Tuesday, November 06, 2012

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- Elegy For A Drunken Man - For Jean Bon Leclerc


Drunk, Sunday night, early Monday morning drunk, drunk against the new week, against the nine to five grind, against another book in need of reading, against the loneliness of Sunday morning, Sunday afternoon, early Sunday afternoon, but mainly against the new reality of a joyless Joyell-less world, to give the against a name, a human name now vanished or rather vanishing before his drunken eyes (she had said they were blue, bedroom blue, she from a brown-eyed world and so delighted, that is the very word she used , to be with her pagan blue-eyed boy but that too was vanishing, the thought of it anyway). Sitting, same sitting at this same sitting bar, on this same sitting bar stool drinking, the last four, or was it five, Sundays running that too vanishing when he was given his walking papers. Yah, he was a walking daddy, walking daddy, a be-bop non-stop walking daddy since she had decided to go back into her safe brown-etched world and leave her blue-eyed, hell, she really did say bedroom blue-eyed, walking daddy to walk alone (and that thought that profound bedroom blue –eyed thought of hers would be retailed many times later, from many other brown-world-women looking for blue-eyed kicks before leaving daddy behind. Leaving that drunken trouble behind, leaving that white lies world behind, leaving those fumbled grand larcenies behind, but that was later this was his first blue-eyed exit and so it hurt.

And so he drank, Sunday night, really afternoon, maybe three or four, catching, cadging when he was short on dough, girl or girl-less, drinks from fair weather drinkers, or drinking exiting customer drinks before the bar maid (quaint, huh) or bartender swooped up the wet napkin liquor as he mopped his section of the cigarette- scarred, ancient glass ring embedded circles of the brown mahogany counter (high class joint two bartenders, and on Sunday afternoon to increase his misery a fetching blonde, unfortunately not interested in has-been blue-eyed silent drinkers) at some Commonwealth Avenue Kit Kat Club “happy hour” to un-silence him. But that is all preclude, all so many extra drinks, collared, cadged, stolen (small larcenies though). At that hour he was drinking low-end whisky neat (maybe with a water chaser, maybe hold the water, gone are the rumble days with Johnnie Walker some color and a beer chaser one guy buying another round until equality and maybe a floor rest, or simmering beef exploding on that ancient ring- stained (and not wiped) brown mahogany counter, a counter filled with pickled eggs, and seven kinds of jerky, an old trick to increase the unslaken (nice) thirst in some South Boston dump bar, ladies by invited escort only, and so only manly rounds, and maybe a few broken glasses, such is life).

This afternoon is ancient history though, a dozen drinks ago, a mile of utter useless chatter to college girls seeking Sunday afternoon thrills before heading back to books further up Commonwealth Avenue, and schools heavy with co-eds, with boyfriends and who knows, brown-eyed worlds that he would never know. Once in a while, a Joyell, once in a while, maybe some girl looking for negro kicks, negro kicks before Malcolm turned them black. The Kit Kat Club intersected, well a lot of things, including be-bop jazz and bop-bop rock and the edges of black town and so the joint had a mix, hipsters, black and white, white mainly wanting to be black hipsters, college girls previously thrill-mentioned, and working- class guys, some drunks some just working away their silences. So some of the girls were thinking dreamy black thoughts, no blue-eyed thoughts to disturb their brown-eyed sleep but some black adventure, some black street adventure before the night sets in. Or daddy finds out, and not walking daddy either. That was how he met Joyell, over at the Red Top Club, another intersecting club, where she was slumming looking for black-eyed guys and where a blue-eyed guy could still hang with heavy-handed, heavy hipped, black angels who know all the angles, all the white man’s angles and be-bopped them away. So she, slumming, came up blue-eyed. But that was a river of drinks ago.

Now downtown bound and done, after Kit Kat memory Joyell done, Carousel bound, bound by mad drunken stools bound, reserved for in the chips customers and hidebound heavy drinkers, say from noon on, and not just on Sunday, bound by four, or was it five weeks SundayafternoonSundayeveningearlyMondaymorning tradition, bound by Edie sitting next to him met on one of those previous Sunday bouts, more on that later, bound by that river of drinks, now step up, Edie step up Canadian Club mid-shelf blends (remember water chaser or neat, Tom, friendly Tom, Tom the everyman bartender, no not cool beer chasers and South Boston mucks, not at the Carousel, the bloody Carousel, where everything is connected, you know c-o-n-n-e-c-t-e-d in your face connected from the bouncers, now of surly looks and beef-eater physiques and no nonsense moves, or out you go, tumbled out onto some garbage can when you wake up, not like the ex-football players that people the security squad at uptown Kit Kat Clubs and places where college girls, adventurous college girls to be sure, go seeking safe negro kicks). Live music coming from the professionally built stage, stage lights beaming and all, now bare except the plethora of musical instruments used to keep the customers restless. (Of course, jukebox heavy, connected three for a quarter jukebox heavy for when the boys, this night boys, Mason-Dixon and the Line filled with plenty of brass and jazzy sounds, and filled with Edie-heavy Motown sounds, take their heavy breather breaks out in back lot automobiles that smell of, but he was no snitch, smell of the stuff of dreams, minute dreams. And fugitive dreams too.

He, walking daddy, walking with the king now, walking with the king after shortly before coming out of one of those Mason-Dixon cars (met, tradition met, on that first Sunday drunk night tradition , having lost all his dough to demon whiskey, and some bitch proctoress, some felon schoolteacher slumming as a bar maid to be with her man on dreary afraid to be alone Sunday, who then went home with her boyfriend, the bouncer, that surly one with the black hair and black heart now standing not ten feet away who all the other bouncers look to for their nods, for his nods and, he, parking lot chased had been saved by the drummer who lived only minutes from his house and who first showed him how to walk with the king), ordered a pair of drinks, Edie and he drinks, what are you having, whatever, he is having, whisky neat (the stale water in the thumb-print heavy tumbler warning him to go neat, or go beat). Beat, beat down, beat around, blessed beatitude beat, but beat. Just then he, now three, or was it four weeks she met, she met right at these very stools evoking nostalgic memories for just a minute, reached his hand over to her thigh and began a gently meaningful rub. She, for a few pats, let him go through the now familiar paces, and then firmly pushed his hand away, he tried again but though better of it.

Strange pattern, strange woman, but right that moment he was tied to her, tied to her by ten thousand lonely desires, ten thousand tough breaks, and maybe ten thousand pats and pushed away hands. She, one, never told him her last name (and he was not altogether sure that Edie was her name, somebody had once called out to her, Maria, she waved, and then ducked her head), two, never told him where she lived other than some over there Cambridge reference (although on previous partings she had headed toward the Massachusetts Turnpike entrance lane nearby), three, never mentioned very much personal information at all, nothing about work or school or family or where she had, or hadn’t been, or where she was going (and went to pains, great pains, to emphasize that they should live in the moment, the bleary-eyed, whisky-sotted moment, and dig those horns, those sexy saxes coming from the stage) and, four, she did tell him she had a boyfriend who was ready to marry her tomorrow , if she was ready, although she said she wasn’t, and that boyfriend had no problem with that either. He figured either she was a whore on a night off, still capable of working a guy for dimes and drinks just to keep in shape for the heavy week ahead or she was being kept by some out- of- town married guy who showed up for business conferences every once in a while and she worked her hands a different way with him. Each week he would lean toward one theory or the other, although by the end of the night the previous week he thought she might just be a“lessie,” a dyke, queer with a big thirst and an itch to make blue-eyed guys crawl before her. But he was tied to her, tied to her in a way that he would have to play out, play out at the cost of a few shared whiskies

A few more pairs of whiskey, one with a water chaser to slow down the pace, and the band came on for the last set, the now familiar max daddy set that gets everybody kind of sexed up, or thinking about the sex they are going to get in an hour or two, if they can make it up the bedroom stairs. These guys are good, whiskey fever good, evoking old time memories of Tommy Dorsey, or Jimmy Dorsey, he never could quite get the difference (except on mother-loving Tommy Tangerine from deep in the heart of World War II, waiting lonely waiting for news of dad, and the fate of the world), Harry James, or the be-bop daddies of the 1950s except they have taken that basic knowledge and applied it to 1966 blast out sound coming from Motown.

They bring the house down with stuff like Wilson Pickett’s Hold On I’m Comingand every guy in the place hopes to high heaven, to some big bopper high heaven, that he is sober enough to do just that (and every girl hoping she is drunk enough to take it, take that thing easy, since she was a little sore the last time she did it and hopes that he will just ask to put a little sugar in her bowl and not want her to get all karma sutra crazy like last time since she has to work in the morning) and then finishes up, encore finishes up with Percy Sledge’s When A Man Loves A Womanand he could see guys on the dance floor dropping their hands down a little to get some ass. Further down the bar, a few seats away a guy was putting his hand on his girl’s thigh and she was helping him slide it toward her private turn-on spot with a little sigh(he thought that pair may not make it to those upstairs, and later out in the a parking he noticed them, just shadows then, except the guy’s bright yellow shirt reflected in the moonlight, against his car, she on her knees doing her thing furiously, a karma sutra woman, Good luck brother he snickered).

The lights then came on. They finish their drinks as the Cossacks start pushing people out the door. He asks Edie to come home with him, then, when she refuses, for him to go home with her. No soap, no karma sutra night, again. He was very drunk, so drunk that night he did not make an issue out of it. He ramble-scramble, no walking daddy now, escorted her to her car, a deep green Triumph, an import from Britain which she had given him a ride in before but, mystery girl, no this night, this night she is miffed at something, not him, he doesn’t figure in the miffed department (maybe the one of horn-player was off, or something like that), so no ride. Adios, this night he knows she is somebody’s whore, probably has an assignation (nice) in the morning and no time for hard-on heavy, blue-eyed French-Canadians who spot girls drinks, whiskey neat drinks.

He walked out of the parking lot, wobbling a little (in the direction where he saw Mr. Yellow Shirt getting his preliminary ashes hauled, preliminary since by the time she gets him home he will be well again, hungry for what she has ready for him again and she looked like she had plenty more to give him, if he wanted it. He had half a thought to go over and see if she was ready for more serious stuff, to spread the wealth with a lame walking daddy, but he, frankly, by then was feeling just too loaded down with drink to press the issue. But he would remember her face, just in case, some other time, always some other time, when she was solo and looking for some kicks, some one night stand when daddy was away or too tired to fill her need and she was like tonight ready for just about anything), feeling in his pocket for cab fare before hailing one. Nothing, no dough, not even change. Flush. Christ, at two in the morning he will have to walk home, walk home through those fugitive streets, no work for him tomorrow or if so, misery.

He begins slowly walking in straight line, consciously aware that he needed to do so in case a stray Boston cop, lonely before checking into Anna’s Diner for his nightly coffee and cakes, or short a few arrests on his monthly quota pulled him over for “vag” or disorderly conduct or some mickey mouse thing. And he just a few moment ago ready to go mano y mano with some sex-hungry chick (he remembered back to that voyeur moment when she practically forced Mr. Yellow Shirt’s hand up her bare thigh, under her short skirt and to her temple of delights, he could almost hear her gulp again when that hand hit pay dirt) who looked like she might enjoy a couple of guys at a time (strictly amateur stuff though, the look of a bored secretary trying to face Monday with a little promise and maybe an adventure to tell the girls at the water cooler at coffee break, a girl just looking for kicks, and finding them where she could) and maybe he should go back to that parking lot(delusion, two o’clock delusion). No they are long gone, long gone by now.

He continued to walk, walk haphazardly but not like a solid drunk, more like a man with an odd-ball purpose, walked pass Anna’s, no good tonight, no dough no good tonight, walked down those fugitive negro streets that separate his white enclave from the encroaching ghetto (and later barrio and later still Little Saigon) , sobering up enough to keep an eye out for jack-rollers, for bad ass guys out to be just bad ass (worse than jack-rollers who just take dough and forget it). No whores around Fields Corner, too late and too Monday. No trade this late out as the negro streets turn to the fugitive mick Irish streets. (He knows, he knows a couple of very good pros over across the street from Saint Anne’s who would show that amateur girl tonight many things, many expensive things, to while away her boredom, and then she would really have plenty to tell the giggling girls at the cooler come Monday, more than how she did her guy out in the parking lot with his pants down and the whole world watching if they wanted to watch, and no lies either. And a lot to tell Edie about how she should treat a guy who buys the drinks week after week but that is water under the bridge, done, done for the night.) He heads up Ashmont Street and home, his rooming house home, the bed, and the sleep, the sound sleep of a drunken man.

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- Elegy For A Drunken Man - For Jean Bon Leclerc


Drunk, Sunday night, early Monday morning drunk, drunk against the new week, against the nine to five grind, against another book in need of reading, against the loneliness of Sunday morning, Sunday afternoon, early Sunday afternoon, but mainly against the new reality of a joyless Joyell-less world, to give the against a name, a human name now vanished or rather vanishing before his drunken eyes (she had said they were blue, bedroom blue, she from a brown-eyed world and so delighted, that is the very word she used , to be with her pagan blue-eyed boy but that too was vanishing, the thought of it anyway). Sitting, same sitting at this same sitting bar, on this same sitting bar stool drinking, the last four, or was it five, Sundays running that too vanishing when he was given his walking papers. Yah, he was a walking daddy, walking daddy, a be-bop non-stop walking daddy since she had decided to go back into her safe brown-etched world and leave her blue-eyed, hell, she really did say bedroom blue-eyed, walking daddy to walk alone (and that thought that profound bedroom blue –eyed thought of hers would be retailed many times later, from many other brown-world-women looking for blue-eyed kicks before leaving daddy behind. Leaving that drunken trouble behind, leaving that white lies world behind, leaving those fumbled grand larcenies behind, but that was later this was his first blue-eyed exit and so it hurt.

And so he drank, Sunday night, really afternoon, maybe three or four, catching, cadging when he was short on dough, girl or girl-less, drinks from fair weather drinkers, or drinking exiting customer drinks before the bar maid (quaint, huh) or bartender swooped up the wet napkin liquor as he mopped his section of the cigarette- scarred, ancient glass ring embedded circles of the brown mahogany counter (high class joint two bartenders, and on Sunday afternoon to increase his misery a fetching blonde, unfortunately not interested in has-been blue-eyed silent drinkers) at some Commonwealth Avenue Kit Kat Club “happy hour” to un-silence him. But that is all preclude, all so many extra drinks, collared, cadged, stolen (small larcenies though). At that hour he was drinking low-end whisky neat (maybe with a water chaser, maybe hold the water, gone are the rumble days with Johnnie Walker some color and a beer chaser one guy buying another round until equality and maybe a floor rest, or simmering beef exploding on that ancient ring- stained (and not wiped) brown mahogany counter, a counter filled with pickled eggs, and seven kinds of jerky, an old trick to increase the unslaken (nice) thirst in some South Boston dump bar, ladies by invited escort only, and so only manly rounds, and maybe a few broken glasses, such is life).

This afternoon is ancient history though, a dozen drinks ago, a mile of utter useless chatter to college girls seeking Sunday afternoon thrills before heading back to books further up Commonwealth Avenue, and schools heavy with co-eds, with boyfriends and who knows, brown-eyed worlds that he would never know. Once in a while, a Joyell, once in a while, maybe some girl looking for negro kicks, negro kicks before Malcolm turned them black. The Kit Kat Club intersected, well a lot of things, including be-bop jazz and bop-bop rock and the edges of black town and so the joint had a mix, hipsters, black and white, white mainly wanting to be black hipsters, college girls previously thrill-mentioned, and working- class guys, some drunks some just working away their silences. So some of the girls were thinking dreamy black thoughts, no blue-eyed thoughts to disturb their brown-eyed sleep but some black adventure, some black street adventure before the night sets in. Or daddy finds out, and not walking daddy either. That was how he met Joyell, over at the Red Top Club, another intersecting club, where she was slumming looking for black-eyed guys and where a blue-eyed guy could still hang with heavy-handed, heavy hipped, black angels who know all the angles, all the white man’s angles and be-bopped them away. So she, slumming, came up blue-eyed. But that was a river of drinks ago.

Now downtown bound and done, after Kit Kat memory Joyell done, Carousel bound, bound by mad drunken stools bound, reserved for in the chips customers and hidebound heavy drinkers, say from noon on, and not just on Sunday, bound by four, or was it five weeks SundayafternoonSundayeveningearlyMondaymorning tradition, bound by Edie sitting next to him met on one of those previous Sunday bouts, more on that later, bound by that river of drinks, now step up, Edie step up Canadian Club mid-shelf blends (remember water chaser or neat, Tom, friendly Tom, Tom the everyman bartender, no not cool beer chasers and South Boston mucks, not at the Carousel, the bloody Carousel, where everything is connected, you know c-o-n-n-e-c-t-e-d in your face connected from the bouncers, now of surly looks and beef-eater physiques and no nonsense moves, or out you go, tumbled out onto some garbage can when you wake up, not like the ex-football players that people the security squad at uptown Kit Kat Clubs and places where college girls, adventurous college girls to be sure, go seeking safe negro kicks). Live music coming from the professionally built stage, stage lights beaming and all, now bare except the plethora of musical instruments used to keep the customers restless. (Of course, jukebox heavy, connected three for a quarter jukebox heavy for when the boys, this night boys, Mason-Dixon and the Line filled with plenty of brass and jazzy sounds, and filled with Edie-heavy Motown sounds, take their heavy breather breaks out in back lot automobiles that smell of, but he was no snitch, smell of the stuff of dreams, minute dreams. And fugitive dreams too.

He, walking daddy, walking with the king now, walking with the king after shortly before coming out of one of those Mason-Dixon cars (met, tradition met, on that first Sunday drunk night tradition , having lost all his dough to demon whiskey, and some bitch proctoress, some felon schoolteacher slumming as a bar maid to be with her man on dreary afraid to be alone Sunday, who then went home with her boyfriend, the bouncer, that surly one with the black hair and black heart now standing not ten feet away who all the other bouncers look to for their nods, for his nods and, he, parking lot chased had been saved by the drummer who lived only minutes from his house and who first showed him how to walk with the king), ordered a pair of drinks, Edie and he drinks, what are you having, whatever, he is having, whisky neat (the stale water in the thumb-print heavy tumbler warning him to go neat, or go beat). Beat, beat down, beat around, blessed beatitude beat, but beat. Just then he, now three, or was it four weeks she met, she met right at these very stools evoking nostalgic memories for just a minute, reached his hand over to her thigh and began a gently meaningful rub. She, for a few pats, let him go through the now familiar paces, and then firmly pushed his hand away, he tried again but though better of it.

Strange pattern, strange woman, but right that moment he was tied to her, tied to her by ten thousand lonely desires, ten thousand tough breaks, and maybe ten thousand pats and pushed away hands. She, one, never told him her last name (and he was not altogether sure that Edie was her name, somebody had once called out to her, Maria, she waved, and then ducked her head), two, never told him where she lived other than some over there Cambridge reference (although on previous partings she had headed toward the Massachusetts Turnpike entrance lane nearby), three, never mentioned very much personal information at all, nothing about work or school or family or where she had, or hadn’t been, or where she was going (and went to pains, great pains, to emphasize that they should live in the moment, the bleary-eyed, whisky-sotted moment, and dig those horns, those sexy saxes coming from the stage) and, four, she did tell him she had a boyfriend who was ready to marry her tomorrow , if she was ready, although she said she wasn’t, and that boyfriend had no problem with that either. He figured either she was a whore on a night off, still capable of working a guy for dimes and drinks just to keep in shape for the heavy week ahead or she was being kept by some out- of- town married guy who showed up for business conferences every once in a while and she worked her hands a different way with him. Each week he would lean toward one theory or the other, although by the end of the night the previous week he thought she might just be a“lessie,” a dyke, queer with a big thirst and an itch to make blue-eyed guys crawl before her. But he was tied to her, tied to her in a way that he would have to play out, play out at the cost of a few shared whiskies

A few more pairs of whiskey, one with a water chaser to slow down the pace, and the band came on for the last set, the now familiar max daddy set that gets everybody kind of sexed up, or thinking about the sex they are going to get in an hour or two, if they can make it up the bedroom stairs. These guys are good, whiskey fever good, evoking old time memories of Tommy Dorsey, or Jimmy Dorsey, he never could quite get the difference (except on mother-loving Tommy Tangerine from deep in the heart of World War II, waiting lonely waiting for news of dad, and the fate of the world), Harry James, or the be-bop daddies of the 1950s except they have taken that basic knowledge and applied it to 1966 blast out sound coming from Motown.

They bring the house down with stuff like Wilson Pickett’s Hold On I’m Comingand every guy in the place hopes to high heaven, to some big bopper high heaven, that he is sober enough to do just that (and every girl hoping she is drunk enough to take it, take that thing easy, since she was a little sore the last time she did it and hopes that he will just ask to put a little sugar in her bowl and not want her to get all karma sutra crazy like last time since she has to work in the morning) and then finishes up, encore finishes up with Percy Sledge’s When A Man Loves A Womanand he could see guys on the dance floor dropping their hands down a little to get some ass. Further down the bar, a few seats away a guy was putting his hand on his girl’s thigh and she was helping him slide it toward her private turn-on spot with a little sigh(he thought that pair may not make it to those upstairs, and later out in the a parking he noticed them, just shadows then, except the guy’s bright yellow shirt reflected in the moonlight, against his car, she on her knees doing her thing furiously, a karma sutra woman, Good luck brother he snickered).

The lights then came on. They finish their drinks as the Cossacks start pushing people out the door. He asks Edie to come home with him, then, when she refuses, for him to go home with her. No soap, no karma sutra night, again. He was very drunk, so drunk that night he did not make an issue out of it. He ramble-scramble, no walking daddy now, escorted her to her car, a deep green Triumph, an import from Britain which she had given him a ride in before but, mystery girl, no this night, this night she is miffed at something, not him, he doesn’t figure in the miffed department (maybe the one of horn-player was off, or something like that), so no ride. Adios, this night he knows she is somebody’s whore, probably has an assignation (nice) in the morning and no time for hard-on heavy, blue-eyed French-Canadians who spot girls drinks, whiskey neat drinks.

He walked out of the parking lot, wobbling a little (in the direction where he saw Mr. Yellow Shirt getting his preliminary ashes hauled, preliminary since by the time she gets him home he will be well again, hungry for what she has ready for him again and she looked like she had plenty more to give him, if he wanted it. He had half a thought to go over and see if she was ready for more serious stuff, to spread the wealth with a lame walking daddy, but he, frankly, by then was feeling just too loaded down with drink to press the issue. But he would remember her face, just in case, some other time, always some other time, when she was solo and looking for some kicks, some one night stand when daddy was away or too tired to fill her need and she was like tonight ready for just about anything), feeling in his pocket for cab fare before hailing one. Nothing, no dough, not even change. Flush. Christ, at two in the morning he will have to walk home, walk home through those fugitive streets, no work for him tomorrow or if so, misery.

He begins slowly walking in straight line, consciously aware that he needed to do so in case a stray Boston cop, lonely before checking into Anna’s Diner for his nightly coffee and cakes, or short a few arrests on his monthly quota pulled him over for “vag” or disorderly conduct or some mickey mouse thing. And he just a few moment ago ready to go mano y mano with some sex-hungry chick (he remembered back to that voyeur moment when she practically forced Mr. Yellow Shirt’s hand up her bare thigh, under her short skirt and to her temple of delights, he could almost hear her gulp again when that hand hit pay dirt) who looked like she might enjoy a couple of guys at a time (strictly amateur stuff though, the look of a bored secretary trying to face Monday with a little promise and maybe an adventure to tell the girls at the water cooler at coffee break, a girl just looking for kicks, and finding them where she could) and maybe he should go back to that parking lot(delusion, two o’clock delusion). No they are long gone, long gone by now.

He continued to walk, walk haphazardly but not like a solid drunk, more like a man with an odd-ball purpose, walked pass Anna’s, no good tonight, no dough no good tonight, walked down those fugitive negro streets that separate his white enclave from the encroaching ghetto (and later barrio and later still Little Saigon) , sobering up enough to keep an eye out for jack-rollers, for bad ass guys out to be just bad ass (worse than jack-rollers who just take dough and forget it). No whores around Fields Corner, too late and too Monday. No trade this late out as the negro streets turn to the fugitive mick Irish streets. (He knows, he knows a couple of very good pros over across the street from Saint Anne’s who would show that amateur girl tonight many things, many expensive things, to while away her boredom, and then she would really have plenty to tell the giggling girls at the cooler come Monday, more than how she did her guy out in the parking lot with his pants down and the whole world watching if they wanted to watch, and no lies either. And a lot to tell Edie about how she should treat a guy who buys the drinks week after week but that is water under the bridge, done, done for the night.) He heads up Ashmont Street and home, his rooming house home, the bed, and the sleep, the sound sleep of a drunken man.

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- Peter Paul Markin’s Stew

 

Jesus, Peter Paul Markin was in a fine stew. I had, over the part forty plus years that I have known him since we first met on a Russian Hill park in San Francisco during the Summer of Love, 1967, seen him in a dither on many occasions, most not worthy of discussion, or mention, but this one was different. This was one of those furies that might not past, especially since it involved his very essence as he called it. A few weeks back on one lonely night he called me up and said he wanted to talk, talk seriously, which tipped me off that I was in for an earful. Later that night at the Surfside Bar over on Main in Ocean City after a few preliminary drinks he let go. For the next two or so hours he, calmly mostly, ran through his life time of grievances, tics, weird allusions and just plain funk on the subject of femmes, fatale or otherwise. I tried to take notes as I as is my wont in these infrequent tirades but I make no claim that I got everything right. Here is the gist of his complaint:

First off Markin (let’s leave it at that since I have already introduced his full name and that is what I have taken to call him of late since Peter Paul seems too ornate and his childhood Pee-Pee, well too childhoody) said he was tired, tired of remembering and writing about remembering that had been his lot for the past several years. On the top of that list was remembering writing and remembering, fatally remembering, those femme fatales that he was addicted to watching on old time black and white film noir flicks. He spoke of the addiction, of his self-imposed addiction, like it was a curse that had befallen him and that he, and he alone, needed to clear the memories of those ancient females who did what they had to do, including a little rough stuff, boom- boom rough stuff or a case of the run offs come hell or high water. See, he said, in those days, and maybe now too although frails (women in his old-time corner boy remembrance Billie Bradley working class Adamsville, Ma. projects days term) have their own dough more now, a woman had to look out for herself, especially working women who it didn’t take much to put on cheap street, walking some red light streets, or in some broken down wreck of a whore house working night to five (night to day) doing what they had tried to avoid doing and so they had to take the main chance when they got it. Especially good- looking frills (another Billie-ism, okay) who maybe didn’t finish high school, maybe were faced with serving them off the arm in some cheap jack hash house, maybe charging a dime a dance in some clip joint, or maybe just avoiding the boss’ passes while taking dictation in some seventh floor seedy run down office building on the back streets of town peopled by in your face repo men, failed dentists, shady chiropractors, flim-flam insurance guys, peeping tom gumshoes and assorted other low life but who had, well, had looks, and a certain way of carrying herself, but mainly the scent, that scent that told every guy, rich or poor, that here comes trouble and what are you going to do about it.

Naturally when old Pee-Pee (his nickname from those Billie day neighborhoods and the last time I will use it here, sorry) got into second gear about femme fatales he (and I) knew that the subject of one Jane Greer would come up. I braced myself although I too could have recited the story he would relate chapter and verse. See I had seen (at his suggestion) Jane Greer in the 1946 classic Out Of The Past although he conveniently forgot that hard fact when he was in the stews. Of course Ms. Greer’s dilemma touched old Markin’s larcenous heart. Seemed that hard pressed drop dead beautiful working girl Jane (if you want to cut to the chase here and look the story up at its Wikipedia entry feel free to do so and as well get the character names because I am using their acting names here) was just the slightest bit trigger- happy and put a slug in her sugar daddy, one Kirk Douglas. She split but not without taking a fistful of his dough (Markin loved that part, the taking the dough “for services rendered” part and if you think about it whatever she did do she earned that dough, earned it the hard way).

Naturally one sugar daddy, one connected don (maybe connected, maybe a free-agent but with muscle and no scruples) did not get, or keep, his sugar by being a patsy, especially not to some twisted forty-five happy gunsel dame. So he hired gumshoe Robert Mitchum (and his partner) to get the damn dough, and bring milady back into the fold. And so the chase was on, well, almost was on because once old Robert got a look at her down in some dusty old Mexican cantina, no, got a whiff of that gardenia, or whatever perfume, even before she came through the door he knew he was hooked. Markin figured that Robert he had it figured that she would be a looker maybe he figured he could withstand that scent, and maybe the slow afternoon whiskies just got to him once he knew he had to have her. Hooked by a femme just as bad as a man can be hooked. So they ran away back to the states and lived happily ever after. Right?

No way. You forgot about Kirk and his little sense of manhood, and maybe Jane and her wants to. He sent the gumshoe partner off to get this pair and the partner does finally find them. Except then Jane’s little problem with guns came back into play. Boom, boom dead partner and she skipped town letting Robert play the fall guy, or at least a prime candidate for that distinction. But all came out well in the end, the noir end. Jane found her way, as a struggling girl must, back to Kirk. But Kirk would be well-advised to not turn his back even a quarter- turn when Jane had her wanting habits on. In the meantime Kirk accidently found out where Robert was holing up, some Podunk town out on the edge of oblivion, they have a am not man powwow and Jane in one last gallant act shot Kirk in order to run away with Robert. But dear Robert had by then learned a lesson or two in life, kind of, and so he crossed up the deal. Crossed it up so bad that Jane, in one last blaze of glory, put a couple in Robert for double-crossing her. So in the end all three were RIP. "What a woman," Markin said almost in a sacred whisper before stating that, hell, he had told that story seventeen different ways, including having her cast as some avenging Madonna angel of the streets out to avenge the historic gash left by primordial man before the fall, and enough was enough. Yah, the stews.

Almost enough that is. Before I could get a yah in edgewise he was off on another femme binge this time whimpering about Miss Lana Turner, damn Miss Turner, who played some California (by way of Okie/Arkie dust bowl beginnings looking some walking daddy to run rings around) tramp round-hell whore who picked up some gabacho old guy and who was serving them off the arm at his seaside diner when Mister John Garfield went left instead of right at the stop where he was left off by some hobo-saving trucker in The Postman Always Rings Twice. When our boy John saw her coming through the door, all dressed in white and ready, ready for anything, and started licking his chops he was doomed just like probably ten million Lana guys before him. Yes Lana had seen the dark side of life and she wanted her’s, wanted it all. And John bought into her dreams, or maybe just that jasmine scent that kept him awake every night until, well, just until. I told you he was hooked, hooked as bad as a man could be hooked, maybe even worst that Robert Mitchum. Jesus. So when dear Lana suggested that all that stood between them and happiness was old hubby the plan was hatched, hatched to perfection.

Except don’t trust amateurs in the murder racket. This pair screwed up about
six-ways- to-Sunday, screwed it up so bad that it was only just when the deal went down that Frank, Frank was left alone to take the rap. Taking the rap and begging for long gone Lana’s smile up in some death row prison cell. The way Markin told it though was like Lana was another one of those Madonna of the streets frails, some virginal vestige of all the bad that could happen to a woman and so she needed, more, she was entitled, to grab, and grab hard for whatever small solace she could dig out of this wicked old world. But Markin yelled, one of his very few outright eruptions, that he had done that story about eighteen different ways, including switching it up and having her as nothing but a money-grubbing man-hater, all men, maybe going back to some unspoken abusive father creeping up to her room time, and while Lana, and her ilk, deserved better that is the way that kind of story went. Basta,

So finally he was done with the femme tale stuff, right? No, no way, he still had the trifecta to complete, the ankle bracelet story. Well that ankle bracelet doesn’t play much of a part in the story but that is what Markin always called it when he cornered somebody long enough to tell this tale this Double Indemnity plot line and how poor Barbara Stanwyck really did get the short end of the stick when all was said and done. Barbara needed dough, well she just needed dough, don’t ask the reason maybe just some deprived, depraved childhood or something. But what she really needed was a guy who could do some heavy lifting, was ready to jump hoops for her, and like it. Enter one Fred MacMurray who once he got a load of the ankle bracelet and looked up he was hooked, need I say it, hooked as bad as a man could be hooked and still breath. See Fred sold insurance, life insurance, with nice little riders for double indemnity, extra sugar, in case of some accidental death, like falling off the club car of a slow-moving train that fell from the sky. Manna, pure manna.

So Fred and Barbara were going to be on easy street after this little caper, no problems. Problem is the insurance company that Fred worked for had a tenacious fraud investigator, Edward G. Robinson (more frequently seen working the bang-bang bad guy, guys like mobbed-up Johnny Rico in Key Largo) who almost fouled the plan up except the pair start distrusting each other and saved him the trouble by shooting each other up, bang, bang. Yes, Barbara was a queen-sized femme maybe having had a hand in off-handedly knocking off hubby’s first wife to get to the prize and then tripping up poor Fred. But that crime doesn’t pay thing Markin complained of had been done by him about nineteen different ways, including the inevitable Eve substitute thing that he had a thing about, before. Enough of femmes, enough of driving guys crazy perfumes (or ankle bracelets, for that matter), and enough of guys trying figure them out. Including Markin.

With those several mouthfuls you would have thought that Markin had exhausted his venomous ways. Had gotten his remembering hurts off his chest. No, not by a long shot. Once he had gotten film noir queens out of the way he was just getting up to speed. I will spare the reader a little eyesight though and summarize that he went through just about every frill that had done him wrong since about childhood.

Some bath soap elementary school thing named Rosalind who turned on him because he didn’t have the right clothes or something the way he told it, some perfumed pre-teen named Maria who refused to take a “clipped” (stolen, petty larceny stolen with friend Billie) cheapo onyx ring as a sign of his eternal devotion, a couple of college girls who sounded to me like they were just doing it as a lark, one clearly just slumming before moving on to her dream stockbroker, more that I had previously known about south of the border senorita-led failed drug deal stuff with a couple of dead hombres face down in some dusty Sonora back street, the usual three or ten failed marriage, live together, night together, week together things half the world has been through without becoming apoplectic about femmesat sixty-something , and about six others that I couldn’t keep straight by the time the tirade ended. He even brought in Butterfly Swirl, a Botticelli-picture girl, that I had “stolen” from him out in San Francisco back in the ‘60s and how she dope smoked up the world and left him flat (neglecting to finish for me, although in the end she, Botticelli vision or not, left me for her old time golden-haired surfer boy back in Carlsbad). Then he finished up, finished up classic Markin, with this beauty- “What’s a guy to do when that scent gets to a man.” What, indeed. Jesus, the stews.

From #Un-Occupied Boston (#Un-Tomemonos Boston)-What Happens When We Do Not Learn The Lessons Of History- The Pre-1848 Socialist Movement-From The Pens Of Karl Marx And Friedrich Engels-The Struggle For The Communist League-On The History of the Communist League (1885)

Click on the headline to link to the Occupy Boston General Assembly Minutes website. Occupy Boston started at 6:00 PM, September 30, 2011.

Markin comment:

I will post any updates from that Occupy Boston site if there are any serious discussions of the way forward for the Occupy movement or, more importantly, any analysis of the now atrophied and dysfunctional General Assembly concept. In the meantime I will continue with the “Lessons From History ’’series started in the fall of 2011 with Karl Marx’s The Civil War In France-1871 (The defense of the Paris Commune). Right now this series is focused on the European socialist movement before the Revolutions of 1848.

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An Injury To One Is An Injury To All!-Defend The Occupy Movement And All Occupiers! Drop All Charges Against All Occupy Protesters Everywhere!

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Fight-Don’t Starve-We Created The Wealth, Let's Take It Back! Labor And The Oppressed Must Rule!
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A Five-Point Program As Talking Points

*Jobs For All Now!-“30 For 40”- A historic demand of the labor movement. Thirty hours work for forty hours pay to spread the available work around. Organize the unorganized- Organize the South- Organize Wal-Mart- Defend the right for public and private workers to unionize.

* Defend the working classes! No union dues for Democratic (or the stray Republican) candidates. Spent the dough instead on organizing the unorganized and on other labor-specific causes (good example, the November, 2011 anti-union recall referendum in Ohio, bad example the Wisconsin gubernatorial recall race in June 2012).

*End the endless wars!- Immediate, Unconditional Withdrawal Of All U.S./Allied Troops (And Mercenaries) From Afghanistan! Hands Off Pakistan! Hands Off Iran! U.S. Hands Off The World!

*Fight for a social agenda for working people!. Quality Healthcare For All! Nationalize the colleges and universities under student-teacher-campus worker control! Forgive student debt! Stop housing foreclosures!

*We created the wealth, let’s take it back. Take the struggle for our daily bread off the historic agenda. Build a workers party that fights for a workers government to unite all the oppressed.

Emblazon on our red banner-Labor and the oppressed must rule!

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Markin comment:

This foundation article by Marx or Engels goes along with the propaganda points in the fight for our communist future mentioned in other posts in this space.

Marx/Engels Internet Archive-The Communist League

A congress of the League of the Just opened in London on June 2, 1847. Engels was in attendance as delegate for the League's Paris communities. (Marx couldn't attend for financial reasons.)

Engels had a significant impact throughout the congress -- which, as it turned out, was really the "inaugural Congress" of what became known as the Communist League. This organization stands as the first international proletarian organization. With the influence of Marx and Engels anti-utopian socialism, the League's motto changed from "All Men are Brothers" to "Working Men of All Countries, Unite!"

Engels: "In the summer of 1847, the first league congress took place in London, at which W. Wolff represented the Brussels and I the Paris communities. At this congress the reorganization of the League was carried through first of all. ...the League now consisted of communities, circles, leading circles, a central committee and a congress, and henceforth called itself the 'Communist League'."

The Rules were drawn up with the participation of Marx and Engels, examined at the First Congress of the Communist League, and approved at the League's Second Congress in December 1847.

Article 1 of the Rules of the Communist League: "The aim of the league is the overthrow of the bourgeoisie, the rule of the proletariat, the abolition of the old bourgeois society which rests on the antagonism of classes, and the foundation of a new society without classes and without private property."

The first draft of the Communist League Programme was styled as a catechism -- in the form of questions and answers. Essentially, the draft was authored by Engels. The original manuscript is in Engels's hand.

The League's official paper was to be the Kommunistische Zeitschrift, but the only issue produced was in September 1847 by a resolution of the League's First Congress. It was First Congress prepared by the Central Authority of the Communist League based in London. Karl Schapper was its editor.

The Second Congress of the Communist League was held at the end of November 1847 at London's Red Lion Hotel. Marx attended as delegate of the Brussels Circle. He went to London in the company of Victor Tedesco, member of the Communist League and also a delegate to the Second Congress. Engels again represented the Paris communities. Schapper was elected chairman of the congress, and Engels its secretary.

Friedrich Lessner: "I was working in London then and was a member of the communist Workers' Educational Society at 191 Drury Lane. There, at the end of November and the beginning of December 1847, members of the Central Committee of the Communist League held a congress. Karl Marx and Frederick Engels came there from Brussels to present their views on modern communism and to speak about the Communists' attitude to the political and workers' movement. The meetings, which, naturally, were held in the evenings, were attended by delegates only... Soon we learned that after long debates, the congress had unanimously backed the principles of Marx and Engels..."

The Rules were officially adopted December 8, 1847.

Engels: "All contradiction and doubt were finally set at rest, the new basic principles were unanimously adopted, and Marx and I were commissioned to draw up the Manifesto." This would, of course, become the Communist Manifesto.
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Frederick Engels

On The History of the Communist League

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First Published: Nov 12-26, 1885 in Sozialdemokrat;
Source: Marx and Engels Selected Works, Volume 3, Progress Publishers, Moscow 1970;
Transcribed by: zodiac@io.org.


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London
October 8, 1885

With the sentence of the Cologne Communists in 1852, the curtain falls on the first period of the independent German workers’ movement. Today this period is almost forgotten. Yet it lasted from 1836 to 1852 and, with the spread of German workers abroad, the movement developed in almost all civilized countries. Nor is that all. The present-day international workers’ movement is in substance a direct continuation of the German workers’ movement of that time, which was the first international workers’ movement of all time, and which brought forth many of those who took the leading role in he International Working Men’s Association. And the theoretical principles that the Communist League had inscribed on its banner in the Communist Manifesto of 1847 constitute today the strongest international bond of the entire proletarian movement of both Europe and America.

Up to now there has been only one source for a coherent history of that movement. This is the so-called Black Book, The Communist Conspiracies of the Nineteenth Century, by Wermuth and Stieber, Erline, two parts, 1853 and 1854. This crude compilation, which bristles with deliberate falsifications, fabricated by two of the most contemptible police scoundrels of our century, today still serves as the final source for all non-communist writings about that period.

What I am able to give here is only a sketch, and even this only in so far as the League itself is concerned; only what is absolutely necessary to understand the Revelations. I hope that some day I shall have the opportunity to work up the rich material collected by Marx and myself on the history of that glorious period of the youth of the international workers’ movement.

* In 1836 the most extreme, chiefly proletarian elements of the secret democratic-republican Outlaws’ League, which was founded by German refugees in Paris in 1834, split off and formed the new secret League of the Just. The parent League, in which only sleepy-headed elements à la Jakobus Venedey were left, soon fell asleep altogether; when in 1840 the police scented out a few sections in Germany, it was hardly even a shadow of its former self. The new League, on the contrary, developed comparatively rapidly. Originally it was a German outlier of the French worker-Communism, reminiscent of Babouvism and taking shape in Paris at about this time; community of goods was demanded as the necessary consequence of “equality”. The aims were those of the Parisian secret societies of the time: half propaganda association, half conspiracy, Paris, however, being always regarded as the central point of revolutionary action, although the preparation of occassional putsches in Germany was by no means excluded. But as Paris remained the decisive battleground, the League was at that time actually not much more than the German branch of the French secret societies, especially the Societe des saisons led by Blanqui and Barbes, with which a close connections was maintained. The French went into action on May 12, 1839; the sections of the League marched with them and thus were involved in the common defeat.

Among the Germans arrested were Karl Schapper and Heinrich Bauer; Louis Philippe’s government contented itself with deporting them after a fairly long imprisonment. Both went to London. Schapper came from Weilburg in Nassau and while a student of forestry at Giessen in 1832 was a member of the conspiracy organized by Georg Buchner; he took part in the storming of the Frankfort constable station on April 3, 1833, escaped abroad and in February 1834 joined Mazzini’s march on Savoy. Of gigantic stature, resolute and energetic, always ready to risk civil existence and life, he was a model of the professional revolutionist that played an important role in the thirties. In spite of a certain sluggishness of thought, he was by no means incapable of profound theoretical understanding, as is proved by his development from “demagogue” to Communist, and he held then all the more rigidly to what he had once come to recognize. Precisely on that account his revolutionary passion sometimes got the better of understanding, but he always afterwards realized his mistake and openly acknowledged it. He was fully a man and what he did for the founding of the German workers’ movement will not be forgotten.

Heinrich Bauer, from Franconia, was a shoemaker; a lively, alert, witty little fellow, whose little body, however, also contained much shrewdness and determination.

Arrived in London, where Schapper, who had been a compositor in Paris, now tried to earn his living as a teacher of languages, they both set to work gathering up the broken threads and made London the centre of the League. They were joined over here, if not already earlier in Paris, by Joseph Moll, a watchmaker from Cologne, a medium-sized Hercules — how often did Schapper and he victoriously defend the entrance to a hall against hundreds of onrushing opponents! — a man who was at least the equal of his two comrades in energy and determination, and intellectually superior to both of them. Not only was he a born diplomat, as the success of his numerous trips on various mission proved; he was also more capable of theoretical insight. I came to know all three of them in London in 1843. There were the first revolutionary proletarians whom I met, and however far apart our views were at that time — for I still owned, as against their narrow-minded equalitarian Communism [by equalitarian Communism I understand, as stated, only that Communism which bases itself exclusively or predominantly on the demand for equality], a goodly does of just as narrow-minded philosophical arrogance — I shall never forget the deep impression that these three real men made upon me, who was then still only wanting to become a man.

In London, as in a lesser degree in Switzerland, they had the benefit of freedoms of association and assembly. As early as February 7, 1840, the legally functioning German Workers’ Educational Association, which still exists, was founded. This Association served the League as a recruiting ground for new members, and since, as always, the Communists were the most active and intelligent members of the Association, it was a matter of course that its leadership lay entirely in the hands of the League. The League soon had several communities, or, as they were then still called, “lodges”, in London. The same obvious tactics were followed in Switzerland and elsewhere. Where workers’ associations could be founded, they were utilized in like manner. Where this was forbidden by law, one joined choral societies, athletic clubs, and the like. Connections were to a large extent maintained by members who were continually travelling back and forth; they also, when required, served as emissaries. In both respects the League obtained lively support through the wisdom of the governments which, by resorting to deportation, converted any objectionable worker — and in nine cases our of ten he was a member of the League — into an emissary.

The extent to which the restored League was spread was considerable. Notably in Switzerland, Weitling, August Becker (a highly gifted man who, however, like so many Germans, came to grief because of innate instability of character) and others created a strong organization more or less pledged to Weitling’s communist system. This is not the place to criticize the Communism of Weitling. But as regards its significance as the first independent theoretical stirring of the German proletariat, I still today subscribe to Marx’s words in the Paris Vorwarts of 1844:

“Where could the (German) bourgeoisie — including its philosophers and learned scribes — point to a work relating to the emancipation of the bourgeoisie — its political emancipation — comparable to Weitlings’ Guarantees of Harmony and Freedom? If one compares the drab mealy-mouthed mediocrity of German political literature with this immeasurable and brilliant debut of the German workers, if one compares these gigantic children’s shoes of the proletariat with the dwarf proportions of the worn-out political shows of the bourgeoisie, one must prophesy an athlete’s figure for this Cinderella.”

This athlete’s figure confronts us today, although still far from being fully grown.

Numerous sections existed also in Germany; in the nature of things they were of a transient character, but those coming into existence more than made up for those passing away. Only after seven years, at the end of 1846, did the police discover traces of the League in Berlin (Mentel) and Magdeburg (Beck), without being in a position to follow them further.

In Paris, Weitling, who was still there in 1840, likewise gathered the scattered elements together again before he left for Switzerland.

The tailors formed the central force of the League. German tailors were everywhere: in Switzerland, in London, in Paris. In the last-named city, German was so much the prevailing tongue in this trade that I was acquainted there in 1846 with a Norwegian tailor who had travelled directly by sea from Trondhjem to France and in the space of eighteen months had learned hardly a word of French but had acquired an excellent knowledge of German. Two of the Paris communities in 1847 consisted predominantly of tailors, one of cabinetmakers.

After the centre of gravity had shifted from Paris to London, a new feature grew conspicuous: from being German, the League gradually became international. In the workers’ society there were to be found, besides German and Swiss, also members of all those nationalities for whom German served as the chief means of communication with foreigners, notably, therefore, Scandinavians, Dutch, Hungarians, Czechs, Southern Slavs, and also Russians and Alsatians. In 1847 the regular frequenters included a British grenadier of the Guards in uniform. The society soon called itself the Communist Workers’ Educational Association, and the membership cards bore the inscription “All Men Are Brothers”, in at least twenty languages, even if not without mistakes here and there. Like the open Association, so also the secret League soon took on a more international character; at first in a restricted sense, practically through the varied nationalities of its members, theoretically through the realization that any revolution to be victorious must be a European one. One did not go any further as yet; but the foundations were there.

Close connections were maintained with the French revolutionists through t he London refugees, comrades-in-arms of May 12, 1839. Similarly with the more radical Poles. The official Polish emigres, as also Mazzini, were, of course, opponents rather than allies. The English Chartists, on account of the specific English character of their movement, were disregarded as not revolutionary. The London leaders of the League came in touch with them only later, through me.

In other ways, too, the character of the League had altered with events. Although Paris was still — and at that time quite rightly — looked upon as the mother city of the revolution, one had nevertheless emerged from the state of dependence on the Paris conspirators. The spread of the League raised its self-consciousness. It was felt that roots were being struck more and more in the German working class and that these German workers were historically called upon to be the standard-bearers of the workers of the North and East of Europe. In Weitling was to be found a communist theoretician who could be boldly placed at the side of his contemporary French rivals. Finally, the experience of May 12th had taught us that for the time being there was nothing to be gained by attempts at putsches. And if one still continued to explain every event as a sign of the approaching storm, if one still preserved intact the old, semi-conspiratorial rules, that was mainly the fault of the old revolutionary defiance, which had already begun to collide with the sounder views that were gaining headway.

However, the social doctrine of the League, indefinite as it was, contained a very great defect, but one that had its roots in the conditions themselves. The members, in so far as they were workers at all, were almost exclusively artisans. Even in the big metropolises, the man who exploited them was usually only a small master. The exploitation of tailoring on a large scale, what is now called the manufacture of ready-made clothes, by the conversion of handicraft tailoring into a domestic industry working for a big capitalist, was at that time even in London only just making it appearance. On the one hand, the exploiters of these artisans was a small master; on the other hand, they all hoped ultimately to become small masters themselves. In addition, a mass of inherited guild notions still clung to the German artisan at that time. The greatest honor is due to them, in that they, who were themselves not yet full proletarians but only an appendage of the petty bourgeoisie, an appendage which was passing into the modern proletariat and which did not yet stand in direct opposition to the bourgeoisie, that is, to big capital — in that these artisans were capable of instinctively anticipating their future development and of constituting themselves, even if not yet with full consciousness, the party of the proletariat. But it was also inevitable that their old handicraft prejudices should be a stumbling block to them at every moment, whenever it was a question of criticizing existing society in detail, that is, of investigating economic facts. And I do not believe there was a single man in the whole League at that time who had ever read a book on political economy. But that mattered little; for the time being “equality”, “brotherhood” and “justice” helped them to surmount every theoretical obstacle.

Meanwhile a second, essentially different Communism was developed alongside that of the League and of Weitling. While I was in Manchester, it was tangibly brought home to me that the economic facts, which have so far played no role or only a contemptible one in the writing of history, are, at least in the modern world, a decisive historical force; that they form the basis of the origination of the present-day class antagonisms; that these class antagonisms, in the countries where they have become fully developed, thanks to large-scale industry, hence especially in England, are in their turn the basis of the formation of political parties and of party struggles, and thus of all political history. Marx had not only arrived at the same view, but had already, in the Deutsche-Französische Jahrbücher (1844), generalized it to the effect that, speaking generally, it is not the state which conditions and regulates the civil society at all, but civil society which conditions and regulates the state, and, consequently, that policy and its history are to be explained from the economic relations and their development, and not vice versa. When I visited Marx in Paris in the summer of 1844, our complete agreement in all theoretical fields became evident and our joint work dates from that time. When, in the spring of 1845, we met again in Brussels, Marx had already fully developed his materialist theory of history in its main features form the above-mentioned basis and we now applied ourselves to the detailed elaboration of the newly-won mode of outlook in the most varied directions.

This discovery, which revolutionized the science of history and, as we have seen, is essentially the work of Marx — a discovery in which I can claim for myself only a very insignificant share — was, however, of immediate importance for the contemporary workers’ movement. Communism among the French and Germans, Chartism among the English, now no longer appeared as something accidental which could just as well not have occurred. These movements now presented themselves as a movement of the modern oppressed class, the proletariat, as the more or less developed forms of its historically necessary struggle against the ruling class, the bourgeoisie; as forms of the class struggle, but distinguished from all earlier class struggles by this one thing, that the present-day oppressed class the proletariat, cannot achieve its emancipation without at the same time emancipating society as a whole from division into classes and, therefore, from class struggles. And Communism now no longer meant the concoction, by means of the imagination, of an ideal society as perfect as possible, but insight into the nature, the conditions and the consequent general aims of the struggle waged by the proletariat.

Now, we were by no means of the opinion that the new scientific results should be confided in large tomes exclusively to the “learned” world. Quite the contrary. We were both of us already deeply involved in the political movement, and possessed a certain following in the educated world, especially of Western Germany, and abundant contact with the organized proletariat. It was our duty to provide a scientific foundation for our view, but it was equally important for us to win over the European and in the first place the German proletariat to our conviction. As soon as we had become clear in our own minds, we set about the task. We founded a German workers’ society in Brussels and took over the Deutsche Brüsseler Zeitung, which served us as an organ up to the February Revolution. We kept in touch with the revolutionary section of the English Chartists through Julian Harney, the editor of the central organ of the movement, The Northern Star, to which I was a contributor. We entered likewise into a sort of cartel with the Brussels democrats (Marx was vice-president of the Democratic Society) and with the French social-democrats of the Réforme, which I furnished with news of the English and German movements. In short, our connections with the radical and proletarian organizations and press organs were quite what one could wish.

Our relations with the League of the Just were as follows: The existence of the League was, of course, known to us; in 1843 Schapper had suggested that I join it, which I at that time naturally refused to do. But we not only kept up our continuous correspondence with the Londoners but remained on still closer terms with Dr Ewerbeck, then the leader of the Paris communities. Without going into the League’s internal affairs, we learnt of every important happening. On the other hand, we influenced the theoretical views of the most important members of the League by word of mouth, by letter and through the press. For this purpose we also made us of various lithographed circulars, which we dispatched to our friends and correspondents throughout the world on particular occasions, when it was a question of the internal affairs of the Communist Party in process of formation. In these, the League itself sometimes came to be dealt with. Thus, a young Westphalian student, Hermann Kriege, who went to America, came forward there as an emissary of the League and associated himself with the crazy Harro Harring for the purpose of using the League to turn South America upside down. He founded a paper in which, in the name of the League, he preached an extravagant Communism of love dreaming, based on “love” and overflowing with love. Against this we let fly with a circular that did not fail of its effect. Kriege vanished from the League scene.

Later, Weitling came to Brussels. But he was no loner the naive young journeyman-tailor who, astonished at his own talents, was trying to clarify in his own mind just what a communist society would look like. He was now the great man, persecuted by the environs on account of his superiority, who scented rivals, secret enemies and traps everywhere — the prophet, driven from country to country, who carried a recipe for the realization of heaven on earth ready-made in his pocket, and who was was possessed with the idea that everybody intended to steal it from him. He had already fallen out with the members of the League in London; and in Brussels, where Marx and his wife welcomed him with almost superhuman forbearance, he also could not get along with anyone. So he soon afterwards went to America to try out his role of prophet there.

All these circumstance contributed to the quiet revolution that was taking place in the League, and especially among the leaders in London. The inadequacy of the previous conception of Communism, both the simple French equalitarian Communism and that of Weitling, became more and more clear to them. The tracing of Communism back to primitive Christianity introduced by Weitling — no matter how brilliant certain passages to be found in his Gospel of Poor Sinners — had resulted in delivering the movement in Switzerland to a large extent into the hands, first of fools like Albrecht, and then of exploiting fake prophets like Kuhlmann. The “true Socialism” dealt in by a few literary writers — a translation of French socialist phraseology into corrupt Hegelian German, and sentimental love dreaming (see the section on German of “True” Socialism in the Communist Manifesto — that Kriege and the study of the corresponding literature introduced in the League was found soon to disgust the old revolutionaries of the league, if only because of its slobbering feebleness. As against the untenability of the previous theoretical views, and as against the practical aberrations resulting therefrom, it was realized more and more in London that Marx and I were right in our new theory. This understanding was undoubtedly promoted by the fact that among the London leaders there were now two men who were considerably superior to those previously mentioned in capacity for theoretical knowledge: the miniature painter Karl Pfander from Heilbronn and the tailor Georg Eccarius from Thuringia.

[Engels footnote: Pfander died about eight years ago in London. he was a man of peculiarly fine intelligence, witty, ironical and dialectical. Eccarius, as we know, was later for many years Secretary of the General Council of the International Working Men’s Association, in the General Council of which the following old League members were to be found, among others: Eccarius, Pfander, Lessner, Lochner, Marx and myself. Eccarius subsequently devoted himself exclusively to the English trade union movement.]

It suffices to say that in the spring of 1847 Moll visited Marx in Brussels and immediately afterwards me in Paris, and invited us repeatedly, in the name of his comrades, to enter the League. He reported that they were as much convinced of the general correctness of our mode of outlook as of the necessity of freeing the League from the old conspiratorial traditions and forms. Should we enter, we would be given an opportunity of expounding our critical Communism before a congress of the League in a manifesto, which would then be published as the manifesto of the League; we would likewise be able to contribute our quota towards the replacement of the obsolete League organization by one in keeping with the new times and aims.

We entertained no doubt that an organization within the German working class was necessary, if only for propaganda purposes, and that this organization, in so far as it would not be merely local in character, could only be a secret one, even outside Germany. Now, there already existed exactly such an organization in the shape of the League. What we previously objected to in this League was now relinquished as erroneous by the representatives of the League themselves; we were even invited to co-operate in the work of reorganization. Could we say no? Certainly not. Therefore, we entered the League; Marx founded a League community in Brussels from among our close friends, while I attended the three Paris communities.

In the summer of 1847, the first league Congress took place in London, at which W. Wolff represented the Brussels and I the Paris communities. At this congress the reorganization of the League was carried through first of all. Whatever remained of the old mystical names dating back to the conspiratorial period was now abolished; the League now consisted of communities, circles, leading circles, a Central Committee and a Congress, and henceforth called itself the “Communist League”.

“The aim of the League is the overthrow of the bourgeoisie, the rule of the proletariat, the abolition of the old, bourgeois society based on class antagonisms and the foundation of a new society without classes and without private property”

— thus ran the first article. The organization itself was thoroughly democratic, with elective and always removable boards. This alone barred all hankering after conspiracy, which requires dictatorship, and the League was converted — for ordinary peace times at least — into a pure propaganda society. These new Rules were submitted to the communities for discussion — so democratic was the procedure now followed — then once again debated at the Second Congress and finally adopted by the latter on December 8, 1847. They are to be found reprinted in Wermuth and Stieber, vol.I, p.239, Appendix X.

The Second Congress took place during the end of November and beginning of December of the same year. Marx also attended this time and expounded the new theory in a fairly long debate — the congress lasted at least ten days. All contradiction and doubt were finally set at rest, the new basic principles were unanimously adopted, and Marx and I were commissioned to draw up the Manifesto. This was done immediately afterwards. A few weeks before the February Revolution it was sent to London to be printed. Since then it has travelled round the world, has been translated into almost all languages and today still serves in numerous countries as a guide for the proletarian movement. In place of the old League motto, “All Men Are Brothers”, appeared the new battle cry, “Working Men of All Countries, Unite!” which openly proclaimed the international character of the struggle. Seventeen years later this battle cry resounded throughout the world as the watchword of the International Working Men’s Association, and today the militant proletariat of all countries has inscribed it in its banner.

The February Revolution broke out. The London Central Committee functioning hitherto immediately transferred its powers to the Brussels leading circle. But this decision came at a time when an actual state of siege already existed in Brussels, and the Germans in particular could no longer assemble anywhere. We were all of us just on the point of going to Paris, and so the new Central Committee decided likewise to dissolve, to hand over all its powers to Marx and to empower him immediately to constitute a new Central Committee in Paris. Hardly had the five persons who adopted this decision (March 3, 1848) separated, before police forced their way into Marx’s house, arrested him and compelled him to leave for France the following day, which was just where he was wanting to go.

In Paris we all soon came together again. There the following document was drawn up and signed by all the members of the new Central Committee. It was distributed throughout Germany and many a one can still learn something from it even today:

Demands of the Communist Party in Germany
The whole of Germany shall be declared a single indivisible republic.
Representatives of the people shall be paid so that workers also can sit in the parliament of the German people.
Universal arming of the people.
The estates of the princes and other feudal estates, all mines, pits, etc., shall be transformed into state property. On these estates, agriculture is to be conducted on a very large scale and with the most modern scientific means for the benefit of all society.
Mortgages on peasant holdings shall be declared state property; interest on such mortgages shall be paid by the peasants to the state.
In the districts where tenant farming is developed, land rent or farming dues shall be paid to the state as a tax.
All means of transport: railway, canals, steamships, roads, post, etc., shall be taken over by the state. They are to be converted into state property and put at the disposal of the non-possessing class free of charge.
Limitation of the right of inheritance.
Introduction of a steeply graded progressive taxation and abolition of taxes on consumer goods.
Establishment of national workshops. The state shall guarantee a living to all workers and provide for those unable to work.
Universal free elementary education.
It is in the interest of the German proletariat, of the petite Bourgeoisie and peasantry, to work with all possible energy to put the above measures through. For only by their education can the millions in Germany, who up to now have been exploited by a small number of people and whom it will be attempted to keep in further subjection, get their rights and the power that are their due as the producers of all wealth.

The Committee: Karl Marx, Karl Schapper, H. Bauer, F. Engels, J. Moll, W. Wolff

At that time the craze for revolutionary legions prevailed in Paris. Spaniards, Italians, Belgians, Dutch, Poles and Germans flocked together in crowds to liberate their respective fatherlands. The German legion was led by Herwegh, Bornsted, Bornstein. Since immediately after the revolution all foreign workers not only lost their jobs but in addition were harassed by the public, the influx into these legions was very great. the new government saw in them a means of getting rid of foreign workers and granted them l'etape du soldat, that is, quarters along their line of march and a marching allowance of 50 centimes per day up to the frontier, whereafter the eloquent Lamartine, the Foreign Minister who was so readily moved to tears, quickly found an opportunity of betraying them to their respective governments.

We opposed this playing with revolution in the most decisive fashion. To carry an invasion, which was to import the revolution forcibly from outside, into the midst of the ferment then going on in Germany, meant to undermine the revolution in Germany itself, to strengthen the governments and to deliver the legionnaires — Lamartine guaranteed for that — defenceless into the hands of the German troops. When subsequently the revolution was victorious in Vienna and Berlin, the legion became all the more purposeless; but once begun, the game was continued.

We founded a German communist club, in which we advised the workers to keep away from the legion and to return instead to their homes singly and work there for the movement. Our old friend Flocon, who had a seat in the Provisional Government, obtained for the workers sent by us the same travel facilities as had been granted to the legionnaires. In this way we returned three or four hundred workers to Germany, including the great majority of the League members.

As could easily be foreseen, the League proved to be much too weak a lever as against the popular mass movement that had now broken out. Three-quarters of the League members who had previously lived abroad had changed their domicile by returning to their homeland; their previous communities were thus to a great extent dissolved and they lost all contact with the League. One part, the more ambitious among them, did not even try to resume this contact, but each one began a small separate movement on his own account in his own locality. Finally, the conditions in each separate petty state, each province and each town were so different that the League would have been incapable of giving more than the most general directives; such directives were, however, much better disseminated through the press. In short, from the moment when the causes which had made the secret League necessary ceased to exist, the secret League as such ceased to mean anything. But this could least of all surprise the persons who had just stripped this same secret League of the last vestige of its conspiratorial character.

That, however, the League had been an excellent school for revolutionary activity was now demonstrated. On the Rhine, where the Neue Rheinische Zeitung provided a firm centre, in Nassau, in Rhenish Hesse, etc., everywhere members of the League stood at the head of the extreme democratic movement. The same was the case in Hamburg. In South Germany the predominance of petty-bourgeois democracy stood in the way. In Breslau, Wilhelm Wolff was active with great success until the summer of 1848; in addition he received a Silesian mandate as an alternate representative in the Frankfort parliament. Finally, the compositor Stephan Born, who had worked in Brussels and Paris as an active member of the League, founded a Workers’ Brotherhood in Berlin which became fairly widespread and existed until 1850. Born, a very talented young man, who, however, was a bit too much in a hurry to become a political figure, “fraternized” with the most miscellaneous ragtag and bobtail in order to get a crowd together, and was not at all the man who could bring unity into the conflicting tendencies, light into the chaos. Consequently, in the official publications of the association the views represented in the Communist Manifesto were mingled hodge-podge with guild recollections and guild aspirations, fragments of Louis Blanc and Proudhon, protectionism, etc.; in short, they wanted to please everybody [allen alles sein]. In particular, strikes, trade unions and producers’ co-operatives were set going and it was forgotten that above all it was a question of first conquering, by means of political victories, the field in which alone such things could be realized on a lasting basis. When, afterwards, the victories of the reaction made the leaders of the Brotherhood realize the necessity of taking a direct part in the revolutionary struggle, they were naturally left in the lurch by the confused mass which they had grouped around themselves. Born took part in the Dresden uprising in May, 1849 and had a lucky escape. But, in contrast to the great political movement of the proletariat, the Workers’ Brotherhood proved to be a pure Sonderbund [separate league], which to a large extent existed only on paper and played such a subordinate role that the reaction did not find it necessary to suppress it until 1850, and its surviving branches until several years later. Born, whose real name was Buttermilch, has not become a big political figure but a petty Swiss professor, who no longer translates Marx into guild language but the meek Renan into his own fulsome German.

With June 13, 1849, the defeat of the May insurrections in Germany and the suppression of the Hungarian revolution by the Russians, a great period of the 1848 Revolution came to a close. But the victory of the reaction was as yet by no means final. A reorganziation of the scattered revolutionary forces was required, and hence also of the League. The situation again forbade, as in 1848, any open organization of the proletariat; hence one had to organize again in secret.

In the autumn of 1849, most of the member of the previous central committees and congresses gathered again in London. The only ones still missing were Schapper, who was jailed in Wiesbaden but came after his acquittal, in the spring of 1850, and Moll, who, after he had accomplished a series of most dangerous missions and agitational journeys — in the end he recruited mounted gunners for the Palatinate artillery right in the midst of the Prussian army in the Rhine Province — joined the Besancon workers’ company of Willich’s corps and was killed by a shot in the head during the encounter at the Murg in front of the Rotenfels Bridge. On the other hand, Willich now entered upon the scene. Willich was one of those sentimental Communists so common in Western Germany since 1845, who on that account alone was instinctively, furtively antagonistic to our critical tendency. More than that, he was entirely the prophet, convinced of his personal mission as the predestined liberator of the German proletariat and as such a direct claimant as much to political as to military dictatorship. Thus, to the primitive Christian Communism previously preached by Weitling was added a kind of communist Islam. However, the propaganda of this new religion was for the first time being restricted to the refugee barracks under Willich’s command.

Hence, the League was organized afresh; the Address of march 1850 was issued and Heinrich bauer sent as an emissary to Germany. The Address, composed by Marx and myself, is still of interest today, because petite-bourgeois democracy is even now the party which must certainly be the first to come to power in Germany as the savior of society from the communist workers on the occasion of the next European upheaval now soon due (the European revolutions, 1815, 1830, 1848-52, 1870, have occurred at intervals of 15 to 18 years in our century). Much of what is said there is, therefore, still applicable today. Heinrich Bauer’s mission was crowned with complete success. The trusty little shoemaker was a born diplomat. He brought the former members of the League, who had partly become laggards and partly were acting on their own account, back into the active organization, and particularly also the then leaders of the Workers’ Brotherhood. The League began to play the dominant role in the workers’, peasants’ and athletic associations to a far greater extent than before 1848, so that the next quarterly address to the communities, in June 1850, could already report that the student Schurz from Bonn (later on American ex-minister), who was touring Germany in the interest of petty-bourgeois democracy, “had found all fit forces already in the hands of the League”. The League was undoutbedly the only revolutionary organization that had any significance in Germany.

But what purpose this organization should serve depended very substantially on whether the prospects of a renewed upsurge of the revolution were realized. And in the course of the year 1850 this became more and more improbable, indeed impossible. The industrial crisis of 1847, which had paved the way for the Revolution of 1848, had been overcome; a new, unprecedented period of industrial prosperity had set in; whoever had eyes to see and used them must have clearly realized that the revolutionary storm of 1848 was gradually spending itself.

“With this general prosperity, in which the productive forces of bourgeois society develop as luxuriantly as is at all possible within bourgeois relationships, there can be no talk of a real revolution. Such a revolution is only possible in the periods when both these factors, the modern productive forces and the bourgeois productive forms, come in collision with each other. The various quarrels in which the representatives of the industrial factions of the continental party of order now indulge and mutually compromise themselves, far from providing the occassion for new revolutions are, on the contrary, possible only because the basis of the relationships is momentarily so secure and, what the reaction does not know, so bourgeois. From it all attempts of the reaction to hold up bourgeois development will rebound just as certainly as all moral indignation and all enthusiastic proclamations of the democrats”.

Thus Marx and I wrote in the “Revue of May to October 1850” in the Neue Rheinische Zeitung, Politisch-okonomische Revue, Nos.V and VI, Hamburg, 1850, p.153.

This cool estimation of the situation, however, was regarded as heresy among many persons, at a time when Ledru-Rollin, Louis Blanc, Mazzini, Kossuth and, among the lesser German lights, Ruge, Kinkel, Gogg and the rest of them crowded in London to form provisional governments of the future not only for their respective fatherlands but for the whole of Europe, and when the only still still necessary was to obtain the requisite money from America as a loan for the revolution to realize at a moment’s notice the European revolution and the various republics which went with it was a matter of course. Can anyone be surprised that a man like Willich was taken in by this, that Schapper, acting on his old revolutionary impulse, also allowed himself to be fooled, and that the majority of the London workers, to a large extent refugees themselves, followed them into the camp of the bourgeois-democratic artificers of revolution? Suffice it to say that the reserve maintained by us was not to the mind of these people; one was to enter into the game of making revolutions. We most decidedly refused to do so. A split ensued; more about this is to be read in the Revelations. Then came the arrest of Nothjung, followed by that of Haupt, in Hamburg. The latter turned traitor by divulging the names of the Cologne Central Committee and being slated as the chief witness in the trial; but his relatives had no desires to be thus disgraced and bundled him off to Rio de Janerio, where he later established himself as a businessman and in recognition of his services was appointed first Prussian and then German Consul General. He is now again in Europe.

[Engels footnote: Schapper in London at the end of the sixties. Willich took part in the American Civil War with distinction; he became Brigadier-General and was shot in the chest during the battle of Murfreesboro (Tennessee) but recovered and died about ten years ago in America. Of the other persons mentioned above, I will only remark that Heinrich Bauer was lost track of in Australia, and that Weitling and Ewerbeck died in America.]

For a better understanding of the Revelations, I give the list of the Cologne accused:

(1) P. G. Roser, cigarmaker; (2) Heinrich Burgers, who later died a progressive deputy to the Landtag; (3) Peter Nothjung, tailor, who died a few years ago a photographer in Breslau; (4) W. J. Reiff; (5) Dr. Hermann Becker, now chief burgomaster of Cologne and member of the Upper House; (6) Dr. Roland Daniels, physician, who died a few years after the trial as a result of tuberculosis contracted in prison; (7) Karl Otto, chemist; (8) Dr. Abraham Jacoby, now physician in New York; (9) Dr. I. J. Klein, now physician and town councillor in Cologne; (10) Ferdinand Freiligrath, who, however, was at that time already in London; (11) I. L. Ehrhard, clerk; (12) Friedrich Lessner, tailor, now in London.

After a public trail before a jury lasting from October 4 to November 12, 1852, the following were sentenced for attempted high treason: Roser, Burgers and Nothjung to six, Reiff, Otto and Becker to five, and Lessner to three years’ confinement in a fortress; Daniels, Klein, Jacoby and Ehrhard were acquitted.

With the Cologne trial the first period of the German communist workers’ movement comes to an end. Immediately after the sentence we dissolved our League; a few months later the Willich-Schapper separate league was also laid to eternal rest.

* A whole generation lies between then and now. At that time Germany was a country of handicraft and of domestic industry based on hand labor; now it is a big industrial country still undergoing continual industrial transformation. At that time one had to seek out one by one the workers who had an understanding of their position as workers and of their historico-economic antagonism to capital, because this antagonism itself was only just beginning to develop. Today the entire German proletariat has to be placed under exceptional laws, merely in order to slow down a little the process of its development to full consciousness of its position as an oppressed class. At that time the few persons whose minds had penetrated to the realization of the historical role of the proletariat had to forgather in secret, to assemble clandestinely in small communities of 3 to 20 persons. Today the German proletariat no longer needs any official organization, either public or secret. The simple self-evident interconnection of like-minded class comrades suffices, without any rules, boards, resolutions or other tangible forms, to shake the whole German Empire to its foundations. Bismarck is the arbiter of Europe beyond the frontiers of Germany, but within them there grows daily more threatening the athletic figure of the German proletariat that Marx foresaw already in 1844, the giant for whom the cramped imperial edifice designed to fit the philistine is even now becoming inadequate and whose mighty stature and broad shoulder are growing until the moment comes when by merely rising from his seat he will shatter the whole structure of the imperial constitution into fragments. And still more. The international movement of the European and American proletariat has become so much strengthened that not merely its first narrow form — the secret League — but even its second, infinitely wider form — the open International Working Men’s Association — has become a fetter for it, and that the simple feeling of solidarity based on the understanding of the identity of class position suffices to create and to hold together one and the same great party of the proletariat among the workers of all countries and tongues. The doctrine which the League represented from 1847 to 1852, and which at that time could be treated by the wise philistines with a shrug of the shoulders as the hallucinations of utter madcaps, as the secret doctrine of a few scattered sectarians, has now innumerable adherents in all civilized countries of the world, among those condemned to the Siberian mines as much as among the gold diggers of California; and the founder of this doctrine, the most hated, most slandered man of his time, Karl Marx, was, when he died, the ever-sought-for and ever-willing counsellor of the proletariat of both the old and the new world.