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The Neo-Comintern 191
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n e o - c o m i n t e r n . c o m
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s u b v e r s i v e l i t e r a t u r e f o r
s u b v e r t e d p e o p l e
f e b r u a r y 2 4 t h , 2 0 0 2
e d i t o r - b m c
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w r i t e r s :
a s t e r
m a r g a r i n a c a t a c l y s m a
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donut man
by aster
By The Time I Arrived
by Margarina Cataclysma
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e d i t o r ' s n o t e
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OMG OMG LOL LOL OMG OMG!!!
Dear Neo-Comintern friends,
It's 50 issues later... it's 100 issues later... and for 1ce everything
is
OK? Yeah! Do any of you remember how it was like 91 till the last time
you'd see us? Or how 141 was the magic number? While it seems that The
Neo-Comintern is just a theme-issue after theme-issue-fest (in fact we
have a higher theme-issue:non-theme-issue ration than 87% of today's
publications), we just have that many reasons to celebrate. Hey, we've
reached the 187th issue anniversary? Let's celebate! Hey, we've got a
new URL? Let's celebrate! Hey, It has been a hundred issues sisnce we
swore we'd never release another Neo-Comintern issue? Let's celebrate!
Hey, The Neo-Comintern is celebrating its 4-year anniversary? Let's... oh
wait, we didn't celebrate that one. God, let's reflect on that four years
for a second. OK, I think that was more than a second. That's enough.
Since I have gotten this far into the editor's note without deleting it,
that's something else to celebrate. OK, enough celebrating. Here in the
land of never-ending theme issues and celebrations, shit is about to get
pretty serious. That's right. There is something that deserves your
attention more than my irrevelant revelings, and that is... ARTICLES!
*sigh* But it's articles every week, right? After all these theme
issues... but listen! These are GOOD articles. Read them. You will
enjoy them. I know I did.
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DONUT MAN
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when little marie and suzy met, they liked each other a lot. they shared
their toys they loved a lot, and traded families every once in a while.
once, while marie was at suzy's house, and suzy was at marie's house,
there was a big shaking of the earth-like. and suzy was so scared, she
was sure she would die. when she looked outside, the trees swayed and
turned around to greet her passing, upwards toward the clouds.
at the top of her ascent the wind pestered her ears and the cold shivered
her bones, even though she was closer to the sun, and this she could not
understand. but in the suns fore-vision, she turned her cheeks toward it,
hoping for a better better understanding. and she sank stone down to the
floor of the earth, where she landed at her own house, and next to marie,
the girl she hated violently for not having to also suffer the cold and
enlightenment.
and suzy knew this hatred was so important that she knew to defeat the
object, and when marie died she sat on the hill in the sun, the highest
hill around, the coldest most wind-torn hill of green grass and little
white flowers.
but she hated the hill because it was not at the top of the clouds that
she hated for their lonely heat.
but still she did not understand. even after the hill was turned to an
industrial village of deep and hard, she had to hate the haze it created,
because how could she ever survive, if she was content?
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BY THE TIME I ARRIVED
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By the time I arrived she had already aged irretrievably. Her sense of
time was wonky, for instance. She did not realize that when I said I would
come in the morning... well, I don't think her concept of morning was the
same as my own. Her hair was up in a loosely braided bun, white hairs
poking out, and she lay on her back in her bed with a cloth over her eyes.
It took her the time it took me to let myself in, estimate her location in
the apartment, take off my shoes and dump my backpack, to sit up. Her
back was weak, her stomach ached. She listened to the radio. She
listened to a station from 600 miles away. To the obituaries, for
references to people she had known. That's what she told me. We hugged
hello.
By the time I arrived she had already aged irretrievably. Her stomach
ached. She had a huge appetite, but I wondered if it was to show me that
she was in the prime of her health. I had long suspected that she ate
only in the presence of others. That she had shed the need for private
nourishment. Maybe, alone, she ate in the presence of god. She prayed to
god before and after meals, and probably with each breath between meals
too. She praised god and cursed the life around her. She cursed
creation. I discouraged her endlessly. My presence, existence, chastised
her. I put the fear of god into her. She worried. She once told me that
I would certainly go to hell and that is not what she wanted, and not what
I want either, is it?
By the time I arrived she had already aged irretrievably. She had flashes
of a vibrant personality. There was a woman in there, a girl of 4 or 15
or 32 or 108, to whom I could relate. But as far as I can tell, she used
that individual to lure me into some sense of closeness. She sprung the
demonic self through the gentle self. It was a subtle attack, an ambush
in a Victorian garden. I wanted to separate her selves, lock the bad
stuff in a closet, and enjoy the afternoon. But the blind rabid dog would
have clawed through the closet door and attacked with desperate lack of
subtlety.
By the time I arrived she had already aged irretrievably. She leaned her
head against my shoulder as we sat on the couch, looking at pictures. I
felt tender. She could not hear what I said unless she could feel the
vibrations of my body from my voice. She didn't need to look into my eyes
to understand me. She tried to achieve some sort of mind meld with me,
matching my breathing and probing my mentality, looking for gaps into
which she could weasel one dangerous thought or another. She told me
stories, mundane accounts of various people, each a parable. This her
device. When I was two and she a young woman of sixty, she started in
with the stories. She had the demon then too. She, me, and the demon had
been sitting on this couch for a long time.
By the time I arrived she had already aged irretrievably. Who'd have
thought that demons were so readily available for study in this modern
age? When I was a young girl, she showed me lots of things. The garden,
the comfort of a morning, the organization of a routine that facilitates a
gentle life. Regret, wishing, resignation. Everything a story. A scrap
of a dead sister's dress was remade to clothe a doll, recreates a dead
day. Mistress of black magic, although the power would be denied. She
was a fearful beast huddled amongst the products of her unschooled
magicks. And the stomach aches, with a life of it's own. It was often
interesting. Dangerous, yes. When I let myself (which I did not, very
often) be hypnotized, I had a feeling in my gut, a tightening and lunging
that was somehow familiar, comforting. I knew it.
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The Neo-Comintern Magazine / Online Magazine is seeking submissions.
Unpublished stories and articles of an unusual, experimental, or
anti-capitalist nature are wanted. Contributors are encouraged to
submit works incorporating any or all of the following: Musings, Delvings
into Philosophy, Flights of Fancy, Freefall Selections, and Tales of
General Mirth. The more creative and astray from the norm, the better.
For examples of typical Neo-Comintern writing, see our website at
<http://www.neo-comintern.com>.
Submissions of 25-4000 words are wanted; the average article length is
approximately 200-1000 words. Send submissions via email attachment to
<bmc@neo-comintern.com>, or through ICQ to #29981964.
Contributors will receive copies of the most recent print issue of The
Neo-Comintern; works of any length and type will be considered for
publication in The Neo-Comintern Online Magazine and/or The Neo-Comintern
Magazine.
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| Questions? Comments? Submissions? |
| Email BMC at bmc@neo-comintern.com |
|___________________________________________________|
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c o p y r i g h t 2 0 0 2 b y #191-02/24/02
t h e n e o - c o m i n t e r n
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