2231 lines
117 KiB
Plaintext
2231 lines
117 KiB
Plaintext
Living in such a state taTestaTesTaTe etats a hcus ni gniviL
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of mind in which time sTATEsTAtEsTaTeStA emit hcihw ni dnim of
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does not pass, space STateSTaTeSTaTeStAtE ecaps ,ssap ton seod
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does not exist, and sTATeSt oFOfOfo dna ,tsixe ton seod
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idea is not there. STatEst ofoFOFo .ereht ton si aedi
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Stuck in a place staTEsT OfOFofo ecalp a ni kcutS
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where movements TATeSTa foFofoF stnemevom erehw
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are impossible fOFoFOf elbissopmi era
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in all forms, UfOFofO ,smrof lla ni
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physical and nbEifof dna lacisyhp
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or mental - uNBeInO - latnem ro
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your mind is UNbeinG si dnim rouy
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focusing on a unBEING a no gnisucof
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lone thing, or NBeINgu ro ,gniht enol
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a lone nothing. bEinGUn .gnihton enol a
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You are numb and EiNguNB dna bmun era ouY
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unaware to events stneve ot erawanu
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taking place - not iSSUE ton - ecalp gnikat
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knowing how or what 5/31/99 tahw ro who gniwonk
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to think. You are in FiFTY-FiVE ni era uoY .kniht ot
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a state of unbeing.... ....gniebnu fo etats a
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE
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=----------------------=
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EDiTORiAL Kilgore Trout
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LETTERS TO THE EDiTOR
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STAFF LiSTiNGS
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[=- ARTiCLES -=]
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THE CRiTiCAL CRUX Crux Ansata
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ONE EXPERiENCE Clockwork
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THOUGHTS ON FASCiSM Crux Ansata
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[=- FiCTiON -=]
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BUTTERFLY Holly Day
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MORTiFiCATiON Bixenta Moonchild
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DOOM AND iTS MiRROR iMAGE D.L. Brown
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BLEEDTHROUGH Kilgore Trout
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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EDiTORiAL
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by Kilgore Trout
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Yes, I saw Star Wars. Let's get this out of the way right up front.
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You'd think that after 16 years of rumination, ole George Lucas would realize that cute little creatures really annoy me. I hope Jar Jar Binks dies a horrible death at the hands of ravenous fanboys from all four corners of the globe. At least his voice could have been better than a damn Roger Rabbit rip-off.
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That's all I'm going to say on the subject. My evil gnostalgia seems to
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be holding back my critical eye for this movie, which apparently wants to be
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unleashed like a man looking for pumpkins the day after Halloween for some
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good eatin'. It's probably for the best.
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So, we're back from the dead again with a new issue, and we've also
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completed the third audio issue. Keep an eye out on the website for more
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information about where you can download the mp3 files once we find some
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server space. And, if you want a CD (yes, clocky went out and bought a
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burner), then email him at clock@apoculpro.org for transaction information.
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The CD is about 50 minutes worth of improv music played by clock, iwmnwn,
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styx, and myself. And just in case you think we're trying to be some idiot
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savant garde type of band, we're working up a b-sides album for all the wacky
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stuff that didn't go on that album. I think we decided we were going to call
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ourselves STS-48. We've still got t-shirts, too. Not many, though.
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So, keep those submissions coming, and enjoy this
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bigger-than-i-thought-it-would-be issue. I'm always surprised to find stuff
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in my inbox that I didn't know was there. I should clean house and delete
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most of those 2,000 messages. I'm a pack rat. And remember, if you want to
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get published in State of unBeing, you might only have the next issue, because
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Nostradamus predicted that the world was going to end in July of 1999. I
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mean, he's probably full of crap.
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But why take the chance? Don't you want to give the cockroaches
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something to read?
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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LETTERS TO THE EDiTOR
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From: Brady D. Russell
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To: kilgore@eden.com
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Subject: Re: SoB #54 -- it can hang by its tail like a possum.
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Kilgore,
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Dig. Parts of Kansas would amaze you. As a native, it takes some time to
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learn to appreciate the majesty.
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Kansas is like an ocean, except it doesn't move but you can also eat more
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of it.
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While the people take some time to understand, once you do they have a
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flavor unique in all the 50. And the women are the prettiest on Earth.
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I know what y'all's problem, was. You just didn't go to Lawrence, homey mi
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homey.
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Ever vigilant in defense of the state I left,
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Brady Russell
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[well, i don't think i could spend a lot of time 'learning to appreciate' the
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beauty of kansas before i decided to shove corn cobs down my gullet and set a
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torch near my stomach to die by implosion of popcorn. sounds like my english
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professor telling me i have to 'learn to appreciate' charles dickens. it's
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just not going to happen. the only thing i can recommend about _hard times_
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is that it is dicken's shortest novel. that said, i'm not really into
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statehood defense, and i'll be more than happy to list off a giant list of
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the suckitude we call texas. of course, burroughs did live in kansas, so
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whenever i decide to make my own personal trip to interzone mecca, i'll swim
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in wonder like a strange literati tourist. anyway, let's hear it for space
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colonization!]
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--SoB--
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From: RAINUNO@aol.com
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Sent: Tuesday, April 20, 1999 11:17 PM
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To: kilgore@eden.com
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Subject: ???
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where can i find yuor guys pages???there all down.
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is there a new spot??
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email me back and let me know?
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peace
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From: RAINUNO@aol.com
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Sent: Tuesday, April 20, 1999 11:27 PM
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To: kilgore@eden.com
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Subject: i just emailed you...
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this error message keeps popping up
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500 Server Error
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The hard transfer limit for this user has been reached
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is it due to the shootings in colorado? let me know what is going on.
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thanks for the info
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[amazingly enough, yes it is. clockwork set up a little utility on the site
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to detect how people were accessing the website, and he sent around these
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statistics on the oh-so-secret SoB IntraNet. these dates are for april 21,
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1999:
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Yahoo
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mafia 3436 90.34%
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trenchcoat 2225 58.5%
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coat 1217 32%
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trench 1208 31.76%
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the 97 2.55%
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black 73 1.91%
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webpage 59 1.55%
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don't 42 1.1%
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like 42 1.1%
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homepage 42 1.1%
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HotBot
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mafia 215 5.65%
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trenchcoat 155 4.07%
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trench 68 1.78%
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coat 68 1.78%
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homepage 51 1.34%
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webpage 15 0.39%
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death 5 0.13%
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manson 5 0.13%
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hitler 5 0.13%
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black 4 0.1%
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AltaVista
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mafia 55 1.44%
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trench 45 1.18%
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coat 40 1.05%
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trenchcoat 17 0.44%
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kmfdm 13 0.34%
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apocalypse 10 0.26%
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foosball 7 0.18%
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sob 6 0.15%
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black 6 0.15%
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eric 5 0.13%
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AOL NetFind
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mafia 7 0.18%
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trench 7 0.18%
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coat 7 0.18%
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hate 3 0.07%
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satan 3 0.07%
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website 2 0.05%
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nazis 1 0.02%
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homepage 1 0.02%
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gothic 1 0.02%
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Excite
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coat 6 0.15%
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mafia 6 0.15%
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trench 6 0.15%
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bomb 1 0.02%
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isn't that exciting? you can't buy free publicity like that.]
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--SoB--
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From: clockwork
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To: kilgore
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Subject: Letter to the Editor -- Kosovo, Oh, Kosovo. Wherefore art thou.
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I find myself feeling somewhat nauseous and watered down. As much as I
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would like to turn my head to events such as that is occurring in Europe,
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unfortunately, or fortunately, I can not. I am rather concerned, and
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fearful for what may occur. I mean, Nostradamus is knocking at the door --
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July of 1999 is coming up, my lovely people: "The year 1999, seven month, a
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pope, eager to appease; will stir things up in the east, before and after,
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war rages." Translate it as you wish. And follow it all up with the
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comings of the anti-christ, eternal war, blood filled seas, and the
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destruction of the sun.
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But, nonetheless. I'm not driven solely by the prophecy of Nostradamus.
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Although I certainly do not just toss that aside. I must state that I do
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not possess a wealth of knowledge pertaining to the history of the conflict
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in former Yugoslavia, or the rest of the world's involvement with. Basic
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facts. Basic things. Headlines. Biased slants. I do see, however, the
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world growing weary of the Western led power tactics on countries
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everywhere. Countries screamed against the recent U.S. attacks on Iraq --
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small and large, not to mention the entire United Nations. And now, they
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are screaming again against the U.S. led military smacks against others.
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And Russia. Poor Russia.
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Not only am I vehemently against war, but I believe this is a mistake by
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NATO, one that could prove very costly. They have admitted there is no
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quick ending. They have admitted the bombing of the country really does not
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prove to be effective, and in fact has worsened the situation. In fact,
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from what I have seen, the real genocidal acts only began to occur after
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NATO began their attack. Whether this is directly a result of NATO attacks
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or not is surely to be debated. They know any kind of war objectives they
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could have can not be achieved without the use of ground forces. And I am
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afraid that is soon to come.
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Not to mention. It seems as though NATO stepped into the situation with
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little to no plan. And they have little to no plan to exit the situation.
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It is hard to believe they are convinced if they just fire enough missiles
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at the country, they will throw their hands up into the air and apologize.
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Perhaps that is what they expect them to do, since after all, NATO and the
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United States are the controlling forces of the world, and no one dare
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challenge them -- all must whimper at the very prospect of standing up to
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them. Well. I am afraid they know not what they are stepping into.
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And of course, I must mention that which is reported by the news media.
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Whether I trust news media organizations, is something I do not know. I am
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certain I do not trust that which is told to news media organizations by the
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United States government. Especially by the Pentagon. Especially during
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war-time. As any student of history, military history, would know, the use
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of propaganda, for many underlying reasons, is wide spread during war.
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Propaganda regarding the enemy and how evil they are. Propaganda regarding
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how our allies are of course winning such wars, plowing through the enemy,
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we can not be defeated, our weapons are unmatchable, and everyone will be
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safe. I do not know what to believe. I believe very little regarding the
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"stats" of the conflict. From any side. Unfortunately, I do not have any
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such device as a ham radio, which I believe could in fact be the best source
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of such information. I have read reports from such radio broadcasts.
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Reports of more F-117s shot down. Reports of NATO transport helicopters
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carrying dozens of U.S. troops shot down. Reports of Russia revving up
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their ICBMs. Reports of the use of non-conventional weaponry.
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It is stated that Russia will do nothing against us. Due to their reliance
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on us to keep their country from collapsing. These people also believe no
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country would dare stand up against us in a military conflict. So.
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Unstable countries tend to do unpredictable things. Especially when
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unstable countries are led by a man who many consider to be quite unstable
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himself.
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In a military sense, I believe the United States is fairly weak at the
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moment. Multiple military conflicts in multiple countries, depleting arms at
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a rapid rate, spreading forces around the globe. All not quite a good idea.
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In a military sense, how can the United States expect to keep track of and
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control of all their "possible foes" if the current situations continue?
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Political conflicts with the Middle East, now political conflicts with
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Europe, conflicts with Russia, conflicts with China. Furthermore, I fail to
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understand how one can believe peace can truly be achieved through the hands
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of force. I can see this easily -- much to easily -- cascading into a
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massive, earth scorching, evil, bleeding event. We all know that World Wars
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always begin in Europe. And that is what I fear, and will wait to see.
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clockwork.
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--SoB--
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From: Sophie Random
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To: kilgore@eden.com
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Subject: From the Old School
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Dear Kilgore,
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I do not enjoy writing essays. Instead of seeing a blank screen, I see
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my eighth grade English teacher, with her thick calves and butchered feet
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which my mother's podiatrist boss had ruined forever, declaring that all
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essays must be five paragraphs long. Each paragraph must have at least three
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sentences. The first paragraph must introduce the main points of your
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essay, the next three act as the body, and the last is the conclusion. I do
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not enjoy writing essays. So I will write a letter to the editor instead,
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because letters to the editor remind me of notes passed in study hall and
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therefore freedom of expression, of a place where no one could tell or judge
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or dictate.
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I have a sinking suspicion that this issue of SoB will have at least
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one nonfiction piece concerning the recent high school shootings. And I am
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sure Mr. Ansata will have many, many enlightening righteous comments that I
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will no doubt half-heartedly skimp through, like the casual reader that I
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am. But before I get to that part of SoB, I want to have something there to
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remind myself of a different perspective. So I will write you, O my editor,
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this letter. I believe in taking responsibility, you see, and actualizing
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my desires.
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Remember high school? I can't, my psychiatrist won't let me because
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it'll ruin all the hard work that she's done. Ah, I wish. Unfortunately, I
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can and do remember. I even remember eighth grade, hell, I can remember all
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the way back to fourth grade...where the terror began. Where the pee-wee
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football cheerleaders became the subjects of my first public polemic. Where
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I stood, in the playground, and gave a rousing speech to jump-ropers,
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hop-scotchers and taggers about the evils of cheerleading circles and their
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implicit hierarchical structures based on ponytail length.
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But even more so, I remember when, in seventh grade, I scribbled my
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first tear-stained prosaic ramble about the despair of being too-smart and
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too-fat. I remember when, in eighth grade, I wrote my first suicide note
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that I kept in my desk drawer "for when the time inevitably came." I
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remember the summer after freshman year that I spent writing horrific
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angst-filled poetry, most of which rhymed. I remember sophomore year,
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writing short stories about my best boy friend who I was secretly madly
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hopelessly in love with. I remember junior year writing to my long-distance
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boyfriend about the banality of suburban life and the truth of
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existentialism and bad ska shows, although at the time, I thought they were
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pretty rad. I remember the summer after junior year that I spent at my
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computer writing more and longer than I had ever written in my life, about
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them all, about myself, about everything. And throughout it all, I remember
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all the pretentious, yes, cliche, yes, but very real pain I felt because I
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was a dumpy awkward precocious girl who never ever fit in, even with those
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who didn't fit in.
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I remember throwing myself into books, into poetry, into music, into
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anything to get me through it. But I also remember how during those years I
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acquired the habit of digging my nails into my palms whenever an
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uncomfortable social situation arose, digging them in so hard that I drew
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blood. I remember hating myself, hating, blaming, being disgusted in myself
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and in life because of what "they" made it about.
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And I always owned a copy of _Heathers_. In eighth grade, as the
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president of the honors' club, I announced that for the end-of- the-year
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party we would watch _Heathers_, and the whole room applauded, except for
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the row sitting in the back. The good-looking, just got done with
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basketball/cheerleading practice row. And one of them asked: "What's
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_Heathers_ about?" To which I responded, in one of the most powerful
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moments of my young life, "It's about killing all the popular people." But
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that's never what I thought of doing. I only thought of killing myself. I
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only thought of hurting myself, hurting myself more than they could, so at
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least I could win at something. It was my fault. It was my fault I didn't
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fit in, and I chose that station in life, and I suffered proudly, with an
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ugly rust grunge-era cardigan as my badge of courage.
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Remember when freaks and losers took it out on themselves?
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I confess, it is with mixed feelings that I watch these homicidal
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scenes from white middle-class suburban America. But rarely do I feel badly
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that young lives were taken. No, I am torn by the classic quandary with
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which the freak culture in which I was raised is obsessed: Did these
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black-clothes wearing, Nietzsche reading, wire-rimmed glasses boys, like,
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totally sell-out?
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Sophie
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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STAFF LiSTiNGS
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EDiTOR
|
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Kilgore Trout
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CONTRiBUTORS
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Bixenta Moonchild
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Clockwork
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Crux Ansata
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D.L. Brown
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Holly Day
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GUESSED STARS
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Brady D. Russell
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Rainuno
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Sophie Random
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SoB OFFiCiAL GROUPiES
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crackmonkey
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Oxyde de Carbone
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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[=- ARTiCLES -=]
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--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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THE CRiTiCAL CRUX
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by Crux Ansata
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Slackjaw
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Jim Knipfel
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(New York: Jeremy P. Tarcher/Putnam, 1999) 235+xvi pp., $22.95
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I suppose every major American city has to have a free weekly paper to
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provide the "alternative" to the "mainstream" daily, and thus preserve the
|
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illusion of free speech Americans hold so dear. ("Of course I can say
|
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whatever I want; this newspaper says 'fuck.' Now let's go shout down some
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racists...") In New York, the alternative weekly is the New York Press, which
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Knipfel describes fairly accurately as "a twisted, unpredictable, angry, funny
|
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alternative paper, filled with rants and first-person accounts of terrible
|
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lives." When I first lived in New York, I started reading the New York Press
|
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to find out what was going on in the city -- and avoid direct eye contact with
|
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the crazies in the subways. Jim Knipfel's column was by far the best part of
|
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the paper. As I came back to the city in later years, already somewhat aware
|
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of where to go to spend my weekends, I kept reading the New York Press pretty
|
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much for his column.
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When I started reading his column, he had only been published in New York
|
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for about a year, though he had been writing much longer. The Slackjaw column
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had run in Philadelphia for about six years previously. This book, which
|
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includes some memories from those columns, but is by no means a "columns
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collection" book, is his first book-length publication.
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Jim Knipfel is a person many of us can identify with: Bitter, outcast,
|
|
cynical, trench-coat wearing, brass-knuckle toting, suicidal. He is also more
|
|
than that. He is a talented, very funny writer, for example. (How many other
|
|
recent books carry an endorsement from Thomas Pynchon?) He is a former punk
|
|
singer; a reformed shoplifter; blind. This book is a memoir of his first
|
|
thirty years or so, telling of growing up, getting a degree in philosophy,
|
|
moving from city to city, and of his experiences with Retinitis pigmentosa.
|
|
|
|
When I was in high school, I knew a girl who had RP. Of course, I was a
|
|
kid, and didn't understand what that meant. All I knew was she was a blind,
|
|
attractive girl, with beautiful blue eyes. I assume that was because, as
|
|
Knipfel observes, the RP had dissolved her retinas like so many tablets of
|
|
Alka-seltzer.
|
|
|
|
All of which is not to imply this is a "triumph of the will" or "one
|
|
man's inspiring struggle with RP." Knipfel is not like that. This his life,
|
|
told with insight and wit, one of the factors of which happens to have been
|
|
his progression into the darkness. He doesn't bog anyone down with statistics
|
|
or pages of mantra-like affirmations. He just talks a good line, and leaves
|
|
you giggling on the bus.
|
|
|
|
And trying to remember not to make direct eye contact with the crazies.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Love is a grave mental illness."
|
|
--Plato
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
ONE EXPERiENCE
|
|
by Clockwork
|
|
|
|
What is this experience I wish to relate? How can I explain me reclining
|
|
on the couch, still and aware, having taking mushrooms a few hours before, now
|
|
writhing and living within the opera that had come into the room? Minutes
|
|
before, I was standing in front of the stereo, a CD in each hand, attempting
|
|
to decipher the english written on the covers, which band was which, and what
|
|
each sounded like, in perpetual indecision as to what to listen to, as both
|
|
Kilgore and IWMNWN sat across the room no-doubtedly staring at these sloth
|
|
movements and attempts to grasp this concrete, geometrical land.
|
|
|
|
Much questioning, and many pauses in logical order, multiple comments
|
|
from the audience on how it would not matter what I would choose, anything is
|
|
fine, and I finally gave up on the rationality, grabbed the top CD from the
|
|
stack, and flatly stated we were listening to classical. My attempts to plan
|
|
out a multiple-hour listening experience by filling the seemingly massive 3-CD
|
|
tray were abandoned, and I settled for one.
|
|
|
|
On the couch I went, reclined facing the stereo, able to view the track
|
|
changes and the redgreenred alternations of the equalizer on the front panel,
|
|
the only lights in the room from the multi-colored bulbs hanging above. And
|
|
there began a completely clear rising chorus ensemble, an opera beginning to
|
|
arise from the stereo -- not the cello, brass, percussion events I was
|
|
expecting, but this opera contained much more life. The chorus rose over
|
|
time, and I felt it being birthed into the room, the sound sliding from the
|
|
speakers, sliding and covering the room from corner to corner, this breathing
|
|
company of performers and characters and life, here to show the show. These
|
|
were not things I could see, but feel this life I did. And the rise of
|
|
masculine voices came and subdued, sharply dropped, and slowly returned, the
|
|
play enacted with each note ringing through my entire body. This was a story,
|
|
I had thought, a story of birth, and Truth, and death, and rebirth, and all
|
|
the lives between -- the first few tracks lasting longer than any numbers on
|
|
the stereo stated.
|
|
|
|
In the midst of the third track, I felt my body begin to tingle and
|
|
buzz, from first my fingers and toes, the quickly creeping inward to ingest me
|
|
entirely, and I laid open-mouthed, watery-eyed, and the world began to glow. I
|
|
became bathed in a bluish-white light, a glowing aura that grew brighter with
|
|
the beautiful sounds I heard, first myself in this glow, then my entire vision
|
|
-- white-washed with this light. The light superimposing itself over my
|
|
physical realm, providing a translucent, almost opaque view as I still was
|
|
open-eyed. Operatic voices surrounded me, and the perception of the physical
|
|
had disappeared, replaced with those sounds, voices, music, and this
|
|
all-encompassing light. Thoughts were null until then, only drifting and
|
|
going with what was occurring, but now I felt I had a choice to stay, or to
|
|
return. What was meant by stay and return, I did not know, thoughts of death
|
|
came to mind, and how tempting it was to progress into this other realm, these
|
|
feelings of bliss and ecstasy, that all would be fine if I went forth, I chose
|
|
to return. Slowly, the bluish-white regressed back into the room I was in,
|
|
still hovering about, the operatic tale still swirling around me, and I sat
|
|
up.
|
|
|
|
My body still tingling, and I was astonished and blissful, watching this
|
|
ethereal haze drift and dance about the room, feeling its presence. I was
|
|
taken aback by these thoughts of death I just had, overwhelmed with what was
|
|
occurring, and so chose to step outside for fresh air and a cigarette in hopes
|
|
to ground myself a bit. I stood and walked to the door, incredibly slow and
|
|
fluid, passing amongst and through the dancing light and feeling it as I went
|
|
-- opened the door slowly, slowly, stepped outside and shut the door behind
|
|
me, slowly slowly. This energy was all around me, glancing back at the
|
|
apartment I had just stepped from, the bluishwhite dancing freeful playful
|
|
energy came out from the walls, and showed itself outside -- incredible,
|
|
infinite layers of life to all sides, extending as far as I could see and
|
|
touch. My perception of time had disappeared, crawled to a stop, and I sat on
|
|
the step for what seemed to be hours, until time started again a few minutes
|
|
later. I sat and smiled and took in this light, felt myself 200 yards away to
|
|
my right, 100 yards away to my left, felt myself hovering above me, felt
|
|
myself sway with the grass in the lot before me, sway and rustle in the tree
|
|
not-so-far off, all in the same moments. And then I heard an incredible
|
|
laughter arise from IWMNWN inside as I felt myself be him, and quick flashing
|
|
untranscribable non-verbal conversations flew between us, several hours of
|
|
thoughts and conceptions and understandings in a few moments when we were each
|
|
other, when we were Kilgore, when we were all the room, and tree, and walls. I
|
|
could not help but laugh as well, creeping back in with grins as to what was
|
|
occurring, taking my place again on the couch, finishing the hour of music in
|
|
six hours, and watching the light essence fade away with the operatic tale
|
|
of us all.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"You realize, off course, that this means war."
|
|
--Bugs Bunny
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
THOUGHTS ON FASCiSM
|
|
by Crux Ansata
|
|
|
|
The issue of "What is Fascism?" has occupied me now for some years. For
|
|
the most part, I find our society uses the word "fascist" much as it uses the
|
|
word "hypocrite," but where a hypocrite is someone -- usually a Christian --
|
|
whose morality one does not care for, a fascist is someone -- usually on the
|
|
right wing -- whose politics one does not care for. That kind of name calling
|
|
I do not care for, but what is to be done? So I thought about it, and kept my
|
|
eyes open.
|
|
|
|
I find that on this, as in so many other things, the Marxists are
|
|
probably the only ones with a coherent analysis of the topic. Others have
|
|
definitions, with no reasons. These people often end up assuming every
|
|
right-wing government is fascist, or every police state is fascist. This may
|
|
have polemical value, but for an understanding of the phenomenon, and of how
|
|
to oppose it, clarity is vital. Rhetoric has its place, but don't let
|
|
yourself fool yourself. So, in these thoughts, I will be drawing a great deal
|
|
from my understanding of the Marxist analysis of the phenomenon of fascism.
|
|
|
|
The definition, without the explanation, a Marxist may give for Fascism
|
|
is this: Fascism is an essentially petit-bourgeois phenomenon, whereby the
|
|
petit-bourgeois align their interests with the bourgeoisie in time of crisis
|
|
against the proletariat. Much of the rest of this article will be an
|
|
explanation of that definition.
|
|
|
|
In Marxism, little or nothing is static. That definition is misleading,
|
|
in that it expresses what fascism "is," as if there were some grand, ideal,
|
|
Platonic Fascism, blissfully singing among the seven spheres. Marxism isn't
|
|
like that, and to really show what a Marxist analysis of Fascism would be
|
|
talking about, I have to put the concept into a process, a praxis, to
|
|
establish the vectors, if you will.
|
|
|
|
To begin, what is a "time of crisis?" An oft-quoted passage from the
|
|
early times of Marxism has one person -- I believe it was Engels -- saying how
|
|
at this point in history, we can go either to socialism or barbarism. It was
|
|
one of the few passages where Marx and Engels let slip their usual mask of
|
|
incurable optimism, and admitted progress is not inevitable. What did they
|
|
mean by this? It is now frequently said the barbarism referred to was what we
|
|
call today fascism.
|
|
|
|
As capitalism reaches a stage of increasing senility and increasing
|
|
globalization, it runs out of victims to consume. Capitalism simply cannot
|
|
achieve a steady-state. Stagnation may hold for a long time, but capitalism
|
|
is not infinitely sustaining. It needs fresh blood to feed off. We are in a
|
|
stage of advanced senility in our capitalism. The rich-poor gap is
|
|
increasing. Workers' rights are being eroded. The proletariat is becoming
|
|
increasingly globalized, as is capital. These statements mean much to
|
|
Marxists and to people familiar with the state of the economy not covered in
|
|
the Dollars and Sense segment on CNN2; they are peripheral to the thesis.
|
|
Either assume this is the state of the world today for the sake of argument,
|
|
or assume that in a world such as I have just described, the phenomenon I will
|
|
now discuss would have the opportunity to come to be.
|
|
|
|
I say "opportunity," because Marxism, properly understood, is not some
|
|
kind of Skinnerian determinism. Our only options may be socialism or
|
|
barbarism, but yet we have the option: Socialism or barbarism. Something
|
|
more than the mere situation determines the rise of fascism.
|
|
|
|
This is an important distinction between the Marxist and Capitalist
|
|
analyses of fascism I personally have seen, and I may as well make the point
|
|
here. In Capitalist terms, fascism is generally seen as the corporate state.
|
|
That means: Under certain, ill-defined circumstances (usually involving one
|
|
or more Really Bad Men), the state may come to serve the purposes of the
|
|
corporations rather than the people. (Or, more accurately, rather than being
|
|
neutral arbitrators of the law, as Capitalist analysts like to pretend the
|
|
state can be.)
|
|
|
|
Now, to a Marxist, the statement "that state is serving the interests of
|
|
big business" doesn't sound like Fascism so much as Capitalism. Not
|
|
surprisingly, Marxists do not see Fascism as essentially different from
|
|
Capitalism. Like Imperialism, Fascism is a flavor of Capitalism. The reason
|
|
why the causes of Fascism are nebulous in Capitalist analysis -- and why they
|
|
are left with a static definition of what it is rather than an analysis of how
|
|
it forms and why -- is because Fascism is a development of Capitalism, not an
|
|
aberration from it, triggered through some mystic Evil or viral Bad Guy. The
|
|
descriptive elements, the union of corporation and state, do not make fascism,
|
|
as the capitalist analysts think. These elements provide a situation that
|
|
makes this development possible. A quasi-fascist state can be imposed from
|
|
above, under these circumstances, but, as will be discussed, if it is so
|
|
imposed, it is not fascism.
|
|
|
|
So, we assume these circumstances, and we consider where the Fascism
|
|
comes from. In this time, where the bourgeoisie -- the persons who own the
|
|
corporations selling so well on Wall Street, and employing the rest of us --
|
|
has so much more than the proletariat, the system enters crisis. A situation
|
|
where a minority dominates the majority can only be sustained for a short
|
|
period of time. The lack of justice cries out to all men for rectification.
|
|
|
|
Another side note: What is discussed here is not just that one guy has
|
|
fifty whatzits and another guy has only twenty-five. That, again, is a static
|
|
way of viewing the problem. Capitalism doesn't just sit there. In order for
|
|
a corporation to survive and thrive, it needs profits. Capital, by its very
|
|
nature, seeks to increase. This, too, is a side note to the thesis, and so
|
|
I'll only refresh the reader's memory with this note. For justification, read
|
|
a Marxist analysis of capital. The effect is: The rich-poor gap does not
|
|
just exist; it either is expanding or contracting. In a society where the
|
|
rich have the power, the rich-poor gap will increase, because it is not in the
|
|
interests of the members of the ruling class -- aside from the occasional
|
|
Tolstoy or St. Francis of Assisi -- to give away their wealth and power. The
|
|
"lack of justice" to which I refer is not that some have slightly more; it is
|
|
that some are in a state of taking more and more -- proportionally -- than
|
|
others. The evil is not wealth; the evil is oppression facilitated by wealth.
|
|
|
|
Well, okay, we have a rich ruling class, and a poor underclass. Get some
|
|
rope and some lampposts and everyone's happy, right? Not quite. In
|
|
pre-capitalist societies, where Capital did not control the way people
|
|
behaved, there were such tension relieving situations. Among the Oghuz
|
|
peoples of Siberia, for example, periodically the leader of the tribe would
|
|
throw a big party and let all his main followers plunder his possessions.
|
|
Wealth is redistributed, esteem is preserved, and everyone goes home happy.
|
|
In Israel, in the years of the jubilees, debts would be forgotten, slaves
|
|
would be freed, and, perhaps most important, land was returned. Why was this
|
|
most important? Because the land in an agrarian society is the means of
|
|
production. If one person, one class, or one tribe monopolized the land, the
|
|
means of production, this person or group would be able to get richer at a
|
|
higher rate than anyone else, and would be in essence the ruler, the ruling
|
|
class. In our society, capital is the means of production. It is not
|
|
technically accurate to say so, but more or less that means wealth. So, the
|
|
rich get richer not out of an aberration of Capitalism, or due to insufficient
|
|
"pluck and luck" bootstraps on the side of the lazy homeless folks, but due to
|
|
the structures that make up our capitalist society. Capital tends to
|
|
increase, to aggregate. Capitalists that do not constantly increase their
|
|
capital go bankrupt. Our "morality" is subverted to capital, and rather than
|
|
being driven by what is in God's plan, or in men's best interest, businesses
|
|
are driven by what is most profitable. They say that is the way things are,
|
|
that they have to do that to survive. And they are right. And so the system
|
|
cannot sustain itself once means of exploitation have been drained.
|
|
|
|
So we have established what the time of crisis refers to, and we have
|
|
brought ourselves to the point in space-time where this crisis is existing.
|
|
Now, who are those players I referred to above, in saying the "petit-bourgeois
|
|
align their interests with the bourgeoisie in time of crisis with the
|
|
proletariat." The bourgeoisie I have already introduced; they are the people
|
|
who own the means of production. In short, this is the class -- because we
|
|
don't necessarily oppose the individuals -- that dominates the possessions
|
|
that make it possible to accumulate wealth. Who are the others?
|
|
|
|
The word "proletarian" is probably about as well-known as "bourgeoisie"
|
|
in our culture, and about as poorly understood. In essence -- at least for
|
|
the terms of this essay -- the proletariat is that class of persons who have
|
|
to sell their labor-power to survive. They are the folks who would starve to
|
|
death if they couldn't keep a job. I would suspect that covers most everyone
|
|
reading this, either now or once the diploma's in your hands. This is because
|
|
the tendency in any capitalist society is to increase the amount of wealth in
|
|
the hands of the wealthy, and decrease it -- proportionately between the
|
|
classes -- in the hands of the many. As the bourgeois class comes to own
|
|
more, a larger percentage of the people end up in the proletarian camp. It is
|
|
in the interests of the proletarian class -- who have little and are losing
|
|
even that -- to throw off the system. It is in the interests of the ruling
|
|
class to avoid giving them the power to do so.
|
|
|
|
The ruling class has a great many tools with which to effect this. I'll
|
|
summarize them into two: Sticks and carrots.
|
|
|
|
The traditional -- though not necessarily fascist -- police state uses
|
|
what may be called the stick. Union organizers come down with unfortunate
|
|
cases of death. Uppity peasants get misplaced. We're all familiar with this
|
|
kind of society; we've been funding it for decades. This uses force to oppose
|
|
the will of the people to be free. This is not the only -- or often the most
|
|
effective -- way to run a country. In a pre-industrial society, one can force
|
|
one's peasants to farm or die. Even in the first degrees of sweatshop
|
|
capitalism, this kind of oppression can be sufficient. As work gets more
|
|
complex, however, and in educated societies, this becomes less efficient.
|
|
|
|
So, the fascist whips out his carrot. This one is harder for people in
|
|
our society to see, not only because it is more subtle, but also because it
|
|
pervades our society. It is not only a system of "If you're good, I'll reward
|
|
you," but even one that stops the people from being able to see the
|
|
oppression. Everything seems to "work." That's the way things "are."
|
|
|
|
The educational system, for example, teaches people to see and consider
|
|
the world in the way the ruling class wants them to, and only in this way.
|
|
Entertainment and news outlets serve similar purposes. Part, but not all, of
|
|
the purpose of this educational distortion is to prevent the people from
|
|
seeing the advent of fascism. Hence, the bourgeois analyses of what it means.
|
|
If the people are constantly told fascism depends on the leadership principle,
|
|
for example, or on racism, they will not see the maturing of the socioeconomic
|
|
principles that led to fascism in the past, and lead to it now. The
|
|
distortions of history, the many layers of lies about World War II, serve the
|
|
purposes of those who seek to hide the fact fascism is coming again, and
|
|
always, as long as capitalism subsists. The ideology of the ruling class
|
|
becomes the ruling ideology. This is not fascism; this is a step towards it.
|
|
But I'll stop with the fascist's carrot just now, because we have another
|
|
character to introduce.
|
|
|
|
Who is the petit-bourgeois? In real terms, he is nothing. He doesn't
|
|
exist. He thinks he does, but he doesn't. What is important, though, is that
|
|
he thinks he exists.
|
|
|
|
The petit-bourgeois are the guys Saul Alinsky call the "have a little,
|
|
want mores." Technically, in Marxist analysis, the petit-bourgeoisie are
|
|
those people who own their own means of production, and no more. They are
|
|
self-employed, and do not employ anyone else. On the surface, America seems
|
|
to have a great many of these people -- subcontracting computer workers and
|
|
the like. In reality, the nature of our society today makes their
|
|
independence imaginary, even ludicrous. We are still in a transitional state,
|
|
though; a Marxist knows we always are. There are not true petit-bourgeois,
|
|
but there are people who act like them, and think like them. There are people
|
|
who don't like to accept that they are slaves to capital, and so they pretend
|
|
the are economically free.
|
|
|
|
Here we have another aspect of the fascist's carrot. It is in the
|
|
interests of the ruling class to let many of the people have some wealth --
|
|
not capital, but wealth -- so they think they have a stake in this society.
|
|
"Remember, where your treasure is, there your heart is also." The ruling
|
|
class teaches the people to believe they are petit-bourgeois, or are
|
|
potentially so, because to allow them to see they are proletarian would be to
|
|
encourage them to link up with those who share their class interests.
|
|
|
|
Fascism occurs when the petit-bourgeois -- or, in this case, those who
|
|
pretend they are -- believe their interests lie with the ruling class. They
|
|
are taken in with the wealth the ruling class allows to trickle down, and with
|
|
the memes spewed out by the ruling class's media, and the interpretations
|
|
given in the ruling class's educational facilities. And they come to think
|
|
they and the bourgeoisie are on the same team.
|
|
|
|
What does this mean in practice? In a police state, where there is no
|
|
petit-bourgeois, but only suppressed workers, outright force is used to keep
|
|
the people in line. In a fascist state, the people ask the government to keep
|
|
them in line. They will vote for more prisons and more cops, will support the
|
|
suppression -- explicitly or tacitly -- of unacceptable thoughtforms, but,
|
|
most importantly, will believe the capitalist system, if not perfect, is at
|
|
least the best for them. The sad irony, of course, is that it is not, but the
|
|
artificial petit-bourgeois, in refusing to see themselves in their true
|
|
socio-economic place, cannot see the world they inhabit. Like a man addicted
|
|
to sin, by refusing to see the error in his ways, he is blind to the true
|
|
world.
|
|
|
|
With the benefit of this analysis, we can briefly examine some of the
|
|
regimes typically called "fascist," and make an effort to see if they really
|
|
are.
|
|
|
|
The term comes from Italy, under Mussolini. In this case, and the case
|
|
of National Socialist Germany, the Left and the Right united into a
|
|
government. How could such far separated factions join into one? Because
|
|
they did not join as a political union, but as a socioeconomic force. The
|
|
seeking after a national leader, the emphasis on the power of the state, and
|
|
so on fulfilled the needs and desires of the petit-bourgeois class. All they
|
|
wanted was for the trains to run on time. They wanted a society that
|
|
"worked," which is to say, a society that worked for the ruling class. They
|
|
wanted the system not to improve, but to keep going as it always had, and so
|
|
it was essentially a reactionary phenomenon. It is no surprise fascism in its
|
|
purist form first manifested in the heartland of Europe, where industrialism
|
|
was well entrenched, as was the working class movement. Marx considered
|
|
Germany the best hope for a socialist revolution. The revolution came;
|
|
Germany shows what a gamble "socialism or barbarism" really is.
|
|
|
|
From the same time period, and often mentioned in the same breath, is
|
|
Franco's Spain. (And, to an extent, Salazar's Portugal. Knowing next to
|
|
nothing about the socioeconomic state of Portugal, I won't be directly
|
|
addressing it, and shall assume it to be essentially like the situation in
|
|
Spain.) In Spain, one sees a union between the state and capital, and a
|
|
relatively oppressive regime. However, one finds some differences. The
|
|
churches, for example, tended to oppose National Socialism. This is not a
|
|
result of Protestantism's influence, or of the uniquely National Socialist
|
|
elements of German fascism, though this is sometimes proposed. The Church in
|
|
Italy was none to accommodating of Mussolini, and despite the lies about Pope
|
|
Pius XII common today, the Church was not aligned with the state in either
|
|
nation.
|
|
|
|
On the other hand, the Church -- at least the Church in Spain -- was
|
|
considered to be a supporter of Franco. Even though, as time went on,
|
|
Catholicism in Spain came to be aligned with anti-Francoist forces --
|
|
especially in Euzkadi -- in the days of the revolution the Church tended to
|
|
the side of the Francoists. Is the position of the churches irrelevant, a
|
|
mere historical detail, or does the Spanish situation teach us something?
|
|
|
|
Spain was not as industrial as Germany and Italy. In Spain, the
|
|
landholders were aligned with the Francoists, while they played much less part
|
|
in Germany and Italy. In short, the situation in Spain was a wide-based
|
|
reactionary movement, not an essentially petit-bourgeois movement. In Spain,
|
|
the revolution was defeated by what would become called fascist, not subsumed,
|
|
as in Italy and Germany. The Spanish regime would more properly be called
|
|
Traditionalist, not Fascist. (Interestingly, history seems to indicate that
|
|
as nations become more entrenched in fascist or quasi-fascist regimes, the
|
|
churches increase in their opposition to them. In Italy and Germany, where
|
|
the movements were essentially capitalist to begin with, the Church opposed
|
|
them through their whole lifespans.)
|
|
|
|
In more recent times, regimes across Latin American and in Turkey have
|
|
been called fascist. Leaving aside some, which may have been more purely
|
|
fascist (such as some movements in Turkey, and some regimes in South America),
|
|
the general tendency has become to call all police states in the regions
|
|
fascist. This has been either the result or a cause of the careless use of
|
|
the word "fascist" in contemporary discourse. Many of these regimes were
|
|
brutal and oppressive, but, as mentioned above, the hearts of the people -- at
|
|
least those in the bourgeois and petit-bourgeois -- have to be with the
|
|
governments to qualify a nation as fascist. In many or most of these regimes
|
|
only the rulers -- as often as not the military -- supported the rulers.
|
|
|
|
Thus far, I have discussed classical fascism, the fascism with which we
|
|
are familiar from history. This fascism has concentrated on the union of
|
|
capital with the nation state, the dominant form of government in recent
|
|
history. For this reason, we may rename this form "national fascism," as we
|
|
briefly take a look at another form of fascism.
|
|
|
|
This tendency within capitalism, to form into fascism, is a pattern, not
|
|
a mere aggregation of facts. This pattern may be lifted to a higher level.
|
|
Analysis of the economic state of the world today shows that capital is
|
|
reaching a global level, and so are workers. No longer competing only against
|
|
people in the next factory or the next town, workers today compete against
|
|
workers and working conditions across the globe. The negative effects on the
|
|
American economy are well-documented, if not well-reported. Alongside this
|
|
tendency for capital and labor to globalize -- and by no means coincidentally
|
|
-- government is globalizing. The nation state has even now begun to be
|
|
superseded by multinational -- and eventually international -- governing
|
|
bodies.
|
|
|
|
Just as, within the state, the interests of capital are served by
|
|
unifying political and economic power, beyond the state these interests still
|
|
hold. A global corporation can benefit at least as much by the manipulation
|
|
of a global regulator as a national company can by the manipulation of a
|
|
national regulator. And so we can expect to see, if global government
|
|
continues without capitalism being superseded, a new, global form of fascism.
|
|
|
|
This is not the same as imperialism. Lenin's insight into the analysis
|
|
of imperialism was very profound, but the claim it would be the highest --
|
|
which implies last -- stage of capitalism showed again the ever-present
|
|
optimism that has made Marxist thinkers so charming. In brief, imperialism is
|
|
the stage wherein the dominant nations -- in a way, the bourgeoisie of nations
|
|
-- colonized and exploited the less developed nations.
|
|
|
|
At first blush, this appears to be a valid description of the world
|
|
today. The United States and Europe, the so called global North, seem to
|
|
still be engaging in a neocolonial relationship with the global South, the
|
|
third world and former second world. This is a misunderstanding based again
|
|
on the transitional nature of the world we live in. Today, the people of the
|
|
first world are "colonized," just as are the people of the second and third
|
|
worlds. The belief that imperialism would be the height of capitalism stemmed
|
|
from the belief the nation state would be superseded along with or after
|
|
capitalism. Today, we live in a world of hyper-imperialism; we are in
|
|
transition to a world of globalist fascism.
|
|
|
|
Imperialism is by no means dead, though it is breathing it's last. For
|
|
example, in the case of Kosovo, the Clinton government is not quite acting in
|
|
union with the international organizations to crush the national sovereignty
|
|
of Serbia. It remains the imperialist oppression of one nation-state by
|
|
another. This kind of bullying oppression is outdated, and indeed may be
|
|
helping usher in the brave new world of up-to-date, globalist bullying
|
|
oppression.
|
|
|
|
This serves to highlight, too, how a stooge like Clinton can continue to
|
|
wield such apparent power. The national government of the United States still
|
|
retains a great deal of power, even while it is being subsumed as a department
|
|
in WorldCo, Ltd. While the United States government has undoubtedly gone to
|
|
serve the interests of the ruling class not only in preference to the people,
|
|
but even against the people, it still retains enough independence to cause
|
|
problems for the global fascists. And so, tools of more or less malignant
|
|
factions are put into positions of power, such as 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
|
|
|
|
With the help of this analysis, we can now see why the governments of
|
|
Latin America and Turkey are, in a sense, fascist, even if their nations are
|
|
not as far along the capitalist development as the first world. In a way, the
|
|
so-called national bourgeoisie of these global South nations fulfill the role
|
|
of global petit-bourgeois, in affinities if not in fact. In the terms of
|
|
individuals, it probably is in the interest of Latin American generals to
|
|
align themselves with the global bourgeoisie. The lifetime of a single tyrant
|
|
is unlikely to extend to the point the world enters into a Marxist paradise,
|
|
and so it is even less likely that a Latin American general will be converted
|
|
than the scion of a bourgeois family.
|
|
|
|
This also explains why, here in the United States, we will (temporarily)
|
|
escape some of the more vicious aspects of the global fascist regime. For the
|
|
moment, serving as the global petit-bourgeois, we continue to be coddled by
|
|
the ruling class. Until they feel they can afford to dispossess us, or until
|
|
they feel they have no choice.
|
|
|
|
This time will come, inevitably. And it is unlikely to be a long time
|
|
coming.
|
|
|
|
Thus far, we have only thought about how fascism comes to be, how the
|
|
individuals lead to fascism. I will now take a couple of moments to look the
|
|
other way, at how living in a fascist system effects the people. Much has
|
|
been written about this subject already, so my remarks will be brief.
|
|
|
|
In its thoughts and its prejudices, the fascist system is inherently
|
|
other-oriented. I don't mean altruistic; I mean the fascist is obsessed with
|
|
overcoming others, and so has no time to develop the self. This is a result
|
|
of intermingling with capital, which, in order to survive, must be constantly
|
|
preoccupied with getting more. More profit, more consumers, more market
|
|
share. In another article I have discussed the distorting effect this
|
|
constant state of fear and selfishness has on the citizens of a capitalist
|
|
nation. The nation itself, however, changes as well.
|
|
|
|
By being constantly fixated on the other, as I alluded to above, the
|
|
state loses the ability to develop itself. Expansionist nations, whether
|
|
fascist, imperialist, or simply empire building, eventually reach the state of
|
|
imperial overreach. Constantly going out and subjecting other peoples
|
|
distracts the nation from developing itself, just as constantly trying to
|
|
climb the corporate ladder prevents the person from having the time or the
|
|
inclination to build the self, to create. It is not just the misery that
|
|
comes with realizing how pointless is a capitalist life that prevents
|
|
capitalists from contemplating and building themselves; they simply lose the
|
|
opportunity.
|
|
|
|
And this is another element that distinguishes a fascist state from a
|
|
quasi-fascist police state. In a healthy society, the people constantly
|
|
question and think as much as possible. This is a result of being fulfilled
|
|
as a human, and is a goal toward which states would be better put. In
|
|
capitalist, and especially fascist, states, this questioning subsumes along
|
|
with individual development. Education contracts to the bare minimum needed
|
|
for employment; the arts atrophy; and people simply stop questioning ruling
|
|
ideologies. Just as the people have to think about getting enough wealth to
|
|
survive, so the state as a whole has to think about consuming enough to
|
|
survive. In an imperialist nation, that comes from consuming other nations;
|
|
in a fascist one, it comes by consuming its own citizens, and they have to do
|
|
so willingly.
|
|
|
|
And so, quite apart from any moral or humanist arguments, there is a
|
|
pragmatic and aesthetic reason for opposing the fascism toward which we are
|
|
headed. It is, quite literally, soul-destroying. If it continues, the
|
|
ability to develop, to create, and to truly live will continue to be crushed.
|
|
|
|
But now that not just a definition, but an actual analysis and
|
|
understanding have been presented, we can begin to understand what fascism is,
|
|
what fascism means, and how to defeat it.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
[=- FiCTiON -=]
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
BUTTERFLY
|
|
by Holly Day
|
|
|
|
The boys at the plant have already noticed the change in me. They say
|
|
she's good for me, whoever she is, and I agree with them, one hundred per
|
|
cent. I spend the day thinking about her hair, her skin, screaming at the
|
|
clock to hurry up, hurry up, I have to get home and back to my girl.
|
|
|
|
Closing time comes and I'm gone, on the road in my car down that
|
|
wonderful stretch of highway that's made all the difference in my life. It
|
|
was on a night like this that I first met Ann, first saw her standing by the
|
|
side of the road with her arm outstretched, thumb cocked up, long copper hair
|
|
animated by the hot summer wind.
|
|
|
|
I almost didn't stop. I'm still not sure why I did. She got into my car
|
|
and folded her long legs beneath her on the seat like some wild animal
|
|
prepared to spring up and run at any minute. She smelled like rainwater
|
|
beside me in the car, like flowers and springtime and things I had long
|
|
stopped paying attention to. She told me she was coming back from her
|
|
boyfriend's house, that he was too tired to give her a ride home, and that her
|
|
mother wanted her home before seven every night. She gave me directions to
|
|
her house and settled back a bit, apparently convinced I was okay.
|
|
|
|
I decided to play a little trick on her, teach her a lesson about
|
|
hitchhiking. Pretty girls shouldn't hitchhike, shouldn't talk to strangers. I
|
|
don't think what I did was wrong. I intentionally drove past the turn-off to
|
|
her mother's house and instead kept heading down the highway towards my house.
|
|
I glanced over to see if she'd even noticed, but she was too busy messing with
|
|
her hair and her makeup to see what I had done.
|
|
|
|
It wasn't until we pulled into the cul-de-sac where I live that she even
|
|
said anything. "Hey, wait a minute," she said. "Where the hell are we?" She
|
|
tried to open her side of the car, but I snapped the electric locks shut on
|
|
all the doors. That freaked her out a bit, but we were inside my garage and
|
|
the garage door was closed behind us before she was fully aware what was going
|
|
on. "What are you doing?" she yelled. She swung her fist at me; I caught it
|
|
easily in my hand and pinned it behind her back.
|
|
|
|
I was on automatic pilot at this point. I knew somehow I was going just
|
|
a wee bit too far with the joke, but I really didn't know what else to do. I
|
|
did know that if I let her go, I'd be in serious trouble with the police for
|
|
kidnapping or assault or something like that. Somehow, I managed to get her
|
|
inside the house and down into the basement, where I locked her in the laundry
|
|
room so no one outside could hear her hollering. She's such a little thing,
|
|
it really was no big deal, but I still felt winded when I finally got the
|
|
door shut.
|
|
|
|
I went upstairs and fixed myself a beer. "You've really done it this
|
|
time, Ed," I said to myself. "Now what're you gonna do?" Since the first
|
|
beer didn't offer any inspiration, I had a second, and a third, and ended up
|
|
passing out on the couch.
|
|
|
|
I barely made it to work the next day, got up just in time to run out the
|
|
door in the same clothes I'd slept in. I didn't even remember the girl until
|
|
around lunchtime, wondered if it had all been some alcohol-induced dream. The
|
|
rest of the work day dragged, what with me worrying about the girl in my
|
|
house, whether she'd gotten loose and called the police on me, or if she had
|
|
killed herself and I'd have a dead body to explain or hide.
|
|
|
|
When I got home, I went straight to the laundry room. I prepared myself
|
|
for an attack of sorts, I was sure she'd be angry as hell, but when I opened
|
|
the door I found her sitting in the far corner, her face streaked from crying
|
|
all night. "I have to use the bathroom," she said, quietly.
|
|
|
|
She didn't move to get up.
|
|
|
|
"I bet you're hungry, too," I said, feeling suddenly very guilty. She
|
|
looked so innocent, so vulnerable. I just wanted to sit next to her and hold
|
|
her for an hour or so and tell her I wasn't some freak who was going to hurt
|
|
her. I just wanted to talk to her for a year or so. "I'll be back in a
|
|
minute."
|
|
|
|
I shut the door and locked it quietly. Immediately afterwards, I heard
|
|
her jump up and try the door from her side. I went upstairs and fixed her a
|
|
sandwich, wracking my brain to figure out what I should do next. My
|
|
basement's pretty soundproof, and I figured she could scream to her heart's
|
|
desire down there and no one would hear her, provided I kept all the windows
|
|
and doors closed. There's a bathroom in the basement as well, so she would
|
|
never even have to come upstairs for anything. I guess that was about the
|
|
point where I'd decided to just keep her and not worry about returning her to
|
|
her family or taking her back to the boyfriend who didn't care enough about
|
|
her to give her a ride home at night.
|
|
|
|
I got myself a length of chain out of the utility closet and a couple
|
|
little padlocks and went back downstairs. The girl was huddled in the corner
|
|
of the laundry room again -- her eyes grew as huge as dinner plates when she
|
|
saw the chain in my hand. I put my finger to my lips and lunged for her
|
|
before she could move. "I'm not going to hurt you," I said as calmly as I
|
|
could with her thrashing about beneath me. "If you stay still, I won't hurt
|
|
you." I finally sat on top of her and got the chain around one of her ankles
|
|
two or three times tightly. I snapped the lock on and got up. She lay on the
|
|
ground, panting, staring at me with a world of hate in her eyes. "We're going
|
|
to the bathroom, and then you are going to eat," I said to her, staring
|
|
straight into those eyes. "Get up."
|
|
|
|
I led her to the bathroom and turned my back as she did her business. I
|
|
guess she could have tried to kill me then, but she didn't. Afterwards, I
|
|
chained her to the pool table with enough length on the chain for her to get
|
|
to the bathroom when she needed to and lie down on the beat-up sofa when she
|
|
wanted to sleep. I moved my television downstairs so she'd have something to
|
|
keep her occupied during the daytime, and I brought her a pile of books to
|
|
read when t.v. got too stupid for her to watch.
|
|
|
|
It's a weird beginning to a relationship, but it works for me. Every day
|
|
I go to work and dream about the angel in my basement, and every evening I
|
|
come home and we talk about things she's read, the news, whatever soap opera
|
|
she'd hooked on at the time. She shows me some of the poetry she's written,
|
|
too, mostly stuff about missing her boyfriend and being held prisoner, but I
|
|
guess that's understandable. She's warming up to me -- I look forward to the
|
|
day when I can take her chains off and let her have the run of the house
|
|
without worrying about her trying to escape. It won't be for a long time, I
|
|
know, but I can still dream.
|
|
|
|
I never realized how lonely I was until she came into my life. My garden
|
|
has flowers in it again, the first flowers to bloom since Mama died. The
|
|
whole world smells like hyacinths and jasmine and morning glories to me, and I
|
|
owe it all to her, to the anticipation, her realization of love.
|
|
|
|
And she will realize it. She will learn to love me. As I love her.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"If we humans were as foolhardy or daring as butterflies, moths, and
|
|
other winged insects, and threw ourselves, all together, into the
|
|
flames, then who knows, perhaps the blaze would be so fierce and the
|
|
light so strong that God would open His eyes and be roused from His
|
|
torpor, too late, of course, to recognize us, but in time to see the
|
|
impending void after we went up in smoke."
|
|
--Jose Saramago, _The Gospel According to Jesus Christ_
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
MORTiFiCATiON
|
|
by Bixenta Moonchild
|
|
|
|
--You have come, I said, my words spit into the air with a gruesome
|
|
awkwardness, my uncertainty of purpose frozen inside my shivering will, my
|
|
only certainty being of how my repulsive weakness clouds the bright eyes of
|
|
them. They can laugh when they look away, and they do.
|
|
|
|
"We shall get a rise out of her yet!" their radiance screams, attempting
|
|
to devour my wretched dreams. My thoughts are now pulled into the territory
|
|
where they inevitably fall victim to nearly the whole of reality that is
|
|
united against the putrid position that is mine.
|
|
|
|
--To rise alone? is the plea that escapes my quarantined character. They
|
|
rejoice together in the ecstasy of the division between their evidently
|
|
perfect eternal dominance and this fresh new excrement from my rotten being
|
|
within the center of them all. I think they must love me because they need my
|
|
inexhaustible repugnance to fuel their continuous glory. But there is no
|
|
love; there is only the forever balanced opposition of forces, seeing that
|
|
nothing else but my own hideousness is enough to repel a whole world of
|
|
beauty.
|
|
|
|
"Bless our souls, she is trying to speak!" they cackle, knowing that
|
|
they are always blessed, and smiling at the contrast. I writhe in
|
|
humiliation; acceptance, the companion of peace, would never come near me and
|
|
could not live within the walls of my constantly tortured consciousness.
|
|
Peace does not exist. And companionship is against the meaning of my
|
|
existence.
|
|
|
|
--The soul that reaches... is the reply I begin to spew forth, although I
|
|
am uselessly fighting its release.
|
|
|
|
Communication is forcefully dragged out of me by the powers which are
|
|
intent upon perpetuating this endless game and its endlessly enduring outcome.
|
|
They never tire of it, and salvation from this madness is barely even an idea
|
|
in my mind of awareness that exposes me to this terror.
|
|
|
|
"Shall we take her into another round?" they question. I, in my
|
|
separation, am included among those who know the answer; everyone knows that
|
|
once a cycle is established an there exists nothing to intervene, this reality
|
|
will be endless.
|
|
|
|
--Into this infinity, is what I say to them, and my tremendous
|
|
embarrassment resulting from my inconsequential babbling strikes me instantly
|
|
with renewed pain. One formation of negative energy such as I can never
|
|
develop an immunity to the attacks of transcendental energies.
|
|
|
|
"She is one that is always losing herself," they giggle with a beauty
|
|
that I recognize clearly despite my always being here at home in the confines
|
|
of my grotesque self. My intense shame produces their unbounded glee, and
|
|
though the two have been in the same place for so long, they have never had
|
|
the fortune to mix.
|
|
|
|
--Is one that attains, I continue, offering these words of mine for them
|
|
to tear apart, making my own ill-fated future possible. I think I must be a
|
|
part of them because I continue to put forth this effort that I know will end
|
|
up destroying me, and so I think it cannot be my effort. I think I might see
|
|
that our wills are conjoined, together always. But there is no will of my own
|
|
that functions in this world. My will is paralyzed within my nauseating
|
|
putridity, and my actions are now controlled by the greater will that is the
|
|
righteous companion of them.
|
|
|
|
"What a laugh it is that she will never be sanctified," they call to me.
|
|
I shiver again upon hearing this curse, even though this thought occurs to me
|
|
every moment that I live.
|
|
|
|
--The sanctity, I cry, with the same pathetic incoherence that makes them
|
|
so delighted every time. I cannot help my misery in seeing their delight, as
|
|
I cannot help but remain trapped where I stand, always facing it and always
|
|
apart from it.
|
|
|
|
"Shall no one ever come to collect this nasty creation? Indeed not,
|
|
praise and glory be! For pity is far above her!" they sing, their sweet
|
|
voices celebrating in knowing of my despair. It is a marvel how they
|
|
participate in my misery without dirtying their hands, just as I have no hand
|
|
in their resulting happiness. That their beauty is not affected by the
|
|
dreadful effects of their actions makes them yet more beautiful to me. Upon
|
|
realizing the absurdity of my envy I am made yet more envious of them for
|
|
their being on the other side of it.
|
|
|
|
--Of collective creation, I whimper, the completeness of my idiocy never
|
|
escaping their attention, their superiority strangling me whenever I speak. I
|
|
only want to surrender, to have them take me into their perfection. But they
|
|
would never allow me to taint their purity, and I, being so familiar with
|
|
their loveliness as if it were mine, would never want to ruin it either. A
|
|
single victory quickly dies, and they would never let go of the euphoria of
|
|
fighting me off.
|
|
|
|
"No, she could not be lost in that disgusting wretch she calls herself,
|
|
because what an improvement it would be if she were!" they say in harmony,
|
|
their words excitedly dancing around my cage. Though I know I am so
|
|
well-confined, I yearn to reach out into their space even as I also know that
|
|
it can only produce brutal agony within me by its contact with me. My desire
|
|
is at once restrained and sustained by the old proclamations of reality.
|
|
|
|
--It is not lost, is the phrase taken from me to help the cycle on its
|
|
way, although it could have been the exact opposite of this phrase, and no
|
|
difference would have come of it. Any random expression of my torment is
|
|
perfect for their purposes.
|
|
|
|
"What hilarity there is in seeing such enormously loathsome repulsion as
|
|
hers in a tiny, puny location!" they shriek with good cheer. I am grateful
|
|
that I know I have always been terrible, deserving of the terror I experience,
|
|
and I know that I need them to show me just what I am. And I remain grateful
|
|
for seeing myself clearly although I sense that the value of my truthful
|
|
perception of my ugliness is debased in the lovely face of the value of their
|
|
beauty.
|
|
|
|
--But it transcends location, I reply at their command, so that
|
|
impatience never slows their graceful rhythms. I wonder if they know how I
|
|
appreciate this malicious laughter, all through the awful things it does to
|
|
me. I love them for their state of the highest bliss so much more because I
|
|
know the lowest state of suffering. If they in their ecstasy truly knew me,
|
|
it would surely kill what they are, and I, with nothing left to look at but my
|
|
own rotten self, would surely be taken by an even greater suffering, if
|
|
greater suffering than my present be possible. Then I should be a life that
|
|
wishes not to live, but, as I am now, I am only a life that wishes not to live
|
|
as myself, as I now see that there exists something else, and although I can
|
|
never be it, I can now at least see it.
|
|
|
|
"Nothing can separate her from her darkness," they say to me, and I
|
|
listen, unable to imagine their great resplendence because I am occupied as a
|
|
witness to the perpetuation of my despair which is made by their resplendence.
|
|
|
|
--In separation there, they take those of my thoughts which belong to
|
|
them and leave those which pertain to them. They transform my misery into
|
|
their beauty. If only I could be seen as indirectly beautiful. But there is
|
|
no beauty in me; it exists only in the wonderful transformation and belongs
|
|
only to them.
|
|
|
|
"Time and time again she falls into the depths!" is their joyous chant.
|
|
I try to see their happiness only as it is now; I cannot bear to look where it
|
|
comes from. I cannot bear to look at myself.
|
|
|
|
--Becomes a new time, I answer them as I must. I never know the meaning
|
|
of any phrase of mine sacrificed to this vicious exchange of words. I only
|
|
know that this equal exchange, which is driven by the patterns established in
|
|
the past, shall always create equal and opposite outcomes, and I shall always
|
|
get mine.
|
|
|
|
"You will be the same sludge as you always are," they reassure me. My
|
|
ridicule serves its purpose easily, as the path is well-beaten. The set-up is
|
|
ingenious; above the path they have planted a glimmer of freedom for me to
|
|
see. It catalyzes the fresh production of the torture within me as I fall at
|
|
the time I once again realize it is only a glimmer placed there to taunt me,
|
|
from the time I first notice it again and try to gauge its distance.
|
|
|
|
--You will, is the next pulled from me, and I hardly feel it leave. I
|
|
felt a flicker, just for a moment, of something beyond my familiar situation,
|
|
but it outs itself and I dismiss it. For there is nothing that could be of
|
|
any use to me that is away from this game of the sanity and the insanity in a
|
|
harsh embrace, as this game has no use but to preserve itself. Thus is the
|
|
nature of my world and their world; I do not say `our' to myself. I can only
|
|
say it to them for their amusement at its absurdity.
|
|
|
|
"She has become so many failures, and they all suit her best!" they howl,
|
|
and it seems that their laughter is increasing, but I know it couldn't be.
|
|
The balance does not change, the polarity between us never tilts, nor is there
|
|
any room for an increase. The constancy is set at full blast.
|
|
|
|
--Become many, I yield as usual, but the words are now slower from my
|
|
mouth. There is no real change, as always; it is just a new trick from them,
|
|
I know, but it works, and I am petrified with fright, which is also not any
|
|
change from the usual. But I think I feel a new factor in my fright, yet I
|
|
know my thinking is only there to let me comprehend my pain.
|
|
|
|
"We do not even care to throw a light upon her!" they exclaim, and this
|
|
is funny to them because I have always existed in darkness. My attention is
|
|
diverted to somewhere I have not cared to explore, and now I think there is
|
|
something hiding amidst the outer reaches of my consciousness. I know they
|
|
aren't watching; they couldn't bear to see, either.
|
|
|
|
--And we do not hide, I am prompted to say, but I strangely grasp some
|
|
meaning from my forced speech. They chuckle in great fun at the use of the
|
|
word `we', as they always do, but my helplessness in uttering it doesn't come
|
|
back to sting me because I am looking at something else.
|
|
|
|
"Her imperfections couldn't be cured in the land of God!" they are glad
|
|
to announce, displaying their pride. I feel a shock that has its source not
|
|
in them, but in my own mind, and I begin to wonder if they are giving me
|
|
something that they do not suspect. I begin to use my mind for something
|
|
other than the viewing of the mindless world around me.
|
|
|
|
--Imperfections in the land, I am now saying the words for me and not for
|
|
them, and I am desperately reaching in a new direction, away from their
|
|
territory, for an understanding of something new to me. They do not notice,
|
|
for they do not look in the part of my mind where understandings are held, for
|
|
they would not want to be blinded by the understanding of my agony.
|
|
|
|
"She can only succeed in progressing downwards to brand new levels of
|
|
squalor!" they cheer to themselves and laugh at me. I am unable to hear each
|
|
of their jabs at me which would normally infuse me with anguish; I am slightly
|
|
taken away from them and into another place, perhaps within myself, where
|
|
there is now something else. I think that there is another exchange occurring
|
|
besides the one in normally observable actions.
|
|
|
|
--That seeks progression, I now listen to myself. It seems that they
|
|
laugh harder, they talk faster, and they sound farther away, but I am
|
|
uncertain.
|
|
|
|
"We will certainly give her something to cry about!" they declare
|
|
triumphantly. I am no longer struggling to endure their oppression, I am
|
|
struggling to find something, and I can almost hear it.
|
|
|
|
--You are given, I respond automatically, complying with their needs
|
|
while straying from the path and realizing that I could possibly need
|
|
something for myself. But it seems so noisy, and I can't hear the sounds I am
|
|
drawn to.
|
|
|
|
"There will be no sadness that we don't design!" they applaud themselves
|
|
in rapture. Their voices are becoming distant. I am falling into another one
|
|
of their tricks, but it cannot be, because the pain is subsiding, I think, and
|
|
they would not let this be. The pain exists, as it always has, and I believe
|
|
for a moment that it is I who am fading from existence.
|
|
|
|
--All that there will be, I am still functioning within this unbreakable
|
|
cycle, as I should have known, but I can't stay apart from the useful ideas
|
|
breaking into my head, and I am now functioning in my own pursuit.
|
|
|
|
"How simple it is to train our little subject of disgust," they continue,
|
|
heavier on their side, while mine is slowly lightening. I do not know which
|
|
one is moving on, and my fear has not left my side. If it is them, they do
|
|
not let me know. I have thought that if they go away, I would have no
|
|
identity apart from them but a lonely shadow of my former darkness. I
|
|
question, if I go away, would there be no one who would perpetuate this
|
|
hateful cycle that I know myself as part of.
|
|
|
|
--And free from subjection, I call out, startled at a new strength in my
|
|
voice. I remember, beauty is not a slave to its origin, nor am I, and it can
|
|
be created in purpose. I am scared that they will hear, but I do not try to
|
|
return.
|
|
|
|
"The transformation of wretchedness to wretchedness anew simply works
|
|
wonders for her," they jeer mercilessly, not knowing that I do not need any
|
|
more mercy. Their tone shows that they are oblivious to the difference, but
|
|
their words are hurried and the pace has been accelerated.
|
|
|
|
--There is the transformation of truth, I say, and now I have no doubt
|
|
that this is truly happening, but I hesitate to take hold of the assertion
|
|
that I am making it happen. I alone, for a change, am proving to be a marvel
|
|
to myself. My observations lead me to creations in my own consciousness, and,
|
|
reunited with them, I realize that it was I who led them into being. I feel
|
|
my understanding expanding, and I see the cycle is speeding up and flying
|
|
apart under my orchestration.
|
|
|
|
"Look at her paths!" they try to laugh, but they are getting too quiet.
|
|
The desperate disturbed dreams of what it would be like to be them finally
|
|
destroy themselves with no farewell from me, as I begin to dream of what it
|
|
will be like to be what I myself can create.
|
|
|
|
--It brings the paths of sight, I answer them with dignity, and I no
|
|
longer need to watch them continue, as I have regenerated my focus to boldly
|
|
explore the answers that I have lovingly given to myself.
|
|
|
|
"Our infinite objects of destruction are still strong," they declare to
|
|
themselves, but the sound that reaches me is smaller, and it wavers on its
|
|
longer journey to me where I easily and indifferently detect that their
|
|
expressions carry less gaiety and more emptiness.
|
|
|
|
--To the infinite objects of our love, are the new words of mine whose
|
|
meaning is surfacing and bringing along with them the meaning of all the past
|
|
ones which were buried under the attacks to which I had agreed.
|
|
|
|
"And it leads back to her same pathetic routine!" they continue to chime.
|
|
I have discovered that the purpose of the constancy of clockwork is to provide
|
|
a bounded path to hold us there alive from which we can experience the need
|
|
and find our reasons and generate the deep desire to recreate reality into
|
|
such greatness that it becomes too strong for all of its old bindings and is
|
|
held by none other than its new creator. I do not look, but I know that they
|
|
are weighing themselves down since that which they had violently clutched to
|
|
give themselves balance has now refused to be held in a one-sided love.
|
|
|
|
--And leads us back, I speak to myself generously, knowing that there is
|
|
more of me. My consciousness is no longer a tool of their hatred. It has
|
|
discovered its own power and creates a new self, a new life, a new reality.
|
|
|
|
"The home of our magnificence will still last forever," they shout airily
|
|
in useless defiance of the movement that shakes their old position and the
|
|
meaning of these words of theirs which come forth from it. They do not know
|
|
how to do anything but continue with their cycle of familiarity which is
|
|
spiraling into oblivion.
|
|
|
|
--To the home of everything.... It is my statement of assurance radiating
|
|
in all directions, approaching even those who cannot understand it, for they
|
|
see in only one direction which is bound to close in on them.
|
|
|
|
"You are apart," is their accusation which narrowly survives the exit
|
|
from themselves and barely reaches me from their helplessly shrinking location
|
|
which is so certainly apart from the merrily expanding new world.
|
|
|
|
--You are not apart from all, my own words fill the atmosphere that
|
|
includes all that I was afraid to imagine before, along with the rapidly
|
|
vanishing remnant of the old reality that I was so afraid to change.
|
|
|
|
"You are..." they finally call out to me, the end of their words falling
|
|
into silence. They do not remain in stillness, because their former motion
|
|
has gone somewhere. I remain in plurality.
|
|
|
|
--You are here, I say. I do not await an answer from them and none
|
|
comes. I am awaiting my first becoming as I feel it approach.
|
|
|
|
And I offer for the first time a phrase that is not a forced answer to
|
|
some one else, but a force that originated from myself.
|
|
|
|
--And we have become....
|
|
|
|
Upon the final note which announces my freedom, all the words I have
|
|
previously spoken, fragmented by my past tortured life, all return to echo at
|
|
once. The prayer reveals itself as a self-sufficient creation, and.... And I
|
|
am speechless.
|
|
|
|
You have come to rise alone.
|
|
The soul that reaches into this infinity is one that attains
|
|
the sanctity of collective creation.
|
|
It is not lost, but it transcends location.
|
|
In separation there becomes a new time.
|
|
You will become many
|
|
and we do not hide imperfections in the land that seeks
|
|
progression.
|
|
You are given all that there will be.
|
|
And free from subjection, there is the transformation of truth.
|
|
It brings the paths of sight to the infinite objects of our love
|
|
and leads us back to the home of everything.
|
|
You are not apart from all
|
|
You are here
|
|
And we have become.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"We're through being cool."
|
|
--Devo
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
DOOM AND iTS MiRROR iMAGE
|
|
by D.L. Brown
|
|
|
|
Sam opened the blinds to the sole window in his studio apartment. With
|
|
assistance from the streetlamp located outside his window, he could see that
|
|
it was raining. Not a heavy rain, but a steady one. There was no wind, and
|
|
the raindrops fell in vertical lines onto the ground outside. Putting his
|
|
hands into his pockets, Sam stared out the window for a while, thinking about
|
|
nothing. He just stood there and watched the drops fall. They made small
|
|
misty patterns on the outside of the glass while his breath fogged up the
|
|
inside. He'd breathe warm air on the window, then draw little smiley faces
|
|
with the tip of his nose. Every once in a while, he would look down at the
|
|
windowsill and deem it filthy, resolving to clean it when he got in the mood.
|
|
After a while, his nose got too chilly, so he backed away from the window and
|
|
sat down on his bed.
|
|
|
|
Sam had set his mail on the floor when he first got home. He picked it
|
|
up and flipped through it. There wasn't anything there that interested him.
|
|
Bills, advertisements and pictures of missing kids. He wondered if anyone
|
|
ever found any of those missing kids. Does someone see these things and
|
|
realize that the kid had been living upstairs from them for the past three
|
|
years? They'd been there all along and no one knew that the kid was missing?
|
|
He set the pile of junk mail back down on the floor.
|
|
|
|
Sam knew what he needed -- whiskey. He checked his pockets for money,
|
|
but he didn't find anything. Going over to his desk, Sam opened the top
|
|
drawer to see if he had any emergency cash stashed away there. No dice. He
|
|
looked over to the corner of his apartment at the huge glass jug of quarters
|
|
he kept around just in case he ever needed subway fare. Did he really want to
|
|
dip into that fund? He debated it in his head for a couple minutes and
|
|
decided that a small bottle wouldn't be too much strain on the money in the
|
|
jug. He went over and picked the jug up, tilting its mouth downwards and
|
|
shaking it so the contents would pour out slowly onto his hand. As Sam got
|
|
the first few quarters out of the jug, he lost his grip. The jug went
|
|
crashing down onto the floor and shattered, sending quarters and shards of
|
|
glass out everywhere in a blob. Sam cursed to himself as he jumped away from
|
|
the mess. He then walked over to the closet and dug out the vacuum cleaner,
|
|
setting it down by the mess before kneeling down to pick up all the quarters.
|
|
Sifting through the pile very carefully so as not to cut his hands or fingers
|
|
on any tiny pieces of glass, he transferred all the quarters to the top his
|
|
bed by the handful. It took a total of eight handfuls to get all the money
|
|
off the floor before he could plug in the vacuum and suck up all the glass.
|
|
When Sam finished, he unplugged the cleaner and carried it back over to the
|
|
closet. As he was doing so, he noticed a trickle of blood creeping down his
|
|
right leg. He must not have felt a piece of glass gouge him in the knee when
|
|
he was scooping up quarters. Sam put the vacuum back in the closet and closed
|
|
the closet door.
|
|
|
|
He located his old shaving kit and dug around in it, knowing he had some
|
|
bandages in there. He found one, opened it up and covered the cut. He didn't
|
|
even bother cleaning it or wiping off the excess blood that had run down to
|
|
his ankle. Going back over to the bed, Sam placed his hands on his hips and
|
|
stared down at the heap of coins there. He sat down beside the pile and
|
|
counted out ten dollars worth of money. Taking a deep breath, he scooped up
|
|
all the cash he had counted and stuffed it into his pants pocket. Continuing
|
|
to look at the pile of money, Sam got up off the bed. What was he supposed to
|
|
do with the leftovers? He didn't have another jug to put it all in. Shrugging
|
|
his shoulders, he walked away from it and out the room. He'd figure it out
|
|
later. Right now, the plan was to get some whiskey.
|
|
|
|
He shut his apartment door but left it unlocked as he made his way down
|
|
the narrow hallway that went all the way from the back end of the building to
|
|
the front. The hall floor was made of hard tile and his shoes clicked loudly
|
|
as he walked to the front of the building. When he got to the door, he
|
|
stopped for a moment and watched the rain come down in their straight lines
|
|
before turning his shirt collar up and pushing the door open with his
|
|
shoulder. The rain was warm as it soaked into his clothes. This would
|
|
certainly clean off the blood that had congealed on his leg. Taking long,
|
|
deliberate steps, Sam walked downhill to the corner of the street where the
|
|
liquor store was. Thank heaven for all-night liquor stores. Going in, he
|
|
went straight for the whiskey aisle. He knew right where it was, since he had
|
|
done this so many times before. Sam took a bottle off the shelf and checked
|
|
the price to make sure he could afford it. He smiled, for he had enough money
|
|
with him. Sam carried the bottle up to the checkout register where the
|
|
cashier placed it into a brown paper bag while Sam emptied out his pocket.
|
|
The cashier gave Sam a look of minor disbelief when he saw how Sam was going
|
|
to pay for the bottle, but the cashier didn't say anything; he just rang it up
|
|
and counted each quarter until there was enough. Sam didn't even bother with
|
|
getting any change; it was only a miniscule thirteen cents.
|
|
|
|
Walking back uphill, the rain picked up a bit and the wind started to
|
|
whip around. Sam took jogging steps all the way back to his studio. Upon
|
|
returning to the confines of his apartment, Sam shook off the paper bag from
|
|
underneath the bottle of whiskey and held it up in the air, examining it like
|
|
it was fine wine. Sam sat down on the floor behind his coffee table, which
|
|
still had his shot glass on it from the last time he bought a bottle of
|
|
whiskey. He opened the bottle with haste and eagerly poured himself a drink.
|
|
Counting to three, Sam grabbed the glass and downed its contents in one fluid
|
|
motion. He quickly repeated that process. Sam looked over at his window and
|
|
frowned -- the blinds were still open. He got up and shut them to their
|
|
original position. Then he had another craving: cigarettes. Again, he
|
|
checked his desk, but didn't find any there. He must have smoked that entire
|
|
pack. He had more, though -- there was still half a carton left on the top
|
|
shelf in his closet.
|
|
|
|
Sam reopened the closet door, took the carton down and opened it. He saw
|
|
that one of the packs had already been opened. He hadn't smoked an entire
|
|
pack last night; he had put the pack back in the carton instead of in his
|
|
desk. Sam took the opened pack out and returned the carton to the shelf.
|
|
Pulling a cigarette out, Sam frowned again as he noticed a pair of bills that
|
|
had been folded and stuffed between the cellophane and the box. He took the
|
|
bills out to count them. There was a fifty and a five. The fifty was a crisp
|
|
one of the new design. He had gone through the trouble of breaking open the
|
|
glass jug for nothing. Still, he had fifty-five extra dollars now. He picked
|
|
up the phone to give someone a ring and say he had some extra money to party
|
|
with but couldn't think of anyone to call, so he returned the phone to its
|
|
cradle. He tossed the money on top of the pile of quarters that still sat in
|
|
a heap on his bed. There would be time to think of ways to spend it later.
|
|
Sam retook his place on the floor and quickly poured himself another shot,
|
|
downing it just as fast before lighting the cigarette with a pack of matches
|
|
he found on the floor. The matches said "Umbarger's." He remembered that
|
|
place -- a strip club. He'd only been there once, when he was vacationing in
|
|
Los Angeles, but the place was out of this world. He couldn't help but laugh
|
|
out loud between drags on his cigarette while thinking about all the crazy
|
|
things that went on at Umbarger's. Lap dances there were only ten bucks, and
|
|
it only took fifty to take a girl upstairs for a private show. That's what he
|
|
could do with the fifty-dollar bill he found in the pack of smokes -- take a
|
|
road trip out to L.A. and... no, too damn far away. Still, he could dream
|
|
about it. Sam wondered if Misty was still there. Misty was something else,
|
|
that's for sure. Gave Sam an orgasm without touching him once. Just by
|
|
giving him instructions -- "Pull up your shirt... unbutton your jeans" -- and
|
|
breathing hot air on his bare skin.
|
|
|
|
Crushing out the final chapter of his cigarette in his tin ashtray, Sam
|
|
poured himself another drink. He could really pack this stuff down. There
|
|
wasn't really much of a difference between sober and drunk anymore, anyway.
|
|
Getting up off the floor, he went over and sat down on the far end of his bed,
|
|
away from the pile of money, on top of his pillow. As he glanced down at his
|
|
digital clock, he noticed the time was eleven fifty-nine. He resolved to
|
|
watch the clock until it switched to twelve. He hunkered down and glared at
|
|
the red numbers. This was going to be the beginning of a brand new day. The
|
|
thought of that raced through his head and ricocheted from one side to the
|
|
other so hard that it hurt. His brain caught on fire as his eyes dried out.
|
|
His nose twitched and tingled until he could contain it no longer -- in an
|
|
exaggerated swoop, he jerked forward and let out a loud sneeze. He could feel
|
|
it reverberate through his bones as he bounced on the mattress. In a panic, he
|
|
struggled to focus on the clock again, but it was too late. The red numbers
|
|
now made fun of him as they read twelve-even, never to go back, never to show
|
|
Sam what he missed.
|
|
|
|
Genuinely pissed, Sam gave himself comeuppance by punching himself in the
|
|
leg. Another drink and another smoke was all he needed to make himself feel
|
|
better. Slowly walking over to the coffee table, Sam gently fell to his knees
|
|
and poured himself another shot. He drank it while plucking another cigarette
|
|
out of his pack. Lighting the cigarette, he got back up and picked up the
|
|
lone, framed photograph on his desk. It was a picture of him with the love of
|
|
his life, Tina. There they were, arm in arm, at the little bed and breakfast
|
|
they stayed at when they visited Arizona. Sam was wearing his favorite tie in
|
|
that photograph -- a green and blue one, diagonally striped. Tina hated that
|
|
tie. Tina hated all of Sam's ties. She'd call them gaudy and brash, and Sam
|
|
always retorted that they were just an accurate reflection of his personality.
|
|
Setting the picture back on the desk, Sam sighed. Things just haven't been
|
|
the same since Tina left. He missed her a lot. He told his friends that he
|
|
was over her, but deep down inside, his heart was still broken. Thankfully,
|
|
she didn't take all his stuff or screw him over in some other way. It was
|
|
just one day, Sam came home, and she was gone. Nothing left but a note. Sam
|
|
didn't have the note anymore; he actually ate it when he was drunk one time.
|
|
|
|
Feeling a bit depressed from thinking about Tina, Sam sat down on the
|
|
floor again. At least, his original plan was merely to sit. As his butt made
|
|
contact with the carpet, his body gave way and he ended up lying belly up on
|
|
the floor. Arching his head back to look at the coffee table, Sam made eye
|
|
contact with the whiskey bottle and its quickly evanescing contents. He
|
|
reached behind himself and brought the bottle down to floor level with his
|
|
right hand. His left hand felt around for the shot glass but instead found the
|
|
ashtray. Sam accidentally knocked it off the table, spilling ashes and
|
|
snuffed out butts onto the floor. He stared at the dusty mess and resolved to
|
|
get the vacuum back out, but he just didn't have the energy to get back up at
|
|
this time. He'd get to it later; right now, he wanted more whiskey. Figuring
|
|
that searching for the shot glass now wouldn't be worth the effort, he placed
|
|
the bottle to his lips and tried to finish off the bottle. He got a couple of
|
|
swallows down his throat before gagging and spitting up the rest. The liquid
|
|
burned his mouth as it trickled down onto his shirt from his chin and both
|
|
sides of his face. Sam returned the bottle to the table, trying to stand it
|
|
upright but settling on leaving it on its side. He needed to get up and get a
|
|
towel to wipe the mess off his face.
|
|
|
|
Struggling to stand, he staggered around a bit before coming in contact
|
|
with one of the walls. Sam spread his arms out against the wall to keep
|
|
himself propped up. Guiding himself into the bathroom, he placed his hands on
|
|
the edge of the sink and relaxed for a while. Then the lights went out.
|
|
Maybe it was a power outage. Or perhaps a blown fuse. It didn't make any
|
|
difference to Sam. He cursed again as he turned the cold water on. The sound
|
|
of the gushing water gave him a headache so he ran his hands under the stream,
|
|
swiftly splashing it against his face before turning the faucet off. The
|
|
streetlamp outside still illuminated his place in a spooky kind of way. Sam
|
|
looked at himself in the mirror. The shadows shrouded the entire right side
|
|
of his face. He saw himself as an ominous image. The light really created a
|
|
mood. Sam felt like a real badass now. He thumped himself on the chest a few
|
|
times and turned to go back over to the window. Before he made it there, he
|
|
lost his balance and fell flat on his face. It hurt, but not too bad. He
|
|
could lay here for a while. He could stay and rest a bit, then get up and
|
|
look out the window later. Maybe when the lights came back on. Calmly, Sam
|
|
closed his eyes and passed out.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"I know of no more disagreeable situation than to be left feeling
|
|
generally angry without anybody in particular to be angry at."
|
|
--Frank Moore Colby
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
BLEEDTHROUGH
|
|
by Kilgore Trout
|
|
|
|
He screams in silence, mouth held open by foreign hands which stroke the
|
|
underside of his tongue. Hands are all over him: groping, piercing,
|
|
pinching, caressing. His eyes are blinded by the white-blue light emanating
|
|
from the inside of his brain, and everywhere he tries to look, he is certain
|
|
he is melting the walls. He perceives reality through the touches of
|
|
others -- a passive, blind observer.
|
|
|
|
"Testing... testing... one, two, three."
|
|
|
|
His feet are painfully curled up like in an ongoing orgasm, but he feels
|
|
no pleasure. The taste of stomach bile juice rests uncomfortably on the edges
|
|
of his molars, and the hair follicles on his arms and legs are slowly
|
|
contracting inward. The air stinks of medicine and open sores.
|
|
|
|
"Working now? Did you patch sixteen to twenty-two?"
|
|
|
|
The white-blue light intensifies, and blood oozes from the corners of his
|
|
eyes. High-pitched feedback assails his ears, and the hands quicken their
|
|
pace. The hands in his mouth withdraw and are replaced by metal bars. He
|
|
cannot make any noise as bolts are driven through his cheeks.
|
|
|
|
"Signal coming through? Good. Alright, Mr. Brierly, let me tell you
|
|
about the final death of God."
|
|
|
|
Everything stops.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
"It's happening again," Johnny says.
|
|
|
|
"The dreams?" Jen asks.
|
|
|
|
"The dreams."
|
|
|
|
"The same ones?"
|
|
|
|
"Always."
|
|
|
|
A car smashes through the front window of the diner, shattering glass
|
|
everywhere, and comes to a stop about five feet from where Johnny and Jen are
|
|
sitting. The driver is dead, a bullet hole in his right temple.
|
|
|
|
"Hey, you okay?" she asks.
|
|
|
|
"Huh?" Johnny blurts out.
|
|
|
|
"You looked out of it there for a minute."
|
|
|
|
"Sorry. I was just thinking."
|
|
|
|
Jen sips Coke through her straw. "They're just dreams," she says. "A
|
|
bunch of wacky associations strung together inside your sleeping head. They
|
|
don't mean anything."
|
|
|
|
"But there's this feel to it," Johnny replies. "It's almost tangible,
|
|
almost real. I experience tactile sensations: pain, pleasure, fear. And
|
|
then there are these devices, these horrible contraptions that operate on
|
|
their own twisted mechanics."
|
|
|
|
"And you have no idea where they come from?"
|
|
|
|
"Not a clue. One of my friends calls things like that 'artificial dream
|
|
artifacts.' He says he gets them all the time in his dreams, like wooden
|
|
pulley systems that assemble high-tech robotics or escalators to the moon made
|
|
completely out of dinosaur bones. In his dreams, though, they're benign."
|
|
|
|
Jen stares outside and catches her reflection in the window.
|
|
|
|
"What I don't understand," Johnny continues, "is the repetitive nature of
|
|
the dream. Shouldn't it be impossible to have the same dream over and over
|
|
again?"
|
|
|
|
"Maybe it's just a similar dream, and you think it's an exact carbon
|
|
copy," she says.
|
|
|
|
"No. Impossible. I've had it too many times, and the dream is so
|
|
godawful long. No way is it ever different. I'd be damn happy if it changed
|
|
slightly."
|
|
|
|
"The voice over the radio? The paralysis? The experiments? The woman?"
|
|
|
|
"Every time."
|
|
|
|
The driver sits up in his seat and digs into the hole in his head with
|
|
two fingers, extracting the slug. One eye is closed, covered in blood. He
|
|
tosses the bullet to Johnny, who catches it in his left hand. The bullet is
|
|
in pristine condition, and, on the back, there is a single word etched in:
|
|
Lilith.
|
|
|
|
"Why are you staring at your hand?" Jen asks.
|
|
|
|
Johnny's hand is empty.
|
|
|
|
"I think I need to call it a night," Johnny says.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I hope you sleep okay tonight."
|
|
|
|
"It's not sleeping that's the problem. It's waking up and remembering."
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
"Now, the first thing you have to do is ask yourself a question. When
|
|
you dream in dreams, do you dream of reality?"
|
|
|
|
It always begins in the same way. He is standing on the boardwalk at
|
|
night. There is no moon, and the air is chilly, but the sweater he brought
|
|
remains in the car. He can hear the waves gently lapping up on the beach, and
|
|
every now and then a lone car with one headlight passes in the distance. Then
|
|
she shows up, dressed simply in a green tank top and white pants. She
|
|
consumes him with grey eyes, and when she opens her mouth, endless streams of
|
|
monarch butterflies pour out.
|
|
|
|
"You've had it with the repetition: the hands, the beach, her. It isn't
|
|
always the same, though. You aren't that static. What do you think you're
|
|
dreaming, anyway?"
|
|
|
|
At this point, one of three things happens. Sometimes the butterflies
|
|
cocoon themselves in midair, falling to the ground and covering the boardwalk.
|
|
Sometimes she grows a proboscis and implants it in his neck. Sometimes the
|
|
butterflies turn on her and envelop her completely.
|
|
|
|
"What would you do if something really changed? Not just a simple
|
|
variance, but a total paradigm shift? Could you trust your dreams anymore?"
|
|
|
|
Once, none of these things occurred. He takes her hand, and they walk
|
|
out onto the beach. They take their shoes off and wade into the surf, sifting
|
|
the wet sand between their toes. The half-moon frees itself from behind the
|
|
clouds, and a light appears in the distance across the sea. She tells him
|
|
that is where she is from, the floating ship. She tells him that he should go
|
|
there, and they walk out onto water.
|
|
|
|
"Would you be ready to take on such an opportunity if it arose? Maybe
|
|
you'd rather jump to safety instead, content with a life played out in minor
|
|
variations."
|
|
|
|
Halfway there, he starts to get tired, so she suggests that he rest. He
|
|
lies down, floating on his back, and falls asleep. He dreams of himself
|
|
asleep in his bed, and she is perched in the open window, watching him with
|
|
her grey eyes and wearing a half-smile.
|
|
|
|
"The choice defines both you and your reality. Do you make the choice,
|
|
or do you allow God to choose for you? Tell me, Mr. Brierly. Are you
|
|
capable, and maybe more importantly, is God more capable than you?"
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
Johnny wakes up, his bedroom smelling of something like medicine.
|
|
The curtains around the open window are fluttering in the breeze, and the
|
|
windowsill is covered in scratch marks.
|
|
|
|
"Goddamn cats," he says as he gets up and shuts the window.
|
|
|
|
The telephone rings while he is drying himself off after his shower, and
|
|
Johnny runs naked into the kitchen to answer it.
|
|
|
|
"Hello?" he asks.
|
|
|
|
"It's Jen," she says. "Sleep okay last night?"
|
|
|
|
"I slept like a baby last night." The earpiece of the phone starts to
|
|
melt around his ear. "I'm not sure if that's good or bad, though."
|
|
|
|
"Of course it's good. That's, what, the first dreamless night you've had
|
|
in four weeks?"
|
|
|
|
Johnny pulls the phone away from his head and looks at the earpiece. It
|
|
is solid.
|
|
|
|
"You still there?" Jen asks.
|
|
|
|
"Yeah," he replies.
|
|
|
|
"So we should celebrate or something. Got any hot dates you'll need to
|
|
cancel tonight?"
|
|
|
|
"Very funny. The only thing I need to do is get fitted for a suit. My
|
|
sister's wedding is in two weeks, so I'm cutting it pretty close."
|
|
|
|
"Do they know if it's a boy or a girl?"
|
|
|
|
"I think she went in for a sonogram last Wednesday, but I haven't heard
|
|
anything yet. Heather's been having lots of complications because she's so
|
|
small. The last time I spoke with my mother, she was worried that Heather
|
|
wouldn't be able to carry the baby to term."
|
|
|
|
"That bad, huh?" Jen asks.
|
|
|
|
"That bad," he says. "She can't even leave my parent's house except to
|
|
go to the doctor. My mother says she's bleeding a lot, too."
|
|
|
|
"That's awful."
|
|
|
|
"Well, she shouldn't have let that army guy knock her up. I'm supposed
|
|
to be the fallen child, the one who did all the drugs and stopped going to
|
|
church and hanging out with my heathen friends. She's the good little girl of
|
|
God who gave her older brother a lecture on the evils of premarital sex and
|
|
even signed one of those abstinence pledge cards at some church camp."
|
|
|
|
"Sometimes people get caught up in the heat of the moment," Jen says. "I
|
|
mean, what about that one chick you picked up at the Atomic Cafe? What was
|
|
her name?"
|
|
|
|
Johnny pauses. "I don't remember," he says.
|
|
|
|
"See? You aren't perfect, and you can't expect her to be, either."
|
|
|
|
"But she didn't even use protection. I may have been drunk, but at least
|
|
I used condoms."
|
|
|
|
"Well, that was pretty dumb."
|
|
|
|
"I guess this makes me the good kid again."
|
|
|
|
"Hardly," Jen laughs. "Give me a call when you're finished with your
|
|
suit stuff."
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
"So now you're wondering what all of this has to do with the final death
|
|
of God. First, we'll have to do a little study in the scriptures. You're up
|
|
for that, right? It'll be just like Sunday School, sort of."
|
|
|
|
A small white light appears in the corner, illuminating a small table with
|
|
a book on top of it. The hands lift him up and carry him over to the table,
|
|
standing him next to it. The book is open to the first chapter of Genesis.
|
|
|
|
"Look at verse 27."
|
|
|
|
He leans forward and reads:
|
|
|
|
27 So God created humankind in his image, in the
|
|
image of God he created them; male and female
|
|
he created them.
|
|
|
|
"Now flip over to chapter two and read verses 18 and 22."
|
|
|
|
The book's pages flip automagically to the desired selections:
|
|
|
|
18 Then the LORD God said, "It is not good that
|
|
the man should be alone; I will make him a
|
|
helper as his partner.
|
|
|
|
22 And the rib that the LORD God had taken from
|
|
the man he made into a woman and brought her
|
|
to the man.
|
|
|
|
"We have a little textual problem here. You've just read bits of the two
|
|
creation accounts in Genesis, and there are two different methods of woman's
|
|
creation. In the first, she is created at the same time as Adam, but in the
|
|
second, she is made from Adam's rib. Is this an error in the Bible or
|
|
something that needs to be delved into in order to understand?"
|
|
|
|
Steel poles with hollowed ends shoot out from the walls on either side of
|
|
him and attach themselves to the bolts in his cheeks. Sparks singe his hair
|
|
and eyebrows as the poles weld to the bolts. The poles start to turn, and he
|
|
finds himself suspended upside down, supported only by his face.
|
|
|
|
"Of course, since we are preternatural and not backward Fundamentalists,
|
|
we don't have to be restricted by *sola scriptura.* Dated between the 8th and
|
|
10th centuries CE, the 'Alphabet of Ben Sirah' describes the legend of Lilith.
|
|
She was the first wife of Adam, created out of the same dust and clay that he
|
|
was. When Adam wanted to have sex, though, Lilith protested, saying that she
|
|
would not be on the bottom. Adam admonished her, telling her that he was
|
|
superior and she was only fit to be on the bottom. Lilith saw herself equal
|
|
to Adam since they were both made from the same substances, so she shouted the
|
|
Ineffable Name of God and flew away."
|
|
|
|
A flat-screen monitor rises up out of the table and rotates itself to his
|
|
orientation. A sequence of 216 red Hebrew letters flashes on the screen, one
|
|
at a time. Their speed increases, getting faster and faster until the letters
|
|
blur together. He thinks he sees them forming a hand.
|
|
|
|
"Naturally, Adam was quite upset with the loss of his mate, so God sends
|
|
three angels to retrieve her. God tells Adam that if she doesn't want to come
|
|
back, she will have to kill a hundred of her offspring every day. When the
|
|
angels reached her, she did not want to return, and they threatened to drown
|
|
her in the Red Sea. Lilith told them of God's curse upon her because of her
|
|
flight, and the angels left her alone."
|
|
|
|
He clearly sees a hand forming in the blurred letters, and it extends out
|
|
from the screen and clamps itself around his neck. The flesh on his neck
|
|
begins to sear, and the steel poles push inward, shoving the bolts through his
|
|
cheeks, which fall out of his mouth. His cheeks are slowly ripping.
|
|
|
|
"Lilith has been blamed for the pains of childbirth and has been accused
|
|
of being a baby stealer and the inflictor of disease upon children. Some say
|
|
she was the mother of Cain, the first murderer. She also plays a role as a
|
|
succubus, fornicating with men during the night and impregnating herself on
|
|
their nocturnal emissions to continue her demon offspring."
|
|
|
|
The steel poles rotate again, returning him to an upright stance, and he
|
|
grabs onto the bars to support himself. A thick, musky liquid pours into his
|
|
mouth from the poles, and it cools his throat as the draught goes down. The
|
|
light above the table goes out, and everything is once again in darkness.
|
|
|
|
"Is Lilith real? What isn't? At worst, she is a metaphor, which is as
|
|
real as what you are currently experiencing, Mr. Brierly. Lilith represents
|
|
rebellion even if it means damnation. Her conscious divorce from the will of
|
|
God kills him for her, and she is no longer a creation but an abomination of
|
|
God. Her existence is defined by her actions, but her identity is her own.
|
|
So, Mr. Brierly, the question remains. Do you, as a child of God, continue to
|
|
suckle, or do you murder your father?"
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
"But the most important thing is that you feel comfortable in whatever
|
|
garment you choose," the salesman says as Johnny looks at himself in the
|
|
mirror. "Now, the suit you've got on is a wool suit, but it's got some Lycra
|
|
in it. 96 or 98 percent wool, I'm not sure which, but you can tell by how
|
|
soft it is. That's a good suit for traveling, by the way since the Lycra
|
|
keeps it from wrinkling too much."
|
|
|
|
"It's for a wedding," Johnny says. "My sister's. I'm bringing the
|
|
shotgun."
|
|
|
|
The salesman laughs. "Well, it looks good on you."
|
|
|
|
The suit is grey and has a subtle pattern that is just enough to prevent
|
|
it from being bland. Johnny buttons the top button of the jacket and does a
|
|
little twirl on the tips of his tennis shoes.
|
|
|
|
"You like that one better than the other two, don't you?" the salesman
|
|
asks.
|
|
|
|
"Yeah, I do," Johnny affirms. "I didn't think a suit could feel this
|
|
good."
|
|
|
|
"It's a nice suit. It'll work at the wedding, and it'll be just as good
|
|
for job interviews, parties, and funerals. It screams multipurpose."
|
|
|
|
Johnny's reflection smiles at him as the mirror begins to fill with
|
|
water. Johnny can see his reflection trying to hold its breath, the face
|
|
going blue and blood vessels in the cheeks ready to burst. He turns to the
|
|
salesman.
|
|
|
|
"I'll take it," he says.
|
|
|
|
"Wonderful," the salesman says, smiling. "If you want, we can go ahead
|
|
and have it marked off. It fits pretty well in the shoulders and doesn't need
|
|
to be tapered... just a little turned up in the sleeves and some hemming will
|
|
do."
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
They are running across the water now, and he sees the ship, somehow
|
|
floating with numerous holes in its hull. The light he saw from the shore is
|
|
a raging bonfire on the deck, emitting white-blue light and producing copious
|
|
amounts of thick, maroon smoke. The waves tug at his feet, and he notices for
|
|
the first time that she has wings on her back.
|
|
|
|
"The Jewish rabbis who wrote about Lilith were attempting to reconcile the
|
|
disparities in the creation accounts and did not portray her in a favorable
|
|
light. Some, however, see her as a hero because she chose to defy God even
|
|
though she couldn't win. Look at the Romantics in England in the late 18th
|
|
and early 18th century. Who was Blake's hero in _Paradise Lost?_ Satan, for
|
|
much the same reasons."
|
|
|
|
The moon slides back beneath the clouds, leaving them bathed in the
|
|
white-blue light from the fire. He loses his footing and falls face-first
|
|
into the water, the thick, musky liquid entering his lungs. She reaches
|
|
beneath the surface and pulls him up.
|
|
|
|
"Just like Satan, Lilith is a symbol for free will. Not only does she
|
|
embody the absolution of woman's subjugation to man, but she is the archetype
|
|
of freeing oneself from complete bondage."
|
|
|
|
Her shirt rips apart as her wings unfold, and, with her arms wrapped
|
|
tightly around his chest, bare breasts pressing into his back, they fly into
|
|
the air. Her grey wings beat slowly and gracefully as they make their way
|
|
through the air. As they get closer, he hears screams coming from the ship.
|
|
The name of the ship has faded away, and only a 'P' and an 'A' are still
|
|
visible.
|
|
|
|
"The curse upon Lilith also involves immortality. Lilith cannot die.
|
|
She remains free and is alive forever. There can be no reunion with God. is
|
|
this a bad thing? Only time will be able to answer."
|
|
|
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She gently sets him down on the deck of the ship, and the stench of
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charred flesh hits him. Tiny, deformed men with open sores are shoveling
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crying babies into the fire, one at a time. One man stands near a blackboard,
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marking a stroke for each baby consumed. He feels his innards stirring, and
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he drops to the ground, dry heaving. When he looks up, she is unbuttoning her
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pants.
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* * * * *
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Jen downs the shot, and her whole body vibrates for a couple of seconds.
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"Yum, the tequila shake," she says, wiping her mouth. "Gotta love it."
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"I don't see how you can drink that stuff straight," Johnny says, nursing
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a Shiner. "You are a much stronger woman than I."
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"So you picked out a suit?" Jen asks. She motions to the bartender for
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two more shots.
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"Yeah, I got a really nice one," he says. "I spent way too much money.
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I should have gone to one of those bargain places, but once you've touched the
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good stuff, there's no turning back. When I called my mother today, she said
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my dad never owned a suit that cost that much."
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"You won't be able to be your shabby self anymore."
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"Not if I can help it. Oh, they found out it's going to be a boy."
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"Have they picked out any names yet?"
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"Not that I know of. I think they should call it Justice."
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"Justice? That's dumb."
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"Well, if my sister loses the baby, she can say it was a miscarriage of
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justice."
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Jen frowns. "You are so evil," she says.
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"No, I'm not," Johnny grins. "I'm the good child now, remember?"
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She pushes one of the shots toward Johnny.
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"I'm not drinking that," he says, shaking his head.
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"Yes, you are," Jen says. "Be a woman."
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"Not even some salt?"
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"Drink."
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Johnny picks up the shot, looks at Jen, and brings it to his lips. He
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downs the alcohol, tilting his head back as far as it will go. The shake
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comes on, and he grips the shot glass tightly while his body is inundated
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with spasms. His eyes roll back in his head, and he feels liquid beginning to
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fill his lungs. The shot glass breaks in his hand, embedding shards of glass
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in his palm.
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"Well?" Jen asks.
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"I hate hard liquor," he answers and sets the full shot glass back on the
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bar.
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* * * * *
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The bars slide out of his cheeks, and he falls onto a blanket of hands.
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The red hand around his neck withers up and crumbles into dust. He coughs up
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the liquid which forms a glaze running down his chin and neck onto his chest.
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The hands turn him on his stomach and rub the glaze all over his body until he
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is glistening.
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"It is not a question of choosing to live but choosing to die. Do you
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prefer the illusion of free will, or would you rather really be free? Lilith
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made her choice at the beginning of time. What will you do? When the moment
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of crisis arrives, will you become free, or will you back away?"
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He continues to cough up liquid, and the hands keep spreading it all over
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him until it is about an inch thick. A panel in the closest wall opens,
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revealing a blazing fire. The hands move him toward the furnace, and his feet
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start to burn.
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"Are you the potter's son?"
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* * * * *
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Jen sits down next to Johnny in the pew.
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"Sorry I'm late," she whispers. "Damn traffic."
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"We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of one man and one
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woman in holy matrimony," the pastor begins. "Marriage is a sacred
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institution, and we are always proud to see those who are in love honor both
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themselves and our Lord."
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As the ceremony progresses, Johnny notices blood seeping out beneath the
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bridal dress' trail. It is barely red, almost black, and it flows down the
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|
steps, first in trickles, and then it gushes. A large pool forms at the base
|
|
of the steps and bubbles in loud pops, letting off steam. Johnny sits
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transfixed, watching the blood boil.
|
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"Do you, Gregory, take Heather to be your wife," the pastor asks, "in
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|
times of sickness and health, for better or for worse, until death do you
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|
part?"
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"I do," he says.
|
|
|
|
The edges of one side of the dress, drenched in blood, push inward and
|
|
outward like someone underneath a sheet trying to get out. The movement of
|
|
the dress' edge sends ripples down the stream of blood into the pool. A tiny
|
|
hand reaches out from beneath the dress and lifts it up. The fetus stares at
|
|
Johnny with its grey eyes.
|
|
|
|
"Do you, Heather, take Gregory to be your husband," the pastor asks, "in
|
|
times of sickness and health, for better or for worse, until death do you
|
|
part?"
|
|
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|
"I do," she says.
|
|
|
|
The fetus crawls out from under the dress on feeble arms and legs,
|
|
kicking its tangled foot free from the still-attached umbilical cord. It
|
|
sniffs in the air for a moment and slithers down toward the pool of blood. On
|
|
the last step, the umbilical cord goes taut, and the fetus turns and pulls
|
|
until the cord comes loose with a numbing, ripping sound. The fetus puts its
|
|
hands in the blood, leans forward, and drinks.
|
|
|
|
"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the pastor says. "You may kiss
|
|
the bride."
|
|
|
|
Gregory takes Heather into his arms and kisses her. The fetus looks up
|
|
and blows Johnny a kiss. Johnny breaks down, sobbing. His mother, sitting
|
|
next to him, pats him on the back and hands him a Kleenex.
|
|
|
|
"It's okay, dear," she says. "At least it wasn't the rodeo guy who rode
|
|
bulls every weekend."
|
|
|
|
Jen reaches over and touches him lightly on the forearm. "I never
|
|
thought I'd see you cry at a wedding," she comments.
|
|
|
|
The organist begins playing, and the newlyweds descend the steps with
|
|
beaming smiles. Johnny turns to Jen, closes his eyes, and hugs her.
|
|
|
|
"It's not them," he says. "It's not them."
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
He rolls over on the deck onto his side and looks up at her. She slides
|
|
the white pants down over her hairy legs and kicks the pants aside with a
|
|
cloven hoof. Her grey eyes look his body up and down as they wildly dilate.
|
|
In the corner of his vision, he sees a baby thrown into the fire with a
|
|
shovel. The chalk screeches as it makes another mark.
|
|
|
|
Her hand, with perfectly manicured nails, extends down toward him. He
|
|
pushes himself away from her with his feet until his back is against the
|
|
railing. He pulls himself up, leans over the railing, and throws up again.
|
|
Hands caress his back, and he turns, seeing her behind him. She puts her arms
|
|
around his neck and hugs him, an erect nipple digging into his sternum.
|
|
|
|
He unfastens her hands from his neck and steps away. He looks over the
|
|
railing and spots a small lifeboat in the water. She motions him to come over
|
|
to her with a finger. He climbs up on the railing, looking down at the
|
|
lifeboat and wondering exactly how far down it is.
|
|
|
|
Glancing over his shoulder, he sees her stretching her arms toward him,
|
|
holding a small child. He looks back down at the water, then turns back at
|
|
her. The child has grey eyes and struggles in her grasp. She smiles at him,
|
|
and he stares down at the rowboat.
|
|
|
|
She touches him on the forearm and tugs his arm slightly. The smell from
|
|
the fire hits him again, and he doubles over, almost losing his balance. He
|
|
steadies himself again, unsure of jumping or staying. The moon is still lost
|
|
behind the clouds.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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State of unBeing is copyrighted (c) 1999 by Kilgore Trout and Apocalypse
|
|
Culture Publications. All rights are reserved to cover, format, editorials,
|
|
and all incidental material. All individual items are copyrighted (c) 1999
|
|
by the individual author, unless otherwise stated. This file may be
|
|
disseminated without restriction for nonprofit purposes so long as it is
|
|
preserved complete and unmodified. Quotes and ideas not already in the
|
|
public domain may be freely used so long as due recognition is provided.
|
|
State of unBeing is available at the following places:
|
|
|
|
World Wide Web http://www.apoculpro.org
|
|
irc the #unbeing channel on UnderNet
|
|
|
|
|
|
Submissions may also be sent to Kilgore Trout at <kilgore@eden.com>.
|
|
The SoB distribution list may also be joined by sending email to Kilgore
|
|
Trout.
|
|
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|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
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