Israel and Gaza. A Plea.

Gaza and Israel.

I have researched the proximity of luxury hotels to the armistice line in both Israel and Gaza.

Hotels in Israel look a more pleasurable place in which to be barefoot. Gaza looks as though they are trying very hard.

Both rentable abodes are merely metres from murder and pieces of children, pieces unattached in a disorientating and warping fashion.

Both tourist hubs are within regrettable earshot of another father that tears at his shirt and chews his teeth whilst tears scream down his cheeks into a wiry Arab beard. Others stand around, clutching him in vain- their touch and own grasp offering no healing power for such cuts. The sudden rip of death between those still here and otherwise. The men around him appear daunted and confused, sickened by their reality and their latest definition of home. How can this man’s life be worse, how can he go on? They will hold him. We are apes. Perhaps some chemicals of the brain will happen in our favour…

The US Passport and Travel service warns me away from a potential visit to either lands. I agree. Rockets are an issue for me here…as they are for most children there tonight.

In terms of right to land, be it historical or racial, I feel that those in proximity to it are the owners- meaning, now, both. Israel has no more right to the strip as I do to Africa- the dawn of all humanity and the cradle of civilisation. Being the place of origin for some of my ancestors is irrelevant and all religious claims are revolting. All Israeli cries of requiring space to live are foolish as we do not burn one man’s home so as to build a palace for another. This is Nero. This is insane.

By all means, Israel, as a Jewish state, has a right to exist- just not at the expense of others in so far as death, desolation and misery can be considered a bad end of the deal for the people of Palestine.

There is no justice for your dead child in the murder of the children of those that committed it. You’re simply making more murderers, and more dead children. Both states have a growing population of dead children now, and it is rising along with the tide of hatred that will soon cease to roll back.

I can contact the ‘Commodore Hotel Gaza’ and enquire as to a good time to visit. My reason is that I wonder if there is, much like Britain mid-blitz, a duty of ‘chin up and keep moving’ business about them. I doubt there is when your two options are to either sit beneath a table or to run to the sea.

This state of Israel should exist, if its people want it so, but it must not exist as such- at the expense of blood and death to any other people. This is war, and this is empirical by such means as demolition, intimidation, piousness and murder.

Retaliation on both sides has achieved nothing. So we simply have hate. Burning the backs of one another’s children until you are all gone and the desert reclaims what it ever seeks to encroach upon.

A child is not a representative of the state, and an action against their children will see the worst reaction from that state.

The people of Gaza have perpetually lost- the defeat is total. Decimation of a people as an effort to end the actions of a few is a failure of your humanity and a statement that the greatest lesson of the 20th century- to stand up for those in fear of bullies- has been forgotten and ignored.

Israel. Shelling a city will kill the murderers you aim for, but not them alone. History will judge you for continuing and you will never become a beacon of righteousness that the modern world demands of its nation states.

An alternative?

I don’t know.

But not this.

The option resulting in the maximum number of dead infants is to be avoided. Perhaps at the expense of your safety. But you do not want to die a monster.

May peace come to you all swiftly.

Sam

Advertisements

How to Make Where You’re From a Place Worth Being From

To begin with- come from the countryside.

If you’re not from the countryside, then you’ll be town-folk, and that’s being negative. Stop it.

City-dwellers have this whole ‘about to be stabbed by a neighbour’ deal which just doesn’t pay off.

This sums up town-folk- people that do not know their neighbour and therefore have to assume that “they’re” probably going to mutilate “me” first. That’s why I’m cooler than you…my stabbing likelihood.

Then, because of this, we build ourselves up into these towers of incredibility via the mere foundations of: “Hey man, I’m from the city…my neighbour will probably stab me first so fuck you. You wouldn’t understand because your neighbours are probably all courteous and lending you sugar and such. Fuck you again”

Don’t be this- move back to the countryside with me and we’ll lend each other sugar. Having a tree nearby has always helped me.

The countryside used to be the wild darkness between the bright lights of civilised cities, a murkiness of strange noises, suspicious meat and probably too much incest (just a tad too much) that was to be traversed till you got to the nearest monastery where you could hear in the distance that same incest making those strange noises and suspicious meats a reality. In my opinion, incest leads to noise pollution and foul cooking at the least, as well as too many toes and not enough noses.

Unbeknownst to many of us know, the cities were not a helpful thing to happen as they in turn took on all of the previously listed reasons that the countryside was to be avoided.

Not that we should reclaim incest as a past-time or anything like that. Let’s leave that box of frogs be; before swaying in rocking chairs, playing the banjo and squinting becomes all that we’re good at. Let’s not limit ourselves to squinting and sibling-humping. I doubt it would help.

You want a city? Why? Why would you want to do that? Inconsiderate.

Because of the lights? Well, fine, I can’t deny that the city certainly has more lights.

I guess you’ve got me there.

Still, it merely means that when you’re being annihilated by the neighbour you never knew- you’ll be well lit. Probably making it easier for your neighbour there. Good for you- enjoy your new hole. I won’t.

Instead of this- be from the countryside- make the city a place you visit every now and then to remind yourself what the ‘masses’ look like and to see a musical.

I can see that the countryside might not be the most attractive of places out of the two lurid possibilities so…make where you’re from worth your time.

I, for one, feel that this is a good reason to have a tradition.

Not the sour traditions that go on and on because the elders fear change they can’t control, but the traditions of carrying around flaming barrels of mead because it’s fun. It also scares the shit of the townsfolk.

Get yourself a tradition and, with it, fuck those that are not local with it. Consider it initiations for letting someone in your club house/tree house. Like setting fire to your shoes, running for the river, having a truly-necessary paddle and then get aggressive with the guest for not joining in. THAT’s a tradition. It’s also mental. Good.

‘Mental and good’.

You can quote me on that.

Make the countryside scary for the urbanites= Make where you’re from a place worth being from.

Everything we come to fear as naturally bred blokes and femmes is born from the country: ‘Jaws’ (as I’m counting beaches), chewing sounds emanating from the woods and bales of hay falling on us from an unnatural height for hay.

If hay could speak one word, then it should be “What?”

And it would be the height of humour from then on, every time it heard its name, a…”What?”…, would follow and then you’d have to get on with your day.

This would also be a fine way to intimidate townsfolk. It might not be a good old fashioned city-bred knife in the ear, but it has a tad deal more panache owing to the normally-passive and typically stationary object falling on you, temporarily flattening your obese-urban-wise-bundle-of-bones and then ‘replying’: “WHAT?”

If a bale of hay collides downwardly with a townsperson, does it make a sound? If we have our way- yes. How will we achieve this? I presume it would revolve around breeding the noisiest of the hay-species, though this might be a matter of a rogue gust misleading our hay-breeders as they hear the ‘swish swash’ of hay in the breeze and then making it fuck.

Let’s try again.

So, as far as I see it…we’re the ones with all the stuff.

Maybe not quite as many street-lights or dentists, but other than that…most of the important stuff. Like beef.

And mutton.

What if we kept it?

What if we said to the casual urbanite: “Hey. See this mutton? Well keep watching, because that’s all you’ll ever get to do with it”?

Or, just hand them a sheep and a pair of scissors and tell them to go about providing themselves with a delicious Sunday roast and a rather fetching woollen jumper. Those two things you’ll want to keep fairly separate- you don’t want to find that your jumper’s moulding or that your dinner is a size 40 inch chest size, and itchy.

Great- we’ll keep the mutton.

What else do we have?

The bees! “You bitches, it’s all for honey” and all that buzz (HA!).

Now I would recommend to you all that we do one of two things with the bees…

One. Keep them and their delicious produce to ourselves. I’m sure we could learn from them and though I have experienced such a thing as ‘too much honey’- I’d rather have too much than not enough.

Two. Sick them on the enemy. People will hear their hum and start to fear the countryside once more. Picture a bee in a leash. I hope you enjoyed that.

All we’d have to do is ensure the balance between keeping the bees complacent and getting them appropriately pissed off, like beating them with the flower we’re feeding them. Or we could do that little dance of theirs and convince them to gather ‘pollen’. Yes…‘pollen’…

Actually, I don’t know if I’d prefer to have bees collect pollen more than the alternative method by which flowers USE me.

The flowers, normally the fluffy ones, ejaculate onto me and my shoes (with all their flower-sperm hugging nooks and crannies) and then ‘let me go’ without as much as a kiss farewell or £50 on the bedside table. Then, as I walk away from the male bastard-flower, I meander into the female district of the garden where the female posies lie back and spread open their ducts (easy now) as though uttering a moan of: “Oh KICK me Sam! KICK ME!”

Which I do. With my flower-spunk laden footwear.

I’m being helpful.

Actually, here’s an interesting method of making the countryside a little spookier once more…

When urban guests visit, perhaps we could involve them in our procreation: just say “It’s the way we do it round here”.

That way the guys could spunk into the urbanite’s pocket and ask them to visit our most bestest girl, where and with whom they would be asked to expel their creamy pocket contents and say who sent them. With a bouquet of flowers obviously- we must maintain the romance of the situation. I guess this would be a ‘spunk-o-gram’ and please feel free to patent the idea. Imitate the flowers.

I know that’d intimidate me if a country man ejaculated into my pocket and then sent me away.

But why make where we’re from a place intimidating? Why be scary?

Entirely, because it’s attractive and that would be the start of respect, and then being jolly would follow soon afterwards. The countryside is a place of sunny people and this is largely to do with sheer character- let’s flaunt that, but let’s flaunt that after putting ourselves on the map first.

And why put ourselves on the map?

You’re bored- that’s why, and igniting your shoes and running to the river will liven up your day no end.

You’re just bored, and you have to take caution with not wasting the minutes that are yours by being either in a city with various foreign objects being thrust into you (in a bad way) or from the countryside and lonely.

I play golf with fresh fruit.

It’s tremendously refreshing, is fair exercise, spreads seeds, feeds the birds, makes things a little stickier and has an explosive spread of fruit-innards.

City-folk I’ve introduced this to have either loved it or hated it, and the ones that loved it have always come back for more.

This is tourism.

A little crazy, commanding a bit of respect, and the people come.

And then, with them and with the dispersal of fresh fruit, I am no longer lonely.

So, WELCOME TO THE COUNTRYSIDE, the true jungle- not a concrete zoo. Make yourself at home whilst we dance with our bees and no longer fuck our siblings. There’s a river over yonder for one’s flaming footwear, and make sure you keep your pockets covered at all times.

That tradition about the guys procreating into your pocket might be a problem as time goes by.

Speaking of avoiding loneliness- talk to your neighbour- they’re right there.

It’s my birthday and I just found out that Robin Williams died last night.

Mental health- we’ve got mental health and must keep ourselves healthy through the exercise of natural instincts such as dialogue. Though some of us will have an illness, such as depression, talking will help. People might not ‘get it’, but they might understand that they don’t ‘get it’ and will becomes that necessary ear for you.

Don’t be lonely.

Find a person and talk to them.

And for all the love that is out there, if someone starts talking to you…talk back.

There’s really not much else that matters. We’re a communication species, so let us luxuriate in the delicious medicine that it can be to talk with another.

My life, nor I doubt yours, would be the same if Robin Williams hadn’t talked with us as he chose to. I’m glad he did.

Make yourself and where you’re from the tourism that our species is good at.

In there lies a little hope for us.

Sam


Name’s Australia, But You Can Call Me ‘Oz’.

To begin with, you can call Australia: ‘Oz’ (not that you needed my permission). It seems to mean a lot over there, and reading further will divulge reasons why.

In Australia there’s not much to do but be very alone in Asia, pretending that you are a continent nearer to Europe that it actually is. And since it isn’t, you have to insist that you are Australian at every turn.

I can only imagine that it is very lonely being so far from the rest of the white people, and so acting as though you are a people unto your own is possibly simply a means of coping.

Or maybe it’s the heat.

Either way- referring to this place as ‘Oz’ is smiled upon by the more-recent of the local population.

In ‘Oz’ you also have the option of insisting.

Insisting on history and insisting on identity. In my opinion, although this might seem absurd to some, in life you need more than Steve Irwin to know yourself and get ahead.

The man is idolised. His figurine is adorned in gold and made for taking the pride of place upon the mantle-piece of all those that visit the continent, because…why wouldn’t you want to have a golden Steve Irwin on your mantle-piece? I do believe that was his true message: ‘buy me’.

I feel that the people of ‘Oz’ want to be associated with the man in the same way that most British people don’t want to be associated with the Queen- in case Americans ask if you know her.

However, there’s not a lot of Australians, so in his time, you probably did know him fairly well.

Australians know how to accept company. They are a nation built for two things: tourism and trying to find the other thing. When they’ve found it, you can be sure that you’ll be able to purchase a tea-towel that sums them up perfectly.

Australia also has Aboriginal people and, as a people, those Aboriginals really could not be more fucked. Even more fucked than Native Americans, which must really sting after a while.

In terms of a national outlook they really aren’t fitting into the traditional and successful European franchise. For example, just take the previous sentence- “in terms of a national outlook”- Aboriginal ‘Ozzies’ were never a nation- they were a bunch of people that came from a place, having no idea that there were other blokes at either end of where they came from.

Poor buggers. They just don’t fit there anymore, and regrettably, they have to, and…currently…they never will.

This is extremely similar to the First Nation people of the US- everyone but them assumes that they aren’t around anymore.

So here’s an evil truth- the Aboriginal should be dead for the ease of the actual Australian people (Aboriginals are NOT Australian in the same way that the French are not German- they are simply near one another).

The injustice should have finished by now, the lingering of the race is against the benefit of the Australian progression and that progression is to sell, sell, sell the national identity. It would be much easier to sell some of that identity if the Aboriginals were all gone so that (1.) they could indulge much more heavily in the bullshit that equates to a paying audience and (2.) people wouldn’t see how poorly the Native people are currently handling themselves.

This is common knowledge- if the native people weren’t around- it would be much easier to get along with them. Aside from what is listed above, you have to consider that if the True Locals were already dead and gone, the white people wouldn’t feel so guilty, and they could make up some mysterious shit about who they were and how their souls are still ‘blood in the land’, ‘voices on the wind’ or ‘semen in the billabong’. You can make what you want of the dead. They’re dead- fighting back is a little beyond them.

As for the actual Aboriginal folks, I think they may be even a little more doomed than they were prior to the recognition of their ‘cultural contribution’. Before the assimilation of their art and history in the European selling machine- they were seen as a sub-race requiring decimation on the grounds of there not being enough room…in Australia. Following this process, the True Locals are now seen as a people…well…not quite a people- more of a ‘cultural aspect’ that offers the chance to demonstrate aspects of modernity, such as political correctness, and flogging didgeridoos.

Ultimately, the Aboriginal Natives of this continent are a property of the Australian nation. Not slaves, but their image is owned as much, and used in the Australian identity to suggest that there is more to it than is really there. Aboriginals are their own, and are much left to their own historically crippled devises, whilst their history and culture are assimilated into the Australian output that can be snuggly fitted onto that afore-mentioned tea-towel.

The insects are also really something else on that continent.

They regard you.

When I was out walking one day, a bug paused to let me pass before it went off on its way. I’m not saying that this beetle-like little boulder of a bug was being polite, but it had the worldly know-how keeping out of the way of the bigger guy.

Not that it would have been squished if I’d have trodden on it. It would probably have made a rude gesture and walked away from me, swaggering as it actually seemed to. That’s the kind of intelligence that comes with size, normally because the brain just follows along in the fashion of the rest of the body. This is in the same way that elephants and dolphins are witty- owing mostly to the rest of them being fairly large.

Humans, however, are ahead of the fashion curve in terms of brain size- clever enough to presume a beetle might have good manners.

It is undeniably odd that to reach this country, you have to cross many social, cultural, political, religious, geographical and actual borders- the Middle East, Africa and Asia.

It is strange to pass through a country that forbids music and dancing, to then arrive in a nation extremely similar to your own, just…as it is…on the ‘other side’.

I think that the problem might be that Australia doesn’t contain enough Australians. Perhaps if there were more people, and perhaps if there was therefore more history- there might be a little more of everything that I’m looking for here: The Confidence of Culture. The balls of history being in your favour and fearing no future that could be worse than the worst that most societies have already suffered.

Australia has strived through colonisation, exploration, immigration, racial injustice, ethnic cleansing, two world wars, yet throughout all this the overwhelming suggestion from the national Australian demeanour is the insistence on their being something in the culture worth your time and money of visiting and, once again, that bloody tea-towel. As opposed to their being able to relax to the degree of self-assuredness that comes with having a hell of a past that has a ‘you’ve probably heard of me’ attitude (e.g. the entirety of Europe), Australia has an attitude of swelling itself up to appear storied and historical, therefore bringing about a means by which actual stories and history do not happen.

Aside from this one.

Imagine if there’d never been Steve Irwin or Crocodile Dundee movies.

Maybe you’d be thinking that Australia was that country near where ‘Lord Of The Rings’ was filmed.

So, I guess entirely, what I’m saying is…watch out ‘Oz’…New Zealand is coming.

But, if I were to permit this nation of good, bright and adventurous people one reason as to why this is how they are, it would be TIME. Or rather the lack of it.

TIME is the thing that made Britain a little country that was known simply for being a place that Julius Caesar wanted to have for himself.

So, after only a few hundred years of colonised history, when ‘Oz’ has a couple hundred more- it will be a place that no longer feels such a desperate need to ask you to visit.

I truly hope that one day I shall hear a recent-local of Australia utter the words: “Yeah it’s a kangaroo. So fucking what?!”

Australia.

Relax.

Sam.

P.S. You are a beautiful country, filled with fun, clever, hard-working and exciting people. Keep it up and you’ll rule your world, like the Aboriginals one did.