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// “THE FINAL ISSUE” \\
(( 18/11/04 anada528 ))
\) (/
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
Anada. aNAda. Everything and nothing.
Yes, it's been well over four years, even with the last two being
sporadic in output at best. My last excuse was difficulty dealing with
the loss of MS-DOS TEXT for formatting, but the latest is merely feeling
that it's time to give a fair funeral to a medium I have long since
neglected and have otherwise poured out my work in other places across the
universe. So, with this, it's a fond farewell to Anada. The archives, the
spirit of the writers, and everything else will live on. Thanks for
reading, and see you on the other side.
--gloomchen (anada.gloomchen.com)
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
TABLE OF CONTENTS
“Mamma” by HapyHzrd .................................................line 60
“Crying Time For The Cherokee” by Astrid Bullen .....................line 80
“Sitting Here, Listening To The Velvets” by Mr. Walking Abortion ...line 274
“The Return of Geoff” by Grimbo ....................................line 317
“Peace” by Freako ..................................................line 527
“Why I'm Not A Feminist” by Jackalope City Rebel ...................line 573
“Lay For a Sacrificial Lamb at a Meeting” by E.J. ...................line 41
“New York Code Orange Jaisini New Art Series” by Yustas .............line 71
“Sir Stuart Harding” by mickle@terra.com.br ........................line 274
“Stupidity: Its Uses And Abuses” by Robert Levin ...................line 317
“The Aprocrypha of the Sands” by Charlie Gordon ....................line 323
“Post-Adolescent Journey” by Effy ..................................line 527
“Funded Research” by Higgins .......................................line 573
“A Self Centered Essayist Writes” by Mr. Walking Abortion ..........line 317
“Unfair Standish” by Omid Bachari ..................................line 323
“Je pense le pipe c'est mieux” by The Corpse .......................line 232
“Strange Residue: Sighting #3” by Ann Chiappetta ...................line 232
“Here Ya Go” by Infernal ...........................................line 527
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
“Mamma”
By HapyHzrd
My mother's name, my mother's name. In my mother's name, I cannot kill. I
will not lie, I shall not steal.
†
when the matriarch is gone
†
and there is nothing to fall back on
†
will I still remain the same?
†
living my life in my mother's name?
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
“Crying Time For The Cherokee”
By Astrid Bullen
When I first met Savannah Rose, we were both little girls, sharing a
tree-stump listening to Grandfather's yarns. We lived in the Southern
Appalachian Mountains, in Georgia, our Enchanted Land, and we were the
Ani-Yun' wiya - the Principal People.
“We were pushed here because of wars between the Iroquois and the
Delaware,” Grandfather said, “and this is where the white man met us. We
were never the same after that.” He went on to describe how our people
became objects of the slave trade to the extent that a tribal delegation was
sent to the Royal Governor of South Carolina to protect us from Congaree,
Catawba and Savannah slave-catchers. Our history abounded with tales of
military prowess and political intrigue, and our culture was irreversibly
altered by white settlers. We adopted many of their customs, and even as
Grandfather spoke, my mother was repairing a ball gown for Savannah Rose's
older sister.
The next time Savannah Rose came by, she wanted to hear Grandfather
again.
“Your village doesn't have a Grandfather?” I asked, puzzled by her
earnestness.
“Of course we do,” she snapped back, but she could not look at me.
“And this is my village now, anyway.”
Grandfather was happy to tell the “little newcomer,” as he called
Savannah Rose, all about Sequoyah and his work on a written representation of
our language.
Two years later, in 1830, President Andrew Jackson signed the Indian
Removal Act, because, he said, “no state could achieve proper culture,
civilization, and progress, as long as Indians remain within its boundaries.”
That was the beginning of our troubles.
Grandfather said that over the last forty winters, white settlers pushed
back our frontiers. They also increased the population of Georgia six-fold.
Originally, whites were forbidden on the land that was inhabited by the
Cherokees, but that law was often ignored. Our people had ceded land to the
settlers, but this did nothing to quench the insatiable thirst for land that
the Georgians had. The whites resented us because they saw other uses for
our homelands. Many of our people moved to Arkansas and settled near the St.
Francis River to avoid white settlers. They were happy to leave their homes
forever and go far into the West, where the white man could never follow
them.
Then the white man found gold in the land, and killing of Native
Americans and theft of our land became federal policy. The white man's lust
for gold and land was all-consuming.
“I heard that the government is confiscating our land,” I heard my
father telling my mother.
“What's confiscating?” I whispered to my older brother. He shooed me
away, because he was old enough to take part in grown-up conversations. I
went two doors down to Savannah Rose's house, and found her with her mother
and sister.
“President Jackson is giving the land to the whites,” Sav's sister
Chemaya was saying. “Junaluska should never have saved his life. That's
how he's repaying the Cherokee nation?”
“But can't we do anything?” Sav's mother asked. “Can't we appeal to
them in some way?”
“We can't even testify in their courts,” said Chemaya. “No, Mother,
there is very little we can do.”
Savannah Rose looked worried as we walked to the stream, and I was so
frightened I could not speak. If they took our land, where would we live?
What would become of our little log house with its broken top step that my
father was always meaning to mend so we wouldn't break our necks? What
would become of us?
Our chiefs tried hard to keep Georgia and the United States from
taking our homeland. Chemaya told us that they challenged the Removal Act
in the U.S. Supreme Court, and John Marshall, the Chief Justice, ruled that
we were a sovereign nation, and removal laws were invalid. Only the federal
government could deal with a sovereign nation, and they could only do it
with a treaty. That made me and Savannah Rose feel better, although we
didn't know what all the big words meant.
A few more winters passed, and Sav and I had more chores to do and
less time to play. But we could now butt in when our parents spoke, and we
stayed around when Chemaya arrived breathless from the council house.
“Stand Watie and John Ridge just sold our land to the whites,” she
gasped, holding her sides.
“What?” her mother shrieked. “You're sure, Chemaya? They don't have
the authority to do that.”
“Well, they did, and they signed a treaty, and now the federal
government can remove us, Mother,” Chemaya said, with tears welling up in her
eyes. We heard the government paid each of the 20 people who signed the
treaty $2000. Not a bad sum. Our chief, John Ross, found his legal appeals
against the illegal Treaty to be fruitless.
My nation was forced to move to the west of the Mississippi in 1838.
Grandfather was long dead, and I was now a young woman ready for marriage.
“We are now about to take our leave and kind farewell to our native lands,
the country that the Great Spirit gave our Fathers,” Vice Chief Charles Hicks
said as we prepared to go. “We are on the eve of leaving that country that
gave us birth Ö it is with sorrow that we are forced by the white man to quit
the scenes of our childhood Ö we bid farewell to it and all we hold dear.”
My family left the concentration camp in Rattlesnake Springs in June,
and we were the first group driven west under federal guard during the ethnic
cleansing of the southeast United States. Thousands of people had died at
the camp during the spring from illnesses brought on by the lack of clean
water and proper waste treatment. It was a rude awakening for us.
“Cherokees!” General Winfield Scott had shouted when he addressed our
people in May. “The President of the United States has sent me with a
powerful army, to cause you, in obedience to the treaty of 1835, to join that
part of your people who have already established in prosperity on the other
side of the Mississippi. Unhappily, the two years that were allowed for the
purpose, you have suffered to pass away without following, and without making
any preparation to follow, and now, or by the time that this solemn address
shall reach your distant settlements, the emigration must be commenced in
haste, but I hope without disorder.”
They began to round us up soon afterward. The Georgia Militia barged
into our little log house with their bayonets and forced us to leave
immediately, and made us live in a stockade for several weeks. White
looters followed, ransacking our homesteads as we were led away. I saw them
making off with our cows, pigs and chickens, and it frustrated me because I
could not stop them. Grandfather's wife was forced out of her cabin at
gunpoint ñ they gave her only moments to collect cherished possessions.
Somehow we became separated from my older brother and his new wife ñ we never
saw them again.
Now we were embarking on a long journey in worn-out moccasins, to endure
countless river crossings with only blankets for warmth. As we marched, we
received rations of corn, oats and fodder, and the hunters supplied meat out
of the woods. Each morning when we broke camp we were told how far we had to
go and in what direction. The hunters would spread out like a fan and go
through the woods to the next camping place, usually about ten miles ahead.
This journey ñ our Trail of Tears, made our mothers cry and grieve so
much, they were unable to help us children survive. The chiefs prayed for
a sign to lift the mothers' spirits and give them strength to care for us.
From that day forward, a beautiful new flower, a rose, grew wherever a
mother's tear fell to the ground. The rose is white, the color of the
teardrops. It has a gold center, for the gold taken form the Cherokee
lands, and seven leaves on each stem that represent the seven Cherokee clans
that made the journey.
We camped for several weeks near a creek in Southern Illinois. One day
Savannah Rose and I walked through town with some other girls. As we passed
a hotel one of the girls, a slave named Priscilla, went up to a man standing
in the doorway and asked him, “Are you Marse Silkwood?”
The man was indeed Marse Silkwood, and he recognized her from a
plantation in Georgia. He bought her from the chief who owned her for
$1,000. Some girls have all the luck.
That night, my father, Savannah Rose and I huddled around the fire,
comforting my mother as she got weaker and weaker Ö she was with the Great
Spirit by morning. Cholera broke out and death was among us hourly. We
buried our dead close to the trail. The drought was severe and our children
suffered greatly. Of the 800 persons that left with our group, 489 arrived.
The groups that followed ours were luckier, because Chief John Ross made
an urgent appeal to General Winfield Scott, requesting that Cherokees lead
their tribe west. In September he won additional funds for food and
clothing.
We relocated to Oklahoma, and set up a government, churches and schools,
newspapers and books, and businesses. We named our capital Tahlequah. But
part of me was missing. My best friend, Savannah Rose, and her family found
refuge in the Snowbird Mountains and stayed there. There likely will never
be a Cherokee child called Andrew ñ no such honor to the man who caused so
much suffering with his anti-Indian policies.
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
“Sitting Here, Listening To the Velvets and the Sound of a Black Sky”
By Mr. Walking Abortion
Well, more misanthropic rantings like the last one. No. I'm not so
angry today. I may take a walk outside and look at passers by, I might
wonder about urbanisation, I might wonder about my day job and think about
if I'm leading it or if its leading me. Don't fear your diseases, get your
scalpel out and hack away with a grin on your face.
I might even listen to my Velvet Underground album that I think is so
great. Or PJ Harvey. Or Nirvana. Or the Chameleons "Script of the Bridge"
for that matter. The important thing is that I enjoy it. That we enjoy it
all the more and don't worry about terrorists blowing up our "little red hot
shit" - Edward Norton, Fight Club. That we don't fear getting cancer,
getting mangled by an elevator or by being left on our own at 60 with no one
to love us. Cross the bridge when you come to it and then pour kerosene on
the foundations. Life is not worth worrying about. Not that much anyway.
I like "Father Ted". I think everybody in the world should give art a
chance. I think everybody should watch "Father Ted" and "The Breakfast Club"
at least once in their life. I think everyone should listen to "In Utero",
"The Holy Bible" (the album not the book), "Doolittle" and the song "Brand
New Life" by Young Marble Giants at least once. Come on guys, they are much
a piece of art as Van Gogh's "Self Portrait with Bandaged Ear" or the roof of
the Cistern Chapel.
Dirty words. Are there any left? Any taboos? Fuck. Cunt. Piss.
Shit. I don't like saying fu, hang on a minute, back up, back up, scrap it.
Bullshit. Let's stop swearing. I don't want to see anyone in the class
swear ever again and then we can all just evolve.
Revol. Evol. Eh, Devol. There you go.
Do you think it would take longer to drive all the way along Dylans
"Highway 61" or cross Springsteen's "Nebraska" on horseback. Go on then,
which one is it.
Float down a stream. Life is but a stream. Blah, blah, blah, blah.
Who wants to call bullshit first.
My stream of consciousness has run dry.
My bones hurt, the sky is black, it's raining and I have little to look forward
to.
Hang on.
Hang on.
Go on.
Go on.
Say what you have to say.
Speak.
Speak.
Peak.
Peak.
Eak.
Eak.
Ak.
A.
A.
K.
K.
Say the alphabet backwards and call me back when you reach A.
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
“The Return of Geoff”
By Grimbo
'Alas' said Geoff, peering into his codpiece, 'It appears my quimwedge
is less than adequate for the task in hand'
'Relax' said the small banana, 'If your quimwedge lacks the power
needed then I shall taketh thee to the king of the weasel people and his
queen the stoat lady. In their palace of radiators they shall giveth thee
the knowledge needed for quimwedge enhancement'
'Is it a long journey?' asked Geoff, unaware of the road ahead.
'That it is' replied the banana, 'But it is one we shall undertake
together'.
So it was that the banana and Geoff set off on their trek to the kingdom
of the Weasel king, seeking the palace of radiators. Little did Geoff know
of his true place in the world, or the sad fate which would befall his
companion the banana.
It was at some point during the second week of their trek, just outside
the borders of the kingdom of the Weasel King that Geoff and the banana ran
into some difficulties. They were just leaving the Slartibartfast forest
when they ran into a group of destitute and panicky looking badgers.
'Ho there' said Geoff, confident in his knowledge that Badgers were on
the whole friendly people.
'Be you enemy?' spluttered the leading badger coughing up blood onto
the floor.
'You poor bastard' screamed the banana dropping to his knees to assist
the Badger, 'What happened to you to cause such hardship?'
'The banana' shouted the fallen badger, 'our redemption is here'.
With this the entire troop of badgers dropped to their knees and began
chanting a strange song.
'Redemption?' said Geoff 'Us?'
'Yes' replied the Badger, still nursed in the arms of the banana, 'For
it is written that when the banana comes we shall be saved from our terrible
ailment'
'What's that?' asked Geoff, suddenly realising there was a bourbon
biscuit in his hand which he gave to a very hungry looking badger
'Well you see, we all have tuberculosis. Many years ago our ancestors
did a deal with the sultan of the mushroom people. He allowed us to eat
small amounts of a very special mushroom which grows only in a remote part of
Slartibartfast forest' said the badger before collapsing into a serious
coughing fit which resulted in a large pile of blood and mucous being
deposited on the floor, 'This mushroom has magical powers which stop us
getting tuberculosis. However, about one year ago the snake came. He is an
evil snake and he has taken over the part of the forest where our mushrooms
grow. That is why we are all dying'
'That is terrible' said Geoff, handing a spontaneous large Garibaldi to
another Badger, 'The banana and I will help you, where is the snake?'
'I ISSSS HERE AND WISSSSHHH TO DESSSTROY YOUR BANANA' said a booming,
hissing voice from behind.
Geoff whirled round to see a snake about three metres high in front of
him. The snake was an off purple colour with green stripes running all the
way down his back. His head was about the size of a man's with massive fangs
as long as Geoff's forearms. The snake darted forward biting the fallen
badger who instantly vaporised. 'I HASSS NO QUARRELSSS WITH YOU, GEOFF' said
the snake, 'GIVE ME YOUR BANANA'
'Never' said Geoff placing himself between the snake and the banana.
Suddenly, Geoff heard a screaming sound, like an old fan belt screech and
felt a rush of air past his ear. 'I know what I must do' screamed the
banana.
Surprised, Geoff stumbled backwards away from the banana and suddenly
felt his weight supported. He turned around to see a stack of hob-nobs
behind him where before there had been only forest, behind which the rest of
the tuberculosis stricken badgers were hiding. Bemused, Geoff was awoken
from his concentration by screams behind him.
On turning around, Geoff saw the banana and the snake locked in a
massive battle. The snake, obviously the stronger party was attacking in an
almost pendulum motion, rocking back and striking, rocking back and striking.
Every time the snake struck, the banana just jumped out of the way, and as
the snake recoiled each time the banana jabbed his short sword into the
snake.
'Banana, noooooooooooo' shouted Geoff, scared for his friend engaged in
a fight to the death.
'LEAVE USSSSSSSSSSS' shouted the snake in return before recoiling for
another attack.
'I know what I must do, great one' said the banana looking at Geoff
before dropping his sword and looking straight at the snake.
'YOU LACKSSS MY SSSSSSTRENGTH' laughed the snake at the banana, raising
himself up high and opening his mouth wider then Geoff had ever seen before.
'Strike me down and I will become more powerful than you could possibly
imagine' challenged the banana, still resolute in his position.
Propelled into action by the mortal danger that the banana had placed
himself in, Geoff lurched forward, but it was too late. The snake struck
fast and true, immediately engulfing the banana in his gargantuan mouth.
'YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS HAHAHAHAHAHA' guffawed the snake as he brought his
eyes to rest on the badgers behind the pile of hob-nobs. 'Never' defied
Geoff, enraged by the fate of the banana, once again placing himself between
the snake and its prey 'You'll have to go through me'
'SSSOOOOOO BE IT' said the snake, beginning his advance on Geoff.
Every muscle, nerve and hair in Geoff's' body tensed, ready to try to
stop the advance of the evil snake. About a metre away from Geoff, however,
the snakes eyes suddenly went cloudy, 'WHAT'SSSSSS THISSSSSSSSS?' he hissed
before collapsing on the floor, his mouth wide open.
Geoff peered inside to see the banana wedged sideways in the snakes
Gullet, his tiny yellow form blocking the snake's windpipe. The badgers
gathered around behind Geoff, many in tears, looking morosely at the fallen
body of the hero fruit. 'Geoff' said the banana almost at a whisper, 'I did
what I must to protect you and now I die. This was my fate and I accept it.
You must now accept yours and hurry on to the palace of radiators and fulfil
the prophecy of your quimwedge'
'No' said Geoff, 'You can't go, you mustn't'
'I can and I will' said the banana, now speaking in little more than a
croak, 'The badgers will assist you in your journey to the weasel king and
the stoat lady. Now it is my time to go, but remember: don't cry for me
Slartibartfast, the truth is ill never leave you'. And with that, the banana
breathed his last breath.
Collapsing to his knees, Geoff buried his head in his hands and lean
forward to remove the banana from the jaws of the snake. Now openly crying,
Geoff placed the banana gently on the floor and got out his shovel. In
absolute silence Geoff began to dig a grave for the saviour of the badgers of
slartibartfast, and was soon assisted by all of the woodland creatures. The
burial was fast and efficient, with the yellow hero soon deposited into the
earth.
'We must have a headstone for the banana' said Geoff to the assembled
creatures, 'who will help me?'. At this precise moment, as if by magic a
massive digestive biscuit the size of a monster truck wheel appeared over the
grave of the banana. The normal biscuit text was no longer there, replaced
simply by, 'Here lies the little banana, He beat the Snake and redeemed the
badgers. Remember Him'. Confused by the appearance of such an object, Geoff
turned and resumed his trek towards the radiator palace, leaving the banana
to rest.
About a week later, Geoff arrived at the radiator palace, still
depressed at the fate of his little fruity friend. On his approach to the
doors, two guardsmen crossed their halberds in front of him.
'And who be you' drawled the more portly of the two guardsmen, swaying
slightly from, what Geoff assumed must have been a somewhat liquid lunch,
'No-one comes in without an appointment'
'I am Geoff' Geoff replied, 'I have come to see the weasel king and
the stoat lady about expanding my quim-wedge'
'Now have you indeed?' jested the guardsmen, taking his halberd and
waving it at Geoff, 'And can you prove this in anyway?'
'No, I'm Geoff, I came with the banana but he's dead now, look I have to
see the king, please?'
Once again as if by magic, something very strange happened. Just before
the guardsmen who had challenged Geoff to prove his identity could sneer
another challenge at him, a gigantic chocolate chip cookie fell from the
heavens, breaking over the guard, crushing him quite completely. The second
guard looked in horror at Geoff and dropped to his knees, quivering and
saying, 'I am sorry your holiness, so sorry, please proceed'. 'Err... thank
you' said Geoff, looking with equal horror at the pair of feed protruding
from underneath the massive cookie, 'That had nothing to do with me you
know?'. The guard said nothing, still kneeling with his head bowed and
shaking. Deciding to chalk this one to experience, Geoff entered the palace
and walked into the throne room.
The weasel king was the size of a normal man, and was obviously quite
old as his fur was greying. Despite the interspecies issues, Geoff could see
that the stoat lady was beautiful. Not only was she death defiantly pretty,
she carried herself with an air of grace Geoff had never seen before.
'Welcome Geoff' said the weasel King and Stoat Lady in unison.
'Hi' said Geoff, bowing.
'You do not bow for us, but us for you, o revered one' replied the
weasel king.
'What?' asked Geoff, 'You're the king, I'm just Geoff?'
'SO you haven't figured it out yet?' asked the stoat lady.
'Figured what out' said Geoff
'Your true nature' retorted the Weasel King, 'Have you not noticed?
You must have noticed by now... why look even now there is a jammy dodger in
your hand'
Geoff lifted up his hand and looked. It was empty, he looked up at the
weasel King who gestured at Geoff's left hand which he lifted. When Geoff
opened it he saw a jammy dodger in his left palm. Startled, Geoff dropped
the biscuit and looked at the monarch of the radiator palace questioningly.
'Was it not obvious in the slartibartfast forest, when the biscuits
appeared that you gave to the badgers, or the wall of biscuits which
protected them, or poor bananas gravestone?' questioned the Stoat Lady.
'How do you know of banana? How do you know of our journey and the
struggle? The biscuits weren't my fault, it just happened.'
'Well, I'll answer your questions in order Geoff. First off all,
banana was our servant and friend, we sent him to find you, and he knew what
must happen on his journey to prepare you for our meeting. For that reason
we know of the journey and all that has befallen you since you and banana
left to seek our palace. Thirdly, the biscuits were your fault.' Said the
stoat king in slow patient tones, 'Have you not noticed the regard people
hold you in, the way you are different, fundamentally to everyone else. Or
that strange things involving biscuits always happen around you?'
'Well of course I have, but I can't help it? How is it possible that
it is me causing these things?' despaired Geoff.
'Geoff,' replied the stoat lady, holding his glance with her beautiful
eyes, 'You are the GOD of biscuits'
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
“Peace”
By Freako
Somebody once said, “Shall I compare thee to a summers day”,
I say, shall I compare thee to the heavens
For thine love is far more beautiful,
and more present to me than anything physical in this world
The keys to your heart do I hold
Yet you hold two hearts,
Yours and mine
I lose myself in thy words
I sit and wait for ye to chat with me
I sit and wait for the day,
The day we can sit next to each other
Hold your body, I will,
close to mine,
The warmth of our bodies canceling out the cold
And rainy weather in the atmosphere
I am lost,
I am lost inside your person,
Yet so at peace
I see the way out but go the other way
At peace am I
Yes, I am at peace
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
“Why I'm Not a Feminist”
By Jackalope City Rebel
Soooooo yeah I'm not a feminist. Don't get me wrong, there is
something unique and 'special' about being a girl, and sometimes I get all
whimsy about being emotionally gifted and capable of giving birth and all of
that other great stuff, but the bottom line is I don't think that makes part
of the "superior" gender. I think that men and women are two distinct parts
of a species that requires both of them equally although suited for different
purposes in order to function.
With all of this said I'm so fucking tired of people who think that
it's their personal mission in life to dig for repression in every corner and
look down their pierced noses at you for not doing the same.
I came across a former-friend's webjournal (never put anything you don't
want anyone to see on the net because rest assured, I will find and exploit
it) this evening which proclaimed "...I'm taking my new Anti-Nowhere League
CD back to Sonic, It's too misogynistic..." then later "I bought The
Distillers new CD, Brody doesn't even TRY to be a feminist or show grrrl
power, she's just a sex symbol..."
Granted this girl is a flavor-of-the-week activist and goes on in her
textfiles to describe her protest of "Bush-Cheney" stickers on public
property and her note passing to a fellow outcast inviting him to an anti-war
rally ("B there or B republican").
It's safe to just write her off as another person on a list of idiots
and roll my eyes at her next time she tries to tell me that I only shave my
legs as part of a male-biased ideal. She doesn't really hurt anybody, she
just makes a joke out of herself by standing for nothing. The people I have
a REAL problem with cause REAL havoc.
I spent the other night talking to yet another former-friend (and
notorious pseudo-feminazi) who has been spinning this story for months about
being brutally beaten by her ex-boyfriend. Since I had been hanging out with
her ex since our friendship had dissolved, she felt it was her job as a
"friend" to warn me about what a total Ike Turner this guy is.
She lays down the conspiratorial, leaned-over-the-truck-stop-booth voice
and gives me the sordid account of what happened "the worst night of her
life." She tells me the tale of her coming to his house and having a drunken
heated dispute, then in the middle of it all, SHE punches HIM in the face and
he shoves her off of him and proceeds to tell her to get the fuck out. And
I'm thinking-
ANNNNNNNNNDDDDDDDDDDDDD??????
It's okay for girls to hit guys, as long as the guy doesn't do anything
back because then it's Domestic Violence? Then it's misogyny? THEN IT'S NOT
FUCKING OKAY?
After she swallowed back her crocodile tears and dramatically started
smoking, she had the 'feminist flat nuts' enough to say - "I knew you would
understand because you've been beaten up by guys too."
Then I had to smile and thank her for "warning me" and get the hell out
of there before I gave her a non-fiction ass beating she could tell all of
her little activist friends about. How could she compare her little skirmish
in which SHE was the one out of control to me having to have my cheek bone
rebuilt after my boyfriend at the time pounded my face into a sliding door
for smiling at his friend?
I can't even think about her anymore without feeling a sick pearl of
anger inside me now. She's branded this guy as a thumper because since she
is a girl and he pushed her away in a violent altercation. When the bottom
line is SHE IS THE ABUSER!
I think it's a terrible fucking thing that women were repressed. I
think it's terrible that women are beaten and raped, and I DO NOT IN ANY WAY
THINK THAT THOSE ACTIONS ARE JUSTIFIABLE.
BUT by the same token all it takes to totally wreck a guy's life is to
finger him as a rapist or abuser whether he is or not (although I think
ANYONE male or female, who actually does rape or physically abuse deserves
every negative repercussion that comes their way.)
I don't think this girl realized what a feminist she IS NOT for doing
what she did. If she truly believed that men and women are equal or that
women are superior she should have either A) never punched the guy in the
first place or B) encouraged him to knock her fucking block off for hitting
him first. Nor do I think she understands the gravity of the situation she
has caused for this guy by her shooting her mouth off saying that she got her
ass beaten.
I don't think that EVERY feminist thinks the way that these two loony
bitches think. I don't think that there is anything WRONG with feminism,
unless you're a feminist pulling shit like "victim girl" or telling me to
stop shaving my armpits, that I'm only wearing a dress because it's
aesthetically pleasing to men, that I shouldn't watch horror movies because
they're exploiting women, I shouldn't listen to any band with female members
who don't spout off on who great it is to be a woman, that I can't say the
word 'cunt' or call someone a 'bitch', or slandering the reputation of a guy
who didn't do anything wrong but piss you off...
Because...
Then you'll be wiping my lipstick flecked spit off of your face and
counting high-heeled bruise marks on your ass because unlike all of you
pseudo activists I WILL stand up for something that I believe is wrong. I
have no problem at all dismantling tyrannical girls who think they are better
than me because I don't feel the need to nut a guy just for looking my way,
or to tell me WHY I'm dressed or acting the way that I do, or worst of all
cry wolf. In all honesty, I can better control myself and choose my battles
in a room full of chauvinistic guys than I can with one preachy fucking
feminazi.
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
“Lay For a Sacrificial Lamb At a Meeting”
By EJ
I heard you presentin' something to the boys up-town
And I heard you'll be a slaggin' me down-town
And I heard a lot things that you'll be pullin' ñout
As I do the kind of things ñto give you doubt
So I won't go out like that
Cause I don't believe in rats
And I don't want to think that
I'd be going out like that
And I won't go out like that
Cause I don't believe in cats
And I don't want to think that
I'd be going out like that
You say you gotta think
So I'm gonna take a drink
Let you think
I'm gonna stink
And you're gonna have ta think
Bout the times ya screwed up here
And the times you messed up there
And the times you bust your bud
But I don't care
Cause I won't go out like that
Cause I don't believe in that
And I don't want to think that
I'll be going out like that
You'll be putting me on a pedestal some-where
Hanging me to dry-out out back in no-where
And then my name be tarnished there and else-where
Just to name it
You can blame it
Cause it's there
But I won't go out like that
And I don't want to be your mat
And I don't want to think that
You're that kind of rat
So I'll put on a presentation for ya somehow
Bring some Coffee and some Munchkins cause I been down
Try to find a good reason for your furrowed brow
Or take a minute on my head to place a thorned crown
So I might go out like that
And I hope you'll feed my cats
And I know you that you'll still think that
I'm still fine with that
But I won't be fine with that
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
“New York Code Orange Jaisini New Art Series”
By Yustas
The creativity of Jaisini is not designed to be preaching or too
critical. Paul Jaisini reached his level of mastership to know exactly that
life is worth living to look in the future having no regrets about the past.
In the aftermath of Sept. 11, there was a motto for New Yorkers to go
on living and conducting business as usual in order to fight the very concept
of terrorism, fear. And being cosmopolitan as Londoners or people of world
greatest cities, New Yorkers prove to be hard to scare.
The spirit of a great city is reflected in the cutting edge works of
Jaisini. There is a given subject and a special atmosphere, but to Jaisini,
it would not fulfil his artistic ambition to simply record the rubble and
destruction.
Every picture dedicated to NYC in code orange is a mini scenario for a
performance with different characters, roles, subtexts and screenplays.
Every character in Jaisini's visual rendition of NYC in code orange is
usually a typical New Yorker conducting daily life and encountering an
unusual situation as viewed by the art director who came up with his own
vision of what life could be like in a city that is no longer troubled.
To create such visual scenarios technically, Jaisini had to work with
photos as he would with oil paintings or watercolors i.e. manually and
without any automatic options, as this would reduce the degree of realism he
aimed to achieve through the control of light and pictorial depth.
Perhaps what has been created in the New York series is a glimpse of
what New York streets could look like in a futuristic utopia with perpetually
developing scenarios of human life.
Jaisini shows that unlimited potential exists in a snap shot of
contemporary life. That is why Jaisini's art works are highly demanded and
anticipated.
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
“Sir Stuart Harding”
By mickle@terra.com.br
when i extrapolated your presence i witnessed the moniker of a Siamese
feline being in my directive presence
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
“Stupidity: Its Uses And Abuses”
By Robert Levin
It's time to take punitive action against an insidious and rapidly
proliferating menace to our emotional well being. I'm speaking, of course,
of "service industry" people who are embracing the dumbing down craze too
enthusiastically and who, doubtless incapable of even masturbating by
themselves any more, regularly perpetrate nerve-rattling, mood-curdling,
faculty-numbing and spirit-withering indignities against us.
Let me hasten to say that I value stupidity as much as the next man.
I do. Stupidity is, after all, the best solution we've come up with to the
mother of all problems itself, the problem of being mortal. Enabling us to
recast the grimmest of existential givens -- making it possible to believe
not only that we've seen the image of John the Baptist on two separate taco
chips but that our sightings are proof-positive of a Second Coming and the
prospect of salvation and eternal life -- stupidity is the most effective
means available to reduce terror and panic (the human default condition) to
a relatively tolerable disquietude. So I respect stupidity. Okay? I think,
in fact, that stupidity has been, since the origin of consciousness, a marvel
of human resourcefulness. Indeed, as a response to the human condition, I
think that stupidity is rivaled in its genius only by schizophrenia!
But while my regard for stupidity is equal to anyone's, I also think
it's important to remember that (if for no other reason than simple decency)
the ancient Greek admonition, "anything in moderation," has application even
here.
I mean for all of its utility as a buffer against existential dread,
stupidity is an unruly thing that can have -- when it's exercised
intemperately, when no effort is made to confine it to its purpose -- a very
negative impact on people who are subjected to it. Yes, it's crucial to our
ability to function at all that we not always recognize too clearly that
death is both inevitable and final. But if you're a bank teller it can pose
a major challenge to your customer's medication when you've truncated your
brain so drastically that you can't be certain if it's Ben Franklin or Tom
Snyder who appears on a hundred-dollar bill. (Hold this last thought for
just a moment.)
Now to illustrate my point I could discuss the conduct of innumerable
emotional shitheels who, in just this past month, used stupidity
irresponsibly and, to grievous effect, tracked their slovenly handling of the
problem of living into my life.
I'm thinking of clerks, counterpeople and company representatives ñ AND
NONE OF THEM FOREIGN BORN -- who reduced my own circuits to flakes of carbon
when they obliged me to restrict my vocabulary to the dozen or so English
words they were able to comprehend.
And remaining vivid in my memory are two cashiers, one of whom insisted
That $42 for a quart of orange juice HAD to be correct because it was "right
there on the register," and the other who demonstrated an appalling
literalness.
In the case of the latter individual: After I placed some half-dozen
items in front of him and was reaching for my wallet, he asked me
(rhetorically, I assumed) if I was taking them. When I joked that no, I
wasn't, that I liked to go into stores and move the stock around, he became
irate, bellowed that I must be "some kind of weirdo" to do such a thing and
demanded that I leave.
The orange juice jerkoff caused some nasty chemicals to spill in my
brain that still haven't stopped flushing through me. The second bastard
triggered a twenty-four-hour period in which I experienced a profound
reluctance to leave my apartment, answer the phone or take any kind of
nourishment.
No, I didn't make those people up.
But of all the recklessly moronic lowlifes I encountered in this brief
time frame, the one that best personified the scourge I'm addressing was the
aforementioned teller, who, when I asked her to make smaller denominations
of a large bill SHE'D just slid toward ME, took a long look at it, said,
"Wait a minute, something's very wrong here." Then said, "No, it's okay."
Then said, "This CAN'T be right -- I don't think he's even on the air
anymore." And then announced that the bill was counterfeit and that she'd
have to confiscate it -- without compensating me. (Apparently, having
touched it, I'd technically been in possession of the bill -- and no, I
SWEAR, I didn't make this bitch up either.)
Since I'm focusing here on the behavior of a specific person, I'll let
pass the fact that no one at this venerable bank -- THE SOLE FUNCTION OF
WHICH IS TO HANDLE MONEY! -- was able to prevent blatantly bogus currency
from infiltrating its stock. As disappointed as I was by this circumstance,
I'll keep to my teller, who (her immediate triggering of a hideous
psychosomatic rash on my chin, notwithstanding) had still not committed the
most egregious and damaging of her offenses.
Hardly. When I protested her action and was, for a solid hour, left
to watch her engage in round upon round of whispered phone conversations and
huddled meetings, she had the temerity to come back and tell me: "[The bank]
has ELECTED [emphasis mine] to reimburse you."
Now I'll concede that, in the matter of punitive measures, the antics
I've described prior to this point may not justify penalties more severe than
a modest fine and several weekends of community service. But, in my judgment,
when you add condescension to rampant imbecility -- AND CONCOCT, IN THE
PROCESS, AN ESPECIALLY PERNICIOUS MIX THAT CAN MAKE A PERSON'S PENIS
COMPLETELY DISAPPEAR FOR ALMOST A WEEK! -- you invite the most terrible of
consequences. Working for a great financial institution, spending her days
not just behind a bullet-proof shield but in a hallowed realm of miracles
like compound interest, this teller's come to feel invulnerable ñ she
actually believes that she's in all ways protected from harm. To be sure, so
neat a self-deception is worthy of admiration. But given her failure to curb
the arrogance her delusion has engendered (let alone her excess of
witlessness) I think she should be disabused of said delusion forthwith. In
fact, I don't think it would be in the least draconian to lie in wait for her
after work, rip off her face and shove her smug countenance up her ass.
I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to suggest that we resort to violence
and open ourselves to a potential penitentiary situation. But if I had a
lapse there, it was due to the cumulative toxicity of the experiences I've
reported and it only makes my argument. Exposure to undisciplined
mindlessness can compromise the most splendid of nervous systems in a trice,
and people dealing with the public who abuse stupidity must be discouraged
from persisting. Collected now, ready to take a sensible approach, I'd say
that legislation making gross stupidity in a public context a quality of
life violation (and gross stupidity aggravated by a superior attitude a Class
A Misdemeanor) ought to serve the purposes of deterrence and remedy quite
sufficiently.
Of course, should Bill of Rights fetishists thwart the writing of such
statutes, there's a step I've been pondering that we could take on our own.
Though it might require us to keep a bottle of Spirit of Ipecac handy (and
would obviously be most effective when we're sitting across a desk from
phlegm-flecks like that teller), we could, just suddenly, throw up.
I'm not talking about pinpoint, or "smart," vomiting that's directed at
a specific, limited target, but vomiting which, fashioned after the carpet
bombing techniques developed in Vietnam, permeates everything in your
immediate vicinity. It may not fix the problem, but delivering the remnants
of the Chili Surprise you had for lunch to the clothing and workspace of a
creep who's making your life a roiling sea of excrement, would at least
return the favor somewhat in kind and figures to be immensely gratifying.
Plus, you're not as likely to provoke the interest of a criminal
justice person as you'd be if you abruptly introduced an Uzi into the
proceedings. Quite the opposite: you could be reasonably confident that law
enforcement officers would keep their distance.
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
“The Aprocrypha of the Sands”
By Charlie Gordon
Around this body lies a wasteland of delight. I know it well, for I
have wandered it for some twenty years now, or so it would seem. Its dunes
and troughs have been my home, a myriad of shadows and illusions. Every day
I am greeted with a new sight, and every day a false hope is broken.
Each day I rally what strength I can, nuzzling at the teat of despair
for the sustenance that is demanded, and begin my trek once again. I have
seen many sights with these eyes, some more amazing than the urban man could
imagine, some more horrific than any writer would seek to describe. Each is
terrible, and each teaches its own lesson. I have learned many things;
sometimes I think I have been taught a lesson for every grain of sand that I
have stood upon. Here, such wisdom is worth its weight in dust.
One such day I saw a great storm to the north, it's clouds rising to the
tallest of heights, its peaks the homes of gods, unknown Kadath come to Earth
if for only a brief moment. Such storms had always been dark omens in my
life but I was drawn to this one for no reason that I could discern. Its
siren scream, a shriek of the great winds colliding against the earth, called
me as a moth into the flame.
I traveled north for days making almost no progress, the grain of the
dunes causing greater and greater detours as the growing drifts made direct
travel nearly impossible. The storm had dug deep troughs as it blew its way
across my world, throwing up walls miles long, some hundreds of feet tall. I
traversed the sand for six days before my journey finally ended. I had found
a relic.
On the seventh day I came upon five great stone tablets laid down at the
base of the largest dune I had ever seen. They were huge, ranging from four
to ten feet tall, and their backs were covered with wind torn script that I
could not recognize. There were faded lines of lettering scrolling from edge
to edge of each tablet, but the wind and sand had taken its toll, grinding
away the sigils with a persistence unmatched by mortal hands.
I spent that seventh day lifting the stones from where they had fallen,
piling sand and levering them into uneven place. Each stone made its mark on
me, sapping reserves of strength I never suspected that I had owned, leaving
blisters on my hands, feet, and face. At dusk I examined my handiwork,
hoping to see even a scrap of recognizable script upon the fallen faces, but
to my despair there was only the faded lettering I had seen before.
In the morning I began to climb the great dune, in hopes of using its
height to my advantage in finding a companion piece, some kind of rosetta
stone that might uncloud the enigma of my stone tablets. I attempted to
scale the slipface of the sand mountain but each time I was showered with
dust and tumbled to the base once again. Eventually I began walking toward
the end of the dune, my plan being to scale its side at a lower point and
walk the ridge until I reached the peak towering over the stone monoliths. I
climbed toward the setting sun with the salt wind in my hair; salvation on
one side and almost certain destruction on the other. I could not let myself
decide; so I stood upon that heap of sand, staring into the sun until it
decided for me. I lost my sight long before the blackness overtook me, my
mind slipping away into unconsciousness.
I awoke by the feel of the sun upon my skin alone; my eyes were a pulpy
mass, the swollen lids a veil against the world. Both my legs had broken on
the tumble down the face, but that didn't matter any more. It was only a few
hundred feet to the spot that bore God's touch, and to find it I wouldn't
need my legs or my eyes. I had my faith.
I woke up to darkness, I must have blacked out as I crawled along the
sand. I began my movement again, knowing that my fate lay at the end of my
path. Breaking the sand in front of my grasping fingers, I felt the stone of
one of the tablets. As a child I had been taught that great suffering led to
great reward, now I knew it was true. Laying myself in the palm of God I
smiled, recalling what I had seen from the peak. To my right had been the
sea, a welcome view; to my left I saw the setting sun's touch upon the
stones, a shadow had formed in the shape of a hand.
I awoke again to the light, and knew that my time had come. God had
sent his angels to bring me home, short and wiry bald old men with great
wings. After a time they set upon me, carrying me to new heights, heights
best left untold. A whiteness enshrouded me and I knew I was in the presence
of God. I felt his breath upon me, a soothing coolness after the long heat.
I looked around, enjoying the breathtaking white. Slowly, a thought began to
form in my mind. After so many years in the desert I had taken to pondering
greatly what thoughts sprang to mind, so I continued this now. With a
sinking feeling, this thought enshrouded my mind. I stared into the white,
bracing myself against what I knew to be inevitable. Eventually, I blinked.
I was surrounded by white, but it was a white of a different sort. I
looked down at the sheet of paper in my hands. "FORM XR-12-040 TRANSFER
POSTING". I heard a disconnected wailing in the distance and I thought about
how I hoped that it would stop soon. And how I hoped these people would stop
grabbing at me as I stepped out my office window for a breath of fresh air.
And how I hoped God's hand would once again be waiting for me on the ground
below.
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
“Post-Adolescent Journey”
By Effy
So tired
of rolling up sleeves
i need a moment
alone
to grieve
alone
to breathe
where once compassion flowed
is now a dead end road
for you've always had
an ass for kissing
and have always had a cough
but now you have an
ego
made for strictly
pissing off
having it all
not having enough
you think you knew
love
love
shouldn't be so rough
your past
your trauma
bar scene your crutch
i tire of faces who talk too much
weary of anticipation
and distractions
and such
shrinking inside
if i try to teach
sinking to hide
you don't practice what you preach
-
fearful espionage
through one-way glass
vantage point, my ass
have another drink, my friend
open another deaf ear, to lend
we've some time to spend
to contend with the end
can you claim to sympathize
and understand
and see?
no,
not if you can't understand my urgency
please
stop pretending
and i will
at least
stop depending
-
you wanted to visit
to share our minds
so linked
now extinct
for who doesn't know
to share the company
what is required, is work
money, intent
funny how spent
on friends who act like jerks
for each inner quirk lies a hypocrite
reminiscent of you every time i shit.
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
“Funded Research”
By Higgins
Angela and I were sitting in my office on the third floor of Watson
Building at the University of Hawaii. She was a Spaniard, fluent in four
languages, and was a striking beauty. Her hair was curly and bat-black and
her skin was as white as the driven snow. She was intelligent, creative,
and exciting and was my favorite student. From one point of view I had
lusted after her for two years, and yet I had never done more than hugged
her and kissed her on the cheek. She probably thought of me as an overly
conservative egghead, and yet she seemed to like me.
She was facing me and smiling and I noticed that her skirt was shorter
than ever. Usually when we were seated in this position in my office, I
could get just a glimpse of her panties -- she favored black, pink, gold, or
robin's-egg blue. That day I saw much more. I saw her white milky thighs
and some black, shiny, curly hair. I squinted to get a better view and
observed the triangle of womanhood. This produced a trembling in my loins
and I knew I had a quasi-erection.
Angela stood and walked over to me, placed her hands on my shoulders,
leaned over and kissed me on the lips, giving me a bit of tongue. It felt
good.
She said, “I have been waiting for you to make a move for two years,
Professor Higgins, and I'm not going to wait any longer. You are too
conservative for my taste.”
And with that she pulled up her skirt and arched her body toward me.
I was not going to be conservative any longer. I caressed the physical
center of her being with my lips and tongue until she began to whimper. She
experienced paroxysmal emotional excitement, becoming sopping wet, and my
cock became stiff. Angela dropped her skirt, sunk to her knees, unzipped
the fly to my pants, and fished my penis from my boxer shorts with her
tongue. She twirled her tongue around its head, which was now bright red,
and then swallowed it down to its root. For the first time in my life I
began to believe in God. But this God was a woman, and her name was Angela.
Soon I stood on the edge of orgasm, and I warned Angela that I would come
off if she didn't stop. Well, she did stop. But after standing and
cleaning her mouth off with a black, silk handkerchief, she climbed onto my
lap, facing me, and lowered herself onto my cock. Once it was in she closed
her eyes and moved slowly up and down moaning quietly. This, too, was very
pleasant, but I didn't want to come too soon, as I wanted to try another
delicious position that would involve ravishing her cute, sweet butt. I
kissed her repeatedly, putting my tongue in her ear.
I whispered, “Angela, let's do it doggie style?”
She said, “I've never done it that way.” And then she started
giggling. “Will it hurt, Higgins?”
“I won't let it hurt you, dear. For one thing, you are now very wet
and slippery between your legs and my weapon is a bit slippery too. Also, I
have a tube of K-Y Lubricating Jelly right here in the office. To ease the
entry I can lubricate both of us. How does that sound sweet girl?”
“What are we waiting for?” said Angela.
She took off all of her clothes and so did I. She then kneeled on the
edge of the cot on the other side of my office and presented her butt to me.
Needless to say, my cock was throbbing at the thought of entering this more
tight orifice. I moved the blunt head of my penis to the entrance of her
nether hole and then pushed, slowly but firmly, and although the fit was
tight, there was no need for a lubricant. When it was in I began to caress
her breasts, gentle tweaking the nipples, which grew hard.
Angela said, “I've been waiting two years to make love with you, and I
must say it was worth waiting for. Go to work on me now. Give me your
pinga (cock). Please make me have multiple orgasms? And I want you to shoot
your leche (milk; sperm) into my culo (ass). Have no mercy!”
And I think I satisfied all of her requests. I was well satisfied, too.
But as she was enjoying multiple orgasms, and I was shooting my load inside
of her, there came three sharp knocks on my office door.
And a deep voice said, “You did it again, Professor Higgins. Our School
of Arts and Sciences now has three million additional dollars of funded
research. Your research proposal, ëCreative Thinking In Paramecia,' has been
approved.”
“Oh God,” thought Higgins. “It's my Dean. And we forgot to lock the
door, too.”
The Dean said, “I have the Provost with me right here. He too is
delighted.”
The door opened and the Dean stepped in. He was followed by the Provost
of the University. The bare, naked derrieres of Professor Higgins and his
favorite student were pointing toward the administrators.
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
“A Self Centered Essayist Writes”
By Mr. Walking Abortion
I am 18 years old. A meaningless fact really but maybe it will help
put some wretched, black and decaying frame around my following words. I
feel that everything needs some kind of a context, wether loose, false or
spiritual is irrelevant - but it does need a context.
I have recently come to find that many of my own beliefs, wether they
apply to the material, physical word or the religious, spiritual world are
totally flawed. I feel that many of my opinions do not really count for a
hell of a lot and that I truly do need to grow as a person, become more than
the things I own and begin some kind of journey - self discovery, maybe. To
reclaim your very dignity that you have to lose it first, and I feel that I
have always, always carried myself with a quiet dignity. My problem though
is that I do truly need to stop being so self centered and realise that other
people's views, opinions, beliefs [whatever] are just as valid and important
as mine, that I'm not always right and that I can't use my own beliefs to
judge others.
I have of recent become increasingly difficult to please, I don't think
it's being cynical or anything, it's just being heavily critical. This
extends to all parts of life, from shows on TV to political issues as well as
myself. The important thing I have come to realise, and it was quite a
personal revelation, is that all of these issues are on the same level ñ
there is no such thing as micro and macro, they are one and the same! To
improve, everything needs to be dissected, taken apart and judged... and I
have been harsher on myself than anything else. These days I tend to dissect
my own philosophies and belief systems, realising that they are just as
flawed yet as important, as well as meaningless and insignificant, as the
British governments domestic policy or the famine in the 3rd world. This is
not the same as before, thinking that my own problems were the most important
thing in the world because I can clearly see that issues, problems and
opinions have no weight or inherent value onto and as of themselves. It is
the value and weight that WE as people place on these problems that makes
them what they are, and so EVERYTHING is equally insignificant and important
in reality.
My former hardcore atheism has also come under much scrutiny, and I now
believe in a higher power [whatever it is]. I do not give this a face or
identity and I do not personally believe in organized religion, though I do
believe that if do believe in organized religion to YOU it is valid and has
some real weight behind it. I now think that my atheism was not a in fact
something in which I truly believed, but rather was nothing more than a
personal shield against something that, at the time anyway but not anymore,
was so far beyond my comprehension that it kind of scared me to think about
it. I will not blame the world either, it all down to us as people to go
beyond ourselves and to make a contact with our own inner self or voice of
God [or whatever you want to call it]. I always used to blame society or
the rest of the world for my own shortcomings and weaknesses, but I now wish
to do everything I can to grow into a fully developed person as oppossed to
my current 'dirtbaby' form. To me, self improvement and personal growth
mean everything... I just want to become enlightened. I really can't put
into words my own personal revelations that I have come to realize, both
from internal and extenernal sources, during the last few weeks, and this
writing has ONLY scratched the surface... but nothing I could write could
ever be enough. This post will always be flawed and incomplete, but I can
try really fucking hard not to be.
EVOLUTION IS NOT A CERTAINTY OR A PROMISE ............it is a choice
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
“Unfair Standish”
By Omid Bachari
Standish Theodore Kuck was an ugly man. He was very ugly. People knew
Standish was ugly and so did Standish. But he didn't fight it. He also
didn't have any real friends. People saw him, but they didn't notice him.
Well, three people noticed him, or two people and a dog. And Standish
thought of them as his friends.
The dog belonged to the mailman. Standish would see the dog every
morning when he checked his mail. He wouldn't say anything to the dog or
the mailman, but he liked the dog anyway. Standish noticed that the black
poodle had a thing or two in common with him. Standish had coarse black
hair and so did the dog. The dog had fleas, and well, Standish didn't
exactly take showers. The dog, however, had an advantage over Standish.
The mailman. The mailman would talk to the dog while he sorted through the
mail. “1627 Brookwell Drive, ain't that right, Dog?” Not much of a
conversation, but Standish never spoke to anyone. So he envied the dog.
The dog was social, Standish was ugly.
Then, there was his second friend. After he would check the mail in the
mornings, he would walk across the street from his apartment complex and eat
breakfast at the Waffle House. Before work, he would have one waffle without
syrup and a glass of water. Standish had bad teeth and syrup wasn't a very
good idea. His second friend was the waitress. She was an older, darker
woman named Dolores. Her hair was tied back tightly and her dollar-store
makeup couldn't hide her age. She served Standish every morning. She served
him food because it was her job. Standish liked that. All that, and he
didn't have to talk to her. He liked that even more. Standish wasn't much
for talking anyway, and he didn't leave a tip.
His third friend was his favorite. He never really spoke to her either.
She was the girl on the phone who changed his dollars at the Laundromat. She
had big breasts and Standish looked at them on his way into and out of the
place. He never really watched her while he did his laundry though. He
watched the laundry instead. No detergent. He looked at the load in the
washer as it spun hundreds of times. Standish wasn't one to daydream or daze
off. There wasn't a whole lot to think about. He would finish the loads,
dry them, glance at her breasts and go home. He liked to think that she was
his girlfriend, but he never really cared enough and no one ever asked. So
Standish moved on.
His job wasn't spectacular, either. He packaged meat for a butcher.
His uniform included bloodstained white trousers, an old t-shirt and an
apron. He could take the uniform off, but Standish always smelled like meat.
He knew he smelled like meat, but he liked it. Meat was good to Standish and
Standish was good to the meat. It paid his bills, the boss didn't complain
and Standish had pork robs, sirloin or burgers for lunch and dinner. His
favorite meat to package was the t-bone. It retained its shape when you held
the edge of it. Easy to package. Most of all, it was the most unusual
looking of the meats. One side was less tender than the other. It had a
bone awkwardly through its center and Standish like that. He was afraid to
consider the t-bone his friend, because it was inanimate.
His coworker who sat beside him alone the meat conveyor wasn't his
friend. Standish didn't look at him and he didn't look at Standish. But
one day, his coworker didn't show up. Someone new would be filling in. The
following day, he noticed that someone was in the boss's office at the
butchery. It would be a new employee to replace his absent coworker. Her
name was Beatrice Tabitha Garbanzo. She was a small, fat woman who happened
to be blind. She was selected for the job because she needed work and the
tasks were simple enough to handle, even if one was blind. For half
Standish's workday, he got to watch her farther down the conveyor, as she
awkwardly packaged the meat. He didn't speak with her the first day but
Standish didn't care. Watching her fumble the meat around was entertaining.
Standish usually packed his meat very carefully. Like his laundry, he
paid attention to every ounce that passed through his hands. He didn't daze
off while working. The meat was good to Standish so he gave it the
attention it deserved.
The following morning, Standish woke up and took care to do his usual
tasks, but after scratching at his teeth with a bare toothbrush, he paused
to see himself in the mirror for a moment. Beatrice was blind, he thought
to himself, and he thought about that as he looked at himself. His hair was
a carpet of small, dusty black curls, and his jaw was long and thin. His
nose reached out of his face like the corner of a board, splitting apart two
beady and vein-cracked brown eyes. Standish had no eyebrows below his
sloped forehead. He rubbed his patchy beard, spat in the sink and dressed
for work.
The dog was there to greet him, or look at him, as he removed the
grocery coupons from his mailbox. “Ain't that right, Dog,” Standish heard
as he began to talk away. He went across the street to have his usual
breakfast with the waitress then he waited at the bus stop to go to work.
He stood beside a homeless man at the bus stop. The man was there every day
but never rode. Standish didn't like the homeless man. The homeless man
lied. He would strike up conversations with strangers waiting for the bus
and tell them clearly false stories to impress them. Standish understood why
he did this, but Standish knew better than to lie. He knew the truth about
his own life and accepted it. The homeless man fought it and Standish
despised that. Standish was not angry at the world, though it had little
mercy, because it was just as it was.
He arrived at work to see Beatrice already doing the meat. He sat at
his spot and began to work, too. She began to speak to Standish, which
surprised him. They didn't talk about much, mostly because Standish wasn't
receptive, but Beatrice persisted as the weeks went on until Standish was no
longer merely answering her. Eventually, he took the proactive role in the
conversation. Well, only sometimes, but this was a huge change for Standish.
About a month after working beside Beatrice, he began to notice things
about her that he liked. He mostly noticed her smell, or odor. Standish
already liked the smell of meat, but he really like the way meat smelled on
Beatrice. She was heavy and sweaty and didn't seem to be concerned with her
hygiene, sort of like Standish. Meat and Beatrice created a smell that
added salt to the meat smell, and Standish compared it to a flavorful,
seasoned t-bone.
One day at work, Beatrice, with her beefy spicy aroma, scooted closer
to Standish to share a joke that she had heart on the radio that morning.
The joke had something to do with two guys in a bar, and Standish laughed.
His laugh was an initial chuckle followed by a struggling outward breath
that hissed like a deflating ball. This was the first time Standish really
laughed since he could remember. It was only after this day that Standish
really thought about Beatrice during his off-hours.
He left work that day and went to the Laundromat where he usually went
on Tuesdays after work. He didn't pay much attention to the girl's breasts
this time. He did his laundry as usual but he did two things apart from
his usual routine. First, he didn't pay a great deal of attention to the
laundry this time. He instead searched through a newspaper for a joke or
something funny to share with Beatrice, who had now asked that he call her
Beaty. Beaty sounded quite like beefy, and Standish liked that. He found
his joke and excitedly memorized it. Secondly, he didn't wash one of this
work t-shirts that he had worn that day, a Burger King one. He kept it
because Beaty had wiped some sweat off her face and gripped Standish's
shoulder with the same hand. It smelled like meat and Beaty. Standish
thought he would allow the shirt to retain its new cologne until at least
next week's load.
After finishing up, he wanted to stop by at Beaty's apartment to say
hello before going home. He didn't want to go inside, but maybe just say
hello to her intercom from the ground level. After a short ride, he leapt
off the bus in front of her building. He searched for her name on the list
of tenants and finally touched the button with “Garbanzo” beside it. “Hi,
you there? Hello, Beatrice.” After 5 minutes of waiting, the bus arrived
that would take him home. So he mentioned, “This is Standish,” and caught
the bus. Maybe she just didn't know how to use the intercom, Standish
thought. He recited the joke to himself as the bus took him to his
destination.
Upon arriving, Standish took notice of the homeless man at the bus
stop as he went back into his apartment complex, but he didn't resent the
man this time. He instead felt pity. He found his door with his laundry
bag in one hand and bag of meat in the other. He was still repeating the
joke to himself, chuckling under his breath. After eating, he slept.
The following morning was special for Standish. He woke up, scraped
at his teeth with his unpasted brush, threw on his newly favorite Burger
King shirt and stepped downstairs to get his mail. The dog wagged its tail
as usual when Standish approached. He checked his box as usual, but this
time paused and said “Hi,” to the dog. The dog tilted its head and stayed
still a moment. The mailman glanced at Standish briefly, but continued
with “1842 Brookwell Drive, ain't that right, Dog?” Standish moved along.
At breakfast, he had his normal waffle and water, but said “Hello” to the
waitress this time and left a quarter. When he left she said, “Have a good
day.”
Upon arriving at work, Standish faced a bit of a surprise. Beaty
hadn't come to work. She usually arrived first on the once-a-day handicap
bus, which only ran very early. Standish was concerned, but thought it
plausible that she might have missed that early bus. He worked as usual.
It was only the following day that Beaty's absence became a matter of
concern. He didn't do his job right at all that day. Some meat was
mislabeled, mis-packaged or just sloppy. The boss stuck his head out of his
office as he usually did to announce breaks and yelled “Go home Standish!
The hell's the matter with you?” Standish left and went directly to Beaty's
apartment rather than home. He buzzed furiously on her intercom. Someone
answered. It was Beaty! No, it was her sister. “Hello, Beatrice isn't
around. She went to the hospital ëcause some boys mugged her and beat her
up at the bus stop a couple of days ago. After work one day, I think.”
Standish left the intercom without saying a word. He took the first
bus to the country hospital. He arrived and found her room number by lying
to the person at the front desk about being her brother. He signed in with
the name “Mr. Garbanzo.” The elevator ride was brief and he practically
jumped through the cracks of the door once they opened. Room 625 was shut,
but he opened the door slowly. Catching his breath, he no longer felt the
need to rush, he was afraid of what he would see. He found Beatrice asleep.
She was missing the characteristic glaze of sweat on her forehead and her
breathing didn't sound as labored as it usually did. He got closer to her,
but a nurse suddenly entered.
“What is wrong with Beatrice,” he began, “and why is she sleeping?”
The nurse replied without hesitation. She went on through some technical
terms but Standish picked out the words coma and trauma. Those boys must
have beaten her badly. The nurse mentioned that the perpetrators got away
with the crime. It's hard to make a profile of criminals you can't see.
After work, Standish spent the next few days with Beatrice, but she never
woke up.
On the 4th day that he went to the hospital, he entered an empty room.
Shocked, Standish ran out to the nurse and begged to know her whereabouts.
She was at an intensive care unit in a hospital not far away. The person at
the front desk let him use a phone to call the other hospital. Standish
gave the operator her name, transferred him to ICU, but when he spoke to the
person about Beaty, he heard, “She passed away early this morning. 6:32am.”
Standish was gripped by horror. He threw the phone at the ground and darted
outside. He initially ran home, but grew too tired to continue on the long
path. He began to walk and calm down. While he was walking, the joke he
memorized floated around in his head, but before his grin could crack he
would strike his palm with a fist.
He saw his apartment from a short distance and hardly recognized it.
He wasn't used to seeing his apartment at that hour of the evening. Nothing
really seemed the same anymore. He entered the building and wandered to his
doorstep. Without going to his bedroom, he rolled around on his couch unable
to sleep.
The next morning he was at the bus stop again, ignoring his mailbox and
breakfast. He hoped that going to work would be the same as usual, but he
knew otherwise. There was the homeless man again at the bus stop chatting
with no one in particular. Standish didn't chime into what he was saying
exactly, but he yelled, “Shut up! GodÖ Hell!” Standish left the bus stop
and ran back into his apartment. The mailman and dog were just about to
leave, but as Standish walked by, the dog yelped. Standish nodded, but
didn't pause.
The door was unlocked and he threw open the rickety apartment door. He
went to the kitchen, paced rapidly, and then went to his bedroom. Standish
grew furious and frightened. He stepped into his bathroom and looked in the
mirror. At the sight of himself he began to pound violently on the glass.
He screamed, “She never looked! She never looked!” The mirror cracked and
bit into his clenched fist. The blood made a heavy splatter when it landed
on the bathroom floor. Standish took a shard of glass from the mirror.
4 weeks later, the mailman reported to the landlord that Standish's
mail hadn't been checked. When the police arrived they found him in a
Burger King t-shirt, sitting in his bathtub. No one remembered Standish but
the dog, the waitress and the girl on the phone at the Laundromat. Beaty
never heard his joke and never saw Standish's face, but Standish was ugly
and his joke wasn't very good.
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
“Je pense le pipe c'est mieux (excuses ‡ les francophones)”
By The Corpse
Almost a month ago
I got in a car wreck.
When it happened,
I was trying to quit
smoking.
Cigarettes, that is.
Since then,
I haven't been able to smoke cigarettes; doing so would re-collapse my left
(or is it right? I don't know how the doctors look at it) lung.
In the meantime, and most likely forever, I've taken up smoking a pipe.
I've been smoking pipes
for several years
now,
albeit very,
very,
irregularly.
These days,
not being able to inhale
tobacco smoke,
I'm smoking several bowls a
day
(no, not 'bowls' in the young, modern
sense).
Shenandoah Valley,
two-year-old, dried-out Monticello,
Irish Oak,
Sherlock Holmes,
aged Virginia,
Country Squire,
and
my current favorite,
University Flake.
Ah, I love smoking my pipe.
Although...
I miss cigarettes.
Habit, I suppose;
cigarettes have been my friend for years, yet
pipes taste better,
will not kill me as quickly,
will not re-collapse my lung.
I am only 24 years old,
and feel pretentious smoking a
pipe,
but I don't care.
Right is right.
It could be that
I won't be smoking a pipe in six months,
but
I'll bet that I will.
If not,
c'est la vie,
mais
j'aime la tabac,
m'me si je cesse le tabagisme.
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
“Strange Residue: Sighting #3 -- THE CORSAGE”
By Ann Chiappetta
Rock and roll boomed through the Nova's dashboard speakers as it roared
down the two-lane highway, the volume control on the ancient eight-track
cranked to just Below ten. The pampered sleeper purred at a steady 60
M.P.H. along the deserted black ribbon of road, high-beams igniting the
double yellow line to the far horizon. Big Danny sat in back toking. I sat
suicide, angled to face him. We shot the bull, yelling to be heard over the
music. Bobby drove, his fingers strumming the wheel in time with the guitar
chords. He attempted a duet with the vocalist, his voice cracking with the
effort. Bobby was jubilant. We had just come from a successful barter,
trading two Centerline wheel rims for the four-barrel carburetor he'd been
pining after for months.
Earlier that evening, after we'd packed the carburetor in Blue's trunk,
Bobby closed the lid and turned to me, his face animated, “Cass, baby, Old
Blue is gonna surprise those low-riders when she blows them away off the
line after we install this carb." Bobby didn't like to lose, especially
when his opponents were from a rival gang. Big Danny cackled in agreement,
his Chicklet-like teeth cutting a half-moon across his ruddy face. Big
Danny Rios was a wrencher and lived for the challenge of greasing up his
hands and playing in a car's innards. The only thing he liked more than
groping in an engine was groping a girl.
Now we were on our way home, our spirits buoyed by the music, the weed,
and the feel of the car's near perfect performance beneath our feet. Blue
wasn't what car buffs called a ëlooker'; her age-dulled paint and stock rims
were meant to mislead the opponent. Her modifications were disguised and
she could hop off the starting line like a rabbit and finish the 1/4 mile
like a cheetah, leaving most of the other custom muscle cars eating her
exhaust. I rode with Bobby when he raced on the El Camino Real. After all,
someone had to hold the betting money and look good doing it.
Big Danny was telling me about his new girl friend's family when he
stopped talking, his gaze focusing on the road ahead. I followed his gaze,
silencing the music, and found what got Danny's attention. A figure stood
at the road's edge, coming up fast. Bobby noticed the figure before us, and
was already down-shifting, slowing our approach. As we closed the gap, I
could tell it was a girl about my age, dressed in a burgundy prom dress
accented with a wrist corsage. Wispy blond hair framed her heart shaped
face, reminding me of Marcia Brady.
As the Chevy coasted nearer, I felt Big Danny grip the back of my seat
pulling himself up for a closer look, his native face ashen.
"Phantasma,” he sputtered.
Bobby and I looked at him, alarmed. His eyes were wide with fear. Big
Danny was afraid of nothing. Bobby turned his attention back to the road
just in time.
"Look out!" Big Danny warned.
I braced myself grabbing the seat, ready to cover my face in case of
flying glass. She was directly in front of us, mouthing the word ëNo', her
hands spread out before her like Superman ready to stop the car. Bobby
cranked the wheel hard to the right, slamming on the brakes. I threw up my
arm and gripped the seat so hard I punctured the Cordovian vinyl upholstery.
In that grisly slow-motion moment of the mind, we expected an impact,
screams, blood, and shattered glass. Instead, we spun out in a sort of
bootlegger's turn and screeched to a halt. There was no impact, no screams
or broken glass. I watched her exit the back of the car like a wader coming
out of the water. I was dizzy but not hurt. Before I had the chance to ask
if either of my car mates was injured, Big Danny pointed out the front
window.
"Look," he whispered, paler than when he'd first spotted her on the
side of the road. The girl was there, a dozen steps away; her luminous face
drooping with such maudlin intensity the little hairs on the back of my neck
and forearms prickled. She was both familiar and a mystery, clad in a prom
dress and wrist corsage even though she floated a foot off the ground.
Blue's headlights seemed to overpower her; she was being sucked in to the
car's harsher lights the splash of burgundy turning black, then gray and
finally a strange washed out white. A moment later she was gone. Bobby
pulled his hand through his blond hair and turned to me, his green eyes
dilated with surprise and adrenalin.
"What the fuck was that?" he asked.
"Phantasma." I whispered, gazing at the spot where she disappeared.
Big Danny suddenly got out of the car and headed to the side of the road. I
followed, urging Bobby to come, too. He left the Nova idling, engaged the
brake and trotted after us.
Big Danny stopped, looking down at a corsage made of pale pink and white
carnations paired with delicate baby's breath and tied with a burgundy bow.
We stood silently for a few minutes, each digesting the implications of the
object on the ground. It was getting cold; the post-midnight dampness
condensed our breath. I scooped up the corsage. It was fresh and cool.
Turning to go, I caught a glint of amber, a reflection just off the wider
portion of shoulder bordered by trees. I grabbed Bobby's hand and pulled
him toward it.
"What is it, Cass?" he asked, hesitating. I shushed him and pulled him
along, Big Danny followed. At the edge of the headlights' perimeter was a
copse of ponderosa pines. The metallic glint came from the tallest of them.
We went in for a closer look.
"It's a sign," said Big Danny. The print on the bronze rectangle glowed
reddish color in the high beams. Bobby read the words aloud,
“In loving memory of Samantha Miller, 1967-1984, whose life was taken by
a drunk driver. May she live forever in the arms of Heaven.” I placed the
corsage among the knotty pine roots.
"Hey, someone probably left the flowers here and the wind blew them
over there," Bobby suggested. Big Danny crossed himself. I smiled.
Forthcoming:
1. Sighting # 1; The Wake
2. Sighting #16: The Portrait
3. Sighting #18: The Wedding
4. Sighting #19: The Psychic's Cat
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
“Here Ya Go”
By Infernal
I'm always ahead of my time, but I always do everything half-assed.
Thus, I look with amusement upon the “SuicideGirls” cultural phenomenon ñ I
was into chicks like that years ago. Of course, I could never date someone
too far off the deep end ñ this particular ex was more of a Black Eye Girl,
or maybe Stomach Flu Girl. Psoriasis Girl. Nothing life-threatening, but
she looked the part.
Distance is such an amazing thing ñ stuff that used to literally make
me ill, physically sick, about this girl's behavior, now brings nothing but
a sense of nostalgia. Nostalgia! Do you suppose that one-legged men sit
on their porches of a spring evening, rub the gnarled end of their waist-
stump wistfully and chuckle “man, that was some shark”? Perhaps maybe
they're just happy they got away with the other three limbs attached.
Not that she was a shark. She wasn't even all that evil of a human,
and had a few bum numbers in her equation been erased and rewritten, maybe
she wouldn't have been so hellbent on being a mini-holocaust in the lives of
everyone she hooked up with. Add a couple more hugs as a toddler, subtract
a few parental pecadilloes, carry the rape and subdivide the abortions by
the cosine of the physical abuse, and the whole damn balance sheet mighta
ended up working out. It's hard to see the entire equation when you're in
the middle of the formula, though.
I don't mean to be so flippant about someone else's very real
tragedies. It's just that there's so many of them! When your face isn't
shoved into the rank alkali stink of another person's misery, it tends to
lose its potency and fade into the background thrum of faceless atrocities,
buried on page B-15 with the ethnic cleansing in some poky hoo-ha banana
republic and the bus going off the middle Asian cliff. And can I deny that
there's always that sense of self-righteous shruggery in cases like this?
I mean, surely, had this walking disaster area just retracted the claws and
not taken an elephant gun to everything while I was around, I would have
been the E-ticket out of the cycle of hurt, and we'd be on some primrose
path to well-adjusted happiness as we speak. Right?
Of course, nostalgia needs a spark to kick it back onto the Golden
Oldies chart, really get the memories threaded through the projector and
splashed on the screen in washed-out Technicolor. An innocent comment from
a mutual friend, describing an unintended insult from some Bronze Age event,
and presto, it's like all that water just rolled back up the other side of
the bridge, rewind-style, and for a second the old exasperation kicks in.
Then, unless you're a demented stalker, the flashback ends, the old facial
tic stops twitching, and a bemused laugh is permitted. War veterans duck
and cover when the a passing truck backfires, or a helicopter zips by
overhead. I leap to my own defense over accused and idiotic slights, before
remembering I don't have to do that any more, I never did.
It's impossible for some people not to be wounded by the most well-
meaning friends and acquaintances. When one imagines oneself to be the
center of the universe, all actions are pointed inward, all words swirl
toward one subject. Who can laugh with you when everyone orbits you? It
seems that it would be less hurtful to remind these would be supernovas,
these black-holes-in-training, that their place is neither so grave nor so
exalted. But maybe it's better to let them nurse the ten thousand tiny
stings of ricocheting thoughts, and allow them to keep believing it's all
aimed at them. Asking them to turn off gravity and take their place in the
cheap seats might do more damage than all those self-righteously suffered
daggers, real and imagined.
Like Carly Simon says, “you prob'ly think this song is about you,
don't you?” You know what? You're right. It's all yours. You win.
Congratulations. This one's on the house, for old times' sake. I just wish
I could see the list this one was getting added to some time ñ the
unabridged catalog of supposed slights. That'd be one helluva read, even if
you did have to file it in fiction.
/|/|
( @ @)
) ^
/ ||| (c) 2004 Anada E'zine Anada is cat-friendly.
/ )|||____________________________________________________________________
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