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State of unBeing 42
Living in such a state taTestaTesTaTe etats a hcus ni gniviL
of mind in which time sTATEsTAtEsTaTeStA emit hcihw ni dnim of
does not pass, space STateSTaTeSTaTeStAtE ecaps ,ssap ton seod
does not exist, and sTATeSt oFOfOfo dna ,tsixe ton seod
idea is not there. STatEst ofoFOFo .ereht ton si aedi
Stuck in a place staTEsT OfOFofo ecalp a ni kcutS
where movements TATeSTa foFofoF stnemevom erehw
are impossible fOFoFOf elbissopmi era
in all forms, UfOFofO ,smrof lla ni
physical and nbEifof dna lacisyhp
or mental - uNBeInO - latnem ro
your mind is UNbeinG si dnim rouy
focusing on a unBEING a no gnisucof
lone thing, or NBeINgu ro ,gniht enol
a lone nothing. bEinGUn .gnihton enol a
You are numb and EiNguNB dna bmun era ouY
unaware to events stneve ot erawanu
taking place - not iSSUE ton - ecalp gnikat
knowing how or what 1/30/98 tahw ro who gniwonk
to think. You are in FORTY-TWO ni era uoY .kniht ot
a state of unbeing.... ....gniebnu fo etats a
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE
=----------------------=
EDiTORiAL Kilgore Trout
LETTERS TO THE EDiTOR
STAFF LiSTiNGS
[=- ARTiCLES -=]
A TRUCKLOAD OF MiNDLESS, POiNTLESS, EGO-DRiVEN
CRAP THAT YOU SHOULD JUST SKiP OVER Clockwork
PAGE FROM A DIARY Crux Ansata
AMERiCA ONLiNE: A STUDY or
A HUMOROUS AND FRiGHTENiNG LOOK AT AOL Adidas
HOW i SPENT MY SUMMER VACATiON Crux Ansata
A DiP iNTO ALiEN DREAMTiME Kilgore Trout
[=- POETASTRiE -=]
FERTiLiZER Janet Buck
FOR BEAViS AND BUTT-HEAD: FiVE COMMEMORATiVE HAiKUS Crux Ansata
BONSAi Janet Buck
[=- FiCTiON -=]
ALCESTiS Kilgore Trout
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
EDiTORiAL
by Kilgore Trout
Since nobody else seems to be able to do it right, I guess the zine is
going to have to step in and get the job done. So, we are now searching for a
small child (either boy or girl) or a midget to man the Apocalypse Culture
Balloon in an attempt to circumnavigate the globe.
We don't, however, have the funds that all of these billionaires do, so
the only reward we can offer you is fame if you complete the trip. You may
also be wondering why we want either children or a midget. Well, our balloon
consists of a bunch of balloons. Helium balloons. Attached to a lawn chair.
Lowtech, yes. Impossible, no. We'll give you a pellet gun and two cases of
coke so you can go up or down. I'll personally throw in a small bag of corn
chips as well.
We're also taking on interns. BYOK.
Eck. So, I guess it's time to announce that we are beginning year number
five, and now I'm supposed to reiterate how happy I am with all my writers and
how the readers are cool too and how I never imagined we'd ever make it this
far without criminal proceedings and federally mandated wiretaps. So yeah,
I'm happy to be here.
Let me tell you a story. In the beginner, there was a zine. People
wrote for it, uploaded copies to BBSes and the internet, and read it. It was
good. God even liked it. He told me so. As the years went on, people came
and went, but it was still published.
And then, there was a great schism throughout the land, and great omens
of apocalypse appeared in the skies. It was a time of the dawning of doom
which doomed the dawn. An editor fell, dead, and a mighty ruckus occured
over the zine.
God laughed. He does that a lot, you know.
And then, after much despair, confusion, name-calling, betrayal,
crocheting, burling, a sampling of fine wines, and a handful of secret
microdot communiques, Kilgore was ressurected in the tradition of, well,
Jesus. And all is good in the land once again. So, that should answer any
questions about what just happened during the past six months.
On to the issue. Last month, it was mostly fiction. This month, it's
not. Flip flopping is the name of the game in 1998. So, keep the submissions
coming in, and next month I'll have a detailed account of my vacation to the
Middle East over Christmas break, full of fascinating details and mindbending
photos [photos not available in e-zine.] See you next month.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
LETTERS TO THE EDiTOR
From: Rally Dilovska
To: kilgore@sage.net
Subject: (no subject)
Brilliant! Kilgore, this zine is done great and right to the point...
That's what i'm gonna be - can I have a subscription? Thank you:-)
Rally
[sure you can. stroke that ego some more and i might even give you TWO
subscriptions. then you'll be the big kid on the block carrying around two
printouts of the zine to smash the small fingers of the younger children to
keep them in line for your strange, secretive slave labor camp running in the
woods behind Mrs. Henderson's house where you manufacture wooden egg toys.
god, sometimes it sickens me to see what some of our readers do in their
spare time.]
--SoB--
From: MsHappy69
To: kilgore@sage.net
Subject: Re: SoB #41
i cant download that becauze my compooter doesnt know how to. merry x-mas. do
i know u?
[i don't think you know me personally, but you did send us a letter last
issue, so i would think you would kinda remember that. keep up the good
work, and good luck with teaching your compooter how to do new tricks.]
--SoB--
From: Adidas
Subject: I hope this reaches someone with some power at SoB
Hey, this is Adidas, this is really getting ridiculous. What exactly is going
on? I want some straight answers. Where is Kilgore Trout. What the hell is
up with all these strange issues (ie SoB KiD, SoB 1000, Audio SoB, 37 and 37)
I want someone to make a straight up issue which releases some answers, or at
least in the mean time be funny because I can tell you for certain that I am
not at all amused. Im stuck here wondering exactly where to send this Email
and wondering whether or not it will make it to anyone.
..i am a mage of no small water..
[um, is this a straight enough issue for you? although i do have to say that
there is some homoeroticism in my dream article, so maybe it's not as
straight as i thought. yeah, like you thought you'd get a real answer out of
me, huh? like i can prove to you that i'm the real kilgore trout? phooey.
believe or don't. it's as simple as that.]
--SoB--
From: PrepKill
To: kilgore@sage.net
Subject: Well... it couldn't be snail mail
Hello Kilgore,
It took me a small while to track you down... Though the satellites
were down and my best stalker was on vacation... I still managed to find
you. It would've been harder if Mr. Perkins didn't tell me you lived
next door. (O.k. now you know I'm bluffing.)
Why the hell is this guy mailing me?
Two reasons actually. First of all I wanted you to know I loved your
ezine, SoB is a favourite of mine... a tad macabre and maniac depressive
but otherwise my favourite ezine. It shares my sense of humor, and a
sort of downtrodden view of life. My respects, Especially on Epiphany,
Several of Crux's ramblings, (I named a character in one of my stories
after him) and Night-World, which became the inspiration for a short
story of mine entitled "Demon Writer."
Wow, you mean someone else has read this crap?
I've checked the ftp entry log, seems I was one of the very few on, and
most logins (I later saved all the html zines to disk) Yes, I read a
large portion, and even more. I loved it.
[personal stuff snipped]
Joseph (PrepKill)
[thanks for tracking me down. and glad you like the zine. and i would
venture to say that we aren't always downtrodden, but after putting this
issue together, i'd have a hard time arguing that case. must be the snow
(lack of.)]
--SoB--
From: Dweezel Zappa
To: kilgore@sage.net
Subject: mailing list
Could I puhleeze be added to your mailing list? The SOB ezine is cool,
and I'd like to get stuff it. As to the whole reason why I should be
added crap (as per yer homepage), screw it, besides the fact I prolly
don't deserve it... but do it anyway.
Laterz.
[too bad you aren't the real dweezel zappa, or then i might have a chance to
go on the conan o'brian show and make an ass out of myself with you.]
--SoB--
From: Plastic Machine
To: kilgore@sage.net
Subject: Mailing list
Date: Mon, 26 Jan 1998 10:31:35 PST
I would like you place me on your mailing list. In a world of
uninspired minds I would like to socialize with those who don't waste
their intelligence.
machine
[heh. well, you've come to the wrong place. we waste lots of our
intelligence. luckily some of us happen to write stuff down from time to
time. i mean, if i didn't waste any of my intelligence, then i wouldn't have
a high score of 93 seconds on the expert level of minesweeper. that's what i
thought.]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
STAFF LiSTiNG
EDiTOR
Kilgore Trout
CONTRiBUTORS
Adidas
Clockwork
Crux Ansata
Janet Buck
GUESSED STARS
Dweezel Zappa
MsHappy69 [still not an SoB groupie]
Plastic Machine
PrepKill
Rally Dilovska
SoB OFFiCiAL GROUPiE
crackmonkey
VARiOUS SONGS THAT HAVE PLAYED WHiLE PUTTiNG THiS iSSUE TOGETHER
"Freemasons of Enochian Magick" (Jack the Crowley mix) by Penal Colony
"Fire Woman" by Psychic TV
"Book of Lies" by The Electric Hellfire Club
"K.N.K.A" (Climax version) by Project Pitchfork
"Clown" by Switchblade Symphony
"Friends and Executioners" by Rosetta Stone
"What's Fair?" (Frustration mix) by Razed in Black
"In Penetration" by Controlled Bleeding
and a bunch of other stuff that I don't want to take the time to list
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- ARTiCLES -=]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
A TRUCKLOAD OF MiNDLESS, POiNTLESS, EGO-DRiVEN CRAP THAT YOU SHOULD
JUST SKiP OVER
by Clockwork
So what is it with this silly obsession of women and their bodies and
souls? I'd be willing to flatly state, with a Masterpiece Theatre-like
accent, that if you thumbed through the previous words I've tossed before your
eyes, you may encounter a theme of rants and raves of love and lust and
lechery, all of wishful thinking. And when thumbing through this myself, I go
blech blech ugh, thinking as though I have stated or revealed nothing new from
the recessed digressions within me -- just spouting the same intentions bad
thoughts and "Oh, looky, I'm a cool sensitive guy with feelings and Soul."
Honestly, I'm rather disappointed in myself -- highly unsatisfied with my
previously seemingly happy-go-lucky-with-content-and-unwritten-forethought me.
But, no, no, no, no, no. I had to find a way to alter my mindset, direct
a slappy platter of neurons to the left, I guess. It's perfectly fine,
though. I know I should just cock my head a bit, smirk, and continue forth
with the unthoughts of whatever is to be shall be, with no sorrow, guilt, or
pity for the me I am. Why can't I do that. Why did I end that question with
a period?
This would be easier if you could just hop into my head. And I'm sure it
would be easier if I could be completely honest with myself and hop into my
own head. That would be neat. Have been trying recently. Did better than
average, but not the best I can be. Perhaps I'm looking to offload the guilt
I stuff into my gut.
I sometimes wonder about diaries. I'm amazed by them in a way. If the
owner can truly be honest to their ever reflecting mind on paper, than my hat
goes off. I don't know if I could do it. I tried many years ago, twas about
the female I was enthralled with at the time. I honestly am not sure if I was
honest in that either. I'd like to say I was, rambling on, once again, about
her beauty, and how I felt around her, and how I wish I could talk and wish I
could say how I felt and what I wanted.
So, am I being honest now? Probably not as much as I'd like to be. I
wrote the first three words, or maybe the first sentence with just the intent
to write, and then pops and fizzes sounded about in my head and formed the
word ARTiCLE in purple fuzzy hazy smoke letters, and they sat there for a
moment. So, the intent was changed, and now I ask if I write to be cool or
write for the finding of peace within. I'd be un-honest if I said there was
no coolness desired. I'm ego-full -- ego the size of Staten Island. Blech
blech ugh.
So, can you ever completely destroy your ego?
Refer to the title of this article now.
No matter how hard I try or don't try, I can always view myself as
artificial, whether in writing, in conversation, walking across the street, or
driving along the street. Non-contentedness in myself, I would assume.
Loathing certain characteristics in others that I know I possess myself, yet
rarely admitting it. It's all because of thinking. Too much thinking and
analyzation going on.
So nobody do the things I secretly want you to do -- no pity, no worship,
no praise. Absorb, nod, and move on.
But let me tell you a story, an investment in my psyche, brute and crude
as my hand may allow, and you may tune into my head. Will it be about a
woman? You can bet your uncle's hedgehogs it will. I only see it fair I warn
you now, in case you'd care to avoid such dripping dimestore words.
Contemporary romance without an ending, Bob, nothin' but.
I'm going to admit I'm scared, very scared, for myself should I find me
in a relationship anytime soon. That's probably what I fear most, much more
than baby grand pianos falling from the sky with a cartoon whistle. And I'm
scared to have sex again -- both normal performance anxiety, self-conscious
"am I doing this well enough" kind of soak, and a bleak "the only woman I
slept with chuckled in the face of morals; I slipped below them and lost my
heart a few steps back... what will happen this time?" Of course it's fear --
all my hang-ups and head dances are fear. Still caked in adolescent
unsuredness, only jacked up a notch or so, knowing all the while why and how
and the absurdity of the skits I roll through, yet not doing anything about
it. A taquito of slapstick gerrymandering inside my head.
By the way, there's a large blue mollusk on your left shoulder.
Tangent #32: I think it would be rather interesting, and even
stimulating, to let you people control my life decisions for a couple of
issues. I'll spew out a few things I'm experiencing at the time, propose the
question on it -- should I do this or that -- and do whatever you people think
I should do, barring any obviously surreal suggestions.
So, I'll tell you a story. Boy meets girl. Girl goes out with boy's
friend. Boy wonders why, besides the physical attraction between the two.
Girl and boy talk more, spend more time together than girl and boy's friend.
Boy starts to fall for girl. Girl and boy's friend stop seeing each other.
Boy and girl continue friendship, without crossing that line. Boy falls more.
Boy tells girl of falling. Boy and girl don't discuss. Boy is tired of
pointless emotional dystrophy, pointless hidden communications, pointless
little tap dance games that entertain a small bit of his mind, but end up with
avoidable confusion, frustration, and single-mindedness. Boy is tired of his
own lack of ability to communicate without fear. Boy feels like he is fifteen
again.
Speak, boy, speak.
I sincerely believe Leonard Cohen is a mac-daddy. I wonder if he's ever
been to Spain.
Boy can't be fifteen again, he has to be a mature neato 20-something guy
who knows what's up and what's going down, pays the bills, and holds up that
front well. Boy has no direction in his life at the time, and has an aching
biting need to have someone with him who might pronounce their love. Boy
finds it interesting that many of the people he knows hold the same feelings
of super blahness, no direction, no inspiration, no content. Boy has felt
girl grasp for that same safe feeling of love. Need perhaps.
We're wrestling with the notion that love is selfishness. That's not
what it should be, but is. I think I've said that before sometime, but it's a
valid, important belief so I'll say it again. No wonder romance novels sell
so easily - high demand for a worthy emotion that's not fulfilled in
three-dimensional world. Read mostly by married women. That's wacky.
That's ok, though. Everything is so candidly ok that it's silly. Worry
is a myth. So I crave the ego satisfaction -- I know I do, wish I couldn't,
and will hopefully work on relieving it, but there's absolutely no reason to
stretch my soul on a poisoned balloon rack about it. No reason to smother my
head in a plate of Kung Pao Chicken. Eat, drink, and be merry. Or be Mary --
whatever you wish.
<I have now assumed the reaffirming, comforting role as narrator, writer,
and human. So, everybody relax and hug the person to your right.>
Let's redefine a few words, shall we. I consider myself a savior.
Though I don't think anyone should worship and follow me. I'm a savior if I
somehow, in any of my babble, communicate something efficiently. Even more if
the reader feels some kind of connection, understanding, thereby reassuring
you's guys that you're not a wacko after all, that once again, everything is
going to be alright. Uh huh.
And making someone smile is the all time gigantuan of soul satisfaction -
absurdity is brilliance, send Kurt Vonnegut a muffin. Give Woody Allen some
fancy wingtipped shoes. To experience the absurdity created by those and
others -- even my mother sometimes -- and to think that I could induce the
same feeling in other, that I felt through them, is beauty. Wrap me up in a
pastry with confectionery sugar. Mmmm pastries. Don't you love happy
endings?
Be careful skiing.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"You are either on the bus or off the bus."
--Tom Wolfe, _The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
PAGE FROM A DIARY
by Crux Ansata
0239 010298
Some critical analysis of the real world, as filtered through television.
On VH1, a special on the Lilith Fair. It says this fair challenged "sexism in
the music industry." I am not in the music industry, and so I accept
uncritically the claim that until recently women have been entirely
marginalized in the music industry, and apparently been exploited by men
behind the scenes. According to this story, with rare exceptions it is only
recently that women in the music industry have had any self-determination.
Looking at the claim, though, that the Lilith Fair challenges this sexism. I
accept the group's right to have an entirely female tour -- actually, only
female led bands, with men working behind the scenes -- but the claim that
reverse sexism is a "challenge" to sexism is just foolish. This does not
challenge sexism, that being the idea that women and men are different. It
merely showcases women, consciously as women.
But let us look at VH1's treatment of this. It says it challenges the
common views of how women relate to each other, and cites Sheryl Crow saying
people expect women to be competitive and catty. "Competitive", it seems to
me, is a stereotype of men more than women, but I'll play with it. Preceding
this claim, one of the Indigo Girls was describing the tour as "like summer
camp." After the claim, emphasis is placed on a batch of cookies they were
sharing. Lisa Loeb described them as smelling "like Barbie dolls." An Indigo
Girl concurred. There followed a segment on make-up, with artists and a
reporter discussing the emphasis placed on hair dos and eye shadow, and this
atmosphere was described as "girlish".
Conclusion: To my mind, I don't know what the Lilith Tour did or did not
do for women, stereotypes, or sexism, but VH1's review of it serves to
perpetuate certain stereotypes at the expense of others, still emphasizing the
"inherent" differences between women and men, and implying women's guiding
interests are beauty tips and baking.
Incidentally, this reminds me of an episode I saw the other day of Home
Improvement. Ordinarily, the treatment of sexism in this show is good. It is
not "feminist" in the sense of Naomi Wolf and NOW, but it is sensitive to the
values and distinctions of both genders, and covers concepts in Betsy
Friedman, etc. This episode I had a problem with. I disagreed with the
concepts expressed, probably because they were Desmond Morris's. The
conclusion was that man is inherently promiscuous, desiring many mates, while
woman is inherently monogamous. The claim woman is inherently monogamous is
not very sound. While feminists like to attribute the insight to Elaine
Morgan and other recent feminist scientists, the concept had already been said
quite plainly in Schopenhauer and, I believe, de Gourmont. The real issue
that should have been addressed is -- Wait, I'll describe the situation. The
essence of the situation was that Tim "looked" at other women, and that this
made Jill feel like an insufficient person because of this. At the
instigation of Karen, a mutual friend, Tim agreed to try to go the evening --
which they spent at a restaurant -- without "looking" at other women. He
didn't manage it, and they discussed it. She said that she was concerned she
was no longer holding his attention, and he said she was primary interest for
him, and the concepts of Desmond Morris were discussed. In my opinion, the
underlying problem was woman's -- in this society -- chronic insecurity about
her appearance. It is not that women do not notice men, but that the
situation is expressed differently. Appearance should not be any more a means
of judgment than, say, expertise in butterfly collection, or the ability to
wiggle one's ears. They are facets of the individual, but ought not be
universal, imprisoning concepts, and one ought not feel like less of a person
or more of a person based solely on appearance -- or any other individual
quality. But this was not addressed. Insecurity about appearance was
accepted not just as present, but as acceptable, and the noticing of beauty in
others targeted as the "problem".
Well, that was excessive. I'll go smoke now.
0256 010298
0510 010298
I just finished transcribing the entries from last month I had written in
my binder. I suppose now I can begin transcribing the notebooks from the
summer. I don't know when I will start, much less finish, but I have one less
excuse.
I finished Lafcadio's Adventures today. It was better in the last book
than it had been in the others. The blurb on the back cover said it discussed
Gide's concept of the motiveless crime. It did not, of course, because there
is no such thing as a motiveless action, much less a motiveless crime. Any
action has a motive, and where there is no motive, there is no action. This
is axiomatic. What the back cover meant, I suppose, is a crime with a motive
not within the bounds of the accepted assumptions of society. As far as that
goes, I suppose it did deal with a "motiveless" crime, and I suppose The
Counterfeiters might, too, when I get around to reading it. The motive,
though, of committing an action so one can feel one has committed an action
without a motive is still motivated; the selection of action may be relatively
arbitrary, but the motive is not absent.
I suspect Gide knew this, even if his reviewers did not. In
conversation, Julius -- I believe it was Julius, Lafcadio's half brother --
observes that this presumed free man, who is capable of committing a
motiveless crime, is bound only by the first opportunity, and that is so. As
the action itself is arbitrary, and the desire -- the motive -- exists to
commit a crime without conscious motive, any crime that presents itself
becomes obligatory given the strength of will of the actor.
But I suppose even if it was not obvious at the beginning, I have about
beaten this topic to death. Perhaps the world translated "motive" from the
French implies something different. In any case, much of this novel --
especially book five -- is Pessimistic. I liked it. I haven't finished any
other books today, though. I got up late and spent a couple of hours driving
Moonlight in the attempt to find his driver's license, and spent some time
transcribing more from the chapter on Schopenhauer I am trying to get on my
website.
I had dreams last night, but I can't remember them now. I ought to have
written them down. About the only thing I remember now was when the alarm
went off. I had turned it down too far, and it was a distant ringing. In my
dream, I flew around the entire dreamworld, looking for what makes a sound
like that. I searched the entire place -- when I awoke I realized I searched
for six minutes in real life -- and found nothing, and eventually decided this
sound did not come from anywhere, but must instead be an inherent reality in
my world. The sound was not so much caused as it was in the nature of reality
to be accompanied by this sound. Then, though, I woke up, which was
fortunate, because that sound was irritating. As I said, though, I don't
remember anything else from my dreams.
I think now, though, I am going to go back to reading.
0519 010298
0933 010298
I can't sleep, so I finished the book on Keynes I picked up two or three
days ago at Barnes and Noble. It is in the Oxford Past Masters series, and
through a coincidence of names, sits on my politics shelf right next to the
Oxford Past Masters on Marx. It was one of those books I could read a page,
get distracted, and reread the entire page without even realizing it, but I
suspect this was simply because the field is so foreign to me I had difficulty
following it. M.C. said Keynes is no longer followed because his ideas didn't
work. I don't see that as a useful statement, since in economics it seems
more useful to me to discern between more or less useful models, but I suppose
it is a useful distinction if one assumes a victory condition. In that sense,
I suppose she is right from a microeconomic view. Keynes seems to have said
microeconomics could not accurately predict due to uncertainty, although this
book credits him with a lot of influence creating econometrics and the drive
to gather statistics. In the macroeconomic sense, it is harder to tell. I
knew Keynes had recently fallen out of favor, but also that, with Supply Side
and Marxism, was for a long time one of the big three macroeconomic systems.
I hear Neo-Classicism is in vogue these days, but I'm not sure what this
means. I suspect Supply Siders and Neo-Classicists may actually be people who
believe Say's Law isn't nonsense, but I'm not sure. I, personally, find it
difficult to believe anyone believes it, but people believe some strange
things. The book says Keynes theories have never been tried, but I can't say.
I don't know enough yet. I don't buy much of what he says; he seems to be a
reformist, and I generally don't buy reformists. In any case, it will give me
some more things to think about.
Right now, I think I'll write about some notes I have on the back of the
receipt I was using as a bookmark, before I lose it. I write a lot of things
on scraps of paper which are subsequently lost, so let's see if we can make
any sense of this.
My notes are even more difficult to make sense of than my handwriting,
since I drift between catchwords and symbols, but let us pretend we are
looking at pointillist art, and see what forms.
The first seems to be notes about greetings in France and the United
States. My French instructor the second time I took the first semester -- Ms
Stephanie D., if memory serves -- commented that one thing she found odd about
America was that here we greet our friends every time we see them, whereas in
France, one greets one's friend the first time they see them that day, and not
subsequently. Personally, I don't recall noticing this, ever, but then I'm
not big on greetings at all. This got me to thinking, though. Greetings are
very much an "I'm here, are you still there" exchange. It is also an
acknowledgement of worth, but I think the acknowledgement of presence is more
primary. The repeated greetings here, then, might indicate a lessened surety
that the person *will* be there next time. In other words, it is less
expected that an American will see his friend again than that a Frenchman
would. One wonders, though, why this should be. French culture has been more
scarred by wars and the like, whereas America has been insulated. This would
seem to disprove the argument that Americans are more afraid their friends
will be killed. Perhaps Americans depend more on their friends, or perhaps
the French are more resigned to the idea of losing their friends. I can't say
for sure; again, it is more to think about.
My next note says: "Girl in IHOP." I know what that means, but I
imagine in another twenty-four hours finding this note I would be as confused
as anyone else. What it refers to is from last night. While looking for
Moonlight's driver's license, we went by IHOP. When we got there, we had to
wait to speak to the waitress while two girls paid. When we got there, I
could see in profile the girl closest to me. She was a blonde, with short
hair. She was wearing a blouse and a long, straight skirt. I can see these
in my mind but, as usual, cannot describe even the colors. The details swirl
in my memory. I don't remember her as an objective reality, but rather
remember my impressions of her. In regards to my impressions, what she looked
like is much less of interest -- to me -- than what her appearance made me
feel.
This relates to something else I had been thinking about lately. I
referred to it the other day when I questioned where I think beauty to be, but
I find this better expressed in the question of where is pleasure. I will
take an example: Say that I am kissing a girl. My opinion of whether I
enjoyed this -- whether it was a "good kiss" -- says nothing about the kiss,
much less the girl. The thing, the *only* thing, the statement "That was a
good kiss" expresses is that my internal sense-experience, during this kiss,
was something I consider pleasurable, or desirable, or whatever system I am
using to examine the text of my life. Granted, the kiss provides data for
this -- whether I enjoy the technique, for example; in my own case, the degree
of yielding, etc. Also, the girl influences it. Whether one is "in love"
influences one's sense-experience. If one is, for example, in the process of
a rape, the anxiety may make one enjoy it less, or the thrill of the forbidden
may make one enjoy it more, or both. What it comes down to, though, is these
are influences, not determinants. At bottom, one *chooses* whether or not to
enjoy a kiss, or rather to define a kiss as having been enjoyed. There is no
"pleasure" "in the world", but only the "pleasure" we subjectively choose to
create, whether intentionally or by default.
This is not, of course, by any means an original thought. In a way, it
is a restatement of Schopenhauer's explanation that there is no good anywhere,
but that what we desire -- or rather what the will as objectified in us
desires -- we arbitrarily consider good. I'm sure the pedigree is much older.
This is, though, a digression. I was going to have a much more realist
conversation.
I was struck by her beauty. (See, I lapse again into convention. If I
was being precise, I would say something like, "I was struck by the way the
relationship between the external stimulus of her appearance -- as I
understood it -- interrelated with my prejudices, causing me to consider her
'beautiful'," or something equally cumbersome. I hope my faithful reader by
this point knows full well everything I say is subjective.) She was not
perfect, by any means. She was not the kind that brings on heart attacks, or
which one would sever one's arm for a chance at. She was more than pleasantly
attractive, however, and my mood was elevated seeing her. It didn't really
occur to me for some time afterwards that my watching her could easily have
been taken as rude at best, or threatening at worst. I enjoyed, however, the
way she looked, and the pitch of her voice -- which I suppose I, as a
feminist, should feel ashamed for, as I have had it explained to me that it is
at least the opinion of the Japanese feminists that high pitched voices are
signs of subjection to male dominance, and the effort to make oneself
attractive by sounding childlike and vulnerable. I got to wondering what her
companion looked like, both to see if her friend was as attractive, and to see
if my subjective experience was skewed and I was seeing her as attractive more
qua female than qua her. When she moved, though, I could see that I found her
companion noticeably not attractive. Perhaps not unattractive; I can't really
say now, but noticeably not attractive.
Now, I wonder why I told this story. Perhaps the reader can see some use
in it.
I'm afraid my next note is incomprehensible. It says, merely,
"interesting." It is in quotes, so I wager I was going to talk about the
word, but I don't know what I was going to say. Was it someone that looks
interesting, in keeping with the last story? Or something that is
interesting? Perhaps the value of being interesting, or how we define
something as being interesting? Interesting as this discussion may be, I
don't know where it was supposed to go, and I have one more note, so I'll move
on.
This one is not more explicit -- "opinions" -- but it is more helpful. I
remember what I was going to talk about here. I remember one of the questions
on that questionnaire on Silence dealt with me, and one of the answers was "He
has opinions on things I have never even heard of." I picked this one, so I
remember it, and I thought it was an amusing paradox, saying that I have
opinions on things I have never heard of. Like all paradoxes, it only seems
to contradict itself, and that amuses me. I didn't think much of it, though.
Then, this summer, M.C. commented approvingly that I am interesting -- there
that word is again -- and one of the reasons was because I have opinions on
many things. I thought this very odd. I don't think opinions are good
things. I don't mean, of course, they are bad things. I think they are
neutral. The way I see it, one has to be pretty out of it to *not* have
opinions. They may be unformed. They may be parroted. They may even be
stupid. They are opinions, though. Perhaps also I am influenced by old
elementary school work, where we distinguished between facts and opinions. I
also always considered a "fact" to have some objective worth, while an
"opinion" was only, well, an opinion. Even an idea, which is equally
subjective -- in the non-Platonic sense of the word -- seems to have more
value, being closer to original. But I notice other places, too, consider
opinions to be good. I still find it very odd, but I suspect if I explained
why, I would just repeat myself again. I seem to be running out of steam.
I'll move on.
In church the other day, maybe New Year's Eve, aka the feast day of Mary,
Mother of God, I did an uncharacteristically bold thing. I smiled and said
hello to someone. Granted, it was S.L., who I have known for about a decade
now, but also, it was S.L., who I have known for about a decade now. She
didn't speak to me first, and as I walked towards the exit of the church, I
caught her eye, smiled, and said hello. She, too, smiled and said hello.
Then -- I say "then" as if it followed, but I was thinking this before,
during, and after -- I wondered what the effects of my actions would be.
Rather, I suppose, I mean "could be". I know rationally that this will be
mere data. If she remembers it at all, I will be merely another guy who said
hello to her. It is more interesting to think what could be.
For one thing, she is several years younger than me, but by no means too
young. Indeed, she must be about seventeen or eighteen. But her mother was
right by, and so far as I know she is still in high school. One of both of
them may find this suspect. I also know -- though I don't much like -- her
boyfriend. If my attention was seen as affection, this could cause problems.
On the other hand, if we pretended this was possible, she could return the
affection, or, more likely, be flattered by it. This could equally cause
complications, but likely will not, as I don't plan to ever speak to her
again, at least not of my own volition. From this simple action, though, it
is interesting to spin out fantasies of all the potentialities and problems
that could result. I have about spun out my interest, though, and so I
suppose I'll drop it and go shower or read to play in the highway or
something.
1017 010298
1249 010298
It may finally have happened. I may now be functionally blind. I was
reading, and all of a sudden, my vision lost an area. Not the periphery,
either, but just right-down of center. Indeed, as I write, I cannot see my
pencil, and only part of my hand. I can't see what I write, but only a few
centimeters behind.
At first, it looked like I had damaged my retina by staring into a bright
light, only (1) I hadn't, and (2) it has not gone away, and it has been ten or
more minutes. Now it looks like a floating thing, covering maybe ten or
fifteen degrees of vision. (That is an estimate. It's location makes
measuring it problematic.) Watching it against various backgrounds, I see it
looks like a band of color, woven. It looks like a stripped electrical wire,
with varicolored plastic wrapping over the copper. Or, it looks like I would
imagine it would look like if someone cut open their eyeball exposing the
rods, only being on the inside looking out, I am seeing what should be on the
outside looking in.
I see it the same whether I use my left eye, my right eye, or both. It
is there when I close my eyes, and remains when I take off my glasses. I can
read only around it, which means I have to hold the book towards the periphery
of my vision and yet concentrate on it, ignoring the thing, which makes my
headache worse. The fact it was sudden and in both eyes makes me worry it is
actually a mental problem, something in the wiring between eyes and brain.
God willing, it will go away, but this is the most frightened I have been in a
long time. I was positioning my book, trying to make sense of the words, and
holding back tears.
I'll break for lunch; maybe my vision will be corrected.
1258 010298
1337 010298
I seem to have back full vision, at least in the center of my range. At
the worst of the episode, I had lost near total vision in my right eye, and
the center of the left. At least, that was the way it looked. By the time
the peripheral vision started getting that bad, I was neglecting my
observations, and just sinking practically into shock. I told Mom I think I'm
going blind. Even with my sense of humor I wouldn't joke about that, and she
seemed able to tell. This scares me worse than anything else, even though I
have expected to go blind for a long time now.
"I am going blind." Can you even begin to imagine how terrifying that
is? To actually lose one's vision, even temporarily? (Provided, of course,
one did not know it was temporary. I mean terror, not discomfort.) For me,
everything that is real is in writing. I read and I write. If I lose a field
of vision like that, I will be incapable of continuing on as me. I will have
to exist, if at all, only in the past. The only thing I could hope for then
would be that the blindness was caused by a brain tumor, or some similarly
fatal malady. Maybe Mom is right, and maybe it is just strain from overusing
my eyes -- or my mind. I seem to waste so much time, though, I find it hard
to believe this. I sleep a lot. I drive, and that is relaxing. I watch some
TV and play on the computer some. I suspect it might be hysterical, though I
don't know what would have caused an onset now. I guess I'll have to wait,
and see what plays out.
1342 010298
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"Evidently it was difficult for the forces of darkness to find good
servants."
--Mercedes Lackey, _Firebird_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
AMERiCA ONLiNE: A STUDY or
A HUMOROUS AND FRiGHTiNiNG LOOK AT AOL
by Adidas
America Online is a diverse, large and extremely interesting subculture.
There are several parts of AOL, of which there are several different features.
To understand all of AOL would take a long time -- too long to be on AOL.
Thus, this study is only in reference to certain portions of the large society
of America Online. This study will be extremely long as it will include lists
of places to go on AOL, transcripts from Chat Rooms, and other evidence of the
craziness that is America Online.
When you log into AOL you are greeted by a welcome screen that includes
your mailbox, and the nice voice, "Welcome! You've got Mail!" The screen
also includes various links to sections of interest in America Online. The
next screen that appears is called Channels. This is a large list of links to
the biggest and most popular parts of America Online. This list of channels
has on it the following sections:
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
--
AOL Today
News
Sports
Entertainment
Influence
Travel
International
Personal Finance
Workplace
Computing
Research & Learn
Internet
Games
Shopping
Interests
Health
Lifestyles
People Connection
Families
Kids Only
Local
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
--
Of course, this list is ever changing and I'm sure that the next time I
log on it will be different.
One of the important parts of AOL is the ever-popular chat sections.
These are listed as "People Connection" under the lists of channels (see
above). To understand the chat rooms, one must first understand the way the
rooms are set up. There are divisions in the chat rooms. First you have what
is called the "Public" chat rooms. These are open to everyone and have
various general names. Then there are the "Private" chat rooms. These are
open to everyone, however you must know the names. It gives you a place to
type in the name of the chat room that you wish to enter. If it is not
already in use, then it is created and you are the only one in there. Next
there are "Member" rooms. These are listed, unlike the private rooms, but like
the private rooms you can create your own. These are usually more specific
and personalized, as they are created by members. And finally there are the
Featured Chat rooms. These are set up where there is usually someone famous
or a topic thats in the news with an expert on stage who answers and talks
about whats going on.
When you choose to chat you are thrown into one of the hundreds of
lobbies. Its very difficult to get into Lobby 666 though because hundreds of
little kids want to be there. If you pick a public room, or a member for that
matter, there comes a lists of types of rooms which in turn have several rooms
in them. The types that exist for public and member rooms are Town Square,
Arts and Entertainment, Friends, Life, News Sports and Finance, Places,
Romance, Special Interests, German, The UK experience, France, Canada, and
Japan. If you pick Member than you can go and create a room in any of the
areas or pick a room someone created. Inside of Town Square in the public
rooms are some of the more popular rooms to talk, they are Best Lil Chathouse,
The Breakfast Club, Friends of Bill W, KTU Late Night Chat, Online Games Help,
Sunrise Diner, The Meeting Place, The Saloon, and Tips and Tricks. If the
rooms fill up there is an alternate one created, such as The Saloon 2.
One wonders exactly what the ages of the people are in the rooms, so I
decided to take a poll. It is not uncommon when in a chat room for someone to
call an age/sex check, where everone gives a response such as 18/m or 14/f. I
did this in four rooms, here are the responses I recieved.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
--
December 23, 1997
Lobby 42 - 11:10 PM - 23 People Total
18/m
16/m
16/m
16/f
15/f
15/m
The Meeting Place 13 - 11:16 PM - 22 People Total
17/f
16/m
22/m
18/f
16/m
16/f
The Saloon 2 - 11:19 PM - 23 People Total
35/f
19/f
107/m (What a jerk)
16/m
Best Lil Chathouse 30 - 23 People Total
No one responded
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
--
What exactly do they talk about in these rooms? Well I made a copy of
one conversation in a room called the Red Dragon Inn which is a sort of RPG-
talk place where they demonstrate actions by colons. You'll see.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
--
PrnsMorgan: is tha' why they are the way tha' they are?
RDI Destre: :takes her coffee and drinks greatfully her eyes surveying the
happenings::
Vvessen: ::bellows:: BARKEEP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
ZorakBrak1: my Pleasure
AliENDorUU: :sharpens at her fans quietly, and drinks her milk... A
twisted amalgam of schoolgirl,
LadyVixenn: Aye..indeed..a pleasure to me...smiles
Phantom482: yep
AliENDorUU: dragon, and vicious warrior-mage:
Phantom482: that's why
RDI Destre: ::looks to the yeller:: Yes?
RomeoMike: ::laughs and puts his index finger on the 7th fret A and his
ring finger on the 5th fret
RomeoMike: high d::
ZorakBrak1: busy night isn't it
Lrd Will: -= puts slide on finger and checks it before geting a pick=-
PrnsMorgan: ::nods:: do I havea t.. t... twin?
EvilPhoeni: ::askes the barkeep for a gin&tonic and sits back in a near by
barstool::
RomeoMike: it's mostly this slid up and down the fret board::
Lrd Will: -=follows his lead=-
Saradya: ::Shrugs, and heads to an unoccupied table::
RomeoMike: ::shows him::
AliENDorUU: :cringes at loud noise, scowls at the screamer:
RDI Destre: ::turns back to Zorak:: Yes It really is
Lrd Will: ah
Dracandos: ::smiles::can i get you a drink or anything
NetMast508: ::Finnishes the wind and walks off::
ThWildCard: ::drinks the rest of his elven wine and sets the bottle in his
backpack, then pulls out the cork
RDI Destre: ::nods to the strangers and smiles::
Phantom482: No angel you have an older brother.
Vvessen: ::gets up with much difficulty from the small table and
lumbers over to the bar::
ThWildCard: on his Bloodwyne::
RDI Destre: I'm the tender tonight if you need drinks
PrnsMorgan: ::wrinkles her nose::
Vvessen: ::reaches behind it and graps a keg of ale::
LadyVixenn: I need no drink m'Lord.....smiles
RomeoMike: ::begins struming a steady rhythm on the three low strings,
then switches down two frets::
EvilPhoeni: HAy RDI can I get a gin&tonic
RDI Destre: ::puts the keg of ale on Vvessen's tab::
Vvessen: ::sits down heavily in the middle of the floor with the keg,
shaking the floor::
Phantom482: I know love it's not fair sometimes.
RDI Destre: \_/ gin and tonic for ya
EvilPhoeni: Would anyone want to join a guild
RomeoMike: ::does like wise and switche down two again::
Vvessen: Destre, you put it on my tab but you wouldn't get it for me?
RomeoMike: ::then back up two::
Ice pxe: ::from the swirling blackness of the outdoors appears a foot,
a shin, a shapely thigh, and
Saradya: ::Sinks into a chair, watching the inn attentively::
Lrd Will: -= follows him
RomeoMike: ::then is back to the begining::
Phantom482: I don't have any brothers or sisters
EvilPhoeni: ::grabs the gin & tonic and raises it to RDI:: Thank ya kind
person
AliENDorUU: :scowls at the Vvess, puts down the whetstone, picks up
one fan and opens it with a schick:
ZorakBrak1: I don't want to keep you from your duties, i'll be in the back
if you want to relax ::walks
Vvessen: ::eyes drawn to the appearing person::
PrnsMorgan: no' one?
ZorakBrak1: to the back::
Dracandos: are you sure? it would be no problem
RDI Destre: ::smiles warmly:: You would have been charged anyway
Kiflen: What type of guild?
WhiteDvil3: whats up in these mid evil times?
Vvessen: ::eyes snap to Ali Endor::
Ice pxe: finally emerging into the dimly lit inn a sweet face curling
with mischief, a smirk taunting
TeveshZsat: -= in the corner of the room, the shadows pull together=-
Ice pxe: the lips of the young girl::
RDI Destre: ::smiles and nods to Zorak:: Thank you again
EvilPhoeni: its a new guild...but fine and true
ThWildCard: ::sips some of his Bloodwyne and stands slowly::
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
--
So you can see that in these rooms they talk about absolutley nothing.
Then what is so damn appealing? I don't know. I just don't know.
On AOL one recieves lots of junk mail, people taking advantage of these
idiots, I recieved the following "chain e-mail" and since have recieved many
more like it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
--
This is not just your ordinary chain letter. Every person you send it to,
brings you more goodluck.
If you send it to no one, it will cause somone you like to hate you.
If you send it to 1 person, your next relationship will have lots of fun
times.
If you send it to 2 people, you will get a secret admirer.
If you send it to 3 people, you'll get a date for the next school dance.
If you send it to 4 people, you'll meet the person of your dreams.
5 people, the guy or girl you met of your dreams will ask for your phone
number.
8 people, your next realationship will be everlasting.
10 people, your best friends fine brother or sister has a major crush on you.
13 people, your boyfriend or girlfriend, will become totally faithful to you.
15 people, the person you have been crushing on for a very long time, will ask
you out.
18 people, your date for the next dance will ask you out.
20 people, you'll make out with your crush at a party.
If it can do that much sending it to 20 people, imagine what it will do if you
send it to more.
Real life story:
"I sent 28 letters, and then this guy that I had liked for nearly 3 years,
asked me to go to the senior prom with him.Then a few days later, he asked me
to go out with him. That was about 2 months ago, now we are the best couple.
He graduates in May, and he promised not to go to college until I graduate.
I'll graduate in 1998. He is the sweetest guy I have ever known."
Heather Thomas
1-4-97
"At first I thought that this was the weirdest thing I have ever read. But I
just decided to send it for fun. I wasn't having any lick with girls. I sent
23 letters. About 4 or 5 days after I sent them, I met this wonderful girl.
She was everthing I had dreamed of. I always thought these things were so
stupid, but now I send every single one out that I get. I asked her out about
a month after I had met her. She said 'YES!!!!' That was over a year ago.
Now we are married, and she is pregnant!"
Matt Jenkins
11-27-95
Now the consequences:
If you do not send this letter to anybody, your life will be a living hell.
You have 5 days to send this letter to at least 1 person. You can send this
to as many people as you want to. I am warning you...do not just delete this
letter. It is a new chain letter and we would like it to get sent around as
quick as possible. I refused to send it to many people when I first made it
in June of 1995, because I didn't believe it would work. I sent it to 38
people, then I got the best boyfriend that I could ever have.
***Remember***
You only have 5 days to send this to as many people as possible. Don't forget
to pass it on. Have fun in the near future with your new boyfriend or
girlfriend!!! I know this works from experience. Don't give up the
opportunity of a lifetime.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
--
It's safe to say that I did not send out any letters. My life has not
been a living hell, it's just been hellish but it was just as bad before I
received this. The person I've been "crushing" on hasn't approached me, but
then again, I'm not exactlly sure how to "crush" on someone.
On AOL there is a thing called an Instant Message (IM for short), a way
to send quick messages to friends. After filling out a profile, I
unfortunetly was bombarded with IMs. I wrote on the profile that I lived in
Austin and went to school. Every time I logged on I received hundreds of IMs
saying "Which college do you go to?" or "Which high school?" or "Do you know
Jan Jenkins?" or "Austin sure is nice, huh?". I quickly changed my profile to
not have the city or the school part as well as taking off anything of
interest to anybody. I've recieved sickening IMs about some guy who went over
to some other guys house and "sucked him off" and met people that know people
at my school, but it was just too much.
AOL sucks.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"Well, I woke up this morning
I got myself a beer
I woke up this morning
Got myself a beer
The future's uncertain
And the end is always near."
--The Doors, "Roadhouse Blues"
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
HOW i SPENT MY SUMMER VACATiON
by Crux Ansata
21 August, give or take. After 0100. I'm back in Eamon Doran's. I haven't
been in a bar in some time, but as soon as I stepped in, with the loud Irish
music blasting, I started to feel better.
I knew if I stayed at home, drinking alone, I'd go crazy. I'd get too
depressed to do anything but weep. At least the rain washed the tears off my
face, but I still got an uncharacteristic ask if I was okay from the
bartender.
We've been breaking up now in earnest more than a year. Fourteen
months, at least. You'd think I'd had the knack by now. But, no. Every
time I think I've got it, she pulls something, and I fall back in love.
I thought at least by the time we started fucking again we were back
together. Guess not.
I know another lover would be a distraction. I know it. But I *need*
that distraction. I can't go on loving her this intensely my whole life.
I drank down a couple of glasses of water before I left. I hope I don't
get sick here. At least I have my notepad. She said to call her if I needed
her, but she was too tired. And, besides, she is the cause of my problems,
eh?
I remember one television show: "Women, eh? You can't live with
them ..." Pauses. "Got any more beer nuts?"
Ain't it the truth? Except I've never been in a bar with beer nuts,
whatever they are. But I digress...
I'm a failure. I know that. The fucking messed up thing is that, even
if I weren't, I wouldn't get her back.
She thinks I'm not a failure; just unproven, or something. I know
better. I fucking know better.
I'm the best thing that ever happened to her. I might have saved her
fucking life. But she doesn't need me anymore. I need *her*, but she
doesn't need me. So, I'm in a bar, getting sick, while it rains like there's
no tomorrow, and fucking missing her.
I'm a fucking loser.
I have to remember to stop with the one drink. I can't go on like this.
"So when you think of me, crack a beer and smile. Hey, life's a bitch,
and then you die."
Damn pencil won't work right.
She says I should write when I'm drunk. MC says I need to write like I
do when I'm drunk. Well, I'm drunk now, and I still suck. What's the point
in even feeling these feelings, let alone writing about them?
Fuck honesty. Happiness lives on lies, and what else is there to live
for? Or die for?
Tomorrow, I'll be hung over in the warehouse. Tomorrow night, I'll try
to pack, with another six pack of Killian's I bought today and maybe even
her, who will just break my heart again. I wish I could get drunk enough to
kill her. Get her out of everyone's life, everyone's bed, use her up like
she used me up. Like a spent commodity, a wasted piece of property.
Totally alienated labor.
Bad metaphors. Marx meets Goethe. Fuck the proletariat; I want to die
in the Revolution.
Texas. What's for me there? I Wish My Name Were Nathan misses me. I
Wish My Name Were Nathan won't go to bed with me. I Wish My Name Were Nathan
won't fill my heart. E.? She's probably bourgeois by now. An.? We're in
different worlds. Six years later, and Br.'s probably still a wet dream.
Jujube? She fell in love. I can't replace whoever it was. S.?
I've chewed out A. for speaking poorly of her. I've been chewed out by
Dad for being with her.
She's not a good answer, but she is an answer.
God! She's as proletarian as they come, but I don't *want* to end up
with her, even if I could, which I can't!
So, who? I hate being alone. I don't even have a friend to go back to,
much less a lover.
But, what holds me to New York? MC is a friend, but no doubt she's
getting sick of me. I feel I'm wearing my welcome thin.
(The bartender offered me food. I wonder if I look as drunk as I feel.
Which is, by the way, enough drunk to cope, but not enough to fall off the
stool. As Mom said, "An Irishman isn't drunk if he can hold on to the grass
and not fall off the world.")
As I was saying, I think I need to move on. New York isn't far enough
away. I have one friend left here, and one in Louisiana, but no lover, and
I'm less and less sure of my friends.
C. took Kilgore. He helped me through a lot. Can I look to I Wish My
Name Were Nathan? He wouldn't understand, but maybe he could listen.
Kidknee? But we have been apart too long. I might as well say Dancing
Messiah, Mi. or Ultrasuede. At least they would understand. I don't know
what Kidknee has been through.
And why am I writing? So I have something to do. The bartender is
trying to clean around me. I'm practically alone in here. And, suddenly, I
feel the warmth drunkenness is supposed to bring.
If I weren't so drunk, I'd try to start a conversation with him, but
he's busy.
I hope I don't tip too little.
Now I've stream-of-consciousnessed through almost six of these little
pages, and said nothing.
Well, I have said I'm lonely, and she has destroyed me. Who does not
know that?
My family. That's about it. She didn't know about the college
situation in my family. How no one but my mother finished degrees right out
of high school. How I have to stay in for my family. It's none of her damn
business. She dealt herself out of my family. It needs to become opaque to
her again.
You're my friend if I tell you about my lovers, but I really love you if
I tell you about my family. Virtually no one knows about them. She does.
And MC. But not even Harlequin or Kilgore.
Half of me wants to find a bar in Austin; half of me wants to dry out.
I wonder who will win.
I want a job. I want to get money in Texas, so I can go on drinking.
(I keep starting my words in the middle, and writing them backwards and
then forwards. If I knew how to spell it, I'd say I'm dyslexic.)
I still have half my drink, and I'm at the point I should stop. But I
won't. I'll just slow down.
I wonder what the bartender's name is.
Now, I'm alone at one end of the bar, almost alone in the bar. The
radio sings about the day the music died, and the bathroom is broken. I'm
about drunk enough to sleep without dreams, and get up without them, too.
"This will be the day that I die, this will be the day that I die."
All is the present. Now I lie; now I die. There is no difference in
these statements, same emphasis.
I'll double my tip. Two dollars; almost fifty percent. And I just sit
here, have one beer, write, and have a couple of smokes. I cost no one
anything; I gain no one anything. I am superfluous.
And alone.
And in four days, I go back to Texas, and suppress all my feelings, and
deal again with the world in the way I know: Without dealing.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-S
oB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"What have you dreamed? It's all right, we told you what to dream..."
--Pink Floyd, "Welcome to the Machine"
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
A DiP iNTO ALiEN DREAMTiME
by Kilgore Trout
I don't keep a diary. But, like Clockwork, sometimes I've found myself
wishing I did. I guess I figured that I could look back years later and
figure out stuff about myself that I was too blind and stupid to realize then.
With a diary, I could relive past events, never to forget the essential
moments of my life and the life lessons that I learned. After all, these
events made me who I am today.
What a crock, eh?
I don't keep a diary because I'm lay-zee. That's right. Besides, I've
got something better than a diary, and that's my dream journal. I've decided
to select a few entries over the past year so that you, the reader, can
take a peek at what goes on in my head at night. Any armchair psychologists
(or professional ones, for that matter) are encouraged to write in and analyze
the dreams.
And yes, I really did have all of these dreams.
One note about the format that these dreams are written in. The way I
keep my dreams recorded is through email, sending them out to a select group
of friends and then saving them for posterity. They are usually written right
after I wake up, are very informal, and are composed hastily so I can get down
as much as possible before the dream starts to dematerialize. If you were
expecting Pulitzer Prize exposition, well, what the hell are you reading this
zine for, anyway?
All names have been removed to protect the innocent. After all, who
wants to have nasty rumors spread about them because of my dreams? I didn't
think so.
--SoB--
DREAM ONE: Girls, trees, and a chainsaw
DECEMBER 3, 1996
okay, bucky boy. you're so good at figuring out dreams, interpret THIS.
i'm standing next to a tree in a large field. it's an apple tree.
i'm standing next to it, holding a small video camera in one hand, like
i'm filming the tree but not looking through the camera. i can see my
reflection on an apple, showing that i've got my purple sunglasses on. i can
also see the reflections of two small oriental girls dressed in midieval
japanese garb dancing. they both have long pigtails.
that's the whole dream. there's some music playing, but i can't
remember what it was.
well, okay, that's not exactly the whole dream. later it turns out
that the tree is later used in an advertisement for some chainsaw
company, which shows this woodcutter who cuts through the tree, but the
ground falls out from underneath him. he hangs on to one of the branches
and then falls away. then the company's logo comes up and they say
something stupid like, "we just make damn good chainsaws, not the laws of
physics." but that occurred after the first scene was long and done
with. the two girls were gone. so was i.
fucking fucking strange. wish i could remember what that damn song sounded
like. forgetting music is starting to become a theme in my dreams.
--SoB--
DREAM #2: Concerts suck
JANUARY 29, 1997
okay. finally had a worthwhile dream to tell you guys about. this
one involved lots of celebrities.
so i'm at this concert. sitting in the audience. about twenty rows
back. anyway, while the band is playing, the dream's shots are kinda
like a music video, going around the band, switching between members,
etc. etc. i guess it coulda been an astral projection, and i ACTUALLY
WAS at a concert last night, BUT....
...i seriously, i mean fucking seriously, doubt the travelling wilburies
were playing with tim burton.
yeah, that's right. tim burton had a guitar and was playing along with
the wilburies. petty, orbison, harrison, wylde, and ringo? isn't he the
fifth one? anyway, they're doing all the standard guitar antics (getting in a
line and moving forward one foot at a time, running around doing kicks), and
then for some reason everybody goes into this "everybody solo" mode. jeff
wylde is spinning around on the ground while tom petty is signing wylde's
guitar. then burton runs over, grabs wylde's guitar, and HURLS it into the
audience. everything gets silent as the guitar hurtles thru the air. i watch
it's spinning flight as it hits somebody about five rows in front of me.
like, there's a head and shoulders visible, and the next second nothing.
still dead silence.
then, after a couple of moments, she sits up and waves, unharmed.
everyone claps. i THEN recognize her as the wife of my old director at
the state health department, the one from my old church who got me the job
(and is a pretty nice guy, too). so, anyway, the husband (g-----) gets
up and walks towards the back of the theatre, apparently to get something
for his wife. i wave at him, and he waves at me and keeps on walking.
now, here's where it gets kinda fucked up.
so, next on stage is nancy griffith. for those of you who don't know who
she is, she is a local austin folk singer with beaucoups of albums. i don't
own any. but the way she comes on stage is quite strange -- first tim burton
walks out into the middle of the stage, and then he turns into nanci griffith.
like a really damn good cgi fx shot.
now the dream's view is just nanci's face in front of a blue background.
she's singing something from _hamlet,_ probably one of the sililoquies. it's
dark and depressing. anyway, she starts getting real wrinkly, and she starts
looking real old while she is singing. i notice her eyes have strange
heiroglyphs going around the pupils that i can't read. her eyes also look
weird, like they're about to pop out, kinda like when the hooded guy in _flash
gordon_ gets thrown on the spikes (even though his DID pop out).
then nancy griffith proceeds to turn into a snake, bobbing up and down
and singing this shakespeare stuff. she finishes, and i am glad.
the wilburies come back out, more subdued this time, sans tim. dunno
what happened to the snake. maybe she went to get cast in that damn
_anaconda_ movie that's coming out. but i digress.
[pseudo-sexual happenings ahead. be forewarned. and now, clockwork,
this was not a wet dream, so don't even THINK of asking that tired question.
for those of you unfamiliar with that dream, i was dryhumped by a cat that had
somehow gotten into my dorm room. Clocky keeps insisting that it had to have
been a wet dream.]
so now i'm kinda reading message forums on isca on the laptop i somehow
acquired and brought to the venue. well, maybe laptop isn't a good word. how
about a kaypro luggable with the five inch wide screen and two 360k drives?
yeah, i was using that. weird. anyway, isca gets boring, and apparently the
wilburies aren't holding my interest since they're not being the wild men they
could be in their fifties. so i look around.
sitting next to me is a woman. she's in her early thirties, and the
sense i get from her dress is "professional working woman who is relaxing at
a concert tonight." she's very attractive, and then i notice a small child
sitting in the seat next to her. kids suck, so i go back to fucking around on
isca.
anyway, the travelling wilburies are playing, and i'm trying to tell
someone on isca how the wilburies are the ugliest band i've ever seen, and i
feel a head on my shoulder. it's the woman.
[older woman coming-on alert.]
i think, "gee, this is kinda nice," so i put away the laptop and lean
back and kinda just enjoy her head on my shoulder for awhile. somehow i've
got my feet on top of hers and she's kinda moving them around. THEN i close
my eyes and i stand up, and i'm standing on top of her feet which are in
midair. don't ask me how. then i worry that i might be crushing her feet, so
i sit back down and open my eyes.
so, basically the rest of the dream is just this cuddle thing. hold
hands, listen to the music, shuffle the feet around.
so then, towards the end of the concert, she tries to kiss me, which i
don't mind. so she starts to kiss me, pulls back, and asks, "what's wrong?"
i say, "nothing."
she starts to kiss me again, pulls back, and asks, "what's wrong?"
and THEN something made me wake up so i couldn't find out what was wrong,
or if the kid was hers, or what she even did for a living that gave her that
really strong "professional women" aura.
plus, when i woke up, my legs were totally numb and i had to lie there
for awhile before i could get up.
--SoB--
DREAM #3: Produced by Henry Winkler
JANUARY 30, 1997
jeez. i must be on a goddamn roll. and if this pattern continues,
well... weird... of course, this time, uh, well... just read.
so, i'm like walking down this country road in the middle of nowhere, and
this gray minivan drives by. some middle-aged, thin, scrawny, balding
man is driving it. he goes down, this hill, there's this loud crash, and
then this, uh, contraption comes up over the hill.
i need to describe this contraption. it's like built from parts of the
minivan that crashed, though it was built REALLY REALLY fast, i guess, since
the crash occured one second and the next this thing comes up the hill.
the old guy is driving it. well, kinda. like, it's got one minivan
wheel (kinda like a unicycle) but instead of pedals, there's a beam coming off
the main pole with the spare attached to it. he spins the spare with his
hands to power the bottom wheel. it's weird.
anyway, he stops next to me and i accidentally roll down the hill. well,
it's not a very big hill, only about six feet high. i start to climb up, and
he says, "no, let me save you." he pulls out a piece of wire and attaches a
bar to it and attempts to turn the spare tire into a pulley of some sort so he
can throw the bar down and i can grab it and then he can pull me up.
i remember thinking what a really crappy macgyver episode this would be.
i look around, and there's this old farmhouse a few yards away i never
noticed before. i figure it's gonna take this guy a long time to perfect his
saving device, and since he won't let me walk up the hill and be on my way, i
decide to go into the farmhouse.
i go in, and it's a lot bigger on the inside then on the outside. and
that's when the nightmarish-type part of it comes in. it's kinda like "clash
of the titans" with medusa slinking around, but all you see is her shadow
moving along the wall. this girl is reciting some poem about tearing into my
flesh and eating me whole, and i start trying to find a way out, but i get
lost in the big house.
finally, i just give up and stand in the middle of the room i'm in, which
is a study. there's a fire burning in the oven even though it's not cold
outside. the girl drags herself into the room cuz she's got no legs. i
recognize her as the blonde-haired girl (uh, nicole sullivan, i think... why
the hell do i know that?) from MAD TV. then she laughs and says that that
whole scare routine is to scare away the lesser men because she only wants the
ones who aren't afraid of women.
we then proceed to have sex.
afterwards, she smokes a cigarette and says i have to leave so she can
have fun with the next male that happens her way.
then i woke up.
--SoB--
DREAM #4: You are in a maze of twisty passages, all alike
FEBRUARY 9, 1997
so, i'm in book people, looking around at books. this is what i normally
do when i go there. anyway, somehow i discover a secret passageway behind one
of the bookshelves, and somehow i KNOW that this is a secret passageway to the
playboy mansion. i go trapsing along the hallowed halls to hugh hefner's
house when i realize that i parked in the parking garage, and if i didn't get
my car out of there, it would be locked up and i'd never make it home.
i turn around and exit the passageway, except i'm in some other part of
austin. damn mazes of twisty passages, all alike. anyway, clockwork and
nathan show up, and i tell them that i need to get my car out of the
bookpeople garage, and then we can all go to the playboy mansion.
right as i'm saying this, a family (husband, wife, two teenage daughters)
walks by and overheards us. the father, who kinda looks like fred goldman
without the handlebar mustache, says, "you know how to get to the playboy
mansion? we'll take you there!" the family seems really happy to be able to
go. there's too many of us to get into one car, so clockwork and nathan and
the parents get into clockwork's ford probe, and me and the two teenage girls
get into the other car. we all take off, and the girl that is driving cannot
drive worth crap. i was scared, cuz she was swerving all along the road,
apparently not being able to keep the car in one lane. it was worse than the
dream i had where ansat was driving on the wrong side of the road cuz "that's
how you kill people."
the driving went along for a while, and then i woke up. numb.
--SoB--
DREAM #5: Kilgore's speech amounts to *carpe corpus*
FEBRUARY 17, 1997
it appears that i'm at a convention of some sort. i'm not really sure
what type of convention, but there are tables all along the walls of this huge
auditorium with various groups hawking their various ideologies. i end up
meandering up to one of them which happens to turn out to be some fundie
christian group. the man, dressed spiffily in a three piece suit, asks me,
"if you, as a good, moral christian, could get rid of any one group of people
on earth, who would that be?" i replied, "probably fundie christians like
you." he gave me a miffed look and i said, "no, just kidding. actually, i
would probably get rid of all the preachers."
now i sensed a crowd gathering behind me. i started to make a speech
about how each individual had the right to interpret the bible as he saw fit,
and no one was supposed to do that for him. probably would have been a better
argument for _liber al vel legis._ anyway, this speech turned into a state
of the union type deal, where i would say a few phrases, and then people would
clap. throughout this whole speech, i couldn't see anything.
after i finished the speech, i had an epileptic seizure. in the dream,
not in real life.
i woke up at nathan's house, and clockwork and me and nathan went outside
to smoke a cigarette. i asked clockwork what he thought of the speech, and he
started making fun of me, saying that when the seizure was starting to set in,
i was having trouble pronouncing words, like "vigilenth."
then i woke up. i wanna say j---- v-------- was in the dream, but i'm
not sure.
--SoB--
DREAM #6: Now we know why the band was called 10,000 Maniacs
FEBRUARY 17, 1997
this occured after i woke up from the last dream and went back to sleep.
in this dream, i'm married, although not to the arab woman that i was
married to a while back in another dream. we also have a child of around 4 or
5 years old. daughter. female. pigtails.
we're walking down the drag on new year's eve in the afternoon, but it
feels like summer. we walk past metro, and i can see c--- (a worker) inside,
but the sign on the door says they are closed for the day. we decide to hop
in the car and go driving.
for some reason, guadelupe (the street which we are on) doesn't
continue past mojo's... it leads right out onto some highway. we drive
down this for awhile, hit a small town, drive through, and then hit a
wall of smoke. we figure it's a fire, so we turn around and start
driving through town again. the girl wants something to drink, so i stop
at a convenience store.
inside, it's chaos. little kids are running around everywhere. there's
a long line. i grab a few sodas and wait in line. when i realize that there
aren't any workers at the cash register, i go up and start taking people's
money and ringing their sales up. the manager finally comes in (she looks
like the red-headed, thick-glasses wearing, poisoned-spike boots spy from
_from russia with love._) she takes some snapshots of me with a camera, drops
it, and says, "i'll be back for you." then she runs off.
i take the camera, wonder how the pictures turned out, and go into the
back of the store. there just happens to be a darkroom. i develop the
pictures, and they came out okay. then i hear a commotion outside, and the
manager is back, armed with an ak47. she fires some shots and pulls the chain
gate that protects the store down. i barely jump under it in time. when i
look around, i realize they've kidnapped my wife. i should have known the
pictures were a diversion.
i take my daughter and we drive back down to the drag. we park and get
out, and see ru----- and r---- outside. now, however, we are being followed
by c---- b-----, d----- p----- (georgetown folx from high school) and natilie
merchant (famous recording artist). i tell ru-----, "man, we're being
followed, and we need you to help us fight them." ru----- replies, "what, you
want to fight out here in the open? you'll have your own KENT ALLEY!" i'm
still not sure what that's a reference to.
ru----- leads us down an alley to a corral. we're all sitting on the
wooden beams, me and my daughter and r---- and ru----- on one side, natalie
merchant, d-----, c----, and my wife on the other. i tell natalie, who is the
head of the other side, to give me back my wife. she starts in on this
monologue about something i can't remember. c---- and d----- apparently want
to beat my ass, but have to wait for the orders from ole tigerlily herself.
so, they start beating up on each other. c---- gets a little too involved in
his work, cuz d----- starts screaming, "hey, man, stop, you're gonna take my
nose off." too late, cuz c---- kinda pulls the nose off revealing a snout
underneath. d----- falls off the beam onto the ground. c---- jumps down and
tries to lift him up, but d----- protests, "no, don't or my brain will fall
out." c---- doesn't listen and pulls. d-----'s face comes off, revealing the
face of a dog, kinda like mcgruff the crime dog, and his brain and spine fall
on the ground. his brain doesn't have any curves on it. he lets out one
"woof" and expires. c---- starts to cry and holds d-----.
natalie looks really pissed off and gives me my wife back. then i woke
up.
--SoB--
DREAM #7: Religion sucks, let's drink coffee
FEBRUARY 24, 1997
yeah, so i'm sitting in my new testament class. apparently we are going
to watch a film or something. l------ (a girl in my class) sits up against
the back wall of the room in between desks, kinda like we did in high school.
anyway, clockwork shows up in the class, and he sits in the desk in front of
me. the professor (er, preacher in professor's clothing) starts the film, and
apparently clockwork and i have already seen it. we jet.
we end up at metro. but it's not the metro we know. for one thing, it's
in belton (yeah, i shoulda realized that it was a dream). the inside is the
same, but the front is kinda like mojo's and they have picnic tables out
front. so we go upstairs after procuring our coffees (after all, clockwork is
now drinking coffee). we sit around, shoot the shit, etc. etc. clockwork has
to go do something, so we decide to meet back here at 7:00pm. it was like
11:30 or something. so i decide to drive to austin and go to CHURCH. i have
NO idea why, all i know is i went, saw my mother there, said something to her,
she said something back, and i drove back. it was around 6pm now. weird time
displacement. anyway, i go into the coffeehouse to wait for clockwork. as
i'm passing the picnic table, my roommate and his father and grandfather are
sitting there. i say hello, and they invite me to sit with them. i accept,
and then all three of them start berating me for not ever complaining to the
people next door who play their music too loud every now and again. i try to
explain that it's really nothing to get upset about, but they won't listen. i
get up and go inside. clockwork shows up later, we talk some more, and then
we leave.
next day. nathan and i are now attending UT. we decided we needed bikes
to get to class, so i borrowed styx's. nathan, naturally, rode his own. we
go to our first class, leave, and head toward the bikes on the rack. while
i'm unchaining my bike, some girl comes over and we starting talking. as i
have never ridden a bike around campus, it is totally natural for me to walk
towards my next class and talk with this girl. when we depart ways after
about 45 seconds, i remember the bike, remember i unchained it, and race back.
it's gone. stolen. i'm panicking, thinking styx is gonna beat the bloody
hell outta me for getting his nice bike stolen. i race down the street
looking for someone riding his bike. no luck.
nightfall. i'm still searching. riots have broken out across UT for no
good reason. i walk past a parked white van which has its back doors open. i
peer inside and see three people huddled around a guy lying on the floor. he
looks like he's begging for his life, and the two men and one woman are
screaming things at him. "i can't believe you did that to her." "what kind
of man are you?" "you evil bastard" etc. etc. then, they put this huge rock
(say, a foot in diameter) inside a binder and slammed it down on the guy's
head. i usually don't get nauseated in my dreams, but hearing the crack of
the bone and watching the guy's head go flat really got to me. i woke up. i
still remember that damn sound.
--SoB--
DREAM #8: Gimme some sugar, ya bitch
FEBRUARY 25, 1997
okay. the latest line of "let's fuck with kilgore" has been insinuating
that i have a) incestuous relationships with my sister, all thanks to
clockwork's wacko dream, and b) that i have fucked my dog. neither of these is
true, but it appears the dogfuck meme has decided to invade my dreamworld.
let's hope that doesn't happen with the other one.
but it doesn't exactly start with any dogfucking. actually, there is NO
dogfucking, just dogflirting (not done by me). and no, clockwork, this was
not a wet dream.
the dream starts off with me at a drenched UT. for those of you who were
at UT last night, you know what that looks like. for those of you who
weren't, well, just picture a big college campus after rain. for those of you
who were out looking for your monkeys, feh.
i go inside the union building carrying a vcr and a laptop computer. i
am supposed to be recording some television show for my sister, and i decide
to use those little information televisions for my task. i rip out part of
the wall, hook the contraption up, and apparently it works. i get lots of
strange looks since i'm sitting in the middle of the hallway, partially
blocking the entrance to the men's bathroom, with wiring and what not going
all over the floor. that task accomplished, i head home. don't ask what
show. knowing that my sister wanted it recorded, it most likely sucked.
i head home, give the tape to my sister, and hear my dog barking from the
backyard wanting to be let in. i open the screen door, and instead of running
inside, it stands on its hindlegs, and puts its front paws on my arms. she
cocks her head to the side, makes some weird purr sound, and i can tell she is
on the make. i decline the offer, namely by pushing her away from me. she
swiftly changes into a nude stephanie seymour, speaks to me "oh, kevin, you
want me, i want you, etc etc" and then changes back to the dog.
i repeat this EXACT SAME SCENE about seven times. sometimes the dog's
face resembles that of a deer.
then i woke up. or i thought i woke up. turns out i was in the dream
still. i look at the clock, go back to sleep. then i woke up. or i thought
i woke up. i look at the clock, go back to sleep. then i woke up. or i
thought i woke up. i look at the clock and go back to sleep. this repeats for
a while.
then i really wake up, am dead tired, and want to go back to sleep but
get up and go to class. and my whole face was numb, even my tongue. that's
fucked up.
btw, last night i remember in some other dream that i obtained lucidity
and found it extremely boring. must have been because everything looked
like blocky appleii graphics in that dream and i wasn't going to have any
of that.
--SoB--
DREAM #9: Lawnmowers, blue oyster bar robbers, and a bit of Christmas
joy
okay. apparently i'm eating lunch at the student union building. for
some reason i have brought my stereo along with me, and i'm playing frente's
_labour of love_ ep. while i'm eating, i can hear a group of people who are
obviously annoyed with my music, so i turn it down. they then yell at me to
turn it down after i already have. i just keep staring quizically ahead, and
they make remarks about what a doofus i am. i distinctly remember one of them
referring to me as "the guy with the spore sticker on the stereo," but i could
never see a spore sticker on the radio. (for those of you who don't know,
spore is a boston punk band that is now broken up. fuck me i'm god.)
so, i go into some backroom of the SUB after i finish eating, leaving my
nice stereo behind (it's a christian campus, NOTHING gets stolen here, yeah,
uh-huh.) it turns out that clockboy has gotten a promotion, and a new office,
and that new office is a room in the SUB. i can see clockwork right now,
reading this, groaning at the fact that he probably wouldn't consider that a
good promotion. never fear. you weren't around. but your computer was, so i
messed around on it a bit, even though i don't really remember what i did on
it.
i leave clockwork's office and find myself in my grandparent's house (my
mom's side, not the set that in the coolio stalker dream told me not to drink
the american cheese wine cuz it would make me felch.) one of my uncles is
there, my grandfather, and so is tracey walter (he played miller in _repo man_
[1]. if that doesn't ring a bell, how about bob the good from the first
batman movie?) actually, tracey was in the garage, cuz we heard a loud crash
out there, and we run out, and my car is parked in the garage, and tracey has
run into my car on his riding lawn mower, smashing in the back corner of my
car. i am not happy. we move the car out onto the driveway to get a better
look, and as tracey is trying to manuever the lawnmower into the garage to
park it, he hits the front corner as well.
tracey comes up to me and says, "i hope you're not too pissed at me."
"pissed at you," i respond. "how could i be pissed when i am the only person
i know of whose car has been hit by a riding lawnmower TWICE IN ONE DAY!?!!!"
then i unloaded on him. then i apologized, and we all decided to go get some
tools to fix the car. as we're crossing the street to get to my uncle's car,
these two security-looking guards pop out of the bushes next to the car and
draw guns. i think, "oh shit, what's going on?" they seem to be motioning
behind us, and i hear one of them say, "yeah, can't you see him? he's up
against that wall."
i turn around and spot a guy with a gun standing against one of the
house's walls. the guards rush him, and a rumble ensues. one of the guy's
friends comes to aid him, and i get a good glimpse of them. both are dressed
like the guys in the blue oyster club in the police academy movies. down to
the little hats and leather straps across the chest. i'm worried that the
fight will move into my grandparent's house, but i want to get out. the guys
overtake the cops and start heading our direction. not good. instead of
hopping in the car with my uncle and grandfather, tracey and i take off for
the nearest house. we open the door and run inside. i go into the laundry
room and sit on a couch that is in there. tracey runs past me, followed by
the two robbers. there are some shots, tracey screams, and then everything is
silent.
sometimes i wish i could shoot back. but no, i never get to play with
guns. i remove my shoe and stand next to the door, waiting to bop the next guy
that comes thru the door. my boots aren't steeltoed or anything, but
apparently it's the best i could do, since washing machines are kinda
unwieldy.
anyway, from the door where they all ran to, a small boy of about 10
comes walking out. he looks miffed, turns to me, and says, "why don't you
people play nicer?" he then walks out the front door of the house. about five
more boys repeat this pattern, saying the exact same thing. this fat kid then
comes out of the door and shoves me back onto the couch. then this huge black
man (think ving rhames but really really buff) with this really cool
hairdo/beard combination [think mr. t for the nineties, more intricate and
actually looks good]) comes in, points a colt45 (the gun, not the malt liquor)
at me, and shoots me point blank in the chest. i stare up at him in
bewilderment.
everything goes black.
usually when i get killed in my dreams, i wake up. not this time. oh
no. now the guy who shot me has to explain the moral of the dream. whoo hoo.
scene change. like the opening of a movie. winter. big city. snowing.
"i'm dreaming of a white christmas" is playing. the camera is situated
somewhere high up and pointing down onto a busy street, probably six lanes,
three going each way. there is a median strip in the middle, and that is
where the black guy who shot me is standing. the shot is far off, and then
slowly zooms in as he begins speaking. here is what i remember of his
monologue.
"what the boy should have said is that he doesn't believe in santa
anymore. oh, sure, we raise our kids well, give em food to eat, give em
clothes, and then they wake up one day and realize the world is still shit.
while they're at home playing with their toys, some small girl is turning blue
because she's freezing to death in the snow. well, the times are a changing,
and i'm gonna make sure people believe in something."
i believe if i hadn't woken up, i would have been watching a really bad
b-movie revenge flick. i should have stayed asleep, but after he finished the
monologue, i remembered that i was shot and better check it out to make sure i
wasn't really dead. cuz if i WAS dead, and that was the movie i was gonna
watch, well, i would have preferred to have a soda...
[1] i still love this damn quote from miller in that movie:
"say you're thinking about a plate of shrimp. suddenly someone
says plate, or shrimp, or plate of shrimp. out of the blue. no
use looking for one either. it's part of the lattice of coincidence
that lays on top of everything." needless to say, go rent the
movie. if you don't, you're out of the gang. and you also have to
watch a&e's edited version, where everyone says stuff like "flip
you, you mellonfarmer."
--SoB--
DREAM #10: The kids of today have to defend themselves against the 70s.
April 15, 1997
i date farah fawcett. (older farah, not charlie's farah)
--SoB--
DREAM #11: magick meets grunge fashion
April 17, 1997
i'm standing in front of this huge, muscular bald guy who is wearing only
a leather vest. he's got a rod through the middle of his penis. attached to
the rod is a chain, and attached to the chain is a five-pound brick. we
proceed to have a discussion about whether or not this was a technique used by
crowley to improve meditational success. once i prove that there wasn't a
documented source of this for crowley, we then talked about whether or not it
would do the job anyway. i declined to try it.
--SoB--
DREAM #12: From assault to Zapatistas
April 18, 1997
the location is somewhere in mexico. i'm staying at the house of j----
v--------, and r--- e----- is there too. (old high school friends).
apparently, saturday night live shoots on location right now, and they are
shooting a sketch in the bathroom. the sketch deals with a big bald fat man
swimming around in the bathtub singing songs about the galapagos islands. [if
you've ever seen the b-movie _eat_, he looks like the alien who takes on a
human form that eats only italian men and then spits up their buttons.
consequently, r--- e----- is the only person i have ever found who has seen
that movie.]
r---, j---- and i are watching them film this sketch, and j---- is saying
how they always come down here and film stuff. i ask him if he gets to
keep any of the props, and he says, "no, but they give us these really
cool burger king paper crown hats." he then passes out a bunch of
methamphetimines. i decline, but it seems like i get a second hand buzz
cuz for about thirty minutes everything looks like it's on sped up film.
think of j---- running around the house on film stock and style ala _road
warrior_ car chase scenes.
anyway. after a while j----'s father gets a call saying that the indians
are retreating and that they've got to leave. turns out the mexican
police are moving in on the zapatista rebels that have been hanging out
in the forests, and j----'s dad fears lots o fighting. apparently,
j----'s dad is also a sympathizer and fears he might be jailed. he tells
j---- to pack as much as he can an put it in the car. (j---- drives a
geo metro, which doesn't leave room for a lot.) we head off to j----'s
room and try to decide what to take. j---- says he wants his tv, so we
start carrying that outside, and j----'s father says, "yeah, son, you'll
love where we're headed to. we're going to a small island in the
caribbean where there's no electricity. we'll be able to get away from
it all."
we turn around and take the tv back inside. we pack up some books (there
was a really strange section of the dream here where i was just looking at the
books on his shelves cuz they were all turned backwards, ie. the spines were
up against the wall) and put his weight lifting set in the car too. his dad
comes in to play video games on the tv with the mexican police closing in.
j----'s sister comes in (i dunno if he even has a sister, but this one looks
kinda like kari wuhrer from _remote control_ and _beastmaster 2: through the
portal of time_) and starts pouting cuz she needs her dad to do stuff for her
and he's playing video games. he just keeps on playing.
we hear some screams outside and go to see what's happening. the mexican
police are outside with about four cop cars and a bunch of armed guys. we
hightail it into the forest.
i get separated and end up lost. i fall asleep and have a dream. in the
dream, i'm walking past the LBJ fountain on the street like i'm going back to
my car. there's a guy about ten paces ahead of me walking as well. this
cyclist whizzes by me and clips the guy in front of me while yelling, "vroom
vroom!", who goes down and spills all of his papers everywhere. i run up and
help him. he looks a helluvalot like james spader. we get all of his papers
together and start walking down red river (a campus street). he's going on
about his hatred for cyclists on campus, and then in midsentence he grabs me
and kisses me deeply. he picks me up and swirls me around (this in the middle
of the road, mind you), and then lies me on the ground and tries to get on top
of me. i stop him, and he looks kinda disappointed, but he thanks me for
being honest and goes off.
i wake up and start walking.
i end up outside this church, and apparently i've missed the wedding of
the girl who played jo on _the facts of life_ and some guy. brad pitt is
standing outside with some other people, and he chastizes me for being late.
we go inside to find the reception.
we get into an elevator (the building is huge) and go up. the reception
is on the top floor, so brad and i and some other people get on the elevator
and go up. on the way, we stop at floor 7 to let some people on. i look out,
and i see this sign that says, "homicide ward" and some people pushing gurneys
past.
"uh, brad," i say. "i think we're in a hosptial."
"yeah, that's right. they held the wedding in the hospital chapel," he
responded.
the chapel in the hospital. wow. what a classy wedding.
we stop on the next floor to let more people on and off, and this floor
looks like a convenience store. brad wants to get something to eat (even
though we're going to a reception) so we get off. i jokingly remark, "wow, a
convenience store. i bet this is the robbery ward."
boy, should i have kept my mouth shut.
gary busey runs into the store with some chick and they start telling
everybody to put their hands up. i remember thinking that this isn't gonna
work cuz they're armed with only lead pipes, and that if this was a movie
they'd be using something more powerful.
boy, should i have kept my mouth shut.
busey runs up to me, holding five grenades and shouting, "look at us!
we've got gren-odd-us-ez!" he kept yelling that over and over, chasing people
around. remember this convenience store is huge, there's about ten patrons,
of which brad and I are two, the store owner, and gary and his chick. for a
while everyone's running around the aisles trying to avoid gary in case he
decides to pull some pins. once, i glimpsed the chick beating the shit out of
the store owner, and all of this green liquid stuff was shooting out of his
head. not a pretty sight.
somewhere along the line i get tripped up and end up on my back at the
end of an aisle. i lift my head and look down the aisle. a small bald boy
(if you've ever seen the movie _aurora_, you know what i'm talking about.
otherwise, picture a really ugly, thin, frail bald kid with sharp teeth.) he
is sitting on a wood plank with wheels.
"you like to go 'vroom, vroom,' don't you, boy?" he yells. "you like to
go 'vroom, vroom!'"
with that, he shoots off down the aisle on this makeshift skateboard.
(he's lying down on it, btw. it's kinda like the luge.) he runs me over with
the goddamn thing, and when he hits me, he goes flying off into the candy
section. an older gentleman in a tuxedo comes over, helps the boy up, and
says, "master, you've had your fun. it's time to go home now."
that's all i remember. someone wanna analyze that puppy? heh.
--SoB--
DREAM #13: Vampires accesorize the commoners
May 16, 1997
happy happy joy joy. i'm going to recite for you a dream of mine. it
occured last night. i hope you enjoy it.
the time: at night.
the place: on the drag.
the players: myself, c-----, Jujube, and Nathan.
we were walking down the drag, apparently having just gotten Nathan some
beefsticks from the 7-eleven. we were heading past the taos coop when some
guy stopped us and handed me a cape and a cup full of fake, black fingernails.
these weren't press on fingernails, though -- they were more like thimbles
with little protusions resembling fingernails on the end. kinda like the
things you see magicians wear in 80's fantasy movies like _conan the
destroyer_, except all black. anyway, i stick them on and put on the cape,
and we continue. we walk down to the old church where the dragfolks hang out
from time to time, and who happens to be leaning against the fence but our
beloved j--- sh---!
[non-georgetownians: j--- sh--- was the cool assistant principal at our
high school. he is now a principal at an elementary school in georgetown.]
so, he's standing up there, and he sees us coming, and we go over to say
hi. he starts off on this rant about how i'm some satanist because i'm
dressed up like a vampire, and how i worship satan and am going to hell. i try
to explain that i'm not a satanist, and even if i were, most satanists don't
believe in the literal existance of satan. alas, he keeps ranting on and on.
i decide to adhere to his idea of what i should act like, so i decide to make
the fabled satanist hand sign (also known to heavy metal concert goers and UT
longhorns.) somehow the cape is restricting my movement, though, so it takes
me about five minutes to get my hand out of the cape and raise it in the air
and make the sign.
this pisses off j---. i mean, he gets all huffy. "i'm gonna kill yew,"
he shouts and starts to pull a metal rod out of the fence.
we run.
he runs after us. "have you ever been hung up like a jacket on a
coathook?" he yells. "boy, you're gonna be so high up you are gonna fall and
die."
as we pass the taos coop, i look at the wall and it seems like there's
someone standing there, but he's semi-invisible. i stare at him for a second,
and then he's gone. we turn around, look back, and j--- is no where to be
seen. then we hear a loud bloodcurdling scream that could only be the voice
of j--- sh---.
then the shadow guy returns to his position by the wall, winks at me, and
fades out of view.
then i wake up.
yadda yadda yadda.
--SoB--
DREAM #14: Don't mess with the military man
JANUARY 21, 1998
i stayed up til about 2:20am perusing thelema93-l messages that have been
backing up on my harddrive like a mofo. i decide to go to bed, do a
pseudodevanney golden light meditatory preparation, and then i do a nice, no
frills LBRP in my head.
after the banishing, i decide to explore the space i've done the
banishing in, which is basically me with my feet on earth, but my body is
really really long, so i extend thru the atmosphere and i've done the
banishing in space. it's all about macrocosm, microcosm, bay bee. i fumble
around, looking at planets, asteroids, etc. the light of kether is above me,
a single point, so luminous that it even hurts to look at, even though i know
that is a mere pinprick of what kether really is.
somewhere in there, i think i pass out/fall asleep.
i come to, and i should have checked the clock, but i didn't. i've got
this hulking pulsating throb going on inside and around my head, but it's
going down my whole body as well, unlike previous times. this time is
different because it's not so much a painful throb but more of a rythmic, au
naturale type of shishkabob going on. very euphoric. but i'm not really sure
what to do with it, so i figure i should just sleep it off.
hoo boy.
so, the dream takes place at my school. great. apparently, i decide to
join the corps. yes, that's right. UMHB has it's own ROTC program, but
they're even more militant than the A&M folks. i can't remember why the hell
i did it, but i did.
i go in, everything is cool, i sign up, they give me a uniform and a
bunch of guns. (maybe they were MACiel, RUGERiel, GLOCKiel, and UZIel. okay,
so it's only in the lesser banishing ritual of the 12-gauge shotgun
[burroughs, bless his soul.] i stole that from some guy on thelema93-l, btw.)
then they cut my hair.
ayee! it's painful. i feel like ansat in early 1996. i think my hair
was shaved totally on the sides but they left this weird dreadlock thingamajig
floppy doorag on the top of my head.
i don't remember much of basic training. i'm not sure i really want to.
so this goes on for a while, normal existence at school, and then, somehow, a
celebrity shows up on campus.
and it's none other than...
<drumroll please>
DiRK BENEDiCT!
<cymbals clash>
yes, that's right. Templeton "Faceman" Peck from the _A-Team,_ Starbuck
from _Battlestar Galactica,_ and even the experiment gone horribly wrong in
the classic 70s horror flick _Sssss!_. he's at my school and he wants to see
ME. <schoolgirl sigh>
so, i meet him, and i just want to shake his hand. he outstretches his
arms, indicating that he wants a hug.
i LEAP into his arms, wrap my legs around his waist, bury my head in his
neck, and yell "Mommy!"
scene change. apparently i PASS OUT in the dream at this moment. all i
can remember is that i'm trapsing around a swamp with a sweater wrapped around
my waist, and then i realize that THIS is a dream and i'm actually wrapped
around dirk benedict. i wake myself up.
for a while, i see the scene as a removed observer. i am passionately
kissing dirk benedict. i finish, and he backs away, fanning himself with his
hands. then the POV changes and i'm back in my body, and he's kneeling beside
me, pining. somehow i know that he is now totally in love with me. maybe
it's the fact that his blue denim shirt is now unbuttoned and his well-defined
pecs and abdomen muscles have all been rubbed down in oil. (when he had time
to do this, i do not know.)
then ANOTHER total scene shift. instead of spending the rest of my life
in some happy fantasy land with a man who was the only man able to actually
make friends with a Cylon and teach it poker (i also wanted to find out if he
actually had testicles in my dream), i end up in the Cairo Hilton with griphon.
griphon, you are no dirk benedict. sorry.
we end up picking locks to break in to hotel rooms and just lounging in
chairs. kinda like a how long can we stay in one room without getting caught
game.
then i woke up for real, light was coming thru the window, and i wasn't
sure whether that was a good thing.
--SoB--
So there you have it. A small slice of my nightlife. Yeah, there's a
big chunk of six months that aren't represented in there, but the dreams then
weren't that great. Some people have said that having these types of dreams
all the time must drive me crazy. Personally, I like it. At the very least,
it's a helluva lot better than network TV. And besides, sooner or later my
dreams are going to start coming true, and then we'll see who isn't king
around this smarmy planet, okay? If that happens, God help us all.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- POETASTRiE -=]
"The poets? They stink. They write badly. They're idiots you see, because
the strong people don't write poetry.... They become hitmen for the Mafia.
The good people do the serious jobs."
--Charles Bukowski
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
FERTiLiZER
by Janet Buck
Whiskey tears evaporate
and still the scent remains.
Fragrances malingering.
Despite the clearing wind.
Despite the thumbs and
wells of ink that spill
upon the empty page.
I wonder if I'll ever have
a key to shadows of the night.
The missing bones. Receptacles.
Plastic pots that start and
grow the roots of strength.
The silken blouse of who you are.
I hope I never wear it out.
You give and give and sweeten life
like whipping cream on coffee black.
A muted strength. Unselfishness.
You said that veins must always bleed
before they clot, before they scar.
A crutch behind the potted palm.
Our pace determined by the drive.
Like hearts beneath the ribs of love.
They work from inside out.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"Fantasy love is much better than reality love. Never doing it is
exciting. The most exciting attractions are between two opposites that
never meet."
--Andy Warhol
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
FOR BEAViS AND BUTT-HEAD: FiVE COMMEMORATiVE HAiKUS
by Crux Ansata
Beavis, on Values
Bigger is better.
I said: Bigger is better.
Size is everything.
Beavis, on Fear
Todd might kick my ass,
And, that would probably suck.
I hope he's not mad.
Beavis, on Desire
Naked boobs! Naked
Boobs! Naked boobs! Naked boobs!
Naked boobs! (That's cool.)
Beavis, on Gender Roles
I don't want some dude
With his schlong slinging around
Saying, "Dude, good game."
Butt-Head, on Thanksgiving
Chair beneath my butt:
I hope you do not break.
I'd be on the floor.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
Brain: "Pinky, are you pondering what I'm pondering?"
Pinky: "I think so, Brain, but what if the chickens won't wear the
nylons?"
--from an episode of _Pinky and the Brain_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
BONSAi
by Janet Buck
Her stump, a leg, its pages torn
from bibles made of accidents
and other cruel curves of fate.
Yet so mortal in its stance.
Black, black elegance of sorts.
The dark is made of operas
and over-coming storms of lies.
Much the same as otters
sliding on the rocks.
The ocean is so dangerous
and still they call it home.
A desert but for flowing tears.
Until it finds a place to rest in folds
of someone's open heart.
Fragile driftwood bending in
to reach the sky.
I guess it's just emotion's art.
The ways of finding cups
of sand to anchor it.
Keep it from exploding bombs
I hate to say, I have to say,
a simple pair of eyes.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- FiCTiON -=]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
ALCESTiS
by Kilgore Trout
Alcestis stares at me from across the room with insect eyes. I can hear
her buzzing in my head, inviting me to come over and make meaningless small
talk until we decide that the time is right and that we should go back to her
place to explore each other and satisfy our carnal impulses. She wants me.
She wants me to be her lover for the night, to make her feel special and
important and loved and wanted. I know she has goosebumps covering her arms,
her arms filled with larvae waiting to burst out and consume me if I conceed
to her unspoken proposal. Her eyes betray her, those green eyes masquerading
with intensity to conceal the hollowness of her deep, lifeless sockets. She
blinks, and I feel myself weaken.
"That boy is gone," Jim says to Sandra, who smiles as he speaks because
he pays her to be attentive. "He's got cancer, you know? The fatal kind, and
he'll do anything he damn well pleases because he knows that he is going to
die soon. I wish I could live my life like that, babydoll. A doomed man
doesn't have to worry about consequences or morality. What a wonderful way to
life. Alas, I'll probably live for a century, and knowing that seems
miserable."
Alcestis combs her already perfect hair, each long, black strand settling
into place as the comb runs through them. Her gaze never leaves me, and I
wonder what it is like to caress her hard breasts, to feel her long probiscis
uncurl from its hidden place and plant itself in my neck, sucking up my blood
with horrendous slurping noises. She mouths words I can't make out, words I
don't want to hear or understand. She blinks again.
"Don't take much to be a loser. Ain't that right, Bobby? Hmm. No
matter. Look at him, Sandra. Go on, look at him. He's caught, trapped in
himself and that whore across the room. See how they prolong the ievitable,
trying to make each moment last longer? Staving off time makes things
meaningful. Don't you agree?"
Alcestis slowly motions to me with her small hand, beckoning me to
accompany her in the little death. The cancer in my head swells with
impunity, gnawing away little by little at my brain. She wants to beat the
cancer at its own game, to be the one who kills me first. Even temporary
death prepares me for the real thing. She blinks a third time, and I am
ensnared.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
State of unBeing is copyrighted (c) 1998 by Kilgore Trout and Apocalypse
Culture Publications. All rights are reserved to cover, format, editorials,
and all incidental material. All individual items are copyrighted (c) 1998
by the individual author, unless otherwise stated. This file may be
disseminated without restriction for nonprofit purposes so long as it is
preserved complete and unmodified. Quotes and ideas not already in the
public domain may be freely used so long as due recognition is provided.
State of unBeing is available at the following places:
ftp to ftp.io.com /pub/SoB
World Wide Web http://www.io.com/~hagbard/sob.html
Submissions may also be sent to Kilgore Trout at <kilgoret@geocities.com>.
The SoB distribution list may also be joined by sending email to Kilgore
Trout.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
