HATE is
ON THE
RISE: LOVERS
Edith Stein was born into an Orthodox Jewish German family on Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of
Atonement, in 1891. An atheist, she converted to Catholicism in 1922 and later became a Carmelite nun.
In 1942, Adolf Hitler's regime ordered all the converts in the Netherlands shipped to Auschwitz.
Stein was offered a chance to escape deportation, the pope said, but turned it down.
After all the bright lights I was at a
reception desk and behind the desk
was a very average looking woman
staring at me. I felt totally calm and
tranquil. I really had nothing to say
to her but she kept looking at me
waiting for me to say something. My
calm comfortableness persisted so I
said nothing.
"Why are you here?" the woman
asked me.
"Cause I wanna talk to whoever is
in charge."
"Who do you represent?" the
woman asked.
"Hatred," I said.
"Hatred?"
"Yeah," I said, "in its fullest form."
I couldn't believe how peaceful I
felt and here I was saying I repre-
sented hatred. I couldn't believe it.
Normally people think of hatred as
hostile but I was not hostile.
"OK," the lady said.
"OK," I said.
I stood there in a stupor waiting to
talk to whoever was in charge. Now
we were back to me not saying any-
thing and her staring at me.
"Well?" the lady behind the desk said.
"Well what? Where is he?"
"Where is who?" she asked.
"I don't know-whoever's in charge."
The woman behind the desk
seemed confused. Then I began to
feel confused. I didn't know why I
needed to talk to whoever was in
charge. Now an eager feeling came
over me. It seemed important that I
talk to whoever was in charge so I
demanded to.
"I'm sorry," the woman said, "but if
-The San Francisco Examiner, October 12, 1998
you wanna talk to who's in charge you're
gonna have to have a seat in our waiting room
and wait." I took a look over my shoulder and
saw how crowded the waiting room was.
"Is every single one of these people wait-
ing to talk to the one in charge?"
The lady behind the desk smiled. I took
that as a yes. I walked over to the waiting
room and searched for a seat. After I found
one I sat down and felt stupid 'cause when I
was sitting I couldn't help but overhear all
the waiting people talking over with each
other what they were gonna say once they
got their chance to talk to the one in charge.
The whole of every voice in that room
became a steady obnoxious buzz. Now I was
thinking about what I was gonna say. The
only thing I could think of was the sound of
all the other people waiting and talking. Now
I didn't need to see whoever was in charge.
There was nothing I needed to say. I closed
my eyes and dreamed of endless perfec-
tion, suffering and desolation.
By Mark Gonzales
For Baby Kujo
Every Tuesday the King asked of his
people to give homage to the poor.
"What a disgusting sight," the King
said of his subjects. "Have they any
will of their own?"
"We have paid our homage to the
poor, Your Majesty."
"Good. Now be gone," the King said.
"What's it like to be insane?" I asked
with humble and sincere curiosity.
My mother scolded me. "It's not polite
to ask such questions. Tell the man
you're sorry."
"I'm sorry, sir." The man's eyes moved
around as though he were following an
imaginary butterfly. I wondered if he
could hear me inside there. It seemed as
though he couldn't. The people on the
bus seemed to be indifferent to him. Me,
all I could do was watch him. That's
what everybody on the bus seemed to
be doing.
My mother slapped me in my face.
"Oh, mama, what was that for?" She
ignored me. I knew what it was for. It
was for staring. My cheek burned and
tears started to trickle out of my eyes.
Soon it was our stop. We moved through
the crowded bus towards the exit. When
we got off the bus I kept looking back. I
wanted an answer. The bus pulled away
from the curb and was gone.
My mother and I crossed the street
twice and waited for the connecting bus
that would take us to our destination.
CUSTUM 501's FOR PERALTA
WITH THE FLAMES ON
THE LEFT
LEG
GREEK
60DS
ARE
TAKE ING
UP
To
OF
MY
MUTCH
TIME
The Iron Butterfly
From the perspective of a butterfly, a fairly
tall man in his mid-twenties was walking
with a brown paper bag and was almost run
over by an old beat-up Chrysler. The car
came skidding to a halt. The tall man was
using a crosswalk but the man that was driv-
ing the big beat-up car yelled, "Get the fuck
out of the road you moron!" The tall man
with the brown paper bag passed up the
beat-up Chrysler. The man driving flicked his
cigarette at him. It didn't hit him, though. I
saw his face. The tall man's face, the one
with the brown paper sack, he looked so sad.
I tried to follow him to see if I could cheer
him up but before I could catch him he
entered an apartment building so I
looked through the windows of
the bottom floor. Then the sec-
ond floor. Finally when I got to
the fourth floor I saw him. He
had his hand around a half gal-
lon of milk. His other hand was
holding the refrigerator door. He
guzzled at least a quarter of the
milk. He then put the milk carton back in the
fridge and shut the door. Still he had sad look
on his face. He then miserably sat himself at the
kitchen table. With his right hand he scratched
his head and with his left he pulled a pistol from
the brown paper bag he had been carrying. He
smiled while examining the gun. He went into the
next room. I tried to position myself so I could
see into the next room but damn, my view was
blocked. I went to the other side of the building,
same floor. I looked in to see if I could see him.
This must have been a different apartment 'cause
I only saw an old lady. She just pulled a cake out
of her oven. She set it on top of the burners.
Now she was looking in an overhead cupboard.
She brought down from it a small box. At first I
wondered what was inside but then she pulled
out a toothpick. She stabbed it into the cake.
Suddenly an image of the tall sad man's face
popped into my mind. I went to the other side of
the building to see if he was back. When I first
looked in he was walking back to the next room
again. God, I must have just missed him. I looked
at the table and the revolver was gone. I stayed
there just looking in in case he came back again,
and sure enough he did. The pistol was in his
hand. He had it pointed at the floor. Now he
looked on a counter next to a basket of fruit.
With his right hand, the same hand that was
holding the gun, he pulled an apple from the fruit
basket. He wiped it once on the front of his shirt.
He took a quick bite and chewed it. He started to
have this strange look on his face. He then start-
ed to come towards the kitchen window. I was
afraid he would see me so I fluttered higher so he
wouldn't. Just beneath me he had his head over
the sink. He spit the chewed-up apple out of his
mouth and into the sink. He turned the water on
with his left hand. He rinsed out his mouth thor-
oughly. He made sure all of the apple went down
the drain. His right hand disappeared beneath the
sink and the apple was gone. There must have
been a trash basket down there. Next he rinsed
his hands thoroughly. He used his elbow to turn
off the water; why he did not use his hand I don't
know. He dried his hands on the sides of his
pants, and on the sides of his shirt too. Now he
was seated. At a table behind him was the count-
er with the fruit basket and the gun beside it. He
then immediately swung the chair and himself
around. Now facing the counter, his eyes fixed on
the revolver, he grabbed the gun with his right
hand and brought it right up to his face. He did
not aim it at himself, though. He was looking at
the side of it for a pretty long time. It seemed as
though he was reading something on the side. He
put the gun in his lap. He dropped his head
down. It looked as though he was gonna cry. He
switched hands. Now the gun was in his left
hand. He brought it up from his lap, placing it
beneath his throat. Suddenly he pulled the trigger.
Bang. But the image of him blowing his head off
was not there. Instead I saw the old lady. She was
stabbing the toothpick into the cake. But by the
sound of bang, I knew what had happened. The
tall man had shot himself.
I JUST GOT OFF
THE PHONE WITH
FIDEL CASTRO
YOUR KIDDING
ME YOU DON'T
KNOW HIM
YES
I
Do WEVE
PATCHES
BEEN
A LONG
FRIENDS
FOR
TIME
NOW
ME
AND
CASTRO
I'm sure most of you have a driver's
license. You consequently know that
when you want a car to go to the right
you turn the steering wheel to the
right and when you want it to go left
you turn the wheel to the left. When
you want to stop, you step on the
brake, and so on. This is all a simple
matter of control, and everybody con-
siders it perfectly natural. The steering
wheel and the brake are devices for
letting the automobile know what you
want it to do, just as the bit and reins
are means of letting a horse know
what you want it to do. And since you
impose your will on the car (or the
horse), you have the powerful feeling
that you are causing it to behave
exactly as you wish.
But one day when I was driving my
car to work, an unsettling thought
occurred to me. Why am I so sure that
it is I driving the car, rather than the
car driving me?-Masahiro Mori
...the wisdom required to find riches
in poverty, beauty in plainness, much
in little.-Masahiro Mori
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