1830 lines
90 KiB
Plaintext
1830 lines
90 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 11/30/98 tahw ro who gniwonk
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to think. You are in FiFTY-ONE 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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MARY BLUE Clockwork
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iN FAVOR OF iMPEACHMENT Crux Ansata
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THE WAY THE NEWS SHOULD BE -- 20NOV98 The Super Realist
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WESTWARD, HO:
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TRAVELOGUE OF SLiPPiNG THROUGH THE SOUTHWEST U.S. Clockwork
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[=- POETASTRiE -=]
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DO iT NOW, SLEEPiNG FiSH The Super Realist
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MEDiTATiONS AT COMMENCEMENT BAY The Super Realist
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[=- FiCTiON -=]
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BLiNDNESS Crux Ansata
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COMPiLE Sophie Random
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iMPLEMENTiNG iMPOTENCE 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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Good God, man. We actually did it. We went and got our own domain name.
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Yes, that's right, we've changed addresses again. This will be the last time
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since now all you have to do is type www.apoculpro.org and you don't have to
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worry about tildes or backslashes or any of that annoying crap that makes
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remembering web sites so annoying. I mean, how many people give you blank
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stares when you're spouting off a web address and you say, "tilde, dammit.
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don't you know what a tilde is? argh!" anyway, go check out the web page,
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done nicely by Nathan and Clock. If you want to help out in designing
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anything for the web page or can offer some helpful comments (or scathing
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criticisms, for all we care), email us.
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And we've also got t-shirts. Yup. Now you too can be a walking
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advertisement for our zine, a position that you should cherish with all of
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your heart. We've got about 39 left, so it's a first-come, first-serve basis.
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We'll be sticking pictures of them up soon on the website and more info about
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them can be obtained by emailing me. We're gonna try not to charge for em,
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since we don't want to be capitalistic bastards, but at tops it may be like
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five bucks a shirt. Or you can just send us something really weird. We like
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getting strange things in the mail.
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No Thanksgiving rant. The turkey is still dead.
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In other news, the first "Fuck You, Clown" party had an excellent
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turnout, with around 10 people actually dressing up as clowns. Overall, there
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was a headcount of about 20 people that showed up at various times during the
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course of the night, and Austinites performed their true Friday late-night
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function by yelling at us from their pick-up trucks. Apparently, people don't
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think you should go around in costume if it's only been Halloween for a few
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minutes. Clockwork did not dress up as a clown. Instead, he dressed up as a
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Catholic schoolgirl. He even naired his legs. Pictures are being digitized
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and will be posted on the web for those that care to see how goofy we can make
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ourselves look.
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Right. So, this issue rocks or something. Clockwork is back from his
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vacation and presents highlights from his lone trek into the desert. I got a
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postcard, did you? He also weighs in with one of his trademark rambly pieces
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about -- yup, that's right -- a girl. And it's true, even though her name
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isn't really Mary Blue. The innocent/guilty must be protected. ansat wants
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to impeach Clinton to keep the military from taking over (I think Ansat wants
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to impeach everybody, including me, but don't tell him that) and The Super
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Realist gives his view on the way news should be as well as more groovy poetrie.
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ansat also writes some fiction, and I do as well, and Sophie Random is back
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with an interesting piece that I think I'm going to have to go read again.
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So read the zine, and for Christmas, as always, I want submissions. I
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want submissions from my regular writers, I want submissions from people who
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have written before but have slacked off, and I want submissions from you
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people who haven't written for us before. I would also like a giant
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pistachio.
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And now, since the hurricane season ends today, I give you the zine.
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Enjoy.
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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: Logsdon
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To: Kilgore Trout <kilgore@eden.com>
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kilgore--
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my book _alex the wolf-god and other grim and disturbing tales_ is now
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available at buy books on the web.com. also, it should be available
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through amazon. the url is as follows:
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http://www.buybooksontheweb.com/
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just hit the search button, which will bring up a list of books. my book
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is the last one the page since it is the most recent.
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rich logsdon
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[go and support one of our regular contributors by buying his book. it's all
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about diy ethics and stuff, right? i mean, it's not like that john grisham
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or tom clancy book you keep eyeing in the bookstore is going to do you a lot
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of good. besides, what would your friends say? "you're reading john
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grisham? i thought you knew good literature. tsk, tsk, tsk." hell, with
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rich logsdon, you'll be the only person within a fifty mile radius who owns
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the book. besides, he's the hippest guy in vegas i know, and if you're extra
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nice to him, he can hook you up as a player. or at least point you in the
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direction of the big, flashing neon signs.]
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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 LiSTiNG
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EDiTOR
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Kilgore Trout
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CONTRiBUTORS
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Clockwork
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Crux Ansata
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Sophie Random
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The Super Realist
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GUESSED STARS
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Rich Logsdon
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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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MARY BLUE
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by Clockwork
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One could say I went to purely test the boundaries of my beckoning moral
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code -- heave and flap in the smeared gray plane until it's smudged into black
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or white. I do not know if this is the truth. In at least some partial
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sense, yes, but I must say the body was willing, missing tender muffin-scented
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hands. In the midst of my gut now sits a wrenching thermodynamic law,
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pulsating and reciting couplets, and I know that it shouldn't -- it should
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keep its might high, absorbing rhyme after rhyme in the name of immortal man.
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But it seems my chest can take in only so much before lapsing into the land of
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the pithy.
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It brings the tone of the beginning of an Ed Wood teen love romp, angst
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and black and pity me softly, but I will not allow it, only spinning a tale,
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and unburdening the angel folk, the confessional accompaniment, and pretty
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Polly lost in the desert. From a day of sinking rubber ships and streams of
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desperation, I sought out the lost members of now empty hallways, seeking and
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dodging, uncover their doormat -- who will wish to speak to me? Whom do I
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wish to speak to? And I'll join the Percival bandwagon and ignore the
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question why. In this fit of abandonment, carrier pigeons were freed, clasped
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calligraphy and all, to hunt and bounce through the random hertz of the earth
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reaching for the fawns afar. Little response I expected as I draped across
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high wooden chairs and sweat into the evening tuning thoughts to forget
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actions.
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Awaking the morrow after, a pigeon stood above me -- perched in languid
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bold silence in a crooked masking windowsill, patient with care not to startle
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me in pecks and whirs -- a scrawled letter returned, and in it, the surprised
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glee of Mary Blue to hear from one Mister Me after years and years of
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unthought and perpendicular crosswalks. What do I say? Or, rather, what is
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the meaning behind what I may say? Send my messenger again, with subtle
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cryptic half-wits, look for the engagement, seek the flesh. That was what I
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was after, wasn't it? A crimson spat atop tumbling haystacks, high decibel
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panting, and on everyone goes with their ballroom steps. Dip the loins into
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premarital positions to soothe the nerves for another three moons.
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Dates were set, time came and went with realization of the casts I'd
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grown into -- we were to meet the first time amongst trampled pumpkin groves
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in the minutes between one day and into the next, ducking beneath the flying
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dogs and Baron von Barons. There she sat in loose fitting robes, and the
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thick vanilla paste of unfed tension sat between us. I quickly found my way
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to my own vined corner bathing my head in casualness, smacking the care-free
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gums to smock fed blues, reluctant to look into any eyes. She had grown a
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small measurable amount since our beings sprouted four, five -- what time have
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I misplaced? -- years past. Not that she was an anorexic pitch forking gal in
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those years before, always being full and curved, and rounded and plump, not
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dripping with fat as some do even after being applied the kindness of "curved
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and plump." The words were accurate -- perhaps a curved volupt mermaid,
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dropped amongst the weeds and left to roll with the light-scented gingerbread
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men. Attractive, yes, for how can mermaids not be? The karmic challenge came
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when one tempted one's curiosity into breaching through the inner portions of
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Mary Blue, past the bouncy frolicky squeak squeak of whatever cheer was being
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eloquently valleyed at the time, dive -- DIVE! -- into the mist in search of
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broken antique clocks with hollow ticks. This was met with mist within mist
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within mist -- the only clock ticking being the one next to the front portals,
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digital, with sauntering lambs.
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"What would thee do if I, Mary Blue, planted a kiss on little old you?"
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While peeling through the humid gardens of the inner perch, Mary Blue had
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slipped her body within inches of my left, on aging oak trunks that rose and
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fell with the rotation of the earth. What would I do, she had asked, and I
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had thought that was indeed the goal posts I was running towards. Must not be
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crude and slapstick, you'll cause the market to crash -- scalawag, scalawag,
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you're asking for the Black Dot to be laid upon you. She kissed me as she
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said, as her eyes had read, as I had foreseen and hoped to receive, returning
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favor after favor, muscle tension love on rotting stubs of wood. Time became
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a distant balloon, as it does in such acts of body mush, and on we went, bit
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after bit, eventually tripping over each other's portions of flesh -- how many
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cells per square inch? Caress and move, dodge the cable cars, less you be
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railed. Minor tea and crumpet breaks, with the after tea mint and tobacco
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leaf, tuckled smuckled away in baby's arms watching Fred the blanket and
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Josephine the rabbit sit row after row along the ceiling.
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May I state, and reiterate, all the onward action of land ho was preceded
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with viewed and reviewed and thriceviewed statements of consent, repetition of
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the capitalized No Expectations, in the dancy devil plan to alleviate any
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trappings and minor cuts and burns. No Expectations. No Expectations for
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either party to return with heavy head and heart, or await the bushel of
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flowers to be placed at the doorstep, final words, and romantic clinging
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backseat turns. No Expectations. Signed on and through the dotted line with
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meaded nods. On and on we go, as lips and trips and hands of wonder found
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their attention elsewhere, delving below the surface, the sweet risen Mary
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Blue jumping on the initiative train, vacuum tube pictures of Mom all agasped.
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In these moments I caught sight of the sauntering midnight clock, it's
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little hand jumping to the four, anxious for the first morning dew rays. I
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was afraid I had to vacate the area, and commence my guarded tour of the
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Orient, back to the palace of moonshine and dog hair -- I voiced such
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concerns, and Mary Blue slinked back with succubus lust eyes, agreeing with
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voice, interceding with moonbeams. It worked, the lunar glowworm entering my
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veins, matrons of foul sainthood, and I chiseled my return to the land of Mary
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Blue, taking initiative in return, trotting down the trails walked by the
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likes of Degas and Dillinger --
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"If thee goes there, thee best be coming back."
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My stark eagles cried. "What is that? Was that not your word on the
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Declaration of No Expectations?" And I watched the Declaration burn and tear
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away. Mary Blue had no response, and I crept forth and on for tiny winkling
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moments, to her seeming approval, before retreating to the time bubbling grove
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of my own sealed windows.
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I left the plains with her following me a bit out, leaning against post
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after post, as a sultry southern damsel does in Don Johnson films and foxfire
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trade romances -- gleaming eyes with hands dangling, robes splitting open to
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the perpetual breeze, and I felt her gaze and wondered what. Carriaged away
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in mumbles, I went, ranting on why and what am I doing? Sick guilt turpentine
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pangs, grunge sealed the skin, and I must awake in four hours. I enjoyed the
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moments, yes, but treaded openly on the dropping of No Expectations, fleeing
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to the distant point on line AB, feeling the Disney spokesperson statement of
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lust must come with love and never without, you cheap wine fool. Still caught
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up with the ancient tale of Madame Curie, perhaps? Perhaps, and yes, I am --
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stricken with fear and self-righteous hurt, avoiding the hints and taste test
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that any offers. And I query myself on why I let my own stranger rhymes to
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impart these ways.
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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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"Drop that crayon, Farm Boy! You're coming with me!"
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--Milk Toast Man on _Ren & Stimpy_
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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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iN FAVOR OF iMPEACHMENT
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by Crux Ansata
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The Founding Fathers did not believe in the purity of human nature. For
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all their differences of opinion, they did universally hold to one thing:
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people are not always and universally good.
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A corollary of this assumption is that a government -- made up of and by
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people -- can fall into the hands of individuals unworthy of the governance of
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a free people, even in a democracy. The Founding Fathers sought a nation of
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free people.
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It is today an insufficiently stressed feature of the ideal of the United
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States government that the Founding Fathers set up that all the elements of
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the state should be in conflict with each other. Division of powers was not
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to make the workload lighter or the writing of textbooks easier. If the
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elements of the government are in conflict with each other, they will have
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less time to be in conflict with the people.
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This, too, is only one step. Other forces are supposed to keep the
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government in check. Freedom of the press and freedom of the church were
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instituted to limit the powers of government. Juries were instituted to allow
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for the nullification of unjust laws. Freedoms of speech and association, and
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the right to bear arms were instituted to preserve the ability of the people
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to challenge and overthrow the government. The people should always be
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keeping the government in check.
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Because this underlying assumption has been neglected in the minds of the
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people, who have become lazy and allowed a caste of masters to run the nation,
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this division of powers has become weakened. Much ink has been spilt on
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balance of power examples such as activist judges and Executive Orders
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usurping legislative powers, without the oversight and sometimes without even
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the knowledge of the legislative branch; or the conflict between federal
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powers and states' rights. I write today about another, less discussed aspect
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of the balance of power.
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Just as there is, under the Constitution, a line of distinct succession
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of the presidency, so too there is a succession of responsibility in the
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obligation to preserve the virtue of the presidency. First, of course, is the
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office of the President. The President has the obligation of self-regulation.
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(The office is not to be used to the best benefit of the holder until and
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unless caught; that is the behavior of a tyrant.) The office is also to be
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weak and rotated, so as to prevent the accumulation of too much power in one
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person's hands. Failing this regulation, it is the obligation of the Congress
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to remove the President.
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At this point in history, we are seeing a critical test of this system.
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If Congress fails to impeach, Congress has failed in its Constitutional
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obligations. (Impeachment is not a finding of guilt, but the court process to
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investigate charges. The debate as to whether an offense is "sufficient" to
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impeach has no place under our Constitution. Clinton, like every citizen of a
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free nation, deserves his day in court, and so too the people under his
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jurisdiction deserve to have him held to the rule of law.) If Congress makes
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up something new, such as "censure," Congress has still failed in its
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Constitutional obligations. In either case, Congress will have effectively
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dealt itself out of the Constitutional government game. We, as Americans,
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will have ceased to be under a Constitutional government in both the executive
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and the legislative branches. At this point, we have fallen under the rule of
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men by virtue of power, and will no longer be under the rule of law.
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As sovereign citizens, we must decide individually whether we concede to
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this overthrow of our nation. We may consent, we may resist, or we may
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passively object. But there remains one element of the population that does
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not have the privilege of cowardice, for this element -- like the President,
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like the Congress -- has been sworn to the enforcement and defense of the
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Constitution.
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In the Oath of Enlistment, every member of the United States armed forces
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makes this oath: "I, ..., do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support
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and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign
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and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same..." In
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the event the United States government ceases to be constitutional, it
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devolves upon these men and women to overthrow this de facto government.
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* * * * *
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It is a matter of great pride in the United States armed forces that this
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oath is made to the Constitution, and not to a man. I was brought up with
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this emphasized. Men can do wrong; the Constitution exists to keep these
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fallible men in line. The Constitution has built into itself the course of
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action to be taken if this Constitution falls out of date or fails to fulfill
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the people's needs: the amendment process. If the Constitution fails to keep
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the men in government in line, the military takes seriously its duty to
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protect the nation against our domestic enemies.
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The military is among the most conservative elements in this nation. The
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military does not exist to create policy, but to preserve policy consented to
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by the people. The military is a dangerous force, and takes itself seriously.
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But if the Constitution is at stake, they owe it to themselves and to their
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nation to do their sworn duty -- and preserve the Constitution.
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The government knows this. Despite the lies coming from the White House
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and even the Pentagon, the troops do not support Clinton. Clinton knows this
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himself, and has ordered that no one in the military is permitted to speak out
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against the President. (The suppression of free speech utilized in the
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criticism of the government is not the action of the government of a free
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|
people.) And the animosity towards the Commander in Chief is so great that,
|
|
despite this censure, officers are publicly speaking out -- an in so doing
|
|
risking their commissions. Clinton may have had a lifelong disgust for the
|
|
military, but he is coming to have a healthy respect for this power that can
|
|
bring him down.
|
|
|
|
Clinton has never been popular with the military. He has demoralized the
|
|
force by imposing on them unpopular and unwanted social experimentation. He
|
|
has used them for the enforcement of foreign policy dreams less in the
|
|
interests of the American people than of his globalist friends. He has
|
|
personally allowed, as Commander in Chief, officers in the military to suffer
|
|
loss of commission for less criminal sexual activities than he is accused of
|
|
having committed. Now, he has admitted to lying under oath, and evading the
|
|
spirit, if perhaps not the letter, of the law. Even if the worst allegations
|
|
are untrue -- of having politically purged the military, of having had the
|
|
military lie to the Congress on military readiness issues, and of worse crimes
|
|
against national security -- these actions should be investigated, and
|
|
impeachment should allow the facts to come to light.
|
|
|
|
The persons in the military I know personally want the Constitutionally
|
|
sanctioned system to work. Even those who did not support Clinton in the
|
|
first place have been willing to follow him as their President and Commander
|
|
in Chief, even into unfavored policies. They understand the danger of the
|
|
military, and the need for civilian oversight. They understand the role of
|
|
impeachment. But they also know their duty.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
The authority of the military derives from the people, not from the
|
|
government. It exists to enforce the people's law -- in our nation, the
|
|
Constitution -- not the laws of the government. This is the justification for
|
|
a standing army among free people, and a strong justification for an
|
|
all-volunteer force.
|
|
|
|
The military acts as the main line of defense against enemy governments,
|
|
even if this enemy government is on American soil. In defending the people
|
|
against usurpers, they act for the defense of the people, and ought to have
|
|
the support of the people. For if the military fails to stop a government no
|
|
longer under rule of law, the next and last line of defense is the overthrow
|
|
of that government by the people themselves.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"A true friend stabs you in the front."
|
|
--Oscar Wilde
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
THE WAY THE NEWS SHOULD BE -- 20NOV98
|
|
by The Super Realist
|
|
|
|
Ignited Democratic accusations, he was a "federally paid sex policeman"
|
|
-- a deputy who posed as a 15-year-old girl in an Internet chat room, albeit
|
|
an extremely ugly one. Police in Osmo, south of Stockholm, have been charged
|
|
with disseminating child pornography because of its brutality and evidence it
|
|
was carried out because they were gay. For logjamming the province's peace
|
|
process Thursday on a mission to bring down a president, Congress said it
|
|
would be closed Friday as a precaution. But a bacteria known as campylobacter
|
|
is rampant, and all congressmen with an "R" by their name were immediately
|
|
killed. No one is expected to attend the funerals.
|
|
|
|
Beaten and tied to a fence post, the province's British identity will
|
|
bring together nearly 490 tons of man-made mass in orbit. North Korea
|
|
launched a Taepo Dong missile Aug. 31 for the express purpose of logjamming
|
|
the province's peace process Thursday. Barth works as data standards manager
|
|
for the Office of the Secretary of the Senate that will take him to or confirm
|
|
Swedish reports the body had been in the freezer for 10 years, and could cause
|
|
food poisoning. First Minister Trimble warned that island-wide institutions
|
|
must not blur else an island-wide drug policy will be introduced.
|
|
|
|
After being pistol-whipped and tied to a fence, in a slow drawl, Starr
|
|
outlined his probe and said it would be closed Friday as a precaution. One of
|
|
the two men accused of murdering Matthew Shepard, fled from angry Democrats,
|
|
Thursday's Bangkok Post said. For logjamming the province's peace process
|
|
Thursday, The Agriculture Department has tightened regulations unless the bird
|
|
is properly cooked. And kid, let me tell you, it was toothsome... I mean
|
|
absolutely tasty.
|
|
|
|
Following an historic accord for ending 30 years of strife, despite
|
|
international pressure to curtail its missile program, a prosecutor exploded
|
|
Thursday as the victim's parents listened quietly. The American Civil
|
|
Liberties Union and the Electronic Frontier Foundation sued Monica Lewinsky
|
|
and his arguments for infringement on semen evidence in higher courts. Director
|
|
of food safety for the group said this was a very common problem in Washington
|
|
D.C., but a bacteria known as campylobacter is rampant. President Clinton
|
|
shrugged off the distraction of peaches since The Agriculture Department has
|
|
tightened regulations and pulled no punches in telling Japan what it needed to
|
|
do, especially with cigars.
|
|
|
|
Zarya navigation and communications module lawyers told the 10th U.S.
|
|
Circuit Court of Appeals the ruling, following an historic accord for ending
|
|
30 years of strife. Japan is responding by boosting its defenses with an
|
|
anti-missile system, on the eve of talks with Prime Minister Bertie Ahern, for
|
|
a few months. Hearings were scheduled in Washington to deliver a stern
|
|
message to Japan from angry Democrats to pull itself and Asia out of recession
|
|
after the attack last month at the University of Wyoming.
|
|
|
|
Police dogs found the body in the woods and in Washington. To deliver a
|
|
stern message to Japan unless the bird is properly cooked (nothing like an
|
|
underdone whore, Sparky), a recent court ruling outlawing plea-bargained
|
|
testimony entitles their client to a new trial. I said it would be closed
|
|
Friday as a precaution, but did anyone believe me? I don't think so. I don't
|
|
know why, either. I mean, it's not like I lie or cheat or steal or beat women
|
|
or anything... that I'd admit to the resulting U.S. air strikes in Afghanistan
|
|
and Sudan while fending off blistering attacks. The Washington Post reported
|
|
Friday they learned of the dead baby after an argument between a senior editor
|
|
and the circulation director. Unfortunately, it was later learned to be
|
|
Kilgore Trout's illegitimate son.
|
|
|
|
Complete in 2004 in an interior equal to the inside of two 747 jets, the
|
|
$60 billion station will be the most expensive project surpassed only by
|
|
Kenneth Starr's arguments to Congress, South Korea and the U.S. territory of
|
|
Guam, bringing together the U.S., Russia, Europe, Japan and Canada, in equal
|
|
loathing of this republican parasite. "We must see what the examination of the
|
|
body shows," said Christer Holmer, a police inspector, after an angry mod fell
|
|
upon Starr as he delved into the Princess Diana affair. Some say Starr was
|
|
really a radiological mutant developed by the Russians during the Chernobyl
|
|
disaster. "I think it would be wrong to expect anything dramatic to happen,"
|
|
ignited Democratic accusations on Nobel peace laureate Trimble, elected First
|
|
Minister.
|
|
|
|
"While no one invites salmonella or campylobacter ..., " a recent court
|
|
ruling outlawing plea-bargained testimony, even from bacterium. A recent
|
|
Gallup poll found that the majority of Americans thought Clinton's actions
|
|
could be grounds for impeachment if Clinton ejaculated on Monica Lewinsky
|
|
after being pistol-whipped and tied to a fence. But a bacteria known as
|
|
campylobacter is rampant, and the Gallup poll showed that 54% of Americans
|
|
couldn't find fault in the president for that, nor for his poor English.
|
|
|
|
U.S. authorities had alerted Thai counterparts to the presence of three
|
|
Arab terrorists, but said a Feb. 1999 deadline for political progress could be
|
|
met. Either that or the Panama Canal will be handed over to the Shiites,
|
|
whichever comes first. Sheahan said. Arafat said. Clinton said. Bill
|
|
Burroughs said. Who gives a fuck? Dan Brockaw, that's who. Oh yeah, North
|
|
Korea launched a Taepo Dong missile Aug. 31. A recent court ruling outlawing
|
|
plea-bargained testimony, citing, "Consumers must expect these unwelcome
|
|
guests every time they bring home a presidential impeachment hearing." A
|
|
judge ordered the Justice Department Thursday to delay enforced e-mailing of
|
|
13 photos depicting child pornography. Clinton characteristically challenged
|
|
the ruling.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"An apology must be made for the Devil: It must be remembered that we
|
|
have only heard one side of the case. God has written all the books."
|
|
--Samuel Butler
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
WESTWARD, HO:
|
|
TRAVELOGUE OF SLiPPiNG THROUGH THE SOUTHWEST U.S.
|
|
by Clockwork
|
|
|
|
Thursday, Nov. 12, 9:02pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
I am currently sitting in a Roswellian hotel, attempting to keep from
|
|
staring at the television. After driving on two-lane whipped nugget highways
|
|
for nine hours, I seem to have tunnel vision, and now tend to fixate on things
|
|
a bit more than usual. My depth perception is also off, eyes weary, and feet
|
|
cold, but all in all I believe I am fine.
|
|
|
|
Rain began to seep down from the sky as soon as I left my house, and
|
|
continued to rain until the exact moment I crossed the Texas-New Mexico
|
|
border, heading west. Exactly. On my way into New Mexico, I passed by a
|
|
Coor's Light billboard, six seconds later watching a Coor's Light truck drive
|
|
by -- ten minutes after that I passed over a discarded Coor's Light can, six
|
|
seconds later watching a Coor's Light truck drive by. During the first stop I
|
|
made -- at a mom and pop gas station-grocery store combo -- I noticed my Area
|
|
51 parking sticker has casually fallen from its usual place in the back
|
|
window. This I took as a sign, as I had planned on removing it before
|
|
entering any such overwatched area, and apparently, it wanted to be removed
|
|
well beforehand, to avoid the chance I would forget.
|
|
|
|
The first hour of driving, I wrestled with my psyche...
|
|
|
|
Oh, look, the X-files is on, and its simulcast in Spanish.
|
|
|
|
Wrestled with loneliness, worry, nervous fear anticipation blizzard.
|
|
This is my first trek far into the world alone. Three hours later, I began
|
|
listening to Pink Floyd, which temporarily stopped the rain, and brought me
|
|
back to earth. After five hours, I was no longer exhausted -- professional
|
|
driver mode invaded my body and snatched away the human elements. West/north
|
|
Texas terrain is flat. Damn flat. Obscenely overbearing portions of
|
|
farmland. With nifty looking sprinkler systems. As for New Mexico, I can not
|
|
say what the terrain is like -- the 150 miles I've driven through has been in
|
|
complete darkness. I did see a fox, however. And being in complete darkness,
|
|
with no major cities within 100 miles, the New Mexico sky is amazing -- no
|
|
intruding artificial lights, just countless spinning stars. Very close stars.
|
|
|
|
Roswell seems to lie in a valley. Maybe. Just a guess, since there was
|
|
a deep descent about five minutes before I got here. I passed through Tatum,
|
|
also -- very cryptic, rustic, dilapidated, tiny town. Strange. A ghost town
|
|
starter kit. Roswell has a population of a bit under forty thousand, much
|
|
larger than I had thought. Main Street is literally the main street in the
|
|
town -- how many blocks it runs, I am not sure, but immediately turning on it,
|
|
I was met with traffic lots, traffic, a swooping strip of buildings and
|
|
lights, as well as (standing right before me), the UFO Research Center, UFO
|
|
Museum, and a converted theater with alien heads and UFO spanked all over it.
|
|
It was depressing, actually. I am sure the residents have a brooding hate for
|
|
all the hooplah over space alien fantasies and whipper snapper
|
|
anti-scientists. And here I was participating in it all, stacking up the
|
|
whole feeling of exploitation and cheesy plastic capitalism. I'd like to at
|
|
least grab some photos of the places, but I am uncertain. It will occur only
|
|
if I grow enough winged courage and shed any guilt.
|
|
|
|
I've met Megan, the Wendy's cashier.
|
|
|
|
I am avoiding driving at night -- because I can see no landscape, and I
|
|
am paranoid.
|
|
|
|
Tomorrow. I will probably just vacate this place. Perhaps. Depends on
|
|
how the felines act in the daylight. I do wish to visit White Sands Missile
|
|
Range. So, onward I will go, not forgetting the postcards.
|
|
|
|
And, by the way, I have seen *zero* UFOs, today. Except for a few bright
|
|
random flashes over the hillside when I was approaching Roswell. But, ya
|
|
know, either nuclear tests or lightning. Clear sky lightning. No, not a
|
|
spotlight -- too random, no beam, very bright.
|
|
|
|
Now, it's X-files and sleep.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Saturday, Nov. 14, 8:38am
|
|
|
|
|
|
Took a little while to get to sleep last night, even though I was
|
|
thoroughly exhausted again. I wandered west of Roswell -- did not stay there
|
|
at all Friday morning. The McDonald's I stopped at to get my 90% water, 2%
|
|
coffee, 8% cream, was wall-to-wall senior citizens. I felt as though I was
|
|
crashing some Elk Lodge convention. Upon leaving, however, I was met with
|
|
plains. Flattened, dry, grazing plains separated by immense plateau mesa-like
|
|
steppes.
|
|
|
|
The two guys a few tables away from me -- at the Grants, NM House of
|
|
Pancakes -- are discussing garters and nylons with the waitress. I did not
|
|
think good ole boys were prone to such a thing. Ah... there is why: Marilyn
|
|
Manson. Odd. And there are the grunts and headshakes of disgust.
|
|
|
|
Outside of Roswell, perhaps 45 miles west, the road dove into valleys of
|
|
these careening humpback hills. I say hills, but the size and proportions
|
|
were of sixteen such hills, all carved without error, lightly studded with
|
|
shrubs, the occasional stripe of yellow amber -- bright bright center of the
|
|
sun yellow -- vertical trees leaping from the ground. Elevation changes were
|
|
great, as I felt my ears pop and unpop, implode, and whatnot. An interesting
|
|
note -- city limit signs do not contain population information, only elevation
|
|
information. I believe the highest point I have vaulted through so far has
|
|
been just under 10,000 ft. above sea level, through pine covered mountain
|
|
regions, with campgrounds, RVs, and firedancing loggers. This was in the
|
|
midst of the Mescalero Indian Reservation, where Native American graffiti
|
|
adorned the roadside.
|
|
|
|
Leaving the area, I headed towards White Sands Missile Range, choosing to
|
|
meet a highway that went north, then west, around the region. HWY 70 seems to
|
|
cut directly through the range itself, directly past the WSMR National
|
|
Monument, which I hope to hit on the way back. I could see the bullocks of
|
|
towering mountains kneading into the horizon as I came upon the area, a misty
|
|
sea of white in front of them, crying of mythical fantasia wizardhold myths.
|
|
Around the range I went, through a barren, windy place.
|
|
|
|
Have you seen my hair? It's horrible.
|
|
|
|
Passing the Trinity test site -- nothing visible, only marked with
|
|
gunshot signs and a closed shack of an information center. One sign spoke
|
|
"Dust Storm Area, Next 2 Miles." Several hours later, before Albuquerque,
|
|
another sign, "Do Not Pick Up Hitchhikers: Prison Facilities."
|
|
|
|
VLA -- Very Large Array. An hour or two northwest of WSMR, in the
|
|
Socorro Plains. I coasted down a country half-paved road in search of the
|
|
supposed VLA access road, and came across a white van dancing along dirt roads
|
|
leading to the dishes -- these were the only roads initially seen by myself.
|
|
As I stopped to view the area, and watch the gentleman take photos, a white
|
|
truck flew past me to intercept the photographer, who quickly sped off. I
|
|
waltzed over to where he was, after the white truck had disappeared, only to
|
|
find Authorized Personnel Signs in my way. Back I went, down the country
|
|
road, and realized my speedometer had stopped working. Stuck at 0. The van
|
|
carrying the photographer had stopped a bit up the road, in front of the
|
|
closest dish to the highway. And to him I went again -- he sped off as I
|
|
pulled up behind him, and I felt as though I was one of Them. Happily enough,
|
|
where I pulled over there was a historical marker sign, reiterating the fact
|
|
the VLA was open to the public, and I just had to go down the road further.
|
|
So I did, finally finding the paved access road to the complex, and stumbled
|
|
my way inside. Amazingly enough, there were a dozen or so people -- tourists
|
|
-- who came and went while I was there, most of which over the age of 50.
|
|
|
|
Now. It's off to the four corners to hunt for alien caves and sealed
|
|
dreams. The weather is predicted to be fabulouso for the next week, so me and
|
|
my fellow Americans should be safe. After that, it is the Grand Canyon, where
|
|
I will build a bridge of tweed and tongue my way across.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Sunday, Nov. 15, 8:32am
|
|
|
|
|
|
Oh Denny's, oh Denny's, shone like a bright welding light. Choice
|
|
between here, McDonald's, something to the effect of "Good Ol' Country Hole,"
|
|
and The Kettle -- yes, The Kettle, how I was so tempted to taste the foreign
|
|
cuisine it had to offer. But alas, I broke down and entered these doors.
|
|
Where are the doors? In Flagstaff, Arizona. Yessir. Have you seen me so
|
|
chipper this far? No, I think not. What why -- I can't smoke in here.
|
|
|
|
I spent most of yesterday not driving here, but driving north towards the
|
|
infamous Four Corners Landmark. I took US-666, naturally, through the
|
|
everlasting Navajo Indian Reservation. US-666 was sick and bare, littered
|
|
with nothing but scores of bipeddling Navajos. A six mile stretch was closed
|
|
down and under construction -- to be repaved with Navajo blessings, as the
|
|
white man initially plowed down the sacred ground with no care. A few hundred
|
|
miles north, passing Indian after Indian who were not reluctant to stare.
|
|
There was a high level of poverty in the area, with no surprise, and I began
|
|
to feel guilty, being a white man, one of those who metabolized their culture,
|
|
their livelihood, and spat at their feet. Exploitation was the magic word of
|
|
the day. Authentic Indian Jewelry, Indian Relics, Indian Dolls, Indian Rugs,
|
|
all for sale, all over here, take this exit, next exit, 2 miles to the right.
|
|
It got rather disturbing. Stumbling into the town of Shiprock -- the largest
|
|
clustered Navajo community I viewed, two/three room wooden mini-cabins quilted
|
|
the area, one not more than two feet from the other. Not as though it was a
|
|
thriving metropolis -- only a few hundred houses that I could see, no lawns,
|
|
no decorations, just dirt and wood. And in the middle of it all was a
|
|
sparkling new Taco Bell. I needed to use the restroom, but could not get my
|
|
pride and non-tourist white man kick out of my head.
|
|
|
|
Instead, I went right along to the Four Corners Monument, so far the most
|
|
disappointing, depressing event of the trip. $1.50 to get in. To get into
|
|
nothing. This dead end gravel road, lined with 40 run-down booths -- a
|
|
handful were open, Navajos capitalizing on the visitors -- and a brass plate
|
|
set in concrete. Sure, it's neat you can jump from Colorado to Arizona to
|
|
Utah, to New Mexico, in any combination you desire, and attempt to suck your
|
|
body up into a single point where they all meet hoping to become so nether you
|
|
won't have to return to work. But the sickening half-locust surroundings,
|
|
empty booths, rotting downpainted wood, seething of an ill desperation. On
|
|
the way back I stopped at an interesting trading post grocery store -- next to
|
|
a corner where Native Americans sat amongst their tables, peddling more and
|
|
more goods. Sign on the door, "Must make purchase to use the restroom.
|
|
Non-customers can pay $1.00." Well, I don't agree with this, but I can
|
|
understand the hassle they must endure. Perhaps it was use of the word 'can'
|
|
that turned me off. I purchased a Sprite, totaling $.90, giving the unpleased
|
|
looking Navajo cashier woman $1.00, and receiving a penny in return
|
|
accompanied with weary glazed over stares. I just left at that point, getting
|
|
mucho bad vibes. In the hour trip back to Shiprock, I battled my head,
|
|
apparently turning the whole incident into a race issue, pouring more guilt
|
|
over me for being white, and more guilt for destroying the Native American
|
|
race -- ancient settler vs. Indian imagery flooded my eyes, and I became
|
|
rather distraught for a while. Then I decided it was all damn silly and moved
|
|
on.
|
|
|
|
But I swore every Navajo I passed while driving away knew what was going
|
|
on.
|
|
|
|
The rest of the day I spent returning south, again on US-666, which, by
|
|
the way, has not a single sign on it marking the highway -- no giant
|
|
reflective green US-666 sign waiting for its photo to be taken. Only mile
|
|
markers. I did stop on the side of the road, twice, to take pictures, and I
|
|
was not accosted, murdered, or raped, so all is well.
|
|
|
|
As the sun began to set, I entered Arizona. I stated New Mexico had the
|
|
deepest blue and purples I had seen in my life, but I was wrong. Arizona is
|
|
far superior. During the sunset, both while the sun was heading for the
|
|
horizon, and the two hours after it sunk into the horizon, the sky and land
|
|
was doused, soaked with color -- the area being a vastly flat desert, more so
|
|
than New Mexico, allowed for a full 360 degree view of this ancient
|
|
reoccurring display, each view stretching miles to the horizon. Wondrous
|
|
ecstatic bubbles from my eyes. Arizona has a much better vibe than New
|
|
Mexico, and I'm digging Flagstaff, with it's much friendlier inhabitants and
|
|
free roaming elk, which dance across the lawns.
|
|
|
|
Groups of Germans, groups of Brits, on to the Grand Canyon.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Monday, Nov. 16, 9:08am
|
|
|
|
|
|
Oh my. I was hyperactive with frothing amazement yesterday, spending the
|
|
day at the Grand Canyon. I was expecting an amusement park of sorts --
|
|
tourist havens and tourist grills to feed the wandering man. There were
|
|
people there, yes, but not an extraordinary amount -- a dozen here, a dozen
|
|
there. A comfortable amount of bodies to go around. First seeing the canyon
|
|
as I entered the park I was stunned by the sheer size -- you can watch any
|
|
documentary you wish, and read the specs on how wide, how long, how deep --
|
|
but you can not truly understand the size without standing upon the rim. The
|
|
immensity slowly faded away, and the textures and coloring of the landscape
|
|
began to take its place. Millions of years of tortured rock, in red and white
|
|
and misty pink, sheer propelling cliff faces, geometrically sound pyramid
|
|
tops, Buddhist temples, smooth gritting sand, a miniature stream called the
|
|
Colorado, wheeling, paving its way through the miles of air and dust to the
|
|
other side, the countless other sides, eyes dancing from shadow to corner to
|
|
dip and crevasse.
|
|
|
|
Shadows. At sunset, I stood on the far eastern rim, as far as the park
|
|
allows without diving into the depths of the canyon itself. Every turn and
|
|
peak laid out before me cast diving, moving shadows into the others. Across
|
|
the divide, the colors and shadows formed into words, an ancient text scrawled
|
|
before everyone.
|
|
|
|
I hiked eight miles along westward along the rim that day, wanting
|
|
desperately to head down a trail, descending into the canyon, but knowing I
|
|
did not have the equipment -- as it would take a full day to descend to the
|
|
bottom -- nor did I wish to go alone. I will come back soon, with a crew to
|
|
trek amongst the rocks and sheep.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Wednesday, Nov. 18, 9:34am
|
|
|
|
|
|
Monday I drove up into Nevada. Strange, strange place, littered with RVs
|
|
and trailers and stray men backpacking the highway. Nothing is out there
|
|
except for sand, sand mountains, trailers, and trash. I entered Las Vegas
|
|
after the sunset -- not as wondrous as the Arizona desert, but cooked with a
|
|
phosphorous red -- and crawled through the city in the middle of rush hour.
|
|
Dead stop 80% of the time, fields of rancho houses, all strikingly the same,
|
|
covered the valley, rows of neon sign after sign, premeditated LED displays
|
|
with horribly digitized photos and animation. Tempting, tempting, I can see
|
|
how one could be enticed, strapped in and locked down here. I decided not to
|
|
stay in a hotel casino -- wanting to avoid the pack mobs and mob itself. A
|
|
Super 8 billboard -- hotel and casino. Such evil insanity. So, I kept on
|
|
driving, through Vegas and North Vegas, and suddenly there was desert, a
|
|
highway, and completely blackness.
|
|
|
|
I kept going. Seeing towns every 30 miles or so per the road signs.
|
|
These signs did not say most were ghost towns, and the others air force bases,
|
|
airports, and prisons. All in all I drove another 200 miles or so north, in a
|
|
pitch black chilling desert on a two-lane highway. On to the town of Tonopah.
|
|
A quarter of the way there, I realized I was driving right alongside the
|
|
western edge of Nellis Air Force Base -- home of the Nevada test range, Area
|
|
51, and other such things. And what an immense range it is. Tonopah lies on
|
|
the northern/northwestern edge of the base, and the entire base is lined with
|
|
towering sandesque mountains.
|
|
|
|
It was perhaps 6:30pm when I was in the middle of it, very paranoid, a
|
|
bit cold, and extremely weary -- totaling 12 hours of driving by then. I
|
|
listened to AM radio, hoping for human voices to lull me to sanity, ending up
|
|
listening to a Denver Broncos football game. At one point in time, actually,
|
|
exactly 6:45pm Pacific, two huge yellowish flashes came from Nellis.
|
|
Artificial, yes. What it was, I have no idea, but I had to laugh. There was
|
|
not a cloud in the sky, by the way -- completely clear, it was not lightning.
|
|
Paranoia increased as I drove on and on. I seemed to bring myself back down a
|
|
bit by fantasizing about going to some remote cheesy strip club in the middle
|
|
of the desert. Rich Logsdon and company came to mind, and I realized how
|
|
right he was -- vampires and ghouls covered the area. The city of Sin and
|
|
Evil and Lycanthropes. Hunter S. Thompson was damn right, also. There is no
|
|
other locale in the nation better suited for fear and loathing.
|
|
|
|
Pahrump Junction. I contemplated it, but only wished for a hotel.
|
|
Without a casino. I guaranteed myself I would leave, not passing Go, not
|
|
collecting lost alien artifacts, in the morning if I found a fantastical
|
|
hotel. And I did. In Tonopah -- a Best Western with *NO* casino. Hell, it
|
|
was even independently owned and operated.
|
|
|
|
Might I point out that I am damn tired of HBO showing _The Rainmaker_.
|
|
|
|
I slept, and left the next morning, coming back the way I came. Dirt
|
|
roads slip off the highway every 50/100 ft. or so, but I only paid attention
|
|
the ones heading in the direction of Nellis. Drove all the way to
|
|
Wickensburg, Arizona. Incidentally, I crossed over the Hoover Dam both coming
|
|
into Nevada and exiting. I must admit it is an amazing piece of engineering
|
|
-- both the dam itself and the highway that twists its way through it with 180
|
|
degree and more turns and sharp inclines and declines all the way through.
|
|
When stopping to look around, I realized I was wearing an Earth First shirt,
|
|
and I wondered how people took that. Thoughts of monkeywrench wet dreams of
|
|
dissolving numerous dams in the west and southwest, and thoughts of the recent
|
|
anti-resort incident in Colorado, wondering if people viewed me as some crazed
|
|
evil environmental freakazoid.
|
|
|
|
Wickensburg is about 60 miles northwest of Phoenix -- deciding to take an
|
|
alternate route as I headed back east, as well as looking out for any massive
|
|
UFO landing preparations. I haven't seen anything obvious. I am also only
|
|
traveling on 93 South, which cuts through the middle of some Arizonian plains
|
|
-- large spaces lie to the east and west of the road.
|
|
|
|
AND. I finally saw one of the stereotypical tourist cactus -- standing
|
|
tall, with limb or two branching out, forming somewhat of a distorted 'Y.' I
|
|
was beginning to think it was all a lie, that perhaps when we slaughtered all
|
|
the buffalo, we also slaughtered this cactus.
|
|
|
|
After sleeping in Wickensburg -- treating myself to two movies with a
|
|
credit card fed instant movie device, however suckerish and alarming it may be
|
|
-- I am now in Sun City. The ORIGINAL Sun City, about 30 miles northwest of
|
|
Phoenix. At Denny's. I miss the diners of the northeast -- this is the
|
|
closes one can get to a diner down here. East I will go, through
|
|
Phoenix/Tucson, then down through El Paso, heading directly to Austin.
|
|
Looking forward to this 14 hour drive I have ahead of me. This will probably
|
|
be the last thing I write, as I am entering a slickened demented driving mode,
|
|
and will soon arrive home. I still need to mail off Ansat's postcard.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
[=- POETASTRiE -=]
|
|
|
|
"In the East poets are sometimes thrown in prison -- a sort of compliment,
|
|
since it suggests the author has done something at least as real as
|
|
theft or rape or revolution. Here poets are allowed to publish anything
|
|
at all -- a sort of punishment in effect, prison without walls, without
|
|
echoes, without palpable existence -- shadow-realm of print, or of
|
|
abstract thought -- world without risk or _eros_."
|
|
--Hakim Bey, _T.A.Z._
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
DO iT NOW, SLEEPiNG FiSH
|
|
by The Super Realist
|
|
|
|
Do it now, sleeping fish
|
|
Dream your sleeping fish
|
|
Dreams
|
|
|
|
And I'll pray that you don't wake up in someone's fishbowl
|
|
But if you do, then I'll pray that the bowl be made out of
|
|
rose colored glass
|
|
and the glass is half full
|
|
instead of half empty
|
|
|
|
With just the right amount of food
|
|
Because I know how hard it is
|
|
to find good help these days
|
|
|
|
Not like I'm very good help anymore
|
|
Especially since I've stopped going to Perkin's
|
|
late at night and not harass
|
|
the waitresses or wait-staff
|
|
or waiting attendants or whatever
|
|
is politically correct now-a-days
|
|
|
|
Do you like coffee with your cream?
|
|
Or does the caffeine
|
|
Keep you awake at night?
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"All are lunatics, but those he who can analyze his delusions is called a
|
|
philosopher."
|
|
--Ambrose Bierce
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
MEDiTATiONS AT COMMENCEMENT BAY
|
|
by The Super Realist
|
|
|
|
Commencement Bay
|
|
Industrialized beauty
|
|
as an inlet of the Pacific
|
|
|
|
Faces and angels
|
|
in artificial clouds
|
|
from steam smokestacks
|
|
reflected off blue waters
|
|
rippled by freight and barges --
|
|
|
|
Barging in on tranquil evening
|
|
inky blackness.
|
|
|
|
Lights and stars are the countless
|
|
working souls
|
|
or the light of opportunity
|
|
missed.
|
|
|
|
I'm never sure which,
|
|
|
|
But I'm not part of that --
|
|
maybe
|
|
|
|
My hands are cleansed
|
|
by the blue waters
|
|
|
|
And I look into the lights
|
|
of souls (or missed opportunities)
|
|
and I wonder if one of those
|
|
lights is special for me.
|
|
|
|
Who do I know who might be
|
|
down there amongst the docks
|
|
of freights and captains and
|
|
iron spinnakers?
|
|
|
|
Am I a small dot of lights?
|
|
Am I a singular soul?
|
|
Am I missing my opportunities?
|
|
So much left for me to learn
|
|
|
|
"What are any of us here for?"
|
|
I cry out in cliche
|
|
wonderment,
|
|
but I only hear a siren --
|
|
|
|
A drug deal gone bad
|
|
Or another case of workman's comp
|
|
Or a heart attack;
|
|
another light being added
|
|
to be reflected from
|
|
the rippled waters
|
|
|
|
I want everything still
|
|
yet still everything moves
|
|
away from the wind
|
|
like the steam rising
|
|
transforming from faces and angels
|
|
into fists and monsters.
|
|
|
|
I want the water to be still,
|
|
But if a king cannot stop the ocean
|
|
How can I?
|
|
|
|
--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--
|
|
|
|
BLiNDNESS
|
|
by Crux Ansata
|
|
|
|
The writer has gone blind.
|
|
|
|
He has always lived in words, but not the sounds of words. Words form
|
|
the concepts that give form to the metaphysics of his mind, and it is the
|
|
forms of words, through reading and writing, that have always allowed him to
|
|
interpenetrate the world.
|
|
|
|
Blind, he can speak haltingly, and struggle to listen, to hear, through a
|
|
veil he can see -- but only behind what remains of his eyes.
|
|
|
|
When his eyes went, he-the-reader died. The writer lives, but he no
|
|
longer writes for himself because of some ideal, or such purity of motive as
|
|
he truthfully never had, but because he can no longer produce the physical
|
|
remains of the writing process. The physical child of his intercourse with
|
|
the muse no longer is created; it is as if he no longer has anything to say,
|
|
for he no longer has anything that can be heard.
|
|
|
|
He communicates only to himself. He had never realized how much more
|
|
important it was to him to understand than to be understood.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
When he was young, he never bothered to look. What he saw was within by
|
|
choice. He'd always liked his solitude, at least as long as he could see his
|
|
way back. As his eyes went, he wished to look everywhere, to see everything.
|
|
He would be asked why he stared. "Because I want to have this experience to
|
|
draw from when I go blind."
|
|
|
|
No one believed him. Or if they did, or pretended to, they saw it as a
|
|
far-off horror, a specter he scared himself with. None of them knew the
|
|
horror he faced. Words could not express it. Even when he could be heard, he
|
|
could not tell.
|
|
|
|
Blindness would take his voice. Blindness began by taking his ability to
|
|
say so.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
"Is there anyone around?"
|
|
|
|
The writer sits, talking to an ex-lover. He knows she's beautiful. He
|
|
remembers her. She was always beautiful to him, and always will be. He used
|
|
to know others found her beautiful, but didn't care. Now he doesn't know, and
|
|
doesn't care. No one else speaks to him anymore. No one else is interested
|
|
in a writer who writes only for himself, especially one who will leave no
|
|
literary corpse to be discovered post mortem.
|
|
|
|
"Why do you care so much?"
|
|
|
|
"Is there anyone beautiful?"
|
|
|
|
"What do you consider beautiful?"
|
|
|
|
"You," he thinks. But he says, "If anyone knows my tastes, it's you."
|
|
In his mind, the first six words are ornaments. He supposes she knows. He
|
|
prays she keeps her promise never to pity him.
|
|
|
|
"I don't care if they are beautiful or not. Describe someone to me. Let
|
|
me use your eyes."
|
|
|
|
She will not let him read her. She never would let herself be consumed,
|
|
even in part. She pulls back, a little, just out of reach. He hopes it's a
|
|
little. When he cannot touch her, he is isolated, in a void. He can't bear
|
|
the thought of being left in the park alone, unable to see, unable to find his
|
|
way home.
|
|
|
|
With all the cold, she could be dead.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
The writer sits alone. The cool of the wind beats against him, and he
|
|
finds it pleasurable, remembering the warmth of a woman. He hopes she will
|
|
come back to him soon. Her voice is the only connection with the world he has
|
|
left. Sensations have never seemed real to him; only if he senses a mind, a
|
|
soul, does he feel he is in the presence of Being.
|
|
|
|
The sensations -- the inner sensations -- of laughter are a bit more
|
|
complex. He hears the children laugh, and "knows" what they look like. (The
|
|
quotation marks are his.) He can see in his mind warm skin, taut in the cool,
|
|
ruddy in the wind; flapping skirts; braids thoughtlessly tossed back from
|
|
bright eyes; blouses flapping over lacks of breasts; smiles. He watches them
|
|
run -- clad in the style of another year, perhaps the style of no year, of no
|
|
age -- selectively bred by the husbands of his imagination for beauty, youth,
|
|
vigor. He sees no cripples like himself, moral or physical.
|
|
|
|
And he represses the knowledge he has created these children, unreal as
|
|
his thoughts, because this would emphasize his isolation so much. He can no
|
|
longer bear the truth.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
He selects one girl, and watches her age. He sees the fleeting cares of
|
|
adolescent traumas; budding breasts and the breathless blush of a first kiss
|
|
and a first touch. He watches her grow and develop with all the pleasure of a
|
|
work of art -- more, for this one lasts a decade. He freezes her a few years
|
|
later -- seventeen? nineteen? -- and watches her in slow motion, unaging,
|
|
unchanging.
|
|
|
|
He feels warmth on his hand. His companion has returned.
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"If one is to try to record one's life truthfully, one must aim at
|
|
getting into the record of it something of the disorderly discontinuity
|
|
which makes it so absurd, unpredictable, bearable."
|
|
--Leonard Woolf
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
COMPiLE
|
|
by Sophie Random
|
|
|
|
She clipped him. Into little pieces in her brain he was clipped. The
|
|
pieces didn't fit anymore. A puzzle. Like a jigsaw puzzle she tried to put
|
|
him back together but pieces of her and pieces of him were in a heap and she
|
|
threw them across the room.
|
|
|
|
"...these faults -- why do I keep thinking faults? -- no no no -- I wasn't
|
|
thinking faults, I was thinking THOUGHTS -- that invade me. People are
|
|
thoughts that invade me. That can't be original. So it is a fear of
|
|
losing myself, but not into some goddamn ABYSS but into HIM -- it's become
|
|
increasingly obvious that I'm contradicting myself all over the place --
|
|
maybe it's the thought of him. The invading thought of him -- constantly
|
|
going over him -- what he means, what he says, and the thing is -- I'll
|
|
never know. And that's what it boils down to. That's what he has
|
|
not -- he doesn't have that wall to bang his head against. I'm banging my
|
|
head against a wall. I'll never know what he is or who he is or what
|
|
he's thinking every moment and maybe that's what he knows. I'm killing
|
|
him -- or trying to in my mind -- that's what it is, some sort of murder, but
|
|
the thing is: this is mine and it's for me -- I guess -- but the thoughts of
|
|
him still leave me with nothing.... Writing, writing is the way to get it
|
|
out, but, He's Still Here. He still invades... Everything has fallen calm?
|
|
Yes, that's it. Everything has fallen calm. Is that why it puts me to
|
|
sleep? It lulls me to sleep when I rock or when I tap my foot -- and it's
|
|
like a connectedness, it's like a oneness -- and I hate the separateness
|
|
of others. I hate the fact that they are foreign, that I don't know
|
|
them, what's in their head... Is this the answer you can't give me? Am I
|
|
really something you can't understand?"
|
|
|
|
They hit the wall with a thud. Spilling over each other, no
|
|
distinctions could be made. Why must we kill each other to finally
|
|
penetrate?
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
THE SACRiFiCE
|
|
|
|
"But I,
|
|
how I hate you for this,
|
|
how I despise and hate,
|
|
was my beauty so slight a gift,
|
|
so soon, so soon forgot?
|
|
|
|
"I hate you for this,
|
|
and now that your fault be less,
|
|
I would cry, turn back,
|
|
lest she the shameless and radiant
|
|
slay you for neglect."
|
|
--H.D. from "Amaranth"
|
|
|
|
I see her, and she's in my favorite Mazzy Star song, the one about
|
|
"you're just waiting for her to come apart/you're just waiting for her," and
|
|
in a way I envy her. Her pain, her anguish, god what it must be like. What
|
|
it must be like. Feeling him love her, feeling him need her, still, always,
|
|
always still secretly hoping, never letting go. Whether it be the case or
|
|
not, and that's the rub -- whether it be the case or not -- she feels it.
|
|
What that must be like. And I want to offer her something, I want to give her
|
|
something, a promise, an unconditional promise, like he gave to his Great
|
|
Love. For the sake of justice. I feel an odd sort of complicity, an odd sort
|
|
of desire to reach out to her. Something like sisterhood. Something like
|
|
sisterhood, with deepset admiration. What a sacrifice she's making. How
|
|
she's throwing her self out there, for him. For him. How deeply that must
|
|
gnaw at her, how much that must ache and tear and pull her apart. To want, to
|
|
want, to want.
|
|
|
|
And it's funny, because in a way they're a lot alike. They love what
|
|
they cannot have, they pine and they yearn. In a way, it draws them close.
|
|
She feels it deeper, because she knows, she knows what he is or was going
|
|
through, because that's her story. That's her story, and she must see that
|
|
commonality in him. She should see that. It's kind of tragic in a way, kind
|
|
of beautiful.
|
|
|
|
She interests me, because they see something in her. Something is in
|
|
her, and I wonder if she knows that. Do you know that? Do you? (I wished I
|
|
would have asked her.) How lucky you are that they see something in you? What
|
|
is it, in you? What is it, exactly, pray do tell, that I lack? But that
|
|
isn't the point.
|
|
|
|
I want her to know that there is, there is, something in her. Of her.
|
|
>From her. There is, because they do fall. They do give of themselves. There
|
|
is something in her, and it's not something that she can sacrifice.
|
|
|
|
But I, I lack that lock, that hold on that something which makes me
|
|
desirable. I give it up to them, easily, and then there's nothing left of me
|
|
to love.
|
|
|
|
She must be very wise.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
THE MONOLOGUE
|
|
|
|
(the sound of the music comes out of the curtained chapel window its
|
|
stylized holiness putting a post-confirmational pre-marital sex smile on
|
|
the catholic hungover faces and i'm still typing it out)
|
|
|
|
it's now, once again, to get it going. it's now i think to try a
|
|
different voice -- it's now sigh sigh sigh to yell out loud that i'm just
|
|
fucking with you -- who me -- no you -- and your friends no friends just skins
|
|
lots of skins i hate i hate the onion metaphor just try to grasp here just try
|
|
to reach me here ok? i hate reading about the life of you and me when i
|
|
didn't write it. i hate (i hate) the story, i hate the plot -- and the
|
|
setting stinks smells like late night breakdown burned up poetry notebooks, my
|
|
friend. my friend? right and then i said who the fuck deemed you the
|
|
End-All? who -- i know it was me -- it's always me, always me fucking with
|
|
you fucking with you not being fucked -- same oldsame old. the power of the
|
|
writer is cruel -- the trick -- is to disguise your lonely ramblebabble into
|
|
pretty cynical paradoxical allegories with 'fuck' used a myriad of ways so
|
|
that the asshole reading it thinks it means something. what a fluke: we're
|
|
all just starving for attention pity sex sex sex and the best thing you ever
|
|
wrote sweetheart was the description of her tits her tits you sorry assholes
|
|
-- i hate i hate it the silent crashing of the past in slow mo -- i understand
|
|
the hiding of your flesh and i grasp the rubbing of your shaft but please
|
|
explain please reiterate why we two sorry losers hooked up because i'm sick of
|
|
writing about it -- you write about it for once -- for once somebody write
|
|
something that doesn't sound like cotton candy vomit (very interesting but
|
|
your imagery needs work) -- little boy in all your imagination, in all your
|
|
lies (and how's that for imagery) (fuck imagery say what needs to be said) --
|
|
i used to write to myself and i'd ask myself questions to answer upon a later
|
|
reading, but i got rid of that documentation of my pain long ago when i was
|
|
still complacent about the future which is hurdling at me and all i can think
|
|
of is the unsteady feeling inside that is beckoning something, something and
|
|
who cares anymore? because i destroyed that past right? right. you are gone,
|
|
whoever you are and here's something for someone anyone to listen and learn to
|
|
and from: you are always saying something about yourself when you write. and
|
|
shut up and read this -- get your head out of your ass and read -- you are
|
|
always present in there when you write. give the characters names numbers
|
|
labels make yourself happy but realize that (ha and i'm going to use it)
|
|
realize that when you look with real eyes you are staring at yourself and
|
|
frankly it isn't polite. manners mannerisms forks knives spoons the drink the
|
|
smoke the gang the pal the late night meaning of life realizations that
|
|
disappear with day -- we are just fools, just people, just bad metaphors in
|
|
here, nothing else. the profundity is comical at best -- at best -- we are
|
|
musicians of words that's it nothing more don't make it into some kite of
|
|
aesthetic art just go with the tune whistle along put another tape in your
|
|
walkman mow the lawn fuck your significant other and die.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
THE PROTEST
|
|
|
|
laborious this is laborious i'm going on strike and i will not come back
|
|
to Being Alone until the wages are better until i get benefits until we sit
|
|
down and talk about a contract and everyone signs it and i get a two week
|
|
vacation and all holidays off then maybe maybe i'll come back but as of right
|
|
now i'm going on strike and i'm going to picket under your window and i'm
|
|
going to make you pay me more for this for this i want something in return for
|
|
this absurd loneliness people don't do this for free you know i want a cost of
|
|
Staying Alive increase every year and i will not compromise i will not back
|
|
down and i will not throw myself at your feet i have rights i am a human being
|
|
and it's hard doing what i'm doing and you don't know the half of it sitting
|
|
up there in your administrative position with all of those people to attend to
|
|
your needs i demand My Needs Be Met i demand equal treatment under the law i
|
|
demand that you listen to me i demand that you take me back.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
It was hard to work out, really, where it came from. Or where it was
|
|
headed. It was hard to see, really, what it meant or what it was the result
|
|
of. It was a strange instantiation, not full enough of content to be
|
|
enigmatic. It was there.
|
|
|
|
And it haunted her mouth. It hung around the corners of her lips and
|
|
made them quiver sometimes when she looked in the mirror. Her fingers would
|
|
run along them, trying to feel something like a growth, something like a
|
|
tumor, something like a reason.
|
|
|
|
She sometimes sensed it on others. As if it bounced from her body onto
|
|
someone else's, like the Cheshire cat. That was the only time she felt close
|
|
to it, when it was on someone else. That was when she could accept it,
|
|
without quite understanding it. Like that theory, that theory about knowing
|
|
something is subsumed under the universal rule that you cannot formulate.
|
|
|
|
Once, she saw it take human form. Take over a human form? And then she
|
|
desired it. Desire can have different ends; the simplest distinction being
|
|
between the desire to experience and the desire to possess. But it seemed to
|
|
her that one could not experience it without possession being somehow
|
|
involved.
|
|
|
|
It was a bloody war. As wars of such desire must be. She wanted
|
|
it, but she did not want it back. Can no one understand that?
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
|
|
"In the real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the
|
|
morning."
|
|
--F. Scott Fitzgerald
|
|
|
|
|
|
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
|
|
|
|
iMPLEMENTiNG iMPOTENCE
|
|
by Kilgore Trout
|
|
|
|
It is 9:32pm, and I am not dead. The sky blankets the stars ("In the
|
|
end, it only seems like we're alone," she tells me before boarding the train
|
|
to Galveston) while the mosquitoes draw blood from my face. The branch barely
|
|
holds my weight as I wait. Roek is out there, looking for me with his
|
|
photographic memory and PCP dreams, honing in on my aroma like a stinger
|
|
missile smelling victory in a passenger plane. He wants the dead to live
|
|
again by realizing that they have never been alive, and he needs me to do it.
|
|
I am Thanatos' left-hand man, and my seed is self-aware.
|
|
|
|
The woods feel like reading Thoreau on acid with a soundtrack by Austrian
|
|
noise collage bands. Out here, nature is truth, and truth conceals nothing,
|
|
including me. I can see hummer headlights through the trees and flashlights
|
|
animating dead wood. The gravy train of the Diaspora, I recall, is lapped up
|
|
by curs in heat. I am the last impregnator, even though there are no longer
|
|
others. Millions of souls lie restless between my thighs, telepathic antenna
|
|
tails waiting to receive transmissions from the Demiurge's satellites upon
|
|
fertilization. The Lord is my concubine. I shall not want.
|
|
|
|
I am running from the fiery tears of Yaldaboath, the false god; Samael,
|
|
the blind, arrogant god who wants to perform a heavenly coup d'etat on Earth
|
|
with me as the primary conspirator. Creation has been free far too long, and
|
|
it needs guiding hands to escape the clutches of time, to become a stagnant
|
|
wasteland of eternal panacea. The Demiurge wants to wretch control from
|
|
heaven by taking away the privilege of death. Adonai waits passively for
|
|
Agent Sophia to carry out her orders against the usurpers, but Wisdom's
|
|
already bailed and is on a freighter bound for Argentina.
|
|
|
|
My testicles ache as I crouch on the branch, hands gripping the scythe.
|
|
Cut and breed, that is my function, the organic code infused into my DNA by
|
|
ex-Nazi scientists who have discovered the alchemists' *lapis philosophorum*
|
|
through ancient Jewish mystical rituals. God and man have become one, and I
|
|
am the prototype of the future, the divine green spark of eradication planted
|
|
in my still heart.
|
|
|
|
"Cut and breed," Roek always says. "The Kingdom of God is at hand."
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
She fades quickly each time from my dreams. I can smell her musky
|
|
perfume in the sheets and in my sweat. "Sometimes redemption comes from the
|
|
desert sands," I remember her saying. White hair, white dress, no socks, a
|
|
crescent moon -- the memory melts away ("My name is Sophia.") It's like that
|
|
every night, and then the nausea hits. The bile accumulates at the base of
|
|
the throat, tasting pink-orange, and the room swims as the tremors rack my
|
|
body. The maids have to clean the sheets every day. "A side effect of the
|
|
recombint DNA," Herr Himmler explains over lunch. "It will pass after a few
|
|
months." I never tell them about the dreams, about Sophia and her salient
|
|
green eyes. She would whisper in my ear throughout the night, whispers that I
|
|
could not remember but were somehow comforting in their dissolution.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
I am not human.
|
|
|
|
"You are not human," Roek says. "You are our creation, a synthesis of
|
|
the divine and the mundane. There are many men and many gods, but only you
|
|
exist with an impartial will to murder the dead."
|
|
|
|
I am not human.
|
|
|
|
"The world awaits the apocalypse with unbelieving sighs, but everybody
|
|
knows the end is upon them. We desire a glorious rapture, a rescue from life
|
|
itself by the hand of God. He has chosen you to be that hand and has given
|
|
you The Implement, the tool of His love. With it, the dead shall inherit the
|
|
earth."
|
|
|
|
I am not human.
|
|
|
|
"We are commanded to go forth and spread the word, which you harbor in
|
|
your soul. It is the *logos,* the seed of decay. It has always been and
|
|
always will be. Jesus killed himself so that others might live. You will not
|
|
make that same mistake -- the technology of the gods has advanced immensely in
|
|
2,000 years."
|
|
|
|
I am not human.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
The blade shivers in anticipation at the presence of flesh. I stride
|
|
through the lunch hour crowd on the sidewalk, clothed in a hooded black robe
|
|
that renders me invisible. I straddle the dimension between the living and
|
|
the dying, and pedestrians unconsciously move aside as I make my way to the
|
|
target.
|
|
|
|
She is a businesswoman, two weeks shy of twenty-nine, and I listen to the
|
|
blonde hairs on her neck stand on end as the scythe sings through the air and
|
|
decapitates her in one deft strike. As the crowd begins to react to a head
|
|
unexpectedly detaching from a body, I pick the woman up and hike up her
|
|
skirt. Panties tear as the robe automagically parts at the waist, and I
|
|
impale her with The Implement. Her body gyrates in midair while her neck
|
|
sprays blood on the horrified onlookers.
|
|
|
|
"I am the way, the truth, and the life," I recite, accompanied by a
|
|
cacophonous symphony of screams and vomiting. "No one comes to the Father
|
|
except through me."
|
|
|
|
Ejaculation occurs at exactly two minutes and twenty-three seconds into
|
|
the procedure. Her heels dig into the small of my back when my seed enters
|
|
her, and the transformation begins. The seed infiltrates her bloodstream and
|
|
quickly migrates to her nervous system, setting up a complex transceiving
|
|
array. She lifts herself off me and raises her arms to the sky, downloading
|
|
the Demiurge's commands. Jade claws spring from her fingertips, and she runs
|
|
into the crowd and begins to cut.
|
|
|
|
Yaldaboath wants a feast.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
They made me stop collecting heads by the time Sophia shows up at my
|
|
door. She walks into my room unannounced, dressed simply in blue jeans,
|
|
sandals and a white t-shirt. Her bleached, radiant hair is painful to my
|
|
eyes.
|
|
|
|
"I came here to incapacitate you, but I can't," she explains. "Adonai's
|
|
fucked up again, waiting until the last minute since he transcends time and
|
|
ain't too hot on the linear plane. Makes for one apathetic bastard, you
|
|
know?"
|
|
|
|
The dreams come into focus and we're standing on top of a tall dune in
|
|
the middle of a vast desert. My robe billows in the arid wind, and I cannot
|
|
see the sun.
|
|
|
|
"You won't get them all," she says, "or did they not tell you that?"
|
|
|
|
"My instructions are my being," I reply. "I act on the will of God."
|
|
|
|
Sophia scoops up a handful of sand and allows it to sift through her
|
|
fingers. "The psychic ones, the ones with souls, are already dead.
|
|
Acceptable losses. But those touched by the *ruach elohim,* the breath of
|
|
God... you can't touch them. They have *pnuema* -- spirit. You can't win."
|
|
|
|
"No one can oppose the will of God."
|
|
|
|
"But which God, you blind little fuck? Surprised? Wisdom can be a mean
|
|
cunt, especially when she's trying to clean up her own mess. Your god --
|
|
Yaldaboath -- came from my shadow when I tried to give form to chaos. He's an
|
|
abomination, just like those marionettes you're creating out there. He
|
|
couldn't see me and thinks he's the creator of the universe. You're on the
|
|
wrong team, pal."
|
|
|
|
"'"Vengeance is mine," saith the Lord,'" I quote, stepping on a scorpion.
|
|
|
|
"Get off your pious high-horse and talk to me, dammit. I'm unable to do
|
|
anything physical to you -- Agent Sophia isn't an assassin -- and I doubt that
|
|
would help at all. We're not even sure you technically exist. But why not
|
|
listen to some common sense? Your mission is a failure from the get go."
|
|
|
|
"I am what I am."
|
|
|
|
"*Eheieh asher eheieh.* Whooptidoo. Get some new lines. Bad guys are
|
|
supposed to be suave and cunning, not one-liner fountains."
|
|
|
|
"I don't have a choice in the matter. I was created to destroy the
|
|
deceased. They're dead anyway, and I can make them live again."
|
|
|
|
"Now we're getting somewhere," Sophia says. The wind changes direction,
|
|
coming in from the south. "Of course you've got a choice. Automaton, my ass.
|
|
That Victorian death garb is obscuring your humanity. Take it off."
|
|
|
|
"I am not human."
|
|
|
|
"Bullshit. You still feel. You just don't know it."
|
|
|
|
Wisdom lays me out cold with one hell of a sucker punch.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
The lights fade in the distance as the search party moves off in the
|
|
opposite direction. Yaldaboath will not be happy with Roek's failure to
|
|
capture me, but that doesn't bother me at all. He was always a loser,
|
|
inefficient and unable to control his thirst for power. Next time he'll bring
|
|
out the hounds and requisition a squad of Cain puppets. Outcasts never have
|
|
trouble locating one of their own.
|
|
|
|
I drop out of the tree and head west, scythe over my left shoulder like a
|
|
hobo of the damned. It's only twenty more miles to the place Sophia told me
|
|
about, where I can supposedly receive aid from a friend. It would be a tight
|
|
journey, but Yaldaboath's favoring of torture via Herr Himmler would keep Roek
|
|
occupied for a half-day at least. As I walk, I think about thatch-roofed huts
|
|
in Argentina.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
The twelve headless Boy Scouts stand in a circle around me, newly grown
|
|
skulls staring at me with eyeless anticipation. Their nakedness is now
|
|
sacred, and bony jaws chatter in binary language, heralding their honor at
|
|
being chosen to be prophets of the Eschaton. Judas, the succulent one, is
|
|
picked as the leader of the disciples. They will be specially equipped for
|
|
the conversion process by Herr Himmler, but they will require regular
|
|
transfusions of my intelligent body fluids in order to operate. After an
|
|
hour, stained lips glisten with graven desire.
|
|
|
|
Roek watches from behind a one-way mirror in the complex. I can sense
|
|
his impatient glee and wanton jealousy, his yearning to be my addict as well
|
|
as my master. His voice cuts in over the intercom. "Paradise is one step
|
|
closer to extinction," he says. "On Judgement Day, you will be sincerely
|
|
rewarded."
|
|
|
|
Rewarded with what? I silently muse as the boys file out of the room to
|
|
board Apache helicopters. What purpose can I possibly serve after the Day of
|
|
the Lord? Once I complete my function, what happens next? I have not been
|
|
given the future, only the present. Am I just another Sisyphus, condemned to
|
|
repeat the same actions over and over until someone else liberates me? Who
|
|
will that liberator be, and what constitutes liberation in my case? I am not
|
|
even human. Without me, the operation would fall apart, but it is as much a
|
|
part of me as I am a part of it.
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
I wake up in the back seat of an old Chevy Impala which sounds like it
|
|
desperately needs an oil change. It is raining heavily outside, and Sophia
|
|
helms the wheel, her head bopping back and forth to the sounds of techno
|
|
Gregorian chants. An unlit cigarette hangs from her lips.
|
|
|
|
"Where are we going?" I ask, sitting up.
|
|
|
|
"Away," she says. "Your little mongrels are causing havoc all over the
|
|
place. I hope you're happy."
|
|
|
|
"They do what they were designed to do, like me."
|
|
|
|
"Stop talking like a goddamned existential Calvinist. You're already
|
|
praising the death of the known universe. Don't lump your view of humanity in
|
|
the mix."
|
|
|
|
"The boys can't survive for more than a week without me. They'll become
|
|
impotent soon."
|
|
|
|
"Well, in the meantime, they sure are fucking like crazy. The things
|
|
you've created are very efficient, I'll give you that. You should listen to
|
|
the news. New York, Chicago, and L.A. are all quarantined. We barely made it
|
|
out of Dallas before the roadblocks went up."
|
|
|
|
"They only have three more days."
|
|
|
|
"Well, isn't that lucky for the people who have to deal with them and
|
|
their puppets? Was this really your idea of heaven on Earth?"
|
|
|
|
Sophia puts the tip of her forefinger on the end of the cigarette,
|
|
lighting it. "Simple parlor trick," she remarks.
|
|
|
|
"Why didn't you stop me, then?" I ask. "You had the chance, before it
|
|
became... ugly."
|
|
|
|
"It always was ugly, and I already told you that I can't stop you.
|
|
Metaphysics 101 lesson, okay? It works like this. Adonai is all of that
|
|
transcendental bullshit you learn in Sunday school, but it's turned him into a
|
|
big, immovable chunk of divinity. That's why I'm here -- I'm his agent, even
|
|
though I'm the wrong gal for the job. Angels are supposed to do the dirty
|
|
work. Samael's all peachy because he thinks he's God and can act at the same
|
|
time. Talk about a giant ego problem. So here I am, trying to convince you
|
|
to stop because that's all the power I have."
|
|
|
|
"Me still being here should be a pretty obvious answer on my part."
|
|
|
|
"Good. Then I can leave."
|
|
|
|
"You don't want to know why?"
|
|
|
|
"Not really. I don't care."
|
|
|
|
"I could take you right now."
|
|
|
|
"Color me shivering. Okay. Why, big man? Why aren't you still
|
|
transforming the world with death?"
|
|
|
|
"I saw myself for the first time yesterday."
|
|
|
|
"They didn't tell you anything at all, did they?"
|
|
|
|
"It never occurred to me to look."
|
|
|
|
"It never does."
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
I watch Herr Himmler eat lunch every day at noon while he questions me
|
|
about my development. He mutters in German half the time while eating chili
|
|
and beans, and after he is finished, we repeat the indoctrination.
|
|
|
|
"What is your function?" he asks.
|
|
|
|
"To kill the dead to create new life," I answer.
|
|
|
|
"Who are you?"
|
|
|
|
"I am not human. My purpose is my identity."
|
|
|
|
"Who is your master?"
|
|
|
|
"The one, true God."
|
|
|
|
"And why do you serve him?"
|
|
|
|
"Because he bestowed upon me existence."
|
|
|
|
"And how do you give thanks for this generous act?"
|
|
|
|
"With my blade and The Implement."
|
|
|
|
"And what will happen if you do not carry out God's plan?"
|
|
|
|
"The world will become inert."
|
|
|
|
"Amen."
|
|
|
|
"Amen."
|
|
|
|
* * * * *
|
|
|
|
I arrive in a small clearing with a tiny shack seated in the center.
|
|
Smoke billows out of the poorly-constructed chimney as I saunter up to the
|
|
door and knock. After a few minutes without an answer, I knock again. I hear
|
|
feet shuffling closer inside and the door opens, revealing an old woman with
|
|
frazzled hair.
|
|
|
|
"It ain't time for Halloween, is it?" she asks, eyeing my clothes.
|
|
|
|
"Sophia said you could help me," I reply.
|
|
|
|
"Ah, so you're the one. Come in."
|
|
|
|
"Can you tell me first how you can see me?"
|
|
|
|
"You allow yourself to be seen by those you want."
|
|
|
|
I follow her inside and shut the door behind me. The furnishings are
|
|
sparse, with only a bed and a table surrounded by three chairs. Shelves line
|
|
one wall, full of books and cooking utensils. She motions me to take a seat.
|
|
|
|
"Who are you?" I question.
|
|
|
|
"That doesn't matter," she responds, sitting across the table from me.
|
|
"What does matter is who you are. I've been waiting for this day for seventy
|
|
years, ever since Sophia Pistis appeared to me in a vision. I had my doubts
|
|
this day would come, but when I saw the papers, I knew you would be coming
|
|
soon."
|
|
|
|
"How could you be sure? I didn't have to leave. I can't violate my
|
|
programming."
|
|
|
|
"But Sophia intervened, ineffectual as she thought she was. And you let
|
|
her take you."
|
|
|
|
"So, who am I, then?"
|
|
|
|
"You already know. You've seen yourself, or you wouldn't be here."
|
|
|
|
"It made me question what they told me, but I couldn't stop."
|
|
|
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"Not until Sophia came along. She was the catalyst that gave you hope.
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That's why you didn't murder her."
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"Do you have a mirror?"
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The old woman stands, retrieves a cracked mirror from a shelf and hands
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it to me. I get up and remove the cloak, staring at my mechanical appendages,
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already showing signs of rust. The Implement stands erect in metallic
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awareness, waving around erratically, almost wanting to tear itself away from
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the attached flesh. I hold the mirror with silver claws and stare into the
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face of a ten-year-old boy.
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"I can't be human," I say. "Not like this."
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"You are human enough," she says, taking a seat.
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"But what they did to me..."
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"...is what you have been doing to others."
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"I don't want to stop. I can't stop."
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"But you don't want to continue, either."
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"What do I do?"
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"You know what to do. You've always known."
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"Who am I?"
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"You weren't meant to last."
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"Who am I?"
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"It is not in death's nature to survive."
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"Who am I?"
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"They'll be here soon. They won't falter again."
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"Who am I?"
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"Complete yourself and you will find the answer."
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"Tell me, please," I beg.
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The old woman smiles. "I don't know, but you do."
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* * * * *
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Roek shuts the door to the trophy room, his eyes glazed over.
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"Remind me never to go in there again," he says. "Those fucking heads
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won't shut up. I don't know how you can stand sitting in there for hours on
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end listening to that incessant babbling."
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"They die so that they shall live," I tell him. "Their souls are mine.
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They are my children."
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"It's damned obsessive is what it is. Your offspring are out there on
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the streets evangelizing, spreading the gospel -- not those things in there.
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Those heads are afterbirth, carnage from the act that should be left alone."
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"They talk about being reborn, about how they want to stop feeling."
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"The heads are abortions. They mean nothing to God."
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"I feel a connection. I am part of them. Their anger is mine."
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"And that anger is what you were created to cleanse."
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"What happens when I am finished?"
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"Then, and only then, will the world be silent."
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* * * * *
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The intercom announces the last boarding call for the train to Galveston.
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People look at Sophia quizzically as she talks to seemingly empty air.
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"This is where we part ways," Sophia says.
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"I'm not sure what to do now," I say.
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"Go here." She hands me a piece of paper with a map drawn on it.
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"She'll help you."
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"Why do you have to go? Why don't you help me?"
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"Frankly, I'm fed up with everything. This whole mess is ludicrous, and
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nobody in charge is competent enough to even run a fucking dog pound, let
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alone a planet. I'm taking off, going to Argentina to get a tan and enjoy
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myself for a change. People never take my advice anyway."
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"But I feel empty without... them. Stay."
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"In the end, it only seems like we're alone."
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She boards the train and I wait until it leaves, looking at her avoiding
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my stare through the window. A commotion arises behind me and I turn, face to
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torso with a headless puppet, arms upraised. I slice it in half with my
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blade, but the transmission has already been sent. I don't have much time to
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die.
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* * * * *
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The dune is the same one on which I first spoke to Sophia. The sky is
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cloudless, but I still cannot see the sun. I drop the old woman's blabbering
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head onto the ground and sit down beside it. I am naked, having never put the
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robe back on. I study myself for a while, trying to feel the flesh I have
|
|
with artificial hands. Opening my mouth, I bend forward, cracking my lower
|
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ribs as I latch onto The Implement. My teeth dig into the metal as I bob my
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head up and down, slowly increasing my momentum.
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Heads begin to rise from beneath the sand around me, and soon the
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landscape is covered with the heads of those given life. My self-fellatio
|
|
continues, issuing a scraping sound like a million nails clawing a million
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chalkboards.
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The heads begin to chant. "Ourobouros! Ourobouros!" they cry.
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Release comes at the prescribed time. I choke on my seed as it invades
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me, swallowing until I am empty. I continue to suck, and The Implement, with
|
|
no fluid left to give, begins to draw my body through it. I consume my legs,
|
|
my torso, and then my arms, The Implement acting like a filter. Finally, I
|
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draw in The Implement itself, and my head rolls on the ground. The voices
|
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become silent.
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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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State of unBeing is copyrighted (c) 1998 by Kilgore Trout and Apocalypse
|
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Culture Publications. All rights are reserved to cover, format, editorials,
|
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and all incidental material. All individual items are copyrighted (c) 1998
|
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by the individual author, unless otherwise stated. This file may be
|
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disseminated without restriction for nonprofit purposes so long as it is
|
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preserved complete and unmodified. Quotes and ideas not already in the
|
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public domain may be freely used so long as due recognition is provided.
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State of unBeing is available at the following places:
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World Wide Web http://www.apoculpro.org
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irc the #unbeing channel on UnderNet
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Submissions may also be sent to Kilgore Trout at <kilgore@eden.com>.
|
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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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