.

*: r

"tr%l.
 PRAISE FOR MICHAEL T. CISCO

"Michael Cisco's works immerse the reader in worlds that are not
simply dreamlike in the quality of their imagination but somehow
manage to capture and convey the power of the dream itself."

Thomas Ligotti
-
"Michael Cisco is of a different kind and league from almost anyone
writing today."

China Mieville
-
"With Michael Cisco doing things like this, sometimes it feels like
the rest of literature might as well get up and head home." -- China
Mieville on Cisco's novel CELEBRANT.

"Fans of stylish and thematically sophisticated weird fiction should

seek out ... Cisco's visionary genius." - Publishers Weekly

"The Narrator is not a subversive fantasy novel. It eliminates all

other fantasy novels and starts the genre anew. You must begin your
journey here." - Nick Mamatas

"An extraordinary story of war and the supernatural that combines

the creepiness of Alien with the clear-eyed gaze of Full Metal
Jacket. Like The Otker Side if it included soldiers who could glide
over the water, a mysterious tower right out of early David Lynch,
and infused with Kafka's sese of the bizarre. Destined to be a
classic."

- J"ff VanderMeer onT'lce Nanator.

"A rivetingly strange novel in which Cisco mixes game theory,
serious philosophy, SF, and dark fantasy into something at once
unreal and really enrrancing. Kind of like what might happen if
Wyndham Lewis decided to write like M. John Harrison and had
Martin Heidegger as his editor. Metnber is a complex, compelling
work."

Brian Evenson
-
"To miss the humor in Cisco is to miss Cisco. Even though the
plight of the characters is dark and the reader feels the dire nature of
things, the general absurdity of what happens is at the same time
unnervingly funny. I don't mean out loud, laugh-a-minute funny
like the jokes in a TV sitcom, but humorous in the way that Poe's
stories are or the stories of Borges."

-J"ff Ford, on TheTraitor

" He is absinthe in a world of Pepsi."

- Jeffery Thomas

"The alchemy of words ceasing to be words, words seamlessly

melting before our eyes into grandiose imagery, into soaring halluci-
nation, into fever dreams that tap directly into our subconscious and
perfectly describe emotions that cannot be described is something
no author achieves with more e$ect than Michael Cisco."

Paul temblay, onTheGolern.

-
 P EST

MICHAEL T. CISCO

cL<sH
 CL<SH
Copyright @ zaz3by Michael T Cisco

Cover by Matthew Revert

CLASHBooks'Troy, NY

clashbooks.com

A11 rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, piaces, events, locales, and
incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious
manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely
coincidental,

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical
means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission
from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review,
.. LIKE THERE S A WINDOW OPEN SOMEWHERE LETTING THE
cold in ...
... The other yaks stand around me, on the slope.
... Like haystacks. Haystacks on short legs.
... Like collapsed tents, with huge heads stiching out, into the
cold, Stunned.
... can't see properly. How am I supposed to see with eyes
I
facing different directions? I see more in back of me, but not what's
directly in front of me. Irs like there's a big post right there, but it's
just my head. And the fringe of hair hanging down I can't brush :

away. I want to, but I can't bring my hands up to my face. i.:

.., I don't have hands. My hands and feet are just stumps, but I
can still feel my thumbs, my heels with nothing beneath them. I'm
standing on all fours, with my head out and down, nothing beneath
my head. My body is behind me, like a caterpillar.
... I feel in my body very light. Huge and light. Sometimes
painful, When I turn or bendl get pain, not exactly here, around
here, but somewhere. I feel about as big as a house. An empty house.
... One eye sees up the slope and the other down. No horizon.
.., The rest of the herd are is dotted around, numb. The smell of
that august company is doused in icy dampness. Their breathing
murmurs around me like a still bigger body I'm wedged into. The
wind is pretty }ow. Just a drowsy, even slide downwards. Sliding off
the shoulders of the mountains. I can feel my ears flap in it.
... Color columns in the center of my head above my mouth, in
internal chimneys. My head around me is like a horror mansion. My
hands and feet ... or, just feet ...feel pressure, and my balance on top
of them ... but nothing else ... no texture, no heat really.
... I can tell when I stand on rocks and when I stand on grass.
... My head is like a horror mansion, but there's never any horror
action apart from me being in it. There's no ghosts, just blanks ... like
time that doesn't pass. Or arrive.Like I have parts that are immortal
even though I'm not.
... It's not just my head. I can't really turn and look at myself, so I
can only look back through myself, down my neck. My neck is as big
around as my head almost. My head neck and shoulders are
2 MICHAEL T. CISCO

heavyand my back parts are so light I feel like I could somersault

without trying.
... Hungry. That hasn't changed.
... The night is ending. The sun's dim light is somehow every-
where and the slope and valley below the black peaks vibrate pale
blue,the thin frost making the blue iridescent and the whole land-
scape hums as it sighs with a premonition that the sun will be
breaking in on everything in a Iittle while.
... A dry cough from up the slope. One of my fellow yaks takes a
step and stops again. We'lI do that for a bit, like motors sputtering
into action.
... Crant's gone, I know that somehow. I think AC is gone roo.
Long gone, both of them.
... I hear the wind, and that might be the Cathedral demons, the
"book people," whistling. But then I've never not felt that feeling the
whole time I've been a yak, however long that's been - that's the kind
of thing that takes so much getting used to that you can't believe how
little time it takes.

Dr. Achittampong tosses his cigarette into the green weird plastic
butt collector in back of the clinic and enters again through the elec-
tric door, which gives one chirp. You can't be seen smoking out in
front, even now. Eyen now, with the world falling apart, you have to
do it in back. Why not? Bored and exhausted. Sleepy. With a weary
sigh he nods at the new day nurse waiting for him by the reception
desk.
He says"Hi" and holds out a hand like a half-wilted celery. The
nurse s nametag says "Fort" on it. Her name is Fort?
"Oh hi!'she sings. "I'm pleased to meet youl"
Chipper. Incongruous under epidemic conditions.
He shows her into a room at the end of a dim hallway r,vith
polished floors of perfectly flat greenish tiles. A dark-skinned, huge
man in a coma, his head swathed in bandages, is the sole occupant of
this room. Tufts of long curly black hair emerge from the bandages
onto the pillow. Somehow the bandages and the angle make his face
 PEST 3

impossible to perceive as a face. Irs just a pile of features, like

unmanned instruments in an orchestra pit; just a heap of bizarre
objects, the nurse thinks,looking at the broad nose, the fulIlips, the
round cheeks, the drooping eyes. She notices, too, a scar that starts
high on the forehead and extends into the scalp.
"He must have been just shaved."
Dr. Achittampong is retrieving the man's chart. His back to her,
he says "Mm."
The man's name, she learns, is Chalo Detto,thirty three, six
three, three hundred and three, age- height -- weight. He's an engi-
neerThey brought him from Catalina Island two days ago, uncon-
scious,his skull fractured. Somebody told someone the patient had
been working on a construction project out there. Something
happened to him at the construction site. Something heavy fell on
his head. He wasn't wearing a helmet. Dr. Achittampong shows her
the chart. Brain damage.
"No visitors yet," Dr. Achittampong sighs. "I don't know who's
paying for this."
"Catalina? Does he have the syndrome)"
She's thinking the doctor looks hung over.
"It's hard to tell," he says, his voice rising a little. "He gives no
sign of it, apart from this scar here."
He examines the heavy arms.
"More scarring here, but nothing nelv. I think they're still trying
to scare up some family, if only to pay the bills."
Dr. Achittampong pauses a moment before he leaves the room,
looking steadily at the patient as if he's trying to remember
something.
She is to keep him under observation.

... The sky is clouded over. A few preliminary flakes of snow drop
around me. Now that I'm already starting to soften for the spring, all
my winter hardness and deadness has faded. The unexpected cold
fastens its jaws on to me and I'm suddenly miserable.
... On the bright side, I can feel my fleas freezing off. More
4 IVICHAEL T. CISCO

importantly, the trafficking urge in my testicles is diminished. They

can either cool it or dangle in the snow, it's up to them. The snow
has granted me a reprieve from my testicles, but more importantly it
is putting my terror to sleep, blurring the other bulls. Is that a flicker
of eagerness I get, though? Fight and get it over with, why not?
Fucking snow.
... Gallantly we bulls hang back and let the cows take shelter by
the rock face. Perhaps they are also availing themselves of this
respite. The mountain pours snow down on toP of us, but also
shields us from the snow. Every now and then I take a bite, and
shiver violently. I don't even have to lower my head, the drifts are
piling up that high. My massive, puffing body begins to glow from
within.
... Chalo the man was not all that susceptible to cold, because I
had my share of fat, but nothing like this. Even as the terror and
horniness dwindle, my intellect and senses sharpen. I can hear the
little pricking sound my fleas make when they freeze and pop out of
my skin. I can hear the ominous warbling of the yak uterus nearest
to me as it slips back into a light sleep. Chalo the man was massive,
inert, full of sourceless shame. Diligent when someone was tapping
a foot, waiting for the clean lines and efficiency reports, but other-
wise moving and doing as little as possible. No wife, no children. A
history of failure with women that could be recounted quickly, but
filled all of space.
... Actually, we don't seem to be mingling much.I think we bulls
are our own thing, and the cows are their own thing. But those cows
are still related to us in some way. We recognize each other
instantly, in a way we wouldn't recognize an outside yak. Sowe are a
herd of yaks, even if we spend a lot of time apart. Only now, we're
nearing each other, like a planet entering perigee.
... Chalo the man could barely keep his mind on anything. He
r,vas able to r,vork only the way a painter on a merry-go-round could,
by dabbing at this painting over here as you swing by, then switch
out your brush and dab a second painting a little further on, and
keep going, adding to each painting in alternation, dab by dab, round
by ror,rnd, until they're done. They did get done, though. Chalo the
vak can't keep it all together either. I can see all the topics spin and
 PEST 5

try to hold the wheel, somewhere in the pliant, brownish void

between my eyes. This life is more complex, but there,s a monastic
retirement ro this giant head I'm in that makes contemplation
of
these complexities less harrowing somehow.
... If the grass is going to freeze, you might as well eat it. The
furnace inside won't lose steam no matter how much ice I eat. using
my nose and horns, and pawing from time to time, I can clear away
snow and reveal the blazing green-shocked-green beneath it.
... The mountain creaks and groans. It's a sound below the
range
of hearing, but I have what I guess all yaks have -- a secret nerve in
each hoof that "hears" the mountain. with this hoof-ear, I can
hear
when the mountain creaks in a strong blast of wind, and I know
when there's a rock slide anywhere. Irs like a toothache and a shiver;
it's purple for some reason and it almost has a flavor, like
grape juice.
Lightly carbonated grape juice.
... Almost flat, just afizzle left. The mountain cracks and
rumbles like a big man fexing and strerching. It holds itself up,
much as we yaks do, on hard feet with laces thuip".,.trate the
earth.
... My head nods when I walk. I don't like it. So, when I
walk, I
try to hold my head steady as long as I can. It,s really exhausting,
And it still dips a little anyway.

The patient is sitting in the midclle of the patio, where rhe

wheelchair-bound are rolled on sunny days. From here, they can
gaze out over the hills and rooftops, all the way ro the pacific. Now,
however, the scene is marred by clouds of smoke from burning
buildings, sirens wailing, srern voices amplified by loudspeakers,
whirring helicopters, and a more diffuse and uncertain sound
produced by unnumbered human beings in distress, shock, and
pain.
In addition to the brain trauma that put him here, examination
of his body unfolds a history of burns and contusions, some of
which
must have been incapacitating, extending back over a period of
several months at least. All this is consistent with what ha,
be called "catalina Syndrome." No one knows how the syndrome "o-. tois
6 MICHAEL T. CISCO

contracted; it isn't associated r'vith any bacteria, virus, specifrc injury,

or toxin. Nakedness is by far the most common symptom; patients
automatically disrobe r,vithout seeming to be aware of it. So far as
anyone knows, the syndrome does not harn:r the patient directly.
However, since it entails spontaneous movement or activity of parts
of the body, particularly the face, without the patient's conscious
intention, the syndrome is a serious danger to life and limb.
No somatic problem is ever discernibly the cause of the move-
ments. It is the gestures and facial expressions themselves that are
"sick," rather than parts of the body. The gestures and facial expres-
sions are often inappropriate to the patient's present circumstances.
In many cases, these facial expressions and gestures produce
injuries, either through unwonted or wildly violent motion or
through self-inflicted harm, and so open wounds and scars are
secondary symptoms. Patients tear and hammer themselves convul-
sively, screaming in agony, often masturbating at the same time.
Patients are, however, either not aware that they are doing anything
unusual, or choose to pretend that they are not aware. A handful of
patients do become psychologically remote, although this may be an
intenser or more obvious manifestation of a remoteness that all those
infected experience, or, contrariwise, an augmentation of abstracted-
ness as a pre-existing condition. This remoteness takes the form of
an exaggeratedly intense concentration on an unknown thought, as
if patients were trying -- with every fiber of their being, every ounce
of strength, every last watt of willpower - to remember, or to imag-
ine, something. Those who exhibit this symptom will aiso often
mahe spontaneous floundering movements. A doctor with a
penchant for sailing claims to have recognized in these movements
the actions of someone desperately treading water, struggling to
avoid drowning. Since the first outbreak occurred in a religious
community on Catalina Island, the syndrome was given "Catalina"
as an ad hoc name.
One of the most peculiar attributes of the syndrome, and the
one perhaps least well understood by physicians, is the apparent
coordination of gestures among patients. It's as if the personal
conscious control of certain body parts were being supplanted by
communications between bodies, as if the different parts of different
 PEST 7

human bodies were coordinating amongst themselves, in

a kind of
conspiracy against the brains or personalities of their
respective
owxers. So, one might observe, for example, a patient i,
orr" ,oo_
stiffiy waving a left hand back and forth io .o-pr.-enr rhe
simirar
movement of another patient's right hand in another room,
like
disarticulated applause. One patient shrugs while the face
of
another patient adopts an exaggerated, agnostic frown
of uncer_
tainty, and neither patient can see the other. It's as if gestures
were
being distributed among the body parrs and faces of different
persons, even as their own control of their bodies and faces
is dimin-
ished, or altogether lost.
". This clinic is an island of calm, more or less, compared to the
mayhem out there. I've been sleeping here at the clinic
io. ar*ort u
week now. It's too much trouble getting to and from
my house.
There are now three checkpoints, and it iakes the better
part of an
hour to clear each one. The better part of an hour under
thi stupidly
hostile gaze of soldiers and thuggiih cops. who needs it?
what are
they checking) With whom do they do their checking?
Does anyone
really believe that anyone is keeping track of ,rryj-rir,g
ury-o."?
Why they don'r commandeer this place, I don,t know, briit ,""..r,
u,
though the powers that be are more interested in interring
patients
with the syndrome, than they are in rreating them. I,u" h""IJ.rr_o^
of quarantine camps, patients strapped down in cages, forced
feed-
ings, forced dopings. The usual, in other words.
Soire benign spirit
has sheltered us here. we've been forgotten, which i.
p.ob"uuty ro.
the best. our patients may die due t lu.k of medicine
o, oth..
supplies, bur we don't dare to do anything to draw official
a*enrion
to ourselves.
T
When this particular patient, a huge Indian man, isn,t nodding
-
to himself, which he usually is, he lers h;, h.ud slump
over onro his
left shoulder. His eyes are always shut. His mouth blubbers
from
time to time. He can't speak, and the doctors have concluded
that he
is at best only minimally aware. The sunlight probably
registers, but
he is unresponsive to people. Somehow th. ,.a, on his
forehead has
reopened, so now there's a sizeable wad of bandage running
down
the middle of his forehead and anchored between his eves.
Occa_
sionally, one or another hand will stir, and the nurse on
dutv wilr
8 MICHAEL T, CISCO

stop and watch it carefully. Will that hand casually reach up and
tear out an eyeball? Will it grope the penis out? But the hand only
opens slightly and closes again, the way you do when you are hoping
to receive something, and then disappointed when you don't.
I swear he hears, though. I'll bet his ears are sharper than
anything.

... It's human eyes I miss.

... Sometimes, as I'm going about my yak business, a pair of
human eyes will flash past my mind, a fragment of a remembered
face breaks off and a powerful current whisks it away. The current is
eating away at a crumbling island of memory. Paralyzed by longing,
I stop where I am and raise my head.
... Never again, everything around me says.
I snuffie, and I cry.
... The sound that comes out of this enormous, hollolv, rigid,
badly-clogged nose when I cry is at once such a strange noise that if
it weren't for the exact coincidence of the powerful vibrations I
wouldn't believe I was making it, and then again it's almost a word,
like a human voice speaking.
... My old life. My human life. What was it? What do I remem-
ber? What persists is more the cyclone of events around AC, Grant,
Catalina, the Annex. My childhood, my education, my many, many
failed loves, my long humdrumness, are barely visible from here.
... My nose and ears are picking up special radio waves from the
cows as they go into estrus.
,.. The rut is coming. It will engulf me when it comes, How do I
know there will be anything left of my human memory after that
passion?
... I sigh. With my lips, I brush the gmss at my feet ... my
forefeet, where I suppose, as a human, my hands would once have
been ... brush the grass with my lips, without eating any. I swing my
head up and take in the bright vista of green valley, high Himalayan
peaks, the wandering blue and white, the sharply glinting rivulet,
wind steady broadside of me.
 PEST 9

.., Mv human life, as Chalo Detto the engineer, my casual,

unimportant human life, my insignificant, disposable human life, the
one I had been barely aware I'd been living, the one I'd squandered
with mystifying indifference, now seems like a precious dream. Not,
to be sure, a lost paradise, but a lost life. My life. How is it that my
livingness made so little impression on mei How did it become a
chore? Why did I allow that to happen) Did I allow that to happen?
Or was there no choice? That was what Grant really cared about,
wasn't it -- that there was, for human beings, in that place and time,
no longer any choice about whether or not life, human life, could be
allowed to become a chore. That was what he wanted to change.
... The snow is all melted now and the heat is beginning to pick
up a bit, so that the wind comes booming up to us from the canyons
below, maddeningly ripe with green already. The waves -- it's like
those stories about tooth-filling antennas I always wondered about -
the waves buzz like horseradish right up at the top of what I guess is
my huge yak sinus, and there's a mustard-humming along the top of
my range of hearing. It's like my ears are both hot and burning cold,
my eyes are tearing the way they do in a persistent wind, and I feel
like I'm about to go crazy and my body will fly out of control kicking
and floundering. My nostrils suck air greedily and my lungs start to
boom, and I want to smash my head against something as hard as I
can, knock the mountain over, run down the slope faster and faster
until I'm nothing but a streak of onward momentum and then
shatter headfirst against a skull or a boulder or the rim of the world,
but I can't feel my sex at all. My genitals flap listlessly in the wind.
... I have only my shadow really to tell me how big my horns are,
and I have no idea how to use them. Some of the younger bulls spar,
not far from me. Only playing. They act on each other unaware,
with a kind of aristocratic hauteur. Their blood is only just begin-
ning to blaze, and they already have moves that I don't know that I
can reproduce. \[4ren I let my body alone, it does fine, but when I
try to think about what my yak body does, a lot of the time I phrase
motions with my human schematic out of habit I guess, and my body
starts trying to lunge back onto its hind legs, my head drives back
into my shoulder hump and stops there, and I nearly sprain my
wrists -- ankles? -- trying to make my arms -- legs? - act like human
10 MICHAEL T, CISCO

arms. I can actually feel the thick, clumsy nerves sPasm as they try
to translate my flddly human hand and finger irnpulses into yak, and
it's like trying to play Vivaldian filigree on a tlvo by four' The nerves
just bunch together like jammed typewriter keys, while my front
hooves try to bend the joint, and all I manage to do is hove over onto
the ground.
... Now and then, like a voice heard beneath the ground, I'11
notice a faint message of hunger or fatigue, but to my mind I'm just a
head, a pair of testicles, and four - feet? - attached to a vortex. Now
even my tesdcles seem to be out of touch, and I'm receding into this
head, so I might be dying. But if I am dying, then why do I have this
cow-rut radio frequency riveted to the top of my sinus Passages,
buzzing and vibrating and driving me mad)
.., I get along so-so with my fellow yaks. Even as a yak, I haven't
managed to drop my old coy habit of withholding things from others
because I want them dragged out of me with cajolings or demands
that never come. So I wander away from the others a bit. My -- feet?
-- have a strong tendency to keep me rolling along the landscape'
Actually, this is a bit more like walking on my hands, more like
having four hands than four feet, but four hands without fingers.
They want to find the spots to stand where their inner sense
receptor nerve strings go steady. \A,4ren that happens, the mountain
jumps out knife-edged at me, I feel myself firmly planted on the
landscape, and it wants to be the scene of me mounting a cow, jump
up and be that, the vivid greens and blues and stone colors of my
mating.
... Water runs down grooves in the mountain, the sensation is
borne in on me with the sound, making me quiver, making me
j.r-py. I have a nagging feeling. Nag nag nag. What is it? Something
to remember.
I'm alone now, grooving on the streams and the wind throwing
...
green up in my face from the heathery valley. I get a mouthful of
whatever this is, and the green blasts up between my eyes like I'm
eating sunbeams. But still no news fuom my hindquarters. A rumble,
now, from a stomach of mine, I guess I have a few. Tirrn my head
into the wind, let it ride on the gust like a green pillow under my
chin, cold with slobber.
 P EST 11

,.. Standing stock still in the sun I starr ro think of you. Remem-
bering you out of a kind of waking dream, the pillows of breath that
clouded around you. Distinct lips and eyes and a cloudy body that
began to coil around like the earliest turning of what's going to be a
tornado. You breathe down skeins and blue white foam that fall on
me and slide off me like silk scarves. Breathing breathing breathing,
pushing open the crack in a shell, to you-with-live a whole landscape
of green moist breath and trickling streams, whose breath rubs edge-
less banks and waters dim stones, and flickers with transparent
dapples in the diffusely milky sunbreath above the earthbreath, the
sullen deathbreath ribboned into the escapading thick sexbreath, to
touch a whole livingilluminatedlandscape at once and live a whole
landscape with you. The long breathing we did, branched air in an
upsidedown ionic column that pools its coils against us two. Breath
is one sky, the airblue I can see through the clear of the bubble, you
taught me this, your face turned lovesullen and solemn, blueblan-
keting me alive in dusktempered cold, breath grates as it gushes in
and out so hard my whole body rattles with breath, and your
solemnly violent breath blows my breathskin away layer by layer, a
breathpowder coating lifts and folds and becomes a ralc mist,
between breathdusks you taught me this power, to explore a breath-
mute liftslumber gliding among skytrash furnaces of dusk.
... My human life. AC, Grant, Catalina, Wilson, rhe demons,
Carhartt and Tarti, the "migrants," the Annex, my legend. Those
things are important. They are my having-lived. What nags ar me is
the real, organic need of mine that they be important, and remem-
bered. So, standing here, in the grass, batting away flies with my tail,
feeling the impending rut, gazing over the roof of the world, I rvill
try to reassemble those memories into a story I can hold.

I go into the health food restaurant and meet Grant in a glass corner
right up against the highway, headlights in daytime swarming all
around him.
The headlights balloon out, detach from cars and swoop past
him like blazing, pale cyan spirits. Meanwhile, he's tranquilly
12 I.4ICHAEL T. CISCO

dipping his thin lips in purple-brorvn pu-erh. He is, it turns out, a

real pu-erh connoisseur. One time AC came in while he hads a hot
cup of pu-erh steaming in front of him. She pointed right at it and
said, "That tea smells like horseshit." She points so emphatically her
frnger nearly is in the cup.
Crant is wearing grey and white in the health food restaurant,
and in time I learn that he never wears any other colors. A loose,
shapeless thing that isn't light enough for a shirt but too heavy to be
a jacket, white linen with the sleeves rolled up, and a grey t-shirt
underneath. He's fifty years old and tan, with a dzi bead around his
neck. The strands of hair on his head alternate grey and black. It
falls in a lustrously supple curtain to his shoulders. It floats, lifts, and
glides like the hem of a velvet gown. As he moves his head you
would expect to see a woman's face inside that hair, but instead you
see a creased, salt-cured middle-aged surfer man, his pale eyes tight
with neutral intensity in a tranquil, laconic expression.
I blunder up to the table.
"Are you Mr. Grant?"
The hair slides forward a bit as he nods, then he raises his face to
me, and his hair falls back like viscous satin. Like a bird dipping its
wings in salute.
"Just Grant."
His voice is a little hoarse, and buttery.
I stick out my hand and he takes it perfunctorily, with a little
puff out the nose and a trace of a grin, because we humans are so
funny with our funny handshakes. The hand I take in my clammy,
oversized paw is long and lean, warm and dry, like a paper hand,
with sparkling, perfect fingernails that bode well for his teeth.
I wedge myself between the tube steel armrests of the chair
opposite him.
Now...
Here we are, Crant and me, here are we, sitting together, him
and me.
 PEST 13

,., Owr helll is a travellling sky slicingthrough space and we are all in
th.ere
.,. sutingginglike censors on longtethers anxongtlrc structcures --
oh look! -- witch have been coordinindated to forrn the Celestial
Disordering Machine.
Witchreserubles:
a fi.ecxing bwllb of hwirling snow e,

a fl.ock of white starlings,

an ameoeobain a colurun of whater,

a representtnentation of a sertes of ruath problen+s.
And witch articuliates the skywnits of owr hell like bricks in a
wall. Witch"brickes" are rnfinitely flat, clear, reflectinglamimae that
crash together and grind in patterns which scessor shut on ws d.aewon
book peoyle cartoons with a fusewasp from Gilshrakes erytbedded in
each of us. The fusewas? tu)ists snails whickers and arghues so that
eatch and euery single one of owr nwmber h.ere present is filled with a
voice-atmosytheare witch is tncessantly bickering uith our grainy,
dully golden owtlines.
Awhispurred call shakes the airharder than a screanl.e, in a voice
rnad.e of d.ashi.ng cascades; disncewbered, tlw slurrying sturuy of it
gushes hallwctnogenic ichor, fast sprouting funggus and dancing
slimes withhackles that shipver up in m.erangue piques ..,
That whisper is tke sound that the gan uent of the humaen beings
makes as it sliys,thatlittle abrasion ... of humaens ... against .., fate ...
and the world is presentttng.
Hurtling around in here as o7.ff sl<y motes through The Sky, the
calling of the hwrnaen psiren opens its blazing sex bright as gold in
our indigo darkness, and I and every other daen+on in the place
swarrn ruttishly toward it, clamber seethe and swi.ru in around. over
and through each other to get to it, my tolume growing bigger and
emyfiier, tke latnplike glare of my bwgling eyes, m.y steadily engorl.on-
gating pointed nose, M.y dilatriangle grin, the spreading points of m1
urns and hordes and chains, my l.ong rubbery hands flayping over
corntrorted fraces and brodies, syinting with feet pesuis tongue and
tail and tongue, ternobling all over -- and then alley-oop!
All others thrawn down.
I mlsetf I com.e through I I careen down the sunblazing clcute
14 MICHAEL T. CISCO

cartwheeling over the abstwracked land.scape of btack peaks and

planes, hardwhite-edged, traversed with giant wurds, cackling and.
bickeringl tumble alongthe surface whose re1)erse side is thehuem.an
world-facturdry, The resonacion beneath the mentbraen tl,rat shows
m.efirmingup, slowing, filling oxLt,lnore and wore enjanglled.Wken
the snarll is bad enowgh to generate a tault, l'll translaid ouer in
selelal f,ersont and staert to waerk on thehuncqenbaeings, rubbling
my haends, gnaeshing the old.-heard lead teathc in my Messerschwttt
heaed.

Immediately I'm a conyert.

Grant is explaining. His voice is the hoarse caress of a rough
hand, like a former smoker's. There's something about his hands that
makes you see a cigarette flicking in its fingers, but there isn't any.
He doesn't hold me with his eyes, in fact he keeps casting asides
diagonally in the direction of a dimension of slow-motion graceful-
ness, almost as if he were getting pointers.
"So Chalol Let's talk. I'm really excited ro experience your
vision."
... He needs me. I'm a structural engineer, and his dream is to
erect a huge structure, a whole religious apparatus, on Catalina
Island. He objects to my use of the word "religious."
"Religion is killing and dying. I'm not a killer, Chalo."
We discuss my past work, such as it is. I try to explain to him
that I'm not an architect. My involvement in architecture is
entirely confined to explaining to architects why they won't be able
to do most of what they want to do. Grant wants me in both
capacities.
"Haven't you ever wanted to design something yourself?"
That was the bait that hooked me.
He looks over my resume.
"What's 'FARTP'?"
"Financial Advisors Regional Turnkey Program."
"What did you think of New York?"
I shrug. I have nothing to say. What comes to mind is a mish-
 PEST 15

mash of impressions and recollections, a blur of pointless haste and

tension, a lot of sitting and working.
"Have you ever noticed that the space in California is uniformly
good, even in the worst locations?"
"... No, I can't say I have."
"I don't mean the places. I mean the space. Space on the east
coast is generally inferior, unless you're on the water. Don't you
think?"
Uh-oh.
"It's not the amount of space I mean," he says, as if I had said "uh-
oh" aloud. "It's the quality."
I shrug again lamely.
"Space is space."
He grins.
"Westerners have an innate sense of space that easterners lack."
"I was born in Dhaka. Does that make me eastern or western?"
His eyebrows lift slightly.
"What was Dhaka like?"
"Hot. Flooded - wet. Brown water in the streets half the time.
Ankle, sometimes knee deep. Congested. ... Traffic jams all day long.
People shut down their cars, get out and schmooze. Friendly."
"When did you leave)"
"When I was about six."
"Where did you go?"
"Burbank. Do you think people from Dhaka have even less of a
sense of space than easterners do?"
"I don't know Chalo. I've never been to Dhaka. I think you are
the first person from Dhaka I've met."
"You have something against easterners?"
"Everyone gives us something to work with. I have no biases
against people, but I seek out those who have the right senses. For
our part, we westerners lack intensity. We're diaphanous."
I mentally review random people I know, trying to remember
where they're from and whether they're diaphanous.
"What about southerners?"
He spreads his hands, indicating Los Angeles.
"This is southern, Chalo."
16 IvIICHAEL T. CISCO

"South-easterners.
"...
Not sure. Do you surf?"
"Do I look like I surf?"
"I don't know what a surfer looks like, Chalo" Grant says, and
there's an odd note of (what sounds like) genuine warmth in his
voice. "You might be an excellent surfer."
'Well, I don't surf."
'Just so."
He beams at me.

... There's a lot of tension in the club. The club is us bulls. I don't
know if yaks are normally as uptight with each other as we are.
... The problem is a lot of the males are about the same age and
the same size. If there was only one good-sized bull, a champion, the
herd would be more you know kind of bland, because that scenario
has zero uncertainty. Everybody knows who's going to be doing most
of the mating. If it isn't you, that's too bad, but you're not moving up
or down, you don't have to care about that.
... The normal, easygoing, everyday attitude we've had up until
now, shouldering our way through blizzards and roving around
grazing the scant fare up here, gobbling melica grass, licking rocks
and dreaming for hours without moving, that's all fraying at the
edges now.
... A daydreaming bull ambles up and then sees me and starts,
whipping his horns around on me. I pivot to get a better look at him,
surprising myself with my speed. I'm jumpy. He's jumpy. But his
eyes are glazed, half-awake. The next moment he forgets what he's
doing and stumbles away, through a mind portal, bacl< into his
daydream.
... Out of a dream of rhododendron and box myrtle, apples and
juniper. Wild garlic, clematis, cedar. Impatient asters. Orchids with
sweet, hand-shaped root tubers. Daisies, good for fever. Moon prim-
rose, firethorn, pearly everlastings, bedstraw and gentian, frail with
garlic and daphne ... and snow lotus, rare as diamonds.
... Into a dream of vaginas. A yak's vagina, rvith precisely regular
 PEST 17

folds, symmetrical, red, with a gleaming blade of urine sluicing from

it. In this image, ever more distinct in the mind, all is contained. I
know this intuitively. It makes me think of a cathedral, or of myste-
rious columns standing half-splashed in golden sunlight among the
ruins of an ancient shrine. When I relax my mind, I naturally begin
plotting its geometry using estimut"d -"urrrrements, determini.rg
surface area, degrees of curvature, criss-crossing it with the beautiful
abstract lines I used to love when I was a man and could draw up
plans and blueprints.
... Whether or nor I've ever actually mated with a yak cow is not
something I can call to mind, but given my age and size, I suppose I
have. I don't think I'm a virgin yak. However, none of the club
members is any offspring of mine. We all know exactly how we
relate to each other. Just by listening to rhe sound of his gr-r-rnt,
noting the particular sway of his testicles, and, most important, the
peculiar character of the notch where the bottom of the ear attaches
to the head, I recognize the bull who just shied at me as my second
cousin. This won't stop us from fighting each other, any more than
my recognizing a cow as my mother or sister or daughter would stop
me from mounting her - or her from allowing it, for that matter --
but we'd know. We wouldn't care, but we'd know.
,.. My head is pre-stocked with exacr informarion. Most of what
I think of as my mind is only slop, but there's one corner where
everything is neat and well-organized. It contains two items: family
recognitions and grass varieties. At a glance I can distinguish
between countless types of grass, using a sort of compound label that
involves sweetness, bitterness, saltiness, chewiness, moisture, length,
degree of greenness, scarcity, primary and secondary stomach feels,
and likely stool consistency and odor. I gobble it all indiscriminately,
I peruse the glume industriously, but I know what I eat, leaf by leaf.

Meanwhile, Grant talks ... Headlights nuzzle the edges of his face
and crowd past his features, sort of muscling the pliable image on its
way to me.
"The word'world'has at least two meanings, Chalo."
18 N4ICHAEL T. CISCO

Oh boy, I think. Oh great.

"One is, everything that is, Another, is, the idea I have, of what it
is. By and by, as you go through life, and you come up against the
limitations of your ideas, and you encounter people coming up
against the limits of their ideas, and of your own, you realize, that
your world, and their world, are not the same. Then, if you don't
freak out, and start insisting you alone, are right, you will eventually
arrive at an idea, of the world, that includes, other people's ideas.
Some people, find, this idea, of the r,vorld ... disconcerting. Unstable.
Most religious, or spiritual, seekers, are moved by the impulse, to
find a more, stable world, all mapped out and thoroughly delineated,
with their role in it, clearly marked. More importantly, once they
have their, concept, in place - whatever that means - they believe
they're ballasted by, all the others they can recruit, to it, since they
are no longer alone, with their ideas.
"However, you can, Chalo, confront, the idea, that any world is
unstable. Accept it, or convince yourself you've accepted it, take
your stand, go it alone, like a bold nihilist advancing on the void. So -

He gestures with his right and left hands as he speaks now,

forming two sides of a balance with himself in the middle.
"-- you have your believers over here, and your skeptics, over
here. One side, is supposed to be living a fantasy, the other side, is
supposed to, reject fantas/, or to,at least confine it, to some kind ol
lesser role in things."
He lowers his hands.
"Well, none of that interests me, Chalo. It doesn't seem to me
that the world is split into fantasy and reality. It's all the world.
There is no escape into a fantasy. But that's because the fantasy is
also real, and so, it's still part of what you are trying to escape. Some
people hope for that, that escape, all their lives, and that's as far as
they get. Just hoping. Some kill themselves, either all at once, or inch
by inch, in order to die into the better world. Maybe they get there.
But who knows?
"Living with hope is enough for some people. As far as I'm
concerned, though, dying to live makes no sense to me, and living
r,vith hope, is still too much like, waiting to live.
 PEST 19

"People think in terms of worlds colliding, or in rivalry with each

other. They want to replace one with another, as if there had to be
only one, or maybe they want to turn the clock back, and live in the
past. I think people are too hung up on worlds. What they really
want, is something more than any one world could possibly give
them."
The quiet intensity that has been running steadily in the back-
ground of his words takes a step toward me now.
"It's a kind of life that has no name, just like your typical love
song is a monologue, not addressed to someone by name, but only to
sor,;,e you. Who listens in silence. Chalo, my whole fantasy is the
real world, and what there is to reach out to is that you; it's the
silence that listens when you call, not knowing."
Grant gazes at me neutrally, pacifically. That's the way he must
scope out the wave asit folds up on top of him, watching to slip the
hook and slide out along a nice long glassy lawn of seawater.
Coming out the chute without wetting his hair.
"I still struggle trying to think of what name I can call the project
I'm asking you to help me with. Civing it a name is only slightly less
bad than not giving it a name, but for starters, I would call it an
annex. Whatever it's called, I always end up having to explain and
explain.
"... We can't be, quaint. It can't be just another hippie, new age
commune. What I am going to accomplish requires a place that is at
once real, and yet, not welded to the rest of reality. Only annexed to
it. It has to be open, and new. It has to be a community, and a place
'u.here all kinds of experiments can happen -- technical, psychologi-
cal, social, artistic -- any kind. It should have the maximum experi-
mental potential, like a research lab."
"Expensive."
"I know. The toughest ... angle, to it, is that the thing has to be ...
a kind of machine. It has to ... remake the people, r,vho come to it,
:nd remake the world, around it, but it can't be a world in itself. It
has to be only, partially connected to the world. Those rvho confront
the rvorld -- confront it head on -- are destroyed by it, naturally. It's
Secause the world is powerful, but also because there is no place to

=rrike from, or to retreat to, that isn't in that world."

20 MICHAEL T. CISCO

"That's been tried a million times, though."

"Well, I'm trying it again."
"So, what are you going to do differenti"
"... A ... being ... is coming .., to earth, planet earth, Chalo. To
Catalina Island. ... I am going to get some people together, and we
are going to be there when it comes."
"A being? What being?"
"ASpecial Guest. An Ancient Newborn. ... If thars too religious-
sounding for you, you might call it an embodiment of what physi-
cists call 'work' ... a being of infinite joules. ... On a field sable, the
letter W, joules."
Must be a private joke. That's not off-putting at all.
"... And this thing's coming?"
"It's coming."
"when?"
"... Within my lifetime."
"To do what?"
"... To set events in motion, that can't get started any other way.
To get things going in the right direction, toward a kind of healing
that isn't just a restoration of the way things were before ... but a real
healing. ... A Special Guest will come to Catalina Island; that I
know."
"Howi"
"...I know it the way I know other things that have happened
after I knew they would. ... A Special Guest is going to come to
Catalina Island. It will do something that sets in motion, a sequence
of events, that will balloon to vast proportions in the human world.
Then it will go. Some human beings will have to be there, will have
to bear witness, to it, and then help it - be a part of that sequence of
events. ... The annex must be built in that place, and there must be
people there who are prepared and ready."
"You're crazy.''
Grant smiles.
"Does that bother you?"
"Nothing bothers me if I get paid, I guess. ... No, I'm not both-
ered. I think you believe it, and as - well, are you bothered if I don't
believe it?"
 PEST 21

... From time to time a bluesy, scintillating deliciousness comes to

me on the mountain air and stops me in my tracks. I blip away from
time and I can't feel my body. All there is of me is a floating warm
helix of golden cinders until it ends. I almost completely forget
about it when it's over. It passes, going on somewhere else, too fleet
for me to catch. I don't imagine it's the same one every time. It seems
to me more like a smoke ring, a scrap of creation, of the big bang,
perversely keeping its original nature and gambolling around in the
universe for its own enjoyment.
... I fall in with the other stoic bulls and we file down into the
valley with the floor of green spread out like a vast pizza of living
grass. As we descend, the air becomes heady with ephedra and
valerian, indigo, white mountain roses and Russian sage, purple
blue salvia and a funny kind of asparagus, wine-black wool grapes
and wild ginger. As a man, I could barely identify grass, but now
my nose is a roomy botanical index that can distinguish automati-
cally between over seventy different yarieties of sageretia, with
notes that make as plain as black and white the age, vigor, and ...
charisma? Some plants are inherently more charismatic than others
to me, and that registers as distinctly as the difference between hot
and cold.
... I lower my head and graze in my sleep, half-awakening every
now and then to find myself a number of yards foom where I last
knew I was, at the end of a barely discernible ribbon of cropped
grass, now churning inside me like a load of cold green laundry. A
trickle of green vitality in my turgid blood perks me up, but part of
me says to keep it, put my head back down, stop thinking ... graze on,
sleep, my lips working until they ache, scraping my eyeballs with
bone-dry lids, unloading whopper turds on the cropped ribbon
behind me. No whiff of females, but a blurry yak vagina satellite
orbiting my mind slowly ...
... ok ok i get it. There's more to life than this, but not much
more. There's imbroglios to come, crazed sex agonies after, then
exhausted bewilderment in a shapeless period before the snow
comes down on us, the bull clubs reform and stagger off, looking for
22 MICHAEL T. CISCO

a break from the smell and closeness of the cows -- who won't be sad
to see us go either.
... I stand on the high rocks and remember, I don't knor,v l,vhat's
making me remember. You met me at the train station. Looking up
from the floor, I see long hands stroking each other, silhouetted
against the light background of the hall, the white walls, the white
smears of light on the pale floorboards. A flash and it all turns to
moonlight. I hear the sandy whisper the skin makes, and there's a
shudder in the air and in me that's like a guttering candle, slumping
down and bobbing up in deep pulses around a filmy hollow blaze,
somehow tired the way I'm tired, windless, with a halo of tired
around my head like a crown of cool, dead air.
Your word out of the gloom sounds like a throbbing note rung on
a dish of water, with a taut waterhead, fully automatic in the way it
returns its bent vibrations from the rim and collapses in the middle
of the circle lil<e a sort of self-kiss. The parcel of your voice drops
like a sugary blob of ink into some obscurity, the air it displaces
slides along one side of me, heeded by a warrnth I carry for you that
compasses me in toward the source of your voice, scattering veils of
breath that settle back into the surrounding air while you and I wait
for something.
The dark suppleness is going to pick us both up like beanbags
and knead us together, all in one ethereal, shapeless palm that fills
the room, and is wired by sinews to the cushion the world always
sways on. That is bound to happen, one of these minutes. But for
now, it's your one word, and the shadows of long hands stroking each
other, your shadow stroking my shadow, and blending unmixed with
the bulb of gloom encompassing us both, without up or down, or any
direction at all except together, where the diaphragm underneath
dimples and settles, funneling you and me into its middle, to slip
among each other like yolks. Floating around a warm thumb of inter-
stellar space, exploring the room toward each other. The day sinks
like a baffied sun through the heart of the room and everything is
made of sleep and time gone by. I'm still looking up at your hands
from the floor, and I know that it's almost too late for me, there's so
much time in your hands, the way they rub together, cascading time
between them.
 PEST 23

This is the time of you and me, that's why it's so strange, because
my groping brain can't find the pronoun that means you and me at
once even though my body knows exactly where it is and holv to
find it. Just now, at the lip of the slide, barely above the tipping
point, feeling time lift and shudder in me, hesitating, wandering,
losing itself.
Then ,.. much later ... the same threadbare old stomach of shame
of being me, is going to close around me again.

:
"This..."
Grant gestures at the world.
"... is bullshit. Everyone knows that. Not everyone admits it. But
everybody knows it. What you want to work with is dreams, and you
want work, that dreams."
"What about the dreamer? What does the dreamer eat? What
roof does the dreamer dream under?"
"I'm not sure yet. They aren't dreamers though, they're workers.
The work is what dreams."
"Dreams about what?"
" That's a problem, Chalo, because, I would say, heaven ... but all

the ideas of heaven that I know are just that it isn't hell. I know it's
real, but apart fuom its being good, and populated, and eternal, I
don't know what it is."
"So do you want, Iike, an artist's colony?"
"Sort of, but not quite. That's closer, though."
He doesn't seem to know what he's talking about, so why does he
seem to know exactly what he's doing?
"I don't really see people caring that much about that kind of
thing anymore. I'll be honest with you."
"It could be the best time, then."
Trvo waiters pass our table. One is saying -- "So it's going to be
Desiree's tomorrow."
"Let's talk about your work. Show me some of your designs."
He points to one of the sheets I've slopped out on the table
between the bean sprout burritos and the matcha kombucha.
24 IVICHAEL T. CISCO

"Do you have any pictures of this finished?"

I do. He studies them. He taps one picture with a corner of the
other.
"Have you done any more like this one?"
"I'm just implementing other people's designs right now."
"Do you feel held back by that?"
"Nope. ... Our designer is pretty touchy. He's easily offended.
So, I don't make changes."
"So giving you design work makes your designer feel
threatened."
"Pretty much."
Now Crant wants to show Catalina to me. He doesn't drive, but
he does ride, so I'm picking him up at the Equestrian Center. The
site I'm working at now is swamped all that week in unseasonable
rain, my car is so splattered with mud dried right up to the windows,
and not a little on the windshield, too, you'd think it was a rally car.
"Sorry about all the mud."
Coming down concrete steps, Grant just smiles. His gait is loose
and easy, and he swings into the passenger seat in one fluid motion.
He's all in white, again.
So now comes the long drive down to Long Beach. Suddenly he
tells me he needs to make a stop downtolvn. I pull onto the off ramp.
We stop at a light and he tells me to turn right, even though
that's not the way to go. I'm in no hurry, so I turn.
"Now turn here ... no -- next street ... put your hazards on ..."
"My hazards?"
"Go slowly..."
He's looking down the street, which is lined with parked cars. A
bank truck is double-parked in the middle of the block, back open.
I'm about to say something when he tells me to pull oyer and let the
two cars behind us pass. Next thing I know he's hopped out of the
car, leaving the door ajar. He walks up to the bank truck just as one
of the uniformed guards steps around to say something to the other
one on the sidewalk, and I see a money bag drop out the back of the
truck and land on the street just below the rear bumper. Grant is
two strides away.
He takes those strides, crouches, reaches under the open door,
 PEST 25

snags the sack, straightens, and keeps walking toward the front of
the truck, sack in his right hand and behind him, left hand fingers
flipping at me to pull forward which I do, and he rosses the sack into
the footwell and slides into the passenger seat, pulling the door to
without shutting it and nodding me to pull on.
"He won't come around until we turn the corner if you keep
moving, but don't speed up."
His eyes have a hard, excirable light in rhem, as if he were
spoiling to be accosted, like there was more he could do in this line if
he were given the chance.
"Don't hurry ..."
I reach the corner and mean to look back but, passing a parked
van, a bum is suddenly revealed, standing nearly at the corner,
wrapped in rags from head to toe and standing perfectly still.
The next thing I know, I've turned onto Las Palmas and Grant is
regally letting his breath out through his nose. At the next intersec-
tion he finally shuts his door. At the intersection after that, he casu-
ally reaches down and shoves the money bag under his seat and out
of sight.
"Is that thing going to blow up?"
"It would have blown up by now if it was going to."
"I don't want that thing blowing up in here!"
"It won't blow up."
"... You see?" he says a block later.
"Well don't open it in here - could the driver have seen my
license plate?"
"He was leaning across the seat. He was talking to the other
one."
"What about cameras?"
"Most trucks don't have cameras.
"Most?"
"You can report the car stolen if you're worried ... But the camera
would have to have a trowel attached to read your plates, there's so
much mud on them."
"... You're a thiefl"
A little smile, a little spill of air from his nostrils. He has the
spectre cigarette effect again.
26 MICHAEL T. CISCO

"No comment?"
"It's the people's money.r'
"I know it's the people's money, it was the people's money! Now
it'syour moneyl"
"Our money."
"You're not paying me with that."
"This is a paftnership, Neither of us pays the other. It was going
to be turned into hell money. Now it is going to go toward realizing a
higher purpose.
"... How much you think is in therei"
"I don't know," he says, as if his not knowing were a little surpris-
ing. "We should postpone our trip to the island to another day. Are
you free Wednesday)"
I park near Pershing Square, get out, dump the contents of a
cardboard box full of papers and plans I have in the trunk, and
Grant stows the sack in it. He's going to take the metro.
"You're a thief."
Grant beams at me. Infinite love, infinite love.

... The club is angling down along a green ridge lushed up deep like
green flame smoking with mist, but the smell isn't getting through to
me. My nose is cloggy. Come to thinl< of it, I feel kind of lousy -- do
yaks catch colds? It doesn't seem as if a yak should be susceptible to
colds. But, yeah, I have that same feeling, like there's a small spot-
light of heat at the back of my throat, and sluicings and teemings
going on in my enormous sinuses. it's like a fancy fountain in there.
And capsule elevators travelling up and down like at the Bonaven-
ture Hotel. There's also a hard, possibly metallic ledge lightly
denting the backs of my eyes.
... A muddy, trampled field, pockmarked with bootprints. Seep-
ings. Mucus, in at least a dozen varieties and consistencies, is all I
can smell. It's demoralizing to stand here having a cold. The wind
tugs at my long, chewed-up pelt, but it can't worry its way closer to
the skin, and I'm uncomfortably warm.
... A memory comes back to me. A man I worked for, Mr. Deni-
 ,r

:,i

i
,u

PEST 27
fr

gas, endlessly harassed about his name which he pronounced DEN-

gus, rejected a proposal I put together for a strip mall. Maybe the
idea was no good: breaking up the outline and canting the store-
fronts outward so you didn't have to walk right by it to see lvhat each
store was -- or maybe it was an OK idea badly presented, but he
never told me what was wrong with it. He claimed he was swamped,
exhausted, but I knew he was fed up with me. The next few jobs he
gave to some of the others, including an engineer he'd quarreled
with. I knew there was nothing seriously wrong, that I wasn't about
to lose my position, but it nettled me, not being told anything.
Taking another look, now that I'm a yak, I notice how my employer's
spine was just starting to bow forward, and how much grey there
was in his hair. He was turning into a papery old man.
... Did I live to get old) I don't remember it.
... So now, is this me dead? And no memory of getting old, or of
anything particularly deadly happening to me)
... I remember a life choked with shame, unaccountable shame,
then Grant, Catalina, working with AC, being there when the book
people were summoned, but ... dried and curling, infinite love, and
no old folks' home, no social security check, no high-contrast violent
scene or accident. ,.. Is Chalo dead? Is he dead, andhaving a cold?
Or dreaming that he's a yak with a cold? Whose dream is this?
... The chill mud beneath the grass is making my front left hoof
ache. When I lower my head, I can hear the gristle in my neck
popping like a wet rubber wheel rolling on fine gravel. When did
Mr. Denigas forgive me for whatever it was I did? When can I lower
I
my head direcdy into the earth and sleep, vacantly watching the
forever of the horizon?
... Will somebody ever forgive me for anything? All I want to fr

feel is forgiven. A turd flops out of my hindquarters. It has made its fi

contribution to the poetry of the moment. I would do something to

&

get myself in trouble, if I had the spirit for it, just to be able to get a t,

bit of that motherload of forgiveness Grant had unlimited access to.

r,

If I could get forgiven for being sick I wouldn't stop being sick, but i
i'd wake up refreshed. Everything is a mystery.
... Forgiveness as permission to sin. I won't hold it against you, r
old pal, old chum. Buddy.
28 MICHAEL T, CISCO

... I notice something lying among the rocks at my feet. As a yak,

I don't know what it is, but as a former man I know it's a piece of
glass edged with swimming-pool blue, with that smoothness that can
make glass look soft as ice with its own meltwater still clinging to it,
What a thing.
... The upbuildingness I always needed, that feeling of "on and
up" i got from my work with Grant, is gone. Now my life is one
vacant moment after another, standing up and falling down. Noth-
ing's happening. I'm a yak; like any other yak. Doing all the same
things, not special at all. I should feel completely satisfied, then,
right? I should feel my days as full as can be. Why me? That's not
the question -- I mean anyway who else? -- but ... a yak? Why
a yak?
... From between my sickness and my tiredness comes a sharp
feeling of grief over my bygone plrrposes, because I guess animals
don't have destinies. But then, I don't feel ashamed of myself
anymore either. That old companion has abandoned me. My vade
mecum of glum resignation at being just Chalo is gone with the
wind.
... I never knorv what time it is. Even the darkness and light of
the sky aren't really night and day, they're only similar to night and
day. The cold is retreating. The warmth is advancing. But I don't
experience the change of seasons, just "now hot" and "now cold."
With a glimmering memory of the one while I'm feeling the other.
This isn't time that's passing. It's space, like the edges of space slip-
ping down around me.
... But I look out over the fiery green valley, see the sturdy bulls
and cows, all the resolution of the landscape and the plants and
animals and all the symphonic anarchy of striving that shrieks and
laughs in the grass blades and hard shrubs, of privet and anisodus,
Iuculia and jasmine, gastrodia mating with fungus on a rotting log,
and mulberry, and wallichia triandra, and birds going off like rock-
ets, flickering bugs and litde bounding animals, pikas, I think, in the
tufts, and big old yaks mincing and chewing over them, swaying
massil,e heads like stormclouds over the forest of grass, turning for a
moment to regard without thinking the white ribbon of meltwater
siphoning between the rocks to fall into a frothing pool, white on
 PEST 29

black, and ringed with stones, pouring out to swell the brook there,
travelling.
... If Chalo is dead, and his former person reincarnated as a yak,
a yak with a cold, or dreaming this in his coffin, then I've outlived my
destiny and this is ever after. If I were stronger just now, that would
make me feel free.

E::::=

Grant is nothing but voice mail for a few weeks after he snags that
money sack, then the one Sunday I forget to turn off my phone at
naptime he rings me up.
"Hello Chalol" he says, as jovial as a grandfather, "What would
you say to a trip to the bank with me tomorrow? I'm going to Cali-
fornia Fedality and I would really appreciate it if you were on
board."
I can hear children playing in the background. Great whoops.
What I'd say is "balls" but for some reason I don't, I agree to pick
him up at a Tibetan restaurant in San Gabriel around noon and
drive him all the way downtown. He skips out the door briskly,
greeting me with a toss of his head. I notice I'm getting too accus-
tomed to his profile against my passenger window. He talks, and I
glance and glance again.
The Sorbente Group occupies a few levels of a glass box high
rise, trying to camouflage itself against the sky, hiding in plain view
like the banks. An open floor plan with Richard Serra derivative
metal dividers like battleship bulkheads. Everything else is white
stuff or glass, with an even refrigerator glare boring down from
recessed LEDs, creating tech islands in a sort of mysterious
\abyrinth.
Theres a receptionist but no reception desk. The receiving zone
has slab benches o[ some white material, embedded in white
planters filled with smooth white stones and raked white sancl. The
receptionist is a skinny white woman with a thin layer of white fuzz
covering her scalp. She wears a tastefu\ bland blue t-shirt, very
crisp, with creased white trousers and grey sneakers that all look
brand new.
30 MICHAEL T. CISCO

"Have a seat, gentlemen," she says, gesturing to a bench.

There are a few other people sitting there, and she pays no
attention either to them or to us, keeping her gaze calmly and
steadily fixed on the door, her hands clasped in front of her as if she
were leading herself in a waltz. A portentous stillness sifts down
from the decor onto us, like white soot from white chimneys over
white furnaces burning white phosphorous, cold as ice. Somehow
the name of the company floats in ectoplasmic grey light against the
partition facing the glass doors, only subtly contrasting with the grey
background. Occasional bits of graphic snow float down across it
and gleam.
As if she had been counting down a set interval, the woman
turns to us at last.
"What can I help you gentlemen with today?"
"We're here to discuss a loan," Grant says.
"Mm'all right then just a moment I'11get you set up. Can you tell
me roughly the amount you are looking to borrow today?"
"I would prefer to discuss that with a loan officer," Crant says,
apologetically.
"I understand perfectly sir. But, we do not actually employ loan
officers; we have loan originators. Are you familiar with the term,
loan originator?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Loan originators have more direct contact with loan genesis
agents -- you might remember them as underwriters. May I ask
whether or not the loan is petsonal or -?"
"Again, that would be something for me to discuss with the one
you refer to as the loan originator."
"I understand. Someone will be with you shortly to discuss your
loan. Is there anything else I can help you with right now?"
"No, thank you."
"Mm'all right then I'll just be right here if you need anything and
please don't hesitate to ask."
She pivots back into her original position and replaces her eyes
on the door.
Grant leans a bit over to me.
 PEST 31

"- I don't think you should mention your work with Financial
Advisors."
"But that's some of my best work. Leave that out, I haven't got
much else."
"Nothing anyone does in New York is going to interest a Cali-
fornia banker. -- You haven't done any playgrounds, have you? Cali-
fornia playgrounds?"
"No, sorry."
"Tell him you really want to."
The woman turns to us again.
"Mr. Browlshweer is free."
As she speaks, an arrow of blue light appears on the edge of one of
the metal dividers, pointing toward an opening. We follow a series of
such arrows to a circular office area, and, as we enter the enclosure of
the Serra walls, a faint circle of blue light appears on the floor, outlining
the "office." The circle grows steadily brighter, then fades abruptly
without entirely disappearing. There's no desk here either, and a man is
now standing in the middle of the circle, smiling and waiting for us. The
moment we cross the circle, he steps forward and extends his hands.
"Hello, I'm Steve Browlshweer."
The hand I take is just a neutral member.
He's wearing casual slacks and casual jacket, polo shirt, with no
necktie. The absence of the necktie has a stealth-wealth way of
calling attention to itself. His eyeglasses are almost invisible, and
seem to contain small points of autonomously moving light.
"Will you both be comfortable walking with me?"
He gestures toward a fold in the barrier. I get a cold pang. No I
r,vill not be comfortable walking with this person. I am not comfort-
able standing with this person.
"Sure," Grant says.
"So, what brings you to us?"
We are in an irregular passageway that's scalloped like the
Sydney opera house. I see a few people, dressed more or less like
I
Steve Browlshweer, drifting up and down, gazing at the metal parti-
tions like patrons at an art gallery. The partitions are crawling with
projected displays in muted, low-contrast light. Irs as though the
32 MICHAEL T. CISCO

walls were decorated with a lot of mirrors of all sizes, drifting, and
fickering. They are screens, full of light, captive and articulated.
"We need to fund a construction project."
"I see. What kind of project?"
"A campus."
"A college)"
"Collegial, but not a college."
So now we're walking, but I feel like we re on a conveyor belt,
and everything here is on conveyor belts or turntables, everything's
gliding. Always gliding, gliding, gliding. Nothing's fixed relative to
anything else. Makes me a little nauseous and a lot suspicious, all
this glide glide. Why is everything gliding? When you glide like that,
not like on the wind, not like in an actual glider, but this way, it's
because you're actually very firmly rooted to some moving belt or
wheel. You glide because you're fixed to glide, and all the stuff that
glides isn't gliding to any destination but just gliding, gliding in
place. So the gliding is really a way of giving fixed elements an illu-
sion of lightness and mobility.
"What is college?" Grant asks.
"Where will you be looking to build this campus?"
"Catalina. Do you know the island)"
"And how much are you looking to borrow?"
The Loan Originator is steering us with an occasional point of
his finger. He does not look at either of us. It's as if he were talking to
us on a speaker phone. He has a white ring on the middle finger of
his right hand, and there's a piercing blue light where the stone
would be.
"Two million. We would start small."
The Loan Originator begins to walk more rapidl/, touching
luminous spots on the partitions with his middle finger as he goes by.
My body hops strangely as I accelerate to keep up with him. He
makes a spiral gesture with his middle finger and spreads open his
left hand. A panel of feeble light the color of a raincloud appears in
his left hand like a floating sheet of paper. Still walking, he makes
flourishes over the panel with his middle frnger.
"Two million," he says to the panel. "I'11 need your credit infor-
mation. Just send it to me from your phone."
 PEST 33

Crant holds out a piece of glass, asif he were beaming data from
it to the hand of the Loan Originator.
"I'm not getting anything," he says. He never takes his eyes
from
the panel above his hand, but deftly weaves around people coming
the other way and follows the irregularities of the floorplan
effortlessly.
"Hm," Grant says. "Must be an incompatibility."
He puts the piece of glass away.
"Should I just tell you what you need to know?"
"Start with income."
"I have no income at the moment. Only assets."
"Assets in what amount?"
Grant produces a bank sratement from the inside pocket of his
linen jacket, or shirr -- jacket, I suppose - and offers it to the Loan
Originator, who doesn't seem to notice it at first, and then jerks aside
when he does, as if he'd mistaken it for a poisonous insect.
"I'm sorry, but this is a no-paper establishment."
"Oh, I beg your pardon."
"That's all right," Steve Browlshweer says, briskly resuming
his
walk and returning his attention immediately to his hand. "Just tell
me the value of your assets, verbally."
"Two hundred thousand."
The Loan Originator seems to be waiting for more. Grant is
gliding along with him, taking in the surroundings.
"I really like this space. The openness is refreshing."
This is bullshit. The floorplan is open but there's no openness;
Grant's calling attention to it only makes me notice its various suffo-
cations working around me, withdrawing air through screens,
"Thank you," the Loan Originator says, and with what might
be
a little spasm of impatience he asks - "Uh can you tell me please the
breakdown of the assets in terms of how much in stock, how much in
property, and so on?"
"Oh, it's all cash,"
"Cash, thank you."
More finger flourishing.
"Now Mr. Grant I will have to ask you some security questions
in order to ascertain your credit history."
34 IvIICHAEL T. CISCO

"Just Crant, please."

Nameless little swirlies and streaks, throbbing logos, are all a
gaze without the eyes, an expressionless gaze without the eyes that
settles coldly down on you. They watch me, but they don't see me.
"With us, a voluntary disclosure is an automatic process. You've
made an unclear statement that needs further clarification."
"I'm ready to cooperate in any way you require."
The Loan Originator's screen flickers with a steady seething
crawl of information. His eyes widen and his face, made ghastly by
the light from the panel in his hand, lengthens. He looks up at
Crant, at last,
"You have no credit.... You have no rating, not even a zero.
For a moment I wonder if he's going to have us thrown out.
"Do you see?"
He turns the screen in midair toward Grant, who doesn't even
glance at it.
"I can't read screens. I can't even see images on screens.
Grant gestures at his eyes.
"AIl the sun I get off the waves, it's affected my vision."
"To determine reinsurance, customer expenses resulting in
decreases are ceded to companies and reinsurance companies and
expenditures must be evaluated with priority given to the enhance-
ment of a.) providing insurance protection in the donation amend-
ments and the actuarial gains in capitalized statements of net cost --

We are walking faster and faster. The Loan Originator speaks

galvanically.
"-- which is an unclear statement that needs cash estimations
and the useful life of the furniture for example reported separately
with a whole range of protections to the end of each lease term, with
remaining costs for any shortage, not including the administrative
operating costs, but restricted to the specific functions of life as it
should be clearly stated that securities --"
We're zooming through this endless open floor plan at a quick
march, our feet all hitting the floor in perfect sync. A flicker of impa-
tience crosses the Loan Originator's face when we don't respond to
the light cues, and he steers us by pointing with that blazing middle
 i
fi
f,
d

PEST 35 !!

finger, raising his arm in a way that makes me think of old cartoon
stoplights.
"-- issued by the department to the unearned premium reserve
associated with the company's operations in order to maintain accor-
dance with market demand while including operations for which
the capital equipment lease committee has been set up to maintain
prudent underwriting b.) consolidating the value of the items the
company is underwriting notwithstanding and assigned to operating
investing and financing activities --"
Where are we going? It's like we're fying into another dimen-
sion. Hell. I glance over at Grant. He seems like he's surfing, his face
relaxed, neutral, his hair rippling in an ocean breeze.
"Nice for you," I think, panting. "You are a surfer."
"-- from inception date through the assistance
in the expansion
of previous years recorded from health and pension plans by the
board of directors, the office of personnel management, in a forward-
looking policy as always, trying to disclose any of the treasury and
equipment assets at the inception held by the public as pafi of the
lease or the leasehold improvement and depreciation recognized by
each agency at cost amounts in the interest, c.) exerting efforts to
maintain explanations of any items that the current year's program
allocated to their user agencies for which the statements of net cost
are amortized over the straight-line reserve we always attach,
including the company's charges to operations upon retirement, for
further clarification from the external individual agency regarding
non-federal net payment of cash on hand, which is five years, lvhile
the estimated useful property plant and equipment claim costs and
i

unearned premiums of administrative operating costs in reinsurance i

programs are maintained as transparently as possible while net cost i

amounts will differ in --"

I am beginning to think that the Loan Originator isn't taking us
to any specific place.
"-- consequence of this policy because the net cost is originally
assisting management with the determination benefit program costs
and eliminations respecting the general services administration,
such as are classified into accumulated depreciation eliminations
and recorded at cost leasehold improvements of the future
36 MICHAEL T. CISCO

minimum lease payments, which are the present value of factors

that decreased pro{it flows present in the receipts and buy/sell
revenues, and imputed costs for which it is reasonable as this situa-
tion is presented in an accrual basis for the estimated useful growth
of premium income results and losses, if applicable, for property
plant and equipment reinsurance protection which will enable the
company's risli insurance capacity, upon the end of the useful lives
of the assets, to sustain the 'credibility' and 'service quality,' whereas
the net statements of cash, because of the importance of good corpo-
rate governance, are recognized for the receipt caused by below-
projected profit, that is the negative deemed as an unrestricted
increase in incurred claims lower than that of the goods and services
financed in automatic processes by an engagement resulting from
any matters related to the company, as adjusted for buy/sell costs
and related revenues returned to the lessor individual agency, the
company and the dollar amounts involved needed for insurance
protection primarily because of allocations of net cost amounts
because providing agencies are added to in addition for imputed
costs to be met for the purpose of global competition d.) minimising
the operating company's liquidity and earnings, including our
commitment to transparency -"

:
The sun is going down, the wind is rising. At night, the fires become
livid rents in the darkness, and the screaming, the sirens, the heli-
copters, the wind become more frightening, more intimate. They get
more inside you, like a dream.
Chalo's blanl<et is cold. A chill breeze pours steadily over his
face, drying out his drooping mouth and his eyes, tousling the crazy
tufts of hair protruding at random from his bandages.
"Hold up! ... Almost forgot onel"
A big pair of hands grabs the handles of Chalo's wheelchair.
"Wouldn't want to forget you, buddy, yeah?"
The glass door, the dim room, the veil of shadow thrown over his
face as he bumps and rattles toward the hall.
"Would you get the lights?"
 PEST 3]

A funnel of despair: the vague hallway of grey hair, stale chlo-

rine, regular doors, blurry ashes, bogus light that doesn't really come
from anywhere, staining whatever it touches. The whole building is
carved out of nicotine and it sits in a run-off puddle of soiled time
and flaccid space that drips in and drips out lifelessly.
This is not a plague hospital. There's no urgency. No spirit of
anxious watching. No battle fatigue. This is just a regular clinic for
people with ordinary, uninteresting problems. Problems of no conse-
quence. No cure will be discovered here.
Chalo is r,vheeled into his room.
Snap. Snap snap,
"Shit."
A burly figure kneels by his chair and thrusts something round
into Chalo's hand.
"Power's out again, bud. I got to go check on the dialysis patients.
You push that if you need me, OK?"
Footsteps.
"I'll be right back."
No patients on life support. Nothing dramatic. A power outage
is not a serious emergency here.
Chalo in the chair. All grey. Allgrey allgrey. The call button
tumbles down into his crotch from his limp hand. His tepid blood
settles. His pulse ebbs. His diaphragm heaves, his throat clicks and
gurgles. Grey breathing. The grey light around the edges of the
blinds is frozen in place.

:
... Yaks always know what time it is.
... \&4iy did I just think that? I have no idea what time it is.
... The sun is high in the sky, so it must be near midday ... but the
horizon is also so high, that it might as well be dusk.
... My cavernous insides suddenly go cold. A weird, sourceless
horror is welling up in me like icewater.l don'tknou what titne it is.
All at once I am invisible. I have no shadow, and exist in myself, but
nowhere else.
... Where did the other yaks go? \A/hat is this mountain? And the
38 IVICHAEL T. CISCO

plunging valley that seems to snap like a bedspread, motionless,

piebald with big wet black glistening patches and green-brown
hummocks - it's not on Earth. It's not on the Earth.
... The sun is the same but the light is different - or maybe the
reverse. The sun is in disagreement with its own light. What's going
on? It's like my body is opening up, letting a freezing wildfire in. In
my mind, I'm bucking and snorting and flailing my head, but my
body is stock still, and actually relaxing against my will. Am i dying?
... The vacant sunlight, the bare slope of the mountain, and the
silent valley. I'm not where I was. Sol've been walking after all. I'm
here, now. I'm here enough to know that I don't seem to myself to be
here. I'm climbing, and the slope folds and turns upwards here in a
dry flume that's as smooth as an esophagus.
I'm following the warped crease of the fold upwards now.
... Nothing bigger than grass and wildflowers grows up here, but
the light coming down on me is all broken up, as if tree branches
roofed the flume over. The soil here is chocolate-colored and damp,
but not slippery.
... The flume ends in an incline, evenly-covered with smooth
stones. Chalky blue and dull green, whitish-grey and watery pink.
They waver, shimmering, even though there is no water there. Frag-
ments of shale and siltstone, greywacke, granite, and schist. Up past
this phantom waterfall, the land widens out in a bowl with steep
green sides rising nearly straight up to egg-shaped peaks of raw
basalt. The mysterious water is doing some kind of work here too; it's
like the bowl is littered with invisible bodies sleeping under invisible
blankets of flowing invisible water. The blue of the sky is concen-
trated by the bowl; visibly boundless thicl<ness of blue with tiny
dark points in it, like stationary birds frozen in midflight, miles and
miles up.
Turning my ears to detect the soft noise of their breathing, I pick
my way carefully among the sleepers. A magnetic feeling drags my
hooves, so there's an extra tug when I raise them and a slight pull
and click when I set them down again, leaving no footprints in the
satiny green grass. My every movement creates fragrant turbulences.
The perfume is like incense, as if this meadow were smoking.
... Now I see a line - a descending line -- a diagonal - where
 PEST 39

what I thought was the backside of the bowr is actually

one slope of
my point of view superimposed in front of another
o.r", nnd ,h".",,
another way in back of it. That diagonal line conjures
in my mind
the image of Grant,surfing down u1rg" wave, cutting
a drooping
white_ seam diagonally across th" co.r"Jrity
of the b."a'ke. with his
arms held out lightly as a bird in flight, knees bent,
his perfect hair
hovering around his collected fa.". 5o what's up
there? 'ihi,rkirrg or
the wave I am aware of avalanches trembhnj all around
me, like
demons-on a tripwire; the outrines of the avalanches
are already
there, alreadv happening, but the mass and the
matter of the
avalanches is elsewhere. For the moment.
This isn't going ro last, That seems true. It isn,t possible for me ro
h:1": although it is possible for me to get lost or trapped
itly here, I
infer all this with a cerrainty I can,t explain.
... I round the edge of the diagonal ancl enrer
rhe alley beyond,
which is just a rock-strewr, ref.eshirrgly ordinary
purrug" ,f nrr.l
through, formed by a cleft in the granit"
No *"i.i_rr'"., ,ro
sleepers, no breathing. But stiil the "rrtui.r.
disembodied feeling. Not
knowing what time it is. There,s a smell that makes
*" ,#r, *y
head around -- I was thinking about how I see,
because l,ve walked
up slopes before and, as_a man, I kept my eyes on the
top without
noticing the sides. I would zoom in on the top, then
zoom in on the
rocks at my feet. Now, without binocular
I see like a still point
in the middle of a moving field. "y"r,
...Jh" smell is jasmine. I'ye never smelt that so high up.
... It isn't jasmine anyway.
... My left eye locks on to a dolmen against
paper_white sky, like
an actor alone on an empty stage, and the outfirre
selecB _". tt
singles me out for an announcement that,s like
being given a new
name, changing me so that I'm exactly the same.
I know that cloesn,t
make sense, but here it does.

. A coruscating, multicolored jumble of smooth shapes fashes

do1n, cutting my knot, and I spring up without moving,
like a jack
in the box- bursting up my weight. The feeling that I "eren hou"
u
body at all just vanishes, and I am young with*weightlessness
rhat
wants to scramble all over every inch of everything,
u.rd fly around
ricocheting off myself. I didn t ask to hur. thi.
f.""ti,g I hrr"
".,d
40 MICHAEL T. CISCO

having it inflicted on me like this by the dolmen, which is walking

away from me on thick turtle legs, but it's the rotation of the planet
that's carrying it off. I haven't budged, but inside there's rushing and
flips being performed, gymnastics, wind chimes being blown nearly
down.
Eventually, though, my head droops. I breathe deeply. There's
...
lightness, exhaustion, surprise, disappointment. There's feeling
emptied out sweetly, in a way I resent. I have no idea what just
happened. The place has a familiar ... something - it just is familiar,
I guess. Not just because rocks are all alike, but the place has some
claim on my memory I guess, or some place like it. There are no
tracks in the soft ground here but mine. I suppose I made them all
just now. I lower my head further - I want to lie down, I want to
mash my forehead into black clay and feel it suck the heat from my
brow, but my fucking horns won't let me,
I glance dor,vn the slope. I'm fying. Instantly. Bolting. No
fatigue at all, just boundless force. The sun beams power into me
and cracks a crystal flail in the air, lashing me on down the slope like
a runaway train, where I barrel around the corner of the alley, lose
my footing, and tumble over onto my side, my stupid legs rigid in the
air and then down under me, up and charging again, headlong,
heedless of the invisible water streams that I dash and shatter and
throw up around me in a ghost shawl of magic \,vater, trampling
sleepers and beating the shit out of the fucking ground, roaring
down the long slope, all the way down -- like an avalanche I'm gonna
ram the planet head first, gonna smash it in halfl

Wands of daylight graze the tile floor of the day room. A helicopter
hovers very low, very near, for a very long time. The day room
vibrates dully with its noise. Sirens rise and fall, but there are
fewer now.
Chalo sits in his wheelchair and remembers the way that, some-
how, hands haye contrived to form a bubble, the edges gleaming,
strands bulging among interlaced fingers, we the palms, lifting like
breath in an upward floating moyement, and the unhurried heavy
 PEST 41

downfall of the sweeps, the coils of the dragon rampaging in the

silence and the shadow broadcast by this moment, off the ground,
elastically propelling itself through a cindery perfume that smells
like silence, and the warm gloom of mouths and eyes opening to cry
vertical rays that pry apart dense ethers, unconsciously meticulous
to separate each page with probing murmurs, blurred answers that
play against the bell of the glass like fames, glowing voices ply
fraying beams rippling like flashlight puddles as they sweep over
uneven ground, caress the form from it and lave it with air foam, sea
shout, bodies molded from inside out, weltering in clear fragrant oil,
what we call water, and names us alternately one by one, slipping
through every body in us, forming a little streak of motion, spinning
like a top where our bodies meet the whir, trembling in both, so hard
it's been, so difficult, so unworthy, so let us, why not let us -- gradu-
ally the cables slide loose from the knot, uncurling, they knit
bundles, borne under and then abruptly switch sides, turn around
and link, turn back, return, kiss, knit, go blank, get stern, wear down,
grow up, and get rewound, keep waiting, wait, stop!
Wait!
Wounds like folded envelopes, whipped egg whites float up,
hover above the body like clouds scudding just beyond the land,
tracking the rain's footprints back to the rising eminence of cauli-
clouds dangling their colorless ringlets, engulfed in fresh air the
joints are unstrung, the music vehemently becalmed, the head vast
and darkly suffused with bright air, you swept, you felt, you roamed,
you stole, you swore, you wailed, you strove, you groaned, you
hoped, you sloped, you swept, you foamed, you made.
... Wound down at the end into the sterile old stomach of shame.
AII this in the gloom of that cavernous head, spreading into the air
like a smudge. So vast, and so dwindled. Chalo, one person, a
common enough memory, wound of daylight straying around the
foor, from north to west, from east to east, going nowhere, already
gone, and the remains, and their motionless tears.
42 N4ICHAEL T, CISCO

A weeiirrd daayyy for AC - all very very swimmy and like being
underwater, but without the weight,
"That's not edacational!" a woman says into her cell phone.
"Why don't you all call me..."
She feels lil<e a dazed soldier wandering away from cover, taking
no precautions where all possible precautions might be not enough.
She should retreat to a safe place and pull herself together.
Sharpen up, or go home.
The people around her ripple and smear the air as they move.
The image of the former posture persists with the motion happening
inside it, like the bird twisting inside the egg. Then the image firms
together, burns in lightly, and the next motion blurs in back of it and
through it, smooth and ratcheting at the same time.
As always, her own movements are normal. Her disguise is still
perfect. She is a three-dimensional shadow. She absorbs all the glar-
ing, painfull/, and that keeps her surface tension together so she can
glide along in reality like a bead of water skipping unmixed out to
the edge of the surface of the pool. She's wide awake but the light
and noise are so overwhelming she can't focus her attention, and her
fierce core is balked.
There are two cops standing on the corner, bulky in all their
gear, talking cop talk to each other. It sounds like the noises an obese
asthmatic would make in his sleep; it's just a groaning, rattling
mutter, like sleeptalking. They look asleep. All the cops have the
same expressionless faces, eyes half closed in disdainful repose.
Even when they pull someone aside to reproach them for some-
thing, even when they are angry, their eyes are half closed, their
faces slack. One glances at her as she goes by and makes a remark to
his partner.
"Awgk'g,'enhh hunh.'Glaehn."
The sound makes her want to slam shut like a pillbug.
Numbly she walks across cancer -- campus. Campus. Something
down below wants to disrupt her jealously-protected silence. Her
personality is getting queasy with her.
If it's motion sickness, then stop moving.
She stops where she is, without raising her eyes from the pave-
ment. After a moment and without any looking around she pivots
 PEST 43

and walks into the shade beneath the high porch

of the administra,
tion building. There she stops, half in rh" light, berween
the flat,
square pillars,
This is a compromise, because she does not allow herself
to be
completely in any alien shade, because that would
mean adurter-
ating her own, special shade with some other shade.
It's bad, she tells herself. She should have the strength
to resisr
daylight on her own yes, but it's worse to succumb _- this
is the way
to continue resisting right now, now is her autopilot
correct? Is she
right to go on automatically, or is she forgettingi
There's norhing else on her to-do list.
No nothing, so go on.
Coing on to the library she passes a garden, like a tiny
park on
campus, in a sunken rectangle cut feathery and
blackly- gieen i.,
white pavement. She sees the white figure in the pu.k "u.rd
h*
and is gazing at him fixedly, something too quick to see
ltopyed
brushed beneath her chin and she raised her heacl
to rook a.ound --
yhi* she usually would never do - and the figure emerged from
the day and the gloom of the garden, and the irrr"rrr.
sifince she
onlv has just noticed, to give her attention something
at rast to focus
on' As if he had been waiting there to give her a*ention
to himself.
He's- sitting cross-legged on a plain slab of white
concrete,
surrounded by people sitting in a semicircle on the
grass. Over his
white linen clothes he's thrown a sheet of white rrce
t-hat falls down
over his face, down to the center of the his back,
over his shoulders,
down to the breastbone. Around his neck, through the
veil, she can
see his dzi bead. He rocks_and begins to chant
i", , ,oft, ,i.rg-ro.rg,
voice, dulled as if she were hearing it through
a thin wall --
"amadaraha bin darabai shabti,
diya achan chahar diddi
nachuya, abindagarala dahin dahinsaha, woyinja degun
hashetanka,,
-- the voice swoops casually up and
down and the hands rise and
fall in a routine, signing the phrases in a almost casually.
AC catches herself watching this, and puts herserf back on
track
-- to the library.
The words roll along with her. Like a weightless shotput
rolling
around and around the inside her crown.
what was that? was it bulrshit) If it were bullshit she wouldn,t
44 MICHAEL T. CISCO

have even noticed it. She is immune to bullshit. This involved bull-
shit but without being bullshit, because it can't not have bullshit in
it, this day being part bullshit and part not, so the action of the
veiled man was a kind of reflection, giving back bullshit for bullshit.
She wants to know if there is anything but bullshit. AC resists
bullshit and insists on being separate from it all, like a veiled figure.
So, was that her) Sitting there, chanting a language she doesn't
know?
... Later that day, she sees the linen outfit again.
The man in the linen outfit has taken off his veil. His glossy half-
grey hair only looks too perfect to be real; it is clearly the same man,
standing with his back to her, posting a fier on the message board
outside the student union. He glides away, giving her only a yague
impression of a placid, sunbrowned face.

DO YOU KNOW TIBETAN}

tanslator needed. Pay by the hour.

The top of the flier has a snarling three-eyed face on it. She's familiar
with the face and likes it a lot, and doesn't like anybody else liking it.
Tibetan language study was one of the courses her expulsion
trom Cal State had forced her to interrupt. She was taking it again
now, not because she was interested in it, but because it allowed her
to complete her language requirement without having to attend a
regular class, in a room full of people. Crowds are good places to
hide, but the proximity of other people has a way of driving her
gradually frantic. Independent study is not easy either, insofar as it
means facing off with another person with nowhere to hide, but it
was possible for her to get through a persomal session without
needing to rush to the bathroom halfway through. While AC doesn't
like her, the Tibetan instructor is a pretty bland, inoffensive soul.
AC plans on forgetting all of it, along with everything else she's ever
been forced to learn, but she has come to admire the impermeability
of the difficult Tibetan writing system, as well as the almost total
 PEST 45

lack of people to speak Tibetan with. Even Latin is better known, at

least around here, and childishly easy to read in comparison.
Soshe does know the sketchiest Tibetan, the sketchiest Tibetan
inhell or heatem, and she also needs money - her library pay barely
covers bus and lunch. The long-haired man ...
... so later Grant and Chalo are going on campus and ...
"That's not educational!" a woman says, her tone half indignant
and half mocking. "Why don't you all call me ..."
We set our after-images on sustained decay and disengage from
the Loan Originator, who keeps on obliviously boring through
spaceintime with his auger of fiduciary douche talk. Sidestepping
back to street level is like siphoning through a revolving door into
the open air. Grant bending a little forward and extending one hand
very carefully, like an EiLA. Hoffmann character reaching for a
doorknob, and we both blip over a moment that will be rejoined
later.
"Manl" Crant says, and looks at me. "Whew, huh?"
"I don't want to go back in there."
"Well, we'll have to if we want to get that money."
"We can't fast-forward to the end?"
"Doesn't work that way, Chalo. There is no end to that. But we
can pause and clean our ears out. See you later."
He pulls a barrel bag from behind a park bench and walks
toward the center of the campus, extracting what appears to be a
lace tablecloth from the bag.

AC's mother was a Christian Scientist who taught her we are all
bubbles in the mind of God and all suffering is Error. She used to
get crushing migraines and would sit there at the dining room table
cutting and pasting photographs together with a facial expression
that at first glance seemed neutral but r,vas terrifying to see for any
length of time. AC gets migraines too, takes the strongest painkillers
she can lay hands on, but they never really work, not well enough.
Riding the bus back to her apartment she stares fixedly at a page
she tore from an art book in the library, showing a painting called
46 IVIICHAEL T. CISCO

Huw.an NatwreTwoby Rene Magritte. Staring at the blue sky in the

painting takes the edge off. It makes the bus bearable. That birdless
blue sky is lir.,ing death. Full of light, placidly stern, soft cloudiness
that is also biting, hanging on, the blue probe. Dingy bus light
catches on the dents in the page and she has to keep tilting it, while
the bus swerves and wallows, and her guts lurch with it and the
heavy pillowy human next to her is half lying down on top of her, to
keep those fucking reflections from messing up her view,
When she looks up frorn the painting she sees cops with drip-
ping chrome gloves, people in lockstep, people on the clock, holding
clocks that blare prismatic light across their faces, screaming into
their clocks and talking prismatic light screams that blink against
their chattering teeth. There before her eyes in the window of a
second-storey gym,a man is lifting a barbell up and down. The feet
in the street go up and down. The passing cars go left and right.
That siren wailing up and down. The bus goes up and down over
the shattered street. Two young women in high heels are waving
their flowing hair up and down, massaging painted glow cavities
talking, chrome sunglass sweat etches their faces with pale glitter.
Are they bubbles of God-mind or are they Error?
I'm a machine. l don't stand out.
I'm like you.I'm a machine.
I won't freak out. I feel nothing. I feel nothing.
i think nothing. I feel nothing. I am not here.
My blue-sky program experiences no emotions, has no prefer-
ences, is aol desperate to get home, it is not. It loves everyone, it
wants to grab the woman next to me and cut her face into strips with
a straight razor, bash the driver's head in with the snotfaced baby
swung high in both hands and throw a bomb into the bus behind me,
jump with both feet on a cop's fucking face and pulp his shiteating
skull on the fucking sidewalk, get his gun, shoot gun, shoot gun, die
shooting.

"AC, Chalo, Chalo, AC,"

The translator is a little girl?
 PEST 47

.., No, just a very small young woman. Not that short, but
delicate...
The architect is a mammoth slob slothmammoth.
... Serious, small face. Her glasses are too big for her. She,s
wearing a plain black hoodie, drops the hood or", plui.,
black hair
pulled up in a knot. No luster, no ornament. Grave. Reservecl.
Hispanic? Asian) Egyptian? Bangalorean?
A flabby boulder.
AC meets Chalo now, almost a month after she first encoun_
tered Grant at what he referred to as "The Mexican Tea
Room" and
which turned out to be a macrobioticboutique cafe breathily named
"hmyresione.s," where the idea
was Apple store meets N4"*i"a.,
something. He was there first, blowing it"u* off his
tea. The steam
billowed up his chest and floated u-rrrd his head like
cigarette
smoke, and he would take piping hot sips and
breathe th" rt"I_ ort
through his mouth and nostrils.
He asked her what she liked to read, and not what AC stood
for.
"True crime," she told him.
There was a reflecting pool in a white plaster basin,
as square as
a basement sink, outside the curtained wi.rdow,
and lights from that
had a rvay of darting up into the steam around G.rrrt,,
head like
bright fish. They weren't doing that for AC. She studied
the menu
without taking anything in.
"Can I ger you anything)"
"What's the most food of these),,
'The bean sprout burrito is humongousl,,
-hands around the wairer holds his
an imaginary breadloaf-sized object.
AC slashes the burrito to ribbons and then forks it methodically
into her mouth' Grant drinks his green tea quietly, without
a sound,
in a barely visible column of green steam.
"How long have you been studying
Tibetan?,,
"Years."
"Can you sight-translate)"
"Yes."
"Here, let's put that backpack
over on this side.,,
Grant holds out his hands. AC uncharacteristically goes
along
with him, picking her backpack off the floor and ha.,dir.iit to
him.
48 N4ICHAEL T. CISCO

Grant puts the strap around his left armrest, so that it hangs off the
side of the chair, just clear of the ground.
"When you look out over the ocean, how do you feel?"
"I don't go to the beach."
"Mountains?"
"No."
"Desert?"
"...I lived there for ayear."
"Deserts are deceptively honest places. Would you do me a favor
and translate this sample for me?"
AC has already finished her burrito. She burps softly and stares
at the funny owl cartoon on her plate. It wouldn't be there if it
weren't Mexican, but there's nothing Mexican about it. The owl isn't
wearing a serape or anything; it's just standing there looking coy. No
chef's hat. It shouldn't be there.
The piece of paper has lines of Tibetan script printed across it,
like a row of little black backbones. AC lied about sight translation,
but but but by luck she knows this passage, which opens the Bon of
Magic Pouer:
"Then from the dark center heavy quick-spreading obscurity
mounted a hearthstone-contaminating deer leading thirteen hearth-
stone spirits and spirits of what's unclean after burning, and shouted
we must destroy the human world and the god world."
"Great -- now I would like you..."
Here he reaches under the table --
"... to see what you can do with this."
He lifts up a bundle held together with a clamp; handwriting on
curly graph paper. She takes it and fips the pages.
"A Iot of pages."
"IIow long do you think it would take you to do it)"
"Weeks.Ihaveajob."
She already knows she can't translate this, but he doesn't.
A waiter hastens past on his way to the large party in the back
room, a pitcher slides off his platter and bounces on the floor,
spilling a quart of sangria just where AC's backpack had been,
before Grant had asked to move it.
 PEST 49

'How long to get the firsr ren pages)

Can you do that by next
week?"
"Sure. How much will you give me?,,
"Ten a page."
"If you need it fast, I would rvant
more.,,
"Ten is what I can afford."
"OK. Can I have fifty now?"
"I'm afraid I don't have that much
on me, AC. But the meal is
on me."
In midconversation she closes her eyes against the ranks
of
passing lights that draw and redraw a kinky
ub*rr. o[ magenta and
gold around him.
"Are you all right, AC)"
"I'm fine."
Idiots have been asking her that question every minute of every
hour of every day and getting the same rebuff without fail. you
wiil
never catch me out answering any other way.
is looking at her very gently - very detestably gently. An
. . 9rul,
old familiar pang of fear, still a shock no marter how bl.nted time
mahes it.
Does he know?
That day should have been magical, with a sirver letter emerging
from the clouds at the zenith. To-bus-warking she stops fo, u Iorrg
time, Iooking into the vacant lot that she passes .1"y. Without
"u"ry
the slightest morion she looks at what she's looking ar for a long time
before she takes it.

_ This was years ago, when she was attending a four-year college.
Dance night, the cafeteria is shaking with bass, dark inside and stri-
ate-d with blinking liglrts, shadowy Egures slithering among the
lights, arms going up and down. Her roommare is our and AC is
alone with the thing she found, loading it, racking a round into rhe
chamber, through a series of doors that punctuate the increase of
booming from the cafereria, right out into the crowd rights and noise
pulling the trigger, nor aiming at anyone just at therw, the music
going and the lights, the gun barking at the end of her arrn rike a
tethered dog, flapping and bucking in her hand.
50 MICHAEL T. CISCO

Screams in the music, raising arms, students gush from the build-
ing, glass is breaking, furniture is crashing, AC is standing still,
reloading without looking at what she's doing or seeming to see
anything, her face frozen. A security guard charges through the double
doors that open onto another world of even fluorescent lighting on
white tile floors, red arrow-slit classroom doors, and steel drinking foun-
tains. He sees AC and her gun, wheels around into the student lounge.
When he pops back out into the hall through the second entrance, by
the exit door at the hall's end, she is standing in the dark just inside the
cafeteria, colored lights zooming all around her, and with the rvild lights
and music it's like the hall ends in a foenzied thundercloud gathered
around a young woman the size of an eleven-year-old with a pistol in
both hands that starts popping the moment he breaks for the door. The
guard is a heavy black man in his forties and he can feel all the flesh on
his body lurch and shudder as he pounds through into the sireny,
distraught scene outside, but a bullet etched line just missing him he
also can feel, the puff of its draft and the evil hum of it that will whip
back around on him in random moments of fright for the rest of his life.
Bang bang bang, bang bang bang bang. Breaking glass.
Her brown windbreaker is full of bullets like loose candies and
she starts methodically reloading. Now bright blue and red flashing
lights travel across the tall cafeteria windows. They sweep from the
street side around to the front and stop with a little jerk, then sit and
swivel. She's alone - no she isn't there's a custodian, a Jamaican
woman she recognizes, scrambling from behind an overturned table
and through a swinging steel door into the kitchen. AC inserts the
magazine, racks the top shell, then refills the other magazine
methodically inserting bullet after bullet as one pair of blue and red
lights passes from the street side to the front, and white light
splashes up one window, stiffiy moving up and down a moment
before settling in place. The music has transitioned into a livelier
number. Colored lights twist to and fro and bow up and down,
Two cops in bulky vests and helmets plough through the
double doors emptying their guns sort of toward her and throw
themselves dramatically behind the coke machine, and an over-
turned desk. AC empties her gun toward them from out of the
phantasmagoria of lights and music -- breaking glass and tiles, splin-
 PEST 51

tering wood, ticking steel clonking on plastic -- the cops empty their
guns, draw new ones, and resume firing almost without pause -
AC empties her gun and automatically reloads, taking no cover and
needing none, and there's more damage and music and shouting
and nobody hitting anybody. So the two police clumsily retreat
outside where there are now more cops than students and a gang of
at least ten charges the door with rifles, gargling police talk to each
other.
One brings her rifle up just in time to blow the liver out of the
Jamaican custodian in the act of tackling AC from behind. AC's
pistol pinwheels into a corner and she goes down under the larger
woman s weight. The grimacing face is only an inch from her own,
wmng with pain, crying out. Prone and helpless, covered in the
custodian's blood, AC is arrested, not shot. An unintelligible blank-
faced cop reads her rights as if it were a ritual curse.
She is led out to the car. The cops sitting in the front seat have
blank faces, blank voices. Inert as a manikin herself she is swept
away to the police station. A female cop leans into her.
"Glka, nghehn ocxhr, nk'eh'ugh, khlheh glkla."
Then, a holding cell.
The first sign of any emotion comes only when she learns that
there were no fatalities, with the exception of the custodian, who
was policekill.
Not only that - not only that - there weren't a14y serious
injuries. Not oze student had to spend more than a single night in
the hospital. Eventually she will learn, despite adamantly closing
her ears to any word about that night, that even the most badly
shaken students were able to resume classes that semester.
Not one. Not one. Six and a half clips. One hundred and six ...
one hundred and six shots. r o6 potential fatalities -- zero realized,
zero.
Four huadred and ninety-four days later she is released from the
psychiatric facility. She moves, ends up working in a community
college library almost the same as before, waking up in the same
morning with the bedsheets and pillowcases, the stuff in the
arrangement at the time to the ham and eggs, ham and eggs, sausage
and eggs and milk milk milk, off to work, off to school, bus bus bus
52 MICHAEL T. CISCO

bus bus bus, wait wait wait wait wait wait wait for what for what for
what for what for what for what for what.
I shot a lot of people, she says silently to the other passengers.
i'd do it again. I'd shoot you.
The kids, the old ones, the blind ones.
I shot a lot of people.

... The night wind ruffies my pelt. A gust of wind slaps me across the
eyes with my own hair and wakes me. I can't get back to sleep. Most
of the others are over there, a herd of dark heaps. They wheeze and
snuffie. They stir now and then. More than snoring I hear the turbid
rumbling of our vast intestines.
... The sky is clear and there's almost more lights in it than there
are dark spaces. I crane my head and crick my neck getting a better
look. The upper reaches of the high peaks cut against the paler dark
around me, still dappled with patches of snow that aren't stars, but
it's fun to think about how they are different. Not much fun. I lie
down again. I don't remember standing up but i think I stood up
when I woke up. Lying down as a yak is something I can do auto-
matically, but only once I remember to stop trying to figure out how
to do it and just let it happen. If I try to fold and arrange my limbs
according to a mental image, I remain motionless. The ignition
sequence doesn't happen. But if I think about something else and
just kind let my weight down a little, the next thing I know, I'm
down.
,.. Now on the ground I roll over onto my right side, my legs
toward the lower part of the slope. Yak constellations percolate in
and out of the starfield. I pick out a constellation of two yaks doing it
and the thought hits my groin. A helical wave of evanescent excite-
ment, or what do I mean, it's like a funnel, a small twister sort of
kind of made of ghost fumes formed like a clay cup on a potter
wheel, the potter's hands are what I feel, they shape it, like coaxing
the foal out of a little bank of mist.
.,. My eye searches through space, just to see what's there, while
sexual longing kneads me and induces swelling and laves me inside,
 PEST 53

so my eyes are like warm lakes, the upturned one full of probing and
the downturned one ready to plop out onto the grass and roll
bumping down the slope toward the valley floor. Both together
wading through the water reeds of a starry night, very voluptuously
clear and still.
.,. There's headlights over there. I see human beings. Automati-
cally I heave myself upright to get a better look. A little camp by a
stream that runs through a flat rocky place in the valley, with some
fire and some electric lights, flashlights - are they looking for some-
thing? The motion seems playful. I zero in on one figure with a boxy
flashlight - she's not AC, but almost. AC only looked like an eleven-
year-old. This girl is smiling the way AC never did but she has the
same puppety, weightless way of moving. She's come to a standstill
the way children do sometimes. They don't keep on going like adults
do. They halt. Then they go back and forth, and then they do some-
thing. Right now she's still thinking, or not thinking but just looking.
She drops the beam of her flashlight and looks up at the sky the way
I just was but using both eyes, and points at a meteor. I don't know
why she got one and not me, maybe she should be the narrator, but
she would be anyway, just not in this book.
... Even being in this hulking horny body, thinking of AC, with
the smell of the grass I've bruised and the raw earth I've exposed
with my rock and roll, the earthy musk of snoozing yaks and the
interminable groan from my sixth or seventh stomach just now ...
none of that connects concretely to anything I ever encountered in
connection with her, so it must be me that's the memory, associating
with her what's happening. She had that way of being so still, so thar
I remember her in profile, not ful1 on.
.., She looked like she was in front of a green screen world all the
time. I never got to share that with her, but I wanted to. Something
about her made me want to. To step out from the screen into AC-
space. Silent and shadowy, like heaven inside a cloud instead of on
top. She puts her mouth up to my ear and tells me what she wants. I
hear that pale, futing voice tickle my ear like an air tongue.
54 MICHAEL T. CISCO

Quest for funding: phase two -

Grant as always meets me in a sort of white linen suit, blue sky,
ocean breeze, as always. He carries it around with him.
"Hello, Chalol"
He sits down and gets tea served to him in a water glass and his
mane of pu erh steam is restored. Without taking his eyes off me he
holds a hand out to the woman sitting at the next table. She takes it,
also without looking. They sit holding hands, she's conducting her
own conversation and Grant sipping his tea. For a moment I find
myself in a gently older other city of quiet and sexuality and a few
anachronisms.
"Why should I talk?" someone going by says. "What would I talk
about?"
"Are you ready for another round with the bankers?"
He releases the woman's hand and draws his through the air in a
magic arc. We go back downtown and he pauses a moment before
the glass facade to steady himself in his reflection. Looking through
the window, only with difficulty could I distinguish myself from the
wall opposite me, only with difficulty could I distinguish my refec-
don from the glass.
A get a flicker of panic.
whv?
Because I am me. It makes me feel, just now, like freaking out.
I am in a trap. The trap of being me. That can't be cut away
from my having become involved in this stupid shit so now I have to
go stare down a fucking bank full of bankers. And I have to do it like
this. Look at me. How am I like this?
Grant presses my shoulder a moment before we go back in.
"You're a Californian. Remember that."
Those random walls with the screens come up around us. Mr.
Browlshweer walks beside us, still talking as our feet slot back into
our footsteps. This long run-around walk was already in progress,
already in progress before we ever set foot in this place.
I don't know why Grant wants me here. Maybe he just needs
the support, I'm willing to back him up - I don't know why I am, but
I am. I glance at Grant. He's not looking at me, but I know he feels
me, and it's doing him some good, and that does me some good. It
 PEST 55
L

shores me up a little against the feeling that I'm an unnecessary

double of somebody else, scrambled together from data which will
in time be making autonomous purchases and financial arrange-
ments in my name. \A,4hich, actually, will be ifs name, to which it
will have the legal-financial claim, because there can be only one of
us and it turns out I'm not it.
I am breathing the atmosphere of sinister; like CGI air. Each
particle is neat and clear and glossy and it doesn't travel any weight
to my lungs, so breathing in doesn't feel different from breathing out.
The Loan Originator speaks confidently about complicated
things competently. We have to hurry to keep up.
" ... The company will need a complete report on all activities, as
well as an accounting for r oo% of what you've done in the past fiscal
year, and a thorough record of all your transactions."
"I'11get that right to you," says Grant absently, running a finger
along one of the metal dividers.
Grant may be expecting me to chime in here, but I don't want to
talk. Like the man said, "why should I talk?" I don't want to talk, or
even to move, or to leave, or to do anything; I feel like I'm caught at
the bottom of a syphon of depersonalization. i'm trying to make
myself remember what humanity is - my mother's face gouged with
worry, squirming around getting grass stains when I was a kid and
your face and your hands, the sky of your face and hands, the
clashing beach of your face and hands, and these things give me a
kind of inner orange that clashes totally with whatever is this shit
going on around me, whatever this is, palpably clashing with an
indifferently predatory cold that's melting me. The digital wendigo
bank incubus.
Now Mr. Browlshweer swivels his head at me.
"You're the design agent?"
"I'm the designer."
It's as if I'd admitted to occupying a lesser position than what-
ever a design agent is.
Mr. Browlshweer s eyes scan my face as if it were a screen.
"You'ye assembled complexes on this scale before?" he asks, his
roice coming from somewhere well behind his face.
"Only once, and not so large."
56 I.4ICHAEL T. CISCO

"Where was this)"

"I did it for the Financial Advisors Regional Turnkey Program.
In New York. New York City."
"New York."
The bank man touches his finger to the glass plate he's been
making notes on as if he were about to write it down. He doesn't.
Grant was right.
"tlh," I say.
Mr. Browlshweer looks at me. Screen light contracts around his
face.
"I'm interested in building playgrounds."
I keep sighing as I bullshit.
"I've been looking into ... like, researching ... playgrounds ".,"
Mr. Browlshweer is looking at me and his finger is regularly
scrolling down his piece of glass. With each scroll life ebbs out of - --
but Grant intervenes.
Grant and the Loan Originator square off. Mr. Browlshw'er's
glasses glint like armor, and Gr'nt's dzi bead growls with subsonic
pseudo-Tibetan vibrations. Smoothings on both sides. Mr. Browlsh-
weer snaps his fingers and his animated digital assistant unfolds in
the air beside him, forming a diamond that reminds me of those
divination paper puzzle things little girls used to make to fit over
their fingertips. This thing floats just above his left shoulder, facing
his ear.
"Iris," he says peremptorily, "What is Mr. Grant's credit score?"
The diamond folds and unfolds along a criss-cross and murmurs
something into Mr. Browlshweer's ear. Grant rubs his dzi bead and a
faint musical note hums from behind his eyes as Mr. Browlshweer
turns toward us bringing the entire scene with him, as if he were the
pivot for a flat backdrop swinging around on us. Grant puts his hand
on my shoulder quickly.
"J.,*p when I do."
We jump together. The moment dilates.
There's more than one emptiness here. The two warring empti-
nesses clash as we jump, smooth cruising business seriousness versus
Zen hippie composure. The dead bank vacuousness harms me by
i

I PEST 57

forcing me to make it real, and Grant's there to say nothing but tidal
i flow is real.
Mr. Browlshweer shows a boardroom with glass walls and a
:,
lenticular table lined with sophisticated uncomfortable expensive
I

cheap-looking modern chairs. Grant makes the glass walls stop ster-
ilizing the trees and grass outside, and the room fills with the smell
of the ocean, tide pools, hot dogs, cigarettes, and pine needles baked
by the sun.
Mr. Browlshweer turns the animated dial by his head and the
board room is high in a high rise, the gleaming leaves of the rrees
turn into the windows of plain glass box office buildings. We're
hemmed in -- but Grant turns the wood-paneled wall behind him
into a sleepy grove in late afternoon sun. Brown light is caught in the
hairnet of the canopy over us and our feet are covered with fragrant
dust.
Mr. Browlshweer dials up some more glistening white plastic and
the smell of art galleries. The gloss slides off the walls and onto us borh,
like poison slime. The smell coats my tongue like a leaf of shrink wrap.
He's trying to hit us now that we're disoriented with a null blot that's like
a diffracted wafer of the art gallery atmosphere fringed with a nauseous,

poisoned feeling. Grant nearly blunders into an expensive piece of

shitsculpture. Instead, he allorvs himself to fold into a pseudo-lotus posi-
tion. I catch myself j ust a fraction of an inch away from an expensive ugly
mobile thing adorned with disembodied stock market screens - I can'r
feel my legs, I don't know if I'm walking or standing still. Mr. Browlsh-
weer is asking me for my last five jobs and pay stubs, and it's like I've been
painlessly disemboweled, sterilized, and my blood is all gushing down a
discreetly-hidden sluice without anyone noticing, including me.
"Horv many playgrounds have you designed? Where have you
uploaded your portfolio?"
Mr. Browlshweer reaches into his jacket pocket and brings out a
chrome stylus that puckers the surface of reality -- an instmment of
permanent finance magic that traces brokered association links,
tracking down toward the signature line and a signature that will cut
us off from the power forever.
Then he starts violently -- the ordinary human emotion of
58 I'4ICHAEL T. CISCO

surprise has broken his chi - his eyes, which have already gone a
cold aviator blue, are riveted on the tip of the surfboard it turns out
he is holding, or thinks he is holding, because he's fallen under a
wave that drops on him, while Grant eases along the hollow of the
curl with his hands floating lightly, his hair floating lightly, the frag-
ments of sea froth mingling with the innumerable stars, undimin-
ished by the conspiratorially full moon.
Where I am in all this is more than I can say. I seem to be in the
numb center of the action, like the referee at a fight. Grant glides off
into the distance and his night wave curls along after him, and Mr.
Browlshweer steps briskly from the water into a Plexiglas pyramid,
bone dry.
"Whew!" Grant says. "That Loan Originator is tough!"
We're sitting on the edge of a planter on the street outside the
bank.
"A pretty tough cookiel" he adds.
"Did we blow it?"
"No, no," Grant says, but he sounds a little down. "It's not smooth
sailing, but we're not rejected yet. What we need -" and here his
tone takes on a bit of a new resolution -- "are reinforcements. He
won't be alone next time, and we shouldn't be either."
\44-rat do you mean we?
A woman comes out of the lobby with a baby in a fancy stroller.
The baby is wearing earbuds.
"Heyl" I shout at her.
I have to repeat it several times before she realizes I'm talking
to her.
"That's a shitty thing to do to your kid, making them wear
earphones."
"Well, thanks, but I don't think I need your advice on how to
raise my baby," she answers caustically.
"Take those fucking god damn earphones outl" I scream, with
bulging eyes.
The woman is hustling herself away.
"Fuck youl" she says jerkily.
"I told you to take those motherfucking ears out -- earphones!"
I stand up and lash the air with my finger.
i

I PEST 59

"Take that shit outl Get that shit out of that baty's head! What
are you doing to that baby?"
"Cet away from me!" she says, from now at least twenty-five feet
away. "Fuck off!"
"What the fuck do you think you're doing to your kid?"
She vanishes around the corner to dial 9 r r and when I turn
Grant is beaming at me.
"What?" Ibark.
He's still smiling.
"What?1"

.., There's a funny smell on the breeze today. I think there are people
around again, maybe doing laundry in a stream. Might be soap, I'm
smelling.
My front left hoof is a little off; I think there may be a crack in
...
it. No pain, really, just a little wobble. Not much to speak of. I
should watch it, though. No one to help me if it fails. Or is that so?
Maybe yaks help each other out.
... Not much to say about the weather. The sky is the same mari-
nated blue it always is up here. Some wind. I can actually swivel my
ears out of the wind, so the world doesn't sound like fluttering
burlap. Eyes a bit dry. Continual gurgling in my cavernous gur.
... Further up the slope now, toward a sort of declivity, if that's
the right word, where the ground is torn open to bare brown soil and
loose stones. Fragments of gneiss, fragments of pegmatite shim-
mering with flakes of mica. Am I being watched? No people around.
I can't smell soap, or whatever it was, anymore, just earth and grass. I
stop moving. I'll move again soon. I seem to have hit a personal lull
here in the groove in the ground. I might fall asleep, It wouldn't
make any difference if I did.
A few more steps, but without really moving. I dwindle down.
...
My ghost deflates until it's only a small mound hidden in the
spacious shell of my yak form. Maybe this is me finally going yak.
A1l the other yaks are like this, but also slightly less self-conscious,
and I'm converting fully now, without a struggle. i'm going to watch
60 IVICHAEL T. CISCO

my human self-die into a yak like any other. Live and die as a yak.
Old grey yak lies down in the snow, never to rise no more, or
shredded by wolves, hauled laboriously down by a snow leopard,
shot from a safe distance by a human asshole, rolling stiff-legged
down into a ravenous knot of vultures. There are vultures every-
where in the mountains here. They're practically part of the sky.
You see them every time you look up therethey are at the margins of
vision, perched on rocks and cinernatic trees, necks out like snakes,
complacently scanning the obituaries the wind carries.
-- There's a vulture now, sitting on a white stone that's so regular
it could be a carved block. Tirrquoise is herniated out of the rock like
a gleaming loop of exposed intestine, soft and shining amid flut-
tering saxifrage and dandelions.
"\A,&at)"
The vulture is staring at me.
"What?1"
The vulture is still staring at me,
I go cold. The rumbling of my gut stops and my blood congeals.
The daylight, the grass, the earth and stones, the flowers, the wind,
my banal thinking, are an evil game.
... I come closer to the vulture. A colder wind carries wood
smoke to me. The vulture's eyes are flashing like water in the sun.
Coming closer, I see there's a hidden track of beaten grass that starts
behind the white block and cuts up the slope a bit more, before
vanishing into some skimpy trees and bushes that grow beneath an
overhang. The track is fresh, looks as though something heavy was
dragged along here.
... Like a sleepwalker, I pass the vulture, inwardly parulyzed,
thinking I'm going to feel that icy beak rip into me as I come within
reach, and I'll feel cold frngers getting a purchase on me, piercing
into me.
... The bracken is dense here, but it's been forced aside by what-
ever left the track. Smaller than a yak but strong enough to shove
through thicket tough as iron, that's tearing at me. A tahr, maybe? It
would have to have been really determined. Coming around the
other side of the overhang I get a feeling I can almost hear, Iike a big
final bass note, and a hiss of time passing. A person framed against
 P EST 61

the sky in a fold between higher praces is motionressly

waiting
for me.
- A person in rags, all faded variations of an original color I can,t
think of irs name right now. It is a living person, not a scarecrow.
It
stands like a living thing. There's nothing else about
it I can
describe. Alive, and in rags, and not moving, and waiting
for me.
-- This person wants to show me something,
l i., orje, to change
i
me, because it is a thing with a purpose, like a man_made
thing.
The idea of turning back is like inadvertent viorence,
directed
i
against no one. I could do it.
I come up to rhe figure, allowing my head to nod. Watching it
i swing gives me the illusion that it,s in the landscape,
There,s a
t leathery smell coming off of it. A musty smell -_
dried flesh.
. .: ry"y I'm only a few feet away, andl still see only knotted rags
that look limp but act rigid, morionless in a wind that
throws my
shaggy pelt around and tugs hard at me.

- Crunch of gravel -- it's turned away from me. It,s further upI the
slope now, turned back to me again. Up the slope.
... Now what's it doingi lt's kneeling or, ,h"
ground ancl doing
something with its hands.
... It could be a small figure very near me,
or a large figure farther
away, and under its hands I can see Los Angeles
r*iri*iig in a typi-
cally sunny day, and the waves on the beach and ,rrf"ri
Grunt _
the Annex -- AC in her fantasies headshotting
uniformed and busi-
ness-attired people getting away on her bicycre to
rhe vacant lots and
vacant suburban streets, and there's Chalo, talking
to a woman who,s
into him you can tell - am i going ro see a bunch of
yaks on a moun-
am I going to see one of them having an elaborare
l1]",u"9 inner
life, and am I going ro see my seeing this righi now?
Because rhe
image that's there isn't an image, I,m seeing I,m seeing
what I,m
seeing what I'm seeing like I would ,". o ,o.f, on
the g.Jrrrd, o..ny
own foot when I look down, or whatever I see, the rky,ih"
world, the
wind shaking the grass. The figure is sorr of pickingup this
sight or
washing its hands in the ciry like u ,rrrg"or-, ut u blri.r.
The Jity is
now a bay full of seawater, the shore receded all the
*uy ,o ,h"
foothills of the San Gabrier mountains, just the tops
of tie taller
buildings above water -- and thor" ,p""tral go.l_hanis
splashing in
I
62 MICHAEL T. CISCO

the bay where Los Angeles was before the water rose. The figure is
throwing the sight up over its head, and rubbing the rags where the
face probably is, and every time it dips down and throws the sight
over itself like a curling bedsheet, the figure is more dense and more
transparent. It's washing itself into the landscape, but really into the
universe, becoming a diamond ghost, becoming everything without
disappearing.
... It's not becoming everything. I don't know how I, a humble
yak, would know it, but it seems to me it's becoming one of some
greater number of versions of everything. And it wanted to show this
to me. It wanted me to see it, and to wonder -hy - especially to
wonder why, as if wondering why was what really mattered.
... The rags around the figure's head are more and more transpar-
ent, and through it with a shock I see a face. It looks familiar. It isn't
a living face, it's art. A metal bust of a man s head, black, gleaming,
smiling, showing all his teeth, and wearing a shapeless sort of a wool
hat...?
... The flgure is gone now. Everything seems beautiful. \&&y
would someone fading into a landscape make it more beautiful?
... A cold peak-shadow has crept up on me. I move out into the
warmth. In the crystalline light of the low-hanging sun -- well, what
else would I do? I saw what I saw, my mind went blank. I started
grazing, filling my first stomach. Why not? I'm a yak. Should I
commit suicide, or sing, or run and tell the other yaks about it? --
Anyway: in the crystalline light of the low-hanging sun I see the
long, even shadows of the other yaks, the standing stones, the tall
peaks, the black pines, the eleven million wildflowers, everything
trailing fat dark geometrical shapes. There's mine, shaped like a yak,
not a man.
... Was I brought here to see the figure in rags orchestrate the
story of my life? Could it have been a coincidence, or would anyone,
encountering that figure, see their own life? Or would they all see
mine? It seemed the figure was experiencing it all too, having an
experience that relates experiences, like art without the art.
I don't feel a "passionate desire to know," I'm just confused. I
don't have to go on, or do anything, let alone answer any question.
Would I prefer to know if there were something I could do, or that I
 PEST 63

ought to do) Or rhat someone or something is asking me to do? It's

not like I need to do something, to do anything, but I want ro know
what there is to do, that's it. Mostly it. I don't know how real this is.
It only feels kind of real. "I{ind of, but not sort of," like my friend
David used to say. He's real,
Maybe I bonked my head or somerhing, and I'm lying some-
where unconscious, dreaming all this. Yeah, maybe, kind of, but not
sort of.

"It's good to see you again, Chalo," comes at me from

an errant tuft of
sea mist.
"Have you ever read any occult stuff?" Grant asks a moment
later.
"I read a lot of it once."
"And then stopped)"
"It was bullshit."
He nods. His gaze travels to the mountains.
"You're gerting ready to tell me that it isn't?"
"I think I might know how ro ..." Grant goes on, picking his
words slowly. "...ger at something real in it. I think there's something
real in it, but occultism needs a revolution to be real. Like anything
else."
He pauses, and his gaze travels further over rolling hills. I watch
him watching a hawk go reetering up the wind into the higher up,
flip and sway and dip. Suddenly I have the feeling I'm in love with
someone who isn't there. A feeling of absent love, It passes, trailing
nostalgic memories of summer park afternoons and girls on the
Burbank wind. The space between me and those birds is full of my
memories, and emotions I'm too old to feel anymore. They hang all
around me, like TV signals falling away into outer space forever.
"Now," Grant says, drawing out the word. "All that
__ tabulating.
The prayers. Little tasks. Little ,.. bans. Things you can and can't do,
if you want to make ir work ... Little, arbitrary things. Like what
color clothes you wear, what you eat, whether you have sex, whether
or not you shave your face ..."
64 IVICHAEL T. CISCO

He fans his left hand.

".,. That's not all just irrelevant, but it isn't the main thing -- the
main thing -"
He points with his left index finger.
"-- is the gesture that you're making. It's all gestures. Irs all
exactly like grammar. The language doesn't come from the rules. Its
the rules -- the rules are codifications of everyday practices that are
usually taken for granted. That's what I mean by the gesture. tying
to do spiritual work from a book is like trying to carry on a conversa-
tion with someone in a language you don't know, using a dictionary.
Without the milieu, the language is dead, and without its milieu, the
spiritual work is dead."
Crant looks at mq sunset red on his face.
"Does that make sense, Chalo?"
Iopen my mouth. The little inrush of fresh air that hits my
tongue stops me from thinking, and I shut my mouth again.
Grant looks back out at the blue.
"I think it makes sense," he says, as if someone else had been
speaking, and he is volunteering his agreement.

:
"Irs good to see you again, Chalo," comes at me from an errant tuft of
sea mist.
"Have you ever read any occult stuff?" Grant asks a moment
later.
"I read a lot of it once."
"And then stopped?"
"It was bullshit."
He nods. His gaze travels to the mountains.
"You're getting ready to tell me that it isn't?"
"I think I might know how to ..." Grant goes on, picking his
words slowly. "... get at something real in it. I think there's something
real in it, but occultism needs a revolution to be real. Like anything
else."
He pauses, and his gaze travels further over rolling hills. I watch
him watching a hawk go teetering up the wind into the higher up,
 PEST 65

flip and sway and dip. Suddenly I have the feeling I'm in love with
someone who isn't there. A feeling of absent love. It passes, trailing
nostalgic memories of summer park afternoons and girls on the
Burbank wind. The space between me and those birds is full of my
memories, and emotions I'm too old to feel anymore. They hang all
around me, like TV signals falling away into outer space forever.
"Now," Grant says, drawing out the word. "All that tabulating.
The prayers. Little tasks. Little ... bans. Things you can and can't do,
if you want to make it work ... Little, arbitrary things. Like what
color clothes you wear, what you eat, whetherryou have sex, whether
or not you shave your face ..."
He fans his left hand.
"... That's not all just irrelevant, but it isn't the main thing - the
main thing --"
He points with his left index finger.
"- is the gesture that you're making. It's all gestures. It's all
exactly like grammar. The language doesn't come from the rules. Its
the rules -- the rules are codifications of everyday practices that are
usually taken for granted. That's what I mean by the gesture. Trying
to do spiritual work from a book is like trying to carry on a conversa-
tion with someone in a language you don't know, using a dictionary.
Without the milieu, the language is dead, and without its milieu, the
spiritual work is dead."
Grant looks at me, sunset red on his face.
"Does that make sense, Chalo)"
I open my mouth. The little inrush of fresh air that hits my
tongue stops me from thinking, and I shut my mouth again.
Grant looks back out at the blue.
"I think it makes sense," he says, as if someone else had been
speaking, and he is volunteering his agreement.

ft

The Tibetan writing Grant has given AC ;s impenetrable. She's

been poring over it all night, and even the briefest phrases refuse to
66 MICHAEL T. CISCO

come clear. Back and forth to the dictionary, her grammar books -
nothing's coming through. It's as if the whole text were one obscure
idiom. The handwriting is clear enough, and the graph paper makes
the lines unmistakable. She flips forward and backward, trying to
find anything at all she can make out. There is a title, but she is able
to make it out only because it is some kind of European phrase in
Tibetan characters: Complutensian Poly glot Tenna.
The sky is lightening in the east when she gives up.
So the next day she sits down and just makes up a bunch of
plausible-sounding stuff. He won't know the difference.

Chi.ld of an honor able li.neage !

conjur e the seru ants of tke false king

the red li.fe-m.aster whose red throne stands in a copper carern
a red riter runs beneath the throne
and divides for each of the fourteen ernanations of pure pollution
into fourteen red strearns
wher e tu en\ - et ght r ed bir ds drink

the rock encanation

the water em.anation
the earth enranation
the sl<y etnanation
tlte slate mountain ewanation
the glacier entanation

the emanation of the pollution of the roek

the eruanation of tke yoll.wtion of the water
the encanation of the pol.lution of the earth
the ernanation of the pollwtion of the sky
the emanation of the pollution of the slate ruountain
the encanatian of the pollwtion of the glacier

the obscuration of the rock

the obscuration of tlre water
 PEST 67

the abscwration of the earth

the obscuration of the sl<y
tke obscuration of the slate rnountain
the obscuration of the glacier

brother and sister, thekidden coat of mail

screaming
let ws destroy the world of men and the world of gods

ridingon crows
emp\ingthe yessel of Chinese medicinal water
leadingtwenty-eight war hord.es of killers
dressed in flayed skin drippingblood
dr e s s ed in bloo dy s c alp s
dressed in garlands ofhuunanheads
clashing thunderbolts
clashing red flames
clashing dtaynond anow heads
leading twenty-eight war hordes of insane red corytses
riding on y alu and lnonster s

the thousand-knife saw wheel

theflancingaxe
the star cleayer
the diamondbow
that impales with arrows
fi"etchedwitk redfeath"ers froru tlw tails of red twhure-fiends
the net glowing like suns et
the lance b edecked with silk scarv es
the lightning sling with dzi ey es

The sky goer is tke wrathful woman of ttte sky who gwides the
treasure-re1)ealer to tke sacred treasures whereuer they may be kidden;
the saered books fownd in snowdrifts and cates, unrpoir"d beneath
lake waters or hidden in clouds by the treasure-reyealer.
The rerealer vatavikn felt ilt in his
fourteenth year. Near to
death, his tntnd became so swrcharged with i.rnages titat it
fell into
68 MICHAEL T. CISCO

formlessness, and owt of this forntlessness arose the six ruadmen

whom he then found and wko tken joinedhim., and together withhiw
became the setem wailike ncadtnen. The sky goer sltowed him. the
daeman asleep in a book that ditides itself in emanations when
a"wake.

"That ought to do it," AC thinks.

:
I'm sitting with Grant on a park bench by the beach. There's a
discarded glass bottle with the label torn off, lying on the pavement
about halfway across the sidewalh, over by the base of a planter. It's
caught my attention, because it's there,
A woman on the sidewalk is swaying to and fro and announcing
to everybody,
"Right now at Costco they're selling fifteen cans of Progresso
Soup for ten dollarsl Fifteen cans, rB.5 ounce-ize cans, for ten
dollarsl Those are the big cansl That's a good meal!"
She repeats her announcement a little further down the street,
and a little further, and a little further.
Grant shows me some sheets of curly graph paper covered in
what looks like Sanskrit,
"I think this is what the Tibetans call a terma. They're books and
things that boddhisattvas hide in the landscape, to be found by later
generations when the time is right."
"On graph paper?"
Now he slides some crisp printed sheets in front of me.
"Translation," it says at the top in the center. The first line below
it is "... Child of anhonorablel.ineage!"
He lets me read it. When I raise my eyes again, he leans over
and taps the bottom of the page.
"They're the ones."
I check the spot he points to.
"The seven warlike madmen?"
"A team of seasoned revolutionaries."
 PEST 69

crant looks at the sky. The wind ruffies his light linen clothing.
He takes a deep breath, and lowers his eyes to the ocean. Sudclenly-i
realize that I'm going to ger up off this bench and walk away forever
if he can't explain himself to me, right now.
Grant points to the ocean.
"The gods are the ocean. The demons
are the waves. The waves
aren't the ocean, but they don't exist without it. ... A surfer doesn't
interact with the ocean, a surfer, interacts with the wave. A surfer is
part of the movement of the ocean itself as it just sits there. He trav-
els, it doesn't. Like the world. We get high, we get low _ rhe waves.
The sea, is just there. Things rise, things fall. The surfer rises, the
surfer falls - the surfer rises again, falls again. A surfer isn't really
separate and making it, like making it on their own, doing your
thing. A surfer is just lost in rhe water there. But when a ..rrfl.'g"t,
up, gets up on a wave, Chalo, the surfer moves, uses the wave to
move, right? Right between active and passive. A surfer has to hook
into the between to move, otherwise the surfer is just going in
circles, like the water circle -"
He gestures to the sky.
"-- or the traffic circle --"

He gestures to the cars in the parking lot.

"Whate'er human circles, circles of friends, job
circles, psychol_
ogy. The only line, not a straight line, but a line, is on the
-au" i.,
between. It's the gobetween that counts. The source always gets lost
in translation, that's the point. You learn to take translatingitself as
the source. ... But like you say, it's dangerous. The circles are safe.
Thars why we stay in them. A surfer will wipe out eventually.,,
Suddenly Grant is beaming ar me.
"You haye to wipe out. But a surfer
_- moves first, then wipes out.
The move gets made."
"From one part of the water to another ,,you
part," Isay. still end
up in the water."
"You were already in the water. You you
can't help that. can
tread water, right) You can swim laboriously ,rrd fiil yourself and
get overwhelmed by rhe current and get pushed back. or hauled out
to sea on a rip current. You can try to climb out. But a surfer is
going
to take and get up on top of that water and -t'
70 I.4ICHAEL T, CISCO

He claps his right hand on his outstretched left like skipping a

stone --
"-- fly," he says.
The bottle sits on a grey circle, its own shadow.
Irrelevantly, I imagine the captain's voice on the airliner PA.
"Ladies and Gentleman, from up here in the cockpit it appears
all our engines are gone, so I'11 just go ahead and turn on the seatbelt
sign for a bit during our descent as we glide to the ground. Well get
you there in what looks to be about twenty minutes. Until then, sit
back, relax, and enjoy the rest of your flight. Talk to you on the
ground."
"So-demons,"Isay.
"Just do a quick delivery," a passing man says to another man.
"Give him the shit and don't talk."
"Why would I talk)" the other man says. "What would I talk
about?"
Ocean spray, hot dog with mustard, cigarette puff.
Sunlight stands in rigid spines, up and down, and blue air whips
everything at ground level from left to right, right to left, The day is
mostly empt/, criss-crossed with darting birds and quick human
gestures, rolling waves. Sparkling cars. Daylight shatters on the glass
in front of me. Why does the fractured light in the clear bottle seem
corrupt?
"Revolutionaries," Grant says, as if I had just asked him
something.

:
So ... Grant has set it all up. We, whoever that is, are going to meet
lvith a representative of his revolutionaries, and now, of course, he
can't make it because he's been called in for round three of Loan
Originating, and I have to go instead.
"AC should go with you ... You can pick her up at the college."
The idea of seeing AC again startles me. I feel like a well some-
one's thrown a rock down, and I forget to complain, or to ask what
to do.
My hands feel shaky on the steering wheel when I pull onto the
 PEST 71

campus roundabout. There she is! Drops into the passenger seat.
"Hello."
"Hi."
"... We waiting for someone else?"
"No."
I pivot into traffic.
AC has her hood up and she's looking at her hands on her knees.
"You OK?"
"... Yeah."
Irs like we're already bitter and not talking to each other.
Grant didn't tell me much, I imagine explaining to her. He's
paying a lot of money for this. A good-sized chunk of that hundred
grand he stole that you don't know about.
Brown hills spotted with green brush rise up around us and the
road rounds curves. I continue our imaginary conversation. AC is
leaning into the air conditioning vent, directing it against her face.
Where are we going) Well, they - evidently there will be more
than one'revolutionary representative'present -- wanted to meet us
at one of the cabins up there.
Shattered sun snaps and bursts over AC like fireworks. I can
hear her breathing through her nose, and smell public bathroom
hand soap. She barely moves.
It's just like Crant, right? I imagine saying. He sets up this weird
thing, this stuff, and then he can't go, and so he -- I trail off. Just now,
really, I feel like I'd rather be sleeping.
I pull into a dirt lot and park under the pine trees. Clamber out
of the car into a smell of hot asphalt and dry brush. Black sage, white
sage, laurel sumac, live oak dust.
"Cabin two."
Together we walk up to the cabin. She barely comes up to my
collarbone. Wind in the trees. The air around us rests very light.
Like there's no place else in the world. What are we really going to
see here, today? I'm expecting, what? Something vague. But the this-
is-happening-ness of it is a litde nerve rvracking. The air and the
light, all easy, and behind me a little at my side AC AC AC.
We reach the small cabin. The stingy porch, the cheap store-
bought door with the glass panes in it. I reach up above the door and
72 I.4ICHAEL T, CISCO

fumble the key down from its hiding place without thinking about
spiders, unlock, go in.
"Where there is no more striving."
Where did that come from?
There's no furniture. There's fake wooden paneling, and cheap
carpeting that smells. AC is taking small steps, her arms folded,
Iooking all around for the best place in the room.
"Pretty close in here."
My voice booms, surprisingly. I open windows, letting in that
helium air. I can feel her behind me like an open freezer. When I
turn, she's standing almost in the middle of the room, arms still
crossed, looking out through the open door, stoically waiting for the
medium.
I hear a voice outside while I'm still in the bathroom. When I
come out again, a lean black man in a polo shirt tucked into his blue
jeans is in the doorway looking intently at AC, waiting for her to get
around to answering his question.
"H"y," he says when he sees me.
I come up and shake his hand.
"Are you Chalo?"
"Yeah. This is AC."
"I'm Holly."
I-le holds my gaze.
"Are you prepared)"
"No. How should I prepare?"
He sighs through his nose and takes his hips in his hands.
"Well," he says after a moment. "You just relax."
He points at AC.
"You too. Any tension is going to be bad for you. Bad for all of us.
You understand?"
He looks first to me, then to AC, sizing us up.
"Are you cool?"
I shrug. AC does nothing.
"Now I'm going to go get Adrien."
He heads back toward the parking area. He's got cowboy boots
under the jeans.
AC has retreated to one corner of the cabin. In the gloom, I can
 PEST 73

see the whites of her eyes as she looks at me.

"Nothing to be afraid of."
Is she afraid or angry? !

Here comes Holly. He walks attentively at the side of a woman

who's moving like a sleepwalker. On the woman,s other side
is
another: woman, with short sandy hair that just missed
being pale
red. They steer rhe enrranced woman with a light pressur*
Jrr'h".
elbows. Holly catches my eye.
"That's Meredith," he says, with
a toss of his head toward the
other "handler."
"Hi," she says a little sheepishly.
"This is Adrien," Holly says,
guiding her into the cabin.
Both of them are keeping a close eye on her, as if she might
collapse, or make a break for it, any moment. There,s
a white scarf
covering her head, and a white top thar reveals the amazing
vitiligo
on her arms, shoulders, and upper chest, freckled salt arrd
plppe. in
what looks like exactly equal proporrions, She,s wearing some'ki.,d
of support garment, like a medical chastity belt, outsije her
high-
waisted mom jeans.
I fall back ro make way. Adrien steps into the cabin, and the
day
snuffs like a pinched-out candle. I can still see the daylight,
bur now
everything outside is as vividly leaden as a Richard t)ild
puirrti.,g.
The three of them pause just inside the door. Adrien ,e"..r, to
b"
geli5 her bearings. Holly and Meredith guide Adrien inro the
middle of the room, taking small steps. Tension rolls in
behind her
like- train car and presses the air right out of the cabin. Holly
a_
stays
with her, and Meredith opens the duffie bag, takes out loose
*ro."d
chalks, big thick ones, and starrs marking up the floor
-
and walls.
The impulse to ask questions is gorre.
Holly is murmuring something to Adrien. The head under the
scarf turns in little birdlike twists I grimpse her eyes.
- The irises
consist of tiny points of black and white, like static. Her
gaze is so
powerful I can't notice her features, except that they ur" ,lrlo
equally
white and black. Holly genrly trrrx h", heud u*uy from me and
I
stop holding my breath. The medium rubs her groin absently.
"No," Holly says, pulling her hands u*uy u.,d r.placirg
.her sides, repeating "no"
rhem at
softly to her.
74 MICHAEL T. CISCO

A shiver travels over her body, shaking her scarf.

"Ha --" she says, tossing her head.
It's like she's dreaming.
The scarf falls back around her neck exposing a boyish haircut.
Even her hair is speckled with tiny patches, black and white, like
static.
"Adrien?" Meredith says, from the corner.
When Adrien looks in her direction, Meredith points to a mark
she just made in pink chalk on the baseboard.
Holly locks eyes with me a moment.
"Stay cool. Relaxed. Work with us."
She goes from one mark to another, drawn in a sawtooth up and
down arrangement in pink, blue, green, and yellow.
Adrien starts taking deep breaths, holding her hands up before
her chest and lightly touching her breastbone with her fingertips.
The room immediately fills with the minty smell of her breath,
mingled with a kind of barnyard odor.
Holly is watching her carefully now, while Meredith keeps
glancing back at us, to make sure we're behaving, not freaking out.
Fear creeps into their eyes. This is heavy. I stand next to AC,
crossing around to her left so that I'm not between her and the door.
"Got to look out for her," I tell myself nobly.
Meredith repeats the succession of marks several times. They
look like fake Chinese or Sanskrit letters, mixed in with little
dangling lines of up and down script. What kind of "revolutionaries"
are we dealing with?
Adrien moans and staggers forward, rising up onto the pads of
her feet and lifting her arms. She starts to sway from the waist, then
folds, flexing backward until she's bent double, then up again,
without ever lowering her arms. She repeats this faster and faster,
huffing, grunting, and throws off her scarf. Holly hurries to fetch it
and she thrusts both hands between her legs sawing wildly. Holly
snatches the scarf up and darts back to her.
"Now! Now!" he says in a prohibiting tone. "Nol No! Arms up!"
With a frustrated mewling sound Adrien allows him to pull her
hands back into the air again. Her arms move like pipe cleaners.
Holly throws the scarf over her head again, while Meredith rushes
l
PEST 75

over to get her arms. The intervention seems to throw Adrien off her
rhythm and it takes her a while to get back into that fexing back and
forth. Each time her hands dive down to her crotch, Meredith
lunges to pull them back our and Holly repeats his "now now."
This must go on for the better part of half an hour. Adrien is
glistening with sweat, breathing hard - it smells like a horse barn in
here. Meredith catches Holly's eye. They seem to be weighing some
decision, maybe to stop the seance.
Adrien's breath evens into a steady panting. Meredith and Holly
ease up a little.
"I think she's stable now," Meredith says.
"Wait a little more," Holly says.
They watch her carefully, holding her, for a few minutes. Then
Holly says "OK."
Meredith releases Adrien, who staggers a little on the balls of
her feet, her head craned back, breath coming fast, as if she were
trying to see something through the scarf and the roof.
Meredith goes to the duffie bag and carefully pulls out some-
thing I recognize, the Messerschmitt head -- must be a copy -- known
as the "The Artist as He Imagined Himself Laughing." A sound of
surprise comes out of me, and Holly shoots me a look that tells me
not to make sounds.
Adrien has elongated even further, like she's straining up into
the air, trying to lift herself off the ground. I don't know if my voice
aggravated her, but I think it's the unveiling of the head. The
Messerschmitt head is a bust of black lead depicting a smiling man
wearing a knit hat. He grins broadl/, showing his even teeth. I've
always remembered it because when do you ever see a statue with
teeth?
Now I hear, from very far away ... from the top of a mountain
overlooking a valley where the air is perfectly srill ... a bell. One
chime. We all heard it. Everyone started at the sound, even AC.
I notice movement around the bust and I whip my eyes over to it
with a wild feeling of alarm I can'r accounr for. A wisp of smoke is
fanning out across the lead hat. It flows from the left ear of the bust,
and melts into the air of the cabin.
The chime hangs, ringing in the air, nor fading. I want to hold
76 MICHAEL T. CISCO

my breath, but instead I begin panting. I should take myself and AC

out of here right now. What's happening to Adrien's ear? Her left
ear? The speckled skin at the opening of her ear canal is discoloring;
it's as if there was a jet of invisible fire shooting out of it.
Adrien snarls, grabs her chastity belt right between the legs and
yanks at it so violently she's tugging her right leg clear of the floor.
The animal smell pours out of her and I can hear the sound of heavy
canvas ripping.
"Whup! Opl Nopel" Holly says, taking her arm.
"She's offl She's off!" Meredith says, hurrying to the duffie bag
without taking her eyes from Adrien.
Adrien jerks. A window sash flies up. Adrien makes a lunging
motion and whips Holly around like a crank, so he pinwheels out
through the open window which snaps shut after him. It all happens
so fast it's unreal -- like he weighed nothing.
"Adrienl" Meredith shouts.
Adrien throws oS her scarf, and rips the heavy chastity belt in
half. Meredith has a doll she's pulled from the duffie bag and is
rushing up to Aclrien holding it out and chanting something, but
somehow, as she comes up on Adrien, she trips, staggerc backwards
almost as if she'd run full speed into a wall, and goes tumbling out
the now open door of the cabin, which slaps shut after her -- leaving
us, AC and I, alone with Adrien, who is masturbating in anguish so
violently she's shredding her clothes.
Her entire body is speckled evenly. Her sweat splashes on the
floor so that her feet squeak against the bare boards, her whole body
flexing, the working of bunched muscles under her skin is so tremen-
dous it's like she's turning into a wolf, as if the rigid sinews were
shifting to new positions. Meredith is pounding on a window with a
rock and Holly is beside her, both of them shouting wide-eyed at us,
but there's no sound, no breaking glass, only the reverberation of
that bell, and Adrien, her sobs, her choked and maimed language,
the fragments of her clothing snowing down around her. The glass
isn't breaking, or even cracking.
"Should we try and stop her?"
"No," AC says.
A wisp of smoke has just extruded itself from the Messerschmitt
 PEST ]7

head. There are more wisps -- coming from where, I don't know.
The ringing has only become more remote, but it shakes space
around us with a permeating throb that's like the first ripple of an
earthquake. Inside it, there is a more regular stamping, a sense of
something rushing headlong in our direction like a runaway train --
what is it? Something familiar about it. Looking at Adrien, it's like
she's framed against an image of high mountains, sharp peaks, blue
sky, green meadows dotted wildflowers, countless wildflowers, and
big animals, milling around, between and among us - something -
there's one of them, in particular ... whose eyes ...
- a colossal yak bursts through the wall to my left with a jolt that
seems to want to make the cabin slide from its foundations --
I - without thinking, I grab AC and pull her out of its path as it
barrels right by us -
- the walls and roof topple and fall away with a crash, the floor
vanishes beneath grass and rocks, a stony slope and huge human
forms rushing heavily past and around us, and screaming black birds
and figures with cackling girls on their shoulders. The come down
the slope with mattocks and picks, banging their feet against the
slope like the clop and bang of a rockslide. They converge in one
spot just in front of Adrien, who has somehow contrived to get
herself up on the back of the yak, plunge their picks and mattocks
into the ground, digging madly. The landscape is not the California
chapparal - it's not anywhere I've been, and the air is thin and I can't
tell what AC is thinking, she keeps whipping her head this way and
that.
A sputtering, rumbling motor noise attracts my attention in time
to see a big woman, or man dressed as a woman, big as me, come
roaring around a boulder on a motorcycle. This person is wearing a
mu-mu and a leather aviator cap. A cigarette is pinched in the
corner of a thin-lipped, downturned mouth. The motorcycle has a
sidecar, and a passenger. An eighteenth-century guy in a powdered
wig, with a serious nosebleed. The motorcycle is towing a miniature
trailer. Because I'm hallucinating, right? The smoking head has
smoked my head, clearly.
Adrien is lying on the yak's back, the Messerschmitt head
perched above hers, grinning down the length of her body and
78 MICHAEL T. CISCO

oozing wisps of smoke. Adrien masturbates while the ogres hack

open the ground, hauling out huge rocks and clods of cakey black
soil. The big person stomps around behind the motorcycles and
opens the trailer - a mob of bright-eyed mental patients in white
gowns spill out and scamper over to Adrien on their wasted, hairy
iegs. They begin masturbating in a circle around her with their
tongues hanging out.
A luminous woman all engulfed in gauzy scarves, her eyes like
two winter mint blue ice caves and antlers on her head, floats in
from trees - trees? -- densely ensconced in fog and butterflies, bran-
dishing a long titanium scepter polished like a mirror, and some
vague figures in the air attend to her, just little independent folds
and flirts of mist. Eighteenth-century man walks bent, although he is
not old, and his mouth, framed in scarlet on his ashen face, mutters
an incessant grolvling. He looks like Kant. Using a tree branch as a
crutch he advances toward the hovering woman without looking up
at her.
Where is this landscape of black gravel and huge rocks, dense
mist stinking like tar pits?
AC is staring at a point in space out beyond where gauze
woman and nosebleed man are, where the mist is churning like the
compartments of a kaleidoscope. I am digging alongside the ogres,
throwing shovelfuls of earth over my shoulder one after another. I
can t see the sky or the horizon but I know we're way up high, in a
place where gravity is much less, and the air is electric.
Adrien is getting near to orgasm it sounds like and the mastur-
bating mental patients are producing so much sperm gushing onto
the ground around the yak's feet that it forms a bluish-white stream
and rolls toward the pit the ogres have been digging. The sperm
turns the crumbly coffee-ground loam a sterile grey white like
sunbaked dogshit.
I see dead eyes on purple fire just above Adrien's knees. I see the
flying woman's tears and the blood from the nosebleed man fall
among the threads of sperm as it plunges into the whole. A cathedral
soars upward into space from between her legs. I see AC recoil,
throw up her hand, start to turn, and I chuck my shovel and run
after her.
'l

PEST 79

a heavy organ rumble the cathedral rams the clearing sky

-With
with its jagged outline, looming over us now with a panoply of"life_
sized_erotic carvings, the arclight eyes of the figures crackiing
to life
and fluted srone mourhs gushing orgasmic of roaring
lets bluJ flame.
As I reach AC, Adrien comes for the first time and the cathedral
doors fly open. At about fifty meters away, glancing over my
shoul_
der, I
can see the dense, felty blackness inside urrd th. luminous
panels of colored light in the windows, the will-o'-the-wisps of the
candles standing motionless in angled rows deep within. Tie smell
of cathedrals swoops out on us.
Adrien arches her back and her cries are telling me that she's
reached the momenr of rapid escalation and as .h" Jo-.,
again her
cries make the gloom within the cathedral arch vibrate like
iertical
pool and the orgasm congeals in it, shuddering the gloom and
shuf-
fling it together inro a human form -- the Narth"r, Jrr*ry
man in
a blonde wig, face painted across the nose, dressed like
a ,9)o, pluy_
boy, swaggering with thuggish hauteur down the steps toward
us,
and wan in the shadows stands the wiry Close --
Adrien comes again, and. the dark deeper inside the cathedral
trembles together into the Nave - a crooked noodle, roiling
on one
battered wheel in a skirt of hay, the face long, lean, ablfze
with
conniving, eyes incessantly rolling, long limp hands kneading
ancl
knotting together, cooing ingratiation,s.
She comes again, wildly thrashing, growling, hoarse, becoming
-
a dirty old man and three gamboling little (ures that are like
giant mice or pigs, and plump, obnoxious little boys when they,re
children. They cluster around a deeply-tanned and oiled septuage_
narian wearing only a pair of brown leather dungarees with iris
right hand jammed down the front and furiorisly jerking at
himself he swings his body after the Nave, wiping hi, ,,orl on
-as
the back of his forearm. That's the Transept, attended by the
Triforium.
Another orgasm, the fiercest and most exhausting, and, reclining
on a sort of chaise-lounge, the Apse comes after, all in
platinum satin
with the Baldachin rolled up and tied to the back. The legs of the
chaise-longue neatly flick in and out with the diagonal gnit "of
a dog,
setting the Apse's moon-nectar martini swaying.
80 MICHAEL T. CISCO

Beside me I feel AC suddenly jump backwards. She must have

seen something I didn't.
"shit!"
She's bolting away from the cathedral toward a heap of high
rocks that may not have anything but space behind it.
"Hey! Hey hey whoa!"
Something tells me we can t be separated here and I run after
her. She saw something else in the cathedral that I didn't see. If it's
that bad, maybe running away is the move.
She scrambles up the rocks.
"Aw fuck AC come onl"
I'm dragging myself up the rocks and behind me the organ is
blasting and I'm missing all the lightning, but AC suddenly stops
and doubles back -- no path that way I guess - and gives me a
chance to latch on to her, That's when I see something drop onto the
stones down below. AC twists in my arms like a fish and it takes all
my strength to hold on to her, because, if
she went the way she
wants to go, she'd fall headlong down that slope and crash into boul-
ders. One glimpse of the thing dorvn there is all I can get -. I see a
box made of rib bones laced around a fibrous, pale grey bouillon
cube of desiccated meat. I don't think AC saw it. It wobbles there -- I
believe it was ejected from the cathedral -- now I know it must be
because it just put forth a pale, skinny arm, wrapped in thick purple
velvet all studded with jewels, an embroidered bird, an embroidered
lion, among other things.
The ground flips on its side.
I jam myself painfully between two rocks and see AC's legs
whip against a blackening sky - I reach out and feel her waist in the
crook of my elbow. She's light as paper mache. My free arm and my
legs help wedge me further in among the stones, the blue washes
right out of the sky and the horizon smokes with gold steam.
When I can stand again we are halfway up a long blue slope
that shines white as moonlit snow, dotted with rocks in puddles of
inky shadow, sharp as razors, and overlooking an ocean of madman's
semen, roilingand slopping against the perfect circle of the shore. A
pier juts out into the bay and a whole procession is following
Adrien, still on the back of the yak and surrounded by a shuffiing
 PEST 81

retinue of masturbating maniacs, to a power yacht like a

catheclral
lying face down in the -- well, not water -- it, h.rge engine
like a
cratered cartoon meteor huffing and puffing, vibratiirg
*iih pirro.rr.
The Narthex is already at the wheei, th" -T.un."pt i doini some-
thing_to the engine while the tiforium are shoveling ,rolrro.k,
into the bluewhite furnace mouths all over it, the NavI
perches on
the. bow like a vigilant figurehead and the Apse slips
o, a sarin
slicker and nor-wester hat, then opens a platinut pr.*ol __
paralun
I guess - to shield the Baldachin.
At the mouth of the crater bay, a gargantuan whirlpool is
forming -- it's a bizarre bluewhite cavity, lik" u" ice cave
of spoiled
milk. AC writhes and snarls and kicks at me, but I don't
p.,t h".
down. She's slapping me, shouting --
"Blue light?l Turn aroundl Turn
around you idiot!,,
But I'm watching that whirlpool evert and reach up, screwing
into the sky like a warerspout. The powerboat has ripped
free of the
pier in a gout of shocking red flame and is beerining toward the
maelstrom.
A secondary, bluish glare, is however washing oyer us from
-behind,
-
growing in intensity like the headlights of I.r upp.naching
car. AC grabs my head in both hands and turns it so fiercely
I have
to pivot in place to avoid whiplash, and now I see the sou.ce
of the
blue light is the Earth rolling down on top of us from space.
So, I
start to run.
I run from the Earth, still carrying AC. Behind me, giants roll
the earth down on us like a steamroller, pushing it on its
aile, thighs
bulging, heads down between their massive arms, and
there are rows
of work elementals pounding anvils all across globe, driving
the
planet on with their hammers. The world fixes us like a cat,s
eye,
mottled with dead zones where there is no oxygen, and the
pupli is
California's golden slit all aflicker with raging
-ildfir.r.
The cataract of madmen's semen coils Jirectly overhead, rising
into
space like a huge ribbon of cloudy egg
white and coiling toward a siot in
the Pacific Ocean, just off the burning coast of South"ri
Crhforrria. Tfr"
buttresrpontooned por,verboat, covered in gothic carvings,
with evil_
looking rocker engines vomiting red fire and black smoke,
with a roar that
mingles with what sounds like screams of rerror -- the
Transept appears
82 N4ICHAEL T. CISCO

tobe fuckingthemotor-- charges towardone side of the spermspout, and

then begins to climb it along a sort of screwthread ridge around the
column. Adrienis visible on theyak, squareinthemiddleof the deck.
We're left behind)
Well, that was bound to happen.
Still running toward the shore, trying to keep my eye on the
bucking powerboat as it climbs up the vertical sperm stalk ladling
itself now into the Pacific Ocean, making a seething blue-white
medallion on the water -- the surface of whatever we're on is folding
up saddle shaped, so we're nearly bent double over the sperm super-
falls -- AC thrashing and swearing.
Suddenly I catch sight of Crant; he simply slides into vier,v
against the void, riding his surfboard along the knife-edge of the
semen pillar, just far enough behind the powerboat to avoid the jets
of hellfire. There he goes, neat and dry, gliding with one arm calmly
raised, reading the crisp wave-edges like a string of prayer beads, his
perfect hair floating around hirn.
Even from this distance he seems to be aware of us.
He throws us a smile and waves with his floating right hand --
come on, that means, you'll have to dive in if you want to get back.
Up past the two dead eyes glazed white inside the purple blazes,
toward the outline of the cat's-eye slit state of California, burning
gold and turning down on top of us, the great sperm slick is aiso
Catalina Island.
So we have to jump into the ocean of insane cum to get away
from the planet bearing down on us like a runaway train, or no - to
land on it) Because a runaway train is the place to be?
I gaze down into the sloshing white muck below *
Wham - right into the sperm.
Swimming in it. Blinking it out of my eyes, trying to get to that
spout, that funnel, tornado, vomit.
... How long?

... My weight is being massaged and drawn this way and that in
gelatinous salt water, my hands claw sea froth, my fat buoys me - --
my head breaking through but not long enou- --
 PEST 83

... On the beach now, finally. I 'an't think.

Wh're's AC) My weight is double, I'm crushing the island still
snowy with strong-smellin! semen under *y.loppy"f""t.
... No sign of AC.
..'I'm exhausted.
My arms, my shoulders, my chest and my back are all aching.
_
I must have been swimming and swimming, Kelp festoons me. Salt
smarts in my eyes, encrusts me. The sky is blue. There's the moon,
faint white in the blue like a fading cum srain. I'm on earrh, then.
That's good,
Right? Yeah. I mean ... sure, righr,
... Nobody around. Panting, I shamble up the long slope from
the beach, until I reach a broad, flat expanse of r"att"reJ trees below
a ridge line.
Something whuffies ar me, on my left. What is it?
... It's a bison.
A bull bison.
A whole herd of bison, waiting for me.
,,Hey,,,I
say.
Numbly, I drag myself further up the slope. I think I,m trying
^...
to find a vantage point. I crawl up on a heap of rocks u.,d t.,r,
around, wincing as a flash of reflected light hits my eye. I think irs
the sun flashing off a window in what might have been a tall rower,
rising up over rhe ridge there, Now I can't find it.
Seeing no other likely signs, I get down and start plodding
upwards, in the rough direction of the flash.

_ ... There it is again - another pyrotechnic burst of sunlight, and

the suggestion of a white spire now, rather than a tower. Buiwhe. I
blink the glare away,I can't find it. Just pink and green after images
swimming against everything.
... Again it happens.
... I'm getting scared -- there plainly is nothing rhere, but I keep
getting these sunbolts. My eyes are still burning with salt and my
head is spinning, a flash, try to see what it is, so tired -- nothinq
but sky.
... I top the ridge and find myself looking down inro a little
84 N4ICHAEL T CISCO

canyon with a broad, level floor. The canyon is open at one end, and
fans out to form a natural amphitheatre.
... The shape of the canyon - makes me think of something - it
hits my mind like lightning.
... Before my eyes I see lines float up from the canyon floor,
precise jets of water and curtains of water and precise rising domes
and spires like the shapes of fountains, stable, but not solid : a grand
gallery, a spacious plaza, a great hall, ancillary buildings, delicate
fountains, graceful spires high enough to be seen over the ridgeline.
The spire I saw flash from down there.
... There is a temple complex there and not there, there and not
there, there and not there, each time there it is, and a fash of the
drafting table and the building plan laid out in front of me and me
working on the plan, dotting lines and numbering angles, flash in on
the complex more and more constructed, with great cranes, hulking
workers carrying slabs and girders, and the light in the canyon swells
like sunlight coming from behind a cloud and dimming out again,
that heavy ebb and flow of weightless light -- I see through the scaf-
folding, the activity of construction, through to the concept and its
relationships, where angles become black lines and dotted arcs on
white paper forming a constellation of thrilling numerical balancing
acts whose end result is a structure made mostly out of water
arranged in jets and sheets, plumes and screens, waternumbers
falling into slots and chutes to help muffie the noise of the falling -
another fallingwater, a literal fallingwater, my fallingwater, where
Grant will gather to do his ONE ONE ONE for ghosts doing the
meditations, raising and lowering their arms, their heads, and the
water funneling their vibes up translucent spires to a mind-beacon
concentration focus point, way up in the air over our heads to rain
down in pains on the earth again.
... Am I on the ridge?
... Naked in front of my drafting table, my clothes shredded and
thrown all over in puddles of seawater and wisps of kelp. I grab
something, maybe a blanket? to dry myself with hastily, then sweep
everything off my drafting table toss down a sheet of paper and then
, ,nl:- the plan for the annex on it in great long exact sweeps --
 PEST 85

...My phone is ringing. The pert voice on the other end of the
line identifies itself as ucLA Medical center. I check the time, but
I have no idea when I started. My body is numb, the light in the sky
might be day ending or breaking,I don't know.
-- What time is it)!
-- It's time to go.
Crant is in the emergency room.
I receive this information without surprise and begin robotically
dressing myself in my seawater clothes. Halfway through this proce-
dure it occurs to me that I am in my home where all my clothes are,
and I sr,vitch to dry, basically clean clothes.
..' Grant is sitting on rhe edge of an ivy-filled planrer outside the
hospital as I pull up. I can't be sure, but it seems like someone else is
just leaving him.
"What happened?"
Grant is pale;his voice is weak but calm.
"Im not sure. I guess it was an asthma attack. I'd been feeling
-
funny for a while, then all of a sudden I couldn't breathe. I guess I
must have passed out. I woke up here. They say there's nothing
physically wrong with me."
The heap of medical documentation rests there on his lap,
giving off a bad smell, There's something like a smell dissipating off
of Grant too, the trace of a brush with death -- a sort of whisper, a
sort of cold? Who was rhat just quitting his side)
Grant carefully folds his forms together inro a packet.
"Hold up here a second."
He gets out of the car at an intersection and tosses the medical
bale into a garbage can. When he gets back in the passenger seat, he
seems less ashen.
"How did it go)"
I laugh.
But who was rhat just quitting his side?
So I tell him all about it on the drive to his beach, where he
wants to go, and it seems very lame and ridiculous put into words,
commingling with traffic lights, litter, and dopey bumper srickers.
crant listens to me with the wind holding his hair up away from his
ears, as if it were helping him.
86 MICHAEL T. CISCO

E:::::=

Meanwhile in the suburbs people are sitting down to dinner lit up

one family per square. The epidemic hasn't hit yet, so the state of
emergency is only ordinary. Home hearthlights flow out on lawns
and gardens.
Float like seaweed through those homes and domestic sights
until you reach the house with no lights on. Lying low against the
ground, ominous beneath heavy trees.
Go through the wall.
("Caen you imaegine being possessed by the body of a teenaeged
girl?") the Apse says and clicks her tongue. ("I'd raether be aenointed
in oil. HIC You couldn't getnxe in one of those thingsl")
The Narthex is cleaning his solid amber r 9 r r automatic with a
soft cloth. The upper half of his face is coated with a thick layer of
congealed honey. Through it can be seen the false eyes painted on
his permanently closed eyelids. His lips and teeth are black, and
cigar ash covers the rest of his face, all the way down to his closely
bandaged throat. The tansept is sitting on the foor in front of the
open stove, drenched in sweat, steaming in the oven heat, and
masturbating with his hand down his leather pants. He concentrates
fiercely, compelling the tiforium to make the house more habitable
- removing light bulbs, doubling up curtains, blocking drains and
keyholes. The whole place must be hermetically sealed. The Close
stands in the corner by the front door, a pale face on a wiry body,
impassive, watchful. Eyes rolling in her sun-dappled face, the Nave
has the end of a spider web wrapped around her thin green tongue
and she's tugging gently at it, coaxing the spider down into her
mouth. Once its legs begin to play speculatively on her lips, she
sucks it in noisily and rattles it around inside puffed cheeks, which
light up so the spider is visible, scrabbling wildly around in there.
She blows a spider-bubble and flicks it out into the gloom with an
index finger.
The Apse sips her martini and looks at the Nave.
("Thaet's some paestime.")
The Nave wheels over to her deferentially, her weird hay skirt
hissing on the linoleum.
 PEST 87

"Perhaps you would ... like one?"

She gestures at another spiderweb in the corner, The spider
hears her and scurries behind some moulding.
("I prefer a mosquito, HIC.")

I
The Nave wipes the spittle from her chin and dries her finger-
tips on her sailor's tunic.
The Apse ruffies her slimy hair with a free hand.
("Now, let's do whistles.")
The revolutionaries gather together in the dark and fling their
arms around each others'shoulders, eyes burning like angry red stars
-- even the painted eyes of the Narthex - and they whistle in unison,
rocking side to side, smoke rising from their lips, and a reedy chord
of crumbling friction rises jauntily from them, braided together and
twisting out into the suburban time with a subtle warp that slides
along the suburban nerves raising the suburban hackles, slides an
element of tension and darkness into idle dinner conversations, so
that the dusk flattening into night against the windows takes on an
ominous weight ... solid black panels on white walls, and at the same
time, the outer night is yawning and deepening to infinity, opening
to a danger that never fully comes, but which seems to hang, dilat-
ing, just above the gleams of tall streetlights. The bright points only
intensify the gulfs they make vanish between rhem, bur there is
enough light from the sky to show the blue outlines of somber trees
and brooding ridge lines. That daemon-warp mumbles and palpates
the nerve-haze of the contracting neighborhood, like a speculative
predator searching for something. It stirs restlessness in people who
are too tired to do anything about it. It numbs and distracts people
who are awake. It gives the night an innocence that makes people
forget to sleep, makes them want to go out to where the shadows
each hide a coyote, a poisonous snake, a serial killer, or maybe even a
mountain lion.
Whisde whistle whistle. Even the Close can't help but join in.
Rustling in the hidden rafters, between the roof and the plaster, the
Crossing draws near -- a grey spiderishness drenching them in an
invisible shower of ghoulish cold.
But what's - )
... There's something -?
88 MICHAEL T. CISCO

... Something's feeding back along the whiz of the note ... some-
thing is sliding back at them along the whir of the note.
There, in the center of the braided whistling, like a funnel of
smoke...
... There he is, headlights swarming around his head, drinking
silence with his hot tea, drinking silence with the darkness in his
hair, drinking silence with his smug dzi bead, drinking silence with
his white linens, taking them on without any holy names or symbols,
without any pentangles, without Hebrew, without Latin, with
nothing but calm. He surfs their whistles back to them, finding and
reminding ... you're here to do a job ... just a little job ... do me a
favor, and help me with this one little job ...

Grant and I are on the r 34, zooming under green highway signs in
the concrete trough.
"We didn t lose our souls, did we?"
"No, Chalo."
"We didn't sign anything, so we're good, right?"
"Right."
Crant has his head back, one arm rests along the lowered
window.
"But don't they only work for souls?"
"Maybe. I'm gambling myself on it.
Just myself."
"Just yourself?"
"Just myself."
"So you signed?"
"No.I didn't."
"But they're still here, with us?"
I have the feeling they're not only still around, but that they're
right here with me, right behind me, back in the back seat.
"With no signature, they are only half-summoned."
"Half-summoned."
"Right."
"And you know this how?"
"From what's happening."
 PEST 89

"So you didn't know going into this. you just

gave it a shot on
sPec. '

"You were never at risk, Chalo."

"I ended up in the Pacific, man, I think that's
risk.,,
"I thought you ended up at home."
Wind. Hushed whir of freeway traffic.
"I wanted them half-summoned," Grant says. ,,tying to
pin
them down ... it never works out. They alway. *"ur"l or-t of uny
articulated bargain. But with silence, you can get them. you can
bring them through enough so that they can't go ba.k and they
-
don't want to go back, they want to stay on this side and make
trouble - but they aren'r free to act. You pull them in to you by with-
holding orders, because they think they can catch you. Th"y,re wuit_
ing; that's just what they're waiting for. - So remember, don,t
bargain with a stranger."
"Everything's evil and everybody's a stranger
anyway.,,
"The question is whether these are what
yorr,." thinking of as
evil demons to us, or to the bankers. what's evil to the evil is g:ood to
the enemies of the evil."
I drive on in silence myself for a while, watching the silhouetted
hills swell in the windshield. I look over at G.a.ri, and he seems
twenty years older, all the color blanched from underneath his tan.
"You're going to handle real demons
-_ with logical jugglery. ...
Maybe not)"
"I have got the sound of a billion
hands clapping.,,
A smile appears, speaking not to me but to the roof of the car,
and the sky above it.

The Nave leans into a closeup. Her drawn face is streaked with
perspiration --
They can handle drumming, they can handle chanting, they can
handle beating the ground with hands and feet, th"y handle
"Ia,
circles and squares and classical languages, but they can,t handle
this smooth silence. It's like someone following you around eyery-
where you go, not saying anything but just looiing at you, waiting.
90 IVICHAEL T. CISCO

Of course, that's what the Close does, but the Close is one of them
and part of them. They can't handle it coming from outside the
church. So the Nave wheels up to the Apse, who is reclining on her
divan with her sempiternal martini. The Nave is always quivering,
as if she were about to giggle with pain.
"Grant praesses us through the Crossing," she says. "\44-rat
should we do? You alwaeys know whaet to dol"
("M-,") the Apse says. She speaks with a midwestern twang.
("Well, he is raether getting on my nerves, too ...")
"Whaet aebout the Pulpit? Aeren't they working on him)" the
Narthex rumbles.
("They haenven't had enough time to do much, Narthex. HICI
Not thaet they ever tell me aenything.")
"They took a humaen naeme," the Narthex says with displea-
sure. "Thaet meaens they aernen't here to plaey baell with us."
The Nave wraps her arm around her head and drags her hand
over her face and scalp.
"Grant presses hard," she whines. "He shows glide ... claims
color. His implacable waeve riding is maeking unfortunaeteness
toward us aend it's driving me nuts."
"NUI" the tansept says, biting off the T crisply.
"We aere being nutsdriven by the incessaent mute exortaetion of
Grant. He presses us through the Crossing. You alwaeys know
whaet to do. Tell us whaet to do."
The Apse lolls her head back thoughtfully on the chaise-longue,
rolls it very slowly from right to left, then lifts it again. She takes a
sip of her martini, hiccups, then drops her head back and rolls it
again. It's still rolling as she begins to speak.
("We're going to haeve to HIC give him something to tide him
over, thaet's aell. If we caen get him some of thaet money he's aefter,
he'll haeve to go aebout using it, aend that should get him to laey off
for a time.")
"Aww thaet sounds like work," the Narthex grumbles.
The Apse's head arrives upright on her neck at last.
("Well, it should buy us some time to figure a way out of this
mess.")
The others gather around. The Triforium adjust the lighting,
 PEST 91

drawing the Apse a little farther into rhe deeper shadow rhat hovers
about them like a negative campfire.
("I tell you whaer, the Nave aend the Transept should head over
to the baenk and get them to waeive that credit history.")
"HEAED," the Transept says.
"Would thaet be enough)" the Nave asks eagerly.
The Apse nods her chin down to her collarbone and swings her
head up again, her large eyes half covered by her heavy eyelids.
("Enough to maeke work but nor enough to HIC maeke us
commit. He'll haeve his haends full trying to ger thaet loan rhen
-
say.'.")
An anti-light comes into her eyes, which fades to two cold
points. She barks a cold laugh that makes the Nave straighten up
electrified.
'You've thought of something?" she asks impetuously.
("Ho ho ho,") the Apse chortles. ("Haeve ,round
I! Gaether
fellas.")
The demons converge on her.
If
you had second sight then you would see those rwo demons
walking in the door as they are.
(If you had second sight, you wouldn't be working here.)
If you had second sight, you wouldn't see two gymbody business
smoothsters in senator suit-and-hair combos blandly ficking cell-
phones, you'd see two crazy demons boogie-ing down the hall with
eyes like cold stars and cold srar-slime-srreaked chins, snapping their
fingers and bobbing their heads. The Transepr veers off
following every ass and the Nave wheels right in behind him to"or..r"
steer
him back around with long sure Iingers.
"Mmmnnokay this is Mr. Brairbershn, he's our
Creditorian and
he'll be helping you today," the receptionist says.
The tansept slobbers and rams his dick up and down inside his
leather pants. The Nave genrly palpates the air near her with her
upper lip hoisted. To the receptionisr, they appear to be two
respectable straight men in suits, rather stupidly standing in front of
her instead of going in to meer Mr. Brairbershn.
"Their company must stand on ceremony more," she
thinks.
"Old-fashioned."
92 MICHAEL T. CISCO

Aloud she says, "Go along

in please."
"Aesk us three times," the Nave says.
"I'm sorry?"
"Our HR depaertment requires us to be aesked three times
before we enter aeny office," the Nave explains, with just the right
note of superiority.
'ENTERI" the Transept echoes, pounding himself violently.
His comments don't penetrate his cover, although a closer observer
might have noticed an agitation of the pink cheeks.
"Oh wow," the receptionist says. "That's super-thorough."
"They're strict aes hell," the Nave says.
"OK well, please go on in."
,,GO
INI'
"Thaet's one."
"Please go in,"
"GO INI"
"Thaet's two."
"And, please go inl" the receptionist says, her voice rising as she
gets into the spirit of the game.
"GO IN!"
"Thaenk you very much!" the Nave says unctuously.
The two seep in on the Creditorian, who has been tossing
wafers of data into folders on a screen between himself and the
window. Now he comes up to them with his hand out.
"Hello, how are you? I'm Steve Brairbershn."
"I'm Warren Navistock," the Nave says.
,ROD
FITZTRABS.'
"Well Mr. Navistock, Mr. FitzTrabs, what can I do for you
today)"
"We're here to discuss the issuaence of a credit waiever in
connection with loaen applicaetion 43o41'
"Are you representing Mr. Grant?"
"Yes, thaet's right."
If you had second sight, you'd see her blow her nose copiously
into a filthy rag and hand it, quivering with snot, over to Mr. Brair-
bershn, who does not have second sight and consequently sees a
power of attorney crisply extracted foom the inside pocket of a
 PEST 93

rather unobtrusively expensive tailored suit and extended to him

in
manicured fingers.
"Mmnok, just ler me call up the
application here ...,,
Mr. Brairbershn's face works thoughtfully as he reviews Granr's
documenration, which is a virtual blank.
"Ehmm, well, I'm not sure we can...
oblige you there...,,
Mr. Brairbershn continues to flip squares on the screen, his back
to them.
"You're not sure ...?"
Mr. Brairbershn reaches, wirhout looking, for his pen, which
rests like a mercury lancet of cool professionalism o.r the
glass
counter before him.
"Let me give those figures one laest little
look,,,the Nave says as
she reaches across the desk for the tablet and knocks the
pe., to the
floor.
"Butterfingers! Let me get thaet for
you.',
blazing with concentrated mockery she fixes her gaze on
_ , Iu."
Mr. Brairbershn as she pantomimes retrieving the pen.
"Here it is," she says, producing from
tUelmirrg of her own filthy
jacket a Messerschmitt head, the one ,.ris.,omered as ,,An Enraged
and Vengeful Gypsy," and sets it down on rhe desk. She."r"h", ii-rto
the left ear, which flexes as if it were made of actual cartilage;
wisps
of grey smoke rise sluggishly into the air as the Nrr"
f,,rll, h",
daemon stylus out, glowing orange like an unquenchecl irrgot, urrd
presses it into the distracted creditorian's limply ope, hurJ with a
hiss of steam.
Fir^e shoots through eyery nerve in the Creditorian,s
.bursts from
body, sweat
every pore, without looking he scribbles his signature on
the credit waiver the Nave holds out to him.
"Thaenk youl" the Nave croons nasally, tucking
the waiver into
her nose with a small bow.
"-fhankyooou!" Mr. Brairbershn screeches,
his eyes popping.
The Nave links arms with the tansept and they U.gi" ,J rr.r,
lik€ counterweights around each orher, bobbysocksi.rg Ir, of the
office while Mr. Brairbershn fumbles at his pocket rqrl.", which is
sewn in place. The Messerschmitt head stares alarmingly at him,
teeth bared in a crazed grin, and viscous smoke dribbling slimily
94 I.4ICHAEL T. CISCO

from the left ear. The smoke lifts heavily from the bust, and mehs
into the antiseptically conditioned air of the office.
Arm in arm the revolutionaries sashay out the front door, the
Nave half-towing the tansept who sways in space like a magnet,
attracted by every rump he sees, and out into the street and into the
back of the black maria the Narthex has idling at the curb. In his
office, Mr. Brairbershn stares at the head on his desk, transfixed by
its wide-open eyes of pupiless black lead. The skin around the
opening of his ear canal discolors, as if it were charring. His body
begins to jerk and quiver. His face twitches in shapeless, nameless
new facial expressions. Suddenly he throws himself to the floor, b-
boying wildly.
"Aell's well old boy!" the Nave brandishes the credit waiver
where the Narthex can see it. "The Apse's Messerschmitt gimmick
did the trick! Now we caen do spellsl"
"She's alwaeys right aebout thaet sort of thing."
The Narthex leers around his cigar, the Triforium nose the
hear.,y car out into traffic, Mr. Brairbershn pinwheels in a frenzy of
masterful floorwork spraying sweat like a lawn sprinkler .. king
Bares, air flares and floats, crickets and halos and perfect darkham-
mers. His body throws off a tainted wind that ruffies the expensive,
tastefully flavorless polo shirts of his horrified co-workers. As the
revolutionary book people are withdrawing from the neighborhood,
Mr. Brairbershn drops into a long spinout on midspine, and
explodes in vomit amid barks of disgust.
"Oh -- Cod!" someone cries peremptorily. "Call housecleaning!"
"You can still see the sashimil" the receptionist whispers.

For a moment, I thought he'd died in his wheelchair with his back to
the setting sun, because his eyes and mouth were open and there
was a fly - a big fat one -- rubbing its hands there on his left eye. He
stirred when I shooed the fly away, dabbed at his eye, and a tear
came out.
 PEST 95

"' These fucking flies won't give me a moment's peace. I roll around
in the grass. There's a big pushy one in particular that keeps
whacking me in the face, like a belligerent frat boy chest bumping
me. Another one keeps hissing in my left ear. There's another
one
beating off in the middle of my nose, and there,s this lazy languid
one who never come^s near but never goes away, either. I,..,
-oiirg
up into the wind. Is that a spider, dangling from one my horns)
"' oK now the mountain wind is giving them some trouble but
the little shits aren't giving upl They,re clirging ro me now.
I,m
scraping my head against the grass and the rocks. -
... Right on the ridge now. I throw my head around
letting the air
g-roo-* me. I want to go up, my feet are taking me up and
up, Ih.orrgh
the little gullies, to the spot I've been to b1fo.", where ih"
figr."
took me.
A venerable old-bull blocks my path. peering ar me, nearsight_
...
edly blinking through his long ey"lrih"r, he standJperfectry
still]his
breath rattling in his chest.
Come with me, please, is the message.
A small committee of elder yaks, mixed bulls and cows, is
waiting for us at a more even spot on the mountainside,
out of the
wind. Two of them, one a bull, a bit younger and very black,
and the
other a greyish-brown cow, are strangers to me; ihey seem
like
specialists, called in from another herd, for a consultation.
Regarding me.
The old bull stands off from the rest, staring with weary majesty
into the valley.
So, he says in effect, you've been dabbling in black
_
have
magic,
you)
By remaining still, I reject the assertion that l,ve performed any
magic.
The old bull blinks slowly and rurns his head, meaning, you
have had at leasr one exchange with the Figure.
I remain still, not denying that I encountered the Figure, but
only that there was an exchange.
The old bull looks to the black specialist and snuffies,
The black yak, who has been eyeing me appraisingly since I
came among this group, raises his head and extends his
snout in my
96 MICHAEL T- CISCO

direction, then rotates his head and turns it, so as to look strangely
askance down his cheek at me. He addresses the group.
There is a great mass of magic actions which show a similar
motivation, but the foremost, which has always played a great role
among yak herds, is the art of attracting cows by magic. Cows are
attracted by imitating sex acts and perhaps also by imitating cows
themselves, "Playing coq" we call it.
The black yak waggles his horns, flutters his eyes and nods,
shifts his weight on his forelegs from one to the other, and finally
urinates in two jets that each inscribe a sloppy crescent in the dust
beneath him. This means:
The earliest magical operation intended to attract cows is, of
course, a series of indications with the horns directed to sugges-
tively-contoured gaps in the clouds, but in a later phase of cultural
development, instead of these more or less direct magical conjura-
tions of cows, the young bull makes a ritual ascent to appease the
spirits of the heights so they will send him cows. But all this is
simply a wishful misunderstanding, which puts psychological laws
in place of natural ones.
I iower my head and inspect a clod of earth between my front
hoofs, which means that I maintain I have made no magical opera-
tions intended to attract cows,
A matronly yak from our herd, whose relations with the old bull
are strained even though, or perhaps because, they've had several
calves together, is the next to address me. She opens her jaws
slightly and heaves a long creaking sigh, closes her eyes and turns
her snout into the wind.
No one is looking to restrict your personal freedom, she is telling
me. I am sure we will all agree that none of us wishes to interfere
with your spiritual practices. We are concerned, however, because
we - all of us -- have seen young bulls like yourself go completely
insane after encountering the Figure, sometimes even after only one
encounter.
The old bull farts, and inhales in two quick gasps, as if he were
short of breath. This means, You could hurt others or yourself if you
go insane.
 PEST 97

By remaining still, I thank them for their concern, and express a

desire to avoid going insane or causing trouble in the herd.
The black yak nudges the grey-brown cow by his side, and she
takes a step in my direction. Her smell washes over me in a delirious
wave; in a few weeks, perhaps, such a wave will induce an intoler-
able frenzy of arousal. At present, however, it only confuses me.
This gesture of hers means that the black yak is i,viting me to
further conversations with him.
I don't really object, but it seems ro me that if I agree quickly, I,ll
seem like I'm only saying yes ro weasel our of it. So I allow my
stomach gurgling to become more audible, to show I'm actually
considering my answer.
The grey-brown cow turns to look behind her, meaning that I
should not worry, that no one is accusing me of anything.
By remaining srill, I agree to meer with the black yak again
tomorrow.
Until then, is his answer.
,.. The other yaks watch me as I walk back down the slope. The
flies have returned, finging themselves at my face, but i barely
notice.
Something is cracking and collapsing like a rock face inside me. I
don't care anymore : I just - suddenly I'm full of shame for listening to
them -- the way they talk that shit - agreeing to talk ,bort it
^ore
tomorrow - all the weight vanishes from in my chest - I rtrn back .. I
don't look - I just run, and feel the ground go up - crying and running -
The ground drops away - I stop at rhe edge -- no I dor,'t warri to
jump down and die -- if I'm going to be damned eirher way, whether
I see the Figure again, or submissively reduce myself down below,
then I might as well see the Figure some more.
... There's no windbreak up here, and the wind hits the tears all
over my big nose, and it feels sliced. I can't let them scoff at my heart
so I might as well, I might as well. I'll see the Figure if I fucking
want. ...I'm wrung out.
... I turn around empty to face the Figure, who isn't waiting, any
more than a tree or a stone would be, but always ready, the way
stones and trees are, and I'm ready.
98 MICHAEL T. CISCO

Tertiary Credit Furnisher Stephanie Debnebdld 25 leaves

California Fedality a little after 4 PM. She stops at a red light a few
blocks away and glances into her rear-view mirror. The driver of the
nondescript black car behind her sits so low in the seat that she can
only make out the top of his head -- what appears to be a very short
person, dark skinand close-cropped hair with a dramatic widow's
peak. Something else is also strange, but the traffic is moving.
... Then, at the market, less than ten minutes later, as she turns
into the frozen food aisle, she glimpses again the top of the head. It
is just visible above the pushbar of a shopping cart. She is
distracted now, unable to interrupt the momentum of doing her
shopping, checking and rechecking her phone, loading her car,
leaving the lot. She remembers the cart was in motion when she
saw it, but there were no hands on the pushbar. The cart may have
been empty. There may have been someone else, a regular sort of
person, pulling the cart from the front end. So the small dark
person might not have been pushing the cart, but only following it,
verv close behind.
... But what was particularly strange about it, she now realizes,
as her house on Park Drive wheels into view, was the greyness of its
blackness, and the way it shone. Oily skin gleams, but this skin
glinted.
... Now that she thinks about it, having pulled her car into the
tree-shaded carport, the brow was narrowly furrowed, as if whoever
it was had winched their eyebrows up all the way.
It is now about 5:45.
...
... She stows her groceries, changes her clothes, checks and
rechecks her phone, and goes out again at quarter to seven. A dinner
date with an old friend, Paralegal Associate Steffi Grnobkgln 25, at
rB5o Bistro on Industrial Street.
.., Stephanie arrives first. The maitre d'has a shaved head, dark
skin. That's what I meant, she thought. Gleaming, where that other
head had been glassy. She is seated in a red vinyl booth. One menu
for her, and another in the place opposite. Steffi sends word that she
will be delayed. Stephanie orders a Negroni even though she doesn't
 PEST 99

like them. Taking a sip right away helps her to overcome her distaste
for the drink.
... When she looks up, her gaze falls of its own accord into the
sizeable mirror on the wall in front of her, and there in the second
booth behind her she sees rhe very top of the same head, facing away
foom her, glinting in the muted light of the restaurant, the very close-
cropped hair forming a sort of pattern radiating from the crown.
... Nonplussed, she dithers with her drink, keeping her eyes
fixed on the head, which is motionless. As still as a sculpture.
without fully realizing it, she is hoping it will become indistinct and
lapse somehow. She very much wants it to stop being conspicuous.
Embarrassed, she hurries to the women's bathroom.
... There, over the top of the stall behind her as she washes her
hands ... and no feet below the door of the stall. The head is right up
against the top of the door and there are no feet at the bottom.
Stephanie turns and leaves, almost forgetting her phone, not both-
ering to dry her hands, nearly colliding with another woman
coming in.
... Walking out onto Industrial Street, over to her car, mechani-
cally getting inside, then whipping around in sudden panic at the
thought that she might now see that head in her rear view mirror
again, this time inside - in the back seat.
Her car is empty.
"I'm in a horror movie. I'm hallucinating."
... She texts Stem, explaining that she is currently experiencing
hallucinations of a disembodied head. There's a sharp knock on rhe
driver's side window an inch from her ear, and Stephanie finches,
recoils, drops the phone, looks up into Steffi's confused, rather stern
face through the glass.
Steffi's confusion only deepens as her friend, having rolled her
window down, jabbers apologies and half-intelligible excuses before
driving away.
... Stephanie drives home with her window down and air
buffeting her face, rushes to the front door, flings it open, and
confronts a gargantuan face of lustrous, supple black lead. It's
Messerschmitt's "A Strong Man," floating in a void of its own that
dwarfs the house ... dwarfs her.
1OO MICHAEL T. CISCO

... Later that evening, Steffi, having received the texts about
hallucinations, is contacting people, trying to get a handle on what's
going on. She receives a fresh text from Stephanie.
"Right now, in my left ear, is the hottest record of the summer."
... That was the first "spell."

Somehow, at the next gathering, Anthony Motion is the only one

who turns up. Grant catches sight of him silhouetted under the
arbor by the fountain. The breeze dies down; in the still air, Grant
puts on his veil and sits in his usual spot. Through the white film he
can see Anthony rise smoothly and step out into the sun. He was
introduced to Crant at another session a few weeks ago, and since
then he's kept on cropping up. He was always alone, and always
appeared somehow as if he were centered in a picture frame. \Mhen
he sat down anywhere, he always was perfectly still in every part
except one; maybe one hand's fingers would be evenly drumming, or
one foot would be vibrating in the air, crossed over his knee, while
the rest of him was as still as a picture.
"This is Anthony."
Grant glanced up and locked eyes with him. Anthony had
steady, fashionably compassionate, pale brown eyes that were very
large in a smiling face framed in cherubic blonde curls. He nodded
once, unhastily and deeply, his eyes closing as his face descended
and opening as he lifted it again.
Now Anthony glides up to take a seat directly in front of Grant,
lowering himself deliberately into position. He folds his hands in his
lap and rocks them up and down. There's never anything really
nervous about his fidgeting. Crant notices the stillness about
Anthony, that is only punctuated by these tremors that seem
intended to amplify the statuesque unwaveringess of the rest of his
stationary body.
Becalmed in the golden afternoon, the college is quiet. There is
no breath of wind, and the beams of sunlight are static. The
gobbling noise the fountain normally makes is muted and intermit-
tent. The whir of traffic around the campus is as muffied as if it were
 PEST 101

coming from benearh the ground. The whole unexpectedly subter-

ranean day is buried beneath heavy blue and gold strata of light and
sky, an oppressive glory that dazes like sunsrroke, although thl day is
not too warm.
Grant's hands rise and fall. His smothered voice is chanting
from an adjacent space. The pupils of Anthony's round eyes are so
black' They anchor him against the world in an intolerable way, ancl
intimately, Iike dark pins drilled back through his head u.rd ir,,o
space. The movements he makes are shackled to still points that
hold their positions like a sardonic reverence for the blastings of the
world, as if to say that it's all nothing, and what's more, a nothing
that can never be mastered, that only reflects an inner blankness, a
horrifying, perfectly smoorh and powerful and beguilingly useful
blankness. The blankness ofJim Jones' sunglasses,
What matters, those two pupils are saying, is the grand curl of
emptiness inside the wave, that's what you surf on.
what matters in the chant is the silence it sheds around itself
like a sacred precinct in sound, and the gestures do the same in
sPace.
The void polver is a smooth and even horror; and, motionless, it
travels everywhere in silence. The blank is the slumber of
the magic black and white of mirrors, that reflect'ampiric
the specious reality
of whatever comes before them, while draining off for themselves
the latent empty power of what they show.
Grant knows that Anthony will still be gazing ar him with unap-
peased expectancy after the chanting is over, and that they
wiil walk
together then.
... And later on, when Chalo comes to pick Grant up at the
hospital, it's Anrhony who has just quit his side. Anthony was
already in the ambulance when it came to retrieve Grant, and he sat
beside him, staring with his compassionate eyes down on Grant, as
the EMTs drove him through the night, drumming his fingers regu-
larly on his knee. Anthony was with Grant when Grant had trs
terrible attack.
... I can handle this, Grant thinks, straining for breath. He has
something I can use. This isn't abour me, this is about Catalina and
building the Annex, remember that.
102 MICHAEL T. CISCO

Grant's chest is rigid as steel, refusing to open up for air.

The Annex is greater than I am. If I go down, I go down, but I'm
not going down - Grant feels as if his diaphragm is right in the back
of his throat - slammed shut, no breath, no breath - I can manage
him - no breath, panic, dying, dying - I can manage him -
Grant feels his lungs beginning to soften again, and, knowing he
will come through, finds Anthony's steady, compassionate,
unblinking eyes, and it's like looking up to know you're not alone
and finding only the bare white expanse of the ceiling. A ceiling that
goes on and on, never meeting a wall, unsupported, and drawing
down.
I can get through it, Crant thinks. If I can get my breath back, I
can get through it.
Breath falls reluctantly into him again.
There.
See?
I only need enough - think positive - it will never fail.
... And when they are sitting outside in the gloom, Grant waits
for Chalo * he refused Anthony's offer of a ride * one day when he's
stronger, but tonight no.
... Now, Anthony sits with his long legs crossed. His ankle
swings up and down. His face is turned toward Grant, motionless.
The air, motionless.
"How are you feeling, now?" Anthony asks.
His lips barely move when he talks, but his jaw compensates
with exaggerated action.
His facial expression is always the same, warm, compassionate,
understanding, tranquil. \4/hen he's finished speaking, it's as if he'd
said nothing.
"It was like someone stuffed my chest full of wool."
Crant looks up and recognizes Chalo's shitty hatchback pulling
up. Anthony whisks away into the dark at the same moment. It's as
if he were yanked into the shadows on a line.
... With an effort, Crant pushes down on his dantian and draws
a reasonably full and refreshing draft of night air into himself. It's as
though he'd been unwilling to exhale all the way out while Anthony
r.vas still there. Grant stands as Chalo heaves out of the driver's seat.
 PEST 103

AC at the usual spot, a table on the sidewalk; she

.,. Grant meets
hands him the next swatch of translation and he passes her a cash
envelope through a plume of pu-erh sream. He pages through her
work while she clutches the arms of her chair impatiently, waiting
for him to give her something new.
The Narthex and the Nave stand suspended thirteen feet off
the ground on an invisible pavement, gazingdown at them. Other
vague figures, fellow book people, revolutionaries, pass to and fro on
this glass sidewalk, attending to their victims. The Narthex kneels
down for a closer look, his black mouth snarled around a thin green
cigar.
Grant puts AC's ffanslation into his drooping undyed linen
messenger bag and pulls out another sheaf of the concplwtensian
PolyglotTertna,which he hands to her in a roll, Iike n .,"*rp"p"r.
"Whaet's in that one)" the Narthex asks.
The Nave lowers her head like a boa constrictor checking out
the forest floor from a tree branch.
"Thaet's aebout anti-tulpas. I wonder why.,'
"If he knew whaet thaet r,vaes aebout, why would he need it
traenslated?"
"He doesn't know. Sorueoneknows."
"Hmm," the Narthex grates.
He stares at AC.
"I'm going to give thaet girl her pick m€ up,,'he says.
He reaches into his shoulder holster and draws his r r r. Ail the
9
parts are made entirely of amber. It's heavily ornamented but trans-
parent, so the decorations are inscrutable. The Nave backs up and
places her fingers in her ears as the Narthex chambers a da)zling
spark that guters and dribbles tiny blue spuming's through the gun
as if it weren'r there. He aims down his extended arm, his hlad
throrvn imperiously back. AC's head slides easily into the center of
the sight, and the Narthex immediately lowers the gun, crouches
down, and peers into the depths of her mind. She's reviewing the
anti-tulpa text on the outside, while on the inside there is a sleeue of
helical caves turning around a transit.
"You're not going to shoot)"
Clear pistils of sound, like fat parentheses, glide our of the caves
104 I.4ICHAEL T. CISCO

and brush AC's bright red brain. The Narthex can see her astral
form gritting its teeth and snarling in pain. The pistils are painting
AC's red brain clear with tiny Tibetan characters that fip like domi-
nos, becoming Roman letters in English words, while her whole
nervous system shudders with rage and loathing instantly converted
into pain.
"She doesn't need it ..." the Narthex says, surprised.
Scintillant points uncoil from his eyes and fall in loops around
her, as if there was a disco ball spinning just above her head. The
colored points strafe around AC, caging her in moving light. The
Narthex drills his gaze through his own sealed eyelids and inside her
red brain, where he sees a vast, open earthquake landscape shaking
under a green-black sky with a tornado just starting to form. The
rocking ground is consumed by what at first seems like lightless
flames; it takes the Narthex a moment to realize the flames are tho*
sands of shadowy human forms tangled in mortal combat. The
Narthex struts through them, brushing the soft bodies aside with the
muzzle of his gun, until he finds AC.
Most souls have a subroutine, a characteristic gesture or action
they're usually doing. Some people's souls are always lecturing at a
podium. Other people's souls are always eating. Still others are
always sleeping. AC's soul is straddling a prone form, someone
whose hands are on her face, trying to shove her away, and AC is
rearing back, the fury of her expression made even more frightening
by the way those hands are distorting her features. She is driving an
enormous blade into the body beneath her, which is so dense that
she can barely force the point into the flesh, and she has to push
with all her might, steadily, not giving up, pushing and pushing
while hands scrabble at her face, bending her back, the flesh of the
body pushing the blade out, and while a scream comes over the
horizon rushing in this direction to join with its body like a hurtling
storm wind.
"Thaet one's got staemina," the Nave says over his shoulder with
a little sniff.
The Narthex jumps.
"You're alwaeys creeping!"
AC scowls at the Tibetan writing in her hand. Grant sips his tea,
 PEST 105

reviewing her translation. The Narthex can see an unsettling

rhombus of nothing glowing around that dzi bead. No visible brain,
no soul. Instead, Grant is suffused with a deferral so smooth and
easy that it threatens to draw him out into an infinity of blankness.
But there is something familiar there ...
Switch back to AC.
"I think I can get a freeze off this one," the Narthex says.
Bending forward slinkily, he passes his face and head through
the clear pavement and keeps moving until he's standing upside
down on the reverse side, his face inches from the crown of AC's
head. With the ember of his cigar he sets fire to a trembling plume of
angry spirit chi that whirls out of her top chakra and inhales it in
savage gulps, snapping his black teeth. Breath bursts from his nose
with a whistle, and his nostrils are coated in frost. He teakettles onto
his back and flips straight up onto the top of the pavement again,
then hops up and down in front of the Nave with his head flung
back, jouncing like a pogo stick, bliss strangled in his throat.
The Nave's face crinkles in a knowing leer of appreciation. Her
features are daubed with roving patches of shapeless sunlight, as if
she were always in the dappled late afternoon shade of summer
trees. From her vantage point above the crowd, she rvatches Chalo
amble up to the table and sit down next to AC.
He greets them both, says something to Grant, and then turns
his attention back to her. The Nave detects an intense and fruitless
mental effort to come up with an icebreaker.
"Poor fellowl" she chuckles, spit dripping from her teeth.
He manages to come up with something he doesn't think is toxi-
cally lame and says it. The Nave watches Chalo reach inside his
own head and pull out a colorful cellophane pinwheel on a stick and
hand it to AC, who doesn't notice him.
"Slow down turkey, she's not for you," the Nave giggles.
The pinwheel starts melting into grey smoke that blows away to
nothing, and Chalo's spirit partially deflates, generating a tempting
chocolatey gloom.
"Who would you saey she's for, old son?" the Nave asks, glancing
at the Narthex, When she looks at Chalo again, her eyes sparkle like
dirty water in the sun.
106 MICHAEL T. CISCO

"I rvant a whiff of him."

Norv she oozes face-first through the pavement and her long
tongue laps at Chalo's heart. Chalo flinches, clears his throat,
fumbles with a napkin. Now he stands, driving the iron chair away
with the backs of his knees, and excuses himself, clearing his throat,
pawing at his neck, heading for the bathroom, srveating.
"Sensitive," the Narthex says, and purses his lips.
The Nave coils and uncoils, rolling in a circle.
"He really feels it," the Nave says.
She begins giggling inanely, lifting her head up and slobbering
through bared teeth. She looks at the Narthex and flicks her eyes
At AC.
"You like her," she says,
The Narthex gives her a withering look with his flat, painted
eyes.
"Kind of but not sort of," he says.
He thrusts his right arm out ahead of him and they're driving the
long opalescent Catalina Grand Prix, the Narthex has the wheel,
and the Nave sits beside him, her head draped along the open
window and the wind in her stringy hair. The wheels hum on trans-
parent pavement above the freeway; irs still daylight below, but up
here it's always night time, the attic of the world.
From up here, the city is a glowing lake in a shadowy landscape,
and the city lights percolate up through shadow air that fizzes like
black champagne. From time to time, the baleful lamps of an
oncoming daemon car streak by on the opposite side of the divider,
which is inscribed with occult characters of inconstant meaning.
Beside them, a rocking carriage, streaked with moonlit fog. Frantic-
eyed horses kicking sparks in silence, The invisible highway splits
around a massive metal head with downcast eyes, brooding forever
over lanes of glass.

:
...When I see the Figure is ready, everything I'm aware of concaves
in on it. A11 threads bind right there in a Figure sitting on the ground
and against the sky, who begins to describe to me what their educa-
 PEST 107

tion was like. All from behind a black lead masl< with a broad
toothy
grin and a weird hat. In one move, indistinct words from the
other
side of the wall pass me into a dream landscape of mountains
without valleys, the staggering ascenr up trails ba.ely wider than
your foot and those rickety Chinese plank walkwuy,
-"yb" rwo feet
wide bolted to sheer rock faces, mouth breathing and cold sweat
prickling out of your palms, a sick dizziness i., your arms and legs
as
you glue yourself to the stone, as rhe wind plucks and tears
ur'yo,,
like a teasing monster.
", There's no relief when you arrive on the other side and the
teachers descend on you like vultures. you can't see them,
because
they smear your vision, but you have the idea they are like
nine-foot-
tall mummies with convulsively flailing jrw, a.,i squawking
voices.
They bring a cloud of vocal racket *ith th"*, but if you lis[,
ca.e-
fully you can usually find some fiagment of intelligible speech
in it,
and if you concentrate on that fragment with all yoi, -ight, you can
usually locate some sense.
They are expressions of Gilshrakes. They are recognized
by the
P_redikaruen. They are your Gorgons. They will
,"u"f, yo, Zu*un
Wislin. They will inscribe you in Dub Thbles.
"The Narthex's got ae girlfriend,,,
the Nave croons to the
Apse.
'GO FOR IT TIGER," the Transept says
from the back seat.
"Yeah,
well thaet's more
_thaen
yor'u" got,,, the Narthex says
back, and snaps his fingers at the Nave.
The Nave snaps back. The Narthex overrules with another
snap and the Nave countersnaps. The Narthex ancr
the Nave both
start snapping faster and faster in a spontaneous snap race to see
who can outsnap whom.
(Quit thaet snaeppingl") the Apse says sharply.
They quit.
("Snaepping HIC aet eaech otherl Whaet,s
-
disgust.
next?,,) she says in
108 N4ICHAEL T CISCO

Grant finishes waxing his board and scans the lvater. The sun is still
below the horizon and the ocean and sky together are like rainbow
sherbet.
AC stares out the bus window at streets filled with Nazis
dressed in casual contemporary attire goose-stepping with their right
arms outstretched. She breaks the window with her elbow and starts
tossing grenades into the street. They go off with regular thumps,
flashing in the tinted bus windows all around her like a dance floor
and the more she shovels grenades out the window the more it
becomes a pafiy of leaping revelers and cries of delight.
... You haye to memorize every detail of this mountain side with
a mummy barking at you, starting over and starting over, never to be
done. Destiny never misses a thing. At last do you see where you
are? At the heart of the book, there is always a little aperture to the
passages, the wind, the uncanniness of these mountains where
destiny is made by workers who are masters of their craftless art and
slaves to the destiny they make. These corpses, absolutely desic-
cated, lining the stone galleries, meditating in inaccessible creches
beneath the peaks, your teachers, who know destiny and who show
you holv to make it, are masters of destiny because they are its
victims. What they know is destiny itself. They speak to you in the
wind that blows through their chapless jaws, their language is a
sobbing howl, out of their control, inscribed in hidden vintage
termas written not by conscious minds, but by destiny. All this is
only as it is. \44ry do you love it?
The Narthex lights another cigar.
("Oh Narthex, the turn-off is up there,") the Apse says.
The Narthex takes the end in his teeth, closes the hellbrand in
its pearl box and sets it carefully back in his jacket pocket.
('Well, I wonder whaet you're thinking being this far over if you
waent to maeke thaet turn.")
"I'm getting over."
("Is there some other exit you're thinking aebout, Narthex?")
"i'm doing it, Mama!"
The Figure turns to show me the mask -- a gleaming, black,
expertly-molded human face, smiling, showing its teeth, and
wearing a blach knit hat. The Figure shows me mountain slopes as
 PEST 109

steep as flames. The slopes are covered with chimneys,

disciples
pounding anvils, disciples on peaks swinging censers oi heavy i.o.,
on mile-long chains, wreathing the slopes below in glowinj blue
smoke. Lightning bursts berween the mountains. The
-orr.,tri.r, nr"
armored with titanic iron plates welded to their sides, scored with
fulgurant lightning scars and flaky with rusr. There are no valleys
below, only plummeting crevasses of inky nothingness.
The scene is now an island of light in a vast round stone
chamber of living rock, deep in those mountains. The flames of
numberless butter lamps are motionless as stars and the stone is
eternally quiet, but the air is churning with the relayed force of a
hurricane tearing at the mountains above. The Figure is brought
in like a captive between two mummies as elongated as
Giacometti sculptures, wearing the type of cheap suits plople get
buried in. Then the Figure strides up ro a ,ickety lvood.., pluu
form, all inrerconnected with a webbing of knotted .otl"r,
performs a ritual hand gesture, then seizes and drinks off a saucer
of clear liquid. The Figure's hands reach spasmodically for its
throat, and with a visible effort those hands are returned to *h.r"
they had been. The Figure lifts, the chest heaves, and is seized
again and driven with strictly regular steps toward the center of
the island of light.
A cube of dull steel, thirteen feet on a side, rolls a bit out of
shadolv, facing the Figure; it might be resting on something,
but
from here the cube seems to have nothing b,rt , few feet "of ui.
beneath it, and there is a half-circle window cut into the thick metal
about six feet up the front. The poisoned and trembling Figure is
lifted into the air, high enough to see rhe two dim th"rorih thut
half-circle, shining like two eclipsed moons well "y",
back inside. The
Figure is brought directly up to the opening and the gaze from
within presses itself into the Figure's eyes with a sickeiing heat.
Now the Figure can just make our the two hands clawing ih" ui,
only inches from the opening, as if the one inside were b-ound in
place and were, with a straining reach, trying to catch and maul and.
drag in. They claw and claw without stopping, trembling with
effort.
A shriek erupts from the interior of the box. It splits the air and
110 MICHAEL T. CISCO

stuns the Figure. It's as if the metal were speaking. The words are
lacerations in the shrilling. These are instructions.
The Figure is planted on the feet, and the next instant someone
comes up from behind and snaps a tight rubber collar around the
Figure's throat, but cutting off the breath. Weights are clamped
around the Figure's ankles, and now the Figure is driven forward,
and must not stop tracing the straight line of destiny out into the
storm.
The Figure is engulfed in a blast that forces air into the lungs,
despite the constriction of the neck. The Figure's abdomen heaves
with the effort to vomit air back out, and must not stop driving down
the line against the wind, slowed by the weights. Delirious with the
poison, the Figure sees the stern peaks of the mountains swing, sink,
and lift through veils of icy tears; deafened by the roar of the wind
the Figure hears the scream of the metal, and feels the narrow end of
a poisoned whip slash open the upper arm. The wound burns like
brine and the poison eats into the meat of the bicep. Lashes fall on
the Figure's arms and back; the Figure staggers and drops to its knees
suffocating, wracked with poison and the agony of countless enven-
omed wounds behind that smiling black mask.
The Figure pushes all the air out of the lungs with a supreme
effort and feels the collar clamp the rvindpipe shut. The Figure does
not claw at the collar, but folds the hands submissively as the whip
descends across the back with such savagery that blood sprays like
the tail of a comet, a spark floats out of the Figure's head and
becomes a bolt of lightning, launching the line off the stone ground
and into the sky. The pink and blue light blazes and disappears, and
the thunderclap slams and the Figure stands upright and sees where
the white blade of electricity cuts the storm, exposing the bluewhite
hellparadise of azure sky and dazzling white clouds beyond, and
either very far away huge or right before the eyes small the Figure
sees the dragon. Even with eyes closed, the Figure can see and even
feel the dragon twist and flex in a purple halo. Falling back, swoon-
ing, being dragged roughly out of the wind, the collar smartly cut
loose, the deep drafts of inbreath, the lip of a rough stone cup
banging against the teeth, the cloyingly sweet antidote ...
... The cavern darkens, and the sardonic wailing of carrion birds
 PEST 111

is heard. stinking flies swarm in the air and shadowy forms lift
themselves from a hinterland of your graves. They srand out from
asylums and prison cells, all in the shadorvs like people drifting
among desert rocks, but not hiding. Their mingled voices are heard
from hidden burials, bricked-up alcoves, from beneath foundations,
from between scantlings, from back alleys and the tall grass of
vacant lots, blended in a chuckle that's steady and lorv and that
seems to swing like an evil spirit among desert rocks. By ones and
twos, the teachers, the masters of destiny emerge into the constant
light of the butter lamps, wasted, mad, staring, glassy-eyed, hollow-
cheeked, sunken-chested.
Here is Rath Torturelle the Rhetoric Instrrrctor, a corpse, with
hair like a bird's nest, her shoulders twitching with suppressed
mirth. Her whole face is pinched together with the effort of
suppressing her laughter. Her mouth opens, casually vomiting
toward her feet.
Here is Rath Taskin the Grammar Instructor, a corpse, swollen,
bellied and laughing raucously, his whole head one continuous fert
of stubble seething with tears, wobbly on his emaciared legs, holding
himself with emaciared arms.
I:lere is Rath Craplin the Logic Instructor, a corpse, with scarlet
blood trickling incessantly from his nostrils, a snarling mouth always
in elocutional motion, a lividly pale, bent and peruked man leaning
on a tree branch.
Still hidden in the shadows, the master of arithmetic, a corpse,
extends a bony glove into the light, showing an artificial snail shell
made of coarse feathers.
Still hidden in the shadows, the master of astronomy, a corpse,
extends a bony glove into the light, showing a wing made of dense
wood.
Still hidden in the shadows, the master of geometry, a corpse,
extends a bony glove into the light, showing a pair of eyeglasses
made of orange flames.
Still hidden in the shadows, the masrer of music, a corpse,
extends a bony glove into the light, showing a brush made of green
stone.
These are your instructors. Your classroom will be an avalanche.
112 MICHAEL T, CISCO

-- There's a shaft of light shining down from somewhere up

there, and a shadow twists in the column, like a worm dimpling a
patch of water. I know it's the dragon that crawls at the center of the
universe, but as it turns, it's also the Grand Caliginous in its coiling
bouquet of fire, stamping bare feet on heaped up cadavers in slow
motion, with ropes of severed heads around the thick neck and
waist, decelerated bellowing coming from between the tusks and far
away, forming words with a voice that is the whole planet complete
with its sky, space, and time, and holding out in one of six hands a
tulip-shaped ladies'compact. The compact opens and I can see AC
inside, sitting at a desk, taking down some of what the voice is
saying: the shaking words zig-zag out of the air and into her brain.
She leans over the page holding the pencil in her fist, practically
ripping the words onto the paper, but somehow the paper is flat and
neat and the writing is even.
I see it
clearly -- teeth gnashing and eyes flaring, she's really
trying to shred the paper, and it's like the harder she tries, the more
smugly neat and tidy the writing is. The more she tries to lie and
bullshit, the more implacably true the words become; through her...
despite her ... the Cowyl.utensian PolyglotTenna, which is nothing
but nonsense, is becoming a genuine holy book. She has absolutely
no idea she's a terton -- a transmitter of hidden knowledge - and the
harder she tries to hoodwink Grant the more exactly she reaches
through the text, which is kind of baloney itself too - kind of, but
not sort of -- and it was itself only pretending to be. Thinking she is
beyond powerless, and the whole time she's got the power. Thinking
she's faking it, when she's actually getting it right.
The Grand Caliginous snaps the compact shut, whirls around
swinging decapitated heads, and jangling the heavy gold baubles
around wrists and ankles; a hand holds out a bronze teapot now.
Daintily, the lid is plucked off. Inside, I can see AC storming and
raging in a mountainous landscape. Like a cartoon character, she
reaches out to someplace and retrieves a bundle of lit dynamite.
Shouting with anger she throws the bundle. Her movement is
strange; it's like she has to shove the bundle through semi-solid air,
but at the point of release it snaps away a dozen feet and jumps
through space before bursting against the side of the mountain. The
 PEST 113

rock face coughs white dust and fractures. Rocks tumble down. AC
hurls dynamite bundles at mountains and monasreries and the
explosions are somehow building them up instead of tearing them
down, tripling her fury so that she raves and froths. Her faculty of
anger is bottomless. The dynamite shatters the Grand caliginous to
pieces. Each piece is turning into a new Figure, all different.
On the slope of the mountain I see an expression in the Figure,s
blank metal eyes rhat is so differenr from the look in Grant's eyes
that it makes me think of him, as if I were recognized. Something
important has just happened in my past. A change, rhat came
through the Figure from wherever the Figure came from, and went
into my past through my yak present, and did something there,
something that will affect my yak life too.
AC translates:

Up,breath,
into ritual shoulders!
ln, momemt, in!
T'he the-six the,
and stun thirteen shadows,
a face
mighthalo eyes.
Air likelaughter tracingits metal
in the the I\ow-line
witk air
stone-bent motion --
It' s swppres sing across forces --
Eyes small,
IaunchingRhetoric of prison --
wkip stand w ere subrui s sively beneath
b anging the like in w ebbing

with clampedthe the the

the collar f.oats inknotted shadows
writhing's cut the brought, draged Figure up the dazzling out-
artificial interconnected F igure' s F igure
the hinterland.light
114 IvIICHAEL T, CISCO

v tbr atin g w il " to" li sts

inbetween
likeThein speaking,
The andThat of mirth.
Arnongthe air
sw e et tr en+blin g h an d s nothin g it,
tearingbacktn
and pushes on Legs, with The T'lwt speaking salt around her
he'vne
others, other dei\ in inuisits
reachhigher whites
profers deuil's eye -- clnsehehe - walk in in.
A m.an perhaps parking outside has sorrow ,
like individual A all orer whites
together power salt
appalls white man.
Something cornes again equal to support temptation
can white ruan swell
II between it, enutous ltght.
Joy into the would
andh.e not el)en uniyersal
yet joy tragic assaulted
the while thehe thehero th.eYou
anybox
h.ke joy the coursethcwhitetragic outside.
ls itlooking?
Call for looking,
Hear again,
Birds and sl<y
open Gramwar Figwres.
Stars insidelightning
be to upon-be
the the --
A,
awhole A,
the about A,
the' s &l& in structions.
 P EST .I.15

Do A, th"e says,
The is of where uy its to.
They the is a the they.
The the ctn the - in shadou)s,light.
Suprewe fold.s out of the the the the.

I don't know how, but this is what Grant needs -- kill the bank, get
the loan' build the Annex on the island, be there when the special
Guest arrives, do ... what he's going to do. But when you ,nnk"
arrangements with revolutionaries -- this is what the Figure is
showing me -- when you make arrangements with book
f,eople,
something always gets away from you.
I remember that cube of living flesh and bone that I saw just
after the sex cathedral turned into the Narthex, the Nave, the Apse,
the jacking-off one, the creepy standstill one, the little twerpy ones.
That cube was another -- not one of them, but some other, that kind
of slid through opporrunisrically into this life. That rife, I mean, my
human life. Seeing that cube again in my mind's eye,I realize who it
is: the Pulpit -- Anthony Motion. He's nor like the others, who all
have these really distinct personalities. He's from a place where he's
so unbearably alive that he's paralyzed,like someone who all they
can do is come, so he has to come over into this space because he
can't stand there. Here, he's correspondingly dead, but still talking,
still walking around, making gesrures.
He wasn't personally summoned, so you can't manage him. He
wants to stay on this side, but the only way he can do it is by keeping
to just within life; the deeper he goes into life, the harder it ii for
him to stay on this side. I don't know why the two sides are divided
or- by what. The Figure isn't showing that. There,s always some
other side, basically, But the two sides are alwavs sides in something
bigger that keeps them affecting each other. Anthony Motion has to
stay liminal, and to do that he has to keep life neutral around him.
He latches on to Grant because Grant is surfing major life forces,
martialing them now to try to burst the mains and spread the
vibrations,
The Grand Caliginous One picks up fire and tosses the flames
116 MICHAEL T. CISCO

overhead like a wig. The fames flop down over the snarling face,
and go tumbling down the broad back. With two hands it plucks
apart the flames and lifts them, showing me the demons.
The Narthex veers toward the exit, but somehow the offramp is
still further to the left. He sweryes toward their one getaway point,
and watches nervelessly as it recedes from them.
Crant sits down cross-legged on the grass. From his pocket he
pulls out a huge white veil. Deftly he tosses it over himself so that he
looks a little like a translucent pyramid. The slope is dotted with
aromatic desert scrub, sagebrush, wild thyme. He sits at the apex of a
gnarly isosceles triangle outlined in live oaks, and chants u,ith his
lips barely parted in an inscrutable smile and moves his hands and
arms in a series of distinct gestures, each in its own place in the air.
The sky is quick-moving overcast with a single rent in it, from which
comes a slanting beam of sunlight. The patch of light travels over the
ground until it reaches Grant. Then it stops.
The exit is gone. The highway is gone. The car is gone. The
daemons are suddenly sitting all together in a groove below the
slope. Grant sits above them.
"Shit," the Nave says.
Each of them begins helplessly copying Grant's gestures, against
their will. All the colors of the landscape and sky deepen. The
whole scene is becoming saturated with telluric power, so that the
ground, the plants and trees, the stones, the clouds, the wind, even
the light are coiling like muscles. Nature is becoming treacherously
supple and aroused.
The Nave shrieks, holding up her hands in front of her face,
horrified. Her pale, snaky hands are now firm, square, tanned, in
white linen sleeves. There's a dzi bead at her throat. Long and
flowing hair, equally black and grey, falls silkenly about her face. All
the daemons are holvling; they're all turning into Grant. The
Narthex is yanking at his hair. The tansept claws at his linen pants
but he can't get them open. The tiforium have already become
little Grants and are sitting in the lotus position. With a screech of
horror, the Apse leaps up onto the surfboard her chaise lounge has
become, standing in perfect surfrng posture.
The ground shudders beneath their feet, then begins to sway
 PEST 117

rumbre. A pane of sunright shears

f:i
from f:::::,,11]l:'l"ling
the rest like'" ;;;;t*';"*, ,ff1'"il;::i1
into the
away
valley
behind them.
this glory, all this wildness, this panoply,
but who am I?
What am I) I am an animal, a man, is there
, di{i,"."r,.") Does any
of this touch me) Does any of it change
my heart)
A moment later, the.lightslide in_pug", clown
the slope and
sweeps the book people
chorusing, pagan landscapes shim-
mering with phantasmal_through
gold, down to ,i" pu'"in". C.rripi*iaty
conducts the scene with unhurried,
masterful gestures. Warh"d
down to the beach, the daemons are left
writhing and snarling on
the diamond sand, talking backwards, groaning, belchins uo
mercury. In desperation. they call on
the Crossing" b". i;;;"r;i
come. The Nave alone has the
presence of mind tJsee what Jrr"r,,
the Crossing along a tangent, away from
them. From here, the
Crossing looks like a1tzzled spider,
o. u pi""" of withered fungus,
crumpled up on itself and urvry ulong a trough
that cuts it off from them. ::lji"g
Who,I doirrg it) Iis thatither "",irg
"i one, the
Pulpit, holding the trough open with
hiJwoo.re.,hands. The trough
is d,1]<, but the t,*",."_: illuminated
by it and shadowed by the
sunlight' an animated
JC penney manikin with an uncon-
"uturog
vincing mop of golden curls on its head.
Crant completes another series of gestures
and an overpowering
will puts an immediate end to du"-J, antics.
Lifted to rheir feet,
each of them is possessed by something
coming through a Figure
thal coming through Grant. Grant ir"rik"
I
sunlight, and there is a vividly grey
a cavern in a bluff of
Figure insic{e rhat cave comins
through from the heart of tf," Utr"*tite
hellparadise to
their individual mischievousness for the
purposes of a whole"r".;r;:
other
order of mischief. The book p.opl-"
wulk up to the water,,
line, the Narthex's swagger, the Nur",,
fawning *""i,"dg;;; n
,'ansept's jagged jerkoff, Ihe tiforium,s lfr"
tumbling gambol, the
r t"q".:]l:yr glide, all gone: now, they
flt" walk like Grant, with
tne smooth, lightly-windblown poise
of a male moclel in summer
y"1A1 one they reach down, pi,.r"k .,p the lacy
fringe of ,h" ourr".
t" ,l::k"1'-ljl" , rir|t,iia wiip it, as o.,e, .hu,ti.,! _
"oNE, ONEONEONEONE;
ONEONEONEONE ...,'
1,]8 MICHAEL T. CISCO

With each plunge of their arms, they send greater and greater
ripples heaving back out to sea. The full moon barrels down the
clouds toward them, streaming with semen and milk. Ten-foot
waves, then twelve, then fifteen, working the ocean harder and
harder until the spell breaks. Exhausted, the daemons collapse like
heaps of books, mercury streaming from their smoking faces. They
moan and toss on the sand as the full moon steamrolls over them.
Crant lifts his right hand above his head making the "OK" sign,
r,vhile his left hand hovers before his navel doing "hang ten."
That Grand Caliginous One drops the flame curtains back
down and goes backflipping away from me, Somehow this is all
pointed at me through the Figure, and I can't move, I can't feel my
body, I'm looking out at the mountains from the valley -- the rvheel-
chair is whipped around by a Grand Caliginous One that thrusts its
maniacal face into mine. I kick out my back hooyes and throrv my
horns up. I roll around on the ground in a cloud of dust, the wheel-
chair on top of me, grinding its arms into my ribs. There's a circular
hole in the patio just big enough for my eye and the interior is lined
with gold flakes. I think there's a many-armed thing, silhouetted by
its own fluttering garment of fire, sort of rock-and-rolling down in
there, and I press the nearest available yak eye to the opening to see
better.
I see Steve Browlshweer and Steven Brairbershn down in there,
sitting around a table at an exclusive interview with a mortgage loan
analyst named Stephan Dblawbdm. Steve Browlshweer is having
brioche ailloli, Steven Brairbershn is trying to frnish his Koshihikari
charcoal-grilled-animal chorizo squid and seared Catalina seawater,
and Stephan Dblawbdm is having blistered goat Bouquerrones
topped with caramelized garlic snake, golden goat cremosas, and
trout supplement. They've put away a bottle of $3oo wine apiece
and are getting ready to go to the even more exclusive bar. Stephan
Dblawbdm has just received a text from his colleague, Stevynne
Hwehheh, about some foreclosures, and they all toast the dregs
before heading out. Steven Brairbershn, who is perspiring lightly,
asks Stephan Dblawbdm what Stevynne's middle name is.
"Arkwright,I think."
"Nice."
 PEST 119

"Part of my job is sexualizing Winnipeg," a woman is telling

someone as they pass through the tables to the exit.
"Have you seen Labkoragni yet?"
At the exclusive bar, surrounded by more expensive cheapness,
fake people pay a lot of money for authentic cocktails. Well, who
isn't a fake? What's real here is my confusion -- no, it's all real, but
there's a lot of real lying going on.
The street opens up beneath your feet -- the hole is real, the
falling is real, your fright is real, The one who realizes the illusion is
able to change it, sure, that's Grant I guess, and yeah, the Grand
Caliginous One is really right here, ro tell me that the new illusion is
still an illusion, but that's not what confuses me anymore, because I
have an exciting new confusion about what's next, because I think I
see what Grant is driving at, which is that reality is a skill - and for a
moment Steve Browlshweer and Steven Brairbershn wince and
squint at stunning California sunlight that pounces on their eyes
through the tinted glass windows of the bar. It puncrures the tinting
and brings the street inside. Steve Browlshweer throws up one hand
to shield his eyes, but the sunlight turns his hand into a pink glass
mitten and presses a fierce, palpable glare on his retinas, while
Steven Brairbershn stumbles to the bathroom, vomiting again. He
almost makes it. Sashimi on his shoes this time. Bending over the
toilet he feels the churning in his guts transmirted through the floor,
and in the midst of his wild disorientation he recognizes the onrush
of an earthquake.
Not much he can do about that.
The whole building trembles with the clattering of glasses and
plates, cellphones smack the floor, people rear up startled, bemused,
others still obliviously conversing away, and then the fluttering
underfoot starts to roll with a growling mumble from down below
and out abroad.
Everybody turns to the person on their right and imperiously
orders them to keep calm. The bartender and servers evaporate;
Steve Browlshweer is walking with his hand still upraised against
California sun, moving sideways like you do when you try to avoid a
rip current. Without seeing where he's going, he somehow exits the
bar and encounters a vision of Grant. He knows Grant's not there,
120 MICHAEL T. CISCO

but Grant is there, fully illuminated by sun in the middle of the

night, riding the ground waves of the earthquake, remaining uncan-
nily still, just steadycammed there in the center of Steve Browlsh-
weer's field of vision, so that no amount of drunken sway shifts the
image. The scene vanishes, leaving a vacuum that jerks the air from
his. I-le erupts in a fit of coughing, and barely avoids barfing. A stink
of rancid fish gushes from the alley,
On the beach, the daemons are still woozy. The ocean is rolling
heavy tides back out to sea, away from the shore.
("Come on,") the Apse says, a note of renewed vigor creeping
back into her voice. ("Come on now.")
"ONE... ONE-ONE..." the tansept roars.
("Stop thaet, tansept. HICI Nave? Where did you go?")
"I'mhere!" the Nave whines, at the end of her rope.
("HIC -- Narthex?")
"Yeaeh yeaeh."
("Come on now, whew!") the Apse says, climbing back onto her
chaise lounge. ("Come on, let's do whistles. .,. Come on, now!")
Stiflly, the battered daemons gather around the bedraggled
Apse, whose hair is plastered to her face with dewy sweat. They lay
their arms across each others' shoulders and begin to whistle
together.
The two bankers are kind of reeling around the set, looking for
each other.
"Chmag?"
"Brab? Is that youi"
No harm done, right?
Can't say the same about what they get up to the following day,
which is business as usual where business can only do harm -- but
then it happens again. Steven Brairbershn is trying to explain the
intricacies of a new scam to Stevynne Hwehheh when the sun
looms in at the window like King Kong.
"I can't see the fucking screen!" he snarls, sending it spinning.
Steve Browlshweer comes in a moment later.
"Brab," he says ominously. "Can I talk to you for a minute)"
They step into Steve Browlshweer's office.
"From the Director," he says, pointing to his screen.
 PEST 121

Hey guys! the screen says. Hey Steve Browlshweer and

Hey Steven Brairbershn, you're going up to San
Jose!
Your car wiII be here in ten rninutes! your car will take
you directly to your rneeting! In SanJose! peaccce!
The two bankers look at each other like human beings. In other
words, with misgivings.
Their phones both go off in unison with texts from the Director
that say
Hey! Your car is-hse right now! TTyL!
steve Browlshweer and Steven Brairbershn are zooming north
in a self-driving, convertible made entirely our of glass. Everything
in it is a screen. with a dread that mounts quickly tJ.rear porri" th"|
imagine the straight shot up the pacific Coast Highway, rhe sun
lowering at them above the terrifying expanse of the ocean. As they
veer toward the inland route instead, construction brings them up
short. They don't recognize me in my orange vest and cinstruction
hat, holding up the detour sign. GpS reroutes them.
GPS being General Pandaemonium Services.
That inland path to salvation shines just out of reach as they
pass one blocl<ed turn-off after another. The Narthex watches them
from a police cruiser parked by a taped-off onramp. The Nave leers
after them from beneath an overturned tractor trailer that's closed
off all the exit lanes. Pumping wildly at his groin, rhe tansept
deftly swings a bus into position, right out of .ro*h"r", cutting them
oT and forcing the glass car to swerve away from the interJarrge.
The Apse raises her martini, hiccr-ips, the computers glitch,
somehow mistaking one number for another, and ,o* th"y ur"
speeding along the coast, right up against the mountairs,urbroJ.e,
rampart, full in the California sun.
Steve Browlshweer is in what once was the driver's seat. Ster,'en
Brairbershn glances over at him, and beyond, catches sight of the
wave, like a huge bar of green shadow sinking into the ocean, its line
massing to face the north, not the shore. Now they both see it -- the
chipped flint edge of a wave lifting straight up, as if a gargantuan
magnet in the sky were pulling the water up to it. The r,r,ave
stretches out to sea as far as the eye can reach, and it rolls giganti-
cally, looming toward the north.
122 MICHAEL T. CISCO

On the left side, the edges of the highway rise up into a berm,
and heaped-up blonde rocks form an improvised crenelation along
the right side that strobes their view of the wave. After each inter-
ruption the wave appears to have very drastically narrowed the gap
between them -- the air vibrates with its breath and the highway
whirs beneath them. The air is growing humid, the wave, with unbe-
lievablv slow velocity, is drawing up its mass.
OK Steven Brairbershn has just noticed a tiny hum.an figure
surfing on that wave, etching a barely-detectable hairline on irs
curling face, just below the soaring peak. The surfer is barely
moving, holding steady to the water. Even at this distance, Steven
Brairbershn can tell that the surfer's hair is perfect.
"He's following us!"
Steve Browlshweer presses the accelerator to the floor. The car
ignores him. The pedal offers no resistance, no feeling. The highway
ahead of them is uncharacteristically empty -- in fact, that lone
surfer is the only other human being they see. A moment later they
flash into a tunnel. The noise of the car rebounds from the walls at
them, but even so, they can feel the musty humidity of the
onrushing wave, its rumble, thundering right through the mountain.
The tunnel mouth spits them out into dazzling sunshine, and the
wave is right there, chasing them, already level with the highway
and still unfurling, still climbing. They can smell it -- it hisses and
sizzles at them, the sunlight reflecting from its broad convexity is
broken up by its facets into chaotic warpaint.
The two bankers yelp with fright, whip out cell phones and
tablets, swipe at screens, one rips open the glove compartment and
flails through its contents wildly, while the other is dabbing and
punching at buttons all over the wheel and the dashboard like a
cartoon switchboard operator, as an inexorable shadow engulfs the
cat. The dtn oi. the r,,'iave \ooNS eight) teet over thek hea{s, and the
two panicking bankers can discern the tip of a surfboard jutting out
plumb at the midpoint. Steve Browlshweer flails out wildly, inverts
in the driver's seat with his legs whipping around in the air like a
breakdancer while Steven Brairbershn somersaults in place,
whirring like a top, throwing off little spurts of litter, old receipts,
gum wrappers, expired condoms, cracked and dingy cell phone
 PEST 123

cases.Then they feel the spatulate foot of the wave shove irself
under the back wheels -- the car pivots above them and then flips
forward, back over front like a pancake, landing upside-down in the
water' steve Browlshweer and Steven Brairbershn are borne down
by the car and swept instantly away from the coast. They tumble out
to sea, clawing and strangling in one hundred and sixty feet of
water.
The surface is a choppily radiant screen that curls massively
into the air, carrying them with it on a rip current Grant is riding all
the way out to Catalina. In the sunset, one side of the wave is blood
red and the other is midnight blue, with Grant like a snowy pennanr
flickering just on the blue side of the dividing line, cruising with a
fractured glass convertible and two bankers up to their chins in
water, twirling round and round like lathes in Grant's wake.
The island is iridescent purple in a red ocean, sloping up out of
the water. Grant stands up straight on his board and, gibbering
bankers in tow, glides down to the shore while the wave passes to
one side of the island and flies out toward the sun, to vanish in the
greater vastness of the Pacific.
I'm somewhere on the r 34 when I get a call from Grant.
"Well, Chalo," he says merrily, "wehate the loan, dude!"

How high is the water, mama?

Thirty feet high and risin'
How high is the water, papa?
She said it's thirty-three feet and risin' ...

Dr. Achittampong smokes by the open window of his office. He has

a view of a bare cinderblock wall and a little paved walkway. The
narrow stripe of sky he can make out from here is dusted with
plumes of black smoke, and from over the wall come the noises of
countless emergencies.
He fantasizes abour making great strides in the study of the
124 I.4ICHAEL T, CISCO

syndrome, e\./en as the nicotine in his blood struggles in vain to get

him to notice an article in one of the medical journals lying open
randomly before him. The authors of this article, being unfamiliar
with Messerschmitt's work -- and ignorant of art history in general --
used the name "Phantom Head Psychosis" (PFIP) to refer to a
bizarrely selective disorder that broke out suddenly among bankers,
financiers, and people in managerial positions in business or adja-
cent to business. Every individual affected by this disorder believes
they are being stalked by a disembodied, sculpted head. In each
case, the heads have certain curious features - they are always male
heads, wearing frxed grimaces, and they are never quite natural in
color. If they are white, they are uniformly white, gleaming, cracked,
and yellowing, like old ivory or meerschaum. If they are black, they
are uniformly black, gleaming, and really more dark grey than black.
If they are brown, they are uniformly brown, gleaming, and unnatu-
rally purplish in color. Each patient seems to see a different head,
although this difference is not always so obvious, but each patient
will see only that particular head. Without exception, patients also
report seeing a small quantity of smoke emerge from the left ear of
the head that follows them. The appearance of the head seems
invariably to accompany the onset of the psychosis.
PHP's chief symptom is manic hyperactivity of a catatonic vari-
ety. Patients lose all sense of their surroundings and become
engrossed in repetitive motor activity, typically sitting in one place
and agitatedly poking, swiping, or scrolling at the air around them.
Patients fixate on electronics, screens, panes of glass, reflective
surfaces. It is not uncommon for patients to poke and swipe at their
own reflected features, behavior referred to by Dr. M. Yutondo
(Kyushu Llniversity) as "facial emendation." Patients who do not
remain silent babble a word salad of business jargon.
Since patients with this disorder will perform managerial, finan-
cial, or other professional functions more diligently and efficiently
than the unaffiicted, initially there was abundant corporate funding
for further research into the disorder, albeit entirely oriented toward
determining - and reproducing - its cause. However, when
researchers determined that those suffering from PHP are incapable
of spending their own money, and that, without some form of
 PEST 125

constant care, they tend to die as a consequence of exhausti.n,

hunger, and thirst, this funding naturally drieJ up.
The nicotine in Dr. Achittampong's brain is trying to get him to
notice the clue that would, given a moderate amount of research,
reveal all manner of striking affinities between "phantom Head
Psychosis" and "Catalina Syndrome" namely, that
- the fixed expres_
sions on the faces of those affiicted by the syndrome come in
47-vari-
eties, all of which match minutely-detailed descriptions of the fixed
expressions on the phantom heads. If Dr. Achittampong or any of
his associates were at all familiar with the Messerschmitt f,"udr,
ih.y
would have made an even more startling discovery.
Dr. Achitrampong stubs his cigarette our in the cheap tin
-
ashtray he keeps hidden in his filing cabinet, on rop of a heap of
unread medical journals. He sees a distorted, quasi-silhouette of his
own face reflected in the shrinkwrap that still envelops the edition
on the top of the heap.
Slam!

"What's smoking)"
"It's the halal."
"It's so smokey!"
"It's halall"
"Smokey and the Banditl"
I guess I'm observing this. There's a halar food cart on the corner
with so much smoke fying out of it it's barely visible. Two women
going_.by. I'm waiting on my golf cart. My golf carr isn,t ready
yer, so
now I'm waiting. There are cars on the island, but everythirr! h"r" i,
just a bit smaller than it is on the mainland, incruding ih" ,ri."rr,
,o
most people on Catalina leave their cars behind urrd hr- around on
golf carts instead.

. Avalon is a heap of white, yellow, and blue boxes, pale green

doors, a cat's cradle of wires and cables and ropes strung
where, many of them decked with colored flags. It,s qri"f almost ""u".y-
silent. The people are all dressed up for rr--". fu.r, brrt thev just
walk slowly around looking at things and nor talking to otir"r.
"u.h
126 MICHAEL T. CISCO

I'm seeing old people everywhere, sitting in doorways, leaning out of

windows, wondering why they're here. The constant sea breeze
blows up from the water, the sky is overcast.
White-trunked eucalyptus trees grow out of pale, sandy soil in
the lot opposite me, and through their drooping, blade-shaped leaves
I can see the refractory jumble of houses climbing up the slopes
below the towers. I'm sitting on a bench about a dozen yards up from
a massive church of black stone, huge and narrow, like a gothic rail-
road car. Me and benches. My utopia is just benches. Benches and
shade.
I glance over to my left and nearly jump when I notice I'm not
alone. A chapfallen old black man sits right on the corner of the
bench, one skinny calf draped over his knee, looking steadily
at me.
"How's it going, Chalo?"
His voice is reedy ... but it makes the bench vibrate.
"Going good," I say weirdly.
He nods, still eyeing me.
"Can't complain," I say.
Still eyeing.
"How about you?"
"You don't recognize me, do you?"
"No."
I{e blows air, drops his head and shakes it, then looks back
at me.
"I'm Wilson," he says, spreading his hands a little. "Wilson CO."
The sea wind rustles in the eucalyptus and a bus groans one
street over. The overcast gloom of the day deepens.
"What the fuck happened to you?"
Wilson was a friend of mine I lost track of right out of college,
and he was my age. This man looks about sixty.
'Well,'he says, dropping his eyes to his feet. "After graduation,
what had happened was, I had too much debt, you know, and I was
irresponsible. I let drinking get, kind of out of hand, you know, and I
paid the price. But now, I'm clean. Seven months."
I can't bring myself to believe that this is the man I knew. But, if
he isn't, how does he knor,v my name, the college connection?
 PEST 127

It occurs to me this man might be looking for the whereabouts of

a bag of money from off a Brinks truck. A chill passes over me,
- but, if this man is some kind of informer, how does he know
about Wilson CO? CO meaning "see the cypher" in the supreme
alphabet) He never explained that anywhere, not in writing, not
anywhere where anyone who wasn't there would hav. found out
about it.
But - but -- what if he isn't Wilson CO, and he hasn't been put
up to talking to me for some reason, either. Then he'd have to be a
stranger.
What did Granr say about srrangers? Is he one of those
strangers?
"You're looking to hire some people to
do some building for you,,,
-
he says, looking me straight in the eye,
I'm sitting on a public bench, in a plain white t-shirt, with a
pizza stain right over my heart, and he thinks I'm hiring.
Another male is coming toward me. At intervals he stops and
turns, watching me.
-- -- --I don't believe it, the little fucker's charging me!
I roll with him.
We grind scalps, and then he pulls back a bit.
Neither of us budges. We turn our heads, watching each other
closely. He shrts walking along the slope, puts on a little speed _ I
bound up the slope and keep alongside him but above hi*. H"
wavers a little, so I come down on top of him.
He stops me with his brow and I drive against him, but some
way he gets his head around me into the sweet spot behind my ear
and drives me back up the slope. After a momenr I pull my head
away, get brow to brow, and use my horn to lever his head up. He
tries to roll me off, but I've got him -- I've got the fucker nowl- my
horn is under his and my brow is in his neck and I drive him around
a litde rise so I'm above him -
OK, what happened? I had himl
We somehow are brow to brow again, swinging our heads
together, and he pushes me back down -- I don't know how he did it.
My eyes roll and strain, trying to see pasr my nose.
We separate.
128 MICHAEL T. CISCO

Now we're just looking at each other.

-- - - That stain is small, by the way. It's not big. I just ate, too,
it's not like I'm just throwing on a stained shirt in the morning like
"fuck it, a shirt's a shirt."
Wilson CO leans over and bats my left forearm with a limp
hand.
"You asleep? I know who you should talk to."
"I don't know you."
"I'm Wilson. Wilson C0," he says firmly. "We were in college
together. We both lived in Bruder. We hung out with Kevin White
and that weird Asian guy, Josh or whatever."
None of this is bringing him into focus, even though it's all true.
"You need workers. You're here to scope out the land for Grant
and break ground on the Annex."
He presses the tips of his long left fingers to his chest.
"I can introduce you to the'migrants'."
I want to stand up and splutter and leave, but what do I know
about this stuff? That might be worse. And we do need hands. The
realization lowers itself onto me. I'm like a toilet for this realization.
Dusk is starting, doubling the enchantment of the overcast light,
and Wilson's shirt seems to glow, like fluorescent chalk. A hood of
fading gloom is closing down conspiratorially about us, and the
colluding wind slides oyer him to me carrying a faint smell of
cigarettes.
So, when he gets up without a word and begins to walk rapidly
away,I follow him along the narrow, winding streets of Avalon.
Small men with scarves and hands tucked into threadbare wool
jackets, leonine women in day-glo bikinis, skateboarders in what
looks like medieval peasant garb -- hoods and hose -- pass me in the
opposite direction, and I'm a bit concerned -- no one is going this
way but me and Wilson. The streetlights are little better than
candles and they shine leprous blue. Overhead, the sky is a canal of
mottled backlit blue and grey, swiftly flowing. The clouds are going
with us. I don't know if that's good or not.
We cross an open space where a number of roads cross without
apparently meaning to, since there's no planter or circle or anything
marking the intersection. Wilson is heading for a white adobe wall
 PEST 129

with an arched entrance. There's more blue light pent up inside. A

litde girl with one arm in a blue sling is scooting around in front of
the archway on a tricycle, not pedalling, just scooting with her feet.
Wilson goes right by her, I catch her eye. She very slightly
compresses her lips and watches me. I can feel her eyes on me as I
duck beneath the narrow arch.
Inside the wall, there's almost a jungle, big plants I can barely
see; wide, glossy leaves, feathery fronds. The path bends to the right
and as I round the bend I see an adobe house with a low plank
porch, no lights anywhere. Almost imperceptibly glowing, Wilson
tramps up onto the porch and goes inside, waving me through the
screen door. He sinks into the gloom of the interior like a wan stone
sinking in shadowy water.
I walk in on some kind of elaborate card game, about a dozen
people seated at a big round table. There's a beer in my hand before
I know it, in a chilled glass, and I've got a man in front of me who
shakes my hand with one firm pump. How I manage with the beer I
don't know, and I didn't see him come around to me; irs like he just
walked right through the table to reach me.
"Hey Gorgio," Wilson says, fading into the deep shadow around
the table. "This is Chalo."
"Hello," Gorgio says. "Nice to meet you."
The others have stopped playing and they all look at me
pleasantly.
"Hi," I say, abashed.
Gorgio introduces me around. Ernesto, Elena, Clavo,
Ixcuiname, Zeferino, Yolanda, Arginaldo, Hedilberto, Jesus, Pablo.
The big girl with braids who sits at the upright piano in one corner,
gently picking out little melodies and chords, is Malinche. The beer
is refreshing but insubstantial, like angel beer. Gorgio, I notice, has
one eye brorvn and the other pale blue, and pale blue, pale yellow,
pale pink are the colors they wear. I don't know why the thick white
walls are so dark, because they still are visible, like slabs of moon-
light all around, and covered in intricate wrought-iron screens.
"I hear you have some building to do," Gorgio says.
He seems to be in his fifties, hair all white, receding a bit, neat
white moustache, even brown complexion, not tall, but completely
130 MICHAEL T. CISCO

solid, like a Turkish wrestler. His bulky wristwatch blazes like a

little piece of platinum armor.
"A whole campus, yes," I say.
"We," he says, reaching out his hand and touching my chest
lightly with the ends of his hard fingers. "... will build it for you."
"Fine by me. But you haven't heard how much."
Gorgio waves his hand benignly.
"No problem."
He takes me by the arm. I feel like he could casually flip me up
in the air.
"Let me introduce you to Baliarne."
The game resumes as I am led around the table, past Malinche
who smiles at me, down a hall and many rooms wide open to the
outside, through the windows of which I can see a blazing peach
ribbon burning in the sky beneath a livid blue ceiling of clouds.
There are old family photographs and pictures of outer space on the
walls. Together, we pass a far greater number of rooms than I would
have thought the house could hold.
"We built this house, you know," Gorgio says, his voice booming
in the narrow hall.
He leads me into a small parlor in a back corner, where a
woman is sitting in front of a shuttered windor,v, facing the one door.
There's a book in her hand, so she must be reading by the trivial
light that shines in through the shutter, which is closed. Fresh
flowers in a water glass on the table next to her fill the room with
their scent. Having heard us coming, she is folding the book into her
lap I enter.
as
"Bakarne," Gorgio says gently, "this is Chalo. He would like to
hire us to build the Annex for Grant, his friend."
Does she line up the words on the page with the strips of light
from the shutters, I r.vonder inanely. The light falling over her from
behind makes her hair seem grey, but it might not be. i think she's
blonde. Ash blonde. Even though her face is hidden in the shadows,
I know she isn't looking at me. She speaks like someone whose atten-
tion is riveted on something else, and I know her eyes are on what-
ever that is, too.
"Hello, Chalo."
 PEST 131

She holds the book out to me, in both hands, allowing it to fall
open at random.
"Take this. Read the first thing you see."
"... what I reach out to is that you ..."
'Ah!"
She claps her hands over her ears.
I can't see Gorgio anymore; that thump or shuffie behind me
might be him, going away.
"That's enough. Give me bach the book."
I turn the book slightly, to get a look at the title.
"Don't lookl Just give it back to me."
I give it back to her.
"Gorgio?"
"Yes?"
"Tu puedes pedir los otros que si quieren tomar este trabajo."
"si."
A hand on my shoulderblade steers me quickly from the room. I
have the feeling that she needed to get me out of there in a hurry,
that something was about to happen that no one should see.
"Nice to meet you," I say.
She pauses, having taken up the book again, without any
evidence of haste or impatience.
"Y tu tambien," she replies, then resumes her reading.
The card game is visible at the end of the hall for a long time.
When we come back into the room, Gorgio gestures to the wrought-
iron screens.
"You see this? We made all of it."
I step up for a closer lool<. The wrought iron is all narrow
ribbons, beautifully worked into curlicues and little medallions with
skulls and bats and iguanas and what look like egrers. It's easy to
visualize Gorgio working the iron tape on an anvil or something.
There's a seat for me at the table. They deal me in. Malinche is
still picking away at the piano in a disjointed, twelve-rone kind of
thing, like a kind of a Berg bagatelle. I'm sitting between Clavo
Horcasitas and Zeferino Jojobal, who both explain the game to me.
It's called "Garceta Negra" and it involves maintaining two hands,
one of seven cards and the other of six, playing them against each
132 MICHAEL T. CISCO

other and then trying to match results with someone else, in order to
create a pair of "alas grandes" which have a sort of run-off with other
"alas grandes" and so on.
Clavo has a broad face with an arror,v-shaped nose and his hair is
slicked back in blades. Zeferino is tall and skinny, with a wildly
huppy expression in his wet eyes and around his wet mouth. He
keeps his arms up in front of him as if he were always typing on a
keyboard about level with his prominent Adam's apple.
I pick up my drink, but it's just a cube of solid glass. Everyone
laughs when I raise it to my lips. I guess the cube is part of the game?
Everyone else has one -- no, some have iron pyramids, and others
have wooden cylinders. The laughter is friendly, strangely relaxing.
A woman sitting next to Zeferino lights a cigarette -- that's Yolanda
Espantoso. I learn that Bakarne's last name is Bigotes, that Gorgio's
last name is Huidameros.
After a few hands in this interminable game whose purpose only
seems to be to keep going, Gorgio comes around and sets down in
front of me a brightly-colored document, the size of a playing card.
It says:

Estimate:

I, -------------, oE offering to pay

the "miorants"
o -----
oer
L'
hour. or a sum of
no later than -------
in exchanse
o for ------

Gorgio smartly click-clicks his ballpoint and puts it down next to

me. Crant laid down all the details in advance, so I am able to fill out
the card without hesitation and hand it to Gorgio. He examines it,
poker faced. Then he passes it to Zeferino. The card travels around
the table, to Ernesto Huesca, to Elena Hurtado, to Ixcuiname
Monje, to Yolanda Espantoso who transfers her cigarette to her lips
in order to hold the card in both hands and squint at it, to Arginaldo
Caldito, to Hedilberto Vago, handed off to Malinche Azazul at the
 P EST 133

piano, then back to the circle and Jesus Chapulin, to Pablo Huitztla-
catl with his Santana bandana, to Clavo Horcasitas and then back to
Gorgio. All of them poker faced.
"We'll discuss this among ourselves, and give you an answer
tomorrow. Where can we reach you?"
I give Gorgio my number and leave a litde while later, the
atmosphere of grace and hospitality sort of cushioning me still as I
come out onto the street.
It must have rained while I was in there. Everything is panring
and sweating, but the air is clear and the sun is out. I thought we
were near sundown, I guess the day was not as far along as I thought
it was.

"That's interesting -- I didn t know I was rhere."

AC storming through the fascism on the lvay to campus, and on
campus, seeing phalanxes out the bus window; everyone in lockstep,
everyone on television, everyone in lockstep, everyone on television.
Everyone in lockstep. Everyone on television. Gary Oldman roaring
everyone. She wishes she could punch sharply in the face everyone
around her with barely an eyeblink separating each distinct punch,
just like thinking. Bam bam bam bam.
Now she is standing in front of her tutor's door, which is closed,
when she realizes that the bus must have gotten in bizarrely early.
Her tutor isn't even on campus yet.
So, now she has to wait.
She leaves the building and goes around to the back, where
there's a little patio beneath a neglected, raggedy arbor. It's one of
several abandoned spots she's located on campus. One bench has a
bit more shade than the resr.
Once seated, AC is unable to drum up any interest at all in
doing anything. Her vigilance has tired her out. Eyes on the ground
about ten feet in front of her, she does nothing. When she stirs at
last to look at the time, she senses someone sitting quietly next to
her, freezes, then turns her head slightly. A young Asian woman
wearing big pink headphones sits right beside AC. How she
134 MICHAEL T. CISCO

managed this without alerting AC is a mystery -- it's like she was just
there. Looking straight ahead with her mouth wide open, she is
sticking her tongue all the way out over and over again, sort of specu-
latively, as if to see how far she could stick it. AC is fustered and
startled. She hates suddenly finding out that she hasn't really been
alone.
... Something is touching the inside of her right arm.
Looking down, she sees a cigarette pack, open, in the woman s
hand, extended to her, touching her arm. AC looks at the woman's
face. The woman is looking at her. She has a cigarette dangling unlit
between her lips. AC looks at the cigarette pack. She looks at the
woman s face. She looks at the cigarette pack. She looks at the
woman s face. She looks at the cigarette pack. She looks at the
woman's face. She looks at her own fingers sliding a cigarette out of
the pack. She looks at the woman's face as she flicks a white dispos-
able lighter to her own cigarette, then to the one AC has just put to
her lips.
Snap.
Orange flame.
Away goes the lighter. The woman looks forward again, sort of
grooving, and blows a long, flat cone of smoke out. AC takes a drag
and does the same; this is not the first time she's ever smoked, but it
nearly is.
The two sit and smoke.
The other woman smokes coolly. AC draws fiercely on her
cigarette, puffing vehemently, in order to destroy it as quickly as
possible. Then she flicks the butt into the trash, still lit.
"Thanks."
"Sure," the woman says, with a swoop of her head. She has long
hair and a long neck, and she is wearing a long flowing skirt, with a
long white t-shirt.
"Are you here for Professor Wilson?" the woman asks,
,,No,,,

An unfamiliar pressure of speech makes AC elaborate, which is

not like her.
" ... I'm waiting for Mr. Sonam."
"What's he teach?'
 PEST 135

"Tibetan."
"Hm."
Wind, birds.
"Today's nice," the woman says.
"If you say so," AC says.
"I'm Rachel."
She offers AC another cigarette and lights it for her.
"You smoke pretty hard."
"... Yes."
"What's yowr name?"
"AC."
"It makes me think of air conditioning. That makes it a cool
na'tne. Nicotine is good for the brain. Nornicotine is created when
the body breaks nicotine down, and it impedes the development of
Alzheimer's, which is had by *y grandmother, who stopped smok-
ing. Are you going to live in Tibet?"
"Maybe."
"I'm going into pharmacology so I can get drugs on a discounr.
My grandmother has so many prescriptions we're going broke."
"Why don't you just steal them)"
"Oooh, robbery!" the woman smiles and looks away.
"If you want to steal drugs, I'll help you."
AC looks morosely down at the ground.
"I want to fuck up something."
Rachel doesn't answer, but she suddenly plucks up AC's
Tibetan textbook from the bench beside her and opens it at random.
"Tell me what these are," she says, indicating a page ful1 of illus-
trations.
"Those are the eight auspicious symbols of Tibetan Buddhism."
"A fower, two fish smooching, and what's this one)"
"The medicine urn."
"An urn full of medicine?"
AC nods.
"That's a good signl"
AC looks up at Rachel, who seems to incline humanly out
toward her from a seamless backdrop of Nazi insanity. Is she making
afriend?
136 I.4ICHAEL T, CISCO

Kids are doing wheelies by the pier. Rachel watches through the
window of the Beachcomber while AC heads into the Seaside
Drugs.
The sun is setting.
The whole world is like a vast empty room lit only by a distant
fireplace.
Seaside Drugs is clearly a converted seafood restaurant; it's still
painted an anemic blue and there's a statue of a man in a diving suit
standing on the roof, a scuba ghoul backlit now by the rainswept
mercury and pink ember clouds. The drugstore lights are blue-green
and the whole building, which stands alone with its tiny parking lot,
looks like an aquarium. From here you can still see rhe rain falling
on Catalina, out there.
It's Rachel's job to warn AC at the first sign of police.
The pharmacist is alone behind the counter, the music is off, the
store is empty, Nearly closing time. A moment ago, a young woman
with pink headphones was talking to him, now she's vanished.
Suddenly there are three things for him ro be aware of at once.
On the counter to his left, there is an orange and cream tote bag,
emPty.
In the center of his back, a point of concentrated pressure,
round, and hard.
On the counter to his right, there is a notepad with these words
gouged into it:

It's agun.
Stand still.
Hands in the air.
Flip this page with your right hand when I tap you in the back
two times.
Nod your head two times when this has been read and
understood.
 P EST 137

Total silence. A minute passes, and then another. The pressure in

the small of the back is unwavering. The man is panting.
He suddenly collapses to the floor, pissing and shitting.
AC stares down at him. She notices his medical bracelet.
Scowling fiercely she pockets her gun, takes the pad and the bag
and begins searching for drugs, tossing in anything with a familiar
name.
When the man moans, she turns and points the gun at him.
He doesn't get up. He's just making noises, like a bull having a
bad dream. Then he moans again, so loud -- again and again, he fills
and empties his lungs, and the sound rises through the roof, and into
the air, and scatters toward the horizon in all directions, like the
bellowing of reality.
AC gets out of there.
They regroup beneath the awning of an empty storefronr with a
sign that still reads Surf Antiques. Before stuffing it in her backpack,
Rachel looks inside the bag of drug packaging and smiles at AC.
She says: "Thieeeevvves ..."
"ThieeeFFFF," AC says, pointing to herself.
Bachel unchains her bicycle and insists on walking it with AC
to the bus stop, and as they hurry in the weird mingling light and
darkness of the sunset, the rising air seems to carry them along.
Rachel throws back her head and starts to crow like a rooster.
Engulfed in unaccountable happiness, AC strides buoyantly
alongside her, dwarfed by her big backpack, their reflections flashing
like blades in the thin radiance, and embedded in a srorefront
window where the Grand Caliginous One dances, twirling ribbons
and cleavers slowly wildly.

I'm held up talking with lawvers and bankers, wondering where

Grant is and putting them off in his name, so I don't reach the site
until dusk. The sheer amount of emptiness involved in these conver-
sations leaves me mentally numb. There came a point when I
straight up told them they were talking to me about nothing at all,
that they aheady had all the information they needed and had had it
158 MICHAEL T. CISCO

ali within about the first six minutes, and the other six hundred and
sixtv u,ere all more or less repetitions and reconfigurations of the
same four or five facts, as if forcing me to reword what had already
been said sixteen times would somehow precipitate Grant into the
conversation, and change reality. This so-called conversation only
ended when I realized it had no way of stopping on its own, and
hung up, and ignored the immediate callbacl<s.
Much of the canyon floor has already been cleared of brush,
although the trees have not been touched. For a few moments I
stand in the darkness that hovers close to the ground here, looking
up at a sky that the light hasn't fully left yet. Blue up there, and
brown down here. It's cool, quiet without being serene exactly, tran-
quil listening, some birds, bugs, the resinous fragrance of the cut
brush. Sage and s\,veet grass. I begin to walk around the site, and
turning around I see something long and level glowing blue-white in
the twilight. It turns out to be an adobe longhouse. Was that always
here?
Gorgio steps out from behind the building and hails me.
"I'm just looking at this thing. I don't know how I missed it."
"You didn't miss it," Gorgio says with a quick shake of the head.
"We built it."
"You built it in the time since
-?"
He nods at me smiling, his eyes and teeth and his gold necklace
gleaming.
"Can I see inside?"
As we head to the front door I say -- "So quickl lt's like magic."
"No magic. Just work."
His eyes shift, and before I can turn to see what he's looking at,
Crant's cool linen arm slides inside my elbow and he steers me back
out toward the site.
"Hello, Chalo."
I'm so surprised I stumble and turn to my left, away from Grant.
I catch sight of the car that must have brought him here, parked next
to a big rock. Someone is sitting in the driver's seat, in the dark.
Whoever it is sits so still they don't seem alive. The silhouette
has a mop of curls on its head, and a sharp, skinny shoulder, like a
mannikin's. Two long, pale hands rest on the steering wheel, rigid,
 PEST 139

slightly curled, not gripping. Like mannikin hands laid on the wheel
by somebody. The sight of thar person in the driver's sear welds me
to the ground like an electric shock. I want to beg Grant -- don't
get
back in the car with that. But he is already steering me out into the
basin. I turn to him.
OK now Grant has never looked quite like this, before. There,s
something frightening about him now -- he's radiating, he's like a
cartoon drawn against the sky.
"You.., uh... How are you)"
"Me? I'm greatl"
We walk on.
"...
Twilight is lasting a long time tonight."
"We should take advantage of the light
while it lasts.,,
As we go or/er the site, I begin explaining to Grant in more
specific terms what should go where. I'm laying out the particular
problems this site is going to pose for us, what he calls ,,challenges.,,
It's going to be expensive and slow, getting all the
-aterials f,ere
from the mainland and over these shitty back roads. The annex is
going to have to generate all the electricity it uses, handle all its own
waste, its own fire response; it's going to have to have its own infir_
mary, arrange its own food supply. Grant listens carefully, asks
ques-
tions, makes some astute suggestions, but some part of lrim jusiisn,t
there. He barely makes eye contact with me, as if he were distracted.
I wonder if he's thinking of the one sitting behind the wheel of
that car, waiting for him, motionless in the gloom back there.
"But thebiggest problem of all," I say,
.. holding this point for last,
"is going tobe water. You
got no mains o..t he.", .ro reservoir, noth-
ing. The other stuff is tough, but without warer ...,,
I shake my head.
Grant is still looking fixedly toward the end of the canyon.
Suddenly, he beams. He steps pasr me.
"Come on, Chalo. Let's have a look
down there.,,
. - The twilight is still not turning into night. It's like the day is
deliberately hanging on, so we can check th. rit". As we prs i-po.-
tant spots for development in my plan, I try to talk to Grant, bri h"
seems to be in a hurry.
"We can look at that later. I want to
show you something.,,
14O MICHAEL T. CISCO

"W'ell, what is iti"

Grant keeps walking, a bit ahead of me.
"What is:"
"I want to show you something," he says dreamily.
The canyon fills with brown light as the twilight finally begins to
leave the sky. The brown light seeps up from the ground, or whis-
pers itself from the scrub and the shadows of the trees, rising around
us, engulfing us. It's a kind of nostalgia. For nature, I guess.
Grant is moving quickly, financially charged and faintly glowing
like a white linen spectre, but I can keep up with him. This brown
light agrees with me. It's like a sign that gravity is easing a little.
I follow Grant along a narrow dirt pathway through a kind of
tall grass that has these seeds that corkscrew their way into your
pant legs and socks until they begin to poke into your skin. We head
into a defile that forms a corner on a shallow incline, occupied by a
handful of mummified trees that sprout from a heap of boulders.
Abruptly, Grant stops and holds up one hand to stop me.
"Huh)"
"It's ... It's not far ..,"
"What is?"
ItS _
A shout. An inhuman shout bursts from the back of the canyon.
That pounding -- my heart, a heart attack?
Three distinct words were shouted.
The ground thuds. The words echo. My feet sway under me. A
rumble grows around me. I stagger - there's crashing. I look to
Grant. He rises and falls easily with the ground, joy on his face, his
eyes sparkling in the brown gloom. The valley floor lurches, and I
end up fastened onto a tree like a sailor clutching the mast in a
storm.
The tumbling inside me outlasts the earthquake. I cling to the
tree with my cheek pressed against it. The words uhat's happening
in m1 l{e appear in my mind on their own, prinred direcdy on the
morass of my consciousness.
When Grant puts a steadying hand on my shoulder, it feels as if
he were balancing the inner stability of that crystal-clear thought
with the outward stability of his own uncannily smug hippie
 PEST 141

balance. Ihear a human voice as I pull away from the tree - it

sounds like Malinche, calling out in excitement.
"Let's go have a look," Grant says, smiling.
His eyes are sparkling,
talking to me but looking alvay, toward the source of the voice.
The earthquake dislodged some big stones at one end of the
canyon.
Grant glides along a bit ahead of me, zeroing in on Malinche.
Now I can see her, standing on top of a huge boulder, waving
her arm in the air. Some of the "migrants" have already gatherecl
near the base of the rock, looking down at something.
I hear it and smell it before I see it -- water, gushing up out of a
crevice the quake cracked open and collecting in a natural cistern.
Gorgio comes up to me, beaming, all worked up. He claps me on
the shoulder.
"It's fresh! Come taste itl"
I let myself be hustled over to a spot nearly on top of the jet of
water, I scoop some up in my hand and taste it.
"Spring water!"
I look across to Grant. He's leaning a bit to his left, craning his
ear to listen to someone I can't see, a tree is in the way. Grant is
nodding, looking down, his face is wrong - it's too blank for someone
who was almost jumping for joy a minute ago. If it was a minute.
Perhaps it's been longer. It's not even as if he was getting bad news,
it's like he's a differenr person.
I want to ask Gorgio if he heard that voice, but I can,t get his
attention. He and the others are all studying the spring, pointing
with their hands and sculpting shapes in the air.
If this is a real spring, and not just a pocket of groundwater
ruptured by the q.,ak", then our wate. problem just solved itself.
Where's Grant?
Here comes the car ... dark, rolling up to us slowly, in silence,
through the trees.

whistles reach for each other across the tenuous suburban scene. A
high, clear note, interrupted by hiccups, repeats like a homing
142 I"IICHAEL T, CISCO

beacon. It shivers through the suburb's flimsy veil. If you had second
hearing, you would hear it, and see how it troubles the apparently
solid world of neat houses, square lawns, orderly streets, domestic
units, work and play. If you had second sight you would see how
frail it all is, how subject it is to stir at the slightest breeze, how
ghostly and unknown.
There is one reply slithering up street gutters, a warbling, Ioping
sound. Another reply: a terse bleat, like a car horn coming right
down the middle of the street. There's a throbbing bass flute
bouncing from swimming pools. There's a plaited bundle of whistles
that turn around each other, coming from the playground of the
park over there. An almost noiseless, creepily low whistle from deep
within the house.
The sun is about to rise. The black east is turning blue.
("Well? Have you HIC haendled it?")
"HAENDLED," the tansept says.
"It was a lovely daey todaey," the Nave croons. "The sea, the sky,
the sunlight glimmering on the shaeme ..."
"Aell haendled,") the Narthex says complacently.
("Howi HIC.")
"Aen upbuilding exercise ..." the Nave says.
The Narthex seats himself grandly in a big armchair, an empty
highball glass tinkling in his hand, and a cigar in his inky lips.
"We sent Wilson in," he says around the cigar, "... Wilson took
him to meet the'migrants,'aend the'migrants'aegreed to do the job."
"FAIET AECCOMPLI," the tansept says.
("Well! HIC. Whaet will we do with aell our free time?")
The Nave rolls over to the Apse, whose silvery face registers
mixed feelings. The Apse takes a sip of her mirror martini and
lowers her head, gazing steadily at nothing, as she always does when
she's turning something over in her mind.
"Aere you caerefully considering aebout something?" the Nave
asks.
HIC 'migrants'get out of this?")
("I'm wondering ... whaet do the
"Who caeres?" the Narthex says in a jet of smoke. "Aenything
beaets working."
 PEST 143

,,THE
MORE THEY BUILD IT THE MORE IT'S THEIRS,'
the Transept says, oiling himself with his free hand.
("I think you're right aebout thaer, tansepr, HIC! Now, who
caen tell me aebout that earthquaeke?")
"Thaet waes the Pulpit's," the Nave says.
("So he reaelly haes taeken Grant HIC on)")
The Nave nods vigorously, eyes rolling.
"Vituperaetivelyl"
("Well, thaet's HIC something. How aere our 'spells' working
out?")
The Nave laughs fiendishly. The Narthex chuckles deep in his
throat. The tansept wheezes loudly. The tiforium giggle mind-
lessly. A dry rustling comes from the Close.
("Now thaet's more like it.")
The Apse turns her attention back to the Narthex, who's rolling
his glass to and fro between his palms.
("You look like the caet thaet aere the canaery. Whaet haeve you
been HIC up to?")
He turns his face to her and the glass stops.
"A little side project."
("You mean thaet girl?")
The Narthex grins, raps the tip of his nose with his index finger.
'Just so."
("You're HIC taeking her on?")
"It depends on her. I sent her ae friend, too."
("Aendi")
"They robbed ae drugsrore together
-" he spreads his hands, "--
no violence, but it's still eaerly daeys yet."
("Haeve you figured our whether Chalo died aend haes been
reincarnaeted aes a yaek, or if he's on-HIC! ... only dreaeming of
being a yaek while he's comaerose?") the Apse asks the Nave.
"It's shaeping up ro be a fine night tonighr," the Nave says
turning away abruptly and paddling over to the window, "Good and
daerk."
("H-,") the Apse says with displeasure. ('HICl")
144 MICHAEL T. CISCO

... I had my head down, my eyes glazed, and my mind nowhere, and
the wind was blowing her scent away from me, so I didn't know she
was there until she was virtually on top of me.
Now I snort, and stagger, taking a couple of involuntary bounds
away from her.
"Whati What) What do you --?"
What's she doing, approaching me?
"Would you warn me? W-what is it) What do you want?"
... She's staring at me. A white cow. She looks alittle crazy.
"What did the Figure tell you?" she demands.
I'm too much ambushed. I don't answer.
She takes a step closer.
"What did it say?"
What did it say?
I sidle awkwardly away from her, up the slope a bit. She stays
where she is, still staring. A kind of collapse is taking place down in
my cavernous interior. The sight of her is suddenly preposterous
to me.
The sound of a clogged drain, a big one, starts gurgling. I seem to
be laughing.
"What did it say?" she repeats.
Dizziness washes oyer me. My laughter won't quit, won't stop
growing. My legs fold under me and I settle clumsily onto the turf,
my sides heaving, mortified. A little spurt of green vomit flashes
from my mouth and trickles away into the grass.
"l-Im!" the cow says, bitterly.
Without hurrying, she makes her way up to me.
"Stop staring at me," I say, miserably, heaving, laughing.
"Tell me what it said."
"...Brzzoffl"
"Tell me what it said."
I lunge wildly, trying to get to my feet, but I'm laughing too hard.
She doesn't budge. I'm dizzy and massive and convulsed with
laughter I don't understand. I think I'm just going to lie here for a
while.
"Tell me what it said."
... I'll get up in a minute. I can see myself doing it.
 PEST 145

I'll get up and walk away, maybe eat something.

The rest of the
lay prety well mapped out. I,ll eat, and get
is
some water, and I'll look for a likely place to sleep,
close ,o
the bulls so I can keep an eye on them, I,m not sure "rro,rgh
for what ."iror,
but not so close that they'll want to hassle me.
"Hey!"
"... I'm resting."
"What did it tell you?"
"I don't know."
"You don't remember?"
"I don't remember."
She makes a sound that, among us yaks, means ,,psshhhh.,,
At-last, I haul myself ro my feet, pushing up through my queasy
.instability.
"Tell me a little bir, ar leasr."
"Haven'r I told you I don'tknow?,'
"I dragged myself all the
way out here, I spent all day looking for
you."
"Well you shouldn't have. That-that,s
your problem.,,
Apparently I'm dealing with some occuk kind of yak,
"You're not an expression of
Gilshrakes,,, I mutter, not knowing
what I'm saying. "You're nor recognized by the predikanten. your
name isn't in Dub rables. you don't have Gorgons. you
are not
ZamanWislin."
Huge vulture wings are spreading out from me and throwing
their shadow over her, the wind carryirg from them to
her the stink
of carrion that terrifies us yaks. The Flgure appears on the
ridge
above us, stepping into view from among t-h" rockr.
There," I sav, tossing my head ,o*rrd it. ,,Go ask for
yourself.,,
She does. She rushes up the hill toward the Figure
at orrce. The
Figure retreats a bit, holding up one hand in a slall
gesture that
could be an invitation to approach, or a warning. Lookiig
up at the
FtgT:, I catch a glimpse of black feathers
lust bJhind *y t"ua ...
There really is a vuhure perched on my backl It hops do-,
-
a big rock and looks at me steadily it isn,t a vultu.",1t,,
o.rto
- u condor.
Whats a condor doing in the Himalayas)
The condor gives me a slow, sly wink. Then it hops up inro
rhe
146 MICHAEL T. CISCO

air and begins to swoop around me in a circle, pivoting and teetering

on the uneven wind. It slides down and then lunges back up,
moving like a roller coaster. I can hear its dry, evil voice, folded in
the smell of decay like the dried blossom of a poisonous flower as rhe
layers of crepe paper are peeled. All of a sudden I have an avid
desire for arduous climbing, struggle, exhaustion.
"Thinking of running up there? I wouldn't, if I were you ..." the
condor rasps. It glides by me and I see its elder head and gimlet eye.
"The power of a secret is in its getting. A secret is better for
being inveigled or stolen."
Do I have a secret) I just thought I was confused.
Was what the Figure showed me supposed to be a secret? Whar
did it show me, anyway?
"A stolen secret is better. It's better when your secret belongs to
someone else."
The secret of someone else's secret: a secret secret?
The swooping continues circling around me and the wings are
shrinking. A black egret, shedding gelatinous cold of outer space.
I look up and see a planet in the blackening sky, and when I look
for the egret after that I can't find it --or any bird -- but all around me
the ground has sprouted delicate blue flowers.
Can I actually see that color, rvith my yak eyes) Or do I only
remember it?

The flood warning came when the preparation of the grounds was
nearly half complete. The ocean was coming for us, no one could
make sense of how, but a run up the ridge and you could see it,
boiling in a crease in the ground like a rampaging brown snake.
The "migrants" quickly scan out where the water rvill enter the
site - if it gets in here, weeks of work will be ruined. More weeks
will be needed to re-prep the ground, if that will even be possible.
Bakarne Bigotes has emerged from the long house and perched on
top of a lifeguard seat, shielded from the sun by her bright yellow
parasol, and she directs the "migrants" by playing her trumpet, with
Gorgio Huidameros as lieutenant. The bulldozer digs a run-off
 PEST 147

trench r,vith the displaced dirt shoved up into a berm, and every-
body's tamping and stamping it together, to make a rampart against
the water. Meanwhile I end up wasting a lot of time looking for a
way to stop the flood by blocking its way through the hills, with
fantasies of blasting down an avalanche and cutting it off at the pass,
but there were about seventy fucking passes so the trench option
turns out to have been the better one all along.
I can already hear rhe water rumbling down the gullies. The
bulldozer stands ready to drive back the wave, and the rest of the
crew already has massive wooden rams -- posts attached to pallets.
With two or three on each ram, rhe "migrants" charge the water,
battering it back. The water bulges and splatters over the rampart
and dashes over the bulldozer's scoop; Pablo Huitztlacatl is working
furiously at the conrrols, pivoting the bulldozer to keep the warer
down without damaging the earthwork rim. The waves rebound
from the rams in frothy bursts.
The flood tide is like a writhing monsrer silverfish smashed back
along its flanks by those rams. It recoils and foams, hisses, gushes
forward again in renewed surges, balked again and turned, forced
charges aside into the run-off trench. The water snuffies and lowers
and rallies and pours back, driving against us.
Steam boils over the tops of the rams onto the fighters, who
stagger against the force of the water. I see Zeferino
Jojobal stumble
to the side rubbing wildly at his face. Gorgio rushes in to replace
him.
Bakarne's trumpet seems to be at their bachs, prompting them
-
then a heavy bolus of water, like a clenched fist, comes tumbling
down on top of a ram below me and nearly knocks it back, but the
thrusting of the "migrants" confounds and shivers the bulb of water,
it dissipates in bursts of foam and mist. The spray scatters them as
though it were scalding hot; they drop the pole and fall arvay, I'm nor
sure why. It's as if their morale had been overcome despite their
success. Bakarne's trumpet peals out a warning, more loudly right
behind me -- but very far away -- I hear a kind of guttural mounrain
belch reverberating through space -- I flash on rhe image of a bull
yak charging.
Next thing I know I'm in agony, scorched all over and my arms
146 N4ICHAEL T. CISCO

air and begins to swoop around me in a circle, pivoting and teetering

on the uneven wind. It slides down and then lunges back up,
moving like a roller coaster. I can hear its dry, evil voice, folded in
the smell of decay like the dried blossom of a poisonous flower as the
layers of crepe paper are peeled. All of a sudden I have an avid
desire for arduous climbing, struggle, exhaustion.
"Thinking of running up there? I wouldn't, if I were you ..." the
condor rasps. It glides by me and I see its elder head and gimlet eye.
"The power of a secret is in its getting. A secret is better for
being inveigled or stolen."
Do I have a secret? I just thought I r,vas confused.
Was what the Figure showed me supposed to be a secret? What
did it show me, anyway?
"A stolen secret is better. It's better when your secret belongs to
someone else."
The secret of someone else's secret: a secret secret?
The swooping continues circling around me and the wings are
shrinking. A black egret, shedding gelatinous cold of outer space.
I look up and see a planet in the blackening sky, and when I look
for the egret after that I can't find it --or any bird - but all around me
the ground has sprouted delicate blue flowers.
Can I actually see that color, rvith my yak eyes? Or do I only
remember it?

The flood warning came when the preparation of the grounds was
nearly half complete. The ocean was coming for us, no one could
make sense of how, but a run up the ridge and you could see it,
boiling in a crease in the ground like a rampaging brown snake.
The "migrants" quickly scan out where the water will enter the
site - if it gets in here, weeks of work will be ruined. More weeks
r,vill be needed to re-prep the ground, if that will even be possible.
Bakarne Bigotes has emerged from the long house and perched on
top of a lifeguard seat, shielded from the sun by her bright yellow
parasol, and she directs the "migrants" by playing her trumpet, with
Gorgio Huidameros as lieutenant. The bulldozer digs a run-off
 PEST 147

trench with the displaced dirt shoved up inro a berm, and every-
body's tamping and stamping it together, to make a ramparr against
the water. Meanwhile I end up wasring a lot of time looking for a
way to stop the flood by blocking its way through the hills, with
fantasies of blasting down an avalanche and cutting it off at the pass,
but there were about seventy fucking passes so the trench option
turns out to have been the better one all along.
I can already hear the warer rumbling down the gullies. The
bulldozer stands ready to drive back the wave, and the rest of the
crelv already has massive wooden rams -- posts attached to pallets.
With two or three on each ram, the "migrants" charge the water,
battering it back. The water bulges and splatters over the rampart
and dashes over the bulldozer's scoop; Pablo Huitztlacatl is working
furiously at the conrrols, pivoting the bulldozer to keep the rvarer
down without damaging the earthwork rim. The waves rebound
from the rams in frothy bursts.
The flood tide is like a writhing monsrer silverfish smashed back
along its flanks by those rams. It recoils and foams, hisses, gushes
forward again in renewed surges, balked again and turned, forced
charges aside into the run-off trench. The water snuffies and lowers
and rallies and pours back, driving against us.
Steam boils over the tops of the rams onto the fighters, who
stagger against the force of the water. I see Zeferino Jojobal srumble
to the side rubbing wildly at his face. Gorgio rushes in to replace
him.
Bakarne's trumpet seems to be at their backs, prompting them --
then a heavy bolus of water, like a clenched fist, comes tumbling
down on top of a ram below me and nearly knocks it back, but the
thrusting of the "migranrs" confounds and shiyers the bulb of water,
it dissipates in bursts of foam and mist. The spray scatters them as
though it were scalding hot; they drop the pole and fall away, I'm not
sure why. It's as if their morale had been overcome despite their
success. Bakarne's trumpet peals out a warning, more loudly right
behind me - but very far away -- I hear a kind of guttural mounrain
belch reverberating through space -- I flash on the image of a bull
yak charging.
Next thing I know I'm in agony, scorched all over and my arms
148 N4ICHAEL T, CISCO

feeling broken and my palms raw and bleeding and there are hands
on every part of me, jostling me, holding me up and half-carrying
me. I'm surrounded by terrifying faces all shouting and zealous.
... Here's what happened - evidently I let out a such a sound
that people thought an airplane had come down on us, then I ran to
the abandoned ram, grabbed the post and drove it into the water all
by myself.
"You were roaring like a lionl"
"I feel like roaring like a fucking dying lion."
I'm raw everywhere. The skin on my face is blistered, my hands
are ripped up, and all my muscles are beaten to dogmeat. And my
throat hurts. Elena Hurtado, who's been to a year of medical school,
is dabbing stuff on my face now.
"How's the site?"
Corgio turns with his fists on his hips and surveys the scene with
his lower lip stuck out, nodding a little. He turns back to me.
"Mas o menos. A little wet."
"How many days did we lose?"
He makes a little face and shakes his head quickly.
"No days. Maybe a few ... maybe half a day, maybe."
"Half a day? That's good! You're heroes."
Gorgio tosses his head a little, as if to say "of course we're
heroes."

Rachel and AC have become menaces and they groove around town
casually preparing their latest caper, easing along as if the blows of
life were a kind of dance, a kind of glide, a kind of boogie and letting
things ride, AC is dogged and now usually half bent over under a
heavy backpack full of loot; Rachel is wispy and gauzelike as ever.
AC is a chainsmoker now, and her paranoid dread of Nazis has
turned into intrepid vigilance. Rachel always seems to be doing
something a bit unsightly with her mouth, is always interested,
always grooving, swivelling her head on her long neck and making
little vocalizations of elan every one and a while.
Grandma is fresh out of medicine. The delivery man is just
 PEST 149

turning to go into the pharmacy when he feels somerhing hard just

below the small of his back, and a little brown hand thrust up pasr
his shoulder clutches a neatly-printed note.

This is a gun.
Don't moye.
Nod your head when you have finished reading this.

The word "Fatsol" has been scrawled at rhe bottom in different

handwriting.
The delivery man nods, frozen. The little brown hand deftly
rotates the note to expose the other side.

Put the drugs on the ground slowly and get into the back of
your van.

The pressure in the small of the back does nor vary at all as the
delivery man sets his box down on the blacktop of the parking lot. It
remains steady as he climbs into the back of the van. It is withdrawn
abruptly and the doors slam shut behind him. At first he fartens
himself a bit uncertainly on rhe floor, and brings his hands up to
clasp behind his head, rhen, hearing rapid foorsteps outside, he
thinks to clamber forward toward the driver's seat with a vague idea
of getting out that end, By chance he happens to see the two thieves
vanishing behind the liquor store that L's out from the line of shops.
Long black hair, one tall, a small one with a backpack nearly as big
as she is.
.,. The early evening finds AC and Rachel down by the beach
sampling pills. AC stares slackjawed ar the gathering wafer of
dimness between the sand and the blue air, then smiles showing all
her teeth, while Rachel floats around her on rollerskates, head-
phones on. There's a box of shrinkwrapped medication, two and a
half cigarette cartons, and a loaded gun in that big pack on AC's
150 N4ICHAEL T. CISCO

back. The cigarette drops to the ground as her hands loosen and she
sits grinning at the powdery eye of darkness condensing like
reversed smoke, dissolving the air and the daylight, digesting and
burning it, turning it into dancing motes of soot. The Nave squeaks
invisibly in circles above them, carrying her pitcher of daylight,
wringing the fabric of space out into it, while the Narthex sprawls in
his armchair directly above AC, thoughtfully rubbing his chin.
Flakes of cigar ash rub off and float down through the top of AC's
skull, landing directly on her brain with tiny sizzles, like snowflakes
falling on a hot griddle.
The Narthex pulls a whole l:ox of cigars out of the inside pocket
of his maroon jacket and judiciously selects one. He peels off the
band and snips the cap with his glistening black teeth. Then he
leans down, lightly resting the tip of one leather disco boot on AC's
shoulder. A plume of colorless fire whirs up from the fissures in
AC's brain, and the Narthex expertly toasts, then lights his cigar
by it.
"Coming aelong nicely," he says to the Nave.
"Given a chaence," the Nave says, without taking her eyes foom
her own paddling left hand, pitcher uplifted in her right. "We don't
haeve her yet."
"It's aes good aes," the Narthex says.

Elena Hurtado leads me into the barracks they've named "Rancho

Otro" and puts me to bed. The pain of my burns is getting worse,
and I'm just starting to realize the weird voices I'm hearing are
coming out of me. Elena dabs my arm with alcohol and slides a
needle in.
-- A moment after she straightens up again --
... That wan smear is the window, ghostly in its white curtains.
Grant is coming into view on the tawny hillside beyond it, walking
with Bakarne -
... A cool hand is pressing my forehead -- Grant's hand. He
stands over me, his face in shadow, hair hanging down. I want to ask
him if he's faith-healing me, but all I can do is mouth at him. He
 PEST 151

smiles his old smile. I know he's smiling. I know he's smiling,
because I can see his teeth glint in the shadow. His smile hangs there
after he's gone. It's still there after my eyes have closed again. It's
weird, I can feel his hand there, but not my own body.
... Erotic dreams - everything sharply outlined in thick rails of a
viscous light that spreads like glue injected through the separations
between things. My voice lingers in the corners of the room when I
start upright in the dark.
... It's night. Is it the night of that day, or some later day?
... Through the window I see the "migrants" moving around in
the brush out there. Their heads rise up out of the bushes and then
drop down again as they criss-cross the slope, like a menacing pod of
killer whales. All without a sound. Silent, intent, still working, some-
how, on something.
I get up and stagger to the bathroom on numb, inert legs, Ieaning
on the walls for support. When I pass the common area, I am only
just aware that everybody's in there, sitting quiedy in the dark.
... Switch on the light. The bathroom is like a paper lantern lost
in the night, a porcelain elevator with me neatly inside it, pissing
noisily. When I'm done, I snap the light off again, sit down and wait
for my eyes to adjust before i head back to bed.
... The darkness is lil<e fresh water, offering no impediment to
the bone-dry moonlight streaking the tile floors. They even had time
to lay tile.
... My bit more responsive. They hurt more,
legs are tingling, a
btit they are also more free to move. I can pause by the common area
now and look into it. The "migrants" are sitting in the dark, with the
front door and all the shutters open. Some I can see sitting outside in
chairs, looking like blue watercolors. Soft bursts of yellow light,
produced by hovering insects, pull the living faces briefly out of the
darhness. It's as if they were bobbing to the surface of a black lake,
then sinking again, always in the same places. The space of the room
is greater. The bugs aren't flreflies, are they? We don't have those out
here, not fireflies, so did they bring them?
None of them look at me -- they all seem to be staring at the
ceiling.
No wonder -- Bakarne is up there, sitting in the rafters with her
152 MICHAEL T, CISCO

legs crossed and her head thrown back. She is gazing into a reflective
spot, like a pool of clear, motionless water, upside-down on the ceil-
ing. She has hands pressed to either side of it.
... Tensely deliberate peacefulness. A vigil.
I'm done taking all this in, ready to put my weighty head down
on the pillow -- but what's that sound, coming toward us from so far
off? It's like the noise of an earthenware lid grating against an earth-
enware lip, steadily but with varying pressure, fading and swelling,
like remote music on a windy day.
.., So now what appears to be happening is, I'm receiving a series
of visits from different "migrants," punctuated by periods of uncon-
sciousness throughout what might be one or more than one night. I
wake up and Zeferino Jojobal is sitting in a chair in the corner, no
lights on, and he notices the moment I come to. He's skin and bones,
but he doesn't strike me as unhealthy. He's just too strange for eating,
or he can't maybe eat regular food. His jawbones jut out on his skinny
neck, and he keeps his wrists against his chest. Grinning so that all
his wet teeth show in his damp mouth, eyes all lit up, he starts saying
"Pasaportes-documentos, documentos-pasaportes, pasaportes-
documentos, documentos-pasaportes."
"What time is it?"
Zeferino snorts. Then he swallows noisily, turning his head as if
he were trying to locate my voice, and a clock on the wall. There's no
clock in the room. He looks at me and says
"Night time."
He giggles nervously.
When I next wake up, Pablo Huitzlacatl is sitting where
Zefeino was, leaning back in the chair with his hands on the wicker
armrests, and I think I see Malinche Azazul peek in for a second,
but I'm not really sure she did. Pablo has mystic vibrations. He has
one earring that's something white and dangling I've never gotten
close enough to see. He wears a bandanna and a denim jacket
covered in buttons and patches. One button in particular is either
Haile Selassi or Lee Scratch Perry waving at me, I can see the hand
moving. Now all his buttons are pulsing colors and little striated
black wavelets, like visualized sound beams. There's a lot of junk
 PEST 153

around his wrists and neck and he's one of those guys who can func-
tion with about twenty rings on.
"You OK?" he asks abruptly.
I shrug.
"Mind if I smoke)"
"Fire it up."
He lights up a stick of something that smells like incense.
"White lighters are bad luck."
A viscous cloud of ectoplasm slithers out of Pablo's mouth, lumi-
nous in the dark. He bats it apart with a wave of his hand.
"Not for me. I was born on the thirteenth. Bad luck is good luck
for me."
He takes another drag, narrowing his eyes through the smoke
at me.
"You know your man is working with daemons?" he
asks, leaning
forward with his elbows on his knees and talking smoke.
I nod.
"You're not freaked out by that?"
I shrug, A spasm of pain shoots through my burned face and
arms, making my whole body contract like a scorched spider. Why
did it hurt this time and not the last time?
"Hey, you alright? Should I get Helena?"
The pain subsides and I slump back.
"No, I'm OK.
Just a ... little episode."
He sits back down and smokes for a bit.
"You sure you're not freaked out)"
I think that over. Then I let my hands rise and drop again.
"I've been freaked out by everything so long, what's one more
thing?"
"So you're already at maximum freak."
I nod.
"Maximum freak."
"You've transcended freaking out."
I let that one sink in.
"No... nope!"
This answer pleases Pablo and he smiles, nodding, The wind
154 IVICHAEL T. CISCO

rustles the brush outside like a wave hissing on a beach, joining its
sound to the trndulating whir of crickets.
An owl hoots abruptly, very close by, and Pablo reacts, turning
his head and grasping the arms of the chair. He listens, as if someone
were shouting some important information to him. Then he slowly
turns his silhouetted head back to me.
"Did you ever see them?"
"You mean,..?"
"Yeah."
"I saw them. I saw them take shape."
"What did they look like?"
"One is a big bruiser who dresses like Tom Jones ... there's a
lveaselly one who has a wheel instead of legs ... there's one who
looks like a sixty-year-old who's always jerking off ... and one who
looks like Myrna Loy on a divan with a martini and little horns."
... Dreams of hammering, lumber, piping, water jets, pumps.
Shovels chopping. I'm on a boat that goes up onto the island, up the
steep slope to a high plateau and splashes into a blue lake, not onto
the surface but down beneath it, driving like a submersible truck
along the bottom of the lake, and I'm seeing blue angular rock faces
forming a bright trench with the fluctuating silver and blue lake
surface sixty feet above us. I have to get through the lake to get to the
island. But I'm already on the island, right? So, an island on an
island?
... Now it's Ixcuiname Monje in the chair, with a sort of pinkish,
pre-pre dawn vapor clinging to her wan face.
"... so if you make it real one way there's nothing left for reality
to do."
... I think that's what she's saying. I'm still waking up. How long
has she been talking?
"Then it never happens."
"What?"
She raises her eyes to me and smiles ruefully, exhaling through
her nose.
"Nothing. Horv are you feeling?"
"I don't know."
"Need anything?"
 PEST 155

I shake my head.
She nods and lets her eyes drop back to the floor again.
"Horv are you feeling?"
Eyes back up to my face again. She sighs again. Eyes
back down
again.
I nod and my eyes drop too.
"Did you really see the daemons?"
"Yes. I know how it sounds. I don't really care if I,m crazy. ... I
saw them, somehow."
"Can you describe them)"
I give her the best description my wastedness allows.
She listens without moving, her head hanging forward
and her
hands knitted on her sromach. I don't ,o
-r"h fi.rirh a, fall silent,
and she sits in silence for a while after. I find myself wondering
if all
the "migrants" are going to file in here one after the other
to hJ", -y
description of the daemons to see if the absurdity of my
description
finally dawns on me after I've repeated it a dozen times, a.rd
I hav. a
therapeutic breakthrough, abandon the whole thing.
Her eyes lift to look ar me yet again.
"And you're not afraid?"
"Oh, I don't know. I guess not
knowing means I don,t -_ I mean,
I'm not. I should be. I guess."
She keeps looking.
"They don't seem to pay any
attention to me.,,
Still looking.
"I haven't been threatened."
This time I wait out her looking.
"Daemons want to take
your soul."
"... I don't think anything's
been done ro my soul. What do they
do with it if they get ir)"
"They dissolve it, and ir's gone.',
"So why do it? Do they
get off on that or what?,,
""- I think they want everything
- to be falling alr the time, like
them."
"Yow ever see one?"
"Yes."
That wasn't an inviting yes.
156 MICHAEL T, CISCO

"Your friend is spending too much time with that one with the
blonde hair. - Don't say his namel Never say that one s name.
"If you say so."
"I say so."
She points to herseif, bobbing her head a little as she speaks.
"I know what I'm talking about."
Her voice sounds scorched and her gaze is all clawed up and
ragged.
"What happened?"
She sits back in the seat and looks away for a moment, pursing
her lips.
"I don't want to talk about it," she says finally, shaking her head
so that her earrings swing.
"It's better not to."
A moment later she gets up.
"I'11 get you some water," she says, and walks out.
... I don't know if she comes back, because the lead hood of sleep
drops over me again.
It's daylight when I wake up, alone, What day is it?
... I thror,v my legs out of bed and sit there with the sun strobing
down different colors on my poor shellacked head. I let my eyes
wander over the floor. Freshly swept, it looks like.
.,. When I see a bare white foot on the floor I jump back onto the
bed like I saw a rattlesnake -- someone white is sitting in the wicker
chair, someone with no eyes is looking at me, talking reversed words
at me. I flatten against the wall.
My throat won't open. I can't call for
help or move. Gaze pours from black pits above an intermittent
mouth creaking backwards. Paralysis sinks into me - disgusr, revul-
sion. Language shitted right into my head I can'r protecr myself
from. I pound the wall with my fisr and I hear feer clatter up to my
door. It flies open and Gorgio Huidameros hurries up to me.
"What is it)"
I look up and see her sitting in her chair by the window, light
falling across her lil<e milk, The apartment we shared together in
Costa Mesa with the purple drapes -- her eyes that I turned into
shame lasers burning me -- her disappointment in me, lodged in me
like a ball of sour white phosphorous ... the steady watchful way
 PEST 157

she gazed at me without moving, without speaking, without

changing her expression ... almost without blinking, until I felt
welded in place, a failure, not able to so much as reach out to her
from the ceaseless unfolding of my shortcomings. Turned into a
stinking, mute yak I stand there. She sits by the window with her
careworn face turned to me, with nothing left to say to me, not even
"get out," or the first insult from her, which might have
saved me.
Nothing. Never an unjust word from her. Every word was only too
just and even too merciful. She was always right. If she had been
more merciful she would have insulted me. Her mercilessness
mercy was all too just in giving me nothing, not an inch or a second.
Part of my life now. That is, part of the malignant cosmic
conspiracy to deny me any ground for complaint by making sure
that whatever pain comes to me comes as a result of my own
failure.
Do her eyes see a yak, dull-eyed and smelly, or a dull, plodding
human man) How could I ever touch her again, knowing what she
saw reaching out to her? All I want to do is to reach out to her. I'm
not a yak or a man, not Chalo, not one or another of these things but
all of them in the dark -- nor on Catalina or in the Himalayas - in
the dark where I've always been with my arms reaching out not to
anyone anything anytime anyplace but reaching out sobbing come
back, all all all come back, come back. Don't leave me. Don't leave.
All of me is only just the begging for that.
-- It's broken now. It's broken.
-- I'm staring at nothing and Gorgio is staring at me.
"Chalol"
He grips my shoulders and shakes me sternly.
"Wake upl You're dreaming!"
... I laugh in his face.
Tears are spurting from my eyes, and a gale of laughter gushes
from my stinking throat like vomit.
Gorgio rivets his eyes on mine. Two blazing, almost colorless
slots in his dark face.
"You are dreaming," he says very deliberately and
particularly.
"It's time to wake up."
It doesn't work. He looks preposterous. Laughter is playing the
158 MICHAEL T. CISCO

devil with my insides,leaping and churning in me like the gushings

of a black indigestion through my dead tripes.
Gorgio is as solid as a statue.
"If you won't wake up," he says inllexibly, "then go to sleep
again."
-- That does the trick. I shut down, and slump back onto the
pillows, damp with sweat, his hands still firm on my shoulders.
When I'm lying down, he straightens and marches right out the
door, closing it without another look in my direction, leaving me to
the plaster whiteness. The colors lose their forms and reach out for
me. I want to pass out. I can't take any more. The colors are all
telling me "I am you!"
The daemons got me, there is nobody here, but there's been a
mistake, because someone is still in the room, someone feeling pain
and terror. Being pain and terror, a cubist asterisk of anguished faces
whirred together and impossible to save, not even by descriptions,
just unbearable self-consciousness without a self, without a wisp but
a slight, agonizing deviation of nothing, unable not to notice itself,
and flooded with memories out of order. Full of strangers, acted by
strangers like actors playing roles with no originals or models, on sets
supposed to be places that never existed, lvhere even the daylight is
false to no original, nothing is anything but violence against a victim
who is a victim of not being, where the victimlessness is the crime,
listening and being lost, reaching out, possess me daemon so I can be
somebody and slow this plummet, shrinking into the dark. I put my
hands out to the daylight to grope for it. I could throw it over myself
like a sheet and go out into it and be seen and heard, an empty sheet,

-I
The ruthits.
It engulfs me out of a cloudless day like a dart of infernal fire. It
gets us all. Vibrating, eyes rolling, electrified, watchful, blind, jumpy.
I glance up at, flinch, look away from the females grazing with
feigned indifference on the upper slope. The sight of a cow, even at
this distance, whips up my madness. They're watching us, with
hatred. They want to see us kill each other. I look at the bulls and
 P EST 159

feel no emotion, just an impersonal desire for straining and exhaus-

tion that belongs to my body alone. Glancing up at the cows is like
slamming into a rock wall, with a repercussion that rattles me to the
heart, and shakes loose a daze of unaccountable sadness. I want to
lower my head onto the nearest bull's shoulder and burst out sobbing
convulsively, I don't know what I want to do, I want to eat black
flowers and run upside down on the sky cutting grooves in the
ground with my horns and feel the buried rocks crack. I want to be
buried asleep in winter snow.
I remember there was one place in particular she loved to be
touched, so I would touch her there, like the piano string is begin-
ninglessly touched by the felt hammer. Her breath always smelled
like milk.
... I look up at the white furnaces of the clouds, and down in the
valley at dry streambeds like twined skeins of white silt, tearbeds
really, passing in and out of inksplotch cloud shadows, like the sooty
footprints of the cloud furnaces, where voices are hammered out of
something like metal, kneaded by the cauliflower hands of the
cloucls, and fung like javelins, harpooning the world.
"You have to know how to follow directions to be
you know good
at life," someone somewhere is yelling into his phone.
The clouds and the landscape mix freely with the geoelectric
volcanic eruptions going on inside my body, passing in and out of
me. Like blobs of painfully intense srimularion, and the shadows like
the troughs of the roller coasters, plying me with gloom. Like long
liquor drinks, so rhat my eyes are plated with violence, half-brinded
by the steam off my own organs.
Put it all together and it spells the word AGAIN.

Having ground through another lustreless afternoon violin lesson,

Rachel wafts out of the Skinner Building and heads home. Swinging
around the corner and turning down the block she clips a parked
police car with her violin case. A police officer bursts from the car
and comes after her, drawing his club. She starts to run without
looking where's she's going and collides with a trash can. The police
160 MICHAEL T. CISCO

officer is nearly on top of her, his face blank, club raised high above
his head for a heavy blow. In her sudden fear, which still seems
barely real, she runs back inside the Skinner Building, up the stairs.
The police officer is pounding right behind her. The whole stairwell
reverberates with breathing, and the boom and clap of footsteps.
She's nearly to the top floor landing when she feels his club
graze the back of her knee. She is thrown against the wall. The
police officer comes down on her, and then out of nowhere AC -
she shoves him back, snarling curses at him. Half his size, she shoves
in close to him. They grapple clumsily and he punches her in the
face. The blow doesn't quite land, but AC has to lunge back to avoid
it. He whips out at her with his club, his face slack. AC ducks. Then
she seizes hold again.
The Narthex embraces AC from behind. Grinning ear to ear, he
slides his arms along her arms and his hands over her hands. Rachel
can't see him, and watches in amazement as AC smoothly lifts the
police officer over her head. She pivots and flings him through a
closed window, CRASH, and out into forty feet of air.
Rachel is one step toward the window rvhen she feels AC's hard
little hand snatch at her arm.
"Don't show yourself!"
She points upward.
"Let's go to the roofl"
Cries of horror and alarm rise from down below. The rooftops
up here do all connect, as Rachel suspected, and most of them have
projecting doorways -- locked, locked, locked - sirens now rise and
fall, helicopters coming, coming down the many streets toward
them. AC waves Rachel over to a fire escape. Down they go, then
scramble over a folded chain link fence and into a weedy uit"y. n .y
hurry to the next block and then slow down, walking normally and
inconspicuously.
The pupils of the Narthex's painted eyes are burning balefully.
"Did you see thaet?"
He throws back his head and puts his flsts on his hips.
("Aell right," the Apse says. "Very nice, Narthex.")
They all go limp, and spin together like leaves twisting in a flirt
of autumn wind.
 PEST 161

AC and Rachel get away, but there are shitty drawings and
faded, stretched-out mosaic images of them in circulation now. It
seems the officer landed on his head. AC thrusts her hand out at the
Pacific.
"Let's go to Catalina."
"Are you nuts? We'd be trapped."
"We can stay at the work site, Nobody would look for us there.
Grant's invited me."
"We should go to Mexico or something."
"What are we going to do in Mexico? You know Spanish?"
Rachel shakes her head.
"I know Latin."
"Catalina," AC says.
Rachel swings her arms, head lowered.
"OK," she says.
Above them the Narthex revels in the night sky, doing ecstatic
obeisance in front of a vast ectogram of AC's face, crushing one of
her soulpomegranates against his mouth, sucking the nectar of what
was not supposed to happen.

... I've been up and around since yyyesterday I think, or maybe the
day before that. A group of people are setting up a campsite right
beside the earthquake spring. Grant called me earlier today, and I
think he spoke to Bakarne too, to tell us all that his "Rheterostylites"
are undergoing some kind of linguistic reconditioning that requires
them to avoid ordinary language for the time being, so it would be
better if none of us approached them or spoke to them.
So there they are, all dressed in grey. There's a blonde older
sunburned woman, a smooth pair of baby boomers, and a lean, hard-
looking younger man. They sit on low stools facing Grant in his
white veil, copying his gestures.
"Do you know how many more are coming of those Rhetero-
consuelos?"
"Not consuelos, stylightees."
Later on Grant stops by to say hello and have some more of his
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'uat11 uorlelsoSotrat qtyr{ auop are setqdlsoretar{H oqt eJuO,,
.SA
r.
I
1\rt
q8urop er.a^^ lerL!\,,
(((lI sI 'se[,
,,'salr1.{lsoralaqg,,
'salrus tueJc
,,(uoos oot toN l8urop ar,r(arp teq,u t,uorv\
^tou{
daril o5 i{let ol po/yrolle t,uere suorpuepopoqr rnod ,(qrt leqt sL,
pepuelur ra,tau no,( 'suop ar,no,{ aurl eql {q lnq 'ur8aq .ro,{ ,rroJrf,
Ientlr oqt turo;rad otr 'puetur ot eleq no1 'puetsJapun ot aruoJ
991 rsld
 'Burrel rlteu aql tno Suqceqo'paq ut Eur,(1 u,1 1!\oN "'
'A\ouoruol ro; (pear
raxrrx lueruac eql te8 ol olqed IIel ot Jo seo8 pue s8nrqs or8rog
'laddnd
3ur,rr1e ary1du8 dtu ur syeg pue sleanbs u alrq^\ qteap ot tl alltol{l
pue auo qrca Jo lno a8eurep 3o dur eqi 1pd ot luu^{ 1 'sa8eddrls aplrl
esoql et€q 1 'sasse13 lets(rc-tno peqsueql (ur uo sa8pnus punoJ
rsnf s,orl.n euoeruos a{ll IeeJ 1 'sa8eddrls aFtII asoqi te 8uqoo1
'lueuaP IeeJ J 'elx
eluels 'acron dur 'suorlorue (ru pue '.(es 1 ,,'Eurql lsrg dn lI eroqs,,
,,'PIInq ueql Pue 3ur>1urs
auop s,tr IF, trel\ oi ralteg eq plno^\ 1t 1nq'alarcuoc PPB ueJ eA\,,
'Jaqlo eql uaql'auo lsrg'aur ol uaql sn\oqs or8roS se slurod
a3ueprsqns aqt uo lq8rlqseg raq saurqs saloSrg aureleg 'ran\ol
pren8egrl raq ruorC 'urreg eqt repun 3ur33es ,(pearle sI euII uoll
-ePunoJ eql erer{,tt etu s1!\oqs 3r.l PUE reuJo3 eqt o1 ulrq /llolloJ I
's,(es or8ro3 no( 'no( A\or{s usJ L,
,,'JueA\ 3r
'uo os Pue
'.1srl plnor Surpynq aqt 'ryero plno, uortepunoJ aqt 'suaddeq teql JI
'roJ Jau.roJ auo ,(q rarro dorp arotu eq or 3uro3 s,araql
Pe^rollE I ueql
a{rl qool rr luroN 'tl ol peqrelre Surgl(ra,ta dn {cerf, pus IIeJ ro
asrr l,uplno^r tr os sde,r,tapls tno aseq aqt 3o tq8rarr,t aq1 3o auos Suttn
-qulslP allqM uollePunoJ el{l uollJes pue 'ra(e1 elllJalrrs eql qleaueq
luns s8urpd uo plrnq ot sE1\^
eapr ,(1,1 's{urs punor8 aql pue (e1o
ellt)arus urorJ JatreM sazaanbs Surppnq eql Jo lq8ra,n eqt asneoeq
lr ur (e1c qlra,l punor8 uo Eurppnq ualqord E s,araqt os XO
'slued (u
3o
la>icod {req snoure^pr eqt otul rueqt eAoqs pue ,(yddols dn uaqt 11or
'saaol8
1
(pnc ,tteu aql Eurploq lpls
{ro.&r eqt qlr^t palpunq 'erurat
rrr,J eorlou I '1!\ou seurllno (tu ur urg erotu IaaJ J uoseer eluos roC
,,'1Er{l
aas eur te1,, 'sue1d eql roJ pueq ,(tu lno Surploq '(es 1 ,,'aur 1a1,,
'sufaq 1r
luaruoru aql f,cua8rn IIE esol ot sulees
ter{t uortour 3ur11or E ur reqto r1rea pre^ ot replnoqs Uel pue peeq
srq sar{JuelJ Jo lJos aq ueql pue .ttou (ra,te :cn e seq eH 'sallus IIe
'uoo13 aqr ur an8e,t sr aruJ s,ueu 3rg eql 'spueq aletis daqa 'elpooq
99r ISld
 sp.ro^\ ruroJ 01 3ur(,u ,Euueal sr tcorql (u preq os Burq8noo u,1 ...
.sn olur
pue sJotsaJue rno Jo seuog aJeq aql q8norql
se(elerurp aqt u^\op Eurlclurnl xes eqt e{rl ,raqlo qJee olur Burgserc
PreMol '30 sralseru sseldlaq sn se{etu lru eql adecspuel aqt qSnorql
Suuoq sralrr IIe ar,a1A .ll IoaJ IIB ar11 'suosrad lou er,eM .leuosracl
tou s,tr 'ua,rop IIB ureqt uru ot tue,u tsn[ 1 .Surddrt pue (,reaq
oot ara^\ suJor{ Jreql Jr sB speaq laql 8ur(uec ,Surqlearq qJeuots ere
daqa ',(lrsoulue rnoqrl/r\ sllnq pa.relreq-1n,r rar{lo aqr le
{ool I "'
'(poq >1ed aqt ... eql3o lred seuoreq peeq ueurnq
,(pa1]n aql eJer{,,lr leoJqt aql Euole aurl aueJsqo eql ur pateJlueJuoJ
ra.ttod rrerlt IIe 'speaq ueunq qlrzn s>1e( ale teqtr spo8 snorlsuoru
pue spo8 pedeqs-ueunq a^eq s{e^ irequeruar
,.(qat s,lsr{l uetunq
e sem I ileqt lnoqe ^ ou>l I plno^r ,,!ror{ ,rellDl
aueunq aql ruorS del
aqr uatto8 1snI an,(aql aT1 paraSSels'uedo sqtrnou'3urre1s
IIE sllnq
aqt eas pue 'e.rets pa{a-11en ,peze13 (ru pue peaq trneaq ,(u urnl
I 'sllnq aqt Jo sarpoq eql uo IIeJ lsrg lsnur J sarpoq rreqt o1 la8 oa
'oN (oN jtuaqt reaq (aqt ueD .smor eqr le dn
{ool I uar{,tt selrers
e8eluour ur rellers slq8noql (p1 .s3rns
1ng .sXes 1l ,NIVDV ...
'&\eIS
PePPerqs Jo u^\orJ
e e{II qool tI 'selpunq lue8uet tuloJ ol Jlestr uo u} sploJ €rurat srql
saEonEuol patryru4 uat utual pua yilq uoxttpc poa? o awoca7
'nol syaarpq tcuawa aLll a.f14m acul,ll
utotunou,L xuamd*uoty aqt Bwt1ya! ayr4m autt4t
{o adop atlt uaxoy
y uno tE a ql LFU a wa q a c u141
uloua a 3u117{1nl-qs1m a14t tlt! 4L
rta s mo t qoxg
' salqal qne qt?&L s n7unt n11ac s ?ut)
sa4anpy1 {o awau atlt lo a1qo11[.s yovp aLlt 4oad,sun
'4 asnd,sry ssauyop pasd,qca w # atulosstp
Wa
'sn7un{fo daaqEwsd.alloc aqt aztlonst& paarq mo,(. aaoqy
'uoxTcn4sa? s# u1 slslxa ?ua-IamdaLll
t1yaagalqoN a {o uog 146
olsD I ttvH]td 991
sdrqc pooa.t Eurdnts opeunH EualaH sr {uqt I leq^\ IeeJ I tuetuotu
e u1 'oB ra1 .(peau 1 pue ada rya1 (ur otul {U sralurlds aqa
's{rerr lsod dtu uaql '3ur1pur^\p sr raqurt eql uo
urerts eql IeaJ u€J J lueruoru e raUE pue (1pp,r.t Suopero uels uaql
Jo o^rt aqt l1pzlt er{t Jo aseg aqr te uSrsep u1!\o srq;o 1ce[ uouepunoJ
e slunour 'd1eq s,or8roC q1l^ 'pue eur lsed srrep otrppC opleur8ry
'uortJeJl aur arrr8 sa,ro18 aql 'eprs raqto aql uo Sur8er Jetsuoru
Suusuu 'Surpurr8 luer8 auros e>lll sI poo^ eqt q8norql EurlaaS aql
tnq '.,uou IIe^l eqt lsureBe sdord uazop JIeq e tnoqe are araql "'
'dlr,te.r8 'Surnoru t,usr tI 'papwnolt uortepunoJ slqJ --
ileql reerl no^ --
'u^aop eurof, ot 3uto3 l,wsr uortepunoJ ar{l ueqt IIa A --
'e{s uo u1!\oP saIIIoc 1l'u1!\oP seruoJ IIeA\ eql
Jrtnq'oB ral arep t,uop I -- spueq du ut raqtutl eql q8norqi Surleqs
aqt IaeJ uer I pue sueor8 IIe^\ aql'au dlaq ot slsod qtr^\ dn Suruuu
sraqto ere eraql (pearly 'punor8 eqt otur pua raqto aql Sur8pam
'lle,r eqt 3o uortrod raddn aqt otur tl ruer pue lsod ,(ru lslo{ I
'lods ecuaprsqns
3ur1cn1 puoJas eqt ur Surlrets 'oo1 >1oerc Suqcrg Jar{toue s,areql
pue 'saceld ur apr^r r{Jur ue (peau sr {rerr erfl - IIeM aqt Jo eseq
eql ot dn unr 1 'saop lr aqdeu 'aqr(eur 'rale1 sauroo reqr '8urop ru,1
teq^r t,uop I 'a1od r1ne,r-a1od e ary1tr (rrer pue raqunl So apd e
^rou>I
Jo ureaq uoddns 3uo1e qer31 'aur roJ tno pa11nd tuer3 sa,ro13 ryort
esoqt uo Suqnetl ure 1 oE I se pue 'lle,t\ eql 01 umop lurrds 1 '11 ot eru
3uq1nd'eru sezras pue 1no ser{Jear 'JauJoc Surprsqns aql dn Suuoqs
(peaqe '{r?rJ eql aIII s,1r
IIE^a alarJuor eqt ur alqrsr^ Pue ulaql
reqe trno a8reqc
'elrs aqt pJe^\ol 'szrtopurzlt aql dq >ieerls e1d634
I
,,13ur4cerc s,t1,,
'drz pa>1cng
'dnpazlcng
,,ia,u8 rsnf ie^1C,,
-- Suryntor8'SurpsoI pue Surumtrs 'raqla8otr sllnq aqt a^up
'qlrea aqtr uo raileqs Eurlaa3 pue sluola tsed Jo sproJalse drorua1,11
'peaqurnrp E aIII Sulrunoq punor8 aqa 'tq8ru pue dep Surqons
,(1g '8ur1or sa,(a ,(tu 'dr1 raddn (ur pue 11 1e dlsnouadun stsroq'peaq
du;o dol uo Unt aql ur peqsaru puer1 aur^rp V 'ratleur plno^\ leql
gr se 'Eurzeaqm tnq Surqlou ro1 poo8 s,t€qt eJro^ qtrnoJun srqt qlr^\
LgL 15]d
 (ru s,1eqa,,
,,iuLzary
ot
'dn Suqoqo ur,I pue xeuue aql lurod
1
'ereJ l,uop tnq ure prre&r .rloq te Eurlool ar,(aqa
J I 11e
,,1dn s,(urs Eurppnq,i14,,
'punor8 ar{l ur ua,top,(trner8 re tnoqs
1,,inod lcng ino[ IJnC,
,p{qapry, [w,Q1nat7 lq8no; aa,1
pue'[.sruru1c pue wJ -- ueur IEJ € rr]J trou ,pr1 teJ e suar _ ueru tEJ e
J
ueaq s(em1e eA,I .ueu
Tote u,1.eJrl eloq/lr dru drr,rer8 rq8nog a,r,1,,
,,'opr{D '(ervre Euro8 lou sr dlrner8 tng sel,
.teql Surop
,,'tet{t roJ .{auou ro erurl e^eq t,uop eA\ tou er,a1\,,
's.{es aq
,,'ure8e dn punor8 eql rurg pue umop lr gnd ol relteq eq lq8uu r1,,
'Eu11p5 pue Eursrr
{reu sul punors
ureqc plo8 elnrl aqt ,preq Eurqtearg .aru otr dn seuoo o,Brog
,,'{ror eql ol,(11erale1
.des
Ile.,tr eqi eJerq ot aAEr{ e^ puy,, 1,,,s1cerc aqr IIU euo8 eA\,,
'rea1c
J1as(ru la8 ol uede rueql af,roJ ot ener{ to8 la1 ot rueqt ,rB r,"n,
1
1 dlecrag os lsod du EurEEnq ere srrrr€ (p1
.lsnp Eurllrds
pue spuer{
sq qlr^\ sqSrrp srq 3un1eq ,znopegslle1ll 3q1 urorJ lno
{reg Surddqs
serrrof, pue pef eqt $lool opleurS.ry .{req pue]s pue slsod rrar{t uro{
se^lasureql aleredas o1 ur8aq,,sluer8ru,, aqt ,oznl ,,{1snoqne3
"(q orrrrl
'ute8e .relnclpuedrad sr leqt sueeru pu8rs srqa
IIeA\ aqt
.dn >1oo1
II€ e^4 pue sarelq ladrunrt s,eure{eg
'seurtsetur
{JesJaq e{q asrou e qtr^4. aprs reJ eql uo I}os drale^t
agl ur Eururnqc pup 3ur13rn3,1ceg ualup sr acroJ eJueprsqns eql se
premroJ salpuer{ aql Surqcur (lle^\ eqt
Jo ^aopsr{s eqt ur snoroqdsoqd
luef,sepueJur a>p1 Eurzelq setlq^a a,(a ,salpueg
{usrJ aql uo Burqsnd
1ro1
,],oppur8ry pue or8rog pue ,stsod rreql qll!\ sraJuEI e{ll
dn Sur8reqc ar,,(aqa .uo Suro8 qJnru os s,ereq1 ,acuo 1p srceld a"rql
ro olrl ur sr,,sluer8rru,, eqt .Burqtearq
Jo r1JEe e{q s,tl punor€ Buqool
r.{Jeruots 'parsagc-tq3p ,u1e8e ra^o pu€ ra o q10q ureql
{ueqt J
'U qlr./t{ lJeJe erour
dpq8rls aru sgnd l1 'ure8e lno Eurualq8rerls rsod aqr ur xau eqr
IeeJ
u€J I 'tm{s trr Eurntarcs (pgap sr pue lsod aqt ur
{rerc er{t punor€ eJr^
Erq e padruelJ seq otseurg a[rr.{1!ruea[\J .ada (ru ruor; ,(e.tre
"rsenH
olsD 1 tlvHlth 891
 'aPIS auo o1 3plll e selS8e./\^ I{)rq/!{ 'lp{s
slr{ relo lq8u u,nop papd sI Pooq srq 'sla>1eod ultlstr?o^as srq otur
pe8unld spuer{ sF{ r{t}lA 'eru uorJ teal .,ltal e {po sdols pue ,u11ezvr
-aprs (snq utrop {le.u aldoed .(earr eql ruoo.r (ru otur s{lem aH
,,'qea{,, s(es aq pue'rarpea uees p,I arpooq
aql ur ueur aql sr'tuer3 lsed Eurddars'ruoor aql sralua oq/r,r auo et1l
'dt lr8 J os pue'eru ol dervr srq Euqeu sr or8ro3 sueeru leql Eurssan8
ur,I 'sdalqooJ Jo Joluert luleJ eql Pu€ saf,Io^ Jo Jnrurnu ol e
s,arer.{J 'esnoq aq1 ur eraq^.res1e (lltqce Jo puH eruos reaq ueJ^
I
,,'paau ,(aqf ranafeq^.r Jo erotu {eelr e 'paau (eqt releleqm 'ltrou4 no(
'uo ueld ot peau 11no,('tpnq eq o1 sndrueJ eqt roJ Suprern a;e -,,
,,'selrlrfisoralaqU,,
,,-- seperrtoJalaq rno( ;r'ueeru 1,,
'aure$ lleruod u ur arn8g e e{ll Joop aqr ur Surpuets,spou e11
,,ileql oP
e&\ ueD 'eseq aqt dn eroqs ot {aem e aq{eur ,(q porrad uortrrutsuoJ
aqt puatxa or Euro8 dlqeqord er,e4ye)uaplsqns er{l uro{ sr a8eurep
eqt peq zltoq etu ilal pu€ ralel dq euror 01 pasoddns sr or8ro3,,
,,'salrldrsorataqU,,
,,'sepetuoruopo{u ar{t ot Euruatsq se.u I "',,
'sreelJ leorql (141
."(q Surssed
,,'nod aas pue ur dorp p,1 rq8noql 1 lsn{,,
.ur soruoJ
lueJc
pue 'roop (ru te {coul SurTlrels ? s,ereqt uoq.ry\ "' 1l reeq ot Eururerts
ru,I "' eq ot rele'ueaq aleg ot rele'e1ge uaoq eleq tou lq8uu ... uaaq
elerl relau rqSrur "' ueag e eq pFor{s s8urqt de,t. aqr "' peetsur ueaq
elpq ol lq8no rr ,(errr aqt .ftorsrq urorJ "' eprslno ruo$ aorol e '.. srrer{l
ol peurof acrol req]oue eTI "' eraq^rou ruorJ punos urqr 'q8rq y
qdlecs (ru q8norql dn 1n>1s,(tu uelq8rerts or Surdu sr aurds dur
eIII IaaJ 1l seop dqr11q,(poq.(ur rano 1e '.(11ryured'1no Surlsrng 1ea.ns
plor sr dqm pue 'Surddod sa(a (ur ere ,(rir11is{eerc poo^\ eqt IEun
llrsmopurm er{t r{rtnl) eru a>leru ]r seop dql6 qqcuap puu lnqs deus
qtaar dur a>letu 1r seop f,qrt'oS 'aru JeAo seqse^ Jrsnur eql lo ssau
-1ryaoead aqa 'sernduel Eur(e1d ere sreqlo o,/v\t ts€el te pue ,ouerd e
uo setou pelelosr Surdeld sr uosrad euo 'er€ sluepnts s,tueJC ereq^a
(stuet aqt ruoq EururoJ
sr Jrsn6 'areq olur Surrnod {puv 'eraql
lno aruF tq31u tpuerqueu u^AoJq s,]I 'Eurualsrl'znopuran aql le I,u,I
691 lsld
 I '{uls (poq (u pue ur^\s peaq ,(ur se{eui rre ees aqa .Burqrdue
aes t,uer t tq8rrq os sr 1q8r1 aqt pue ,qsreq s,ll eq,
Uos os sr tre
.ruEerP
aqt uI pa,rrrdap-daa1s dlpeq Suraq tnoqe Buruearp e{rl s,tl .pepeeq
-lq8r1
au 3ur1eu s,tl 'rle aql ur dn os sr Surqr eloq.{\ sql .arueprsqns
aql qlt./lr loN 'pro5e u€J e,ll acrrd aql te paau eA elarJuoJ
Jo lunorue
aql drqs ot tuem ot Euro8 sr auo oN .reqtoq ot tou aur Bur11a1 sr
puru dtu ur d.rreg lecrSeur e tnq alerJuor dnq ot eraq^{.,ltou1 .sr(a1
1
re3 'Surqtou qtrm ,sueaf pue grqs-1 ,sr
,(ru ur se lceq Euro8 ur,1
(aurl aql IIe parrt os 1 ure dq16
'suortErql^ ql1,$ s3ur115
,(u Surddez 'saur8ua Jo reor (pea1s
e qrr^,r rarpau sar{Jur lseoJ uel
pue uear8 aqt pue 'eprstno dq Surslnd sao8 rate.,r,r enlq peuo^rp eql
pue 'ssausnorJsuoJ-Jlas req eruoJJalo 01 soltl€q.re8ue raq ellq^,, sdots
eqs pue ,ua,top pue dn Surced ueeq s,eqs .auoqd req olur stnoqs
^rou
ueruom e ,,1ou des nod anou pue nod ol spro^r JJexa esoqt ples
L,
.atarJuoJ aqt
ta3 ol to3
.pauunls :uorssardxe
Ierurqeq
(ur Surreault eqt ur pelraBar 31es(ur Jo tt{3rs 3r,qrle, *,1
^topur^l
pue'puelureur aqt ot {req teoq aqt uo ru,I .^rorrouol s,t} .,.
^roN
'.$ou alrus srq tnoqe
ssal Surqlaruos s,eraqt sueaur tI (ueeu teqt seop req/A .ll B.r,op ,,rq
1!rou pue 'saop ra,rau aq Surql Eru.roJrleD auo aqt s,leqI .sasselEuns
Surrea.,rt s,luerC ,,u.ou 1sn[ ,(1uo ,.ttou lsnf ,q8noql ;"r,1u",
'pear{
i
st{ sa{eqs pue (1ua>1unrp selrus ueg
.JEAA
se elrus llnbuen elues eqt qlyrr ,s(es luerC ,,,se1r1.fisora1aqg,,
,,(setrpuel$epoqg eqt Jo euo no( ary,,
,,.^{Ou)I J,,
,,'olEq3 tu,I oler{D,,
,,'uEB ru,L,
'dlsnoro8r,r peeq sq se{eqs pue salrus aH
,,i]eur e^l aAeH,
'3tu tre salrurs aH
,,'eleJruoc aroru 'elarouoJ peau ol Suro8 ar,nod
sdes all 'ure8e raao l1 rnod pue uouepunoJ er{t
3o rred dn a>1e1 or
eAeLIot Euro8 ar,daqt s(es '..,, --
,oiro{, lr saJunouord ,.{ -- ,,or8ro3,,
olsrf t_ tlvHf lt 1Lt
 ,,'petdope eram nod lq8noql 1,,
,,lsursnoc.{u
ees oJ relo Suruoc ur,I imor{ s,leql ,u€ur ,oo1 leog eql uo se,r\
L,
,,ieraq ag ol Suro8 se^\ I 1llou)I nol prp nto'q
-- 1!tou>I I PIp Aror{ -.4rrou)lI plp ,!lor{ serut no( p}p AAoH,,
^rou{ J
,,1aur Sureas lsnf ]ou ar,no( lnq',(zerc are no{ .ueatu L,
'ur sueel 3H
,,i(zen tou er,no1 laraq lq8rr u,1,,
'araqt Surpuels'31osurq
se Jlasrun{ asodxa Jo tros ol {JEq smogle srq s11nd pue spueq srq
sqrl eH 'Surpus 'szr,rorgade srq Sursrer ,sr(es aq ,,ileer ur,I ,llr1A,,
,,'llq E'I{eaA,,
... .oruoq oB ppoqs notr,,
,,i{u€lq altlrl p EuqaeS no
'surnt (q lq8rt aql Suqooc pue Surur.re.tr spnolr eqt pus ,urer eql
ret3e tq8u uns pue 'leleznurel 3o lood elurl e ur Jeal peep e a{rl srrr
u./\^orq aqt Surteununlp,a(a srq ur tods euo sn{t slrq uns aql
Uel
's.(es aq,,'ueu {e11,,
'uoslr4\ s,tl 'replnoqs du uo puprl
V
'areql sI lxel aql lnq'ruearp e e>lrl lleJ rJ (ller auoqd
]eql lnoqe leq^A '1I ol oB Surploq ur,1 s(e1 aqt esneraq'eur 01 3uo1aq
ol pasoddns sr s8urqt esaqt Jo euo teqt ezrle;u ol 8ur(rt ,e8y auor5
eql uorJ Jella^eJl erurl e a{rl sJeJ te Suuets 'lo1 Suqred er{t ur puels
1
'3urql,(ue op l,uer I teql op ot r{onru os s,erar1J 'laa; (u qleaueq
alenbqrree erJet r.{1r1!r 'puelureur eql uo lreq ur,I ...
'(1,furr.t
^aoN
s{se eJro^ aql ,,ioleqD ,Sururoru snp pauols no^,,
'.(11ecr3o1ornau eur qtr.{r reneru aql Surql
-eluos s,arer{t JI Jepuol I 'plesun a^eel I sef,ualues aql ua^s urroJ
ol Surlqruq '*ry ot leeds ol a8eueru .(1areq J .ssarppe eqt aru slxel
aH 'lno euor plnoqs I pue ,fired e Surneq s,ar{ pu€ s,(ep a8elloc ruor3
puelrJ plo ue se Jlaslr segrtuepl ,Jrsnlu ur parrng-Jler1 ,aoro,r etoure-r
e 'aur1 aqt Jo pua rorlto eqt uO .a{Edre au srlo[ auoqd er{J ...
'ssanB
o1 a^€q sr(erltle I isur,u or{^ ssanC 'euo (1uo aqJ ,plro./r\
eqt qtL!\
.(e1d 1 atue8 yo pul{ v 'treJ ur ,1ry3urueatu sseT .eqrepeeq E u€Lll
tueraJJrp oN 'purru dw u1 .,(r1eo4 'Surqrdue op ot atu uo puadep
t,useop teqt uoltentrs eruos olur lpqu.r\op 11o.r aq(eur ,a1g1nt e ro3
(lrarnb erp pue pues uuel\
Jo te>lrng B otur peeq ,(u y;rus otr lue^\
LLL 1S] d
 ,uem ,op
rue^
,:,T?:;:Jl;:,'l.:::l::lrj",,,jdsns
J dezn 1 den, eqr
aqr *o" r*o:,?:rl1i,':-:rrd;;;;;r:;', o,
#;
- i::,,
pue r aro r{^1 e ql I .araql
sil
e^o,,,,r'],T:i,# #::rl r,,,Jf:|5i 1r Eurdaal
^topeqs *,1 p,rr glrrd*
l,;; i :'J :irel{loue
pue Eur,rlo,rur :::1,
J ill^,,::l
;:'J :eru ,rrr,*I ::^^:: :. I" "; : r,uer ;Latu
;:l l"i:
,, ;::,'.^:"'"*
aqr Pue
uorr a8nq ele^{ ereq} ^.;J;
r,,"1u,1::::11,].:* '* ,q.,,
"*".r+ J=u s,JI (lrldu
Jpe ,,rI (rq8t ru,I JI lng .uorssardur
Il:*nr,,e are^{
'acuelE e dluo ,11e rar;e
pue ,a>ptsnu qa*" E apsru
""^,,q,r,
di.ro
I teqt raqtrg
ilno leq^,I Pulc
**::lH;,T'1'(tuo;3uo1eetu,,"oi'lj"'l'l"l,TY'i'J:I#:H:
s a{e ru, q3r a qa
1 j** r,
: :,
##1,t11 ;-,: ;ffiyjr#;l1
.q8noue
esolr rO
'dlrrexa lq,Ir 1;
azrleel uorrresler-- rT:r:ffiilX'lir^
I
r, n,,, si,,
-drane ser,ul.,nlJl
ffi qHt *dH:[ ::, [i: :ffi ,:,1]
!'i rq8gl aql
.rq8rr n"r^rprrl*io^ xuoln sleou re) ;:,; eql
rrs l,us3sp l r.,oqu
. B,r,qlr*t, p.,, rno se Joop luory
E"'r'e'3 '{p"'1n seH'e,ors 11nd I
illJnl eqr orur ,,-, p,n
eqr orul,oB
illl'J.'ile u4I{ p,R
,,",,'^,o"Tj,iJ,];',:X.L1* 'p,, "q, ,1,1 ,,,
'.1
l arurs
^1BS
a. p,s,a,',Lq ;;;;fr _i,t'.Xj}p,ff,,,:g *,, ;;
,,.r t_l wrp le aur dorp ,rrr'.,otr,
.(u ur u^lor arrr q'norqr rrrr^r
o^1 pue Burqrdrr^r;;:],#,,:rflrH
sPuels rq8rlunsradn:
slq qiuvr Euqous saq
yrrlu
rno Burl8uep pueq ,;;_"g
pue G, ^op.r1^
d.u t.r, rrqirrol ,1 pue uosp41 .,.
a ru s wa d.xa
- .:;r,:ffi1'l^;;;;"
,1 o: ny;Tr;;:,:;y :1fi:H"j jj:i;",
3ur11al sr usruo^r
" ,lrn,s,rrd*, o, ,rr^ drp pue ,dlr'l, ,,{I,,
(rA, rn
'a,trrp -- ^
o1y6
^. I'l.Jo'":j,:ry-'l 1oo1 no'('"0"':"t*;::*r**r-
nod _- uarslT
isursnole^sq ,1iora peldopv
iseaa L,
OfSI] '1 I]VH]IN ZLL
 'sdgu'lreqre3 PUE IIIEI
alanwoc lo amln{ aql
ANVdIAIOS EIEHCNOD NVISUD VINUOCITVD
'lalcod lseerq reLI
urorJ prer e s11nd pue qteat raq ur la8eq aql se^oqs ueuro^a eql
'sreJeol urql raded 'ssaledeqs srq 3o
tno teeJ ereq srq Euqel s,ap1 's(es ueru eql ,,'tl pe{Jol t,uppq no1,
,,(de,l
eqr la8 no( prp araq^\ tnoqe 'des 1
,,'qcnur s€ paurnsse L,
^\oH,,
'Eurralrnq l[r]s 'sdes ueurol aql ,,'roop truorC,,
,,iereq ur ra8 no,( PIP ^toH
'luaulrede dur sr srq1,, '(es 1 ,,'rg,,
'(prearu. lr ur
Jlasurq saderp
pue 'rrropura,t eql ol lsesolJ 'JeuroJ aql ur auo aql 'rretlc ,(ru o1 sasso.rc
aH 'etu te Euqool tnoqtrr^\ 'sdes eq ,,'prl- t,uop no( adog,,
'spueq Surddrrpllus srq Eurqqm'ruoonlteq
eqt tuorJ ur saruoJ'arddrq Sur8e ue a>111 'ueur.replo u€ ratel tuaruoru
e pue 'saqsng talrol dtr11 'sarnlsa8 lecr8rns lleurs qtl^\ la8eq petseot
e uo rennq Jo sqep a1mr1 Surpeards 'uroor 8urnr1 (tu Jo elppltu aql uI
Surpuets ueruol!\ E s,araqt 'luarutrede (tu ol lceq la8 1 uaq16 "'
'eu5 s,tr 'aug s,tr pue (zerc ur,I 'auop
^\oDI I
l,usr trI 'teql e^eq l,uef, aA\ '3ur11a3ro3 ,(1oq tsure8e uotssar8sueu e
sr reqruauer ol oS 'uortua^ur Jo reqtoru aql pue ',(rotuaur ueql raq8rq
Surqr alqou e 'euoq pauru>l or{t uo reJS et{t sr Surlra8roy pue '1sed
lua8rsuerlur ue (q tuesard er{1 Jo uolleracel IITIIII sI eurnerl '8url
-la8roS Jo stoul qlrzut raqtaSot punoq sI soIUSoJ ar{t :aur uo uoltelolar
r5ltualrs Sura,rolsaq sr -- (pe1 drp pue sdrgc aql a{rlun 'peaq (tu ur
aq ot suaddeq tr aJurs -- JoJ llparJ a{€t ot pallrrurad (lsnorcer8 dra.t
ure I teqt arro^ V 'oleq Ientrallalul uV 'uortertdsut 3o Surtaa; y
'lsure8e lsnI gleqzn
lsure8y 'tsure8e '.ttoqetuos 'uotssalSsuerl E JIeslI eq III^I I{JII{,4A
'l,ue) I qllqlA '.(11e8a1 'ueqt ta8ro3 ot aAEq lll&\ J su€aur
^/roqeuos
rlJlrl^\ 'ueru Jeqto teqr pue uosll4\ tnoqe artnbul ot tou uoISIJep
'uorsrJaP
IEuS V IETJHo ue se olal{A\auos PeProJe.r eq Pu? luno3
,LL IS] d
otur reqilry u^rop Surprls 'dlltupenba qrrm sdes aq ,,d1qeqor4,,
'rsPInoqs
JOr{ ralo unq qse aqs ,,(anrsuadxa arou lr e{eur leqt l,uppo A,,
'sdes aq,,tonpord
letuauruadxa us s,tJ,,
's(es aqs,,'qcnru >lse t,uo,ry\ eA\,,
,,'q8rq leql plq l,uec aAA,,
,,'eug s,teql '.auu s,t€ql,
'aru strdruralu aqs pue'aroSaq se
lelJatur
rruorurEq otues eql t? spunos orlu aql ,3ar1ar glrm q8rs daql
's(ep earql aqdeur ... ...
,,-- appeqrs rng IIe A,,
'apEJ ol lr JoJ tle^r pue'acurm .JorJalur snou
I iuousa8rpul
-pe1aE.(u q8norrlt dn de.u str Eurcroy alqqnq prer.{ p e{}l ,strnq tI .aru
q8norqt sao8 useds Eu[1o.r {ealv\ Jo lros e 're,usue uec I aloJeg
'sunq paprerq o^11 w lq8p dn palror rreq req
.d\opeqs
IIe qtuv\'peaqpar e ilaa; pue spueq eptrl r{lrm dp.rnls s,eqs
(* ,, 8uqoo1 s,aqs {uqr I 'eur purqaq II€1!\ er{r uo are sa(a ra11
'rar{ te dn >1oo1 'dlqerrur sdeus ueqreJ al.lt w ueWV\,,
1 ,,&sapl
,,'alqrssod se uoossy .deprarsal,
ue rsorur' pue ,spua eq aroJaq Euruuraaq.riil;ilfl':f;'#:'-
's.{es ruea,,'*-tr{,,
'arnlse8 puer.{ e aq otr lu€e{u sr teq/t{ qryvr des
1 ,,,suol xrg,,
,,(LIJnru /vroH,,
'Eurqnl Iaars Jo epeur rrer{J uer{rrDl
plo ue s,tl 'rreq) elgeiloJruoc lseel (ru uo Eurllrs ,ueor8 L,,qee^,,
.s,{es
anrtdrunserd ueqreD ,,ieterf,uoJ auos roJ Euolool ar,no.,( sr pro1A,,
.rolJe Jeleeql
peJrler e ery1 'ecro,r r13u s seq eH .s(es uetu eql ,,,rtJEI ru,L,
'araq dpearl, *,r rrrJ:l;'ffi ;:1fi Til*ur*
eqt 01 sppe ,(po s8urpunorrns dru go ,(luerlruEJ aqt anoq pue ,s>1oo1
tuaurlrede (udrate.larapun /!roq eJrlou 1 reqr des o1 ,(pear 1aE o1 raq
sa>lel tr etuu aqt u1 '(11eniua,ta s(es aqs
,,,ra11nq eqt tnoqp ftrog,,
'deu te.tr € uo spueq ,fta1tng raq
sadr.tt aqs apq.tt la8eq req punore punos e se{eru ueuro^a aqJ
'(es 1 ,,'no.( trues uoslr4\,,
ofsr) r rlvHlth ,LL
's(es ruea ,,'alarcuoc tno )ueeut no( uaq,r,r aJaJJuo) llp ples no1,,
,,'elErurlJ aql qlr/t{ slooJ PUE sruJem elsJJuoJ 3t{1 sE suorl
-euJn6 ernsserd ol asuodsar ur salerrdsor luarJnJ aqa 'strqro .&or
-elnJJIJ oFlcalaozard ut sallaue8ro Sutuorlcun; Sururo; (q lua.unc
aqt ol tJ€er qJrL{^\ 'urloe>tetatu Jo selnpou raqraSor {uII eseql
'selpunq enrau eleJ)uof, ruJoJ ot sJeq5 optcalaozatd sesneJ ssaoord
larres rno 'a8pnls raded uroq pelJerxe uqoe{Eteru pue'sraru{1od
redeeqo Jo p€etsur aplrong auaprt(urrrdlod esn e1ysa I lI --,,
- a{B^ e .(1areq srueas oqin'Brea le {Jeq sacuelS aqs ereq pue --
(ertt aqr lnq'ratrear 3o
,,- 1r a{Brrr alt
dpreu pasoduroc s,1r '1eeq go saar8 tl 'saqteeJq tI 'seqoJJrru lou s,ll
'eleJJuoJ olur lr e>leru elr aJuo elrle sr Jloslr eleJouoJ eql 'ou o51,,
'(es 1 ,,'3e1s
ereurnJ tselq pale1nuerE ur anrp s(ets Eurqt{ue etu IIaL,
^toq
'lsa^ rurueP srq ur
oprsur tl p€q e^€q lsnur oH '8uoq anlq e SuqBrnB (pernb sr rlrel
,,ielerJuoJ Jly,,
(ur
-'t
-orrrru rnoq' 1 op,, 'acron asrer , ';::*;:}i,"iHX
^rou{
qol Eurpualard
lsnf aqs sr Jo 'eru ees ,(11enpe aqs ueC 'Eursstru pue etu olut sa,(a raq
IIup 01 8ur(rl 's1drura1ur arls ,2neut?ua 'leqt ltoul nof, plq -,,
'Surq8rs tno ratad,,- I'1a A "',,
'eAITe sI etreJJuo3,,
,,i1€t{1 ./t/Iou)l nor( prq
,,'ure8e oE amarag,,'qlserq srq rapun s(es ruea,,'oB a,tt areH,,
,,ie^ll u a{eu aA\,,
'(trugur otur tno Euruue;
'p1o8 ur saurltno Jrar{t Jo xeuol e aru.uoqs uorleur8eur {ru saleur aqs
lrroqauos pue 'sa11asor Suturo3 spueq alltll req 'sarcuerper arHnJ
uo pexg sa(a raq 'aru lE 3un1oo1 tnoqtrm 1111s 'surnl ileqreD
'{se L,geruarurradxa ,(q uearu nod op lEr{IA,,
,,ialaqr 1no tt la8 ol Euro8 e/!t AtoH,,
.qreruols',ro,"o,l;;;ror[,r;,ff
]1iffi ;:,;],;]H:ll:il
.sdr aql
ot aled s, srq pue 'par Surpey 3o rrto13 rurp e (q peqrnol sr rleq
"fe;'tseqr
(er8 3uo1 srH srr{
oluo premroJ pacroJ sr peaq s}t{ Iqun leas aql
gLL IS]d
 .(es
1,,,re11eurs qf,nru s,tr >lurqt L,
'Jellelus
r{Jntu s,trr {ulqf ro ,se,u
i tr ueqt Jallerus qJnru s,tr tnq
'auo8 r,usr {JeJJ eql .lsrg JIesJeq 1r eurruexe o, Hrrr"qroq rnor{rr^l
'atu ot rl sl!\oqs pue dn rl sar{Jieus {lleq eqr go slafi iler{reC
iuollesJa^uof, IErurou V iuoxlosn&uoc o Bur,re,q
tu,I iuorlecrunurruol ro3 ,,(lsnonpre ,punos acnpord ot reqla8ol )iron\
p": qrnour dtr11 lsernrsaS aleur spueq (ur pue prr^ro; rrrl rr("
Tn[
{p1 ;lqSpdn rls J i^\oleq u^{op sse,(ur pue dor dn prrq (61iaru s,reql
's3a1 oa,q 'srure ozrta l3uraq uerunq E uL,I puv
ir1, ,A"pq uerunq
a,rr derrrt ayl s,tal.!J ,punor8 eql uo
lrrs se.( laal dur qrr^ *orroq Xtu uo
araq Eurllrs w,I yloxutow sr srqt ,ece1d ur Burqqoq sueeq ,re1ro1o, B.r,q
-qorqt asoqt IIe 'sertrrqt aqt ruorJ uoolrer e ary1 ,aur s,areq puv
'{clent lelr8rp raq te Suuels s,aqs .sassed
eurrT 'ueJ ar{s se ltiSra,tr req
Jo qJnru se qlvn IIeq erlt uo spuets
,rooB eql uo u^\op
Pue 'tl go dot us looj retl stnd {Jeq ll s]es eqs
,,'r{JJe^\ r ou tng,, .sdes aqs,,,zftro5,,
grds aqs ueql '.lleq aql ur lnd lsnl s,aqs
"o
{cerf, eqt a.., s.&lor{s
'dl8ur,rordde .(es e
"rr"
teql,
1,,iryeu Ual
'JooH er{t tsure8e e)uelorl
ldnrqe
t{lult tI s{ceq^t pue aur uorJ tr sa>lel aqs .sdes aqs,,,{req pueH,,
rl
'dn lr Surploq ,.{es ,araqdsorq
1 ,,,lq8rr 11e -rn^ , , rf'
'rureA\ s,tl .tl dorp dpeau pue .(pstunlc
tr qcteJ J .tr sessot ueql
'teql pue ,(err,r srql lr suJnt aqg .lcedsul ot atu ro3 rafiug xapur pue
qtunW ral{ uaazvrtaq dn lr sploH pue 'alarcuoJ
Jo IIeq e s,{1erpr{lL!\
'dldsrrc uado t. s{rrlJ eqs .eser
Ierau Ile..,s e r"o ,diq^ rrr.1rnj'
,eapr
,,'s{ro.rL i1 gr poo8 e s,tl, .,(es I ,,,XO,,
'sdes ueqre3
,,'axatcuoc 3wt1aa4l1as tnoqe 3ur>11e1 ru,I -- l1 te8 l,uop no1-
'qfua1 s,rure l€ ,eur le lno Buoq aql ,p1oq rp1
.eru
,,iAilos os,, ]E {ool l,usaop aq lnq,a,rou
lsnf ryep (lalalduroc suaas eH 'urr{r srq B"pJI irdur-rq
,,iqg,,
'rilel {s€ 1,,q(ue atu ra3o ol Buro8 uele Jou eJ,no1,,
'uortJerrp dur ur >1ceq s[anr/!\s eqs puee)eJ rar{ urog sdo.rp
uor]
-roluoJ per aql .(11ooo sarldar aq
,,,ernssard poolq rnod riJleIA,,
'rlrel le replnoqs rer{ re^o qreq aqs
,,1Bwtx{p*buno7.,,
'les 1,,'parrl au Suqeru sr srql IIe,nno^A,,
of stf .l_ tlvHf th 9Lt
 ',(poqou ol uo8reI Suqqrunu
'slq8q Surcuep eqt te Surppord pue Surdrzrrs (lqurnu 'sueatrs
ot pete^rr sa,(a 'srretlc rlaqt uI qtroJ pue lceq 8ur>1oor 'sreIJuBuU aql
11e 'uaqr
zrtes 1 ada s,puru dur u1 '1!topul^\ eq1 tno lr 3ur>1cnqc paret
-lpetu ',(lalelduoc go auoqd eql lnqs I ueq^\ s,leql 'ureql alods
I
I esneJeq'aru r11rlt reJ aql uI ruaqt preeq L,'lxatreqdrc,, Pue ,,snuoq
rur€lJ ou,, pue ,,Surtrrrruapun petBluotne,, spro^t el{l prEaq I 'oot elu
'{ueq e Jo ureerp aqt uo ul-Pauetsll
Jo plor{ Eur>1er runrrlap,eqt ltal I
I 'tno pue ur Surpe; seJIoA 'lre 3o surel 'reqqe[ pue JISnIN 'etu
Surtcarrpar pue Surlcarlpar pue Surlcartpar pue srequnu lndur o1
aul Surtdurord 'arueu (u Eurdes tdal sacro,t eqt tnq -- >leadqueq 1o
JnruJnru snolrau'luessaf,ur ue uo paddoJpselee (1uo pue '{ueq aql
dq paprp ilnq se^\ I a{rl s,tl 'p}ss I pro^\ e preeq f,aqr a^arlaq r,uop
asneJaq ,'1e >1eads, uearu Lol >1eads, (g
luaraglp uezop'aldoad
I
e dlq3nor or leads I 'Tueq eqt qtl^l 1po auoqd elqeululretul reqlouv
'alrIus auo elrus uleql Jo o^u eI{J
'slnoqs acron dur ,,1satr,,
isa^,,
,,itI tue^^ I
'saoatd snora8uep
,,(tl esn ol tue4A
ssal 'ralpurs uI IIeJ sernlJnrls os '3ur1e1nuer8 pue s1ur1 rauf,lod
Surldnocap ,(lsnoaueluetsur ,(q spuodsar alerJuoc aqr 'asde11or
ro eJueplsqns € Jo lua^e aql uI se'(pdmqe sdorp luaJlnr uar{14,,
'^lou ur suEal aqs
,,-- atoLw s,leq^A 'slrrl
a4anbclltva aLIl ual,yw aSoway ssal "' ellllrg ssel seluoJeq etarJuoJ
'sesearcur dlrcrlsela 'Ja1EA\ arotu Sutqrosqe (q sJJeer elerf,uoJ
aql 'tuarrn) Ieuoulppe saleraua8 sroluarl qlJee uIoJJ arnsseJd,,
.qulnql
Jaq qlr./!r Surlrets 'sre8ug JeL{ qll.&\ slurod saleralunua ueqreD
'(grearnt s(es ruea,,'selenbqtree tnoqe no( 11ar 11aqs'mo51,,
'ut>1s pacrardun
qlr^\ trrnrJ e a>p1 'lg ot lleurs qsar3 'e8uurls e seq aterJuoJ ar{I
LLL 15] d
 'ldanrspumr e punorc aurpno e rue J aabl,l
leeJl l,uop (qzlt
oS 'lslurou Ip sr srrlf .patntu^{olloq
pue parrnlq_Eoy ga,rr,{!, irn.ro,rn6
aqt Suorue Surraqlrls sr Jgerl alcrndroc
Sr,^o1S Or;r^ ,q, ,r,
u/ltoP {Jelq sI sroop (uoaleq ssel8 Eurprls
eql aprslno ,qar,
,qa
.g
ara q
J 1e s,(ru o r a ur Eur,real,r*r1: "J:r' ;tfi 'j,iif# ;:rTj
ot dn sla8 aH .eJos a.qr aprs8uole dn
paloocs sr rrgr{Jure esor16
'rerug qtrurrr Eurcsrurruer rue .apls JEJ slr{ ^4,ou
qlr^{ uortesrenuol srq or
I tlo E.rnl,r'retuom eql
{ceq, sao8 aq 1ro; tunoJre t,uer ter{l pue
J
'1eay sdemp I
Jerraqsry go Sued ryo, ,qi qtr/u etueu f* *1,{ 11r,
'atu ot pueq srq rno Eurploq ,sdes 1
aq,,,Buodurellrqry
.etu ot
lxeu strs u€ru V .uo
os pue s(e1d crsn141 .dror sla8
"oprt3',
urerq du pue raoq .roop ssel8
{ulrp I Burprts aql ,(q relo eJos eqt
JeuJoo aqt olur alltes .sseurseaun Jo
J ou s,eJeqt pue ,aru qilA lBqJ pup
q8nq pue apus aldoad aqt ,sroloc
Iensn eqt are slq8rl aqa .dued
reln8ar e s,ll .clsnru ,araq ,1doad ,"qro
*,, ro eAU aJB eJar{J
,,.ereql ur Eur8ueq ur,1,, .dpaperq_Elrqim
L,,qn";
.
a s eo d." u1 uE1 u aq r rr,, nr^.,l,ll:: ililyJ,';f;,,
eql pue 'run1 Surpear u,1 dem aql eru d,r,pr", s,aq ssan8 laceg ",
dru qlrrn 1
Jlesurn{ sl*renbrea, aq w aJer{l ureJuoJ
'Suqron sI Jo qseg e s,eJeq1
Jlasurq JoJ auop s,eq releterltyarorudue
leql a^eq l,usaoP eq pu? dsea {ool patunq
are stuarue1oru srq !panto11e* ,,rp1
,o1eq3 ,(eg,,
,,1ueu lq8rr 11e
'aru s8nq pue e.,, ol dn
lq8rr,;;r;O
'aqoJpJel{ e,arnlrurng
;o acard .ftorepqure uB e{lpoop aqt q8norql ,"q*.,i1 .Bog aql
ur dats J 'etu ruo$ leqr ary1 Jo tno
Bur.lrr*o, ,qro8 qcnqs zrq,n aa8 rny
or arru s,rl irr e{e., ppoc nod pel' os
ur,I iq [:*:",;r11'",
e s,rl 'se[..,s
pue a.' roJ roop_eqr suado autrsa"ra
'uea{ pue repJnoqs srq ra^o BupJool
p""r;;liff#l.,,#
s,{eup,asual pue u^r;; ,qb-li
't1rnq dpq'rl 'rarcereqc Euruls-q'iq , .n^ ,r*6 .turq arau>1
'etu J uaq^{
{reg Jo {uql plnom eq reqr prra^t lou s,l} ,arurifiuol , ,",q
uaas l,ue^er{ .pJraM ",
J Jr uoAg searr ,prrea,r l,use6 uo4elr4uJ
1 e{l
'atuU ,(lred ...
olsll l_ tlvHf th }LL
ot lue^r I 'Iuoor slr{l ur esle euo(ra^a Pue alu uee^ laq tuls € s,araql
(spuerrJ prra^t reqto (tu pue reluo qtl^{ suroorpeq a1ur1 parelsanbas
pue elets ur sprorer o1 Sutuatstl 'araql >1ceq Ieer ssel due 1 se16
'uI 3rx
Surnec sl per{ I zlrou>l uele tr,uplp I uoltsneqxE 'Eurddrls ;1asf,u
IeaJ I pue 'rltou tq8rr crr(1 aql sr ,,'eufi1ceur ueerP E er,no^,,
'tl prRS 1 lurearp ,(ru s,leql ie^eq I op Surql ra33rq teq16
'.(zerc sr qlrul aql esneseq'etu ruor; Surporar (lsnotcsuotun
ue8aq aq sp ereJ sn{ ralo peards dlrlnparcur palyedde 3o uorssardxa
ue qcte^\ ot ta8 p,1 'urlq plot I jl pue'31as(ur qlr,n Surop ur,I teq^\
au Suqse ot punore ta8 ol aurl aar; q8noue peq reruo JI is^\ou1
oqzr.r 'araq urorg 'q8noqJ A\ou ulelreJun punos saserqd aql 'eJu€tiJ
auo ar{t '3urq1 trsa38tq aqt sI xeuuv eqt asneJaq lceq oB 01 e^eq I
'eJeJ raleu pue 'rrroul re^eu p,I pue 'qstue,t lq8nu 31estr eullete3
'eurpleC tnoqe arolu Surqt(ue reaq releu (1qec1ord p,1 pue '3urql
reqto atuos op 'uo oB plnoc I 'lf,€rluoJ e eleq uele l,uop 1 '8urql
eloqm eql lnoqe la8ro; ppoc I 'plnor i '{req oB tou pllxoc I "'
qq8noua ioN (I tue prla^\ rtopl '{ueqdrde srgt
roJ op ol eAeq ol Suro8 sr reuroJ l{onoJ e olul perutuerJ lnq'ssaulcutl
-srpur otur Eurllaru 'neq ,(ru ur 3o3 ',(uocleq aqt uo tno ,(lecueurerp
eq plnoqs I 'lnq IIE aq(eur ro 'dllecrseq'araq'isoq8 p Lu,I - (1areq uec
(peaqe seq radec EuIIeteD s,tuer3 'ssau>irets
I teqt tno reJ os eru pa1
pappaque slr ur tl Suraas ntou lsn( ur,I pue 'asnecaq 'q8noqtr 'Eur
-{€erq tr,usr aru punor€ eJeJrns aI{J 'le^ur€ ,reu e laa.r8 ol Jo s{earq
pue reeq reqtoue aur sSur.rq reruo 'eJos aqt otur perat€rJ lllts 'aJeld
dur ot lceq oB pue spueq (ur qseaa, 1 'sdeznle sE {ool peuunts aures
'araql lq8rsur oN 'rorrllu aql ul 31as(u {cal{r I 's11aus deos reryur
-e1un qtl^t uI tnqs 'uroortll€q eqr ot oB pue dn ;1asdu a^eaq I
'uroor
txeu eql ur dn pallearr aJII Ieuoltotua erllue up Jo suletuer Sutplur auo
(pg 'alqeuorqseg 'l.raur'1euuo51 'euo8 11e -- )tullq uaql'etu reqtrous
ot ur a8rns (poq u,tto ,(ru 's11aurs aqt pue leeq aqt 'lcerlpunos aql
pue esrou eqt IIE pue 'dr1s o1 ur8aq I satulteruos pue 'go uollezlleeJ
teqt SurpueJ '(lsnotcsuorun pue '(lluessacur tu,I asneJeq areulq8ru
e sr aJrl ler{t 3Jrlou ,(11ensn t,uoP I leql {ult{l o1 urSeq I {uIrP Pue
pooJ 01 paleler (ttcederur Jo sluetuotu rouIIU 'ueaJP ou sI sIqI
q
'trs J eraqm drdtua 'qcuaq yed &dure u€ uo ereluec aql l>ged (rdua
6LI IS]d
 'aru I.Io sar{a Surdoo.rp ,a1ed srq s{Jol aq ueql
'll a{eqs I 'eur ot puer{ srr{ lno Eurploq ,s(es aq
,,;o1eq3 dag,,
,,'esrperEd s,reJrnS,, speeJ teqt prqs-1 a8rel_er1xa
eldrupenb e ur pederp (poq dluq srg ,alqrsneld dlerouar uena lou
s,teql asrrdrns e Surru[uolued '.tropur^a eql pue srrr uae^alag sreadde
'eru ol relo sauroJ pue tuooJ aql sassorJ uoslr4\ ,uraqtr Euoue
Surqorls 'srao8(ued aqt purqeq saprrls Euol (11ensnun B,rqea
'a311 uzno (ru
'ra88rq Surqlauos Jo rred IIe ere daqa .drue;
a>r1 ,ruaql
,llou>l I rnq
ueql real 'areq uatlt daal .ereq ar,,fuqt (qm s,leqa .etu ot
I I leadde
.(aql lnq 'aJru t,uare llrelJ JrtJre aqt pus ruoop eltuuur eql
Jo
.auru passot e^?q .prreM rreql qlr^r
lr./t\ I asneJa8
ecead ol eruoJ 01 aleq ol Euro8 ure ueqr.eurlete3 pue IuBJC tnoqe
I
11e Eurna8ro; 'dets
I JI pue 'luareglp ere aurur pue priam rraql
'pJlailr aloru pue arour ,re>pels pue re>lJe]s
are daqa 'Suruarq8rrg are aru punore aldoad a{rlerueg erll /v\oN
q8urpua sr teylA (areqr,!\ (tI tnoqe
reqrtyqteeq'sarueg perolo)-tueerc eled a{rT tr ot luaredsuert ere aur
punore aldoad aql pue ,aceds ratrno se >lrelq uozrroq € dq petJesrq
euop a8uero ue ,rea1c pue dcr sr uns aql :lasuns prlrl e eas
I
'lno (edr,{ru pug oi elqe
eq il,I Pu€ 'rrlnttl- Jo
PUH auos trsnf IIE s,tr teql arurluoJ lq8rtu daql
- eJr^pe aur arrr8 11(aqr ,etu o1 poo8 aq g,,bqr lng ,(zerc uI,I {uF{l
.tno qcear ,u1g aqr
11e 1,(aqa '(poqdrarre IIaI {earq
,dols og
'olPueq
ueJ ueql alour s,lr pue /!lou aur Eunuearp
I sr ruealp aqa .Europ
tu,I teqm lnoge op (11uurrou u€ql ssel uele .Europ tu,I1eq/\
I ^{ou>lI
&\ou>[ t,uop 'p4e,u oot s,ll .dols ot lue^r pue suo]ueqd asnoqunS
J J
esoqt qlp{ >1ceq 31as,(ur e3s 'etu ra^o sallles tuoop ,aru
I Jo eltueru e
se8no8 rueJ ,pue1u
Jo rnds .(cr ue pue eqr ot {req Euro8 aur8eurr
1
q,,nod are ,uor{,, e{rT uortsanb e re.ryrsug ot sJnor.{ JoJ
{let pue u/lrop
uaql trs'r(1red aqt Jo tno 'aprse auoauos e{Et ot e^ey plno1\,\ teq]
I
s,lt ie8uens pue dsap Surtssratur oot ruI pue prrrrou oot
IIe ,i,dr,p
leql l,usl tJ 'esues (ue saleu e511 lu ur Eurrllou esneraq ,araq auodue
ot (es uec 1 Surqlou s,arer{I 'dpuelsur ezru8ooar uer (poq(ue Eulql
-e(uos roJ puer{tror{s t,usl teql auo(ue o1 Eurtlldue (es uec dpoqoSi
'eFrll E l1 le rted ueqr eroru op 01
parrl 001 ru,I lnq'(llue8rn ,11 4earq
ofsD r tlvH]h 08t
 'e^oqs 3plrl E r{tr1v\ 03 (un{ tel
I
,,iparu ar,no.('XO XO,,
,r"n'*,t,.lrr^,
peluets srq otul ,(Fcerrp SuFaad lu,I os atu otr dn rq8u rurq s8erp
pue 'trrqs sil.{ Jo gnJtsg e sqer8
1no ssleus pueq (ur se qJle.u I
'eru uo (pea1s sa(a Eurroldrul sI{'ruaq} uror; se8rarue uoslr1\
'dol uo Surureal8 pue ql€aurepun {r?lq are teql spuo$ a)flepelq
qlrzur Eunqrano'aret1 lno orted u s,ereql 'zlrollrm e ur purm a{l'I 'aJII
qJnu os aur sanr8 s(em1e ter{t rle aqr pue {rep eqt olur 1no dels 1
'$lool ueurnq esor{l Jo euo eru Eurnr8's(es aq ,'aru 11e3,,
'Eurpuelsrapun s,aH 'oE ol eneq I retuo IIet I
'dlleuosrad urq Suruopueqe
ro 'luelrodun Eurqlaruos Eurcunouar eram I JI se 'pes spunos eH
,,'xo'xo,,
,,'eru ],uoC,,
^rolloJ
'Eurppou pue dn
spueq srq Surploq'3uu1oo1lou llps'd1qos s(es uosp41,,'XO 'XO,,
'ueu pluq uoqs e 'ool 'ereqtr
sr /r{ou{ l,uop l esla euoauos
pue'qlnoru st{ punoJe Eur(e1d sr elrus
y ',fuots Jo puH errros rurq 3ur11at dlpeterurue (ran 'ereqreg 'rvroul
Jo puH J uetuo^{ s ot Euruatsrl 'Eurppou ';1esurrq SurBEnq'passorc
sr.uJ€ slr{ 1oE s,aq lqluIJell. qtr/n Pa[U are sa(a srH 'auoaluos qlr^{
Eurlleqc sr retug aler1.&r
'ruoor eql Jo JauroJ raqloue o1 lurod 1
,,(yg 'zrtou rq8u araql ra'to oB ol Suro8 rsnf u,1,,
,,'uetu'lr qlult 1or rsn{,,
.dn puers
1
'(lqsrdeaqs s,(es eq,,'uo etuoJ'ueru uo atuoD,,
'urcEe eze? srq sdorp pue peaq srq $e/! ol uoslr4\
,,if,e ne lq8u'rq8ruot a{1T,,
,,'Kente lqSp eullereC tB {req no,( paau
(aql teqt no( gal ol pesoddns ru,1 '(ezn,(uy 'ere no,( ssan8 1,,
'aze8 srq sdorp ap1
,;ueu'yoo?:oal,
'eru esealar l,uop sa(a aq1
,,'poo8 ru,1,,
,,ixo no^,,
t8t t-sld
 uele sder1Jad pue sre8uessed qtrlt alaldiuoJ aru ro; Burlrc.rt leoq
e aq llr,rt araql .llrar u^ro qo e8rns
^rou{ J ereq^r rard e ot a^up I "(u_r
e roJ IIor llnlul!\op e Surlelsrru re{Jns e Lu,I
{urql eru e{etu oJ u^\op
saruoJ s,(errp .rarutueq l€qt lnq ,8urnu1s dlleorureulp ru,I asnereq
'ot tuea,r J esneraq Surop u,1 teq,n Burop tu,I leqt tleJ r{svr
J J
'1ood aql Suruealc ot sao8 pue eru te salltus lr.,t rqc
{r€q
.des
,,(Trou>l euoeruos prq,, L,,oN,,
's{s€ auo puoras aqt
,,i{Jou>Inod prq,,
'ure8e reurureq aq1 .suarrs se
lngacer8 pue.&rols
'tuel{t
Jo eerqt IIe 'aru 1E apus daql tng .ele,rrrd Surqlauros 3urop
ara,vt daql ;r se 'a1u11 e rele^\ aql Euurrls ,(q oB eru qcte^r (aqr
11e
pue stau palpueq-8uol qr!v\ lood aql Buruealc are strnsdtunf alrqnt
Eurqcleu ur ueruo^\ aerr{J .lle^r aqt Jo eprs reqto eqt .ro B,rrzuol8
,tq8rr dtu uo s{rolqrapurr
lood anlq e pue ,(are1 3o IIe^ e ,qa1 (u
uo u^tel e qll,rr 'laalts aql ot speel teql qled e 3uo1e (eme qent
1
'raplnoqs (ur ra,ro (es te8 nod adoq
1,,,rg 1,,
,av,,
,,iteqr e>lrl eq l,uoP
'Xeme urnt J,,,11
la8 nod adoq 1,,
,,iqeal 'aprr e peau L
,,iaPLL e Paeu no[,
,,'ePu e paau I 'no,( qlrzn
{JnJ ol Suro8 lou ur,J'aprr e peeu 1 .no( ,qtu,Bur>1cn! lou ur,1,,-
'rurq te >1oo1 lsnf
1
,,.no{ qlrrn Buqcry puut,L,
.atu
,,'atu te peu ra8 oi te8 1,uop no^ te petu ta8 nod l,uo0
Suqcq tou ur,J ,1ou ru,1,
,,1nod qlran lueu
.sada srq suepr^\
uoslr1\
,,ieu qlrm 8ur1cry no,( ery,,
'PuEr{
ual srq qtr1lt areJ srq sqnr uoslr^\
,,'ueur 'aJuerled prlos Jo tno peAJsJ lou ru,J,,
,,'nod qtr.,n 3uu1cry s,(poqop,,
3uqrry tou ar,nod ueeru t,usaop tJ ... .e., qlr,lt Bur1cry
rr";';Jr'.1il
"'useru t,usaop leqa,.ra8uasseur e 1sn[, sr taaur dpoqfta,rg,
I
,,'ra8uasseu aql tsnI ur,1
'au le Peu 1eE 1,uoq,, 'JIesurLI ol tsourle ,s{es aq,,,peu tafi t,uoe,,
o)stf I tlvHllh zBL
ezras I prdnts s,lr q8noql ue^e -- ilor 01 sesnJeJ elu uI Suqlelxos Pue
'preq aru tsure8e {req se^oqs erl puu speaq eldderS a16 'tugq uo u.t\op
aruor pue .ralcmb 1l op i rnq raqtaSol Jlasrulq s1lnd pue taeJ sII{ sles
ueqt 'punor8 Surnr8 (e.tte s1srr; pue etu sesuas ap1 'e8un1 1 'lq8noql
tnoqtr^{ laoeS srq Jlerl re^o u^ op aueru srq sdeg puu!\ Jo rrnds y
'Surzaaq.u pue pa,(a-dzerJ Jeqto qcea Surqele^r er€ a^\
^\oN
'>1ceq sryeI aq t€q1 os raplnoqs stq sazer8
uroq (ru pue 'go urn{ IIor uer I os '(1anbr1qo etu strIt{ all 'saSreqr
pue srq u^\op s8urrq lsnf aq 'ou lnq '.Jlestult{ asodxa 'enoru
^rorq
01 rulq ta8 ol 3ur(rl 'tu1{ Je reel I 'pJeI{ Surqlearq tnq 'uo saluoi)
aq pue'8urleertrar'u^\op peaq (u Suuq pue lceq lq8rens dunf 1
(peqqels
-- qrurlr eql {earq tl )ieerq oi aAeI{ I la8 or Euro8
tu,I (paqqets la8 ol Suro8 u,1 'urqo (ru rapun uJor{ E s,araqt '>1cn3 '>1cn3
- raplnoqs (ur uor; ,(e^ e 'tno s8ur,,lts peeq dtu 'sdr1s Surloo; (u
ueqJ '{Jeu ,(u asodxa o1 au Surua8 lou s,eq lnq 'asoo1 au Eurllal
tou 'punore aru Eura,rarcsryoc '3uro8 sdaa>1 eq lrurq qtrlt Sururnt dn
pua pue peaq dru urnt I 'aru 3o dot uo s,eq [lun Suruoc auo raqlo aql
aes l,uop I os -- turq uo a(a ,(ru ro8 a^,I '^\ou alrq^ € ro3 dn au Surzrs
uaaq seq 11nq a8rel V 'peilBts ,(pearle seq Euuq8g eqt ereLl^\auos
.r\oml I Pue quee parocs-,(1ntau Jo roPo eqt s,ereql ueql Pue
^.\oN
'aparar pue reqto qrea pre/!\ol UIrp aAA'3ur1eog er€ sllnq aqt IIV
'3urltnr
s,1eq1 lpaunsuoc dlalaldruor eq pue epoldxe Jsnru ntou 3uo1 rea,(
IIE parols pue pereqle8 {1lqerec eJlT 'srereqs punu {ur pue re1e,,ut
e1rl rr€ aqt Jo saqseg uns er{l pue d>1s auqlels(rc aql qluauaq sser8
uaar8 eql ur srerlloru rreqt purqaq Surdaarc sall€r aqt aas I 'reqlo
eql ot euo tuorJ pues ;o lg8ra.t e Surryrqs aram I JI se surol{ ,(ru l11t
pue aqtearq r{retuots pue raSSels I strq tl arurl .(re,ta pue llaurs ,ll.or
qtrr/( eur Sursop ore pur^\ ;o sdrrq pue stng altlrT 'sreplnoqs dru olur
(u'uado Sufueq sr qlnotu (ru'tno SurBEnq
laeq tqSu tsrLrqt sr peaq
are sa(a ,(14 'ece; uzrl.o dur uo {ool ,(zerc aqt IeeJ uec 1 Kzet3 "'
'tq8ru
eqt Jo elppFu eql s,tl q8noqt uela Iuaqr qlr.tt Sur.ttograno dpeeu
t8L tsld
 'aJe s1!10J
er{t ereqm 'punor8 raq8q eqi eas I 'p€aq .(u Eursreg '(tseferu
qtrm pellrJ Suraq tue I "' JJo parapue,u eleq ot tuees J "'
.ureEe
pe>leu sr uns er{r pue deme saprls pnolJ arlt ueqm spuedxe uoql
'stJertuoc lq811.(eq 'uns eqt sreloJ pnolJ V 'Eurrrq Jo elecs pue adoos
Suusneqxa eqt IeaJ I'peeq uenlueBre8 (ru tsed drg pue.,nolgq f,aqa
'sauers rerpo tuog saqseg are arar{I
'sa8en8uel raqlo ere areql
'saJIoA JellrrueJun ore araqJ 'saArl raqlo eJe araql 'sJeeurs uorsr,t du
'uado q1o1 qtnor.u dru pue selea^ peaq (ru 'dems pue rued 1 "'
'acuasard go qsn8 peurelsns e Jo uortela
drearvr aql ur etu ot ryeq aJrI eloq^ (ur s8urrq tg pue'an8qeS Sursnore
u€ e{rl '(Eraua tnoqtr^r luaruetrJxe IETrxas e{rl s,rr sryt sr leq1\
'eru JeAo qse&\ pue ssaf,Jns dur urog dn asu sele,lr (neag 'r{leeJq
(ru seqrlec Surrltaurog 'r{teeJq
Jo lno ru,I asneJaq t,usl tl 'r,tou ssal
-qtearq ru,I Jr lnfl 'rnoue18 l€ql IIe 'sepled prnl sser8 pur^r eurqsuns
e{rl tJeJ e sauroraq tl rano s1 rq8g er{l lueruoru aqt lreqt reqruerual
otr peeu ou s,orar{I 'tuq petseq I lerll - (teqm uallo8rog "'
'(pearle uatlo8roJ s,ar.I eru 01 suaas 1I
'auols 8rq u dq (plaaur azet? ot So pagnqs seq luauoddo ,(1trJ '8urqr
-etuos Eurtedrorrue dlan8el rue I 'tled ,(ru ur sassol l1 (e.,vr eql tl olur
ua8 pue aruells aql sassot purm er{J 'pumr qlrm sllg erualrs eql
'url€J olrrats 3o qctud e sr ereqt uortrsneqxa ,(u 3o ileeq eqt lV
'(ezrte surnl eq ueq^t a3ualls alnlosqe
Jo
tsrnq e s,oJer1l 'uolr aA,I'moqatuo5 'q8noqr'relleu t,useop leql
'(ratent os IaeJ s8al dtu 'u.trop uela ro '>1cuq aru {3oDI (lqeqord
plnoJ eH 'uortsn€qxa .rou (lrtrnbuer reqtleu s,leql Eurqraruos to8
e^,I aprsul 'rurq uo u/ltop reaq I 'peerl srq sdorp aH 'acue^pe I
'Iurq uaeq
e eq tsntrN 'rurq se,tr tl oS 'punor8 e,tr8 l,up1p I pue sn uaamtaq
de8 e s,erer{I '(lanrrraga pelsrser tsn[ 1 'll e^erlaq t,uer I
'aprs dru lsure8e uror1 srq qtp eloru Eurcrls aluradsap e saul
pue (luappns peeq sq $lrnp eH 'tulq ro; q8noua tseJ parrt Surna8
tou tu,I'preq os 3urrftr tu,I asne)eq'3u1noru lou ur,I esn€f,ag perrrom
s,eq 'rurq ra^o ge dn arr; srusedg '(lpa88er Eurlued r{toq ar,e1\
^toN
'r{Jur ue a,rr8 ot tou peurruJetap 'Sururerls pue pa{Jol salJsnru ,(u
11e
€ur8pnq tnoqir&\ puels I trnq atu re saqsnd dlp.llq eH 'If,or e aryt dn
ofsrf '1 tlvHlil ngL
 'snoesneu tu,I peelsur lnq'ft8unq dlsnouaner aq
Plnoqs I 'ue^es qo eurN 'IAIV eulN 'erurl eql Jo a>leul o1 leq^\ ^\ou{
t,uop I 'aur1 aqt aur IIat s{)olc aql q8noqlle pue'sr l ,(ep req,tt ,nou1
t,uop 'eruo ueqt arou drrt aqt eperu seq leoq eqr.+r repuo.&\ I
I
pua8al z(u's8urppnq du ro3 atrs paqJnotun ue
rO 'uo elrr^r ot tuer3 ro;'e8ed pesera ue'os pue '{pauopueqv 'ureerp
IEar € s,lJ
'tou s,tr tnq 'arues eqt Jo arotu aq lsnlu puelsr aql
selqqnq'suroJ
uortJU Jo
pu€ setueqs pue slq8rl perolor pue sured Jo pnop e 'prorrt E
tnoqlrm
nod tsed Uup oq/!\ aldoad 'punos e tnoqlr^\ no,( lsed IIEJ teqr
s8urppnq uaqt pue 'eruroJrleC Jo eroqs aqt qoeordde no( se saqsruel
lpq1 eurl uear8 e 1snI s,areql ierarlt >1ceq Surqrr(ue 1,usr ereqi esneJeq
'araql lceq 3uro3 lou ur,J 'aru 3o dor uo (lneaq u.&\op saruoJ uorloruo
Jo e^e^\ e Pue PuelureuI Peqsrue^ aql PrB^ro] {Jeq {ool I uor.{J
'uaddetl
teqt s8urqt tsnf s,araqa 'arour(ue lsrxe o] rueas t,uop 1 'lerrr,(ue 'auru
lou 'uorsrcap s,plro/!\ eql s,lerll 'pu€l$ teqt oluo Surtre8 uorJ aur
tua,rard ol Euro8 sr plro^.r agl ur Surqtou tnq'taa; (ru qteeuag aplJnq
or Suro8 sr >lJap aqa 'leqdord atourooS e ro; 's8urpllnq Jo qrunq
p roC (I op ro -- erer.{ arp ol Suro8 tu,J 'ure8e puEISr srqt Surneal
^\ou>l 1
"raleu rue I teql osle I 'Jate^t eql urorJ Sur8rauia 'do1 urel
^roDI
-unoru p s,tr l€qt 'puelsr eqt lnq Surqtou tsourle aas u€c J
^\ou>l I
'eraql Alreau eJ,aA\.PUEIST aql s,ereql
'1!\oPul1!t eql ol ,(ea,t .(ru e{€ur uaql 'eturl 3uo1 e roJ etu
I Jo luog
ur ratunoJ qcunl dldua s,drra; eql te aJets 1 l8urqlaruos ro dots ro
'punore dent Suol aqt e{Et teoq eqt plq 'dn a{e,t\ I uaq.,u tq8rldep s,l1
'tq8r1 uear8 Surlerqt,r
Jo roog eJueP B uo sPul111 {uelq '.PII^\ tltl^{
reqto q3ee lnoge Suuatruec ,(lsnouqep IIe 'sllnq peraplrAreq aql ol dn
tor] I'peeq (ur uorS lrels sar(a .(ru 'asou ,(ru uiog slsrnq tous 'uosrad
ateredas e a{rl u^^op pue dn Surdunf are s.ratrenbpu]q (N
ilxeu sr sre{rry no( 3o r{rlr{AA
(lxeu s,ot{A\
're(Ulueq e qll.rl PEer{ eql
ur pa{rerr ueaq p,I Jr se sllnq eqt uo punore urds 1 'ryasraq oB 1
98t rsld
 eql uo u^ op rftr^rtre druearp s,areql .1qft1 aql
Jo punos aqt e{Bru
ste{JIrO 'Surtured e a>il1 '(1oq pu€ eterurlur sr Eurql(reaa ,punorS aql
ruor; ,(1prn8ue1 dn sdaas qrurell .uorueduoo
{rep e qtrrlt uof,uec
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1
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I
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11e
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^
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lceq'req lsed uru pup Iueerts eqt Jo tno drunf 1
'ral€,t\ eqt tuo{ aru otul dn Surdaart ploc
ar{r (q uetunq lsorul€ epelu eJIoA a8uurls e ur '(es 1 ,,1rftr uec 1,,
,,;dotg iaru esol l,uef, no ,,
'{ueq eql 3uo1e oru 3urlto11o3 s,aq5 ',(a1e,t eqi u.&toP luerrnJ eqt qtl^
a8rego pus tueartrs e otur e8unld 1
peatsul 'raq ruorJ /tette pE 01 #llJ
e go Slasdtu p,I {uryr I 'f,zuaq e u1 '8utoB tu,I ereqa 3ur1oo1
^aorqt
trnoqtr/r\ unr 1 'urcEe u^ op IJeq pue adols aql dn etu seseqr aI{S
,,1moc ,(zerc no,(
1dd-dd -e[. Kzen nod aur ruog
- (earte ra3,,
,,ieraq eruoD i{r€q eruoD ieraq {Jeq eruoc'da11,,
i8ulserlc s,aqs'Suruunr
ru,I iaur Eurseqc s,ar{s -- aru repun acuerd ot ur8aq tae; (61 'pa1q
-ursJJS ,(lluelsur are slq8noqf dru pue 'rsqlo qoea qll^t eIA IBSnoJe
pue crued -- eru uo tca:He erJezlq e seq (lnurxord Jaleau raH
'aru Pr31I1o1 sef,ue^Pe eqs
,,'a1rnb 1o51,,
,,imou>l ot peluelv\ no( reqa,t urual nor( p1q,,
,,'(epor eraq no( pug lq8rtu l lq8noql 1,,
,,'nor( s,f1 iqg,,
'pur,uurrtop tods
e ruorJ (lsnorlner au Eura(a 'arn8tg aql rnoqu eru PelsoJce oqm 1!toc
snorxouqo eql go tq8rs qclec luetuolu aures aql ut'pue peaq ,(u ryr1
I'crle (q.(po sdeqred ro'aslndrur snolreu uappns e (q palduord "'
:
,,'euo Jo lurqr no( JI arroul etu teT,,
'spou tu?r3 'aFrII e peaq (ru a>1eqs
'ure8e sasolr rraql'suado qlnoru d141 'lylspuets € te sI putu (yX
1
'^\oqeruos urrq dlaq tq8ru
1 'rartsue ue pei{ I JI 'uollsanb lear e s,1r '8ur1se s,aq (ezrr eqa
96t l-sld
 'eJel alrq^^ r3r{ ur
DV Jo srq8noqr qlr^\ pazdlered 'eurl a8pu eqj dn de,r.g1eq Wed trrp
e 3urmo11o3'atrrs aqt Jo apls reqlo aq1 ol (em.(ur 3ur>1eu dlan8e,t u.r,1
'ur8aq upJ tnJ puv
IEer eqt tsEI 1e
^\ou
gcr3o1 lecerueru srqJ qslq8norll s,JatrJA eql esaqr are -- eru speer oq^
1
euo aqt aes uale I )iupIt I -- Ie^ou aql aas --
31as,(u ees __ uosear
I
.dae1s .(tu ur
eas I -- 1q311 ro3 'rapro ro; pllm ,eraql
IIe ere a16 tno
8ur1cq e{u {ool uorssarSSe s,,(ep.rarsad sa{etu teqt eur ur .(zuar; e gcr
les ol elqeuos€er eq 01 etu peou l,useop uoseer esneJeq se^lestuaql
Suqurqr are stq8noqt aseqt ,tzetc art Suqeur sr repro slqt
IIV
'atx e^oqe Suurqro sraueld
Jo punos aqt qlr^{ qsau tlleerq du:
3ur1et1ur sser8 3o punos ar{l reeq ,surerg
Jno olur dn Surqlorg pue
1
serpoq crtece SuDIaer rno Sururnq seuoruJor.{ Surlzzrs ,pagadnls pue
>1ue1q sa.{a rno 'sqtnou Surde8 rno ruor; 3ur11o1 san8uol rno ,sqled
elqrsrlur Jo loul tJertsqe ue sllnq Jeqto aqt qlr.tr Surqrrcsap ,uorlour
ur rue I leqt ere^te {l*lq .s>1e.( pue ,sprrq eqt ,sallaaq eqt ,suuo.r\
ar{t pue lros aql qtr^\ seqsnq pue spae^r pue sser8
Jo uortre f,rloq
-etaur relnileJ eql ueaMteq urnrrqrlrnba ue sateJqrlecar {ltuessacur
1r telseoc .ra11or Eurpeads e a111 sr aru punore IIB uoseer eriJ
'^1OU
Irlun PeJrlou Je^eu
I uorterper "relos Jo sele,&r reln8ar dpcr.rts ot pateurpJooc ,sser8 aql
ur uorlerrdsar JelnlleJ Jo sroruau alnurru eql ueql qltlr pue ,punor8
aql q8norql Surlecrunutuoc s>1e,( .(u 3o saslnd atll ;o ,laa;
^\ollal
(ur ur se.l,rau eql q8norql ,aJE.uE erou pue erour Sururoceq dllenper8
tue 1 ',(epot tnJ Ieuort€r aql Surlcnpuor (11en1ce ar,am ,.(epratse,(
PIP e^\ leqan ,(llcexa Surop are anl dlpremlno apqa,r, ,trnq ,,{rte.r,
Suureds (reururqerd E araqt pue araq qtr^\ .reqto qcea Bur8ual
-pqc 'dn raqlo r1Jee Surzrs aq oi reedde auvr. ,ra,tlasqo uE oI .suortJe
rno erxoJaq spro^l Surxeoc rraqtr pue ,uaqt ot (11ryarec ue{reeq
ot 'ur1ec aq ot IIB sn 3ur11ol 'saur1 Eur.(pea1s ,pepualxa ur ,r(eme (eulr
3uo1 e {uorJ uele sn ol d11ane1 Surleads dpearle ,raqto ro eJar{Merxos
uror; pa8raure aAEq u.ry\orq-dar8 aqt pue IInq {Jelq eqJ
^\oc
'eda Euuaad euo 's>1oo1a.ro; 3uo1 ontt ueem1aq ,eur saqcle.,lr
eqs 'slpq Prra^\ .ure3e
Jo qout srql ralua ot tuem 01 tuaes l,useop eq5
olsrf 1tlvHf[ t6L
 'atu 'ste{uelq
Jo dol uo u,&\op saqsep ratu^\ ueql
pue sla4oef qtrr/lt aru Surpunod 'pntu aql ur aur 3ur11og 'eur re^o IIE
ere spueq 'puno;3 aql ot sfernraprs u^torqt 'pulqeq urorg paqqer8 u,1
'qsnrq f,rp ur pareloJ adols e uory (ene eu Suturnt 'spueq rleql tno
Surmorql 'au aroSaq {1unp sarn8g o1!\t aes 1 'Surprmt pue 8ur>1cns
'eru uo Surdeal setuelC 'eur punoJe ge e1doa6 'sralerJ o^nt a{ll sada
dtr11 '3urlreus pue er ace3 d14 'sereld uezop e uI aur olur Surroq
^
pue Suurq ured 're^o 1e Suruung 'erg uO 'Sururng '(uo8y "'
'{req reJ ,(lqrssodurr ," t;X #J,ffi;T}i*r,
(rlua arrlua aql pus oprsqns III^ etarJuoJ aqt ueql lno urnq tl tal azr,i
Jr pue >lJeq re3 ,{lqrssodun sn Surnes peulnr aq IIIzur durer (rlue arrlua
aqt araqt pue ,tr,ou smorS 1r Jl apnuoc ru1nZat pw pwo 1ot1l 4nl
asn aal ptp tqaL 'areqt lsnf 'ruou smor8 atarJuof, aqr g1 'ntor8 aleJJuoJ
eqt se{etu ralemeas 'reten\ees sl tI uo drunp or e^eq e^t IIV
'tr aes I ueq.r\ eru uo sleJ .(lr11nu
Jo alp^ y 'Sururng sr arntrf,ruls ploJ aqr Surtroddns Surplogecs
uepoo^{ eqi JIeq tnoqe tuatuoru aql te pue 'duer aqt sauloJeq pue
'31astr uo Sursranar 'punore sploy durer (ea,resnec aqJ 'eseq aqt ur
af,u€rtue aql ol Surpeal duer aqt pue punor8 aqt Jo lr puadsns 1y,n
l€qt suunlor eqi lng 11eq lear8 atp ot Surqtou s,erer{l .,ltou lqSgg
l:.iJ,r*ffi*",,fi;;
,,'nod rog Euqool
s,.(poqdra,rg '(e.raasnec eqtr 1€ ralo no,( paau ,(aql 'o1eq3 (ag,,
.re8rc aqr
dn slcrd eqg 'durep pue 'palddep-uns 'Surpealds 'urr8 tuacelduroc
e q8norqt tr Sur8urs 'teaq e Surssrur lnoqtr^\ Suos aql dn s>1crd a,reg
eqt turq putqeq pue 'sdorp aq re8rc eql roJ rIB aql uI t{rieus sra8ug
pue req uo pelanrr sa.(a '(11rp aptrl srq go 3ur11nc 'sdols pue leorql
srq ur sequer qleerq srq pue DV Jo rq8rs saqcler xeIIreN eq1
'sdo1s pue teol{t dtu ur saqrteJ qtearq (ur pue'saqtolc
Ierurou rar{ Je^o snduenr,dtteJ IIe ssalp alrq^r eqt ur IIrtrs pue 'quea
aqt urorJ uorlern[uoc e a>1t1 'areqa,tou Jo lno a{u uo dn sauoc 3y
'atunldaureqs
s,oleqC dn s>1eos aq'>peq Sung peeq 'spueq srq ur s1ade1 'sse13 llrds
aql dole Surnnrls'suoorr xal{u€N aql 'opq3 a^oge pue puqa[l
961 IS]d
 arg eqt Jo tsoqS rl+
e oqe qlnou
at1 1'sueor8 a{ll paq ,(u,
,r* p.rnore ,rr, ile^r pe88ef eqt tB dn Eurrets
,.rrrr.r.our rlf,Jezlt ... ,(po uec 1
pue ur sdrls ureo,s rur rrr;;:,::HrlJ;"T:H;ffi:]Tlj{,*
d aq, d .
1 1e
n, u aa
s eu €ur u-r :j#: ffi,T: ,,,:l
"r,
parru8r dpeeu pue ,Eur,rur ,rrg "ilio"Il ;:"H l.;
.ro p".r.,orc uer l?r{1 atu
J 11er daqa
orarop ees J rnq ,(es daql rpq.,,o reeq or pnol aJr,.l:::lI*,"u
"",
.>1ceq (ru ,srure du re^o
IF dn Eurzelq ;ir.,,oHJffi:"rlril?
.rrd urerunos
aqr orur rr ,u\alqr
1l PaUIJ iae$ tl paddrr ,Sururnq
,":iji"rH::;?lr"^?1r^"
t,use.r rrq, ,n^ rred aql *trg dr^,
'{3eq uoltcas Suru;nq aql e^orp uagl ,11
olur;lasdru lo8
teqt le erot pue paqJuar^ ,lsar 1 luun 1u1sd
1 teqt ,.r,ot r*rr1 ,{r,go
Sururnq aqr eJer{^A ,q, ,o1 (prrrli "q, ;r;
epeur J reqr .ereJ .{iu go
]ulod
lr dea>1 ot srxre (u Eur8ur,rar',rrg ,q; or.rir.{b, ,""^ fr. ir"qa
1
-alerruor aqt olur,l:rJ,
pue ,auers ryr u;l'1*:,il1T,:il1
qer8 ol spueq la,n #: r,
pasn I rrqr ;rrd" }*'*o.; p;;-;t;r*
u.uo r{ryv\ spueq
du {ru
Eurnarr.r ,erg aql orul
tua/u 1 au 11el deqa
."Jtl PeJroJ leeq aqt l?r{t os,ar,
or{t olur,('eau
'Hurlnoqs pue Bur(rc sem ,aru dots
rrn, *;}il J::;l
I tErll ol palrl or8rog pJot ru,J
,,'3urpue1s I[ps,oN,,
os ru,J ,,no pue ur qnf, euol
eqt * aJro^ ,(141
,,qumop ,*"r ril[:
'eI!
Punore sate{s lJ.ta apgrlr Burtltou te s{ool a.(a raqlo
aqa 'ada uJ ,rltnou d* ,r, pn* ,'rrrq, ,pnur
1uo ur sr aoer dr,tr
qiqarr 1e J urv .e", o*E ri,ll yo ,p,r,f
11f a,rrrr, ,r; ,;l;lJ
ofstf J tlvHlth s6L
'ieqt ou1 I 'q8noql 'a.ro;aq re^a ueql rasoll s,tl 'peq rl tq8noql
^
'raf, pauels l,useq tru eqJ 'petlnrun eW 'urqt pue ue^r sr .rre eql
1
'(ar8 pue tulp sl dep aqa 'ureuet aqt Suuou8r'ado1s aql Surzutolloy
',(a11e.teql uroJJ dn'aru lsed srapuem'slo1c ur ua)ioJq'lsl6 '
1,,a8eauq elqou,,
tr sr rO 'aru ot ryeq Sururoc sdaa>1 ,,a8eruaq elqou e;o acurrd qO,, "'
'>1ceq slq8g ppont
e Jo uorsnll aqt ua^g isnor^qo ll t,usr lnq tr tnoqe a.rou ,(ue >1un1l
ol ured qJnur ool ur ru,I 'slueruela eq1 'er5 Arou 'r{uea uaql 'laled\
tsrg -- tl aes IIE uec e.&\ lnq'pauaddeq tr smou{ (poqo51 "'
^\or{
'eru eJotser ot ,(poq A eu e seruoJeg tr lErlt re; os puedxa
lqSrur apnlqer8 .(ur e{rl sueas tr tue{uoru E roJ pue 'aru 3o erel >lool
.(aqr se seoeJ Jrel{t uo uraJuoJ eqi Jo {uryl I 'aruEJJ eqt Jo uortJas
lurnq eqt aceldar ol 3ur(rrnq ,,'stuer8rur,, aqt 'ureql Jo Turql I ueq^
sa(a (u
IIU apntpe$ Jo sreal '.,lropurl!\
(ru
q8norqr 11eq lear8 aql
uo {ro^t eql tno aleru f,yreelq u€J I os pauortrsod sr paq d6 "'
'Suro8uo sr IJoA\ uortJnrlsuocer peursq'uraqtr qleauefl 'osrol
.(ur punore 11e se8epueq e^er{ I 'peeq ,(ru e6nur pue 'suue ,(tu tlle^ s
'spueq dur aprq sa8epueg '(resrur dgpoq ,(q peleururou ',(lrroqtne
snor8rlar a,trssedrur 3rq e ary1 ure I peq (ru ur dn paddor4 "'
'ruaqt r{Juenb ol surng otur e)uelrs
acunouord ot lue^\ I 'epol e t,uar€ f,aqt lnq'1r des ol etel oot ,(pearle
ar,(aql q8noqtle 'saop Euruearu rreqt oroJaq a^rrre spJo.&r eql
'spro^ -a{ll ro spro^\ Sururro; daal ol a^Bq I '3un1t aures aqt ueetu
p ,(aql 'des 1 sprom ter1^r reuetu tr,useop tI 'arg qtrm eur SurlSuerrs
pue (qlnou (ur Eururnq 'sdq ,(tu ot Jlaslr qceue pue paads 3ur(3
-rrret qtr^\ ,(poq ,(u dn acer lp.l seunfug (ru ur arg arlt Jo '3ur,rotu
sdrl {ru daa4 ol e^Bq teql az{eer 'sprom aql Surdeqs are sdrl urrto
I I
,(6 'ured oJ aJuera#rpur pue 'ured s,lr 'ou luorleu8rsar
Jo lseJ aql uo
se{et sseurloq $r pue &dura seruo)eq tl Irtun pareadar pue aror dq
peureel raderd e Jo punos aqt qtru',r ';o peatsur tou spo8 sr teqt rer(erd
aqt sr lr ro 11ads aqt sr tI 'ssalpua pue snolnrrtetu pue alqeceldurr
sr luEr{J ar{I 'uorleluEJur ue 3o sa1qe11r(s aqr Surtueqr aJro^ Pewnur
s,lsoq8 eqt reaq 1 'saunfur du ur rq8rrdn spuets eur peurnq teql
L6L .l-Sld
 no[ erns rou ru,J .]r e^rerer d1e:rrssed nod asnecaq ;;l ,#Jil;
selelsuer] suseru arn8rg oql
terlm .arn8rg
{ulqr I ar{l uro{ iprrrrp
Surql(ue a^rerar or ,1qn ,q-ol B.4r1ot1',i1rnor, ,..oor
rx,J {ulql;
're,$sue ue Buunluan
eroJeq dprno iqAr,
"r1g
,,..nou nod r" {oo[ Orrr]'ffi'
",
.rlI e3s nor( : unr.,
,,.arn;rg aqr .,o$ paureal rri;;;il;]"ffi
""(
,,.4u urorJ luern nod ter{Ar Mou{ t,uop
L,
aJour aru a)p., .,eats rari_pueql,arq
palued req pue ,* ,, O" ;;;r;
s{lB^t aqs '3ur4urqt 'ace1d ur 3,rrp,rrl,
isnt,an3rteg pu" ,*nrr, ,rrrq
leql IIe Paleraue8 zrloqatuos aqs (1a>p1
tsoru tnq _- {crs eg lq8rur eqs
leql - auq Euol e unr tou plp aqs ter{t $
.rorrrrrd*, ,,1,
^o111
:sueeru srga .an'uor ".arr qir^ ,jlJrT":3{,'ril#'o*
MerJS{roJ e e>lrl peer{
"raq sal88elt eqs ueqJ .ou te sarets eqs
,,.Parrl tu,J,,
'dlssalasrou rso..,re {lpalcerrord
ueJ pu€ pnr,r r*']1:1':it"fi';'ra
yr se'paddod are sa,{a p*,,{p:;:,3[:
.ra,{
'Eurdoorp sr anef raq ,Eurlued
:f-:H:}:;*;X
,,i,ls ;"i ruq1 s,)I -- dpeppng
dEEo-rE .{q pal8o ag or ,saqcuele^B ro ,srarael8
{q prr8:r:p'::r"tI1
-llcre s,11 'reqlo qree do1 uo seuols
5o aql peit5 seq tuoprJJ, ees
Pue tueql re d11ue1q 1ool or a{rl 'eur }rer11s
^,oq
I ,nq, ,"1ri 4ro, 1rrr,rr,,
asol{l Jo auo dq raao Burzer8
prr.rrqr"* auros JoJ ...
Jo Jepuel J
(seuars
aq, Pu*aq J::'f:*,;ff
nor( 'aldruexe ""j ,":.ilil ;,j :ffi:; u:
Jo pur{ due u,1 ;1'.sradaals sseJtsar a{r1 ssot sarrorue(u
asa'r L 'uorlsneqxa aq1 ,uor1ua11Bur
aq] ,acuasqe atll alrdsap ,spuru
rno ur re^o sa^las.,eql urru
IIe s^ or eqr Jo srirusr8 lry,rrrprrp
Pacrlcerd eqt pue silnq Jo soqselr ar1l ,tnr p,rooa aql .uouelo$
-etlPau pre.{lol ,spunoqar ro ,slgrrp e^rl
sn Jo qJeg .rar{to qJee ruog deane
unl 'aleual Pue aleru's1ez( aql IIB,srt{t se esoJc se sr lru eqt ueq/trA
otsll I tlvHlild 86r
aql olul surnt IIeA\ Eurlddrr eqt pue 'ralpus due Eurua8 l1 anlacrad
t,uop I q8noqlle'sapeoer ada req'(lenper3 'Euraas 1ou'(1en1oe'og
'ereqt l,usl leqt aru ur Eurqtaruos Suraas il eqs {urqt 1 ';1as(ru la8ro;
ol ur8aq 1 leql (ppeals os eurru uo pexs ada req sdee>1 moc aqa
'teq] elrl Surqlaruos'3ur(p pue
Eunuoolq eql sr U teqt 'algrssod se anrle se eq otr sn stue.r\ 11 teql 'sn
aptsut sr tr ter{tr pue 'eprstrno (ue uror; lou 'ap1su! ruo{ pllo^r srqt ol
suos Jo ropesseqrue ue sr arnErg eqt teql €3pr arit raq o1 (anuoo ol (rt
(1aryt sr oqs se peeq (ru
I ^Aor.{auos 'aes ot 3o eprs euo Jo r.{Jntu s€ ro
'peaq ,(ru tsnf Sursn (poq eloqm dur tpmr op (11eturou plno^{ 1 Surql
-(re,re op ol eleq 1 'aso1c os dn raq qtrm aleJrunruruoJ ol Japro uJ
'Eursudrns'lensnun os
s,lr esneJaq dpo aq(etu'q8noql 'Euqea; srqt lnoqe alqernseald a1nr1
e Surqlauos sr areql 's#rlJ uo Kznp n?1,uop s>1e( a^{ aJurs 'tarzzrq
'JIIr E yo a8pa eqt uo Surpuels o{rl s,1l lf,zztp'no[, sa{eu uedo se tsnf
pue Erq se tsn[ s,reqt ada reqtoue olur dpcalp aze7 o1 teqt uado os
pue 3rq os are ser(a rng '1e( reqtoue s{ uorl)nnsgo aqt ueq^ '1ryured
ua,ta 'Surqrnlslp sI 'uado (llecrueroued sr reqlo aqtr ueqa,t 'aprs
auo 1sn[ uo uorsrl Jo uor]f,rJtrsar aqa '(>1s d83eqs e ur uooru elrqm pue
u^ oJq e a>1g1
'e(a euo 'olqerroJruo)un s,r1 'asod:nd uo'srt1l a>y1 a,(a ol
a(e'esop srgt ta8 ralau sI€I 'serg (emu Euqurlq'alpplur aql ur a,(e
drelaueld e qtll\ rreq Jo IIe^\ E sr req Jo ees uer I IIE ler{l reau os s,aqs
'e(a auo ur dltuatur aur 8uqoo1 'd\ou eru aprseq tq8rr sr Al.oJ ar{I
'uropsrm tsnf sea,r tr lleroas
,,'alr1e Sureq lnoqe s€,ry\ lI
e t,use.r\ l1 'rr ureldxa ot ,vror{ lvroul t,uop "' (etu IIer tl plp teq1A,,
I
,,gnod 11al tl ptp teq,t\,,
,,(eq p1norv\ tl )turyl no( prp leq1A,,
'aler{t sel\ leqm Surees urorS raq Eurtuanard
eJelvr sBePr Pe^raJuof,erd raq leql req plol tsnf p,1 3r se 'Euqse sem 1
uortsanb eqt Jo peelsur re^\su€ ue se prES I terlm se{el eqs {uFIt I
,,'sr tr ler{nr;o (e,vr aql ur Surlla8 s,r1 'rq8u'sa1,,
,,'ureal ppom no(
i€q1yeq ot tI lcadxa nod leqm tnoqe eapr ue enur{ lsnu no1,
'1!{oqeuos'rpnrt aqt Eurllar
tu,I Jr se IaaJ t,uop 1 'a8uerts s,l€ql -- lnq 'des [ ,,'11 tuea,r l,uop L,
'Peuraf,uoJ
s1 1r Eurtuu./v\ ss JBJ se 'Eulql eru€s eqt des ol lnoqe se^r J
661 r_Std
 r llua.ta rrr rrr:';;;i[H'#"ffiff 1T:;
lnoqe adetls punor dlprulaurudse atues oql auo qeea ,a1r1e
dprrr.,
IIe are slood eqa 'lq8r1 pelcegar qtr/r\ d>1Fur ,ra1e,tr
IIps Jo ,loodlp*,
uorllrtu e qtr^t pe]top sr r{f,n{^\ ,punor8 pesodxa
Jo r{Jur drana sraaoc
ssou uear8-dlaorag Jo ladreo
{rlr{t V .lq8rpnal p,irn qr,^ pepoou
'teg pue peorq 'ralerc uedo ue sr luaurdreJse ar.{t yo do, ,qa
'dn dem eLIr rsar aqr eru Burrq or Bururnr
Jo ,-l"q
eroru luauroru e orx ser{JlE^l aqs .lno pelllqs
uI,I reqIIe IIal J
d. ll,{, op,, .dlsnoarau al*I e ,sz(es aqs ,,,tuulrodrur .(re,r ,,;;'"''
'poo8 u,1rer{
IIet J
,,.eraql d. lo., _ areq 1r op
,eleuun ro
tn{s Jo truroA ot paau nod .areqt dn ssaur (ue
JJ aleru t,uop puv,,
:sdes aqs,la,ter8go yated e uo,auo dq
auo,laaS lur;n;;I,;
'eru uo a.(a raq Surdae>1 ,,(e,tre se,roru
atlg
,,'laay rnod adllA,,
wrlt Surlletpue' pareredes .uozrroq ar{l u*{rr^ rer{rrnJ *"r,
eql pue rnotuelS er{l roJ eda auo tltra.t Burlool .(lpreznur
p.rr
"r"llTJl
r", ,,ro
qlltt 3urua1sr1 (lprerr,rur sdeznle ,araq Jeleu sr or{,lt aslo auoauos
11e Jo
pur>1 s(ent1y .eru
a{rl euoaruos eq plnor aqs ."r{rrrr* , B,rr1"*
r,,.r'
eqs erns e{etu ot ure8e SurlcaqJ s,aqs
tsJg lnq ,dot uo d. ,, qrr,.1^
'aoe1d raq ol etu Eurlel s,aqs 'aroJeq rr.1, ,r8rorrs
pue ,.{p.rrrr.,,
)iJeq euoJ arnseald pue o84ra,r eq1 .euru uror;
sar{Jur dluo
uorlrsod ol a,(a _raq surnreJ pue drqs , ,r1,1 ,* ,prrb..ro1, dr, ,1ir.,d
^e
aq5 'ure8e aur te sTool pue ,tuaudrrrr, ,qi dol ,q,
3o iod,
Ia^al e ur 'aut1 a8pu aql dot ol lnoqe ar,a^\ se ,r,e8e ,dols ^o1rq
,r{S .,
a1'urr q,oq eA\ .-,e,,,
r'$#,t'i:i::*:,#t :,;rr *t,,,r#i
uroJs Jo Je{f,rg e pue ,etu Bullaus ,sgrus etis eturl
ol arurl tuorC
'saura Suglaurs-e8uerls qrrrlt Sunq.ra,ro
1p luarudJelsa us ol adols
eql sqrulls eqs w 'aprs eql ot
Jo pue ,raq go purmdn {p,t\ ...
I
'uorlrpuoJ qsrltnJ luerJnJ &u ug ...
pulqeq tuo{ ... Jar{ te )iool t,ueJ
J asneJaq 'surn1 aqs se ser(a dur asolc J .eur qlrnr auroJ ,suealu qJIriA{
'<peeqraq Suraou lnoqlr,r\ sree rer{ srel\ol pue sesreJ ,qg ..r,r8,
^o,
ofsD 1 tlvH]h 002
eql 'tuol]oq eqt aes I 'eJeJ u^ro dul aes I 'lood € otrur {ooT
'gnls 3ur(;r.rtrad euros ur pesrarrrur 'slaurqel Ientce e)irl 'slaurqel
auots 'sJaqte8 lnq 'araqtr,rou sao8 pue 'Jrsnru a>p1 slood aqt tuorJ sryrl
r{Jltl^,\'lq8u .(arB eql {q elrr{zvr pue uaar8 arour apeu'ssour uaar8 arp
isure8e atrqrur rto13 reql salqqad etrq^\ IIEurs ./{aJ e JoJ ldacxa roog
JeleJJ aql uo sauols esool ou eJe alaqI'sleurqB) euols q1r"1\
PaurT
sr r{Jrr{1!\ 'relBJJ eql Jo eprs euo premol JeAo repueetu aM 'aurn;rad
esor Jo seJel qlr^{ rre aqt dn Sura,ras 'ace; dur lsed lrep sarguo
-3erq 'lood ol Iood urorS SurynterJ eJe sJapue..,eles pue sldreN "'
'nroc (1uo eqi a)trl sr eqs aJour eqt pu€ 'sr aqs nroc IEer e a{ll ssel eql
'raq qctert 1 (ppuals aroru aql 'Suorzrr r1 Surop tu,I {urqt t,uop I 1nq
';1as.(u ot elqe tou ru,I 'ure 1 se (1aso1c se req Eurmollog '(1pr
^.lolloJ
-nteu dals ro3 dels qJterr saced;ng '8uq1e,ra ,(1uo s,l1 'dpsea stueru
-elour raq acnpordar 1 's1ood aqt tnoqe pue punoJe dern Eurpura,t
E ur 'aru le Eurlool lnoqlrnt '11e,,n ol sur8aq aqs 'ratren aql qlrrr{
sseu 01 lnoq€ 1ou ru,I saes aqs ueq1A 'aur Surqolezr.r sr aql
^/roJ
'ruoltoq aqt ees J 'ereJ uruto.(u aes 1 '1ood eqt olur u.&l.op )iool I
,,'eu ssed
l,uop pue 'dn qotm raAeN 'eLu purqaq A,!.or euo dael ol (ra 'op I
se erues aqt Suqtdrena op'oB
I ^^oq qJte^r '^\oN 'areql Jreis no1,
'srer{ I,uorJ
sqfueylu( o^u tnoqe 'a8pa aqt te lood rer{Joue saterrpur eqs
,,'alaq 1r ilels ILL,
'roog relerr eqi Jo e8pa aql re slood aql Jo euo ot reAO sao8 aq5
,,'ratE^r aql Punore {le A,,
'(lsnoxue {116 Iret pue sree reH
,,'lllls Puels ],uo(L,
'd1nd
plor ere slleuue (141 'aur eprsur af,r ot Sururnt sr uotalals d14
,,i]eql IaaJ no ,,
'aur qSnorql ge seoS Sued ploc e 'sa11srrq teor ,(6 'ssoru aql
seqJnol too3 ,(61 'u^\oP teql e{e] a^\.roou relerJ er{l or aSpu aqr 3o
eprs esrelar aql u^\op dpue8ala slrnr leqt a8pal peorq e s,erer.{J
,,ilI
{uup t,uop e{es,ssaupooE roJ puv 'tl qrnoi uela l,uo6[,,
'rele^\ aql ur dels
raleu pue 's1ood eql punore {le^r ppor{s I teqtr selerlpq eqs
LOZ 1S]d
 .ueaJo
a8nq
e
3o punos Jo-r"J eqt pue ,r{ileg er{t pu€ uns
JeeJ uoruo aqt 'eceds eas 1 .sdo1s ueaq dru pue arrr
qteeueq saqsruel
laueld er{f .eJrsnu_e a>p dn
;1sstr ,rqrrnq Jlasrl sursrear ,paua
-leerqt sr aru .saart esoqt
Jo ued y qleeueq ,aro;aq ueas en,1 lq8rl
u^lorq alues teqt s,areql .uoo18 aoJl
ue{unrp ,reqruos eql qteaueq
de.tre Euruuru tqled *pn"*
,q, ,r^op ,drrr, ,rrrr,ri'yi ,*o,
-ueqd ayrplrqc 8urq4e.tr pue
qlnou d* q8.,orql a,a.{rnrrq';,1 .r_
aPISUI suoqdrs pue f,qets Xqpol
e{u tueqt ruo{ soqJetap luerueloru
Jo Pnolr aqLaJrI qrr,rrr. Surdurn[ sr sanooq (* p...,orn
sse.r8 aql
'eIU ol osuas se>lelu slql .etBr{
r{tm{ elu a^ol ot se ol tl :p1ro^
eqr sr e^ol ol aley Je^are.lrt\ .^rar^ (ur
I Jo 1u1od *or3,r.rr,r"grp
{ool lsntu l1 's1ood aql punore paloru a,t [eu, eql pue ,irp
-Eerp pue ,srapueueles,sl,trau
,rrgro
aql (urrrr aqt_a^o{u daql ,e>1qe Eurqtou
ere daqt elll{ 'sreaurs peroloJ
A 7o ,.r"*r3.rrrrn , ,,
dalpa eqI 'uoluo E.ulrner.r., ue 1"r',r#.t;r;;
e{rr sradel spaqs teql duo.rr;o
Eurruol8^e f,g prrr,r,*r,11, ,r., pnolc
,uodo da11e.,r eqt pue sser8 arcu
qlr,rn d88eqs ,a8pa1 ^o1rq
padeqr_r,rrrrrr, o1.ro ,rqtr8o,
" int arr,
'r,uPIP "r1a
I rer{ llel J
Euplpgl to,eqt II"3 l,r{^{ (lrrexa
J s,J,rll &ro.,,I ";:;t"^t
"",
"ro droureu raq .,' .,aqr rr^rr r,:r:i1l;f;:'rt:ilTr'"T'r:';::#l
Suglervr led e sr slqr,Jl repuora
ur Eu.ntouJ urorg nod ruanard orp
t Bulopere nod leq^{ lueuoru
re,l
p"n .q8no.rqr pr;;;";;;
no( saloq a>[1,(elr agr usdo qroq
rrq, ,dr8 drrl qE ,or.1, ,irrrrr,r,"r,
fq
'str{3noql rewo ol pssl slq8noql ir^rq,
suopre rer{ro ol peel suorire
ot{t os 'rq8noql go (e,ra.s gtunu eql
repun sr eraq E,4ql,fu,rE .l,,ro^
1 ssan8 J 'esrnor
rrarro] pForls I JI pue ,pelelnap
e^,I Jr repuo^r pue
'lrede re; dnerd &\ou aJ,e&\ ,uorldmralur J
lnoqlrn4 ,anou1 s? reJ os
'raq pemollog pue peqrte^r aa,1 q8noql uaAE[ .?tsrl 1
Jruers e ol dlaler
r_:.:::1i:ur8uuq .;; s,r"r are slood aqnnq .Euruadderl
;::1:':
{urrir oi Suruur8aq u,,1 ',pe,,d,p,q p"1d*,p
:5::.:l:::l_::,,,,{,
uo ouuser sPueq drurl
3o eru puruer spuod eqa .srualsdr_8.rr11"^ ,rq
ro3 acelde srratprr aqa .ssen8 ,*p ,reqlo sqI ,
ip ,"op eqs teq.n sr'r,r.fr
I{Jea Jo dol uo s{l"ru,Jo ,*rlri,I E.r,rrrinl,rrr.1d, .,.
ir.,f
'1ood y 'ada auo yo tno a., 3.r,"r, ,iu,,1i"Br,r1or1
JePueIuePS "r,
Pue ureu asoql ilv .J3l?dr eql
uI elqrsrAu eJE slelurue
ofsD '1 tSVHf
th zoa
ot dn oB e A 'll otur sur€rp'p1rr1,t aroru Sunuoceq Iluo 'adeespuel aql
se tualorl eroru Surua8 s,leql eruqt(que uu qtr.&\ srellng peeqlleu
aqa 'raqlaSot sn sre I 11 'suaddeq elull uI qsluelq tdnrqe uy "'
'aJ€J raq uo ateq a{II s{ool erISeC 'de,,ur urei.rac e
ur eur te qool pue'eraq pue ar{t a{rl s1aa3 sderr.tie tr etu sllal aqs
-- rar{ ol urru I ssol E lv
"' ue "'uV 'eur qtr^\ pue'aru q8norql pu€ punore apeur Suraq
suorsrlaP leuorler elqEJo^arrr Jo uolssaJcns ssalPue uv 'JeIIIureJ
(11elol sleeJ 're5eerel{ PEap
IIe l1 'af,qpoo8 des ot 'atutl arour auo
dlleurale luetsur r{J€a Jo pua eql sI slqt teqt re^o pu€ ralo eur Eurllal
'ernteu Jo lno pue ur Sururnl 'arnlder uI selnluroJ Surlueqc saJIoA
allua8 uorllrru e (q papunorrns 'tsEI eqi a{II sleal teqt s{ro.t\
^toqs
-erg e a>lll pue'snroqc u^.18P eql a{ll'tuelsuoc 1sn punore IIE elqr?.&\
(,teeri Surlelluups e ur 'slcagar 'srapuod ssarordedecspuel aql
'lpu5 sr srqa 'a(qpoo8 sueau tr pue'aur ut
Suraq uralled ,.{J 'reqto ou pue luaura8uerre teql ur ereql Surpuels
(q ranaro; adqpoo8 Surr(es 11e 'saurleug 3o 'salds 'sralsrolc 'sute1
-uno; 'sezeld'selodno 's.rtopurrrr's11e.,lr 'saqore 'suurnloc u8rsap plnoc
1 'sa,tooq
(ur gtrzu AAErp plnoJ I JI 'serlurelleJ 'suorsrJap 'saurleug
3o aderspuel e or s8uolaq il pue 'a8uero pue ntolled 'raded-Sutcerl
tuorJ tnc sare3 Suqquerl Jo snquru e (q papunorrns sr r1 ',(ldreqs
f,lr,rer8 str IeeJ I 'euop lou (llsotu s8urqt 'rano dltsotu ruou 'dep auo
roJ uns 3urilor eql eq ILll pue 'mou aderspuel eql ol s8uolag 1I 'aas
I lreaq dur s,ir etu sllal Surqratuog 'selluleueJ ral{ Jo sutunlo) erroJ
alqrsr^ur eqt pro^€ ot Surraa,t 'rolof, qtr^t (eltqled aqt pue sser8 aql
sral1e1ds pue punor8 eqt e^oqe sla^ert tI 'sreurureq uns aql peeqlleu
Surqseg {llq8uq e 'reelus ruto11a,(-aurorqc Sururqs e s,areql "'
'oot 'raq;o enrl s,teqt {ulql I 'aru ol Euruaddeq
sr Eurqlou pue 'ra,ta ueqt euop arolu ure 1 'arag Jeq qlllA "'
,,ir{s€u srqa gre8 J JIas eqt sl slql,
:lsn8srp ur
'31as(u ot )tuu{t I 'uorle8rlsalur rno ut uotlsanb ralltou€ sl slt{I
i>1e( leer e sr uaql Jo qJII{AA
'sre,t\ell Jo raqtunu (uy
'Jeqtunu (ue elepotuuroJce uec tr 'e8rel .{raa s,lr lnq 'araq
^\aIA Jo
turod auo (1uo sr
aJarlJ '^{arl Jo turod dur sI MaIA 3o turod raq 'arar1
er,el{ se 3uo1 se 1€qt aJuo t€ atu sllal aqs pu? 'pareeddesrp Jalau peq
reueld eqt JI se 'raq rltrzrt {J€q tu,I 'uortueue dru sla8 ,trol eql "'
,oz t_s3d
 '$leeJJ 3ri
,,"' salnJ ar{l e^erlaq l,uBJ I,,
,,'qeeA,,
s,11,,
,,"' o{ll lsnI
,,"'uPalu I,,
,,i^ eq.AA,,
'Eunueals sr oJeJ per srH '$leerJ eg,,'ueur'qg,,
,,'3Jeq erues I uaql,,
'peaq Surddlrp s${ Euqeqs 'sdes aq
,,'lg suivr I {ulqt ot pesn L,
'rurq aprseq tq8rerls dn Eurpuels pue rurrl puryaq ur Eurddals
'leervts ur peqJuaJp 'acrorr Eurluarc'lro1 e ur s(es eq ,,'ueru a8n61,,
'paq eql dq rreqc e dn Eu[1nd pue roop eq] punore Surddals
'1cau srq punor€ le/v\ot etrq^r aql qtrm acey Suruur&\s srq Eurddoru
'qtearq Jo lno s,(es eq ,,'(oq Erq aqt s,ereql ',(oq Erq eql s,ereql,
'lsal ot d11eug Suruoc'uzuleg 'uado u.,rtep sdod urtreg
's{snP Jo slJeretre3 ,(url ur surseds 'suntep
Jo sapeJse3 ro3 'slq8rr
lnoqtu\r Suosprrq Surpunouns 'nrropeqs B lnoqlrm uortotu a>illpnolo
uI JaqlouB auo qlr/v\ Eurdrel6 'salBts drelueluolu pue sJapurrueJ
lsprrg erelsne ro; 'ur Eunuuu.,rrs rog dn deeq srea.( Jo suorllnu
eraq^r 'tq8rtdep Jo Eas er{t Jo rrotloq aqi te Eurag 'stauro) allr{
e{rl sorun{f, (q passoro Euosprrq pue sser8 tuerrnosur eql Eurqclel6
'pua uE ol Euruoc pue Sururruar 'uorJ?Jueruul uene qJee rf€auaq
o)ualrs 'papoc lgts qetad paqsnoqe 'ssaurneaq peuadaap ur ,petrenr
pue JeAo peJaqure 'pareos 'rano palqrunts 'ra1cer1c qcea plo8 paua
-ryos uI pelrnJ 'uragl q8norql leql uaar8 Jo speaq ur 8uqye.,n
^aor{s
urer8 pepeaq,(teeq lno 'sauots rno 'p1o8 Jo speeq eqt Euotue ra,to
pue JeAo r{sruel or dep uorJ tno Euruunq'Euqsrr; lno eruoJ Eurreaq
eruos urqtrl!\ uqs e ;o srsoq8 'punore IIe suolluef, pera{JaqJ r{trm
aretlt Eurl8ueds alddep uns Sur,ror enoge peards 'lqEqpurm tsule8s
srnurrnur rq811(ep 'suoct pagcnot Sututllno 'razra.rog de.me Euro8
go sured eql Euorue uorllsod e Euqel '8ur,u1tno 'pua ue o1 Euruor
'tq8rl aTI paqsau 'puelq pue eurt\t sdaals arnd alqm suortrloqe
ur paploJ sletad auoruaue aqt 3o uoqeredas leqred agl 'raq pue eru
lnoqlrm Jo rrsnru Jo puH e sr suaddeq leq11 'ua13 aqt otul u/lrop eru
slleJ aLIS 'oB or Surl[rrrt ere a/!t lsa^tol eqt st I{JII{/\,I 'lods lseqfllq ,r,
o)srf 't- rtvHf tN njz
pezrsreno u€ Suusam '(lqsrdeaqs Suqnus 'lno pueq slq 'rul{ Jo tuo{
ur lq8rr uoslr1\ s,ereqt pue 'a1rs uouJrutsuof,.eqt t€ {ool ot surnl
aH 'ereJ pue suf,re pa8epueq r1lr.u'd>1s aqt rapun'punor8 aqi uO
.. 'JeJJns urolueqd
Surtpur,vrp e 'mopuruvr aql qBnorql lq8ys 3o tno seqseg olel{D
j?acuoayo sr org,,
'uorlerrurPe
Jo IInJ dn durnf,(eqa
'rrePFr ur ueql tsed sSrns pue arnlsod
Sugrns e sldope olerl3 '(poq srq Suq.rnc pue srure srq Eursreg
,,'Suosprrq
tnq
Punos ou o1
"' suo(uer arll u1
sser8 eql srps
Pur1I\ ur€trunow,,
:s,{es opq3
,,'rlilBe ar{t ur palueld 'orq'aragl aq ot to8 an,notr,,
,,"' uarpyqc 'q9,,
,,"'saluo) Ieluetuelg eqt uaq^\,,
,,- eql ueq^\,,
,,q8ur,(esI se^\ teqr,!\ "' r{V,,
o tq f,Bopr,u..ft a as1eg,,
,,'
'peeq srq Sururnr d1p3
tnoqtr.&r's4se aq,,ilH r{t}at 8uorn s,l€q.t\ -- uar{1 I€tuatuelg eqJ,,
'sluuq eH
,,- orq,lg loN,,
,,-- seruoJ [E
eql ueqlt\,,
'seJ€J rraql punore para>1cnd spoor{ ar{t qty!{ sor{Juod alrqm
pue sp€eq puu spreeq elerl sra{ueq o^ t eql 'Surtsar sI oleqC
,,"' IEJruqJat os'a1t1,,
,,ieluose^le os,,
,,'aluose,/!lv,,
,,iBurzeane "' .{ueru os "' qqo,,
902 t_sld
 sarPnls oleqD .ereJrns eql ur sploJ elnurru
q palrellol ssLI tsno
'xe^{
PaleaSuos Jo
Ped e a{ll'pue eql tn Ijo,l1rt teg e suroJ qrlr{^{ ,d.(1od.qr'rrrr*r*,
olel{D 'drotrurrop atll dn Surddord ssargnq d",dg ,
,q lnp auo 1r.4\
reqr qlnq ala.If,uor atlyzu e uor; qlrlrorS e Surddrqo f,11ryarec,(qreau
elqrsr^ sl otlpre3 opleur8ry .u^ op peueld
e3eJrns ,q, prn ir^,
Pa{JoDI uaaq .(Fea1c e,teq s8ur]nords araqrn alarJuoJ aql uo slods
alqrurersrp (1lure; ere erer{l lpunor8 ,q, B.ro1,
d,(1od 3o uos auros
Jo u.ttoJr{l seq elerJuoJ eql ,saceld euros ur ,leql sacrlou or{ uaql
'sada srq ur doI q]r^r uolleur8erur ulto
slg Jo lno ,rdeq, elaliruorur
eseql te serets oler{D .,(1q1pne Surlurrp ,rele^l
ees Jo steouI peull
-Jeqqnr ul slls atarJuoJ Eut.rl aq; .uortoadsur
Jo rnot srq se111nse_r
eq pue 'ure8e (ureerp euoJeq sa(a srq .selnunu
, ,rryy ^r5
'ruaql Surzaanbs ,slaaqc pue sdrl srq sqer8
peaqaro; srtl padselr_peq leqt pueq eqt
^rou pus ,dn s1oo1 ,g
'llrlrlpr--r sdots pue s(es r.1,,...
,roo*-tu eqqqqql,
ot >leads sur8aq dlprurn oler{o 'uorrrnrlsuor repun ,tljil,T;
-or
1ur1 stlted eyl 'slooq )Fo.,lt Jo slurrd aql qlmt padurer, ,, 1,o,
eqJ, 'Punor8 aql uo seda 'peeqeroJ sJq ol pueq
srq sassard'ag
^n,
sarldrur 1r so,usoD a,1, ,,(1s
e Suqqrunls 'tueuroru e roy Eulddorg fi:iiT#,J:# i;y:;:j,":I'",#i
:prrry,ro, sueas aq .6oN
.sessed
eqs raue sdes oleq3,,,sarguo8erp ql,^ pr**r8_rj
PUEI PePooH Jo serrv,,
,,"' PIes 1 'pan8re I Pue llqs Pldnls Eur,(es peuets eH"
s p ro q a q s a u oq d, o,.,, a.,',il:::' f il",: H;TL Jffi :1, ::"j :il :Y
asJnoJuoc pelle^\_rete^t aql ,sde,tr>11eat
tear8 aqt punore uonalduroo
Jo setets snorrel ur puels -- pau8rsap aq s8urppnq -_ sadeqs rerlrru
-eJul-l 'leuatuouaqd uaaq seq ssarSor6
(eraq tsel se^\ eq erurs ueaq lr
seq 3uo1 'atrs uorlJnrtsuoJ ar{t
^,\oH Jo spunor aql sa{eu oleqC
.ada
tuaried
'dpeals e qtl.{t rurri purqaq s{urrr.{s uosJr4\,,...XO ,yg ,ueru ,yg,,
' uor,elrIIr ur leme *,u, JI' :ilr: ".:ff ffi ' #5Tl :",',:',::
peuozslqtue,,S)JHO,/1A
UEAEJVHA\,, spro^\ eql qtr.n lrrr{s-l {relq
olstf 1 tlvHf ild goz
atarJuoJ Jo eurerorp Jo tros e Eurploq 'Surssed sr opleur8ry
'peqs aqt punore sreaddesrp pue pueq euo
qlrm sada srq ssoJJe Jlasrun{ saqcurd uoslr4yde,ne uosllrfi sale^\ aH
',(1pes sdes oleq3 ,,'panarlaq arour ou spuag SurlEBnI asaql aq
'acua8rllalur umo rno,( 3o s8ur.,lt aql uo sedecse eleta^ SuqpplJ eql,
'ra33els pue'>1ur1q'aJurlr uoslr4\ Surleui'ur1ed srq tuorJ seuILIJ
lq8rl unorq 3o peagreads lerlse ue pue a8enno ro tsn8srp ur pueq srq
sesrer oler.lD '(setusJ a8euaat leruuarad req ur lsol sauoqdpear{ req
repun (err,te Surlels uu8 s{Jnqs
sr aqs pue '1no pueq srq pue teql
^\€
r{tr^ rurq ol Sururnt sr uoslr4\ ,(qclals tuetsur txau aqt pue oleriC
eas otr tsrg aqt sr IaqrEU 'aldoad tuere5rp ar,{aql e{rl s,ll ',(qotels
(lrnSrqure
1,usr uosIIA Pue luelrs ,(goo1e lou sr Ier{r?H -- 3o 3o3
aqt tnoqtln 'ssauan8e,t lensn Jraqt tnoqtr^t 3ur11el ere IeqJeU pue
uoslr1\ '.razopllnq aqt roJ l1pg,,sluer8rru,, aql paqs alnll aql purqaq
'araqa 'uorlJarrp lercads ou ur uo oB ol surnt eq pue 'elarJuoJ
3o do11op srqt Jo uorte8rtsanur srq suopueqe {11enlua,ta oleqD
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'seur1 ssalSuru€eu
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'prorvl e lnoqlr^r 'ragto gcea re Euqool 'raqla8ol pusls o^,\r eql
'{reu srq uo Surtqqo.lr' peaq
srq 's,trqqer e ary1 [poq qq ]sure8e paploJ srure srq (etrs uorlcnrtrsuoJ
eqr Jo uorrrerrP eql tuoJJ uly or dn seuroc pqofof ourreJez
.SIIEJ
pue sesrJ Sur8urs aqJ 'suetsrT pue spuets or8ro3 ,duec aql pJe,taol
aze7 ot Sururna 's{EO aArI eqt ur Jlaslr sasol qted aql (uort)errp rer{lo
eqt uI 'punor8 aql saqf,not {snp eqt areq^r aceld aql ur salqtuerl teql
lq8q uanorq eqt qtr^{ saqsau l1 ,,"'glas(ur Jo opBrls eqt ue^a tou tue
(u ^ ...
1 depol "' eru pazetue aJuatrsrxe urto 'depratsa,( (1ug,, ,,".(os
ou une €rtu €rquos doq d ". InJ elll^ereru re,(y,, .sreaarTeq erut eql Jo
Euos Eurcrofal ar{I 'uonerqelar e e{ll
spunos l1 .druec eq] ruog sasrr
crsnru 's1as uns oql sy 'qled er{t uo euo ou s,aleql .sat11r(tsoreteq; yo
druec aql ol {Jeq etrs eqt uro$ spuexe qled eql ,uorlcalp euo uI
.areql
euo ou s,ereql 'eloqo rped aql ot rlilea esoo{ Jo adols e dn .(psrunlc
Surlqtuercs '1uerg raqe Jo sarrJnr{ pue or8ro3 le spou oler{D
,,'poo8 3uqoo1 lou s,luerC,,
'qsag eryl saar8
ef,eJrns 'a1nqo13 atll lsure8e pueq sq sassard opq3
loor er{I
,,gqa'Eurqlauros s,tL,
'tueqed eqt pezru
-8orar oleqC 'ryep sao8 apqol8 er{t sE sape; rq8rl s,rueerp eql
'acel s,asdror
B JaAo umerp Sureq raaqs € a{rl puelureu Eururnq eqt reno u/v\erp
sr leql nropeqs uenlue8re8 e s1sec ale.u eqt ,lq8ru
3o peap eql s,tr
q8noql ua,tg '.{1s aql q8norqt s[es ({)ene ileeq e Surneq euoeruos
go ernlsod pezruo8e'Eurgunlc-tsar.{J arit ur uezo$ ,tuaued aqa
'losered raq orul $lurrt{s esdy aqa'e^€.tr aqt umop Surddrls
'punor pue punor Euqaaqrnurd sr teoq eql rnq ,luarted aqt uo peeq e
olsrf '1 tlvHl[4 ,LZ
 'Poolq
(q ltor8 sruooJr{snru qJle^{ saxoJ uaerD,,
Ierutrsuatu uorJ 1r{3ru
'rurele aqt Eursrer'(lalerpauur
(eine sum pue's11a( ouueJez,,ie{eus e (q uallq uaeq s,tuerC,,
'1nqs sa(a srq Surzaanbs 'spou olerlC
,,iiuerC qlr1( reu€ru aqt Suqteuros,,
,,'ruJo1!r aql enreJer ol suado-o tuosso-solq aql
'pa;apurqun ees eql sasreleJl "' purn\-^\ ar{J,,
:s(es pue'peaq srq sa{eqs oleqC
,,qunq no( erv 'ou ro sed lsn[,,
.e^op
Sururnou V 'Jrsnu luetsrp 'SurEurs tuetsrp Jo lueruoru e s,aJaql
'qlnou slq sesolJ oUIJ€Jez
,,'aseald 'ou1ta1a7,,
,,qno( arrq a{€us e
prq'euru rno( a1e1 'oler{D';aqteSor Slasrno( la8 notr'XO'XO,,
,,'raqlaSol Jlasurrq le3 rurq 1a1,,
'dots ot rurq ot suortoru or8ro3
'sleadar
our]3Jaz,,ilI sI leq^\'olEt{D (l} sr 1eq16 iolst{3 pauaddeq leq/v\,,
'uorlsanb
eql PuElsrePun l,uPrP aq Jr se s,l1 'ada aql ur or3ro3 s>lool oleqc
,,qpeuaddeq leq1A,,
'elqqo^ sPu€q srq Pu€ ser{rler
qteerq Surrappnqs srH 'areJ s,oler{D otur Eururoc sr rolo, qsr(ar8
y 'eruelsrp aql ur seart aqr Suorue 3ur11ous dlurlec uortro6,(uoqtuy
pue tusr3 saas or8roS 'urq puodag ',(1s aql te dn s>1oo1 uaqr 'peaq
srr.{ sremol eH 'areJ sni sqru'peaq srq sa{€qs 's{ullq'stued olerlC
's1se or8ro3
,,lpauaddeq teq1A,,
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atplo anqd.soultetaul atll uln{ a4od.s qawa1d. u tnoqt?lw sacxoA
',1alsll ot sdols osl€ ueg 'Jea Jeq ur
Eurradsrqnt sr oq^r 'latpeg Surssarppe ,sdes aqs
,,,srqt ol uatsr.L,
'sassel8uns raq sremol pue peeq req sesreJ
DV
'denr{se up
Jo seprs aW e{ll alJrr3 eqt sraproq teqt IIE,lt arll
uo paceld are drauod alI(tsoroteqr 3o saldruexa snorre^ .se{etsrru
tuanbar; Surlceuoc dlqetrrrr Jlasurq ot sueSols Jlts(ru Suuaumu
'elcrrc e ur (lperrrnqun Eurced sl ,CV uo trre&\ ot pou8lsse ueeq seq
oqa,t (xrs (peau Jo usru paJeJ-per e ,salrldlsoratar{r aql euo
Jo
'Pueq
sr{.1 {ooqs eqs ueql .poolsrepun pue ,pelsu,rtun
pu€ patsl^{t reql
auo'aoey'Euqurlq'Euruurr8 e otur pe{ool aqs .e{€qs ot rar{ JoJ puer1
d>prrs 'durr1 e tno pleq pue rar{ peqoeordde ,(pu1ec p,oq ueql
,,irutq Palll{ I ilutq Pellpt I,,
'a8er snolnparcur
qtrm papoldxa dpeau p,eqs ,peeq snl uo pepuel pue leag (uo;
IIaJ oq^l euo eql 'zll,opurlt e lno pessol p,aqs doc aql ss rurq pazru
-Eocar aqs pus'etrs aqt te ueg peretrunof,ua rsr5 .{)rls
DV uarlt\
B qlrr\ urp aql ur Eurlpoop 'f,ette re1 tou Eurilenbs sr ,ueur erpooq
aql 'ueg 'uoo18 (urearp aqt otw (elte slo,ud uaql ,pueq euo ur
Jeplnoqs req se{el ler.lJeg 'alcrro pa,r,ed s ur ,seao eqt qleeueq elqe]
euols B ]e Jaqrua ellyzn e a{rl strs orlla ,DV punor€ Euruaql8uerls
pue Surue>1ea.tr (1ryos (cuaqurel Jo plag uaneun uE sr
{snp aql
'ssaur\ols cnnerp(q qt1.t\ tl uo sasolr r{Jlr{r1a
'raqlo eql dq paqsnrc pue pagp8ua Suraq (lanrssnuqns pue (1dtur1
puer.{ auo or8rog sraoqs pue spuer{ dleaur srq qloq dn sploq eq
uaql 'uorlErlsnrJ ur lnqs
padruelc sa.(a d1p}1ll pseq srq sessol oleqD
,sruossolq rels eql
,,'eced-ds Jo II€ sllg ua11od
ofsD t_ rlvHf lh gtz
 '>lto&Llo asnacaq
'aru4 pa7a7d,u.+a1woc s?unq unulnq ?u?1 slouLt uo ouxu
hnt pua ?aryurulxxs ?uosnoql uaatuauas ywa ?at?wn\awo sau,Lx!
awru,Qtol yuo patpwrul xxs ?uosnol,lt uaatua rLas yuo palpuruy auo
'sacot m.ol s1t tuot{ yawuoxtla saual pas ?wb ttv
'syuoll,(uout stt yua spca{ s1r. ruo.tt pepuou.La satn$a.9
'acottns sqt
ulo{yaxawruLa pub anc sfi ut asoto saEon7wol
's?u01,lauru,hrc{yua
?aryLLrulxs ?uosnoqtuaatuaLas pua pat?urulauo pup sacal motqrm
yuoruaxy olo poq7
aql olux yarutolsuau atattL suo.nsaldxa puasnoqx yuosnoql ual aql
{otyrquw,tyatltu,.o.{f,omorrrU*r*';X#'rf;:;::ty#
'a sryv w d,11at afl1.1(1Lanlq aryt ulott as w171
1
oto lbx$aPc al#
'uaql lueEuald, os sam sol6loqloLlJ
' tq,t4ca wawru1 actail.+1.tlo)
to
a,F ?atoutltlotuoc pu?1 snqulnu aql pasn[ns pt11 3p?nbq pawm.pua
auru-,(yol aqt paruo{ suotssatd,xe snouosrod, aqt lo a4ows a4t
' acwwu,Loc puo sn qu,Lnu {o sEuq aqt u1
'saca{yrc puas
-noql ual to swa ltal arlt u,t ott aruac uostod,-acawlt7 atll lo a>pMS a1,ll
',Q1,t17ca uawttq
to a?taulu,t oc
yua sfiqlLLnw a14l ol suaill ulwo ilatll t lEnonq tuaop Zw4auarua
'syaaqpuosnoql ual yawd,ad, ualll sauo asaql
acua7otru uou.Laap al,ll puo ,Qrnwaq lo uonlao? aql 01
'ssausnotLtcsol{o uou,r.aop aqi ox spaaq?awuoula oq&L
'acua,(ottto\c
yal,octxoqw to uouaay alt ot spaa4 allt pawuau,La Sutwtotwoc 4taq
'yatoadd.a suosrod. mau awtu-,t1tot'pacatutt7 ppaq qcaa u?Wyl
'ula171alLXACat
o1 paqulodd.o uoulaop luaruutofuoc ytay aql lo qam illt oxux putt
acad.s q7nonll qlwa ot lpl
'yapm3-fias
?oalyuo ntsaqap lo speaLl?aLfic awru-tq.+ot
pua yaqt4SqqsutwpuouLt)t? a
lo roq7 aql
,itnou acnLllx4Loc ?ua snqul.rcu {o ?llo(yL aql ,b4say sn e-L,
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 s{Jou>l uetu arpooq eqt ,qseJJ pnol e ,tserluoc .(q ,sr leq.,rr qlr41
.qurql
aYs'11 lnoge turq ol prozr,t e ,(es ol Suro8 lou ur,1 ,ou ,uaqt puy
'qurqt eqs'sltll tnoq€ luErc Ilal plnoqs I
'rePro aql roJ lre^\
o1 'pueururot aqj Jo lred sr qJIqA ,erurt uruo slr ur ruaql o1 Bururo:r
s,leqt Japro ue s,tr 'spuelsJepun .{luappns ,uearos e l,usr iJ
3y
'aceds q8norql lc€tur perrJeJ rueerJs e ary1 ,uorleuoiap Bur11a
-Aert e -- alF{Ar pue 1Jelq
Jo suortersnror esoqt q8norqt Eurqceordde
pue 'retsa,re^\ eqt pue ereq uaa.r\leq Surueddeq sr Surqlaurog
'ereqt ur asla Surqtatuos s,eJaqt pue -- suoqqrr
lr^e esoqj IIE euro:)
tirlq^r uorJ pu€'Surpoc ere sroloc esoqt IIe qJIqM otur retsale^\ eql
tre erets ot req Sullladruoo '1r Surop s,1eq1 aurds umo req s,tr lnq ,>peq
p€er{ req 3ur11nd ere^r rar.{ pulqaq Surpuels euoeruos Jl se s,tJ
'allg^t pue Suuaruuflqs s]uauelg 3ur,no11rq ul palJallor
lrElq Jo
salcrged elirn Jo pasoduroc sr ern8rg eqr '11 uorJ ereredas (1arrtrua
rou ssacord srql ur pasreruur .(la.rrlua Jaqlreu sr arn8rg aqa
'saJrls eqt uee,rueq etrq^\ pr^rl aqt o1ur,(e^\e
re3 Surqsaur 'sesselarJ paploJ eseqt u^\op Surdaas eJe sJoloJ aql
pue 'uo-a8pa pa^\ar^ saueld {Jelq eq plnor sa^arleq aqs qrrq^
suoqqu aql Suop {ceq u^\erp ,araqntesla ^\ou
loAer} serJuanbar3 laqr
'passarddns pue tr{8nec ,pue ,suoqqrr aql dq paqlqurl Buraq adecsa ot
el88nrls srolor aqt l1ce1q 3o suogqlr eug 3ur1erq1^ (luappns
Jo epetu
sr Eurql,fta,rfl 'raq relo qse.el (lqedledrur lnq
IIe
(aql se s8urqt
;o
acuereadde aql a8ueqc teql ,SurtuoJ are sele.u ,srels aqt
Jo auo urog
'pue 'suortellatsuoJ r{tr.,lt pappnts ,{rEIq Jo elrrrc d88ol e ot sepeJ
{1ryr.trs (>1s anlq agr 'peaq eql a^oqv .umo-rr {relq peuorqseS-(1apnr
e otur peurnt uaaq seq lsnq
leur8uo aqt Jo terl loo^\ eqt leqt azrleer
tou saop aqs os 'aro;aq peeq srql ueas Jeleu seri OV .peaq ilmrqJs
-rassery eql Jo {selu aqt Surrea,lt ,araqt Surpuels sr arn8rg aqa
'passed
seq aq aruo urnlar trou saop uns aql
30 rq3r1 eql 'plor ere^r eq Jr
se suueraddn srg Surlorrs ,uns eqt pu€ DV uae^\teg sassed ueg
,,.eJour
aru ,(e4 luorurdo ,(ur tue,u no1 'il op pue etelsueu ot pred ta8
i L,
-- s(es
eqs 'sueaur tl J€rint raq s{se dlqunq salrldlsoralaqr aqt Jo euo ueq1A
ofsD '1 tlvHf [ 7LZ
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,,'1!\oQI l,uoP I'qa i "' I-L,
(,,ipeuaddaeq leqm DIH,,)
'esdy aql ot ra^o
sllileJr eqs 'eraql u.t\oP aureg u^torg JeelJ e e{II surnq oqm 'opq3
te {Jeq acue18 e s^ oql 'aureqs qtr.&\ pesln^uoo 'ane51 eqa
'rurueru laq ur Surppeds tq8q prle^ E'1ensn se e8unol
osrer1r req uo paderp 'asdy aqr erEJ ol surnt pue 'raqtaSol sreplnoqs
Jorl s^{eJp 'tseqc raq seqJlnlJ 'Sur8urs sdols 'sra,,rtgs aA€N aql 'ru5{
pulqeq spunos dnccrq paddrrc € uaq^\ 'uagtue atrrerls rag Sur8urs
'3urteo13 sr aAeN aqt pue oB CV Surqcte,,n sI xeqlreN ,r*rr'
elgeJasrtu u.lto (u ue,ra '8urqtr(ra,ta 3ur,ro1 '3urql(raaa Surlue,r,t
3o qsrn8ue aqt 'atrugur s,tr esneJeg tsnf 'SurqsrqrnJer E 'au alaldap
ro (orlsap Jaleu uBJ leql qsrn8ue ue sI sIqI 'astpered sI sltil
'acuarledtur
r{lr^\ elrTe 'lq8r1 u,,norq aql uI rnlq etlq^t e sl CV 'etu sapnlJul pue
'sser8 ;o epelq e a{11 '3u1ssed tnoqlr^r dn pue dn s,r,tor8 r€qr etur I
'arurt sseluortour pue Jre patuaJs-qraq',(rsnp srqt ot lueredsuerl pue
lq8rl aur Suqeu 'zrro13 str 3ur11ams'lq8r1 urtorq eql dq ur paqteerq
sr pue lq8rlelpuec e{}l eur uorJ tno srelem sseupes (14 'pr;rlneaq
sr aru punore sqnrqs pue saart aqt qteeueq tq8rt u,ttorq aqa
'aruaJselosqo a{rT etu pulqeq 3urpe,r1 'raq rat;e ,(llualodurr
deg teqt srerueeJls uI lueJ '(earasner eq1 ol {lent pue (erute urnl
otr e^Brl I '{Peatsul 'srql ,(1uo pue Sururea( sull aq 01 tuP^t 1 'Surqlou
J
lue.tl 'araqrt,fta,ta oB pue euodrana eq ot true^r I 'rl jo ued l1erus
e f,1uo sr eqs esneraq 'raq q8norqr eJll Jo IIB a^ol 'petue^\
I I ^\aul
la^e I ueql erolu ro3 loqur(s e s,aqs e{rl s,]r pue 'seau1 req Punorc
lnet pa11nd sr ssarp raq teql os 'saced 3uo1 Suqel 'apts or apIS ruorJ
Sur8urnts rrsq raq'eru Suraas lou 'eut (q sao8 aqs sB JaI{ LIJIeA\ I 'urorJ
aureJ I uorlJerrp eqt ur Jo saurnq aqs 'prom reqtroue rnoqtl4yreq
Jo eprs reqlre 01 dcuecea aqr Surlerrpul 'slure req tno splot{ CV
13uo1,uoq rog iSurrrr.tt eqs se1\
'gSnoua
aros dlurelral sr pueq req pue 'Surluttpueq raq uI s,tl 'req Jo tuor3
ur raded paurT Jo taeqs eqt uo a8essed palelsuerr-(lqserJ e le u^\op
tnq 'urII le tou 'sacue13 DV pue 'setrellod ,{11rqs
aql Jo auo ralo
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dpoq aloqm aqr Surqrrem pue {lnq aloq^r dru otur Jleslr Eunerues Jo
,e>1e.ne
troge aqt qll^\ tno Eurreaan sr puru f,tu tnq ro perrl l,usr (poq
d1,q 'srrqrue8 pue suorloru ur uosear uar{l pue la8roS ot e^eq ...
J I
: d1r I pue'Europ tu,l leqn la8roS
1 Suullaruos Jequeuer I ueqm -- lJE sr op ot e^Bq I tur{^a uar{llt urarll
;o uorleldruetuor ur 31as(u Eursol plo^p 01 repro ur Eurlla8rog daa>1
ot aler{ 1 regr Suruoseal snoeueluelsur Jo azeqe ul
il€ - odual ratrseJ
dru ol srsnfpe truno] srq pue dn peeq srq MoJql (tunoJ srr{
Jo st€eq
eql ueemleq Surnoru 'os tsnf peaq (ru dems ,lsrntl l,uop I 3r punor8
asol llrrr'aru purqeq tno ui!\orqt ere taal dur ,uado sdeus >1ouq
I
d141 'eurds uarro (ru uo ,rno; ,aarql
{J€q aru Eurnyp dpeals Eurqsnd
'orrag'auo Surlunoc eru uo ur salrJp aq pue ,dllt I -- suotl€lnJlec eJoru
pue arou -- sureJunour rno uaanaleq lsnp ol salnurru Eurpurr8 ,speaq
rno otur trr Sursnco; pue sser8 eql Jo (1s aql Eurarterp ere eA\ ...
"'oot squ eql uo IJeq^\ preq e ta8,rurq
uo eseqornd .{ru esol J pue Jequrnu srq (q parueleqralo ,tror{etuos sr
'regunu-rsenb dur'raqurnu (141 .sratleg eq pu€ ,raqtunu e a>p1 Surql
-etuos rurq ol radsrqzn I 1cau s,tuauoddo dru ls.rle8e peaq (ur uer
I se pue 'ssausnorJsuoo u1!ro slr a)irl Surqtatuos olur puecse sualsf,s
snolJau rno .{q puoJes rad apeur suorlEInJIsJ Jo suorllru er.{J
'reqro r{rue irsod sarpoq
IInq rno deru eql - Eurryesraq pcr8o1 s,l1
...
(,,i{ul.{r nod op'o1dn rrd1n4 aqt s,teer1 t iDIH -- ruruH,,)
'allau8rol JeAIrs € qrrrn ,(a11err eql suers asdy aqa .{JEq srq otuo
dn 1r sareaq pue a8unol esrer{J eqt Jo ploq se{sl xaqueN eql
(,,'xeqlreN'dn au dtrU,,)
'dlorp steader eq,,,SWVD,,
'aPEf,se) eueqs eql
oJ eunurlul st 'aert (qreau e Jepun Surlegrnlseur'tdasuera aqt (1ug
'qceordar e rol Eurce.rq 'sada raq sdorp eqs pue ,uorssardxa
l€Jlnau
€ ur lnqs sdeus ace; raH 'urles re^lrs uo lulileur rer{ Jo sraldorp
zlreJ e slpds eq5 'pnolr Eur8ueqrano up ur erar{/y\auos ruor; rer{
uo slleJ Surssor3 eql Jo rlropeqs raprds eql se saJur.,rrr osdy aqa
(,,'arns roJ s,leeqr - CIH qrnur ll\ou>I l,uop notr,,)
,,'&\oDI
I IIa" s,raeqt'ryaeru eqt roJ Euqool aueo lad sr11,,
ofsrf '1 -l]VHltrd 0zz
ttlrq rwd saqsols sre{usq aql Jo euo Pue 'olEr{3 JaAo seqsE^a ralE^tees
(aqa'ueg rl1r1!\ a.(a ol a.(a
Jo lletus aql'raqio r{f,ea te,(lprram epurs
'dlldnrqe dols pue urroSreld aqt otuo dn qseg laq)eg pue DV
illeIJo ]no lsnI auoeruos a>p1 3uo1oo1 q8urqtaruos ro
qcaads e a,tr8 pue ararlr dn 13ff os e,req eq IIIAA iun{s srr1t a8ueqc tsel
eq plp ueqlA '(urr8'Sururqs ,(ette satuoc '1rrt1s dsearS srq sazaanbs
(aJaq.^{auos
pueq s,oleq3 'uretunoJ eql Jo eprs auo ol Jo olur ulrop
sao8 pue uuo;reld aqt Jo eprs reqto eqt uo tsed qlels (uoqruy
'ileeq srq ro; qer8 urrq se{eur xagar
e dlrualor,r os slrets pue - slrnr apuolq s,uortotr\l (uoqluy 1o ruea13
aql 3o tqSrs seqrlEJ oleqS 'sra{ueq oN 'Pee.&l jo JItl,!1. ou 'lret{rec
pus rlreJ go u8rs oN 'urroJteld aqt uo azne8 3o lsau 8rq e Suqeru
sr ueg 'teas prenBaJII r{3F{ req urorJ Surqclent sr salo8rg aure{eg
'speeq Jrer1l JaAo Jre aqt ur spJoJ Suulqrt 3ur,re.rt tuaqt punoJe
Surlorrc a"re 'paroq 3ur1oo1 ,,'stuer8rur,, aql 'llqs Surpuets rueqt peq
aq'sleturue or 3ur>11er ruaqt p€q aq'go saqtolf, rroqt e{Bt tuaql peq
aq's>laarrt roJ uraqt peq seq tupJC 's8urqr pue slra pue sazne8 atrtlan
ur peqlems 'Surrnrurnru 'luatua8uerre patecrlduoJ € ur raqlo r{Jee
punore pue lno pue ur Surlprn 'eluep sartnurlqse^lsleJser aql
'spuerl .{ur ol s8urlc reql
lq8rl ssalacrnos 'pasrnrq srql 'lq8r1 etrro^e:J s,oler{D sl slql 'lseJrelo
sr TSnp aqa'ra.tenb pue elTurrm ot stuees euots aqt teql os 'papuelur
se tr ralo 8ur1pr sr Ja1e1r\ eql pue palletsur sr 'alqreu atrq^r Jo
unq E sr r{c1{.tt 'aseq eqt lnq'aleldruoJ l,usr urelunoJ eqJ, 'pe8epueq
dp,reaq 'aplrq e e{ll '{ueurl pue azne8 arrq^r ur lno pelrap
^\ou
sr srql pue 're]en\ aql ssorJe uro;re1d pasrer e qlrl\ urclunoJ E s,eJeql
'11eq .(lqurasse eqt eroJeg '11eq dlqruasse eqt ot (e,trasner aql urorJ
Surpualxa qred aqt ssorf,e pau8rle (lleuo8erp rroJ stl rllrnt asdqle
ue ezeld aqt epetu aq os 'prdrus sr ,fttauurds s{urqt oleqC 'alaldruoc
Suraq ol asolc ,(lSursudrns (pearle sr ezeld aqt araqm 'z(e.trasnec
eqt re paraqte8 aleq ,,sluer3ru,, eqt pue splnrpotne s,truerC Jo IIV
'uorrJnrlsuor;o aseqd rsrU eqr;o uoualduroJ aqt saterqelec (upoa
E::::=
s1e( 3o seur8e,t aql 'eJoJ
Eururnq E sr plro^\ aqt Jo elpppu eqt ur ereqt tnq 'tueuoddo ,(u;o
LZZ IS] d
 pue dreqs os uaaq peq aJuelsrp e uorJ r{r}rl,la ,acuer8er; repl .sdots
eqs llun raqtaSol eceld ur ropue&\
nl^ a A .punor p.r, p.rno, ,gr..r,
e ur Suuapuent'1tz) ol asou ,.raqla8ol 8,rr,rrnt are aaa os ,req
,ltolloJ
J 'elrrrr s ur {1e.ry\ ol sur8aq oqs
.Iel req ol eur Burpeal asou (ru
taq lsed {lem I
.llorus rer.l
para{uelq ,rrrq Eloli peaq (ru
Jo selelvr ur
Sugeqc 'req lnq Eurqlou Jo erelre ruu I .redolrea,{
,{* 1rr1 1
'etu ol suJnt ueql ^roN
.Eurzeaqa,r ,Burtrued ,suroq Bururqs ,aurrn;o
Jo auo
stal 's[el Euua>1org ,sada (rea.,rr ,speaq Bulqqoq pus $[ueg
Jo uoqqrr e
auroJeq oler{ s^ oJ erLL 'qJrr{nt rvrou{ r,uop .^ oJ e qceordde ...
J 1
seledrssrp arrrr) srr rerue or a'er aqr pue,rr eprsur ::il:'lJJ
's8urrvr snoueqderp ur rno pa^{olllq seq
rrg pai.rrod_r.ro ^,,* rr* rqa
go Burze',suoroarrp errsoddo Eurce;,rilTniTj 3*;ffi f#;:
arP tuaql Jo o.4at aqa 'dloqcuelaur Sururea.( arues aql seuroJ
lr
r{tlm pue'uorssardxa srq uo Euqq eJeJ u^ro (ru .{ueg pue
1aa; ueJ I
,s8a1aro3
Tr€q req ssorr? Eurprrs peeq srq srr.i oruo rlrlq ,do1p'rqlrrrul
tuaruoru V 'etourer pue pes are seda Jraql .IJeq Jeq uo Burlsar pear{
snoluJoua srg 'moc e sJauenbpuq aql otruo
Jo dn Jlesurq seleeq
(pa8ur8 .urelunou aql e^oge
d4,
11nq V sgmtsrp rapunrl1 ...
"qt
q8urulq8rl leqt sr,uozuog eqt uo r{s€ts teqJ -_
eJoru aruos ocnpord ot peu8lsep Ju*{Jeru e sr xeuuv ,rrdPl;:
'plrolr{ eqtr sernrsqoleqt tqslpq er{t urog Jo saAIOsJno Eurunr ar,a,r.
'oleqD 'a.req tno plJo.u aql tuorJ
Jo sellesrno Burllnc trou eJ,eA\,,
.erer{ tuog
rnlq elq€^losarrr ue olur plrol!\ aqt lsar
Jo
eql se{etu sndruec aqt llr due arntcrd t,uer aH .papods
3o ,r,q ,.rrro,
rou "' Eurqilro,tE qsqoJ qsre3 gure8e a{rl trr sr teqrtyelqelrele
lou sr
aprstno plro.u eql
;o a8erur eqt tnq __ tno ta8 ,(eane unr ur se _ lq8rg
;o EurlaaS sseplteerq pue InJre/r\od e urq sanr8 ru;opeld ,ql prr^ol
Euqool '3y qoeordde or gyasruF{ Bulrq t,uer aq /v\oqeuos
_ '.reedde 01 tuer3 ro; Buqrem sr auor(raag
'pepeeq ss^r uortotr\l (uoqtuy areq.&l ot ssal ro eroru ,*ro;rr1d
eql Puqaq lurod auos 01 punore (laarsodrnd Surpeeq ,qa1 aql uo
ofsD '1 tlvHlth zaz
'dlecrueqceu se lrq,ftana spront pue sarrusa8 aql steadar p&\orJ eq1
'(eane urnt ot slue^,t oleq3 'Euruaprs s,tl 'aJuesqe rltroqor qlIit{ --
Euruolur'8uunlsa8'Sumroq -- slueureloru srq seJuauuoJ luer3
'uouotr l
,(uoqruy Jleslr slleJ t€ilt eJer{t dn Euraq uerunl{ul teqt sI Je^eleqm
f,g prreudordde 'dar8 or uaar8 ruoq pe8ueqo '1tea s,luer0 'tueets
dar8 ;o lre^ e e{rl '/ltopeqs Eurlqruan pue alrqel e
(q parncsqo are
sernteeJ u^.1,o s,uortotr\l (uoqtuy 'rurq purqag 're aql ur sryerts el€al
,(aql 1ce1q os .uou erp r{Jrr{,tr 'sassel8uns sH dq uelee ueeq sBI{ Inos
srH 'tJour sr ar€J srH 'ra{l€&rdaals e sI u€Iu slt{I 'rult{ 1e Eurueaq
pue Eeq dauour e EuusSpd dllensec 'leas s,ra8uassed srq ur paderp
',t.eu1 o1eq3 tuer3 eqt tou s a8els uo sauro) oq^r ruerC eql
'sseluorssardxe aJeJ anrssardxa srr{ apeur
tl esuaurur os ssaupes e qtrm w peze7 rer{teJ srq Eurqr pace;-dar8
eqr qtr^\ sorroruaru sn{ Jo ueru p1o 1ur,ro[ eqt lJeuuoJ t,uplnoD punu
srg 'uonruSocel (ue Jo eJuesqe aqt tnq 'dpoq peep e 3o acuasard
eqt tou se,tt 'r(oq p1o-read-uar e se 'uaqt ruq pe{Jor{s rerl,!\ 'l€JeunJ
eqt eroJeq asdroc s,reqt€Jpu€r8 srq Suraas sJequeuer oler{D
'relel lueluolu E
sreadde tuerD 'punor8 aqt uo 11e re rq8rart ou Euulnd pue rre aql (q
patroddns era^{ eq q8noqr se 's(ea,t1e se ssauqlootus sseltJose alrres
er{t qturr s{p^\ eH 'lees s,luer3
Surpeqs (doueo eqt qreeuaq {JEq
uo sreadde uoEotrAI (uotltuy
11alt Eurpuuls '1srg urropeld oqt
'.uou q8noue Jealc eJe saDIS
:
'esned pue'urnl pue'esned pue
'urnt ar11 '&\ol[oJ 1 pue'ure8e urn] ot sulEaq aqs ueql 'sn punor€ IroJ
e ur sdorp repunr.{J 'dae1s pSrarnod e a>p1 'tu1eo lelueurnuoru aJua
-uedxa 1 'raqlaEor 'sra8uertrs a>p1 'suortcarrp alrsoddo ur er€ts eA{ pue
'sa1cr1sa1 ,(ru ur tq8gl '4ceq raq Euole epus peaq (u 'punor8 eqt qJnol
taaJaroJ (ru 1aa3 1 'pauaddeq 1sn[ 1er1lt Eur,ttoul ]ou 'rltou pu€ "'
"' sesned aqs 'an8rle; Jeor.{s qlr/n 3urrftc eryt
tsorule IaeJ IsauB dueru os ereld ur paurn] al,e1v\ uar.1,!\ 'Eurtreur otur
atu 3ul1n1 'poolq dur ur torr eqt tno Eurqlootus 'raq ot asolo ellqns
pue p[ru sr'(11qured a13ur1 sasnurs du e>1eru ol q8noua'8uo1o,tord
,ZZ IS]d
 .ezeB srq
3ura,ro11o3 ,1uerg lsed Bur>1oo1
'ssa1d1er{ 'pno1e Surqqos ,sreel otur Surtsrnq ,rurq saqlnoj aq luetuoru
aql garr8 3o urseds e ,(qpez(pted sr opq3 pue dlrrepq qtr^f pa{Jer^\
'druy1 s1 luer3 'dn rurq dord ol 3ur(.rr ,LupI
Jo ploq se{gl oleq3
'3ur1urqt lnopl4{ 'oleqD tsure8e sdents tuerp -- retlq^r pue relrq^l
pue renlq pue ranlq pue relrq^ pueranlq ,all.{zut os pue enlq oS
'e]FI.'!r (ra,r'an1q rft ar1
'sPnolJ alrq^\
'(>1s anlq -- sees olpr{D ,ra8ug srq BurmolloC .[rls ,q, o, k1r*ornlder
siurod 'rurq Suraes ,pue surnt lueJC ,turq purqaq dn sarrinq oleqD
sV 'uer eq se preq se s8unl srq Bur,(1dura pue Bur11g ,d1ua1urrp
Suraeaa,r sr tuerC ,qled aqt
3o dol aqt seqJeercq ,*u aql (g
'uo(uec aql a8pu aql o1 dn peel leqt sdenqled
3o lr,p d"rt, ,ql 1o
euo squtrlr pue xeuuv aql sa^€el aq se Buqle^\ elqnort Bur,req s,aq
alraU os s,tl 'e8ueqr trualor^ ,3u,ec paddols dlaralduror
;o ralq8nel
seq oq^r auoauros yo ralq3ne1 eqt s,ll .dzerc auo8 s,eq e{rl s,ll .Bulua
-lq8rrS s,ll asueJur os ralq8nel qlr.ra Eur3noqs sr luer3 .pulqeq
'ant s,o1eq3 uo Surloe .(lSururaas ,sraqto aqt pue uortor .(uoqluy ^\o[[oJ
l
apqm 'arueu srtl 3ur11ec ,turq puqaq lq8u (peau sr oler{D
'dlsnocner
Surq8nel 'eze1d a'41 ssorre serrrnr.{ pue urroJteld aql jo ,.ror3
.$leaJg p^ oJJ eqt
eqt relo (lqloours Jlasurni sJa^\ol luer3
Jo ef,uerl
aqa '(pr,,rr Surq8nel ,arntsa8 Surdaa,u,s euo ur lrr3 ,,q otBursrr
ellq/v\ sessBlSuns pue
Ire^ slq pue pueq s,.(uoqluy Jo s1!\oI{t luerC
,(luappng 'ur-royleld eql stunoru oleqC se lsnf ,rp1rro,1, s,iu€rC
uo pueq pr8rr e s(e1 pue pr€^LroJ (lqloours sdels uorlol4l duoqluy
'atuoseloq^\ erotu Surqleruos pue sseuregrq uea./tueq
ratqfinel tgr{l
ur Suruaddeq sr a133mls ,,fta88e,rt
Jo pun e Jo tros ysrllnr e sr areql
'oo1 'relq8nel teqt ur '1nq ,uraql ur ,(uo.rr elqu.rat e sr araqa .,(poq
eql ruorJ auroc ,ralt{3nel Jo srrnlg .srue{ua6ou6qr-[B1orq,
!u11eqs
Suro8 lyls sr qrrr{^r,pzrrorc aqr q8norqt Bur,toqs,uro;te1d erlt pre^rol
slorl oler{D 'peaq palre^ ,Sur8ueq eql ruorJ stsrnq al{Jer
V
'dlanpouqsur ,unq pre.rtot senoru oleqC q8urqqos eq sJ .salq
-uert_lla^ srpl 'Suqeqs sr .Burua>pep
tuer3 Ira^ srq,ace1d ur,(1lq8r1s
$onrd uorlory .{uoqtuy .srelant ,s1urs
aq ,(11enperg .lle s1{ repun
Surqtou q Kette Sunluuqs ere^A aq .an8e,r
Jr se s,tl p,r, prlrrr.lglrq
Sururoceq e.re sarnrsa8 s,tuerC .Buornt Buro8 dpearl, ,r B,rir1lr**
*q
olsD I t:VHf ild yzz
rapun peppeq 'useJo eqr '.apls reqto aqt aes 1 'raqto eql Jo lno
"' pue Surqtlr^\ ereqt aldoad
eqt IIe 'uoduec eqt uI xauuv eql aas I 't{Jlli.tt eJns lou ru,1 'a(a auo
'1eqt op ueJ
Jo lno I ^roq erns 1ou ru,I 'suollJerlP iuaJaJIP ur Suuearl
,(ur uren 1 'oot 'ropo Ieurlue 3uorls e pue sser8 qssq Ilatus '4oor ereq
relo Surddrq^\ purlr\ reag uec I 'leturou setuoJeq acue[s oql
'sn roJ
JIastI Jo aJeD elqlssod 1sea1 eW Pulqeq saleal
(quee eql
1I lnq lJel seq lI 'elqISI^ lsolule s,1t'1r aes l,ueJ I ueq^t ueAE
'.(larnua lou tnq'ere13 aqt olul saPeJ tsanC lercedg aqa 'ssautldtua
sselpunog e sr reloJsrp I teq^\ ur 3urt1r
(po aql sI tI tnq '11otus
^aou
,t.na s11'a8uetlc 11eus (ra,t '{ra,t e IeeJ I etu uI 'lletus ,ftan 'd.ran
'eol euo qlrm taueld eql seqf,not pue iooJ
rq8rr slr spuetxe dplurep arn8g aql '(nnq ts€al aqt tnoqll1\ '^{ou
tuerg pue oleqD uor; (ente laeJ ual lou sI lsano pnad5 aq1
'ueurnq 8urq1(ue tlrrrut ereduoc ol alqrssodurl lnq Pazls-ueunq
'arn8g aures eqt sI eqt Jo leur8rro aqt a{II tI
^\opeqs ^\oqe{xos
uo pesodunradns pue ',(poq Surrddtr '1ua1ts 'altssetu stqt Sur,raalsue
aruerper enlq pue spnolJ Jo lla,t,r e oJuI dn Sutuool 'uaql punore
IIe pue eloqe s,tl 'laa3 pe8epueq slr 3ur33erp '(lprn8uel s>ile,lr lI
'losered aI{t Jo eqt pue [e^ eqt q8norql urea13
^\opeqs
aprus Suua,rs^run sll uI qteai aql pue sa,(a 3ur>1ur1gun stl Jo ratsnl
aql (ue{orq are^\ {cau aqi JI se 'sraplnoqs str uo dlualuuP sllol
peaq s,arn8g aqa 'dqeq palppe^\s e Surdrrec 'losered {relq e qt€eueq
pepeqs 'arn8g palla^ y ',firre1c leuradns qrr,'!\ rI saas o1eq3 'Euru
-urrq sa(a 'Surtueerc5 '/t\ou rasolr I{cnur sI tsan3 lercad5 aqa
's8un1 rraql
So dol
aq1 te Sulurearos 'ece1d uI uezoq 's8un1 rtarlt ;o dot eqt le Sultueercs
'Surtuealcs sr luerC lnq euodre,tg 'Lueqt pJe^aot (r1s aqt u,r.top
Surratunes sur8aq pue spnolr asoqt Jo euo pulrlaq ruoq (11ensec
sdals isen3 lercedg eqt ueq^\ stu€errs tuerD lnq u(poq[ra,tg
'elull Pue
uorJolu pue aceds pue roloJ pue lq8rt uI uolulurop st'ruaql suletuol)
tBiI ({s eqt Jo enlq Suruedaap dlatrugur eql pue 'saJuauttuord alr{a
Surpleos pue sa8pu aldrnd qtpt'spnolc eqt Jo eulltno Uos aqt Jo sseu
-dreqs aq; 'Sururear( ary1 'aroru ta( pue arotu pue alolrr 'atttlir,t pur:
anlq'arou la.( pue'arour pue eror{ 'eroIu Pue eroru'allql\ Pue enlq
arour pue arotrN 'spnolr aqt Jo atlq^{ aqt pue (>1s eqt Jo enlq eql
9ZZ IS]d
aq1 le {snP se rlletu8lue se Pue uoou qBIq se lqfiuq se sr .(ep aql
'ure8e
ler.uJou l,ueJe s8urqa 'uoduel er{t otur u,ttop {JEq oB I
'rulqJo u8rs
og "'
(rurq or
uaddeq Surtllaruos pl(J (tuerC sr ererlt\ .s8urgl IIe ur ralaroJ
{rnJ ot petue^\ 1 ern8g aqt te SuDIool 'rapzrtod uorges ur peranor
ere^\ taal pe3epueq eqJ 'sueursll?t rq8uq qy,n palSueds pue
parured qtolJ ur padder,vr '3uo1 senr arnEg eq1 '.r.rous lourru Surrel
-tecs 'losered >1ce1q s,arn8g sn{l punore 11e 'Surraqle8 pue Surpeards
'Sutdoorrts pue Surqcunq sprlq 's1e]ed re^\o6 pue suossolq Surpr,ut
ut 'tsed reqtoue rltl,r\ arrunJ ror{loue urog ruJoJ alqerld ,lueqdurnul
y 'arn8g ur ssaluoiloq're,tFs ueunq qlr^\ (relB.r\ r{lr/!\ pera^of, ,eleJ
-rlep puc talor,r 'sargrarng 'pauaddeq l1 ,.pauaddeq teqr\\ ituerC
s,arard!\ ipauaddeq 11 lpauaddeq lJ (luer3 s,ararl,!\ .leorqt u^\o
(u ur esrou I€rurue '3ur1ea1q E -- rl)aarJs atu 3ur>1eur ,aurds ,(u u.uop
s1r1ds ured dreqs e pue peaq (u urnt .sarro^ Surqqos ur palmor{
J JIer{
sprol\ 'serrc pue sueoru {q ,trou palred sr sJee .(ur ur Sur8ulr eqJ
's8e1 t11r,ro )iJots peop ,ll.eu
pu€rq 'cuseld ur padde.r,vr pue paploJ .{lleeu arl erom aq saqtolr ar{I
'pasde11o3 'treul
'uortotrry .(uoqluy -- tl uo
ler.urou dru sncclS ol 3ur(rl
'r1 arueu ol alq€ Suraq lnoqtrzut lr EurzruSocar '3urqtolJ pue sqrurl
Jo
deaq leql 1e Euuerg '{f,or B r{tr^r lr Eurqseq ueaq p,J se sleal r{rton
Jl
dru 'Surqqorqt sr peaqeroS {tu 'Sururnq are selrsnr.u (tr11 .s,uosuqre6
peq I JI s€ {reu (u uo ory pue ot sla^r^\s peaq {y4 .reqteel plo
s€ elqe>lJerJ pue Jrls se sr eJ€J (ur ,paqcrocs 1aa3 seda .{ru
,8uu s.rea
dru 'tr qtr,r,r SurEurr IIIIs pue ra^o IIe pereruueq uaaq p,I se ,ured
3r
snoruroue dran'ured lear8 ur ue 1 '1oo1 ot p€aq (u.ramo1 I tuaruoru
aq1 '3urqlo1c 's8a1 'neq 'srule yo alqunl e le u^\op {ool I
')iseru r{leap s,aIEIB ruellll olur Sururnl ere speor1 tirurirsrassehJ
A
aqr IIe 'speaqaro; rreqt Jo tno Surunld sguroJsllo) er5 r{tr^r 3ur.(sa
-qdord are sarueqdats pue sa^ats eqr IIe - tr aes uec I tnq tr .&lou>l
t,uop I -- ,ltou>l I .r\or{ ,ttou>l t,uop I 'sepoJ Surrelncleo pue pa)iromteu
,(pearle ere sra^rogpf.n pue sraplnoq aql IIe pue auorpu(s Sururaal
aql roJ sleuueqJ eruolaq o1 palJaAuoJ eJe srolerlsrurtupe JrlueJJ
aqt IIe 'araq,r,t(ra,ra spuru 'spurtu 'spuru Jo IInJ sr Surqldre,rg 'u1e.(
Jo preq e 'sede1eurr11 aqt 'sraplnoq qllm peppnts adols uaar8 daats e
- Peal{e tq8rerls aes osle 1 'd4s o8rpur sselluorlteJ eql puc 'azeq alrq.,n
ofsD I tlvHl[d 9zz
'etu punoJe Surueddeq s,ler{^\ tuorJ elu Surprnrp pue lno eur Suq8urs
sr Surqtauos 'reeJ (ru uror3 lno strluJ uotssarddo pue 'aur suatq8uS
eapr eql 'ur,rou tsn[ elrle rue 1 fq.tr moq I e^erTeq ot Suruaddeq pue
dn pauuns pauaddeq 1snI terll Surql(raaa Eurssautrm a1y1 sr 'Surrad
-srq^\ pue Suosprrq er{t 'rnrurnlu aql Suueaq's8urppnq parn3gsuert
(ur pue raq Suraag 'eepr ue aruoJaq s,aqs 'pnbuert sr areJ raq '3ur
-pullq sr ssarp etrq^\ raq'uretunoS aqt dq grls ,(larnlosqe Surllrs sr 3y
')rsnru 'aturl 'Jalel\ realo 'spnolc 'apeqs pue rq311 Jo epeur'ue-ua,tear1
e{rl slool xeuuv aqa 'ure8e pa{cot{s pue'palcoqs eq pue {ooT
'elqereequn des daql teq^\ e{€ur
teqt suorsserdxa uo e{et IIr^\ sa)EJ rreqt pue '(raqdord ol uels IIIart
slJetuoJ 1r aldoad aql Jo euros 'eJoqs puepl€ur eqt dn pue eas otr tno
3uq1or eroJeq puelsr e$ la{uelq ol tno Surpeerds 'sa8pu aql Surltog
-ralo pue uo.(uec aqt Jo tno dn 3ur11aa,r sI rele^\ tuolueqd alqISIAuI
lnq IIe ue - aurl a8pu aql le dn >ioo1 'stsod leruourerac tu€Ip€r olul
peuJnt aneq adecspuel or{1 3o sured eql 'etues eqt ere Jamod pue
acead aur punore IIV 'epeqs aql pue tq8rl aqt Burluup pue Sunllearq
se ,(sea se sr Sur,tour 'dn eur (onq rre pue tq8rl eqa 'tq8rem u.tto
dur ua.ta lou '1q3rarur aqt Jo euou qlrnr lnq'roog ueaco aql uo Jalrp
eas daap e a1q Sur,tour ur,1 lspo8 a{rl atu tsed utzurs aldoed palJIHV
'sexoqaJrol uerunq Jo suorllrq ur SurlquarJ rntuJnlu Surununq
e qtr^\ rapanod o; Surnlossrp tq8rl urr.rorq ra^aroJ aqt ot aru erotser
lq8rl;o spueq aql 'dezr,re sdeaans tr uer.{Aysasser€r a{ll seulltno 'rolof,
e{rl purl!\ 'pura,t a>p1 tq8rl 'sroloo (reurud lq8rrq pu€ seulltno ueel)
uozrror{ eqt urorJ ees pue 'lq8r1 lenxas Jo spu€q q8no;ql ssorr I
.sJe^rou aql
uee^rleq Pue sa^eel aqt ur IJrq^\ se,(a qtrnt sradsrqrur ssaleJ€c 'selou
Ierrsnu a>p1 sadols eqt uo sanlestueqt Sut8uer.re sqolq untorq a8nq
'puacsep pue aurl e8pu aql uo pou ol€Jng 'qsrue^ pu€ sn tu qs€U
sato(oc pue sa{eus pue steJ Jo seJ€J 'sqmqs pu€ saerl aqt Suorue
slods dpeqs eql uI 'splq Sur8urs r{tr^\ pall5 sl uo(uec aql "'
''(1ate1 ut,, dltroexa
,,lorluol
uaaq l,ualer{ I iool 'rl a^eq I op rO (etu lou (q16 'auorpuds aql lo8
11e ea,(aql is8urql luaragrp Surop are sareJ rlaqt pue selpoq rleql
'rre aqt ur spueq'slla eqt pulqaq Sururqs sada ,ftear laqtr 'sace; rratlr
relo u1!\op pa11nd slra^ allr1,vr qtyut 'Surdcaqdord are salrl,fisoreteqr
aqt atu punor€ IIV 'sseleuru 'prn8uel sr .(ep eqJ 'etuu eures
LZZ IS] d
 '$lJ€Jreq eql olur
'.{ezne paraels Euraq ur,J pue '>Peq dur Jo ratual aql ol passerd pueq
e IaeJ I 'ter{t Jo erns (11ear tou {u,J q8noqlp an8eld aql [q pelre5eun
,(ltuaredde 'AAou eru ol JeAo Euruoc are ,,sluer8rtu,, eql Jo eruos
,,'Peqsrug rs^eu sr euoq
aqt '(es .(aql,, - /uou eur ol {Jeq saruoJ eJuo eru plot aq Euuparuos
pue'ace; s,pr^eq puelry (ur salquaser aJEJ runuueld eql .tuatuotu
e rog 'ataldutoc atrnb 1ou JI '1ear pue plos {ror 'dep se ureld
Surpuels 'ure8e uorsrn eqt aas 1 'xauuy eqt ot sa(a (ur Eursreg
'an8eld eqt to8 aA,I asneJeq en8eld aql ra8 l,upp I 'aes J
's11eqa(a urnurteld
{uelq o^1,1 str r{1r.r\ aur Surxg 'lq8r1 patnu aql
w Eurlzzep 'sa8raue runuueld e>lrl s{oo{ rer{1r Jo apeu peaq e ,ree
ot rse luo{ Euruuug 'sa8lnq pue selqruruc taoJ dur le (e1c ftp eqa
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'rogruaruar o1 Eurqlauos tou sI ruossolq eql yo acuer8eg eqJ
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V
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eq1 Jo edeqs
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sl1 's.rntor8 xeuuv aq1 'rate.u€as EurtltorJ Jo paq e ruoJd 'puedxe
or surSeq pue 'erlacdur IeuoJneu culcelaozard suro; 'seneril eql
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aqt Jo Jouatur eql olu seqtaas pue'uo1e,ry satePunul Jale.trees
'pods Eurqr(re^e qrtem I 'puepretu eql Jo
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sture 'preoq srq Surtsnfpe (1areq 'd11n;rarse141 'tsarJ aql le pasrod
sr'saqtolo arrqm Eurddeg ur Ip're;rns euo'aAeA arlr (q peJJElltC
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rr€ ar{l ur teeJ peJpunq e dn srear ueeco aqt 'aroqs eurlet€C eql ruor;
spred tta; e ueqt eJoru lou '^aoN 'aJar{t uI euoeluos s,aJar{I 'Jal{lo
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eql un{;r,&\ >lJo^\tau IeJneu elrsseru aqa .s8urplrnq eqt Jo seDIeqJ
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sela8uy so.I ssoJJe 'aroqs puelureru A au aql uorJ uala ,,(ep realc
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aqt ot Suqnquluoc are^\ leqt ;r se Sur8urs erc sPrIfl "' 966r "'
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t€ou sJnoJ dq ornl PuE srePrc 'asuelul sr JIe eql Jo sseuqseg eql
'rele sE 'ryorrt ot anurluoJ [aql lnq 'ooJ A.tou arg Jo san8uotr Eurcuep
.rreql eleq 11e ,,sluer8nu,, at{I 'eroqs puelulelu eqt pue uole^V
roJ aurTaeq e eperu 'puelsr eql ssorre an8eld eql peards aneq (eql
iaur dlaq ot alqe 1,uere saltldlsorateqr aql 'peqslug tou sI xauuv
aq1 'auop eq ot arotu sr eJeq1 'uoltJnnsuoc aqt asrnradns ot e eI{ J
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l€ql te s{ro^r ilrts u8rsap eqt JI 'tua[s lyls sdeqrad rnq 'slceleleJ
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-JIer{ pnolr e se (tsru pu€ Isquetsqnsul -- l[nq I ter{l -- xeuuv
aqt ees uec 1 '(ep au5 € sI tI eJuIS 'legl tsed lng '(eg sala8uy soT uI
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'sarqes Jreqt qlr/v\ rre aqt a{eJ pu? dstrnc
sasor Euryqunl ,sapered
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stl JoloJJale*r
eqr Suop sasrrr peulets atll 'ueqt Euole Eungem (4s eqr qllarr
rq8req
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eurl
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pl[a8 'auo1 zlte{se uB ur suor]ernfuoc ,r"lppl, ,Buueaaas
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 ry pre*nts tlutizarre euants that tgad a new, pararler rire
lor a man named Ghalo re a uild yal liuing in tte f,imalayas.
G[rdo rho mm b recruitd by_a lilar day puphet mmcd lilut to dsdgtr d build a
qlmrygm Gilelha lsland, rhora hffetsbulll ba tsdM to recaiuE a cileedalulsita,
the "lncicnl tuton." Ghab lhc rcftocb on his humu pd wldb uu annual ni
bom unirously l?gos ard nearu. 'ar strggle b tud and cmstrcil tlo canpur 1r
pg.pt"g$$ by thG-psrcnoacdro chanlas "ta fr-tt.-Iaf bnadtng cycta, .d rhs ;atrng
bdtlcr lhet Ghah rill-[ac_to pardebe h. rour limlrc gradfu-8oiufihbg thj idti
outlast Ghalo's idiridual HG" and gira it Bsth siII aleo inmlse [elhric lorcs,
dmons recnritd br Grant to osarcanrc sinists magic, rhich cross,lft* the
tflo halses oI tha storf,

lffingtr
"tr stsargs nsvsl ln rhich Gi8Go mlns guo serims pEhmphy, sr,
aqd-lg_r lffirg_inlo sondhlry a! mqe unrgrl arf reatlhoory,
antiirncing. rEna u &a-irrii
happ illr'laramhr& dEGtdGd b rrr&G ft! x.-tohn ranifu and hed tartD
,gq ap hls.odilG. tilBEB is a mplu, corrpelhg uo*.,

S6:! d afifratanr 5rd ad toagu! trm ahost utur niElg brtil.-

,\r*'i-\ I {llf, IIEIIrIE

-Tf,OHTS LIG$TTT
ns Gisco is simfry operating in a sfhcrG thet mosl *cird fiction
altain only terGly, and is iloing it dlor{ssly."

ISBN 179-1,-55510r+-30- g

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