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There Will Be Sharks 02
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* There Will be Sharks *
* v1, issue 2 *
* good times forever after *
* *
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i know that you're in love with him
i'll feed him a cur dog to make him love again
Contents:
Inhale Epcot Fitzgerald
Foul
(A Julian Simmons Story) slanted
You Were Expecting
Maybe a Star? Existentially_Angsted
Musique Concrete Zoetica
Fads Cloud Bursting
Fate Rains Phyllis Grant
Poetry:
Office Affairs i, ii aurore_ca
The Fossil Matt Boyd
Lament of Nations I, II David Getzin
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Inhale--Epcot Fitzgerald
Inhale--
a spiritual high, most definitely. i was lying down on my bed,
listening to music, and it felt as though i was being cleansed, that all
the excrement and pent up gases in my body were being ejected... and the
purification was torture. inside my head, it was hellish. stray,
reverberating pounding thoughts were scrambling around, scraping their
backs against the depths of my brain, not sure whether they held a
permanent place in my conscious mind, my sub-conscious mind, or the tip of
my tongue.
[since so few thoughts are really as evil to the mind as excrement
is to the body]. jack kerouac wrote that, in times of one's most serene,
transcendental meditation, "there is no more thought here." john cage
asserted that in a room technically designed to be completely soundproof,
one inside will hear two sounds: a low pitched, vibrating hum [the sound
of blood vessels circulating blood throughout one's body], and a higher
pitched whir [the sound of one's neverendingly active nervous system].
therefore, for the enlightened, is there no thought, no silence? Is there
nothing but the pure sound of the life surging inside of them? the sounds
of the nerves, of the pumping blood, if they never subsided, would be
fucking maddening. all at once, deafening, screaming, like ants hoisting
globules of oxygen onto their backs and trotting at an unbearable pace to
the heart, as the sirens that are neurons howl like banshees who need not
breathe. for some time i knew and felt the Infinity of things... the
continual Infinite Oneness, the extreme of extremities, harmony and
discord, blended in with a blow job and a castration, all in the same
instant. viva la juice bar, can I add some ginseng and wheat germ to my
enlightenment smoothie? and yet, this madness, this insane catatonia, was
utterly pacifying.
I became aware that everything is in perpetual, constant motion, that all
we are is thought, and that our individuality is One with our communal
existence.
we as people are irreplaceable parts of the living whole, and at the same
time there are an infinite number of entire universes existing inside of
us. for some, if not most or all of us, this life is all that exists, and
whether we choose to take every risk we pass, or follow the straight and
narrow religiously, is a choice we remain free to make. but the fact
remains that however way we look at it, we are still trapping ourselves
within the confines of this earthly, singular, yet eternally eclectic,
prolific life. a God, a god� yes. there is no other explanation for it.
there is a God somewhere, perhaps, perhaps we are ourselves our own God.
Knowledge
Love
Life
Infinity.
I am a part of it All. All is a part of me. I could write a thousand
pages, just like this, but it doesn't seem to me that any of it would make
any difference, for Knowledge of this degree in the utmost constancy would
either be insanity or nirvana, or both. it makes me wonder if there are
people in this world capable of manipulating [not altering, manipulating]
the stream of consciousness this well, at all times.
am i making any sense?
all of my revelation took place a countless million times within the span
of one verse of one song, every verse of every song. all of my revelation
took place an infinite number of times in every second. it happens every
single moment of every single day, and we are hardly ever aware of it.
on reality
i think dreams are just as real as life, only there is something called
"consequence" that fools us into believing that we can possibly separate
"reality" from "dream". The consequences of life. have you ever wondered
if all we ever are is a recurring dream concocted in the mind of someone
else, in some far off distant plane of existence? Not in the spirit of "do
we really exist as ourselves?" because well, that's unquestionable. But
rather, "are the people we become in our dreams just as real as we
ourselves are?" will we ever be able to fathom the countless,
unimaginable lives that we are made up of, that we are, yet, only part of?
everything is One... everything is so beautiful and constant that nothing
ever matters, existence is everything, this fleeting life takes place
forever inside and outside of us, all around all encompassing all seeing
and knowing and flowing forever.
everything is nothing and nothing is everything,
something, anything,
everywhere and nowhere, somewhere, anywhere.
everything is One... and I
love
everything, absolutely everything, you know.
On that note, I drift off into the lifestream, only to wake again on the
wrong side of the riverbed, where I began. And for once in all my
recollected life, time is not of the essence.
Or perhaps I am only tripping.
Thursday, 4.20.00, 5:28am.
"one day, i am going to grow wings."
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Foul--A Julian Simmons Story slanted
there are any # of reasons why a relationship ends, although for
julian simmons the only reason that ever felt quite right was "boredom".
there were variations..."tedium"..."ennui"..."she refuses to wear the
little bo peep costume in bed anymore"...but they all were only slightly
variant steps in the same dance. "well" reasoned julian one day over
martinis with his friend aleister at a bar he would prefer not be
mentioned (for fear it become too fashionable and attract too many
stockbrokers and other such riff raff), "if i am telling this girl to get
lost because she bores me...wouldn't it be hypocritical of me to do so in
a boring way?"
"that's a hell of a point old boy...it's like my dad used to say
'the only crime is being boring'."
"your dad thought that was the only crime?"
"yeah--he was surprised when it turns out poisoning your business
partner is also a crime."
"damn shame."
"indeed. thankfully he had a good lawyer and was let off."
"so maybe boredom is the only punishable crime."
"seems more like it."
"well, sport, i don't like being punished. so i can't very well
make this break up boring, can i?"
aleister agreed this was immaculate reasoning and they clanked
glasses and exchanged superior glances.
a week later julian was on an airplane with a girl headed to
japan. he looked at her and said "happy, darling?"
"oh yes--very. i was worried you were going to break up with me
when you said we needed to talk....i was afraid you were getting bored."
"oh believe me...when i get bored you'll know it. no... i have big
plans for this trip." and he kissed her lightly on the cheek and then
took out a discman. she began to cuddle with him. "susan...you know the
rules...when i have my Big Audio Dynamite cd in it is julian's meditation
time."
and for the entire trip, julian listened to his cd. how can one
man stand so much big audio dynamite? sometimes he would look over and
see her smiling at him and imagine her forming words and sentences he
would have to listen to and it made him pine away for more and more mick
jones side-projects. the only break in the routine were the numerous times
he demanded martinis from the increasingly sexy stewardess.
when the plane downed they took their luggage to a hotel in the
middle of tokyo where julian noticed the japanese girls reacting very
favourably to him. susan seemed to notice too and gripped his hand
tightly to indicate possession. julian frequently made kissy faces at
girls and winked to indicate that the girl holding his hand was mistaken.
"so what are we going to do first?" susan said in the hotel room,
reclining on the bed.
"i thought we'd catch a baseball game."
"huh?"
"well, babe...you know how they say if a guy thinks about baseball
he can go all night. well, i figure if we actually go to a game i'll be
able to go all night and then some. given the stamina, which we both know
i have."
she giggled. "you're crazy. let me change."
after a harrowing cab ride and some nastiness trying to get into
the stadium (the ticket taker seemed not to enjoy when julian patted him
on the head and said "awwww....can we keep him?") they were seated in the
quietest, best ordered ballpark julian had ever known. there were
cheerleaders who led organized crowd cheers and other than that the place
was more or less like what julian remembered a library to be like only he
wasn't having sex in the back of the stacks right underneat the shelves
with the works of marcel proust. julian dipped his raw fish in some sauce
and sucked on it, looking around.
a japanese man a few rows down in a dark suit and sunglasses
caught his eye. he looked up and julian looked down and leaned over to
susan. he made her known with a kiss.
moments later the man and his entourage had moved up to where
julian and susan were and the couple found themselves in the midst of a
crowd of men in dark suits and sunglasses. "julian" said the central
figure "good to see you."
"you too, yoshi."
"you speak very good english," said susan.
yoshi looked at her like she had just told him, in a voice of
triumphant excitement, that whenever she let go of a ball it would fall to
the floor. "oh me study very delighted at very most fine school harvard.
english lit minor. how about you?"
"ummm..."
"she went to kingsbridge college, out in iowa," said julian
helpfully. "a great art history department, right hon?"
"yeah i guess...."
"so julian, she is what you said...not real bright but damn is she
nice to look at. you sure came through dude." he said dude like a man
not used to saying it, with an expression of pride on his face. he was 31
but feeling as fine as a hip 16 year old in 1981 must have when he laid
the "dude" moniker on his dad for the first time.
"i always do, my main man, i always do."
"what are you talking about hon," asked susan as two of yoshi's
buddies grabbed her.
"oh...yoshi here is with the...ummm....he's a very powerful man in
japan doing legitimate but not state sanctioned business." yoshi grinned,
pleased with the description. "and he's bought you from me."
"what? i'm not yours to sell."
"you're my girlfriend. or were. we are breaking up. you bore me
terribly. i hate your kitsch, i hate your nonchalance and i hate the way
you clutch at me with your little hands while we fuck. it's like fucking a
tinker gnome."
"a what?" she asked in disbelief.
"a tinker gnome is a race in dungeons and dragons," said one of
yoshi's friends helpfully. "i don't exactly see the connexion either but
i am sure it would have been amusing, were it not for the problems in
translating humour."
"i like that one, yoshi," said julian.
"yes sonny is a very good man, very good indeed, he is 'straight up'."
sonny beamed with pride.
"wait...you cannot do this. people will come looking for me."
"it's done. and they won't."
"my friends will."
"i will tell them you broke up with me here and then ran off with
some japanese guitar player. they'd believe it. they're dumb.
especially your friend val. she's single too, huh?"
"my MOM will hunt you down and castrate you."
"not likely. cut her in."
"WHAT?"
"yeah...she couldn't stand you either. she's getting a quarter of
what i made off of this."
yoshi grinned. "she is doing well then...and as for me...i got a
feisty one." he growled like a tiger.
before much more noise was made, she was led out, without a word
of protest from any onlookers who were suddenly even more engrossed in the
game. julian stayed and watched the tigers beat the swallows. on his way
out, the ticketman was very nice to him.
later that night, back at the hotel, julian met a girl he would
later refer to in his role as drunken raconteur to his circle of friends,
as "the asian sensation."
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You Were Expecting Maybe a Star? (Part 1) by Existentially_Angsted
For those of you who like to write this sort of thing down, the
Center of the Universe was found late on a Tuesday.
We could, of course, argue the point. For example, you might say:
Hold on a second. You say Tuesday like it's some sort of set time but
really it's a random distinction, right? What if some crusty old
astrologer or lofty-minded priest thousands of years ago had woken up one
morning with a hangover and put off his work until the next day? Your
Tuesday would then be a Monday, even though the actual time of discovery
hadn't changed at all. You're basing your statement on an arbitrarily
chosen starting point and therefore it is invalid.
Or maybe your argument goes like this: A Tuesday for you won't
actually be a Tuesday for someone standing on the wing of an airplane
approaching the speed of light. So when you say this discovery occured on
a Tuesday afternoon, you are saying that the dicovery happened on a
Tuesday relative to you when it might have happened, for some other guy,
four weeks ago next Thursday just after Aunt Ida's appendectomy but before
the weekly bridge game down at the Y.
The problem with both of these arguments is that they are large an
unweildy and get very much in the way of an otherwise well crafted
narrative. So, for ease of writing, let's just say the Center of the
Universe was found late on a Tuesday, and leave it at that.
Oddly enough, the team of scientists which found it were not
expecting, at that particular moment, the exact Middle of Everything.
They were expecting a large hand-tossed pizza with pepperoni and extra
onions. Instead they got the Center of the Universe, which, I might add,
had no onions on it whatsoever. But no sooner had a young radio operator
named Valen turned away from his console and complained, "Where is the
pizza, I'm starving!" than a loud blaring came from the labs speakers and
the lights started flashing red. Valen whipped his chair around, hitting
buttons and twisting dials in a panic. Moments later the noise subsided
and the lights turned back to a normal soft yellow and quit flashing.
"What was that about?" Megan asked, rising from her own console
and approaching Valen's. The young technician was tapping away at keys
and shaking his head.
"Dunno. The system just recieved the downloads from the other
stations. Its been compiling the data for the last hour or so."
"And?"
"And what?"
Megan rolled her eyes and elbowed him aside. Kneeling before the
console she tapped a few keys and frowned as a star map filled the screen.
Slowly, two hundred and fifty thousand pin-pricks of light appeared around
the edges of the screen. From each point, a thin white line extended.
Some of the lines extended from one point to another, indicating that a
satelitte was coordinating its position in relation to another satelite.
Still others, most in fact, sent their thin arrows towards the center of
the screen.
The lines were a compilation of all the feedback they had recieved
starting fifteen years ago when the deployed satelittes had finally begun
to report back. Each line grew an appropriate amount as a given
satellite's probing extended further into the cosmos from whatever
starting point on the frontiers of space it occupied. It had taken Megan
over 7 years to align the satelittes from the far corners of the Known
Universe and get them all pointing in. Subtle adjustments, week by week,
had slowly turned the probe paths exactly away from one another, thus
converging their data paths onto the unknown space in the Center of All.
According to Megan's calculations the convergence of just seven lines from
each of the thirteen sectors of the KU would constitute an appropriate
liklihood for Center candidacy, provided all the lines approximated the
same length. She had set the computer to alert her when such a
convergence was found.
She had stopped checking the progress something like 3 and a half
years ago, diverting her personal attention to other business, not really
expecting anything to come of the Center Project. It was a joint effort
forced upon her own lab, along with three or four others, by the
Intergalactic Board of Engineer Facilities sixteen years ago. She�d sent
out her share of the satellites, aligned them according to the specs, set
aside a significantly larger portion of her data space than she was
comfortable with to store the incoming data, allowed the project to tie up
her tachyon line for several hours a week, but didn�t give it much actual
thought beyond a mild annoyance.
To her amazement, she was now staring at a screen where line after
line lanced through a single point, convieniently positioned in the center
of her display.
She counted 24 intersecting lines. Four more stabbed through the
dot as she watched and even more, at least another dozen, appeared to be
slowly working their way in. Her jaw dropped.
"Holy crap!" Valen said. "That's over 40 convergences."
"--gencies," she said absently.
"What?"
"It's over 40 convergencies, not convergences."
"Oh," he said. "Holy crap! That's over 40 convergencies."
Megan wasn't listening. "Valen," she asked, "how far away are the
other stations on the network?"
"Couple thousand light years. Why?"
"How long will it take until they get this data?"
"Most of them probably have it already," he said. "They might not
have our satellite data yet but not all of that is us."
Megan tapped a few keys. Two thirds of the lines dissappeared.
Out of the forty or fifty thousand still on the screen, at least 20 of
them centered on the same spot. And they were all Megan's satellites.
"Valen," Megan said, her voice calm and level, "would you be so kind as to
kill all outgoing data flow?"
"That's illegal," Valen said.
"I know it's illegal," Megan said. "Then why would you--?" Valen
said. Then he scrucnhed up his mouth. "Oh," he said. "Okay." He
nodded, pressed a few buttons and twisted a large dial to the off
position.
"Thank you," Megan said. Her fingers flew over the keys, quickly
and methodically shutting down every running program on the system. The
station, and it's hundreds of thousands of attendant satellites, formed
one of the most expansive data communication networks in the Known
Universe. Some of the satellites delivered entertainment, others were
used primarily for communication. Some were linked up to observatory
functions, Academy research mostly. As Director of the station, it was
Megan's job to keep the various programs running in accordance with who
was paying their bills on time. An Academy grant which took too long to
transfer meant a speedy loss of data and satellite time. An unpaid
tachyon bill meant a loss of service, not for a single customer, but for
the tachyon-line company whose bill had lapsed. It was a business; Megan
managed it. Not that she was too happy about that. Her years of study at
Stellar U., her five hundred page thesis on quantal expansion, had preped
her for a life of scientific discovery, of intellectual verve and
adventure. Instead she was in charge of aligning and monitoring
satellites, of tracking bill payments and making sure the owners� friends
received free tachyon service and video transfers at request.
But the Center Program supersceded all of that, and not only on an
Intergalactic level. It's discovery, not truly expected to ever occur,
meant more to both Megan and the people she worked for than any merely
commercial or Academic account. It meant fame. It meant attention. To
Megan, it meant that she had finally discovered something.
Without a second thought she shunted every bit of processing power
to her console, called up the Center file in full, and began to comb it�s
contents. She double checked numbers, ran through the data year by year,
reconstructed satellite movements and realignments. A single mistake, a
wrong turn or an undocumented satellite malfunction, could mean the data
was off and the discovery invalid. If she found it was invalid, she could
explain to her bosses why their customers had lost a few hours of service.
They might not be very understanding about it, but her giving the Center
Project some attention was a requirement and she wouldn't be too heavily
reprimanded. And if the data wasn't invalid? If the discovery was true?
Well, who really cared what her bosses thought at that point? She�d be
famous, as a scientist, and in that case the faceless businessmen for
which she worked could go to hell.
The pizza came. She and Valen ate and worked on into the night.
As it turned out, the faceless businessmen for whom Megan worked
were a little more on the ball than even she suspected. When the
satellite system went down and the station stopped transmitting data
signals, those businessmen were alerted immediately. Not panicked, but
proffesionally concerned, the conglomerate of owners made a few tachyon
calls (on private satellite lines), collected on a favor or two, and
within the hour had assurances from some very influential and trustworthy
sources that the problem was being looked into.
On a normal day, the one thing an Assassin of Prestige could count
on was a stable work environment.
Despite all the chaos, the danger, the barriers, bodyguards, and
boobytraps, an Assassin's job was a straightforward one, one that never
changed: Go in. Find the target. Do the hit. Get some lunch. Some
Assassins actually complained of boredom-Quality Control personel had to
reprimanded the younger members with increasing frequency for sacrificing
the classic Assassin's precision for aesthetic flair or, as some called
it, penache. Victor was not a young Assassin, though, and the very notion
of flair and penache made his fingers itch. He'd been called in on
clean-up crews for some of these more artistic upstarts and what they
called "verve" and "spunk" Victor called "slop" and "a lack of
proffesionalism.
Of course, they were training them differently, these days. The
old master/ apprentice relationship was long ago replaced by a university
system which focused on quantity, not quality, and replaced precision with
theoretical nonsense about the morals and ethics of the work they did.
For Victor, whose apprenticeship some 40 years ago had been one of the
last, these were extranneous questions. The answer to concerns about
morality was simple: the work they did had no morality, and subscribed to
no ethic more ambitious than a good work one. It was simple as that. If
you were worried about the right and wrong of the thing, you obviously
weren't cut out to be an Assassin. Go find a desk job or a teaching
position and leave this work to those with the stomach for it. In the old
days, this was just the sort of thing, just the kind of person, the
master/ apprenticeship system weeded out early. Who would teach some
squeamish youth to use a garrote or laser-knife? What skilled Assassin
would waste his time training a boy to snipe who started asking questions
like, "Does he have a wife or children?" while staring through the
laser-rifle's telescopic sight? In those days you either had what it
took, or you didn�t. There wasn't any of this pussyfooting around and
debating over whether shooting a man in the back was the honorable thing
to do. Victor could answer that one very simply. "No, it isn't," he
would tell them if they asked. "Now do it anyway."
Which made it even more insulting for him to be sent on an
assignment like this. Just the fact that there was such an assignment
made his ears burn, but for it to be given to him? A forty-nine year
veteran of the trade? An award winning member of the Assassins of
Prestige? Sent to a satellite research station, not to remove a scientist
with rich enemies, not to silence a rebellious voice, but to "check things
out" and "see what is going on inside?" It was an outrage.
Perhaps if he were more like those young upstarts he so despised,
he might have told his superiors that they could take such an insulting
and degrading job and give it to someone with no self respect, because he
wasn't doing it. But in the old days there was no such thing as talking
back to one's superiors (or "the free exchange of ideas between mutually
intelligent and respecting parties") and although he knew that things were
so bad he could refuse a job and still expect to walk away alive, it would
have been more damaging to his psyche to actually see it happen than to
accept the job as errand boy and get it over with.
The satellite station in question was near the outer ring of a
barren planet called Flax. The Minikin Corps of Planetary Engineers had
named it that, with starry eyed hopes of terraforming it into a farm
planet, but it had been ten years since then and the satellite station was
still the only connection to sentience in the system. It was grappled to
a large hunk of space rock plucked from a nearby asteriod belt, by a set
of gravity lines that ran from its base and deep into the asteriod's
surface. It was about the size of an observatory, which was in fact one
of its secondary uses. The workers stayed on the bottom floor. Above
their quarters was the high arching dome of the stations main room, with
the telecommunicator window like a giant slash down it�s middle. Victor
steered his shuttle toward the station and tried hailing them on an open
tachyon line. There was no response. He aimed for the docking platform
near the station's base and parked the shuttle there. The airlock from the
docking bay into the station proper was locked and coded, but it was meant
to keep out potential data theives, not Assassins. For the most part,
Victor found, people tended to put more effort into protecting their necks
than their knowledge. The coded lock, while effective and very expensive,
was nonetheless a far simpler device than what Victor was used. He
bypassed the system and rigged it to accept any passcode, in case he
needed to come back through later. Then he walked into the Station, shut
the airlock behind him, and started silently down the hall.
There must have been three dozen people (and other things) packed
into the small house, drinking and jostling and dancing to music that
Megan and Valen could not hear. They laughed and shouted silently. They
pushed, shoved, fought, squirmed, kissed, fondled, and rubbed together in
what looked like a steamy, sweaty mass. They were young. Many were
naked. They were college students.
Megan checked the data coordinates one more time to be sure they
had the observation satellite focused on the right location. And saw that
she'd entered all the data correctly. They were looking, it truly seemed,
at the Center of the Universe. The absolute middle of everything that is.
The starting point of the multi-billion year epic adventure of expansion
which included everything that had been, was, or would ever be. On the
viewscreen, a fat boy wearing nothing but a pair of streaked and stained
underwear threw up on someone's shoes, then pitched forward and lay
unmoving on the floor. The party whirled and raged around him.
Valen said, "That's it?" Megan nodded. "An Academy frat party?"
"Not the party, per se," Megan said, "but maybe the house. Or
possibly just the planet. Could be that this just happens to be the spot
on the planet that the coordinates point us to. That wouldn't necessarily
make it the Center. If it's that spot, that house, it will move as the
planet rotates so that by tommorow morning it would be on the other side
of the globe from where it is now. If we're still looking at this house
in 12 hours, then the house is it. If we're looking at a field of grass
or a set of ocean waves then it must be the planet. It all depends on
whether the Center moves with the planet or not." On the screen, a
tottering girl with a large glass of red liquor tripped over the prone fat
boy and stumbled forward. As she went, her drink sloshed out of its glass
and splashed a handsome young man in an expensive shirt and pants full in
the chest. The red liquid soaked in, staining him completely. The
attention on screen shifted to him and much of the room's activity died.
Although the screen had been silent all along, Megan and Valen
could tell that things had instantly quieted down. The young man whose
entire front was now red began to yell. He screamed at the girl whose
drink had doused him until she burst into drunken tears and fled the room.
He bellowed at the unconscious body on the floor so long and passionately
it actually aroused the fat boy. He sat up, looking squeamish but also
frightened, as the handsome young man finished with his tirade. When he'd
finished yelling, the youth turned and stormed from the room. The crowd
parted to let him pass, faces averted so as not to stare at his stained
clothes. He stormed up a flight of stairs just visible from the main room
of the party. The view on Megan's screen followed. Valen open his mouth
to speak but Megan's explicative beat him to the punch. The viewscreen
suddenly went dark as one observation satellite lost sight of the angry
young man. Moments later a second satellite zoomed in through a bathroom
window where the young man had stripped off his clothes and was rinsing
the red drink from his skin.
He had a smooth, broad chest, cut with mucles, and a deep,
obviously cultivated, tan. His light hair, smooth features, and dark
chest contrasted sharply and drew attention to each other. He was
gorgeous. Beyond him in the screen, Valen and Megan watched the bathroom
door tenatively open. The young man turned his vindictiveness on the
opener, but calmed when two beautiful and very young girls entered the
bathroom. They kept looking at one another and laughing. As they neared
the young man where he stood in the shower and began to unbutton their
blouses Megan reached over with a scowl and turned off the screen. "Hey!"
Valen said.
"I can't believe it," Megan said.
"I know," Valen said. "two of them, and in the bathroom!"
Megan glared. "Not that. I can't believe the observation
equipment followed a person. How is that possible? How could it follow
a--a person?" A deep, weathered voice from behind them tried out an
answer.
"Good question," it said. "Here's another: how come a couple of
technicians in a remote satellite station shut down all their gear and put
a lock on outgoing data flow in the middle of a Tuesday night?"
Victor, and the people he was ostensibly representing in the
satellite station that night, weren't the only ones asking that question.
In a star system just a few thousand light years away, on the surface of a
planet just a few dozen light years from the system�s main star, on an
island just a few miles from the planet's main continent, in a village
just a few strides away from the island's shore, in a straw and thatch hut
just a few feet from the villages main thoroughfare, three Ssnakes sat at
a table carved in the shape of a giant head. They each had a drink, and a
plate of slightly dead shellfish before them. They all wore flamboyantly
colorful shirts with flower and bird designs all over them. One of them
had a camera around his neck. Another wore a pair of sunglasses. The
third was almost twice the size of his companions, nearly 15 feet tall,
and sat hunched, seemingly pouting, beneath the thatch roof.
Three Ssnakes. Three scaley skinned, dagger toothed, beady eyed,
taloned, tailed Ssnakes. They were dressed like island vacationers, and
since the Ssnakes, one unique talent lies in their ability to obfuscate
their own appearance, island vacationers was exactly what everyone took
them to be. The occasional islander might have caught a glimpse beneath
their disguise; islanders are generally more accepting of the rare and
even undesirable and so their minds are less likely to gloss over the
presence of a Ssnake and all that such a presence represents. But the
islanders were also a superstitious lot, and Ssnakes were not a race
common to their village, so most who saw that it was not a small boy in a
tourist's shirt, but a fifteen foot tall walking lizard with tiny little
arms and a massive head filled with dripping teeth uttered a simple
protective prayer to their gods and moved quickly on with their lives.
As for the other tourists, the off-world beings without the
islanders more accepting, and mythologically driven, view, they simply saw
a pair of men and a little boy on vacation. The two men looked so alike
to them it was obvious that they were brothers. The little boy (who they
perhaps sensed was not so little but failed to actually notice) was likely
one of the brother's sons. They were a family on vacation. Nothing more.
It wasn't that the Ssnakes were really fooling anyone. A Ssnake's
talent for disguise is no magical trick or genetic abnormality. It stems
from the simple fact that the Ssnakes are a swarthy, sneaky, untrustworthy
lot. They are a race of liars and cheaters and two-timing, backstabbing,
self-centered crooks who, at any given moment, might sell you into slavery
or buy you a drink, depending wholly upon what they stood to gain from the
decision. The Ssnakes' seedy, conniving reputation precedes them wherever
they go. No one likes the Ssnakes. No one wants the Ssnakes around. It
is such a strong compulsion (or repulsion, if you prefer) that most people
simply refuse to accept the possibility that there is a Ssnake nearby,
even if there is.
So it is that a Ssnake need do nothing more than pull on a shirt,
or a pair of glasses, or a few appropriate accessories and they become
fully disguised. If they select enough to deliver an intended gist, the
average mind is more than willing to fill in the blanks, to cover green
scales with pale skin, to reduce sharpened talons to unkempt fingernails,
to completely eRase a four foot tail, and breath, unnoticed, the rancid
predator's air which the Ssnakes carry with them. For the two gentlemen
seated at the table with the three lizards, this natural dis-affinity for
their race was causing some confusion, and headaches. Their eyes and
minds were waging war, the one insisting that the teeth they saw were
real, dammit; the other arguing that no five-year old boy with a lollipop
and a yo-yo could possibly have fangs, much less two foot long fangs like
the ones you keep insisting you see. It was hard enough conducting this
business, which was not, as it were, their sort of business to begin with,
without the distraction of seeing two things at once. The fact that these
two men were scientists, men whose very lives rotated upon the fact that
there are two sides to every thing in the Known Universe-one being the
Truth, and two being what normal people believed to be the Truth but was
not, because normal people are, in the end, essentially stupid-did not
seem to help. Scientists are notoriously used to being right, to trusting
their senses to deal straight with them. Meeting these Ssnakes in this
place, dressed in these normal clothes in an attempt to conceal their own
identities, hashing out this deal as if they were some sort of common
businessmen. It was no wonder they felt so out of element; so, dare they
think it, normal.
Needless to say, they were eager to get things underway.
"Okay," the first scientist said. "You know why we called you
here."
"You want uss to ssteal ssomething for you," the first Ssnake
said. He was the one in the sunglasses and was called Alberio. Each of
the scientists-we'll call them Stu and John-squinted, their eyes
struggling to uncross as a forked tongue decidedly did not dart out from
between the man's teeth.
"That's quite a lisp you've got," John said.
"It ssertainly iss not."
"No, of course. I just meant--"
"What iss it you want uss to ssteal for you?"
"It's not so much stealing," Stu said. "It's more
like watching."
The second island clad Ssnake, the one with the camera, said,
"Ssure. Fine. What iss it you want uss to take and watch for you?"
"Not take," said Stu. "Watch. Just watch."
"It's a person," John said. "A couple of them actually. A man
and a woman. They're scientists--" Stu barked laughter at this.
"--of a sort," John said. "They work in an observatory. We have
reason to believe that they have located something which we are very
interested in also finding out the location of."
"Ah," said Alberio, "indusstrial ssabotage?" He turned to his
companion. "Dreamss do come true, Deneb," he said.
"We've never done indusstrial ssabotage before," Deneb explained,
excited.
"Indeed," Alberio replied. "We have not."
"But I've alwayss hoped--"
"Just follow them," John said. "It's not sabotage. We just want
to know whether what they think they've found is what they've actually
found."
"And if it iss?"
"Then we shall renegotiate our agreement."
"Meaning what, ekssactly?"
"Meaning that we may want you to take it from them."
"Ssteal it, you mean." The Ssnake sounded disappointed.
"Yes."
"If it is stealable," Stu added, looking at John. "I mean, we
don't even know what *it* is, yet."
"True," John said, "but theoretically it would have to be
something small, a large mass would cause too much of a dip in the overall
radion field. We'd have found it years ago."
Stu shook his head. "Small, no," he said. "Less dense, yes."
"I disagree, Stu. To have the sort of percentage mass this thing
is going to have to have in order to play it's theoretical role will
require small, not light. It can be as dense as it wants to be."
In the face of this banter, the large Ssnake, or little boy,
depending on how well you trust your senses, shifted in its seat-which
complained loudly-and cleared its barrel-like throat. "PARDON ME?" it
boomed. "BUT MAY I BE EKSSCUSSED?"
The two scientists looked at it, took off their glasses and rubbed
their eyes. John said, "What?" "I'VE JUSST SSEEN SSOME CHILDREN PLAYING
WITH A TIN CAN DOWN THE SSTREET."
"And you, ah, want to go, ah, play with them?" Stu asked. A small
spot just behind his ear started throbbing in conjunction with the crick
he had from craning his head up to talk to the little boy.
"YESS, PLEASSE." "Go ahead, Rekss," Deneb said. "But don't wander
too far."
"THANK YOU." The big Ssnake (little boy!) struggled up from its
chair, its tiny arms waving madly, and lumbered off down the street.
When they saw it coming, the island children threw their hands over their
eyes and ran off screaming, "Yah-okaru! Yah-okaru!"
"YAH-OKARU!" the big lizard boomed with them, delighted. Rex drew
back its foot, snorting laughter, and kicked the small tin can the
children had been playing with. It careened off of a stone wall,
ricocheted off the wood support beam of a doorway, and clipped a sunburned
Minikin vacationer behind the ear, mid-sentence. "Okay everybody!
Smile!" he had been telling his family as they lined up beside a local
bead-maker and his wife when the can hit him and he slumped to the ground.
"All right!" cried his children.
"OH," Rex rumbled, "MY."
"I think we're done here," John said to the other Ssnakes. "You
have the coordinates and the pictures. You know what we want." He handed
them an envelope. "Just contact us when you've found what they've found.
We'll tell you what to do next."
Alberio picked up the envelope and peered inside. His eyes
nictated. "Abssolutely," he told them. "We'll call you right away."
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
Musique Concr�te:
04/19/00 1:55:19 AM to 4:36:26 AM
***
[Diderot: Metaphysico-theological nonsense!]
I.
Leaning: what more than to support myself on this rail, to-day,
breathing? Expansive omni-directionality, spectral communion, admixture;
Sky, have I asked for those distant flummeries, cataracts with Learning
embedded?!! Mid-day bridge in full transit, a river there out to the
extremities of sight; Honk, roaring demoniac, shrill notes in Phobos
clamor, bastard ink sprawled when I see the pavement run-down by wheels,
working its way towards me like a reeking tar Deluge. Movement, anyone?
Einstein? Xeno? Giacometti? No mystic ghost-waves guiding these
photons, just a naturopath�s catalepsy from standing on an urban landmark
in rustic Appletown. Even the flower-ladies want to bomb the pyramids.
Jutting platform, if I could only see your clanking in-betweens,
your arched undies--vaults cavernous green--all I see is your asphalt
mattress and some metallic ramp, much too convenient for the hungry
felo-de-se's long-awaited "chance mishap". Wroth!!!! Plup. A thread is
woven beautifully by one in contest, solves puzzles for another wedged in
wretched sanction, is happily snipped by Grandma Morae's scissors (so very
apropos). Paint flakes off the rail diametric to its structural
advancement, rust in forms transmuting; the bus commuting, fluid Richelieu
flows, jars my memory, reminds me of the vehicles behind me blowing
saxophone cries unto Death: hurry, our servitude to Haste is the paste
that glues it all together!
Retrograde ensembles in bop exhibition on the freeway; what a fine
day to contemplate the orbits of the streamlined passengers in the medium
of exodus: better get on before the Fates clothe. Ah, look, a pigeon with
sapphire rosettes beaming on its wings, a veritable Tree of Life told on
the water's surface in ripples guffawing, transliterating a Divine message
into million-fold shimmers; urchins headed in rapid strands for the
Intellectual gas chamber. Ah, me, dishevelled hair, castigated marionette
in the ruby carpet of existentialism, the constant dark room with painted
shades and the Din of my bronze altar, perched ahigh, surveying the
animated bath of plucked vaudeville clocks, the human drama unfurling like
draperies of muted interiors; voice of walkers-by, "and the drear light
flew!", on the exterior. "Fix the needle, the phonograph plays all that
heavenly music--"
This balcony, elevated above charging Lethe, woeful toiling
particles afloat on the watercourse, brought under like a swan's arcing
neck gripping seaweed or a mumbling Legionnaire who's lost more than there
ever was; flux, the fountain of materiality's infrastructure exposed on my
noontide observatory, a memorial to the tides that shift perpetually;
cosmology to microscopy, blurred. I look directly down a 150 foot fall.
Da'ath is the experience of the Abyss, the abolition of the Self to which
the gates open--Da'ath the duality: it is our beliefs which prop up the
Illusion of Identity, distinctness; concurrently, it is a revelation,
Gnosis, objective knowledge that destroys it. Deep at the pit's
unfathomable depth, any identity is possible. Chaos, the unformed; Nyx,
her daughter dressed in impenetrable gloom, molding day invisibly.
Sheets of Nephos rolling, making a cotton cinema; Giacometti in
his workshop sculpting; it looks more and more like the tools of
primordial man, except his are tools to break Illusions rising in the
senses, much like Xeno's paradoxes: coil upon coil of Reason's Serpent
yawning. A gentle mist snaps me from my reverie. A pedestrian stroll
across an old bridge linking two towns, you stop halfway with a vision of
a rare phenomenological panoply; a golden ray hits your forehead, dizzy
you long for wine and a bite of fresh bread to relieve the stress, maybe
something tangible to bite into in your quivering state. The swollen
river, sluggish with the stomachs of ancient cities, bubbles--
Bibliotheca Alexandrina ruined down to the mantle, burnt to the
core; barbarism says, "Stop the press!" (Gutenberg discontinuity). But
all is well, a museum is perforating my ocular cavities, I am timeless in
glass; the river holds no boats today. Horus� eyes make lotus flowers
bloom; my soul, built in the night, is covered in gypsum, and my odyssey
begins on a disappearance; stone soul, disguised, a vessel; the lily pad
carries fairies across the stagnant pool. Glossaries falling into the
void shaped like little stones, kicked by my foot, the only part of me not
frozen in an awed gawk.
Snake River, balanced; gridlock already? "L'engrenage malsonnant
d'un horloge humain," my musique concr�te played on the framework of my
country bridge, vehicles in passing, birds in flock formation overhead;
Discord, the tape keeps looping back to the same realization: stillness, a
whisper, catatonia amidst a sharp overbearing confusion trapped in the
absence of minutia; nausea, the vertiginous quality of nostalgia:
lonesome, facing the great wildness of a spring day, cemented to a moment
of indecision (left, right, traffic, plunge), petrified by Medusan locks
of perceptual stimuli, desirous of egress from the dread & absurdity of
Being, Being denied, nascent evanescence, spring outings perched Here
instead of There in ebon mirages diversified; faithful to the
compartmentalization of fleeting particulars
composed by zoetica [copyright 2000]
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
Fads-- Cloud Bursting
Everyone is affected by fads. It's inescapable. You see a new
style every month. Clothing becomes obsolete faster than computers do.
Your ultra-suave hairstyle that you just paid big bucks for at a major
stylist is suddenly considered ugly by the rest of society. Forget
"superficial"... you heard it first here, folks, society is "MEGAFICIAL".
Alright, alright, so it's corny... so what, it gets the point
across. A lot of people don't see it. I've always held to the tradition
that if someone's vision is clouded over by pride, greed, or plain
stupidity, all they need is a good shmack upside the head to wake 'em up.
But what do you do when the whole freakin' world is caught up in this
river of "what's hot 'n what's not?" Well, you focus on one thing at a
time, ladies and gentlemen. And I'm going to focus on what I know and
love: Computers.
I was reading through a Dell magazine earlier last week... there
were the usual installments for Dell Dimensions, Inspirons, etc. I
enjoyed checking out the computers with 700 MHz processors (and I nearly
had an orgasm when I saw that Dell is popularizing the GeForce graphics
card). Then I came to a section that I didn't like: A plug for what Dell
calls an "Internet Computer", the Dell WebPC. At first, it caught my eye.
It looks different.
I thought, "That's nice, a smaller computer, new type of case, slim LCD
monitor... looks like they're putting better technology on the market."
WRONG! After getting past the initial reaction... HOW IT
LOOKED... and actually checked out the system specifications... well, I
wasn't really shocked, but I would have been if this had been the first
instance that I had seen. The specs for the WebPC I checked out at the
Dell website was about $300 more than a "standard" desktop (you know, the
one that looks like a beige box attached to a monitor?) of roughly equal
specs. Are people really willing to dish out an additional 300 smackers
just �cuz something looks snazzy?!? A COMPUTER?!? That's like paying
fifty bucks for a hammer that has a translucent pink handle.
A computer is not a conversation piece, people! You don't put
potted flowers around it and place doilies on it and brag about it to Ms.
Smith while you two have tea! A computer is a tool, designed for word
processing, design, calculation, organization, entertainment (ooh, yeah,
entertainment), information transferal, and communication. A major factor
in your decision to buy a computer should not be if it matches your
drapes!
You wanna know where this all started? The Apple iMac. Okay, now
I realise I own and use one of these machines daily. But just hear me
out.
Yes, yes, yes, Apple... they used to be a great company, but they
had to rely on some cheap gimmick to save their asses. Now, I'm not
against Apple computers... I have to do major video editing and graphics
work, that's why I own this computer. But the iMac was shitty even by
Apple's standards. No CD-ROM drive, no (gasp!) floppy drive, small hard
drive, low RAM, no possibility to upgrade the thing... yet it caught on
like wildfire. Why? 'Cuz it was pretty. 'Cuz it was simple. 'Cuz it
was translucent. 'Cuz it wasn't BEIGE (heaven forbid).
That's right, the iMac caught on because of how the damn thing
looked. Now there's three NEW versions of the iMac (each which comes in
"six designer colors"). And Apple's trend has passed onto it's PowerMac
G4 lines. The G4 is actually a very impressive computer, but it's dressed
up like you should place it on the coffee table, maybe with a fern sitting
next to it... ooh, and how about a pink ribbon? And some lace? And
maybe we should re-do the upholstery, so that it will match the
computer...
The point is, Apple met with success by making pretty computers.
Well, what happens when something's popular? That's right everyone else
jumps on the bandwagon, and a new fad is born. All the major computer
providers- IBM, Hewlett-Packard, Gateway (which has not one, but THREE
lines of "all-in-one, easy-to-use" computers available for purchase),
Compaq, and now, Dell. What does this mean? What possible significance
does it hold that these types of computers are available? Well, to answer
that, I have to undergo a bit of nostalgia, and look back at the '80s,
famous for legwarmers, bad hair styles... and the Golden Age of Computers.
Back in the day, the only people that had a computer were people
that KNEW HOW TO USE THEM. Now, this isn't an attack on any o' you guys
(I love you all, you know that!), but I doubt half of you can tell me what
BIOS is. Ten, fifteen, twenty years ago, somebody only got a computer if
he was going to use it to its' full extent. Most people these days have a
computer just so they can type stuff up and so they can check their
E-mail. What about programs like Excel, Powerpoint... what about
programming? Debugging? What about undergoing all those little
individual projects that made computers famous? Whatever happened to the
stereotype of a pasty-white, pimple-covered, skinny guy with thick glasses
and cowlicks typing away like mad at a Commodore 64 in a dark room writing
his own code for his own enjoyment? Nowadays, it's seen as unpopular to
NOT have a computer!
I remember once at Crossroads I heard two of the "popular" people
(I won't divulge anyone's name, let's just say it was Blake Nolan and
Julian Matossian (I think that's how you spell his name...) talking about
the new computers they just got. Where they saying, "I got a Pentium-III
550 with 128 megs of RAM, a 27 gig hard drive, and a 19-inch monitor"?
Nah... they were comparing price. And where they got it. And what
crappy games that came with it. And whether or not they had any trouble
connecting to the internet. I felt rather tempted to ask them about what
graphics card they had, or if their computer used the SCSI (pronounced
"scuzzy") interface, or if they had a model 449 ICT socket connected to
the motherboard's PPN or if they decided to go with the DKL Fandig
Giblockoli super-cooler processing unit (which is all just nonsense).
They probably would have stammered, then said, "Uhh... which one is more
expensive?"
The problem is, more and more people are getting computers. And,
as is common with the human race, the larger the group of people, the
dumber the group is. Computer designers have to appeal to the lowest
common denominator, and that denominator is constantly dropping. How do
they respond to this? Do they try to raise this denominator? Do they try
to teach people how to use these computers? Do people make an attempt to
learn computers on their own? Nah... people aren't only stupid, they're
lazy, too.
Recall the scene in "The Simpsons" where Homer is trying to learn
how to use a computer. "To start press any key... well, where's the any
key?" It's hilarious; AND IT'S ACCURATE (Homer also said, "It's funny
'cuz it's true"). People have this ultra-simplistic idea of computers...
everyone that has a computer has grown up with microwaves, refrigerators,
and TVs, and, as such, are used to machines obeying their every command.
So when a computer tells them that they've performed an illegal operation
(and the program will be shut down), they whack the computer and call it a
stupid piece of junk. I think all computers should be equipped with arms
and a special speaker, so when a user does something stupid, it whacks HIM
and the little speaker calls him a stupid piece of junk. Poetic justice
in an otherwise unpoetic world.
Play around with your computer people. Figure out what does what,
and WHY it does what. Figure out what RAM and BIOS and SCSI are. Learn
what a hard drive is and how it works. Don't just see a computer as a
toy. That's like looking at a power drill as a toy.
Solutions to the problem? Well, first off, there should be an
intelligence test for all new computer buyers. Anyone who cannot
correctly tell the difference between a sound card and a video card are
forbidden to buy a computer. And background checks, like we have for
guns. And licenses, like we have for cars. I can envision the
scenario... "But, officer, I left my computer license in my other
pants..." And those that don't keep themselves up-to-date on computer
technology will have their hands cut off, so they won't ever have the
chance to fuck around on a computer again.
Because a computer is a powerful thing. It should only be in the
hands of those that can use them. It shouldn't be in the hands of Little
Timmy, who makes his oh-so-cool webpage at GeoCities about Pokemon, and
suddenly thinks he's a computer expert. It shouldn't be in the hands of
Joe Average, who got a computer 'cuz the Joneses did. And it sure as hell
shouldn't be in the hands of anyone who has to ask, "Is this the mouse, or
is that the mouse?"
Next time you're down at the Gap (and just because I was in a Gap
commercial doesn't mean I can't hate it) looking at a funk-o-matic pair of
pants or a jacket with a built-in Laz-E-Boy recliner, think of computers.
And think of all the times you've had to ask, "Who is General Failure, and
why is he reading my disk?" Then put that pink plastic tutu back on the
rack, and go pick up something that doesn't make you look like a walking
fluorescent crayon.
Toodle-oo, people... and don't be afraid of those "Idiots Guide to
Computers" books. Unless, of course, it's more popular to be an idiot
than it is to NOT. Take care.
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
Fate Rains-- Phyllis Grant
I grasped the wet, cold handle of the pawn shop door with a fever that
could only be compared to an insane beast. I was a desperate shadow of the
woman I appeared to be 15 minutes ago. I completely dismissed the startled
expression of the store keeper in my jumbled thoughts of what I had done.
The scent of the smoke laden cab I took to get here lingered on the
tafetta of my pristine bridal ensemble.
"A rainstorm is a bad day for a wedding anyway.." I blurted to myself, my
back collapsing against the door- closing it with a thud. The clatter of
the dull chimes up top broke me from my momentary stupor, as did the deep
voice of the clerk.
"May I help you, Miss?"
His voice matched the atmosphere. Right about now, even the faint smell
and dark presence of rotting, vintage wood seemed cozy.
"Clothes!", I exclaimed breathlessly, " I need clothes!"
"We are not a used clothing store" he stated warily, obviously hesitant. I
could understand his apprehension. If I were behind the counter, I would
be dialing 911.
"Look Mister! I need clothes! I have seen wedding dresses displayed in
your window! I know you buy them! This one cost me five thousand dollars,
surely you have something to trade!"
I observed him scanning me, his forehead shining over old fashioned
glasses, eyes squinting, his dress shirt a bit of a rumpled mess. His
reluctance irritated me.
"I havn't much time! The train leaves at 5 to 4, and I want to be on it!"
I eyed the clock on the musty wall. 3:35 pm.
"And, I need you to buy this ring!" I shouted as I shoved my left hand
towards his stunned face." I need money Sir! I am desperate! I have
brought nothing with me, just what I have on! I paid the cabbie with my
earings and necklace! You have got to help me! I need to go...NOW!"
Visions flashed before me. The echoed hush of the guests in the church,
the gloss of the best man's hair; the sugary pink perfection of a wedding
cake -gently placed on the head table. All of it was nauseating.
"Okay, okay...relax young lady! I was just about to close up. I have
$234.67 in my til...you can have it!"
He then pointed towards a tattered chair with an even more tattered gym
bag about to slide off the edge. "There's a gym suit in there for you. I
was planning on changing before I left, but it's okay..I'll trade you it
for the dress. You can change in the back."
Relief washed over me. "Oh, thank you, thank you, God bless you!" I
muttered as I put my hands behind my back and reached to unfasten the
hook, unzip the zipper. No time for a changing room. The heavily beaded
bodice fell to the floor; it's iridescent sequins twinkling.
I felt like I had broken free. I did not care whether this man thought me
crazy or insane. I was now liberated.
"I'm sorry, what was your name?"
"Ronald" he answered dutifully.
"Ronald! Hand me that bag! I need to get warm!" I shivered as he opened
the bag and handed me a hooded cotton sweatshirt with matching drawstring
pants. My exasperation seemed to fuel his desire to help. He dashed behind
the counter, opened the cash, and retrieved the money as I fumbled to put
the immense top over my head. The white satin of my shoes shone in the dim
light, as I flung them off, knocking over a beaded lamp. I pulled the
pants on over my white stockings in record speed.
"I will drive you.." Ronald said as he reached for his keys beneath the
counter.
"I can run, it's only a couple blocks away!" I exclaimed, scrambling
towards the door.
"No sense, you'll be drenched again...and take these.." A worn pair of
socks and scruffy sneakers were presented to me. His eyes seem to smile at
me knowingly.
"Oh!" I spouted abruptly. "The ring!" My fingers began to pull at the
diamond.
"Keep it sweetie," he said, "You are going to need it."
The door chimes rang once again as Ronald held open the heavy door for me.
I finished tying the laces of the sneakers that had certainly seen better
days. Though they were about an inch too wide, my toes reveled in their
spacious new abode. The socks and roomy shoes were heaven in comparison to
the heels that stung my toes. They felt much too tight. Confining.
I pulled my hood over my head as I rushed out the door. It was still
raining, though not as fiercely. The wind had seemed to die down a bit, or
at least I thought so, for as soon as Ronald finished locking up the door,
a huge gust of air blew around me. I looked at him, he had no coat, and
his shirt was getting soaked.
"This way", he said candidly, leading me to a gray station wagon parked a
few yards away from the store. He swiftly opened the door on my side. I
jumped in, stashing the money he had given me into the front pocket of my
sweatshirt. As I waited for him to get in on the other side, my hands
flipped through the change; the pliable texture of the twenty dollar bills
shifted between my fingers. He slid in beside me, turning the key in the
ignition. The result was a blast of cool air from the vents.
"Let's go!" I shouted, as he pulled the car out onto the road.
I briefly pondered about this man. Why would he help me? He seemed very
ordinary, perhaps inconspicuous. He would not be the type of man I would
notice on the street or in a shop. His stature was medium-sized, even
short. He appeared to be about 50; the skin on the corners of his dark
eyes crinkled. He noticed me glimpsing at him in wonder. I quickly averted
my eyes to the tiny digital clock on the stiff dashboard.
3:45 pm.
"It'll warm up in just a bit, don't you worry...are you okay? Change your
mind yet?" he said, in a slightly nervous tone, rubbing his palms together
quickly at the stoplights.
"Tell me," I interrupted, trying to take the focus off me, "how long have
you been married, Ronald?" I questioned, observing the shiny gold band on
his left hand.
"Twenty-five years," he answered whimsically, "why do you ask?"
"And it's been good? I mean, you don't regret being married to the same
person, day in, day out?"
"Marriage is sure no picnic, but yes, I've had a good run of it. My wife
and I have been through a lot, too much to explain in 10 minutes.
"Yes, right! We are are almost there! Faster!"
"May I ask where you plan on going? I don't even know you're name Miss..."
"Nina." I answered in a deep breath. "And I am not sure Ronald, I'm just
going as far as this money will take me, then start a new life from
there."
He became silent then. It felt awkward sitting there with a stranger, so
willing to help. My family, the people who supposedly loved me, remained
motionless for so long. Ronald saw my agony, why hadn't they? Was I so
easy to read to outsiders? If that were so, then it made my circumstances
even more dire. It meant that they all could see how desperate I felt, but
would not move to help me in the least.
I thought of Ken. I imagined him at the alter now - smiling, handsome- as
he always was. I loved him, but not so much as to care about how he felt
when I did not show. I thought of my would-be father-in-law, Laurent. The
memory of his demonic visage made me shudder. I cringed as I thought about
how Ken knew what his dad had done, and yet today, depite it all, insisted
that he escort me down the aisle. Ken's audacity had angered me.
My father wouldn't stand for that. I could feel my father roaming around
my head, speaking to me in haunted syllables. He was telling me to trust
my instincts. His voice was all I needed now.
"Here you go, my dear." Ronald said, as the car came to a jerking halt.
"You know, there are going to be a lot of people looking for you. You also
must realize that I will have to tell them I took you here. I can't have a
worried family on my conscience; you know that, right?"
"I know, and I understand, Ronald. By the time they notice I'm not there,
I will be well on my way." I felt appreciative for the little he did for
me so far. It had been so long since someone had been kind only for the
sake of it, wanting nothing in return.
I popped open the door, and arose from my seat, looking down at my attire.
No bags to carry, no anything. Just me. It felt good.
"Nina..."
"Yes?"
"Good Luck."
I stared into his serious eyes as the rain pelted my head. I leaned in a
bit, looking at this kind man, in his simple vehicle, it's cracked
dashboard matted; it's vents now blasting forth hot air. I felt the gray
skies about me, whirling in their infinite fury. Droplets gathered upon my
cheeks, stung my eyes. The chug of the coming train beckoned me, as the
screech of the brakes on the rails screamed "Run! Run!" I had to bolt now,
or I would miss my escape.
I couldn't move.
We spoke with out saying a word, Ronald and I. His eyes riveted subtlely,
telling me I was my own person, I could do what I wanted, but I had a
choice.
I know, I know...but isnt it better to leave? If I stay it would mean a
boxed-in life. A life of being someone else, never me. Hell, I don't even
know who "me" is, but I'll be damned if I need someone else to tell me!
"It doesn't have to be this way Nina." he said hoarsely.
I broke away from his prophetic stare, and lifted my head to look above
the car. Long, wet tendrils of hair blew across my face as I watched the
trees swaying violently. They actually appeared quite beautiful enduring
the vicious wind. Branches swung back and forth, yet seemd quite flexible.
It looked like they might survive the storm.
Moments passed as I stood there, transfixed by the trees. Ronald did not
say a word to me. I knew he heard the whistle of the train as clearly as I
did. It trudged along slowly at first, loud and moaning. I stood there,
so still, staring above the car, my wet clothes clinging to me, as the
train became more muffled, moving farther, farther away until the station
grounds held no more of it's grumbling, constant groan.
My body seemed to fall back into the old station wagon. I welcomed the
warmth from the ducts as Ronald signaled left, pulling out, then right. We
were suddenly upon a street I had not seen before.
I looked out the side window, noticing the many potholes filled with
water. The pavement was not perfect like it had been down Ken's street.
His father, Laurent, would never have it that way. He had money, and was
held in high regard by the local government. There were many good families
in Ken's neighborhood, people who worked hard for what they had. Laurent,
however, thought things should come easily to him. Including me.
"You have taken the right road, Nina." Ronald said as he intruded my
thoughts, "Now you just have to figure out what you want to do."
"I cannot go back Ronald. I won't go back, it's as simple as that."
"Why can't you go back? Is it that terrible? You look like a fine young
woman, well taken care of; why would you want to run?"
I looked at him quickly, tensed, then hung my head.
"Nina," his voice rose just enough to get my attention, "don't you think
it's a bit too late to be hiding anything? If I am to help you, you have
to tell me."
"You want to help me?" I asked quietly, my insides stirring with a
surprising surge of vulnerability.
"Of course! I don't know why, I don't know how, but I just know I was
meant to be in the store when you needed someone. I knew right from the
beginning that you wouldn't really leave. It makes no sense what-so-ever.
It took a few minutes, but when I first saw you, I felt compelled to
help."
He seemed weary now. My antics had made him this way.
"I just, I just...couldn't handle it." I began, my eyes welling up with
the tears I so painstaikenly held back until now.
"Here I am, with this incredible fiance, marrying into a good, noble,
respectable family. At least that's what everyone else thought I was
doing! They don't see Ronald, they don't see what it's really like! I
haven't even scratched the surface! Everything in the fiber of my being
says I should not marry Ken. He's nice enough, but the more I spend
closer, more intimate time with him on a daly basis...the more I see he
will turn out like his father. Greedy." I choked, "Manipulative."
I sobbed uncontrollably now, my hands trembling at the horrid memory of
Laurent. I saw him grinning. Grinning as he touched my shoulder, tracing
his fingertips down over the skin of my bare arms. Softly, slowly they
moved, but when I looked up into his face, his teeth seemed to snarl at
me, his eyes were hard, icy, as they revealed to me his true intent.
Ronald reached to hold my hand. He held it hard, sturdily, until I
surrendered to his kindness. With no regard for what emotional control I
had left, I told more.
"Ken saw! I know he did!" I shouted, "He seemed to sense that his father's
affections for me were more than friendly. He always tried to distance me
from Laurent! Only recently, just before the wedding, had I seen the whole
picture for what it was. "
"All for show, it was all for show, Ronald!" I continued.
"Ken wanted me to have his father escort me down the aisle, even though I
told him about what happened. If only Ken would have tried to understand,
agreed to cut his father out of his life, I would be standing at that
alter right now, but he didn't; wouldn't hear of it! I had to go!
Something was calling me, telling me to leave! I found any excuse to flee,
and rid myself of what was happening."
"Ronald, if a man truly loved a woman, don't you think he would respect
her wishes? Wouldn't he do whatever it took to make sure she felt safe?"
I shook my head swiftly, "That's when I realized that as soon as I
exchanged my vows, I would be exchanging all that has made me who I am. I
didn't grow up with much, material-wise, but respect was one thing I
cherished."
Ronald did not utter a word as I rapidly told the rest of my tale. How my
mother, in her pushy arrogance, had been enticed into the idea of me
marrying a wealthy husband. I knew she loved me, but at times it seemed
she judged me with a controlling eye. I told him about my father, and his
unfortunate passing on two years ago, just before I met Ken. Ronald seemed
to understand my ramblings about feeling my father near me, beside me. It
was the memory of my father, and his truth, that gave me the courage to
change my direction so suddenly.
Ronald nodded as we turned into a tiny driveway, leading to a small white
house with deep blue shutters. The cement steps held several potted
geraniums. Their bright crimson hue stood out over the bleak sky in the
distance.
When we finally ascended the stairs, and passed through the front door, I
saw the tender form of tiny buds, still waiting to blossom. My lips formed
a weak, frail smile...then faded.
* * *
I still smile when I think of that day 5 years ago. The day that changed
my life. I look at Ronald these days with shining eyes as I circle my arm
around his eldest son's neck, holding our baby in my lap. We visit
whenever we get the chance, and each time, Ronald and I meet with the same
knowing stare, arising from our souls; knowing that we were meant to meet
that day.
In my husband's eyes I see his father's gentle glint of calm
understanding. I look into my son's eyes, and see flecks of my father in
there, strong and loving. I live each day like the last, knowing that at
any moment, all that surrounds me could be gone. Yet I also know that it
comes back when you least expect it. Happiness is always around the
corner, sometimes it's up to us to lose our way, and find it.
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Poetry:
Office Affairs i, ii aurore_ca
Office Affairs
i.
I get a whiff of your cologne,
And wonder what
could be
should be
But never
would be
Because you belong to
another
And you want her to be the
mother
Of your children.
She's merely a
receptacle
(For your seeds.)
I don't see why
She should be an
obstacle
And I wonder what
You would say
If I made a
spectacle
Of my love.
ii.
I love it when we're
together
And often wonder
whether
You know.
Do you ever think of me
Other than my
position
Do you want me
As an
aquisition
The way that other men do?
Do you ever think it
unfair
That you cannot
wear
Your heart on your sleeve
Because of that shining
band
Embedded on your
hand.
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The Fossil Matt Boyd
Singularity
Stars don't twinkle
Stars
Thighs that can't stop shuddering
Point in space
Down to a singularity
Motion its own antithesis
Universe down to a singularity
A kiss into a black hole
Lips I already think about forever
Stars no points in space
A point in a vacuum
How can a point in
A vacuum twinkle
I'm very far away
nothing escapes
I'll always be here
Left a prayer hanging in the space above your head
Lost in the soft around your teeth
Your permanent skull
Worked down to a singularity
Lips like a couch
Everything swings back and forth
Timing built to deny the passage of time
no light no heat
The atomic clock turned over and opened
it's insides quivering and serious
Works that measure motionlessness
Vibration begets stillness
The constellation called the skeleton
The love for your permanent parts
The paint light moon
over dot matrix clouds
A fossil dancing on a pinhead
A tuning fork in its epilepsy
Giving birth to stone
Almost still
Bone tools
Sharpened to absolutes
Venus DeMilo lost her arms willingly
Your breath frozen in your throat
Concrete in a mineshaft
Your fossil
ticking like a star
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Lament of Nations I, II David Getzin
I.
The whole that is Society
Crystallizes into Silicon-based
Senses of numb well-being
This, this ; is this Nietzche's Nightmare?
This beautiful scattering of rotting
Rainbow Byproducts?
Fragments look at itself
Smoking opiates called
INTERACTIVE
Race ahead to Bed
As you pay
House
Boys;
typing
Papers for
New business--
--Inventions:
that-
Keep on keeping on , and on and on, And...
This, this is the Insomnia of Bliss.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Your waking Dreams of National Notions are broken
As two universes collide;
Imploding, deteriorating into
Co-existences of Anarchy
Three-hundred years of oppression Ignite-
With regime toppling force.
In fights all is blind.
The meek inherit the Earth,
Shaking off humble
Dust, and
Trust strains his taut sinews as Grim Truth realizes
that-
As you praised with one paternally Patronizing hand,
The other was flung in disgust
At your burdened beasts.
That favored hand rises to your Forehead, wiping away
Perspiration that comes from such Hard work
This exaltation, this elegant gesture Of superiority
is all that
separates Them from-
You; this prospect frightens you.
Now, is trial by water! Now, is your Baptism of fire
that screams
down
>From every direction singing;
"pay for your sins wh i t e boy!"
End of game, end of false love,
End of convention,
End of fame-
For the likes of Pizzaro and Custer.
A frown, a frown?
Wherefore do you Weep?
While you were asleep all You
Wished on them is
Accomplished!
I try speaking, but my mouth is Stopped with thoughts
who
Shout me at 5000 miles a
Minute,
Screaming, "Apres moi le deluge."
as-
All falls down, crumbling
whisp'ly- thin !
Start over, turn over,
try to make amends;
I turn myself facing me as
My delicateness faints so -carefully
Saved; saved by nonsensical mercies of a Hated Shylock
who must have
Ulterior motives .
He can not love you ; you can't -
He will not save you; you won't-
You, deserve this ?
You, are an exception to be accepted?
Will the palace you built for Yourself Be as high in
eyes of
Others?
Will it still be all bright and dung- Polished, with
the blood and
sweat
Of others?
If all were like you would your World still be
demolished?
Instead you are fearfully fleeing to Forests of the
unknown
Paranoia, the unnecessary, evil;
Enemy of trust waits in bushes,
Peering through rusted fronds,
Biding its time-
Drinking the brine of its poison you
You think yourself refreshed;
Defending; defeating all Insurrections within your
mind.
Leaving no stone un-demolished, you
build-
You build your Magenoit lines, Circumventing your
superior pride to
shelter-
You, a hero,
You, an example.
Hail conquering transgressors
Who build Bridges on new frontiers!
You, who wake enemies' fears
Why, O why such confusion?
Why, the constant illusion?
Incoherently speaking to masks of Convention clouds
the mind so!
Go! go ahead; with intimate language peel words away.
We stare into blank faces,
Communicating traces of longing-
When all outlets are permanently plugged,
When convention is the only way,
Do you think alone in
Perpetuity?
Do thoughts completely cease like West wind in a
letter box?
Or do they become furious, Congested, bouncing off
each Other like
angry
tennis balls in tin Cans, mightily crushing
Spirit-Flowers that are mankind?
O, set free all collective streams of Consciousness;
too many have run
Dry
too long!
-"Want is insatiable"-,
A monster that it itself
Devours before multiplying;
Trying to encompass universes
With needles' eyes.
Ghandigi; indig'nous lib'rator, your
Wise words still ring true!
O, pull away blinding luxury!
See life as it truly is-
With layers of congealed
Convention Peeled away, selves Shimmer through.
You have done this, Yes!
Seeing exorbitant external faces Slowly melt,
revealing
A soul, lowly within the heart.
Yes; you have always done it!
We long to touch-
to reach across Gaping chasms of ethnicity.
This haze this maze of
Fog obscures our lives; blowing and Binding weaved
walls to hem us in;
Keeping us from finding our way
Home; Edens of our soul.
To reach through the other side is
To hope,
To love,
To do all which is good.
To rise above earthly din,
Plant warm flames in the Wilderness of Sin and
Traverse time.
Slip through the ages
Tap our
Primordyal kinship.
To search seascapes of souls,
To find a beauty that binds us all as
I- ONE -o
Step out into the rain,
Wash ugly society off from all curvatious contours of
your
Body!
For it is society that has made you Ashamed of this
beautiful organism!
You see as insecurity this lovely Congruence of fluid
motion that
Strides across seas,
Climbs mountains-on-high,
Fells forests of trees;
These likenesses of
gods.
who looks(note to editointentional-keep plural) at
Us from inside mirrors
now only Snagged with
Business propaganda's
Hateful-hooks.
Set it free so that it may fly high!
For you are so beautiful, and as you Should be.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
In the distance, two pin-points of Focused light
converge; Fearfully
Flickering in their attempted joining behind
translucent walls that
Separate them.
Glass is non-rescindable, bred into
Threads that weave their way in And out of our lives-
Invisible; yet standing as
Proof that separate, glimm'ring lights Exist.
Break glass!
Break all obstructions!
And-
Crass-Cracked convention will be Skittered Across
plains of existence
Like
sand Softly tossed into Endlessly Swimming seas~~~
Then, only then will lustrous Lanyards
Intermix; become variants combined In one spectrum.
Today, we come so-so close to that
moment!
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hey kids, that's just under 80K of textual goodness we just hit you with
and you loved every minute of it. but this is getting unwieldly ready to
burst at the seams especially as the subscriptions and submissions keep
coming in--so from here on out we'll be setting up a webpage and instead
of whole issues you'll be getting e-mails telling you when the site has
been updated (every 2 weeks unless submissions pick up so much we have to
go weekly).
next issue look for us to begin running more editorials and reviews, so if
you have anything of that nature send it in, and all the prose and poetry
you can lay on us is always welcome. send it all, as well as comments, to
gybberish@yahoo.com
4/29/2000
