112 lines
5.8 KiB
Plaintext
112 lines
5.8 KiB
Plaintext
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ooooo ooooo .oooooo. oooooooooooo HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #751
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`888' `888' d8P' `Y8b `888' `8
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888 888 888 888 888 "A Love Letter To GrlFrMars,
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888ooooo888 888 888 888oooo8 Part Two"
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888 888 888 888 888 " by AIDS
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888 888 `88b d88' 888 o 7/24/99
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o888o o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8
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July 6th, 1999
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Dear Miriam,
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Where to start where to begin? Maybe I should cop to something I
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did, and I hope you'll forgive me, because it was a lie, but not really that
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big of one. Some of the people I said hated me, in my last letter, really
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don't. Some of them in fact, are very good friends. But you know, dramatic
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license, and what not, everybody must give something back for something they
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get. So I lied a little, just for the sake of verbosity.
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But I did not lie when I said it wasn't the corporal realm that
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interested me. For sure, that's part of it, but that ain't all of it. In
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fact that ain't even most of it. I didn't lie when I said I could see you
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through the veil. I can see the river from the trees, and the difference is
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nothing, but that doesn't mean a thing. I don't know, maybe I come on a
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little too strong, but that's only because I have a direct universal
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imperative driving me. It demands that I write to you.
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A lot of people, so they say, don't believe in God. Particularly
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among the young. If you notice, even in the rank and file of such a fine
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institution as HOE, there are quite a few iconoclastic jokes. And Jesus is
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always the punchline. You know the type: "Hey guess what I just fucked?"
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"What?" "Jesus! hahahaah!:"
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The sad thing of course, is that this iconoclasm only implies a
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genuine and real belief in the things you would skewer. The parenthetical
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you, of course, my dear. If a person believed Jesus to be without efficacy
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and meaning, it wouldn't be the punchline, and so and so forth, and some may
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claim it's got something to do with social parody, but we all know what a
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crock of shit that is.
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Even sadder, as we all realize, is that these people will,
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eventually, return to the fold. As life turns cold and people start dying,
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as the haze of youth clears, people will come back to the faith, and perhaps
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an even greater blasphemy than their youthful indiscretion. They will not
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worship out of a profound relationship with God, but rather out of fear and
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out of chore, and that isn't belief at all, but just another venal activity,
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like eating or shitting. T'aint no different.
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With your sheets like metal. and your belt like lace. and your deck
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of cards missing the jack and the ace.
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But I have a true belief in God, or so I hope. I do not worship as a
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chore, but I worship as an instrument of faith, and I worship out of
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thanksgiving. There isn't a lot to gives thanks for, and a lot of people
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don't have food on the tables, but they've got forks and they've got knives,
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and they've got to cut *something*.
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Mainly, though, I thank God for his deliverance of you. Warwick will
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never be the same, not now, not with this burning knowledge of your
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existence occupying. You have been brought into the world, and in you I
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find the best evidence of a benign and forgiving creator.
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You are the penicillin of my infection, but it is my soul infected,
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not the body.
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With your childhood flames on your midnight rug, and your Spanish
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manners, and your mother's drugs, and your cowboy mouth, and your curfew
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plugs.
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Perhaps in my earlier letter I came off as a bit too contrived, as if
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I was somehow joking, and you believed that I did not exhibit the sincerity
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one would expect in such an undertaking. If this is the case, then I humbly
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apologize, and ask that you forgive this contemptible wretch, who is humble
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before God. If my manner did offend or confuse, I can only offer the
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explanation that I am an odd fellow. I have tried to keep the affair more
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restrained in this epistle. I do not want you to think me a frivolous sort,
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thought it might seem it.
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I wish only to impart the absolute severity and earnestness of these
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letters. There is no fallacious material or messages being presented. Only
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that which has been called Truth.
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It's not a bad way to make a living. And I ain't complaining. For I
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can blow my plum and drink my rum and go on home and have my fun.
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It's something like the collective unconscious, which is a much
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maligned and ill understood theory. I don't know how else to describe it,
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because it seems more like racial memory than anything else. Here I am, a
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seemingly OK guy, and all of sudden I'm turned all retarded at this one
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sight. Why? Something in the distant past, distant distant. Something
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other worldly. But I've got to face the shadow and descend into the water.
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In closing, dear Miriam, I hasten to add that you should contact me.
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I do not know how much longer I can go on like this, without affecting a
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profound change, and the sun is eclipsed every once in a while, and then
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it's the *moon* everybody has to worry about. I've got an email address,
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you know, it's something like: jarett@tregar.com. You might send something
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there, or you might not. Think about it.
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It's a wicked life, but what the hell, everybody's got to eat. I am,
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Yours Truly,
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Jarett Kobek
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[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! HOE #751 - WRITTEN BY: AIDS - 7/24/99 ]
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