Category Archives: prose writing

Dolphinlove

Lipotes vexillifer

Lipotes vexillifer (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Dolphinlove

 

It is reported that the world’s second tallest man, 7-foot-9 inches, has saved the life of a nearly extinct baiji dolphin in China by reaching deep into the stomach of a sick female baiji to extract several fragments of Styrofoam.

 

The sickened dolphin washed ashore near the Yangtse port city of Wuhan.

 

The first tallest man in the world, said to be Japanese and nearly 8-foot in height, reportedly refused to take part in the procedure.

 

The exceedingly rare white baiji dolphin, a freshwater sea mammal with a long, narrow, slightly upturned beak, has enraptured the Chinese people who have named her Chenguang, which translates to morning light.

 

Shy and almost blind, the baiji dates back 20 million years.

It is estimated that no more than half a dozen individuals remain alive in Chinese waters.

 

None has survived in captivity.

 

Once fully recovered, Chenguang will be released into the Yangtse River under close supervision with the hope that she finds a mate with which to reproduce and thus help prevent the species from becoming extinct.

 

At a hospital-aquarium in Wuhan, physicians failed to remove the Styrofoam in Chenguang’s stomach with surgical instruments because the embedded fragments could not be grasped with the certainty of not further harming the baiji, an unusually large specimen, nearly 8-and-a-half feet in length.

The arms of ordinary Chinese were simply too short to reach through the dolphin’s throat into her stomach

 

Bao Xishun, 52, a 7-foot-9-inch herdsman who is listed in the Guinness world records as the world’s second tallest human, was summoned from the nearby Chinese region of Inner Mongolia.

 

The official summons came after the 8-foot Japanese, unnamed but reportedly living in Hiroshima, refused the initial summons to try and save the sickened, nearly extinct dolphin.

 

No reason was offered for the Japanese giant’s refusal, although the Chinese and Japanese are long-term adversaries, and the speculation in China was that the Japanese government ordered the 8-foot Japanese to reject the summons.

 

The Japanese government has refused to comment publicly on the subject.

 

What would the Chinese have done were Bao Xishun made unavailable?

 

They would have summoned the now-retired world-famous basketball player Yao Ming from the Houston Rockets in the USA; Yao is listed at 7-foot-6 inches.

 

In a surgical procedure shown and re-shown on Chinese nationwide television to the largest number of TV viewers recorded anywhere, not just in China, six technicians carefully restrained the sedated dolphin while Bao Xishun  slid his latex-enclosed 44-inch long arm down her throat into her stomach to extract five irregular sized fragments of Styrofoam.

 

It was a delicate procedure for such a large man, especially since the dolphin was sedated rather than anesthetized. In the baiji’s weakened condition there was fear that anesthesia might kill her.

 

Wuhan aquarium authorities declared the procedure an unqualified

success. In gratitude, the Chinese government presented the 7-foot-9-inch Bao Xishun  with a “valuable gift,” which however was unspecified.

 

According to Chinese news agencies, Chenguang is recovering on schedule and swimming in the Wuhan aquarium. It was not yet determined when she would be released into the Yangtse River.

 

Were the surgical procedure a failure, relations between China and Japan, aggrieved as they are, would have rapidly worsened, possibly to the point of violent aggression.

 

Is it possible that the death of a severely endangered dolphin could devolve into an actual war between China and Japan?

 

Remember “Remember the Maine”?

Remember the Archduke Franz Ferdinand?

Remember the “terrorist” assaults of 9/11 provoking an American war against the wrong countries?

It is entirely possible that the death of Chenguang, the beloved, sickened baiji dolphin, would constitute a casus belli.

 

Current matters aside, The Japanese have been criticized worldwide for their relentless whale hunting, in the process of which they have not only slaughtered whales but dolphins.

 

For their part, the Japanese have accused the Chinese of disregarding environmental safeguards on land and sea as they zealously set about their metamorphosis from primitive communist totalitarianism to elite techno-industrial player in the global empire.

 

According to Japan, China’s hell-bent industrialization has not only damaged the environment, possibly irreparably, it has trampled on the most basic human rights, as demonstrated in its criminal annexation of Tibet.

 

As the official Japanese response phrased it:  Lhasa, Tibet’s capital, now resembles any other high-elevation Chinese city rather than the sanctified mountain kingdom it had been for centuries.

 

The Chinese GDP (Gross Domestic Product) has overtaken both Japan and the United States to become the highest in the world.

 

Most wealthy industrialized countries wish to maintain at least an illusion of wilderness; hence, the prevailing theory of the Chinese obsession with the sickened baiji dolphin whom they themselves have made virtually extinct.

 

It is rather like hanging a multi-million dollar Van Gogh in, say, Mobil Oil’s corporate boardroom.

 

Question: Once the globe–every particle, in and out of consciousness–is colonized, would a robotic, sickened, female baiji dolphin provide the cachet of a “natural,” sickened, female baiji dolphin?

 

Officially, the answer would be a resounding yes.

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Abductlove

Passport photograph of Priklopil

Passport photograph of Priklopil (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Abductlove

An Austrian teenager held captive for eight years in a dungeon-like room on the outskirts of Vienna says her captor, Wolfgang Priklopil, was part of her life and “in a certain way” she mourned his suicide.

Eighteen-year-old Krista Ludwig is reported to have wept inconsolably when told that Priklopil killed himself.

After Krista Ludwig made her escape on Wednesday, Priklopil, 44, threw himself under a commercial train traveling east to Bucharest. The train was  delivering electronic hardware and pigs for slaughter.

Krista Ludwig said she sympathized with Priklopil’s 89-year-old mother and planned to telephone her. (Priklopil’s  mother is suffering

from dementia and subsists in a nursing home near Graz, the “second city” of Austria, where the steroidal, gap-toothed governor-action star of California, Schwarzenegger, was birthed).

Krista Ludwig, said to be pale and trembling and to weigh just 42kg, less than she did as a 10-year-old, managed to flee her abductor after he sidled away to take a call on his mobile phone as she vacuumed his car, a 2003 white Audi sedan, in the driveway of the abduct house.

The time was three-fourteen pm, on a Wednesday, precisely eight years to the day and very close to the precise time that she had been kidnapped on her way to school.

Did Krista Ludwig realize it was exactly eight years to the day and hour since she was taken captive?

“No.”

Why then did she choose that very moment to attempt to escape?

“I was ready to leave so I left.”

Now 18, Krista Ludwig insists that communications technician Wolfgang Priklopil had not robbed her of her childhood.

“I don’t have the feeling I missed something important.  As far as I can see, children are robbed of their childhood one way or another.”

Krista Ludwig said her lengthy abduction actually spared her bad habits such as smoking, drinking to excess, injecting heroin or speed, snorting cocaine, playing video games, and having “false friends”.

What was a typical day like with Wolfgang Priklopil?

Between 7:30 and 8:00 a.m., Krista Ludwig and her abductor, who usually did not go to work, she said, would have breakfast, a sweet roll and coffee with heavy cream, or schlag.

The rest of the day Krista Ludwig would spend doing housework, reading, talking, cooking.

“That was it for years. Everything tied to the fear of being alone.”

If she was fearful of being alone why didn’t she attempt to escape sooner?

“It would be the same somewhere else.”

Nor was it clear from Krista Ludwig’s statement whether by “housework,” she referred to working in her room or elsewhere

in the large ramshackle house.

What did she and her abductor talk about?

“Different things. I am not prepared to go into details.”

What did she read?

“Greek and Nordic myths, anthropology. The great god Zeus abducted virgins.”

Was Wolfgang Priklopil a version of Zeus?

“No. He was not my lord and master. I was just as strong. Perhaps stronger.”

She used an Austrian expression to indicate that at times Priklopil treated her tenderly, but at other times cruelly.

“He carried me in his arms but also trampled me underfoot.”

Investigators have been trying to determine whether Priklopil had an accomplice, based on a 14-year-old boy’s account at the time of the kidnapping that he saw two men drag young Krista Ludwig into a white Mercedes van.

But Krista Ludwig insisted that Prikopil acted alone. Moreover there was a later report that the 14-year-old boy was hyped up on

coffee with schlag when he gave his account.

Priklopil “carried out the kidnapping himself. Everything was prepared,” Krista Ludwig said, adding that they then “decorated” her room together.

Photos released by police show the underground hiding place in Prikopil’s gabled, two-story wood house in Strasshof village outside Vienna, where he kept young Krista Ludwig: a small, cluttered, windowless room with washbasin, “squat toilet,” cot, cupboards and narrow concrete stairs leading up to a trapdoor.

No “decorations” are visible.

Because blueprints to the house were unavailable, investigators could not say for certain whether there were any other hidden compartments, dungeons or cells.

In her statement, read by flamboyant Viennese psychoanalyst Max Friedrich, who has been “treating” her, Krista Ludwig urged the

media to respect her privacy.

“Everyone wants to ask intimate questions, but they don’t concern anyone,” she said via Max Friedrich.

She felt well, she said via Max Friedrich, if “maybe a bit

patronized” at the location where she was currently held, and she

appealed for more respect from the media.

The location was described by police as a secure institutional space with “carers” under the supervision of Max Friedrich.

Max Friedrich, with his unruly leonine grey head, wraparound mirror shades, corncob pipe, and unsteady, stiff-legged gait, cautioned the media to show restraint, insisting Krista Ludwig was severely traumatized and the intense media coverage was capable of victimizing her all over again.

Krista Ludwig’s parents, who separated after her abduction eight years before, complained that they had not been told where she was being held.

“Why can I not see my child?,” her mother, Birgit Dieskau, pleaded in a Sunday supplement newspaper interview

Max Friedrich confirmed that Krista Ludwig did not wish to see her parents again after their brief reunion. “Nor is that unusual under these extraordinary circumstances.”

Regarding what actually transpired between Krista Ludwig and

her middle-aged abductor beyond the housecleaning, unspecified

conversation, and consumption of sweet rolls and coffee mit schlag, the young woman refused to say.

After spending the first years locked in the dungeon-like room, which Priklopil had furnished with toys, books, magazines, and chewing gum, but neither television nor computer, Krista Ludwig was, she confided, via Max Friedrich, allowed to make occasional, brief, unaccompanied outings to the village.

Police are trying to determine if Krista Ludwig had a sexual relationship with her captor. And if so, the nature of the sexuality. If it was sadomasochistic, as suspected, then how far did it go, and were the roles steadfast or did they alternate?

She said, “Perhaps I will tell Dr. Friedrich one day or someone else. Perhaps I will never tell. The intimacy only belongs to me.”

A police photo of kidnap suspect Wolfgang Priklopil was presented at a news conference in Vienna. Smooth face with arched brows, a widow’s peak, and a small fleshy mouth, he bore some resemblance to the pious, silver-tongued former UK  Prime Minister Tony Blair.

Meanwhile it has been confirmed that Wolfgang Priklopil (what remained of him after he threw himself under the train) was buried secretly under a false name. The secret burial was to deter vandals, officials explained.

There were just two mourners not including Krista Ludwig. She paid her respects alone at the morgue the day before the burial and lit a single candle. Only Priklopil’s mother (severely demented and in a wheelchair) and a former business partner’s sister, “legally blind,” were at the unspecified gravesite.

The ceremony lasted seven minutes, Austrian radio said. No priest was in attendance and nine-and-a-half policemen stood guard.

According to Max Friedrich’s diagnosis, Krista Ludwig suffered from Stockholm Syndrome, a psychological condition in which long-held captives begin to identify with their captors.

The American heiress Patty Hearst was arguably the most famous contemporary example of Stockholm Syndrome after her kidnapping by the Symbionese Liberation Army in the early ‘70s.

After extensive cosmetic surgery and long hours of psychological debriefing, Hearst recovered and resumed her life as a self-consumed billionaire heiress.

Police Major General Gerhard Haeckel, of the Federal Criminal Investigations Bureau, said investigators are continuing to follow up on “every lead” in the case, which until last week was Austria’s second greatest mystery.

The greatest Austrian mystery of course is how a homely, ill-educated vegetarian dog-lover with a comical Chaplain mustache became the most charismatic genocider of the 20th century.

Paris 60 Reissued

My novel Paris 60 has been reissued by the Journal of Experimental Fiction (JEF), with a new cover by artist Norman Conquest.  It’s now available on Amazon and at SPD Books.
cover by Norman Conquest

cover by Norman Conquest

Paris 60 Blurb:
The 60 entries that constitute Paris 60 were recorded during Harold Jaffe’s Spring 2008 Paris visit to greet the translation into French of one of his earlier volumes. Based loosely on Baudelaire’s Paris Spleen, 1869, Paris 60 is both factual and fictionalized. Baudelaire was Parisian. Although a frequent visitor, usually for professional reasons, Jaffe is a self-acknowledged outsider, and his texts are written from that position.

France, accepted

a "bouquiniste" by the Seine, in Par...

a “bouquiniste” by the Seine, in Paris, France (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My 1983 novel Dos Indios will be published in France in Fall 2013 by 13e Note Editions (Paris). in 2008, Sex for the Millennium and 15 Serial Killers were published in France by Editions Cambourakis (Paris).

Auschwitz Crumbling

Auschwitz II - Birkenau - Entrance gate and ma...

Auschwitz II – Birkenau – Entrance gate and main track. Photo shot in summer 2004. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

OSWIECIM, Poland – As they do on every anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz by Soviet troops, witnesses to the Holocaust will gather Sunday, older, frailer, fewer than the year before.

After 68 years, the camp itself is showing its age under the pressures of time and tourism.

With a budget underwritten by the state of Israel, the current director, Jo’zef Korzeniowski, a 63-year-old retired hospital administrator in Warsaw, is searching for ways to preserve vital evidence of Nazi atrocities and update the exhibits without chipping away at Auschwitz’s authenticity — or giving fodder to Holocaust deniers.

“The major dilemma,” Korzeniowski informed a group of Israeli Knesset ministers crowded into his office in one of the Auschwitz barracks, “is preserving what is original while permitting visitors to see and touch.”

“This wasn’t constructed like a gothic cathedral to endure for centuries,” Korzeniowski reminded the ministers. “It was a Nazi death camp built to last a short time.”

Most sensitive, perhaps, is what to do about the remains of gas chambers which are slowly sinking into the earth, the result of weather, erosion and gravity.

Toward the end of World War II as the Soviet army advanced, the Nazis attempted to destroy the evidence by blowing up the gas chambers and crematoria in its multiple extermination camps.

Today, those testaments to German engineering are mostly in ruins, an abstract “canvas” both of the original crimes against humanity and the attempt to conceal them.

Auschwitz alone survived largely intact.

Given its singular role as proof of the Nazi atrocities inflicted on Jews, Roma humans, homosexuals, communists, and the physically and mentally disabled, the decay of Auschwitz poses a special problem.

Still visible are the railroad tracks on which the “cattle cars” transported the condemned to the camp,

the barracks where they lived in appalling conditions,

the chambers where they were gassed,

the crematoria where their bodies were incinerated.

Auschwitz, 68 years after, provides a picture of how the camp operated, whereas many other former Nazi extermination camps, including Treblinka and Belzec, are marked today only by rusted monuments.

Auschwitz’s eventual decay is accelerated because the materials used, such as softwood in the watchtowers and the barracks, will rot or collapse.

Korzeniowski reminded the Knesset ministers that some of the decaying structures at the camp were initially constructed by weak and starving inmates exerting minimum effort to preserve their strength.

Evidently, those inmates rejected the exhortation which the Nazis nailed over the main entrance to Auschwitz: Arbeit Macht Frei — “Work will make you free.”

Technically, Auschwitz is not one camp, but two, each with its own aging problems.

Auschwitz I was constructed in an abandoned Polish military base in 1940; Auschwitz II, or Birkenau, a much larger complex, was built two miles away in 1941 to speed up the Nazis’ “Final Solution.”

Together, Auschwitz-Birkenau stands as virtually the last tangible emblem of the Nazi plague, so making any change is fraught with great responsibility and controversy.

Korzeniowski is calling for retainer walls to be built around gas chambers to prevent them from sinking further.

“We are at a moment where we must act,” Korzeniowski announced to the Knesset ministers.

“If we don’t, there’s the risk that in 10 or 15 years, it will no longer be possible to understand their construction.”

“Any tampering with the gas chambers is problematic because Holocaust deniers could seize on photographs of repair work to argue that the whole project was fabricated.”

So pronounced Herbert Weltmann, Professor of Jewish studies at the University of Manchester and a member of the International Auschwitz Council, which advises Auschwitz administrators.

Weltmann noted that the barbed wire at Auschwitz had already been replaced twice since the war, because the original was so rusted.

Gas chambers are another matter.

“Fiddling with gas chambers is fiddling with the heart and soul of what Auschwitz represents,” said Weltmann, who has urged the Council to seek the advice of engineering experts before starting any work.

Another mission Korzeniowski has set for himself is modernizing the exhibit at Auschwitz I that was established in 1955.

Housed in the original brick barracks, the exhibit includes pitiful photographs of inmates;

SS offices left in their original state down to the photograph on the wall of Hitler stiffly bending to pet a small dog;

displays of broken, weathered suitcases; twisted eyeglasses; hair and teeth and toenails extracted from victims before their remains were incinerated;

three full cans of Zyklon, the gas with which the inmates were exterminated.

Korzeniowski insists that he wants none of that removed; nonetheless, certain upgrades are necessary because the exhibit no longer meets international museum standards.

In response to a question from a Knesset minister, Korzeniowski  explained that he is in the process of gathering information about how best to modernize the camp, that all decisions would be made after consultation with authorities on Holocaust commemoration.

The exhibit “was at the time created for people who remembered the war very well,” Korzeniowski reminded the Knesset ministers.

“Now we have a generation of young people whose parents don’t even remember the war.

If we do not change that, this exhibition will say always less to the next generation until it will say nothing at all.”

As to the Holocaust deniers, they are spreading rapidly throughout the globe, even as newer, cleaner genocides are occurring on every continent.

**

Shortly after 7 p.m. 200 people suddenly assemble on the mezzanine level of the Grand Hyatt Hotel next to Grand Central Station, in Manhattan, sit on the floor, then clear their throats loudly twice at intervals of 2 minutes. After exactly 4 minutes, they get up, disperse.

Invoke a system that assigns terrorist scores to airline passengers; the system tracks what passengers eat and drink, their seat assignments, how often they go to the restroom to perform which function, how many smartphone calls they make and how many text messages they post when the aircraft lands at its destination. Passengers must not be apprised of their scores.

Gas or otherwise poison your own humans and blame the Crusaders / Zionists / Jihadists.

Taunt and abuse the deposed tyrant as he is being hanged; nonetheless he dies bravely.

Purchase (at discount) enormous quantities of opium from an Southeast Asian country, sell it to organized crime in the inner cities of your own country, use the profits to buy munitions for a Middle Eastern country to incite an “Arab Spring.”

 Remove contagious tubercular patients from hospitals and instruct them to spit blood into the mouths of anyone they come in contact with.

 Enlist a seductive Mata Hari and slip her out of Central Asia with a vial of smallpox and the orders to contaminate every non-Muslim with whom she consorts.

 Inject a cadre of suicidal fedayeen with smallpox or plague or SARS or Legionnaire’s Disease or flesh-eating bacteria.

Smuggle them into the US with instructions to visit every crowded shopping mall and ballpark and Apple store and Starbucks they can.

Slowly die while fatally infecting everyone in the vicinity.

Use mobile phones, text messaging, e-mail and other instantaneous electronic communication to gather participants for dissidence, as in the 2006 civil unrest in France, which helped coordinate the student and labor union protest at the ill-advised employment statute which the center-right French government, up against the wall, then withdrew.

Get another piercing and join the World Naked Bike Ride, an international event in which naked participants ride together en masse on human-powered transport — primarily bikes but also skateboards, roller blades, roller skates — to protest oil dependency and celebrate the power and individuality of our flesh and blood bodies.

Become a Human Shield, the-nanosecond dance craze, it spans the globe.

The music has been described as a blend of Portuguese Fado and Jamaican Reggae.

Shake your booty, relax.

With one proviso:

Ganja is strictly prohibited.

Orlando

What follows is an excerpt from a work in progress, called “Orlando.” It  is the title narrative of a collection of fiction and docufiction. Enjoy.*

* Please leave comments and responses, and – if so inclined – share with other fiction readers.

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THE PLAYERS

Orlando: Performer terrorist
Trieste: Performer terrorist / Disciple of Orlando
Catalan Carlos: Photographer / Disciple & Lover of Orlando
Simona: Actress / Disciple of Orlando
Duane Redbone: Pornographer / Admirer of Orlando

Setting: Global village
Time: Five years before the Millennium

The concept was to have a team of  Parisian surgeons recast her face to duplicate the representations (surprisingly few in number) of Joan of Arc. What the representations shared were Joan’s large soulful eyes, delicate features, pointed chin, rapt expression. The surgery would be done with local anesthetic and videotaped. The video would be featured in an exhibition the Pompidou Centre was mounting on “The Body in Pain.”

The surgery took place as scheduled. The surgeons were French, hence appreciated the extravagant claims of art. They kept the surgery theater open, which allowed Carlos, glossy long hair in a braid, to videotape the procedure.

The surgery was projected by satellite to 18 cities around the world, including Amsterdam, Paris, Rome, Berlin, Beijing, Tokyo, Rio, New York, San Francisco. (No techno-upload; this is before manic technology.)

As always Orlando healed rapidly. In 21 days nearly all of the swelling disappeared and she became the reincarnation of Saint Joan, though at six-feet-three she had to be nearly two feet taller than the Maid of Orleans.

Meantime, Trieste and his terrorists were on Wall Street wrapping the NY Stock Exchange in an enormous pelt of human shit. Most of the investors and speculators appeared not to notice the transformation.

Next, Trieste flew to London where Orlando, disguised as a black-skinned male, attended a football “friendly” between Nigeria and Manchester United. She sat among the rabid British fans while rooting avidly for Nigeria. After the match ended in a 1-nil upset win for Nigeria, British hooligans beat the disguised Orlando severely, using lengths of pipe and brass knuckles while singing God Save the Queen.

Catalan Carlos, wearing a maroon watch cap to hide his Latin hair and with his face and hands bleached, captured the bloody beating on vid.

Orlando had her Joan of Arc nose broken in four places, eye socket shattered, retina detached, jaw dislocated, skull fractured. No teeth were knocked out, which was a surprise.

She was treated by a team of surgeons led by a tall Scot who resembled Sean Connery. He refused to let Carlos video the surgery. Moreover he did an inept job of reconfiguring Orlando’s face, which is why she flew to Los Angeles ten days later where cosmetic surgeons re-operated. Here too Carlos was forbidden to videotape, though he got good snaps of her post-operative swellings.

In six weeks Orlando resembled her stunning marmoreal self and was plotting the next outrage. Carlos’s vid of the beating and miscellaneous snaps were forwarded to the Pompidou Centre for their Body in Pain exhibition.

After a performance in which a vengeful band of Quiche children of “the disappeared” locked forty-nine living Guatemalan generals in the Spanish Embassy in Guatemala City and firebombed the building, incinerating every last general, Trieste and his troupe, featuring Orlando, toured the country.

In the ancient Mayan city of Tikal, Orlando contemplated jumping from the top of the central Mayan temple but desisted.

Why?

Too high. The ground was too rocky. She wouldn’t have survived. Not that survival was paramount.

She wouldn’t mind not surviving one of her “performances”?

Survival is merely one factor. She’d died so many times in small ways. Shattered bones, ruptured organs, features reconfigured.

What did she do?

Staying with the Maya motif, she cut into her chest with an ancient slate and exposed her heart. Or an area of her chest near her heart.

In Tikal?

In the holy, heathen city of Tikal. At the foot of the Temple of the Great Jaguar.

Though Orlando had studied anatomical templates, she severed an artery instead of a vein. Maybe it was the other way around. The result was she nearly died. A physician-member of Trieste’s troupe stanched the bleeding. She was flown back to Guatemala City on a tiny single-engine prop where they sewed her back together. Carlos videotaped the procedure.

After exposing her heart in the ancient Maya capital of Tikal and getting sutured in Guatemala City, Orlando traveled into the heart of Guatemala.

She rode a bus into the northwest highlands. Squeezed among the poor Indians, campesinos, livestock, animal smells, woodsmoke, Orlando looked different, pliant, almost Indian. She bought a bunch of bananas in the public market. She rode the crowded, bumpy bus, up and around the hairpin turns, occasionally eating a banana.

Two hours out of Guatemala City the bus was stopped at a military checkpoint. Soldiers with bayoneted rifles ordered the passengers out, lined them against a walled husk of a church, then fumigated the inside of the bus with two large hoses. The passengers were ordered back into the bus which stank of disinfectant. En route again some of the passengers muttered to each other. Three hours later they were in Sololá.

At the Sololá market Orlando bought a Bat Clan jacket woven by the Cakchikel Indians out of sheep wool.

She washed her hair in the volcanic lake.

She ate tortillas, chiles, beans and roasted corn in a local restaurant then rented a room above the restaurant. She sat on a cushion on the floor of the small room and listened to the night sounds. Laments of drunken men and drunken boys. Crickets sawing. The faint whistlings of a poorwill.

She smoked a cigarette.

She shared her narrow bed with fleas.

The next morning she rode a bus farther into the mountains.

That afternoon she drank beer in the dusty cantina, fourteen Indian or Ladino men and Orlando.

Sentimental music from an old jukebox.

The men stared at her. A Ladino asked her to dance. In the confined dusty space she danced with the man whose head came to her shoulders. Another man asked her to dance and she danced with him. When a third man asked her to dance she said, No, horita me voy.

Two men, drunk, followed her outside, knocked her down, dragged her behind the cantina and brutally raped her.

You expected something like that and so I gave it to you. It didn’t happen.

She left the cantina, walked to the center and rented a room. She washed.

That evening she went to the zócalo and listened to music: brass, a harp, two wooden flutes.

Back in her small room she sat on the floor and smoked a cigarette.

Orlando bussed north from Guatemala through Belize into Quintana Roo, the eastern portion of the Yucatan Peninsula. She got off at Akumal, just north of the Maya ruins of Tulum. She avoided the tourist hotels fanning south from Cancun. She rented a room in a tiny pension in the low lying jungle.

Gazing through the small cracked window of her room at dusk she saw nineteen toucans in single file, one after the other, fly leisurely from the west to the east side of the jungle.

Someone said there were alligators in the mangroves.

Orlando lay nude in a mangrove swamp in the jungle denseness.

The next day she bussed to Cancun. Checked into Hotel Jesús Intercontinental, which was also a theme park. She bathed, made herself beautiful, and that evening at seven-thirty she mounted the six-story Mary Mother of God Barn, filled with theme rides and “recreations,”  facing the ocean, in full view of the St. Paul Plaza dining area. She launched herself into the moist salt air. She lay sprawled, exposed and bloody on the astroturf below.

“Orlando did Mejico and now she’s planning on Cuba,” Trieste said to Simona on the phone.

“Why Cuba?”

Trieste laughed. “She plans to get an audience with Fidel. When that happens she’ll slip on a salt and pepper Fidel-like beard and put a match to it.”

“Fidel’s people will let her do all that?”

“Orlando moves fast. Besides, when Fidel sees her he’ll want to visit with her alone. He’s pushing eighty but he’s still sexy.”

“She sets her face on fire,” Simona said. “What then?”

“Her face burns.” Trieste shrugged. “Her hair. She recovers in a Havana clinic. They do advanced burn work in Cuba. The only thing she won’t have is a video record, or maybe even snaps. Nothing for the new millennium.”

Orlando was resting in the burn clinic of Habana Hospital when Fidel visited her. Because of all the disinformation people don’t know this about Fidel, but he’s a funny man. He appreciates a good joke even at his expense. Plus he has a refined esthetic sense — despite long lip service to socialist realism.

Fidel and Orlando hit it off?

Fidel saw to it that she got class-A treatment. After spending five days in the hospital he had her removed to his own dacha. Fidel was amazed at how rapidly she healed. They became lovers.

What did he do? Take a vacation from running the country?

Not at all. Fidel has enormous zest. He’s always had a raunchy private life.

How long did the affair go on?

A month, six months. Orlando doesn’t look at calendars. She plots her outrages by the phases of the moon. When industrial pollution obscures the sky, she reads coffee grounds.

After Cuba and amorous nights with Fidel, Orlando was flown in Habana 1, Fidel’s private jet, to Barcelona where she regrouped with Catalan Carlos. From Barcelona they drove in Carlos’ indestructible Citroën 2CV through France and Belgium into the Netherlands.

In Amsterdam they got a room on Achterburgwal in the Red Light district. After settling in, they had dinner at a creperie close by. After dinner they dropped in on the mafia office which controlled access to the windowed prostitutes’ compartments in the area around Oudekerk.

The next evening Orlando, sleekly radiant in magenta chemise, matching G-string and ivory velvet slippers, was posed in the neon light of her whore’s window near Oudekerk. It was Friday, teeming with tourists.

When a successful transaction was arranged, the red drape was pulled closed. Orlando opened and closed her drape half a dozen times at intervals which averaged thirteen minutes, having entertained one Sikh, two Indonesian business-men en menage, a nineteen-year-old American marine, good for twenty-three seconds, an Armenian drug merchant, and a Lutheran minister from Antwerp. After the Lutheran she locked her door, took her place in the illuminated window and commenced to strip.

The gawkers, hugger-mugger in front of the window, watched her recline naked on the plush red divan and masturbate herself with a pearl-colored dildo. Suddenly a burly man with an Afrikaans look carrying a metal crutch burst into her compartment from an inside door and attacked her, whacking her with the crutch across her face and breasts and buttocks, then when she was in a bloody heap on the floor, pulling down his pants and mounting her from behind.

He’d just thrust into her and arched his back, moaning coarsely with his head held high, when Orlando pulled away and in the same motion produced a straight razor and hacked off his genitals.

You’re making this up. Where’d she get the straight razor?

From under the divan cushion. Every working girl keeps a weapon close by.

She hacked off his penis and . . .

The whole monkey business.

What were the gawkers doing while this was going on?

Gawking. They assumed it was part of the performance.

Was it?

Sleeping alongside Carlos in the large walnut bed, designed by the school of Gaudi, in their flat in the medieval quarter of Barcelona, Orlando dreamt of a dwarf with a hump under his left shoulder and a comically large erection. With his black head thrown back he blew rhythmically on a wooden flute. Naked, she danced to the music. Cobra-like she wound around the dwarf and as she closed herself onto his penis the flute he blew became her cobra mouth. She could feel every one of her scales which were her wounds. The flute player blew into her mouth, the music was the sound of whales surfacing.

Orlando woke, drank some water, went back to sleep. Not yet dawn.

Outside the Bundesbank in Frankfurt five theatrical Nazi skinheads gassed Chancellor Helmut Kohl, all 333 pounds of him, in a replica crematorium. After this “performance” the German authorities detained Trieste the terrorist.

Four days later sixty-six other terrorists led by Orlando converged outside the Frankfurt prison which was holding Trieste in isolation. The temperature was two degrees centigrade with slushy rain. The terrorists commenced to undress and when they were entirely naked held hands and formed a wide circle around the prison. Each of the sixty-six had the initials DM, for deutsche mark, tattooed, large and black, on their chests. On their backs each wore a large, black swastika.

Beneath the windowless second-story confinement area where Trieste was held, the Terrorists formed a naked-bodies pyramid two stories high. From the apex of this pyramid the naked Orlando suspended herself from her left ankle, like the Hanged Man of the Tarot.

First, reading from a script in her upside-down hand, Orlando recited Heine in German. Then, loudly, in chorus, the sixty-six terrorists with their tattooed deutsche marks and swastikas, repeated:

Night lay upon my eyelids,
Upon my mouth lay lead,
With rigid brain and breast-bone,
I lay among the dead . . .

Since the international newspapers and TV channels had been forewarned, the performance was taped, photographed, video’d, and beamed by satellite around the globe. The German authorities gave way, announced they would release Trieste at midnight with the condition that he leave Germany straightaway. Trieste rejected that condition. He was released in any case, filtered through a tight cordon of police to shield him from actual Nazis.

While Catalan Carlos followed Trieste to Asia and mischief at the expense of the Japanese and brave-new-world Singaporeans, Orlando flew to Jamaica, West Indies. Deplaning in Montego Bay directly behind Orlando, perspiring in a size 56-long seersucker suit and size 16 triple-E cocoa wingtips, was the pornographer, Duane Redbone. Turned out they were staying in the same hotel and, at Bone’s suggestion, shared a taxi. In the taxi he introduced himself.

At dinner time Bone rang Orlando’s room. She didn’t answer the phone. Bone came by in person and knocked at her door.

“Hello there,” from Bone. “How about dinner?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Well how about a drink?”

“Perhaps later.”

“How’s ten-thirty? We can meet at the patio pub. It’s a nice spot.”

“Yes.”

“See you then,” Bone said.

Did she show up for the drink?

No.

What’s she doing in Jamaica now? It would have made better sense to go there from Cuba.

She’s not a sensible traveler.

The next morning at about 8:30, Orlando rented a beige Toyota Corolla from the hotel rent-a-car and pulled out of the driveway. A taxi was blocking the exit with rawboned Redbone about to get in. He saw her.

“Hey, where you going?”

“Negril.”

“Coincidence,” Bone said. “I was going there myself. Daytrip. Can I ride with you?”

She motioned for him to get in.

“As she pulled onto the road Bone said, “I would’ve rented a car but driving on the left side of the road’s a hassle. What’s your name?”

“Delphine.”

“Nice name. How long you going to be in Negril, Delphine?”

“I don’t know.”

“So I guess you didn’t make it for the drink last night?”

“I was tired.”

It takes about two and a half hours to get to Negril and Redbone did most of the talking.

“Have you ever heard of “Freak da Virus,” Delphine? It’s a film company. Actually video. I’m a cameraman and director. We do porn flicks. Some of the best around. Do you like porn? Pornography?”

“Love it,” she said.

This simple affirmative surprised and aroused him.

“What do you do?”

“Performance.”

“You mean . . . Like where?”

“Maybe you will get a chance to see,” she said.

Just outside Negril, with the placid blue Carib to the west and dense tropical bush to the east, Delphine was accelerating to pass a lorry on the single lane road when she suddenly blacked out, losing control of the wheel. Redbone with quick reflexes snatched the wheel with one large hand and guided it into the correct lane seconds before an oncoming lorry. He steered onto the narrow shoulder and stopped the car. Delphine had regained consciousness.

She was all right, she said, and took the wheel again. She drove to the new, expansive Hotel Tafari. It was a few minutes past noon. Redbone arranged to meet her at two for a drink on the penthouse patio.

He was sitting at a table overlooking the sea nursing a Red Stripe when he saw Delphine open the door. At first he wasn’t sure it was she. Her black hair was arranged in intricate dreadlocks. She wore a floor-length periwinkle batik skirt and beige halter top. She was smiling.

Redbone finished his beer and ordered Jah cocktails for himself and Delphine. A Jah cocktail is three parts white rum to one part fresh coconut water. With a sprinkle of freshly grated nutmeg.

“So where do you do these performances of yours, Delphine?

“You wish to see one?”

“Sure. You bet.”

“I will go for a bathe [that’s how she said it]. You stay here, watch from the patio.”

“Aren’t you going to drink your drink?”

She was gone. Seconds later Bone saw her on the white sand stripping off her clothes. She did this deliberately. There were maybe a dozen other people on the beach in her vicinity, sunning white tourists. Lifeguard tower but no lifeguard. Bone watched her, lithely naked, move toward the water and wade out beyond the coral reef. He watched her swim, not fast but gracefully, freestyle then breastroke, farther out. Too far . . . Redbone was racing down to the beach tearing off his clothes on the run. By the time he stripped down to his fuchsia briefs, she had disappeared. He plunged into the water and propelled himself in her general direction, swimming — it occurred to him — faster than he’d ever swum, because he was not an expert swimmer. When he stopped, breathing hard, treading water, there was no sign of her. On the shore, distantly, the sunning tourists continued sunning. The water was mild, clear, sun-dappled; he dove but didn’t see her. He dove again, swimming and twisting under water, gasping for air as he surfaced. Again he glanced toward the shore and this time he shouted: Help, Help, flailing his arms. People heard, they moved slowly toward the shore craning their necks.

Redbone sucked in breath and dove again, swimming farther out underwater. A school of gold and purple fish swiftly swerved out of his way. He was about to resurface when he felt a strong tug at his left ankle. Thinking shark, he panicked, pulled away toward shore. As soon as he slowed he was tugged at again, hard around the waist, actually pulled under water. Delphine, her long hair on his chest pulling him down. He fought her, he was 247 pounds, he surfaced dragging her with him, keeping her head above the water. And now a lifeboat was motoring toward them . . .

One Jamaican lifeguard gave her mouth-to-mouth on the boat while the other maneuvered the boat to shore. Mouth-to-mouth was continued on the surf, the Jamaicans taking turns. She was breathing. They covered her and transported her in a stretcher to the ambulance with its red roof light rotating slowly parked on the sand near the hotel.

Bone rode with her to the small hospital a few kilometers away. She lay on her back, the white cotton blanket up to her chin. Her eyes were open, she looked like a Madonna, she gazed at Redbone as she had in the car on the shoulder after she’d blacked out while trying to pass the lorry.

Did Redbone have any idea he was part of a performance? In the rented Corolla? In the sea?

What do you think?

I think he might have sensed his contribution. In some unspoken way. But does that matter to Orlando? Does she care whether people who “perform” with her know they’re performing?

Redbone was told she’d be in the hospital overnight. And he was booked to fly out of Montego Bay to LA the following morning. One of those non-cancellation tickets. You forfeit, it’s your ass, you pay anyway. When he tried to extend his stay with the travel agent at Hotel Tafari, he was advised to deal with the airlines in Montego Bay. So he got a note from the physician at  Queens Hospital, drove Delphine’s rented Corolla back to Montego Bay, persuaded the Airlines to re-write his ticket, packed his belongings, checked out of his hotel, and returned to Negril that same night, late.

Orlando was gone.

Yes. The physician said she was a good deal better and insisted on checking out. She left Bone a note and a few hundred dollars to pay the rental fee on the Corolla.

What did the note say?

“Je regrette”

Orlando was in Naples. She’d sent 40 invitations to the movers and shakers of that extroverted city to attend a formal-dress premiere “installation” in the Silvio Gallery. Invited guests included pols, industrialists, mafiosi, art bigs.

The installation was called Vino da Pasto (tablewine). It consisted of Orlando wearing a couture-designed business suit, crucified on a teflon cross, within reach of the guests who stood beneath her around a large rectangular oak table. The table included these implements: gardening shears, four rubber dildos, three anal plugs, five packets of razor blades, two butane lighters, seven wax candles, three serrated kitchen knives, one rattan cane, a length of steel chain, two pairs of faux-ivory Ben Wa balls (one pair containing a drop of mercury and the other a tiny vibrating metal tongue), a Beretta nine millimeter semi-automatic with full magazine, and a Sony high resolution monitor with remote. Also a Mason jar containing Orlando relics from previous performances: skin, tears, blood, mucus, urine, discharge, assorted teeth, bits of bone, toenail parings, matted clumps of hair.

When everyone was settled Orlando pronounced six words: “Give me pain. Give me pleasure.”

In Italian?

Obviously.

Where was Catalan Carlos?

Carlos was operating the concealed vidcam.

So what happened?

Not much at first. A few cuts and burns, her pantyhose cut away, dildo probings. Tentative sniffing of the relic jar. Actually three or four of the guests tried to leave but the doors were bolted from the outside. After an hour or so they got into the spirit. They ripped and cut off her clothes. Administered razor cuts to the tender insides of the thighs, candle burns, whippings about the breasts and thighs, liberal use of the anal plugs, they sniffed and licked the relics.

The Ben Wa balls?

Forcibly inserted, front and back.

Pressing the buttons of the Sony remote shocked the nerve endings in her breasts and genitals.

A row broke out when one of the guests forced the loaded Beretta into her mouth.

Someone tried to keep him from killing her?

No. Someone argued for killing her by degree.

The one who wanted to shoot her in the throat ended up shooting the one who wanted to kill her by degree.

Effectively terminating the installation?

Hardly. The distinguished guests ripped off their clothes and took it to the next level. The killing grooved them. They jacked into overdrive. They gave Orlando what she asked for.

By the time Orlando healed she was in Budapest. So was Simona, informed by Trieste that Orlando was planning an “installation” in the voguish Soros Gallery in Pest on the east bank of the Danube. Orlando and Carlos were staying in a flat in the Buda hills and Simona taxied there directly from the airport.

Carlos opened the door. Orlando was in the sitting room on the floor playing with a frisky Abyssinian cat. She looked up with a mild smile.

In French, Simona said: “I admire your art. I’d like to work with you. I’m prepared to do anything you ask of me.”

That was Tuesday. The premiere was scheduled for Friday. Again, forty movers and shakers — pols, the so-called Russian mafia, industrialists, art bigs — received invitations. Called Judas O, the installation consisted of Orlando and Simona, naked, each mounted like a caryatid on one side of the narrow opening that led to the exhibition space. Together they constituted an arc, connected to each other by sticky transparent tape:  Simona’s left earlobe to Orlando’s right nipple; Orlando’s clitoris to Simona’s nose bridge; Simona’s vulva to Orlando’s left big toe; Simona’s tongue to Orlando’s unshaven right armpit; Orlando’s right eyelid to Simona’s right nipple.

I’m trying to envision the configuration.

To enter the exhibition proper the invited guests had to squeeze past the mounted, fastened-to-each-other women, get entangled in the sticky tape, hence cause multiple abrasions and bleedings in the womens’  bodies where the tape aggravated the skin — and get their own fine clothes soiled and bloodied in the process. Carlos videoptaped the fortuitious assemblage of performers and invited guests.

What was in the exhibition proper?

Nothing. The exhibition space, a high-ceilinged, well-lit, L-shaped room, painted chartreuse, was empty.

Trieste and his terrorists mounted a performance in Singapore in which virtually the entire population of toilets backed up and overflowed into the antiseptic WCs, down the building walls, onto the sanitized streets, flooding the biosphere-city in hard sewage.

For his pains, Trieste and Catalan Carlos were arrested, with the prospects of caning and a substantial prison sentence.

Although officially refused admittance into the country, Orlando slipped into Singapore with a gang of four, made it to the detention center where Trieste and Carlos were being held. Three of the four, all in black latex executioner suits, were either fems or slender males; the fourth was burly. They surrounded Orlando while she stripped and slipped into her Trieste mask while wearing 6-inch red stiletto heels.

One of the latexfems draped Orlando over a trestle which projected her buttocks. The burly one caned her four hard times. She groaned loudly from deep in her throat. At that point the authorities moved in with their own rattan canes breaking up the party, forcing a robe on Orlando, arresting the participants.

Nonetheless, Orlando’ performance had been videotaped by technicians from CNN, BBC and Agence France-Presse. Beamed by satellite to fourteen different locations, including the Centre Pompidou in Paris and the McLuhan Center in Toronto.

That same afternoon everyone, including Trieste and his lieutenants, were released and ordered out of the country.

Pious Singapore gave in?

Yes.

But only after Orlando took four lashes on her arse.

Yes.

I can understand the Trieste mask but why the red stiletto heels?

Did you like them?

I did. In any case, she didn’t pass out?

On the contrary.

Oudekerk, the oldest church in Amsterdam, dating from the early 14th century, is in the very groin of the Red Light district in a small cobbled square overlooking an ancient canal. Brown rats are in the canal and hundreds of used condoms. Though the area is less violent than you’d expect, body parts and the odd corpse sough in the scum. A drunken sailor on leave toppling into the inky water. A prostitute from Morocco or Senegal or Borneo or Manila, 18-years-old and alone utterly, throwing herself into the bloody water. Mallards and mute swans, resourceful feeders, in deliberate transit from linking canals.

Orlando’s concept was to gargoyle herself to the easternmost turret of the Oudekerk, open her veins, bleed into the canal.

The performance was scheduled for Saturday, midnight, when the area would be thick with whores, johns, windowshoppers, bussed-in tourists. Announcements were posted:

Orlando
Will Perform “Kuan Yin”
Oudekerk, East Facade
Saturday, May 1, Midnight

Midnight, Orlando is lashed by the waist to the easternmost turret of Oudekerk overlooking the canal. Her waist-length hair is gathered into an elaborate top knot.  She is incandescent, naked, tattooed.

What kind of tattoo?

An image of Kuan Yin in green on her torso. Kuan Yin is the Buddhist goddess of mercy and she is holding a vase of “sweet dew.” Orlando has a scalpel in her hair.

Uh-oh.

She slits both wrists and ankles and bleeds slowly into the inky water.

And Catalan Carlos is vid–

Carlos is not videotaping this one. He’s down below on the ancient cobblestone sucking it up. Along with Simona, Trieste the terrorist, Redbone . . . It’s an overflow “audience,” the largest since five years before when Mother Teresa performed an outdoor Xmas mass for the Red Light-district prostitutes. Orlando’s admirers have not yet spotted each other. French Channel 4 is beaming the performance by satellite to sites all over Europe, Asia, San Francisco.

I have a feeling Orlando is not going to make it this time.

Ah. She bleeds to death. But she has left this verse behind to share with her admirers.

You are crossing the ocean
Hunting for white jade
If you wish finally to reach the other shore
Be mindful of Kuan Yin

SACRED ABJECTIONS

Revolutionary Brain

Revolutionary Brain by Harold Jaffe
Release date: December 6, 2012, distributed by Ingram
Trade paperback: 252 pages, 7.5×9.25, $13.95, ISBN: 978-1-935738-32-9
Publicist: Jaym Gates, publicity@rawdogscreaming.com

Guide Dog Books is proud to announce the release of Harold Jaffe’s Revolutionary Brain, a collection of essays and quasi-essays from one of our most brilliantly innovative provocateurs. Known for his unique style of “docufiction” and “literary terrorism,” Jaffe has made a career out of exposing the latent realities embedded in our media-saturated consciousness, not just in the US but globally. In Revolutionary Brain, he takes his cue from theorist Julia Kristeva, as he demonstrates how we revel in — and ultimately worship — our chronic state of cultural abjection, which increasingly spirals out of control as we plunge ever further into the realm of (dis)information and simulation.

Revolutionary Brain harnesses its critical and creative energy from an extraordinary variety of sources and artifacts, including ethnocide, activist art, popular film, ethical sacrifice, legislated porn, enraged elephants, and electronic hubris. It will appeal to a wide readership, theorizing with the broad erudition of Baudrillard, Žižek and Virilio while entertaining with the eclectic comedy of Coover, Roth, and Barthelme.

From the Back of the Book
In this timely collection of essays and “quasi-essays,” acclaimed novelist and critic Harold Jaffe explores the maddening chord changes of millennial culture. Gesturing, in a philosophical shorthand, toward a kind of pop Armageddon, Revolutionary Brain is at once thesis, allegory, and surreal comedy, demonstrating just how far we, and the natural world we have debauched, have fallen. Obsessed with technology, we are incapable of reconstructing ourselves. By way of Jaffe’s elegant prose and perfect pitch, our collective disability is laid bare at the 11th hour. Revolutionary Brain is a powerful cry for a brave new aesthetics that turns towards, not away, from our tormented globe.

About the Author
Harold Jaffe is the author of 20 volumes of fiction, “docufiction,” novels and essays. His writings have been anthologized widely, translated into numerous languages, and the recipient of several awards. Jaffe is editor of Fiction International and Professor of Literature and Creative Writing at San Diego State University.

Advance Praise for Revolutionary Brain
“I was transfixed in this volume by Jaffe’s incisive blows to the hypocrisy of flag waving, nation building, and the lethal intent by our leaders who stride the globe in bloody boots commanding the 99 percent to obey the law and get to work in the marketplace of nightmarish dreams. Jaffe has missed absolutely nothing in delineating our expiring Kultur. Brilliant.”
–REGINA KRUMMEL, editor of Prison Poetry by Shackled Women: The Gates Clang Shut

“The bravura essays in Harold Jaffe’s collection, Revolutionary Brain, challenge the conscience and consciousness of their readers. This witty and explosive book is an indictment of injustice and spurious morality and a call to art and enlightened activism as healing alternatives.”
–JONATHAN BAUMBACH, author of You: Or the Invention of Memory

“Brainy and groovy, thoughtful and post-literary, these essays on contemporary media madness are Jaffe at his best: poignant, inventive, right between the eyes of corporate culture.”
–ELOY FERNÁNDEZ PORTA, author of Emocionese asi

About the Publisher
The nonfiction syndicate of Raw Dog Screaming Press, Guide Dog Books publishes innovative, avant-garde books on a range of subjects, including literary criticism, cultural theory, media studies, letters from the opposition, experimental forms, biography, urbanism, philosophy, political manifestos, creative and popular nonfiction, and especially work that engages pop culture and its vicissitudes. Visit the publisher at www.guidedogbooks.com and www.rawdogscreaming.com.

Readings and Discussion with Alternative Press Writer Harold Jaffe

Wednesday, November 7, 2012
7:00pm Scanlon Banquet Hall B & C

Westfield State University

Harold Jaffe’s innovative fiction, non-fiction, and docu-fiction, deal with under-represented voices and perspectives in the American cultural fabric, such as death row prison inmates, political anarchists, and other unusual points of view.  He has devoted his career to “mixing things up.”  Even if audiences don’t always agree with his point of view, they appreciate his literary tactics and bravado, and his devotion to his cause.

Harold Jaffe is the author of 19 books, including Anti-Twitter: 150 50-Word StoriesJesus CoyoteTerror-Dot-Gov15 Serial Killers, and Sex for the Millennium.  Jaffe’s fiction has appeared in such journals as Mississippi Review, City Lights Review and Paris Review.  He has won two NEA grants in fiction, two Fulbright fellowships and three Pushcart Prizes in fiction, among others.  Jaffe teaches writing and literature at San Diego State University and is editor of the venerable literary journal, Fiction International.

Harold Jaffe’s Revolutionary Brain

Announcing the impending publication of Revolutionary Brain: Essays and Quasi-Essays, to be published by Guide Dog Books in 2012. It will contain some of Jaffe’s recently-published essays and others available only in this book. He has created a page here which link to seven essays for your preview.