On our last visit here, we suggested that Hairy Harry may make a good presidential candidate.

You may remember that Hairy Harry is a scout, whom the Wormelings--still hiding in the Riga pils kitchen--sent to scout the streets of Riga. Hairy Harry decided that Riga was ready to become the capital city of Europe for an alternate lifestyle. After all, the famed city within a city in Denmark, Christiania http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/gallery/2011/apr/28/christiania, is being eliminated in a "Europe is clean and sterile at last!" campaign.

Hairy Harry asked one Jaņdžs to prepare a poster with him as a candidate for President of Riga pils. "Use lots or orange color," suggested Hairy Harry. "The Latvians seem to like it."

"Alright, I will do it," said Jaņdžs, "but with the understanding that the ultimate Wormeling candidate is one Colonel Yonderman or whom the Latvians call 'Pulkvedis Jandāhlins', which translates as one who makes lots of noise with pots and pans and drums and whatnot."

"Yes, of course," answered Hairy Harry, "I just want to try being presidential to see if I fit the part."

Jaņdžs said: "If you do not behave, I will put you back in the woodpile."

So it goes. Incidentally, for all who are curious, here is an advance copy of the official campaign photo of Colonel Yonderman, aka Pulkvedis Jandahlins.

Easter, Riga 2011. Easter this year in Riga is going about with an anxious eye. The way one person about Riga described it to me was that “Riga is like a frozen body” (sastingusi).

Another person tense over business conditions, a man with one leg long in politics, was taken aback by my criticism of Latvian politics and challenged in so many words: Well, if you are so smart, tell me how you would do it different. Tell it to me right now and don’t escape me confrontation free.

I replied the man something like this:

1) In a little over a month discussions of who will be the next Latvian President will start for real;

2) I have rewritten an old story (I started it when I was still living in Arlington, VA), a political allegory, which I have disguised as a children’s story. The actors in the story are little friendly humanoids known to their author as Wormelings or “Vurmīši” in Latvian. Vurmīši are born in a refrigerator in the basement of the Riga Pils (Riga Pils to Riga is something like the White House is to Washington). 

One afternoon the president of Latvia, suffering from a total loss of desire to give any further public speeches, wanders about the cabinets and rooms of the castle. The president goes down into the Pils cellar, discovers a refrigerator, and when he opens the refrigerator door, a tumult of Wormelings crying “Free at last!” make their escape. The rest is Wormeling history.

3) I have an exhibition coming up on June 1^st. It is of my ‘reproducible art’, and will be at the Agija Suna Gallery in Old town Riga. The Wormelings will be prominent among the images. My interest in ‘reproducible art’ goes back to the 1970s and 1980s. A mix of a real politicker (long term strategy anthropologue), a silent non-academic academic, and artist of sorts, I walked for some years the streets of Cambridge and Boston, Massachusetts, to get a feel of how walking the streets for some purpose feels like. Perhaps that is where the Wormelings were born.

4) However, since the Wormelings never realized their potential in Washington, DC, their being born in a refrigerator in the Riga Pils basement is a heaven sent second chance to be nominated for the post of the next president of Riga Pils.

5) Some people ask Wormeling/Vurmītis to show his passport to prove that he is a Riga and Latvia citizen and can run for office. Vurmītis retaliates by asking if Latvians know the origins of their most popular Holiday, Jāņi. Many other topics arise, such as why Riga should be the future capital city of Europe.

6) All of the five above mentioned points come together at more or less one time-sensitive occasion, and Riga has a best seller.

The man with one leg long in politics looked at his watch and said that he had a meeting coming up in ten minutes. He said he would give me word on the Wormelings next week. I got the impression that I should not hold my breath, which is why these photos of Vurmīši, anticipating some such, were taken two weeks ago.

Happy Easter!

This is a basic Wormeling or Vurmītis of Riga, wbich is why it is also the passport picture of this friendliest of Riga creatures. Here it has been photographed next to a stone lion for creature comparison's sake.

While you may see a Wormeling at this time only at this blogspot, a Wormeling scout has been noted at a number of public places in Riga. One Vurmītis, as below, it was seen visiting Riga's Vermanu Park. It has also been noted at the gates of the Riga White House (see a few blogs below this picture):

Since the appearance of this and other pictures of a Wormeling scout in Riga last week, there have been a number of inquiries over whether a Wormeling is an apparition or a citizen of Riga and Latvia.

Some have commented that a Wormeling is a Populist and therefore not to be mentioned by Riga journalists. That is a shame, because aside from his appearance, a Wormeling is a human and a Latvian in every way. In all the ways that he looks different from a human being and a Latvian, he compensates for by increased doses of charisma and good will. But if he is denied Latvian citizenship even if he was born in the basement of the Riga White House, where is he to go?

This is a question that may nag this blogspot for a long time.

The time is Easter, therefore, a happy Easter wish from Riga, its Wormelings (see the whole story some blogs below), and thanks for looking in.

After trying to rent not only a bicycle, but a pedaler as well (and failing to find anyone wishing to take the risk of a Wormeling on the back seat), the Wormeling scout had to move on. He found a more welcoming Riga in two street musicians at Vermanes Park, just about center of the city. The Latvian Foreign Ministry and Riga Cathedral are in the far background.
There are some famous names associated with the park, because at one time some of Riga's people had the park almost for themselves.

A famous Latvian publishing couple, Antons and Emiliya Benjamins had a big mansion next to the park. Their newspaper "Jaunākās Ziņas" could boast the largest readership in the world per newspaper published--four persons per issue. Antons Benjamins (1860-1939) started his life as a school teacher and director, then moved on to become an editor with a number of newspapers in Riga. Following his apprenticeship, in 1911 "AB" then became editor in chief of JZ. The newspaper played an important role in popularizing the Latvian language in a then largely German-speaking Riga. Unfortunately, the newspaper stopped publishing in 1940, and was replaced by a Communist Party newspaper "Cīņa".

After visiting the Benjamins estate (it is a hotel and restaurant now), our Wormeling went to look for a rest room. Vermanes Park, a much more public space now than in the 1930s, did not have one. What next?

Let me see. Where can I do it?

This looks as good a place as any to lay an Easter egg. Or maybe not. Let me look a little while longer.

The Latvian Freedom Monument (Brīvības piemineklis), built in the 1930s (from donations from the citizenry), and with an honor guard of Latvian soldiers in attendance during daylight hours, has to suffer insults from a certain kind of tourist, who, when in need to relieve himself at night time, is not shy to relieve himself on the monument.

However, rather than blame a tourist, the blame should go to the Rīga mayor who for reasons of his own refuses to build a respectable public outhouse nearby. However, perhaps the hide-and-seek that goes on between the police and those who relieve themselves is a kind of double-mirrors game that at the same time reveals, then hides a political rivalry. It is getting to be ridiculous situation. The Riga Dome will fix the problem, but it is waiting for 2014, when Riga is to be City of Culture , Europe.

Until then Wormeling scouts have to hold it, and grin and bear it. After all, they are not tourists, but were born in the basement of the Riga White House (pils).

Once the Wormeling scout escaped the Riga pils compound, he reconoitred Riga proper. St. Peter's church was one of his first stops, then a flower shop, then the Latvian Saeima building. He had some important questions that he wanted to ask the elite body of thinkers and lawmakers.

As the viewer can see, to have a better look, this Wormeling scout had to ask a passer by to raise him up off the street so he could see St. Peter's better.

Unfortunately, he did not get to see the gold plated rooster at the top of the church.



The next stop for Hairy Harry was a Riga flower stand. There had been no flowers in the refrigerator in the Riga pils basement.

Hairy Harry was happy to see all the colors and thought that in the future he, too, could come paint himself either blue, or yellow, or red, or orange.

Somehow Hairy Harry got lost. He wandered through the streets of Riga until he came upon a sign that he definately wanted to pose in front of. The sign had been painted or drawn or something by a well known Latvian cartoonist Maris Bishofs.

Hairy Harry had first seen the artist's cartoons in the New Yorker. Yes, indeed, Wormelings get around. Rumour is that they had first cousins who were born in the basement of the White House in Washington, D.C.

The artist had written above his drawing the following (translated from Latvian): "There may also be such monuments about which pigeons are allowed to roost.."

Then Hairy Harry found his way to the Latvian Saeima. It is not far from the Riga pils (castle). A sign on a street corner gave some kind of warning. It showed what is commonly called "a red brick". The Wormeling wanted to get a closer look of it.

The sign suggested that one could pass only with some kind of special permit. The question was what kind of permit. Was it a passport that showed that Hairy Harry was a Latvian?

Hairy Harry was not sure if the fact that he was born of a Latvian mind qualified him for Latvian citizenship.
Who kne the answer?

The best way to find out was to stand in front of the entrance to the Latvian Saeima and ask someone.

"Is this where I apply for my Latvian passport?" Hairy Harry asked a beautiful Latvian blond.

The blond was busy talking to her friend, and since a Wormeling is as thin as paper did not notice him.

"Oh, well," sighed Hairy Harry, "maybe the next time."

Those readers who have read (see below) the story of the birth of the Wormelings (Vurmīši in Latvian) in the abandoned refrigerator in the basement of the Riga Castle (pils) will appreciate these first pictures of the Wormeling escape into the world at large.

Just to make sure that there is no mistake over whence they come from

To be sure, this only a scout. The others are still in in the Riga pils enjoying a cake and a few peaches.

Just making sure. Maybe the wriglers are patentable.

This is the English version of the story.

The Latvian version follows right after it.

THE WORMELINGEN GAZETTE

© Eso Anton Benjamins
Story originates at http://the4thawakening.blogspot.com/

Issue 1: Wormeling Beginnings 1

BREAKING NEWS

The appearance of ļife

in a warm refrigerator

in the White House basement

HOW IT HAPPENED

Not so long ago a light bulb burned out in a White House. The refrigerator stood in the kitchen in an important place—not far from the kitchen stove.

The cook had the door of the refrigerator always at hand. It was important that the White House Staff, including the President, had their favorite munchies at hand. As it happened, often such munchies (as, for example, ice cream) needed to be stored in the refrigerator.

When the cook noticed that the refrigerator light bulb no longer worked, he asked the kitchen supply clerk to buy a new one. The clerk said he would do so.

Nevertheless, the supply clerk, whose name was Tom, had certain ideas of his own.

The White House kitchen was one of the few places where the government worked perfectly, which is why sometimes there was little to do. This explains why, when Tom was told to get a new light bulb, he decided he would “make work”.

What Tom understood by “make work” was that he would not buy a new light bulb, but buy an entirely new refrigerator. It was no great matter that a refrigerator cost more than a light bulb. The White House had more than enough money for household expenses.

Everything went as Tom planned.

While the cook went into the White House garden to cut a few stalks of onion greens, Tom wheeled the old refrigerator out and replaced it with the new one.

Tom was also smart: the new refrigerator was the exact model of the previous one. Thus, the cook, always a busy man, never noticed that the next time he opened the door of the refrigerator, it was not the same one as had stood there before.

Tom had his good reasons why he was doing all this. He knew that in the basement of the White House there was a cubby space, a long forgotten small room. Tom was planning to turn this room into his resting place during lunch hours and other opportune times. This is why Tom put the old refrigerator into this White House basement room.

Further plans for outfitting his “resting room” included filling the refrigerator with all kinds of items from the delicatessen store, not to mention ice cream and cookies of various kinds. One goodie that Tom liked especially was custard pudding with vanilla sauce on top.

Everything was going ahead nicely. Tom managed to furnish his little hideaway with a sofa and a big screen television set, which was, of course, also hooked up to his computer. Then something unexpected happened.

It happened during the time when a high official of China visited the White House and stayed for dinner. As usual, the White House dinner was an affair done to perfection. Except this time there was one glitch. When the time came for desert and one of the Chinese guests ordered a custard pudding with vanilla sauce, there was no custard pudding to be had. White House runners drove all over Washington, D.C., went to the SE Market, even rushed to Arlington and Alexandria, Virginia, which is just across the Potomac River. However, as fate would have it, everyone was out of custard pudding.

Tom was not only fired from his job on the spot, but told that he could not expect a White House recommendation. This was because for the lack custard pudding, there occurred an incident that but for some fast thinking could have turned into an international scandal.

While the guests waited for the custard pudding, the official thought he would tell what he thought was a joke. So, he said (Ha, ha!): “The imperfections of the neo-capitalist system are showing through.”

To which the American high official, not quite understanding the joke, replied, “What about civil rights? You are fifty years behind us.”

Be that as it may, this is why the refrigerator in the White House basement was forgotten.

No one knows just how much time went by. The refrigerator stood in the forgotten room in the White House basement just as all forgotten things so stand. As for the custard pudding that was on the shelf of the refrigerator, things never could have been better.

Tom had not plugged the refrigerator to electricity, its door was closed, and it was warm inside. The refrigerator and the custard pudding presented no danger to the White House. Best of all, the pudding was in no danger of being eaten by anyone.

Nevertheless, things do not stay still for ever. One day the custard pudding sprouted a green mold. The mold spread over the top of the pudding dish, and soon the dish looked as if it had sprouted a beard.

This small event, noticed at first by no one, was destined to become a historical moment of great importance.

You see, such a beard of mold is as natural to a dish filled with custard and vanilla sauce on top as it is for a forest to grow in a swamp. This is where the wild things have their opportunity to grow and develop. In the case of an abandoned custard pudding, when the weather is favorable, all kinds of wild molecules run between the stems of mushrooms (which is what a mold is about).

So it happened that on an especially warm day, the wild molecules running about the top of the custard pudding arranged themselves in such a way that they created a Wormeling .

The first Wormeling born was round and bald, that is to say, naked.

The Wormeling lay where it appeared. It had no thoughts of moving. Why should it, given that its stomach was directly connected to custard pudding?

Soon another Wormeling was born. He lay right beside the first one.

The circumstances now changed a little. Lying next to each other gave the Wormelings opportunity to give each other a nudge once in a while. Of course, this was not any great event; nevertheless, it was better than nothing.

Then a third Wormeling was born.

This surprised all the Wormelings, because they discovered that they all could count to three. Still, this, too, was no great event. They all were still round, bald, and naked in the green grass of the mold, could count to three, and give each other a nudge once in a while.

Then a fourth Wormeling was born. Now he was different.

The fourth Wormeling was born with what we now call a “wriggler”. This was something that none of the previous Wormelings had.

What is a wriggler? This is a case when a picture tells more quickly than words. To explain a wriggler in words is to say that it is like human legs stretched out and resembles a coiled spring. When a wriggler gets a vibration, it wriggles.

The first three Wormelings were envious of the wrigglers of the fourth Wormeling. Every evening when they said their prayers, they addressed the Great All with a request that come morning, they would all awaken with wrigglers for feet.

The prayers of the Wormelings were only half answered. What happened was that the fourth Wormeling overheard what the first three were praying for and made them an offer hard to refuse.

“Greetings, my Wormeling brethren,” said the fourth Wormeling. “I have an idea. I can make wrigglers at will. If you pay me $100 for each wriggler, your problems will be solved.”

This was indeed a brilliant idea, but for one thing. Where would the Wormelings find money? Money does not grow on trees, it cannot be found in trash, and it cannot be printed, because printing can be done only by the federal printing office, which is tied in red tape.

It seemed that the brilliant idea, too, would go to mold. The fourth Wormeling began to worry that his hopes to start a “Wriggler Shop” would go bankrupt before he ever got to founding the shop. Though he was willing to drop the price of a wriggler from $100 to $50, the problem was that no one had money; and wrigglers cannot be manufactured simply for nothing.

A dream came to the rescue.

Because the Wormelings spent most of their time lying in the grass, they had lots of time to dream. This is why one of the dreams that they dreamt brought them to a pile of gold. The pile of gold was at the bottom of a deep black hole, but this was no problem, because such a black hole exists inside everyone’s head.

Moreover, the Wormelings discovered that if they concentrated their minds on the gold and let their eyes roam freely, the eyes almost always found what they were looking for.

The next question was if the gold was real and how did it finds its way to the basement of the White House? Above all, could the Wormelings make use of it.

The short of the answer is: Yes! The gold was accessible. Interestingly, the buyer of wrigglers had to do no more than assure the seller that “the gold is in the cellar”. This made the gold as good as in one’s pocket.

The fourth Wormeling soon had his “Wriggler Shop”. Indeed, with wrigglers available at half price, the birthrate of Wormelings increased so much that the shop was soon renamed “Wriggler Super Chain Store”.

The entire refrigerator was seized by a feeling of great happiness.  Business was booming. Wormelings were having all kinds of Wormeling fun, which meant that many of them often stood on their heads.

Then a great big WHIZZ BANG! was heard. It was but a moment, and the great happiness and fun changed into misfortune.

While everyone had been happy, one too many happy events brought all happiness down to Earth. There were, plainly put, too many Wormelings inside the refrigerator. A great number of them let everyone else know their concern by shouting: “Let us out! Let us out!” Of course, no one had the slightest idea what “out” meant. The door of the refrigerator had been closed for who knows how many weeks or months. No one inside the refrigerator had any idea that it and they were in the basement of the White House.

Most Americans likely think that if they are unlucky, but are at the same time in the basement of the White House, in reality they are lucky. This is what the Wormelings thought, which is why they called for a conference of experts to solve their problem. The experts conferred and announced their solution: Let every Wormeling sell one of their wrigglers, because with only one leg, Wormelings will move by half slower. There was considerable logic to the advice, because during the glory of Sale! days at the “Wriggler Super Chain Store”, everyone had bought themselves at least two wrigglers, each its own color.

Unfortunately, the ‘experts’ solution was no solution. There were so many wrigglers up for sale that the price crashed. “Wriggler Super Chain Store” went bankrupt.

With the last of their savings, Wormelings called yet another conference, this time of their Smartest Heads. These put their heads together and thought so hard that the roof of the refrigerator threatened to catch fire. When still no results were forthcoming, one Wormeling exclaimed so all would hear: “Perhaps the real truth is that the Chinese are fifty years ahead of us!”

“No! No, no!” cried all the Smartest Heads. “The White House is at the centre of the world!” How the Smartest Heads suddenly knew that they were in the White House no one knows to this day. But they cried “The White House” for sure.

All this happened at the moment the President had come into the White House kitchen to get an ice cream. The cry of the Smartest heads inside the refrigerator carried up the stairs into the White House kitchen. When the President heard the words “The White House is at the centre of the world!” he got goose bumps.

“Who is singing that nice song?” the President asked the head cook.

“Frankly, I do not know,” answered the cook, “but it sounds like it is coming from the basement.”

“Well, then let us go and take a look,” said the President.

Thus it happened that the door to the refrigerator that had for so long been the home of the Wormelings was opened by the President himself. Let Freedom ring!

“We are out! We are out!” cried all the Wormelings as they rushed out of the refrigerator. Oh, free at last!

[This is where the first chapter of the story ends. The editor can perhaps ad that the cook of the White House got very angry at the Wormelings and shouted at them: “This is President Super John, his name is not ‘We are out!’” The next installment will have some news of what happened to the Wormelings next.]

Read the next issue of 

THE WORMELINGEN GAZETTE to find out.