a devil of a time with "packet loss" and the like. I stand by them in their time of duress.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 2/27/2003 05:36:00 AM

. . .

So, what will happen now? I do enjoy a mystery, but this hardly qualifies: why do so many have a hard time understand that the President of the United States was absolutely sober and deadly serious when he told the world that should the United Nations fail to fulfill its obligations the US and her allies would go on without it?

Many appear confused by the ongoing efforts in the UN Security Council. Steven Den Beste is bitterly disappointed and suspects a political disaster might be in the offing. My own view is that nothing has changed in any substantive way. There were large protests, but any person who believed that the world, and Europe in particular, was going to greet a resurgent and assertive America with unbridled joy has not been paying attention for the last few decades. Unless the US and her allies are ready to launch their attack tomorrow there is simply no reason not to work through the UN today. Perhaps Iraq will actually be foolish enough to hand the UNSC the firm excuse it needs to bend to American demands. Perhaps the French will decide they are not quite ready to surrender the power a relevant United Nations provides. My point is, there is simply nothing to lose- if the US fails to carry the day with UN and attacks Iraq regardless, the equation remains the same- victory and revelation of the horror that constitutes the daily operations of Saddam’s government will carry the moral argument and the United Nations goes the way of the League of Nations.

There will be war with Iraq, likely within just a pair of weeks. This is an immense gamble on the part of the US and the United Kingdom; however, it is a relatively intelligent wager. Any person who taking account of Iraq prior to September 11th knows that Saddam Hussein has been biding his time, waiting for the United Nations to grow weary of the sanctions and finally offer a simple way for Iraq to escape with but a gesture. If anything Iraq’s leader is likely as angry at the World Trade Center attackers as the US is- they refocused American attention upon the world’s despots and troublemakers before Iraq was able to slip free.

It is quite likely that the war will be brief and casualties light, which would be a boon of sorts for the United States and her allies; however, even in the event of a difficult war, perhaps with the deployment of chemical weapons by Iraq, it will likely still end well for the west. Should Iraq deploy such weapons in the face of sure defeat it can do nothing but give additional moral weight to those who argued that the war was necessary and unavoidable. Those determined to hate the United States could not hate her more, and could not hate her less even if she were to elect to turn her back on Iraq and return home. Given that equation, what real alternative is there?

I have repeatedly referred to the current events in terms of a struggle between the liberal modernist and the reactionary fundamentalist spheres of the world and I still hold to that view. If by some unforeseen eventuality the crisis of the moment were to be defused it would simply shift the focus of the battle. The west needs to reduce the Islamist Fanatic menace regardless of the outcome with Iraq. Furthermore there are reactionaries within the west itself that must be dealt with, both of religious bent and those who cling desperately to the shattered lie of Marxism- the forces in play are more numerous and ingrained than most people are willing to see. The world faces a new paradigm shift and the choice of paths is remarkably clear: a world of freedom, optimism and progress; or a world caught in a slowly tightening spiral of despair, withdrawal and decline.

I know my choice.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 2/25/2003 04:46:00 PM

. . .

It began with dreams. Every night, dreams of doom spreading over the land, darkening skies, spreading panic. At this point in my life I had stopped dreaming the way others do- dreams mean that at some subconscious level I have made a connection that my conscious mind has yet to grasp. Of course I did not think in those terms at that time, still I understood the mechanism. It had served me well over the centuries.

After the third night my husband Robert fell ill. As was most often the case at that time we had wed out of convenience rather than affection- he was a widower in his fifties caring for his three grandchildren orphaned when their parents succumbed to pneumonia one long winter. I was a barren spinster from “another village” and we served each other’s purposes well enough. I liked him, which was as much emotion as I could muster for any other human being at that time. I enjoyed his company and the family I married in to.

He complained of a headache that morning, and he appeared quite ill, but he insisted on going about his daily chores. I found him later that morning, out by the barn- moaning with fever, dark swellings in his neck and under his arms. I called to Jacques and together we carried Robert to our bed, then I sent Michelle to run for the doctor. The next morning Robert was dead, and both Jacques and Jean were ill.

I was no doctor myself, but I knew infectious disease when I saw it. The doctor arrived later that morning, alone.

“Tell me,” was all I said, but I made it a command.

“In town, others are sick- travelers on the high road tell of a Great Mortality spreading across the land. Twenty have died in just the past two days…” his voice trailed off, his face stricken.

“Michelle?”

“She was fevered when she found me. I sent her to the church, with the others…”

“There are many more ill? And you came here? What of your patients?”

“There is nothing… I… I am helpless against this. I am useless…” The man visibly crumpled in upon himself, broken with despair and I understood that a disaster was unfolding.

“Then there is nothing you can do here.” I tried to make that as comforting to him as I could. He was a good man, after all- this was just beyond anything he, or anyone, had witnessed before.

“Should you fall ill…” He said no more, but I understood that he saw my death as a foregone conclusion. I watched him until he turned the bend by the stream.

I had witnessed plagues before, but nothing like this. Little Jean did not last the night, shuddering out his last breath curled in a pool of his own bloodied vomit. Jacques was much stronger than his brother, but after four days he had no strength left and I buried him next to his father and brother out behind the barn.

With nothing to keep me home I packed what I felt might be of use and struck out for town after leaving a sign in the front yard warning that there was plague in the house. The wind turned as I walked, coming out of the north, bearing the scent of mass death. When the path I followed joined the main road I began to encounter people fleeing, many already obviously ill. Those who would listen I directed to my former home. Better to die in a bed under a roof, than in a ditch by the roadside.

The town was a nightmare. All doors were locked, some houses were burned to the ground, and everywhere was the stench of death mingled with incense as people desperately sought to hold the Mortality at arm’s length by filling the air with pleasant scents. I made my way to the Church and found a few desperate souls trying to tend to dozens of ill, dying wretches. I had been counting the corpses- I estimated that nearly a tenth of the people of the town were already gone and an equal number were desperately ill.

“Doctor?”

“Monique?” He lurched forward, his hands settling upon my shoulders as he gazed in to my face with fever-glazed eyes. “ Amazing… Michelle…” the man was pale, befuddled, so ill he could barely function, yet he remained on his feet.

“She is in a better place, I know,” I whispered to him, “You should rest.”

“No! I still… I have to… Dear Lord, why?” That last came as a shout of despair and he collapsed at my feet. Dr. Dupee was a gallant man, devoted to his craft, primitive though it was. I mourned the loss of my adopted family, but I shed tears over him. His loss was so much greater- the Mortality would not only take his life, it had defeated him.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 2/21/2003 08:02:00 PM

. . .

More politics, if I do ever become truly depressed it will be from the constant need to revisit this topic.

The French are beginning to be subjected to the negative feedback inherent in any bold move upon the geopolitical front. I find it difficult to accept that Mssr. Chirac believed there would be no reaction against his posture by other nations in Europe; however, his current string of public pronouncements regarding the actions of other European nations does give one pause. That the French would deliver a public tongue-lashing to Eastern European nations, making the explicit threat that France would prevent their entry in to the European Union unless they be seated and remain mute is indicative of problems brewing for France.

It has been pointed out by myself and others that the Eastern Europeans are acutely aware of the threat posed by men such as the current leader of Iraq. Furthermore the actions of France, Germany and Belgium with regard to Turkey’s request for NATO assistance in preparing its defenses in the event of an Iraq war can only leave the Eastern European nations wondering just how reliable the EU might be in the event of problems arising from the east. These are nations who still fear a resurgent Russia and desire guarantees against just such an event. It is quite reasonable of them to consider that their security is better served by a relationship with the United States than with a capricious and unreliable EU led by the French.

Politics of this sort are the whirlwind. A century from now historians will write of these times and this is the aspect that will be lost. Retrospect will prove what options were correct and which were founded in disastrous self-serving delusions. Treatises will be written analyzing the obvious wisdom of one or the horrible series of poor decisions of another, but none of those will capture the manic passions of events as experienced by those who lived them. This is why I often feel that history as it is taught in the modern world is lacking. The lessons are all there, but do modern peoples possess the requisite empathy to make the crucial connections between the past and the present? It is difficult for most people to see through this to an end where the world is a rational, more civilized place precisely because many alive today cannot grasp the sense of panic, exhilaration, despair and hope which colored the days of nations in crisis in the past. This is why each generation can so easily be convinced that this is the End of Ages.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 2/18/2003 11:34:00 AM

. . .

I am generally able to avoid fits of depression- when I am taken by a mood it is usually more a mania than a melancholy. Still it can be very, very hard to remain blissfully optimistic and truth to be told it is likely quite unhealthy. I have noted before that it is important to take a view from a different perspective from time to time as a sort of reality check (this from a writer who purports to have lived more than 3 millennia- irony knows no bounds).

That in mind I have to wonder if mankind’s slow, steady climb up from ignorance, brutality and despair is merely an exercise in finding a sufficiently lofty perch from which to leap to its collective doom. Empires and shining examples of civilization have risen and fallen throughout recorded history, but in most cases each iteration left something of itself behind for those who remained to build upon, so while the chart of human progress is marked with peaks and valleys the general trend has always been positive. Even the Nazis contributed as the warning case: “don’t let this happen to you”. What makes me wonder, the thing that sometimes fills my heart with a cold, white void, is the knowledge that humanity cannot endure too many more collapses without the aforementioned trend beginning to reverse.

Humanity presently occupies a very precarious perch: with a world population of some 6+ billions the margins for error are becoming extraordinarily thin. It is not so much a matter of resources for the west has demonstrated repeatedly that technology and determination offer hope in the face of even the most stridently catastrophic prophecies, rather it is a question of what cultural direction will mankind follow? Will it have the courage and the energy to stare down the challenges it faces over the coming centuries? This is a perpetual question as there is no absolute or irreducible answer- it is measured instead in terms of desire, hope, aspiration and daring. Sometimes I fear that humanity may be found wanting.

When the United States made her landing upon the surface of the moon there were many who saw this as the first step in a logical process that would lead to further, greater exploration and exploitation of outer space. Those with a more pragmatic viewpoint recognized that the moon landings were little more than a political victory. Yes, good science flowed from the Apollo program, but the ultimate purpose was simply to show up America’s ideological foes. Nonetheless, the west was poised upon the brink of great achievement, advancement far in excess of what the world has seen between 1969 and today. I was living in the desert in the southwest, one of a collective of would-be artists and deep thinkers seeking Truth through simple living, carnal excess and chemical enhancement of perceptions. Even those people seemed to understand what could be, and also to realize that it would never be, not with the way the world worked then. America lacked the will, or perhaps the foresight, to take the next step, and the world suffers as a result.

Since then I have yet to shake my firm belief that if humanity fails and remains trapped upon this small and ultimately doomed sphere future historians of the declining ages will point to the twentieth century and say “This is where Man went wrong. This is where He took the wrong path. This where We sealed Our own doom.”

I remain an optimist, but on those nights when my mind wanders in to dark, cold corners I can only hope that time proves me wrong.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 2/14/2003 10:54:00 AM

. . .

This was simply delightful to read.


I would take issue with certain points, but they would be minor. Kvetching as a comment in a previous post put it. The author manages to wrap up American anger and the angst of the anti-war movement in a neat package lacking any kind of acrimonious or disparaging language. No small feat, given the current climate.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 2/13/2003 07:20:00 AM

. . .

I am neither a fan nor a foe of the French though their political maneuvers over the past few weeks have done nothing to endear that nation to me; however, it is incumbent upon any person who seeks to comment on politics and current events to step back and take a long, dispassionate look at what is happening.

I believe the case can be made that the major sin of the French government is that it recognized the shape of the new reality before the US and the United Kingdom were ready to have it do so. Many in the United States have been very vocal in the opinion that both the United Nations and NATO are old alliances that make no sense given the current situation. The governments of the US and the UK likely share this view to some degree; however, it seems that they have been willing to attempt to bend the old institutions to serve the needs of new situations, and to see them eventually break under the strain if that was what was required. Take that attitude, translate it in to French, and suddenly the machinations of those people in Paris and Berlin do not seem quite so irrational.

NATO and the United Nations were born of a bipolar world where two super entities stood in ideological opposition, but with similar goals. The great contest that was the Cold War made NATO, the Warsaw Pact and the UN both necessary and viable. NATO and the Warsaw Pact served to roughly define the boundaries of the conflicting ideologies and the UN served as a vital release valve that allowed both sides to cooperate when absolutely required under the umbrella of a pseudo-supranational body. The United Nations offered a forum whereby grievances could be aired, strategies proposed, and treaties struck while always giving each major power block the ability to halt anything diametrically opposed to their own self interest.

It worked because world politics were so structured as to make it work. Eventually though, catastrophe struck: the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics collapsed under the weight of a massively mismanaged economy. In the maelstrom that followed the Warsaw Pact dissolved (an event that I suspect placed those nations well ahead of the curve of the NATO members) and lacking any other world-girdling socialist system to step in to the power vacuum, the United States was left as the world’s sole superpower.

Suddenly there was no bipolar world, but the detritus of that world still remained in the form of the old western alliance and the United Nations. Both NATO and the United Nations had lost their old callings and the only thing left to them was to reign in American power. Unfortunately for those bodies, they are utterly inadequate to the task.

The European Union (led by France) sought to position itself as a rival power to the US and her closest allies. In a post modernist world they felt they could build the economic and political power required to check what they considered to be a vibrant yet culturally inferior America. They thought they had time. They were wrong: the ruins of the Caliphate, fueled by petrodollars and Cold War legacies of weapons and training, were stirring to the call of reactionary elements which viewed the west as an evil to eradicated.

After September 11, 2001, the US knew what she needed to do and the post modern EU was forced to go along. This left a terrible aftertaste in the mouths of the EU leaders as they had allowed this “cowboy” nation to run roughshod over them on its way to fight a war. When attention turned to Iraq the French in particular apparently understood that the only way the UN and NATO could be used to reign in the US/UK alliance was to sacrifice those bodies upon the altar of European power and position themselves to possess a solid grasp on power in whatever new body or bodies eventually emerge.

Taken in that light, it seems to me that France’s actions possess a certain element of rationality.

The truly interesting part has yet to unfold. Assuming that the US and the UK move forward without the UN and NATO there will follow several years (at least two, anyhow) of agonizing death-throes for those two organizations. The EU (or what remains of it once the NATO split is complete) could be forced to build a military of its own, or else come to terms with the idea of relying upon the Russians for their muscle. Keep in mind that many Eastern European nations will likely be unwilling in the extreme to become a part of an organization that relies on Russian troops to maintain order. While Russian troops are vastly inferior to modern western (read that US and UK) armies, they are not so inconsiderable in relation to what the EU is likely to have on hand when the dust settles. Part of the price will likely be the curtailment of the grand socialism that Europe enjoyed as a protectorate of the United States.

Keep in mind that during and after this realignment there will still be reactionary forces to be dealt with and that none of them have any more love for Europe than they do for the United States.


Afterword: Mr. Den Beste has a different take on what may have happened to bring NATO and the UN to this point. As always, his analysis is thorough and engaging.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 2/11/2003 05:24:00 PM

. . .

Looking over the displeasure on display over the past weekend reminds me of why I usually stay clear of day-to-day politics: my viewpoint is too far-reaching to make sense to most people. The impulse (which I indulged in the other day) is to react to every occurrence and shift in the political winds; however, this is ultimately pointless. It is somewhat unlikely that history will look back on the weeks leading up to the conclusion of the Iraq issue and take serious note of the various machinations of the players at the time, unless of course this ends disastrously. Disaster is always possible, but it seems quite unlikely, at least at this juncture.

The diplomatic row brewing between parts of Europe and the United States is actually somewhat small in comparison to other events. I know that this sounds counterintuitive; however, does anyone actually believe that the world faces the threat of war in Europe over the issue of Iraq? If the answer is “no” (and if you are a reasonably astute individual, the answer must be “no”), then the aftermath of any perceived political break is in truth quite minor. It is entirely possible that the various alliances and institutions are preparing to be thrown down and replaced by newer, more vital, and more rational entities. The United Nations is not a useless body so long as one views it merely as a second try at establishing a consensual world body. To my view it seems that the world is preparing to set the stage for a third attempt and I suspect that the end result will be similar to the UN, but will recognize that all nations are not equal; not in strength, not in freedom and not in legitimacy. That will be the hard transformation for the world to accept, and I would warn everyone that the make up of such a body is unlikely to be what anyone would expect or enjoy for the single most qualifying attribute will be, as it has always been, power. What direction this new body takes will depend entirely on who can muster the power to lead it.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 2/10/2003 04:36:00 PM

. . .

People certainly do become excited when something unexpected appears on the horizon. In this case it is the prospect of the reported Franco-German proposal for occupation of Iraq by a force of several thousand UN troops supporting 300 or more weapons inspectors.

Forgive me my failure to be impressed. I do think it is a positive sign that the French have chosen to make a somewhat bold move in the face of impending military action by the United States and her numerous allies; however, this amounts to far too little, far too late and compounds that with the additional sin of lacking even a semblance of originality. What has been proposed (or more correctly, is rumored to be proposed in the near future) is simply a none-too-clever recapitulation of the “Robust Inspection Regime” proposed last year: several thousand soldiers traipsing through the Iraqi countryside seeking out illicit weapons sites.

This is certain to be grasped close to the breast of those seeking any option to prevent the west from taking any sort of concerted action against Iraq. It is also doomed to rapid failure for one very simple reason: Iraq will never accede to this. Even if they feign interest in the concept simply insisting upon rapid implementation can catch them out. The only danger this proposal presents is that of delay, and even that is unlikely to succeed.

Let us examine the following:

Assume that the US feels they have no choice but to accept this proposal, what would the first move be in Washington? To insist on moving troops in to Iraq immediately. American troops. It would be a reasonable insistence that would likely break the deal on the spot.

Look at the track record of UN Peacekeeping forces in dangerous situations- to say they have not earned a reputation for honor and effectiveness is to put absolutely the most positive light upon them that one can. Blue helmets have stood by and watched the slaughter of innocents, they have become hostages and they have proven repeatedly to be ineffective over the past few decades. Is there any reason to believe that there will suddenly be a change? The short answer is “No”. The long answer is that given the nature and organization of such forces and the extraordinarily political nature of the leadership of same it would be naïve in the extreme to expect such forces to be capable of confronting even the mildest resistance from Iraqi forces or institutions.

Neither of the above are earth-shattering revelations. If I can propose them here others have doubtless taken their measure as well. There are other objections, all of which have been raised before when this idea was originally proposed and rejected as unworkable and unlikely to succeed.

A logical conclusion might be that those proposing this plan do not expect it to be implemented. So why propose it? The French are staring irrelevancy in the face and they do not like what they see. This ploy allows them to establish themselves as the preeminent political opposition to the United States on the world stage, at least in their domestic sphere and the arena of the European Union.

If the French are hoping against logic that this plan will actually be put in to action one would be forced to consider the extremely unpleasant possibility that they are desperate to hide something. In that case the possibilities become numerous and in some cases quite ghastly.

Only time will tell.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 2/09/2003 11:43:00 AM

. . .

I owe a thank-you to Mr. Hendrix of Cold Fury fame for the link and his kind words.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 2/07/2003 12:53:00 PM

. . .

I grow increasingly weary of the war debate, politics is not my forte; however, it is much on the minds of many people, and particularly of those whom I call friends. So many seem fixated upon the narrow topics of oil, Iraqi support for terror and the desire to liberate the Iraqi people from an admittedly terrible tyranny. These are all individually valid concerns and when one takes the time to consider them as a whole I suppose it is enough to sway many people to a decision that war is at least necessary, even if undesirable.

First, let me briefly dispose on these three points. Oil: it is the lifeblood of the modern world, there are unstable regimes which threaten the world’s supply of oil, and the choices are starkly clear: act to protect the flow of oil or accept an inevitable economic disaster precipitated by the actions of a nation, group, or groups who believe they have nothing to lose by bringing the current world order to the brink of collapse. Terror: Iraq does support terror groups, both directly and indirectly. Involvement with the al-Qaida organization is likely tangential, but that is somewhat akin to the old saw regarding being “a little bit pregnant”, one either tolerates support for terrorism, or one does not. Liberation: Regimes are legitimate or they are not, they either serve the interests of their citizens or they do not, they reign by popular consent or by popular submission. When citizens disappear at the behest of government it is usually an indication that the rule is illegitimate.

I do not begin to presume that the above encompasses all there is to say on these topics; however, it serves to make clear my own mind in these areas.

What the world faces today is not a war of American Imperialism. Rather it is a battle between the forces of reactionary fanaticism and western liberalism. The world is divided in to two essential spheres (three, if one is fond of splitting hairs): the modern, liberal sphere; and the primitive sphere mired in strongman leadership and internecine struggle. Portions of the primitive sphere struggle to join the modern, other portions struggle to destroy the modern. The second camp is not one that can be ignored, or held at arm’s length, nor can it be negotiated with. The basic assumptions of both sides between the modern and the reactionary primitive are too divergent for there to be a common interest around which to build a framework for discussion.

The world is dotted with small dictatorships and lands steeped in a seemingly endless cycle of sanguinary anarchy. Most of this is the admitted aftermath of the war-by-proxy that was the Cold War, where both sides supported regimes and movements which had little in common with the patron other than that they stood in apparent opposition to the will of the opposite side. This is not to say that the Cold War alone was responsible for these regimes, but it certainly abetted them. With the Cold War over, there remains a responsibility to begin attempting to clean up the mess. It is the current Iraqi regime’s ill fortune that it has wandered in to the crosshairs at this time in history.

Regardless of what reasons the west gives at this time, the move against Iraq constitutes the first phase of what will eventually become an effort to clean up the detritus of the Cold War. It is an eminently practical choice on several levels beginning with the threat Iraq poses to the stability of the world oil supply and its strategic location in a geographical area immersed in the conflict between the modern and the reactionary. The Iraqi regime is dangerous and it holds its population in thrall through terror. It is also weak enough to be handled easily- lacking any hard, fast friends in the area it stands alone and its passing will be mourned only by those who see that passing as a foreshadow of their own fate. That act alone will likely move some of the problematic regimes towards some sort of rapprochement with the west, which would include some basic reformation of their own governments.

I am not implying that this is some sort of conscious plan on the part of the west for it most assuredly is not, rather this is a possible outgrowth of a successful reduction of the Iraqi regime. With Iraq liberated the anti-war protests of “why Iraq and not North Korea or Zimbabwe” morph in to a pro-liberation protest of “Iraq is free, why not North Korea, or Zimbabwe?” At this point the West will either step up to its obligations, or shy away and the tone of the next few decades will likely have been set.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 2/05/2003 10:59:00 AM

. . .

I have nothing to say regarding the Columbia tragedy that would not sound cold and heartless. I tend to be dispassionate about such things, and there will be an appropriate time for such discourse. Just not today, not now. Instead, I will link to this from the Weekend Pundit. He was the first to ever see this weblog, the first to comment and the first to provide a link, so I will return the favor now. He titled it The High Frontier.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 2/01/2003 02:04:00 PM

. . .

I went shopping yesterday, a normal exercise for me and anyone else who enjoys eating on a semi-regular basis. Today the bakery next to the local supermarket was baking Swedish coffee bread and the scent hit me with extraordinary force. Suddenly I was nearly incapacitated with sadness, to the point where I had to stop and sit (fortunately there was a bench) and spend several minutes composing myself.

My emotions seldom rise up so unexpectedly, but the scent of the bread brought the past in to the present so suddenly, that and a reply to a commenter a few days ago. I had been thinking of all the terrible things I have witnessed and I was being oh-so-analytical about it, rather like examining a specimen under a microscope. Then: POW!

I had been in that village for about a year, having been traded off as part of a large exchange of goods with peoples far down the coast. I was happy- I could see a good future for me as I was finally in acceptance of my unusual nature and now I could anticipate fifteen or even twenty years of life in a single spot. I remember that morning, the scent of baking bread caressing my senses, so sweet I could taste it on the air. And then the commotion, and the screaming... I dashed outside and I was so shocked to see riders- horsemen!

I turned and the slender lance took me just under the breastbone, hot pressure and the wrenching twist as the rider retained his grip, galloping past and tearing the weapon from my body, I remember tumbling over and over, arms and legs numb and useless until I came to rest against a low stone wall. Everything became detached then, I simply witnessed it through sound and fleeting glimpses of light and shadow- they killed everyone, even to chasing down those who fled without fighting. The commotion quieted, the last cries fading. Men began moving about on foot and one seized me by an ankle and dragged me in to the center of the village. Soon other bodies were heaped atop me and I could no longer see. There were sounds of fire and the receding hoof beats of the raiders as they withdrew.

It took a long time for sensation to return to my arms and legs and by then I was raging with both thirst and hunger. Once I could move at all I began to claw my way out from under the piled corpses. It was midday but the pall of smoke from the still smoldering remnants of the dwellings and barns cast a haze over the ground. I crawled to the well, but I was still too weak to draw any water so I propped myself up against it to catch my breath.

“Utha?”

The voice startled me, even though it was so small, so frightened. I turned towards it and saw one of the young boys, a son of one of the fishermen, peering at me from over a stone wall that backed on the forest above the village. He was perhaps six years old.

“Please, water,” was all I managed to croak, my throat terribly dry, and my tongue thick.

I remember it all as if it just happened. I never found out who those men were, never discovered why they raged up the coast, killing all they encountered and burning all in their path. They stole nothing, and I never came upon them again. It was my first encounter with what I can only describe as unmitigated evil. Unfortunately, it was not my last.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 1/28/2003 10:50:00 AM

. . .

A Mr. Green has written that the poor performance of France in the current unpleasantness stirring up the Middle East is largely a creation of American largess beginning with World War II. I have to admit that I never looked at it in this light; however, on reflection I find the idea is nothing new. It seems to me that this is part and parcel of the evolution of western liberalism. Remember, in an evolutionary process some lines can start out strong, then whither and die as the weight of their anti-survival traits drag them down.

In the case of France, this was a World Power of the Old Continental Europe- a nation to be reckoned with whenever any nation sought to make any sort of power play in wide swaths of the world. They handed America her independence simply to annoy the British, and in the process sowed the seeds of their own demise- the collapse of the Royaume de France in to revolution essentially eviscerated that nation’s ability to remain a world power. Unlike the United States, France descended in to the Reign of Terror that most modern revolutions spawn; rather than a Stalin or a Mao, they begat Napoleon (after some serious struggles) who proceeded to seal their fate as an essentially failed world power. That France has been able to remain the force it is today is a tribute to American charity and the social inertia that plays such an immense role in the post World War II miasma that is modern Europe.

One cannot ignore the immense psychosocial impact of the past 200 years. How many times can a once great power see itself humbled before the world without either lashing out or engaging in the soul-balm of self delusion? The major powers of Europe, both politically and culturally had always regarded the United States as an uncultured and unreliable power in the world, yet in the twentieth century it was that same uncultured and unreliable power which arrived to pull their more sophisticated betters out of the ashes of their own folly. Particularly in World War II, it was the United States, and even more so the new and frightening Communist Union of Soviet Socialist Republics which won the war against the evil of a Fascism that was a native son to the very same sophisticated powers. The impact of this on the psyche of Europe has been profound, and the aftershocks are still reverberating across the poliscape of the world. Those nations able to adapt remain active in the world of real events and real power. Those that cannot descend in to a state of irrelevance from where the only option is to cry out for caution and demand circumspection from those who are able and willing to act.

It is a sad fate, really, but an unavoidable reality as the world grinds ever so slowly forward.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 1/24/2003 01:23:00 PM

. . .

What happens after the war is a very good question. One would hope that the US government has put a great deal of thought and preparation in to the post-war reconstruction of Iraq’s infrastructure and social support systems, but the current situation in Afghanistan does leave ample room for doubt. Afghanistan is being left essentially to build its own path, with a moderate force of peacekeepers in the region to discourage any large-scale insurrections. The west is very interested in seeing the Afghan government evolve in to a stable democracy, but the truth is that the fate of Afghanistan is not of utmost concern. So long as it does not again become a haven for extremist reactionaries the west seems content to allow it to struggle along on its own.

Iraq is a different situation altogether. Strategically located in the middle of a most important geographic locale with easy air and sea access, it simply does not compare with Afghanistan in any way. Furthermore, Iraq actually has civic institutions based on a secular model that can be easily resurrected from the post-war turmoil. Afghanistan’s social and civic constructs were somewhat limited and devoted inordinately to maintaining a state of religious purity. There simply was “no there there” to begin with. In Iraq, assuming the west is so motivated, a new civic order can be established with relative ease.

One of the pressing issues will be what form the new government will take. As I read the accounts and speak with various other people it becomes somewhat clear that the one thing that will not happen will be a handing over of the government to opposition figures. This is very reassuring, for eschewing the easy path makes it necessary for the west to engage in a long-term effort at nation-building, a prospect which Iraq is uniquely suited for.

One of the primary positives for Iraq is that it has now and in the past been a secular society. There are strong religious institutions in the nation, but they do not run the government and have had little say in public policy for a very long time. Give the Iraqi people an opportunity to run their own affairs and it is not a forgone conclusion that they would turn solely to the mosques for leadership. Difficulty lies in the lack of a fundamental democratic tradition- for a very long time there has only been one real choice on any ballot and voting has been merely an exercise in stroking the ego of the current strong man.

Another large positive is oil. Iraq has a ready source of national income, meaning that it will not long require the huge influx of financial and material aid that other nations require. Assuming that any significant portion of the petroleum infrastructure escapes destruction at the hand of some misguided scorched-earth defense Iraq will immediately begin earning the capital it needs to rebuild on its own terms. This is a psychological advantage that cannot be overstated- they will be masters of their own destiny.

A very real danger in the post-war scenario is the possibility of other Arab nations offering aid. What this will doubtless consist of is food, building materials, and of course schools. To be more precise, madrasas- Islamic religious schools which have formed the basis of the groundswell of anti-western sentiment over the past decades. This alone is reason enough to keep other Middle Eastern nations out of post-war Iraq. It will be a delicate, but necessary point for the west to win.

Another very real danger is the destabilization of world oil markets. There will be a run up of oil prices once the war begins, but a quick ending should rapidly put an end to that. Once the west begins opening up Iraq’s oil production prices will likely fall somewhat. One can speculate what the west’s ultimate goals are in the Gulf region, however, precipitating another conflict directly on the heels of an successful Iraq operation is not one of them. If the west threatens to destabilize OPEC those nations will act, probably not with open warfare, but perhaps with a shut-off of oil supplies. Iraq’s reserves cannot take up all that slack. This muddies the future and must be avoided- the assorted theocracies and dictatorships of the region will need time to assimilate what has happened if any real progress is to be made at anything other than the point of a bayonet. The governments and peoples of the Middle East need to see a swift victory followed by a relatively peaceful occupation and a foundation of liberty and prosperity. That alone will put the proper fear in to those who would hold their peoples in thrall.

This can be done. The west can do it. The only question is does it have the will to see it through. Only time will tell.




Afterword: Stanley Kurtz has an interesting take on the effort to democratize Iraq, and why Iraq bears no resemblance to World War II Japan. He foresees a difficult, but not impossible task, simultaneously dragging the overly-optimistic and the reflexively pessimistic towards a more realistic point of view.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 1/19/2003 01:26:00 PM

. . .

Life is referred to as a “vale of tears” for a reason. Even in these times I often find myself standing awestruck as I witness humanity’s ability and willingness to persevere as daily life metes out one disappointment after another. Certainly for some these are minor matters- a promotion denied, an opportunity lost, a relationship ended. For others it is more rending and visceral- oppression, starvation, disease, and death. Yet human beings stride ever onward, indomitable in the pursuit of something better than what life offers for them today.

It is this aspect of humanity that makes me optimistic regarding the future of the race. In my unique situation I can hold any circumstance to be temporary. My life has already been unimaginably long and so far as I know it shall continue to be so. I can afford patience. I routinely defer my aspirations. How a person who can at best expect ten short decades to live a full life can then present that same sort of patience is often beyond my capacity to internalize. My perspective is too skewed, meaning that while I accept it and understand it at the intellectual level it remains one of the aspects of humanity with which I have great difficulty empathizing.

I suppose this is my loss. One major difference between myself and all those about me that I have noticed is my singular lack of creativity. Those things I do well are the result of immense amounts of practice, but originality has never been my strong suit. It has occurred to me on more than one occasion that this is likely the price I pay for such a long life. It is an idea that has even been broached by writers of fiction, who often have an innate understanding of things I have learned only through long experience. My approach to difficulties consists mostly of plodding doggedly forward- perhaps the closest I come personally to the hope that sustains others.

Do not infer that this saddens me. Truth to be told I am a particularly unemotional person and I am content to be so. On the rare occasions where my emotions overrule my sense I usually end up married or in prison, and the last time it happened it took me nearly a month to dispose of all the bodies. All in all, better for everyone that I remain dispassionate.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 1/16/2003 05:08:00 PM

. . .

What is the tipping point for war? When does a build up towards hostilities morph in to an “inevitable” conflict? I noted earlier that no war is unavoidable until it begins; however, one has to be careful how one defines war. Another writer recently wrote of the broader definition of war that includes such things as economic sanctions, diplomatic pressure backed by rewards and punishments, etc. I am inclined to agree with his lengthy analysis, and by that measure war against Iraq began more than ten years ago and has been on-going since that time. What the world awaits now is an answer to the following question: will this war finally end? Oddly enough, those opposed to conventional action against Iraq are in favor of prolonging the conflict, while those in favor of invasion support bringing this war to a close.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 1/15/2003 08:24:00 AM

. . .

I enjoy living in America, and I have spent more than eighty percent of my time here over the past three centuries. Initially, it simply afforded me a perfect social/cultural jungle to hide within. As the colonies and then the nation expanded there were always new places where I could set up a life for twenty or thirty years (in one case even longer). As time progressed it became clear to me that there really was no other place to reside if one wanted to ride the edge of cultural and material advances. The United States of America is a remarkably resilient and optimistic place and as such is uniquely prepared to face the coming challenges of the new century.

In my view there is little doubt that western cultural liberalism will prevail over the next century. The only real question is where the synthesis of European semi-democratic socialism and American semi-democratic capitalist/individualism will eventually lead. That the two will combine in some way is inevitable, but the result is likely to be surprising even to me. At the moment it is clear that America’s social/economic structure is far more adaptable than that of the vast majority of Europe, as well as being more focused on the issues of importance that shall define the next two decades. Europe’s advantages in these times are to be frank, nil; however, there are things to be admired in the desire for total social justice. In the end it will be American ingenuity and drive which will bring the European ideals as close to reality as any human utopia is likely to come.

At the moment, though, there are many unpleasant tasks to be completed, not least of which is the political reduction of fundamentalist reactionaries in the Middle East. While this is currently viewed as primarily a military and law enforcement action I find myself speculating that in the future history will pass lightly over the decade (give or take five years) of conflict that begins this century and instead count as the great accomplishments of Twenty-First Century Western Civilization the reconstruction of political order in what is now mostly a cesspool of poverty, repression, tyranny and random, indiscriminate death. Let us be absolutely clear on this point: there are cultures too warped to survive without being corrected by outside influences, and there are cultures which are, at their very core, simply Evil. Not Evil in the religious sense (since even any hint of spirituality seems to give so many people hives), rather Evil in the sense that they do nothing to promote even a semblance of progress for human dignity and freedom. Evil in that they stand in active opposition to the very things which form the core of Western Cultural Liberalism: freedom of thought, freedom of expression, freedom of movement, and oh-so-very importantly the freedom to try and to fail.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 1/10/2003 06:37:00 PM

. . .

A commenter has raised a common challenge: my take on history is seriously lacking in details of the great events of the world. There were other suggestions as well, in particular relating to my recounting of recent events in my life. Finally, there was the inevitable conclusion that this is all some sort of warped fantasy. All in all, this is completely expected, and the only surprise is that it has happened so quickly.

Let me begin with history. I thought I had been clear regarding my experiences over the past thirty-five centuries. Perhaps JAE simply has a difficult time accepting simple statements, though I believe that is a somewhat unfair assessment. Let me restate: over the past many centuries I have categorically NOT been a driving force in the social and scientific evolution of mankind. I have made no great discoveries, I have fomented no revolutions, I have inspired no poets (at least, none of any renown) and I have not occupied the center of any but the smallest cultural circles. I was a slave. When I was not breaking my back in the fields or working my fingers to blistered agony I was on my back beneath some sweaty bastard who in many cases did not even know my name. It was a brutish and nasty existence during which my major concern was avoiding being discovered and burned alive/fed to wolves/stoned/drowned/hanged/beheaded or suffering any of the many other myriad inventive and extraordinarily unpleasant fates of those who raised the suspicions of peoples whose understanding of reality was based on worship of some cruel and fickle assortment of spirits and gods. Forgive me if I did not spend the first 20 centuries of my life studying up on world events so that I could play twenty questions with people who are just as predisposed to cast stones as those who would have destroyed me back in the ages of ignorance.

Next, my personal life. I will offer mea culpa on this point. Until this time I have never, never, made an effort to share my experiences with anyone outside an extremely closely held group. In a very odd way I find this exhilarating. It is as if I am confiding in a very dear friend, for the very first time in my life. I am not even sure why I am doing this- even with the precautions I have taken it represents an extraordinary breach a personal privacy policy which has kept me alive for more than three thousand years. I originally intended to merely offer commentary on world events. I did not, and still do not, care if anyone pays any attention- the counter is just my way of seeing if anyone has stopped by. It does not feed my ego in any way. Yet as I began my own private life suddenly intruded and I could not help but express those events here, and I will not stop. As to your suggestion that what is going on with my friends’ grandson is some warped seduction, I assure you it is not. This young man is in severe distress and as such he represents a grave threat to the public, and by way of association, to my very dear and trusted friends. If my intervention leads to seduction, so be it. If it leads to a decision to end his life… I have killed before, and for far less worthy reasons.

Finally, is this fantasy? Occam’s Razor demands that one treat it as such. To be completely honest, I am depending on such reasoning. I may be apparently ageless, but I am convinced that I can be destroyed. I see no need to hasten that day. Please, feel free to disbelieve.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 1/03/2003 08:47:00 PM

. . .

And so it begins. I usually make a serious relocation only when it is time to “age out” of an extant identity- this prevents, at least to some degree, the difficulty of encountering old acquaintances in my new guise. Up until the last twenty years or so this has not been a terribly difficult process; however, the advent of computer and travel technology has made me face the reality that to continue operating as I have over the past thirty-five centuries I may be required to relocate to some less-developed part of the world, a prospect I do not greet with joy.

I am not afraid of hard living. I spent most of the first half of my life in bondage of one kind or another, often in situations where mere survival required serious efforts from all involved. Even in the later centuries the standard of living I enjoyed, while above average at the time, was usually something most modern westerners would find intolerable. It is not that humanity has gone soft; rather it is that the underlying expectations have changed. There are many people who would truly relish a return to hand-to-mouth existence. Most everybody else would die fairly quickly.

It is my experience that people resist change just enough in aggregate to keep from being overwhelmed while not causing stagnation. True Luddites seldom succeed for long – a society that turns inward and refuses to move forward is doomed to be overtaken by more dynamic peoples. Eventually they are absorbed, destroyed, or moved along by force. So, to move to some place still locked in the previous century (or even millennium) is something to be avoided. I prefer to live amongst those who delight in the future, rather than those mired in the past.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 1/01/2003 09:36:00 AM

. . .

Well, Colorado proved to be… interesting. There is always a bit of discomfort, even dislocation when I meet up with old friends after a prolonged period of time. Mr. And Mrs. Professor had long ago lost any doubts they had regarding my veracity; however, it is one thing to accept the reality that is my existence intellectually, it is quite another to have to face it in the flesh. Despite everything they know about me they still expected to see a woman of some fifty years at their door when I arrived. The Professor was simply quiet. Mrs. Professor cried. All in all it went much better than other reunions I have had.

The problem with the youngest grandson is not something I can straighten out without a great deal of time and effort. Sometimes people insist on self-destruction and my general rule is to get out of their way and hope they do not take too many innocent bystanders with them. If I had met this young man under other circumstances I might have let him go on his merry way, unless I could figure out a quiet, painless method to put him down for the good of the community. Yes, it really is that bad. Since he is the grandson of good friends I feel compelled to at least attempt to salvage him, and of course, he has not hurt anyone. Yet.

I wrote earlier regarding youth, and how it is both the great engine of social and scientific advancement, while simultaneously being the wellspring of violence and destruction. It has been my experience (this will not be a surprise to anyone, I assure you) that all young people go through this wrenching of the soul- a time when all that was normal and safe and secure is called in to question, when all that is held forth as wisdom is rejected. Most go through this in a mild form- they take on new fads, some of which eventually become the foundations of new culture; they rebel against the authority of their parents and teachers. Then they grow up and move on. For some, this period is more traumatic, either due to life circumstance, or the cruel genetic lottery that bestows beauty of form and quickness of mind upon some and not others. Most of these also eventually grow up and move on. Each of the above groups carries those formative years forward with them as the foundations of their lives, with all the attendant scars, joys, fears and loves accumulated. Finally, there are those who begin this titanic struggle that accompanies the transition from pre-sentient youth to young adulthood, and begin a downward spiral from which they cannot seem to escape. These individuals will hit bottom where they will either bounce, or break.

That third category is where Grandson fits in. He is eighteen, intelligent; alienated from his peers with affectations of anti-social behavior that provide cover for the immense emotional pain he carries. I would not call him unattractive, rather his own internal demons show through- he is unkempt and overweight. I met him during my visit to Colorado and the impact was almost painful for both of us. I can see the monster inside him, and my presence merely added to his own suffering- he is terribly shy around women, and even more acutely so in the presence of particularly attractive women. He is a disaster waiting to happen.

The Professor disappointed me when he suggested, “All the boy really needs is the attentions of a pretty girl…” though I understand that what he really means is that he does not care how I help, so long as I help. Still, the implication was simplistic and unworthy of such a sharp mind. Mrs. Professor was more tactful, and more precise: “He needs someone to show him that he really does care about other people, and about himself.” In any case, what he needs from me is something more than can be delivered over a weeklong visit, so it seems I will be moving.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 12/30/2002 05:13:00 AM

. . .

My private line rang the other day. Less than a dozen people know that number, and all of them know not to call unless it is supremely important. When that number rings it means something is wrong.

Just for purposes of clarity, let me explain. Throughout my thirty-five-or-so centuries, I have occasionally chosen to confide in people the true nature of my existence. In the last thirty years or so I have actually provided those people with a method to contact me if they ever feel I can help them in any way. I owe these people, they have accepted me and helped me in ways both large and small, and in every case I hold their friendship to be a precious thing.

Still- I seldom meet with my confidants. Once I move on in my ceaseless change of identity the contacts necessarily become less frequent and less personal. This protects me, but it is also a mercy to them. Despite an intellectual acceptance of the reality of my existence, most cannot truly deal with my agelessness. Better to correspond via letters and the annual phone call.

But the personal line is my concession to any who accept me on my own terms. If you need me, call.

The Professor (a suitably descriptive, yet obscure euphemism) called last Sunday night. I met him and his significant partner (Mrs. Professor- a grand and enlightened educator in her own light) in 1962. We have not met in person since 1975. When I realized who was on the line my first thought was that somebody was about to die, but the first few words from the Professor’s mouth dispelled that concern. Both of them are nearing seventy now and the Professor wanted my input on their youngest grandson, a boy of seventeen whose path was headed decidedly in the wrong direction.

After a long discussion, I booked a flight to Colorado.

There is more to this story, but I need to see how the next few days unfold before I proceed. I beg your patience.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 12/20/2002 10:32:00 PM

. . .

I am not a student of history as it is taught in the schools around the world. People in whom I have confided over the centuries have universally found this hard to reconcile, but that has always been the result of their own knowledge of the past. When one studies history one is afforded the luxury of collecting all the perspectives of far-flung individuals and events. For those actually living in the times being studied, the only perspective immediately available is the one before their very eyes. Given the state of communications technology prior to the telegraph is it any wonder that one might be ignorant of what transpired in other parts of the world at any given time? Of course not.

I have lived through a few “momentous” times, but mostly I slaved away in some obscure corner of the world while events transpired far, far away and I was as ignorant of them as the normal people around me. I spent a large portion of the first half of my life as a slave, either literally or virtually. In an odd way it afforded me a level of protection, almost anonymity as I glided through one decade after another for no one affords much attention to a slave. I always managed to move on before anyone noticed that the master’s concubine never seemed to get any older.

These days I spend my efforts in more productive ways. I am a teacher by choice, and wealthy enough to teach where I please. I am quite adept at reading the financial markets, identifying trends towards peaks and stepping in long enough to make a tidy sum. The recent dotcom madness served me quite well in a number of respects, particularly in allowing me to dive in and out of certain companies as they rose as well as leveraging my technology positions to attempt to redress one of my most pressing problems: identity. I still have not found an acceptable solution to that, but I am by nature quite patient.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 12/14/2002 08:33:00 PM

. . .

“Nazi Germany taught us that sometimes you have to stop talking peace and just start dropping bombs.” If only this were the case. It is simple in retrospect to conclude that such a lesson both presented itself and was understood; however, in my experience human beings are quite adept at shading the lessons of history to accommodate whatever ideology holds sway with them at the moment. Furthermore it is seldom so clear in the thick of events just when one has crossed that line.

Obviously I am referring to the current situation in the Middle East. There are diametrically opposed ideologies in the West regarding the correct method of dealing with threats both real and perceived and these positions are being shouted from the various vantage points of punditry and demagoguery for all to hear. In the meantime there is (as there has always been) a more centrist core of leadership attempting to both navigate through the current crisis and simultaneously avoid giving either of the polarized opponents in the western ideology conflict anything to latch on to as casus belli. I am certain that the people involved would be grateful for the opportunity to leap ahead fifty or one hundred years to see what the proper course should have been.

Unfortunately for all concerned my expertise is limited to human interaction first and history as a distant second.

What I can offer is a carefully crafted circumlocution: it has been my experience that no war is inevitable until it begins, but some wars simply must be fought. There is always an option to avoid war. Compromise, capitulation, surrender; it is simply a matter of what one is willing to do to avoid war. Whether or not such actions are desirable or even possible depends upon the basic nature of the conflict and the cultural imperatives of the potential combatants. When one side is willing to bargain and the other side is bent on total victory what exactly is there to discuss? Sometimes it is the blatant display of the willingness to fight that brings the other side to the bargaining table- no rational nation/state launches a war they do not expect to win. If the potential opponent appears formidable it is likely that the belligerent party may choose another path. This is the “If you desire peace, arm for war” philosophy, and it does have its place.

War is an immensely complex cultural interaction, one that humanity has been practicing and perfecting for millennia. Even in its earliest manifestations it served multiple purposes, such as the expansion of territory, the mixing of gene pools, redistribution of wealth, testing of social structures and more. War has always left cultural change in its wake and the results are usually, though not universally, to the long-term good. When the results are not to the long-term good war is usually, though not universally, the correcting mechanism.

So, where does the Middle East fit in to all this? I noted earlier that we are embroiled in the midst of a true paradigm shift that has been on going for approximately a century. Many very wise people saw the Cold War as the defining issue; however, it is my contention that the Cold War was nothing more than a side issue, such as a sporting event where two teams must play to see which will move on to the next level of competition. In the midst of that competition both sides facilitated the growth of other combatants whose driving ideologies were far divergent from those of the two major Cold War powers. What was seen as a victory in the Cold War was merely gaining to opportunity to attempt to put to rest the vestiges of religious/intolerance motivated aggression. What makes this issue slightly more pressing than it might have been is the threat of so-called Weapons of Mass Destruction and the world dependence on oil reserves located on what could easily become major battlefields.

Interesting times indeed.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 12/11/2002 07:39:00 AM

. . .

There never was a Golden Age, though every generation seems convinced that there was one. Each successive wave of humanity is burdened by childhood memories of less stressful times and tales of great things done by those before them. Even in the most primitive societies, where existence is literally hand-to-mouth and children are ritually pressed in to service in the pursuit of mere survival, children lack the cognitive resources required to fully comprehend that struggle. In the later years of their lives they usually remember childhood as being far freer than the current circumstances. They are wrong- they simply could not take the true measure of the challenges life presented when they were young.

I envy the youthful, and not with any sort of bitterness. I do not suffer from the age induced resentfulness of quicker minds unchecked by accumulated wisdom for my mind is as sharp, for that matter sharper, as it was when I first became aware of my own existence. To be blunt about it I was not terribly bright when I was young. That was a time when I was most like all others around me, convinced that my time in this world was short, devoted to the pursuit of simple pleasures and simple needs. In those days I was foolish, and it was delightful. Young people are foolish; they take silly risks and ill-advised paths. They ignore the counsel of their elders. They shake the foundations of the known to cast aside the encrusted detritus of what is common wisdom. They are an indispensable part of humanity’s ceaseless quest for knowledge. They bring new light to old domains and cast off the tyranny of what-has-always-been. They also sow death and destruction and despair, but in the end the balance is mostly to the good.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 12/09/2002 01:21:00 PM

. . .

I do not care about politics. In my experience any single election or coup or coronation or revolution is of little long-term consequence. Truly, elections and coronations tend to inch forward towards some distant goal whereas coups and revolutions often are merely minor setbacks. There are exceptions of course- in the science of humanity progress is usually measured by the exceptions encountered. I lived through several of those exceptions, “interesting times” according to the popular misquotation of an ancient Chinese curse, and I can say with authority that the current situation simply does not qualify.

It is simplistic to see the events of the past ten decades as full of separate defining moments, each ushering in a new paradigm; however, from my somewhat unique perspective the century just ended was merely the beginning of the final reconciliation between the eastern and western world. This began with the collapse of the Caliphate and was exacerbated by the rise of the oil-based energy economy and the solidification of the western model of what currently passes for political and cultural liberalism. The Cold War standoff between the warped pseudo-socialist despotism of the USSR and western style Capitalism served to pause the process and in turn allowed certain pressures to escalate; however, things are now proceeding forward in a predictable fashion. The tools and the numbers are modern, the pace is accelerated, but the process is the same. Come back in one hundred years and the results should be… intriguing.

See? I have a cruel streak.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 12/08/2002 04:21:00 PM

. . .

It is hard to write like this. I have spent so long making certain that I do not draw undo attention to myself that to suddenly speak clearly and simply, citing my own experience in unambiguous terms in such a public forum... it is a novel experience for me. That is saying quite a lot for one who has spent decades the way one might spend a pleasant summer’s day.

Call me a liar, or a spinner of fictions, or delusional. Hurl invective if it will make your worldview more secure. I have been stoned, whipped, drowned, burned, banned… suffice it to say that with this share of sticks and stones behind me there is nothing that mere words can do to bring anguish to my heart.

I am not here to make grand pronouncements. I cannot make the world a better place. I possess no magic, no otherworldly plans. I have nothing but a vast encyclopedia of experience with people. Nothing more.

posted by Zsallia Marieko 12/06/2002 08:01:00 PM

. . .

There are many things to be said, many tales to be told. But who listens?

posted by Zsallia Marieko 12/06/2002 07:38:00 PM

. . .