Following the Water Carrier

I had an amazing Saturday. The marble counter is closed on the weekends for now, so I was free to follow a performance artist from the ICA to the Boston Harbor Islands. His name is Ernesto Pujols, and he has led walks from the ICA to various destinations in Boston and its Harbor Islands. I had missed the previous three walks, but I was able to be carried along to Lovell's Island on Saturday.

While we gathered outside the museum's door (the ICA doesn't open until 10:00 a.m., and our walk would begin at 9:30 a.m.), I made the decision not to take pictures during the walk. My digital camera makes "woof!" noises every time it snaps a picture. I thought it would be inappropriate and intrusive to let that happen. I only took pictures when I could get far away enough not to let it bother others.

The museum guards shepherded us up to the fourth-floor gallery before the museum opened at 9:20 a.m. The first thing I saw was a small table made out of wood barrel staves with a metal top. The top was engraved with the Boston coastline. Five glass bottles with stoppers lay on it. They were hand blown and I perceived that they must be in the shape of the five islands that were the Water Carrier's destinations. Three of the bottles were filled. One contained clear water except for a spot of green. I couldn't tell if it was a discoloration from the bottle or algae. The other two bottles carried water and sediment, each different in texture. I compared the empty bottles to the map of the islands, and tried to guess which one would be chosen.

I suddenly noticed there was a man dressed in all white standing up against the wall directly opposite of the table. He was dressed in 19th-century seaman's clothes with bare feet. His feet, hands, and face were painted white. He wore a white stocking cap on his head. The only color to be seen were the tea-tinted lenses in his spectacles; his eyes were closed. I backed up against a gallery wall myself to wait for the walk to begin. Their were seven people in our group and gallery guards blocking us from the other exhibits (museum still not open). Feet were crossed, uncrossed; some people meandered to and fro; fidgeting, coughing and sneezing were heard (much like the noises heard in a theater after the lights go down but before the play begins). Eventually, we were all up against our walls with our attention on the Water Carrier. The tension built the longer we waited. It occurred to me that we were all now islands ringed around the Water Carrier--islands calling him forth to our world. I was also tickled that we all stood there waiting for the art to come off the wall.

Eventually, the Water Carrier awoke and broke away from the wall. He selected a bottle after listening to the empty bottles. He placed the bottle in his bag and turned towards the exit. We then followed him down the stairs, out the museum, along the harbor walk, and to the ferries. As well as carrying that bottle, the Water Carrier was a vessel bearing us along and transforming us with the journey. I felt we were all taken out of the city even though we were walking its pavements and stones. Because he was barefoot, the Water Carrier was sensitive to the terrain: cool, polished concrete in the ICA; hot pavement; wooden planks along the harbor; and outbreaks of cobblestones. Because he was in a vulnerable state, I think all the walkers/followers projected themselves into him and tried to see this city and harbor with fresh eyes instead of barely taking it in as we normally do rushing through our lives.

I found myself wondering what he was seeing, if he saw anything. From my perspective behind him, he didn't seem to notice or react to the differences between his time and ours. Occasionally, he would gaze up at a tall building and seem taken by it. But, he seemed to be listening to this world more than seeing it. The Water Carrier seemed to very aware of the water and the open end of the harbor. It was if he could hear the islands or the memories left there.

I also pondered if the Water Carrier was born anew each time he woke from the wall. Was he a completely blank canvas this day, or did memories of his past walks intrude on his consciousness? (The artist comments on his performances and his experiences on his blog documenting his project: The Water Carrier's Journey.) First, he led us to Georges Island where we waited for a smaller boat to ferry us to Lovell's Island. This was where I was able to take the pictures above. The Water Carrier stayed on the dock; he was disinterested in the rest of the island. He created a lot of attention. Georges Island had more people than Boston's waterfront. I explored the perimeter of the dock and visitor's center. There was not enough time to duck up into the fort behind us, but it was tempting.

Lovell's Island is much smaller than Georges Island, whose hill and fort looms over the dock. Lovell's dock leads to a landscape more like the beach dunes seen on the Maine coast. The trees and plants are kept short and angled by salty sea winds. The Water Carrier led us down a path where the plants eventually obscured the horizon but not the sky. I saw very strange formations on the stalks. One woman kept her eyes low to pick and eat blackberries.

As we walked further from the dock and further inland, he led us to the abandoned fort on Lovell's, a huge ruin crumbling into the foliage. The landscape had changed from windswept stalks and brush to large dark conifers, some of which were upended. Up until now, the Water Carrier had been silent. We had mostly followed his lead and kept conversation to a minimum. (Can you imagine? A bunch of Americans grouped together not chatting about weather, hometowns, and sports teams!) He climbed stairs to first level rooms that had long ago lost their walls and doors; we hung back to observe his motions. Large iron rings hung from the remaining walls. The Water Carrier emphatically clanged them. I'm not sure if he was calling forth the memories and ghosts of the island, or was he creating a vibration to guide him on his way? He did the same thing in three or four of these outdoor rooms. I tried to place myself in different places each time to change my perspective. The last time, I will admit, I was concerned with the biting black flies that would descend on anything that stopped moving. (I whipped out the bug repellent and started spraying. Two of my fellow walkers shared my repellent as well.)

Since I hadn't followed the Water Carrier up to the last abandoned room, I positioned myself at the bottom of the steps where he would descend. The stairway was overgrown with vines and growth. There were white fluffs rolling about on its steps (similar to the last stages of a dandelion's life). I waited to see how the Water Carrier's movements would affect these delicate structures. He delicately picked his feet through the decayed plants causing the fluffs to roll or fly up. A white moth fluttered upwards past his feet and legs. It was quite beautiful to watch.

He led us out of the forest and we climbed up to a sunny harbor view. Below us was a typical New England beach--more rocks than sand. Three women picnicked up above the rock line in the shade of the trees. Two people were lounging by the rock line, and four women bathed sedately in the water. The Water Carrier walked down to the water's edge where the waves lapped his white feet. It was so hot and humid. I longed to roll up my pant cuffs and kick off my socks and sneakers to feel the water on my feet--just like the Water Carrier. He removed the bottle from his bag. He unstopped the vessel to begin collecting water. I crept as close as I could. I watched him position the bottle in the sand in such a way that it was not his hands or motions that guided the water into the bottle. The water came to the bottle through the rhythm of the waves. I felt that was an important part of the process, that the Water Carrier remain a conduit that joined natural elements and his followers together in a quiet place and time.

After collecting the water, he inspected it and then replaced the stopper. I was one of the three women who got to hold the bottle and view it. It had sediment, a dark-colored sand. The bottle was not overly full, and holding it above head created a glorious combination of light, glass and sand. The Water Carrier retrieved the bottle from me (that was a treat!) and then led us further down the beach.

Along the way, I collected rocks from the beach. This was also an opportunity to shield my eyes from the glare of the noonday sun. I had picked up rocks on Georges Island and had them in my bag. I thought it was fitting since I feel I'm more of the earth than the sky. I am the carrier of rocks. I kept finding beautiful, odd-shaped and unusual rocks and shells. I felt it wouldn't be right to carry off so many rocks, and I wanted to leave a mark on the island. When I saw that we would be turning off the beach and back to the ferry landing, I quickly built a cairn with my rocks and shells. I think a woman--not in our group but captivated by the Water Carrier and his followers--took a picture of it after I walked away.

Then, we retraced our steps--two ferry rides and back to the harbor walk. Boston was more populated now and the Water Carrier created quite a commotion on his return trip. "Ghost" was the most common comment. The ICA was also bustling upon our return; they were hosting a children's play date. Lots of exclamations and expressions of delight were observed. Honestly, I was gritting my teeth as we climbed up the four flights. I was a bit done in from hunger (hadn't eaten since 7:30 a.m. and it was close to 1 p.m.), the heat, and the overexposure to unfiltered light. But, it was worth it. A crowd gathered in the gallery to watch the Water Carrier return the vessel. Then, he was gone. It was over, just like that.

I feel that Bostonians are creatures of routine. Your Boston identity is so tied to your job and its demands. We scurry from home to work, and back. You know your neighborhood very well, but the grind of work and routine hampers you from breaking out of what you know. Something extraordinary or an external pressure has to cause Bostonians to go places they don't know--to break them out of their routine. It doesn't just happen to longtime residents; the scads of transitory college students stick to their campuses, or the familiar jaunt to the North End for pastries. If it's not on your T line, it doesn't really penetrate your mindset. I was very grateful that the ICA got me on a ferry to experience the Harbor Islands.

Living here for decades, I had never traveled out over the harbor. I also enjoyed the contemplative nature of the journey. I was traveling without a tangible purpose. I was not leading myself or others. I was traveling just to move and explore my surroundings with all my senses. True, I was there to follow the Water Carrier. He was the impetus for the journey. But, he acted as a focal point. In meditation, you are supposed to zero in on an image or sound so the outer world can fade into the background. I felt that this man-in-white was just that. Focusing on him, my everyday existence faded away and I became more aware. I noticed how the ground changed rapidly underfoot in the city; I delighted in watching the ferry create foam on the water; and I watched how the light and foliage changed as the Water Carrier walked under and through it.

The Water Carrier has one more performance. He'll lead people to Brewster's Island and interact with the lighthouse keeper there. The other walks, I believe, were free except for the ferry fare, $12 round trip. My walk was entirely free as the ICA popped for the tickets (heat discount) and I was appreciative of the gesture. However, the Brewster Island walk will require reservations, a $28 fee (which includes ferry fare), and if you want a packaged lunch, that's an additional $12. The marble counter will be up and running, and I'll be back to manning it on the weekends. I'm going to try to switch shifts because I think it will be a marvelous delight to experience. If you want more information for yourself, go to the ICA page with all the trip details.

OK, maybe I was wrong...maybe there is something up there I'd like to see

Good Morning, I'm catching up on my Space News Updates from Bill Harwood of CBS, and it looks like they had a good exchange with one of the students they talked to while in orbit. It has always been my opinion there is nothing up in sky that I particularly want to SEE. Rather, I'm interested in what I could possibly HEAR. I want to listen to the universe expand/contract (what is the current theory?). But, this sounds pretty awesome. I could possibly be wrong about the visual temptation. As some of you know, me being wrong only happens once a year. The jury is still deliberating, so don't light the fireworks yet.

In one of the more interesting exchanges, a student asked if the astronauts could see constellations in space from their lofty perch above Earth's atmosphere.

"You know, initially when we first came up here, both the space shuttle and the space station were both very lit up, almost like a small city, and it made it tough to see anything," Drew said. "Actually, I had an easier time seeing stars in Houston. Last night, we turned out all the lights on both the shuttle and the station, looked out the window and it as a glorious sight out there. You could see the entire Milky Way, you could see the dust clouds of the Milky Way, I think Barb even saw a shooting star beneath us last night. We saw thunder storms over the world, it was pretty fabulous, you could make out all the constellations in the sky."

"It was interesting," Morgan said, "it started out in the orbit we were in, we were at night time and we were looking out at the night sky and all the things Al just described we could see. We were traveling over Africa at the time, but looking out at the night sky. And then as we got to the Indian Ocean, it was black, black, black and that's where we saw all the thunderstorms. And I don't think any of us had ever seen anything quite that bright, those flashes of light.

"And then off in the distance, in another, say, 20 minutes or so, a thin blue line started appearing. And that blue line got thicker and thicker, it started to get a little blurred and all these different colors of blue were in that line and we realized we were looking at the horizon with the sunrise coming and we could see layers of cloud in that horizon. Within just a few minutes, our faces were totally lit up and the space station was shimmering, the solar arrays were just like the orange filaments in your toaster, they were just shimmering, bright, bright, bright gold. It was a beautiful sight."

Later, Drew, a veteran military helicopter pilot making his first space flight, described what it's like to blast off aboard a shuttle for Idaho Public Television:

"There was no doubt when the solid rocket boosters lit, it was just like being inside of a washing machine that was in a bad spin cycle. There was a pretty good shake going up the whole way, just a tremendous amount of sheer fun. We knew we were heading off the planet! There was a big thump when the solid rocket boosters left the orbiter and then it was a much smoother ride from there on up but the Gs started picking up. It felt like there was something heavy standing on my chest. ... It took effort to breathe the whole time. In fact, I kind of felt myself wheezing for the last few minutes as we were going through three Gs. And then suddenly we went from 3 Gs to nothing, I felt my body just slam against the shoulder straps of the seat, it was almost like we recoiled off the back of the seat and we were weightless. I want to find another quarter to put back in there and go for another ride!"

It's Up On The Wall #4

It's Up On The Wall #3

It's Up On The Wall #2

It's Up On The Wall #1

Soy Beans Killed the DairyMaid Star

SHE LIVES IN A NEW WAVE WORLD

Wow! That's worth 10 votes.

Aaaaah! Just came home and discovered something extra-special in the silver cupboard. Some people just replied simply: Cora Mae or the Ukrainian dairymaid. Some indicated their choice and gave various explanations for it. Quite amusing, they were. But, you have been all one, two, three--no, eight-upped by one respondent. On the back of the postcard above, more of the dairymaid's tale was revealed.

"Local legend has it this is the very stretch of Interstate that the Ukrainian dairymaid set out on to seek her fortune in the dwindling field of dairymaiding. She finally came upon the great, magical Iowa State Fair where she got a job pouring milk and churning butter in the Living History exhibit. I saw her Friday. She says, 'Wassup.'"

Wow! That just made my day, especially after aggravating my neck injury from New Year's 1997. I'm still twitching and wincing like a fool, but I've got a smile on my face. Thanks, P.S.!!

Biblio Notes: I Heart Cecil Castelluci, Aug. 11, 2007

"Love is All Around," (a.k.a. the theme to The Mary Tyler Moore Show)
- Joan Jett & The Blackhearts

Working at the marble counter, this title passed through my hands. A story about a group of misfit girls conducting covert art attacks on their suburban cookie-cutter town? (Aaaah. Sporking. Good times. OK, sporking isn't art...yet.) I loved, loved, loved this graphic novel. Yes. Graphic novel. Normally, I eschew le novel graphique. Usually the number of panels crammed on a page, and the visual info crammed into each panel makes my eyes twitch. Eeyuch. In this case, Jim Rugg's illustrations are much cleaner and sooooo appealing, but not saccharine. And, Ms. Cecil Castellucci's story is very well written. Her characterizations and dialogue take delicate bites out of the typical teenager stereotypes pushed in the mainstream. This is the graphic novel Jane Austen would read with hot tea and snickerdoodles. You will be left very satisfied with a smile and crumbs on your mouth.

Pre-Plain Janes comic/g.n. experience:

• Archie (crushed on Jughead, chose Veronica),
• Richie Rich,
• JTHM (he reminded me of my first schoolyard crush),]

Post-Plain Janes comic/g.n. experience:

• American Born Chinese (a beautiful rendering of fractured identity),
• Street Angel (almost reminds me of tween Spinner before she moved to Wisconsin--haven't finished it yet)

Cecil Castellucci:

The Plain Janes (co-creator), graphic novel, sequel on the way

Beige, YA novel

Boy Proof, YA novel (on request through ILL)

Queen of Cool, YA novel

a.k.a. : Cecil Seaskull, she makes films and music as well
www.misscecil.com

Jim Rugg:

The Plain Janes (co-creator)

Street Angel (co-creator)

Afrodisiac (co-creator)

Pittsburgh Steelers fan (I'm pretty sure. Way to Go, Steelers! Way to Go!)
www.jimrugg.com

Storyville Portraits/Bellocq's Ophelia

(Plate 2, circa 1912, EJ Bellocq, printed by Lee Friedlander, Storyville Portraits)

After reading a great essay on poets.org, I discovered a book called Bellocq's Ophelia written by Natasha Trethewey. It's a series of poems written as letters from a Storyville prostitute to her girlhood friend, now a schoolmarm in their rural hometown. Ophelia is black, but can pass. The letters reveal her path to the brothel and how she endures her time there. Trethewey meditates on "the gaze," those who wield it and those subject to it. At first, Ophelia is just a possession/thing to be looked at and be looked through. After her encounters with Bellocq, we see her reclaim her own gaze, her own "looking," and develop her skill of seeing through photography.

E.J. Bellocq was an early twentieth-century photographer who took a series of portraits of the workers of Storyville, a closed and legal district for prostitution in New Orleans. His glass negatives were discovered by Lee Friedlander, who reproduced and printed the portraits for the Museum of Modern Art. Trewethey was inspired by the portraits, and some poems are hung on the imagery of specific plates. I think it's phenomenal. Not only does she flesh out the women snapped by Bellocq, she has a sincere appreciation of how vision can be transformed/carried by a camera.

I highly recommend this slim volume of poetry. And, I recommend you get to your nearest library and find E.J. Bellocq: Storyville Portraits and view the lovely pictures that inspired Ms. Trethewey. I knew of Bellocq and his portraits, especially from the cover of Whores in History: Prostitution in Western Society by Nickie Roberts. [Those striped stockings are irresistible.]

"In his own way, in these pictures, Bellocq consummates many love affairs. Johnny Wiggs understood this when he saw, to his amazement, that Bellocq's prostitutes are beautiful....Beautiful innocently or tenderly or wickedly or joyfully or obscenely, but all beautiful, in the sense that they are present, unique, irreplaceable, believable, receptive. Each of these pictures is the product of a successful alliance.

A skillful photographer can photograph anything well. To do better than that he must photograph what he loves. Some love geometry; some love sunlight on mountains; some love the streets of their city. Bellocq apparently loved women, with the undiscriminating constancy of a genius. If he was in conventional terms impotent, he was in his eyes and spirit an indefatigable lover." ---John Szarkowski

I think Szarkowski is perceptive about a photographer's process (if chauvinistic in his pronouns), and I like that he understood that Bellocq saw prostitutes as living humans, not immobile objects to be used, ignored or shunned. If you're not familiar with Bellocq, he was oddly shaped, and that might have hindered any normal relationships with females. Bellocq paid the prostitutes for their time, but apparently not for sexual favors. It would be interesting to compare this series with Philip-Lorca diCorcia's series with male hookers.

Trethewey creating not only a poem, but a biography, that was framed by a previous work of art is fascinating to me. I recently heard someone describe historians as people who want to know about the unnamed, unmentioned and overlooked characters in the history books. I think artists pursue these questions as well, but instead of collecting facts, they dig for visual evidence (discovered or constructed).

Reading her poems, you will gain insight on what existence is like for "the other." You will recognize or begin to glean what it is like to be viewed with an assigned identity, not necessarily your own. And, what it's like for "the other" to walk with the included when the ability to blend in puts them--the included--at ease. The anxiety of waiting for them to finally notice your difference, and watching the behaviour perceptibly shift. Or, the included stumble over their prejudice, and "the other" speaks up and makes them aware the target is in their presence.

"October 1911"

Just the other day I fancied myself
a club woman, like you,
in my proper street clothes--

a new bow on my white straw hat,
my white linen jacket cleaned
and pressed, a modest bit of gingham

at the collar. So attired, I ventured out,
beyond the confines of the district,
to do my share of good deeds, visit

the sanatorium, a sick sister, her body
invaded by the invisible specter
of our work. Bellocq met me there,

set his camera to this scene: a woman
standing in the middle of the frame,
and off to the right, barely in the picture,

what she might become--the sick one
sleeping, hospital curtain pulled back,
only her face showing, disconnected

from the body she has begun to lose.
To the left, dressing gowns hanging empty
on the door. And beyond that door,

what you cannot see

Later, my visit over,
I walked out into bright afternoon, the sun
harsh, scouring everything--my face

the face a man recognized. (And here
I hesitate to tell you--) I was escorted
to the police station, guilty of being

where I was not allowed to be, a woman
notoriously abandoned to lewdness.
There, I posed for another lens, suffered

indecencies I cannot bear to describe.
You will not see those photographs--
paint smeared on my face, my hair

loosed and wild--a doppelganger
whose face I loathe but must confront.
I know now that if we choose

to keep any part of what is behind us,
we must take all of it, hold each moment
up to the light like a photograph--

this picture I send you of my good work,
a modest portrait for my mother,
even my rough image in a police file.

--Natasha Trethewey
Bellocq's Ophelia

Shazaam!

I'm still in and out of the lab. And, the photo gods are not ignoring my pleas. I have 2.99 prints from the tricky negatives. So, the printing is not utterly maddening. However, I can't share the images on the web. I tried printing my remembered fairy tale on 8 X 10 paper, but way too much information for that size frame. So, I jumped up to 11 X 14 and now it's not cramped and so busy. My dinky scanner can't fit that size print with the proper framing, so, you're out of luck.

The origins of the project came from my memory of being told a fairy tale (Sleeping Beauty) twice: the first tale would be the way white people would act out the tale; and, the second would be the way black folk would do it. If this was the 60s or 70s, I think I would have kept to that division of black and white. But, the time is the brand new Aughts, and some black people have achieved or acquired enough capital to not be excluded from mainstream American culture (this is a very debatable point with lots of shady corners to investigate, so I'm very aware of that, please, feel free to argue amongst yourselves).

I became less enamored of presenting a perceived white culture, and I realized it was more about the dominant trend of current American culture, commercialism. So, there are traces of black in the first fairy tale. Obviously, the "awkward/evil" fairy is a black hen, but I chose to make her an animal for two reasons. One, animal totems are used throughout many religions and spiritual practices. Even Christians use the "lamb" to symbolize an aspect of Christ. (My knowledge of Christianity is not thorough. Please, correct me when I err.) The second reason I chose an animal form for Ms. La-La is that "politically correct" white Americans will not say race is the source of their rejection/resistance/discomfort with non-Caucasians. They have been educated to encode their prejudice with variations of the thought "Why can't they be more like us?"

There are acceptable forms of blackness, especially if white corporate American can obtain a profit from them. That's why the "nice/good" fairy takes the shapely form of Beyonce. (This is no statement about Beyonce as a person or performer, I'm just using the carefully crafted persona that is put out there to sell records. I have paid $1.98 for two of her singles, and I feel perfectly entitled to handle that persona as I see fit...like a proper American, I've paid the fees to participate in her story.) I don't mean to say that the "nice/good" fairy is a sell-out, I'm presenting the other way to engage with the culture of the first fairy tale. Both fairies are negotiating with the culture: one does so on the culture's terms, the other on her own terms.

The other trace of blackness will appear on the handsome prince. If you examine him closely, you should notice that his hands are black but his head is white. I don't think it's a gross overstatement to say that young American males have usually appropriated parts of black culture to enliven their youth. It's an example of taking one part out of the whole to fit your viewpoint/agenda, and in America, you've probably "paid" for the privilege. (The misogynistic/gangsta style of rap is consumed primarily by white, suburban, male teenagers--why? Rap isn't just gangsta, it can't be defined by just that style.) The handsome young prince is also outfitted in togs designed by Ozwald Boateng, an immensely talented "bespoke couturier" born in Ghana and raised in London. You'd have to be a bit of a fashionista to see that, but it's there.

While working on the first fairy tale and discussing it with others, I also realized how "male" the dominant culture is in this story. Before the king marries the queen, her land is more pastoral and doesn't feature many buildings. After the marriage, tall skyscrapers and multiplying structures cover the fields of daisies.

While contemplating these tales, I had to confront my own American-ness and how we so easily believe we're the alpha and the omega. I realized that like so many of us, my childhood was shaped/infiltrated/tainted by Disney. I was remembering a fairy tale as presented by corporate America. It struck me (as they are hardly faithful or accurate in their retellings) that the original tale is European and that it was probably nothing like the Disney version or my memory. Researching it, I discovered, yes, there are many discrepancies between all of them.

Spinner's memory: two fairies only
Disney's version: three, I think
Perrault: 13 fairies

Spinner's memory: ends with marriage of Beauty and handsome prince
Disney's version: ends with wedding and happily ever after
Perrault: the marriage only concludes the second act, the third act is dominated by a wicked mother-in-law who is an ogress who eats children and hankers after her grandchildren

What they all have in common, though, is that Beauty is a mute object who is handled and moved through her story by others with a voice/power.

I'm almost finished with the first half of my project: portraying the remembered fairy tale. The second half of the project will be my portrayal of the re-authored version of Sleeping Beauty. And, this Beauty will not be a mute object, she's all mouth!

"About Me" July 2007

I have Muppet hair (Animal! Animal! Animal!). My hair and I have come to a detente. We let each other alone and most of the bad feelings each of us has instigated have dissipated (mostly). I've come to realize we're actually similar: both of us need the illusion of control to be cuddly, bright things; asserting your authority and telling us what to do will bring only snarls and sneers.

Having hinted at the fractious dealings of myself and hair, let me say I absolutely love my curls. Hair is what I see in the mirror and demands the daily upkeep of outrageously expensive shampoos and conditioners. I feel my lovely curls and only really "see" them with my fingertips. Occasionally, I get a peek at a perfectly delineated curl. Otherwise, they lovingly wrap around an insecure digit or play "bounce" with bored ones. Individuals are loved and cosseted; but once their uniqueness is lost in a group of others, distrust is born and aggression soon follows. As the wise gentlemen of the elements have said, "That's the Way of the World."