Message from the Editors Dear Alias readers and contributors. As most of you know by now Cliff Kennedy, the founder and editor of this magazine has passed away on May27, 2001. But we, the collective of Alias at Fred Victor Centre, would like to continue publishing it to honour Cliff's memory. For the next worse thing to having died is to have what you devoted your life to, to die with you. Yet, we cannot do it without your help. We need you to continue to contribute your writings to Alias. You can mail it to: Alias, Fred Victor Centre, 145 Queen St.E., Toronto, Ont. M5A 1S1 or e-mail your contributions to:towndown2@hotmail.com We also would like to hear from those of you who receive Alias by mail. Every two months we mail 100 copies of Alias to addresses in Canada, USA, and overseas. We would like to continue doing this. But unless you let us know that your address still valid we can't be sure that you keep receiving Alias. To avoid this uncertainty (and wastage of money) please inform us either through regular or e-mail that you received this issue. More quotations from myself by Nick Gur. 244. I think to understand, I speak to be understood. 245.One should never become a slave of one's own self-definition. 246. Certain people can accept the others only after having found some faults with them and thus, in their minds at least, reducing "the others" to the level when they can look down upon them and, consequently, feel superior in some respects, if not totally. Then they can treat these "others", already "reduced" in such a manner with the mixture of contempt and compassion, condescension and magnanimity (and this, mind you, is the best scenario) all the while, of course, feeling good about themselves for being "so good", but especially for being obviously so much better than those pitiful "others". For it seems to be absolutely essential for such people's peace of mind to believe that there is somebody who is worse than they are. 247. The modern poetry is like a body without a skeleton, trying to compensate the absence of it by the extra flesh to support itself. Thus, the words-flesh are used as a substitute for a structure-skeleton to give to the poem-body some, however tenuous, stability of shape and form. But quite often this leads to such an abundance of "flesh" i.e., excessive verbosity, that instead of supporting the poem-body it makes it collapse under its own weight. 248. Time frightens me, it's running so fast, the deadly certainty, no pause and no delay, the future, at once, turns into the past, tomorrow's, in a flash, becoming yesterday. The desperate attempts to fashion an illusion, that time can be reversed or made, at least, stand still, had brought into my life much grief and much confusion, for simple truth is - time could not be willed. I have no more hopes, nor prayers left to slow the days' and years' inexorable flow, till death will break the ruthless clock of time, What shall remain of me then? Few words put in a rhyme. 249. Somebody's lines are glasses of wine, Like shots of hard liquor are mine. They cannot be sipped and put gently aside, they're drunk in one gulp that will burn your insides. 250. Some of the modern poetry resembles also a painter's palette just covered with paints of different colours and which, like many abstract paintings, doesn't say much beyond how many distinct colours of various brightness, shade, intensity, etc. are on it. 251. Another difference between the classical and the modern poetry is that when a classical poet wrote a poem his work was essentially completed, whereas when a modern poet finishes writing his and his critics' job just begins; now they have to explain and interpret what has been written. 252. The multinational state, which can be defined as a state consisting of several distinct national groups, each of which is united, historically, by the common territory, language and culture, and Democracy are, as the recent events in Soviet Union and Yugoslavia (to name just a few but the most vivid examples) have shown, incompatible. To begin with, the multinational states are invariably created by military conquest (although sometimes just a mere threat of war would suffice) and, consequently, held together essentially by military power, no matter how well this fact is disguised by modern treaties and constitutions. In contrast, Democracy, in its broadest sense, means the rule by mutual consent of at least the majority of population in any given country and also depends on the willingness of the dissenting minority to submit to this rule. But such a consent can only be based on the broad consensus, which, in turn, presupposes common interests, either real or imaginary. Yet, any modern society is divided into many different socio-economic groups, such as poor, middle class, rich, workers, farmers, city dwellers and those living in rural areas, etc. Each of these groups is distinguished from others by the set of specific attributes which makes it distinct, each having its special interests and its own agenda. The only interests all these divergent groups seem to be having in common are the so-called "national interests", for common interests depend on the common characteristics and one which is the most common to the various groups in one nation is their common nationality. But what unites people of one nation - common nationality - also separates them from people belonging to another nation who are, respectively, united on the basis of their own common nationality, and so on, and so forth. Ideologically, such a unity based on common nationality expresses itself as nationalism (in the most benign sense of the word). On the other hand, the absence of such one unifying force - common nationality - in the multinational state (which is by definition made up of several different nations, each with its own nationalism) makes the broad consensus of any lasting nature in such a state impossible. Yet, to attain its stability and permanence, Democracy requires, as a necessary precondition, the widest possible consensus. The objective impossibility of such a consensus, for the reasons stated above, makes, at least in any foreseeable future, the multinational state and Democracy incompatible. P.S. Of course, there are objective common interests of the similar classes within the different nations, as was expressed in that famous sentence from the Communist Manifesto: "Proletariat of the World unite!" But as history has shown nationalism is much stronger uniting force than class solidarity. It has also shown that those who put the narrow class interests above the broad national ones undermine the national unity and wide societal consensus necessary for the successful democracy to function. As a result, they are viewed by society in general as "the national enemies", for, in the long run, the idea of "the proletarian internationalism" is as unacceptable to any particular nation as a whole as the idea of "the capitalist internationalism" in a form of multinational corporations, International Monetary Fund, etc. You can find more writings by Nick Gurevich on the Internet by going to: 1) http://maxpages.com/nickgurevich 2)http://maxpages.com/nickgurevich2 3)http://maxpages.com/nickgurevich3 From "THE ADVENTURES OF HOMO SAPIENS" By M, Della Marina Ice Age, Stone Age, Golden Age, Middle Age elapsed, The Future came. In the Fields at the End of Time The last poplar tree searched the silent sky. God's hand reached through trembling leaves, His fingers sunshine rays, Rays that brushing Earth's dying sphere Healed multitudes of cowslips and columbine. The shadow of Skylark quivered in the fading sky: "Give me life...Give me life, That I may sing and fly once more..." New dew drops collected into ponds, Lakes, rivers, Liquid highways restoring a dead sea. The ghosts of White Shark and Killer Whale, Perceiving God's fingers prayed: " Give us life...Give us Life That we may explore the deep once more Before dissolving forever into oceans of eternity." In the Metropolis at the End of Time, Homo Sapiens naked and alone lingered on a ravaged skyscraper rooftop, Rapping to the crumbling city landscape: "Did equal Fingers shape Humanity's Mirage?" *** Naked and alone sitting on a bar stool, Sipping single malted Scotch thirty years old. Drank half the spirit in the bottle To silence battling spirits. Took another gulp wishing he would cry; No. No tears come to his eyes. Tears running down his face Would wet a fancied field of daffodils, Laura's favorite flower, Laura died last summer. The news was e-mailed today... They were play-mates, Lovers when love meant sleeping on a deserted beach And the moon never out of reach. As Flower Children in the not too distant past, Survived on a dish of vegetables and a pipe of hash. Doors of infinity opened wide Loneliness blotted out. Extinguishing fear of death Gave Meaning of Life different colours. Journeying into Past Dimensions, Revealed Laura and Homo Sapiens Companions of countless life spans, Hand in hand since primordial ages, Hunters in the land of Lord Dinosaur, Priestesses at the Gate of Ishtar, In ancient Rome he had been a belly-dancing girl, Laura a gentle slave. He recalled himself a Sultan, In the land of the Reindeer People she had been a great shaman. Two solitary virgin shepherds Inseparable deep inside the Goby Desert, A thousand times along the river Seine Laura was the gypsy Esmeralda loved by Quasimodo the Homo Sapiens of Notre Dame. Over and over, living and dying, again and again. THE ROAD TO THE CEMETERY By M. Della Marina A wintry day, On the windowsill of the last house Geraniums and cyclamen Blossom as they would in summer. Beyond the city limit Thick fog hovers, silently waiting. In the distance A boulevard Originating with two white pillars And flanked by cypress trees Seems to have no end. Hazy and far away The walls of white stones That surround the cemetery. But for me Laying in front Of open wrought iron gates, Sealed inside my black coffin, Under sprays of flowers And a golden cross, The road was much to short. The hour came too soon! The fog lifts. A ray of sunshine Perches on the expectant grave. A bell tolls. Tell me oh Heavenly Lord Why so heartbreaking the road That leads to peaceful repose? * * * MY SAVING GRACE Oh pen and paper, you are my saving grace Strip me of black emotion , replace it with a smiling face If only I could escape at that moment, to put it all in place The world would never beat me down, I'd always win my race What care I for power , what care I for Fame and wealth I shun them all, they have no place in heart or self For love is life's greatest treasure, Truth her greatest power And who needs Fame with love and truth Flowing from hearts tower I'm at times a slave to possession, books that feed, songs for the heart And the musings of a part time poet, I'd stall to call it art Yet it can bring me simple happiness, take away sweet pain My writings, sometimes observations, sometimes emotion captured tamed It keeps me on the straight and narrow, my conscience lies in ink It takes me from this mad, mad world, gives me room to think It pleases me, it tortures me, the truth is hard as hell My silent tears are stains of ink, the blood in my veins as well I have no dreams of writing, for a living, I live for my writing Its not a career, I do it when I need it, let it do my fighting I look forward to the day when I will write no more When peace is mine, I conquer myself in this personal war Michael F. Kennedy EMOTIONAL POLAROIDS Sometimes the words flow like water from a fountain the rhymes fall naturally like they're flowing down a mountain, other times nothing, I search for words but the well is dry my pains transformed, the written word the only tear I cry I can stare at the page for hours, search and scratch my mind, It's all worth the pain and treatment if only for a single line. It's a labour of love, Anger and passion, All captive of ink . It's my soul , It's my life , It's what I am , the way I think I Can't defend everything this pen has ever said it capture the moment, emotional polaroids, be it good or bad, That's the way life is, we were not picture perfect all the time sometimes I'm write out of focus, sacrifice meaning in light of the rhyme I can only write what I feel, I cannot lie to the page Yesterday feelings may not be to days. We all give in to age. It's a refuge from a heartless world , a castle amidst the mundane, My shelter, protects this innocent heart from a world insane Michael F. Kennedy WRITE IT ALL DOWN by Litsa I just finished watching Anne Rice on Biography. I always assumed her writing would be awful without reading any of it. I've often been put in my place by judging Stephen King. At least I have read two of his novels long ago. Mrs. Rice had a troubled childhood and a shaky rise to stardom. She is a woman of integrity wit a Master's Degree and has had a long-standing marriage to a fellow writer and Professor. Furthermore, she has kept her integrity while working on films based on her novels. Interestingly, nobody edits her books. This can't be very common. She has had to slow down because of her recent diagnosis with diabetes. All these facts and more makes her and her writings very appealing to me now. Maybe I'm also fascinated because she is a modern day woman who is outspoken and who is still an active writer. I did not realize she does the amount of research she does on books. Ignorant again I was to the fact that her most popular book "Interview with a Vampire" was written decades ago. It was shoved away with many of her writings. I will read this book and I may look upon Anne Rice as a mentor for my writing. Woman need more female role models! I'll have to look and respond to her web page. Perhaps she will give me some on-line tips on writing even though our styles would be radically different. I've always been quite fond of writing. I heavily relied on journals probably because I had few confidantes as a child and no role models. I had used it as a therapy tool many years before I realized I had some serious problems. This was a couple of decades before I had a real Therapist. And it was years, eighteen roughly, years of journal writing that I destroyed. These journals were my memories more than my mind could ever hold. I had the minutest of details written down. These details now would probably seem trivial but as a child they were massive. Within its pages, I would write about my joys and my upsets, fights and fancies. I wrote innocently about my first kiss and maturely about my first time. I always confided and was honest in my journals. I found this very difficult in real life. I hid my insecurities and my hatreds from those whom I loved. Writing, like reading novels, became my substitute for real life which I was increasingly hating and hiding. I never wrote single page entries. I instead chose to write full pages upon pages of descriptions of my emotions, youthful desires, and dislikes. My journals came in different colours, shapes and sizes and bindings. I always thought that this replicated my personal changes and growth or regressions. Many were presents from persons who knew about my obsession. They were all personal writings and not creative entries. My present writing style is attributed to this real life journal writing of times past. I tend to write about my own occurances and observations. Loyal to the truth, I only slightly change the stories. I must find this therapeutic still due to my excessive journal-writing childhood. I could never again write journals with such fervour. Not since I insanely gathered them up, tied them, bagged them and chucked them. This was a major part of me and shows the sad, hopeless state that I was in. I still keep a journal but write briefer and much less frequently. The long and detailed non-fictional personal accounts are masked within my creative writing. I still love buying discounted attractive journals. I no longer, however, use them as much or as regularly. My letter writing mimics the chronological sequence of journals. It must have to be freed somehow! I used to, until recently, spend most of my disposable (hobby) time painting or drawing. Writing was a distant second or third which would be done in little spurts. Now art has been replaced with writing mostly. I am finding it to be my prime mode of relaxation. Also I just find I have so many ideas and so much to talk about. It is so versatile and personal, much like art. Everybody also has their own style(s). The subject of anybody's writing is so vast that it is endless.. One can really write about anything. Anything goes and it often does! You can write about heartburn or the person who shoved you on the subway. You can also write about the pre-fall heartburn while you were writing in your flowered diary. During which time of course you were rudely pushed on the subway. Surprisingly, the pusher was a sufferer of heartburn too and was reading an Anne Rice novel. He had been on the hardest-core heartburn pills which made him drowsy. He also had to use the toilet and so he was rushing to get off the subway and forgot his manners. Isn't writing great? He felt so bad that he kept calling you to make sure you were alright. He finally asked you out and soon you were in a sweet romance. You in turn borrowed his Anne Rice novel and were inspired to try another form of reading and writing style. Both of you would talk daily about writing, reading, your emotions and each other. The romance dominated your journal entries now. You had used a plain notebook and drew and painted hearts, an old typewriter, a library and the subway on it. This way you had all your four present-day passions all in one book. You can romanticize even heartburn and getting shoved on the subway. The weak bladder and a highly medicated person is always good for dramatics. Add a good novel and a journal and voila a short and sweet story was christened. The personal journal story was thrown in for my own peace of mind. It has been a decade since that was done. Again, my explicit journal writing has never continued but at least I'm still writing under the care of my Therapist. |
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