#That Night, Act 1, Scene 9

 

Scene 9

 

Blat! Goldy where are you? What have they done to you now?
And when he woke up a slave in the salt mines he had to invent other realities. As the brutal separation was too great.

 

He struck the walls of Potosi over and over again. He plotted away. His escape his mutiny his raising of an army and marching out to whatever city she was now held in. Burn down the entire empire city by city if he had room to do so. In darkness ten thousand captives struck the walls of the abyss, shattered away and tunneling. In some of their lands they had been warriors and kings. Others were simple men. Emptied lands that no longer existed.

 

 

The captives were of many tribes and many tongues. Most of not all were not white, for this was not the work of white men, mining salt and tunneling, but race was actually a distraction. He learned that in political theory class at University, when he was a young man. What year was this? What country, whose epoch was this?

Crack.

The pitiful sledgehammer strikes into bleak nothingness, ten thousand tunneling souls, and their families held in the neighboring townships in case they mutiny or do not make quota. They send us deep into the mines each day and await us to cart our dead out at dusk. Cart out our dead and the salt they use for batteries.

 

 

They ripped us from our lives as people, killed in us everything we knew about our cultures. Our religions. They reduced us to their zombies, their walking dead, something more broken than a slave. A hostage.

 

But there was hope, Avinadav would come back! Solomon would sing to us again, we would rebuild the temple, this was all prophesy, this was all real!

CRACK! My big yet flimsily hammer chips the wall.

            All my bloody day dreams were a speck! Yes, they were nothing and I was powerless to do anything but break rock.

My mind went deep into time, I was so many places at once, I was again with her. So many times before, and again god willing again in the sweet hereafter, in the worlds to come. What year was this? CRACK. What country am I slaving in?

 

My world is one of torment, I have lost everything. Every single thing. I have been made less than a number. I don’t even know what year it is. I would put out my own eyes, I would refuse the gift of air, but, but, but; I will bide my time, I will escape, I will find, but her real name is now lost to me, or was there even an inner most name, something for the even more cute.

I will get out of this wretched salt mine! I will kill my captors! I will raise and army, and march on the gentry who put me out like this, separated me from my true love. Will I?

In this life or the next. If you believe in such things.

#That Night, Act 1, Scene 8

Scene 8

 

            What were these poems about, besides my won suffering of course, they were a therapeutic parlor trick. I’m not sure very many anyone likes them, maybe not even Oleg the Bear, my absconded former droog and moral patron, no, the poems served my cause poorly, she could barely tolerate them, and when the love was a more fleshy thing, a more summer fling, it was built on bottles of wine and dinner and outings, not poems, less art.

            But one night after, the release of his first book to a drunken mob in a tavern, with no microphone he held the ground of literature so audibly, well she asked for new poem, it had been some three years since he composed for her, and there she was now asking in her panties for prose, but, this one was angry too, he hated her perhaps as much as he loved her for what happened before, being so much, well, torture.

 

 

“#104: The Reset, To Goldy”

 

Reset, “This girl is trouble, causing me so much trouble.

Some man not able to keep up; she now dancing on a table, she is walking on my words; like she don’t give a fuck!”

Razpizdai! I’ll love you now or never, I’ll love you even when you’re brutal. Even when a wine soaked savage! I can love you even when you lie.

For my actions are ever mounting, my every try, my every why! Is contemplated as belated to the risk, the whisk and everlasting sigh.

You lit your cigarette and I watched you walk away. Reset, the trauma of our courtship, it isn’t over yet.

And then, inside me bursts, and I reach out for the repeat. I am clawing at my vocab for the proper words to say, to declare a need for new replay.

You dangle out some pearls of small affections, then you snatch that shit away.

But the things I’m about to utter are known to you already, I beg the night and my tears streak tarnished manhood debased before my goddess, yet again.

“Be not like other men”, beg to be beside me, buy and spend to hold attention, “fuck it man,” she yells at me you’re doing it again!!”

I beg reset, does she even read my poems? Does she even like my tender kisses, do my actions even make her happy though my puppy eyes make her upset!

Reset, we’re not there yet. Yet being the walk away, yet being the closure we might not ever get.

Chowan say, “Shawty’s, like a melody in my head, that I can’t keep out,

Got me singin’ like Na, nah a Na every day, like an Ipod stuck on replay.”

Blond hair and soft thighs, pressed against my cheek, what was real she can’t remember but she’s sometimes sorry for her blackest lies.

And the evil of her insults, the latest ones this week! Of what evil can I even speak, I do for her what I am able, I bring her mild entertainment,

I speak warm words of loving and feeling and needing, ‘til she tells me not to even speak.

 

She says she is Russian, but she’s clearly taking-her-time, she’s picking her targets with ease. She a dangerous woman, we all can agree,

She can break a man’s heart with her smallest of actions, she prefers all her men on their knees.

                   Reset, our very disposition, hurling insults and command me to go, get gone! Three years did precious little to make you less a savage ethanol soaked beauty,

To better button up your buxom, or to make me value money over song. How, for now we play along. Hit the reset button of emotions, let the hungriest of hungry games begin,

It’s a carnal sin in Russia, to play like you ain’t playing, to over say what your eyes could just be saying, to take all or nothing with your win.

Get in line to love her! But be prepared to love amid a massacre, what a smile that she’s always wearing, rooting for you maybe, behind a devil of a grin.

Bury my tongue inside you, drinking deeply from what’s running down your thigh, I wonder why, I always wonder why! I even ever, never! I broken record try.

I grind ever hard to stay beside her, I want nothing else beside her, Reset an upset, we blink it’s a reminder we might not be together in another moment,

Might be strangers in a week.

You hear these words of hurting, you hear that blind devotion to the woman of which I speak?

How long have I loved Ms. Dasha? I loved her three years since I met her, I loved her in the world to come; I loved her overtime. I loved her in a hundred poems, I loved her in boats as well as banyas, I still want to lie beside her even after when I die.

Reset,

Hand cuffed to the bed you lie, I get hand cuffed to the ceiling or a chair. She fucked me over there, I loved her blackest magic, I lusted her legs apart again. We did it nearly everywhere.

If I was good at my all this loving as I pretend to be at all my saving,

If I was dancing in my own shoes; not break my back wage slaving, if I was more handsome? More established, more care free. That a pretty fucking woman, that’s a goddess of woman, and she doesn’t see a single thing in me.

Reset, ripped our heart, bed soaked in sweat, regret. I regret not one nothing, not one single fucking nothing. She has taught me more of life and struggle than the womb from out I came, I have no need for blame, I have little cause for shame, she’s spent so many nights to work me, to push me out of prison, to get me out of ghettos, to move me into flight,

Baby, give me one more night!

Rest again, is it even right.

Her smile is moon beam shine, I love to feel her chest move in breath upon me as we slumber, her gentle hands compliant as they rest inside of mine.

No fret, she hasn’t killed us yet. And the picture and the poems and the novels they will surely pile to the sky. She takes back her cruelest words, she knows when to say her sorry, when to rub my rhyme,

But I am enthralled to lust and love and live beside her for a second or third time.

Reset, she says, reset, the novel isn’t perfect yet. You’ve got typos to your proverbs, I’ve got plagiaristic lies.

“Dasha, stay!” he cries.

The wine she sips, the pouty nature of her ruby lips, the forgiveness and forgetting all the replay of the tries!

“Don’t be like other guys,” she says, “reset yourself and I’ll stay a little longer.”

We’ve been called many things, tell me Gold one what the future brings, “they used to call us whores and killers, now they call us lesser oligarchs and master spies.”

“Cheers to our last tries!”

“Your hope, (she notes) it somehow never dies.”

 

This was the very last poem he would ever write her in this life, and it was actually fairly mediocre, for there were approximately one hundred before it from when he first tasted her under the two blue moons, followed her deep into the Brighton labyrinth. Too angry and none too deep. But, I suspect I will kill it soon, she thinks.

I have almost nearly killed his epic love for me. Sad that it has to end, but it does. He has to get back to his more serious work! There’s a revolution to win, is there not, comrade? Our mixed up love is but a foot note in my happiness and your great war. Our war if you win, your war if you destroy yourself. A distracted speck, alright; a mighty spark. I’ll give you that my little Americans, you never ever seem to go quietly into the night for anything.

#That Night, Act 1, Scene 7

Scene 7

 

Explained a young Avindav Debutelier, to the crowded and spontaneously mobbed crowd of mostly non-white Israelis, near the Techanama Gaziit.

 

A most powerful, unamplified orator in Hebrew, Arabic, English and also Haitian Creole, which is similar but not the same to French, was he once a Haitian, is he still or did he just for many years take one to his bed?

 

What we did then to attract a crowd was drag a sound system into a square and begin with drums, begin with amplified primal sound, several of us in greys and blues, spotters on every approach with sky pagers, scanners and radios to notify us when the security forces were approaching. We learned this method form the card sharks on the Tiyeled. On the Boardwalk.

 

After the drums came a powerful Afropop song, and then, then the five minutes of nation time, the speech. The security forces were always nine to fifteen minutes away, in those days.

 

 

“Let me tell you a story about a woman and a man, which you have always been told as the most important story ever told about a man, a man who was also God.”

There are things you know you know, such as that the religion based around the man was called Christianity. And that roughly ⅓ of the Human race believes this story and its slight deviations of form. There are things you do not probably know, such as that man’s real name and how many children he bore and to whom. And there are things you do not know that you do not know, such know such as the command structure of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard corps, the names of the 5,000 tribes of Africa, what language your messiah sang in, and the access codes to the bunker complex below Jerusalem (Yerushaliim) where a tunnel system goes deep into the mantle.

You may know, that your messiah was born in Bethlehem (Bet Lekhem). You may know that he grew up in Egypt (Mitzrahiim) and that at the time of his battle against Rome he was employed as a carpenter in Nazareth (Natzeret). You may know a Romanized, Latin version of his name. Have had it repeated to you, until it took hold as the truth, but it is not his name, and it is not the truth!

You may not know that he sang in Aramaic and wrote in Hebrew and Greek, and that there is no J sound in those languages. Anything called J, is the designation of an occupier or conqueror, a Roman legion in Palestine perhaps.

Here again are things you do not know that you do not know, you do not even think about hearing these things. You do not when Pesach begins, or why. The calendar you use is a Roman Catholic and or Christian Orthodox innovation; the Julian and Gregorian calendars are solar, the pagan, the Mayan, the Hebrew, Persian, Arabic and Chinese calendars are lunar. You do not know that you do not know who invented time.

Here again, you do not know that you do not know so many things. Such as the spatial spiritual chakra points, such as the importance of Moscow. You do not know where your food came from or what’s in it, or how many hours it takes a child to make your clothing. You do not think about hearing these things because, they make you culpable. They imply your collaboration with the empire: with and by default your implicit acceptance of the fate of the slaves.

You know there are several large religions, you can reject all of them which is easy, or pick a tendency of a block, all of them are based on events you did not see, interpreted in languages you functionally cannot speak and you call that faith. You are generally when born to pick one, or have picked for you generally speaking you are to be a Christ follower, a Mohammadian (One who submits to God and his prophet Muhammed), a Hindu or under the rule of the Chinese Communist Party, therefore living under Confusicism. Or, you’re in some much-much lesser marginal sect, or a Buddhist, keeping out of the cosmic wars. Anyway, three of the four major religions are at war at all times. Almost always historically due to a Christian offensive.

Hindus have kept hundreds of millions of people locked into servitude and subjugation. Christianity and Islam have been in direct warfare since the Crusades approximately since 1000ce. Today, there is not one single county where Muslims are not being slaughtered or persecuted. All of the central cores to the core 46 states are Christian, except Japan and the Petro states. All of the poorest most ravished nations are Christian and Muslim, converted during the colonial epochs.

I’m sure those things don’t come up in your Church. And we are very much not fighting a cosmic war. It is absolutely a war grounded in base human inequality, or less mildly; the suffering of five billion plus humans while some, less than one billion drink, use drugs, fuck hookers, watch sports, tune out to Netflix, buy things and more things and stuff their faces until they all die of heart disease, and head to a church to absolve their daily sins. A church where a man who was not white is white on the walls. A church where the things that man, and his wife and their 12 deputy officers and several thousand supporters stormed the temple and declared war on Rome. And for the next 100 something year’s 66-136ce over three major military uprisings fought the Empire on all fronts.

You know only what you want to know to justify that you are in the wrong side of history paying your taxes to the new Rome, running around with those smart phones checking in checking out, selfies with the mark of the beast.

You don’t know the acronyms to the secret police organizations that are organizing the terror Attacks and mass shootings. You don’t know the names of the men who meet every summer in California to manage the county. You don’t know the names of almost any of the countries raped to keep your consumer goods so cheap. You can’t even read a map.

You don’t know, that you don’t know that when the children, the great descendants of that man you eat the body of and drink the blood of and wait for him to return, make themselves known to us, he’s dead. You are praying in the language of the oppressor. You are masquerading along to a fiction story based nothing on what actually happened. You are hanging crosses! The selfsame symbol of Roman rape and repression around your very neck. You are celebrating holidays that are feasts to the devil, glutting your face on your thanksgivings, a mockery of Indian genocide. You are worker proles and sleeping zombies and serving a vast killing machine. Your countries of the west are colonial killing machines sucking the rest of us dry.

I am not Toussaint I did not come to lead the army I am Debutellier; I speak for the black and oppressed. And I am not commander Solomon I have never heard the voice of God, I posit myself neither as savior conqueror nor general. Nor some lesser mad Hebrew prophet. I am just one more revolutionary on a square.

I am only one partisan and friend of the people. Uniformed pararescueman, 7775 as my shield says. I am here in the wilderness not tell your religion, but to warn you that we are planning a new uprising. Not one based on imaginary masculinized voices in the sky, not one based on beliefs. It will not be directed at the North West but instead all the dark forgotten brutalized places in the periphery, in the colonies.

 

 

I did not come to warn you or make you change your ways!

I am a partisan practitioner, not an agitator to the deaf and mute and blind. Hidden in the stories I can tell you is a simple truth. Humanity ought not wait for some white washed savior, humanity ought not live as they do.

Christendom is a sickly mockery of the heroes martyred in our cause. Time wrote your bible. Islam is a sickly mockery of our second major rising. The Yazidis and Umayyads wrote your Quran. Everywhere I look I see Christians feeding the devil machines, I see Muslims dying and dying but not knowing their own prophet, the cousin of Yeshua Ben Yosef, who the Romans and Saul called Christ. Everywhere I look i see the oligarchy grinning and glutting themselves in every nation.

I did not come to the Wilderness of North America to bring you a New Social Gospel, for that was brought by women and men before me. I did not come reconcile your scriptures, this too was done by the Baha’i.

 

A pager goes off in his pocket, indicating the spotters have marked incoming security forces.

 

 

 

“I came to tell you to pack your bags and wear blue cloth, to march with us in columns and fly in convoy, to fortify 144 positions in the periphery where men and women die like dogs. Are killed every day in plain sight.  I came to tell you that we will organize the next uprising to starve the core, to embargo the high places to encircle the citadels of the oligarchy and free our people. They cannot kill us all!”

And whether it be us, or the leadership, be it us or our great grandchildren we will march into Yerushalayim with ten million fighters, having put down Rome, put down Washington, London, Paris, Geneva, Berlin, Moscow and Beijing too, brought the killing machine of the world system to a halt.

And you will then know that your God did not send you more lambs. It send bloody avengers.

 

 

 

A young Amerikanski in the audience, who had come here to the colonies be a poet and a farmer, now with a sky pager, then set off a series of bombs up the street with a cell phone. It ripped apart some parked cars, hopefully didn’t kill or maim anyone this time. Wasn’t anything the colonial government wasn’t already doing for social control, which was certain. Which is to say in the summer of 2001, the American occupational government in Israel, acting through the emergency powers of the Likud party was blowing up its own people quite readily.

 

#That Night, Act 1, Scene 6

Scene 6

 

Raphael Ernesto Lynch Contreras has known for years that Sebastian was building an army, for they shared a social club, they shared many drinks, they shared a love for Russian women, they were friends! Raphael had done his best to guide him through his long affair with Dasha Andreava, but there was nothing that could really be done about that.

Sebastian was at the end of the day a romantic in an age when that was mostly uncalled for.

I was told to put together a little convoy of ambulances and armored flatbed trucks and make my way toward the Bronx through the demilitarized zone. Most of the bridges and tunnels are down the only one left is the White Stone. Our aim was to resupply with water and provisions, with rockets and bullets and black bread the fighters serving under General Allamby in the South Bronx.

I may be jumping ahead a little bit, thinks Rafael.

Before there was the war there was dinner.

In the fall of 2015 I attended a small dinner in the ghetto at the home of Ms. Catherine Hall, advertised as 8 to late, but I was mostly on time and so were most of the forty other guests, a wide and motley assortment of ambulance men and women, of teachers and students, and other healthcare workers and also some business men and opportunistas.

We are all there to drink wine and hear a short shall we say lecture by our friend Sebastian Adon, who had recently returned to Brooklyn from his two years in exile near Boston where he’d been studying international development on a sustainable basis, he’d improved his vocabulary in those wilderness camps.

            So there we were it was the year 2015 and month was called October and there were forty mostly strangers sharing wine and a range of other dishes Cat Hall and Sebastian Adon had cooked up for the lecture, discussion, whatever. Sebastian was dresses in a blue uniform similar to an EMS uniform, but not the same, faded from the three months he spent in Cuba, DR and Haiti where it was hand washed. It was blue, it bore his name, it identified him as “instructor”, on one arm a white shield identified him a New York City paramedic, on the other arm, the blue and red flag of Haiti, which was also the flag of the Resistance he hoped to enlist the forty of us in. Many had been involved in the five years of smuggle, deploy teach in Haiti, others had written for or distributed the Banshee Newspaper, before it was suppressed.

 

Officially we were founding the New York City Shop of the Development Union, Shop #02 since one had been opened a week before in Seim Reip, Cambodia by Arlene Gormley.

That was before the secret police raids drove us underground, well that was nearly a year later of good talks and new friends and West Indian Hillal, red light jazz suppers. That was before Liana came into his life.

#That Night, Act 1, Scene 5

Scene 5

 

As the rough and frigid waters overtook me, no, I saw no white light of god, I saw my feral Slavic goddess. Mocking me? Rooting for me boldly? I could no longer actually tell. For a cold and flowing liquid salt deluge would perhaps soon inundate my trachea.

Goldy, should I call you that in public, cheapen you a little with banal Americanization, maybe I should try. But, still I’ll never forget you, and I dear suggest you will always call me by my real name. No cutesterisms, subterfuges or ethno vernaculars!

I will tell you what beautiful nakedness looks like! Jesus of Christ she’s lying there in my bed and my eyes lock with hers, it’s so hot. The ghetto loft, the rolling of inbound and outbound trains rumble like the waves that last killed me. It is all like a dusk time dream, her blond hair lioness mane on my pillows, her buxom defiance and he eyes. Well her tits her tits and her eyes, for I am man. And the sweat rolls off us both, the loft is a bake box. I just cooked her paella, we put away almost whole bottle of 1,000 Stories, there’s proverbial blood on my lips, “Recite me one of Adelina’s poems!” A most curious and un-intimate request, as there are over 99 poems written to the tune of her being. And only maybe six for the woman that I loved after she vanished into another man’s arms, and I into grim two year exile in the provinces. The cold empty provinces, with angry white peasants, where it snowed for two years, “I want to here your best poem for her!”

The wine took places each time that were nearly loving. Drugs and electronic dance music would kill everything every time, she was not trying hard. She was not trying ever to be in this space, this life we lived in the foothills of the city. Nearly starving in the shadow of plenty.

She lies there, not mine or anyone’s. Half naked in my bed. I am no longer even paid in occasional kisses, I am paid in time, for since the night we met, the night she almost killed us, the second nights we met, oh three years ago maybe; she passed to me a little note after sleeping in my arms for two nights in a forest, in the badlands of warehouse district; he note said, “Sad that it will end.”

And it had ended many, many times before. There is music that plays in my head and I hum to it, to focus. To bring myself back from the clouds, from the war effort, from the targets, from the evil we fight; I hum and I rush back into my body. “Reset,” she whispers. Whenever she notices me do that, she loves only mind, if she loves even that.

“You are the smartest man I know, you’ll figure out what to do,” she once said, she is the one who convinced him to go into exile to acquire the resources for his, shall we say doomed campaign of insurgency.

“Reset,” she whispers looking, dripping, wine her lips, pale skinned perfection, everything he’s ever wanted in a partner forever, reset. That little hum he makes has only been noticed by one woman before, which was Adelina Blaze. Bringing his wildest ambitions back to his body.

“One of her poems? Why?”
“I just enjoy you making performances, we need not be sentimental. Go on,” Goldy says.

#That Night, Act 1, Scene 4.

Scene 4

 

 

Strong Island, oh how your beaches become more cared for and more picturesque, the farther from the dark masses we go! Unmitigated, crisp dunes of unsoiled sand.

I have been out of the hospital for just under a black two months. I have been trying to put my life back together, as elegantly as possible under these shall we say, conditions. There have been some real complications, I am pushing through them best I can. Keeping my body moving, though my soul has been sold and my heart cut out, and my grand beliefs, well they are gone.

I am having great trouble separating the fakeness of my idealistic inventions, my creative proclivities from the objective real. What is in fact really happening, has happened in the papers of record, and on Instagram too! My imaginations must be totally divorced from what did in fact occur. Her lips taste different from in a dream or when rendered in my latest technicolored naughty painting. I am still hurting. Perhaps I will hurt forever, over that one woman that makes all the others pale in comparison. I shall die trying to explain myself to strangers and confidants alike.  All of the time I am hurting, it’s not ever her fault. She is so flawless! She has never mislead me. Others perhaps she has destroyed or driven to madness, but I was like that when she met me in the wild days and cruel nights preceding the great revolt of 2012. Which happened? Or did it really happen? Perhaps it was all a bleak, hopeless dream.

 

You can’t make someone love you. You can try, but it will basically kill you, and maybe you don’t care. I don’t, didn’t. I won’t!

 

I now am wandering around like a listless zombie, a mechanical man with no heart and no soul and no sense of any purpose. None at all. Defeated, again. I mumble her name to the extinguished red moon crescent sliver, I warble in public, I tell mobs her name in grim poetical.

And worse, I am alone again. Which to a social creature like I, is a torture in itself. I have no more friends. Somewhere in what was once Brooklyn, well either there or in the Wild West Indies, or back in Mother Africa is my best friend Mikhai Dbrisk, the others are all dead or have completely denounced me.

Being alone with the kind of thoughts I think, it is really quite brutal. Goldy, who once told me I am the smartest man she has ever met, she said I must be so lonely. So unhappy all the time. She once asked if my face had lost the muscle memory for smiles.

Perhaps not quite literally or figuratively, politically or even of the life style of fight and nightery speaking “alone”; but alone then in the only way it matters to me, for after all that war and all that trouble. She is not with me, she is unimpressed with where I had spent my nights and years. She is unmoved by what I did or didn’t do in the war, in the Brooklyn nights, in Palestine and Haiti. She never cared and she never will, and it doesn’t make her love me more or less what I did in her name, to stay with her. It’s the past, she barely remembers any of it. The power of right right now, we are in the future and the fire on the mountain, well those were tiny print words.

 

I stand on the beach, with my aging parents and we are drinking indigently. All of us still standing.

 

I wear a white pin striped dinner jacket, white linen pants and a soft white multibutton Barcelona cotton hippy shirt, my brother had once given me. My dark brown hair is slicked back with some cheap grease, now made hard and I look Italian. Or so some say. But I haven’t eaten any fucking pasta in many years, Piezan.

The waves crash big before us, we sit in the white wood pavilion on Main Beach, East Hampton drinking these date rape Margaritas that no one had over the years bothered to tell my father tasted like real shit, and got you angry an drunk, and made you say and do stupid things when Basque white wine, or Prosecco could have kept it much classier.

There are these big red signs saying “DANGER! NO SWIMMING.” As well as some local cops and some lingering life guards, seated near and on a sand buggy. There are picnicking civilians everywhere, it’s just half after 5. The big waves are all that remained of Tropical Storm Germaine, that the media told us would completely ruin the Labor Day Weekend.            With or without the storm, the weekend was a total wash anyway.

What year was this again? What time was even ever now? 2016 I suppose, but who cares. Really whose calendar was important? Just keep showing up for work is all they asked. No one remembered the war years anyway, especially not these Hamptonites, these Citified citiots, these liberal plump Jews. What? Not even half patriots! What had even happened in the Middle East, what had happened in Haiti; it was just some vague sad day dream. Bloody really only for foreign brown faces you’d never meet. Though the papers say we are sheltering 12,000 Syrians, that’s good of us. What also of the ashes of the Brooklyn Soviet, trampled under the iron heel of our government? Had the Labor Day rising four years ago even occurred as I remembered it and wrote it down? What of all my dear dead friends? Where were they buried? The only things left to prove I had even been there, that it was even real! Had I even done those things in those deserts and ghettos and mountains; a paramedic card in my pocket, the edges singed from when I tried to burn it and Goldy had stopped once me. Also, burns on the bilat of both my hands, from when she couldn’t.

And I still do dream of Ms. Goldy, when I so still even dream. Nothing is left of my original vision. Nothing has survived the Great War. The Labor Day Uprising has been forgotten, all its principle leaders were lined up and shot. The Brooklyn Ghetto which we once called the Brooklyn Soviet, it is rubble. The development vultures are circling the ash piles and pilings and smoldered wrecks of our greatest hopes.

Avram Adon, my father the plump aging 75 year old dentist look very tired. And Barbara Josephina, my sorcerous mother she sips the poisonous confection and looks into the sea.

Talk now turns to medical school. We were notified by mail that while I was interned in the hospital camps, being corrected in thought, I had been accepted to St. George’s Medical school in Grenada. This would be a fine way to stay out of trouble and maybe secure my life, the parents thought. I did too. For I was tired, and no one; not the doctors, the parents, the lovers or the remaining comrades trusted my mind anymore. So smart, and so squandered.

All these pschofants that once drank my fine and ate my feasts and feted at my fetes, they smiled like clowns and listened to my speeches! Now where were any of them? Dbrisk is probably in hiding in Brooklyn, what’s left of the central ghetto. Andrew Lesce is renting a small apartment in the Isle of Man, he was not very involved in the rising at all. Erin is under house arrest in Queens, and the others are all gone.

 

I have no more tears left. Not even for my face. Why are so many of my closest dead and I am cursed to be alive! The hospital camps took me, when I came out it was all over.

 

The waves crash and explode their foam and rip back out to the sea. They still evidently cannot predict the weather in this futuristic future of smart phones and devices. Where the oligarch David Rockefeller just had his 7th heart transplant.

My parents are talking about something, that I cannot even hear and I remember the terrible great tease of seeing Goldy again on the roof, three years after I lost track of her in the carnage and tumult of the revolution, well that was less than two months ago I found her, I remember us running into that Bulger Tavern and signing away our souls, and…no it wasn’t real. It was all just in some revolutionary soap opera I wrote mourning her. In the real world though, I ran into Ms. Goldy on the roof of Output night club, and I spent the last two months with her, traveling the three states without ever using our papers, and dancing and dining and reading her my novels, the memoirs about the war years and the poems I wrote in her name. And then, then she broke it all off again. For my sake, she claims.

“I cannot love you as you love me, nothing has changed…you are killing yourself again.”

“Well, I feel the ocean telling me to swim,” I say.

I disrobed my white finery down to my under garments. I told my father, “Tell her that I loved her.” “I won’t,” he replied into his drink. And then I took off running down the beach into the bluest blackest crashingest surf, hoping the mighty ocean would just carry me away, knowing I wouldn’t die this way, knowing that I would float back to the beach eventually. I just didn’t care about my body anymore, about anything really. She came back, and she was gone. I had thought I would never see her again, and then she came back! Perhaps just one week after I got out the camps! I never thought I’d see her again, that she’d marry a doctor or end up in a comfort camp, or die from too much partying.

 

I cannot make her love me, I cannot ever be good enough for her, and she stays with me only out of art and pity. She doesn’t even remember our tumultuous life together and apart during the revolt! She remembers only what suits her, and I am a broken man, that, well, razpizdai! I don’t give a fuck anymore. Into the sea.

And the black waters over take me, if there are shouts from the crowded beach I hear them not at all. Perhaps I will really die this time. In this world I have no special luck or powers. Perhaps I will leave my body and wake up in the mountains, wake up where I’m supposed to me, wake up and love myself again. Or die for nothing, as my parents watch helplessly from the beach.

Well anyway my mother knows how much training I have. Splash I go, and really, no one is coming in after me with how huge these waves are.

The black blue ocean enters my insides and rips me out to sea. Before I go unconscious after a three story wave breaks over me, I see her on the beach shaking her head. Judging me harshly for my wanton disregard. My utter selfishness! The rip tides suck me down and out into the brine.

#That Night, Act 1, Scene 3

Scene 3

 

My name, embattled comrade, is Valentina Stanovova. I have blond hair and a smug, blushing baby face. I proudly a daughter of Dmitrograd, which is now minus one. I am not an architect per say, but I possess a body of certificates vouching admirably for my acumen in engineering and my useful gifts in fine arts and technical drafting.

I have been solicited by the Ministry of Sustainable Development, newly retitled, of the Federation of Russia to advance aid and good will to the Americans, the Americans our allies under the bold leadership of President Donald Trump, which occurred in the 8th day of November of the year 2016, a hotly contested affair. Well anyway, the Americans are our allies, again. How nice of everyone. I deeply enjoy travel, but am indifferent to airplanes.

Since they were so supportive and nurturing to us in the 1990’s President Putin wishes to extend to them every bit of generosity now that they have shall we say a premier we can look in the eyes as a man.

I am flying first class on Aeroflot 873 Moscow to JFK direct, a part of a delegation of experts from the Development Ministry taking part in, shall we say renovations of popular landmarks. President Putin has said in a recent speech that by 2025 Russian made boots will crunch the red desert of Mars! Imagine that? I don’t really, I don’t. I am an architect by training and I am more concerned with things erected here on this orb, this terrestrial. But fine news, not all were so behind the clever and bold President, but we always had faith. Scary the 1990’s, real bad times, I was just a girl. Half the women of Ukraine sold off into flesh service! The Poles given nuclear missiles! Think of that, the Poles! All this is a quiet race of thoughts inside me. Mtyblonde hair is tied up professionally, I am in a crisp, and womanly business blue suit from France. All is well. This is such an opportunity.

The public address asks if any physicians are on board. If they could identify themselves to the crew, none visibly do in the first class chamber. The air maids wear a bright orange, a blood orange almost red smock, a little hammer and sickle in a star can be found in their head cap. Still no doctors.

My work in New York is massive, completely up ladder, completely a new league. I have made my name in the Russian Federation at a comparatively young age thought the design of various sporting areas; such as that of the Falcons of Nizhny Novgorod, an ice hockey team. The papers say I am a savant, a real gem, a real Slavic gift to the world still only aged 28. The Falcon Stadium is the third largest in the Federation, its opening roof seals with vast mechanical levers almost like a rose curling its petals inward, were such petals 78 ton sliding plates of steel.

My work in New York, our work is not so pedestrian, or populist. It concerns renovations of two famous Amerikanski landmarks, and the erecting of a floating pleasure garden above the central park of the Isle of Mann.

Still no doctor, I hope nothing calamitous is a foot.

The sky help are stirring, they are so well trained to not show any alarm, and they bring a man from storage, for economical seating, he is dark and dashing and I must say he is well dressed too in Zara brand maybe, he is too young to be a doctor.

I am curious now, I see a heavy set Americansky clutching his chest. Just maybe seven rows back in the business class periphery. The dark man, I say he is dark because his hair is on the browner side of black, but he has negative energy too about him. I can tell these things. He is taking the man’s blood pressure with a true cuff, not the automated, he is looking self-assured, asking the man questions in Anglesey. His patient looks fifty pounds obese. Flushed and distraught, actually no one else is paying attention but me and the sky help.

The helpingly helper is Eastern European moving, but I do not think he is a Russian actually.

“You’re a doctor,” a stewardess asks the man in Russian, who is requesting the medical bag be brought out, asking for some pills of this or that.

“Sorry, I don’t speak Russian,” the man replies listening to something with a stethoscope.

“Sorry,” the stewardess replies, “Are you a doctor?”

“A paramedic,” the man replies, which is enough for now the crew thinks and no doctors or nurses appear to be identifying themselves.

“What’s wrong with him?” a stewardess asks, surprised the paramedic doesn’t speak any Russian.

“He is having chest pains.”

The stewardess thinks, a nation of morbidly obese man babies.

And soon though the medical bag is brought out, and the dark paramedic is giving the man some pills, but it is too late, the fat American he clutches his chest and moans, he is very much now having a full blown heart attack!

The man appears to die in front of us, I gasp internally. Everyone in first class tries to not stair, the American paramedic, I assume he is American any way speaking English when Russian would be more pleasant to all of our ears, he seems calm though in his head perhaps he is either annoyed, or indifferent over variables only he can know. Such as doing CPR on a plane which is many kilometers from the east coast, the seat before me says 3 hours at least.

Blat,” the paramedic says, he checks a pulse there is no pulse. I see him unbuckle the heft dead man and say, “help me lower him to the floor,” and the stewardess does, and she re checks the pulse and begins CPR, as all Aeroflot attendants are trained in basic life support when hired.

I unbuckle myself and come over, “I’m Valentina, can I help you?” I say in stupid sounding English, not that my English is poorly, just I know that English in general sounds so stupid.

He looks up from within the medical bag, where he’s taken out a red box with a button contraption, the stewardess in still doing the CPR, I expect to be asked if I have any training, “Can you take over her CPR in about 90 seconds,” he says, “I’m Valera, people call me Val, it’s short for Valera,” he says as he open the box, and rips the mans button shirts, and he get these pads on the dead fat man, tells the stewardess to hold CPR, the box says in Russian, “Analyzing, Analyzing heart rhythm.”

“What did it say to do,” he asks the stewardess.

She continues CPR, and tells him that it said to do that. Everyone is watching now in the first class compartment.

Valera seems mostly calm, he’s looking in the drug bag, and he clearly can’t read anything on the labels. It’s all in Russian.

“Read me what these vials say,” he asks me.

“Epinephrine 1:1000.”

“Take over CPR from her Ms. Valentina,” he says and I try I mean I just push on the chest and imitate the stewardess.

“Push hard and fast, allow for full chest recoil,” he says he’s drawing up the epinephrine into a syringe.

“Huh,” I say.

“It’s just something they say in CPR videos in the USA, you’re doing a wonderful job dorogaia,” he says in Russian, and winks.

“Hold this please,” he tells the Stewardess, he hands her two syringes he’s filled with epinephrine and normal saline. She does.

“Stop CPR,” he says maybe two minutes late and the box says something about shock advised push to shock, he clears us away and pushes it and the dead fat body jumps a little, he checks a pulse, tells the stewardess to hand me the drugs and do more CPR.

He began an IV and then he pushed one vial of epinephrine into the man, and this all went on for what seemed like a very long time.

There was more CPR, and more trying to shock with no result, and more epinephrine, then there was no more epinephrine, and he even did some CPR since there were no longer medications of a useful nature in the drug box, and the machine would shock the man no more.

“What now comrade paramedic?” I ask him. He seems unalarmed.

“When we stop pushing on his chest he will be certainly dead, but I will tell you that he will not be alive when we land in New York, even if brought back he will not be alive in a meaningful way.”

“Well should we stop then,” the little stewardess asks, we are switching every two minutes between the paramedic Valera Valera, and two stewards of sky help and I.

“I will tell you that there is nowhere to land for nearly three hours, and this chest pushing will require more people than us four to sustain for three hours,” he says while doing CPR.

“Well could he come back?”

“There’s a 1-6% chance if the CPR is continuous, if we are met in JFK by paramedics and physicians that he could be resuscitated, but it is unlikely as he has not responded to good CPR for twenty minutes and six rounds of epi. Switch with me,” he says to me.

And I take over again. Three more hours, blat. What is an American life worth?

“Do you speak Farsi,” he asks the stewardess who looks vaguely Central Asian, maybe.

She looks confused and a little upset, and says, “Niet.”

“I speak Farsi,” says the second the piolet who has arrived to review what is happening, a handsome young man.

And then they speak in Farsi. I look at the stewardess and she shrugs, the CPR is still going on, the four of us all around this heft dead business man, the paramedic Valera Valera said that no one stops for ventilations in Arizona, Seattle, South Africa, Dublin or Boston so we just take his word and do continuous CPR.

I wonder what he’s telling the pilot in Farsi.

#That Night, Act 1, Scene 2

Scene 2

 

I call out for her still into the death of a black ghetto night.

I will tell you know now, most dear tovarish, a story of our times. For if in the past I have written you of things that were and things that also could be; of fanciful alternate lives; or perhaps of wars or magic beyond your range of site and passions beyond your range of feeling. I have now set pen to paper to put down the events of our common year 2016, 5777 in the year of my tribe the Ivory. Known in your argots and crude vernaculars as the calendar year of the Hebrew people, the loathsome Jews.

We found ourselves in that year in the City of New York, a city where no one I had grown up with could live anywhere near the center for a mass of aristocrats, entertainers, money handlers, robber barons and oligarchs had pushed us all into their service living in the districts that ring the rivers East and Hudson. And in that year I was surrounded as was my way with former and post-Soviet gangsters, with newly arrived immigrants, with various Muslims and mystics, with Caribbeans & subversives, with ambulance workers, with jazz musicians with those who live the life of night. The right composition of any good dancehall party.

And then, living most precariously in a string of south and central Brooklyn apartments, making the kind of small talks I’d made for years, small talks of very, very big things I was reminded of an Old Russian saying, the words of some bathhouse mystic; that:

 

‘If I saw the size of my blessing coming, I would understand the magnitude of the battle we must fight.’

Someone said that to me in the Winter preceding the Labor Day Rising.

And, for years I had been part of a little embattled Otriad, a small group of idealists and EMTs, of visionaries, malcontents and perhaps also some hard radicals, a group of paramedics and their sympathizers that had on an island off the Coast of Galilee, Rhode Island pledged their meager resources to building a resistance movement. A movement which we certainly did not begin and will not perhaps unlikely see the freedom and equality for which we have prepared to lay down our lives and accepted as our duty to act upon.

 

On Labor Day of 2012, we participated in failed and foolish uprising in the borough of Brooklyn and most of us were killed.

 

I told my brother Benny in a letter, ‘that I do not know if the resistance is now 40 or 4 million women and men. I have not spoken to my commanding officers since 2007. I do not know where Commander Solomon is, if she is even alive. I do not know where General Avinadav DeBuitléir is building his secret army in Mother Africa, if still alive.’ I told my expatiated brother, that ‘I took my orders from Tel Aviv in the fall of 2001 and have attempted to carry them out to the best of my human agency, despite so many setbacks and perilous dehumanizing conditions we all have faced.’

Shortly after publishing a manuscript about the events of the uprising and uprising, as I remembered them the secret police dragged me off the street, into an ambulance and I spent some five weeks in the camps. And then was released, as if nothing happened, but everything was different.

I then, broken and despondent I met a woman on the roof of a club that night, which changed everything. For this was the most important woman of my life. And I was to battle and die for her, over, and over and over again! Tragic hero made me! She was and is the bravest one. I play along. How now, this was to be the story of her future and my past.

#That Night, Act 1 Pro.

ACT ONE:

The Brunette in Grapes

 

Prelude

 

 

Brooklyn, New York, U.S.A.

 

 

Hold your breath. Breath smoke in if you must, you have to push yourself man, and you have to see things, make connections where you’re not totally sure they exist. You have to count down, you have to blink. To squint, break your knuckles and bleed maybe, bleed in quiet. You have to try, dig in your stuff, you don’t see it.

Pity, you can’t. You don’t have any solidarity at all. You don’t even know you’re still a slave. The chornay do. The world reminds them every day.

I don’t know if you can picture it yet comrade, the big wink. I don’t know if your mind can see the uprising as it was, how it all it went down. In a heartbeat, all was in flames. Anyone with black skin just being shot down in the street like rapid feral dogs! It didn’t have to be, no it didn’t! We could have reached some settlement the liberal elders said, I fundamentally disagree.

Black lives certainly don’t matter to anyone at all.

Were you to observe the crumble of the high grounds, the moral roads into base animal rage, I think it was enough that one in eight of their men was in prison, I think it enough that one died a week it seemed, a week, a day, every 48 hours? Statistics are all make believe. I don’t think any whites thought the chornay human anyway, so it was a real surprise that they were organizable.

 

The signal was a song, it is impossible to plan an uprising without a good sound track, that’s an old Haitian saying, and the gun fire erupted from make shift big truck alliance barricades and over turned cars, piled by the Grand Army Plaza. And the human spear thrust north, the melee of thousands, supported by millions counted on by no less than five billion souls, take over Manhattan and burn it all down. Light it all on fire.

Make them pay!

It was probably not a very good day for those marauders in the front of the flying columns, those the NYPD emptied clip after clip into, as was expected, before being torn apart and beheaded by the mob. The crush and screams of feet pounding the parkway, the blare of the signal song, the gun fire on both sides, fire bombs bursting in air.

Perhaps as many as four hundred men and women too plus died in the fire fight to conquer only one square of the board, the Grand Army Plaza was on fire and the Garveryites were killing police officers with the Kalashnikovs the Russians sold them, well anyway the Jews who sold them spoke Russian, but that’s as misleading a term as chorney.

And that eruption, that mostly black eruption lept north supported by tens of thousands of masqueraders, there was gun fire all night. You could be sure they’d ban Jeuvert this time for real, what was it really all about this annual dry run, now the streets were wet with blood.

The uprising had been about grievances, but it wasn’t about politics. It wasn’t about the handful of modest reforms groups put out there on the wire. No, it was about hate and about rage and about decades of powerlessness, about the failure of non-violence and playing the game to advance. Well, anyway what really was there to write about?

Concentrated machine gun fire stopped the Negro rebel onslaught at the foot of the Manhattan Bridge. The corpses were piled high, no one learned anything in the popular press.

#That Night, Prelude

 

 

 

#That Night

Brunette in Grapes & Other Russian American War Stories

Written By Adler S Walt

Dedicated to Natalia Abashkina

 

Characters:

Valera Adonaev, a Chechen patriot, Dasha Andreavna, courtesan of Penza, Benny Adonaev, Spanish smuggler, Viktor Dragan, East German spy, Valentina Stanovova, a Russian architect, Salvatore Caminiti, Sicilian gladiator, Natalia Abashkina, expensive supermodel, Dmitry Khulushin Koch, a villain, Avinadav Debutelier, Commander of the Resistance in Israel, Polina Mazaleava, a singer in Nizhny Novgorod, Oleg the Bear, Ukrainian Israeli photographer, Maxim Oztap, a smooth operator, Rafael Contreras Lynch, Peruvian revolutionary, Lauren Ayers, an American! Liana Zavulonova, Bukharin Princess. Valera Arefyev, a mystic, Mickhai Dbrisk, Jamaican paramedic, Rachael Rambo, an attorney from Fort Laughtrerdale, Daviti Koreintelli, Georgian arms dealer, Philip Rybalnik, Ukrainian hooligan, Jefferson McIntyre of New Orleans & Guyana, Stacious McKenzie, Trinidadian Special Forces

Mr. Ersatz, a real fucking villain.

 

 

 

 

Prelude

 

 

Brooklyn, New York, U.S.A.

 

 

Sometimes, old friend, I cry from own weakness. I bash my Jew face against various mirrors around town angered by my own lack of force, lack of seed, and lack of ability to carry my band more truly into glorious and successful battle. I beat my frail fists on concrete walls which always win! I ask my God why it untrusted me with anything at all. For I am so small and so unable it seems to be a good fighter, an adequate lover, or a good leader, or a good son, or a good husband to Adelina, a good much of anything. I started the game with such a strong position but have not leveraged that to advance my people and cause, even protect those I loved the most!

 

And then I remember my actual role, not the role my mad ego ascribes. I am but one single partial partisan. One isolated man with such true friends.

 

I am commanding, a funny word “commanding”, more appropriate term coordinating for can one even give orders to a volunteer? A force that numbers at any given time no more than ten to maybe twenty women and men. And no God nor man nor foreign government gave us marching orders; well at times a Russian woman gave me some directions, but only when at most desperate and bleak junctures, I had to no council to turn to. But, I brought almost all this chaos upon my house unaided! But this is hardly a wide conspiracy. But looking into my own soul I am not doing this for God or man, I am not simply avenging my losses, nor am I simply working off a duty to act. No, no; I am self-propelled and highly lucky. I am doing this because my eyes see fire. I am doing this because I have seen the view from the top of the Mountain, I have seen the killing fields too. I have a great empathy with my kind. I wish good to triumph over callous and well planned evil.

 

And the responsibilities that were impressed on me by the old leadership, they were small bits. And I say to myself that if our little band with no weapons and no training and no funding and the protection provided us only by our passports and various skin tones could do so much! Still we did accomplish a range of small things in the Americas and beyond. We took over buildings, and organized demonstrations, built unions, operated a substantial underground press. If we could build youth brigades and lay cells across four continents; if we could operate clandestine supply chains, raise tens of thousands in equipment and supplies, conduct hundreds of underground political trainings, infiltrate major city civil service organizations, if we could smuggle activists and trainers into distant countries uninvited and opposed by government. If we could do all of this with no outside support and do it with keeping all our partisans out of long term prison, and have only buried three men in seventeen years of war under questionable circumstances. Well perhaps we are all still young and the war shows no sign of being over. Perhaps we have a small latent talent for freedom fighting and if not killed or imprisoned could with a little guidance grow more professional.

 

And we have not killed one single person in seventeen years, in fact we have with our own hands saved the lives of thousands and counting.

 

“I’ve always said he has a fucking ton of potential! For good, for self or for evil, wherever his own heart ultimately sends him,” Daria once declared.

 

So, really as was explained to me then in 2011 before the uprising in Brooklyn by my confidant Dasha Andreavna; I could either surrender, collaborate or be utterly destroyed. But as she gauged my nature was highly American, she guessed correctly I would never tolerate a life of collaboration, so thus death or some impossible victory were the only moves coming.

 

I have been imprisoned twenty times. My brothers and sisters have never allowed them to take me for long. Each time they have chained me to beds, administered electricity, loaded me with drugs, asked millions of stupid questions to attempt to make me alter my perspective, denounce my own logic.  I have observed members of the band lose their very homes and their livelihoods and their freedom and their health. I have seen men thrown through Plexiglas glass windows. We have been held in cages and also tortured. The deaths of Mcgaffey, Becker and Black were all sudden and violent and unexplained. I remember little Paul behind bars, I remember harassment and humiliation of Comrade Vik, I remember how much was sacrificed vainly in the name of this struggle. This struggle which absorbs my beingness as though it were the love of a woman, but I am a zealot. I am not good for anything but this. I am in love with my entire people and I have resolved that it would be better to be killed, to lose my privileges of skin and class, than to live in a world where a tiny vile few make the lives of the many, the lives of all I know and love a wretched grinding torture. Truly a half-life.

 

I cry sometimes, no longer in the presence of any others. Dasha mocked me so each time I failed to be a man. I cry because the horror is so vast and the injustice so great. And I have but ten to twenty partisans, several with wives and children. I worry that I am not going to be able to shoulder this struggle, that I lead my closest to sedition and doom. I worry I have not the moral fortitude, the calm patience of humble leadership, the organizational skills the funds we will need, the weapons, the uniforms, the petrol, the Planes, the will. For I am a man and I am seduced sometimes by wanting more good life, wanting to walk away. This is not your fight, she said, no one asked you to struggle!!

 

Friends, they torture me once a year. They tell me I have an unstable mind. They drag me away over and over and over again. I am grateful for such friends as you, who refuse to accept surrender. Who know that we can win the war. I wanted to tell you all, see what we do with just ten women and men. You have that many fighters too. Here we all are at the top of the mountain, assembled in the ghettos encircling the Isle of Man.

 

I loved her so much. Maybe only one or two of you know what I’m talking about. They took from me the only thing a man should care about.

 

I’m thankful for the resistance. I’m thankful for our little Otriad in Brooklyn. For the cells in Chicago, Philly, Baltimore and DC. The underground in Moldova, Cambodia, Haiti and occupied Israel. Thankful for Commander Reed in Mosul, Commander Bonhomme in Port Au Prince. Inspired deeply by the teachings of Solomon and Debutelier. I love my family and my wife, I hope this is the year we go pro.

 

She is a million miles away, but she can hear me. She can see me. She liked me better before I found communism, liked me better before I rediscovered my religion. She even liked my used suits better than the grey uniform I wear now.

 

I raise glass to the East, for there somewhere out there I hope she is waiting for me, waiting for us to win. I raise my glass, I look my men and women in the eyes when I toast, “Long live the resistance, God protect the blood line of the prophets and the Mossiach and the Mahdi. God keep us moving along the straight path, not the path of those who are cowards, or those who have been lost and lead astray.”

 

For those of you who are joining us from home, for those listening from the trenches, from the fields or from the big house, or as servants in the towers. This is just a love song.