Bryan Murphy's Blog, page 9
August 6, 2013
Houlihan's Wake
OUT NOW at Amazon Kindle Select: my new e-book entitled "Houlihan's Wake and other fragments of Mexico". It blends fiction and poetry, and is a lot sunnier than my sci-fi!
You can find it here: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00EA1TBDM
You can find it here: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00EA1TBDM
July 18, 2013
Dan O'Brien's Cerulean Dreams blog tour
Today I'm proud to welcome fellow dystopian author Dan O'Brien on his Cerulean Dreams tour. Without more ado, I shall hand straight over to Dan.
Welcome to the second day of the Cerulean Dreams blog tour. It will run until July 24th and will feature excerpts, new author interviews each day, and a video blog by the author. But first, here is the obligatory blurb about the novel to settle you into this dystopian world:
Orion, the last city of men. Deep within the desert, a secret lay waiting. Young women found dead in the street. A corporation that controls the sleep of a populace that never sees the light of day. Alexander Marlowe seeks to unravel the mysteries of Orion as he helps a young girl, Dana, flee the city. The closer they come to the truth, the greater the danger that hunts them. Follow them as they search beyond the boundaries of everything they have ever known for answers.
A few questions for the author:
What are you ashamed of?
Probably by the fact that I slip into a place where I am ashamed of anything. I find that shame, guilt, and the like are not conducive to a happy life. Actions have consequences.
What's the loveliest thing you have ever seen?
Too numerous to count. There was an overcast and cold day on the Mendocino coast that stands apart. Something about the waves and the desolation and beauty of the sea was breathtaking.
Can you tell us a little bit about yourself?
I write little bits here and there. I’ve been known to dance poorly when people are looking. I am a Whovian. I love to watch foreign films and I have been known to publish a book now and again.
What do you do when you are not writing?
Editing, and when I am not editing, publishing. There are down times between bouts of being a pen monkey when I like to train and spend time with my wife, but writing (and all that goes with it) is a powerful force in my life.
Here be an excerpt for your enjoyment:
Chapter II
The night was a sweltering one. Marlowe sauntered across Messiah, which ran parallel to 48th. He watched the street trash as they dodged in and out of public housing.
Dark deals made in the false utopia.
The need for recreational pharmaceuticals survived the Water Rights War. Humanity had so many problems and seemingly such little time to deal with them; a chemical intervention seemed inevitable.
Messiah Avenue was a mosaic of shattered dreams and rundown buildings. They climbed into the heavens as well. Thick smog hung above their peaks, threatening disease and malnutrition to those who dared ascend them. The visor whirred angrily. Giving in, Marlowe activated it with a press of his finger to his temple.
The imaging module crackled, red lines inhabiting corners of his vision. The pixels spread quickly, forming a singular picture. Mountains far in the distance, the night air hung with stars and a brilliant mammoth moon that seemed to smile. Grassy fields as far as the eye could see and in azure letters, the words CERULEAN DREAMS.
“Map. Messiah District,” barked Marlowe.
The Messiah district was the grid name for what was lovingly referred to as the Hole. The image of the city shifted from overhead to a blueprint cast in a broad section of colors.
The voice was no longer feminine, but instead a middle-aged man. “Messiah District map incomplete, loading closest match.”
Marlowe sighed. The Messiah District was one of many districts that were scheduled for renovation through the Orion Improvement Program.
“Load thermal imagery and voice/facial recognition modules for Messiah District,” spoke Marlowe clearly, each word enunciated so as not to confuse the software.
A red dot in the corner throbbed angrily as the network was processing. All information was transferred directly from a feed at the Cerulean Dreams compound at the center of the city, but sometimes the signal was much slower in the peripheral districts. “7.93 million registered citizens, 7,930,001 thermal signatures collected.”
Marlowe smiled at the discrepancy.
There was no denying the efficiency of the network.
Every citizen of Orion was implanted in their temple with a motherboard chip from Cerulean Dreams as a way to monitor their wants and needs, cataloguing all information within the city.
Marlowe felt for the bulge along the left side of his trench. He drew his weapon methodically, the steel cold to the touch. His fingers were sweaty, his grip greasy as he flexed his hand a few times to get a grip he liked.
“Location of unknown thermal signature,” spoke Marlowe quietly, aware that there were other humans standing all around him, moving about their business. Had one of them had their visor down, his words would have sailed to their ears.
The software whirred again, the voice crackled this time. “Location is corner of 48th and Messiah, edge of Messiah district.” The voice paused and then resumed. “Upgrade immediately, network connection weak.”
Gripping the weapon low in one hand, he crossed into one of the back alleys on Messiah, moving past transients and shifters who held their hands out for charity. Even those on the lowest ring of society retained access to the main network.
However, their ability to function was still powered by economics. The visor controlled the monetary system, the pleasure system, nearly every function of being; sometimes even governing thought if one was not careful to step away from its thrall on occasion.
Marlowe considered disengaging the visor, but stopped suddenly as the screen filled angrily in row after row of crawling red script. Upgrade was repeated over and over again.
“System failure imminent,” crooned the fading voice.
Marlowe shook his head, wiping at the air.
“Deactivate.”
“Command overridden. Upgrade immediately. Voice protocol required.” Had the visor been an animate creature, he would have struck it, perhaps even fired a round into it. He reminded himself that it was little more than an automated voice and a network of images.
“Fine. Upgrade approved. Could we please carry on?” he asked, knowing that his sarcasm would be lost on the programmed entity.
The red script dissolved back into a street map occupied by throbbing yellow dots that represented the people around him. He moved carefully across the alley until he came to the building marked on the imaging map.
“Deactivate. Upgrade in the background,” he ordered.
The visor dissipated and returned to a bobbing sphere. Within the sphere, a green light shone brightly, announcing the status of the upgrade. When it changed from green to blue, the upgrade would be complete.
48th Street looked eerily similar to Messiah, which was not entirely surprising. Lights were on in a scattered pattern across the buildings. Some citizens stood staring upward. Mouths moving, their visors donned.
Cedars Tower: that was the location of the anomaly.
There was nothing remarkable about the building; same black steel construction and tinted gray windows that climbed into the dusty atmosphere. Marlowe approached the steps. Taking each one deliberately, the thick grip of his boots found sure footing.
A man sat to the side of the double-door entrance.
His visor was down and his voice was a high cackle as he talked to himself. The words he spoke were alarmingly similar to what Marlowe was doing. “I told her that he was coming, but that girl never wants to listen.”
Marlowe couldn’t see his face.
The visors had a way of dehumanizing people, reducing them to a voice and a body covered in similar monotonous clothing; everyone analogous in their creature comforts. He hesitated for a moment, looking down at the man. Marlowe held his weapon tight in his hand, wondering if it was only paranoia.
“You talking to me?” he croaked at the seated citizen.
The man continued, as if Marlowe had not spoken. “Then he showed up and she wasn’t there.” A pause. “Yeah, I know, she doesn’t ever listen. Even her mama told me not to marry her. Yeah, she was too much trouble.”
Marlowe’s grip slackened on his weapon.
He moved past the man through the swinging double doors and into the darkened interior. The everlasting gloom that seemed to permeate from Orion was due in part to the draw of electricity to billboards and signs, as well as the amount of energy required to keep the network active. That coupled with most citizens being logged in the majority of their lives made the necessity for lighting in housing seem something of a waste of energy and time.
A few flickering lights cast shadows across the antiquated furniture in the lobby. Twin elevators lay at the far end of the empty room. No light resonated from them, convincing Marlowe that they were indeed out of commission.
The left side of the room was occupied by a large wraparound desk that probably had been used to welcome guests to the tower. There was no sound except the scratching of rodents moving about. Messiah district was by far the poorest of the city, and the most populated; almost eight million crammed into a few city blocks.
Many lived below ground, in the warmth of the sewers as they could not get heat in the winter. Food trucks no longer came into the district. Thus, they created a diet rich in rodents and other creatures that crawled or slithered deep beneath the city.
He moved forward through the lobby.
Chairs and couches were scattered around. Some were overturned. Others had the cushions and padding ripped from them, no doubt for shelter or clothing. Marlowe backed against the wall, the rhythmic hum of runner lights following him as he peered into the stairwell. The bleached stairs were covered with muddy prints; footsteps covered, and then covered again over time. Using his free hand to push open the door, he sucked his breath in: nothing, no sounds.
He moved through the doorway and closed the thick door behind him. Looking up at the flights of stairs, he sighed. The building was easily a hundred flights high.
“Activate.” The clear blue wrapped around his face once more. The emerald bar had nearly reached half, a little script above it scrawled out that it was 54 percent complete. “Site location of thermal anomaly.”
The visor whirred and the progress minimized, finding a place in a distant corner of his vision. “49th Floor, Room 4918,” responded the voice. Marlowe nodded as he looked up the endless flights of stairs and began his slow ascent.
Bio: A psychologist, author, editor, philosopher, martial artist, and skeptic, he has published several novels and currently has many in print, including: The End of the World Playlist, Bitten, The Journey, The Ocean and the Hourglass, The Path of the Fallen, The Portent, and Cerulean Dreams. Follow him on Twitter (@AuthorDanOBrien) or visit his blog http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com. He recently started a consultation business. You can find more information about it here: http://www.amalgamconsulting.com/.
Bitten (US)
End of the World Playlist (US)
Cerulean Dreams (US)
The Journey (US)
The Path of the Fallen (US)
The Twins of Devonshire (US)
The End of the World Playlist (UK)
Bitten (UK)
Cerulean Dreams (UK)
The Journey (UK)
The Path of the Fallen (UK)
Follow My Blog
Follow Me On Twitter
Like Me On Facebook
Would you like to win a copy of Cerulean Dreams?
All you have to do is comment on a post during the tour. Two randomly drawn commenters will be awarded either a physical or digital copy of Cerulean Dreams.
Visit http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com/ and follow the blog for a chance to win a Kindle Fire!
Welcome to the second day of the Cerulean Dreams blog tour. It will run until July 24th and will feature excerpts, new author interviews each day, and a video blog by the author. But first, here is the obligatory blurb about the novel to settle you into this dystopian world:
Orion, the last city of men. Deep within the desert, a secret lay waiting. Young women found dead in the street. A corporation that controls the sleep of a populace that never sees the light of day. Alexander Marlowe seeks to unravel the mysteries of Orion as he helps a young girl, Dana, flee the city. The closer they come to the truth, the greater the danger that hunts them. Follow them as they search beyond the boundaries of everything they have ever known for answers.
A few questions for the author:
What are you ashamed of?
Probably by the fact that I slip into a place where I am ashamed of anything. I find that shame, guilt, and the like are not conducive to a happy life. Actions have consequences.
What's the loveliest thing you have ever seen?
Too numerous to count. There was an overcast and cold day on the Mendocino coast that stands apart. Something about the waves and the desolation and beauty of the sea was breathtaking.
Can you tell us a little bit about yourself?
I write little bits here and there. I’ve been known to dance poorly when people are looking. I am a Whovian. I love to watch foreign films and I have been known to publish a book now and again.
What do you do when you are not writing?
Editing, and when I am not editing, publishing. There are down times between bouts of being a pen monkey when I like to train and spend time with my wife, but writing (and all that goes with it) is a powerful force in my life.
Here be an excerpt for your enjoyment:
Chapter II
The night was a sweltering one. Marlowe sauntered across Messiah, which ran parallel to 48th. He watched the street trash as they dodged in and out of public housing.
Dark deals made in the false utopia.
The need for recreational pharmaceuticals survived the Water Rights War. Humanity had so many problems and seemingly such little time to deal with them; a chemical intervention seemed inevitable.
Messiah Avenue was a mosaic of shattered dreams and rundown buildings. They climbed into the heavens as well. Thick smog hung above their peaks, threatening disease and malnutrition to those who dared ascend them. The visor whirred angrily. Giving in, Marlowe activated it with a press of his finger to his temple.
The imaging module crackled, red lines inhabiting corners of his vision. The pixels spread quickly, forming a singular picture. Mountains far in the distance, the night air hung with stars and a brilliant mammoth moon that seemed to smile. Grassy fields as far as the eye could see and in azure letters, the words CERULEAN DREAMS.
“Map. Messiah District,” barked Marlowe.
The Messiah district was the grid name for what was lovingly referred to as the Hole. The image of the city shifted from overhead to a blueprint cast in a broad section of colors.
The voice was no longer feminine, but instead a middle-aged man. “Messiah District map incomplete, loading closest match.”
Marlowe sighed. The Messiah District was one of many districts that were scheduled for renovation through the Orion Improvement Program.
“Load thermal imagery and voice/facial recognition modules for Messiah District,” spoke Marlowe clearly, each word enunciated so as not to confuse the software.
A red dot in the corner throbbed angrily as the network was processing. All information was transferred directly from a feed at the Cerulean Dreams compound at the center of the city, but sometimes the signal was much slower in the peripheral districts. “7.93 million registered citizens, 7,930,001 thermal signatures collected.”
Marlowe smiled at the discrepancy.
There was no denying the efficiency of the network.
Every citizen of Orion was implanted in their temple with a motherboard chip from Cerulean Dreams as a way to monitor their wants and needs, cataloguing all information within the city.
Marlowe felt for the bulge along the left side of his trench. He drew his weapon methodically, the steel cold to the touch. His fingers were sweaty, his grip greasy as he flexed his hand a few times to get a grip he liked.
“Location of unknown thermal signature,” spoke Marlowe quietly, aware that there were other humans standing all around him, moving about their business. Had one of them had their visor down, his words would have sailed to their ears.
The software whirred again, the voice crackled this time. “Location is corner of 48th and Messiah, edge of Messiah district.” The voice paused and then resumed. “Upgrade immediately, network connection weak.”
Gripping the weapon low in one hand, he crossed into one of the back alleys on Messiah, moving past transients and shifters who held their hands out for charity. Even those on the lowest ring of society retained access to the main network.
However, their ability to function was still powered by economics. The visor controlled the monetary system, the pleasure system, nearly every function of being; sometimes even governing thought if one was not careful to step away from its thrall on occasion.
Marlowe considered disengaging the visor, but stopped suddenly as the screen filled angrily in row after row of crawling red script. Upgrade was repeated over and over again.
“System failure imminent,” crooned the fading voice.
Marlowe shook his head, wiping at the air.
“Deactivate.”
“Command overridden. Upgrade immediately. Voice protocol required.” Had the visor been an animate creature, he would have struck it, perhaps even fired a round into it. He reminded himself that it was little more than an automated voice and a network of images.
“Fine. Upgrade approved. Could we please carry on?” he asked, knowing that his sarcasm would be lost on the programmed entity.
The red script dissolved back into a street map occupied by throbbing yellow dots that represented the people around him. He moved carefully across the alley until he came to the building marked on the imaging map.
“Deactivate. Upgrade in the background,” he ordered.
The visor dissipated and returned to a bobbing sphere. Within the sphere, a green light shone brightly, announcing the status of the upgrade. When it changed from green to blue, the upgrade would be complete.
48th Street looked eerily similar to Messiah, which was not entirely surprising. Lights were on in a scattered pattern across the buildings. Some citizens stood staring upward. Mouths moving, their visors donned.
Cedars Tower: that was the location of the anomaly.
There was nothing remarkable about the building; same black steel construction and tinted gray windows that climbed into the dusty atmosphere. Marlowe approached the steps. Taking each one deliberately, the thick grip of his boots found sure footing.
A man sat to the side of the double-door entrance.
His visor was down and his voice was a high cackle as he talked to himself. The words he spoke were alarmingly similar to what Marlowe was doing. “I told her that he was coming, but that girl never wants to listen.”
Marlowe couldn’t see his face.
The visors had a way of dehumanizing people, reducing them to a voice and a body covered in similar monotonous clothing; everyone analogous in their creature comforts. He hesitated for a moment, looking down at the man. Marlowe held his weapon tight in his hand, wondering if it was only paranoia.
“You talking to me?” he croaked at the seated citizen.
The man continued, as if Marlowe had not spoken. “Then he showed up and she wasn’t there.” A pause. “Yeah, I know, she doesn’t ever listen. Even her mama told me not to marry her. Yeah, she was too much trouble.”
Marlowe’s grip slackened on his weapon.
He moved past the man through the swinging double doors and into the darkened interior. The everlasting gloom that seemed to permeate from Orion was due in part to the draw of electricity to billboards and signs, as well as the amount of energy required to keep the network active. That coupled with most citizens being logged in the majority of their lives made the necessity for lighting in housing seem something of a waste of energy and time.
A few flickering lights cast shadows across the antiquated furniture in the lobby. Twin elevators lay at the far end of the empty room. No light resonated from them, convincing Marlowe that they were indeed out of commission.
The left side of the room was occupied by a large wraparound desk that probably had been used to welcome guests to the tower. There was no sound except the scratching of rodents moving about. Messiah district was by far the poorest of the city, and the most populated; almost eight million crammed into a few city blocks.
Many lived below ground, in the warmth of the sewers as they could not get heat in the winter. Food trucks no longer came into the district. Thus, they created a diet rich in rodents and other creatures that crawled or slithered deep beneath the city.
He moved forward through the lobby.
Chairs and couches were scattered around. Some were overturned. Others had the cushions and padding ripped from them, no doubt for shelter or clothing. Marlowe backed against the wall, the rhythmic hum of runner lights following him as he peered into the stairwell. The bleached stairs were covered with muddy prints; footsteps covered, and then covered again over time. Using his free hand to push open the door, he sucked his breath in: nothing, no sounds.
He moved through the doorway and closed the thick door behind him. Looking up at the flights of stairs, he sighed. The building was easily a hundred flights high.
“Activate.” The clear blue wrapped around his face once more. The emerald bar had nearly reached half, a little script above it scrawled out that it was 54 percent complete. “Site location of thermal anomaly.”
The visor whirred and the progress minimized, finding a place in a distant corner of his vision. “49th Floor, Room 4918,” responded the voice. Marlowe nodded as he looked up the endless flights of stairs and began his slow ascent.
Bio: A psychologist, author, editor, philosopher, martial artist, and skeptic, he has published several novels and currently has many in print, including: The End of the World Playlist, Bitten, The Journey, The Ocean and the Hourglass, The Path of the Fallen, The Portent, and Cerulean Dreams. Follow him on Twitter (@AuthorDanOBrien) or visit his blog http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com. He recently started a consultation business. You can find more information about it here: http://www.amalgamconsulting.com/.
Bitten (US)
End of the World Playlist (US)
Cerulean Dreams (US)
The Journey (US)
The Path of the Fallen (US)
The Twins of Devonshire (US)
The End of the World Playlist (UK)
Bitten (UK)
Cerulean Dreams (UK)
The Journey (UK)
The Path of the Fallen (UK)
Follow My Blog
Follow Me On Twitter
Like Me On Facebook
Would you like to win a copy of Cerulean Dreams?
All you have to do is comment on a post during the tour. Two randomly drawn commenters will be awarded either a physical or digital copy of Cerulean Dreams.
Visit http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com/ and follow the blog for a chance to win a Kindle Fire!
July 10, 2013
football is fixed
One of the things that inspires my work is corruption in soccer. This is because I used to see sport, and soccer in particular as a great equalizer, a level playing field on which merit could at last reap a due reward.
I don't really believe that now, and one of the sources of knowledge which have changed my view is Jerry Bullivant's blog, uncompromisingly entitled entitled Football Is Fixed.
Here is an extract from his latest entry:
"Roy Hodgson, with one Danish League Title in 24 years and with his close links to Stellar, Base, Key Sports and Wasserman agents (who collectively represented over 60% of England's Euro 2012 squad), is not fit for purpose to be manager of the England team."
The blog itself is currently here:
http://footballisfixed.blogspot.co.uk/
Of course, it goes way beyond sport.
Needless to say, I recommend it.
I don't really believe that now, and one of the sources of knowledge which have changed my view is Jerry Bullivant's blog, uncompromisingly entitled entitled Football Is Fixed.
Here is an extract from his latest entry:
"Roy Hodgson, with one Danish League Title in 24 years and with his close links to Stellar, Base, Key Sports and Wasserman agents (who collectively represented over 60% of England's Euro 2012 squad), is not fit for purpose to be manager of the England team."
The blog itself is currently here:
http://footballisfixed.blogspot.co.uk/
Of course, it goes way beyond sport.
Needless to say, I recommend it.
June 27, 2013
Just In Time
I think it was Lit Bug who kindly recommended the film "In Time" to me, due to my interest in dystopian speculative fiction and my lack of a wish to live forever. I watched it last night, with pleasure, mainly because the idea is brilliant. Moreover, the image of the digital "watch" on your arm which counts down the very seconds that you have left to live (unless you can somehow recharge it) is magnificent, one I think will remain in film history. I also loved the way they portrayed time-related idioms as having gained overwhelming significance in the language. However, they tried to superimpose on this very promising base a run-of-the-mill action movie which I cannot imagine would have halfway satisfied fans of either action movies or science fiction. It also seemed unhappily designed as a "star vehicle" for the two main characters. The male, Justin Timberlake, whom I'd heard of as a singer, was convincing as a "rough diamond", though less so as the saviour of humanity, and was given a few pithy comments to make amid a torrent of platitudes, as was the leading lady, one Amanda Seyfried, who looked great in her opening sequence, when she just, er, looked, and increasingly less so after she had revealed her whiny voice. Her main talent appears to be sprinting in high heels. I couldn't do that, so I shall cease and desist from badmouthing an actress and end by saying that, although I'm a bit fed up with Manichean attitudes even in my beloved sci-fi, and I wish the director had not wilfully misunderstood Darwin, I'm glad that both the endlessly-persecuted goodies and the evil, near-immortal baddies found reasons to reject immortality.
June 7, 2013
Fighting Yesterday's War: Diatto's car factory and 21st century protest
Commercial vandals have secured a stunning victory in Turin. They have destroyed a fine piece of the city's architectural heritage, and done so with full protection by the police, and little opposition. What is more, they have succeeded in getting the press to brand that opposition as the vandals, instead of them.
There are lessons to be learned here for anyone who thinks that any city's architectural heritage is of value.
First, how did the vandals succeed? In short: money, modern technology and intelligent tactics.
Money on the table to convince the cash-strapped city council to lift its protection of the site and to provide an enormous protective police presence while they vandalised it.
Modern technology in the form of two long-reach excavators which used the brilliant tactic of immediately cutting a small swathe through the buildings, so that by the end of the first day's work the major part was already beyond saving. Those "Godzillas" are powerful creatures; intelligent Godzillas are virtually unstoppable.
The vandals even won the media battle. On the first day, the local rag's website reported on the vandalism using the word "clashes" ("scontri") in its title, even though its own story and accompanying picture belied that. The next day, another national newspaper reported one-way violence against the police, resulting in two injuries. That would have happened in places which I couldn't see, and, of course, they were quite right to report it if that is what took place. However, their typecasting of the demonstrators as masked anarchists from a nearby squat was sloppy journalism, at best. Nevertheless, such reporting succeeds in alienating the public from the protestors.
How, then, to stop the vandals?
This incident shows that once the Godzillas get to work, your heritage will be destroyed. You therefore have to protect your heritage before they get to it. That means you need better politicians, better laws and smart lawyers on your side, too. And support from a broader public than street-fighting men. Moreover, if you occupy a place, don't let the police know when nobody is going to be there.
It is entirely possible that many of last night's demonstrators were less interested in preserving the city's architectural heritage than in sparking a wider revolt against the "system". They weren't very successful in that, either.
This could have been Italy's Gezi Park, but getting reported as throwing rocks and bottles at policemen is not going to make that happen unless they are perceived as already having beaten the shit out of you and being ready to do so again repeatedly. In other words, now is a time for total pacifism.
Maybe it always was. Look what Gandhi achieved. Europeans of my generation remember the images of young women placing flowers in the rifles of soldiers during the "Carnation Revolution" in Portugal. In Bulgaria 20 years later, a "high-noon" confrontation between a protest leader and a riot-squad commander was defused when the student wrong-footed the policeman by embracing him to show that essentially they were on the same side.
To return to today and the comparison with Istanbul, what protests need now is "women in red". Come on guys, sacrifice your virgins! Send the hotheads with sticks to the back of the demo, or, better still, get them to leave their sticks and stones at home. Send the ladies with lipstick and skimpy clothes to the front and film any feckwit in uniform who dares to lay a finger on any of them, then send that film on a viral voyage through cyberspace. The mainstream media will find it hard to brand you as crazed cowboy anarchists after that. Instead of being "the other" you will have become "us" or,better still, "our children", "our sisters", "our wives". Then people will start listening to you.
There are lessons to be learned here for anyone who thinks that any city's architectural heritage is of value.
First, how did the vandals succeed? In short: money, modern technology and intelligent tactics.
Money on the table to convince the cash-strapped city council to lift its protection of the site and to provide an enormous protective police presence while they vandalised it.
Modern technology in the form of two long-reach excavators which used the brilliant tactic of immediately cutting a small swathe through the buildings, so that by the end of the first day's work the major part was already beyond saving. Those "Godzillas" are powerful creatures; intelligent Godzillas are virtually unstoppable.
The vandals even won the media battle. On the first day, the local rag's website reported on the vandalism using the word "clashes" ("scontri") in its title, even though its own story and accompanying picture belied that. The next day, another national newspaper reported one-way violence against the police, resulting in two injuries. That would have happened in places which I couldn't see, and, of course, they were quite right to report it if that is what took place. However, their typecasting of the demonstrators as masked anarchists from a nearby squat was sloppy journalism, at best. Nevertheless, such reporting succeeds in alienating the public from the protestors.
How, then, to stop the vandals?
This incident shows that once the Godzillas get to work, your heritage will be destroyed. You therefore have to protect your heritage before they get to it. That means you need better politicians, better laws and smart lawyers on your side, too. And support from a broader public than street-fighting men. Moreover, if you occupy a place, don't let the police know when nobody is going to be there.
It is entirely possible that many of last night's demonstrators were less interested in preserving the city's architectural heritage than in sparking a wider revolt against the "system". They weren't very successful in that, either.
This could have been Italy's Gezi Park, but getting reported as throwing rocks and bottles at policemen is not going to make that happen unless they are perceived as already having beaten the shit out of you and being ready to do so again repeatedly. In other words, now is a time for total pacifism.
Maybe it always was. Look what Gandhi achieved. Europeans of my generation remember the images of young women placing flowers in the rifles of soldiers during the "Carnation Revolution" in Portugal. In Bulgaria 20 years later, a "high-noon" confrontation between a protest leader and a riot-squad commander was defused when the student wrong-footed the policeman by embracing him to show that essentially they were on the same side.
To return to today and the comparison with Istanbul, what protests need now is "women in red". Come on guys, sacrifice your virgins! Send the hotheads with sticks to the back of the demo, or, better still, get them to leave their sticks and stones at home. Send the ladies with lipstick and skimpy clothes to the front and film any feckwit in uniform who dares to lay a finger on any of them, then send that film on a viral voyage through cyberspace. The mainstream media will find it hard to brand you as crazed cowboy anarchists after that. Instead of being "the other" you will have become "us" or,better still, "our children", "our sisters", "our wives". Then people will start listening to you.
June 5, 2013
Mess of pottage
I write with a heavy heart. The destruction has begun. The destruction of an emblematic piece of the city of Turin's rich heritage of industrial architecture. Two former factories in the working-class district called San Paolo were used and protected by the City Council until last summer. Then, strapped for cash, it decided to sell off the land to property developers, who, today, moved in and began the destruction, protected by vanloads of police in riot gear and equally burly non-locals in civilian clothing. For my sins, I have a grandstand view.
May 28, 2013
Marta Merajver interviews Mercurio Ferraris
My friend, Argentinian author Marta Merajver, says: "Talking to a character isn´t an everyday experience. My conversation with Mercurio Ferraris out of Bryan Murphy's "Goodbye Padania" on http://martamerajver.com.ar/marta/ind...
Please share :)"
Please share :)"
May 21, 2013
Daria, Amazon
Goodbye, Padania is now on sale at Amazon, too: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CVZZD6S http://fb.me/OlCOAfDn
May 14, 2013
The Dan O'Brien Project
I'm proud to have my work currently featured there. The whole of Dan O'Brien's site is well worth a visit.
http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.c...
http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.c...
May 8, 2013
In praise of Thatcher and Andreotti
Thatcher and Andreotti, eh? If only there were a hell for them to rot in. Still, tradition asks us not to speak ill of the dead, so let’s see what we can say about those two that is positive.
Thatcher deserves a statue in Buenos Aires. It was arguably her insistence on fighting a war over a few rocks in the Atlantic, no matter how heavy the cost in lives and ever since then in money, that led to the collapse of the fascist regime in Argentina and the advent of democratic freedoms there.
Andreotti, for his part, was the first major Italian politician to advocate “debt forgiveness” for poor countries instead of insisting that they sacrifice their children to placate the anxiety of Western bankers. He was regarded as going ga-ga. Now, of course, Italians, and other Westerners, would love “debt forgiveness” to be applied to themselves.
Thatcher deserves a statue in Buenos Aires. It was arguably her insistence on fighting a war over a few rocks in the Atlantic, no matter how heavy the cost in lives and ever since then in money, that led to the collapse of the fascist regime in Argentina and the advent of democratic freedoms there.
Andreotti, for his part, was the first major Italian politician to advocate “debt forgiveness” for poor countries instead of insisting that they sacrifice their children to placate the anxiety of Western bankers. He was regarded as going ga-ga. Now, of course, Italians, and other Westerners, would love “debt forgiveness” to be applied to themselves.
