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Cropduster 03
======================================================
CROPDUSTER -- Issue 3
Copyright 1994 by Steven Meece and Chris Woodill
======================================================
This is the ASCII version of the zine. It contains everything you would
receive in the real zine except for pictures and the feel of authenticity. If
you would like to receive the paper edition, send $1.10 for the United States
or 86 cents for Canada to:
Cropduster
79 O'Hara Avenue
Toronto, Ontario
M6K 2R3
All other enquiries should be directed to that office as well. The editors are
also available by international e-mail at:
ad522@freenet.carleton.ca (Steven Meece)
cwoodill@epas.utoronto.ca (Chris Woodill)
Naturally permission is granted to distribute Cropduster in any way you would
like, but please leave it as it is so that others can see our mistakes as
well. If you have a problem, don't take it out on a text file: Tell us.
===============
FIRST WORDS
By Steven Meece
===============
Cropduster has made substantial progresses since our last meeting. It has been
fully integrated into the Internet computer network, which has increased our
circulation base geometrically. This has allowed Cropduster to reach
thousands of readers in Europe, the United States, Oceania and Canada -
virtually the entire English speaking world. The Cropduster text is now in the
library at the University of Michigan and with the producers of the Whole
Earth Catalogue in San Francisco, and on the House of Pain BBS in Denver
Colorado USA (719-574-6963). The editors of Cropduster are also participants
in alt.zines, listed in the 3W periodical index based in the UK, and some
other archival lists and indices. Cropduster #1 was paraphrased in SEMA,
the journal of U of T semiotics students, of which cw is the editor. Steven
Meece was invited to write a piece for Bad Subjects (a publication of the
english department of the U of California @ Berkeley) but unfortunately missed
the deadline. For some reason, Factsheet Five seems to want to ignore us.
Editor Steven Meece made the big time. He was visited by reporter Francine
Dube in her yellow news gathering scooter and photographer Wayne Cuddington,
and ended up in full colour gracing the front page of the Ottawa Citizen of
December 26, 1993 (the slowest news day of the year). Francine and Steven spoke
for about an hour in his diningroom, of which Francine printed about three
sentences. He was also identified as a University of Ottawa student -- he
actually attends Carleton. The story (edited and without pictures) was put
into the Southam network, and was re-printed who-knows-where.
Cropduster has grown from a summer make-work and kill-boredom project into a
small part-time job. Instead of a vanity publication for our ex-friends, it is
now an entity of literary value(?) People are actually starting to take this
thing seriously, and it is going somewhere.
We feed this issue to the those who are clamouring for more. It is a
collection of aphorisms, asides, and unreleased texts written by a fictional
group of characters who are portrayed as being between the ages of fifteen and
twenty. This issue actually has several different authors, but they will remain
unnamed. Together it forms a non-sequiteur little play on the subject of
romantic interaction amongst highschool and post-highschool actors in Peel
County. You have already heard the stories about Peel. That's the place where
the constitution of the board of education specifically prohibits "displays of
affection" between its students. There are no costume changes, and it is in
the public domain. Names have been inserted into the text, but these are
merely place-holders. The thing is an offering that pretty much explains
itself. Take what you want, and leave what you do not. I'm not overly proud of
this one. It issue should not be taken all that seriously -- after all it's
free. We've shook the trees of the past few years, and collected some of the
things that fell to the ground.
'He who offers to me with devotion only a leaf, or a flower, or a fruit, or
even a little water, this I accept from the yearning soul, because with a pure
heart it was offered with love.'
Bhagavad-gita 9.26
'What is important is to keep mind high in the world of true understanding,
then, returnng to daily experience, seek therein the true and the beautiful.
No matter what the the activity of the moment, we must never forget it has
bearing on everlasting self, our poetry.'
Basho
==============================
LETTERS TO THE EDITORS
by various parties
some disgruntled
some not
==============================
-- BITTER TASTES --
Interchangable cog,
I am disappointed in you. You are one of them; Crass, prejudiced, full of
false words, destroying what others hold so dear to maintain a shred of your
sanity. Your views are not held as absolute by all, and it is sad that you may
hold them as concrete yourself. Dost thou savour the bitter taste? Enjoy your
small life at that pillar of academia.
Yours Truly.
Lisa Habib
Mississauga
For the uninitiated.... Lisa Habib is mentioned by name in Cropduster 1, and
expanded upon somewhat in Cropduster 2. She was incredibly interesting, a very
good poetess, but also a little intimidating. In 1992 I wrote her a letter
(with hopes of later talking to her) but she misinterpreted it and felt it was
some kind of assault. A few months later (after highschool had ended) she
wrote me, in which she apologised and seemed to want to get to know me. I
wrote back. We met during reading week in the Saug, at Erindale College. It
didn't go well, I was dazed from being back there. I have always been somewhat
smitten with her, but she does such unexplained and quizzical things. She has
the strangest reactions to rather straightforward words. She wrote this in
response to the second issue, and I replied to her thusly, which she has not yet
answered. It is so like her to drop off an anonymous holier-than-thou harangue
and then quickly scoot out of the room with a satisfied smile on her face,
ignoring my defences, as if they never existed.
Dear dear Lisa al-Habib;
First of all, there is no way that I could be one of "them", whatever that
means. Right now I can count my contemporaries on one finger, so "them" is an
ambiguous word. If I was part of them I would be able to talk to them, and
that certainly isn't happening right now. So this claim I refute.
I assume that these hateful accusations are being thrown my way based on what
you read in the issue of Cropduster that you were mailed.
I am not blind when it comes to Mississauga or the people that live there, nor
am I prejudiced. I moved to that town in 1978 (when the population was about
half of what it is now) and stayed there for fifteen years. There is no way
that I could have any prejudice left after all that time: It received a fair
trial. My uncle has a seat on the city council, representing Streetsville of
all areas, and is the namesake of the "David J Culham trail". If anyone is
qualified to make a comment, certainly it is I. If anyone could be labeled a
"Mississauga Boy" it is me. I know the city and I stand by every word I wrote.
I'd be interested in knowing which words of mine you find false.
It would have been very easy, too easy really, to simply say "Suburbanites are
philistines" and leave it at that. If you can see the trees for the forest,
you'll notice that I never did that, and never implied it.
Yes, I am crass. I don't deny that, but feel no shame over it, either. The
writing was crass, but again, that reflected the locale and if they felt no
need to censor their crassity, why should I?
And you start to recoil, heavy words are so lightly thrown. But now you know
the truth about me, you won't see me anymore. Well I'm still fond of you, but
no more apologies.
I was trying to convey the idea that Mississauga, or the Woodlands at least,
was a pretty sleazy place to live in most of the time. It was truly a very
Teenage place - this again is not prejudice, because I am no longer a
teenager, but when I go back to the Saug, it still seems like the city is. The
Saug will mature, but it will take time.
As I wrote in the introduction, "names have not been changed to protect the
guilty, because they did what they did under free will and without doubt, or
shame." We originally had a little discussion about this, because I wanted to
remove some of the nouns. But then why should we bother? If they felt no need
to censor themselves, why should we do it for them? If Derek Land didn't want
his pony dick written up in a publication, he shouldn't have gone ahead and
said it when he did. No, he pounded the cafeteria table, shouted it, and then
sat back and smiled. He was proud of it. It was one of his trademarks. The
same thing for the unpeeled banana guy and the maxi pad on the dancefloor. It
is not my job to act as their moral conscience. I would expect you to know the
difference between honesty and vulgarity for its own sake.
What did I destroy that others held so dear? I didn't destroy Mississauga, I
only pitied it and the people that live there. There is a line at the end that
goes "perhaps this is the way that it is everywhere now, but that doesn't make
Missisauga feel any better". That is the most important line in the entire
article. If you can grasp what it means, you will understand the true meaning,
the real meaning, behind all the slights apparantly at highschool kids.
I even gave little league baseball and Scouts a reprieve, an apology. The only
thing that I blasted without reservation were the Peel Regional Police and
Erindale College, and I stand by those judgements.
The Peel police will not receive any defence from me, and maybe you believe
that Erindale is a great place, and to you it might be, but only if you don't
get out much. I know Erindale college well; I went there for two weeks a few
summers ago, I cut through the complex when walking home from Streetsville, my
cousin as do a few of my old friends go there.
"Erindale serves Mississauga teens who are too poor or too scared to move away
from mom and become real people."
Every word of that sentence is true. The question remains, why would anyone
goto Erindale if they didn't have to? Because they really liked the Blind
Duck, thought the Medium II was a great paper, and loved to listen to Kriss
Kross on Radio Erindale? If you were from Halifax and you were accepted into U
of T, would you want to live in downtown Toronto, or would you want to live in
Mississauga? The rents are actually cheaper around St George than they are in
Erin Mills. There is only one reason to prefer the Erindale to St George:
Because you already live there and aren't able to leave.
Erindale exists to pick up the highschool outflow of the Saug, the same way
that the Scarborough campus serves only Scarborough. I know a few Saug people
that moved to Toronto to goto St George, but none that moved to Scarborough to
go there. When I went there to visit with you, the place gave me the creeps
because it was crawling with people from Woodlands and Streetsville. I'm sure
that I would have recognised the rest had I gone to Lorne Park or Port Credit.
I read in Maclean's that 4% of Erindale students are from outside of Ontario.
Ask almost anyone on campus why they chose Erindale, and it will be because
they wanted the prestige of a U of T degree, but didn't want to go downtown
because of fright or money. To deny this is to deny reality. The people there
admit it. I'm sure the SAC president would too.
Nevertheless, this is far from destruction. There is a legitimate need for a
school in the Saug. Far be it from me to condemn people for being poor. But I
think it would be a greater mistake to goto Erindale because you were scared
of leaving home. If you can financially afford to leave, you should. You're
going to have to leave mom eventually, and there is no better time to do so
than university. You yourself said that you wanted to transfer to St George.
I didn't destroy the city, I only stated what was true about it. If there was
any destruction in that, it was Mississauga's own doing. As for the town being
made up of shits, that is for the most part true. What I got tired of at the
end was the endless bullshit and the eternal party politics, which are still
continuing. About a week ago, cw got a message on his answering machine by
Stacey, who harangued, "If you and your cohort wish to slander me, be a man
and do it to my FACE!!!!" and then she slammed down the phone. The same old
games, the same old mock hysteria, and notice how she referred to me as his
"cohort". Nothing's changed for Stacey. Not much has changed out there. It's
still the same as it ever was.
I just didn't want any of that, I had been playing it for too long. I just
wanted to be left to my lonesome to read and write and wait until I could
leave. I was tired of all the nonsense that went along with being a highschool
student. It wasn't as if I was condemning something I knew nothing of, because
I had played those games for years. But I was tired now, and no longer wanted
my part. Up until the very end I was looking for higher ideals. Up until the
very end I wanted to create a good subset out of the world of Mississauga, and
I tried for 14 of my 15 years there. I kept on giving people second chances,
and kept on trying out new friends.
I didn't include our story as another jab. I only put it in because it was one
of the last outward acts I did with the citizens of Saug, and it was a
complete failure for reasons of fate or whatever. I didn't destroy you with
its inclusion, and I'm not pegging you as just another clone. It was a
classic, a beauty move. I had to laugh at it, at everything. It ensured that I
was on the path to the end. Even after we met at Erindale almost a year later
I was too spaced out by you to even communicate as a human would.
If you hold heavy metal, vomit, and a girl being gang-raped in the boys
washroom at our highschool dear to your heart, more power to you and I wish
you a life of happiness in your home on the range (where never is heard a
discouraging word). I didn't mean to burst your bubble.
Dost I savour the bitter taste? That's an existentialist question if I've ever
heard one. Methinks me doth, methinks me better, because it is the only thing
I am going to taste. Everything tastes bitter after the apple from Eden, you
know. I'd rather taste a bitter truth than a saccarine falsehood. All of us
Saug people are the same. After you leave town you'll realise the truth,
bitter though it be. He and I wrote the zine partially to purge some of the
bad brains.
Now that you have emerged from the shadows again to drop off an embittered
letter, you may return to the mist from whence you came. I was fool enough to
believe your February letter and write you a reply, followed by a prompting
note in March and one this summer mailed in the USA, all three of which were
answered by silence. You obviously do not know your own mind (but what a
beautiful mind it is) because you can't even get up the gumption to tell me
you want nothing to do with me. You would rather do nothing and wait for me to
get the idea.
Me having a small life? I am doing something - I am writing the truth as I see
it and defending it to those who challenge it. Why aren't you doing the same
thing? You have the writing talent, and the material can be anything you feel
strongly about. Why aren't you putting your MS-DOS skills to work making a
zine? Forty issues of Cropduster #2 cost $20 for printing and $20 for postage,
and look at the hornet's nest it has stirred up. It's been a million laughs so
far. Please send me one if you do.
Everybody's got to live their life, and God knows I've got to live mine. Lisa,
Lisa it was really nothing. Lisa, Lisa it was really nothing. Lisa, Lisa.
I have the honour to be,
Yours,
PS. In case no-one has told you yet, you have a slight California accent.
PPS. Don't use words like "dost thou savour". Poetry words belong in poems.
-- MORE ABOUT CROPDUSTER ISSUE 1 --
Hi-
I read with great interest your Issue I of Crop Duster, pertaining to teeny
magazines. Although I never read _Young Miss_ (its title when *I* was a
teenager) and I perceive myself to be a bit old for _Sassy_ (I'm 24), I must
admit to "growing up" with _Seventeen_. I subscribed to _17_ from the age of
12 until I went to college, when my little sis took over my subscription.
For the most part, I agree with your analysis of the whole teeny mag genre. I
especially think that they devote an inordinate amount of space to "body
image" ads. Sorry to use the "f" word, but as a feminist, I disagree with this
much attention to looks: am I too fat? are my breasts too small? too big? is
my hair perfect? my makeup? most importantly, will boys like me if I buy all
these products and try to look like this?
However, it is a fact that with puberty comes an inordinate amount of worry
about body image. For girls, at least. Not being male, I can't speak for boys.
But the lack of teeny mags for guys makes me think that guys' body images
don't hit the skids at puberty.
Not to discuss puberty and its concerns (although I'm more than willing to
discuss this if you wish), but I had a related question for you.
Have you considered the relationship between porno mags--especially soft-core
ones: more T & A than hot and heavy deviant sex--and teenage mags such as _YM_
and _Seventeen_? Or does this even interest you?
I was thinking (as I always have) that it's terrible to exploit these women by
having them pose nude, in various positions, etc., so men could buy these
magazines and drool and ogle and whatever else they do with such mags (I don't
want to know). But then I thought, hey, wait a minute! These women have been
conditioned to *want* to be exploited. Or, at the very least, they have been
conditioned to know what makes men happy and for whatever reason, these women
don't feel that they are compromising anything by giving men "what they want".
Of course, there is the financial element involved in posing nude for a mag,
but I won't get into that.
I'm wondering if all the attention to body image in those teenage magazines
doesn't contribute a whole heck of a lot to this want/need to be exploited. Or
a willingness to let oneself be exploited. OR a feeling that being valued
solely for one's body is not being exploited at all!
Any comments?
By the way, I really enjoyed your mag!
Keep it up,
??@??.us
Melissa Jones
Little Rock, Arkansas, USA
Dear Melissa:
I am pleased that you found Cropduster of value. Although we did not grow up,
per se, with any of the magazines, being of the wrong gender, we both had
girlfriends who read them constantly, and we perused one every once in a
while.
I think the link between pornography and teeny products is not even subtle.
Although not an entire feminist, my views on pornography is that in some ways
this titilation stuff that comes out of teeny mags and shows like Beverly
Hills 90210 is causing far more damage than pictures of naked women in Playboy
because of its subtlety: When you look at a Playboy picture, you know it's
shitty, but it's much more difficult to see it when it is wrapped up in the
glamour of teen models.
For boys, the pressures come from things like sports, girlfriends, and
schoolwork. If you read Cropduster #2, you will see many of the experiences
that we had from such pressures as males, something that is not really
revealed in the first one. There are equivalents in the magazine rack though:
computer mags, Sports Illustrated, car mags, and so on, as well as things like
Playboy.
The only difference is that one type is based in inderect imaging, because the
purpose is to sell a bathing suit or a makeup or a tv show, where in
pornography there is not of that veneer. It's just bring on the boobs, which
you can't buy at a supermarket.
Before we assume, as you seem to have, that pornography is fundamentally
degrading to women (I personally think that in some ways it is degrading to
BOTH men and women), we must realize that most of the people are not as
exploited as we would make them. It is easy to say, "Oh that woman is one of
those who has been seduced by male exploiters" as a justification for an
action that doesn't fall into the femininist program. In fact, these model
repeatedly claim that they are doing this freely and expressing themselves and
so on. I'm not trying to say that women are not exploited - all I am proposing
is that it is not a simple system of male domination over slave women.
My feeling on the great attention paid to body parts, and I think Steven would
agree with me on this one, is that it really screws up female development to
be both anti-female in the sense of feeling confident about their own body and
so on, but it also makes them anti-male, thanks to the injection of the old
fashioned morality of male impregnating female, of male being the sexual
agressor, and so on. In other words, not only are females trained to have
problems with their own self-image, their entire system of comminication with
the opposite sex (I have no clue about the teenage development of lesbians at
this point) is distorted, thanks to teeny mags, sex education, advertising,
and television programs.
cw
I'm a hillbilly too: My roots are among the stickerweeds and copperheads of
the Cumberland River Valley deep in the heart of South-central Kentucky.
I've often wondered about the ages of their audience. I read someplace that
65% of subscriptions are canceled when the reader makes it into her first year
at "college" (as the Americans say), or otherwise leaves home. They graduate
Seventeen and go onto Cosmopolitan, which is a pretty sad affair. Seventeen
itself seems to aim itself towards 14 year olds, and the magazine Sixteen
sells towards 12 year olds interested in New Kids posters.
Have you read Mademoiselle? The scary part about it is that they have
completely dropped the moralising towards sex. In the letters section, one
reader asked if she could "wear out" her clitoris with excess stimulation. The
answer was yes, but only temporarily. They said to cool it for a while, and
then afterwards it was safe to go at your "love bud" and "flower petals" with
a dildo or a dick. All of a sudden, the shame and disease-baiting was gone.
I've been pervertedly drawn towards these things since I was twelve, and about
to enter grade seven. I figured that I was about to enter the dating world,
and so wanted primary resource information of what I was about to go up
against. I used to buy Sassy as a gift for one of my girlfriends, and since
then I try to read them in libraries and occasionally purchase an issue. It's
a weakness of mine.
See if you can come across an issue of Nineteen (is this a trend?), a magazine
published out of the UK. Its a little common in Canada, but probably more
scarce in the USA. The editorial comment is right on the money and the rest of
it doesn't make you puke. Being British, though, it features articles like
"How can I get an abortion?" and whatnot.
As for the makeup part of it, I believe that this is more capitalism/
materialism than it is any agenda of any group. The simple fact is
that the magazine just exists to deliver the market to the advertisers.
I think the reason that it has so much importance is that the female has to
make herself *available* for the male, while the male has the ability to pick,
choose, and then strike. The female has to priss and prance and make herself
vulnerable, and then just sit and wait for the guy to come. If a guy doesn't
show up, she feels anxious = insecure = something's wrong with me = I have to
change = another customer for Revlon. On the other hand, a male strikes, and
if he loses, he can try someone else next week. This is cw's life story (sorry
c).
Males don't have to blame themselves if something goes wrong. They just move
on. Females can't move on, because they can't move. They just sit and wait.
There are more reasons than just this. Maybe this is also a reason why male
masturbation is part of every Birds & Bees talk for males, but female
masturbation is never ever acknowledged and still remains taboo?
The obvious difference between these mags and pornos is that one is marketed
towards men and the other to girls. But I guess they say the same thing in
effect: Wouldn't you want a pair of titties like these? I don't know what the
connexion could be, because there doesn't seem to be much of a cross-over in
audience.
Everybody gets exploited and sex/teen mags are just a drop in the bucket.
Pinups are just human trash, but so are telemarketers and waitresses and
almost every other working woman (or man, really). You have to want to be
exploited. cw worked this summer at the Taco Bell, his arms up to his elbows
in bean paste, wearing the Taco Bell baseball cap and getting minimum wage.
That's more exploitative than posing naked, because they steal your time, and
you are paid in pennies.
To want a job is to want to be exploited, because that's how money is made.
People *want* to treat each other shittily. They don't want to go to the
effort of practicing Dat Old Golden Rule. It's the same thing.
The ads are one of the worst parts of them! It does have a very mixed message,
with the editorial always trumpeting "Be yourself, be natural, don't hate
yourself, you're OK as you are, don't take drugs, don't get forced into sex,
stay in school" and all the rest of the Public Service Announcement type
messages. But then the ads project the opposite message: "Make yourself better
than you are with this new stuff" or my favourite, "My hair used to be dry,
frizzy, shitty (JUST LIKE YOURS) and I was so frustrated and unhappy (JUST
LIKE YOU) until I bought a bottle of Pantene and became so sexy (JUST LIKE YOU
CAN)."
I wish that I could tell them that all that stuff is unnecessary and that most
of the time they look better without makeup than with. I suppose they have to
learn that on their own. Female adolescence itself is a pain, and the
magazines are realistic in at least that fact. Why should we hope for the
magazines to go first?
I don't see how "being valued solely for one's looks" is better or worse than
"being valued solely for one's brains". How can you say that an idiot savant
in one area is better than one in another?
There is always going to be a great amount of attention paid towards looks and
it is going to take a movement with much greater strength that feminism to
change that. People are always going to be attracted to that stuff. This
months issue of ms for instance has Steinem Naomi Wolf and some others on the
cover, their smiling faces of course. Why did they do this? They had to
identify them of course, but they printed their faces instead of their
fingerprints. People, even feminists, are never going to stop caring about
that stuff. None of these women/womyn were exactly wearing potato sacks
either.
Speaking of Ms, I sent a letter to the editor of Sassy (her address is
sassy@mindvox.phantom.com if you want) and told her about our zine. She was
indignant and used the word "feh" to counter me. She said that 17 and YM were
trash, but Sassy was really a mixture of "Ms, Mirabella, Utne Reader and Ben
is Dead", whoever Ben is. I replied with a longer letter, and reminded her
that her magazine once published an ad for 1-900-VANILLA-ICE. Guess what she
said after that? Nothing, zip.
-- CENSORSHIP OF OUR COMPATRIOTS --
Hello. You don't know me - we've never spoken on AOL, but I figure you might
be able to help me, since Cropduster 2 looks a lot like ours. I live in a
small town in Florida where we have had numerous censorship problems. Some
friends and I recently printed our first underground Undercurrent as an open
forum for the expression of ideas which were being silenced. We were
threatened with arrest, expulsion from school, and other unmentionable
things....yet we had a wonderful reaction from a large group of people who are
sick of the problems which plague our small community (i.e. backward
fundamentalist Christian attitudes, blatant racism, opression of youth, etc.)
In fact the reaction has been so tremendous that in a sense we aren't quite
sure what to do next. We've received over 500 entries for the next issue, but
had previously promised to print everything received. This is only one of our
numerous problems. Because we are in a small community, there has never been
an underground press. Help! Any info or tips would be INCREDIBLY appreciated.
Thankyou,
laurieg@aol.com
Laurie Greer
Somewhere in America
-- KIND WORDS --
I just read both Cropdusters and I thought I'd drop you a note to say how much
I enjoyed them. You are an incredibly charismatic writer.... I'm also a fan of
teenage fashion magazines, so number one got me right away. It was really
entertaining, but at the same time I thought you did an amazing job of
portraying often very dis-honest magazines in an honest way.
Number two.... Wow. How long did you two spend writing this? I can't think of
anything inteligent or witty to say about it, and though it doesn't mirror any
of my own growing-up experience by a long shot, I... Well, er, I liked it..?
(Sorry, it's late.) Anyway, keep it up, and good luck on any and all future
ventures.
I guess what impressed me so much was the amount of stuff you had to say at
such a young age... I mean, I live in middle-class suburbia, about as
white-bread as it gets, and I never find anyone anywhere near my age
(including myself) with as developed an outlook on life. I think that finding
the kind of stuff that you've written really illustrates the value that the
internet has to me.
bfargo@lamar.colostate.edu
Eulan Atkinson
Colorado State University
PS. What kind of music do you listen to nowadays?
Hello Steven and Chris,
Just wanted to send a note of thanks for the first 2 issues of Cropduster, and
to basically _beg_ you to continue producing it....I've spent a lot of time
tracking down e-journals on the net, and its rare to find something that's
honest in both approach and in the writing...it's usually very self-conscious
attemps "at writing".
So anyway, without wanting to sound like a fan letter or something, if a word
of incouragement will influence your descision to produce another issue, then
you have a word from me,
All the best
ian@pipeline.com
Ian Butler
Somewhere in America
-- WHO ARE YOU? --
> -- What is your e-zine's purpose and/or content?
Here is our Standard Description:
Cropduster (est. 1992) appears periodically as a reaction to the kind of
society that some of us live in. It is a knee-jerk response to the fact that
our world produces cultural under-achievers... Cropduster has so far produced
various reviews and critiques of some of the lesser known aspects of people
and places that teeter-totter on barely breaking even. The zine is an overseer
of this as well as a product of it, because the thing itself exhibits too many
of the traits it condemns: Lack of rigor, unfair attacks, vendettas,
revisionism, stubbornness, spelling mistakes, and vulgarity. What else can you
expect from people who grew up in trailer parks and live on Kraft Dinner?
> -- How long ago did you start it?
It has been going since the summer of 1992. We started it out of nothing but
expression. We had no fame or financial aspirations. (Good thing, too).
> -- What kind of a response have you received from readers?
Most of the responses have been good, probably because people who didn't like
it weren't interested enough to challenge us. The only negative feedback came
from two people who were written about in the text. The first charge was that
we should be "men" and insult her to her face and not in a zine, and the other
was that I was rude, crass, insulting and close-minded. These were hardly a
critique of the zine per se; they were just salty because there was stuff in
there that critisized them. In fact this was supportive of the zine, because
it proved that we moved them, which is our intention.
Response has been very positive. People from all over have been going out of
their way to support us by putting us on FTP sites, BBSes, and Gophers. Also
there have been a few people who have requested to put us in archive lists,
and inquiries like yours have been common. One of them led to a front page
article and colour picture of me in the Ottawa Citizen (main paper where I
live) in December. We have some clout on alt.zines and the zines listserv. Not
surprisingly all of the attention has come since we went electronic.
Many people have supported us, and no-one has told us to fuck off or stop
publishing.
Repartee with
amw108@psuvm.psu.edu
Alyce Wilson
Pennsylvania State University
-- AN ANSWER TO STACEY WHO SAID THAT CROPDUSTER HAD NO VALUE TO ANYONE WHO --
-- WASN'T FROM MISSISSAUGA --
Hi.
I'd like to subscribe the Cropduster Zine, and as I don't know exactly how I
can do that, I'm hoping that this is the right way...
I'd appreciate that you'd tell me how to subscribe, if this ain't the way of
doin'it.
Thanx in advance.
iftf@minerva.inesc.pt
Ilidio Ferreira
Lisbon Portugal
Hallo cwoodill,
is there any possibility to receive that zine? i would say to the e-zine
version. may be first to have a look. okay?
thank you
and all the best
f.katthagen@link-mz.rhein-main.de
Frank Katthagen
Somewhere in Germany
-- ? --
Steve,
I bet you were kinda surprised to see your face peering back at you from
every newspaper vending machine in the city on Boxing Day. I thought the
picture looked great.
Happy New Year
ag955@freenet.carleton.ca
Francine Dube
Ottawa Citizen
=========
APHORISMS
=========
1/86
I'm very sorry that I couldn't tell you, but I was also very upset
(crying). My reasons are: your not my type and you are not the same guy I
wanted to go out with.
6/89
I feel so strange about this. Maybe I should goto a Shrink. I mean,
Weasel and Lloyd and Stacey have good intentions, obviously, but they're
fifteen and they really don't know what they're talking about. I want to know
what is really going on.
6/89
The next day there was a "SURPRISE!!!!!!!!" birthday party for Stacey. It
was more like a milk n cookies birthday party, with a big birthday cake for
the birthday girl, sweet sixteen and never been done by three guys at once
type deal. Her bitchy mother was there like a hawk, and so was Uncle Bob
and Auntie Janine and Grandpa Fred so it wasn't really a "party". More like
the enrichment gang sitting around and shouting and burping contests and that.
I think her and her mother were in cahoots so that Stacey can get a good haul
of gifts instead of the two or three things she usually gets.
7/89
In the summer, one's mind tends to become idealistic.
8/89
I am on the phone with him right now. It's just like my conversations
with Frank last year. The times that Frank called me up in a drunken stupor to
raise my memory and stab through my cage with the needle of his wit. It was
like a battle; a battle of ideology with each trying to be more subtle in the
way he killed the other. Frank did it by his screaming and phone sex
recordings, I did it with my apparant lack of interest and boredom of the
whole matter. It was very violent, yet controlled to the utmost. I didn't know
whether to attack him at full force or to admit defeat and ask for
forgiveness.
This is also how I feel towards the Weasel.
It is an uneasy peace, a peace that lasts only when we are apart. When we are
together the peace will last if we deliberately try to avoid confronting the
subject of it. If we hide the conflicts away and play games of Bad Dudes, then
everything, on the surface, seems to be fine. If we confront my ideas and his
defense, things go awry and it becomes a Frank Lemiere exhumation.
9/89
No. I want you to love me, and be my friend. Someone I can confide in,
tell my darkest secrets to, someone I can be held by when something goes
wrong. Someone I also can watch cartoons with, and go to the zoo with, or for
a walk through the museum.
Be what you want to be for me; you know I will accept.
12/89
You know how I felt about you at first. I was afraid of you. Then you
made me trust you because you were so nice and caring and you seemed
trustworthy and I thought you were beginning to trust me. So then I loved you.
Part of the reason I loved you was because you were the only person who had
ever loved me and you were so nice and wonderful and I felt so wonderful with
you.
2/90
She used to tell me that I didn't know the real Steve. It hurt for I knew
Steve better than she did. They both claimed to be such good friends, but
both of them had set impressions about each other. She thought he was still
the innocent boy who made cat sounds in the back of the class. And he thought
she was the fickle, horny bitch that her reputation proclaimed. I knew both
of them for what they were. I wasn't blinded. I didn't have preconceived
notions about either of them. I knew Stacey to be the gentle, loving, person
that I loved. And I knew Steve to be the horny, sinister, sneaky little
bastard that he was.
"Come my love, come with me." And oh, how she wished she could. No matter how
hard he tried, she could never reach the heights he could. She tried her best
to please him, for she did love him, and he did indeed love her; it was just a
hard relationship Ð he was a hard man.
I also went over to her place tonight. She cut my hair, and I just hung around
with her for an hour or so. It was nice. She caressed my lower leg in her bed,
she did it out of her own motivation. The safe-sex thing was also her
motivation. I had, of course, asked her to kiss my stomach and she said no (of
course). Jen Barnes called to invite us to the thing at Mother's that night,
and then she just started to go at it. We also kissed and hugged in her
bathroom. That was very nice, because we were stealing moments, and she's
still technically girlfriend to Martin.
So things are cool between Fiona and I.
3/90
I must really get off on this, because it keeps happening time and time
again. It's like being struck across the skull with a club: I'm able to shake
off the first few hits, but by the tenth blow I'm wondering if there isn't
something wrong with this picture. This really isn't doing me any good at all.
I'm getting beaten and battered and I don't know why.
Tell me about it. Someone must hang for this.
If I didn't think this was important I'd have to laugh like hell.
4/90
I write with a belly full of meaty tomato spagetti, garlic bread, and a wash
of diet Coke. Yum!
5/90
There was a little talk on AIDS in biology today, and it meant nothing to
me, or about as much as would Nigerian Sleeping Sickness.
I got a few things from her, but she didn't get very far with me. She tried
to feel me out, to find out what was wrong. But I couldn't trust her, and I
felt badly that it had to be so. I think that in time though, if all goes
well, I should be able to talk to her. I know what I wanted to say. But the
words were just not there. I couldn't open up that much, couldn't risk that
information... But I also have many responsibilities for Stacey. I would
never leave her for anybody, even if the opportunity was there. I don't care
about Shanta the same way as I do for Stacey, and even though I do not know
what I feel for her I know that I will not fall out of love with Stacey. She
will always be top priority, for she was the one who saved me. She was the
one who made me complete, and still does today.
The only thing to do at this exact moment, meaning right now, is to step
outside into the newly borne spring aire and be alone with your thoughts in
the dark. That is what I am going to do, on the guise of returning some books
into the chute at the library. I sigh. "Aye me," says old Steven Meece.
6/90
What can you do? You can try suicide, for one thing. Or you can try
cutting your fucking balls off with a paring knife.
7/90
There are a bunch of kids with their BMX bikes outside my window, in the
parking lot this side of the dumpsters. It kind of reminds me of that line in
Slaughterhouse Five with Kilgore Trout. They've been out there every night
lately at around 9:30 or so - April Sedore and that gang. They're very easy to
mindfuck, though. I suppose its because they're so used to conformity
(language, music, dress) that anything out of the ordinary really fucks them
out. Some time ago, I put my head in my window and just looked and looked and
looked at them. They were mindfucked by it. They were pointing at me and
jumping up and down.
8/90
Then Stacey says that Fiona's back in love with Mark Thompson again, like
our whole year didn't even exist, and also in lust over some hunk named
"Mike".
The people are cheap! This is a pretty cheap town, and the people behave
accordingly.
9/90
I was asked to confirm or deny the shit story by Paul Sinden as recently
as a week ago. Funny how life works out - we are never as far away from the
past as we would like to think. I go out with JC for five months, and then do
a multitude of things in the next three and a half years, enough stuff to
write 500 000 characters about, and then boom, someone refers to me as
Jennifer Carlile's boyfriend or ex-boyfriend.
And of course Henry the Horse dances the waltz.
Of course.
9/90
I don't have much, but I do have writing. I can't tell you what it's like
to have a pussy wrapped around your dick, or to be on a acid trip in Square
one, or to get drunk and puke on your neighbour's front lawn, or what Carlile
looks like naked these days, or to party hearty, or to be quarterback for the
Streetsville Tigers, or to be fugging a chick doggie-style on the top of a
washing machine, but I can tell you what it feels like to masturbate.
10/90
There is a very fine line in aspects of love between opening up too
much, and being too reserved. This works both for females and males, although
usually males have a harder time walking the tightrope. If one walk too far
too one side, one looks like he is gushing, and kissing a lady's feet. The
lady ultimately will get scared and run. On the other side, if one is too
reserved, then the lady won't be able to trust. I have walked that fine line.
I have succeeded. Dave is too far on the gushy side. Martin is too
reserved. Neither of them will succeed until they can walk the tightrope of
love.
I called, and as expected she cancelled. The excuse given was some complicated
yarn about having to wait for a phone call from her mom regarding her gran. I
accepted this half-heartedly. I called back about an hour later, and her phone
was answered in the shrill drone of the Weasel.
It seems that she didn't tell me that the Weasel was there the whole time, and
the excuse wasn't as much a phone call that her sister could have recieved,
but that she had a penis stuck in her vagina at the time, and she had been
fucking and sucking it for the past twenty-four hours and will continue the
fuckathon for another 24, I can assure you of that.
So she cancelled the date we made on Friday night so that she could have a
second evening of fucking instead of just one.
Aaaaaah. I don't ask for much, but I ask for too much.
Kids outside - Halloween night and candy. I look out my bedroom window and can
see the 8 year olds walking amongst the depressed urban melee, bags stuffed
with mass-produced 2 cent garbage sugar droplets. The bus-driver today for
route 44 that began in the manicured scenery of Streetsville and ended in the
smashed landscape of my neighbourhood was made-up to be Count Vlad the
Impaler, alias Drac.
I have prepared myself a brown paper bag for my head, which I have cut two
eyeholes out of. I will find some clothes to wear and go out with my paperbag
head. The brown paper bag looks like the bag they put over your head before
they hang you, so I am trying to find something to hang myself with. There is
no rope, so coaxial cable or a belt is the best thing I've been able to find
around here. Or I could play up the bag and put "MR NOBODY" on it in black
ink. I don't know yet.
11/90
What do I seek in a girlfriend? Sanja with an oral fixation.
12/24/90
Sanja. In the midst of this broccoli, sour creme, tinsel, candy canes,
gingersnaps, relatives, crackers, apple cider, celery, cinnamon sticks,
fish balls, Christmas presents, yule logs... I keep thinking about Sanja.
1/91
Went to have my head shrunk after, it was better than the last time. I
told him that I was six months off of being eighteen years old, and rather
sick of discussing my mom. I think he agreed a little, and let it go. I spoke
a bit about the Metamorphosis. He seems to think that Sanja is better for me
than Stacey. He asked about Stacey and I, in April, "Did you have sexual
intercourse?" No, no we didn't. Gich asked that too.
After the headshrinker, went to the Eatonville library to look at travel
books, and a book of pictures by van Gogh. Read up lots on Yugoslavia. The
females there are very nice looking, and all looked like Sanja did last year.
She has aged alot since then, when she used to have braces. I noticed today,
too, she was looking more haggard than usual.
Good news, good news. I rang Sanja up at 1015p yesterday, Sunday, the 21st. It
was a very good phone call, we were talking well. The important thing was that
she said that she was going to call me tomorrow (meaning today) to apologize
for being unfriendly the day of the Metamorphosis. She said that she was in a
bad mood from the day before. She said that it was her, not me. She said that
it made her feel not good to think of it.
O God - love. LOVE ! ! !
The talk went very nice. There were no quiet times. She said "Well, see you on
Wednesday" and my heart was all afflutter for the rest of the night. Her mom
is the neatest. She is a Yugoslavian mama, she drinks alot of tea, she read
the article on the Metamorphosis I left Sanja and understood it and brought it
up in conversation in the car ride home.
2/91
It's currently 6 celsius.
There is much fighting in the world, but there is more at home. I am looking
forward to leaving this place of ruin, this authoritarian regime that others
call a family.
Don't mention Yugoslavia to me ever again. Oh lord. This is very not good. As
she was unfolding the news, letting me down very gently, all I could think
was "Fuck, not again, fuck not again, not again, not again."
3/91
Why do I keep pumping into the system, why do I keep selling out? Why
can't I come to a conclusion over anything, and why do I have to always come
up for air? The air is extremely weighted, filling my lungs with a lonliness
that is extreme. I sit here in my room, with my meager aquisitions
surrounding me, looking at my existence as one that is about to be terminated.
I have been fighting for so long, the fight has become trivial and the
objectives have been lost. The ramifications have been drowned in a sea of
furry, bitter tears and lemonade. I think of the people around me, and none
invokes the passion that used to fill me, that will to kill, love and eat. I
have been trying to convince myself that I am at peace, but in reality I know
that I am becoming quite desperate in my actions. I have dumped here, gained
there, but there is no consistency in anything. I have become oil in water,
with no way of congealing into the solution, but losing viscosity by the
minute. I am being split apart and pulled together, over and over in my mind.
I wish there was someone who cared, and I wish that I hadn't driven them
away. But they only win by default, and as the deperation grows the choices
fade, leaving only mediocrity. I have gone too far, too long, and too
quickly. I have spread myself thin, leaving holes to gnaw on. I claim to be
a thinker, yet I cannot get myself out of this hole. Every move I make I slip
further into the mire, further into the muck of utter futility. Perhaps I
should send another feeler out, to try to reach some sort of decency, to see
if there is anyone who will save me from this plight. But everytime I do I
lose precious energy, and my feelers are losing the conviction that they once
had. Perhaps I should sit and wait, and stop trying to create a concoction
out of thin air. But that will only prolong the struggle, leaving more dead
bodies and more blood to clean up.
I am totally loose. I am not really thinking rationally at the moment, just
kind of feeling, experiencing, hating. I am very angry right now. So what? I
want to get drunk, but I'm afraid I would get extremely violent. I must
control this hatred for life, this feeling of extreme loss. I must toss it
out, give it up, for there is no point in dwelling in the past. I must move
on, for that is what she has done. She has flown the coop, for reasons that
she will deny but I know are really there. I do not know if she really ever
loved me, although it really doesn't matter because love isn't dependable
either. Love is useless without faith, and she has very little. I do not
love her any less for it, I just can't expend myself that much righty now and
so must retreat under a veil of anger and utter dispair. I have to decide
whether I should jump on her bones or wring her neck. My emotions have
changed from extreme stability to extremes, I go from utter laughter and
happiness to extreme hatred. I must curtail these feelings, before I do
something spontaneous, something rash.
3/91
God, she was raped. That's such a terrible word I'm not used to: rape. It
belongs in a newspaper and not in people's lives. Awful. Her suicide things
were in June of 1990 and last month. She took a bunch of pills, and then stuck
the veins in her wrist with a safety pin several times. That's not good. Girls
shouldn't be that way. I don't want her to be dead.
I have stumbled onto this very compelling girl, mostly by accident. She, like
me, is troubled, confused and disoriented with life. I think we can help each
other. I hope so. I'm going to try all I can. If I've ever done any good in my
life, this will be it.
Raise your hands up high to the Lord.
Lord, I need your help. You're a son of a bitch, and your son is a horse's
ass, but I still need you to help me.
3/91
After ditching that place we went to the Credit. That was kind of cool,
although it was slightly moist. There were also too many people there. There
was this group of yahoos who I saw twice and each time they look at me as if I
was some lunatic that had invaded their precious suburb of a town. I took to
skipping and kept moving ahead of the others. Farah would catch up to me, we
would nudge each other, and then she would fall back, waiting for the others.
We came over the bridge and for about ten minutes or so we split into two
factions, Farah and I on one rock, Stephanie and Jim by the bridge. Farah and
I were sitting together, and interestingly enough, we started holding hands
and stuff which we haven't really done in ages. I am not sure whether she was
just humouring the dumped guy, or whether it was just something spontaneous.
We walked through the Credit, and I was skipping on the rocks. Jim warned me
not to do anything foolish, and Farah remarked about how he was being so
patriarchal. Somehow, I think that really set the tone for the rest of the
evening. Farah and I skipped off into the sunset while the other two were
left behind.
But then again, that is how it has always been, and probably how it always
will be. When we got to the Burnamthorpe bridge, I climbed the rocks. I sat
up on the top ledge with my harmonica so that I could think about what the
hell was going on. Steph came up after awhile, which kind of dampened things
in terms of my personal exploration. I asked for a pen, so that I could write
on the wall. Jim happened to have one and so tossed it up. And on the wall I
wrote --
"On this day, Saturday March 23, an epoch of my life ended and another began."
4/91
It was her mummah. She's "grounded" for two weeks, but she says that it
isn't a bigdeal. Today I was sniffling very much, and she apologized for
giving me her cold. I didn't mind that. As I've mentioned someplace
previously, I find one of the most romantic things that can happen between two
people is for them to communicate diseases. And even AIDS, too. It
acknowledges the proper place of humans, humans that can care and have the
courage to accept the full capabilities and manifestations of their partner,
rather than taking pills and puffing foam and wrapping themselves in latex
before they go near each other, cos they're scared of each other - scared of
their bodies and what they can do. If Rachel had AIDS, why would I want to
condom myself up, so that she can die and I can stay alive? I'd want it too,
so that we can both die. "You go ahead and die, I'll just put on this Sheik
Denim to protect myself" is very self-centred.
As I told cw, the night began with Rachel having a cold, and ended with both
of us having it. Her phages left her body and came into mine. We exchanged
bodily fluids.
And that is a very loving, romantic, human turn of events that I like very
much. I carry my sniffles and snots with pride and happiness.
5/91
And the door!
At the door I was nearly blown over by Rachel's blonde morning beauty. Her
hair was all messed and frumped over her head, her eyes almost closed and a
little bit bleary. On her face a new smile. Down, she was barefoot, bicycle
pants, and her white satin nightshirt open to the bottom button, draping over
her soft external egg like breasts. She gave me a hug and a kiss good-bye, and
I stepped out into the Sunday morning sunshine.
5/91
It's low, and it's cheap, but it helps to develop that good old feeling
of offending yourself.
6/91
The level of understanding is pretty small here. I very likely know
nothing, despite all these megabytes.
6/91
Jimbo was following me around in that stupid sneer of his. I have reason
to believe that the other members of the Motorcycle Hoods and the Tribunal of
the Black Ring were around somewhere. I did make it into the IGA alive, and as
soon as I did Jimbo appeared like some sort of guardian angel for Rachel.
Steven: I wanted to ask you if you still wanted to go out tomorrow
Rachel: What for? [between swipes of produce past the lasermachine]
Steven: To talk.
Rachel: [swiping, looking the other way] Why should I? [swipe]
Steven: Um [walks out of store]
Leaving the parking lot I thought I heard yells at me from a passing car
window with a few of the Hoods inside.
6/91
I am a single man again.
That's right, too: For the first time since Cheri Caroll, I've been dumped. It
was bad at the time (about 45 minutes ago) but it's a bit better now. I went
into the tub, put the taps at full blast, and smoked a stogey and drank iced
tea.
8/91
She gets pouty when I want to leave her, basically because she thinks she
has the right to demand my time. I got that taking for granted line from
Stacey every second week, and it got extremely tiring. One can't force
another to converse or spend time with you. It has to happen because there is
a mutual desire, or it isn't really worth it. It really bothers me sometimes
because Stephanie gives me guilt trips everytime I don't want to be with her,
or I don't want to talk to her, or I don't want to fuck her. There is
something very wrong with that, and I was at her end just six months to a year
ago with Stacey. There is a severe problem when a couple has to talk about
obligations and rights and duties, for that is all that is keeping them
together.
10/91
One needs to concentrate less on the faraway goal and more on doing good
in the present.
11/91
I would never want to go back, never want to relive my past. Perhaps
that is because I am too close to it, because I haven't formed an idealized
view of the war. One shouldn't sleep with the past.
I took this test when I was visiting at Mam's the other day. Supposedly I am
in my journey stage, with "lover" and "creator" as archetypes. What was most
interesting was that it proposed that I had taken the traditional female root
to life. This is something that I have always known; I remember having girly
attitudes, girly handwriting, girly arts&crafts. My sister, on the other
hand, has taken the traditional male root. Perhaps my mother is right.
Perhaps she is a latent lesbian.
12/91
It is the same everywhere, without change or misdirectioon. There is no
commonality anymore, no flow. The chaos just goes on into infinity, slowly
destroying the order that the human race clings to so dearly. They can't see
the tital wave of their own destruction, they can't see their own desecration.
And worst of all, they don't understand that it will by their own hand.
1/92
You are in deep shit now. When you have Martin Pendlebury on your trail,
you better carry a pistol and sleep with your eyes open.
1/92
Lloyd is the worst for that. He is the worst for associating HD
installation with true love. He would install your modem and then ask for a
blow-job. Fuck Pears
2/92
Therefore I am facing a little less than three months of a continued hobo
existence, wandering from squat-pot to squat-pot. I have a brain, which makes
it somewhat acceptable, but you know, I care about Julia more than I really
should.
3/92
Lunchtime, home for a couple of hours. It is very nice. It is spring all
outside and inside, I had a pot of Ramen and a diet Coke, and have played
Life's Rich Pageant at volume 4 throughout the apartment. Four on my Rippler
is loud.
3/92
The first thing I did when I arrived after route 66 was to go about the
back into a "McCauley Green Park," which was a Sawgrass-type path through
trees, opening up on a field with a paltry and forlorn monkeybar setup thing
placed gingerly there. I did not bother with it. Past the field was a fence
which I climbed up and over, which lead to a levee or dike for the man-made
valley in which the 403 flows. It was very dark, being just past midnight, and
it was raining also. I tore out one page of the Real Estate News and wrote my
reflections.
4/92
I think that both of us need to start building, for the wars have
finished and the fires have burnt out. We would be no better than Lloyd or
Derek to continue them. Thus, we should be there for her, if such a thing is
possible. One shouldn't try to get inside, or to try to convert her, but
rather be what she really needs - someone to cry on. I remember that first
time with Matty Fenwick, and as everyone milled about, that's what Krista
needed. Either that, or another beer to wash away the tears. You have
reiteratated time and time again that you don't want that responsibility, and
yet it seems to happen nonetheless. Let's just hope you don't wake up with Jim
Bambury in your bed.
4/92
We are all just looking for our personal sanctuaries, with just enough
love and just enough sex, just enough happiness accompanied by a dash of
adventure. I certainly have not found mine, although it is getting better as I
get older. As my mother loves to reiterate, in order to prove to herself that
she wasn't a failure with me, things will only get better for me as I go
through university. I suppose so, but in some ways the same conditions exist,
although a more calm atmosphere around me I can repress my violent tendencies.
5/92
I met a diva named Danielle,
A diva filled with nonchalance.
That is what all divas tell you;
That they don't care.
What a silly thing is her,
Filled with Lloydish tendancies
How can I call her a goddess,
When she dribbles mustard on her coat?
Her mistakes are what make her.
If she was dashing and made-up
She wouldn't be real.
She is an angel in disguise.
Danielle is not a great name,
But it is better than Vagina.
This isn't a great poem;
Would you not agree, D?
8/92
Life is about passion and confusion and frustration, it is very real and
it's embarassing if it's done right.
9/92
I care. but i don't give a shit.
9/92
And the possibility of Laurie and I? It bursts my zipper. But apart from
that, it is a little strange. There were portions of our chat in which it
appeared that we were drifting towards each other, and that was a little
unsettling. I still have that bugaboo about not wanting to associate with
anyone that would call me a BF. In one sense I am very egotistical and in
another I still have this mentality.
9/92
I have the feeling that I am never so sunk that I cannot obtain at least
a small morsel of female companionship - even if it is something like Jackie
or Laurie. This is not the best in the world, but it is better than what my
roommate gets.
9/92
He's a cheap excuse for a human being, and as such, a good representative
of humanity.
10/92
Carlile (WW) is back. White Witch..."She's the one who has put winter
over Narnia (U of T), always winter and never Christmas!" Guilt over
horniness; even the word is ugly. I'm ugly. I'm ugly, therefore I am. Carlile
is the demi-godess, studying her own Celtic roots. Silly little girl.
Danielle?...no, Carlile. D. aint silly, just repulsed by my presence. Witches,
mothers, vaginas, villains. Fighting against the phallus; Against the ugliness
of male civilization, Against horniness, domination, boorishness. Fighting
men, who are just hanging around, Waiting for a boob. The way to transend is
to deceive. But if she figures out your game, Punishment is guilt.
10/92
Solitary reaping at Crindale is beautiful, in a strange way. Wandering
the streets of Saug. I could have done that forever. I almost did.
11/92
It is no easier to obtain the ideal chick than it is to realize the
ideal in ourselves.
11/92
Took a trip into St Paul's University and the library, being the
religious student that I am. If I want a BTh I might end up there. It was a
very nice place, it smelled of academia and the hallways resonated my
footsteps. It was built in the 1920's, I believe.
The babes were delicious. They were delectable, you could almost eat them up
with a supper spoon. They looked like Jennifer McColl - untouched by human
hands. They were devout Catholics, and were being protected by ze Pope Himself.
They weren't Erin Todd types. I found myself envisioning white cotton panties
and pure 18 hour bras in a 1940's kind of thing. They were wholesomely
arousing. Of course you will waste years pursing what lies underneath the
underware.
11/92
But you can't get too obsessed with it, because people do come and go at
different speeds all the time, including me, including Rob, including Laurie.
Yes, you try to move on, and look to the future and not the past for
salvation.
12/92
Papa's comin' home. Kill that bastard.
[This is inspired by knowing that Barry S. was coming home for the weekend and
then leaving for 5 weeks, only to take Danielle away over Christmas out west.]
A Smorgasborg of Philosophy
Aristotle, Bacon, Jean-Paul, Rene, Spinoza, Socrates. Sigmund, Hegel,
Nietzsche. Jean-Jacques, "Derrida", PEIRCE.
The Power of a W
A whole is complete. A hole is empty.
1/93
One good thing needs to be said for her - she brings pleasure to the
lives of otherwise downtrodden souls. Both Skippy and Rupe were as horny as
toads and the sight of a willing Jayshri was a gift from the Gods directly to
their genitalia.
Another point to be made: Seen from the snatch up, all chicks look the same.
3/93
It was nice being in the backseat. I wanted to touch her, to fiddle with
her hair, to kiss her, to tell her I loved her, in the simple and playful way
you do when you are in the backseat of a car going somewhere with someone you
love.
3/93
We had a nice outside walk to the physics buildin
g in beautiful damp
sunset weather. So foul and fair day I have not seen this season. She was
making comments on her hatred of Hammerhead Shark, and a slight irritability
with the Military Man, which I listened to but was not engaged by. In my head
I was running through little melodies and thinking about this air most foul.
It was foul with the smell of thawed mud and soaked grass, which smells like
turd. It was cold humid, semi-foggy.
7/93
As for Chandra, there will be many others like her. These people come a
dime a dozen. Your biggest problem has always been that you cannot play the
field, you cannot seperate your own life from your dating so that you can
spread yourself over more than one person. This limits your market down to
one, and if that one goes, you are left with nothing until you find someone
else.
8/93
If you have yet to notice, I'm trying like shit to laugh this one off,
since it wasn't very amusing at the time.
4/94
That is the difference: I have a responsibility to her. I never felt that
I owed any of the other chicks much, except to love her if I felt like it, and
to try to keep her from having much pain. There was an amount of loyalty and
whatnot there, and my love was/is deep and true, but I did not feel
responsible for them. If you plunder all the journal back issues, you will
never find me expressing anything like that for any of them. There was seldom
a "for better or for worse" clause in any of our relationships. It was always
"for better or you're dumped" - that message being more explicit in some
relationships than others. Because M shows me her unattractive side without
fear, I feel free enough to show her mine sometimes. This relationship really
exists, for the better times and the worse ones. It doesn't exist in doubt, and
I am not making contingency plans about what to do when I get dumped. Thus
there is honesty there.
4/94
We should open ourselves up to all possible knowledge; by doing so we
allow ourselves to hear the whispering of God.
