21.
Pheeooo, pheeooo. (Or: Dreamers in harsh reality, with an excursus over Olaf
the Thick, whose holiness cut him a sailing channel through the same)
Had the question been put to the councillor, there would have been no doubt as
to his answer: Reality was the top dog. Few had seen its face, even fewer knew
its rightful name, but it was commonly assumed that it wore a broad-brimmed hat
and cast a long shadow. When caught in the open, it stole away with a scornful
laugh.
Luckily there were other dogs, who might be termed next-to-top or
second-next-to-top, therefore living and acting close to Reality and feeling
called to shoulder the burden of speaking on its behalf. The Prime minister
belonged to this camp, as did the party leaders and the editorialists of the
morning papers, and a keen ear could discern dogs barking in the name of Reality
at lower levels of the pecking-order as well. Since the Prime minister was in
addition a party leader and often a former editorialist, he held a unique
position, being the earthly deputy of Reality and having, as the saying goes,
preferential right to interpret its messages. Thus one of the dynasties from the
banks of the Nile had been reincarnated on the shores of a northerly sea, after
a miraculous historical leap over centuries and latitudes.
As regards Reality it can furthermore be said that it intervened like a modern
managerial type, avoiding direct command and giving its subjects a free rein;
there was for example no standing order prohibiting ruthless exploitation or
exhaust emissions. On the other hand mistakes and errors of judgement were
corrected with some delay, and then heavy-handedly. In this a central quality of
reality became manifest, it was
hard,
harder than the iceberg that tore open the hull of the Titanic. Hardness
attached itself to reality as a fixed epithet: in the oral tradition dealing
with the terms of life, citizens stood in awe before harsh reality. (At the same
time making it clear: Reality might be a power bossing and interfering on the
outside, but it had a strong deputy on the inside).
Hardness is a physical quality with a scale of its own: diamond scratches
quartz, quartz scratches glass. Anyone who doesn't know his rightful position in
the scale stands the risk of butting his forehead into blood against the hard
diamond of reality. This convention in turn hints at the position of reality, it
is external world, neither bird nor fish, but running riot somewhere at
eye-level. Unlike thinkers of other nations the philosophers of Harry's nation -
or at least the philosophers of Harry's municipality - had therefore given up
racking their brains to prove the existence of reality, neither within nor
without, for their part it sufficed to have once or twice butted foreheads into
blood. From the same point of departure, philosophers of a neighbouring
municipality had in turn distanced themselves from all attempts to prove
anything whatsoever; true philosophy should content itself with trying to the
iron-hard parameters of Reality. The municipal policy of the Party, more than
that of other parties sworn to soften the environment of citizens by means of
air bags, upholstered corners and disabled toilets, had no doubt picked up some
inspiration from this camp.
The boys had met harsh reality in the form of one of its spokesmen and bloodied
their foreheads, the feeling that tore their innards could be called hate. They
roamed the streets aimlessly, venting their anger on loose objects, blank walls.
If they had been able to dress their feelings in slogans they might have
chanted: We-hate-po-si-ti-vi-ty! We are dreamers, escapists, producers and
consumers of dreams, cranky insects with wings spread over the winds, airs, jet
streams of a world, where every conceivable resting-place is strewn with
pheromones, decoys, glue perches, system poisons! Who is willing to risk the
positive, when it gets trapped and defined in the end, for no obvious gain? (We
detest reality).
The last not said in plain words, they were children of their society that much.
But they dreamt of disappearing with a cheeky whistle in the open street:
pheeooo, pheeooo, gone missing, or at least beyond the rough grasp of harsh
Reality. From this it stood doubly clear: there was a lack of submission to the
top dog in the day-dreaming, the daydreamer was not broken in, an unbroken or
original authority insisted on governing designs and actions. Considering the
result, the new regime would probably not differ much from the old one, dreams
acted and ruled with their subjects as much as realism did. Maybe the attraction
lay in their superior power to elevate pictures over the horizon, letting them
loom in a tempting remote light, who could say? If you were attracted by
limelight, groupies, rank on the charts, you learnt four chords and performed
tonsatta jingles, in that costume you recognized your co-dreamers and were
recognized by them. The mimicry could become more definite, but then associated
with larger expense: you pulled on the skin of some active expression, mimicked
the model of the postal order catalogue. After a while it became evident how the
attempts hobbled or fell to the ground: your own body would never stand on the
summit of Mount Everest, in spite of the dress. From that moment the overt
mimicry was compromised, you turned your back on it, feeling shame, passing on
to silent, mute mimicry. In the retreat from overt, candid mimicry to secret,
shameful lay the beginning of all adultness.
There was a road in the opposite direction, into the glowing subterranean world
that was pushing Mount Everest high. An alternative for the one who was familiar
with the sugar pull, knew how dreams tugged, urged, tied up, tried to turn
heads, at the same time seeing how dreams themselves got snared and were
transformed into benefit or profit. The other road tried to take the sting from
the temptation, the sugar pull, by denying the ingratiating and sweet, choosing
instead the bitter and denying, what revolted for a time, before it too had
become everyday and routine. Dreaming could be turned into consequent
negativity, when you had spotted its sources and could pay the entrance fee or
just: were able to hack into its world.
If Lars cherished any feelings, they were about distance, rage, rebellion. He
felt betrayed in front of the companions, singled out by a positivity that made
him feel sick and that he already hated actively. The negative wasn't as readily
or evidently classified and didn't allow itself to be mobilised without
resistance. There was nothing to say that it must be the final station, the
choice was primarily about avoiding the positive, what followed after the visit
to the underworld needn't be specified in the contract.
Ideas no longer emanated from the Party, if they ever had. (No, the source had
never been there, in his dark moments he could say that to himself: all our
ideas are pinched from lending-books). In the most recent time the trend-setting
ideas arrived in gift wrappings from Capital, with financing arranged, or at
least sketched in rough outline. Some service might be expected in return:
municipal security, building-site free of charge, water and drainage. But the
concept already existed, procured from some other quarter. This was his most
painful discovery in politics: that he wasn't expected to hatch ideas on behalf
of the collective. He was expected to coordinate, be there as some sort of
left-luggage office, receiver of the short-term and lack-lustre ideas of other
agents.
The Party had been on visiting terms with Capital since time immemorial. That
was a must: you had to fraternise with all actors at the highest level of power.
The time spent in the youth federation was preparatory, there one learnt to
evaluate levels, screen disturbing elements and be a
tough-customer-when-called-for. From this elementary school the Party worker's
unique sense of reality and particular knack or style in the exercise of power
emanated. Still no one was fully feathered after passing it, on the contrary he
might still be carrying a handicap: the individual alienation to the somewhat
shabby actors of capital. In many cases worse than that: the distrust, the
hostility towards the same. Here was scope to stray from the determined class
affiliation and convert other, dormant talents than those of the tough customer:
geniality, sociability. (Or simply vanity, superficiality, self-interest, most
currencies seemed to be convertible on this particular market).
The people that had put their mark on the policy of the Party, writing their
names into the history books, all had this faculty to socialize with the others
under genial forms, and to wring a maximum of result politics from the
entertainment. Still, when he turned around, trying to catch their eyes, he got
the impression that they had been able to stand their ground, having at their
disposal an inner reserve that had created degrees of freedom for initiative and
control. Hadn't a number of Party representatives in fact been positioned one
step higher than their opponents and manoeuvred more skillfully in the labyrinth
of national politics? Such freedom was the first criterion of reality sense.
That sublimity belonged to the past, however, the golden age of the Party lay,
like the golden age of bourgeois entrepreneurs, far back in history, the present
time lacked a positional self-evidence, nobody dared to or could stick to his
guns any longer. Reality had retreated with a scornful laugh and left its
pursuers in the open street; blinded, waving their white sticks. The whole
matter was highly distressing, this feeling that politics had sold the butter
and lost its contact with reality.
Adult beings extorted a salary, one way or another, and had pension accounts,
these were the infallible attributes of adulthood as preliminary death.
Adolescents had neither, but there was no escaping from this aspect of Reality,
attempts only ended in bloodied foreheads. Like all transitions from adolescence
to adulthood this step took some particular ritual; in Harry's tribe the
initiates built idols of reality and masceraded in them before submitting to its
harsh rule.
A giddy graphics, a promised perspective with extent and depth. A craft flying
at supersonar speed, a channel, a corridor, a gorge obstructing the view to both
sides, incessant ambushes, crafts flying countercourse, evasion, mines, pheeooo,
pheeooo, the laser cannons spraying fire, explosions, explosions, evasions,
pheeooo, pheeooo, giant monsters grabbing from the sides, mines, explosions,
crafts flying countercourse, evasion, pheeooo, pheeooo, NEW GAME. Your own craft
had three lives, the tension didn't become unbearable until two of them had been
spent and the final, irrevocable journey began, pheeooo, pheeooo, narrow gorge,
wings vertical in space, mind your p's and your q's, the enemy lurking at the
exit, pheeooo, pheeooo, mines, monsters, crafts flying countercourse, heart
pounding, the friends flocking at your game: GAME OVER, explosion, the parts
falling like snowflakes into the void, über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh, from some
close-by a sigh that could be interpreted:
thankgodimonlywatchingthegame.
'It didn't obey! I pressed, but it didn't fire!'
It was a constant source of dispute: whether all commands were obeyed or if two
commands could come so close, that the system only managed to follow one. Or
whether the programme had a degree of freedom of its own, allowing its own
reality to ignore commands.
'You were shitting in your pants! Move over, it's my turn now!'
'Lay off! You were standing too close and disturbed me!'
They had brought it to an incredible dexterity. Initially they could keep a game
running for five minutes, later on a quarter of an hour, half an hour, in the
end till limits of Reality: closing time, homework, other pretenders, put a stop
to the journeys. Each one of them had covered light years in this way; they were
scarred veterans, masters of the universe, highly experienced with all the
horrors of virtual destruction.
After a while they began to savour the idea of complicating the journeys,
introducing choice: channels that branched and fell into wide plains, where
there was a state of temporary suspension and survey. Or branched and fell into
entirely new regimes. The old games were too monotonous, their complexity too
low. This feeling straddled the worn out crafts and returned to the producers,
pheeoo, pheeoo, after a while returning with new programmes, again able to
fascinate for a while, until they too could be controlled with little effort.
That way a new pursuit was born in the middle of the pursuit, pheeooo, pheeooo,
the permanent development cherished an unspoken promise: you ain't seen nothing
yet. In the end the games would create a softer reality, surpassing the hard
everyday version when it came to thrill, possibilities, attraction. You would
take the step, settle down and never return. The name of the final game could be
Nowhere, its rules had to be learnt consecutively, being created by the journey
in itself, in continuous interaction, and each horizon was fresh, shrouded first
in fog, next obscure puzzle picture, in the end offer of promised land, and
still not the right offer, the right way instead was a sidetrack, like a narrow,
winding gorge, without perspective, without promise, one amongst thousands, and
it fell into something inconceivable. Such a game might have some prospect of
winning them, but it was still not to be had, everything in the showcases and
counters of hard Reality was repetition, seen before, experienced before, or
became so within a week or two.
Most of all they detested GAME OVER, it was a nothing worse than death,
re-deportation to the lifeless block of Reality. In harsh Reality the game was
most definitely over, no free games to come there.
A politician could be invited to a golf club on a Sunday afternoon. He could
walk a round if he was inclined to, have his swing corrected by competent
instructors, pheeooo, pheeooo, get initiated into the freemasonry, be offered an
advantageous family membership (the bourgeois golf play games were on the brink
of ruin, losing proselytes). In the midst of it all he could be introduced to
people who fumbled with an idea, a project behind their backs. Some small morsel
could be partaken of, one place or the other: personal chemistry by way of the
taste buds, later on the excursion might go on to one of the domiciles, the
sauna was heated, the perfect hostess had laid the table with small hot dishes,
there the first cost estimates were sketched, blueprints were shown, a
small-scale model.
Later on he could be invited to a ferry-cruise, the large conference cabin was
booked and waited on by three short-skirted hostesses, at the landing-stage an
air-conditioned coach was waiting, the tour lasted for four hours, ended in a
health resort hotel, cigarrs, live candles on the table, grinning hosts,
everything can be arranged, business can wait till tomorrow. Even that needn't
be interpreted as bribery, improper influencing, there were precedents for that.
The next step could be the Spanish Gold Coast, Tenerife, on the horizon Cape
Town and Otaheiti showed like mirages. Life was dangerous, you had to look out,
but if you didn't socialize with Capital, business passed the municipal nose by.
He had activated his school German, procured two decent suits, joined the golf
club and learnt how to swing a driver, although all this was trying. He had
learnt to tell a burgundy from a bordeaux, farmed salmon from wild, horse meat
from beef - nor did any of this feel like effort wasted.
For his own part, in order not to be devoured entirely by this environment, he
had drawn borders that he made a strict point of. He didn't take presents, not
even a match box, he didn't make purchases with his expenses credit card, he
openly declared his loathing of hunting and all sorts of weapons, he tried to
avoid being seen secluded with women. But he could reel off a joke from a
seemingly inexhaustible store, sing folk songs and operetta arias, play a
melodion, perform ordinary conjuring tricks (and above all, have success with
them in front of the gallery) and deliver long, witty speeches when such were
called for. Because of this he was a welcome and sought-after guest in many
situations, and it was all a matter of one and the same: wringing out a maximum
of benefit for the municipality.
Harry had a sense that he had left the narrow road long ago and was compelled to
find his bearings in a landscape where he wasn't at home and found it difficult
to survey; strewn with bunkers, traps, possible mistaken initiatives. A careless
twitch with the club, pheeoo, and the ball passed the hole by. At the same time
he knew: he had
one
political life on this course, if he put his foot wrong the game was over.
And worst of all: you descended in a direct line from one of the higher Priests
of this Reality.
Of what good was a father, who didn't have the sense to abstain from giving his
son the same name as a wellknown pork butcher's firm, and who was in addition up
to his ears in an activity, that was in some way suspect or inferior in the eyes
of friends, whose company you had set your heart on? The first day in secondary
school had barely ended, when Lars wished for the first time that he had been
begotten by somebody else, someone who facilitated the path of life for him,
instead of by his mere existence, his way of being, from the very outset
strewing it with thorns. Even an anonymous donor would have been for the better.
Still, his ambitions didn't go as far as creating himself, like an ancient god,
that option seemed to have vanished from the minds with the triumphal progress
of genetic engineering.
As a result of this he slipped into an evasive existence, intent on avoiding at
all costs to follow suit. That wasn't fair,
he
wasn't the one who by his cruel dominion skinned the providers of the
school-friends and made their lives a misery by one and a thousand obstructing
regulations. It was his bad luck to be born as a side-branch of that camp. In
dawning self-defence he developed himself into the wit of the class, the clown
of the school, the cheer leader of the basket team, the dancing master of school
parties, everything that might end in immediate and contant popularity. But
behind his clown face lingered the decision for a future road that didn't hanker
after popular favour. One day he would restore himself from absolute zero, start
an unburdended existence, with no penalty points. He was a liberation army,
waiting for the favourable turn, something like the emergence of the rain
period, when the jungle of reality started to turn green, and you could develop
your forces shut off from irrelevant view.
No hero is ever sent off from this arena, the interprets of Reality continue to
haunt the place long after their departure from this life; flying like large
bats in the darkness of thought, moralising stories told about their pains and
their shortcomings all the time. (
you might be a great man among the stars, but in harsh reality you are but a
poor wretch, mr interpret
) For one example: in the interested myth formation surrounding the godfathers
of communism it is stated, that one of them always addressed the other party in
his own mother tongue, such forthcoming of course having something comical about
it in our modern time, where an eclectic mix of Anglo-Saxon and Latin has set
itself up as the unique tongue of Reality. (
and we assume that the Dialectics of Nature was an abortive attempt at an
entirely new linguistics?
) It sheds some light over a notion that characterizes any polyglot: the
Babylonian confusions of this earth are best approached in their own tongues. As
self-evidently a medicine man believes that diphteria can only be approached and
cured in its own tongue, and a general never doubts his ability to come to
speaking terms with the enemy, from whatever corner of existence he may come.
(Yes, even a municipal politician in an offside municipality probably has some
faith in his own ability to address all occurring problems in their own
tongue).
The crucial question of how to best address Reality asserts itself against the
background of these examples. Reality obviously presents some sort of an aspect
problem, demanding an insect eye with millions of facets in the supplicant that
wants to address it properly. Taking the polyglot as his example, the
prospective world improver might be tempted to believe that he must learn all
living languages in order to communicate with all aspects of reality in the best
way. This conclusion, however close at hand and tempting, is misleading,
however; when it comes to it, there is no lack of understanding in a purely
linguistic sense in the global public forum. The total amount of prognoses and
diagnoses is immeasurable, and no one doubts their evidence. In spite of this
they carry little weight, and world audiences have come to terms with this state
of things; the modern world ignores all expert opinion on its crises and solves
them in
labour
, regardless of decorum. The character of this labour is strictly muscular or
physical, the surrounding production of words and pictures having as its sole
task to accentuate the perception of pain associated with labour. It is a
wellknown fact that self-tormentors of the past used to partake of a tablet of
aspirin prior to partaking of the public forum, it is also known that this
remedy amplifies any pre-existing pain in the stomach, leading to a sort of unio
mystica with the aches of the world. The councillor, being a modern man and
thinking that one should be a little lenient on oneself, was content with half a
tablet of paracetamol before opening the local paper or switching on the tele.
On the outside the ache of Reality was raging, more furiously from day to day,
media most definitely being a part of this torment, and a responsible citizen
was expected to carry his share of the global suffering, in solidarity, but he
should at least take precautions.
There was an opposite pole in the camp of concern, low-ranked since it didn't
give a damn about the officially decreed Reality. It cackled Game Over, took on
its shoulders all suffering of the world and had a Top Dog of its own. In
Harry's time the Church experienced its worst recession for decades; the
enterprise getting along like a sheltered workshop, with little or no rebate.
This could be interpreted as a sign that the firm was on the brink of ruin, and
that a bankrupcy clearance was imminent. The ordinary man took such rumours with
calm, firms went bankrupt each and every day. In secret the antique dealers had
begun ogling the movables, however.
Now, it's a matter of fact that no firm goes bankrupt without struggling against
bad odds; before the bankrupcy at least one and often two packages of measures
have bloodied their foreheads against harsh Reality. In the languishing
enterprise it was a natural thing to direct the searchlight against the products
primarily carrying off the brand: rituals and sacraments, they had the same
unwavering position as Absolut Vodka in their segment of the market. A trained
mind would expect to find possible good synergies here, provided there was a
readiness to link sacral service to catering. In an era where citizens got
printed matter thrust into their hands without having to pay a penny, and where
they flew half way around the world for small change, it was only a matter of
time before someone hatched the idea of low price ritual with everything
included. This epoch-making step had been first taken in Harry's municipality,
which wasn't at all surprising, since churchgoing was on the wane there.
That way "Sankt Olof's Arrangements" had been born, its logo depicting one of
the draughty and damp, but picturesque Saint Olaf churches that had taxed the
nation's resources for seven-hundred years or more. Everything could be
arranged: funeral cakes and three shovels of earth, the flag run up or halfway
down, Verdi's Requiem and the Wedding at Ulfåsa, limousins and rice, battery
water for the baptismal font, discounted sacramental wine from Australia and as
the icing of the cake: the sacral seal on the parcel. Ten percent of the
proceeds were ploughed back into ritual and sacrament, all of a sudden the firm
could afford to repair the leaking roof of the picturesque church. And best of
all: the ordinary man could afford to marry or bury his beloved ones for a
paltry sum, the whole thing so cheap that the customers wondered to themselves
who was actually paying, if the Highest Chicken itself had got all this
murderous advertising and spending going.
The project wasn't the worst the councillor had come upon, and there was nothing
suggesting that it merited particular attention from a serious municipal
politician. Harry was on his way to the bin with a handout from the post-box
marked "No ads please", when he looked at the leaflet for one last time and
memorized the name of the firm signer, no harm done in complaining to Ass. Vicar
Herrniander. His assistant memory filled in: Party member, revolutionary
theologian from the university town, two years among the street children in Rio
de Janeiro, and now: catering in a parish beyond all ära och redlighet. He felt
a sudden need to fill in the gaps of the life history, luckily the household
offered a person who could assist with some expertise at the time.
'You forgot: Danish folk high school', Jenny answered, 'with windmills and
secret offshore accounts, they are experts at treble bookkeeping. The catering
firm doesn't surprise me one bit.'
'Ah', Harry answered. 'How does the revolutionary theologian make both ends meet
in the trinitary bookkeeping?'
'Well, ministers in general are a sort of Thinking Augusts when they let
themselves go into business, they are not like ordinary, modern capitalists, who
content themselves with just earning money and keeping it circulating. With
their particular bakground they are capable of creating a sort of gospel that so
to say gives cause for different kinds of sidelines.'
'Yes, yes; and what is the long and the short of it in this case?' Harry asked,
showing some impatience.
'The long and the short of it is that the saint is the worst hooligan that ever
sailed between Skanör and Visby, and no sugar saint at all. He is, way of
speaking, a saint for the impenitent contemporary time. With no effort at all
the deputy vicar got a hundred and fifty natural topics for excellent
preachings.'
'I imagined Master Luther had signed off all the saints. Did the revolutionary
theologian absorb papist influence in Brazil?'
'Well, religion never can be preached as a theory, it must be transformed into
flesh, just like politics, my dear Harry. The way the deputy vicar sees things,
Jesus has been profiled as a sugar saint from time immemorial. So he took to
preaching Saint Olaf, the rogue and the ruffian, or Olaf the Thick as the Swedes
baptized him. The whole thing has assumed traits of heresy, there are people who
say that the assistant vicar only preaches Olaf, the villain, and is scrapping
Jesus, the sugar saint. The diocese has already summoned him for a private
conversation and shown the implements. But vicars and bishops know that the
catering firm has fifty percent of all marriage pertaining to the nation's
storage institutions for criminals, and bulimic matings of course must be
blessed by Olaf Thick, that is in fashion today.'
'Jesus Mary', Harry whispered. 'Sugar saints, is that what you said? It's a
perfectly correct objection to all abysmally stupid religions, the sugar saints
are reconstructions after the event. This is exceptionally interesting, without
precedent, here is a man who can read the writing on the wall!' And he added:
'Olaf Thick, that's the guy who sailed on land, wasn't it, the mountains parted
for him when he was sailing for Nidaros? It shows a certain knack with reality,
that can't be denied. This is what the Northerners valued first and foremost in
their saints: the ability to navigate between the shoals and shallows of harsh
existence! And the fact that the Swedes didn't like him only speaks in his
favour.'
'Phew, I think the parting of mountains is copied from Brendan. Or was it
Per-Albin? Or Moses. Well, at any rate: one of the sugar saints.'
Lars was standing in a doorway, had listened to the conversation with ears
reaching out. Three weeks later a strange statue made its appearance on the lawn
of the garden, it showed an overweight Viking with a cross hanging around his
neck and a sword in his hand, wings on the back, the features were quite
obviously copied from the Per Albin bust in the municipal office. The free hand
was masturbating, over the helm soared a massive halo. The whole structure was
built from sugar cubes and artfully decorated with candy colour; it couldn't be
doubted that the object represented a sugar saint. The relic in turn was
protected from foul weather by a grotto of papier-maché. In a sacrificial bowl
(it came from the microwave oven) at the base of the statue lay three crowns.
Ruth hung a tallow ball for the tits from the halo, Jenny lit two candles in
front of the bowl. 'Really, a true wonder in my humble garden', Harry exclaimed
with trembling voice and doubled the sum, remarking: It would harm my repute if
I gave less than the Swedes! On the fundament he scratched runes:
Lars, son of Harry.
But back into the house he shook his fist to the son and thundered:' When you
marry it will be Thick Olaf's Catering for you, then let's hear what you think
about that menu!'
'It has an underlier (underliggare),' Jenny said and clicked her tongue in
approval. 'Most sophisticated; in the tradition it is the heathen who feels
Olaf's weight, but who is the underlier meant to be in this case?'
'An underlier?' Harry said in surprise. 'It must have been the thing i scratched
on.'
A seducer of the youth, this Herr Niander, his pulse should be felt, what wool
was the deputy vicar made of? Harry made a memorial note to himself.
32 kB, last corrected 31.1.07, 27.11.08.
Black Hole, chapter 20
Black Hole, chapter 22
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