Leon Kukkuk

Good Writing

2010-08-27T08:12:00.001-07:00

Good writing must be aimed at bad readers.

Bad readers begin to read a story without realising that the story may be aimed at the reader.

The bad reader will not give the story another thought, after finishing it.

Worse still, the bad reader may keep on thinking about the story without extracting from it any meaning.

The bad reader may resent the writer for that. The bad reader may think that that the writer knows nothing or has no imagination. The bad reader might get worked up for being insulted. There are many ways in which to be a bad reader.

Good writing gives bad readers a sense of assurance. It is possibly a false sense.

Bad writing that is then read by bad readers is not writing at all but an act of revenge.

The bad reader may believe that the writer is too lazy to write about real things.

Space Was Regarded as Empty, a Void

2010-08-24T01:00:00.000-07:00

“But with regard to the material world, we can at least go so far as this— we can perceive that events are brought about not by insulated interpositions of Divine power, exerted in each particular case, but by the establishment of general laws.” W. Whewell: Bridgewater Treatise.

I ran into him again at a pub, about three weeks after I had returned from the south. He was the pilot that had flown me there, as a favour. He had to take some high level delegation somewhere and since I was making such a nuisance of myself, trying to hitch a ride southwards, it was then agreed that he would risk the forty-five minute flight to my intended destination. It was to the south that he took me, as had already been said, because apparently there was something afoot that I wanted to look into.

The intermittent flight was uneventful. We flew to a small city, dropped of a group of men wearing suits, then stood around becoming vaguely acquainted, whilst waiting for, and eventually receiving, security clearance for the last leg to a dirt airfield on the edge of a subtropical savannah. He dropped me off, and then left, not wanting to attract too much attention, not much between us but vague arrangements about when and where to come and collect me again and how this will be communicated.

I found what I was looking for, also large bands of angry young men with guns roaming about looking for trouble. Thus chastised I subtly made my way out of there, hitching surreptitious rides on a variety of trucks, trucks travelling at night with mysterious cargo. Then when reaching the coast, and relative safety, I got a ride on a boat back to the capital, there to catch my breath by hanging around my hotel and frequenting a bar or two at night.

Thus I ran into him, as had been said before, at a bar, doing pretty much the same things as I, trying to find some sort of meaning in a dark and dangerous place on the edge of civilisation.

This is the story he told me then. Be warned, here and now, that there are some inconsistencies; it is in the nature of these sorts of stories; the prevailing atmosphere, the lapses of memory all making their own contradictory contributions.

Our flight was organised at the last moment and the pilot newly employed by the company. Previously he had worked for a large organisation, that had apparently seen to the maintenance and refuelling of his aircraft. At the new company, a small, fly-by-night sort of affair, it was, and for some strange reason by all accounts still unbeknownst to him, his own responsibility to ensure the refuelling of his aeroplane.

I am not sure what the case may have been, but he had flown all of us to the south, a high-level delegation and myself, and then returned to the capital by himself.

About half an hour from the airport he had run out of fuel.

In his account several inconstancies crop up. I can recall him telling me that this sort of aeroplane does not have any fuel gauges. Subsequently I had established that this is not true. Maybe they were not working or maybe this pilot had neglected to pay attention to them. It may be that he had miscalculated the amount of fuel that he would use, taking off and landing several times, spiralling in and out of the sky to avoid being found by some ground-to-air missile or even a stray and lucky bullet from an AK-47. But not let’s waste time in speculation, be as it may, and for whatever reason, this pilot had run out of fuel.

He was about half an hour short of the airport and his first priority was to try and reach it. As he realised that this would be unlikely, he then considered landing on the main road that snaked its way along the coast.

This however was too busy and he finally opted to land on a small dirt road not more than twenty kilometres short of the airport.

More inconsistencies pepper his account at this point. With both engines down, he said that he was unable to lower the undercarriage. Apparently this can be done manually, but for some or other reason he had not, or could not, do so. To his credit, and indication of his skill as a pilot, he gently glided the aeroplane down to a small and sandy dirt road without causing any damage to it at all. Here he gave me a long and technical explanation on how this is possible; an explanation that at the time I barely understood and is now subsequently unable to repeat with even the slightest degree of accuracy.

His aeroplane skidded along the sand, eventually being brought to a halt by a small rise in the road caused by a railway line crossing the road at this point.

He came to a standstill exactly atop this railway line and lo and behold! as he looked to his left he saw a train approaching.

Jumping out of the aeroplane and removing his white shirt he waved frantically at the train to stop, something which the driver did only a few metres short of hitting this aeroplane.

The driver of this train was not impressed.

“You cannot park that thing here!” Apparently he had said, by the pilot’s account very agitated, “there is an airport down the road. Go and park it there!”

The pilot tried to explain that he had run of fuel, yet, and still by his account, the train driver remained steadfastly unimpressed.

“I have a train to drive. You must park your plane at the airport like everybody else. You cannot just park that thing anywhere you please. There are rules here.”

Now this pilot had gotten his license from a country, one of only a very few countries that apparently have this regulation, where, should you ever run out of fuel you automatically loose your license.

He was thus now unemployed and unable to practice the only occupation he knew.

It was only some years later and quite recently that I ran into him again.

He is still flying.

Apparently he had had a small amount of capital saved, and was looking around for partners to help him finance a small airline company of his own. In this way he had met a man, probably Eastern European, although he was not sure. This man had all sorts business interests, showed an interest, he thought a small airline may just compliment his activities. In the course of their discussions they usually met at the horse races.

The pilot had not up to this point shown any interest in horse racing, but following tips from the Eastern European man had started to bet small amounts of his limited funds. These horses always won.

It was therefore with a fair amount of confidence, and following the advice of this Eastern European man, that he took all of his savings and betted it on a single horse. Although running at odds of sixteen to one, he was assured that it would win. These assurances appeared to come true as the horse led by two lengths down the last hundred metres before stumbling and falling. It had to be put down later, at which time it was ascertained that its fall was in all probability caused by having been shot in the thigh with an air-rifle.

Thus it was a tip on a dead horse that caused him to accept the kind offer by this Eastern European man, to fly aeroplanes again, never asking questions about his mysterious cargo, and parking his plane all sorts of places that he is not supposed to.

The Boy in My Pocket

2010-08-24T00:13:00.000-07:00

A very young boy is playing on the lawn.

In his pocket he has the universe.

This he had picked up a little while before.

Intrigued, he had a look at it. It was flimsy yet coherent. It had almost no substance and almost no weight. It was cold, very cold. Yet inside its blackness there were the faintest glittering of light.

“Was it reflecting this light or did the light come from inside it?” the boy wondered in a naive yet lucid small boy kind of way. It is an intelligent young boy.

Perplexed, he had put it in his pocket. It was something, that at the end of the day, he would show to his father, when he came home.

This boy is playing on the lawn. He is surrounded by his home, and trees, and the town that he lives in. Above him the sky shines bright blue. It is a sunny day.

Beyond the sky lies the universe – immeasurably vast, black and cold. It is flimsy yet coherent.

The universe is in the pocket of a very young boy, playing on the lawn.

This he had picked up a little while before.

Intrigued, he had a look at it. It was flimsy yet coherent. It had almost no substance and almost no weight. It was cold, very cold. Yet inside its blackness there were the faintest glittering of light.

Inside this universe, in the boy’s pocket, immeasurably small, there is a boy is playing on the lawn. He is surrounded by his home, and trees, and the town that he lives in. Above him the sky shines bright blue. It is a sunny day.

How many boys are there? Playing on the lawn?

A very young boy is playing on the lawn.

In his pocket he has the universe.

There is a young boy playing on the lawn. Immeasurably larger, millions of billions of trillions times larger, there is another young boy playing on the lawn.

How many boys are there?

Apart from the incalculable difference in scale, all these boys are identical in appearance. They look the same; they think exactly the same things at the same moment. The lawns that they are playing on look the same. The trees, their homes, and the sky they see; all look the same. Every molecule in each boy, every atom, every proton and electron are identical. It is all the same? Is it all sane?

A young boy plays on the lawn.

In his pocket he has the universe.

On a planet, revolving around a star in this universe there is a young boy playing on the lawn.

He wondered about the universe that he has in his pocket.

“Was it reflecting this light or did the light come from inside it?” the boy wondered in a naive yet lucid small boy kind of way. It is an intelligent young boy.

Apart from the incalculable difference in scale, these boys are identical in appearance.

The young boy has the universe in his pocket.

How many boys are there?

Apart from the incalculable difference in scale, there is only one boy.

Every molecule in each boy, every atom, every proton and electron are identical, in spite of the cosmic differences in scale. Therefore there can only be one boy.

There is no mystery about this, no contradiction.

There are in fact only two questions that concern us.

Why is this boy playing on the lawn?

Why is the universe in his pocket, and not everywhere as it is supposed to be?

A Bottle, a Corpse

2008-03-08T00:05:00.000-08:00

And God made him die during the course of a hundred years and then He revived him and said: “How long have you been here?”
“A day, or part of a day,” he replied. (The Koran)

Some things are connected with certain experiences which appear trivial yet are so fundamental that they cannot be explained. They are too subtle to be compared to anything. There is nothing for thought or imagination to cling to. Yet they are more real than anything that we can see, taste, hear, smell or feel. Although they encompass the senses they cannot be identified with any of them.
It is difficult for me to describe exactly what happened.
There was a power failure as usual, and with nothing to do, as usual, I had spent the evening on the veranda with a bottle. Sporadic gunfire could be heard in the distance, people tended to stay at home. I had come here to this place, and at this time, simply to record events as they unfolded. Bringing with me not much more than my cameras, I had rented a small apartment in a rundown building and minded my own business for the most part in this uneventful and violent city. It was a place of dirty and deadly politics, ominous hints of a pending civil war; a place where the stability of a brutal order was giving away to the forces of freedom and progress. I was not connected to the events here, and remained steadfastly unconnected; an anarchist that did not get involved. The protagonists of the pictures I took lived their lives as candle flames- now leaping, now falling, now dying. Without fail they were starkly unheroic - losers, liars, killers, occasionally men in positions of power and trust whose bland features and innocent utterances hid seriously demented psyches, their lives but bleak parables of post-cold war desolation and despair.
The bottle came to an end and I went to bed. Endings can be exciting, promising times filled with the prospects of renewed freedom and opportunity.
The beeper sounded with anxious urgency. I sat up suddenly in my bed, startled, confused, drawn out of that prehistoric world where we fetch our dreams. Reality, which had retreated before my sudden rise, slowly started to flow back through my senses. I searched around for the switch, and, when I found it, tried to turn on the light without success. Yet this darkness was filled with colours of dazzling hue and grotesque patterns in which I could forget its darkness and focus instead on the mere idea of light.
Things can change suddenly. Life is a spectrum of interactions between many interdependent influences. Forces combine to influence our moods in such a manner as to lead to discontinuous jumps, changes of a sudden catastrophic nature.
It was two a.m. in the morning. I had been asleep for just over an hour. Exhaustion, and the effects of the bottle, threatened to overwhelm me and pin me down. The warmth, the genial and abounding goodwill exuded by the bottle such a short while ago remained now only as a sour taste in the back of my throat. Nevertheless, I got out of bed, made a phone call, then got dressed in the dark and bland bedroom and left the apartment, going down the stairs with something between a skip and a hobble, burdened by the paraphernalia of my profession.
Something had happened.
Catastrophe. The word comes from Greek tragic drama and refers to sudden twists in the plot - that unexpected point where we turn from lovers to haters, destroyers to creators, outsiders to insiders.
Catastrophe destroys. Bakunin said that we have to destroy in order to create.
A driver came to collect me and we drove through dark, abandoned, and potholed streets, strewn with rubble. My head was thick and fussy; full of that random jumble of thoughts, which we usually call a blank mind.
I thought about Bakunin, that bearded, manic Russian aristocrat, the father of Anarchism, who ran from Paris to Italy to Prussia to scream his message from the barricades and who died disillusioned in his bed. I had slowly moved away from Anarchism, not because of the way that Bakunin had written it down in his chaotic, incoherent way, but because he had written it down. Because it was written down all Anarchists felt that it was only that form of Anarchism that could be followed. Anarchism means no ruler but the Anarchists in Germany and Spain in the 1930´s were subjected to brutal subscription to specific codes of conduct and rules, treating their followers with the same brutality as would eventually be meted out to them by Communists and Fascists.
We arrived near the centre of town, an area where there was still electricity and some sort of movement at night, a thin and fragile façade of normality.
She lay in the full glare of a lone spotlight near a police control point.
There were several small groups of quiet people standing around in the early morning darkness. A battered police-van was parked nearby and three policemen were talking to a group of people. Two soldiers in full combat dress - camouflage uniforms, boots, helmets, bulletproof vests, radios, and machine guns - paced up and down; their patriotic hearts never missing a single sonorous beat. They looked alert and dangerous in spite of the fact that one of the soldiers carried his gun as a limp extension of his arm, pointing towards the ground.
A young woman, returning from work or a meeting, I think, had driven up to the control point just before curfew. Here she ran into a group of youths returning from a political gathering, or something similar. Maybe something was said, perhaps somebody did not look right, or did not have the correct attitude; whatever the case, there was a spark of violence. She was then dragged from her car, pushed around and then somebody threw a stone. That is apparently what one of the few witnesses saw. Nobody seems to have seen a thing, yet she was now dead.
She lay in the full glare of a lone spotlight near a police control point.
An act of random violence? There was no point to all of this.
What is a point?
A point is a dot, a period, a full stop. It denotes the end of sentences. It has no dimensions yet occupies space.
I moved closer, sunk to my knees and started taking photographs, making my living. It was difficult, partly because my body was so light that I had trouble keeping my feet on the ground, partly because the scene did not reflect any sort of reality that I could capture. I realised that it is only through art that many experiences can be hinted at. Artistic symbolism are not invented arbitrarily, they are spontaneous expressions breaking through the deepest regions of the human mind.
She was lying on her side. She was wearing a pretty, frivolous, flowery dress that was now pulled up over her chest. She wore fine white underwear. She looked at peace. It was almost impossible to capture her real fate on film. She looked so at peace, so carelessly asleep with her long blond hair fanned out around her head.
Fate certainly is a strange thing. Fate is like a randomly meandering coastline, which, no matter how closely you examine it, always contain finer levels of structure, and is consequently impossible to capture in any finite sort of way.
She was (and at that moment still were) an astonishingly beautiful young woman. It was almost as if one could reach out and wake her gently. Only a thin trickle of blood, half hidden by her hair, belied the truth.
I felt deeply affected by these strangely entangled elements of eroticism and tragedy.
Feeling guilty, I retreated, went to stand over by a group of foreign journalists. We only vaguely knew one another and, although we said nothing - there was nothing to be said - there was an almost supra experiential acknowledgement that we are all being touched by insanity.
There was nothing to bring us together here in this uneventful and violent city but an anonymous corpse in a nameless place.
There is some moment of insanity in every second of every day of every year throughout every century. It flashes by our lives, mostly out of sight and unmentioned, unnoticed for most of the time and scares us deeply when we confront it face to face.
I took my tobacco out of my pocket and rolled myself a cigarette. Lighting it, the pungent smell of cheap tobacco in the fresh morning air stung my eyes and nostrils.
A small group of people are standing in a circle a small way away. An ambulance is parked near the group and occasionally I can vaguely make out a snatch of uniforms moving about.