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State of unBeing 57
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 8/31/99 tahw ro who gniwonk
to think. You are in FiFTY-SEVEN 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 -=]
TWO HOURS iN A CHAiR Clockwork
FOR MYSELF, TO WHOM iT MAY CONCERN Sophie Random
PAGES FROM A DiARY Crux Ansata
[=- FiCTiON -=]
OBNOCKS FEM AND OTHER DiSTANT Clockwork
HERMENEUTiCAL SCAM #2 I Wish My Name Were Nathan
EXCERPTS FROM G ST. Clockwork
SUBDUED JiHAD ON CANVAS #4 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
You'll be happy to know that we've saved the world.
Now, I know what you're thinking: how? How did State of unBeing save
the world?
It was simple, quite really. See, we normally don't have an August
issue. It's a tradition guaranteed to bring longevity. But we've known about
July 1999 for a long time. Many prophets have spoken of that month as the
period of the end times, and even Nostradamus earmarked July 1999 for the big
kahuna.
So we switched months. You actually went through August last month and
this is the last day of July. But since the months are out of order, the
prophecies got all confused; hence, no end of the world. You can thank us in
any way you desire.
Some people out there might be a little bit pissed off that the world
didn't end. I know I had doubts about saving the world. But I think you'll
be happy we did.
Strangely enough, a strange convergence of sorts has occurred in this
issue of the zine, and it centers around the number two. Some occurrences are
obvious while others are a tad more subtle. I'll leave it up to you to figure
it all out.
Now that you know how close you were to horrible, horrible death, you
should take some time out and solve a puzzle or two. Besides, sooner or
later, we won't be able to save the world, and then we'll all be left huddling
in the same hole waiting for whatever it is that's supposed to happen when
the big event comes.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
LETTERS TO THE EDiTOR
From: MARYANN AND JOE KILLIAN [xxxxxxxxxxxxxx@webtv.net]
To: kilgore@eden.com
UNSUBSCRIBE US
[jeez. i'm not a damn list bot. i have an e-zine, and i will show some
goddamn emotion. it's not like writing "unsubscribe us" would even work if i
was a listserv. you'd get a nasty error message and have to figure out the
correct commands. i'm a human being, and i can already tell that the tv you
sit in front of is sucking away at your soul. do you think it helps to put
extra boxes around it? vcrs and tuners and dvd players and even webtv?
haven't you gone crazy from the resolution yet? bah.]
--SoB--
From: Bob O'Connor
To: kilgore@eden.com
Subject: familiar name
Pardon me, but why is the name Kilgore Trout familiar? You must have been
asked that question before. Is it from a book?
Thank you. I do appreciate your time.
[actually, i believe you're the first person who has brought that up, so i'll
tell you. when i started this zine five years ago, i was a big fan of bruce
willis. i mean, i watched _die hard_ like every 12 hours. and i had this
vision while watching the movie, you know, the part where he's killing
terrorists and being a smart-ass? well, at one point where's he's shooting a
gun, i saw bruce willis turn towards me and say, 'one day, i will star in the
movie version of _breakfast of champions_ by kurt vonnegut.' i was like,
whoa, john mcclane just spoke to me. so, i went out, bought the book, and
decided that kilgore trout was a much better handle than dwayne hoover.
besides, i could never take the handle of dwayne hoover and live up to the
image of bruce willis. albert finney is playing kilgore trout in the movie,
and we all know he's such a hack.]
--SoB--
From: Sandlin Preecs
To: kilgore@eden.com
Subject: maybe i'm just a loser
hello, i'm inane. right now there is no good reason for me to inflict this on
you, except today i have an excuse. i have a fleeting awareness of personal
ineptitude, god knows all i wanna do is read the latest sob. so today i
decided instead of forcing my only friend to forward it to me every month so i
could make a feeble attempt at having skills, i would subscribe and make you
give it too me. to get to the point, i a m just a touch to lame for that, and
can't actually figure out how i would go about doing that. if you could just
tell me what to do or send me a virtual miracle, i would build you a shrine.
happiness
Sandlin Preecs
spreecs@gci.net
[you are happily subscribed. now, we expect plane tickets to the shrine once
you complete it so we can grace it with our presence. you will be granted
karma (good or bad, up to the folks upstairs) for our visit.]
* * * * *
From: Shelley Brooks [link@jobbankusa.com]
To: kilgore@eden.com; webmaster@jobbankusa.com
Cc: link@jobbankusa.com
Subject: Trade links?
Dear State of unBeing:
We just visited your site. Would you be interested in
trading links with us?
We are JobBank USA. We help job candidates find
employment by use of a multiple database MetaSearch.
http://www.jobbankusa.com/search.html
We will gladly post your text link, and a description
of your site- if you
will reciprocate.
[snipped a bunch of linkage html code.]
Thanks and have a great day.
Best Regards,
Shelley Brooks
JobBank USA
LINK@JOBBANKUSA.COM
http://www.jobbankusa.com
[gee, thanks shelley brooks. i'm glad you visited our site. i can see you
spent a lot of time at the apoculpro webpage since you figured a junk email to
try and get free advertising would fit in with our zine. well, i can't speak
for everybody, but if you aren't selling headless children products, i'm not
interested.]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
STAFF LiSTiNGS
EDiTOR
Kilgore Trout
CONTRiBUTORS
Clockwork
Crux Ansata
I Wish My Name Were Nathan
Sophie Random
GUESSED STARS
Bob O'Connor
MARYANN AND JOE KILLIAN [xxxxxxxxxxxxxx@webtv.net]
Sandlin Preecs
Shelley Brooks
SoB OFFiCiAL GROUPiES
crackmonkey
Oxyde de Carbone
--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-
TWO HOURS iN A CHAiR
by Clockwork
Cell phone guy on plane. Not even a real phone -- square, box, cylinder
as mouthpiece. Pre-flight.
"Well. Here's a suggestion. Comfortable, comfortable t-shirt -- long
sleeve t-shirt is what I'm thinking. But here's the catch. Uh-huh. Well.
Long sleeve shirt, is what I'm thinking, but here's the catch -- make sure it
is easy to take off. Right. Huh. I have dirty thoughts. Right. Uh-huh.
So. I'm thinking of someplace, uhm, scenic. Wine. Scenic. Yep. And --
right. So, I'll see you. It's, uhm, 8:05, so I'll see you in two hours and
twenty minutes. Uh-huh... I have a first meeting on Wednesday. Have to call
the man. Damn the man."
They won't get off the phone. It's still 13 minutes until takeoff, and
they won't get off the phone. Oh. They got off the phone. Now he's talking
to himself, the way uncomfortable negotiated 17-year-old gapped boys do. But,
see, he goes to the University, majors in marketing. Of course. And he's a
freshman. Antibashful freshman, googly-eyed, tan and slick short perfect
blonde male hair, Nordic blue-eyed whom I shouldn't poke at, because I am all
loving, right? And, the girl he shouldn't be talking to talking to him
graduated from Southwest. He was running track, training, competing in the
summer. Got to the U.S. Nationals -- received 4th. He reminds me of Jordan a
small amount, who really isn't altogether that bad at all. But this is early
Jordan before he caught some of the fortified Captain Nemo next door --
ballistic foot movement telechatter chatter machine. Can't sit still for two
seconds. Can't not talk for four seconds. Tapping, tapping, waving hands,
chatter anecdotes with exaggerations -- there is a term for such a thing, a
tall tale, but more stylish. She's invariable charmed by such things, you see
the foot movement, eyes glancing, giggles and gasps. "Well, she went out with
him, you know, just hanging out, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday night. But
she says they are just friends." Gasp is not quite -- too stiff, half-gasps
-- gahs, lots of gahs.
There were three seconds of silence until he returned with "Do you know
what's so weird? Like. All the other girls..." He doesn't even look at this
girl he is speaking to. Diagonal face towards a lateral person. And I
believe he could not make many more hand gestures, it is just not possible,
considering the amount of gestures he is making in seconds, both hands,
sweeping, lurching hands. She's done with school, and she looks to be eleven.
He's just beginning. He's taking 12 hours. She took 15 the first semester,
summer sessions. He interjects with a quick sound effect toppling stories --
he has a close friend who took 18 hours and another beelined anecdote about
this girl and her professor.
The only book I can see open is on chapter 23. He sits on row 23. Seat
E. E=5. Only myself and four others sit behind him. Himself and four others
sit on the same row. Bright Eyes is in my head. Still. The plane is full of
Austinites -- you can tell. I can tell. And the droning Viking engines drown
out everything but J.J.'s voice. And Conor's. They make him pure. He really
is going to talk for the next hour and a half. There are 148 women on board
without their natural hair color. There are only 120 seats. Just a
continuous Viking horn yawp, low extended Ricola horn. One five feet to my
right, another six feet to my left -- intense motoring electric Viking horns.
This poor gentleman near the window to the right. Shy, shy. Balding male.
40-something. Slightly pudgy, checkered buttoned shirt. I hope he is
married. I feel bad for thinking such. He must be married. Stewardess, or.
Flight attendant asked him of weather in Austin. He shyly, reluctantly
answered. Small sentence. Short, quiet quiet sentence. About. If it was a
weekday, he could maybe call someone.
The guy up and to the left -- 23C, should have been in 23D or something
-- reminds me of Greg. Somewhere-in-Montana Greg, the last I heard. Six
seconds of silence and he talks again. The couple up and to the right, 23E-F.
Guy with chapter 23 and a goatee and a blonde girlfriend, practically making
out. Now the man whom I feel pity for, whom I hope is married, next to me,
brought out his notebook computer, now flipping through stapled pages columns
upon columns of figures looking spreadsheet accountantesque. But. Means
anything. I wish you were here. There is an empty seat. Right there.
Between the 40-something maybeaccountant and I. I don't greatly enjoy people
trying to read what I write from a seat over there as I write. Oh. This
accountant is wearing a ring. And I am sad.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB---
"The mind, dim and hushed like a sick-room, like a chapelle ardente,
thronged with shades; the mind at last its own asylum, disinterested,
indifferent, its miserable erethisms and discriminations and futile sallies
suppressed; the mind suddenly reprieved, ceasing to be an annex of the
restless body, the glare of understanding switched off. . . . If that is what
is meant by going back into one's heart, could anything be better, in this
world or the next?"
--Samuel Beckett, _Dream of Fair to Middling Women_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
FOR MYSELF, TO WHOM iT MAY CONCERN
by Sophie Random
Date: Sat, 12 Jun 1999 14:33:04 -0500
Subject: Re:
X-UIDL: 167eda99df383e3d80285dae95ab1d00
One time. i read him. and i was living with my boyfriend, you know how
that goes -- you say, "no, we're not ready to live together" but you wind up
at someone's apt. every night together. And he made these smackclicking
noises in his sleep. He was very possessive of his sleep and i'm never the
one to sleep the whole night thru: get up in the middle, read a story, write
an email, go online: i take a series of naps. esp. during the school year.
So in my little inefficient efficiency for this lifestyle i sat in my bathroom
with a pillow and blanket and i read him. It was February, maybe March. And
i was so affected/enraged by him. He was everything i understood to exist and
didn't want and i've been waiting for him to exist in front of me so i could
scream at him for all the unfair shit that ive been put thru. He was the
problem, he was my problem, he was why i was stuck in this apt. with this boy
who did not read poetry, who only liked Kafka but never understood it; it was
his fault. And i wrote a long long time against him, i said many horrible
things to him and i was going to make sure he read it. But then, when i got
done, i turned off the light and walked over to my desk and put it in my
drawer and i laid down next to that thing that went smackclick and i thot:
what calm, what peace this boy is to that. and i felt so much relief that i
did not have to deal with that life, that past, that pain anymore, that
eventually i threw out that long ramble. And as i made dinner and watched
Moneyline with my boyfriend the next day, i quietly and soundly and
practically decided i had overreacted because those boys always affected me
that way, and that's why, i thot, and looked over at him, that's why i'm
living the right life now.
Date: Sat, 12 Jun 1999 14:25:31 -0500
Subject: Re:
X-UIDL: 4514707449821586889921b258912073 Status: RO
If one were to read my stories from years ago, if one were to read my
stories from 1996, wouldn't i cringe if they equated them with myself now? or
maybe not. while leafing thru an old diary from 1995, i found the same thots,
no doubt these thots in my head, on paper. same whinings, same wailings, same
desires and truths supposedly known and supposedly mocked by myself for
thinking that truths even in plurality exist -- for then truth the word has
lost its meaning and for thinking... well i've lost my train of thot.
But then you think of all the anthologies, all the literature classes
you've taken where authors lives have been chopped up into 5 year plots...
He asked me once, and i dont know why or what posseses me to dive into it
like this... perhaps the line of thot is similar. He asked me once: the
artist or the man. and i knew... No. He asked me once, did you ever see
Woody Allen's _Bullets Over Broadway_ and i knew he was talking about the
artist or the man. i knew that's why he brought it up. so. you see.
It's one thing, you know. It's one thing to fall in love with an artist,
to fall in love with a man because of what he has created, i have done that, i
know you see it as some sort of tip of glacier some sort of sign or symbol of
his soul and i have found out that such... seeming complexities mean nothing
about the man.
But if you know the man? But if you know the man, and you were to go
back, and read him as an artist, and then it clicks in your head that which
you have been denying, and if he had been the one to say to you, "the artist
or the man," well, you can't but help but see the irony in life now can you?
Words. There is this poem, and i dont remember by whom, but the poetess,
such a honorable word, makes it sound like such a noble profession, she writes
that you should beware of those who have the power of words. And i knew that
then, see. i knew that then, so can I? can I? Read these old scraps, these
old scribblings and think that they represent a person, and represent him now?
When we love a person, do we love the person they were? Do we see that?
Oh this bother about words, about the word love, this bother with it, we
hate to use it, the connotations, it has be the most heavily connoted word in
the english language, and once you throw it out there out into your heads, who
knows what objective correlative you're accessing.
i hate fiction. i want you to know that. i loathe my fiction, but i
have to write it because first person, i was told, was not respectable. So i
take my life and put she. And then i allow for some unfortunate Ally Mcbeal
imagery and there you have it: a sorry piece of fiction. It's somehow more
honest and therefore more respectable to just write an essay. Of sorts. But
not an essay. In my day we'd call it a ramble. Perhaps Kilgore should make
that a new section... for Clockwork, for Nathan's intermittent confessions?
And for mine.
i haven't the patience for fiction any more. The summer is long and
cruel, leaving me here on my own, and i dont know if i wish to communicate or
express but i can tell you this: i dont want it. i dont want it. The
aching, i'm begging you out there, please not again, i can't i cant go thru it
again i swear this time i shall surely perish from it. From the loss of love.
i can't bear it i cant watch this one this man, this man whom ive grown to --
i cant watch this man become an enemy -- become part of me, then become an
other because i knew he can never be part of me. i cant watch it. i cant go
thru it over and over. i can count, perhaps on one hand the great loves of my
life and i swear i'm overloaded with them. They have overloaded me i'm too
full of post-love. And every time, you're with me on this, readers, arent
you? i'm writing this for SoB simply because i need to... communicate this
time, no pretense of art here, why is it we convince ourselves that each time
it's different? i've never met any one this intelligent i've never loved this
way before i've never communicated like this before, as if there is anything
novel, as if contained in my first great love there wasnt the template of all
loves to come. As if. There can be anything new? i've had great loves. i
have had great romances, readers, i can say that i have, and now what? Why do
i continue, as if i have never had it before? And why do we convince
ourselves that it's different?
i invite a response. But do submit it, please, for love of SoB.
It's escape, mostly, i think, the great loves of my life have been
escapes, great escapes, which follows, as my boss recently tapped me
affectionately and said, "you have wanderlust." i do, i long to wander in
someone else, to find refuge in someone else, and perhaps that is why i am so
harsh on those boys who succeed? With their blondes and their innocents, and
their young girls with wide-eyed devotion and their light laughs...
i wrote a story which i did not submit. For the last issue, i went over
it, readers i assure you, with yours and my best interests at heart. i slaved
over it and it was awful, quite awful, when it was done. Because it was my
life. it was my life and i had tried to make it prosaic. But in it, Erica,
rightly pointed out by Kilgore, who is a returning character, i write for her
as i write for myself, she sat at a table in a coffeeshop with Ben. You
neednt know. And Ben kept getting refills because some sweet innocent mildly
interesting girl who played Nick Drake or Nick Cave or Tom Waits was laughing
pleasantly, sending out good vibes. And Erica walked out. She walked out of
the coffeeshop and thruout the whole story, you saw her do this: she just got
up and left. i used to do that. Still do , but even more so, i'd leave
school, family functions, parties, at the sight of something which confirmed
my fears, which just made my fears more real. And a week later, after writing
that, at dinner with friends, i met the girl i had written about. Of course,
i hadnt known her before, but here she was, the exact girl, she kept talking
about Tom Waits.
i stopped writing a long time ago because i hated to see my worst fears
confirmed in real life. So instead of walking out on life, i just stopped
trying to see.
i assure you, it was an awful story. And at the end Erica ended up
alone. But this time triumphant, after finally renouncing everyone but
herself. There was even a neat de Beauvoir quote in the beginning.
i played at writing a parody of a Kilgore Trout story. For a morning. i
looked up some terrible and obscure mythological creatures and places, thot it
would be funny to break it up into paragraphs as he is prone to do, and then
every other paragraph would be Kilgore, actually writing it. And it would show
the irony between what he writes and what he lives. i had a literature teacher
who said that a great writer shows, not tells. i did not write that story.
However, i have told you about it.
If you were, tho. to go back afterwards and read him, if you were, to go
back and read her. After knowing. Would it be clouding the issue to allow
that to affect your -- feelings?
i wonder how we dont get tired of masks that we wear. It's quite fine to
reveal yourself, but make sure you have pretense of a veil, make sure you just
don't go shout out who you are. Hide it in fiction, hide it in theory, but
hide it for gods sakes so that when you are rejected you can hide behind it
and say, "well see, what you were reading was filtered thru, it wasnt really
me, you see."
We see. i am a reader, first and foremost and i have been accused of
many things, of taking this job too casually of taking it too seriously. i am
a reader. First and foremost, not a writer. But writers, they dont listen to
their readers, do they? What do readers know, really, they're just readers?
So i had to be a writer. Because writers slip into each other's
consciousnesses, surreptitiously, you see, but i have not managed to do that.
Because, perhaps, i am too... readerly.
This is a digression from my original digression, which allows me to
tell you, readers, is being written in an email to myself.
i cannot do it, i will go running into the hills i will throw myself into
an ocean, i will do anything to save me from this connection to another
person. i cannot have it. i cannot have it -- it will eventually destroy us
all, this loss of hope, this loss of love, a friend wrote to me and he is
correct, to some extent: we believe it to exist and then we have to watch it
die. And i have to usually watch myself kill it in the name of
self-preservation, paradoxical and not even interestingly so. writers kill us
with their words, i cannot get thru to the artist and i cannot get thru to the
man, i am stuck here in some sort ridiculous Camusian farce persistently
trying, knowing it will never succeed.
Dont you understand, you are no different than the rest? i am no
different than her, she me, you him, somehow we're all pronouns, we collapse
into the past and eventually there is no more of us. There is nothing
different about me, i am not different than what i was and you, you are not
different than them or what you ever were because people in love, are always
the same.
Only one book need be written it's the same story and ours will not be
any different. i don't want to write it. i dont want to read it. But i dont
know how to stop it.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"Thus the past becomes the memory of those ages when beings stronger and
more beautiful than ourselves tasted without deceit or disquiet the joys of
the imaginary kingdom toward which the anguished mind of modern man turns for
refuge among the gods."
--Jean Seznec, _The Survival of the Pagan Gods_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
PAGES FROM A DiARY
by Crux Ansata
0214 082599
I was thinking the other day. I'm not sure why; I think something was on
the radio about soldiers with blank spots in their memories. Anyway, it got
me to thinking.
I was thinking about that time I happened to have a couple of girls, that
one attractive high school girl, and the younger one whose mother made her up
so she looked like an adult woman's head had been ripped off and pasted on an
ambiguously gendered doll a few feet tall, like some kind of perverse Ganesa.
Remembering how, when the older one, Je., was unconscious, I fashioned her a
kind of bra from the severed hands of her little friend. I was remembering
the way it looked, mostly, and for some reason I couldn't remember the look on
her face when she came to. I'm reasonably certain she saw her friend first,
though, sitting on the floor, oozing blood and tears, covered in clotting
blood.
I think it's funny. When you rape a little girl, she covers her eyes, as
if by not seeing you, she can make you no longer exist. I suppose it is the
only sense she still has control over. But, if you have first cut off her
hands, she can't cover her eyes. She can only smear blood all over her face.
And I imagine the tears sting in the wounds.
If you put your phallus in just the right spot, you can close a girl's
epiglottis, and cut off the air supply. If you've got her bound, you can feel
her struggle, and watch her turn blue and pass out. I suppose you could even
kill her, if you were mean. But it only works if she loves you, and won't
bite.
I have been thinking about the coming fascist government. Sooner than we
think, and all that. I've been wondering how I'll act. I could act out, and
be killed or interned. That might be interesting, and would certainly be
exciting. Or, I could accept the government as background situation, one
which closes off some directions of action. Then, freed from the concerns of
politics, I could turn to "pure art." After a while, maybe I'll even start to
believe in it. In that case, if people imagine I am an artist, and that an
artist is somehow different from a normal person -- a bourgeois prejudice
transparent to the simplest Marxist critique -- I would benefit from a fascist
dictatorship. For those who actually believe the world is made better from
art, then, the whole world would be made a better place because I live under a
fascist dictatorship. If I choose to live in a fascist dictatorship.
Impotence is a kind of liberation. Freed from the ability to act, one is
freed from the obligation to act. Pain is caused when one chooses to hold
expectations beyond one's capacity.
The other day, I was driving. In the middle of the road I saw a raccoon,
sitting up and holding a piece of meat in both hands, eating the corpse in the
middle of the road. It was disturbing, because it looked like a person. I
could tell it was an animal, but then so are most people. I almost hit
another one as I drove off, but I slammed on the brakes in time. I think the
raccoons were even more disturbing than the opossums. They are all vicious
creatures, but the raccoons look less the part.
I finished State of unBeing number fifty-four today. I am now only two
behind.
Workplace conversation these days revolves around how Greenspan and his
policies are threatening our company, and the jobs of our coworkers. I don't
find it too surprising, though. Greenspan is raising rates because too many
people are getting jobs. The ruling class needs unemployed people to force
down labor rates, so increasing profits, and needs to avoid inflation because
they need the working class to be indebted to them, and debt gets cheaper over
time in an inflationary environment. They say the economy is good, and these
actions have to be taken to keep the economy good. When one considers keeping
the economy good means making sure enough people stay unemployed, one can
easily determine whose economy Greenspan works for. And yet some people fail
to see it.
History proves Capitalism is not a viable economic system. It simply
does not work. Only ideologues and those who stand to gain from Capitalism
pretend otherwise. And those poor saps behind the iron curtain who don't know
any better, because all their life their governments and propaganda machines
have hammered into their heads the claim that their system is best, and the
other system is the evil empire. All one has to do is look at the former
Soviet Bloc to see the results of Capitalism: Life expectancy in Russia has
dropped by a third; meningitis is endemic in Romania; fleas, locusts, and the
Black Death are on the upsurge in Kazakhstan and across central Asia because
the countries can no longer afford immunizations or pesticides. Alcohol use
up. Drug use up. And the United States could never come near the smallest
SSR in literacy rates.
Why is this? Even if we adopt the most brazen of Capitalist tall tales
-- the mythology of the Capitalist high priests, who don't mind sacrificing a
few thousand Russians on the altar of Big Business -- we are told the system
was looted, the people cheated. And they have the audacity to say that is not
a free market.
Where there is no law, the market is at its freest. To be a Capitalist
is to have a very distorted, hopelessly optimistic view of human nature. A
Marxist will say, under Capitalism, it is human nature to be selfish and
grasping. Given the chance, people won't work. They will make other people
work for them, and take their stuff. Marxists call this the Ruling Class, and
have no problem accepting that, given the chance, the Ruling Class will take
everything that isn't nailed down. Whatever wet dreams Homo Capitalistis may
have about liquidity in his market won't stop him from grabbing what he can as
the ship goes down. Capitalism functions as expected: The rich steal what
they can; diseases skyrocket; the people die; cultures decay.
If the intent of Capitalism is to impoverish as many people as possible,
to dismantle cultures and murder people, to destroy literacy rates and
artistic development, than Capitalism may be the most efficient invention of
the human mind. In that sense, Capitalism "works." In the way cyanide
pellets "work." They kill you, but that is generally not a goal worth
struggling for.
But what to say to the braindead and the brainwashed, the masses of the
petit bourgeoisie who are making fascism a reality once again. "Too many poor
people; let's give the Ruling Class more of our money so they can put those
poor people in jail. Better make those jails as Spartan as possible, too.
Those prison industries have to be profitable, or the Ruling Class won't
invest in them."
The Ruling Class: Crabs on the virility of the working class. The
essence of Capitalist Man. Not an aberration; the commodity the Capitalist
Machine produces.
But I am babbling, and I have to get up for work in two and a half hours.
So I shall sign off. More later.
0241 082599
0214 082699
I forgot to mention yesterday that the elder of the girls I was writing
about fell and broke her arm. And dislocated it. When I saw her, she was
being splinted and rushed to the emergency room. I didn't see the injury.
I found it ironic, in the context of my musings about arms and her. I
thought for a moment I had caused it, though misdirected energy. I could see
that, while I could not rule it impossible, it was unlikely and not useful to
believe, so I stopped believing it. This took less time than I took coming to
cease believing I had caused the Columbine massacre, largely because I didn't
realize for some days that I had come to believe I had.
I forced myself to take a nap this afternoon. It took me about half an
hour to fell asleep. One would think that with the schedule I keep -- about
two to three hours of sleep a night -- I would have no problem falling asleep.
One would be wrong, though.
For one, the ringing in my ears is worsening. I still hear not only
clearly enough to pass all the tests the doctors can throw at me, but clearly
enough that I hear things -- watch alarms in other rooms; people's headphones
-- more intensely than other people do. Sometimes I think the ringing is in
the nature of the universe, and I can hear what others can't, like Crowley
talking about the pain the light causes a meditator. So, when I sleep, I have
to have noise around me to drown out the ringing of silence.
For another, the voices in my head are louder. It is strange. It is not
unusual for the voices to get louder when I get tired. Sometimes I am
exhausted but kept awake because I hear people shouting incoherent things at
me, so I put on some music or something to drown them out. But I seem to be
hearing the voices louder even sometimes when I am relatively rested. This is
throwing me for a loop; I had always understood the voices petered out as one
outgrew adolescence, but this doesn't seem to be working for me. Oh well, the
important thing is being able to tell the difference between the voices inside
and outside your head. So long as I can generally tell the difference, I
figure I'm fine.
(Sometimes I think the calm manner I have is influenced by the fact I
have so many visual and auditory hallucinations. I have learned not to jump
or flinch or in other ways react too dramatically to sensory input, since I
can never be sure it is real. I have also learned to be constantly aware of
everything around me, so I will be able to tell if sensory input is believable
or probably hallucinatory. Between the two of those, I have a relaxed manner
and a constant awareness of the world around me.)
I'm rambling, and don't remember where I was going with this.
When I was sleeping, I was dreaming something about the British Punk Rock
scene. I don't remember what. Two mornings ago, I was dreaming I was in
Armenia. I had some difficulty getting up that morning, as every time I
closed my eyes I thought I was back in Armenia, and every time I opened them
again, I thought I was back in the United States. Not the least of my
concerns was how I was traveling so fast, or if I was literally in both places
at once.
But that is in the nature of dreams, and is not a unique -- or even
particularly interesting -- experience.
What else is there to talk about? I go to work. The Fed raises interest
rates. I go home. I read. And now, I go to bed, because in about three
hours, I get up again.
0226 082899
--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--
OBNOCKS FEM AND OTHER DiSTANT
by Clockwork
put them on the breezeway? what the hell is a breezeway?
--i'm not saying you're not watering them. i just want to be sure they
get some water this weekend.
is that some floridian term? breezeway? causeway? walkway? what the
hell is that?
--and it's as slow as molasses, i know. now there goes my hour of overtime,
since i have to do this at lunch.
* * * * *
The ratio of women to men in this department is about 1 in 40. There are
about four women here. About. There's a gentleman who has an enlarged
picture of a clairvoyant woman from star trek in his cubicle, but we're not
really going to count that. When a female arrives unto this department -- one
female in a training class of 25 or 30 -- it is like a scene from those prison
movies when the new guy enters the cellblock. She steps off the elevator,
walks down the aisles to where her small gray area lies, and behind her,
people stand and stare and gawk -- heads pop around corners to try to catch a
glimpse of her -- being in an acre of male geekdom, they can easily sense the
presence of a female of course. I sit here. And watch one of those females
who sits 15 feet away, another aisle, another row of cubicles and males. And.
I watch as no less than 2 guys walk up from other worlds, walk up to her and
engage in conversation. Two guys an hour. At the least. And. All different
-- dozens of guys going out of there way to talk to this female. And. She
enjoys this, or seems to, plays along. And. If she really does enjoy talking
to all these guys, that is great. I can not see. How this is real at all.
These guys. All. Egooverconfident. Technical. Geek. Awkward but not
reserved or shy -- is that awkward? And they speak. And make jokes, flail
around a bit. More than a bit. Out of their way. Flailing out windows.
Over themselves to be something with this girl.
I don't have pity for her. I have more pity for these guys. Who do this
whatever. For whatever. That's pity. I have no pity, tho. They are all
where they are. And they put themselves there, and that is what comes in. I
should not observe these displays each day, to avoid the commentary, really.
What right do i have to count and analyze and spur and wrinkled brows hiphops
-- is everything going alright? Can I help you out at all? I know you've
worked here for 4 months, but. That's enough for me, really.
* * * * *
progressive civilization? civilization. species. weaken the
progressive life. progress of life. life progresses when life can live.
living easier is progression. survival. survival with minimum struggle? the
case in which one survives. in correct. ease of survival would promote
laziness stagnant life -- why change the ease of life or alter such easy.
stagnant utopian existence. however. even those who -- humanity -- still a
drive to make progress. definitely of the mode called drive. human drive to
shape and still. drive. create? make marks perhaps. that is all that is
necessary? create. create on top of creation. progress?
* * * * *
Most incredible thing really, wandering down the stairs, avoiding the
elevator for some whatever reason, and down the stairs, 3 flights, enter the
ground floor, towards the room which holds coffee and cake and pastry and
treats, biscotti, bagels, nuptial agreements, fruit water and tea -- large
coffee, normal coffee, normal. But a large must be grande, and a small must
be tall, and why have something normal such as house, a house, something that
is standard and strong with walls and sturdy and reliable, you must and can
depend on the house, and yet all the tantalizing modifications of stucco and
reprefab ironsides sears siding, wooden logged a-frame cabin, Spanish tiling,
on top of the house. But a large coffee, and a bit of cream and pink and
around the corner back towards the stairs. Cross the path of a built-up
cleanwhiteshirtandtie man, head shaven, round tinted lenses, and I glance, he
glances, and I walk around and on. And there he is again, and as I open this
dirty abrasion door to crawl back up the stairs he speaks from across the
room, "I think I know you."
I am perplexed and intrigued, not by the fact he may know me, though this
in itself is intriguing, him looking like a new hire, or one from the sales
regions, and I try to guess and place a face or voice or anything really, and
can not.
"Is your name Kerr?" he asks.
"Yes," and I slowly walk towards him curious strange drawing to an
apparent known stranger that is not known and was known sometime, perhaps,
unless he had known me and not I him.
"How do you know me?"
"Were you hired in 95?"
"Yes."
"I think we were hired together."
And I blink, "What's your..." and he pulls his badge into my line of
sight, Jeff, he is, and he looks familiar on his badge, thin scrawny boy with
long hair, young and anxious as I was perhaps anxious and young. Was I
anxious? Did I know what anxious meant? I was young then, I'm young now, but
much younger then. Anxious. It comes with youth, anxiousness, and dreamy --
anxious for your dreams.
"My god. I didn't recognize you. You have no hair," I responded with
honesty. And this anxious boy had grown in the years we were separate, bulked
and matured, and lost his hair all through will and environment. He
recognized me and I am moved by this, felt appreciated and worthwhile, someone
around me for a few months 4 years ago recognizes me.
Is that normal? I think I may recognize most people in that same class
all hired on at once, all strangers thrown behind tables in a room, locked in
for eight hours or more for five days each week, and you can call it forced
naturalization, forced socialization, or adjustment, adaptation -- who came
with a desire to sit down and try with honesty and determination to befriend
all their coworkers to be, to fall in love with one of them, to save the life
of another's child one weekend at Lake Pontifloppi, love and be loved, or to
love and expect nothing else.
"This is very odd," I said, not wishing to sound distant or
unappreciative or empty, hoping it had not such a tone.
"See you later, nice seeing you again," was his response, as he jumped
and slid out the door with some smile and, something else not quite detached
but very close.
"Yeah, take it easy," and I dazed back up the stairs.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"I peer into the shattered mirror. Who are all these fractured selves?"
-- depressed orphan
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
HERMENEUTiCAL SCAM #2
by I Wish My Name Were Nathan
The young green man paced nervously around a collection of signs nailed
to the street corner post and appeared to be trying to decipher them while
maintaining some semblance of aloofness. He was failing, head turning to
follow a sudden sheet of newspaper fluttering along the curb, turning back to
scowl at one handwritten name whose arrangement of letters seemed to defy
generally accepted standards of syntax. I can neither affirm nor deny that
assertion, for I cannot read the language.
An older man will approach the green man and talk to him under pretense
of impatiently moving him along on his way, but will actually have an interest
in his story.
Of these signs, some are shaped like arrows and appear to point in a
direction akin to that of a compass, north being upwards, and so on, but
others of the arrows are arranged in a circular path around the signpost
itself, including those with upward or downward attitudes, leading the
unfamiliar traveler to wonder if indeed the destinations reside some distance
off the ground, or if perhaps, invisible to the naked eye from the shrouded
perspective of the tenement-enclosed street corner, the surrounding geography
includes hills, small mountains, valleys, or caves.
Two signs with texts formed of the same arrangement of characters point
in completely different directions.
An elliptical translation of the conversation follows, which will become
obsolete before it has even started.
"I place out on the table for consideration a recollection from my memory
in which a town dweller encountered, much alike this, a series of signs, in
which yielding little to his native powers of discernment, blossomed a state
of confusion, they being in the instances of a white chicken clucking near a
barrow and an earthworm tossed to the ground from rejection, fattened not with
meat but with a disease resultant of such," the older man said offhandedly, as
if to himself, perhaps as in dementia, but directed more obviously to the
green man as he continued;
"The motions and facial expression of the town dweller revealed on the
surface the troubling confusion habitating and overruling the ordinary
quiescence of his thoughts, occasioned by his encountrance [sic -- n.] with the
aforementioned chicken and diseased earthworm. Our city's indwellers afforded
his situation little thought but for that end which would have him leaving,
his maladapted stature tending to discolor their own comfortable teeth. Along
a similar thread in this familiar patchwork, I have been and will continue to
ask you to leave this place."
A remastered translation from a competing source text will follow at this
critical juncture.
"You know, kid, you remind me of some galoot we found wandering about our
farm many years ago. He was lost and completely overwhelmed by his
surroundings, because he didn't plain belong there. Nothing makes people more
nervous than a stranded tourist. Are you going to get on your way or do I
have to kick your ass?"
The young green man turned sharply at this point, surprised at having
been addressed so rudely, and made a weak gesture at the menagerie of signs he
was trying to comprehend.
I am told that, if he had also pointed at his mouth as an indirect
explanation of his inability to reply with any degree of verbal
sophistication, this would have been interpreted as a blatant sexual insult,
and would have cost him dearly. Pointing at the signs, on the other hand, was
a different blatant sexual insult, which the older man was compelled by
self-interest to ignore.
"You want to know how to get somewhere, I fancy? Where? Let me guess.
There's only one place anyone as out-of-place as you can be trying to go, and
that's Silence."
The green man nodded frantically, understanding that the man understood
his plight.
"You've made a dreadful mistake, kid, because you were already there, and
now you've destroyed the town. I'll tell you how. You were walking along the
path, it must have been for quite some time since it's a long way to here from
anywhere -- or at least was -- and you were in Silence. Then, you realized
where you where, and lo and behold, you were lost again. That's the mistake.
You can't act like a tourist in Silence. You enter; you keep walking; you
enjoy it even, and hang around; but you must get through. If you point out to
yourself where you think you are, that changes everything. The outlook is
different, the purpose changes, and all is lost. Yes, in those signs, there
are at least two arrows pointing back to Silence. Actually, there are more
than two, since they're written in all kinds of languages and dialects. Take
whichever one you want, and get the hell out of here."
A neutral arbitrator has reported to the board that the alternate source
text is an obvious reprise of a well-documented fragment of history housed in
the Archives, which was found by a small girl in her backyard after a twister,
reframed in loose Buddhist allegory by an itinerant bartender at a bus stop
while waiting for his LSD and trip to start.
The "young green man" in both stories is usually taken to be the
hallucinatory peyote spirit Mescalito, or alternatively the local wonder boy
Tommy Thursday, who dyed his skin green in a protest of his parent's impending
divorce, subsequently entering a state of dissociated consciousness and
wanderlust for "twelve great hours," as the refrain of local band Imenhotep's
famous ballad goes.
Common sense dictates that the entire parable is incomprehensible, even
to its current author. We withhold our judgment and allow the reader to
decide; that is, his appropriate punishment. As reported recently, he has
again tried to pass off five minutes of bemusement as a serious submission to
the Scrolls. Even a brief review by the ever charitable and salutorius Chiefs
would result in a swift beheading, or, failing the procurement of a
sufficiently sharp and frightening blade, an annoyingly slow and powerless
wedgie by a little girl, the fourteen-year-old Chiefs being especially fond of
the prank, as well as perversely entertained by seeing it performed badly.
The reader, without such resources at hand, would have to be satisfied
with fretting to himself and looking for something better to read, or with
writing a snappy whizbang flame-boy gripey letter to the editor, or to
"[--ed]", as he often calls himself inside those brackets. None of this,
however, will reverse the spin of the wheel of history, which leaves this
document in its wake. Oh, young green man! Oh, humanity!
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"And then the day came when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more
painful than the risk it took to blossom."
--Anais Nin
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
EXCERPTS FROM G ST.
by Clockwork
"Excuse me, ma'am -- alright. Yoo-hoo. Right."
"You have to me more assertive, speak up more."
"Speak up more? Was I mumbling?"
"Well, not exactly mumbling, but there was no force in your voice -- you
didn't proclaim your presence with strength, gusto. It was kind of a weak,
dribbling cry for help."
"I wasn't mumbling."
"I didn't say you were mumbling."
"Weak? I'm weak? And dribbling?"
"Well, really, you just don't speak -- look, here. Try again, and be
more -- oomph. You just need--"
"Excuse me, do you think it would be -- and. Coffee? Can. Did you see
that? Did you see?"
"Well--"
"I oomphed, I enunciated, I began to proclaim and declare, and she walked
by. She clearly saw me, she looked right at me, I was looking right at her,
and I had this hand, this hand going, in a miniature wave-down motion, which a
waitress, if anyone, should be able to recognize. And she walked right by --
right on by."
"Well, really, you still had no volume, no strength. That was better,
but, you really must put some effort into this."
"That was effort. That was more effort than I think was necessary, and
it got me nowhere. I could leap up and down screaming about Groucho Marx
possessing my body because of his need to act on his strong attraction to the
cashier, and not a single person would pay attention. I'm invisible, Frankie.
Invisible."
"Invisible?"
"Invisible."
"You're not invisible. Here you are, right here."
"Of course I'm not invisible to you, you are you and I'm me, and we're
here, across from each other, and we've had this thing, for years, you and I,
and so of course I would not be invisible to you. But to the waitress, one
whom I do not have this thing, this repertoire, with, or -- remember on the
way here, the sidewalk celebration going on?"
"Right. With the tables and flags and streamers, in front of the
Chateau."
"Yeah, the Chateau, with the streamers, flags, and tables, fluorescent
FOR SALE signs slapped up at disturbing angles -- a very gaudy scene, makes
one nauseous, really, all the scattered goods and plastic coverings, the
post-middle aged scavengers hovering over it all."
"Right, and where did they all come from?" asked Frankie.
"I have no idea."
"The normal ratio of post-middle aged folk in this area to any other age
group? 1 in 50. And yet, here they come and there they are -- ratio suddenly
1 in 3."
"Apparently someone had advertised a dead celebrity clothing auction."
"Apparently."
"So there we were, entering through this brazen circus of consumerism,
side by side, having a nice discussion on whatever we were discussing--"
"Tortellini."
"Right, this nice discussion about tortellini, walking side by side, am I
right?"
"You're right, Joe."
"And as soon as we enter this Chateau celebration zone, you're suddenly
10 feet ahead of me, and I'm stuck in the middle of this gooey mess of...
of..."
"Middle-aged consumerism."
"Yes. Exactly. Middle-aged consumerism. And why did I get stuck?"
"Why?"
"I entered that area, crossed some unmarked border, and instantly, I am
invisible -- wife and husband teams walking straight at me -- straight at me
-- I don't know how they can not notice this solid human being form right in
front of them. And what do they do? They keep on walking in the exact same
direction they had been, right through me. They were looking through me, past
me, down the block to Chez Mous, and would have smacked into me head-on if I
did not duck and dive out of the way."
"Stick and move, I saw that."
"You know why I had to stick and move, Frankie? Because I'm invisible."
"Ma'am? Can we get some more coffee here? And cream? Thanks."
"What was that?"
"What do you mean?"
"What was that?
"What?"
"How did you do that?"
"I told you--"
"I'm invisible, unequivocally invisible."
"It's coffee, Joe."
"This is not just coffee. This is an assault on me as an individual,
this is a statement on my very being, my very existence. I do not exist,
Frankie. That is what is being said here: I do not exist."
"Of course you exist, in so much as anyone or anything exists, physical,
spiritual, or otherwise -- whatever it is that determines the state of one
thing or another, deeming something as existing, and another not.
Disregarding the fact if one object is deemed as being nonexistent, the very
act of deeming its nonexistence would state its existence. Nonetheless, you
just need to speak up a little more."
"I would feel like the guy who continuously yells at everything."
* * * * *
"Are you attracted to the cashier?" asked Frankie.
"No, I'm not attracted to the cashier."
"She does have incredibly beautiful eyes."
"Oh. Beautiful eyes?"
"Astounding. Did you see her eyes?"
"You can't say that."
"Can't say she has beautiful eyes?"
"Right, not allowed to say it."
"Why is that?"
"In stating the cashier has beautiful eyes, you are stating you do not
find her attractive."
"What?"
"Yes."
"This means I do not find her attractive?"
"Right."
"How does that work exactly?"
"Well. Around 726 million men have used the words 'you have beautiful
eyes' in about 310 million bars, clubs, restaurants, cafes, street corners,
theaters, all over the globe, with the underlying intent to seduce the women
they were speaking to. The intent is to get this woman into bed, not to
compliment her on the beauty of her eyes."
"And this deems her as unattractive?"
"There is no deeming. This woman could have beautiful eyes, could have
the most luxurious, enchanting eyes around, but this is not the point. The
intent is to get this woman to rip her clothes off in response to these
apparently flattering words. There is nothing being said about her eyes -- it
is an empty statement."
"And because this statement is, on the surface, commenting on this
woman's appearance, but beneath is an outright lie because of the underlying
intent, this would imply one is generally lying about being attracted to her?"
"Something like that."
"And this has just been slowly seeping into the culture of relationships
over the past 14 centuries?"
"Probably longer."
"Are there any modifications when it comes to the recipient of the
statement?"
"Such as?"
"Such as, does this apply in the same manner if it is said to a complete
stranger, as opposed to someone you'd been dating for two months, or your wife
of 12 years, or your sister, or local deli counterperson who you regularly
visit three times a week, know on a first name basis, have friendly
conversations with, but have no relationship outside of the business
establishment?"
"I have no idea."
"I don't see how it could."
"I have no idea."
"So you're telling me that because a line has been used by 726 million
men to pickup women, it completely invalidates any comment someone could make
on a woman's eyes?"
"Right."
"If I had never used such a line to pickup anyone, and I told a girl with
incredible honesty and sincerity 'I love your eyes,' and I do truly love this
girl's eyes, the only intentions being to convey an honest feeling on her
eyes--"
"You had just delivered a traumatizing insulting blow to her psyche."
"That's sick."
"Welcome to the patriarchy."
"What happened to the 'you have a great personality' being synonymous to
stating 'I am not attracted to you?'"
"I can only assume it still exists and is still valid."
"Jesus. And I'm an eye guy."
"An eye guy?"
"I love eyes, I really get into eyes. A lot goes on there, so much
passed on and shown and... truth, lies, love, death, pain--"
"Pink eye."
"Where is an actor if he can't communicate with his eyes? If an audience
can't see an actor's eyes, where does that leave the audience?"
"In the dark."
"Incredible. And me -- me being an eye guy, what does this mean now?"
"This means you have an incredibly complex set of psychological issues
dealing with eyes, sexuality, and the role of women in our society, and you
are probably very, very, very sick."
* * * * *
"Is that Liza Manelli?" asked Frankie.
"No. I think that's -- huh. Well. That could be Liza Manelli. I am
not completely sure what Liza Manelli looks like."
"Where did you hear this?"
"Well, I didn't hear it. It is simple logic that if I do not know what
Liza Manelli looks like, I would not--"
"No. The eyes."
"From the woman I'm attracted to."
"Three thousand five hundred miles away?"
"One thousand two hundred."
"To whom you have said, 'I love your eyes.'"
"This is correct."
"And you find her attractive?"
"Yes. More than attractive. All-encompassingly attractive --
physically, mentally, emotionally -- this woman inspires me, makes me want to
feel."
"And?"
"And. I feel."
"Huh. That's great."
"Right. Exactly. More than. How I feel when with her, speaking to her,
this mounting, driving, propelling energy that spins and whirls around, how I
can see and hear more things, how we communicate so effortlessly --
effortlessly isn't even the right word, though. The means in which we
communicate, the level on which we communicate... thinking about the level on
which we communicate moves me. It's unimaginable, really, something I haven't
encountered before."
"Really?"
"Yes. It's very -- I've listened to 'Rhapsody in Blue' about 80 times in
the past month. Gershwin, ya know?"
"Sure, Gershwin."
"And each time I listen to this, there is new detail to be heard, new
sounds and instruments -- instruments I never even noticed before, notes and
rhythms and this incredibly astounding piece of music, and I am propelled each
time, amazed on how this man came up with the things that occur in this song.
Absolutely unfathomable how he can come up with this...this brilliance. And
each time I feel this in a new way, completely different way than before --
sometimes a way built upon a previous compelling feeling experience two weeks
before, but still different, still propelled to these heights. And this
occurs each time. The 59th time I heard the song, the 12th time, the 80th
time -- occurs each time. That's how I feel our relationship is, her and I --
that's our dynamic."
"I'm jealous."
"Right. Well. I know for a fact Natalie Portman is here, in this city,
right now. And she has been hanging out within three blocks of where we are.
And I don't care, Frankie. Do not care."
"You have no desire to walk three blocks down to Nixon's, with the high
probability of running into Natalie Portman?"
"None. None at all."
"This is serious."
"Serious."
"You even used the word 'the.'"
"What?"
"THE woman you're attracted to."
"I did?"
"You did. This is serious."
"This is what I'm thinking."
"Well, hell, if you have no desire to track down Natalie Portman, Joe,
what are we going to do?"
"Tonight?"
"Right."
"Right now?"
"Or. Sure, or, sometime tonight."
"Obviously leave."
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"When God comes to me, I will be shaking.
Gun loaded on my knee, my fingers waiting.
Gonna tell him I was born mistaken,
Then I'm gonna let my fingers slip."
--Drugstore, "Favourite Sinner
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
SUBDUED JiHAD ON CANVAS #4
by Kilgore Trout
The world is the place where God wanders in exile.
* * * * *
A girl wearing a red bandana, a yellow t-shirt, and faded blue jeans
stood on the double yellow line in the center of Guadalupe Street, pausing to
cross. The lights in both directions turned red, and traffic came to a halt.
She didn't move, and when
the lights turned green, she continued to wait in
the middle of a moving, metal sea.
* * * * *
The clock tower struck a bell six times in the distance, and Albert,
unshouldering his backpack, sat on a bus stop bench and waited for the street
lights to come on.
* * * * *
When I was eight, I asked my father who killed JFK.
"Lee Harvey Oswald, son," Dad said. "He shot the president."
I asked him if he remembered where he was when JFK died.
"I was driving around downtown, skipping school," he replied, "and my
hands were dirty from planting firecrackers in the neighbor's flowerpots."
"That wasn't dirt, Dad. Those were powderburns. Your alibis always
sucked.
* * * * *
He woke up and found her sitting at the computer, still in her pajamas
and typing furiously to someone in a chatroom. She softly laughed at the
screen, turned around and noticed him watching her, and came back to bed.
* * * * *
The E and A strings snap at the same time while Benny is playing, so he
sets the guitar down on its stand and opens his closet. He lugs out a
battered case, unlocks it, and pulls out his old trumpet. After oiling the
valves and greasing the slides, Benny plays a few bars of "Amazing Grace"
before his lips go numb.
* * * * *
She is treading water in the middle of the English Channel, smelling the
cool, morning air and licking salt off her lips. The sun momentarily breaks
through the clouds, and she floats on her back, pulls down the left shoulder
strap of her swimsuit, and bares a breast to the burning star.
* * * * *
Jacques DeMolay died for your sins.
* * * * *
"Where's your watch?"
"I left it at home because the battery is dead."
"How do you survive without time?"
"How do you keep up with it?"
* * * * *
On the last Friday of every month, Lamar takes fifty dollars and goes to
the local titty bar. There, he drinks himself into a stupor, watches naked
flesh cavort around him, and touches nothing. The next day, his head bleating
from a hangover, Lamar takes a cab to St. Mary's and confesses. "My sin," he
tells the priest, "is wishing."
* * * * *
Self-promotion is an important skill for candidates seeking employment.
Learning to make yourself appear better than you really are begins in
kindergarten. Those who can fake being asleep during naptime will have no
trouble lulling employers into giving them lucrative signing bonuses.
* * * * *
A bruised lover's quetions:
"Hi, God. Chris here. Remember me? I accepted your son into my heart
when I was ten. How come you never return my calls? You never let me know
where you are, and sometimes I worry about you. Even a card during the
holidays would be nice. You know where I hang out, and you've got my number,
so don't be a strange. The drinks will be on me."
* * * * *
"It's not so much a question of whether you're right or not," Jimmy
explained. "It's like choosing a blouse that goes well with a black skirt.
Everything looks good with black. Even that bad rap/heavy metal band t-shirt
you have, while being unaesthetical in a musical sense, still corresponds to a
harmonious color schema. You should start listening to the colors."
* * * * *
The lake near my parents' summer house is home to a large catfish with
enormous whiskers. Anytime I catch him, I throw him back in. One August I
must have reeled him in seven or eight times. He lives for the worm.
* * * * *
"Shalom Shabbat," Lisa said, soaked from the rain.
"Don't you have an umbrella?" Joan asked, tilting her umbrella forward a
little.
"Not on the Sabbath. That would be considered erecting a dwelling and a
violation of the Law."
"Does God want you to get wet?"
"I look on it more as a chance to experience nature."
"But I'm dry and comfortable."
"And I'm wet and happy."
* * * * *
She knew everything. She was talking to someone about blackholes and how
not even light can escape them. Gravity. Event horizons. A singularity.
Spaghettification. She said that everyone was a collapsed star, and that they
just waited for a chance to suck other people in. I kept listening from the
next seat over because she knew what I wanted.
* * * * *
"You have a quiet, well-defined mouth," Maynard told Roscoe before
socking him in the jaw. He went down hard, his left shoulder landing squarely
on the corner of the table, and blood-taste hit his tongue. Maynard towered
over him, arm extended, and held his patented smirk-if-you-please look on his
face. Roscoe grabbed the offered hand and pulled himself up, instantly
backing away in case Maynard tried to attack again. Maynard, however, drained
the last of his milk, wiped off his mouth, and walked out of the bar.
* * * * *
When you're sitting on the edge of an oil rig in the Gulf watching the
sunset, and you hear the whir of helicopter blades getting closer, you know
that the hurricane is headed your way and that a small whirlwind is going to
take you away before a larger one takes everything out.
* * * * *
Her dress flew up briefly as she rode her bike down Congress Avenue,
almost causing her to wreck as she tried to cover herself up. I settled back
into the limo seat, tapped the tinted window a few times for good measure, and
then stripped off all my clothes and rode home naked.
* * * * *
"Hey, would you come pray with us?"
I turned toward the direction of the voice and saw a woman waving at me.
She was standing in a circle of about fifteen people below the steps leading
up to the administration building. Flicking away my cigarette, I walked over
to them.
"I'm afraid I'm not a Christian," I apologized.
"All the more reason for you to join us," she said, dropping the hand of
the person next to her to make room for me.
Apparently my polite hint at refusal was now an invitation to try and
save my soul. I took her fingers in my right hand and held the hand of the
man to my left, completing the circle. Small goosebumps appeared on my
forearms as we held hands, and I always thought that the physical contact did
more for people than the actual praying. For a moment, I felt like I was
fifteen again at the end of a Sunday School session before I learned about
doubt.
"Let us pray," she said, and everybody bowed their heads.
Nobody said a word. I remembered stuff like this from a junior high
church camp where no one wanted to be put on the spot, so everyone silently
prays -- figures out what they're going to say -- until somebody finally gets
the nerve to speak. You don't want to start off praying that you'll do well
on that big statistics test and then have Josie ask God to make her mom's
cancer go away. Then everyone's praying for Josie's mother, and now you've
actually got to study just because you got stuck in a group with people who
have real problems.
"O Lord, we beseech thee," I began, feeling a few eyes peeking at me,
"help up in our times of need." Good start, though a bit pompous. "You sent
your son, a poor carpenter, two millennia ago to save us from ourselves. He
eschewed woodworking, a respected profession, to become a fisher of men.
Jesus was killed because he was a heretic, but now he is a member of the
establishment, and everybody knows how uncool that is. We ask you, our
Father, in these troubled times of moral decay, to give us a new savior, a
hipper Jesus. One who listens to public radio and watches underground films,
one who drinks imported beer and is web savvy, and one who isn't afraid to
say, 'I don't know.' Amen."
I opened my eyes and found fifteen people staring at me. When you think
you're the new messiah, you learn pretty fast that converts don't come easily.
* * * * *
Jacob was out playing in the woods one day when he came across a rope
hanging from a tree. Being an adventuresome tyke, Jacob grabbed ahold of the
rope and hoisted himself up into the heights of the large oak. He climbed and
climbed until he could climb no more, and, balancing himself, stood on a
branch and poked his innocent head up through the leaves. Off to the west, he
could see the city with its metallic towers and smoking chimneys. Jacob knew
that, when he was grown up and working in an office in one of those immense
structures, he would look out a window to gaze on his forest, and it would be
gone, replaced by another urban sprawl.
* * * * *
It started off with a simple mistake, just like creation. God said, "Let
there be light," and the world never had a chance. Placing that tree in the
garden was pure idiocy, and nobody could have ever resisted. My lapse in
judgement came when I let James sit down and bum a cigarette. I should have
just kept reading my textbook on post-colonial criticism, but instead I let
him blather nonstop about government conspiracies and alien abductions and
contrails and secret societies and how we were being plotted against. I
didn't believe him, but I got sucked in because he knew what I wanted.
* * * * *
Ramon bartered his way onto the trawler in exchange for cleaning and
gutting fish. He needed to get off the mainland, to get away from solid
ground and live on the water. Ramon wanted to feel the waves toss a boat
about and be able to look around and see nothing but the sea. He would be
afloat in something that could swallow him if it wanted. Back on land, Ramon
had discovered, you could only swallow yourself.
* * * * *
You are not beautiful, the pianist implies with his minor chords and
discombobulated melodies as you lean against a stop sign, hair tangled in
knots and a t-shirt stained with Southern Comfort. He holds the sustain pedal
down with his right foot and begins to randomly mash keys, causing diners at
the outdoor cafe to stare uncomfortably. You run, pushing people down as your
eyes turn bloodshot, and find solace in an alley behind a dumpster, waiting
for the sun to go down.
* * * * *
"You still have a thing for Deborah?"
"No. I found out she's moving to Juneau."
"Why is she going to Alaska?"
"She said she wants to be close to the Bering Strait where prehistoric
man first came into the continent."
"She's an accountant, not an archaeologist."
"Deborah says she needs to be near the point where she came from."
"Sounds like a bunch of crap to me, considering she's Irish. Why doesn't
she just move to Dublin?"
"I dunno. Maybe she's just attracted to the past."
"I think she wants separation. Don't we already have enough of that
here?"
* * * * *
When the drugs kick in, you don't mind the light so much.
* * * * *
Giancarlo held his breath in the deep end of the pool, watching the other
swimmers pass above him. He had built up his endurance enough that he could
stay down at the bottom for two minutes at a time. Watching his exhaled air
slowly bubble up to the surface, Giancarlo was startled when a small boy dove
into the pool and swam down to him, tugging a cylindrical object behind him.
The boy pushed the oxygen tank towards Giancarlo, who put it on and waved as
the boy swam up.
* * * * *
When Jaleel was twelve, his parents took a trip to Mexico and brought him
back a wooden chess set and a bullwhip. At night, his father would teach him
how the various pieces played and opening moves. Jaleel listened intently as
his father explained the beauty of the game, the elation of a successful
strategy carried through, and the importance of thinking ahead. The bullwhip
gathered dust on a shelf in the closet, waiting for pre-teen hands to grasp
and use it.
* * * * *
The salesman finished tying the laces and looked up at Gordon
expectantly. Gordon wiggled his toes around, making sure the shoes were snug
but not too tight. He stood up, almost stepping on one of the salesman's
hands, and tried to walk naturally over to the floor mirror. "These won't
do," Gordon said, pulling the shoes off without unlacing them. "I need shoes
that I'll never know I have on."
* * * * *
The canvas rested on the easel in front of me, slightly quivering from
the wind blowing through the open French doors. It longed for the stroke of
my brush, the infusion of paint upon its barren face. I reached out with my
left hand and slowly ran my fingers down its rough surface. The canvas
waited, ready to be transformed into a work of art. Picking up a large brush,
I dipped it in forest green and swabbed my cheeks and forehead with paint.
The canvas continued to shake in the breeze.
* * * * *
The worst part about Danny's death was he still came to church every
Sunday. None of the parishioners were too happy with the smell of rotting
flesh while they listened to the sermon, but the pastor didn't think he could
forbid Danny from attending and still proclaim that the gospel was for all.
The theological dilemma that Danny's presence presented was never brought up
publicly, primarily because no one had any answers about the salvation of
the undead. Still, even the hardest of hearts had to break into a tiny smile
when Danny, standing alone in the back of the auditorium, would join the
congregation in signing hymns: "We are washed, we are washed, we are washed
in the blood of the lamb."
* * * * *
"You wanna see something impressive?" he asked. "Have you been amazed
today?"
I looked up from my book. He was covered in sweat from the humid, Texas
heat and smelled like he hadn't bathed in weeks. The stained, white shirt he
wore was more holes than cloth.
"Not today, no," I replied, sipping my iced coffee.
"Well, you're about to be," he said, pulling out a pocketknife. I'm with
the Temporal Space-Time Traveling Circus. The pay is shit, but we get to see
the world. Now, this isn't a trick knife or anything. This is Swiss
craftsmanship at its finest."
He unfolded the knife and jammed the four-inch blade into the wooden
railing.
"As you can see, this is a real knife," he said.
I nodded, waiting for the setup of the trick to be over. He grabbed the
knife, tilted his head back, and slid the whole blade up his nostril.
Stretching his hands out from his sides, he bowed deeply and withdrew the
knife.
"How's that for amazing?" he asked.
It was nothing I hadn't seen before, but I was in a good mood.
"Wow," I dryly remarked.
"Like I said, they don't pay us much, so any donations that you would be
willing to give to the circus would be greatly appreciated. My name's Pierre
Pressure, by the way."
"Always nice to have a punny name."
"Yeah, funny names are good," Pierre replied, misunderstanding.
"Listen, Pierre. Instead of a monetary offering, what if I amaze you?"
"Are you sure you can do that?"
"See, I'm on a diet, and I take these pills that expand in your stomach
to make you think you are fuller than you really are. I'm not sure they're
all that safe, but they seem to do the trick."
I leaned my head back, shoved a hand down my throat, having to contort
into an awkward position to keep from falling off the stool, and pulled out a
spongy mass of wet foam.
"It's kinda like those little capsules that would expand into animals
when you put them under running water," I said. "What animal does this look
like?"
"Uh," Pierre stammered, "a dead jellyfish?"
I turned it over in my hands and nodded in agreement.
"How did you do that?" Pierre asked.
I grabbed the wet shape with both hands and wrung it out like a wet
towel. Slimy liquid fell on my notebook, curling the pages.
"The same way you put that knife up your nose," I said. "I did it with
my hand."
Pierre ran off before I could describe the benefits of being able to
reach down inside yourself.
* * * * *
Jenny stood barefoot on the beach, resting her chin against the stock of
the air rifle and steadying her aim. The daisy gun had a scope on it that
Jenny had bought yesterday, and she patiently swept her sights over the water
looking for a target. She felt a crab crawling across her foot and ignored
it, focusing her open eye into the scope and out onto the waves. Finally, she
saw a purple bubble floating in the distance and fired. She watched the
jellyfish pop and forcefully blew air through her teeth to simulate the sound
of air escaping that she was too far away to hear. Jenny lowered the rifle,
pumped it ten times, and leveled it once again at the distant waves.
* * * * *
He slammed the door, ripped off his clip-on tie, and tossed it on top of
his cat that was sitting attentively on the recliner, ready to bolt at any
moment. His boss had fired him that morning for his poor work ethic and
losing the Donaldson account. The cat came over to him and rubbed against his
leg, signaling that she was hungry. He grabbed two cans out of the pantry,
opened them, and poured them into a bowl. He watched the cat devour her meal
and wondered why his life wasn't that simple.
* * * * *
The view was magnificent from the top of the mountain, and I wiped my wet
face with my shirt. I sat down on some rocks and pulled a copy of Hammurabi's
Code out of my bag. These were some of the oldest known laws ever codified
and written down. They comprised the fullest and best preserved recorded
attempt at structure and organization, and I read them all, because even four
thousand years ago, he knew what I wanted.
--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) 1999 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) 1999
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:
World Wide Web http://www.apoculpro.org
irc the #unbeing channel on UnderNet
Submissions may also be sent to Kilgore Trout at <kilgore@eden.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--
