Category: Culture

  • Poetry: Mischa Willett

    Medea’s Hymn
    from Ovid

    O guardian of the dark, keeper of creeping
    shadows, o night I’m standing in…
    And you, timid stars, who wait for her arrival
    to shine…

    And you, Hecate, Hecate, Hecate,

    who knows and keeps the herbal secrets,
    the potion’s potency, the rites of sorcery…
    And you, Earth, who grows the elements,
    you world of winds and waters, you gods
    of woods and watchers of the dead, I need
    you all.

    It is through your power that I have reversed
    the river’s current as the mute banks gaped.
    Haven’t we stilled the trashing seas,
    convened councils of clouds, bagged and shook
    out the very winds? With words I’ve split
    a writhing serpent, drawn down boulders,
    plucked an oak as easily as a flower. I can
    shake the very mountains and open
    the mouth of the ground in a groan. The shades
    I can make walk from their tombs. Even you,
    noon, I can drop in this stream like a white pebble.
    The sun, my grandfather’s carriage,
    I can sing pale. I can staunch the wound
    even of pink dawn.

    But it is you, who, helping me,
    tarnished the bronze of the bulls and bent
    their necks to plow. And you who tangled
    the serpent’s scions and saved my Jason
    in the ring. And it is you who, singing
    through him, put that watchful and wise
    beast to his first sleep, and so brought
    the golden fleece—power of powers—
    to Greece.

     

    In a Dark Wood

    Why am I so jealous of the duck
    That has been swallowed by the wolf?
    Because he has slippers
    and a peg on which to hang his coat
    and a rug on which to place the slippers?

    In the same way, I wish I was the bunny,
    always, but especially in Spring,
    because I think of his hook,
    and the tree he’s in
    and the snow outside
    and all the hawks he doesn’t
    hear hunting, until he does.

     

    The Holding Pattern
    “Just then a plane jumped up and ripped the sky to shreds”
    -K. Vonnegut

    The F-12 fighter jet jumps
    through a hole in the wall
    at the café, at the museum, at the lunch
    I am enjoying, at the moment
    I am thinking of saying the bit about
    my animal’s charging hard
    and my man’s restraining grip—
    the whip he uses to keep
    the beast at bay—
    how his forearms tire, how
    his fingers ply at the leash.

    The line was its own pastiche
    of images—the broken clause, dramatic
    pauses meant to make the thing sound
    ex temporae—like I hadn’t come
    up with it the day before, like I
    hadn’t been dying to say it for its sharp
    “ar” sound from “hard” and how that slammed
    into “charged” and made the thing
    sound sexed and desperate, as indeed,
    I meant it.

    This before the razor-winged marten
    whose dive-bomb corkscrew threw an element
    of reverie into an afternoon I’d mapped
    out as heartful, profound, became
    in the turn, her bright laughing’s
    little explosions on the ground.

    Feature Image: J. M. W. Turner’s Vision of Medea (1828).

  • Tina

    “Rrruth…Ruuuth…Ruthhh…Are you ok?”

    Her voice echoed, in ripples, wave after wave. Outside an open window, fronds of the palm tree danced.

    “Are you Ok? Here, Ruth. Drink that.”

    A pair of green birds chased each other flew past the Chinaberry tree. Laughing or fighting, their feathers were a lighter green against its dark leaves. I despised that tree. The cocksure way it seeded its poisonous self everywhere with impunity. It even flowered in a cruel way. A beautiful bunch of blooms, their purple eyes narrow with suspicion. Not a tree for a farm. And though Avram only approved of trees that bore edible fruit. Somehow this Chinaberry avoided detection, the sapling was tolerated, and survived.

    “Ruth, you should have eaten something. Here, have a date.”

    Those enormous eyes were looking at me, as I tasted something sweet in my mouth. I felt peaceful, but puzzled.  What were these tunnels? So dark. Deep. And the heavy blob of woman lying on the tile floor. Tiles that were grey and speckled with black dots now vibrating in and out of focus. A river of sweetness ran through me. Everything became clearer. More mundane. That blob on the floor was me.

    “What happened?” Tina smiled. Tender. Discreet. “You should have had something to eat”

    “Yes, I wasn’t paying attention. But, what are you doing here? How did you know?”

    “Rosie called. She was worried when you didn’t answer.”  Tina paused to pick up the fallen chair. “Can you get up? Slowly I started to… Didn’t really want to move. But I would have to get up sometime. Tina didn’t offer her hand in help, and I didn’t blame her. Too much of a challenge for her small size. This is not an age to take chances. She stood up, looking at me like an insurance assessor evaluates damage. I managed to sit up, on the floor.

    “No broken bones. Pain anywhere?

    I shook my head. We heard a car drive through the gate that should’ve been there. When it  came to a stop, the door slammed shut.

    “Are you expecting someone?” Tina went over to the window.

    “Who is it?”

    “Can’t see.”

    “Ooh, it could be Osher. For weeks now, I’ve been asking him to come and help me. Tina still peered out the window.

    “Yes, it’s Osher. What is he going to do?”

    “Ruth!” he shouted from below, “It’s Me. Osher!”

    Then his footsteps were climbing the stairs and the door opened. Osher didn’t conceal his surprise.

    “What happened?”

    “I fell.”

    “She fell.” echoed Tina.

    Osher crossed the room to help me up. Amazing, how strong young men are.

    “So… Why did you fall?”

    Tina’s face twisted in to a frown as she bent to pick up my errand slippers.

    “I just forgot to eat. So my blood sugar dipped. But I’m fine now. Want some

    coffee before you start?”

    “No time. I must get on with it. I can only spare a couple of hours.”

    “Gosh, you’re always so busy! Nobody has time anymore. How did we ever manage in the old days?”

    Osher was already bounding down the stairs.

    Tina asked, “Shall I make some coffee?

    “I better eat something more. Where is my syringe? I need an injection.

    “Good idea. Tina was already on the case. Osher is lovely, isn’t he?”

    “Yes. Good person. The only one who’d come and help.”

    “Why do you bother? No one else does”

    Tina was referring to the other widows who lived on our street. There must be at least seven of them.  It was rare to see them out. Instead, they each shuttered themselves from the heat, in cool dark houses. Watching TV I guess. All day long. Just like me. But I couldn’t let all these trees go to rack and ruin. Avram loved this place, and he would turn over in his grave if one  tree died. In truth, I love the trees too. Poor Avram. You know…I think he gave up and died because he couldn’t live with not working anymore. But fair due to Osher for always coming to help Avram. Tina busied herself as if she were burying a secret.

    “Have you seen Yvonne lately?”

    Yvonne Cohen was my next door neighbour and perhaps the first one to be widowed on our street. Not surprising. She was just a kid when she married a man already past his prime!

    “No one ever sees her. You know that,” answered Tina, putting a couple of glasses full of hot coffee on the table.

    “I don’t know what she does indoors all day long. Does she ever go out?”

    “I see Vera sometimes, when she goes to the shop.”

    Vera was the woman most recently widowed. She lived in the 5th house on the street. That is how it worked: the houses were in rows either side of the road, and the farm fields were behind each house.

    Some of the widows let their fields, to be farmed by some of younger men, who already had their own fields and were looking for more land. Doodi used my land and paid me peanuts. But that’s all he could afford in order to still make a profit. And a monkey can’t afford to sneeze at peanuts. Otherwise, all I’ve got is my miserly pension.

    “You’re so lucky to have your husband, Tina,” Nodding Tina sipped her coffee. She appeared pale and preoccupied. “You can’t imagine how lonely it is. When Avram died, it was like someone just switched off the light. I’ve no one to talk to. Nobody to cook for. I watch politicians argue on tv, and when I turn around to say something to Avram, he isn’t there!

    I wonder what Osher is doing?”

    I walked over to the window. He was pruning the lemon trees and watering them at the same time. “Osher! Don’t forget to do the pomegranates.” He looked up smiling.

    “If I have time…”

    “Time! Time! That’s all everyone talks about. No one has time except me!”

    “You said you were going to eat something, reminded Tina.

    “I’ll just grab a banana. I can’t be bothered to cook just for myself.”

    “I have some chicken stew and rice at home. I’ll bring you some later.” Tina decided.

    “No Tina, I’m alright. Tomorrow is Friday and Rosie is coming. She’ll help me to cook for Saturday and I’ll have loads for next week too.”

    Tina’s eyes seemed far away. She was somewhere deep inside herself. I felt that she saw me through a veil. The breeze wafting through the window was warm and the birds sounded so cheerful. Well, at least they sounded as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

    “My daughters want me to sell the farm and move closer to them.”

    “That’s an idea.” said Tina

    “I don’t want to. It’s home here. How can I leave the place where we lived and worked for sixty years. All the trees. The shrubs. These green birds…they’ve been here for years. Even the  traffic noise from the highway. This is what I’m used to.”

    “Home is where your family is. What’s the point of being here all alone. Cut your losses, forget all that you have planted. Life is short, but you still have time to enjoy yourself.”

    Tina spoke sensibly but also from a distance.

    “Thank God you are here. I said. What would I have done without you?”

    Tina stood up and went to look out. The afternoon was slowly becoming evening.

    “How about going for a walk tomorrow?”

    “I can’t say Ruth. I have to go to the hospital.”

    “What is it?”

    “Oh, just some tests.”

    “Is everything ok?” I was beginning to feel strange. Tina trembled a little, and I felt my heart dropping down to my ankles.

    “Ruth, I’m dying.”

    “What do you mean? We’re all on the way there…”

    “No. This is different. I’ve got the big C. I don’t have long.”

    I didn’t know what to say. I was numb. Not Tina. The only friend I have. I know, it’s selfish but right away I thought, what about me?

    “I’m sure the doctors will find a solution. They have new stuff coming out all the time. Don’t say that you are dying. Don’t say that.”

    Osher was running back up the stairs again, and in a flash he stood at the open door, with a smile. “I’m going now, but I did manage to do the pomegranates. I’ll try and come another day. There is just so much that needs to be done.” Turning to go he asked “Why the long face? Not happy?”

    “Yes, Osher, of course I’m happy.”

    “Well, you don’t look it,” he grumbled.

    “Some people are never satisfied. I’m going too,” announced Tina, “Or Albert will think that I ran away with the plumber.” Osher shrugged his shoulders and I felt better. At least she hadn’t lose her sense of humor.

    “Come back tomorrow!” I shouted after her. Startled, she spun around to remind me Friday was Rosie’s day, which allowed me one last whisper, “To tell me what the doctor says.”

    “I will. Don’t worry.” And with that, Tina was gone.

  • Homage to Henry Kissinger

    When Henry Kissinger again fails to die

    Another tree in the Central Highlands loses all its leaves
    A girl sits on a visiting diplomat’s lap
    Someone organises a Nelson Rockefeller look-alike party
    which Henry Kissinger attends
    An election result somewhere is declared null and void for its own good
    An interrogating officer switches on the electricity
    A government spokesman interrupts his denial to wish Dr Kissinger well
    Another tin of Heinz baked beans is sold in China
    and the CEO personally thanks Henry Kissinger
    A ginger cat named Agent Orange leaps down off the garden wall
    A baby slides from the womb with a surprise third arm

    When Henry Kissinger again fails to die:
    A ginger cat named Agent Orange leaps back onto its garden wall
    A government we didn’t like is overthrown in a military coup,
    welcomed by the European Union
    A hut is set on fire for the greater good,
    the European Union calls for an inquiry
    Someone dies of politically necessary starvation
    but that someone is never Henry Kissinger
    A bomb is dropped on someone whose name you’ll never have to pronounce
    because it’s not Henry Kissinger

    For its birthday, a baby gets Spina bifida
    A Bengali family have all their arms sawn off.
    Fifty bodies topple into the sea off Indonesia
    but none of them are Henry Kissinger
    Each time Henry Kissinger again fails to die

  • And as for Loss … the Next New Low

    I’m just existing. That’s a side effect of a close death I guess. The difference between living and dying is really not that big a leap.

    This Covid lack of a future and future planning is suffocating.

    Yesterday someone said that lavender cheers you up.

    Happy days.

     

    Today nothing.

    I wrote most of the songs for the collection ‘And as for loss..’ During Aoife’s illness.

    Her fight against cancer and by extension my fight lasted 18 months.

    I don’t understand when people seem to be offended by the phrase “battle with Cancer’.

    Ours was a fight on all fronts and though I understand the power of language, under this pressure some nuanced phrases get fucked in the bin..

    Pic by Hectic Fish

    The next new low.

    It’s not pessimism … it’s a reality. It may co-exist with the next new high, but that just didn’t apply to us.

    We were told in no uncertain terms what our future (lack of) was.

    Twenty-one-years of planning holidays comes to a halt.

    I could only express this in song writing.

    For me it was to block out the noise (there’s always hope, it’s amazing what they can do these days, la la la ).

     

    The first line of the song sets up the trip that follows.

    “I’m going to write a hit song, going to get us out of here”

     

    Yeah right ..the next new low is coming

     

    “Going to get you better”

     

    Yeah right, the next new low is coming.

     

    As for Hydra … that was originally the title for a song .. ‘Hector Y Did You Run Away.’

    But then the vision of the beast came  to me at night.

    I recognized it for what it was. Cancer personified.

     

    And I’ve seen it right up close,

    But what gets to me the most,

    Is I’ve seen it in my dreams,

    Hydra’s teeth laughing at my screams for mercy

     

    The Kind Kind Kind of people.

    You meet heroes in the back of ambulances it’s true. People who do real stuff.

    We discussed funeral arrangements.

    Aoife asked me to play.

    She asked me to write a happy song, knowing that I never could look in that direction.

     

    You asked me to write a happy song

    On the saddest day of our lives.

    Well thats just like you

    You do what you do.

    I’ve never seen somebody laugh as much as you while they fight.

     

    I’m losing you.

     

    Six months now. A year of firsts. A lot of lessons learnt. A new wisdom.

    And I feel quite stupid and not quite intelligent enough. Exposed, as my better half who I was always so proud to be beside has gone away.

    I have to build now. My friends are close and music has kept the conversation going…

     

    Tomorrow Lavander

     

    https://thenextnewlow.bandcamp.com/album/and-as-for-loss

     

    https://www.thenextnewlow.com/videos

     

    https://twitter.com/brianmooney123

  • Talking Through Your Chin-Box 3.2

    Gasping for a hit, Carl made himself a fresh cup of coffee. But big-nosed and bat-eared, when he tried to slam it, the steaming brown liquid dribbled down his chin to piddle over his pink tie and white shirt. His accountant’s uniform.

    ‘Fuck!’ He’d forgotten the stitch-up already. His lips weren’t even that sore. His doctor had done a fine job. No gaps. Nothing could get into his mouth now. Not the normal way. Ingenious. Time was at a premium, that is if he didn’t want to be scalded. So with a tea towel, Carl did his best to sop up all the coffee off his face and clothes. Behind him, the door swung open. And from where, with a crash, the handle had hit the wall, some flaking paint fell to the floor. Looking down, before she stepped over it, in came his wife.

    ‘We have to get that door fixed.’

    She saw it. The gold thread razzle-dazzling his mouth. Extra strength.

    ‘So after I specifically told you not to, you went and got your mouth stitched up, didn’t you? Isn’t that right? You disgust me Carl.’

    Taking off his coffee-stained jacket and tie, he looked directly at Nicola, who mimicked a quite convincing fit of dry retching, and then said,

    ‘You’ll be sick now and have to swallow your own vomit. You’ve gone and done it, haven’t you? You’ve only gone and done it.’

    ‘Yes. I have gone and done it. I’m not getting the sack. No way.’

    At which, she jumped back from him.

    ‘What the hell sort of a sound was that?’

    ‘It’s my new voice. Rather thought you’d like it, Nicola. You were always a Columbo fan, weren’t you? Still are, far as I know. It’s the voice of Peter Falk, isn’t it?’

    ‘Trying to be funny Carl? Because I’ve a left foot here that’ll soon sort that out, when swiftly raised to your anatomy’s pendant parts.’ She said this, moving in towards him.

    ‘Hold on. See this pimple on my chin? Right in the middle? Come closer for a look, because it’s been fitted quite snugly.’

    ‘Yeah, I can see it alright. Wasn’t there this morning, when you left for the office.’

    ‘I know it wasn’t. Because it’s not a pimple. It’s the Chin-Box 3.2. Now that they’ve stitched my lips together, henceforward I’ll talk out of it. Oh, and I can tune it to any voice in the world.’

    Akimbo, Nicola stared into his talking Chin-Box 3.2, as she picked up his coffee cup. The hankie he handed her was for the dregs that dribbled down her chin, as in one gulp, she drained what was left.

    ‘You mean to say, out of all the voices in the entire world, you picked Peter fucking Falk from Columbo? Is that what you’re telling me through your Chin-Box 3.2, Carl? Well, is it?’

    To this, Carl said nothing, now unbuttoning his white shirt. He took it off, and Nicola watched his hairy chest throw the shirt, along with the pink tie, into the washing machine. His hairy spine then walked past her to the far side of their small apartment. Where, from the bedroom wardrobe, he took out a fresh white t-shirt which, in small print on the front read, ‘With Millions of Invisible Advertisements.’

    Returning to the kitchen, he answered, ‘Yes, Nicola. It is. That’s what I’m telling you. Through my Chin-Box 3.2. And as I said, I won’t be getting sacked any time soon. Now, the next time I sneeze, there’s no danger that my nose will fall off of my face. We’re ok for rent. Well, for the next while, at least. And for the foreseeable future, I’ll be talking out of my Chin-Box 3.2, so get used to it.’

    ‘Was that the actor, Leonardo Di Caprio just then?’

    ‘No. It was a mixture of 50% Donald Duck and 50% Bono. I think. I’m only getting used to the controls. Messing around a bit.’

    ‘Who knew that combination would sound like Leo Di Caprio.  I must have a look at how you did that. But you’re trying to play on my love of hip-hop. You’ll not get around me that easily. Did I not say to you, “Don’t get your mouth stitched up, Carl?” That it’s unproven in the fight against the Gordian Worm Virus? Didn’t I?’

    ‘Yes, you did. And your bat-eared boy didn’t listen. Because you’re wrong.’

    Stomping over to the other side of the kitchen table, Nicola fished around in her handbag for a small box which, in front of Carl’s big nose, she placed on the table.

    ‘Is that what I think it is, Nicola?’

    She pulled up a chair to sit at the table, and crossing her arms, looked him straight in the eye.

    ‘It is, Carl. In my view, the Eat-Babies theory is correct.  The Stitch-Your-Lips-Up theory is pure gastroenteritis. Inconsistent and dribbly, indeed. This here is a small box of baby G worms that I’ll eat, and in so doing, become immune to their poison. It’s like that old Turkish delight of a king, Mithridates of Pontus taking small amounts of poison. So many people wanted to kill him, but he developed an immunity. Quite ingenious really. Millions of years BC this was. And people were quite thick back then, relatively speaking. So that’s what I’m going to do, Carl.’

    ‘Won’t they just lay eggs in your body? And therefore those eggs will travel to your brain, hatch and lay more eggs. Hatch, and eventually, when you sneeze, your nose falls off. They’ll burst out of your head, leaving you completely sacked, forthwith.’

    ‘No Carl. They’re dead baby worms. Dead.’

    ‘Oh well. Dead babies. That makes it all right doesn’t it? Do you have any sort of conscience?’

    ‘No. They’re worms, Carl. Just worms. I can’t afford a conscience and by the way, neither can you. If it were otherwise, we’d all be sacked. Now, it’s your turn to get used to it. So please do. I’m eating worms. Dead baby G worms. And I’m making sure to chew each one at least twenty times before swallowing, as the very nice chap in the shop told me to do.’

    Around the wooden kitchen table, the two of them sat in silence, staring at the box before them. Inside the box, dead baby worms were floating in some kind of fluid.

    ‘You know Kevin, from downstairs on the second floor?

    Of course I do. You know I do, Carl. Nice man. He works for the Post Office or whatever it’s called now.’

    ‘Not any more, he doesn’t. His nose fell off last week. Got sacked before his two nostrils hit the ground. Seems they’re evicting him from the building tomorrow. If it hasn’t happened already. In the middle of the night. With baseball bats.’

    Nicola pushed back from the table. Her chair scraped noisily across the wooden floor.

    ‘What sort of a voice was that?’

    Carl was fiddling about furiously with the Chin-Box 3.2 controller on his phone.

    ‘70% Margaret Thatcher and 30% Ronald Reagan, I think. Might’ve been a bit of George Dubya in there as well. Thinking of using that as my new work voice. What do you think? It’d be great for any promotions coming up.’

    ‘I think if you’re talking like that, getting your lips sewn together with golden thread has done far worse things to your mind than ever having Gordian worms running wild about it. Like, how will you sleep in your condition?’

    I’ll sleep fine, Nicola. Don’t worry about that.’

    ‘No you won’t. I sleep beside you every night, and I know. You haven’t thought this through. Budgeting being your forte, you’re supposed to be an accountant for god’s sake. Even before you got your lips sewn together, every second night, religiously, at 3 am, you saw giant insects coming in through the bedroom windows. With less air getting in to your bunged-up mind, God only knows what you’ll see. With less and less circulating your head, by the end of the month, I’ll be married to a person whose brain is the size of an amoeba. Can’t believe those adverts finally convinced you to stitch yourself up. This isn’t on, Carl. You’re a fucker, and you know it. How will you eat?’

    Standing, he went to his light blue holdall. The one with the two gold stripes, which now matched the thread in his lips. His hands rummaged inside for a considerable length of time until, onto the kitchen table, he slapped something long and snakelike.

    ‘Via my Cheek-Tube, Nicola. That’s how I’m going to eat. Through my Cheek-Tube 400.’

    Backing away from him, she nearly collided with the door, shaking her head from side to side to side to side and foaming at the mouth.

    ‘So from now on, you’re gonna eat through a tube?’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘A tube? Really?’

    ‘Yes. It’s the Cheek-Tube 400. Top of the range. I just insert one end of the tube into my cheek like so, where they’ve cut a small tube-hole insertion point, if you can see it, and then put the other end of the tube into my food, and press this button on the side, and hey presto Nicola, HEY PRESTO!’

    Selecting a breakfast bowl with rainbow butterflies on the outside, into it he put three Weetabix. And after an unstinting splash of cold milk, he pushed the appropriate end of the tube into the bowl. With no noise or effort whatsoever, up his Cheek-Tube 400, the Weetabix disappeared, travelling in a more mashed and condensed form, to the inside of his mouth. Then through theatrical ums, and ahs, while he was chewing, gulping, swallowing, and speaking in different voices, he said through his Chin-Box 3.2, ‘Watch this!’

    ‘I can chew, swallow and talk all at the same time. Look Ma! No hands! From now on, at work, my productivity will sky rocket. It’s a win-win for everybody. I won’t be able to sneeze anymore, because my lips are stitched together, Nicola. The World Health Organisation has stated quite categorically that before anyone sneezes they open their mouth and then a-tish-hoo a-tish-hoo a-tish-hoo. If you can’t open your mouth then no a-tish-hoo a-tish-hoo a-tish-hoo can happen, and therefore no sneezing ever again. This means my nose won’t fall off.  If, at any point, I’m infected with the G Worm virus, and forced by my boss, into a Pass-the-Hankie scenario, I’ll be able to blow at my own pace. Nice and slow. Or fast and furious! But my nose won’t fall off my face, because I can’t open my mouth. I’m back in complete control again! Cool Carl, your bat-earred boy wonder. Nicola, even if I do manage to catch the virus my nose won’t fall off. I won’t be sacked. Don’t you get it?’

    ‘I get it. It won’t work. But I do get it. The WHO are wrong. You will sneeze again. But if you believe in all that gastroenteritis hokey-cokey, well then that’s fair enough. I’m not arguing with you any more, Carl. Life’s too short. I’m tired. It’s a bollocks theory but go ahead, it’s your own life to live out how you please. I’m only your wife. Sure why would you even consult me? Eh? Why? I’m only a poor little know-nothing solicitor.’

    ‘Nicola, Eileen McCruddy’s nose fell off this morning. And so too did her husband’s. Do you know Sarah Mince?’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘Well, her nose fell off as well. Do you know Tom Tiddle?’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘Well his nose fell off three times this year already. He’s lost three jobs as a result. In the current recrudescence of the virus, it’s getting more and more expensive to get someone to sew it back on again. Do you know Marty Smarty?’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘Well, his nose fell off as well. Yesterday.’

    ‘If this goes on much longer, we’ll have no neighbours or friends left. I’m scared, Carl. Everything is shit. So very shit. Fuck it. I’m doing it now. I have to go to work on Monday. I’m eating dead worms right this minute.’

    ‘Are you sure?’

    ‘No, I’m not sure about anything anymore, but I’m doing it anyway. I can’t get my mouth stitched up. I’d suffocate, I would. I’m not built like you. I’ve no other choice.’

    They sat back down, around the table.

    ‘Nicola, have you talked to Susan lately?’

    ‘Yes. We talk every day on the phone. Practically every three or four hours, these last few weeks, since I marooned myself temporarily into our apartment.’

    ‘I’m sorry, but I have to tell you.  Her nose fell off at the weekend. She lost her job on Monday, and she’s being evicted tomorrow morning.’

    ‘What? Carl, she has to come and stay here with us. Most law firms don’t accept no-nosers, even for their first offence. Why didn’t she tell me herself? I was only talking to her earlier this morning on the phone.’

    ‘She was afraid how you’d take it, in your current dread fear of contracting the virus hyper-hysteria. Nicola, are you sure you’re okay with letting her stay here?’

    ‘Of fucking course I am. You’re disgraceful if you think I’d have a problem with letting one of my best friends move in with us for a while. We were at law school together. Disgraceful. Do you have a problem with it? Do you, Carl? You fucker!’

    ‘No, of course I don’t. In fact, I’ve already arranged everything with Susan. She’s all packed and down in the foyer of our building. Just waiting for the okay to come up. Knew I had to check with you first. We’re living in a mad world at the moment. Nothing is certain.’

    Nicola rushed over to Carl and threw her arms around his shoulders. She started to cry.

    ‘I should’ve known you wouldn’t let me down. I love you, Carl. Thank you. Though she should have confided in me first. It’s dreadful she didn’t. Unbelievable really.’

    Putting her lips on his, she kissed him hard. Or tried to. Forgetting his lips were stitched up.

    ‘However golden and shiny the thread, kissing stitched-up lips is absolutely dehumanising. Carl, this has no feeling or warmth whatsoever. How will we survive as a couple without the comfort of kissing?’

    Plunging his left hand down his trouser pocket, he took out an apparatus.

    ‘These are my Loving Lips 4,000. They were included with my Stitch-Up bundle at the doctor’s. Seems I just attach them over my stitched-up lips and hey, presto! Kiss me and find out how good they are, Nicola. Come on. Kiss me! Kiss me! Kiss me! It has a robot tongue with AI.  4,000 wurps per second.’

    ‘You just made that up, didn’t you?’

    ‘Yeah. Yeah. I don’t know what the 4,000 stands for. Unfortunately, wurps don’t exist yet.’

    Tears streamed down her face, and with the hankie, dabbing at her eyes, she moved towards him. When he too, moved towards her, she closed her eyes and again they kissed. But this time, Kerboom! Bang Boom! Boom! Boom! Like Sidney Opera House fireworks. On New Year’s Eve.

     

    ‘These don’t feel, in any way, like your old lips. Nice though. I’ll give you that, Carl. Nice indeed. Wurps, eh?’

    They kissed again.

    ‘Can you kiss and talk at the same time?’

    ‘Of course.’

    ‘Do George Clooney.’

    ‘A bit old for you, isn’t he?’ said Carl, in a Donald Duck / Ricky Gervais melange.

    ‘Just do it, Carl. Do George Clooney. And stop trying to put me off my food with Ricky fucking Gervais.’

    ‘I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that. I’d feel a bit violated to be honest, Nicola.’

    ‘And mix it with Fred from the corner grocery store.’

    ‘He’s a bit young for you, Nicola. I’m shocked. Where has all this come from?’

    ‘Just do it Carl. Without telling me, you got your mouth stitched up. It’s gonna be for at least a year. You owe me big time. Just bloody do it!’

    ‘Ok. Ok. Ok.’

    The banging on their apartment door was Susan. Unable to contain herself any longer, she turned the knob and walked into their living space. The nose she’d already had sewn back on, was running quite badly. By the look of it, probably a backstreet job. She was sweating too. Shaking Carl’s hand, she said, ‘Thanks Carl and Nicola. Thanks so very much for letting me stay with you for a while. I owe you one. Will pay you back when I get another job. Promise.’ And with this, she sneezed. Twice. Into his face. By accident. At least her nose didn’t fall off. Even so, she looked mortified. Depending on how many times you’d already had it re-sewn beforehand, most nose-jobs lasted 7-8 weeks. But with these backstreet jobs, who knew?

    To reassure her, Carl put his right hand into the air to give her the thumbs-up. And in the Chin-Box 3.2 Tarantino voice, he said, ‘You see Nicola, I’ve still got my nose. As I speak, my stitch-up is already paying dividends. Just like the YouTube adverts said it would.’

    Running to the kitchen table, Nicola ripped open her box of worms, and forthwith, put two dead babies into her mouth. As directed by the very nice chap in the shop, she chewed twenty times, and then swallowing hard, re-joined the others.

    ‘Welcome to our home, Susan. Welcome.’

  • Musician of the Month: Gemma Dunleavy

     

    Singin’ Songs and Stories

     

    My name is Gemma Dunleavy and I’m a yapper. I’d talk the handle off a cup. I also write and play music. I see myself as a storyteller first, then a musician. It’s where I feel my true gift is, my natural comfort is in meandering through my memories, picking out the best details to paint the clearest picture in the heads of those listening.

    I’m from Sheriff Street in Dublin 1. My whole family grew up there and I still live there now. Like any inner city community there’s the good and the bad. The flats had problems with drugs and crime being rampant during the ‘90s. The heroin epidemic tore through the area and claimed the lives of many young, unemployed, and vulnerable people that were left to rot by the system. The skeletons of that epidemic still haunt us today. There were many effects of this: lives were lost, families destroyed, crime in the area rose, and the resulting social stigma from outside the community. The most important side effect was something different: resilience. People had nothing else but each other, no other options but to push through and that’s what we did and continue to do up to this day. Our community is rich in spirit, hope, and support. We have some of the best talent: athletes (boxer Pierce O’Leary), writers and artists (see ADUANTES by poet Michelle Byrne and painter Tara Kearns – playwright Sean O’Casey lived here too), and a string of musicians and directors hailing from our area (Luke Kelly and others). I’m extremely proud of where I’m from and my desire to preserve our community and protect it from aggressive redevelopment will never diminish.

    I learned the value of a good story from a young age – I grew up in between my two nannies and their friends talking around the sitting room table. They would talk about living in the tenements and their memories there, describe the poor conditions and tragedies with a smile on their faces, and a gleam in their eyes, as if they were chatting about green meadows and clear skies. They spoke with such fondness you could almost feel the warmth from their bodies. They were proud women with strong roots and they made me proud to be from Sheriff Street. I loved their sense of togetherness, the laughs, and the community. Growing up with them meant growing up in a community, being raised by a community of people – something that’s not so common anymore. Through telling my own story I saw parallels between myself and them, finding comforts in things that from the outside might sound jarring. I had an aha! moment where in some strange way I was in my own version of their tenements. Their voices saying “We had nothing but we had it all” made sense.

    I delved into my memories to tell five of the most important stories I had. Each story was from a different perspective based on a stereotype I grew up around. I dressed each one in chords and melody – and I had the help of the gritty voices that shaped my childhood. I tied it all together under the name of Up De Flats. For the concept I created five characters based on friends, family, neighbours, and myself. I would step into each of these characters and tell their story for each song. Before any of this became music, I gave each character a name and I’m going to take a moment to introduce you to these characters whose names haven’t yet stepped outside of my head (until now): 

    Chantelle is a seventeen-year-old from Sheriff Street. She goes out with Dayo, a fella who is a couple years her senior. He’s mysterious. People never quite know what he’s up to exactly but it’s probably not good. He’s not shy of a police chase, but he never gets caught. Chantelle knows his moves but he protects and respects her and their nights cruising down the Boundary Wall in the car where they can forget about everyone else are enough to show her he’s for her only. The boys on the street respect him and all the girls fancy him – he has street cred, making him feel all the more desirable to Chantelle. Edel is a desperate mother whose son has fallen victim to the heroin epidemic. “He’ll never change, but I made him this way” she wails as she describes him as a beautiful setting sun while watching him fade away from the devastating effects of drugs.

    Paulie is a young man who’s grown up in the flats with his single mother and six siblings. Being the eldest, he was often left to raise his siblings as alcoholism took over his mother after his father’s death by suicide. He spent his later teenage years in detention centres and has only ever earned money through drugs and robberies. Now out of prison, his past means he will always be looking over his shoulder – but he will never let anyone in because in his eyes, the pain he has suffered is enough of a weapon to wipe anyone out. And if it was necessary that’s what he would do. He has a stern look – no one would dare cross him – but he would die for his siblings, and grandmother whose voice he hears at night when he’s alone and scared telling him, “It’s alright, son. I’m here”.

    Kelly is a young single mother tired of the cyclical patterns of working class life. Her three kids, and the housing crisis, make it hard for her to ever get on her feet. She longs to be able to escape to a better life but is locked in the social welfare system. When times get hard she’s plagued by memories of her brother’s face who she lost to suicide. With pride as high as the sky, she’ll never let anyone know how she’s feeling, coming off as a fun-loving, strong mother who sometimes gets tired, but never gets low.

    The last story is a love letter to my community and the only one that is fully from my own perspective. I was a young girl who had to move away to pursue her career and in doing that I realised that everything that people search all over the world for had always been on my doorstep: a sense of purpose. I reminisced about the soundtrack of the summer getting played by the police sirens and the blue lights flashing through my window at night being something that calmed me down.

    Making this release was a tough – yet cathartic – journey to go on, down the dark and dreary, soft and warm lanes of my memory. At times it was hard, revisiting certain memories, but I felt privileged to finally understand and be able to articulate my frustration at the classist discrimination and prejudice that effects working class areas in Dublin. There was a fire burning inside me to give a voice to the other side of the traits these stereotypes were often demonised for. Behind the anger, the frustration, the addiction, and the crime was a common denominator: pain. I wanted to give a voice to that pain to show all our flaws and beauty, vulnerability, and rawness. I wanted to strip back all our layers because I know no hearts like the hearts I’ve grown up around in my community. I wanted to reveal our characters in a space where we weren’t going to be demonised.

    I had no idea when I began shaping these stories that they would become my debut EP, but four months later, the stories have been listened to thousands of times, falling on many different ears. Something I’m so, so grateful for. For years, the media and authorities slandered us and we had no voice. But now, people are finally listening.

     

     

    For more about Gemma’s work see:

    Bandcamp: http://gemmadunleavy.bandcamp.com/album/up-de-flats

    Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/gemmadunleavymusic/

    Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/gemmadunleavy_/?hl=en

    Twitter: https://twitter.com/gemmadunleavy1

    Spotify:

     

     

     

  • Candidate for the Roberts Prize

    It was an honour to be elected. I was on the faculty at Inchfield, and seized the opportunity to work under specialist in topologic geometry, Professor Knowlton. Five years later, I was working on a level nearly lateral to his, which earned me the invitation to an informal gathering in his garden. This is where he and a select few would deliberate over nominees for the prestigious Roberts Prize in Mathematics, and who would be awarded its substantial cash prize. Seeing as that year, it was Knowlton’s privilege to judge.

    Having been to Knowlton’s house before once or twice, I’d a cursory acquaintance with his unkempt hedges, substantial brick residence, and an older son who had since entered a foreign university. Knowlton seldom mentioned his younger son, who was mentally deficient.

    We settled at a mosaic table on a piazza, near enough to the French doors that Mrs. Knowlton could handily supply us with coffee and its accompaniments. As I anticipated, Dr. Fuller kicked off the meeting by hammering his preference for a member of his own staff. And though the lad in question had been nominated by someone else, we were gratified when Morris, whose field is probability, grilled Fuller. “Yes, yes, of course he’s all those things, but isn’t he also in fact, your godson?”

    The laughter that ensued provided Sorensen an opportunity to introduce his own protégé, an emeritus in Arizona whose research with Euler circuits had thus far attracted only local attention. Sorensen’s a sucker for obscure underdogs. For example, from an array of composers that including Sorensen, no more than six other human beings have ever heard of, like one would a boutonnière, he’ll select his current favorite. He amuses me so much, that I was quite preoccupied when from around the corner came Knowlton’s younger son, to sidle up behind me.

    Slight, and fair haired, Donald was perhaps sixteen at the time. I suppose he chose me because I was the youngest at the table, and because I always greeted him with a smile. He touched my collar and whispered loudly, “Mis’er Irving, come with me. I want to show you something.”

    “Later, Donald” I murmured. But his expression, eager to the point of pain, got me off my chair, and excusing myself. However the frowning Knowlton was quick to chastise his son. “Donny, go away. Mr. Irving and I are talking.”

    Donald displayed a particular kind of fear, hurt, and anger which alarmed me. His expression reminded me of a childhood playmate whose father drank. But for the moment reassured by the bland face of Prof. Knowlton, I followed Donald.

    The boy led me back around the corner he’d come from, and via a side-door, in to the house. He then took me up a flight of stairs to his room, which, bare of the expected zoological, mechanical, or academic clutter, was very tidy. And taking from under his bed, a battered spiral notebook, he passed it to me.

    I leafed through the early pages full of penciled numbers, by no means neat, but not illegible. Some basic problems in addition and subtraction. But impatient, he snatched the book and thumbing deeply into it, then handed it back, pointing to an area on the left-hand page. Obedient, I looked only to find before me, his wobbly notation of the Fibonacci Sequence. That plaything of the best minds in each century, encrypted by Nature in cauliflowers and pine cones—1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21…

    Smiling I pointed to the sequence, and when Imurmured its terms, his own face spread with corresponding joy. “Yes, one an’ two, then two an’ three, then three an’ five…”

    Noting that his written sequence ended at 89, I pointed to the last terms. “Fifty-five and eighty-nine?” Blinking, he grimaced, and pressing fingers, which twitched, to his jaw, he retreated.  I waited while, with his skull in both hands, he sat on the smooth white bed.

    “A hun’red and forty-four!”

    I tried to smile, suddenly aching that this devoted mathematician should have to strain so hard to take the first steps of the science. He was still frowning and holding his head, as I continued to leaf through the later pages.

    “A hun’red and forty-four, Mis’er Irving, is twelve twelves,” said Donald. Dismounting from the  bed, he took the book, for the purpose of indicating another sequence: 1, 4, 9, 16, 25…

    Again, I was arrested by the point where the sequence stopped.

    “Fourteen times fourteen?” I murmured, almost at once regretting that I had. Retrieving the book, with a fresh frown, he retreated to the bed, and began drawing little squares and dotting them. I bent over him to see and realized that he was solving the problem through a crude yet ingenious system of incremental multiplication, similar to a written abacus, which I could only imagine he had invented himself. He seemed to have no notion of the usefulness of place value and columnar operations.

    “A hun’red and ninety-six,” he produced at last, straightening.

    “Who taught you to do this?”

    He blinked.

    “Donald, did your mother teach you to add fourteen fourteens like that?”

    “No.”

    “The one, two, three, five, eight, did your mother teach you that? Did anyone teach you that?”

    “No.”

    “Would you like to have someone teach you about numbers?”

    “No,” said Donald.

    “Have they tried?”

    “My math is different,” said Donald.

    I’’m not proud of it, but to be sure that Fuller wasn’t getting anywhere with his prodigy I needed to go back downstairs, and that’s where I went.

    Though Knowlton’s sarcastic appraisal lowered my estimation later, Gening, a statistician for whom I had the greatest respect in those days, was holding the floor when I arrived. In fact, as he laid out the merits of a statistician in Washington, it occurred to me that he possessed all those qualifications himself, only more so. Statistic analysis has never been my strength, and I have, perhaps exaggerated, respect for people who master standard deviation at an earlier age than I did.

    When Donald came up behind me again, his hand touched my collar just at the same moment that Knowlton snapped, “Donald!” Out-of-place against a noble old hawthorn hedge, the boy was wilting before my eyes, which prompted me to rise and, once more, follow him.

    Donald did not take me upstairs, but only out of earshot. “Mis’er Irving,” he said, “You di’n’t stay for what I wanted to tell you. Daddy’s judging the Roberts Prize for math. I want to enter wit’out him knowing. I can’t enter if he knows, you know. It wouldn’t be fair to the others.”

    “Donald, you have to be nominated, you see. That’s what those other mathematicians are here for today, to help your daddy pick somebody good out of the ones that have already been nominated.”

    “But they haven’t picked yet, have they?”

    “Well, no.”

    “Then couldn’t you nominate me, Mis’er Irving?”

    At this moment Ivy, the Knowltons’ maid, came in. “Mr. Irving, Mr. Knowlton begs you not to pay any mind to Donald. He’s been moody all week. Mr. Knowlton’s specially anxious to have your thoughts on the selection.”

    I hadn’t known how much I’d been hoping to hear this until it presented itself.

    “Certainly, Ivy. I’m coming.”

    I had my own definite idea about a candidate, but wouldn’t have brought it up without this encouragement. Silently thankful for Donald’s interruption, I took my iron-filigree chair and began.

    “What seems to me,” and gazing at each face, I saw how my sententious tone caught them by surprise, but they remained attentive to me, “is that we’ve an almost equal array of accomplishments before us. Who can say which achievement will really mean more to the science, and to progress. Which will really find its most useful expression, in the future? Burkhardt’s circuits? Pauley’s conchoidal surfaces? Who can tell? What we can estimate now, right here, is the human contribution, the dedication, the labor, that a particular candidate puts into their field. Begin with the expenditure of time. I happen to know that Tillson, for example…”

    Every face turned to the French doors, behind which were sounds of struggle, Ivy’s breathless protests, and Donald’s urgent, partly muffled exclamations.

    “Ivy! What’s the boy doing?” demanded Knowlton with an expression of stern distaste.

    “Oh, he won’t… won’t… stay inside like you asked,” she answered.

    “Donald!” barked Knowlton. “Stay inside, for heaven’s sake. Give me half an hour!… Ivy, tell him I’ll walk with him after…” and raising his watch,“three, we’ll go to the duck pond at three o’clock.”

    “No!” Donald’s protest was clearly audible. “I have one thing to say to Mis’er Irving, one thing! Mis’er Irving don’t mind, ask him, he don’t!”

    “Donald,” Knowlton’s voice adopted a tone I would not have defied as a boy, “Mr. Irving does mind. He is here on business. No, Irvie, please,” as I must have started to get up and go to the boy. “Donald, this isn’t like you. Why don’t you go upstairs and draw in your sketchbook for awhile?”

    The inner rumpus subsided. Ivy must have persuaded Donald to go upstairs. Frightened that my little opportunity would be lost, I frantically tried to pick up my thread, but picked up something quite unconnected, as in my nervousness, I blurted it out.

    “Knowlton, who teaches Donald his mathematics?”

    The broad, avuncular face was caught with surprise. “Donald? No one! They tried, years ago. Kate tried so hard back then. Hired a specially trained teacher from the elementary school. A tutor from the staff at her own girls’ college, stewed over the times tables with him herself for hours. It was no use. I doubt he can do more than addition on his fingers. We gave up when he turned twelve.”

    I stared into the mosaic tabletop,  as I felt my face became bright red. It must have been the sun on my neck that let me feel it. Looking up, I saw what none of the others could. Donald leaning out of a second-floor window, and waving his notebook. He pointed at me, then at himself. and nodded.

    “Mr. Irving,” Benedict’s smooth, cultured diction interrupted, “You were speaking of a ‘human contribution.’ Permit me to remind you that the true measure of the human contribution of a mathematician is his contribution to humans. The significance of discovery, be it scientific, mathematical, or any sort, lies exactly in the degree to which it can be appreciated and put to use by the human community. That is the purpose of the Roberts Prize. It is a social recognition, paid in hard social and economic currency, awarded in a structured scientific community.”

    I was distracted by Donald disappearing into the window and slamming it shut.

    “So that,” I rejoined weakly, “if one had to deliberate awarding either Newton or Leibnitz a prize for the discovery of calculus? The criterion wouldn’t be who had worked longer, or harder, or more independently. But only who published, got it out there, for human consumption, first.”

    Benedict seemed taken aback, but soon replied,“Isn’t that, Irving, the only honest way?”

    “But suppose we found a lost medieval manuscript that described calculus. One that had been lost since it was made, that had never done a soul any good. Would it be a scientific achievement?”

    Knowlton, of all of them, seemed readiest to agree. “Benedict! Think, man! A medieval Newton!”

    I looked up and saw a light, that pensive face regarding me through the window. The head that independently endeavored in a science which I suppose had been a source of torment to him. The head which produced that little system of symbolic multiplication, by a labor I simply couldn’t imagine.

    “No,” conceded Knowlton, laying his hands on the mosaic tabletop. “You’re right, Benny. It’s a social enterprise. Art is in the eye of the beholder.” He turned to Fuller. “Tell me again about the algorithm Beckridge used.”

    “Bother the Roberts Prize,” I grumbled. And it is then, that I left my chair.

  • Gradations of Evil: Neoliberalism and Neoconservatism

    Since the 1970s, the consistent presence of neoliberalism in politics alongside short, sharp bursts of neoconservatism have shaped our planet to a greater extent than any other ideologies. This has been to the detriment of all but a shrinking cast of billionaires that profit in periods of crisis, even during the pandemic. The prognosis is not good, even if the pandemic provides a porthole for the possibility of a realignment.

    Distinct Ideologies

    At one level, neoliberalism is extreme libertarianism, purged of its earlier socialist or anarchist underpinnings that were ultimately communitarian. Neoliberalism has had a tremendous influence on conservative thinking in recent times. Yet it is not conservatism in a traditional Burkean sense of conserving and preserving that which is good. Neoliberals do not advocate moderation, restraint, anti-extremism, perspective, nuance or that ill-defined word ‘balance,’ save in terms of conventional political rights such as liberty, privacy and freedom of movement.

    Contemporary neoliberals are not supporters of little people, and in effect operate against the interests of the ordinary working person in the name of economies of scale or other workplace rationalisations. It is unbridled free market extremism, engendering a tragedy of the commons.

    It did not begin this way. In its first iteration, the Austrian economist Friedrich Hayek warned against the excesses of socialism in The Road to Serfdom (1944). This was witnessed in Britain of the 1970’s with the three day working week, refuse on the streets, and the stranglehold of government by the unions. Many of Hayek’s points were valid, and I suspect he would be horrified at the political trajectory his ideas have taken. Similarly, Karly Marx was not responsible for and would have been horrified by Stalin.

    The initial idea behind libertarianism was for a combination of unregulated laissez faire economics, and the legitimation of a hedonistic lifestyle through laws and social policies. I see nothing wrong with hedonism per se – or for tolerance of human frailties more generally – and indeed have spent much of my professional career as a barrister upholding the rights of an accused to due process.

    Neoconservatism, on the other hand, is hardly even capitalist in outlook. It is really an offshoot of a more authoritarian leftism combined with a fundamentalist, morally self-righteous neocolonialism informed by ‘Christian’ values. It is associated in particular with the administrations of George W. Bush, with Paul Wolfowitz and Richard Perle its most prominent ideologues.

    Left to right: Paul Wolfowitz, Donald Rumsfeld and George W. Bush.

    Many neoconservatives made an ideological journey from the anti-Stalinist left to the camp of American conservatism during the 1960s and 1970s, with its intellectual roots in the magazine Commentary, edited by Norman Podhoretz. But anti-Stalinist does not imply a respect for human rights or the rule of law; its followers’ ambitions were simply global rather than limited to a particular country, as was the case with Stalin’s approach.

    Neoconservatism adopts the unregulated free market, but not libertarian permissiveness or due process or a respect for international law: the ends would justify any means. That is what makes it distinctly evil. It attracted money from Christian fundamentalist and the rapture movement and cohabited with authoritarian academics.

    Thus, there is a world of difference between former Supreme Court Justice Jonathan Sumption, a defender of human rights and free markets, and Tony Blair, the UK’s foremost neoconservatives. Blair is a fundamentalist Christian, a self-deluding mediocrity, who exported a destabilising jihadist war based on an absurd world view and sold it as a humanitarian intervention. He cannot really be described as a socialist – although state bureaucracies expanded massively under his New Labour – but nor is he a genuine conservative. He is simply a telegenic opportunist who became drunk on power.

    His neocon influencers were Bush and Irish-American pseudo intellectuals like Daniel Moynihan, who fused Christian jihadism with racist fundamentalism and veneration of a deregulated market. The worst of all possible worlds.

    Neoliberal Permissiveness

    While neoliberals cock a snoop at Christian fundamentalism, some perhaps even going so far as to oppose the war in Iraq, an inbuilt resistance to state intervention means neoliberals such as even Barack Obama, did nothing to heal the wounds, or address the causes of discontent in the developing world.

    I suspect the neoliberal endorsement of liberties and indulgence has in one sense been counterproductive. It may have not started with bad intentions. All were in favour of lifestyle ‘choices’: gay and transgender rights, sexual freedoms and shifting the agenda of equality towards formal equality rather than substantive equality. This involved superficial gestures such as including sufficient mixed race women in boardrooms but keeping the cleaners in the poverty trap.

    The gender equity and transgender lobby now often act in a sinister way, and represent a branch of neoconservative in all its puritanical absurdity. ‘No platforming’ esteemed academics like Germaine Greer steers young people into sexual confusion and away from political engagement. It is a disaster emanating from a preening devotion to political correctness.

    The sponsorship of the gender equity agenda by corporate America negates the real human rights agenda. These companies do not tend to fund advocates of social and economic justice, including rights to housing, healthcare and a clean, safe and aesthetically pleasing environment.

    The privatisation of healthcare and even the Bismarckean welfare state began largely under Nixon in the U.S., where neoliberalism first evolved. It was replaced by an insistence that people exercise personal and professional responsibility, which masked a dismantling of social supports.

    ‘Even Richard Nixon’s Got Soul’ (but not William F. Buckley)

    Nixon, a more sympathetic figure in hindsight – at least by comparison with latter day Republicans – was forced into healthcare privatisation by lobby groups from the medical profession, bringing into being the anti-health care system of America, where in 2018 over 17% of the country’s resources devoted to healthcare, yet it has one of the lowest life expectancies in the OECD. Moreover, industry sponsors regularly renege on private health care entitlements, through the machinations of unscrupulous lawyers. The fact of having a health care plan in the U.S. is no guarantee it will pay out.

    Nixon had his doubts and did not buy into the ideology wholesale, but by the time of Ronald Reagan’s victory in 1980 the neoliberals were firmly in the ascendancy, with disastrous consequences for Americans, as Reagan’s advisor David Stockman describes in The Triumph of Politics: Why the Reagan Revolution Failed (1986).

    A crucial neoliberal mastermind was William F. Buckley, the satanic ideologue of modern U.S. conservatism, who ostensibly venerated Edmund Burke, but subverted Burkean conservatism. Buckley helped establish the new philosophy of neoliberalism through texts such as God and Man in Yale (1953), and through his editorial of the Republican Party intellectual rag The National Review.

    Buckley moved conservatism away from the spirit of Burke’s community of souls, towards naked self-interest. This has led to the undermining, and now the actual buying of the state apparatus by the corporatocracy. Thus, under Buckleys stewardship conservatism mutated into a form of individualism tat undermined states.

    Buckley’s brilliant rhetoric was only matched by his repulsive qualities as a human being. This is all-too-evident in the 2015 documentary Best of Enemies made about his media punditry alongside the almost equally contemptible Gore Vidal during the 1968 American election. Buckley had an enormous, understated, influence in moving the Republican Party, via Reagan, towards libertarianism, and the disaster capitalism now in vogue. Buckley in fact co-opted Russell Kirk, the Burkean conservative author of The Conservative Mind: From Burke to Eliot (1953) onto The National Review, seemingly in order to get him ‘on message.’

    Yet the Republican Party and indeed much of the present Conservative party in the UK are not conservatives in the Burkean sense as aforementioned. They have become neoliberal fanatics, which is far from the origins of the paternalistic conservatism that emerged in Britain the late eighteenth century.

    Why Edmund Burke Provides a Counterweight

    Edmund Burke was a moderate conservative in the Benjamin Disraeli mould, who sought to preserve traditions he believed worth maintaining. His career was an idiosyncratic mixture of radicalism and abiding by conventions, and he believed in the desirability of change but not change for its own sake. Change should come about incrementally he believed, and with due regard to tradition; his antennae were attuned to unintended consequences.

    Edmund Burke.

    Contemporary neoliberalism has engendered a form of corporate fascism that mandates extreme conformity in working days that stretch into long evening. I doubt Burke would endorse its excesses. He believed in a form of market capitalism favouring small enterprise, as do I too. Burke was also anti-monopolist and would see dominant multinational firms, and perhaps the European Union, as anathema to the capitalism he favoured.

    Neoliberalism should not therefore be equated with traditional conservatism. Indeed if Edmund Burke was around today he might pen a text entitled: Reflections on Imminent Social and Economic Breakdown!

    Burke of course, unlike adherents of neoliberalism believed in the concept of a community, involving associative obligations and reciprocal interactions. A moral and networked community in other words. The neoliberal mentality, on the other hand, leads towards social atomisation and fragmentation, or as Margaret Thatcher famously put it: “There is no such thing as society only individuals.

    Thatcherism is contrary to the Burkean ethos. I suspect that in modern times Burke would be regarded as a Keynesian capitalist, which is precisely what Buckley was attacking in God and Man in Yale. Burke ideas also align with environmentalists as he had a sense of community as inter-generational:

    Society becomes a partnership not only between those who are living, but between those who are living, those who are dead, and those who are to be born.

    He held a defined sense of the public good that was not just where the dice landed in the casino capitalism of the market. Further, though a passionate advocate of rights and liberties he was also a passionate advocate of restraint and moderation. He believed that the extension of rights should not extend to untrammelled liberties and licentious anarchy.

    Although a conservative in terms of his invocation of habit, tradition and social order, and also with his belief in institutional contribution and preservation – as well as measures of fiscal rectitude – he was, conversely, also its opponent of in other respects.

    One drawback to Burke as an intellectual, in my view, was his devotion to religion. Born in Ireland to a Protestant father and Catholic mother, noxious Irish Catholicism shaped him, diminishing his contribution; although one cannot say that he had the religious zealotry of a neoconservative.

    The Beginning of the End of History

    The Bushman-Blairite wars were an exercise in duplicity in shocking breach of international law. There were no smoking guns or development of nuclear weaponry in Iraq. It was Christian jihadism led by a latter-day Crusaders, including telegenic Tony that most lightweight of British gentlemen.

    Neoconservatism is a nefarious dysfunctional ideology that suits the interests of the powerful, which tragically became the consensus. A Dictionary of Received Ideas. There would be no comeuppance for Tony or George Dubya, who now blithely paints portraits of migrants, with all irony seemingly lost on him.

    In Britain, Brexit may lead to the gradual dismantling of the Blairite welfare state, even after the Johnson health care crisis, with the chronic under-resourcing and deregulation of the NHS now laid bare by the pandemic. This applies to all other countries, Italy most obviously, which diverted resources from essential services under neoliberal austerity measures. Meanwhile we see America on the brink of anarchy and civil insurrection due to the triumph of these ideas with the election of Donald Trump in 2016, who is the symptom of a very deep malaise.

    The combination of neoconservatism and neoliberalism is a far more deadly virus than Covid-19, which has simply exposed the soft underbelly of societies afflicted by its ravages. From a neoliberal point of view healthcare or a clean environment are not rights but entitlements and part of a libertarian agenda.

    The lack of regulation of spiraling accommodation and rental costs in the US and elsewhere brings a situation where, for the vast majority, outright ownership of property is a myth. Ostensibly, high salaries are hoovered up in hyper-inflated rents and mortgages subject to repossessions by vulture funds.

    The cost of living is prohibitive, and cramped accommodation makes the possibility of a decent family life almost impossible for most, engendering a dysfunctional humanity. Inequalities, short term contracts, and punishingly long working hours destroy mental health, decrease productivity and render family life – save for a privileged few – a thing of the past. The long-term effects on children are potentially catastrophic.

    This leads to short-termism and prevents even a modicum of forward planning for most people, who must live from one pay cheque to the next.

    Lacking objectivity and perspective, as we struggle for survival in subhuman working conditions that undermine the quality of life, decline arrives in increments. This leads to petty corruption and greed, in a dog-eat-dog universe where the elderly are replaced once they have outlived their usefulness. Their fate is increasingly to be place in decidedly uncaring privatized nursing homes, or spend their last moments on a trolley in an underfunded hospital.

    Nozick the Great Ideologue of Neo-Liberalism

    Anarchy, State, Utopia (1974) by Robert Nozick was a subversive reaction to John Rawl’s A Theory of Justice who had promoted a theory of economic justice. It became a neoliberal bible. Nozick suggested that government intervention, meaning taxation, beyond the enforcement of contracts and the control of crime is akin to slavery or theft. I own my body, he argues, so I therefore own everything my body produces, and if the state takes that which I produce away from me it enslaves me or – more elegantly – ‘socialism forbids consenting acts between capitalist adults.’

    The egregious fault with his argument is that it does not follow that because you own your body you own everything you produce. Inequalities are inbuilt into capitalism as David Ricardo’s Labour Theory of Value demonstrated. It also does not allow for any understanding of the human condition, other than one informed by radically disaggregated and individualistic behaviour, devoid of co-operation and community.

    At the time many thought that him daft, and that his ideas could not be implemented as they would lead to a socially dislocated society. It was even suggested that Anarchy, State; Utopia was an elebatorate joke, or part of an intellectual game. Indeed, Nozick was fond of scholarly conceits and subsequently wrote a book with a radically different thesis. So perhaps he did not take what he said seriously. Others did unfortunately.

    The consequences have been economic collapse and surging inequality, the gradual destruction of the middle class, and the privatisation and diminution in healthcare as a right, as well as homelessness and mass evictions

    The University of Chicago with its two highly placed judges in Easterbrook (dangling for a Supreme Court judgeship) and the truly nefarious ‘most cited’ legal scholar in the world Richard Posner, have also been responsible for much of the damage.

    Here we have the perfect reductio ad absurdum: all of human activity is reduced to the wealth maximisation thesis. Thus rape arises out of scarcity of resources: it is expensive for men to purchase sex so we should have a de-regulated prostitution market according to Posner; or adoption should be de-regulated to deal with a competitive baby market where the product can be purchased by the consumer. Such nonsense is reminiscent of Jonathan Swift’s Modest Proposal (1729) in which he satirizes an earlier version of neoliberalism, with the tongue-in-cheek suggestion that it would serve the polity to kill excess babies for economic gain.

    The Middle Way

    Keynes fell out of fashion because of the stranglehold of unionism and the imposition of socialist dogma in the 1970s. This created ‘a market’ for the work of the Chicago School and trickledown economics characterised by fetishist privatisation, deregulation and the elimination of state subsidies. In the late 1970s a retreat by the state made some sense, but the correction turned into an ongoing campaign. The market may have seemed like a score counter that could be tamed for human purposes. No longer. It is the recipe for inequality

    Naomi Klein in her bestseller The Shock Doctrine (2007) analyses the growth and development of neoliberalism across the world. She dubs the economic paradigm ‘disaster capitalism’, homing in on how these crises and others are used to justify further disaster prescriptions. She quotes Hayek’s disciple Milton Friedman:

    Only a crisis – actual or perceived – produces real change. When that crisis occurs, the actions that are taken depend on the ideas that are lying around. That, I believe, is our basic function: to develop alternatives to existing policies, to keep them alive and available until the politically impossible becomes politically inevitable.

    Naomi Klein.

    That is precisely where neoconservatism and neoliberalism coincide. Proto-neoconservatives remove the democratically elected Allende regime and replace him with Pinochet, before neo-liberal reforms open up the country for exploitation, washing their hands of any blood.

    Yet all the best evidence indicates that stable growth occurs in Nordic and Middle European social democratic countries. There is a tangible link between Keynesian economics and sustainable redistributed growth. Neoliberalism does not generate sustainable growth, as opposed to wealth for the few, and does not provide for redistribution. In effect it is a recipe for diminished human welfare, less good for the greatest number.

    Where Are We Now

    The Nobel Prize winning economist Joseph Stieglitz famously described our present state of affairs as ‘Socialism for the rich capitalism for the poor’. And the new era of state and corporate feudal control and terror we have entered into will accentuate these trends. Thus during this pandemic some of the wealthiest individuals in the world have actually increased their wealth.

    A return to the methodology of neoconservatism can be seen in the emergency legislation that has passed through the parliaments of U.K. and Ireland. In theory these are designed to confront an immediate emergency, but will become embedded, and spiral out of control just as we have with counter terrorism legislation. Enforcing self-isolation and ‘track and trace’ become new norms inflicted by neoconservatives and consented to by neoliberals, many of whom with notable exceptions such as Lord Sumption, forget their libertarian origins as long as the dosh keeps rolling in. Notably Tony Blair is awake to new opportunities.

    The very phrase ‘social isolation’ is problematic and euphemistic – like ‘ethnic cleansing’ or ‘military intelligence,’ a contradiction in terms. In fact self-isolation suits a silo bubble of social atomisation and dealing with people or problems one by one by state authorities. We risk a descent into a new barbarism not least due to the pernicious effects of decades of privatization.

    The Indian activist Arundhati Roy demonstrates how neoliberalism and environmental damage have gone hand-in-glove in her book Capitalism: a Ghost Story (Verso 2014). There are the mass evictions in India of ‘surplus population’ (a truly evil capitalism coining). The street vendors, rickshaw riders, the small shops and business people, and not least the suicide of 250,000 farmers.

    This forced displacement, often from rural areas to cities, augments the channelling of wealth towards the one percent plutocracy controlling India.

    It has been suggested by John Gray and Roy herself that the pandemic may lead to a rethink. I fear not. In fact, rather than becoming, as Roy puts it, a porthole to a sustainable and fair existence for all, I fear increased atomization, semi-permanent social distancing, diminishing social supports and the insidious undermining of civil liberties, supported by a scared and soma-induced population.

    We are now entering an age of corporate feudalism and of mercantile state control with sub Malthusian ideas gaining traction. It is an age of extremism nourished by religious fundamentalism. It is a time for the convergence of Burkean conservatism with Habermasean moderate socialism to implement ideas informed by traditions of decency and the green agenda. It is a time for sustainable personal and societal living to be realised.

  • Poetry – Kevin Higgins

    After Recent Unfortunate Results

    Next election onwards,
    there’ll be a second vote for those
    who turn up with, under their arm,
    a print copy of one of the larger newspapers
    and answer a few unobtrusive questions
    to prove they’ve consumed it correctly.

    A third for those who also present receipts
    that show they’ve dined sufficiently
    in restaurants with at least four stars,
    and a note from the maitre d
    that they know their way around the cutlery.

    A fourth for the lucky few in possession – to boot –
    of a ticket for one of those pampering spas
    at which one temporarily discards
    worldly things to have one’s darker parts
    irrigated of all subversive thoughts.

    So when all’s said and counted,
    people who shouldn’t matter
    can go back to not mattering.

  • Poetry – Oliver Tickell

    Five Poems

    trampled, rain-sodden the leaves
    brown, green, yellow and
    a crimson gilded

    wings flapping to the wind
    above the trees
    the joy of the storm pigeon

    juicy and sharp
    the first few blackberries
    summer’s sweetness yet to come

    bounteous blackberries along the brook
    warm and sweet they meet my lips

    purple stained, thorn pierced
    still my hands reach out for more
    juice-swollen berries

     

    Oliver Tickell is a writer, journalist, poet, and former editor of The Ecologist, living near the river Thames in Oxford