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408 lines
18 KiB
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QQQQQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQQQQ]
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QQQQ] QQ] QQ] QQQ] QQQ] QQQ]
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QQQQ] QQ] QQ] QQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQ]
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QQQQ] QQ] QQ] QQQ] \QQ\ QQQQQQQQQ]
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QQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQ] QQQ \QQ\ QQQ]
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QQQQQQQQQQQQQ] QQQQQQQQQQQQQ]
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Volume I
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Issue VIII
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~~~````''''~~~
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CORE is published monthly by Rita Rouvalis (rita@eff.org) and is
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archived on ftp.eff.org in the /journals directory.
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Subscriptions and submissions should be sent to core-journal@eff.org.
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Feel free to reproduce CORE in its entirety across Cyberspace as
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you see fit. Please contact the authors to republish individual
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articles.
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~~~````''''~~~
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THIS ISSUE:
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The Joshua Tree Quakes ..... John Perry Barlow
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Cartoons Vs. PostModern Fiction & Criticism ..... Richh
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State of the Art ..... Barbara Hlavin
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___________________________________________________________________________
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John Perry Barlow barlow@icecube.pinedale.wy.us
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THE JOSHUA TREE QUAKES
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Sunday, June 28, 1992
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Direct from the Fault Zone...
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In case you were wondering what the Joshua Tree Earthquakes felt like to
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someone in Hollywood who wasn't working for CNN, here's one guy's
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experience...
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My daughters and I spent last night in a large stucco and masonry house in
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Old Hollywood belonging to Coco and Peter Conn. I slept on the couch in the
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living room next to a huge cage housing 6 parakeets. The younger two girls
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were in the next room .
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It was a troubled night even before the terra got infirma. At about 3:30
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AM, our five year old, Amelia, came out, woke me up, and told me she dreamt
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that her room was filling with rattlesnakes. I assured her it wasn't and
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she padded back to bed.
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At around 4:30 Anna, the seven year old, emerged with her own nightmare. It
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was about her little sister being kidnapped, she said. But then, , she
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claimed she still couldn't find Amelia in bed. She really *had* been
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kidnapped. This brought me right around and I went to check it out. Amelia,
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it turned out, was curled up in a little ball at the foot of the bed.
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I went back to my couch, fell back to sleep at once, and was awakened 15
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minutes later by the frenzied lashing of little wings as the parakeets
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suddenly began hurling themselves against the walls of the cage and
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bouncing off one another in hysterical flight. I looked at my watch. It was
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4:55 AM.
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They continued to engage in this alarming activity for the next ten
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minutes, during which time the whole house joined them. A couple of minutes
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before 5 AM, the shaking started, rattling dishes, causing the hardwood
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floors to moan and creak. The overall displacement and acceleration was
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about what one might feel in a large airliner experiencing moderate
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turbulence. Outside gathered the sound of ten thousand car alarms, at
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varying distances, being activated. Eerie beyond description.
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But the most singular phenomenon was the lights. The house is somewhat
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elevated on the slopes of Mount Hollywood. (The one with the Sign.) To the
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south one could see a lot of LA bathed in large, spreading patches of
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softly throbbing lights. They were diffuse and a sick green in color. They
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looked a lot like ground level Aurora Borealis. Which, I conclude, is
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pretty close to what they must have been.
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At first I thought they might be coming from downed power lines and
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exploding transformers, but there was no arc flash. They had the same soft
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build and decay that I've observed in the Northern Lights which can be seen
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in the high mountains of Wyoming quite frequently in the fall and spring.
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My best guess is that there is some kind of piezelectric energy release
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which causes phosphorescence in the atmosphere's own natural neon. But why
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have I never heard of this effect before? (It wasn't just my hallucination
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either. I have since talked to a number of people who saw them, though
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there was no mention made of them by any of the media.)
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The quake went on for an amazingly long time...about 45 seconds...but I
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never felt motivated to grab my kids and make a run for the lawn. Nor did
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it ever get strong enough to wake them back up. If I was frightened it was
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more on account of the of the lights, which really did have some ominous
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End of the World quality to them. LA in the Latter Days.
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I got up and found the parakeets all clinging sideways to the exterior bars
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of the cage as though spun there. They looked very uncertain.
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I went back to sleep and then woke bolt upright about two hours later as
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though hit by a cattle prod. I lay there for about a minute trying to
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figure what had induced such a compete and unwelcome alertness before the
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second quake hit. It seemed only a little weaker than the first, but it
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also seemed to go on longer and cycle through several waves of intensity.
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This time the parakeets didn't budge (so to speak) nor were any lights to
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be seen. (Not that they would have been visible. The sun was up.)
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Really, except for those lights, the strongest Southern California quakes
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in 40 years seemed kind of denatured.
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But it might get weirder. Seismic experts claim that there is a 50% chance
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of an additional 6 point plus quake over the next few days and are advising
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people to avoid the freeways. There's little evidence that anyone is taking
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them seriously.
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___________________________________________________________________________
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Richh richh@netcom.com
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CARTOONS VS POSTMODERN FICTION & CRITICISM
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------------------------------------------
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POSTMODERN FICTION &
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CARTOONS CRITICISM
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-------------------- ------------------------------
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Leaves one feeling warm Chyeah, right
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and nostalgic, with a profound
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sense of satisfaction and well-
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being.
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Celebrates play. Likes to think it celebrates
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play, but actually is more
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analagous to "explaining the
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joke away" than anything else.
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Today's cartoons suck moose. I'll take Coleridge and
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Trilling over the Yale school
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any day.
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Foucault is dead. AIDS. Mel Blanc is dead. Age.
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Barthes was a big eater. The Tasmanian Devil.
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POSTMODERN FICTION &
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CRITICISM CARTOONS
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------------------------------ --------------------
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"Metafiction," as practiced by I really like when you
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Borges et al, is fiction that see the hand of the cartoonist
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calls attention to itself, never holding the drawing pencil,
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lets the reader forget that it or when the characters step
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is artifice. outside the film.
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Derrida will often use a word and It's also cool when you see
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immediately cross it out to achieve the pencil swoop down and
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a desired effect, a technique he erase the character. I especially
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calls "sous rasure", meaning like when this happens to Daffy
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'under erasure' Duck, and he becomes nothing
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but his mouth(!!)
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None of the works that have been The cartoons I like best, old
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"deconstructed" have ceased to be Tom and Jerry's, Bugs Bunny,
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vital works. For example, Derrida Daffy Duck et al, are still
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deconstructed Freud. Yet Freud's around, and you can usually
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writings are still out there, still find them during Cartoon
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sending messages, still contributing Express from 6-7 on USA, or on TNT.
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to our understanding of the mind, And Nickelodeon, of course.
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and will y Rubble
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Much deconstruction is spent "Be vewwwwy quiet."
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searching for the ever-elusive
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"trace"
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Much deconstruction is spent "If he catches you you're through."
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searching for the ever-elusive
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"trace"
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Barthes is my favorite post- "That Road Runner is really a
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structuralist. crazy clown."
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There is no universal signifier. My pencil is bigger than yours.
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Phallocentricism is old news.
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There are only mis-readings. Shit. The Flintstones are on.
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__________________________________________________________________________
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Barbara Hlavin twain@u.washington.edu
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STATE OF THE ART
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Now suppose we are having an "affair," you and I, by which we, and the
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world, or our own cozy corner of the world, no different really from any
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of the other corners, containing as it does the same kinds of garbage, but
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this is our garbage, we have created it, we are comfortable with it, it is
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ours; means that we are sleeping together, sharing the same bed or beds,
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two of them, alternately not simultaneously, think of the laundry bills in
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sheets alone, and which also means, in addition to sharing beds (yours or
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mine, depending on whether you are allergic to my cats or I to your
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Sharpei, whether you are subject to homesickness or even a mild but
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disturbing uneasiness when separated from your water bed your electric
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blanket with dual controls your Mr. Coffee coffee machine your electric
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toothbrush your Waterpik)
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and I hope I'm not boring you but it is important to lay out the
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essentials of this, as it were, limited partnership, to establish as they
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told us in business school the formal limits and definitions thereof in
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order to prevent confusion and misunderstanding and lawsuits in later life
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-- it means we have dinner together three times a week, see Japanese films
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of Shakespeare's plays, discuss the significance of Beckett's bicycle
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(does he ride it? does he ride it too much? does he ride it enough?),
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argue the relative merits of Valium vs. TM, we are of our age, we are
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culture-acquisitive and badly educated like everyone else in this
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pox-eaten country, we are pleased with ourselves and, for a time, each
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other, we smoke each other's cigarettes, you smoking Balkan Sobranie made
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from the topmost leaves of the famous Yenidje tobacco with the famous
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Balkan Sobranie Filter, I Camels without filters, which has a cultural
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position of its own, eat each other's English muffins, look out the same
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windows, and through the insidious process of propinquity find ourselves
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appropriating one another's metaphors, I have never told you how much this
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bothers me.
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Suppose all these conditions to prevail, these details to be true, suppose
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that one night I am sitting up in bed and you, in an abstract but friendly
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manner, are scratching my back, right there, ahh, between the shoulder
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blades, ahhh, but suppose I then twitch in a way, a fashion that you
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interpret, correctly as it turns out, as portentous; this alarms,
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distresses you, and when I tell you... oh you will say you "understand,"
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I know you, Pamela or Joyce, or Joan, or Susan, or Brenda, but you
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continue to cry; this crying or "weeping" on your part first concerns then
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irritates me; it is not after all entirely my fault: there is something
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you refuse, deny, I don't know, there is something you want from me, the
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electrodes you attach to my head when you think I'm sleeping, I don't
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know, it's, there are limits, I don't know, I want you to be "reasonable,"
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I want you to stop crying.
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You cry nicely, using the edge of the sheet to wipe your eyes, and for the
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first time in eight months your feet are warm, a consequence no doubt of
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the emotion provoked by my "announcement."
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I can't stand it, you will say, weeping; of course you can stand it, dear
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girl with the Balkan Sobranie burning expensively in the ashtray, plenty
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of people have stood it, only consider the generations and generations yet
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to come who will stand it, stand for it, unless there is a revolution of a
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nature the practical aspects of which elude me, maybe the Chinese...
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It is not you, I say, to comfort you, although this is a lie and you know
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it is a lie, it is precisely you, you with your exhaustive knowledge of
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Russian Orthodox iconography, your truly remarkable collection of Bix
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Beiderbecke records, your hair which is either red or yellow, unless this
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time it is brown, or black, you with your scandalous uncle who moved to
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France and became a Communist deputy, you with your poetry or your
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painting or your cello music, your weekend skiing, your job in Social
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Services where five days a week you harass the poor, you with your under-
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or over-privileged childhood, it is you, I am tired of you. Your closet
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is full of old picket signs, I am often unable to find my coat, you wear
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the stigmata, I have seen your palms bleed, Auschwitz, Hiroshima, when you
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thought I wasn't looking, and even though the old horrors are not ours --
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except, perhaps, in a metaphysical sense, but let us be pragmatic: I did
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not kill Robert Kennedy -- the night is young, we have time, we have made a
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beginning, here.
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You are not alone, take comfort from that, I am unhappy too, does this
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solace you, I am trying to balance on this difficult situation like a
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paralytic on the top of a flagpole, are you even remotely conscious of the
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humor as you stand in front of the mirror hating your face and swallowing
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three, four, five aspirin?
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Some claim predestination or karma, but I don't know: consider the effort,
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the intricate plans that would have to be laid down like architectural
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drawings in the very structure of our genes, the foundation of the
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universe, do you really believe anyone would go to all that trouble just
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to make you miserably unhappy? It seems doubtful, it is, at the very
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least, problematical. Nice word, that: problematical. I enjoy
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speculation, the mutifarious forms of useless intellect, the uses of
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formlessness; at this very moment there are nine books on my desk, like
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nine bottles of poison: Do Not Touch. Four primary and five secondary
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sources, two of the secondary sources are irrelevant. The thought of
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irrelevance inspires me, I begin to play Chopin's Etude in E Flat Minor
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sitting naked at the piano, my inspiration is often mistaken for frenzy;
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the reproduction of a famous triptych by Hieronymous Bosch rattles on the
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wall, the neighbors are cursing, you are talking, to the toilet, to the
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laundry hamper, to the soap dish, the mirror:
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For you I had exotic tattoos applied to my face, brilliant shades
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of crimson, blue, green, the tattooing done in accordance with arcane
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placement rituals, following the patterns of the Dugam Dani,
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who fight for fun; the serial number on my wrist matched your
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dog tag. I joined the Church; you told me you loved me when
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I said the Pope had moral authority. I sent bottles of expensive
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whisky to your mother. Men, other men, found me desirable, they
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expressed interest in my legs, I had them removed, the legs. You
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gave me a beautiful wheelchair, one that had belonged to Lionel
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Barrymore, decorated with flags of sixteen different nations,
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we were so gay! I refused you nothing, my promising career
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with the Ballet Russe, I gave away our children, and now, now,
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now...
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On and on the soft plaint, like rain in the evening, like a Benedictine at
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prayer, poor Sister Polycarp, floundering in the frigid North Atlantic,
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off Cape Farewell.
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A SAMPLE CONVERSATION
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Nothing fixed
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Nothing tangible
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A dark mood, like a stream
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like a wind
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drifting, listing illusion
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illusion as illustration
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illusion is the problem
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illustration is the problem
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Passing the stars
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I tried...
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I know.
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Very hard...
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You're a good lass.
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My heart is breaking.
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Don't overdo it.
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It's all so meaningless.
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It's not without meaning. Not the meaning you want, perhaps.
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NOT THE MEANING I WANT!
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This is no good. It clarifies nothing.
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All across the continental United States, in France, Germany and England,
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in the socialist people's republics and in doomed democracies, in obscure
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tribes that employ the full range of vowel sounds, this dialogue is taking
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place. Think of it! In every time zone, all hours of the day and night!
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Spangled with umlauts, cedillas, in Welsh and Hebrew, in French, the
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language of promises and evasions, in Basque! In Icelandic! Probably not
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on Mars. But everywhere else! When you come out of the bathroom I will
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present you with a fistful of words, even though you would prefer
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daffodils or carnations; I will make a gift to you of the unfading word,
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the fern that lives on air, it is a pretty thing; nevertheless you will
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prefer sweetpeas or nasturtiums.
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When you come out of the bathroom, if you ever come out of the bathroom, I
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will hurl memories at you, I will stuff you full of memories as if they
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were ice cream, perhaps we will weep together and you will fall in love
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with me all over again, which will be very satisfactory. And while I look
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for my coat among the signs I will offer you a noble friendship, we will
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sweep up the fragments of this broken night and I will lay them on my
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empty pillow, if you had any sense you would slash my wrists with them,
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but you will put them in an urn in your room containing the full-size
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replicas of the Easter Island monuments, a gift from a former lover, or
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else you will make a necklace of them for your giraffe.
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So keep your chin up Broken Blossom, courage Camille, stiff upper lip,
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don't take any more wooden nickles, keep your head out of the gas oven,
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and better luck next time. I am the youngest of seven sons, I am on an
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impossible quest, I have many castles to visit before night falls.
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///////~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~\\\\\\\
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CORE1.08
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JULY 1992
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