489 lines
26 KiB
Plaintext
489 lines
26 KiB
Plaintext
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"if i could get the president down here, maybe i could get my pipes
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cleaned properly."
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\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\splinter
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====/ ====/ =/ =/ =/ =/ =======/ ====/ ====/
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=/ == =/ =/ =/ ==/ =/ =/ =/ =/ =/
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=/ =/ =/ =/ =/ ==/ =/ =/ =/ =/
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====/ =/ ======/ =/ =/ =/ =/ ====/ =/ =/
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splinter\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
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number one june 1994
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< contents copyright individual authors >
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< [except scrytch, see ##--* ] < >
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unspecified-- dave meesters, 1994 or other >
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__________________________________________________________________
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within:
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-- hello
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-- splinter text
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-- special supplement: scrytch
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-- colophon
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\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
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HELLO this is the first issue of _splinter_, a journal of text
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fragments and broken writing, sound bites and simple indulgences.
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we're late and it's a little skimpy this time. hoping that
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submissions will pick up after this first issue gets out.
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*** a special supplement to this issue of _splinter_ showcases
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writing from the "scrytch" on-line collaborative writing project.
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find it at the ##--* mark.
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SUBMIT to _splinter_ if this looks like your thing. address all
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correspondence, submissions, comments, subscription requests (free),
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anything to <dave1@gibbs.oit.unc.edu>.
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ARCHIVES: this and future issues of _splinter_ will be available via
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gopher or ftp at etext.archive.umich.edu, in a directory to be named
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later.
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thanks to everyone who sent stuff in. can't do it alone.
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enjoy.
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///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
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a parable >>>>>>>>>
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when the man had dug down down all the way through to china, the last
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heave of his shovel planted the spade firmly into the tired man's
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unsuspecting skull. then he knew that he had reached all the way
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through, that he had come out the other side, and the death of the
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tired man became symbolic of his descent into the underworld and
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reascent into the world of man, a world transformed by his descent.
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he was so pleased that he kept the man's teeth on a cord around his
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neck for the rest of his days, to remind him of the sacrifices necessary
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to accomplish changes in
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Received: from chip.ucdavis.edu by gibbs.oit.unc.edu (5.64/10.1)
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id AA29527; Sat, 23 Apr 94 04:35:13 -0400 |
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Received: by chip.ucdavis.edu (8.6.8/UCD2.50) |
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id BAA18873; Sat, 23 Apr 1994 01:27:14 -0700 |
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to = me / sometimes |
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entry from journal: |
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(car ride through benicia, ca, toxic waste extravaganza) |
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somebody singing in their truck. looks like the chorus. my burps smell
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like japanese food. i can now eat reasonably well with chop sticks, but
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i still hate sushi. last fortune cookie i got said: |
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Hell is pave with good intentions. My mother said,"looks like the
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sages know." reminds me of the dreams i have where my teeth fall
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out in sheets of tooth grit or when my scalp peels off. my spanish
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flatmate in england said, "Your life is in decay." and "My mom has that
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same problem." | |
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my photo prof brings her tibetan bowl to class ... we meditate in
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the forest grove and she bings it when we should stop. Yuck. |
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I believe in the Buddha who found enlightenment within the people.
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which is more difficult? Mountains or people? my other prof, the
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artist, the one everyone thought was completely full of shit, found
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out last week (after all these years) that he got a degree and a
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masters in china, then went to florida state and got another masters
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and almost a phd in chinese theory. |
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one positive thing to meditate on: |
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Someday my features will shrink into the middle of my face, just like
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my dads. | |
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aaron calls me a forty year old magnet. i can't seem to attract anyone
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decent that is even relatively close to my age. the one from the nude
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beach said as he pushed the joy stick over to me, "Okay, your turn."
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and i said, "No, I suck at these things, I just like to watch."
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Then he said, straight into my eyes, "So, we're a voyeur are we?"
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I laughed, drank my beer and left. |
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| -- wendy chisholm |
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|______________________________________________|
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00010008476
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This is a number which sometimes The green grass is not like your
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shows up on screen when you wand face in the winter. Nor is it
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over the bar code on my belly. exactly like your face at anytime.
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Perhaps with age your face will
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disappear. The birds will sing or
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|| || || |/ \| || || || talk or make their whatever sound,
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|| || ||// \\|| || || and you will still be listening.
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|| || |// \\| || || The lipstick is smeared on the
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|| || // @ \\ || || woman's lips above slightly. Do
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|| || \\ // || || the wrinkles agree with the ground.
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|| || |\\ //| || || Intensify the wrinkles. Hard to
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|| || ||\\ //|| || || believe the cells are regenerating.
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|| || || \\ // || || || Time is ticking. Are we making the
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best of it? No time like the
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This is my belly bursting through present time. Scattered thoughts
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the barcode and stealing away in about a room making the room seem
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the night. like a thought gymnasium lockeroom
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with the water puddles and the
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living fungus growing on the tile
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(notcontested,capableofbeing)-ly floors. Not exactly something that
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the most advantageous affective needs to be extinguished. This
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mental he got it wrong state morning was a perfect morning. The
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developed not to ride atop the waking was superb. If the light
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dumpster truck or blare from the was any brighter I would not have
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steeple to tell us to behideware. believed I was on earth. The
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flak that explodes on your chest cooing of the doves was a perfect
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cavity just makes you cold and a bit reminder of the existing repetition
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silly and who would anesthetize the of the day. I tried to remember
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brain? i don't lick the sores something different this morning.
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because they taste good, they taste I remembered a dream. The day was
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good because i can lick them. short. It was shorter than the day
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before. All the clocks were wrong.
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-- (name withheld) I tried to fix them all, but had no
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control. A few of the clocks were
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in arms reach, especially the back.
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I could read the words "soft" and
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"loud" on the back. I could not get my hand in the correct position to
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wind. When I woke up, I thought that waking was the perfect thing to do at
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this point...nothing mattered more. Then I remembered what myself had
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planned for the day. Planning to be around in things...to do this and
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that...perhaps make up a portion of myself to be another portion of myself
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to govern the lacky parts of myself and get things straight. Maybe the
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parts that would rather organize would like to take a vacation. Not exactly
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like walking. A warm breeze isn't exactly like an arctic breeze.
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-- John Hudak
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*************************
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i still seem to find that no matter what i do, no matter what bank i go
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to, how many times i move my money around, how many times i stand in
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front of the dairy case trying to decide how many percents of what all i
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want in my milk, how many times i wince or even just close my eyes or
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lower my boom, no matter what the effect of the affect or the destination
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of the antecedent, i can no longer transcend being a mere marsupial.
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i can no longer transcend being
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i can no longer transcend
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i can no longer be
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i long t be
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-------------- --------------
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i would very much like to wallow some.
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------------------------------------------------
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So then, each to each a response can locate - two styles, one proof of the
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other's puddingness. This distaff and datstaff kind of mellowhole whizway
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will mightily my mind attempt/confuse/confute. And one of you can 'lay out'
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almost as if concrete poemsending. I am (continuing) to examine the sortways
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in which this spelltwist(ed) universe complies/complicates/disarranges
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without careful but and rebutting attention to detail. I am watching myself
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watching myself (meanwhile the cloche is running away with the
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spoon(erismes). Thanks for the connnection to splinter - that's exactly what
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i'm talking about here and always inafter. I shall now attempt a concrete
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one:
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t h
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i s
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a
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s
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gooeyes
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as the go
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oooohgets!
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\ i am now about to exi(s)t!
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\
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i \ -- david cole, the paumonock traveller.
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am \
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one big \
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run on \
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sentence \
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consisting of nothing but monosyllables connected with ....'s yelled from the
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open window of a yellow bus on the last day of 4th grade rhythmic
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vngngngngngng of a pencil scraped across the metal ridges of the
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un-upholstered back of the seat mashing in on the spiral spine of the
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notebook on my lap encreasing the zipper in my jeans folded arrow to the
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treads bottoming my shoes pausing to dig out orange dog shit poking this into
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a vinyl brown hole pokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepoke
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pokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokepokily B.O. waddles down the limb narrowed
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aisle on bare feet despite which were won busdriver of the year three years
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running by Ruby Dillard who tells us all to shut up and me to take names that
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i will put many many checks beside if you are my enemy.
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-- (name withheld)
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..end: splinter text------
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_____________________________________________________
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/--------------------------------------------------------
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//
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//
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//
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\\
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|\\ ##--* Special supplement: SCRYTCH
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| \\
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| |\\ samples from the compost silo of the
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| | \\ scrytch (brand) collaborative writing
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| | |\\ project, recycling itself through perpetual
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| | | \\ iterations.
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| | | |\\ scrytchers write, then sift through, appropriate, and
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| | | | \\ remix each others' writing in endless new combinations,
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| | | | |\\ always adding fresh material to the stew. the result
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is a nameless, faceless mulch that is simultaneously end-
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product and raw material. the following snippets, though
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worthwhile, won't give you a feel for the collaborative nature of
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scrytch. if you're interested in seeing/doing more, join the FIXION
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mailing list by sending a subscription request to
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<fixion-list-request@netcom.com>.
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dig.
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__________________________
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/ \
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| the me-that-feels is |
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| surrounded by the scar |
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/---------------| tissue through which the |
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_/ | me-that-cuts is always |
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| | cutting. |
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| \__________________________/
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____________________\|/____________________________________________________
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/ \
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quite clearly, something is afoot. two slices of toast, two cups of tea, two
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packettes of wiz and the day is set to begin. i gaze out the winder for a
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momentary two. eating up the murky morning distance, SOPOPOPAPOPIOPOLIS
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shimmies and stretches like the industrial-strength cybermatic alley-kittie it
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is. "i could snap your neck like a twig," i whisper. "meow."
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step out the front door with an empty shiver in the process of fading to grey;
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dawn streets in silent english drizzle; a child's woollen mitten; a dog turd;
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\___________________________________________________________________________/
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| on the way i meet this Kerrie-Girl, |
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| scrytching with the high street hubbub,
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| ducking, weaving, sometimes crouching down
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listening, sometimes scrytching the
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air with her hands, sometimes standing
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crane-like, taking it all in. The bits
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of barbed wire and razor blades woven into
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her prismatic dreads cut the sunlight
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into colours that no-one knows the names
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of.
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| i save off on Flan for the moment, follow
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\--- a whim; we go for a walk down the
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motorway, six lanes of pure metal speed,
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hand in hand down the fast lane facing
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/------ the oncoming traffic, horrific pile-ups
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| unfolding in our wake:
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"You know," she murmurs huskily she is obsessed, livid, feral, nubile.
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into my ear, "the world wants "You know what the world wants... and
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plastic trolls. It wants TV ----> you know that you'll give it to them...
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Dinners, it wants Poppin' Fresh debauched and desperate as you are, no
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Dough. It wants neon eyeliner, manner of angel will succor you." she
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FuckMe-Red lipstick, Teen Spirit, kills me sometimes. her breath is hot
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Gerry Curl. The world wants on my neck. "If an angel came, you'd mash
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people dressed as hot dogs." it into cherubic cuteness and sell
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\ / it as Fred Meyers. Because you are the
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| world {you are the children}. And you
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\|/ may not know art, but you know what you
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|------<--------<----- like. Don'cha, hhhhhhhhhoney?" and
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| she is right.
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\|/
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| {a self-organizing pattern}
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/----------------------------------------------\
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| riches and fame belong to pothunting |
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| hollywood whitehouse special interest | "Operationalize an
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| dicks. it is hidden in an element of fear | individualized apprehension,
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| and mystery stuffed deep down in the mattress | with an eye toward a
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| on which they sleep. the mattress is | goal-oriented
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| propelled upstream by the grunts and screams | instrumentality"
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| of people. some of them have forgotten how to |
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| exist; when the people remember how to exist | but we constantly,
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| some of them sigh and look downstream. when | and in best Human action
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| the mattress occasionally comes in contact | typically,
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| with the streambed there is explosion and |
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| the pothunting hollywood whitehouse special | diverge,
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| interest dick comes all over itself like a | converge,
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| wet dream. | merge,
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| | / emerge
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\_____________________________________________|/
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as new under the Son
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but not new under the Sun
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SOPOPOPAPOPIOPOLIS
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was intimately connected with all of the dreams
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we have given up for lost; it was and is a sort
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of "dead-letter-office" for humanity's dreams.
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_________________________________________________________________________
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| |\
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| SO MANY ADJECTIVES! i will not ever find them all in my dictionaries | |
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| SO MANY ADJECTIVES! i will not ever find them all in my | |
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| dictionaries | |
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| I'm NOT FREE... I'm NOT FREE... I AM SO LONEL I AM SO LONELY | |
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| SO MANY ADJECTIVES! i will SO MAI NOT FREE...NY ADJECTIVESnot ever | |
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| find them all in my dictionaries | |
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| I AM SO LONELY I AM SO LONELY | |
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| SO MANY ADJECTIVES! i will nSO MANY ADJECTII AM SO LONELYVESot | |
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| ever find them all in my dictionaries ! | |
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| SO MANY ADI AM SO LONELYJECTIVES! i will not ever find them all | |
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| in my dictionaries | |
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| I'm NOT FREE...I'm NOT FREE...I'm NOT FREE...I'm NOT FREE...I'm NOT | |
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| FREE...I'm NOT FREE... | |
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| I'm NOT FREE... SI'm NOT FREE...O MANY ADJECTII AM SO | |
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| LONELYVES | |
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| SO MANY ADJECTIVES! i will not ever find them all in my | |
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| dictionaries ! | |
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| I AM SO LONELY SO MANY ADJECTIVES I AM SO LONELY | |
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| SO MANY ADJECTIVES! i will not ever find them all in my | |
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| dictionaries ! | |
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| SO MANY ADJECTIVES! i will not ever find them all in my | |
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| dictionarie | |
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| I'm NOT FREE... SO MANY ADJECTIVES! i will not ever find | |
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| them all in my disctionaries | |
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| I'm NOT FREE...I'm NOT FREE...I'm NOT FREE...I'm NOT FREE...I'm NOT | |
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| FREE... | |
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| SO MANY ADJECTIVES! i will not ever find them all in my | |
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| dictionaries | |
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| TOO MANY ADJECTIVES! i will not ever find them all in my | |
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| dictionaries SO MANY ADJECTIVES! | |
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| TOO MANY ADJECTIVES | |
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| TOO MANY ADJECTIVES | |
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|_______________________________________________________________________| |
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\_______________________________________________________________________\|
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My apology to the Association will be short and to the point. I can no longer
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pretend to uphold the virtues so indicative of the fellowship of my peers.
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you are not words. but that is all of you i can see. you are not your
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actions... because you wish to exclude your words. you cannot do that, that's
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against The Rules. you are no more or less your words that you are your
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actions, and In Here, WORDS ARE ACTIONS. steps taken, trax made.
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//////////////////////////////////////
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// "Formulate a nonverbal clientele" //
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//////////////////////////////////////
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/--------------------------------------------------\
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/ \
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| "What we need is a good walking stick," he says \
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| over his shoulder, the blood now dried rust down |
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| his chin, left from that turgid septic winter |
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| when a little force still went a long way. His |
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| walking stick, blunted on both ends, lay miles |
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| away in his cellar. "We'll never get the necessary |
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| penetration that way." |
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she's screaming again. shit, i hate it when she does that. she screams and
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scratches and curses. she'll be out of it again soon... back to the flacid,
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drooling, mewling, pathetic creature she is most of the time. maybe i'll get
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some sleep. i light a cigarette, pour another cup of that awful coffee i made
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this morning out of spite. we used to take our shots together, you know.
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listening to the radio, sitting on the porch, an innertube tied around each
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right arm. it was communion, worship, the sun on our faces. sometimes i
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cried, it was so good. i was in love. what did i know? i always knew it was
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her trip, though. it was always her idea. and now she's gone so far. i don't
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take the stuff anymore. i just wipe up the mess. when will she quit that
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fucking screaming? it's getting longer and longer...
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pour some orange juice into her favorite red mug. some granola and milk in a
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milmac bowl. brought you some breakfast, honey.
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<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
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<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
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the
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beautiful moon has been hiding,
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obscured by metaphor. the city is here
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wanting to take me into its arms. the city says "maam,
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are you ok?" i hang up the phone on
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the city. there is dignity
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in dreaming;
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***
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*
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>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
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>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
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"i died with a gypsie once. she was very
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good at what she did. she did nothing all day long
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but chop her fingernails off with slim knives. she had no fingers.
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no hands. but that didn't stop her fingernails from growing long. they grew
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from her wrists with the speed of a young fool's death. twisted and tangled
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she chopped and screamed. her fingernails tore holes in my chest; blood
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trickled and she smiled; blood gushed and she laughed. ranting and raving
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she ripped through my body until our gnothings touched; the touch excited me,
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i withered; and her nails grew and grew. behind my back they entwined.
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became one. the pressure crushed my ribs. my insides dripped out and my
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outsides slid in. she caught the bloody, thick spray with her tongue like
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snowflakes. i did the same. we consumed ourselves. i loved her. she
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raised me; with my toes tickling the sand she made me dance,
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and we danced to our scream -- when morning
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came i killed her. she fought me; i escaped
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with only cuts. when it rains my chest
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still aches."
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<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
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<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
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>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
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>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
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>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>--------
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___________________________|_______________________________
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/ \
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| the goal here, see, is one that's hounded me for a long |
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| time. i really long to fuse each and every style in |
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| my immediate grasp into one that i can call my own. i |
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| want to fuse the Scholarly Essay with the Core Dump, i |
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| want to fuse autobiography with fiction, i want to |
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| fuse literature and disposability. that's the only |
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| tactic i can conceive of in response to my |
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| surroundings. that's the only way i can think of the |
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| get a fix within the flux. |
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\___________________________________________________________/
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| |
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| "it all started that sunday night, o so long |
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| ago... the words had refused to admit |
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| static. every stream of letters and |
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| numerals had congealed into some semblance |
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| of meaning. this was a problem; i had |
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| turned the television on to channel 23; i |
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| had tuned the am radio to a buzzing sub-hum. |
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| no help, no help. still the words came." |
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\______________________________________________/
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___|____
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/ \
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| >and |
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\________/
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..end: special supplement------
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goodbye.
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=======================================================================
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like it matters: _splinter_ was edited and published by dave meesters.
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this issue was created using text editors including WordPerfect 5.1,
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and distributed by PINE electronic mail software.
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for information mail <dave1@gibbs.oit.unc.edu>. _splinter_ is archived
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at etext.archive.umich.edu. copies also available from the publisher.
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