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Flodis Issue 27
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| flodis - flowers of disruption - #27? - 03.11.99 |
`-------------------------------------------------'
the zine for tasha & anjee
©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©
the flowers of disruption, for tasha and anjee, would like to present a
stem, er, gem of a text from ron, zaff, sweeney erect. don't tell yer
mommy!
-------------------
dear trilobyte@rockford.com
beginnings are always the hardest part but the best.
you stand there in all the goo and try to fashion it
into something and everything is open and fresh,
oven-fresh. fresh like the way you get fresh with a
girl and she slaps you. but beginings are hard
because, to begin badly, well that puts everything in
a horrible state. never be at 6's and 7's from the
start. i can't explain just how we lost it from the
start.
see, that's what i do. because beginnings are so
crucial, i turn them into absurd parodies, i ridicule
myself. don't think i am making fun of you--i am
making fun of me. because that way, if i fuck up, you
won't know i have fucked up. nothing tires me out
quicker than sincerity, so i keep sincerity to a
minimum. that is my manifesto.
but you didn't ask for manifestoes, but i don't have
anything else to give, you see. that's all i can do.
i walk about and compose little manifestoes. i
pontificate, but the only person who wants to hear my
pontifications is me, so i keep it to myself. and
then my thoughts spill out like manifestoes. like i
am saying the apostle's creed only with me at the
godhead.
just there, i was trying too hard. if i try too too
hard, you will know i like you. but i don't try a
little too hard, you will think i am not willing to
jump through hoops at all for you, and you will lose
interest. it's a delicate balance you see.
my looks aren't overwhelming, so i am always stuck in
this balance, and it gets tiring.
see, at any moment i could have anything i wanted, if
only i knew how to ask. that is the heart of black
magic and alchemy--the keys to everything are always
right in front of you if you know the right thing to
say and do. but i'm no cary grant.
hell i'm not even cary elwes.
i sat one night with a gun in my mouth, looking out my
window at the moon for about 5 minutes and couldn't
pull the trigger. how can you respect a man like
that?
if i had it to do over again, i would have shot out
the window and jumped. now that would be style.
but here i am rambling on. but i gotta use words when
i talk to you, and the words they pour out but i don't
know where they go. it is like i am trying to seduce
you by calling your line and then trying to pour honey
into the telephone. it's all such a waste. it's all
so gommed up.
so who knows and whatever etc. it's a waste, trying
to say vibrant things in a dying tongue. our tongue
is like an old whore everybody has fucked but nobody
can make come anymore. i want to make that bitch
come, but she won't. give me five minutes alone with
your muse and i'll make that bitch a screamer.
my favorite colour is thirst.
that's all i've got.
----
it's like when you go to a doctor and there are a bunch of people you don't
know in the waiting room, and you feel a common bond. it's all right to
suffer. everyone else is.
all-night restaurants are the haven for the people who can't deal with life
on a daytime basis. best be a night person, there are just too many people
thriving on that daytime light. minding their own business. why should
you come in and shine your darkness? adjust your schedule to fit in with
other recluses, 3rd shift employees, twisted extroverts, or homocidal
closet homosexuals. that way you can sit at a table for four hours
drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and talking or remaining silent about
any possible thought that could enter your mind. everyone else has
thoughts too, you know. they're all brewing like the vat of ground beans
and hot water back in the kitchen, where food spills on the floor and trays
are thrown by angry employees. would you rather that the server, a twisted
individual, took out his 28 years of frustration on you, or on the
instruments of his profession? perhaps he understands the plight of
everyone in the place with him at 4 in the morning. perhaps he realizes
that taking his worldly frustrations out on other downtrodden people will
not calm him, but rather set him apart from the society into which he fits.
though when there are too many dogs in one house, you have to start setting
out different dishes of food. they won't all eat out of the same one
anymore. one may get angry at another and show teeth and then another dog
will take his side, and it becomes this big brawl of 3rd shift employees
and wasted strippers.
imagine that you go to a park with some friends and get stopped by a police
officer, who remembers you from another time. the time that he stopped you
in the same park, a year ago, and searched your car to find correctly
stowed bullets and a gun. this time you're not offending anyone, you're in
someone else's car.
but stop imagining yourself in that situation, because it takes a number of
destructive and difficult years to reach that point.
but if you were to take up the challenge again, to put yourself in that
person's position, where would you go at 4am?
you'd go to an all-night coffee shop, where you could meet up with other
people who understand that bad things can happen to people. they've seen
it happen. they live it. they might be suffering or they might be
reveling, but they've been there. some of them got the t-shirt, some got
the garter belt, some got the embroidered badge.
some got the burned arms, the skewered hair, the mongoloid features. those
are the ones who stand on roofs of houses screaming "SALOOOOOOOYYOOOOOOOU"
until their lungs fly from their mouths.
grown up tendrils of moist sunshine learn soon enough that water contains
harsh chemicals. the chemicals put there by men who grow plants for a
living. the ones who create food before it is injected with synthetic
resin. they grow that sort of food which doesn't go on lasting forever
like a twinkie or a fruit roll-up.
i suppose if i was shrinkwrapped in plastic and put on a shelf, i'd last a
pretty long time too. maybe i could get a job at Hormel and jump onto one
of their assembly lines, i could get chopped up into little bits of meat
and get packed into air-tight tins which will rest in cupboards around the
world until that moment when one person will decide that "TONIGHT'S THE
NIGHT FOR SPAM, DEAR." and i will be put onto a frying pan and sizzled,
or maybe cooked in some other fashion, or maybe i will be sliced raw and
put between two slices of bread with some mayonnaise.
but would it be better if i were chewing gum? i'd last for a long time in a
nice wrapper until someone chewed me and chewed me until i lost my flavor,
then i'd be spit out but would remain as a commonly recognizable chunk of
chewing gum, just without any flavor left. i would never again be chewed
up, not at all. people wouldn't want to touch me either, i'd be taboo.
all because somebody chewed me up. i'd stick to the bottom of a table for
a very long time until i was scraped off and thrown away with remains of
old food or newspapers.
no, i think it would be better to go out in full form -- be chopped up and
tinned, eaten, and then reintroduced into the world as a completely
different set of nutrients, ready to be recycled into new form. tis better
to be chewed and swallowed than chewed and spit out.
(*#%@(*@%#(*#@(*@%(*%#@(*%#@(*(*%#@*(@%#(*
ÕÕª .-.
»ÕÕÕº ª »ÕÕÕÕº Õª ÕÕÕÕÕÕÕª | | this was an
Õª ÕÕ | | honestly bad
»ÕÕÕº ÕÕÕÕÕ | | time-waster
»ÕÕÕÕÕÕÕº | | email-box
ÕÕÕÕÕª ÕÕª »»» | | filler
»º »ÕÕÕÕÕº »»ÕÕºÕº »ÕÕÕÕ»Õº »ÕÕº »»ÕÕÕÕÕÕÕº | | from
.----------------------------------------------------------| | trilobyte
`----------------------------------------------------------`-'
flodis / flowers of disruption #27? / 03.11.99 / trilobyte@hoe.nu
tell your friends to call longdistance with flodis
