This month we travel to Holland to meet a man whom few of you know, yet perhaps will have a profound an effect upon you. The tale he weaves as he talks about himself is elegant, thought-provoking and poignant.
It is the story of a man who needs no name, no labels - he is as forthright and candid as he appears here. This interview is the result of months of dialog, at times painful, at other times a joyous meeting of minds.

Some of you may recognize parts of yourself within his words. Others may scoff and ask why talk with someone who firmly states that he is "no Gorean" and "no Master." Good questions. The answer lies in the man himself and in ourselves. None of us carry a passport stating "Citizen of Gor;" none were raised believing themselves to be Gorean, at least not aware of the label. Instead, we came to an awareness as we read the work of another man and saw ourselves within the words. Is he Gorean? That is a question that can be answered only by another Gorean.

Perhaps the most wonderful gift that John Norman gave us was that he did not make it simple. Instead he demanded that we think, question, discuss and find ourselves just as any good teacher will require of a student. There was no roadmap with that man’s words either, no magical rule book. Often what a writer does not say will speak volumes and is as important as the work that he allows us to read. We are, as is Simon, embarked on a quest for knowledge and understanding of ourselves, of others, of the world around us. Goreans seem to thirst for deeper truths, regardless of how ugly or profoundly beautiful those truths may be to unveil.

Like John Norman, Simon will require you to think, to look for the man that he reveals so carefully within the words of favorite lyrics and in his story itself. No easy man, this one. At times, it was only the strength of the kajira heart and determination to please her Master and Master Pantheus that sustained. The story of the girl on the beach is fictional, as are her reactions and thoughts. Within the story, however, you will find the answers to many of the questions that she has been asking others in her quest to know them better and allow others to know them as she sees them.

Gor is said to not be easy, but then Goreans are exacting taskmasters and demanding in their standards for themselves and others. Like Gor, Simon is not easy; neither is he hard though for those who wish to delve.

Never was there ever a doubt that this is a most unique man by whatever he chooses to call himself. Settle back and listen to the tale woven within a tale of Simon.

Foreword by sierra`, property of Jon`

Interview with a Hunter

Part I - Arrival

Prelude

My name is Simon; no Gorean, I am Dutch; no Master, I am married; no slaves, I have children; no lifestyle, I live; no gamer, I escape; no chat, I write, no caste, I work; no Home-Stone, I am hunter; no nick - I just am.

I own nothing, but my clothes and an old chess-game, an oak board and a set of thirty-two hand-cut ivory chess-pieces in a wooden box. My father owned them before me, and his father before him, and so forth, for twenty-five generations; the same game, owned by men sharing the same name.

You might have read about such fellows, in certain books - they roam the countries, rove the seas, and enter freely in the most impenetrable and secluded of cities, but I doubt they were ever interviewed. What could such fellows know about ownership, or slavery, or online-communities? Their passion is the game, and the beauty. Men might think them mad. They would rather be remembered as the loser in one beautiful game, then as the winner in a thousand flawed masterpieces. Such fellows, perhaps, are different, living in a different world. So tell me - what could such a fellow know?

The Start

Remember the summer of 1978? Saturday Night Fever and Grease, Clapton's Slowhand and Rafferty's City to City, The Deer Hunter and Mash. Smell that summer, its color, and its sound.

"On a morning from a Bogart movie, in a country where they turn back time, you go strolling through the crowd like Peter Lorre, contemplating a crime. She comes out of the sun in a silk dress running like a watercolor in the rain. Don't bother asking for explanations, she'll just tell you that she came."
^{[Al Stewart - The Year of the Cat]}

Twenty-one years old, I am sitting in a bus and I carry my first two Moody Blues albums and a couple of new books, in my hands, as I have no bag to put them in. The records, both in a beautiful fold-out cover, are Seventh Sojourn and Every Good Boy Deserves Favour. There is a feeling of excitement, the bright colours of the record sleeves, one depicting a boy that has just found a jewel, and I have found mine, six month ago, and bought these records For My Lady and The Story in Your Eyes. I will marry her in the autumn. Love is in the air and I am going home to my Lady. I found some books.

"She doesn't give you time for questions, as she locks up your arm in hers and you follow 'till your sense of which direction completely disappears. By the blue tiled walls near the market stalls there's a hidden door she leads you to. These days, she says, I feel my life just like a river running through."
^{[Al Stewart - The Year of the Cat]}

The other album shows a barren, desolate landscape of rock and water and mist, and when I open the sleeve to see the drawings of the musicians, the bus stops and a young girl enters. Dark haired, small and slender, lightly tanned. As always, I sit in the back of the bus, the last row of five seats, in the middle seat and I watch her approach through the almost empty bus. To my surprise she walks right up to me and then, without any hesitation, she asks permission to sit beside me.

"Well, she looks at you so coolly, and her eyes shine like the moon in the sea, she comes in incense and patchouli, so you take her, to find what's waiting inside."
^{[Al Stewart - The Year of the Cat]}

I let her sit on my left side, the bus goes riding again and takes a turn, the girl sways towards me, while a warm summer wind enters the bus though the open roof window, she looks up for a moment and with a smile, asks my permission to speak to me. I am speechless. This beautiful girl, a complete stranger, someone whom I have never seen in my life, wants to know if I permit her to speak.

"Why?" I finally ask.

She looks up again, serious but with a laugh in her eyes.

"I would like to make you smile," she says.

I am pleased. I smile.

"Well, morning comes and you're still with her and the bus and the tourists are gone and you've thrown away the choice and lost your ticket so you have to stay on. But the drum-beat strains of the night remain in the rhythm of the new-born day. You know sometime you're bound to leave her, but for now you're going to stay."
^{[Al Stewart - The Year of the Cat]}

She left the bus after a couple of minutes and I cannot remember what we actually spoke about; we might have talked about the albums, the books, or whatever, but the image of her face, her hair in constant motion, her eyes quick and shining - that image is safely stored within me. That evening, I discovered Gor.

My Home Stone

"Gor", the Home Stone, symbol of sovereignty, center of the circle, defining the origin of identity and the sphere of its influence. Now that's a marvelous, interesting concept and I truly respect anyone who has the courage to embrace that idea, however, I think, it might be of female origin and only acquired by men after the transition to agriculture and farming. No Home Stone - I am Hunter.

"A bolt of lightning shattered on the road not fifty yards before me. For an instant it seemed to stand like a gigantic crooked spear poised in my path, luminous, uncanny, forbidding, then vanished. It had fallen in my path. The thought crossed my mind that it was a sign from the Priest-Kings that I should turn back."
^{[John Norman - Outlaw of Gor]}

Summer of 1975, somewhere in the mountains in the south of Spain, 18 years old, I am driving a small motorcycle over the top of a hill, when lightning strikes. I share the experience, the smell of ozone and the sound of sparks that rush through my hair and deaden when the rain strikes.

"In a moment I was drenched in the icy water. The wind tore at my tunic. I was blinded in the fury of the storm. I wiped the cold water from my eyes, and thrust my fingers in my hair to force it back. The blinding fury of the lightning like a whip of electricity struck again and again into the hills dazzling me for an instant of crashing agony, then vanishing again into the darkness."
^{[John Norman - Outlaw of Gor]}

Seven days before I have left Holland, together with a friend, whose bike broke down after two days, north of Paris, and he went ahead by train while I drove through France, slept under the stars, and met a group of friendly Angels on the way. I entered Spain alone, passed through terror shaken Pamplona and was caught by the storm. While crossing a small river, that had been another road a few hours before, my bike was drowned and I found shelter in a deserted ruin, seemingly used by shepherds and their flock, and spent the night there. Everything was wet, so I took off my clothes, prepared a small fire, and made myself a home. And while the storm raged around me, I thought about myself, who I was, and what on Earth had brought me there. A girl, perhaps, or the challenge to learn, to gain knowledge and experience. What must be learned to become a man?

"A man can walk proudly, down in the street. A man’s not ashamed of what he believes. He knows how to laugh, he knows when to cry, he knows it’s best to live, he’s afraid to die."
^{[The Four Tops - What is a Man]}

I stayed awake that night, sitting down by the fire and smoking, waiting and thinking, and listened to the voices in the wind and the music in the rain. Two thousand miles away from my relatives, trapped in a strange country, unable to speak the language, lost and alone, I realized, if I'd actually screw up, none would save my ass. That night, I found my independence.

"A man searches for the key to success. He’d rather be sure, than take a wild guess. He knows how to love, he knows how to hate, he knows when to move, he knows just when to wait."
^{[The Four Tops - What is a Man]}

As the sun rose the next morning, I knew I would never be alone again. I carry my home within me, it's where I lay my hat, its center is inside me, and the sphere of its influence coincides with the curve of the horizon. It is not a specific place, nor could it be connected with any object. Home is everywhere.

"A man can be angry, and still hold his tongue. A man don’t give up till the battle is won. He knows how to win, he’s not ashamed to lose, he knows it’s best to leave, and he doesn’t take long to choose."
^{[The Four Tops - What is a Man]}

For a female, I guess, home has much more to do with a place, a location, or an object that magically carries the essence of home-ness, or a group of trusted and well-known friends, that share a certain kind of perception and a mutual bond. Such is the place where I leave my loved ones, their home, but to me, it is just a cavern, a cage, to protect and shelter them.

"This is a man's world, this is a man's world, but it wouldn't be nothing, nothing without a woman or a girl. You see, man made the cars to take us over the road, man made the trains to carry heavy loads, man made electric light to take us out of the dark, man made the boat for the water, like Noah made the ark. Man thinks about a little baby girls and a baby boys, man makes then happy 'cause man makes them toys, and after man has made everything, everything he can. You know that man makes money to buy from other man. He's lost in the world of man, he's lost in bitterness."
^{[James Brown - It is a Man’s Man’s Man’s World]}

Next, let us of talk of ownership, and the rhythm of property.

The Sound of Belonging

Ownership is another concept that changed dramatically when hunters became farmers. The hunter only owns what he can defend, and owning more than he needs is just as stupid as owning things he can't control; life, and strength, and pray are not owned, but must be fought for, and defended against others; knowledge, from merging memory and curiosity, and integrity; from merging pride and individuality, can be controlled; strength and stamina can be build, and together with talent, they are his most important possessions - the hunter cares for what he owns, perhaps, you might say, he prefers quality over quantity.

Farming is based on owning the environment in a way the hunter can never understand, the idea of owning land or air, or livestock, for that matter, was developed after the agricultural revolution. The hunter does not store - he takes what he needs when he needs it. Storing creates stock, leads to confinement and eventually to inheritance; invented to maintain continuity, and supported and enforced by the creation of law. Property, that simple concept of knowledge and control, is now extended to objects; their value, previously based only on need, now becomes based on supply and demand, markets are introduced and the worst kind of owner is born - the merchant, the trader, and the dealer. They don't care for quality, they only care for profit.

"It's a mystery to me - the game commences for the usual fee - plus expenses. Confidential information - it's not a public inquiry. I go checking out the reports - digging up the dirt. You get to meet all sorts in this line of work. Treachery and treason - there's always an excuse for it and when I find the reason, I still can't get used to it." [Dire Straits, "Private Investigations"]

It's about midnight as I arrive home, alone, and still a bit shaken. I prepare a cup of coffee, while feeding the cats, then I sit down on the floor, take a cigarette and turn on the television to relax my mind. It doesn't matter what they talk about - the sound of human voices, the soft mutter and occasional cry will have its therapeutic value, and I need to calm down. The date is May 16th, 1987, I am thirty years old, and I have just become a father.

"And what have you got at the end of the day? What have you got to take away? A bottle of whisky and a new set of lies. Blinds on the windows and a pain behind the eyes. Scarred for life - no compensation - private investigations."
^{[Dire Straits - Private Investigations]}

One of the cats is receptive to my anxiety and keeps trying to get my attention, but a movie has started and I cannot help being sucked into the story - I feel the need to escape, unconscious of its future effects, and so I watch the début of William Hurt, in a film directed by Ken Russell. The movie is titled "Altered States."

Ninety minutes later my state has altered. I have seen my wife scream and cry, I have felt her shake and tremble and push, and the only apparent cause of this violent attack; a small rabbit, furless and hot, has been placed before me, the most fragile and helpless of creatures, my child. I could not help but pick her up, but she scares me to death, so small, so incredibly small and fragile.

"It's alright with me, as long as you are by my side. Talk, or just say nothing; I don't mind, your looks never lie. I was always on the run, finding out what I was looking for. I was always insecure, until I found you."
^{[Ten Sharp - You]}

I can explain the hunter's need for companionship, intimacy, and comfort, but the drive to protect that rabbit, that scary, fragile, noisy thing, that explosion of life; the need to shelter it, to provide food and protection, and other females to take proper care of it; that need is beyond explanation, and that drive is beyond control; that, perhaps, is the foundation of the natural order of life.

"Words often don't come easy, I never learned to show the inside, and you, always patient, dragging out, what I try to hide. I was always on the run, finding out what I was looking for. I was always insecure, until I found you."
^{[Ten Sharp - You]}

Other fellows might own without caring; I can not. The legal enforcement of ownership is based on the farmers’ definition and by their legal terms I own my clothes and my game. Only without any legal possession, I can maintain my freedom and my independence. My marriage is based on Sioux (American Native Lakota) rules - throw out my hat and I'm gone. No questions asked. Just another kind of freedom. But on the inside, viewed from the center, I own my tribe. My wife and children exist within me, they are part of my identity. Like the hunter, based on knowledge, control, and need. Perhaps, you could say, I prefer to own naturally.

"The nights, always a good friend, a glass of wine and the lights down low, and you, lying beside me, full of love and filled with hope. You, you are always on my mind, you, you're the one I'm living for, you, you're my everlasting fire, you're my always shining star, always on my mind."
^{[Ten Sharp - You]}

Chained Ecstasy

Let's talk about freedom and beauty.

"Every man has a place, in his heart there's a space, and the world can't erase his fantasies. Take a ride in the sky, on our ship Fantasii, all your dreams will come true right away and we will live together, until the twelfth of never, our voices will ring forever, as one. Every thought is a dream, rushing by in a stream, bringing life to the kingdom of doing. Take a ride in the sky, in our ship Fantasii, all your dreams will come true miles away. Our voices will ring together, until the twelfth of never, we all will live love forever, as one. Come to see victory in a land called Fantasy, loving life for you and me. To behold, to your soul, is ecstasy."
^{[Earth, Wind and Fire - Fantasy]}

Freedom is asking permission to speak, freedom is the rage of storm followed by a breathtaking sunrise, freedom is the explosion of life and love for a rabbit in the palm of your hand. Freedom is the ultimate pray, always hunted, never caught. But freedom is not a single pray, not a single entity, it is a multiple; more like a pack of wolf or a herd of cow.

"The bellowing seemed now to come from the sky itself, like thunder, or from the horizon, like the breaking of an ocean into surf on the rocks of the shore. It was like a sea or a vast natural phenomenon slowly approaching. Such indeed, I suppose, it was. Now, also, for the first time, I could clearly smell the herd, a rich, vast, fresh, musky, pervasive odor, compounded of trampled grass and torn earth, of the dung, urine and sweat of perhaps more than a million beasts. The magnificent vitality of that smell, so offensive to some, astonished and thrilled me; it spoke to me of the insurgence and the swell of life itself, ebullient, raw, overflowing, unconquerable, primitive, shuffling, smelling, basic, animal, stamping, snorting, moving, an avalanche of tissue and blood and splendor, a glorious, insistent, invincible cataract of breathing and walking and seeing and feeling on the sweet, flowing, windswept mothering earth."
^{[John Norman - Nomads of Gor]}

The hunter knows the value and complexity of freedom. When needed, he will seek his target, an old bull or a wounded cow, chase and kill it swiftly, and leave the herd unharmed. The freedom of the hunter must be matched by the freedom of his prey. By taking the herd, instead of a single bull, he will need to accept the rules and restrains to cooperation, he will loose the match of his prey, and the hunter will become a shepherd.

It is long after midnight and the children are finally asleep. Summer of 1999, somewhere in a small cottage, hidden between trees and brushwood. The Gor series has continued and I have learned a new language. She kneels before me, some two feet away, naked, chained and leashed. She talks. I have asked her to do so. Eyes, mouth, face, head, hands and body, each tells a different story, perfectly in tune, nothing is left hidden, all the covers are gone, torn from her body as well as from her mind and normal conversation has ended. Her story has become a symphony, her opinion is a dance. She has discovered chained ecstasy. The most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I smile.

"You will find other kind that has been in search of you, many lives has brought you to recognize it's your life now in review. And as you stay for the play, fantasy has in store for you, glowing light will see you through, it's your day, shining day, all your dreams come true. As you glide in your stride with the wind as you fly away, give a smile from your lips and say 'I am free, yes I'm free now I'm on my way'. Come to see victory in a land called Fantasy, loving life for you and me. To behold, to your soul, is ecstasy."
^{[Earth, Wind and Fire - Fantasy]}

Take away a part of her freedom and she will flourish. Take it all, and she'll have nothing left to give. Without choice, can there be learning? I cherish freedom and rejoice its every outburst. I acknowledge the freedom of a Kajira, but fail to understand it. Told you before, what could such fellows know about slavery?

A Morphologic Escape

Do you ever wish to escape? Not from life, I mean, or loved ones, but from the pressure and speed of the day, from the struggle for survival, the defense of freedom and happiness, and all its weight and strain in this fast and complex, modern society.

For most people, their physical escape is well planned and muchly prepared, on so called 'holy days' they travel to foreign places, seeking for different culture and adventure, but the newness of their experience is clouded by their fear, as they flock together in the shelter of their tents. Their mental escape, it seems, is based on sports, drugs and television soaps.

Our kind, I guess, although I am not exactly sure what kind we are, we have found other ways to escape. We cherish fantasy, and beauty, and enter fearless into every attracting imaginary world, without map or supplies, protected only by our wits. We escape in literature and science fiction is that kind of literature that is specially created for escape. Gor, both online and offline, is escape in optima forma.

"He was a hard-headed man, he was brutally handsome, and she was terminally pretty. She held him up, and he held her for ransom in the heart of the cold, cold city. He had a nasty reputation as a cruel dude, they said he was ruthless, they said he was crude. They had one thing in common, they were good in bed; she'd say, 'faster, faster, the lights are turnin' red'. Life in the fast lane, surely make you lose your mind. Mm. Are you with me so far?"
^{[The Eagles - Life in the Fast Lane]}

About two-thirty in the afternoon, a clear blue sky, in the warmth of the sun there is that first promise of summer and I am sitting in the grass, enjoying the warmth, the architecture and the secular atmosphere of UFSIA, University of Antwerp. The date is April 2nd, 2001. Yesterday.

The large interior garden, one of two, a small one near the entrance, and a second, further inside, is a square of approximately five hundred feet, with a circle-shaped lawn in the center, bordered by low brushwood and hedges. In three of the corners there are huge old oak trees, the south corner is left open for the sun, and the entire garden is surrounded, like a castle in red brick and grey slate, by the former abbey, with its hundreds of small, rectangular windows; sharp tiled roofs with towers and steeples, and a massive belvedere near the entrance, with a parapet top. On the north side there is a gallery, a stoa, a roofed colonnade.

About fifty young students are scattered over the lawn, boys and girls, sitting, walking or laying, reading, talking, and laughing - this is my escape. Houston, Tranquility Base, here, the Eagle has landed. I found The Aufstieg und Untergang der Römischen Welt, all fifteen feet of them. I thought it was one book.

"Eyes out of focus, the sharpening of blades, the sad tension, reek of patchouli, even the jokers are dealin' in spades. It's one dimension, it's all so passé', just then a voice said, 'Honey, it's too late to change your mind'. Her face tightened, I could see, she'd found a new design and she said 'Listen to me, it's just a fantasy, this time I'm comin through and now there's something you can do for me and oh, oh, take me to the Wild Places and let me show you what the night is for. I don't wanna dream, I wanna set the wheels in motion. Cos' in the heat of the moment I just lose control.'"
^{[Duncan Brown - The Wild Places]}

Two hours later, the students have disappeared, the birds have taken their places, I have left the silence and again, I walk through the city, astounded and amazed. I have been here before, a couple of years back, and I remember well her sound and smell, but today, her streets are wider, her music is more cheerful and her perfume more alive.

A girl, scarcely dressed, graceful and defiant, dances through the crowd, well aware of her intense, exiting radiance. Behind her, a giant of a man, a sailor, perhaps, his eyes constantly following her moves, provides the explanation and for a moment I can actually see the chain that binds them.

A fellow in blanket attracts much female attention as he walks by, the blanket drawn around his shoulders, it barely reaches his knees, and he is obviously wearing nothing else. A wave of laughter and well-meant mockery follows as he passes.

Another girl, begging on her knees, at the side of the street. Her hair is dirty, her black dress dusty and torn and there is a baby held tightly in her arms. She raises her arm, palm upward, and whispers "Mercy, Master", or so it seems. The baby moves and I drop a coin.

A fellow I meet in a tavern, Brazilian, from Sao Paolo, seems to know the answer, and we share a drink. As we sit down, I suddenly remember a scene from Carlos Castaneda, where Don Juan uncovers an old, mystical secret of magicians; he actually unravels the bare essence of human reality, on the surface of a mere table in a tavern like this. The fellow says the city is a plate, a well-filled plate.

"Sitting in the airport lounge, I'm waiting for a plane. Everything is grounded for the fog is down again. I should be leaving in the morning, on a flight for Singapore, with a guitar and a suitcase and a face, in a photograph. Dozing with a coffee and a drooping cigarette, dog-eared Sunday Supplement, and still I can't forget. I should be leaving in the morning, on a plane bound for the sun, with a guitar and a suitcase and a face, in a photograph. The hands on the clock turn around and around, dragging past the hours till the dawning of the day, and the girl in information, with her eyes on half the nation, she's turning with a smile to bring the news. I cannot quite believe it, but I thought I heard her say 'The customs all have woken up, the fog is on its way'. I should be leaving in the morning, on a plane bound for the sun, with a guitar and a suitcase and a face, in a photograph. Yes, I'll be leaving in the morning, on a plane bound for the sun."
^{[Magna Carta - Airport Song]}

Back in the station, while waiting for the train, I think of Rupert Sheldrake's new story and his theory of morphic resonance. The changes are undeniable. This city has become Gorean, has attracted an unmistakable Gorean flavor, or attitude. Whether that change is in the city, in its people, or just in me, is absolutely unimportant, I guess, considering the beauty of the result.

I have experienced a very special resonance and the echo still lingers. A Gorean echo is rising in volume and this entire city has been affected by it. Its beauty enhanced, at least for a couple of hours. Rupert says things get easier when more people understand.

Gor is getting easy.

Interview with a Hunter

Part II - The Night of the Gathering

Let's get real, tonight. Real human beings, a real men and a real woman. Everyone wants to be real, the big old world is real, so how do you do it, how do you become real? What would a real human being think, or dream, or imagine? How hard can it be, just open your eyes, listen to the music and become part of the story.

Sunset

We have walked along the beach for about three hours when we reach the cliff, a massive fist of grey-blue volcanic rock rising a thousand feet up, as if a giant from the landward hills is desperately clinging to the shoreline in a futile defense against the sea, the grinding and snapping, the eroding of the mighty forces of the water, whose violent attack seems to shudder and tremble beneath our feet, as the constant shower of breaking waves creates a passage of rainbows - we enter the gate, carefully choosing our path over the slippery wet rocks, and I notice some bright red starfish, yellow shrimps and black crabs that found shelter between the fingers of the fist, when suddenly, the wall of rock falls back and through the mist, I catch a first glimpse of the lagoon.

The small bay, not more than a mile wide, is sheltered by the cliff we just passed and another pawn of rock, more to the north, and between them the shallow water becomes greenish and more transparent, and rushes gently towards the silvery beach. Above the beach the rocks bend backward, and up again to the North, like a lion in rest, head on one paw. The beach in the middle, against the lion’s heart, perhaps some three hundred feet wide, its sand is mostly black of volcanic ashes so it will retain the warmth of the day long after midnight, there is hardy any sign of tidal movement of the water, this is the place that I prefer and here we will stay, spend the night, and talk.

The date is now and the place, ah well, does it matter? It could be Earth, or any other planet. The place is real - I have been there. Let us simply call it Lionheart Lagoon.

When the sun is near the horizon, I sit down on the warm sand, my back to the small fire I have just build and watch the changes to the bay as the sun disappears. The twilight opens the door to the other world, the dark one, the night and for a second, a last ray of sunlight, a green flash, illuminates the entrance and allows a glance into the gateway between worlds. The girl in my company, I scarcely know her, is preparing a meal and has carried enough fresh water for the night. I took her with me, after her gentle, polite request to show her this beach and the sunset, but I have misjudged her eagerness and when I turn my head, she is kneeling in front the fire, her back to the rocks, her head down and slightly bend to protect her eyes, that never leave the meat she keeps turning. She is pleasing, she will eat.

During the walk she has not talked much, so I told her a handful of stories, recollected some memories and sang a few songs, and tonight, I will talk with her and get to know her. Tomorrow we will return along a different path, a climb over the hill at the South side of the beach, and perhaps, I will add a few stories, or just songs, and then I will bring her back to where she belongs. Our ways may never meet again, after this trip. I follow a different path.

The night has swapped over the hills and instantly our world is reduced to a small circle on the beach, perhaps ten feet around the fire, and a counter-shadow on the rock that explodes in a mirage of stars as the mica catches the flames. The girl looks up and smiles.

Evening

While we eat, I watch her hands, small and slender, and notice a little tremble at the wrist, the curve of her left shoulder, slightly bend forward, her left upper arm pressed against her body, they create a tension in her right flank. She is hiding, uncertain, perhaps even scared, but for the wrong reasons. Surely she did not notice the footsteps on the beach, not more than a day old, and the remnant of another fire, hidden against the rock. We have been followed on our way here, I am sure, but the identity and intentions of those in our trail are difficult to predict. Their numbers are small, no more than four man, I guess, but predecessors to a larger group and utterly unpredictable. I wonder how much blood must be spilled before I can get these men released, rescued, liberated from their wretched curse, their self-inflicted war against the windmills of gender. The tide is turning, but I worry about the children.

"May I speak, Master?" she asks.

I watch her face.

"Tonight, you may speak freely," I answer, "without the cultural restrictions and bumptious rituals that other men may have placed upon you. Without hesitation, without doubt, and even without actual thought, I want you to speak from the inside of your soul. Please, talk to me."

She starts telling me her story, a memory of her parents, her youth, her family, and while she speaks, her silk rag gently slides from her body and takes her tension with it. She is not as young as I thought she was and the change strikes me as being important, for why did I not notice her age, before, when she approached me, or later, while we walked for hours. What kind of world is this, where youth can be retained in outward appearance, uncoupled from age and wisdom? I have heard of such a place before, but believed it to be merely a fantasy. The girl seems to be fond of children.

"Are you a mother, girl?" I ask.

"No, Master," she says, "many of us think this world is ugly, not worth to shelter new life, and others live in secrecy, hiding themselves, even from their own children. Do you have children?"

"Yes," I smile, "I have three daughters, halfway to adultery, they are safe for now, still living with their mother and me."

"Are you married?"

"I am."

"Does your wife know you are here?"

"Surely," the question seems a bit odd, "we found this place together, many years ago, she has accompanied me on most of my journeys and she knows we are here tonight."

"Do your children know you here?" she asks.

"No!" I laugh, "How could they? They have not learned this language yet; they are too young. But in a few years, perhaps, they will understand." Should I tell her about the notes, the letters, the maps I have been drawing, just to guide them, whenever they get here?

"And your family and friends, do they know?"

"They know who I am, and how I live."

"But do you not hide your way of living, from any of them?" she asks.

"Hide from my wife, or my children, or my friends?" Another oddly question, sometimes it is so hard to understand these people. "I do not hide anything, how could I? What good is a family to me, or friends, if I must hide myself from them? My children do not share their parent's intimacy, the magic of our sexuality, but they surely notice its arising and its afterglow, and understand its meaning. My family and friends do not share my dreams, but how could I ever hide them? Must I bury my dreams, walk secretly through the night and sleep in a graveyard? I would rather die than hide."

The girl is silent for a while and I watch her struggle.

"Are they free, your wife and children?"

Anger screws up my eyes and the girl winces.

"Every human being is born free and every human child must first learn the true meaning of freedom, its different sorts and conditions, its ways and its price, before, as an adult, a choice can be made. Youth, it seems, should be the celebration of freedom, adultery the mere acceptation of its consequences."

"Is your wife perhaps a Free Woman?" Her voice is trembling.

"No, she is Dutch and she is free and married, and owned by me. To compare our relation with a Free Companionship would simplify it beyond recognition."

The girl is disturbed, shaken perhaps, but she is desperately trying to understand. She will before the night is gone.

"Your life seems so easy, while ours is so harsh; your world so beautiful, yet ours is so cruel, please Master, how can we build a future here?"

I take her hand, pull her up, on her feet and walk her to the shoreline. When her feet enter the water, I step behind her, take her chin and force her head up while bending backwards. The moon will rise around midnight and without the comfort of the horizon the night sky becomes a black hole, almost defying gravity. With my other hand I hold her waist.

"See the stars," I whisper, "when we get there, whose children do you want it to be, should it be their children, the offspring of those that do not care, the senseless and the blind. If those who hear refuse the future, they will leave it to the deaf, and the music will die. I think, we must preserve the music."

She cries softly when I take her back to the fire. I think she is beginning to understand.

Midnight

As she returns to the fire the girl drops to the sand and curls up on her side. When I sit down, my back to the rocks, facing the fire, she crawls towards me, her head down and puts her cheek against my ankle. She is a slave, or at least, she has pronounced her slavery when we first met. Staring at the fire, I contemplate her condition. She seems content, resigned in her collar, very different from the young girl I met a year ago, who got trapped into slavery before she knew about freedom. I have met the fellow whose property she has become, he has a big heart, I guess, he will take care for her, but it might not be easy.

The girl moves and when I look down, she has opened her eyes and stares intensely to my face. The color of her eyes has changed, from dark blue to deep green with sparks of grey and brown, like the camouflage of a jungle animal that hides between the leaves.

"This night only," I tell her, "your name will be Jade."

"Jade.." she whispers, while her smile betrays her contentment, "could you own a girl like Jade?"

I wrap my hand in her hair and lift her head from my feet.

"If I wished so," I answer, "I guess, I could. But then, I would have to take her with me, keep her close and safe from harm."

The girl starts to laugh.

"Do you not know, Master, that girls can be owned through a small wire, a glassy hair connecting worlds even oceans apart?"

"So I have learned," I nod, "but fail to comprehend. How could one know such a girl, intimately, without sight and sound, and smell and touch?"

For a moment, I touch her and the immediate response, the changes in the color of her skin, the depth of her breathing and the scent of her excitement are obvious. Could such knowledge be transferred through a mere glass wire?

"Also, how could one protect ones property against attack and damage, or prevent it from being stolen, if one is far away or hard to be reached?"

While talking I fetch a small length of chain, not more that five feet in length and with a tiny padlock secure it to her collar. Instantly, her hands are playing with the links, rubbing, chaffing, fondling the steel chain that binds her. Could such power be transferred through a mere glass wire?

"Also," I continue, "would such a girl be impervious to intrigue, deceit and dishonesty, would she not simulate and pretend to be enslaved while, in reality, the collar and chains are worn by the fool that pretends to be her owner?"

The girl’s laughter shows she has known some of these fellows and remembers them well. I like her laugh, starting deep down, low-pitched, as a remote thunder, fighting its way up to her throat and bursting out in the air, a culmination of joy and vitality. I enjoy such laughter - the laughter of a innocent child. Could such laughter be transferred through a mere glass wire?

"And lastly," I add, "but perhaps, most importantly, if her slavery is real, her devotion and her longing innate, would such a girl settle for a glassy owner, be content with a Master on a wire?

"Do you then oppose against such slavery?" she asks.

"I oppose against the setting, not the condition." I tell her. "The condition is natural, but the environment is much too artificial to be effective, much too obscure to be tenable, and highly dangerous for inexperienced, young girls."

"Unowned slaves?"

"Inexperienced, young girls! Not slaves, children! They seek guidance, explanation and support, and enter this wire-world honestly, in search of their fulfilment. Instead, they are shown a couple of tricks, forced to express themselves as toddlers and as long as they behave respectful and stay out of the way, they are tolerated. Nobody cares anymore, it seems, if some of these girls get hurt, or worse. And the sharks that feed on them are multiplying."

I watch the waves break upon the shoreline and wonder if the sharks are near. They must be stopped.

Moonrise

An hour before, around midnight, the full moon has risen, but until now she has been hiding behind the ridges of the mountains to the East and the beach will remain in the shadow of the rocks for another three hours, but the lagoon is already lightened and when the moonlight touches the sea, the algae respond and generate a greenish luster, not unlike the illumination of fireflies, but not as sparkling, perhaps, more cloud-like, a milky greenish mist, a ghostlike, unearthly creature that swarms and multiplies beneath the surface of the water.

The girl, Jade, has left the circle of light around the fire to get water and I sit silently, staring across the lagoon, when, suddenly, a scream pierces my ears, high pitched, unbroken, a scream of astonishment and fear, no pain, just scared; in an instant I am beside the girl, she is unharmed, one arm in front of her body, protecting, the other arm extended, pointing to the shoreline, I push her down flat against the sand, then I rise and turn to face the cause of her anxiety.

A huge, luminous body, round, perhaps five feet wide and three feet high, rises slowly from the water, its mighty claws scratching the sand, the leathery skin torn and scarred and covered with algae, the lipless mouth dribbling as the head slings from side to side. Then another body appears, and a third.

I smile. There is no danger.

I crouch down, next to the girl.

"Easy, Jade, easy," I tell her, "just turtles, female turtles, to be sure, they have come to lay their eggs. This is a special night, the first full moon of summer and every year the turtles assemble at the beach where they wore born, and actually create a new generation. This is the come-back, the night of the gathering."

Everywhere along the beach the massive bodies are emerging from the water, a soundless nocturnal invasion.

"They are so large, like giants," the girl whispers in awe.

"These are just females," I smile, "the males are even larger. To be sure, they are probably the largest of their kind."

"How have they become so great?" she asks.

"A mere coincidence," I reply, "but with far reaching consequences. A small change to the environment, some volcanic ashes that darken the sand and raise its temperature a few degrees, the eggs hatch a few days earlier and the young are the first to re-enter the sea, where they are rewarded with the food of the gods. Without actual competition they have a head start and they never loose it. Natural evolution, in contradiction to popular belief, works most rapidly on small, somewhat isolated populations and especially so, if the survival ratio of the infants is raised. The impressive changes in strength, size and power you are observing tonight could be accomplished within a few generations, but the opposite is just as likely to occur, the complete collapse of might and grandeur, initiated by a seemingly unimportant cause, could happen overnight, in a handful of generations, in an eyewink of time."

The first wave of bodies is now halfway between the shoreline and the rocks, and their pace is slowing down. The girl looks up.

"Could it happen to us as it has to them?" she asks.

"Surely it could, it might already be happening," I answer. Evolution might work in mysterious ways. How strange that some men prefer third person speech and impose it, forcefully, of course, on their most expressive and open-hearted of females. Surely they have thought about the long-term effects, the loss of identity and speech-defects that are likely to occur over generations. Surely they have argued about the dangers involved when difference in age and experience can no longer be shown; when each girl has to wear the same mask, that of an infant, a child. What harm might these men have evoked upon future generations? Surely they appreciate a good story, told as adults do, from a first-person point of view. What a shame to forbid story-telling!

I look down at the girl. She must find a way to tell her story.

"These females, Jade, do you think they are free?" I ask.

"Of course, Master," she replies, "they are wild animals, I presume."

"Still, some of these females, when they return to the sea, will choose a mate; a powerful, mighty male and they will stay together for exactly a year. The courtship ritual involved is highly complex, the bond is very strong and the partners really seem to care about each other’s welfare. Do you still consider them free?"

The girl smiles, "This must be a gathering of Free Companions, then."

"Indeed," I laugh, "but others seem to have chosen for a different path, another style of behavior; they return to the same male, every year, and without any ritual, they continue their journey, bound together for life. The female will follow the male. Could they be free?"

"No, Master," she seems certain, "they must be slaves."

"I have heard of a saying," I continue, "that seems to be very popular among your people. In my world, there are only two kinds of female turtles. Both free, as wild animals will always be and both bound, as females will always be. Whether the drive is natural or cultural, innate or rational, consensual of imaginarily coerced, it cannot be denied. Human beings should know better than trying to deny. Being different, understanding the difference and making the best of it; that’s the core of being human, the secret of humanity."

The first wave of animals have reached their targets, about three quarters up the beach. When they find the spot, their place, that which seems right to their innate, instinctual sense of protection, the giant female turtles turn, again facing the sea, then they slowly drop down to their bellies and start digging. Silently, by the light of the full moon, the girl and I watch the rise of a new generation.

Dawn

The return of the light, its victory over the mighty forces of darkness, is announced by the birds about an hour before the actual sunrise. Their encouragement seems to scare the darkness, for within a few seconds, almost as if a switch has been turned, the emptiness of the night is replaced by the fog, waving, rolling, twirling streaks of grey, moving on the rhythm of the waves and the melody of singing birds, the dancers in the twilight perform the overture of dawn.

The girl has slept for an hour, after the retreat of the giant turtles, curled up at my left with her head near my feet. I have covered her body with a blanket and watched the movement of her eyes, still closed; a tiny tremble of her lips, a soft mutter; she is dreaming and again has entered yet another world, another reality, perhaps, one even more beautiful than mine. I wonder about reality, and its nature. What is on the other side of our sensations? Is it truly atoms and the void, or is it an alternative reality?

This reality - and its power, and nature, and gods, and turtles and stars are but its forms, the lion and the child, birds and dancers, perceptions, modes, diversities, all. A wise man once said the reality - the power - is as much and wholly present in a blade of grass, in the petal of a flower, as in the furnace of Betelgeuse. And that means, I guess, that here - on this beach, in this sand - as much as anywhere, as full and perfect, lies the power. We, each of us, are the reality, the power.

As I fetch a drink, the girl awakens and I give her some water too. The sand makes a hard mattress, her muscles are cramped and I allow her some exercise, to regain her natural softness. After a while she drops on her knees, and starts preparing a can of coffee. She looks up.

"Have you slept well, Master?" she asks.

"I have not slept at all," I tell her, "but instead, I enjoyed your company."

A thought flashes from her eyes, running down her face and bending her back, as she speaks.

"Have I not been sufficiently pleasing, Master?" she asks, her eyes clouded with fear.

"You have pleased me well," I reply, "I am content."

She has been ravished, used for my pleasure from the start, but perhaps, she had expected some other form of pleasure, another kind of usage, a more physical approach. I have told her before, but she cannot understand the importance of the game, the prices that are at stake. I am reminded of another game, another girl, a few years back, at a tournament in Bangkok. The girl interrupts the memory.

"You are kind to me", she says, "and kindness is special in my world. You seem to know it well, that strange and barbaric world we are building, that remote and hidden continent that I call home. You have been there, many times, travelled its roads, visited its cities, talked to its leaders and played their games. Could you not stay with us, settle down amongst us, become one of us?"

I have expected this question for a long time and yet, as I hear the words, I am again surprised by it. So many times I have been asked the same, so many girls have tried. I must make her understand, it seems of utmost importance.

"Those that come to your world, the immigrants, the new arrivals," I ask, "Where do you think they come from?"

"I don’t know", she stammers. Her eyes are open, but she is afraid to use them.

"Look around," I tell her, "this is where they come from, this is where they will start. They are just like the turtles we have watched, within a few weeks or month their eggs will break, they will push the sand aside, and a new generation will emerge, fresh and unspoiled, they will come to your world, more, many more than you could ever imagine, if they survive the journey. You must be there to greet them, teach them our ways and values, the habits and rituals of our culture, and the secret of our spirit, the freedom of our soul."

Over the hills in the Southeast the fire of sunrise is spreading.

"But I must stay here and protect the beach against the blind and the deaf, shelter the eggs from predators and once they hatch, I will guide them to the sea. Those that abandon their journey, those who get caught by the currents, those attacked and wounded, they might return here someday and someone has to stay, and take care of them. I must guard the beach and protect the lagoon."

The beach is slowly emerging from the dark, as the first red rays of sunlight touch the sand.

"Will we ever meet again?" she asks.

"A good story never ends," I answer, "it just keeps getting better. Get your things. We are leaving. I have to get you home, and perhaps, we will share another song. Remember this night - the beautiful music we have made together. I am grateful for it."

While she packs, I notice her humming and I smile. Finally, she understands.

"Between the eyes of love, I call your name. Behind the guarded walls, I used to go. Upon a summer wind, there's a certain melody, takes me back, to the place that I know - on the beach, yeah. The secrets of the summer, I will keep. The sands of time will blow a mystery. No one but you and I underneath that moonlit sky, take me back, to the place that I know - on the beach. Forever in my dreams, my heart will be hanging on to this sweet memory, a day of strange desire and a night that burned like fire, take me back, to the place that I know - on the beach, yeah - on the beach."
^{[Chris Rea - On the Beach]}

Interview with a Hunter

Part III - Return

Caste, Guild and Mastery

The building blocks of primitive hunter-gatherer societies are stone, wood and leather. Rocks and mountains, dark forests and living prey; the natural environment supplies the shelter of caves and crude huts, plants and animals for food, tools, fibers and skins, all essential to the survival of the tribe, but, to the hunter, the skills needed to form and shape these materials; to hew and split and sharpen stone, to cut and bend and polish wood, to clean and soften and preserve leather; these skills are innate, instinctual, it seems, and mastering these materials is a life-long challenge, fuelled by an irrepressible and unlimited inquisitiveness.

Young boys, even in our days, start by playing with bricks, collecting stones and minerals, granites, quartzes, pyrites, and gemstones, and nothing can beat his first treasure, a shark-tooth, personally discovered between the shells of an ancient beach, a remnant of a long forgotten world. Then comes the drive to build and the bricks are replaced by wood; at first he builds a hut between the brushwood, a place to escape and dream about adventures; followed by a raft, for expeditions along unknown channels and rivers; then a tent, a carriage, a dog-kennel, a rabbit-hutch, and finally his own house. While the new binary generation seems to be more interested in building home pages, I guess, the drive hasn’t actually changed, but just transported to another environment.

In tribal communities the retaining of the drive and its assets, the combined knowledge and skills of the group, is vital of interest, and can only be secured by extensive training and practice of the young ones, following the examples of elders, their experience and talents, and by the forming of specialized groups, dedicated to the preservation of know-how. During the early stages of the formation of tribal society, men and women were not regarded and treated as individuals, but as members of a particular group, with blood relation constituting the basic unit of early tribal society. Out of these blood-related groups, castes were formed; joint families, that owned their property collectively, and not separately by individual members. This pre-eminence of the group-ownership is both a weakness and a strength of the tribal society caste; weakness because of the system that it has engendered and strength because the individuals believe in and endeavor to promote the cohesion of the group.

The first known institutionalized caste system, Varna, came about in India, when the Aryan-speaking nomadic groups migrated from the north to India about 1500 B.C., and their priests divided the new society into a caste system of four parts; Brahmin, the priests and teachers; Ksatriya, the warriors and rulers, Vaisya, the farmers, merchants and artisans and lastly, Sudra, the laborers. Leatherworkers, not surprisingly, are Outcasts, the polluted laborers that work on dead animals; they are regarded as the Untouchables.

In the America’s, the native hunter-gatherer communities formed so called societies, like the Native American Sioux (Lakota) Tokala (kit fox), the Kangi Yuha (crow owners), the Cante t'Inza (strong hearts), the well-known Akicita (warriors), the Wicinska (white marked ones) and finally, the Miwa Tani (tall ones). Similar associations are known to have existed in ancient Rome, where they were called collegia, but with the fall of the Western Roman Empire, these craft guilds disappeared from European society for more than six centuries, only surviving in the Byzantine Empire, and particularly in the city of Byzantium (Constantinople, now Istanbul). With the appearance and growth of towns in the 10th and 11th centuries following the chronic dislocation and agrarian backwardness of the Dark Ages, guilds became again possible, but tended to be extremely hierarchical bodies structured on the basis of the apprenticeship system, with the members divided into a hierarchy of masters, journeymen, and apprentices. The master was an established craftsman of recognized abilities who took on apprentices, after completing a fixed term of service an apprentice became a journeyman, and after providing proof of his technical competence, the "masterpiece", the apprentice might be awarded the status of master.

"You know a dream is like a river, ever changin' as it flows, and a dreamer's just a vessel, that must follow where it goes. Trying to learn from what's behind you and never knowing what's in store, makes each day a constant battle, just to stay between the shores... And I will sail my vessel 'til the river runs dry. Like a bird upon the wind, these waters are my sky. I'll never reach my destination if I never try, so I will sail my vessel 'til the river runs dry. Too many times we stand aside and let the waters slip away. 'Til what we put off 'til tomorrow has now become today. So don't you sit upon the shoreline and say you're satisfied. Choose to chance the rapids and dare to dance the tide..."
^{[Garth Brooks - The River]}

A Friday in January, 1996, somewhere in Holland, in a cabin, perhaps fifteen feet long and twelve feet wide, about seven feet high, and along its walls a small, wooden workbench, tools everywhere and the overwhelming smell of animal skin, the scent of leather.

We are sitting on two low benches, the old man and I, and he is teaching me how to use a leather-knife and cut a circle in one single move, keeping the same cutting speed and pressure without slicing off my own fingers. He can hardly walk, but he came down from his mountain to show me the hog-bristles and how to sew boots with them, the proper way to spin a thread, and the usage of his tools, that impressive collection of knives and cutting blades, ancient awls and needles and tacks.

He seems reluctant to talk about his work. "I’m not an artist, not even a craftsman," he replies, "just an apprentice with an experience of half a century."

He talks about the early days, long ago, when the herds came in millions, and the hides were abundant, of the poverty and the hunger in the eyes of the children, when the routes changed and the herds vanished, and how he managed to stay alive and feed his family through the destruction and the terrors of war.

While he talks, his hands seem to live a separate life; they start their own conversation - explaining the problems, showing the tricks and manners, and answering every specific question, while his mind wonders through the past. I listen to his history and learn his art by watching and imitating.

He must have instructed countless of pupils, and his work was admired and praised by many. His mastery did not come from a single example of his astounding ability, but from a life-long love for his material and its beauty, and a never ending strive for perfection. Most of all, he liked to teach.

"Then he comes to town, and you see his face, and you think you might like to take his place. Somethin' keeps him driftin' miles and miles away, searchin' for the songs to play. Then you listen to the music and you like to sing along, you want to get the meaning out of each and ev'ry song. Then you find yourself a message and some words to call your own and take them home. Then the lights begin to flicker and the sound is getting dim, the voice begins to falter and the crowds are getting thin. But he never seems to notice he's just got to find another place to play, anyway. Got to play."
^{[Bread - The Guitar Man]}

I know another man with a passion for beauty and an endeavor for perfection. He, too, liked to teach. He worked for thirty-five years on a single story that got forbidden before it was finished. I’d say - he is creating a masterpiece.

The Vanity Trap

It is a disease that has silently infected our own modern society. A virus that took about a century to conquer Europe is now, with the active support of politics and modern technology, threatening the entire human population, and its symptoms are starting to show. After the eager embracement of the equality myth during the French Revolution, followed by the even more devastating misconception of the blank tablet, the tabula rasa, the clean slated mind of the newborn human, the general public has finally surrendered their last bit of pride, the talent, that most individual characteristic of human dispositions, to the greedy hands of the profiteers, for talent has become a trading-good and the sales are on.

Would you like to own a Rembrandt? No problem - we’re all the same. You can paint, too. Just buy the set, follow the numbers, and see for your self. Within a week, you’ll have a Rembrandt on your wall, and you are an artist, too!

Would you like to play guitar like Eric Clapton? No problem - we’re all the same. You can play, too. Just buy the course, follow the numbers, and hear for yourself. Within a week, you’ll play like Clapton, and you are a musician, too!

Why do people put up with this kind of crap? In a world that ravels itself in sameness and exchangeability, there is no room for honest individual pride. We are taught to perceive ourselves as individuals, each responsible for his or her own actions, and yet, at the very same time, another lesson is enforced, that we are not better or worse than anyone else. If anyone can do it, so can you, is the message we are encouraged to believe, it might take some time, perhaps more education, but in the end, if we are all the same, each and everyone of us is an artist, a musician, a writer, a philosopher, a genius, a wonderfully intriguing, beautiful human being.

Are we?

"You walked into the party, like you were walking onto a yacht. Your hat strategically dipped below one eye, your scarf it was apricot. You had one eye in the mirror as you watched yourself gavotte and all the girls dreamed that they'd be your partner. They'd be your partner, and you're so vain, you probably think this song is about you, you're so vain, I'll bet you think this song is about you. Don't you? Don't you?"
^{[Carly Simon - You're so Vain]}

Vanity is pride with a wrong sense of property. We are taught to be vain, as a necessary ingredient of the sameness mythology and the changed perception of ownership, and for some, it takes more than a pond to recognize it.

About a year ago, around seven in the evening, I slammed the door behind me as if I would never return. Fire raged through my head, I was completely incapable of controlling myself and so I fled, to protect those that trusted me and shared my life.

I felt dishonored. It is a personal value and hard to explain. I had lost fights before, been humiliated, and haven broken many a bone, but I had never before felt dishonored. I had always thought that loss of honor was inflicted, brought upon by others, but now, suddenly, I realized, this was brought upon by me, this was self-inflicted, my own fault. How had I gotten in to this?

There is an interview with John Norman by Jeffrey M. Elliot, first published in the Questar Magazine, volume 2, number 6, in February 1981. The same interview, in a German translation, was republished in 1986 by the German publishing house Heyne in their first annual sf-newletter Das Science Fiction Jahr - Ausgabe 1986.

In December 1999, I found the first traces of the Questar Interview when I stumbled into some of the darker, dust covered corners of the DejaNews archives where two German fellows were discussing the German translation. I traced the origin of the interview back to the Heyne newsletter, found it on eBay Germany, and managed to buy it. Two month later, completely by coincidence, I discovered the original Questar Magazine had been on auction at eBay, priced at $ 0.50, and it had passed without bids. I bought the magazine for a dollar.

I announced my discovery on January 30th, 2000, on the Gorean Public Boards and received a lot of requests to share it, and I did, with a handful of others. On February 20th, I published the first issue of the Questar Newsletter, a mere introduction, followed on March 16, a second issue with an analysis of the interview. Both issues were sent though private email to perhaps fifty interested fans. Then I started working on a third issue, The Gorean Controversy - part 1, The History, an article about John Norman’s publication history, with many large quotes of his interviews, to be published on the Internet on July 2nd, 2000. Two days before going online, I burned it down and stepped out. Wrong turn, much too close to the edge. It felt wrong and it still does, but it took much too long to recognize that. From a distance, it might look as if you’re safe from the edge; it is only up close, you start feeling the wind. The interviews are the intellectual property of the man being interviewed - if these interviews are ever republished on the Internet, I do not know, the decision is being made by John Norman. Perhaps, we will get an answer.

"Why do we never get an answer, when we're knocking at the door, with a thousand million questions about hate and death and war? 'Cos when we stop and look around us, there is nothing that we need, In a world of persecution that is burning in its greed. Why do we never get an answer, when we're knocking at the door. Because the truth is hard to swallow, that's what the war of love is for. It's not the way that you say it when you do those things to me, it's more the way that you mean it, when you tell me what will be, and when you stop and think about it, you won't believe it's true, that all the love you've been giving has all been meant for you. Between the silence of the mountains, and the crashing of the sea, there lies a land I once lived in, and she's waiting there for me. But in the grey of the morning, my mind becomes confused, between the dead and the sleeping, and the road that I must choose."
^{[The Moody Blues - Question]}

Had to get that out of my system, thanks for staying with me. Next, let’s talk about life -smile-.

The Style of Life

The hunter-gatherer spends between ten and fifteen percent of his time securing his own survival; fetching food and water, preparing shelter and defense, protection against the elements and predators, the creating and maintenance of weapons and tools, all that is needed to survive, in a mere two hours each day. No wonder they don’t need ‘holy days’.

The farmer works at least ten hours each day just to survive, and another two, to worry about his future, the weather, the diseases and the vermin. Modern society seems to tell us a ten-hour workday is normal, and nobody complains. Subtract about eight hours of sleep, and a contemporary human being is left with no less than six hours to enjoy that they are alive and take pleasure of what they have achieved. Compare that with the fourteen hours of the hunter, and the reasons for many modern diseases become painstakingly clear. It seems we are so very busy with producing and consuming and worrying and struggling, there is hardly any time left to think, to ponder, to contemplate ones life and deeds and drives. Just to sit somewhere, and think, is mostly perceived as weird, anti-social idleness.

"(Nathaniel) Once, there was a time when I believed, without hesitation, that the power of love and truth could conquer all in the name of salvation. Tell me what kind of weapon is love when it comes to the fight? And just how much protection is truth against all Satan's might?
(Beth) There must be something worth living for. There must be something worth trying for. Even some things worth dying for. And if one man could stand tall, there must be some hope for us all. Somewhere, somewhere in the spirit of man."
^{[Jeff Wayne - The Spirit of Man]}

Why do we talk about life-style? I guess people will talk about their life-style, only when, after learning something new, which changed their inner being, they change their behavior, or their environment, and they need to express that change to others. Once the change is known and accepted within the environment where it is expressed, life-style returns to life. The change, behavioral or psychological, is essential for both the acquisition and the discussion of life-style. We use the term life-style when comparing ancient ways of living, like farmers and hunter-gatherers, expressing and emphasizing the changes in thought patterns, rituals, day-to-day activities and natural surrounding. If the need to express the change becomes unbearable, the life-style is born.

In reality, of course, it is not the outward appearance that counts, nor the change itself, but the amount of time spent thinking about it. Whether the behavior is play of real, acted out or instinctually driven, after a couple of years of careful contemplation a certain understanding can be reached. It does take some time, though, and most people never take the time, or aren't allowed to take it. Some people, the lucky ones, perhaps, are forced to take the time.

"Turn around and smell what you don't see, close your eyes, it is so clear. Here's the mirror, behind there is a screen, on both ways you can get in. Don't think twice before you listen to your heart, follow the trace for a new start. What you need and everything you'll feel is just a question of the deal. In the eye of storm you'll see a lonely dove. The experience of survival is the key to the gravity of love. Try to think about it. That's the chance to live your life and discover what it is, what's the gravity of love. Look around, just people, can you hear their voice. Find the one who'll guide you to the limits of your choice. But if you're in the eye of storm just think of the lonely dove. The experience of survival is the key to the gravity of love."
^{[Enigma - Gravity of Love]}

It is four in the morning, summer of 1996, I am pacing up and down in the bathroom, the only place in the house where daylight cannot enter, and even in this complete and utter darkness, my eyes hurt. It feels as if they are burning right out of my head, and in fact, that is exactly what is happening. The optic nerves are so sensitive that the light of a glowing top of a cigarette, reflected on the wall-tiles, through a pair of sun-glasses, and closed, swollen eye-lids, feels like looking directly into the sun, at noon, for a prolonged period of time, like an ancient vision quest, a self-inflicted Sun Dance.

The medical conclusion, at least, has been honest - an over-heated immune system, my body attacks itself, the infected, light-sensitive eyes and disintegrating nerves are just the first symptoms. Each attack on my eyes takes away a part of my vision, irreversible, and puts me into complete darkness for six weeks. This is the third attack. Some nerves in my back have collapsed and my shoulder blades stick out like large humps, as remnants of ancient wings, now torn and scattered. Like a blinded Quasimodo, I start the three steps to the wall, turn, and take three steps to get back. My feet enter a rhythm - I walk and think. By virtue of the darkness, and perhaps, too, by the pain and the medication, my perception of time and space is altered, stretched out, the bathroom has become a giant hall, each step another hour, and while I listen to the echoes of my footsteps, I spend a couple of years in captive contemplation.

I did not change my life-style - I put my life upside down. Turned around anything that would turn, and burned anything that did not. To my surprise, it worked, but it took a lot of time, and much effort. Perhaps, the amount of internal time, the silent hours of seclusion, critical to the achievement of understanding, self-discipline and control, is being denied to most of modern humanity. Enslaved by wristwatch and agenda, whipped and lashed by commercials, and pushed by greed and vanity, there's hardly any time to sit down and think. If freedom is measured by the time you take to think about yourself, it seems, most of us are slaves.

Five years later, the sight of the night sky has become very special. I am glad to say I can still see, and much more than the doctors predicted. Believe it or not, nerves can heal. Perhaps, it was just a matter of faith.

"Don't be afraid to be weak. Don't be too proud to be strong. Just look into your heart, my friend, that will be the return to yourself - the return to innocence. If you want, then start to laugh, if you must, then start to cry. Be yourself, don't hide, just believe in destiny. Don't care what people say, just follow your own way. Don't give up, and use the chance to return to innocence. That's not the beginning of the end, that's the return to yourself. The return to innocence."
^{[Enigma - Return to Innocence]}

Back to Reality

I do not like to beat a woman, or a child, for that matter, and I doubt I will ever need to again. Of course, there have been moments when I lost my temper, fire raging through my head and my hand, out of control, slaps out and returns to my side even before the blow is felt. My problem with this kind of behavior, I guess, is twofold. Firstly, I know my own strength, but only against other man and against objects, to be moved or lifted, and the physical strength of a man, boosted by emotion and focused by intent, can have an enormous impact, like any girl that has ever stepped into a boat on high-heels will surely understand, so to utilize that force, in any other then a life threatening situation, surely, is as incomprehensible as it is intolerable. Secondly, what kind of man would need leather, steel or physical coercion to control a female. Does he not know his eyes can tie like a chain, his voice can scourge like a lash, and his mind, through language, can cut deeper than any blade? The only reason, I guess, besides sheer ignorance, could be personal preference, but then, why not be honest about it? Do not say - I need to punish, if you just want to.

Punishment might correct unwanted behavior, it will not change unwanted attitude, or motive; the correction will be externally, without changing the inner drive, it will fight and perhaps, even conquer the symptoms, but it will not cure the disease. Humans do not change by punishment, but by repentance. Penitence, remorse, how high could be raised the chair of Bosk? Forced repentance is useless, feeling sorry for what you have done, or omitted, must come from within, without pressure, and it must be a free act, it cannot be requested or demanded. The decision to change must come from within, not from the whip.

The relationship between male and female, man and woman, as depicted in the Gor series, has nothing to do with the current farmer-based definition of ownership, nor with an individual preference for punishment or suffering. It is not a one-way street, not a vector of pleasure, but an equilibrium of strength and vulnerability. It rejoices freedom and responsibility, of every sort, and shows the beauty of being human in the marvelous, barbaric setting of the past. With those lessons learned, one way or the other, let us look at the present.

"I have been thinking 'bout our fortune, and I decided that we're really not to blame, for the love that's deep in side us now, is still the same, and the sound we make together, is the music to the story in your eyes, it's been shining down upon me now, I realize. Listen to tide slowly turning, wash all our heartaches away. We're part of the fire that is burning, and from the ashes we can build another day. But I am frightened for the children, and the life that we're all living is in vain, and the sunshine we've been waiting for, will turn to rain."
^{[The Moody Blues - The Story in Your Eyes]}

In the early tribal societies, in the days of the hunters, the horrible acts we call crimes were easy to detect and they might have been instantly judged and sanctioned - with the survival of the tribe and the lives and well-being of its members as only criterion. In our modern communities the detection of crime has become much more difficult, because the boundaries of responsibility have stretched around the globe.

If one of my countryman performs an unspeakable crime, my usual disgust will be deepened by a sense of shame, for he and I have shared a culture, and my culture has been a matrix for that kind of crime. It makes you wonder why we use this sort of labels, those that tell about your background and interest, your culture and values, the ways and manners and rituals, which define the basis of your interaction with others. To be sure, these are just signals, like fur color and tail-feather size, means of easy identification, to be seen in a eyewink. They are not intended to be used as a quality stamp, a certificate of good behavior or even as proof of certain knowledge. Lots of Dutch people, nowadays, do not master the Dutch language.

In spite of the efforts to use the term 'Gorean' as certificate for honor, integrity, honesty and wisdom, the battle against improper 'Gorean' behavior, and the immense anger and understandable frustration of it most active defenders, this war is fought against windmills, and it will never be won. Small-minded Goreans, generous Dutch, patient Americans, polite Germans, and humorous Brits, really, they all do exist. Can't keep them from using these labels, so let's grow over it.

We are so focused on the differences, it seems we might forget the resemblance. It's all common people out there, some small and some great, some good and some bad, just ordinary people that read some books, and start to think about what they read; saints and devils, slaves and masters, owned and free - we all share the same world. Why don't we enjoy the view and follow this path together? And warn each other when the path gets slippery or a monster gets near?

"These mist covered mountains are a home now for me, but my home is the lowlands and always will be. Some day you'll return to your valleys and your farms and you'll no longer burn to be brothers in arm. Through these fields of destruction, baptism of fire, I've watched all your suffering, as the battles raged higher, and though they did hurt me so bad, in the fear and alarm, you did not desert me, my brothers in arms. There's so many different worlds, so many different suns, and we have just one world, but we live in different ones."
^{[Dire Straits - Brothers in Arms]}

Epilogue

The Gorean Alternate Reality, hidden within John Norman’s writings, is both a beautiful example and perhaps, even a loosely encoded revelation of the most profound, intriguing and influential difference between the hunters and the farmers - that of mind and spirit. The farmer’s life-style, as it developed within the last six thousand years, based on seasonal repetition and equalized multitude, has lead to generalized knowledge, the language of mathematics, the foundation of the scientific method and the technological revolution. The sameness myth is a farmer’s invention.

But, for at least a hundred thousand years, men have been hunters, kneeling down in the mud, carefully scrutinizing the scene, looking for clues and tracks, footprints and droppings, marks and evidence of an unknown, unseen prey, its constitution and its whereabouts. That kind of knowledge is individual instead of general, unique instead of repeatable, it is the silent Mastery of the art-connoisseur, the craftsman, the detective and the shaman. It is not the kind of knowledge that can be instructed at schools or universities, it cannot be acquired by dialog or reasoning, and it can’t be summarized and formulized into books. The hunter’s knowledge seems innate, natural, instinctual, and his language is the story, the tale, the enlarged, detailed narrative of a single real-life experience. To propagate this kind of silent knowledge, the story must be told, shared, experienced in the realm of imagination, and then imitated in real life to sharpen the senses and build the necessary skills. The quest in search of becoming a real Gorean might be only the first step in the re-discovery and acquisition of the ancient knowledge of the hunters.

The educated farmer has become a professional, now the educated hunter must become a Master.

"With the conquest of agriculture, there was a concomitant degeneration of the human stock. This can be established skeletally, and also by cranial capacity. Modern man is smaller, and quite possibly intellectually inferior, to these free hunters. We have now, of course, in compensation, numbers and technology. We have libraries, and a complicated culture. We are much more advanced, inferior, but much more advanced. We do not know what direction the race will take. As we are to the hunters, future man may be to us, miserable, petty and neurotic, or, perhaps, we shall grow again, toward the hunters - and the hunters will come again, from us ourselves - for surely we are their descendants, and surely we, somehow, somewhere, hidden within us, hold their promise - latent in our genetic codes the hunters may not be dead, but only asleep."
^{[John Norman - Time Slave]}

The end of this journey is near and the moment has come to answer the most difficult question of all - why?

Some three month ago, the last week of March, when sierra invited me for this interview, I was actually quite embarrassed - having read most of the other interviews, I doubted there was anything valuable I could add. Then I remembered a statement by John Norman, from the Questar Interview, something I had always wondered about - Jeffrey Elliot had asked about John's way of writing, and this is what he had answered.

"The Gorean books are not put together like shelves, according to outlines or plans drawn up beforehand. They are more in the nature of organic products which grow. They are more like flowers and trees than reports and machines. I know when a book is ready: then I sit down and watch it unfold. I am sometimes an amazed, delighted spectator."
^{[John Norman - Questar Interview by Jeffrey M. Elliot]}

When I first read this, I was bewildered. Could this be so? How would if feel to watch a story unfold, and be both the author and a delighted spectator at the same time? Would it work for me as well? The interview became an experiment, a personal voyage of discovery. I started with the introduction, The Prelude, and used the most explicit labels I could find, ten of them, to be precise, to define both myself and the interview's content, and set the tone of voice. Each of these signals, like Gorean, Home Stone, Life-Style and Caste, triggered a memory, with images and sounds, and almost naturally they grew into short stories. While thinking about the Home-Stone concept, the hunters/farmers antithesis entered the tale and became its center.

Finally, I was left with a whole bunch of personal questions.

As some of you might know, I have been working on a John Norman Bibliography, a complete collection of the works, American and Foreign Editions and their reprints, but after two years, in December, 2000, the subject of my investigation decided to return into the publishing arena, three month later I joined the World of Gor team and became personally involved in John Norman’s come-back. In a strange and mysterious way, I had become part of my own story.

To express that feeling I decided to add an imaginary conversation, halfway the frame-story, and so I returned to Lionheart Lagoon, an existing beach on one of Canararies, and took sierra with me, together, into the story, as we entered the beach. The Night of the Gathering wrote itself, I just sat back and watched it happen. Breathless, amazed and delighted. I can only hope that some of that feeling survived the translation from image to language and may it still linger behind the words. To be sure, it was a wondrous journey.

"Don't look back! The time has come - all the pain turns into love - we're not submissive, we're not aggressive, but they think we can't defend. Stand up, join us, modern crusaders alive. We have the power who'll face the future, cause we are the fighters, just fighting for our rights. They're accusing, like always without knowing, what is just fiction or what is the truth. They have no mission, they have no passion, but they dare to tell us what's bad and what's good! Stand up, join us, modern crusaders alive. We have the power who'll face the future, cause we are the fighters, just fighting for our rights."
^{[Enigma - Modern Crusaders]}

Take good care of each other - I wish you well.
Simon

Songs and Quotes (in order of appearance)

"The Year of the Cat" was written by Al Stewart and Peter Wood. Copyright © 1976 by Gwyneth Music Ltd./Carlin Music Corp.

"Outlaw of Gor" was written by John Norman. Copyright © 1967 by John Lange.

"What is a Man" was written by Johnny Bristol and Doris Diane McNeil. Copyright © 1969 by Tamla Motown/Motown Record Corp.

"It is a Man’s Man’s Man’s World" was written by James Brown and Betty Newsome. Copyright © 1966 by James Brown.

"Private Investigations" was written by Mark Knopfler. Copyright © 1984 by Mark Knopfler.

"You" was written by Ton Groen. Copyright © 1990 by Ten Sharp.

"Nomads of Gor" was written by John Norman. Copyright © 1969 by John Lange.

"Fantasy" was written by Maurice White, Eddie delBarrio and Verdine White. Copyright © 1977 by Sagfire Music.

"Life in the Fast Lane" was written by Joe Walsh, Don Henley and Glenn Frey. Copyright © 1976 by The Eagles.

"The Wild Places" was written by Duncan Brown. Copyright © 1978 by Logo Records.

"Airport Song" was written by Chris Simpson. Copyright © 1970 by Magna Music Co., Ltd.

"On the Beach" was written by Chris Rea. Copyright © 1975 by Magnet Records.

"The River" was written by Victory Shaw and Garth Brooks. Copyright © 1991 by Garth Brooks.

"The Guitar Man" was written by David Gates. Copyright © 1977 by Electra/Asylum Records.

"You're so Vain" was written by Carly Simon. Copyright © 1972 by Electra/Asylum Records.

"Question" was written by Justin Hayward. Copyright © 1969 by Threshold Music Ltd.

"The Spirit of Man" was written by Gary Osborne. Copyright © 1978 by April Music Ltd./Jeff Wayne Music Ltd.

"Gravity of Love" was written by Michael Cretu. Copyright © 1999 by Enigma Songs/Mambo Music.

"Return to Innocence" was written by Michael Cretu. Copyright © 1998 by Enigma Songs/Mambo Music.

"The Story in Your Eyes" was written by Justin Hayward. Copyright © 1971 by Threshold Music Ltd.

"Brothers in Arms" was written by Mark Knopfler. Copyright © 1985 by Phonogram Records.

"Time Slave" was written by John Norman. Copyright © 1975 by John Norman.

"The Questar Interview" was written by Jeffrey M. Elliot. Copyright © 1980 by Jeffrey M. Elliot.

"Modern Crusaders" was written by Michael Cretu. Copyright © 2000 by Enigma Songs/Mambo Music.

The foreword was written by sierra` and I wish to thank her for her time, perseverance and inspiration - without her, this would have never happened at all.

"Interview with a Hunter" was written by Simon van Meygaarden.

Copyright © 2001 by The Gorean Voice.