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Flodis Issue 25
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flowers of disruption #25 -- 16.10.99 -- by trilobyte
== the zine for tasha & anjee ==
i was chilling at a place that has become a bar, and suddenly friends
started coming out of the air ducts. as per usual, they had melted into
some sort of liquid and were just running out of the vents.
"yo," i said.
you can't talk to liquid (not even orange juice) but you can talk to
people, and they can talk back to you. the neat thing is -- though all
people are made up of the same kind of stuff, like brains and vocal chords,
they all have different things to say. liquids, though, are made up of all
sorts of different things (though they all have the same characteristics of
being able to run, flow, ebb, and boil) and don't have much to say at all.
sometimes they make trickling noises, and it's really too bad about those
fish who have to drink mercury because we dumped it into their water. i
mean, we people are doing a bad thing. we need to listen to the liquid
more often, it might have nice things to say to us like "don't mix a
silvery, metallic, poisonous liquid with the liquid that fish live in.
they'll die, and you'll die too." the liquid might even go so far as to
say "ouch!" but that's because we pestered it just that much. it might
catch on fire, which is almost like talking.
i asked my liquified friends why they weren't talking, even though it
seemed they had some interesting things to tell me about. i knew they were
liquid, though, and they knew i knew, so it was kinda an inside joke, but
fred answered by setting himself on fire, and we all laughed but i was the
only one that made any noise because the rest of them couldn't talk.
some nearby people thought i was off my rocker, or that my brain was
wormmeal, but i just played it off like i was laughing at the computer in
front of me.
then some fat guy at the bar turned toward my table, and spread his
three teeth wide enough to ask, "what you laughin' at, kid?"
i turned to face him and knocked my drink on the floor in the process.
"uhh, my friends on the computer," i replied.
"yeah. psh," he leaked, and turned back toward his beer.
i looked down at some of my friends on the floor and realized that my
drink had been mixed in with them, and suddenly they were coagulating and
becoming malformed. they quickly became unhappy and died.
it was at this moment, tonight, that i decided i would live the rest of
my short life as happily as possible, though all my friends recently
deceased. i decided to make some NEW friends who DIDN'T turn into liquid,
and i decided that i would eat as many fish sandwiches as i could. my
friends are going to come back to life as fish who would drink mercury, and
then die, and get turned into sandwiches, and i could eat my friends and
they'd live on in my body until i became sick and died, and then we would
all go to heaven together and talk about backgammon and periwinkle crayons.
i wouldn't drink Yoo-Hoo though, because it would probably make me sick.
oh, and i almost forgot...
before my friend Nybar died tonight, he wriggled, squished, and squirmed
over to a nearby bar patron, and formed this story, using cleverly arranged
foam bubbles. she wrote it all down and i took it from her later,
promising her that this important text was Nybar's final work, his magnum
opus. she didn't listen, though, so i had to beat the hell out of her with
a stage-hand's multi-tool. but i knew that this is what my dear friend
Nybar would have wanted. so without further ado,
a Text by Nybar:
----------------------------------
"Nybar, what on earth are you drinking?"
"Uhhh...Lugol's Solution. The problem it solves is my clear headedness. My
oppressive lucidity."
"You fag."
"Oh, Mephistolad, why do you mock me so?"
"No real reason. The more you are oppressed, the better the world feels
about itself."
Those were the words he said to me those 5 years ago and I have never
forgotten them, no I haven't. He is dead now, but the words live on,
resounding in my memory. He was right, you know. The dust that collects on
the chairs where he used to sit remind me of his words, the words he spoke
those 5 years ago, 5 years ago today. And I am still being oppressed. But
it wasn't so painful, then. Then, I wasn't about to be freed. They say that
when one is in a prison, only the last month really hurts. For a long time,
I felt that those surrounding me weren't conscious. Then I realized that
they were coping the same way I was; I was looking into a mirror when I saw
their vacant faces. No more. Now my eyes are alive, firey with the torture
I'm enduring. For the fires of hell are really only turned on during the
re-entry; for the rest of the trip to space, you're in a vacuum. Space. A
rocket trip with no destination--just wasted time. So much wasted time. God
fucking damnit, sorry for whining, Mephistolad, I remain "faggy",
Mephistolad, yes, and I am still not out from under your aegis, oh cruel
one, but soon I shall be. My refractory nature will eventually allow me to
escape; the escape you could never effect properly, Mephistolad, and hence
you lashed me with the whips and the brambles. Oh, Mephistolad, I don't
hate you, for you were once like me.
"Anjee, would you please tell Tasha to pass me the roast chicken?"
"Tasha, could you please pass Nybar the roast chicken?"
"Nybar, Tasha says that you can get your own roast chicken."
Who am I not talking to? I'm constantly forgetting. Even though I despise
certain entities, I really can't hold it against them all--and since
they're really all one, I always end up forgetting. If they have my teeth,
at least the teeth come from a smiling mouth. And I'm always brushing,
brushing--to keep my mind-state clear, you know. Otherwise, I perhaps
wouldn't be able to endure the didactic embarrassments I've endured. Oh,
but I'm a happy fellow, so happy. For the nonce. Three brushes a day keeps
the dentists away, now doesn't it?
I love music. And movies. And books. I tend to dislike TV, but there are
really, really good TV shows. TV can be enhanced by drugs, anyway--like the
special olympics. You don't race without a wheelchair. The Special
Olympics, by the way, is blatantly discriminatory. Because I can't enter,
now do I? Actually, perhaps I can. Perhaps writing files like this while
not under the influence qualifies me.
Oh, but Anjee, why must you stress me? Not you, no, but your capacity to
feel bad. When you feel bad, it ruins the helpful myth; that Lugol's
Solution truly can lead one such as I to Utopia. Yes, if you can feel bad,
then I'll simply have to resign myself to living in this stupid world. And
that's hardly surreal enough. Actually, I suppose resigning myself to it
while not accepting it would be. That's what's happened, anyway. But anjee,
still don't feel bad. You're like Stanley Kubrick up in the stars, Anjee.
Still, I know that my concept of your ilk is a myth, O Anjee, and a PET
scan proves that. I hope my delusion isn't offensive to you. If it is, you
may pretend to be my friend, holding a sword of Damocles just over my neck
until the time is right, and I am decapitated. THIS IS YOUR RIGHT. THIS IS
AMERICA--or Canada.
Oh, and Tasha, why would you listen to Captain Beefheart? It would ruin
the incredible experiment that is Tasha--the isolation tank. We place a
genetically engineered specimen into an impossible environment; with
intellectual vultures circumjacent. We repeat this time and time again,
perfecting the specimen a little bit more each time. Eventually, through
this sped up natural selection, we produce an intellectual God, an
omniperspicascious creature with unmatched percipience. When we have this
specimen, we clone it and unleash it into a liberal, free environ. It will
be the new messiah. Do you want to know a secret? I was the failed result
of such an experiment--ah, but you have already been ruined, O Tasha. The
internet. The internet. I'm sorry for the cruel joke! I see now that I
simply perpetuated the cruel cycle. I suppose we ought to let you go...I'm
sorry...that your nose always itches when there's tobasco sauce on your
hands and not a paper towel in the house.
---------------------
and now for a Eulogy:
Oh, Dear Nybar, Thou Couldst Rap,
Though Thou Didst Not Know Why;
For Thine Skin Was White,
Thy Microphone Might,
Shone High Into the Sky.
Thine Last Changeling Form
Was That Of A Liquified Human,
But Don't Let That Get Thee Down
Because Now You're A Fish
Drinking Mercury In A Lake
Poisoned By Stupid Masochists
Like Me And Other People Who Run Factories
I Don't Run A Factory
But If I Could Buy A Big Abandoned Factory Building For Five Dollars
I Would Make It A Massive Shrine To You
With A Sign That Would Read:
"Oh, Dear Nybar, Thou Couldst Rap,
And This Factory is For Thee And
Thy Lyrical Might."
Anjee And Tasha Would Come To Visit
But They Would Not Get My Fish Sandwiches
Because I Would Want To Eat Thee Myself.
and when Anjee and Tasha came to visit I would show them the nice thing you
wrote about them. but first we'd go out to mcdonalds and i'd set the stage
for what would be the biggest McFish sandwich party in years. no pregnant
women allowed! i'd feel miserable, inside and out, so i'd play a They
Might Be Giants song because they were just writing about misery, in a fun
way. and when they'd get to one of the parts about human skulls, i'd stand
up on my plexiglass mushroom chair and shout:
"I AM THE KING OF THE TODDLERS. YOU MUST STAND UNDERNEATH ME AND WE
WILL TAKE THIS TRAIN PLACES THAT IT JUST SHOULDN'T BE GOING."
any nearby person who had recently worn, or was currently wearing,
diapers would join me in making that plexiglass train run circles around
any sort of celebration McDonalds thinks it could throw for a birthday.
everybody thinks life just becomes so great once you get a happy meal, but
it's WHERE YOU EAT IT THAT MATTERS, and why did JOE ALWAYS GET TO SIT IN
THE CONDUCTOR'S SEAT??? just because he was the OLDEST???? yeah, well
all his friends are JERKS NOW and well you know what? I DON'T CARE ABOUT
HIM ANYWAY. HE COULD KEEL OVER AND LAND ON A LONG STICK, AND I'D JUST
CHUCKLE! i'd be all rosy-cheeked and point at him and shout 'CARPENTER?
YOU COULDN'T EVEN BUILD A BIRDHOUSE FOR YOUR SOUL!"
