The Anthologist: Story 1: The Prettiest Girl

Even if all of my shitty idealistic Green Anarchist opinions were implemented the human spectacle would still be awful . . .
THE REST OF IT GOES HERE They call me the anthologist, but I didn’t ask for the title. I am Earl of the tribe of anarchist scholars, surviving amid the ruins of what once was known as Eugene Oregon. My vocation of the past twenty-five years has been that of a recorder of tales, collected from the oral traditions of various tribes and collectives I’ve encountered in my wanderings. Most groups have welcomed me with warm curiosity. Others have not. Their stories will stay among themselves. At times I’ve barely escaped with my life. Why do I do this, you ask. Because some day reading and writing may return, and I do not wish the stories of the post-revolutionary generations to be lost. Each story is of a different group of survivors, each story reveals a unique glimpse into post-revolutionary life. Each tribe I’ve encountered has found their own way to live in the world, but there is one similarity. They all tell tales of their tragedies and triumphs. They’ve all generated myths through which they comprehend their place in a new, uncertain world.
The first tale comes from the Forest Park Primitivists who lived near old Portland.
Mistrustful of my intentions at first, I eventually won them over by telling stories of my own, some truthful, some fanciful. I asked them if I could stay a few days to rest up for my journey to old Seattle. My usual cover story. I never tell the truth of my vocation. Most people still associate writing with the decadence of Civilization, a dangerous production of symbolic thought, and the Forest Park Primitivists were no exception. Had I put feather and ink to bark, and produced but a single word it would’ve been my last. So I memorize the tales as I go, and only pen the words upon returning to the safety of Eugene. The following tale relates events that took place about fifty years ago, but it seems to reveal the essential character of these people, even today. The story-teller’s name was Eric. I’ve recorded his words to the best of my memory. Only the footnotes are mine.

Michelle loved Gilbert’s eyes more than the Revolution, and the dark crystals of having loved three women glittered with heroic sadness from the moonlight beaming through the ancient pine like the eye of freedom. Every human’s hands were stained with blood, every mind haunted with the horrors of die off, but the danger had passed. Children played naked in the creek, and the little village boasted seven earthen shelters, sturdy and secure for the rainy season to come. The State had passed. History itself had passed and the children were chided to never speak its name.
Gilbert felt the shift of Michelle’s body, and he shifted in turn to hold her. Twin parentheses of skin melded together on the cool wild grass beneath the starry negligee of night. The light pollution was gone. Gilbert would warn the next generation of feral boys and girls. By consensus vote he was honored with the role of storyteller. He and everyone else would forever follow their natural inclinations, guided by that northern star in each unique and treasured soul. Soul was a word they would keep. Again, consensus.
Michelle sighed as Gilbert cupped her breast. "Do you think they’re still growing," she whispered above the sound of gently stirring leaves. Gilbert squeezed gently. "Yes."
A sudden swoop of wings and a high-pitched shrieked caused Michelle to gasp and curl her knees tightly into her abdomen. "Gilbert!"
"Just an owl, honey,"
"I thought it might’ve been--I’ve had nightmares," she said. "Is that so wrong?"
"No, darling. They’ll fade in time." He kissed the soft ivory curve of her shoulder. "And you have never looked so beautiful to me than tonight." He kissed the base of her neck twice. "My hero," he said.
"We’re all heroes, silly," she said.
"Yes, but before all that, you saved me."
"So you remember the lessons, Gilbert."
Splashing in water. The fish were breeding like crazy again. The ancestral memory of freedom had awoken in a flash and sparked vigor in their loins. "Love myself,"
Gilbert said. "And all that has followed has sprung from that. You taught me that."
"And you argued with me, silly fool."
"But you won the day, and the Revolution flowered."
Over the milky horizon of Michelle’s thigh Gilbert watched the sky awaken pink with sunrise. Silhouette of a doe in profile, beneath which a fawn fearlessly nursed.
The villagers, numbering forty-five now with the recent birth of Free Gaia, milled about leisurely, or chatted around the crackling morning fire. A few adolescent boys were charged with task of cooking last evening’s catch of a dozen plump hares for breakfast.
Skewered on sharp sticks, the skinned animals flesh slowly beaded with juice and browned in the heat as the boys laughed amongst each other, turning their sticks. The aroma wafting from the rotisserie summoned everyone to huddle around the fire. The children ran from the stream with bulging deerskin flasks of water. No one had gotten sick off the water for some time now. It was another cause for celebration. The water had healed itself.
Michelle wandered into the woods of alders and spruces. When she could no longer hear her comrades, about half a mile in, she stopped and unknotted the rope of her little rabbit fur purse. Of course she wasn’t supposed to think of it as a purse, but only as a utilitarian container for food or simple tools like grinding stones, arrowheads or flint. Nervously, and with guilt mixed with defiance, she took out two tiny blue pills and silently thanked the gods that she was able to get the laser surgery done on her facial hair before the Revolution. She looked around. Safe. They think I’m engaged in the morning toilet.
She looked at the pills in the cup of her sweaty hand. Pharmaceutical estrogen, seized from Walgreen's in a daring clandestine raid in the terrible times of looting. An act of desperation that could have cost her life. She swallowed them and headed back. She could smell the sweet, wild meat, and as her stomach groaned and led her she softly sung. It was her song, known only to Gilbert, who alone knew of her crime.
I’m the prettiest girl in the whole wide world,
Ain’t nothin’ gonna stop me now . . .
Michelle was served a hearty portion of hare along with assorted edible wildflowers and huckleberries that thrived in thick bushes on the bank of the creek a mile south of the camp. Emily, who had just turned eleven had christened it Rejuvenation Creek. Everyone was happy with the name, and happy as well that Emily hadn’t yet entered puberty. A Harvard University* study before the crash revealed just how badly our bodies had been poisoned by industrial agriculture and animal husbandry. Due to antibiotics, hormones, and various other toxins in milk and meat--not to mention the pesticides contaminating the

*An elite institution of higher brainwashing in which the last vestiges of wild thought were eviscerated in the minds of the young so they could become servant-cogs of leadership in the meat-grinding machine that constituted the American Dream. A main purveyor of the propaganda of occupation economics, called Capitalism, Harvard promulgated the status quo value of domination over nature and over the human resources (sic!) who dared to challenge this rotten pyramid of haves living off the labor of the have-nots. Thanks to Gaia the final attack of the living-dead against free humans, free animals, and free plants of the Revolution failed. Today all learning is rooted in sustainability of the land base. There will be no more Harvards. --from the oral chronicles of the elders

crops or genetically modified strains and god-knows-what in the panoply of drugs pushed on us by allopathic (psychopathic) medicine--sixty percent of girls under the age of eight grew breasts and/or pubic hair. Five percent of girls under three. Furthermore, the breast milk of every mammal on the planet contained dioxin. It was hoped, and everyone thanked the Earth for this, that Emily’s natural maturation would once again be the norm.
Michelle ate wildly, licking the sweet grease off her fingertips and occasionally wiping them on the long grass. Gilbert was telling stories again, mostly for the children’s benefit, secondarily for the tribe at large. His stories were mostly true, but spiced with pedagogical embellishments, befitting his style. Every tale was regarded as informing myth, essential to tribal identification, giving context and meaning to who we were as humans, and how we related to the various lands of our wandering, and to the greater Earth, the mother that nurtured us, the mother that gave we-the-remnant a second chance. Fact and fiction were categories that had passed. Michelle chewed on a sprig of peppermint to clear her palate. Gilbert’s voice bellowed in stentorian pride as he described the evils they’d left behind.
"Ten years we’ve been in the clear of monstrous civilization, my friends. Ten years we’ve been clear of the gnashing teeth of master machine, and after much travail,
spilt blood, and madness, finally our minds our easing into the peace that is the birthright of all wild and free humans." Jubilant cheers and clacking of wooden spoons on stones arose from all but those too young to remember the past ways. Most of the children sat together, and Gilbert tried his best to focus his nearsighted gaze at them. His glasses had been crushed in an alleyway fight in old Portland during the month of terror following the loss of electricity. He glanced back at Michelle. He had fought to protect her. He killed two men that night. Glasses would never be manufactured again. Trading blurry vision for freedom was a bargain he never complained about. To the young he lowered his voice, and assumed the affect of a kindly grandfather.

"Kids, I’m curious: are you ever bored?" **

**Boredom was pervasive during the many thousands of years of humanity's domestication. It's a notion that's difficult to convey to those who've never experienced the horror of its domination. It was an empty state of soul in which the afflicted individual could literally not think of a thing to do. The key to understanding this malady is the word think. They couldn't. The bored person was stripped of basic community-engendering play such as gathering or hunting for food, stripped of the communal play of storytime around the bonfire, and sundry other activities that forge bonds between us that we take for granted. Worse, the bored person couldn't even summon the creativity to entertain herself with her mind. Worse, the bored person often felt no relief even in the presence of other animals or humans. Imagine the horror! Of course, the System of death used boredom to tighten the collars of the slaves. Pornography, alcohol, nicotine and gambling only scratch the surface. The System with all of its resources did not lift a finger to cure this disease. Instead it dished out empty trinkets, empty toys, and that soul-draining magic box. Boredom was a valuable tool for a culture that needed its citizenry to look without for meaning, to waste any and all free time on addictions, and to never question the tacit assumptions of a civilization that dominates from the moment of conception. --Ibid.

Everyone laughed. The question had been rhetorical. "Let me ask another question: is life good?" After more laughter Jimmy, a nine-year-old, answered for the group.
"We play together and eat together and sleep together. The Earth takes care of us, and we take care of each other. How could life not be good?"
Gilbert looked to the adults, their faces wet with joy. "One more question: aren’t any of you afraid of the dark? afraid of getting hurt or sick? afraid of dying?"
Brandon, age eight, spoke up. "But those are natural things. Why should we be afraid of anything natural? The Earth or Gay-uh."
"Gaia!" Emily said.
"Gaia protects us," Brandon said, beaming. "And when it’s time to return to Gaia,
we return to Gaia."
"But what about pain?" Gilbert said, noting the uniform looks of awe on the adults’ faces.
"I broke my arm once," Julie, age seven, answered. "It hurt pretty awful, but the plants that John gave me to eat made it better. And all of you loved me, and that made it better. I am not afraid, or maybe I don’t understand."
Gilbert, through his tears. "Ah but you do understand, Julie. All of you kids understand better than I, better your parents, and better than the vast majority of all human beings whose misfortune it was to live through the terrible ten thousand year interregnum between Edens." The adults nodded, some gushed out "yes!" and "that’s right," and some were too wracked with tears and frozen in awe to communicate further.
"What’s wrong?" Billy, age three, asked with more of a look of curiosity than concern.
"Nothing’s wrong, Billy," Gilbert said, pawing his eyes dry. "It’s right. It’s so right that we older folks can hardly believe it’s true. Yours is the first generation in five hundred to live in a world free of a dominant culture that systematically spread its tentacles across the planet, subjugating the land and all that lived upon it. There is no dominant culture now. Instead there are ten thousand or more, all living in harmony with their environments, all figuring out their own ways, and none--as far as we’ve heard--daring to impose their wills and lifestyles upon their neighbors. Can any of you kids tell me the one and only rule of Gaia?"
It was Tammy, a brunette of four years with hawkish, intelligent eyes. "Balance! Whoever takes has to give back. Balance is the way of Gaia."
"Thankyou, Tammy. Thankyou, everyone. Thankyou, Gaia. May we each have a day of abundant life. May we let the past be, and take no care for tomorrow."
It was a perfect autumn day, and the burning logs emitted a sweet smoke which mixed with the crisp air and made each inhalation an experience redolent of all things delightful. Enough food was gathered and caught in three hours to feed the tribe for three days, including two large whitetail bucks and bucketfuls of meaty steelhead from Rejuvenation stream. The sky past the trees was vibrant blue, and adorned with irregular patches of fluffy clouds. There were no contrails to mar the expanse with crisscrossed exhaust, and no machine flying or otherwise drowned out the twittering polyphony of songbirds. Gilbert returned from fishing humming contentedly. He found Michelle sitting alone on rock, far from the dwelling, pouting.
"Not feeling well?"
"Do you think I’m pretty?"
"You know how I feel."
"Do you think I’m pretty?
"Yes, what’s happened."
"I was washing clothes with Teresa and Nadine. We were topless. They’re more pretty than I am, aren’t they."
"Michelle, look at me. What is it?"
Michelle didn’t look at him. She kicked at a root, looping out of the soil beneath her feet.. "They said." Michelle sunk her teeth into her lower lip. A tear streamed down and glistened on her left incisor. "They suggested eating plants with estrogen. They weren’t being mean, I think. It’s just. Gilbert--do you think they know?"
"I don’t care. I love you, and we are free."
"But we’re not free, Gilbert. Don’t be ignorant. There’s a general agreement that all things unnatural*** are forbidden a place in the new paradigm, and don’t tell me you haven’t thought this through."

***After the collapse of civilization tribal groupings became the norm, usually consisting of forty to seventy-five humans. Many tribes adopted hard lines regarding what to keep in their communities and what to discard. Central to this decision were delineations between definitions of 'the natural' and the 'unnatural.' In some cases death was meted out quickly upon anyone deemed to have indulged in 'unnatural' activities or even 'unnatural thinking.'

"Michelle!" Gilbert seized her protectively by the bare shoulders and kissed her between the eyes. "That applies only to technologies that abuse the land base. That applies to power, and domination, and separation from nature, not to free beings like us. We live in harmony now."
"No," she shook her head amid more tears. "I’m not like other girls, Gilbert. Have you forgotten?"
"You’re the woman I love. You’re the woman I killed for."
"I’m the transsexual you killed for. You’re a part of the queer community, and finally it’s time you’ve come to grips with that."
"But you’re perfectly passable, Michelle. And you’ve had the surgery. You’ve had the laser. And why don’t we just tell everybody already."
"You couldn’t even tell your parents. You were ashamed of me. Worse, you were ashamed of yourself."
"Well they’re dead now, and we are free to be ourselves now."
"What about the pills, Gilbert? Industrialized medicine is prohibited."
"But it’s only estrogen."
"No," Michelle’s forehead crinkled, her eyes were dark liquid slits. "They wouldn’t understand. They would kill us."

Half a mile away Emily and Brandon crouched at the bank of Zerzan**** pond, watching various species of turtles bobbing along or sunning themselves on floating logs.

**** John Zerzan was a leading philosopher in the anarcho-primitivist movement in the decades just prior to the Revolution. A friend of the so-called Unabomber, Zerzan offered a compelling, systematic critique on the essential elements of civilization. These elements included technology beyond the stone-age level which leads to the domination of the machine over the human, agriculture which leads to a dependency on place and over-production, division of labor which leads to a dependency on specialists, mechanical time which dominates the individual by creating proper times of day to engage in activities, numbers which turn the universe and all of its manifold glories into abstraction, and even language itself and its concomitant, symbolic thought which deprived humanity of immediate, animistic relationships of the I-Thou type, replacing them with the tyranny of the I-it. After the Revolution Zerzan's call to refuse these elements won the day across the Earth.
Nearby, Larry, who was generally considered to be weak in the brains was passionately engaging in his singular talent: chipping stones into cutting utensils. His implements were particularly useful in slicing through animal hide. Brandon tapped on one the turtle’s shells with a stick and giggled at the creature’s reaction. "Where’d he go?" he said.
"She," Emily accentuated the pronoun, "probably thinks you’re going to eat her."
"I could eat her if I wanted."
"Of course," Emily said. "We often eat Turtles from this pond, but not too often."
"I want to eat turtles everyday," Brandon said, and gave the shell another jolt.
"If we were to eat too many turtles we might upset the balance in this pond."
"So what! I want turtles."
"If we upset the balance of this pond," Emily said, "the turtles might disappear--forever. You wouldn’t want that, Brandon. Not if you like turtles."
Larry looked up at the children. "I like turtles."
"We all like turtles, Larry," Emily said. "That’s why we’ll obey Gaia, and not farm the turtles out of existence."
"Farm is a bad word," Larry said.
"Yes it is Larry--farming is a bad thing. It creates imbalance. It takes more than it gives back."
"Don’t say that bad word anymore," Larry said, holding his meaty pink hands over his ears.
"Sorry Larry," Emily said. "I was just trying to instruct Brandon."
Larry resumed his stone-chipping, his face flushed, his brow sweating. "When’s he gonna stick his head and legs out again?" Brandon said, tapping the shell again.
"As soon as you leave her alone for awhile," Emily said. "And if you keep hitting her, never." Across the pond, a full moon hung between gnarled arms of an oak tree. This created the illusion that the branches held the moon in place. Brandon furrowed his brow.
"Emily, what is the moon?"
"It’s a world, Brandon. Like Gaia is a world."
"No world but Gaia," Larry said.
Emily lowered her voice. "Daddy tells me there’s lots of worlds."
"Where are they?" Brandon said. "I don’t see them."
"You’ve seen the stars at night, right Brandon." Emily kept her voice low, eyeing Larry in her peripheral vision. Brandon nodded. "Well, around those stars are other worlds, far away, too far to see, but once upon a time we could see."
"How did people see the invisible worlds, Emily?"
Emily’s eyes widened with curiosity. She stood up and pointed to the sky above her head. Her volume rose as did her excitement. "Once we had a great machine in the sky, Brandon. Past the sky in space. The machine was called telescope, and it could see the invisible things, the other wurl--"
With a sharp crack of bone, Emily fell to ground, her blinkless eyes facing the sky.
Larry rubbed his hands through greasy red hair, then cupped Brandon’s mouth to silence the child’s screams. "She said bad words," Larry said. "She taught bad things."
Emily’s wake was attended by everyone. Hers was the first unnatural death since the community came into being. Her naked body was laid in a bed of red and yellow leaves, her platinum hair was adorned with violet wildflowers. Everyone in turn spoke with praise about Emily’s unique contributions to the tribe, and of how she had touched their lives and would never be forgotten. Upon unanimous agreement Larry was banished from the community. He was allowed to take his spear and a bag of blackberries. He was told that he must never return or face execution. At nightfall the children were told to go to bed early so the adults could hold a special meeting around the fire.
Jeremy, the oldest member of the group, fingered the wild ropes of his grey beard, and spoke. "What Larry did, taking justice into his own hands, was inexcusable. What Emily said to Brandon was equally inexcusable."
Emily’s father, Richard stared into the fire. "We raised her well. We warned her about the old ways. It’s not our fault."
Emily’s mother, Gail, added, "I raised a smart child. I raised her to love the Earth.
But she kept asking questions, and like a good mother I answered them. She was fascinated by the old ways, and I told her not to infect the others."
Michelle snapped. "Not your fault! Told her not to infect the others! Are you crazy? It’s Larry’s fault. Has the outcome of revolution come to this--that we’d rationalize a child’s murder because of fear that her healthy curiosity would drive us back to civilization. If that’s what we fought for, if that’s the price of our victory, then maybe it would’ve been better if we lost."
There was much commotion around the fire. Arden shouted for silence. "The children will hear us. Let’s be reasonable. Sister Michelle, you know the bylaws upon which this community was founded. We agreed that the children would be taught to respect and live in accord with nature. We agreed that children would to be taught that the old ways lead to death. Should we allow the death culture to rise again so soon after its dismantling?"
"Should we exchange a global death culture with a local death culture? Emily was killed for mentioning telescopes. Telescopes!"
Jeremy dipped his staff into the fire, and raised its burning tip high above his head.
"Emily died because she forgot what must never be forgotten. That the technology and the path of empirical, mechanized inquiry that results in telescopes also leads to empirical, mechanized weaponry, leads to rationalized genocide and ecocide, leads to rationalized wage slavery*****, leads to the rationalized, pathological system whereby an elite few control the rest of us. Is that what you want, sister Michelle?"

*****Perhaps the most insane premise of Civilization was that it was proper to lock up the food and force people to work for it. One exchanged labor for pieces of paper, called money, which was then exchanged for food. Money represented labor's wages and individual laborers were slaves to them.

"Yes, yes, and your justification for murdering the innocent sounds quite rational.
Don’t you realize that the only hope we have of humanity not choosing the path that leads to slavery and domestication is by example of living good lives, healthy lives, fearless lives, feral lives. Don’t you realize that your attitude is enslaved by fear, that your fear which leads to murder will turn the children’s hearts against the revolution if anything will?"
Jeremy considered this. "Gilbert, do you agree with your woman?"
"I don’t own her, and yes I agree. Emily died for a thought crime. By condoning this action the Revolution is lost. We’ve become the new oppressors. Let us learn by this tragic mistake. Control in all of its forms, no matter how well intentioned, leads to slavery."
"I would’ve agreed with your idealism once," Jeremy said. "But the pre-revolutionary idealism doesn’t match the present reality. We’ve sacrificed too much in freeing the Earth to just stand by, hoping that our idealism will transfer from generation to generation. We need discipline."
Michelle started to weep.
"I won’t live under that yoke," Gilbert said. "You should all be ashamed."
"How dare you shame us," Emily’s mother said. "What would the childless know about raising healthy children in this world?"
"She didn’t even have a chance to be a woman," Michelle said.
"And neither do you!" a woman shouted to Michelle’s left. It was Nadine, who had earlier, along with Teresa, suggested that Michelle should eat plants with estrogen. Teresa was sitting next to her, smiling. Michelle was too stunned to respond. An expectant hush fell upon the tribe.
"What are you talking about?" Gilbert said.
"Yes," Jeremy said. "Please tell."
"Something’s different about her," Nadine said. "I’ve been watching. She’s not like the rest of us."
"Are all women supposed to be cut from the same mold? Is that what we want," Michelle said, clutching her little bag. "Brave new world."
"Well, Nadine?" Jeremy said. "What’s your accusation?"
"She’s awkward around us, and tries too hard to fit in--it’s as if she were harboring a secret."
"What are you talking about?" Gilbert said.
"And she clutches that bag like it was money or drugs in the old days."
"We’re all entitled to a few personal items," Michelle said.
"It’s unnatural," Teresa added. "I agree with Nadine. What’s she hiding in that bag. We’re one community. We deserve to see."
"This is crazy," Gilbert said. "Do we now distrust each other? After all we’ve been through together?"
Jeremy made an arc through the air with his flaming stick. "All in favor of Michelle turning over her bag say ‘Ay.’"
Everyone but Michelle and Gilbert shouted in the affirmation. Michelle clutched the bag to her chest, but Steven jumped up, and after knocking Gilbert aside, seized the bag.
"Open it," Jeremy said. Steven opened it, discarded walnuts, sprigs of mint, the dried head of a rose that Gilbert had found, and finally clutched onto something small and round, examined it, then held it up high.
"It’s a pill," Steven said, his voice trembling with shock. He peered into the bag.
"There’s hundreds of them!"

The next morning Gilbert and Michelle made their way safely around the ruins of Portland and headed north toward the Columbia river. Both were grateful that the tribe had granted them a final feast of venison before banishing them forever. Michelle was grateful that they allowed her to keep the pills. She had made a passionate appeal, citing her shamanic benefit to the people over the years. And when that didn’t work, a miracle. Gilbert, despairing at first, was glad to be free again, though secretly he wished that cigarettes still existed.
"You really gave it to them," Gilbert said, plodding on with his walking stick. "Like you always do."
"Did I scare you?"
"You scared them. You were brilliant."
"Gaia was with me. When I sent the call I didn’t expect a Grizzly bear savior."
"And when you threatened to send in the pigeons******, and the looks on their faces when you asked the bear to desist, and he ambled over to lick your hand--priceless"
******In the last years of the old order a breed of assassin-spy pigeons was bred by the Office of Homeland Security. Billions of these birds were unleashed on dissidents during the times of terror. Pigeon scouts would report on the whereabouts of our rebel strongholds, and then the hoardes would descend to peck us with beaks infused with genetically-modified poisons. After great slaughter, resulting in the near extinction of the Resistance, Gaia came to our rescue by sending crows, hawks, eagles so numerous as to blacken the sky, to slay the unnatural plague, and pave our way to freedom.
"Well, of course, Gilbert, my little monkey. My people have been in communion with the animals for thousands of years."
"Hopefully our next community will be a little more enlightened."
"Monkey?"
"Yes, honey?"
"Do you think I’m still pretty?"
Gilbert stopped and kissed her between the eyes, the third eye, then burst into effeminate singsong, "Your the prettiest girl in the whole wide world, ain’t nothin’ gonna stop you now."