The diner was dimly lit. The small overhanging light was dim, due to the lack of light bulbs. Of the four bulbs in the faux chandelier only one actively worked. That one bit of glass and wiring provided us with light. The darkness sat well on my companion, although I wish it had sat a little more heavily. She waited for me to speak.
We used to come to this diner all the time. We met while she was in art school. I should have known better than to date some art fag. I'd been sitting in on a human anatomy class when I first spotted her. She had long brown hair and large open eyes, like she was straight out of a Japanese manga. After two weeks of classes she moved her seat next to mine. Two weeks after that we were making dinner and going on bike rides. She was pleasant, cute, and young. Having recently moved back to the area and being unsure of my plans it seemed appropriate to take things slowly, easily.
The lackadaisical approach to the relationship meant that most things went unsaid. The transition from hooking up to dating was unclear and while I assumed she wanted to be in some sort of relationship with me neither of us came out and said anything. The lack of clarity ended up being our downfall. Not knowing that I was interested in having a an ongoing thing with her she had started to date someone else on the side. Her inability to say what she wanted was peculiar to me while my inability to talk was just classical male stoicism. I found it difficult to think that someone could want a "relationship." A relationship with anyone. Just as long as it was a "relationship." It reminded me of craigslist ads:
"SWF iso that Special Someone"
I'm blonde, medium height and build, with big blue eyes and a killer smile (so I've been told). I enjoy shopping, working out, nice restaurants, and spending time with the people who mean the most to me. I am educated with a BA in Communications. I enjoy reading and writing and am currently formulating ideas for a book. I am looking for a ltr with a man who knows how to please me. My last boyfriend was afraid of commmitment. I want a man who knows what he wants and won't play games....
The waitress came over and asked for our order. I ordered a vegan black bean burger with some fries and a root beer, she said that she'd share my fries and got a vegan blueberry banana milkshake. One of the good things about being in a progressive area is that even shit hole dives like the diner have vegan options. It adds to the allure and ambiance in a way that the bad chandelier did not.
We sat in silence for a while. I was a little surprised with myself that we were even talking. I'd never been this impulsive before. After two months of no communication I had picked up the phone and called her. Half an hour later we were at the diner.
"How are you doing," I asked her.
"I'm okay."
"What have you been doing lately?"
"Not much really. The things I used to do, well I still do but they don't have the same appeal. I'm still attending my classes, doing my assignments, I go for walks in the park occasionally but everything seems to have lost its luster."
"I saw this movie last night it reminded me of you..."
"What movie?"
"It was 'Control.'"
"Oh that movie about Joy Division?"
"Yeah, you know how much I love Joy Division. Have you seen it yet?"
"No. I want to though. Is it good?"
"Yeah. Its short but I enjoyed it."
"Why did you think of me."
"I guess I thought about our situation. Curtis married at a very young age, 19, to his high school sweet heart. Impulsively they have a child. At the tender age of 21 he's living the nuclear family wet dream. When the band begins to take off he realizes he's unhappy and becomes involved with a belgian reporter. Eventually his dutiful wife finds out and confronts him. She screams at him demanding answers from him.
'Why Ian? Why? Do you love her Ian? Where are you going Ian?'
Ian stands there in silence. Its as if his wife is smashing her hands against a brick wall. Her fists batter this emotional structure and become bloody. She looks so fustratingly impotent. Ian is unable to reply. The words won't come out of his mouth. He tears up a little and then walks away. He goes to a pub and gets shitfaced."
We sit in silence for a while longer. I push at my food with my fork and then eat some of my burger. Its greasy. She takes a long drink of her milkshake.
"It seems as though everything that happened between us was a lie. While my empathy goes out to Curtis, I know how his wife feels. Why couldn't Curtis have just told her the truth. Sure they would have gotten divorced but things would have healed, there wouldn't be a big tear in her heart. Why didn't you just say something to me?"
"I was going to. I wanted to leave Bryan but things got so fucked up. I was happy with you."
"But it was such a compartmentalized happiness. It was a happiness that ignored other things. It was like a child's soap bubble. It floated in the air beautifully and then popped. I hate that our relationship was so easily replaced. I feel so fucking cheap. No doubt I've already been switched with someone who will cater to your needs on demand. Your insistent victim hood, your constant cravings for attention. It angers me that the relationship was always about you. It never was a relationship, it was a one sided affair in which I was a prop for your insecurities. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you."
I got out my wallet and put twenty dollars down, more than enough for the meal and her shake. I took my coat and walked out the door. A feeling of lightness came over me. Perhaps it was a fleeting feeling but I lingered in it for the moment. When I arrived back home I got out my sketch pad and started to draw. After I finished a small sketch I put on a Joy Division record. I put on "She's lost Control" and stared at the lyrics. They read:
Confusion in her eyes that says it all.
She's lost control.
And she's clinging to the nearest passer by,
She's lost control.
And she gave away the secrets of her past,
And said I've lost control again,
And a voice that told her when and where to act,
She said I've lost control again.
And she turned around and took me by the hand and said,
I've lost control again.
And how I'll never know just why or understand,
She said I've lost control again.
And she screamed out kicking on her side and said,
I've lost control again.
And seized up on the floor, I thought she'd die.
She said I've lost control.
She's lost control again.
She's lost control.
She's lost control again.
She's lost control.
Well I had to 'phone her friend to state my case,
And say she's lost control again.
And she showed up all the errors and mistakes,
And said I've lost control again.
But she expressed herself in many different ways,
Until she lost control again.
And walked upon the edge of no escape,
And laughed I've lost control.
She's lost control again.
She's lost control.
She's lost control again.
She's lost control.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
The stoop
Micky sat on the stoop watching the street. His right hand still throbbed from the fight. His coach, a tall irishman, had tightened the glove on his hand so tight that it numbed. In the ring the dead hand seemed alive, invincible even. His opponent's face seemed to split open when the right hand smashed into it. Now it throbbed. Micky had iced it after the fight and was considering grabbing another bucket of ice.
"Hey Micky, How'd the fight go? You win or what," shouted the bodaga store clerk from outside his shop. The little bodaga sold small processed food, cigarettes, beer, and milk. A fair amount of the clientele were school children who picked up candy after school. The shop owner would always complain about the children destroying his store.
Micky squinted his eyes and looked out across the street. Seeing the bodaga, and the outline of the shop owner wasn't usually difficult but the sun was in his eyes. In the morning Micky would become light sensitive. The light would curse his blue eyes making him slightly dizzy. As a child he would become nauseous if he was forced to go outdoors too abruptly after waking.
Micky looked down at his right hand. It was a little swollen. He thought that maybe he'd broken a knuckle or two on his opponent's cement head. He sighed and looked down the street. Lined with brownstones the residential area was usually buzzing with activity. At certain hours a calmness would sweep over it. The adults at work, the children at school, the hour still too early for most of the bums to have started loitering in the area.
Contrary to what others think Micky knew that boxing has always been about being hurt, not giving hurt. To move through the pain to triumph - or some sembalance of triumph is the route to real victory. The fight was over but the pain continued. The sensation in his right hand was acute but Micky could feel the other injuries, the bruise on his left rib, the slight laceration under his eye, his swollen nose.
The sky was clear up above and Micky thought about going inside to get another bucket of ice.
"Hey Micky, How'd the fight go? You win or what," shouted the bodaga store clerk from outside his shop. The little bodaga sold small processed food, cigarettes, beer, and milk. A fair amount of the clientele were school children who picked up candy after school. The shop owner would always complain about the children destroying his store.
Micky squinted his eyes and looked out across the street. Seeing the bodaga, and the outline of the shop owner wasn't usually difficult but the sun was in his eyes. In the morning Micky would become light sensitive. The light would curse his blue eyes making him slightly dizzy. As a child he would become nauseous if he was forced to go outdoors too abruptly after waking.
Micky looked down at his right hand. It was a little swollen. He thought that maybe he'd broken a knuckle or two on his opponent's cement head. He sighed and looked down the street. Lined with brownstones the residential area was usually buzzing with activity. At certain hours a calmness would sweep over it. The adults at work, the children at school, the hour still too early for most of the bums to have started loitering in the area.
Contrary to what others think Micky knew that boxing has always been about being hurt, not giving hurt. To move through the pain to triumph - or some sembalance of triumph is the route to real victory. The fight was over but the pain continued. The sensation in his right hand was acute but Micky could feel the other injuries, the bruise on his left rib, the slight laceration under his eye, his swollen nose.
The sky was clear up above and Micky thought about going inside to get another bucket of ice.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Amateur Record
The smoke machine started to pour out its chemical clouds. My barefeet moved across the stage floor. Coke moved in front of me. He pulled the ropes down and I swung over them. The music wasn't on so I waited for a moment. Fuller came out and entered the ring. The Ram Muay music began on so I started to seal the ring. After knocking each corner three times and circling the center of the ring , I kneeled down. My body moved to the erratic music. Ding, Ding, Ding, Ding, pause, Ding, Ding, ding. My mind was focused on elegance.
"Remember Matt, beautiful, beautiful," Coke had said in the days preceeding the fight.
The dance came to an end and the referee brought us together.
"I want a clean fight, blah blah blah."
The bell rang and we moved into the center of the large ring. Fuller extended his gloved hand and I knocked it. We waited a moment and the fight began. Fuller was evasive the entire fight. He rarely initiated the action and ran almost literally around the ring. He would occassionally throw punches which I blocked. The bell rang and we moved to our corners.
"You need to step out with your kicks. Step out Matt," Coke said.
"He keeps running. Fuck him. Punk him Matt. Next time he starts running taunt him," Mike said. "You won this round. Keep it up."
The second round was similiar to the first. Fuller jogged around the ring avoiding confrontation and so I taunted him. It was a bizarre experience and it seemed a little unsportsmanlike at the time, but in retrospect I should have taunted him more. At the end of the second round I straight kneed him which made me happy.
The final round had him cut kick me twice. He threw a few super man punches which I blocked and the fight ended. I was pretty sure that I had won. I held up my hands and went to my corner. Coke and Mike helped me take off my gloves. The referee brought us to the center and the verdict came in. Fuller won by split decision. The crowd started to boo.
"Remember Matt, beautiful, beautiful," Coke had said in the days preceeding the fight.
The dance came to an end and the referee brought us together.
"I want a clean fight, blah blah blah."
The bell rang and we moved into the center of the large ring. Fuller extended his gloved hand and I knocked it. We waited a moment and the fight began. Fuller was evasive the entire fight. He rarely initiated the action and ran almost literally around the ring. He would occassionally throw punches which I blocked. The bell rang and we moved to our corners.
"You need to step out with your kicks. Step out Matt," Coke said.
"He keeps running. Fuck him. Punk him Matt. Next time he starts running taunt him," Mike said. "You won this round. Keep it up."
The second round was similiar to the first. Fuller jogged around the ring avoiding confrontation and so I taunted him. It was a bizarre experience and it seemed a little unsportsmanlike at the time, but in retrospect I should have taunted him more. At the end of the second round I straight kneed him which made me happy.
The final round had him cut kick me twice. He threw a few super man punches which I blocked and the fight ended. I was pretty sure that I had won. I held up my hands and went to my corner. Coke and Mike helped me take off my gloves. The referee brought us to the center and the verdict came in. Fuller won by split decision. The crowd started to boo.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Bang, da Bang, da Bang
I've never learned real self defense, but then again I've never had to deal with some shit bag talking smack about my lady. In order to prepare for that moment I've begun to watch Bas Rutten's self defense course.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Walking away
We were walking down the street The fall wind blew leaves lightly across our path. When my siblings and I were younger we made large piles of leaves and dove into them. The natural crash pads were imaginative walls to slam into during our epic battles with each other. The mounds of slow decay were forts, hiding spots, impromptu playgrounds. The leaves on the street were piled by the curb. No child would play with them.
"What have you been thinking about lately?" she asked me.
Our conversations start this way. First a very vague question then more pointed. She will inquire into the most troubling aspects of my personal life, ex girlfriends, friends with whom I'm on the outs, or other sources of drama. Its often like undergoing an interrogation, a brutal questioning session mixed with an underlying theraputeic affect.
"I've been thinking about leaving," is my reply. "I've been thinking about how long I've lived here, how my desire to get away for a while is increasing. My worry is that by staying here for a long time that life will stagnate. Slowly my daily activities will become more and more mediocre."
Its not often that there is a pause in our conversations. Now there is one. She probably has run out of gatling gun queries. She takes off her sweater.
"Its hot. No hooker comments."
After a half a block my eyes catch sight of her tiger print shirt. My lungs fill with air. The exhale comes slow to avoid the laughter.
Why do I want to leave so bad? Is it my relationship? Or the lack thereof? Is it the desire to break from the routine? Is it the rain and cold that will come soon? Maybe I'm tired of being myself.
I want to go.
"What have you been thinking about lately?" she asked me.
Our conversations start this way. First a very vague question then more pointed. She will inquire into the most troubling aspects of my personal life, ex girlfriends, friends with whom I'm on the outs, or other sources of drama. Its often like undergoing an interrogation, a brutal questioning session mixed with an underlying theraputeic affect.
"I've been thinking about leaving," is my reply. "I've been thinking about how long I've lived here, how my desire to get away for a while is increasing. My worry is that by staying here for a long time that life will stagnate. Slowly my daily activities will become more and more mediocre."
Its not often that there is a pause in our conversations. Now there is one. She probably has run out of gatling gun queries. She takes off her sweater.
"Its hot. No hooker comments."
After a half a block my eyes catch sight of her tiger print shirt. My lungs fill with air. The exhale comes slow to avoid the laughter.
Why do I want to leave so bad? Is it my relationship? Or the lack thereof? Is it the desire to break from the routine? Is it the rain and cold that will come soon? Maybe I'm tired of being myself.
I want to go.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Thoughts on "You're going to Get Hit"
Unlike some of my other stories I rewrote each entry rather than create a separate part for each one. So instead of having Billy's letter part 1, 2, and 3, I just kept Billy's letter and amended it as I went along.
A week or so ago I was sitting in the tub. Its not often that I bathe, take in a full bath full of hot water and let my skin soak. Recently having been bitten by a spider a tub full of boiling liquid seemed to be in order. As my body sat steaming I looked at my wound. It slowly leaked out blood. The seeping red liquid reminded me of those who choose to commit suicide in bath tubs. Certainly they should be applauded for their consideration of the aftermath mess.
Suicide is an inevitability. For many people its a way out, a form of escape. There is absolutely nothing wrong with suicide. It is a way to walk off the field of a rigged game. I hope that one day I will be able to commit suicide, when I so desire.
All these morbid thoughts of suicide and death reminded me of when I was younger. Burdened with mindless labor on a farm I would often think of what my funeral would be like. I suppose reading Tom Sawyer had gotten my mind going. As I grew older I would think of committing suicide as a way of punishing the people who would survive me. My death would be their guilt. Countless hours would be spent picturing the weeping, the crying, the sobbing, and the sadness of having never said "I love you Matt," enough or with adequate earnest.
I don't think about such things as much anymore. Yet as the water in the tub cooled I thought about my own death. Who would preside over it? Would I be cremated? Why would I die? What would people say?
This story is a reaction to those questions. I don't think that it is fully representative of what people would say or do after my death. I'm somewhat satisfied with it. I feel like the last piece is a little rushed and the romantic reasons for the death of Marc are a bit hockey. Silly, juvenile, but far more realistic than Marc finding out he has cancer and going out to gun down cops. Who does that? A young person is more likely to throw themselves before a train than go out with a bang.
The suicidal urge seems to be dying out though. People don't have the same amount of passion as they did. Passion has been replaced by obsession, or worse detachment. An eventual compromise is made with everyday life and the mill stone continues to grind on.
A week or so ago I was sitting in the tub. Its not often that I bathe, take in a full bath full of hot water and let my skin soak. Recently having been bitten by a spider a tub full of boiling liquid seemed to be in order. As my body sat steaming I looked at my wound. It slowly leaked out blood. The seeping red liquid reminded me of those who choose to commit suicide in bath tubs. Certainly they should be applauded for their consideration of the aftermath mess.
Suicide is an inevitability. For many people its a way out, a form of escape. There is absolutely nothing wrong with suicide. It is a way to walk off the field of a rigged game. I hope that one day I will be able to commit suicide, when I so desire.
All these morbid thoughts of suicide and death reminded me of when I was younger. Burdened with mindless labor on a farm I would often think of what my funeral would be like. I suppose reading Tom Sawyer had gotten my mind going. As I grew older I would think of committing suicide as a way of punishing the people who would survive me. My death would be their guilt. Countless hours would be spent picturing the weeping, the crying, the sobbing, and the sadness of having never said "I love you Matt," enough or with adequate earnest.
I don't think about such things as much anymore. Yet as the water in the tub cooled I thought about my own death. Who would preside over it? Would I be cremated? Why would I die? What would people say?
This story is a reaction to those questions. I don't think that it is fully representative of what people would say or do after my death. I'm somewhat satisfied with it. I feel like the last piece is a little rushed and the romantic reasons for the death of Marc are a bit hockey. Silly, juvenile, but far more realistic than Marc finding out he has cancer and going out to gun down cops. Who does that? A young person is more likely to throw themselves before a train than go out with a bang.
The suicidal urge seems to be dying out though. People don't have the same amount of passion as they did. Passion has been replaced by obsession, or worse detachment. An eventual compromise is made with everyday life and the mill stone continues to grind on.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
You're going to get hit
Billy's letter
Dear Mark,
I know it doesn't matter to you, well... not anymore but Lanna won't make it. She's been sulking for a long time. She's almost as upset as when that old basset hound of hers, Ricardo died. She cried the first two days, then fell back into her work. Sewing, setting the print for the paper, cleaning the house, doing all the things that she normally does. Her tasks are dominated with a despondent air. She could make charcoal look like a light bulb her soul seems so dark. Of course she won't talk about things. I'm sure she'll stop by at some point to pay her respects. Maybe one day while walking the dogs.
As for me, well these things happen. They've happened before. They will happen again. Did I ever tell you about my boyhood pal, Micky? Micky and I would go stealing apples from the nearby orchard, candy from the store, we would nick his old man's girlie magazines. When we were twelve Micky and I went to the waterfront late at night. The wharf was deserted except for the boats that bobbed on the ocean water. He bravely pronounced that he could touch the anchor of one of the boats. He shrugged off his shirt and dove in. As he was coming up his head smacked the edge of one of the boats. The impact cracked his head open. I dove in and dragged him ashore. He wasn't breathing by the time I had gotten someone to help.
You lose friends. They die. At some point I'll die. A few people will mourn my death. I thought you'd be one of them.
I've been trying to keep myself busy. We're still putting out the paper, of course. We've recently got a few Italians to lend some help with the writing. Much of it is poetic calls to action. Destroy the State, The priests must rot, hack up the bureaucrats, and do it now! That's what it comes down to. Its beautiful though. My own writing is coming along. The newest addition of the paper will have a central article by me about capitalism. The essay depicts the changing structure of the economy. Capitalism has come a long way since the feudal mercantilism of the medieval days. Its international, and with the expansion of railroads, its becoming even easier to ship goods all over. Adam Smith would be happy, you can be sure that I am not.
This is a weak letter. Its filled with mundane things about my life. I find it hard to say something relevant. Do I write about my memories of you? Do I write about our first meeting in the gym halls? I was too old to be a boxer but loved the action. You were so awful when you came in. Your persistence paid though. Laughing our comrades would compare you to the Mexican in Jack London's short story. You did donate a little of your purse, not that much but enough to make us all laugh.
Its hard for me to figure out what to write. We'll write up an obituary for you in the paper. Perhaps something a little more thrilling. "Comrade Gunned Down by Faciscts," "Slaughtered by the State," something less saddening and disappointing than the actual events.
I'll put this in as we put the dirt in on top of you.
Sincerely,
Billy Boke
Jimmy's Speech
"Looking out, I see a sea of black," Jimmy shuffled from one foot to another. He was a little nervous in front of the funeral crowd. He had presented academic papers in front of larger groups but this was more daunting. His words seemed more important, more final.
"Marc would appreciate your presence. I will start from the beginning. Marc and I grew up in a rural town north of here. We spent most of our boyhoods herding cows, birthing calves, milking cows, and slaughtering cows. On our days off our pious parents would bring us to the local church for moralistic diatribes from the preacher. Those days were tiresome additions to the daily sermons we got from the old man. As we hit the years where every boy thinks he is much more man than boy and most men think he is more boy than man, Marc began his troublesome career. He began to steal some of the milk and cheese. He stole little bits of the market money. He would drink the moonshine that our father brewed. He would get into fights with other local boys. To say that I was an innocent during these days would be ignoring the horns on my head but my involvement wasn't as outrageous. He was arrested a few times. My mother wept and went to the priest. When the priest spoke to Marc, Marc spat in his face. That night Marc and our father got into a brawl. Our father is a much larger man but Marc had a fire in him, perhaps it was some of the moonshine.
The next time he was arrested he was sent to a boys reformatory in the city. While Marc may have acted the street tough he was still intelligent. He could read, and write more than competently as was evidenced in his weekly letters home to me. His letters during his stay were formulaic.
'Dear Jimmy,
Things here are okay. This week only one black eye. From one of the guards not another one of the boys. My fist went deep into the depths of his belly despite his girdle. I've been bored though as they've kept me segregated. They've disallowed me books, and the small privileges afforded to those of us lucky enough to be society's outcasts. Most of the other boys are from poverty and are meek, petty thugs.... I am engulfed in ennui...'
So his letters went. His daily interactions in the reformatory were a condemnation of the Bastille of boredom. I never have fully agreed with Marc's politics, nor have I fully disagreed. I've always been empathetic though. When you live so close to someone that happens. No matter how strongly you may disagree with them you still see them as human. They are still your brothers, your sisters, your cousins, lovers, neighbors, they still retain that human connection.
His departure from the reformatory also marked a departure from our home town. No longer would he milk cows, attend church, honor and obey our parents. He moved towards the city where he could survive. The next few years were spent avoiding the law and engaging in petty criminal activities. In hindsight his earlier activity foreshadowed this later activity. The scale merely increased. Along came the scaled repercussions. He spent more time in prison.
There he might others who called themselves Anarchists. Women and men who rejected God, the State, Capital. Men who sought the violent overthrow of the reign of things. It was the anarchists who would influence him the most during his later years. The years that most of you know him from. After his last stint in prison he went to work as a bricklayer. One of the Italian Anarchists had helped him gain the job.
He worked for a while as a bricklayer but was let go after he failed to show to work one night. That was the night after his first bout. Believing in the armed overthrow of the state Marc went out to train as a boxer. He was too poor to buy a firearm so he had to create his own guns. His first bout was a disaster. He danced around the ring. His opponent moved in flailing. Marc was caught with a right cross to the face that not only broke his nose but knocked him out. When he finally came to in the dressing room he asked for a bottle of whiskey. He drank half the bottle of whiskey and said that next time he would; "get that son of a bitch."
He refused to work a regular gig after that fight. He stayed on my floor. He slept when he could, ate when he could, and trained all the rest of the time. I'd never seen him so possessed. He'd rise early in the morning and run then would go to the boxing gym. He'd spend several hours there, come home, eat all my stores of food, sleep, then go back to the gym. When he came back in the evening he would gush about his failures.
"Today I was working my jab. I butterfly it too much Jimmy. You can see it coming a mile away. I don't shoot it straight out, I bring it out.... Agh, my infighting is awful. One good shot to my skinny rail of a body and its 7,8,9,10. Ah Jimmy what am I gonna do? For every little thing I do right, there are a million things I do wrong, wrong, wrong."
Despite his hours of training and picking up the occasional dock work to keep himself fed, Marc was still social. He was a lively participant in the local anarchist group. I've never attended those meetings, as I stated before I'm empathetic but not in agreement with Marc's anarchist views. All the same he would pour fourth with the same amount of zeal about the discussions that went on there.
"Fucking Sasha, both Audrey and I agree. You can't allow the market into a post revolutionary society. Albeit planning out a future society is like attempting to count the clouds in tomorrow's sky, but one thing I know if we exchange goods, if we engage in even the most petty of mercantilism, the beast of capital will rise again. Bah! The future economy must be one based on the gift."
Marc's amateur boxing career didn't go far, mainly due to his untimely demise. His career record was 9-1-3. He knocked out five opponents with his right cross.
The last time I saw Marc was the evening before he died. He came in with a worn face. He said little. He read for a while then went to bed. After putting in hours at the gym Marc was hit by a bus on his walk home. He was killed on impact.
Thank you all for coming. If you'd like to say anything you have five minutes each. Please come forward according to your seating placement."
Slipping in the back
She slid into a chair in the back. She had dressed with care, although her garments were a size too large for her. The clothing that she was able to procure was from her over sized cousin. She didn't have a large stock of black clothing on hand. How many people died so young?
As she sat in the back she was overcome with guilt and emotion. She hoped that she wouldn't be recognized but had decided to attend the funeral out of obligation. Her love for Marc was not in doubt. What she did with that love was circumspect.
Marc had met her in the small cafe down the street from the gym. He'd come in occasionally after the gym covered in sweat and would eat an enormous amount of food. After a month or two of coy smiles and ever so slight "accidental" brushing of hands Marc had suggested that he walk her home.
She lived about four miles from the cafe. Normally she would take a local to get home and back. It was a pleasant October evening though and so they walked. They walked down by the water, chatting nonchalantly. Discussing nothing of importance but the flower of youthful desire grew.
Marc began to walk her home nearly every evening after her shift had ended. She could remember the first time they had kissed. It was on a bench by the ocean water.
"My mother can recognize the stars. I can't," she had said.
"I think, I think that's the milky way there," Marc mentioned as he pointed to a white streak in the sky.
"My mother used to be able to locate the big dipper, and then from there would be able to tell me about all the different constellations."
"Uh, I think that might be the big dipper."
They had fallen into silence. The light crashing of waves on the shore seemed to speak for them. She put her head on his shoulder. He put his on top of hers. He had inhaled her scent. He took his arm and put it around her. She looked to him and they had kissed. It was the first of many.
Marc's life had taken a sudden change when he found out that she was engaged to be married. She was engaged to a middle class merchant down the street from the cafe. Marc had seen the man before. Suited, bearded, and walking like a flaneur. Marc had dismissed him as exactly the sort of mediocre filth that an adequate revolution would take care of.
She had never told him of the engagement. When Marc confronted her about the news she meekly lied. Marc nodded slowly. He hugged her and walked out of the cafe where they had met to talk.
Marc showed up for the gym that day. He boxed no better, no worse, than any other day. The trainers had noted nothing distinctive. After his work out was done Marc walked past the cafe. He came to the corner of the intersection and strode across. He didn't bother to look either way as he crossed the street.
At the funeral she cried for the young Werther.
Dear Mark,
I know it doesn't matter to you, well... not anymore but Lanna won't make it. She's been sulking for a long time. She's almost as upset as when that old basset hound of hers, Ricardo died. She cried the first two days, then fell back into her work. Sewing, setting the print for the paper, cleaning the house, doing all the things that she normally does. Her tasks are dominated with a despondent air. She could make charcoal look like a light bulb her soul seems so dark. Of course she won't talk about things. I'm sure she'll stop by at some point to pay her respects. Maybe one day while walking the dogs.
As for me, well these things happen. They've happened before. They will happen again. Did I ever tell you about my boyhood pal, Micky? Micky and I would go stealing apples from the nearby orchard, candy from the store, we would nick his old man's girlie magazines. When we were twelve Micky and I went to the waterfront late at night. The wharf was deserted except for the boats that bobbed on the ocean water. He bravely pronounced that he could touch the anchor of one of the boats. He shrugged off his shirt and dove in. As he was coming up his head smacked the edge of one of the boats. The impact cracked his head open. I dove in and dragged him ashore. He wasn't breathing by the time I had gotten someone to help.
You lose friends. They die. At some point I'll die. A few people will mourn my death. I thought you'd be one of them.
I've been trying to keep myself busy. We're still putting out the paper, of course. We've recently got a few Italians to lend some help with the writing. Much of it is poetic calls to action. Destroy the State, The priests must rot, hack up the bureaucrats, and do it now! That's what it comes down to. Its beautiful though. My own writing is coming along. The newest addition of the paper will have a central article by me about capitalism. The essay depicts the changing structure of the economy. Capitalism has come a long way since the feudal mercantilism of the medieval days. Its international, and with the expansion of railroads, its becoming even easier to ship goods all over. Adam Smith would be happy, you can be sure that I am not.
This is a weak letter. Its filled with mundane things about my life. I find it hard to say something relevant. Do I write about my memories of you? Do I write about our first meeting in the gym halls? I was too old to be a boxer but loved the action. You were so awful when you came in. Your persistence paid though. Laughing our comrades would compare you to the Mexican in Jack London's short story. You did donate a little of your purse, not that much but enough to make us all laugh.
Its hard for me to figure out what to write. We'll write up an obituary for you in the paper. Perhaps something a little more thrilling. "Comrade Gunned Down by Faciscts," "Slaughtered by the State," something less saddening and disappointing than the actual events.
I'll put this in as we put the dirt in on top of you.
Sincerely,
Billy Boke
Jimmy's Speech
"Looking out, I see a sea of black," Jimmy shuffled from one foot to another. He was a little nervous in front of the funeral crowd. He had presented academic papers in front of larger groups but this was more daunting. His words seemed more important, more final.
"Marc would appreciate your presence. I will start from the beginning. Marc and I grew up in a rural town north of here. We spent most of our boyhoods herding cows, birthing calves, milking cows, and slaughtering cows. On our days off our pious parents would bring us to the local church for moralistic diatribes from the preacher. Those days were tiresome additions to the daily sermons we got from the old man. As we hit the years where every boy thinks he is much more man than boy and most men think he is more boy than man, Marc began his troublesome career. He began to steal some of the milk and cheese. He stole little bits of the market money. He would drink the moonshine that our father brewed. He would get into fights with other local boys. To say that I was an innocent during these days would be ignoring the horns on my head but my involvement wasn't as outrageous. He was arrested a few times. My mother wept and went to the priest. When the priest spoke to Marc, Marc spat in his face. That night Marc and our father got into a brawl. Our father is a much larger man but Marc had a fire in him, perhaps it was some of the moonshine.
The next time he was arrested he was sent to a boys reformatory in the city. While Marc may have acted the street tough he was still intelligent. He could read, and write more than competently as was evidenced in his weekly letters home to me. His letters during his stay were formulaic.
'Dear Jimmy,
Things here are okay. This week only one black eye. From one of the guards not another one of the boys. My fist went deep into the depths of his belly despite his girdle. I've been bored though as they've kept me segregated. They've disallowed me books, and the small privileges afforded to those of us lucky enough to be society's outcasts. Most of the other boys are from poverty and are meek, petty thugs.... I am engulfed in ennui...'
So his letters went. His daily interactions in the reformatory were a condemnation of the Bastille of boredom. I never have fully agreed with Marc's politics, nor have I fully disagreed. I've always been empathetic though. When you live so close to someone that happens. No matter how strongly you may disagree with them you still see them as human. They are still your brothers, your sisters, your cousins, lovers, neighbors, they still retain that human connection.
His departure from the reformatory also marked a departure from our home town. No longer would he milk cows, attend church, honor and obey our parents. He moved towards the city where he could survive. The next few years were spent avoiding the law and engaging in petty criminal activities. In hindsight his earlier activity foreshadowed this later activity. The scale merely increased. Along came the scaled repercussions. He spent more time in prison.
There he might others who called themselves Anarchists. Women and men who rejected God, the State, Capital. Men who sought the violent overthrow of the reign of things. It was the anarchists who would influence him the most during his later years. The years that most of you know him from. After his last stint in prison he went to work as a bricklayer. One of the Italian Anarchists had helped him gain the job.
He worked for a while as a bricklayer but was let go after he failed to show to work one night. That was the night after his first bout. Believing in the armed overthrow of the state Marc went out to train as a boxer. He was too poor to buy a firearm so he had to create his own guns. His first bout was a disaster. He danced around the ring. His opponent moved in flailing. Marc was caught with a right cross to the face that not only broke his nose but knocked him out. When he finally came to in the dressing room he asked for a bottle of whiskey. He drank half the bottle of whiskey and said that next time he would; "get that son of a bitch."
He refused to work a regular gig after that fight. He stayed on my floor. He slept when he could, ate when he could, and trained all the rest of the time. I'd never seen him so possessed. He'd rise early in the morning and run then would go to the boxing gym. He'd spend several hours there, come home, eat all my stores of food, sleep, then go back to the gym. When he came back in the evening he would gush about his failures.
"Today I was working my jab. I butterfly it too much Jimmy. You can see it coming a mile away. I don't shoot it straight out, I bring it out.... Agh, my infighting is awful. One good shot to my skinny rail of a body and its 7,8,9,10. Ah Jimmy what am I gonna do? For every little thing I do right, there are a million things I do wrong, wrong, wrong."
Despite his hours of training and picking up the occasional dock work to keep himself fed, Marc was still social. He was a lively participant in the local anarchist group. I've never attended those meetings, as I stated before I'm empathetic but not in agreement with Marc's anarchist views. All the same he would pour fourth with the same amount of zeal about the discussions that went on there.
"Fucking Sasha, both Audrey and I agree. You can't allow the market into a post revolutionary society. Albeit planning out a future society is like attempting to count the clouds in tomorrow's sky, but one thing I know if we exchange goods, if we engage in even the most petty of mercantilism, the beast of capital will rise again. Bah! The future economy must be one based on the gift."
Marc's amateur boxing career didn't go far, mainly due to his untimely demise. His career record was 9-1-3. He knocked out five opponents with his right cross.
The last time I saw Marc was the evening before he died. He came in with a worn face. He said little. He read for a while then went to bed. After putting in hours at the gym Marc was hit by a bus on his walk home. He was killed on impact.
Thank you all for coming. If you'd like to say anything you have five minutes each. Please come forward according to your seating placement."
Slipping in the back
She slid into a chair in the back. She had dressed with care, although her garments were a size too large for her. The clothing that she was able to procure was from her over sized cousin. She didn't have a large stock of black clothing on hand. How many people died so young?
As she sat in the back she was overcome with guilt and emotion. She hoped that she wouldn't be recognized but had decided to attend the funeral out of obligation. Her love for Marc was not in doubt. What she did with that love was circumspect.
Marc had met her in the small cafe down the street from the gym. He'd come in occasionally after the gym covered in sweat and would eat an enormous amount of food. After a month or two of coy smiles and ever so slight "accidental" brushing of hands Marc had suggested that he walk her home.
She lived about four miles from the cafe. Normally she would take a local to get home and back. It was a pleasant October evening though and so they walked. They walked down by the water, chatting nonchalantly. Discussing nothing of importance but the flower of youthful desire grew.
Marc began to walk her home nearly every evening after her shift had ended. She could remember the first time they had kissed. It was on a bench by the ocean water.
"My mother can recognize the stars. I can't," she had said.
"I think, I think that's the milky way there," Marc mentioned as he pointed to a white streak in the sky.
"My mother used to be able to locate the big dipper, and then from there would be able to tell me about all the different constellations."
"Uh, I think that might be the big dipper."
They had fallen into silence. The light crashing of waves on the shore seemed to speak for them. She put her head on his shoulder. He put his on top of hers. He had inhaled her scent. He took his arm and put it around her. She looked to him and they had kissed. It was the first of many.
Marc's life had taken a sudden change when he found out that she was engaged to be married. She was engaged to a middle class merchant down the street from the cafe. Marc had seen the man before. Suited, bearded, and walking like a flaneur. Marc had dismissed him as exactly the sort of mediocre filth that an adequate revolution would take care of.
She had never told him of the engagement. When Marc confronted her about the news she meekly lied. Marc nodded slowly. He hugged her and walked out of the cafe where they had met to talk.
Marc showed up for the gym that day. He boxed no better, no worse, than any other day. The trainers had noted nothing distinctive. After his work out was done Marc walked past the cafe. He came to the corner of the intersection and strode across. He didn't bother to look either way as he crossed the street.
At the funeral she cried for the young Werther.
You're going to get hit - Slipping in the back
She slid into a chair in the back. She had dressed with care, although her garments were a size too large for her. The clothing that she was able to procure was from her over sized cousin. She didn't have a large stock of black clothing on hand. How many people died so young?
As she sat in the back she was overcome with guilt and emotion. She hoped that she wouldn't be recognized but had decided to attend the funeral out of obligation. Her love for Marc was not in doubt. What she did with that love was circumspect.
Marc had met her in the small cafe down the street from the gym. He'd come in occasionally after the gym covered in sweat and would eat an enormous amount of food. After a month or two of coy smiles and ever so slight "accidental" brushing of hands Marc had suggested that he walk her home.
She lived about four miles from the cafe. Normally she would take a local to get home and back. It was a pleasant October evening though and so they walked. They walked down by the water, chatting nonchalantly. Discussing nothing of importance but the flower of youthful desire grew.
Marc began to walk her home nearly every evening after her shift had ended. She could remember the first time they had kissed. It was on a bench by the ocean water.
"My mother can recognize the stars. I can't," she had said.
"I think, I think that's the milky way there," Marc mentioned as he pointed to a white streak in the sky.
"My mother used to be able to locate the big dipper, and then from there would be able to tell me about all the different constellations."
"Uh, I think that might be the big dipper."
They had fallen into silence. The light crashing of waves on the shore seemed to speak for them. She put her head on his shoulder. He put his on top of hers. He had inhaled her scent. He took his arm and put it around her. She looked to him and they had kissed. It was the first of many.
Marc's life had taken a sudden change when he found out that she was engaged to be married. She was engaged to a middle class merchant down the street from the cafe. Marc had seen the man before. Suited, bearded, and walking like a flaneur. Marc had dismissed him as exactly the sort of mediocre filth that an adequate revolution would take care of.
She had never told him of the engagement. When Marc confronted her about the news she meekly lied. Marc nodded slowly. He hugged her and walked out of the cafe where they had met to talk.
Marc showed up for the gym that day. He boxed no better, no worse, than any other day. The trainers had noted no thing distinctive. After his work out was done Marc walked past the cafe. She wasn't there as she was arranging things for the upcoming wedding. He didn't bother to look either way as he crossed the street.
At the funeral she cried in the back for her young Werther.
As she sat in the back she was overcome with guilt and emotion. She hoped that she wouldn't be recognized but had decided to attend the funeral out of obligation. Her love for Marc was not in doubt. What she did with that love was circumspect.
Marc had met her in the small cafe down the street from the gym. He'd come in occasionally after the gym covered in sweat and would eat an enormous amount of food. After a month or two of coy smiles and ever so slight "accidental" brushing of hands Marc had suggested that he walk her home.
She lived about four miles from the cafe. Normally she would take a local to get home and back. It was a pleasant October evening though and so they walked. They walked down by the water, chatting nonchalantly. Discussing nothing of importance but the flower of youthful desire grew.
Marc began to walk her home nearly every evening after her shift had ended. She could remember the first time they had kissed. It was on a bench by the ocean water.
"My mother can recognize the stars. I can't," she had said.
"I think, I think that's the milky way there," Marc mentioned as he pointed to a white streak in the sky.
"My mother used to be able to locate the big dipper, and then from there would be able to tell me about all the different constellations."
"Uh, I think that might be the big dipper."
They had fallen into silence. The light crashing of waves on the shore seemed to speak for them. She put her head on his shoulder. He put his on top of hers. He had inhaled her scent. He took his arm and put it around her. She looked to him and they had kissed. It was the first of many.
Marc's life had taken a sudden change when he found out that she was engaged to be married. She was engaged to a middle class merchant down the street from the cafe. Marc had seen the man before. Suited, bearded, and walking like a flaneur. Marc had dismissed him as exactly the sort of mediocre filth that an adequate revolution would take care of.
She had never told him of the engagement. When Marc confronted her about the news she meekly lied. Marc nodded slowly. He hugged her and walked out of the cafe where they had met to talk.
Marc showed up for the gym that day. He boxed no better, no worse, than any other day. The trainers had noted no thing distinctive. After his work out was done Marc walked past the cafe. She wasn't there as she was arranging things for the upcoming wedding. He didn't bother to look either way as he crossed the street.
At the funeral she cried in the back for her young Werther.
Friday, October 5, 2007
War of the Contenders
Friday October 19th I will be fighting Team USA member Fuller Espiritu. Fuller and I recently had a short bout at the Fight and Fitness smoker in September.
You can get tickets at the door or online here.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Tuk Tuk Thai Pat Thai
Tuk Tuk is located right around the corner from me. Their late night hours and cheap prices certainly makes this place appealing. The downside is that the rest of the crowd tends to be awful. Berkeley seems to be home to many boorish college students.
My pat thai was run of the mill. It had not spicy zest. It came with no appetizers, or side dishes. Nothing but pat thai and water for $8. The bean sprouts were a nice and essential addition. I'd previously overlooked the sprouts in my past pat thai. The tofu was okay. It was chunky and semi- fried. Not fried enough for my taste buds though! The noodles were lightly seasoned (bland for the falangs) but were otherwise unmentionable.
Monday, October 1, 2007
You're going to get hit -Jimmy's speech
"Looking out, I see a sea of black," Jimmy shuffled from one foot to another. He was a little nervous in front of the funeral crowd. He had presented academic papers in front of larger groups but this was more daunting. His words seemed more important, more final.
"Marc would appreciate your presence. I will start from the beginning. Marc and I grew up in a rural town north of here. We spent most of our boyhoods herding cows, birthing calves, milking cows, and slaughtering cows. On our days off our pious parents would bring us to the local church for moralistic diatribes from the preacher. Those days were tiresome additions to the daily sermons we got from the old man. As we hit the years where every boy thinks he is much more man than boy and most men think he is more boy than man, Marc began his troublesome career. He began to steal some of the milk and cheese. He stole little bits of the market money. He would drink the moonshine that our father brewed. He would get into fights with other local boys. To say that I was an innocent during these days would be ignoring the horns on my head but my involvement wasn't as outrageous. He was arrested a few times. My mother wept and went to the priest. When the priest spoke to Marc, Marc spat in his face. That night Marc and our father got into a brawl. Our father is a much larger man but Marc had a fire in him, perhaps it was some of the moonshine.
The next time he was arrested he was sent to a boys reformatory in the city. While Marc may have acted the street tough he was still intelligent. He could read, and write more than competently as was evidenced in his weekly letters home to me. His letters during his stay were formulaic.
'Dear Jimmy,
Things here are okay. This week only one black eye. From one of the guards not another one of the boys. My fist went deep into the depths of his belly despite his girdle. I've been bored though as they've kept me segregated. They've disallowed me books, and the small privileges afforded to those of us lucky enough to be society's outcasts. Most of the other boys are from poverty and are meek, petty thugs.... I am engulfed in ennui...'
So his letters went. His daily interactions in the reformatory were a condemnation of the Bastille of boredom. I never have fully agreed with Marc's politics, nor have I fully disagreed. I've always been empathetic though. When you live so close to someone that happens. No matter how strongly you may disagree with them you still see them as human. They are still your brothers, your sisters, your cousins, lovers, neighbors, they still retain that human connection.
His departure from the reformatory also marked a departure from our home town. No longer would he milk cows, attend church, honor and obey our parents. He moved towards the city where he could survive. The next few years were spent avoiding the law and engaging in petty criminal activities. In hindsight his earlier activity foreshadowed this later activity. The scale merely increased. Along came the scaled repercussions. He spent more time in prison.
There he might others who called themselves Anarchists. Women and men who rejected God, the State, Capital. Men who sought the violent overthrow of the reign of things. It was the anarchists who would influence him the most during his later years. The years that most of you know him from. After his last stint in prison he went to work as a bricklayer. One of the Italian Anarchists had helped him gain the job.
He worked for a while as a bricklayer but was let go after he failed to show to work one night. That was the night after his first bout. Believing in the armed overthrow of the state Marc went out to train as a boxer. He was too poor to buy a firearm so he had to create his own guns. His first bout was a disaster. He danced around the ring. His opponent moved in flailing. Marc was caught with a right cross to the face that not only broke his nose but knocked him out. When he finally came to in the dressing room he asked for a bottle of whiskey. He drank half the bottle of whiskey and said that next time he would; "get that son of a bitch."
He refused to work a regular gig after that fight. He stayed on my floor. He slept when he could, ate when he could, and trained all the rest of the time. I'd never seen him so possessed. He'd rise early in the morning and run then would go to the boxing gym. He'd spend several hours there, come home, eat all my stores of food, sleep, then go back to the gym. When he came back in the evening he would gush about his failures.
"Today I was working my jab. I butterfly it too much Jimmy. You can see it coming a mile away. I don't shoot it straight out, I bring it out.... Agh, my infighting is awful. One good shot to my skinny rail of a body and its 7,8,9,10. Ah Jimmy what am I gonna do? For every little thing I do right, there are a million things I do wrong, wrong, wrong."
Despite his hours of training and picking up the occasional dock work to keep himself fed, Marc was still social. He was a lively participant in the local anarchist group. I've never attended those meetings, as I stated before I'm empathetic but not in agreement with Marc's anarchist views. All the same he would pour fourth with the same amount of zeal about the discussions that went on there.
"Fucking Sasha, both Audrey and I agree. You can't allow the market into a post revolutionary society. Albeit planning out a future society is like attempting to count the clouds in tomorrow's sky, but one thing I know if we exchange goods, if we engage in even the most petty of mercantilism, the beast of capital will rise again. Bah! The future economy must be one based on the gift."
Marc's amateur boxing career didn't go far, mainly due to his untimely demise. His career record was 9-1-3. He knocked out five opponents with his right cross.
The last time I saw Marc was the evening before he died. He came in with a worn face. He said little. He read for a while then went to bed. After putting in hours at the gym Marc was hit by a bus on his walk home. He was killed on impact.
Thank you all for coming. If you'd like to say anything you have five minutes each. Please come forward according to your seating placement.
"Marc would appreciate your presence. I will start from the beginning. Marc and I grew up in a rural town north of here. We spent most of our boyhoods herding cows, birthing calves, milking cows, and slaughtering cows. On our days off our pious parents would bring us to the local church for moralistic diatribes from the preacher. Those days were tiresome additions to the daily sermons we got from the old man. As we hit the years where every boy thinks he is much more man than boy and most men think he is more boy than man, Marc began his troublesome career. He began to steal some of the milk and cheese. He stole little bits of the market money. He would drink the moonshine that our father brewed. He would get into fights with other local boys. To say that I was an innocent during these days would be ignoring the horns on my head but my involvement wasn't as outrageous. He was arrested a few times. My mother wept and went to the priest. When the priest spoke to Marc, Marc spat in his face. That night Marc and our father got into a brawl. Our father is a much larger man but Marc had a fire in him, perhaps it was some of the moonshine.
The next time he was arrested he was sent to a boys reformatory in the city. While Marc may have acted the street tough he was still intelligent. He could read, and write more than competently as was evidenced in his weekly letters home to me. His letters during his stay were formulaic.
'Dear Jimmy,
Things here are okay. This week only one black eye. From one of the guards not another one of the boys. My fist went deep into the depths of his belly despite his girdle. I've been bored though as they've kept me segregated. They've disallowed me books, and the small privileges afforded to those of us lucky enough to be society's outcasts. Most of the other boys are from poverty and are meek, petty thugs.... I am engulfed in ennui...'
So his letters went. His daily interactions in the reformatory were a condemnation of the Bastille of boredom. I never have fully agreed with Marc's politics, nor have I fully disagreed. I've always been empathetic though. When you live so close to someone that happens. No matter how strongly you may disagree with them you still see them as human. They are still your brothers, your sisters, your cousins, lovers, neighbors, they still retain that human connection.
His departure from the reformatory also marked a departure from our home town. No longer would he milk cows, attend church, honor and obey our parents. He moved towards the city where he could survive. The next few years were spent avoiding the law and engaging in petty criminal activities. In hindsight his earlier activity foreshadowed this later activity. The scale merely increased. Along came the scaled repercussions. He spent more time in prison.
There he might others who called themselves Anarchists. Women and men who rejected God, the State, Capital. Men who sought the violent overthrow of the reign of things. It was the anarchists who would influence him the most during his later years. The years that most of you know him from. After his last stint in prison he went to work as a bricklayer. One of the Italian Anarchists had helped him gain the job.
He worked for a while as a bricklayer but was let go after he failed to show to work one night. That was the night after his first bout. Believing in the armed overthrow of the state Marc went out to train as a boxer. He was too poor to buy a firearm so he had to create his own guns. His first bout was a disaster. He danced around the ring. His opponent moved in flailing. Marc was caught with a right cross to the face that not only broke his nose but knocked him out. When he finally came to in the dressing room he asked for a bottle of whiskey. He drank half the bottle of whiskey and said that next time he would; "get that son of a bitch."
He refused to work a regular gig after that fight. He stayed on my floor. He slept when he could, ate when he could, and trained all the rest of the time. I'd never seen him so possessed. He'd rise early in the morning and run then would go to the boxing gym. He'd spend several hours there, come home, eat all my stores of food, sleep, then go back to the gym. When he came back in the evening he would gush about his failures.
"Today I was working my jab. I butterfly it too much Jimmy. You can see it coming a mile away. I don't shoot it straight out, I bring it out.... Agh, my infighting is awful. One good shot to my skinny rail of a body and its 7,8,9,10. Ah Jimmy what am I gonna do? For every little thing I do right, there are a million things I do wrong, wrong, wrong."
Despite his hours of training and picking up the occasional dock work to keep himself fed, Marc was still social. He was a lively participant in the local anarchist group. I've never attended those meetings, as I stated before I'm empathetic but not in agreement with Marc's anarchist views. All the same he would pour fourth with the same amount of zeal about the discussions that went on there.
"Fucking Sasha, both Audrey and I agree. You can't allow the market into a post revolutionary society. Albeit planning out a future society is like attempting to count the clouds in tomorrow's sky, but one thing I know if we exchange goods, if we engage in even the most petty of mercantilism, the beast of capital will rise again. Bah! The future economy must be one based on the gift."
Marc's amateur boxing career didn't go far, mainly due to his untimely demise. His career record was 9-1-3. He knocked out five opponents with his right cross.
The last time I saw Marc was the evening before he died. He came in with a worn face. He said little. He read for a while then went to bed. After putting in hours at the gym Marc was hit by a bus on his walk home. He was killed on impact.
Thank you all for coming. If you'd like to say anything you have five minutes each. Please come forward according to your seating placement.
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