John Williams – Augustus – Comment.

The Washington Post heralded Augustus as the finest historical novel written by an American. This statement of opinion is debatable on many levels. First, the genre of historical novels, many teachers hammered into me early in life, as something to avoid. When studying history, read historians and certainly not fiction writers. There were two "historical" novels that I've found informative and entertaining. Gore Vidals, Julian and Marguerite Yourcenar's Memoirs of Hadrian. See comment: Articles, Essays & Consideration: Marguerite Yourcenar – Memoirs of Hadrian - Review .Yourcenar of course is French, and Vidal is American. See comment: Articles, Essays & Consideration: Julian- Gore Vidal- A Review Both novels, including William's Augustus, are likely the best of the best in this genre. Yourcenar wrote a curious comment on the genre:

"Time itself has nothing to do with it. It is always surprising to me that my contemporaries, masters as they consider themselves to be over space, apparently remain unaware that one can contract the distance between centuries at will." (276)

In all three novels mentioned, send this reader back in space in time as if I was a curious spider on the wall unseen and listening in silence. 

Augustus was the 'chosen' son and heir to Julias Caesar. After Caesar's brutal assassination by his close friend's and colleague's, the 19-year-old Octavius (Augustus) far from Rome received word of his adoptive father's death, and the infamous political machinations of Roman politics began. 

There are many lessons in this novel regarding power, love for one's country, close friendships, family, and living by one's principles. August was the first Roman Emperor who ruled from 63 BCE to 14 CE establishing a united Roman Empire and Pax Romana. He is described as slight in stature, fair with piercing blue eyes. He managed to navigate through lies and backstabbing, attempted assignations, and the "betrayal" of his beloved daughter, Julia. 

The most interesting and valued relationship of Augustus was with his daughter. She was his intellectual equal and sacrificed her personal life for the good of her father and Rome. The end of their relationship can be viewed as quite tragic. 

At the end of the book, we gain a greater insight into Augustus Caesar, as he writes to his friend Nicolaus of Damascus, contemplating his long life of 76 years. I found this section to be quite moving. 

Augustus is written in the epistolary form – fictional memoirs, dispatches, letters and poems. Don't this let put you off, as William's excellent prose drags you right into the story. 

An excellent read. 

The Death Penalty should be Abolished – Opinion.

 The controversy over Capital punishment has raised it head again in mainstream circles. The fact that this medieval activity dictated by the state continues to be practiced in many countries around the planet reveals a civilization that is morally bankrupt and has enabled unjust power to the authorities to murder its own citizens based on a flawed justice system. 

There have been two items in the news that has sparked the controversy into the public sphere:

Christa Pike's failed execution after two doses of pentobarbital that left her still alive. This woman was found guilty of the torture and murder of 19-year-old, Colleen Slemmer. This is the first execution of a woman in Tennessee for 200 years. The governor has placed all state executions on hold until an investigation discovers the reason for this cruel and unusual event. It should be noted that during Pike's trial, the jury was not informed of her violent sexual abuse she endured as a child. This well could have swayed the jury to the lesser punishment of life in prison without the possibility of parole. "Experts" of the death penalty including politicians has called this catastrophe, "Singler and Unparalleled". 

The announcement from the Trump Administration of the possibility of livestreaming the firing squad execution of Ford Hood shooter Nidal Malik Hasan, who killed 13 people in a killing rampage, has more than raised the eyebrows of many influential pundits around the planet. When Trump was questioned about the livestream execution, he said, "(He) was vicious and he is violent, there are two thoughts, don't show it, and show it. Because you know by showing it, maybe other people won't be doing what he did."  

This is flawed logic and statistically untrue. Capital punishment has never acted as a deterrent for murder. If any rational person believes by televising Hansan's murder will make people think twice about committing a mass shooting is lying to themselves. Executing convicted murderers does not prevent others from committing that crime. This fact is undisputed.  

The arguments for capital punishment are weak and archaic. 

The death penalty is just retribution for the crime. If you believe in the OT 3,500-year-old doctrine of an "Eye for an eye and tooth for a tooth" dogma, and applied it to all crimes, there would be blood on the streets, and no one would be safe. 

As discussed above that the death penalty deters potential murderers is blatantly false. We can prevent the offender from further offending by placing him in prison, where he can no longer hurt the citizenry. 

The argument of closure for the victims aligns with the Old Testament doctrine; killing the man who killed your loved one doesn't bring the loved one back. Many believe there really isn't such a thing as closure anyway. The wound merely scares up and will reopen from time to time. 

Those against the death penalty argue that it does not deter others to murder. One of the major arguments against capital punishment is the risk of executing the innocent. In our justice system, there is no consistency in applying this punishment. Statistically, the cost to the state and the risk of killing the innocent is high. 

Lastly, giving the power to the state to execute its own citizens in a democratic society paves the way to full authoritarianism, shedding our rights for a faceless system. Simply granting that power to the state is immoral. 

Murder is immoral.

The botched execution of Chista Pike reveals a highly flawed system and an incompetence that goes way beyond the pale. 

The barbaric idea to livestream the execution of Nidal Malik Hasan to the world reveals a specific type of psychopathy. This action is not to deter others from committing mass murder; it is a show of power by the state to instill fear in the people.  It is a tool for control. "We can do this, and do it to anybody, so stay in line." The death penalty as entertainment, only satisfies the morbid, lesser human beings. It's a live snuff film for the masses. 

There's nothing moral or good about murder and execution. 

It is death perpetuating more death ad infinitum.  

Abolish Capital Punishment. 

Encounter with the Butcher’s Daughter. (A short tale).

 

It was a warm, Saturday morning along the main throughfare of our little town where I first laid eyes on our local butcher’s daughter. On the third weekend of every month, the shop places an industrial size barbecue stove out front, cooking fresh sausages and onion selling to the locals and tourists who walk along the main drag with expressions of utter contentment. Our ‘village’ is around 120 years old, and the shops have maintained the facades of a time past. The combination of the pleasant smell of a barbecue, and the feeling you’re visiting another time, boasts a strange and unique experience. As I left the local general store, my weekly bag of supplies in hand, the queue of customers awaiting to purchase fried sausage wedged between fresh white bread, stretched meters up the road. As I weaved around the hungry patrons, the smell of the meat became more pungent, and reaching the head of the line, the butcher’s daughter lifted her head and looked me straight in the eyes and inaudibly said “hello”. 

As an old man who has lived more decades than ever expected, travelled to many continents, and has met a variety of my fellow human beings from several ‘walks of life’, this first meeting with this young stranger had an extraordinary impact on me on a very deep level. It felt like a combination of intense excitement and haunting familiarity. This response should not be confused with an adolescent pang of a first crush, more so the feeling one has when meeting an old, beloved friend after many years. This response should also not be interpretated as the natural reaction one has to a beautiful woman, for physically she was quite plain. Through the smoke of the barbecue, her hair appeared to be light brown and swept back. The pallor of her skin was chalkboard white, and though her eyes were a milky blue, they reminded me of a lost fawn in the forest, desperately searching for home. From a second glance, she was thin, her long, slender fingers holding a cooking implement, pushing the sausages around the grill with the focus of a master chef. As I walked across the road, a car slammed its brakes, blowing its horn, a memory flooded into consciousness, and at that instant, present time disappeared. 

Womble, Victoria, 1973. 

Nora lived with her mother in a single room flat on the southern edge of town. Due to her mother’s alcohol issues, she drank at night and slept during the day. The disability check would arrive in the mail at the end of every month; the money fell short to cover food and medicines, including the daily bottle of vodka. The responsibility to make ends meet was placed directly on Nora, and finding suitable employment, considering she had recently turned 12 years of age that month, proved to be a monumental task. 

Everyone who has lived in a small town is aware that your business is known by all the town’s inhabitants. Everybody knows everybody, and the people were sympathetic to Nora’s “situation”. So much so, in fact, Nora would ride her bicycle into town, purchase a few days' worth of groceries, spin by the pub’s bottle shop, and pick up her mother’s precious vodka. The local cops were aware of this arrangement, and would escort Nora from time to time, ensuring she made it safely home. It was late on a Friday afternoon, where Nora needed to stop by the local chemist and pick up her mother’s month supply of medication. It was there that the semi-retired chemist, Joseph Keller, had an idea, and offered Nora a solution to her unemployment problem. 

“What would you say, Nora, to be my delivery person during the week. Many of my customers are unable to come to the shop to obtain their medications. You can ride your bike and deliver their prescriptions door to door. I know you’ve lived here all your life, so finding each address wouldn’t be a problem. I will probably require your services three times a week, of course after you’ve finished school for the day. What do you say?”

Nora’s excitement grew at the chance to earn a little pocket money. The morning before, their landlady, Mrs. Goldstein knocked on the door requesting to see Nora’s mother, but she was passed out in bed. 

“Tell your mother, young lady, that the rent is two months overdue. I know times are difficult, but a little money towards the rent will suffice.” 

Nora nodded and promised the landlady she would pay her next week. 

All the way home, racing on her bike, Nora couldn’t wait to tell her mother that now she was gainfully employed. Bursting through the door, “Mum, mum!” She found her mother on the couch sleeping and didn’t want to wake her up at that moment. ‘I’ll tell her in the morning.’, she thought. 

Over the next few weeks, after school, Nora would see Mr. Keller and load the front basket of her bike with several paper bags filled with drugs for that day. Each day was a different route and different customers. Wednesday was her favorite because she delivered to Mrs. Crowley. The 93-year-old woman would always invite Nora inside, and together they would have tea. Nora would sit and listen attentively to the stories about Mrs. Crowley’s long and interesting life. She loved hearing about her late husband who served in the Great War, heroically dying for Australia on the shores of some exotic land. Because the old woman lived on the far south side of town, and it was Nora’s last delivery, dusk came early, as it was winter, and Nora would arrive home in pitch black. 

On the fourth week of Nora’s delivery employment, a new costumer appeared on her list. Mr. Floyed Curtis, who Nora had never met before and lived in the old, beat-up apartment complex on the outskirts of town. It was her last delivery of the day. He lived in apartment 412, which meant Nora had to climb four flights of stairs. As she ascended the dark stairwell, the smell of something stale and putrid reached her nose, causing her to stop on the second floor to hold her breath. Once arriving, a bag of medicines in hand, she softly knocked on apartment 412. 

Nora heard movement inside the apartment, so decided to knock again. The sound of bolt locks clanged through the door, and slowly the door creaked open, revealing Mr. Curtis. Nora was startled at first for Curtis had dirt smudged on his face, arms, legs and hands, wearing only a stained tee shirt and torn boxer shorts. The man was only slightly taller than Nora, dark beady eyes, with patches of black oily hair covering his balding skull. When seeing Nora, he smirked and asked, “What do you want little girl?” Nora was dumbfounded at first, to finally whisper, “I have your weekly medicines from Mr. Keller.” She lifted the small bag in her hands towards Curtis. Rather than taking the bag, Curtis grabbed Nora’s thin arm, and dragged her into the apartment, and that was the last time anyone in the small Victorian town would ever see Nora alive again.

All at once I was back on the road staring at a large 4-wheel drive blasting its horn in my face. ‘Hey old man, get the hell off the road before someone gets hurt!” As I scooted to the curb, the truck speeded passed, and the driver flipped me off as he disappeared into traffic. As I approached my bus stop, my brain began to fog, so I sat down and pulled a bottle of water from my bag, and swallowed half of it before feeling any better. 

‘What the hell was that memory?” I thought. It must have been something I had read over the years. This was more than a memory; it was something akin to a lucid dream. It felt so real. I did have a strange and haunting feeling, a gut feeling, that this “memory” had something to do with the butcher’s daughter. 

*

Over the next few weeks, winter had arrived in earnest, and the freezing rain fell with unrelenting force, forcing me to remain inside my small cabin. Living alone is a luxury, as it enables me to concentrate on my part-time employment, writing commentary on newly released CDs ranging from films, classical performances from Europe, and the latest audio book. (As a retired cop, this type of work was a pleasure) Because of space restraints, each ‘review’ was limited to 150 words. In the case of audio books, rather than reviewing the novel’s content, for example, Kafka’s Metamorphosis, writing a literary analysis within the 150-word limit was nearly impossible. My focus was on the narrator of the tale. Comparing one against the other, reading the same book. This proved to be popular and successful, and my editor continued to send much more of these books than I could possibly handle. Finally, the torrential, cold rain stopped its 24-hour performance, enabling me to venture into town for my much-needed supplies.  

During my two-week hibernation, writing about newly released films of the 90s, that strange ‘memory-experience’ as if thrown back in time and space, and the emotions connected to the disappearance of the little girl, never entered consciousness, until arriving in town, and seeing the butcher’s daughter, cooking sausages for the tourists and town folk. Upon seeing the young lady, my breathing became short and rapid, and I truly thought I would pass out right there on the footpath. Fortunately, a wooden bench was only a few steps ahead, so there I collapsed in a heap. While I was attempting to steady my breathing, the owner of the dumpling shop, a young Chinese woman, burst through the door of her restaurant, sat next to me, and instructed me to put my head between my legs. I followed her orders, and several minutes later, my breathing returned to normal.  

‘I thought you have heart attack, sir.’

Lifting my head and looking across the road, the butcher shop sat three doors down. Again, because it was the third week of the month, the barbecue was cooking at full swing, and the cue extended more than a block. On this day, the butcher's daughter had her back to the stove and was peering right at me while I sat on the bench recovering from my loss of balance. The young lady stared directly at me for several seconds, then waved and motioned me to come join her from across the road. I stood up and pointed at myself, and whispered, “Me”? Through the smoke from the grill, she nodded her head and turned back around to resume her cooking. 

Since I was a small child, many unexplained experiences occurred that my mother conveyed to me that I’d rather forget. She told me a few stories of, for example, an “imaginary’ friend who turned violent on me, pinching my arm, leaving a dark bruise, never returning. Another time my mother was very sick, and while she was lying on the couch in the front room, a knock sounded at the front door. I was only four years of age and reached up to the doorknob and opened it. There stood a tall man dressed in black wearing a stove top hat like Abraham Lincoln, and said through the screen, “I’ve come for your mother.” I remember saying, “Mum’s asleep, so come back tomorrow!” and slammed the door in his face. Later that evening my father came home from work and rushed mother to the hospital, where they told us she was close to death due to pneumonia. Some years later, I told mother about that man in the hat, and she laughed, telling me it was most likely the “Angel of Death”. Over the decades ahead, during times of my first and second marriages, particularly, hauntings, visitations and synchronicities, were common. Though as I aged, divorced amicably from my second wife, retired and now live alone, the past few years have been quiet in that department, until meeting the butcher’s daughter. 

As I found myself at the front of the queue, the young woman smiled, and said, “Can you meet me at the Shore Tree Tourist park in an hour?” I nodded my head in compliance, and blurted out, “Can you tell me what this is all about? I really don’t know you. Is everything alright?” She turned and flipped a few snags on the grill, and looking up, “Please, will you meet me in an hour?” The young woman’s expression seemed to be a mix of fear and expectation. “Of course, I’ll see you there at 3:00.”  The problem was I didn’t drive and hadn’t owned a car since my last divorce. In the settlement, my ex got the house, most of my savings, and the family automobile. The bus, train, and Uber were my modes of transport. I decided against an Uber because of financial constraints, so I sat at the bus stop, and waited patiently for the next scheduled arrival. Only 30 minutes passed, and the bus to the tourist park arrived right on time. During the trip, my mind continued to relive the memory or “dream’ of the young Nora’s disappearance. And what did this have to do with the butcher’s daughter? The bus pulled into the park, and there she was waiting on the bench, her legs crossed, and her left foot wagging in anticipation.  

I sat down next to her and asked, “What can I do for you, young lady?”

"You really don't know who I am?"

Slightly taken aback, I said, "I know you work with your father in the butcher's shop..."

The young lady sighed, and said, "I'm yes, that person, my father's daughter, but I used to be someone else. So don't you recognize me?"

I felt my face flush uncontrollably. My eyes began to sting, and again, consciousness dwindled like a contracting circle, and opening my eyes, found myself in an entirely different time and place. 

*

The whole town was in a panic. Little Nora had not returned home for two days. Normally drunk or asleep, Nora's mother sounded the alarm, and by noon the next day, hundreds of the town's inhabitants gathered into search parties, combing their community for the missing little girl. 

On the third day of Nora's disappearance, the town's Chief of Police, Segeant Bret Mckenzie, called for a town meeting at the local secondary school. The entire gym was packed as if the whole population was in attendance. 

"We will be continuing our search tomorrow at first light. Because this is a missing child case, I wanted to keep you all informed on the ongoing investigation. We're currently following certain leads, and a few are quite promising. I wanted to let you know that we have located Nora's bike on the far side of town. We are concentrating on our searches in that location. We will keep you updated with any new information. Thank you for your support. "

Sergeant McKenzie knew of Nora as he had escorted her home many a time, especially after she bought her mother her weekly vodka. He’d watch her drop her bike to the ground and wait until she entered the front door of her home. On many occasions, McKenzie would follow Nora beside her as she slowly peddled her bike. Through the cruiser window, “So how is your mother today?” Nora wouldn’t slow down and reply, “Oh, she’s fine. She’s been sleeping a lot lately, so she must be tired.” As they arrived at the property, “Nora, you know my number, and you can call me if you need any help. You know that, right?” Nora would reveal a smile and a cheeky frown, “Yes, Sargent, I know that.” McKenzie would wait until Nora entered the home, and the front door slammed shut, before carrying on with his nightly patrol of the town. 

Over the following months, escorting Nora home became part of McKenzie’s routine.  He discovered that her father had died in some war and had never met him. Nora loved to read and would spend every spare moment of her time at the local library. Her favorite color was blue, her favorite food was sausage rolls, and she loved English and history. Most of all she wanted to become a teacher or a nurse when she grew up, though had not decided on which one.  For Seargeant McKenzie, the disappearance of Nora had turned personal. He prided himself on his professionalism, and his ability to maintain an emotional distance from all his cases. The Nora case was different. Their short conversations over the last year escorting Nora home had created a bond between them. Though McKenzie was single and childless, he felt a fatherly obligation for the child. More so, he felt responsible for her disappearance, and was determined to make things right.  

On the seventh day of Nora’s disappearance, a fellow officer’s voice crackled over the radio, “A body has been discovered 10 miles west of town in a shallow grave. We believe it’s the missing child.” McKenzie braked hard, spinning the tires of his cruiser, and whipped around heading west on the main road out of town. Approaching the scene, a small crowd had gathered, and the crime scene tape was just rolling out. Walking at a slow pace, McKenzie reached the scene of the crime. Sticking out from the ground, he recognized Nora’s running shoes, and her light brown hair. Once the Coroner arrived, he inspected the body and brushed the hair away from her face. It was Nora. 

“We need a full autopsy, but my guess is homicide and cause of death, strangulation.” 

McKenzie followed the coroner back into town. While driving his emotions pushed to the surface, and all he could feel was rage.  

Over the next two years, McKenzie worked on the “Nore Case”, following every lead to all their unfortunate dead ends. There were a few viable persons of interest, but there was never enough evidence to make an arrest. The case turned ice cold. 

*

The butcher's daughter's voice penetrated my strange reverie, and she said, "You need to remember me, Sergeant McKenzie, I was once the little girl, Nora, killed all those years ago."

I carefully looked at her, and again, memory came back, and the light in the girl's eyes felt unmistakably familiar. 

"Even if I believe you, the 'Nore Case' has been shelved and hasn't been reopened for years."

The butcher's daughter gave a hint of a smile, "Get back to your old collogues in Womble, and ask them to do further forensic testing. Tell them you just have a hunch considering it was your last case, unsolved; I'm sure they will find the budget to begin further testing, leading to "my" killer." 

The final bus back to town pulled up at the stop. 

"You should get on that bus Sergeant McKenzie, and please phone your old collogues, as I believe they're expecting your call." 

As the bus pulled away, I watched the butcher's daughter remain sitting on the bench smiling and waving goodbye. 

Over the next month, the Nora Case became a top priority. Her dress was pulled from the old evidence locker and sent to Melbourne for DNA testing. Unexpectedly, the DNA results returned to a match. My main person of interest, Floyd Curtis, wasn't a match, but connected to an old student at Nora's school, Karl Fuller. He was on the DNA database because of a string of sexual assaults over 45 years. After a few days of searching, we found Fuller living in a nursing home in the Western suburbs of Melbourne. 

As it was my last case; the new detectives were kind enough to allow me to be on scene for the arrest. When Fuller was met by detectives at the foot of his bed in the nursing home, he blurted out. "I've been expecting you blokes. What took you so long?"

The chain of events including Fuller's arrest and conviction and short prison sentence, (he was 89 years old) 15 years minimum, all happened at lightning speed. In a little over three months, the Nora case was closed. 

During this time, as my stint away from home was extensive, that is assisting the cold case detectives. My every third week visit to town was three months overdue. Once home, I unpacked and bussed into town for supplies etc. 

I was looking forward to seeing the butcher's daughter and sharing with her the good news that finally after 45 years, the Nora case is closed. 

Getting off the bus, the familiar cue of patrons stood patiently waiting to purchase their barbecued sausages from the butcher's daughter. As I waded myself through the crown to the top of the line, she wasn't there, and in her place was a big, burly man with tattoos covering his arms and neck. 

"Pardon me, but where is the young lady who usually cooks and sells here at the shop. I believe it's the owners daughter? "

He peered at me puzzled and said, "I'm the owner of this shop, mate. And I have been the sole proprietor for the last 12 years. Don't you recognize me, mate. John Hurly."

I was stumped and shocked and didn't know what to say. 

"Would you like a sausage sandwich, mate? On the house."

"Oh, no thank you."

My bags in hand, I walked across the road to the Chinese restaurant. for certainly my old friend could clear up my confusion. 

"Hello sir. How are you today?

I wanted to ask you about the young lady who has been selling sausages across the road at the butcher's shop. Do you know what happened to her?" 

Of course, she looked at me strangely and said, "Only John sell sausages, never girl there."

"You look sick, sir. Please sit down here" 

Over the next week or so, I investigated the existence of this young woman to discover she never actually existed. 

Since that weird experience, I try not to think about her and hold fast to the feelings of accomplishment that the Nora case had finally been solved. Knowing, of course, in the back of my mind, that it would never have been solved without the help of the butcher's daughter.