The Night They Drove Old Orwell Down

So there has been wondering from some people—okay, one person—as to why George Orwell, once a frequent contributor to red, has not been seen here in many a moon, and has never once weighed in on Mongo.

The answer is simple, and sad. Orwell is barnes_1-031209dead. Moreover, it is my fault. He perished in March of 2016, when I invited him over to my house to view a debate between the Republican candidates for president. Orwell just couldn’t Deal. He vacated the corporeal container. Ascending to a place, where there are no Mongos. I buried the expired shell, in the backyard.

At the time, I was writing in another tube. There, I admitted my involvement in this tragedy—amid various other gibberishes—over two long pieces on March 5 and March 8, 2016. I now feel compelled to confess, also, here. And so, reprinted below, is the sorry Orwell story, together with some of the gibberishes.

He had a penis eight hundred miles long and two hundred and ten miles in diameter, but practically all of it was in the fourth dimension.

—Kurt Vonnegut, Breakfast of Champions

The Republicans are having the presidenting today, in Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, and Puerto Rico. I am not even going to venture a guess as to what will happen there. Not when those people are now actually whipping out and measuring their penises on the debate stage. They are no longer a life-form I in any way can comprehend.

In an essay titled “Wells, Hitler and the World State,” George Orwell wrote of H.G. Wells:

Because he belonged to the nineteenth century and to a non-military nation and class, he could not grasp the tremendous strength of the old world which was symbolised in his mind by fox-hunting Tories. He was, and still is, quite incapable of understanding that nationalism, religious bigotry and feudal loyalty are far more powerful forces than what he himself would describe as sanity. Creatures out of the Dark Ages have come marching into the present, and if they are ghosts they are at any rate ghosts which need a strong magic to lay them. Wells is too sane to understand the modern world.

Wells, he did not like this essay. He wrote a letter to Orwell, which began with the salutation: “You Shit.” Later the two men engaged in a violent row in the halls of the BBC. It is said the two eventually grudgingly reconciled. But Thursday I thought I would attempt to effect a further reconciliation, by inviting both men over to my house to experience the Republican debate, featuring the h-g-wells---full-episodefour surviving 2016 GOoPer hoodlums: Mongo, Zed Crud, Mondo Boobio, and Death Of A Salesman.

Things, at first, went well. Or so I thought. But later I realized this was only because Wells would not stop talking, and so was not really taking in what was coming from the stooges. For when he did—pay attention—things went very badly indeed. Wells’ face, it began cycling through all the hues on the color wheel; until, about ten minutes in, at that point when Mongo loudly assured all and every that he has a huge, truly Hagrid-size penis, Wells suffered an aneurysm. Orwell and I tried desperately to bring him back, but it was no good. The man was gone.

Rattled, and with the boobs still yammering on, Mongo commencing his St. Vitus dance about executing Edward Snowden, Orwell determined that, to continue, he required an ale IV. I rigged that up for him, but then found my own self in need of great aid—scrabbling through all the drawers and cabinets, in search of every conceivable Medicine—when Death Of A Salesman, who is supposed to be the “adult,” “sane,” “reasonable” one, blithely announced that, when he is the president, he will dispatch hundreds of thousands of American troops to Iraq, and Syria, and Libya.

Lost in my own wilderness of pain, I failed to notice, until after the debate had concluded, that, and despite the ale IV, Orwell had become insensate. I assumed he had put himself into a medical coma, in order to protect his brain. I wrestled him over to the couch, and laid him out, assuming he’d be fine in the morning. But then, Friday a.m., when I checked, he was immobile: with a light shined in his eyes, the pupils showed no response; a mirror placed beneath his mouth and nostrils, detected no fogging of breath.

I’m not really sure, what I should do, with these fellows. I guess maybe I should rent a backhoe.

So late Saturday afternoon I rented a backhoe, and used it to lay to rest, between the blackberries and the pear trees, the vacated corporeal containers of H. G. Wells and George Orwell. Both men having perished, here in my abode, the previous Thursday. Unable to survive the experience of that televised Republican debate wherein, among other things, Mongo publicly pronounced his penis larger than Hagrid’s, and promised to wield it to execute Edward Snowden, deport all and every Mexican, pound China into submission, and extinguish the families of all the Muslims, as well as anyone who might have the effrontery to Libel him.

The three crows, they were very interested in the backhoe proceedings. They were hoping maybe I would rest in my labors—go into the house to get a sandwich or something—and then they could sail down out of their perch in the oak, and perhaps  pluck an Eye. Crows, they are generally impatient about humans, and other roadkill, getting to the Rotting. And so they typically dig in, with an early appetizer, of Eyes.

But I did not want any Wells or Orwell eyes going into the crow beaks. This is because it is considered rude, when a guest dies in your home, to allow corvids to peck at their parts. So, diligently, I began the beguine, and kept at it, until both men were shuffled away beneath the soil. The crows, they huffed, in disappreciation. So, after, and to placate them, I set out some hard-boiled eggs. These the birds consumed greedily. If ever you want to make friends with the crows, go to the hard-boiled eggs. Or, the Eyes.

The vegetable people on the property, they were even more avid in their interest in the corpses, than the crows. This is because plants dearly love meat. Animals eat vegetables, vegetables eat animals: that’s the way it works, here on this planet. No plant is happier, than one fed blood meal. Bone meal, they favor that, too. Feed me, they cry. Feed me. More.

Alain Danielou, he was a Frenchman, who, for many years, plunged into Research, eventually emerging, in Shiva and Dionysus, having determined that he had unearthed the remains of the primordial human religion, which he called Shivaism.

The Creator is a cruel god who made a world in which nothing can live but by destroying life through the killing of other living beings. Thus, no being can exist except by devouring other forms of life, whether vegetable or animal, and this is one of the fundamental aspects of created nature. Life in the world, both animal and human, is nothing but an interminable slaughter. To exist means to eat and to be eaten. All living beings feed on other beings and themselves become food for other beings in an ecological cycle. This is why the Creator himself defines his nature as devouring and devoured. “I am the food, food, food, and I am the eater, eater, eater . . . from food are born living beings. Those who are on the Earth live only by food and become themselves food in the end.” (Taittiriya Upanishad, III, 2 and 10, 6.)

This cycle encompasses all of material creation, from “[t]he sun [which] only shines by destroying its own substance,” to the smallest plant, which delights in devouring flesh.

The basic principle of Shivaism is to accept the world as it is, and not as we should like it to be. It is only when we accept the reality of the world that we can try to understand its nature, 178385-240843thus drawing nearer to the Creator and taking our place in the harmony of creation. Since nothing can exist without feeding on the life of other beings, we ourselves must take responsibility before the gods who have ordained it so. In order to share with the gods the responsibility for the fratricidal acts by which we are forced to devour other living beings so as to survive, we must offer them victims in sacrifice.

It is only when we are fully conscious of the value of our actions, consciously accomplishing the will of the gods who have ordained that life should only exist by death and by slaughter, that we can then limit its effects and play the part which has devolved on us in the harmony of the world. Only then can we avoid stepping out of our role, and avoid the hecatombs which take place when man tries to ignore his own real nature and that of the divine.

That’s what Danielou says. Anyway.

As I was digging the Orwell and Wells graves, it occurred to me that if, earlier in my life, I had pursued a career as a gravedigger, living creatures today, they would not be doing the dying.

The reasoning for this, goes as follows:

I was reading this story, about how the journalists have gone away. The journalists, they used to be here, but now they are pretty much not. I know a couple of the people in that piece. Or did, back in the day. When I was a journalist. Before I killed the trade. Because, I realized, reading that piece, I am the Jonah of jobs. Whatever field I may enter, it is thereby Doomed.

I worked in a library, and now they don’t have the libraries anymore. I worked in bookstores, and so those are over. I worked for newspapers, and newspapers are gone; for magazines, which are no more; and in book publishing—thus, the books are leaving. I worked on the music radio, and so we can’t have that. I had a CETA job, and, as a result, Ronald Reagan, on the day he took office as the 198818af273de4a8e4f2012d9b279b0e--printing-press-industrial-furniturepresident, abolished the whole program, nationwide. I was a private investigator, and them’s more or less gone.

As I reviewed this litany of Failure, I grasped that, if only I had, early on, known the effect I would have, on any and all arenas of employment I might enter, I could have effected Great Change. Like, straight away, I would have joined the military—and so today there would be no military. Anywhere. On the planet. Then I would have taken a job in a gun store. And thus there would now be no guns. My taking a job at the Federal Reserve, that would have taken care of the money: it just wouldn’t be here. As an aircraft designer, I would have guaranteed that today the skies would be free and silent and clear. While my gig as a city planner, that would mean that today those sad toxic cesspools would be wholly emptied out. And, finally, my laboring as a gravedigger, that would mean that these days there would be nothing to bury. Everything would be only about, living.

The problem with this belated brainshower, is that about fifteen years or so I mucked up, and shattered the pattern, when I started working in the law. Because that profession, it is not going anywhere, not any time soon. Because, I know, that as long as there is a State, any place on earth, it will be wanting to put people in the jail. To my Jonahing, the law is, alas, near-impervious. Though I should note that, since I entered law world, there are now fewer people in the jail, in this county and in this state, than there were when I began. The United States Supreme Court, it even issued an Order, that in this state tens of thousands of people, be put out of the prisons. So, maybe, my Jonahing, has had, some, effect.

Because I did not enter the politics, they are still out there making the president.

I’m sorry.  ; (

Danielou understood about the politics:

Since cruelty is one of the basic constituents of the world, it also belongs to the nature of all living beings and is found—more or less disguised—in all men. Apart from vital food requirements, it is found in the form of the defence of vital territory, among both animals and humans. It is also used to ensure the supremacy and “purity” of a species, race, religion, or culture, and is thus one of the causes of genocide.

Each human group instinctively seeks to assert itself at the expense of others, whether “foreigners,” or elements who are considered “different” or discriminated against. Any group may be subject to this collective instinct of cruelty. It may be the people of a nearby country, or of a foreign race, a social class or a religious or political conviction. The taste for violence and slaughter is latent in all societies. “Purges” are often considered legitimate by the partisans of whichever regime is in power. As a proverb says, “Give your dog a bad name and hang it.”

It is not possible to fight effectively against one of these instinctive forms, while accepting others.

This is the appeal of Mongo. It is very clear, to those who cleave to him, that Mongo wants to hurt people, wants to kill people. The people of Mongo: they like that. Because that’s what they want, too. The Mexicans, and the Muslims, the brown people, those people Mongo has explicitly stated, over and over and over again, that he wants to hurt, wants to kill, they are, to the people of Mongo, nothing but Other. And so:

what’s all the fuss
they ain’t like us
they don’t matter anyway

Mongo, he was mighty peeved, when, this past weekend, the creepy, sinister vampire, Zed Crud, accumulated more votes, and more delegates, in the Republican version of the presidenting, than did he.

And so, Mongo, he reacted, as he always does, when thwarted: he lashed out. He decided that he would again behave as if he is already the president, as he did the night of the Nevada caucuses, when he presided over the burning of the Mexicans. And so he hand-scrawled two Orders: one to place a 35% tariff on all goods from China entering the United States, and one to “bomb the shit” out of ISIL, and all Muslims related to, or who might look like, ISIL.

Unfortunately, because Mongo is a short-fingered vulgarian, his writing is not at all coherent, or readable. And so, Mongo minions, they got the Orders mixed up. And thus, the word went forth, to slap a 35% tariff on all goods entering the US from ISIL, and to “bomb the shit” out of China, and all the people related to, or who might look like, the Chinese.

It was indeed fortuitous that Mongo senior aide Horst Wessel, he detected the error, before the planes entered Chinese airspace, and was able to turn them around. All except one. Piloted by a certain Major Kong. That plane, alas, reached its target. And bombed away. Which is why we should probably all now go down into the Shelter.

Mongo, he is, at root, Sad. We know this from his micropenis, and from the fact that, 25 years on, he still cannot get over the fact that effete East Coast foreigner Graydon Carter wrote in the long-defunct Spy magazine that Mongo is “a short-fingered vulgarian.”

To this day, I receive the occasional envelope from Trump. There is always a photo of him—generally a tear sheet from a magazine. On all of them he has circled his hand in gold Sharpie in a valiant effort to highlight the length of his fingers. I almost feel sorry for the poor fellow because, to me, the fingers still look abnormally stubby. The most recent offering arrived earlier this year, before his decision to go after the Republican presidential nomination. Like the other packages, this one included a circled hand and the words, also written in gold Sharpie: “See, not so short!” I sent the picture back by return mail with a note attached, saying, “Actually, quite short.”

This is pitiable, and also deeply Disturbed. Mongo, like Private Pyle in Full Metal Jacket, he suffers from a “major malfunction.” And, like Pyle, he should not be allowed anywhere near weaponry. Way back in his past, something scarred him badly, and he has not been able to recover. He remains a poor, lonely child. Like Ebenezer Scrooge, in the true-life documentary film Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol.

Mongo, he Hurts. And so he Hurts, in return.

He should go Quiet. And get Treatment. All those enablers, praising his name, they are not Helping. No matter the numberless hosannas they may feed him—these will never be Enough.

Danielou, he may write accurately, of what was, and is, but not of what shall be. What shall be, as seen by a Mexican—whom Mongo would of course deport—is actually not only already here, but already over:

The information we’re plugged into is the universe itself, and everybody knows that on a cellular level. It’s built in. Just superficial stuff like what happened to you in your lifetime is nothing compared to the container which holds all your information. And there’s a similarity in all our containers. We are all one organism, we are all the universe, we are all doing the same thing. That’s the sort of thing that everybody knows, and I think that it’s only weird little differences that are making it difficult. The thing is that we’re all earthlings. The earthling consciousness is the one that’s really trying to happen at this juncture and so far it’s only a tiny little glint, but it’s already over. The change has already happened, and it’s a matter of swirling out. It has already happened. We’re living after the fact. It’s a postrevolutionary age. The change is over. The rest of it is a cleanup action. Unfortunately it’s very slow. Amazingly slow and amazingly difficult.

Because we have been to the monolith. And we have seen over.

Roger Ebert, dying of a terrible disease, in terrible pain, saw, as related by his wife, this:

That week before Roger passed away, I would see him and he would talk about having visited this other place. I thought he was hallucinating. I thought they were giving him too much medication. But the day before he passed away, he wrote me a note: “This is all an elaborate hoax.” I asked him, “What’s a hoax?” And he was talking about this world, this place. He said it was all an illusion. I thought he was just confused. But he was not confused. He wasn’t visiting heaven, not the way we think of heaven. He described it as a vastness that you can’t even imagine. It was a place where the past, present, and future were happening all at once.

Ebert had already seen this, clear, years before, and related it, in the concluding words of his review of 2001: A Space Odyssey:

And here man undergoes a transformation as important as when he became a tool-user. He becomes a natural being again, having used his tools for hundreds of thousands of years to pull himself up by the bootstraps. Now, he no longer needs them. He has transcended his own nature, as that original ape did, and now he is no longer a “man.”

Instead, having grown old and died, he is reborn as a child of the universe. As a solemn, wide-eyed infant who slowly looks over the stars and the Earth, and then turns his eyes on the audience.

These last 20 seconds, as the child of man looks down on his ancestral parents, are the most important in the film. We in the audience are men, and here is the liberated, natural being, Kubrick believes we will someday become.

But when Kubrick’s space infant looked at the audience the other night, half of the audience was already on its feet, in a hurry to get out. A good third of the audience, must not have seen the space infant at all.


3 Responses to “The Night They Drove Old Orwell Down”

  1. 2 nancy a July 30, 2017 at 11:17 am

    thanks for this ~ it is better that H.G. and George are Gone, befitting too that they are buried in your backyard with the backhoe… For it is true that the Horror of the GOP debates paled in comparison to what was yet to come..


    Doesn’t this seem like 1000 years ago? I struggled to remember who the hell the Death of a Salesman was — oh yeah that weak weak weak milquetoast from Ohio….What Would The Mooch say?? : ) probably so much more..

    We are in the Age of Mongo, where minutes are hours, weeks are months, and months are years…

    But someday soon all this Bigly Winning will pass…

    • 3 bluenred July 30, 2017 at 12:46 pm

      It was always clear, what Mongo was. He made no secret of it. And yet, the Americans elected him anyway.

      Mongo will one day—pray god, let that day be soon—be gone. But those people will remain. They shall be remembered. And they shall be shunned.

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