Pollard proposes Killing Palestinian Prisoners until Shalit freed

Haaretz, 2009.12.02

Convicted Israeli spy [Jewish-American Traitor] Jonathan Pollard made clear that he strongly opposed the prisoner exchange deal to free Israel Defense Forces soldier Gilad Shalit, reported the Jerusalem Post on Wednesday.

Pollard has been in an American jail for over 20 years for spying for Israel while serving as a U.S. Navy intelligence analyst.

Pollard met with Likud activists Moshe Feiglin and Shmuel Sackett at his prison in North Carolina.

Instead of talking about freeing Palestinian prisoners, Pollard said, “Netanyahu should take the list of prisoners Hamas requested and kill one of them every day until they release Gilad from prison.”

In a letter sent to the Jerusalem post and published last week, Pollard wrote, “Why is the life of one Israeli captive deemed so precious that Israel’s leaders are willing to dispense with all logic and morality in order to redeem him?”

“As long as Israeli leaders demonstrate a unanimous will to exploit the value of rescuing one captive because it suits their political ends, while simultaneously ignoring another captive, there can be no national honor, nor national self-respect,” the letter said.

An “Israeli spy”? Of course he did spy for Israel. But also for Iran and the Soviets and anybody else who’d pay him.

Ironically, if he was just described as “a spy motivated by cash” he’d get less sympathy from Americans than calling him “an Israeli spy”.

His goal here is to get Israelis to put pressure on Satanyahoo etc to put pressure on their bitch Obama.

They should let Pollard “return” to his “homeland”. It would be on every news show for weeks and talked about from coast to coast. Then Americans would then realize who’s in charge.

I’m sure the Israelis could blackmail some politician(s) or bureaucrat(s) into releasing Pollard, but don’t want him freed, because of the bad press it would cause for Israel. Don’t be fooled. The Israelis don’t want him freed. They wish he’d just shut up and die so they can use him for propaganda in Israel, but stop giving Americans the idea that Jews should be treated with suspicion. The Zionsts leaders just go through the motions, pretending to care about Pollard,  to inspire Jews into seeing themselves as “yet again betrayed [sic] by the goyim!”

Pollard would happily watch Shalit get slowly tortured to death if he could somehow profit from it.

Another Gilad — Gilad Atzmon — who, I’m sure, cares about Gilad Shalit more than the likes of Pollard or Satanyahoo do — says:

“The ideology that brought carnage on Iraq and Palestine is the same ideology that makes you lose your home tomorrow.”

“As the picture of the current economic disaster becomes ever more clear, it becomes rather obvious, to me at least, that the ideology and the people who are directly responsible for the mass killing of millions of Iraqis and the displacement of many other millions, the people who keep the Palestinians starved behind walls, are unfortunately very much the same people who are responsible for a class genocide of millions of disenfranchised Americans who are now on the brink of total dispossession.”

John Donne

Meditation 17: Devotions upon Emergent Occasions

“No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were. Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee…”

Batter my heart, three person’d God; for, you
As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow mee,’and bend
Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.
I, like an usurpt towne, to’another due,
Labour to’admit you, but Oh, to no end,
Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,
But is captiv’d, and proves weake or untrue.
Yet dearely’I love you,’and would be loved faine,
But am betroth’d unto your enemie:
Divorce mee,’untie, or breake that knot againe;
Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I
Except you’enthrall mee, never shall be free,
Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.

—John Donne, The Complete Poetry and Selected Prose of John Donne (The Modern Library, 1952) p. 252.

“The sonnet does not build toward union with God, either bodily or spiritually. Instead, it builds toward personal regeneration. The demands to be taken, conquered, imprisoned, enthralled, and ravished are ultimately expressions of the fundamental desire that pulsates throughout these poems as a whole” [Ramie Targoff, John Donne: Body and Soul (University of Chicago, 2009) p. 123].

“O, what words but thine, can expresse the inexpressible texture, and composition of thy word; in which, to one man, that argument that binds his faith to beleeve that to bee the Word of God, is the reverent simplicity of the Word, and to another, the majesty of the Word; and in which two men, equally pious, may meet, and one wonder, that all should not understand it, and the other, as much, that any man should.”

—John Donne (1572–1631), The Complete Poetry and Selected Prose of John Donne (The Modern Library, 1952) p. 446.

Se o poema de  John Donne foi uma das coisas que inspirou o slogan deste blog e todo o conceito meia boca que o envolve, nada mais justo que o primeiro post seja dedicado a ele. É claro que seria muito fácil e sem sal adicionar um vídeo bem feito, com fortes emoções que só o Power Point e uma trilha popular conseguem tirar da gente. Mas não. Aqui não é pra isso. O legal está no caseiro. Na produção simples, infame, que beira a tosquice. Por que é delas que saem as melhores experiências. Ou as piores, é verdade. Os quadros tortos na parede e as pilhas de papéis nas mesas registram  as pessoas como elas são e é ai que as outras que não têm o que fazer a não ser ver vídeos na internet, se identificam. Não existe fórmula, mas sabemos que este é o primeiro passo para que todas elas se sintam unidas e mebros de um todo.

PS – Você, que é um porre, contou as linhas e viu que há, de fato, onze, como propoõe o blog, vá procurar algo de útil pra fazer.

I came to that roaming on the internet just now.

One person had commented saying “No man is an island.”

…

Strong quote, makes you think about things. It’s actually the title of a poem by John Donne (1572-1631)

No man is an island entire of itself; every man
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe
is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as any manner of thy friends or of thine
own were; any man’s death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

I cannot but agree. Copenhagen… in just a few weeks.
Images of such events like the typhoon in Bangladesh (video above)  call for countries to stop being so focused on themselves (i.e. China saying it will reject pollution targets for itself, US complaining about the costs of attaining such targets), but start to work towards the common good. People in such countries are already suffering from climate change. Put yourself in their situation… I can almost hear the wind.

Demasiado longo para ser aqui reproduzido, demasiado complexo para ser por mim entendido, pairam em mim quatro versos de um terrível poema cuja metafísica invoca a reflexão de um rosto por todas as superfícies.

De todos os sentidos possíveis, escolho apenas  aquele que é meu, o menos temporal, menos específico. E, claro, o mais mundano.

She, she is dead; she’s dead: when thou knowest this,
Thou knowest how poor a trifling thing man is,
And learn’st thus much by our anatomy,
The heart being perish’d, no part can be free.

An Anatomy of the World

[um dos "Aniversários" de John Donne, que continua, continua]

]]> http://solnushka.wordpress.com/2009/11/29/on-the-son-rising/ Sun, 29 Nov 2009 22:34:03 +0000 Solnushka http://solnushka.wordpress.com/2009/11/29/on-the-son-rising/

BUSY young fool, unruly Son,
Why dost thou thus,
Through walls, and through duvets, call on me?
Must to thy motions Mama’s seasons run?
Saucy pedantic babe, go chide
Late Papas and sour Babushkas,
Go tell thy tricycle that the Prince will ride,
Call Clapham’s commuters to harvest offices;
Mama’s sleeps, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy shouts so reverend, and so strong
Why should’st thou think?
I could dampen and cloud them with a pillow,
But that I would not lose your sound for long,
Despite my screams have deafened thine.

Look, and to-morrow late tell me,
Whether both th’ tippy trucks of spice and mine
Be where I left’st them, or lie here now with me.
Ask for those toys whom thou saw’st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, “All here in one bed lay.”

Thee – all toddler, and all in a state I;
Nothing else is;
Toddlers do but play with stacking cups; compared to this,
All honour’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, Son, art half again happy as me,
In that the world’s contracted thus;
Thine age asks constant attention, and since thy duties be
To wake the world, that’s done in waking me.

Oh go on then, come here to me… now thou art everywhere;
This bed thy trampoline is, these walls thy easel.

With apologies to John Donne and The Sun Rising, and thanks to the inspiration of Niqui’s latest Favourite Friday and Johnny Pez’ Tolkien pastiche.

 Sevgili Psikiatristim,

Uzun bir yolda yürümek mi, yoksa yolu sırtına alıp her şeyi, tüm olasılıkları ve tüm olanaksızlıkları silmek mi irade sahibi olmak? Bu soru aklıma takılalıberidir uyuyamaz oldum. Uyumsuz da oldum üstelik. Sonu olduğu bilinen bir yolda yürümek ve işte bunu bir amaç edinmek. Amaç sona varmak mı, yoksa yolda yürümek mi? Aziz dostum Takamura Kootaro, “Benim önümde yol yok. Ben yürüdükçe arkamda yol oluşuyor” dememiş miydi? Nerde görülmüş sorulara sorularla yanıt bulunabileceği? Görülmüş işte; Doğru soruyu bilmiyoruz ki bulalım doğru cevabı. Hep sorular soruyor ve bu sorulara hep yenilerini ekliyoruz. Peki bulsak ne olacak yanıtı? Hiç. Sırtına almak yolu ve öyle durmak. Yol olmazsa yürünmez ya…

Yürünür aslında. Yolsuz da yürünür. Yolsuzluk kimilerinin mesleğidir hatta. Yol olmadığı halde yürürler onlar.

Umutsuzluğa kapılmak istemiyorum. Beni naklettikleri bu yeni açık hava tımarhanesi gerçekten çok güzel. Ve üstelik Carlo Cotarelli de her şeyin yoluna gireceğini söyledi. Burada çok mutluyum sevgili psikiatristim. Burası yazan, üreten, bütün gün okuyan filozoflarla ve sanatçılarla dolu. Bütün günümü kütüphanede geçiriyorum. Oradaki insanlarla iletişim kurmaktan çekiniyorum ama çünkü onlar her zaman meşgul ve ben de onları rahatsız etmek istemiyorum, bazen de yemek yemek istemiyorum.

Dün bir örümcekle konuştum sevgili psikiatristim ben aslında bir artistim. Örümcek bana dedi ki: “Buradan kaçmanın yolunu biliyorum ben. Eğer kaçmak istersen tarif edebilirim sana.”

Ama ben kaçmak istemiyordum sevgili psikiatristim ve bu yüzden de ona şöyle dedim: “Neden kaçayım ki buradan? Burada her şey istediğim gibi. Bu ülkeyi seviyorum ben. Etrafta yazan, çizen okuyan insanları gördükçe kendimi bir rüyadaymış gibi hissediyorum. Onlar farkında olmasalar da bu ülke dünyanın en güzel ülkesi.”

Örümcek: “Sen delisin!” dedi ve gitti.

Benim bir deli olduğumu nereden anlamıştı acaba?

Sevgili Psikiatristim,

Bu gün sana çok önemli bir haberim var. Sabahleyin yolda yürürken yerde bir felsefe dergisi buldum. Adı şeydi sanırım, hah, SEDATİF ya da PROSPEKTÜS, öyle bir şeyler işte; hangisinin derginin adı olduğunu tam anlayamadım. Geçen gün de VALIUM adında bir edebiyat dergisi bulmuştum yemekhanede. Her neyse bu sabah bulduğum felsefe dergisinde ne yazıyordu biliyor musun? Yazıyordu ki, “yemeklerden sonra günde bir, duruma göre iki tablet”. Bu ne demek şimdi? Ben bunu şöyle yorumladım sevgili psikiatristim: Yemeklerden sonra gün bir gelirse, duruma göre iki tablet. Yani sanırım demek isteniyor ki eğer bir gün yemek stoklarımız tükenirse tablet şeklindeki bir maddeden günde iki adet yiyerek besleneceğiz. Gelecekte bu olacak yani sevgili psikiatristim… Yemek stoklarımız tükenecek ve biz de tabletlerle besleneceğiz.

Ah! Ne güzel bir ülke burası, insan her gün yeni şeyler öğreniyor. Felsefeyle, edebiyatla, sanatla iç içe bir yaşam. Adeta içi çilekli bu yaşamın.

Ama size sormak istiyorum sevgili psikiatristim; O örümcek benim bir deli olduğumu nereden anladı?

Sevgili Psikiatristim,

 Dün çok sevdiğim bir arkadaşım bana gelip yazdığı şiiri gösterdi ve elma kurtlarının sosyal yaşamı üzerine yazmakta olduğu kitabından bahsetti. Elma kurtlarının çok sosyal yaratıklar olduğunu ve onların dinine göre her hafta sonu birinin elmasında buluşup elma çayı içmek zorunda olduklarını biliyor muydunuz sevgili psikiatristim?

Herneyse, şimdi ben size bu arkadaşımın yazdığı şiiri okuyacağım sevgili psikiatristim:

“Öldürecekler beni! Öldürecekler beni!

Elmalarındaki kurdu öldürdüm diye öldürecekler beni.

Dünyanın bütün elma kurtlarını toplayıp üstüme salacaklar.

Elma kurtları beni yiyecek bitirecek. Bütün elmalara ölüm…

Beni öldürecekler! Beni öldür!”

Nasıl sevgili psikiatristim, beğendiniz mi dostum Pavlov’un şiirini?

O örümcek meselesiyle ilgili yanıtınızı da bekliyorum hala… Gittikçe kafamı bozuyor o örümcek meselesi. Nerden bilebilir ki benim deli olduğumu? Kim söyledi acaba ona? Bana cenneti ne zaman göstereceksiniz sevgili psikiatristim? 

Mektuplaşanlar-2

Sevgili John Donne,

Ne kadar doğru bir laf etmişsin “her şey paramparça, tutarlılığın emaresi bile yok” demekle. Evet sevgili Con(sana kısaca Con diyebilirim herhalde, öyle değil mi sevgili Con?) seninle ilk konuşmamızla son konuşmamız arasındaki konuşmalardan birinde etmiştin bu lafı. O zamanlar oldukça doğru gelmişti bana bu laf, hala daha da öyle geliyor zaten. Ne var ki, geçen gün filozof arkadaşlarımdan biri bana senin bu dünyaca ünlü lafının aslında düşünülmeden söylenmiş bir laf olduğunu, zira her şeyin son derece tutarlı ve hatta durağanlık izlenimi verecek derecede bir bütünlük teşkil ettiğini söyledi. Bilemiyorum sevgili Con, yani mesela bu aralar kafamdaki düşünceler o kadar parça parça ki, neyin doğru neyin yanlış olduğunu bilemiyorum. Üstelik siyasi yaşamım da altüst olmuş vaziyette. Biliyorsun son seçimlerde “hayali ihracatçı” ve “beyaz kadın ticaretiyle uğraşan kimse” olduğumu ortaya çıkarıp beni yemişlerdi. Karım bile oy vermemişti bana. Oysa seninle ben ne kadar da umutluyduk gençken, öyle değil mi sevgili Con?

Eğer bugün hala daha hayattaysam bu senin sayendedir sevgili Con. Bana asıl işimin politikacılık değil ruh doktorluğu olduğunu hep sen hatırlattın. Bana yazdığın o “Sevgili Psikiatristim”le başlayan mektuplar inan ki benim için sandığından çok daha önemli ve sandığından çok daha büyük birer mutluluk kaynağıydılar. Seninle aramızdaki ilişki, gittikçe bir hasta doktor ilişkisinden çok, bir arkadaşlık ilişkisine dönüşmüştü. Zaten öyle olmasaydı ben hastaneden ayrılıp politikaya atıldıktan sonra yazışmaya devam eder miydik hiç?

Unutmadan söyleyeyim, bu aralar hayatımda bir kadın var sevgili Con. Senin kadınları sevmediğini biliyorum ama bunu görsen eminim sen de severdin. Nasıl ki sen diye tabir ettiğin o yerde mutlusun, ben de işte belki de en az senin kadar ve dünyanın bütün yürüyüşleri ve uzayabildiği kadar uzayan yolları kadar seviyorum onu ve o kadar mutluyum. Sana cenneti ben gösteremem sevgili Con. Ben kendi cennetimi kendim yaratırım, sen de kendin yaratacaksın kendi cennetini. Benim en ufak bir müdahalem cehenneme çevirir en derin cenneti bile… Zira bir başka dünyayım ben ve nedense hiç kucaklaşamaz farklı dünyalar.

Dostun Takamuro’nun, önünde yol olmadığını, o yürüdükçe yolun arkasında oluştuğunu söylemesinden daha öteye söz yok sanırım özgürlüğün ne mene bir şey olduğu üzerine söylenebilecek. Önümde bir yol göremiyorum artık. Yoksa, yoksa sevgili Con, gerçekten de umudun tükendiği yerde mi başlar asıl yürüyüş?  Asıl o zaman mı gerçekten irade sahibi oluruz? Ancak önümüzde bir yol olmazsa mı çizebiliriz yürüyeceğimiz yolu?

Evet sevgili Con, kendi yazgımızı yazmanın tek yolu öncelikle bizim yürümemiz için çizilmiş olduğu iddia edilen yolları silmektir yeryüzünden. Umut tükenmeden ne ümit edebilmenin değerini anlayabiliriz, ne de kendimiz olmayı başarabiliriz.

Paramparça etmişler insanların hayatlarını. Çizilen yolun dışında yürümek yasak. Bir adım, bir adım daha ama hep ince bir ayarla önceden belirlenmiş nereye basacağımız. “Yolun biraz dışına çıkarsan, dünyadan düşersin!” iddia bu, tehdit bu! Ama ben dünyadan düşmeyi yeğlerim dünyada düşkün bir yaratık olarak yaşamaktansa… Öyle dünyaya fırlatılmış bir yaratık olmak istemiyorum ben. Kendi ayaklarım üzerinde durmak ve attığım her adımın sorumlusu olmak istiyorum.  Yürüyüşümün benim kontrolüm altında olmasını istiyorum. Gözlerim kapalıyken özgür olmak değil benim istediğim; gözlerim açıkken ve önümü görebildiğim halde özgür olmak istiyorum ben. Ben yürüyüşüme bindiğimde kendi istediğim yönde ilerlemek arzusundayım sevgili Con.

Dostun Takamuro Kootaro da öyleydi, sen de öylesin değil mi sevgili Con?!

Mektuplaşanlar-3 

Sevgili Psikiatristim,

Dün akşam bir aşk daha yenildi hayata; bir dünya daha yıkıldı. Derslerde neyi öğretmeye çalışıyorlardı bizlere? İki nokta arsındaki en kısa mesafenin düz bir çizgi olduğunu mu? Yoksa bir üçgenin üç kenarı olduğunu mu? Sonucun nedenden önce gelemeyeceğini mi yoksa? Yoksa ışığın suya girerken kaç derecelik bir açıyla kırıldığını mı? Peki neden bize üç nokta arasındaki en kısa mesafenin bir üçgen olabileceğini düşünmeyi öğretmediler hiç?

Olasılıklardan korkmamakta fayda var. Neden bizim prizmanın odak noktasının, o tam merkezdeki noktanın önemi üzerine düşünmemize izin vermiyorlar? Ne sakıncası olabilir ki bunun? Derinliklere dalmamızdan korkuyorlar da ondan. Bir örümcek ağı gibidir kitle; her an dağılabilir. Ama dağılmazsa da çok sağlam bir ağdır, sinekleri o tutar. Devlet, işte bu ağdan çıkan bir örümcektir. O ağın yakaladığı sineklerle beslenir devlet. Yakalamayın bakalım sinek minek, kalır mı örümcek mörümcek. Sizsiniz devleti de devletin iktidarını da besleyen. Prizma gibidir işte bu sistem. Ağa benzer prizma. Nasıl ki ağ dağılırsa örümcek ölür, işte prizma da dağılırsa özünü kaybeder ve odak noktası yok olur.

Sayenizde bir aşk daha yenildi dünyaya, ben bir adım gerideydim hep, bir dünya daha dayadı başını hayatın omzuna, bir hayat daha yıkıldı dünyanın aşkına…

Sessizlikten bile öğrenilecek çok şey vardır sevgili psikiatristim. Duymak suretiyle algılamak, anlamak, kulaklarla düşünmek veya düşüncenin kulak yoluyla gerçekleşmesi, yaşadığının ne olduğunu anlamak; yokuş aşağı tırmanmanın tadına varmak; deforme olmak belki; belki aç kalmak; belki bir dünya da bu gece atacak hayatın ayaklarını omzuna. Belki sonra dünya misyonere yatacak. Belki de biz sadece tüm bunları bir anahtar deliğinden izleyen röntgenciler olacağız. Ama kimse bilmeyecek; bir tek o görecek. Bir tek o görecek çünkü o bizim içimizdeki odak noktası olacak ve biz sadece basit birer çizgi olacağız… Kırık bir prizmadan yayılan ışık huzmeleri olacağız… Ama birleştiğimiz bir yer mutlaka olacak; prizmanın tam ortası; kaynağımız…

Birer ışık huzmesi olduğunu düşünürsek insanların ve bu ışık huzmelerinin uzayda dağılarak ilerlediğini var sayarsak, birleşme noktalarının aslında çıkış noktalarından, yani kaynaklarından, köklerinden başka bir yer olamayacağını görürüz bu insanların. Birleşebilmek ve o özlenen bütünlüğü yaratabilmek için insanların özlerine dönmeleri gerekiyor yani. Kültürün önemi de işte bu noktada ortaya çıkıyor zaten. Gerek yerel, gerekse evrensel kültürün birleştiriciliği, kültür dediğimiz şeyin insanların özüne dayanıyor olmasından doğar. Her şeyi gören ve sorunları çözen de işte o ortak göz olacaktır; prizmanın odak noktası. Tek gözün görebildiği farklı vizyonlar. Tek gözün barındırdığı milyonlarca bakış açısı işte…

Oysa onlar derslerde neleri öğretmeye çalışıyorlardı bizlere? Bana sormayın; hiç hatırlamıyorum… Ben o günleri görmedim ama bu günleri görüyorum. Ben gene de size iki öneri sunayım: Üçgen mi olsun istersiniz hayatınız, prizma mı? Ben gene de teşekkür edeyim size: Siz bana daha öğreneceğiniz çok şey olduğunu öğrettiniz sevgili psikiatristim. Teşekkür ederim size.

Ürettiniz, beslediniz beni, ben bir sinektim ve şimdi devlet karşımda, kara bir örümcek ve beni yemeye geliyor.

Hayatla dünya aşkı da aralarına alıp prizmanın odağı oldular bu arada. Onların zevki de insanlık yeryüzünden tamamen silinince daha da kalkacak şaha ve dönüşecek bir hazza, bir başka prizmaya… Odağında aşkın, hayatın ve dünyanın çocukları…

İki nokta arasındaki düz çizgi aslında o iki nokta arasındaki en uzun mesafeymiş, zira o noktalar arasında gidip geliyormuşuz biz asırlardır ve bunun da bir anlamı yokmuş. Mühim olan o iki noktayı gerçekten anlamlı kılmak ve hayata kazandırabilmekmiş… Çizgi ne kadar eğri, mesafe ne kadar uzun olursa olsunmuş… Mühim olan anlamlı yaşamakmış.

Benim kazancım yenilgimdir, yenilgimse kazancım…

Zira ben yaşamımın iki nokta arasında gidip gelmekten ibaret olmasını değil, anlamlı bir yolculuk olmasını istiyorum. Ne dersin sevgili psikiatristim, haksız mıyım? Onlar sınıfı geçerse kazanan ben olmaz mıyım?!

Mektuplaşanlar-4

Sevgili Con,

“Cezasız kalmamalı hiç bir suç ve tedavi edilmeden bir köşeye atılmamalı hiç bir hasta” derdin sen hep. Senin demek istediğini anladığımı sanmıştım o zamanlar. Meğerse ne kadar da yanılmışım; işte şimdi de bunu anladım. Senin için hasta ile suçlunun aynı şey demek olduğunu sanmıştım ben. Ve senin hastalığını bir suç olarak gördüğünü düşünüyordum. Günlerce seni aslında hiç olmayan bir “kendini suçlu ve aşağılık hissetme” sorunundan kurtarma yönünde yürütmüştüm tedaviyi. Şimdi anlıyorum ki aslında sen tımarhaneye tıkılmanı bir ceza olarak görüyor ve bu cezanın da tedavi edilmek olduğunu düşünüyordun. Ah! Ne kadar da yanılmışım senin hakkında. Seni hasta olduğun için bir suçlu gibi görmek gafletine düştüğüm için kendimden utanıyorum şimdi. Asıl hastanın kim olduğunu biliyorum ama artık. Sen normal insanları gördükçe üzüntüden anormalleşiyordun ve ben senin üstüne geldikçe şiddetle kaçıyordun benden ve tedaviden. Çünkü sen biliyordun gerçek anormallerin kimler olduğunu…

Normalleştirme, tedavi etme adı altında o insanlardan insanlıklarını aldığımızı ve onları bu hale getirenin aslında sistemin birer kuklası olan bizler olduğunu biliyordun sen. Bu yüzden içeri atılmıştın zaten. Hapse atacaklardı seni, ama çıktığında daha da hırçınlaşacağını bildikleri için tımarhaneye attılar. Evet, ben de şimdi anlıyorum değişmesi gerekenin aslında insanları fark ettirmeden çıldırtan bu sistemin olduğunu.

Senin cezan tedavi edilmekti ve sen işte suçsuz olduğunu bildiğin için bu cezayı çekmeyi, tedavi edilmeyi şiddetle reddediyordun.

Sadece yapacak başka bir şeyin olmadığı için direnmiyordun sen sevgili Con. Bir insanlık suçunu cezalandırıyordun da aynı zamanda. Zamanda ve mekânda yalnızdın; bu dünyada yoktu adeta sana ait hiç bir şey… Ve ben sevgili Con son derece bencildim. Kıskanıyordum çünkü seni ve benden üstün olduğunu bildiğim için cezalandırıyordum seni. Sen bendin sevgili Con, ben de sen…

Unutmak istiyorum o günleri ve bunun için de kendimi iç dünyama hapsettim. Şimdi bir tek sen varsın iletişim halinde olduğum. Çünkü hissediyorum ki senin için de aynı şey geçerli. Zira sen bensin sevgili Con, ben de sen…

Uzaklara yürüyoruz biz aslında. Buradan çok uzaklara. Kendi gerçeklerimizi yaratıp, kendi gerçekliğimizde özgürce yaşayabileceğimiz bir uzama doğru yürüyoruz; yol yok ama önümüzde…Yürüyoruz biz arkamızda bir yol ve bir sürü ayak izi bırakarak; bu mektupları bırakarak…

Hangi dili konuştuğumuzu bir tek biz biliyoruz. Bir tek biz duyabiliyoruz çünkü gerçek hastaların çığlıklarını ve bir tek biz biliyoruz onların nasıl tedavi edileceğini… Evet sevgili Con, biz tedavi edebiliriz onları… Cezalandırarak değil ama, cezalandırmadan… Hastalıkları onların suçu değil çünkü… Hastalıkları insanlığın cezası. Hastalıkları insan olmanın ne demek olduğunu bilmeksizin insan olmaya çalışmak çünkü… Biz öğrendik mi peki insan olmanın ne demek olduğunu? İşte orası muamma. Boşver sevgili Con, ne dediğimi bilmiyorum ben. Öyle konuşuyorum işte. Ben de insanım neticede. Biliyorsun Tanrı kafa veriyor insanlara, ama o kafa orda öyle duruyor… Boşuna dememiş tabii ekselansları, “ortalık yerde tütün içenin tez kellesi vurula!” diye…

Biliyorsun ben Tanrı’ları pek severim sevgili Con, ama onlar da ölüyorlar…Arkalarında yarım kalmış suçlar ve cezalar bırakarak…

Çekilmez oldu bu hayat. Kendimi dine mi versem ne?!

Ben ne istediğimi bilmiyorum sevgili Con. Sanırım kimlik bunalımı kronikleşti bende. En ufak bir anlam zerreciği barındırmasa da istedikleri oldu. Umarım mutlu mutlu ölmektedirler şimdi o kemikleşmiş zihniyetler…Suçlarına suçlar ekleyerek ve cezalarını çekerek…Elma yemek suçtu, cezası dünyaya fırlatılmaktı. Biz dünyaya fırlatıldık, hala daha elma yiyoruz… Ama suç değil artık elma yemek; ceza…

Tanrı adına senden özür dilerim sevgili Con; suçun “normal” olmamakmış, cezansa insan olmak…

Tabii ben şimdi burada bunun ahlaki ve siyasal yanlarını tartışmıyorum. Kimim ki ben?!

Keşke kral olsaydım da ülkedeki bütün elma ağaçlarını kestirseydim. Bazı kellelerin yerlerinden edilmesi kuvvetle muhtemeldir sevgili psikiatristim.

Bundan böyle ben de sana psikiatristim diyebilir miyim sevgili Con?

Mektuplaşanlar-5

 Sevgili Psikiatristim,

Sen nereden bileceksin ki bana nelere mal olduğunu tedavi adı altında bana yaptıklarının. Tabii ben şimdi burada bunun ahlaki ve siyasal yanlarını tartışmıyorum. Kimim ki ben?!

Keşke kral olsaydım da ülkedeki bütün elma ağaçlarını kestirseydim. Bazı kellelerin yerlerinden edilmesi kuvvetle muhtemeldir sevgili psikiatristim.

Çıplak bir gerçeklik ve doğal bir güzellik insana pahalıya patlar ama değil mi? Güzelliği buldun mu bırakmayacaksın; sahiplenmeden ama… Bütün dünya benimdir sevgili psikiatristim, sahibi ben değilim ama…

Evet sevgili psikiatristim, sana katılıyorum; insan olmak insanların suçu değildi. İnsan olmak insanların cezasıydı. Yaşamakta olan her insan pişmandır aslında. Zira doğmuş olmaktır suç ve yaşıyor olmak da çekilen ceza… Bunu herkes bilir ve bu yüzden de doğduğuna pişmandır herkes. Hâlbuki ne güzel olurdu değil mi gerçeği kaldırabilecek güce sahip olsaydık; korkmasaydık gerçeklerden ve kendimize itiraf edebilseydik aslında asla özgür olmak istemediğimizi?

Hangi devirdeyiz şimdi biliyor musun sevgili psikiatristim? Herkesin maske takmakta olduğuna üzülme devrinde değil, maskenin ardındaki yüzün nasıl bir yüz olduğu üzerine kafa yorma devrinde değil, maskenin ardındaki yüzün aslında maskenin ta kendisi olduğunu anlamak zorunda olduğumuz ve maske yüzümüzden düştüğü anda yok edileceğimiz bir devirdeyiz. Bağırsaklarımızın görüntüsü çirkindir, ama tenimiz güzeldir ve tenimiz bağırsaklarımızın çirkinliğini saklar; öyle değil mi sevgili psikiatristim? Maskenin yüzü sakladığı değil, yüzün maskeyi, maskenin de yüzü şekillendirdiği gerçeğini kabullenme devrindeyiz, çünkü biliyorsun ki eğer bir maske yüze uymuyor ve oturmuyorsa düşer. Bir insan güzel bir maske takmaktadır belki, belki de çirkin… Ama o maske ne derece gerçektir? Belki de asıl yüzünden bile daha gerçektir o insanın maskesi… Belki de gerçek dediğimiz şey dipsiz bir kuyunun dipsizliğidir… Belki de bu yüzden asla uzlaşamaz insanlar ve hep didişirler birbirleriyle; hepsinin de farklıdır çünkü gerçek bellediği…Ve belki de işte bu yüzden ulaşılmazdır ideal ütopyalar… Gerçek ve güzeldirler de ondan…

Sen bana diyebilir misin ki bedelsiz güzellik vardır dünyada? İnsan olmak güzeldir bence ve bedeli de insan olmaktır bu güzelliğin. Dünya güzeldir ve ölmek istemeyiz hiçbirimiz ama sen de biliyorsun ki bir gün yok olacağı için güzeldir dünya…

Kapat gözlerini ve özgür olmaya devam et istersen. Ama eğer bir gün gözlerini açmaya karar verirsen karşında beni göreceksin ve ben gene de elimi uzatacağım sana. Maskelerimizle de olsa bütünleşeceğiz ve el ele yürüyeceğiz önümüzde yol olmaksızın. Devam et sen maskeni takmaya, savaşmak için değil ama… Mastürbasyon, evet, mastürbasyon! Hayat bile bir mastürbasyondan ibarettir zaten… Ama ben kendimi tatmin ederken başkalarını da tatmin edebiliyorsam eğer, onun adı mastürbasyon değil, üretim ve paylaşımdır… İnsanlık bunun fiziksel veya cinsel yanına kısaca sex diyor sevgili psikiatristim. 

Duraksamadan yürümek nasip olmuyor ne yazık ki insanlara sevgili psikiatristim. Kimi zamanlarda insanlar üzerlerinden bir yük kalktığını hissederler ya, ve işte hep karanlık bir odadaki beyaz bir koltukta gözlerini kapatıp hayal kurarlarken olur ya bu; işte tüm yanılsamalarının ve geçmişte yaptıkları tüm hataların pişmanlık anıdır o anlar… Ve onlar isteseler de istemeseler de hayatlarının geriye kalan zamanlarında geçmişe dair her şeyin, tüm yaşadıklarının boşa geçirilmiş zamanlar ve yaşanmışlıklar olduğunu fark ederler. İşte bunun ağırlığıdır aslında gözlerini açtıklarında üzerlerine binen… Ve ışığı açtıklarında odanın aslında orda olmadığını, beyaz koltuğunsa aslında kara bir koltuk olduğunu anlarlar. Ve yapacak başka bir şeyleri olmadığı için gidip o kara koltuğa otururlar. Gerçekle kucaklaşmışlardır istemeye istemeye olsa da…

Her şey sürekli değişiyor sevgili psikiatristim. Bir zamanlar sadece bendim hasta, şimdi işte sen de benim gibi bir hasta…  Maske gerekiyorsa parçalanmamak için, aşkolsun takmayana!

Benim ülkemde yer var sana…

Kaldırabilecek misin özgürlüğü, yoksa tedavi edilmek mi istiyorsun hala?!

Sen işte asıl onu söyle bana!

Mektuplaşanlar-6

Sevgili Con,

Eskiden delirenler bana gelirlerdi ama artık gelmiyorlar; öyle deli deli yaşamaya devam ediyorlar. Geçmişte merak edilenler ve bu merak sayesinde ulaşılan bilgiler iki dünya savaşına engel olamadı ne yazık ki. İki dünya savaşı ve sadece ikincisinde 55 milyon ölü. İşte bu delirtti insanları. Bu muydu medeniyet?

Yıkılan hayaller ve sadece gözlerimizi kapadığımızda yıkılan duvarlar…

Dikenli teller, ah o dikenli teller… Gül dikeni değil ki bu, katlanasın da sevesin.

Şeffaf bir perdenin ardındaki bir manzaraya dokunmaya çalışmak gibidir anlamaya çalışmak. Kara bir perdenin ardındakilerin görünürlüğü ve anlaşılırlığı ne kadar az ise, işte o kadar artar anlama hevesi. Meraktır bilginin temeli. Ve insanın başına ne gelirse biliyor olmaktan, bilmekten gelir. Bilgi işte bu yüzden delirticidir.

Neden deli diye tımarhaneye tıkmışlardı Niçe’yi? Kırbaçlanan atların boynuna sarılıp ağladığı ve “Dayan! Dayanmalısın!” diye haykırdığı için…

Bir saniye, bir saniye daha biniyor sırtıma; ben bir esirim ve tüm yapmak istediklerim aslında zincire vurulmuş hislerim…

Söylenecek ne kaldı ki sevgili Con? Tüm yaptıklarım mecburiyetten, isteklerim ve hislerim zindanlarda. Hislerimin cesetleri savrulmuş parça parça Akdeniz’e. Bildiklerim diri diri duruyor karşılarında ve o yüzden ben bir zindanda…

İliklerime işledi yalnızlık. Bu hücrede, evet bu boş hücrede…

Sen kendi hücrende sevgili Con, ben kendiminkinde… Sana hasta diyorlar, bana suçlu… İkimiz de ceza çekiyoruz… Ben bildiklerimi ve aslında herkesin bilip de söyleyemediklerini söylediğim için, sense benim bildiklerimin nedenini bildiğin  ve varlığınla onları rencide ettiğin, onların gerçeklerini yıktığın için.

İkimizin de özgürüz sevgili Con. Dışarıda olanları görmememiz ve insanları uyarmamamız için içerdeyiz. Çünkü onlar da biliyor sevgili Con; biz onların kölesi olmayacak, onların çizdiği yolda yürümeyecek kadar, kendi yolumuzu bile çizmeden sadece öyle arkamızda derin izler bırakarak yürüyebilecek kadar özgürüz. Onlar hayatı ne sanıyor ki de insanları yargılamak hakkını görüyorlar kendilerinde? Onlar değil mi asıl yargılanması gerekenler? Yaptıklarından dolayı değil ama, yapmadıklarından dolayı. Bu sistem çökecek sevgili Con ve onu içeriden kendi kendileri çökertecek.

İrademizi yok etmişlerdi, şimdi de yaşamlarımızı kendi tekellerine almaya çalışıyorlar. Bana ait olan bir yaşamı nasıl tıkabilirler hücreye? Ben geçmişteki siyasi yaşamım boyunca yaptığım hataları kabullendim ve kendimden nefret ettim. Bu sistemin insanı dürüst olmaktan menettiğini gördüm. Bu sistemin insanları bir örümceğin sinekleri yutması gibi yuttuğunu gördüm. Sinekleri yedikçe şişen örümceğin bir gün patlayacağını biliyorum ama… Ve o gün geldiğinde ortalık sinek cesetleriyle dolacak ve leş gibi kokacak. Beni de yiyecek örümcek, şimdilik bu ağların içine attı beni; kıpırdayamıyorum yerimden. Beni de yiyecek. 

Ama gün gelecek çıkacağım bu hücreden sevgili Con ve gerçek mücadele de işte o zaman başlayacak, zira o zaman ne bir yol olacak önümüzde yürüyecek, ne de biraz umut kalacak içimizde bizi istediklerimizi yapmaktan alıkoyacak!

Yolun açık olsun sevgili Con… Kimsenin izinden gitme, bırak sen yürüdükçe izler seni takip etsin. Ben bunu yaptım; ben bu yüzden içerdeyim. Yürüyeceğim yollar, bırakacağım izler vardı benim oysa daha.

Ben içerdeyim, ama dışarıda kaldı aklım da, gönlüm de…

Senin de kaldı, dostun Takamuro Kootaro’nun da, öyle değil mi sevgili John Donne?

“Benim ülkemde yer var sana” dedin bana…

“Kaldırabilecek misin özgürlüğü, yoksa tedavi edilmek mi istiyorsun hala?!”diye sordun.

Söyle! Tüm bu sorduklarının yanıtını bildiğini ve aklının da gönlünün de hücrenin dışında kaldığını söyle! Zindanlarda bile açacak bir yasemin olduğunu…

Birazcık adalet istediğini, sadece adalet istediğini söyle sevgili dostum Con!

                                                                           Kadim dostun ve eski psikiatristin,

Michel Foucault.

[Updated in the Comments section.]

Doctors Hide Faces in Shame

München, 2009.12. 01

[AP] John Demjanjuk, 89, was wheeled into the packed Munich state court and did not answer when presiding judge Ralph Alt asked if he could answer basic questions about himself. His left hand twitched occasionally and his mouth was open slightly.

His lawyers portrayed him as a victim — of the Nazis and misguided German justice.

A German doctor said that despite suffering from a bone marrow disease and other serious ailments he was able to face trial.

“Given his now confirmed grave medical condition and his resulting inability to fully defend himself, it is farcical for anyone to say he is fit for trial and malpractice for any doctor to recommend it,” said his son, John Demjanjuk Jr., in an e-mail sent from Ohio.

Prosecutor Hans-Joachim Lutz detailed how Jews were stripped of their belongings and clothes, then led naked into the gas chambers [sic] of Sobibor.

Ukrainian-born Demjanjuk was a Soviet soldier who was captured by the Germans, and spent most of the rest of the war in prison camps.

Prosecutors agree he was captured by the Germans in May 1942 but claim he accepted a deal to become a guard at a ’special camp’, rather than face almost certain death as a P.O.W.

Lutz said Demjanjuk could have deserted, but chose to stay in the camp.

“He willingly participated in the killing of the Jews because he wanted them dead for his own racist ideological reasons,” Lutz said.

Even if acquitted, Demjanjuk — who has been stripped of his U.S. citizenship — likely will have to remain in Germany.

Ulrich Busch, one of his attorneys, told the court that commanders in Sobibor had been acquitted in previous trials while Demjanjuk was being put on trial.

Prosecutors say he was stationed for six months at Sobibor, where he helped other guards herd people off railway carriages, force them to strip naked and enter a four-by-four meter gas chamber [sic]. Engine exhaust fumes were pumped in, causing a lethal mix of carbon monoxide and carbon dioxide that killed after 20 to 30 minutes.

Members of the resistance movement in Sobibor.

Who needs a trial and “innocent until proven guilty” and all that nonsense when you can have slander from Allison Pearson in the Daily Mail? Pearson reports that some Jew was so pathetic that when an evil German gloated that his family had just gone up in smoke, the cowardly, selfish Jew just got back in line and … and did what? Just waited around until he also got to go “up in smoke in the gas chambers”? I thought they first buried the bodies, then months later dug them up and burnt them on outdoor grills? The official version records that female Jews burn better than men, but in another camp it was the opposite — biology and physics are such funny sciences. I guess that Jew’s family was in the Express Line. Good thing he survived the merciless death camp! But isn’t Pearson’s portrayal of Jews as miserable cowards somehow antishemitic?

The official story is that about 20 SS officers and 100-150 assistants, aided by 1000 Jews, forced up to 1,200 Jews at a time into 3 to 6 gas chambers, time after time, day after day, buried the bodies, dug them up again, burned them, then crushed their bones in the special Nazi bone-crushers. And in this way they killed about 300,000 passive, weak, pathetic, bovine Jews in 1942 and 1943.

A Soviet Jew named Alexander Pechersky described the mass murders thusly:

“At first glance, as one entered, it like a normal shower: hot and cold taps for running water, wash basins … as soon as everyone was inside, the doors slammed shut with a loud noise. Out of holes in the ceiling, a heavy, blackish substance poured down in spiral shapes…” [Alexander Pechersky, La rivolta di Sobibor, in Yuri Suhl, Ed essi si ribellarono, Milan, 1969, p. 31.]

According to Pechersky, in order to drown out the pitiful cries of their victims, the fiendish Germans kept a flock of geese at Sobibor which were made to quack very loudly whenever Jews were murdered with the magical, mysterious “blackish substance”

Later these blackish-substance-shower-rooms transmogrified into gas chambers.

According to Poliakov, the murder device was a diesel motor (Léon Poliakov, Bréviare de la Haine, Éditions complexe, Paris, 1986, p. 224); Hilberg changed the diesel motor to a gasoline motor (Hilberg, p. 941.); the Enzyklopaedie des Holocaust declared ex cathedra that the murder weapon was a diesel motor (Enzyklopaedie des Holocaust, p. 1496); the München court seems unsure, or perhaps they have been directed by certain elders to establish a new version.

The crafty krauts destroyed all of the evidence including millions of mortal remains, and all that remains of these killing camps at Belzec, Treblinka and Sobibor is one pair of little shoes.

John Demjanjuk with an Outraged Israeli

As Demjanjuk trial nears, prosecutors confident they can convict

By Toby Axelrod · Jewish Telegraphic Agency · 2009.11.23

Whether in a wheelchair or on his own two feet [dead or alive], John Demjanjuk will enter Munich District Court on Nov. 30 to stand trial for World War II-era [alleged] crimes against humanity.

He is charged as an accessory to the [alleged] murder of [the round number of] 29,700 Jews at the Sobibor death camp in Poland [but for some strange reason he's not on trial in Poland].

The trial [ordeal], which some are billing [appropriate entertainment biz term] as the last major Nazi war crimes case, marks another landmark for Germany’s confrontation with its Nazi past.

It will be the second war crimes trial for the 89-year-old Demjanjuk. [If found Not Guilty, he will be extradited to Bosnia to face trial for the Masonic assassination of  Erzherzog und Thronfolger Franz Ferdinand von Österreich-Ungarn. He is also a key suspect in the Talmudic slaughter of the Romanovs.]

In 1988, Israeli courts convicted Demjanjuk and sentenced him to death for murder and savagery at the Treblinka death camp. [Egalitarian non-apartheid Israel abolished the death penalty in 1954, except for alleged or fictitious crimes by non-Jews against Jews. Only one person has been judicially murdered in the history of the State of Israel: Adolf Eichmann, a Zionist, was kidnapped in Argentina, smuggled to Palestine, convicted of absurd crimes by a kangaroo court, and hanged to great acclaim in 1962.] But the sentence was overturned in 1993 when the Israeli Supreme Court determined there was insufficient evidence [in other words, he was innocent] that Demjanjuk was the so-called guard named “Ivan the Terrible,” and he was released.

Today, prosecutors say they have all the proof they need [come on, get real, who needs proof? he must be guilty, he's Ukrainian!] that Demjanjuk actively participated in the mass murder of Jews in the [fictitious] gas chambers of Sobibor in 1943.

Demjanjuk insists he merely served in the Soviet army and was captured by Germany in 1942.

Much of the evidence against him was gathered by the U.S. Justice Department’s Office of Special Investigations’ director Eli Rosenbaum [and only a vicious antishemite would dare suggest that Comrade Rosenbaum could be biased. Rabbi Rosenbaum took a leave-of-absence in the 1980s to act as general counsel for the World Jewish Congress, but that's neither here nor there.]

The trial could take a couple of years.

A Life: From Soviet prison to Nazi prison to Israeli prison to German prison.

“We are all Demjanjuk!”

2009.12.01

Reports following the first hearing, which ended when Denjanjuk had to be removed from the court on a stretcher:

Bild Zeitung:

“The behavior of the defense attorneys of SS henchman Demjanjuk must leave all civilized people bewildered, speechless and disgusted. Saying the defendant is ‘a victim of the Holocaust himself’ is like killing the murdered victims a second time. What cynicism and coldness. Someone who hounded men, women and children into the gas chambers [sic] of Sobibor can never be a victim.”

Die Tageszeitung:

“There are people like John Ivan Demjanjuk waiting in the US who have been stripped of their US citizenship because they helped the Nazis. They’re allowed to remain there because no state is ready to take them. Foreign Minister Guido Westerwelle could send a signal and declare that Germany is ready to allow these men to be extradited here. Then the Demjanjuk trial wouldn’t be the last of its kind, but the start of a whole series of prosecutions of similar perpetrators.”

DEMJANJUK FIGHTS FOR LIFE

Former Rep. Jim Traficant is again going to bat for an Ohio workman accused of being a Nazi camp guard

By Jim Traficant · American Free Press

John Demjanjuk is a retired auto worker from Cleveland. He was born in Ukraine, served in World War II as a Russian soldier, was captured and held as a prisoner of war. Demjanjuk’s captors were soldiers of the German army. Today, as you read this column, Demjanjuk is standing trial for his very life once again. He is facing another Nazi war crimes indictment.

Think about the dynamics of this dilemma for John Demjanjuk. He’s being tried in Germany, by the very country who captured him. They say he was a Nazi war criminal. I don’t know about you, but on its surface it just doesn’t add up.

Demjanjuk is not a war criminal and certainly was never a Nazi. I can remember my first acknowledgment of the “Demjanjuk” ordeal. It seems like yesterday. I was in my Washington, D.C. office in the old Cannon Building in the late ‘80s. One of my staffers came into my office in a sort of cloak-and-dagger mode stating that the “son of convicted Nazi mass murderer ‘Ivan the Terrible’ is in the reception room, and we told him you are not here.” I then inquired of his purpose to meet with me, since I was not his congressman. I was then informed that young John Demjanjuk Jr. told them that he has “been to every office in the House and Senate, and no one would even speak with him because the matter was too sensitive.”

John Demjanjuk Jr. further stated that “they did not want to involve Jim Traficant” because they said that they “knew the government hated him, but he’s our last resort for any help.”

My staffer said, “Do not meet with him; you’ll be ostracized, destroyed, ruined. Let him go back to his own congressman and the two senators of Ohio.”

My staff further advised that I was probably already targeted by the powerful Israeli lobby, since I was an opponent of foreign aid, and certainly my involvement with John Demjanjuk would guarantee that American Israeli Public Affairs Committee [AIPAC] would not quit till I was removed from Congress.

I went to the door so I could overhear the conversation between John Demjanjuk Jr. and my staff. I could feel the pain in his voice. John Demjanjuk Jr. finally stated: “My dad’s not asking to meet with anyone. I’m asking, and I’ve never even had a parking ticket. What kind of government is this, that I can’t even talk to my elected officials about my family’s grave concerns?”

I then ordered my staff to bring John Demjanjuk Jr. and his brother-in-law Ed Nishnic into my office. My staff told me this decision would destroy my

career in Congress. I met John Demjanjuk Jr. and Ed Nishnic and offered them a seat to discuss their problems.

John Demjanjuk Jr. is a fine young man, a son any father would be proud of. His demeanor was that of a troubled and worried young man. He was accompanied by his brother-in-law Ed Nishnic and basically let Ed Nishnic explain their plight.

Ed Nishnic is also a remarkable man. Like John Demjanjuk Jr. he’s very intelligent and was very determined to prove the innocence of his father-in-law. I stated emphatically, that “I’ve decided to meet with you for one reason and one reason only: No American should ever be turned away when seeking help from our government.” I then said, “Your dad has been convicted of mass murder, the extermination of one million Jewish prisoners. He has been sentenced to death. I want you to know up front, that if he is really guilty I could personally pull the switch at his execution.”

I then told them I would hear their concerns. (Be advised that the mainstream media wrote that “Jim Traficant supports Nazi mass murderer” as soon as word spread that I had met with the “Demjanjuk” family.)

Nishnic handed me two report summaries of OSI investigators (Office of Special Investigations, the group within the Justice Department created by Congress to apprehend and prosecute Nazi war criminals). They had interrogated one Otto Horn in Berlin, Germany. Horn was a former SS Nazi guard who had assisted “Ivan Grozny” (Ivan the Terrible), at the Treblinka, Poland concentration camps.

These two reports were originals, not copies, and were signed by agents Garand and Daugherty, and were witnessed by prosecutor Moscovitz, who handled the denaturalization trial of John Demjanjuk in Cleveland. The reports were stamped as received by the Justice Department and signed by unit chief Eli Rosenbaum.

I read the documents very carefully without input from John Demjanjuk Jr. or Ed Nishnic. I could not believe my eyes. I could not believe what I was reading. The Justice Department had committed a great crime. Moscovitz, Garand and Daugherty suborned the perjury of Otto Horn in order to convict an American citizen wrongfully—an American now denaturalized, stripped of his citizenship and waiting to be executed. (The authenticity of these two documents cannot be denied.)

At trial, Horn stated that “John Demjanjuk was Ivan Grozny.” But in these two early reports, two years before the trial, Horn could not identify Demjanjuk from the photographs displayed before him.

I had a problem. A big problem. I knew without a doubt that John Demjanjuk was not Ivan the Terrible. John Demjanjuk was in fact another victim, soon to be known as one of the most vicious and infamous mass murderers in world history. John Demjanjuk was awaiting execution as the infamous Ivan of Treblinka, Ivan the Terrible.

I would be defamed and ostracized because I would be compelled to prove the innocence of John Demjanjuk on the strength of these two Justice Department documents. John Demjanjuk was innocent—convicted of mass murder, sentenced to death and awaiting execution—and no one seemed to care.

I thought, what has happened to our great country that it could produce this type of brutal crime against this American and his family?

I realized I had a difficult task ahead, but with the help of John Demjanjuk Jr. and Ed Nishnic, I believed we could prove John Demjanjuk’s innocence. It was imperative to do so. I had these two powerful documents to start with.

Otto Horn’s testimony at the Cleveland denaturalization trial (via videotape) was very direct. Horn had been shown a series of photographs when interrogated in Berlin.

Moscovitz spread eight photos of Caucasian males in uniform, all in their early 20’s. Horn testified that he identified John Demjanjuk immediately. Moscovitz then spread eight more photos of Caucasian soldiers in uniform, but now in their 40’s. Horn again testified that he identified John Demjanjuk, even as an older man, because he knew him so well. Horn’s testimony stripped John Demjanjuk of his citizenship, and he was sent to Israel to stand trial as Ivan the Terrible.

Now, back to the two reports of Horn’s interrogation in Berlin two years earlier. Garand and Daugherty wrote in their reports immediately after their interview with Horn: “We spread eight photos of Caucasian men in uniform, all in their early 20’s. Horn studied the photos at length and stated that ‘one man looks familiar’ [not John Demjanjuk] but FAILED to identify anyone.”

The report goes on:

“We then gathered the eight photos and put them in a stack with John Demjanjuk’s on top. We then spread eight more photos of older men in uniform with John Demjanjuk’s photo among them. Horn studied these photos at length, and looking at the John Demjanjuk photo on top of the stack, then back to John Demjanjuk’s photo in the older soldiers spread, said that ‘this is the same man’ but FAILED again to identify John Demjanjuk as Ivan.”

Be advised that Horn lied through his teeth, and U.S. prosecutor Moscovitz allowed it. Horn later testified at the Israeli trial that he positively identified John Demjanjuk from the photo spreads. When the defense team crossed-examined Horn, they asked if he could see the first photo spread when he was examining the second set. Horn testified:

“They put the first set of photographs in an envelope and removed them from my view.” Horn lied again. John Demjanjuk was convicted, and sentenced to death.

I immediately began my own investigation by utilizing a number of FOIA [Freedom of Information Act] requests on John Demjanjuk. The government response was “classified”; thus I got nothing. At this point I conferred with John Demjanjuk Jr. and Nishnic to evaluate what options were available. We came up with a plan.

We decided to research any and all legal activity that involved the Treblinka camp. BINGO. We discovered that a Ukrainian-American from Chicago, by the name of Feodor Federenko, had been tried for war crimes at Treblinka. Federenko was acquitted. He then traveled to his homeland to visit his family, but was arrested by the Soviet KGB, was tried again in Russia, was convicted and executed. [No doubt our government arranged his demise].

I immediately sent out a new FOIA request, this time on Federenko. Most agencies threw my FOIAs in the wastebasket, but the State Department sent me two telegrams:

The first was from one of our OSI agents in Europe seeking information about Treblinka. The second was the response from the State Department listing the names of four men who had made statements about Treblinka. At the bottom of this was the following; “if you need further help, be advised we have another 100 pages in the file.”

I acted immediately. I phoned the State Department and reached a Mrs. Poindexter, an honest, competent government worker. I asked her to send me those 100 pages, citing the fact that Federenko was deceased and his case was not “classified.” Mrs. Poindexter complied.

Those 100 pages saved the life of John Demjanjuk. They contained the testimony of 17 witnesses about Treblinka.

All 17 identified “Ivan”:

1. He was taller than John Demjanjuk;

2. He had dark hair, not blond like John Demjanjuk;

3. He was nine years older than John Demjanjuk;

4. He had a long scar on his neck.

There was also a photo of two SS Nazi guards who had been identified by one of the witnesses, who said: “The short guard with pistol is Tkachuk. The tall guard is the man the Jewish prisoners feared the most, ‘Ivan Grozny’—IVAN MARCHENKO.”

All 17 witnesses identified a man named Ivan Marchenko as “Ivan the Terrible.”

I asked Congress for a hearing. Congress refused, the case was “too sensitive.” The federal courts would not accept my evidence. I took my evidence to the floor of Congress. I said John Demjanjuk was not “Ivan the Terrible.” A man named Ivan Marchenko was the real “Ivan.”

That night, the U.S. Justice Department issued a statement that “there were two Ivans.”

The next day I released the photo of Marchenko. The Justice Department was silent.

I then forwarded all my evidence to John Demjanjuk’s defense team in Israel, who then submitted it in to the Israeli Supreme Court.

I flew to Israel with John Demjanjuk Jr. and Ed Nishnic, at my own expense. I did a live interview with Bryant Gumbel on the Today show. I stated that if Israel executed John Demjanjuk that Israel will lose $20 billion a year from U.S. taxpayers. Gumbel said that “Israel only gets $3 billion a year.” I countered, “That’s just the foreign aid bill, Bryant. Israel gets military aid, loans, loans converted to grants, and trade compacts and other money. I say that Israel gets $20,000 for every man, woman and child from America every year.”

The interview was over.

I was phoned the following night and was told that John Demjanjuk would be released and delivered to me at the Tel Aviv Airport. We took him home.

I called a press conference for New York. While the press gathered, I ducked out with John Demjanjuk on a small plane. When approaching Cleveland, I directed the pilot to seek a landing pattern at the airport, then directed the flight to a small airstrip near Independence, Ohio, thus eluding the press.

John Demjanjuk went to a safehouse, He was home. I flew toWashington.The next day the Sixth Circuit Court in Cincinnati, Ohio issued the following statement; “A TRAGIC BUT HONEST MISTAKE BY OUR GOVERNMENT.”

That was no mistake. Moscovitz, Garand and Daugherty should have been sent to prison. I said then, “Since when did sensitivity waive our Bill of Rights?” When we allow the rights of one American to be violated, we endanger the rights of all Americans.

Germany should send John Demjanjuk home. How, in God’s name, can Germany accept any evidence from the U.S. Justice Department who suborned perjury in the first trial, withheld evidence, obstructed justice, and violated John Demjanjuk’s civil rights?

SHAME ON GERMANY AND SHAME ON THE U.S.A. What has happened to our great country?

There was no limit to Nazi cruelty towards the poor Internazis.

Jurisdiction?

And why is Demjanjuk on trial in Germany? Aren’t the Germans supposed to be the villains here? They get to invade Denjanjuk’s homeland, and conscript him at the point of a bayonet, and now they sit in judgment of him. Does the Ukrainian puppet government government have nothing to say about protecting Demjanjuk’s right to a fair trial? What a joke to even talk of a fair trial when he’s already been framed and sentenced to death then let go — all because of the same kind of phony documentation and mendacious testimony. And didn’t the alleged crimes take place in Poland? What does the Polish puppet government have to say?

John Donne

Meditation 17: Devotions upon Emergent Occasions

“No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were. Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee…”

“Gas Chambers”:

Faked at Dachau and Auschwitz, sure, but they must have been real at Sobibor…

From Auschwitz 1270 To The Present, by Deborah Dwork & Robert Jan van Pelt (W.W. Norton, New York, 1996), pp. 363-4:

There have been additions to the camp the Russians found in 1945 as well as deletions, and the suppression of the prisoner reception site is matched by the reconstruction of crematorium I just outside the northeast perimeter of the present museum camp. With its chimney and its gas chamber, the crematorium functions as the solemn conclusion for tours through the camp. Visitors are not told that the crematorium they see is largely a post-war reconstruction.

When Auschwitz was transformed into a museum after the war, the decision was taken to concentrate the history of the whole complex into one of its component parts. The infamous crematoria where the mass murders had taken place lay in ruins in Birkenau, two miles away. The committee felt that a crematorium was required at the end of the memorial journey, and crematorium I was reconstructed to speak for the history of the incinerators at Birkenau. This program of usurpation was rather detailed. A chimney, the ultimate symbol of Birkenau, was re-created; four hatched openings in the roof, as if for pouring Zyklon B into the gas chamber below, were installed, and two of the three furnaces were rebuilt using original parts. There are no signs to explain these restitutions, they were not marked at the time, and the guides remain silent about it when they take visitors through this building that is presumed by the tourist to be the place where it happened.

The fictitious Soviet “smokestack” for the fictitious Soviet “Gas Chamber” at Auschwitz. The “smokestack” is not connected to anything. It stands today as an enduring symbol of — and tribute to — stupidity and gullibility.

Why is it that one would find it necessary to compose poetry? It’s just prose laid out in lines and made to rhyme (in a very forced way, one could add). It’s an art form that won’t stand up to the modern age of loud music, rap, and the shot glass version of a news story that is so popular today. Poetry will go the way of classical music, only being enjoyable to a few people who have devoted their lives to understanding it (and who are probably out of touch with everyday people anyway). While I can’t provide a rebuttal to all of these solutions (I’ll save some of them for a later date), I can try to give poetry’s use, and necessity, in my own life.

Poetry is for me a way to formulate problems. Notice I have mentioned nothing about solutions. Solutions are not a necessary part of a poem; if a poem decides to simply pose a problem without a solution, it is not then discarded. Poetry is a way for me to take the problems that arise in life, especially the ones that seem unresolvable and decide to languish in my brain for hours on end, and force them into an organization. If my life presents me with a problem that I have found unresolvable, or that disturbs me to my core, I can take that problem and enclose it in this progression of verse.

To put it simply, I can take this conundrum and say to it, “I know that you have drilled and pounded my brain to mush, and I know you don’t have an answer right now. So I’m going to give you an end by forcing you to get yourself organized (however loosely), and I’m going to resolve you by putting a period at the end of you (in most cases).”

Thus I am left with my problem in capsule-form, something that I can swallow. The truth is that, as humans, we have more problems than we will ever have solutions for. If I were to let these problems fester without ever trying to put them to bed, I would have strung myself up by a wire by now. But can’t this outlook on life make one seem rather “negative”? How do I get out of total pessimism after I’ve admitted that I’m drowning in problems?

One can find in poetry a different reaction to “positive” and “negative” poems, and I would say that they’re not as different in content as some would argue. If one views poetry in the way I’ve presented, then one finds that “negative” poetry (See Charles Bukowski’s Hell is a lonely place) is poetry that merely presents the problem as it stands, but admits that the solution to this problem is not readily at hand. “Positive” poetry (See John Donne’s Holy Sonnet X) is poetry that presents the problem AND solution, but presents them as concomitant in some sense.

So we see that while the results may be different, something “positive” will always include something “negative,” if only inasmuch as it is a response to this negativeness.

Positivity does not deny that the negative exists. It merely presents a response to the fact of the negative. The true positive cannot exist without a truly manifest negative.

I seem to have gone the long way round to get to this, but this is the best defense I can give of my art form and the necessity of its existence, at least in my own life. So give yourself a little breathing room and don’t let those problems get you down.

Through Christ,
Ben

As the year 2009 comes to a close, the English language is forced to digress. Character limitations of text messaging and social applications such as Twitter have forced us to condense what we have to say in to the shortest “words” possible. Some of these “words”, you can even find listed in the dictionary. William Shakespeare, John Donne, William Wordsworth… They must be having epileptic fits in their graves.

Coming from the past, you would require a translator to decode the hip lingo of our society. “Excuse me, but I must get going,” has been reduced to “G2G”. A courtesy good-bye… TTYL, TTFN. What kinds of relationships shall we keep with the deterioration of the English language on the rise? Only your text messaging inbox will tell.

It used to be that good rhetoric and eloquence was a signature of high class. Writers and speakers that held these gifts went down in history, and became notable quoted. Now, even those we admire with celebrity status have begun to use diluted versions of commonly used words.

Twitter, the easiest place to find watered down words, has even been named as a quotable source. Businesses may use the un-informative term BI to describe their business’ intelligence and be quoted on their happenings and goals. Or, someone may share memories of their DP… And similarly be quoted.

Words no longer flourish in our society. They have become underappreciated, hidden by a layer of dust and swept under the espresso leather sectional. Maybe one day a child will take them out to play and we will come to realization that we should have never let our true words go.

Or, be a BBMFIC and write in the manner the English language must be represented and be the eloquent human being that you always should have been.

I am the darkness to her light
She is the passion to my plight
She is my wind, she is my rain
I am her drought and her disdain

I am her doubt and mortal sin
She is the holy light within
She is an air, a halo bright
I am her plague and curse and blight

I am the anger to her joy
She is the female to my boy
She is perfume and she is soap
I am her cause of dying hope

I am the awesome contradict
She is the truth, she is perfect
She is the answer and the name
I am her spot, her stench, her stain

I am the vacuum to her breath
She is animating death
She is animal and woman
I am nothing, I am a man

November 2009 Derek Wilson

1943: For Whom the Bell Tolls di Sam Wood

“Grande successo hollywoodiano legato soprattutto ai due amatissimi protagonisti” (Francesco Mininni). Celeberrimo film, immancabile per un amante dei classici.

Per chi suona la campana è il dodicesimo film di Sam Wood (ex allievo di Cecil B. DeMille) a cui si devono celeberrime opere come Kitty Foyle, ragazza innamorata (il film che regalò l’Oscar a Ginger Rogers), Addio, Mr. Chips!, Un giorno alle corse e Una notte all’Opera (ambedue con i fratelli Marx).
“Nessun uomo è un’isola,
completo in se stesso;
ogni uomo è un pezzo del continente,
una parte del tutto.
Se anche solo una zolla
venisse lavata via dal mare,
l’Europa ne sarebbe diminuita,
come se le mancasse un promontorio,
come se venisse a mancare
una dimora di amici tuoi,
o la tua stessa casa.
La morte di qualsiasi uomo mi sminuisce,
perché io sono parte dell’umanità.
E dunque non chiedere mai
per chi suona la campana:
suona per te”.
E’ la celeberrima poesia di John Donne da cui Hemingway trasse ispirazione per il suo romanzo.
Il film pone in secondo piano l’aspetto esistenziale e politico del libro, privilegiando la storia d’amore tra i due protagonisti… ma essendo questi due star tra le più carismatiche che il grande schermo abbia mai avuto, come non godere dalla sua visione?
Gary Cooper aveva vinto due anni prima, con Il sergente York di Howard Hawks, l’Oscar (ne avrà un altro nel 1952 per il magnifico Mezzogiorno di fuoco): “Cooper è bellissimo e normale, dunque più completo di un Power (solo bellissimo) e di un Bogart (solo normale). Quando Cooper morì di cancro, nel 1961, il Paese, e non solo, sprofondò in un lutto personale. C’era più dolore che per la perdita di un presidente, c’era lo stesso dolore della perdita di un famigliare. E proprio Kennedy, neopresidente, disse: «è morto Coop, come faremo adesso?»” (MyMovies).
Ingrid Bergman, “volto di una intensa e pacata bellezza, occhi che sanno esprimere amore in ogni fotogramma, grande interprete sia di ruoli leggeri da commedia sia di densi personaggi drammatici, subito nota come «il più illustre regalo della Svezia a Hollywood»” (MyMovies). “Scesa dal Nord a ricordarci anche brividi mistici e sensuali che increspano i fiordi. Quasi fosse nata, come fu detto, da un sogno di Ibsen” (Il Corriere della Sera), riceverà l’Oscar l’anno dopo con Angoscia di George Cukor (il primo dei tre ricevuti) .

scheda

premi e riconoscimenti

When I was a senior in high school, I took AP Literature and some people might cringe at the thought, but I genuinely loved English. Really. It was my best and favorite subject, probably ever since I realized I could properly form sentences and discovered really awesome words. And then, college happened and kicked my stomach and told me the fun in English ended in high school. Anyways, one poet dude we had to study was John Donne and well, I was not a fan – at all. So this is probably the only thing I like (and completely understand) written by the guy:

“No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.”

Such imagery. Autumn is my favorite season, but it is terribly short… sort of forcefully wedged between unbearably hot and freezing cold. I think fall is leaving already even though the first day of winter is still quite a few weeks away. It’s a bit chilly, rainy, and the trees are practically bare. Aw – it’s sad!

Sorry for all the quotes in this blog lately haha …It’s just one of those phases, ya know?

A few years ago my good high school friend Rachel passed away.  Recently in apologetics I’ve taught on the problem of evil and theodicy. So the pain of the past revisited me of late. But when Rachel passed away another high school friend sat in an English class at Covenant College.  One of the reading selections that he had was John Donne’s Death be not Proud.

Holy Sonnett #10

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

(In which we occasionally end our long day with a a bit of John Donne)

Holy Sonnet V

I am a little world made cunningly
Of elements, and an angelic sprite ;
But black sin hath betray’d to endless night
My world’s both parts, and, O, both parts must die.
You which beyond that heaven which was most high
Have found new spheres, and of new land can write,
Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might
Drown my world with my weeping earnestly,
Or wash it if it must be drown’d no more.
But O, it must be burnt ; alas ! the fire
Of lust and envy burnt it heretofore,
And made it fouler ; let their flames retire,
And burn me, O Lord, with a fiery zeal
Of Thee and Thy house, which doth in eating heal.

Não sou todos, nem nenhum. Humano. Envolvido em ti, como me envolvi na sociedade moderna. Para, e constato-o! ao contrário de John Donne, ser meio-homem, meio-ilha.

Man–I was really hoping to post something Hallowe’enish… but no dice… However, in case you missed it, here’s my paean to Val Lewton’s greatest film (posted out of season at my now-defunct cineblog)… Have a haunted weekend!

Val Lewton (and director Mark Robson)’s The Seventh Victim is a deeply divisive film. Extravagantly praised by some (although, to tell ya the truth, I don’t think it’s possible to overestimate this gently nihilistic slice of quotidian terror), it is just as often treated as a weak link in the Lewton series (generally by critics who deplore its choppy, bordering-on-incoherent narrative).

I want to tip my cap to Ed Howard for articulating his sense of the film’s “disjunctive” storytelling style–its strategy of narrative-progression-through-digression. He’s quite right. It’s a relay race through subjectivities (to the finish line of Lewton’s oft-quoted summation of the film: “Death is good”) that plays like an ultra-compressed precursor of my all-time favourite film, David Lynch’s Mulholland Dr. (which I read “super-oneirically”–in what remains my favourite on-line discussion–against the grain of the generally-accepted psychological–dream/reality–interpretation of the film, ably presented by Charles Reece).

Like Mulholland Dr., The Seventh Victim begins deep within the consciousness of a naive, curious and ultimately very forceful young woman. Kim Hunter’s Mary Gibson is really a unique presence (although she shares a number of traits with Teresa Wright’s Charlie Newton in Shadow of a Doubt–the ONLY female character in Hitchcock’s oeuvre who succeeds in “hijacking” the narrative–i.e. overpowering the director’s famed voyeuristic eye… amazingly–both of these movies premiered during the same week in August 1943!), a genuinely feminist agent (rather than the ultimately reactionary–because they reinforce male supremacy–”strong women” that Howard Hawks specialized in giving us). Nowhere is this more apparent than in the counter scene, in which she tells genial proto-patriarch Hugh Beaumont (who patronizingly asks her to drink her milk), “I don’t like to be ordered to do anything.” It’s an amazing moment–on a number of levels. Right on the surface, you just don’t SEE women in films from this period reacting to paternalistic “kindness” in this way. If a woman does assert her rights, it’s because the man has blatantly invited her ire (and often not even then). But on a more metatextual level, I like to read the milk as a rejection of the entire gothic noir tradition of female victimization represented by 1941’s Suspicion (whose most vivid scene features Joan Fontaine dutifully quaffing a glass of the white stuff that she suspects has been poisoned).

Time and again (and the fact that the whole movie only lasts 71 minutes always shocks me, because it literally contains multitudes), the story shows us Mary disarming and taking control of situations that genre and cultural expectations lead us to expect will overwhelm her——her bemused farewell to the clock as she leaves the sinister private school; her complete mastery–to the point that she actually orders him to his death–of Lou Lubin’s Irving August–introduced as a “wise guy” who seems likely to take her for a ride, but who exits as a soft-spoken and really quite tragic martyr to Mary’s strength (a fact that she recognizes and incorporates into her self-image, without allowing this knowledge to undermine her essential stance vis-a-vis the world); her deflection of Beaumont’s smugly proprietary maneuvers; her brazen invasion of the perfume works–worming information out of the always-wonderful Isabel Jewell; and her ability to go toe-to-toe with–and even coax some pretty decent behaviour out of–Tom Conway’s reborn Louis Judd (Simone Simon needed to become a monstrous panther before she could deal with him in Cat People.)

Mary Gibson is a complete hero. She is sensitive–and yet, she is not fazed by dire events. She makes mistakes and takes note of them. She completes investigatory tasks–and knows when to delegate them to others. And yet–she is in no way the complete film…

Because The Seventh Victim knows how to delegate as well.

Again, like Mulholland Dr., Lewton’s (and I do think it’s fair to call this Lewton’s film, rather than Robson’s, because the producer is completely responsible for its structure) story stretches across (at least) three separate subjectivities. Proponents of the Wizard of Oz-in-reverse interpretation of the Lynch film ignore the fact that Betty, Diane AND Adam all have a go at carrying the narrative. In The Seventh Victim, the key players are Mary, Jason (the Poet) and (Mary’s sister) Jacqueline (played by the enigmatic Jean Brooks).

(She looks a lot like Hope Davis, doesn’t she?)

I’ve read criticisms on the IMDB from viewers who were annoyed that the film does not seem to know whose story is being told–and that’s a valid criticism if you’re proceeding upon psychological realist assumptions–however, I would submit that no one ought to watch this movie through that lens. To wit–The Seventh Victim tells Lewton’s story… and tells it perfectly. I’m not talking about concealed biography here (although many of the film’s contemporary champions do exactly that)–I’m talking about a magnificently talented auteur dipping into a very rich stream of consciousness(es), baiting his narrative hook for a “live one” that is running (against the current) toward death (which, don’t forget, is “good”) at the appropriate speed. And he eventually finds her, in Jean Brooks’ refugee from Satanism.

But not before traveling through the middle term of Jason Hoag, the once-productive poet who has fallen upon hard times, but whose existential and creative spirit is revived by contact with Mary. As this figure takes the subjective baton from the woman he loves, and begins his investigation of Jacqueline’s disappearance, we observe the ways in which even a defective–or, let’s face it, delusional–imagination can preserve (prevent?) a mind from tumbling into the abyss (is that good?). Some viewers seem to resent this poet–and when people criticize the film’s dialog, they usually cite his lines. After all, this is a guy who says things like: “I was hoping that this [Mary's visit to his apartment] was your advent into my world–and instead it’s goodbye.”

I guess that kinda stuff could bother people, but I love it. Jason’s dialog seems to exist in order to prove Mrs. Romari right–i.e. that poetry and clowning are in fact the same thing. I couldn’t agree more. Jason exists in a kind of charmed (charmed enough, anyway) limbo between Mary’s vigorous curiosity and Jacqueline’s clear-eyed ennui.

And while he’s bumbling about through the satanic/literary underworld (which encompasses former dead-man–from Cat People–Louis Judd), the film surveys a plethora of damaged people, each of whom has negotiated his or her own separate peace with the existential facts of life and death. In a sense, everyone we meet is a “missing person” (which explains the incredibly poetic pan–accompanied by mournful backstories–across the faces of Mary’s fellow-yearners at the Missing Persons Bureau). But what the camera (unlike Mary) is seeking, is not reconciliation, but renunciation.

And Lewton (through Nicholas Musuraca’s extraordinary cinematography–essential to the effectiveness of this entire series) hits paydirt (with pre-dug six-foot trench eyes) with Jacqueline Gibson. And once we obtain a firm lock on her–after her blip of an introduction during Mary’s part of the film–we stick with her pretty much to The (and her) End. And the most important thing about Jacqueline’s escape from the softly horrible world that Lewton gives us is that she chooses it. Like Mary, Jacqueline refuses to imbibe from the (here literally poisoned) fount of arbitrary authority, although she does weaken when her beloved Frances Fallon (echoes of The Miracle Woman’s Florence Fallon–who saves David Manners from killing himself? probably not) begs her to cut the scene short.

But Jacqueline ain’t goin’ out like that–and her friend realizes at the last moment that she isn’t meant to. What follows, after the Satanists dismiss the film’s third and most lucid reflector from their lair, has always read, to me, as a psychodrama (designed to clarify Jacqueline’s understanding of the world she–and, Lewton implies, WE–cannot help but deplore), rather than as an actual assassination attempt. Her harrowing journey home, beset by mute knife wielders and noisy, insensitive clowns, sets the final seal upon this woman’s premeditated decision to kill herself.

Jacqueline doesn’t need those devil-worshipers to speed her on her way. And she’s not afraid of them–only of the deeply fearful attitude toward life that these lost souls embody. In fact, the film is at its most perceptive when it points out that Satanism–just like any other religion, including the cults of Art or Romantic Love–is simply one of many possible buffers against the existential truth that guides Jacqueline’s ultimate behaviour. (And how amazing is it that Lewton charges Conway’s sleazy Louis Judd with the task of rebuking the Satanists for failing to live up to the injunction–contained within the Lord’s Prayer–to forgive those who trespass against us? You could argue that he’s telling us to dismiss this moralistic speech as pure bosh–OR, you could take it seriously, as I do, as yet another echo, from an unexpected source, of my favourite Emersonian dictum, from “Experience”–i.e. as long as we’re here, and despite the fact that we really have no escape from the void of solipsism–”Let us treat the men and women well: treat them as if they were real: perhaps they are. “)

Earlier in the film, Beaumont tells Mary/Kim Hunter that Jacqueline’s sense of human dignity depends upon a person’s ability to take sole responsibility for putting an end to the affair, at the time of his/her choosing. Coupled with our brief glimpse of what’s behind the door of room number 7, and the symbolic meaning of Brooks’ nightwalk, this information lays the groundwork for one of the most bracing scenes in the Lewtonian canon (and, indeed, in the history of cinema), in which the outward bound Jacqueline and the stricken, going-out-on-the-town Mimi (Elizabeth Russell) cross paths on their respective sprints toward death. The moment somehow gathers everything that has come before it into a glitteringly multi-perspectival dramatization of existence at the frayed edges of the dream of intersubjectivity (or, if you’re more of an opti-mystic type, the intersubjective dream!)

good afternoon friends!

Dave

If the paradigm shift can be forgiven, I am nervously returning to the world of thought. Perhaps I mean sentiment, or perhaps, for me, the two co-exist. A case, maybe, of the impersonal neoclassicist yielding to the romantic. It has something to do with the temporal. Tomorrow morning (28th) marks the ten year anniversary of an event that shaped much of what I have become in this decade. The causes no longer reach me with their unexplained darkness, aside from the day permeating the calendar. For the effects, I’m glad to have the opportunity to address the case personally in Holloway’s The Founder.

But I’m also grateful for new avenues, catching up on lost time, being heard, and opening my mind to boxes locked by embarrassment. At the end of a long conversation with someone I trust unendingly, the thought just crept into my head. “It’s like …” I reached into my pocket and found two inauspicious copper coins, which became one circle of need, and another of asset love. A glimpse of a return to days of naivety, characterised by my little crackpot ideas, and crackpot instability.

What startles is that I could talk stoically about plenty of other emotional matter, but this was most difficult of all. What is so bashfully difficult about casting the mind back a number of years and feeling shame? As a more closed person now, perhaps reminders of times defined by openness, commited openness, the kind that wields vulnerability and elasticity of response from every shade of thought, feel like a tickle at old sores. This little analogy of circles, a philosophy for me back earlier in the decade, and a reacquaintance  now, was something from the core of my emotional being. I left the conversation feeling vulnerable, which was, paradoxically, reassuring. I have spent a lot of time working on mental safety and security: in the face of adversity and illness, it has been the defence strategy, but it has been to not feel, or not feel enough.

I am glad for Renaissance support for my circle appreciation. George Puttenham’s The Arte of English Poesie (1589) considers the properties of gemetric shapes in terms of ‘proportion poetical’:

The most excellent of all the figures Geometrical is the round for his many perfections. First because he is even & smooth, without any angle, or interruption, most voluble and apt to turn, and to continue motion, which is the author of life: [he] … for his ample capacity doth resemble the world or universe, & for his indefiniteness hauing no special place of beginning nor end, beareth a similitude with God and eternity. This figure hath three principal parts in his nature and use much considerable: the circle, the beam, and the center. The circle is his largest compass or circumference: the center is his middle and indivisible point: the beam is a line stretching directly from the circle to the center, & contrariwise from the center to the circle. By this description our maker may fashion his metre in Roundel, either with the circumference, and that is circlewise, or from the circumference, that is, like a beame, or by the circumference, and that is ouerthwart and dyametrally from one side of the circle to the other.

With this in mind, it is impossible not to recall John Donne’s A Valediction, Forbidding Mourning with its paramount conceit of twin compasses, and it’s self-reflexive compositional ending:

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th’ other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.

To reach full circle is always to return; to achieve full circle must be a form of harmony. I source early modern literature in hope this week. Circles return as time returns to an event that has had telling influence since October 1999. I do not expect a valediction, nor an absence of mourning, but I would like to find something to celebrate about this event in the hope that it wielded a moderately decent human being at the end of it all.

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doth go,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better than thy stroake; why swell’st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

- John Donne