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State of unBeing 51
Living in such a state taTestaTesTaTe etats a hcus ni gniviL
of mind in which time sTATEsTAtEsTaTeStA emit hcihw ni dnim of
does not pass, space STateSTaTeSTaTeStAtE ecaps ,ssap ton seod
does not exist, and sTATeSt oFOfOfo dna ,tsixe ton seod
idea is not there. STatEst ofoFOFo .ereht ton si aedi
Stuck in a place staTEsT OfOFofo ecalp a ni kcutS
where movements TATeSTa foFofoF stnemevom erehw
are impossible fOFoFOf elbissopmi era
in all forms, UfOFofO ,smrof lla ni
physical and nbEifof dna lacisyhp
or mental - uNBeInO - latnem ro
your mind is UNbeinG si dnim rouy
focusing on a unBEING a no gnisucof
lone thing, or NBeINgu ro ,gniht enol
a lone nothing. bEinGUn .gnihton enol a
You are numb and EiNguNB dna bmun era ouY
unaware to events stneve ot erawanu
taking place - not iSSUE ton - ecalp gnikat
knowing how or what 11/30/98 tahw ro who gniwonk
to think. You are in FiFTY-ONE ni era uoY .kniht ot
a state of unbeing.... ....gniebnu fo etats a
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE
=----------------------=
EDiTORiAL Kilgore Trout
LETTERS TO THE EDiTOR
STAFF LiSTiNGS
[=- ARTiCLES -=]
MARY BLUE Clockwork
iN FAVOR OF iMPEACHMENT Crux Ansata
THE WAY THE NEWS SHOULD BE -- 20NOV98 The Super Realist
WESTWARD, HO:
TRAVELOGUE OF SLiPPiNG THROUGH THE SOUTHWEST U.S. Clockwork
[=- POETASTRiE -=]
DO iT NOW, SLEEPiNG FiSH The Super Realist
MEDiTATiONS AT COMMENCEMENT BAY The Super Realist
[=- FiCTiON -=]
BLiNDNESS Crux Ansata
COMPiLE Sophie Random
iMPLEMENTiNG iMPOTENCE Kilgore Trout
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
EDiTORiAL
by Kilgore Trout
Good God, man. We actually did it. We went and got our own domain name.
Yes, that's right, we've changed addresses again. This will be the last time
since now all you have to do is type www.apoculpro.org and you don't have to
worry about tildes or backslashes or any of that annoying crap that makes
remembering web sites so annoying. I mean, how many people give you blank
stares when you're spouting off a web address and you say, "tilde, dammit.
don't you know what a tilde is? argh!" anyway, go check out the web page,
done nicely by Nathan and Clock. If you want to help out in designing
anything for the web page or can offer some helpful comments (or scathing
criticisms, for all we care), email us.
And we've also got t-shirts. Yup. Now you too can be a walking
advertisement for our zine, a position that you should cherish with all of
your heart. We've got about 39 left, so it's a first-come, first-serve basis.
We'll be sticking pictures of them up soon on the website and more info about
them can be obtained by emailing me. We're gonna try not to charge for em,
since we don't want to be capitalistic bastards, but at tops it may be like
five bucks a shirt. Or you can just send us something really weird. We like
getting strange things in the mail.
No Thanksgiving rant. The turkey is still dead.
In other news, the first "Fuck You, Clown" party had an excellent
turnout, with around 10 people actually dressing up as clowns. Overall, there
was a headcount of about 20 people that showed up at various times during the
course of the night, and Austinites performed their true Friday late-night
function by yelling at us from their pick-up trucks. Apparently, people don't
think you should go around in costume if it's only been Halloween for a few
minutes. Clockwork did not dress up as a clown. Instead, he dressed up as a
Catholic schoolgirl. He even naired his legs. Pictures are being digitized
and will be posted on the web for those that care to see how goofy we can make
ourselves look.
Right. So, this issue rocks or something. Clockwork is back from his
vacation and presents highlights from his lone trek into the desert. I got a
postcard, did you? He also weighs in with one of his trademark rambly pieces
about -- yup, that's right -- a girl. And it's true, even though her name
isn't really Mary Blue. The innocent/guilty must be protected. ansat wants
to impeach Clinton to keep the military from taking over (I think Ansat wants
to impeach everybody, including me, but don't tell him that) and The Super
Realist gives his view on the way news should be as well as more groovy poetrie.
ansat also writes some fiction, and I do as well, and Sophie Random is back
with an interesting piece that I think I'm going to have to go read again.
So read the zine, and for Christmas, as always, I want submissions. I
want submissions from my regular writers, I want submissions from people who
have written before but have slacked off, and I want submissions from you
people who haven't written for us before. I would also like a giant
pistachio.
And now, since the hurricane season ends today, I give you the zine.
Enjoy.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
LETTERS TO THE EDiTOR
From: Logsdon
To: Kilgore Trout <kilgore@eden.com>
kilgore--
my book _alex the wolf-god and other grim and disturbing tales_ is now
available at buy books on the web.com. also, it should be available
through amazon. the url is as follows:
http://www.buybooksontheweb.com/
just hit the search button, which will bring up a list of books. my book
is the last one the page since it is the most recent.
rich logsdon
[go and support one of our regular contributors by buying his book. it's all
about diy ethics and stuff, right? i mean, it's not like that john grisham
or tom clancy book you keep eyeing in the bookstore is going to do you a lot
of good. besides, what would your friends say? "you're reading john
grisham? i thought you knew good literature. tsk, tsk, tsk." hell, with
rich logsdon, you'll be the only person within a fifty mile radius who owns
the book. besides, he's the hippest guy in vegas i know, and if you're extra
nice to him, he can hook you up as a player. or at least point you in the
direction of the big, flashing neon signs.]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
STAFF LiSTiNG
EDiTOR
Kilgore Trout
CONTRiBUTORS
Clockwork
Crux Ansata
Sophie Random
The Super Realist
GUESSED STARS
Rich Logsdon
SoB OFFiCiAL GROUPiES
crackmonkey
Oxyde de Carbone
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- ARTiCLES -=]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
MARY BLUE
by Clockwork
One could say I went to purely test the boundaries of my beckoning moral
code -- heave and flap in the smeared gray plane until it's smudged into black
or white. I do not know if this is the truth. In at least some partial
sense, yes, but I must say the body was willing, missing tender muffin-scented
hands. In the midst of my gut now sits a wrenching thermodynamic law,
pulsating and reciting couplets, and I know that it shouldn't -- it should
keep its might high, absorbing rhyme after rhyme in the name of immortal man.
But it seems my chest can take in only so much before lapsing into the land of
the pithy.
It brings the tone of the beginning of an Ed Wood teen love romp, angst
and black and pity me softly, but I will not allow it, only spinning a tale,
and unburdening the angel folk, the confessional accompaniment, and pretty
Polly lost in the desert. From a day of sinking rubber ships and streams of
desperation, I sought out the lost members of now empty hallways, seeking and
dodging, uncover their doormat -- who will wish to speak to me? Whom do I
wish to speak to? And I'll join the Percival bandwagon and ignore the
question why. In this fit of abandonment, carrier pigeons were freed, clasped
calligraphy and all, to hunt and bounce through the random hertz of the earth
reaching for the fawns afar. Little response I expected as I draped across
high wooden chairs and sweat into the evening tuning thoughts to forget
actions.
Awaking the morrow after, a pigeon stood above me -- perched in languid
bold silence in a crooked masking windowsill, patient with care not to startle
me in pecks and whirs -- a scrawled letter returned, and in it, the surprised
glee of Mary Blue to hear from one Mister Me after years and years of
unthought and perpendicular crosswalks. What do I say? Or, rather, what is
the meaning behind what I may say? Send my messenger again, with subtle
cryptic half-wits, look for the engagement, seek the flesh. That was what I
was after, wasn't it? A crimson spat atop tumbling haystacks, high decibel
panting, and on everyone goes with their ballroom steps. Dip the loins into
premarital positions to soothe the nerves for another three moons.
Dates were set, time came and went with realization of the casts I'd
grown into -- we were to meet the first time amongst trampled pumpkin groves
in the minutes between one day and into the next, ducking beneath the flying
dogs and Baron von Barons. There she sat in loose fitting robes, and the
thick vanilla paste of unfed tension sat between us. I quickly found my way
to my own vined corner bathing my head in casualness, smacking the care-free
gums to smock fed blues, reluctant to look into any eyes. She had grown a
small measurable amount since our beings sprouted four, five -- what time have
I misplaced? -- years past. Not that she was an anorexic pitch forking gal in
those years before, always being full and curved, and rounded and plump, not
dripping with fat as some do even after being applied the kindness of "curved
and plump." The words were accurate -- perhaps a curved volupt mermaid,
dropped amongst the weeds and left to roll with the light-scented gingerbread
men. Attractive, yes, for how can mermaids not be? The karmic challenge came
when one tempted one's curiosity into breaching through the inner portions of
Mary Blue, past the bouncy frolicky squeak squeak of whatever cheer was being
eloquently valleyed at the time, dive -- DIVE! -- into the mist in search of
broken antique clocks with hollow ticks. This was met with mist within mist
within mist -- the only clock ticking being the one next to the front portals,
digital, with sauntering lambs.
"What would thee do if I, Mary Blue, planted a kiss on little old you?"
While peeling through the humid gardens of the inner perch, Mary Blue had
slipped her body within inches of my left, on aging oak trunks that rose and
fell with the rotation of the earth. What would I do, she had asked, and I
had thought that was indeed the goal posts I was running towards. Must not be
crude and slapstick, you'll cause the market to crash -- scalawag, scalawag,
you're asking for the Black Dot to be laid upon you. She kissed me as she
said, as her eyes had read, as I had foreseen and hoped to receive, returning
favor after favor, muscle tension love on rotting stubs of wood. Time became
a distant balloon, as it does in such acts of body mush, and on we went, bit
after bit, eventually tripping over each other's portions of flesh -- how many
cells per square inch? Caress and move, dodge the cable cars, less you be
railed. Minor tea and crumpet breaks, with the after tea mint and tobacco
leaf, tuckled smuckled away in baby's arms watching Fred the blanket and
Josephine the rabbit sit row after row along the ceiling.
May I state, and reiterate, all the onward action of land ho was preceded
with viewed and reviewed and thriceviewed statements of consent, repetition of
the capitalized No Expectations, in the dancy devil plan to alleviate any
trappings and minor cuts and burns. No Expectations. No Expectations for
either party to return with heavy head and heart, or await the bushel of
flowers to be placed at the doorstep, final words, and romantic clinging
backseat turns. No Expectations. Signed on and through the dotted line with
meaded nods. On and on we go, as lips and trips and hands of wonder found
their attention elsewhere, delving below the surface, the sweet risen Mary
Blue jumping on the initiative train, vacuum tube pictures of Mom all agasped.
In these moments I caught sight of the sauntering midnight clock, it's
little hand jumping to the four, anxious for the first morning dew rays. I
was afraid I had to vacate the area, and commence my guarded tour of the
Orient, back to the palace of moonshine and dog hair -- I voiced such
concerns, and Mary Blue slinked back with succubus lust eyes, agreeing with
voice, interceding with moonbeams. It worked, the lunar glowworm entering my
veins, matrons of foul sainthood, and I chiseled my return to the land of Mary
Blue, taking initiative in return, trotting down the trails walked by the
likes of Degas and Dillinger --
"If thee goes there, thee best be coming back."
My stark eagles cried. "What is that? Was that not your word on the
Declaration of No Expectations?" And I watched the Declaration burn and tear
away. Mary Blue had no response, and I crept forth and on for tiny winkling
moments, to her seeming approval, before retreating to the time bubbling grove
of my own sealed windows.
I left the plains with her following me a bit out, leaning against post
after post, as a sultry southern damsel does in Don Johnson films and foxfire
trade romances -- gleaming eyes with hands dangling, robes splitting open to
the perpetual breeze, and I felt her gaze and wondered what. Carriaged away
in mumbles, I went, ranting on why and what am I doing? Sick guilt turpentine
pangs, grunge sealed the skin, and I must awake in four hours. I enjoyed the
moments, yes, but treaded openly on the dropping of No Expectations, fleeing
to the distant point on line AB, feeling the Disney spokesperson statement of
lust must come with love and never without, you cheap wine fool. Still caught
up with the ancient tale of Madame Curie, perhaps? Perhaps, and yes, I am --
stricken with fear and self-righteous hurt, avoiding the hints and taste test
that any offers. And I query myself on why I let my own stranger rhymes to
impart these ways.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"Drop that crayon, Farm Boy! You're coming with me!"
--Milk Toast Man on _Ren & Stimpy_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
iN FAVOR OF iMPEACHMENT
by Crux Ansata
The Founding Fathers did not believe in the purity of human nature. For
all their differences of opinion, they did universally hold to one thing:
people are not always and universally good.
A corollary of this assumption is that a government -- made up of and by
people -- can fall into the hands of individuals unworthy of the governance of
a free people, even in a democracy. The Founding Fathers sought a nation of
free people.
It is today an insufficiently stressed feature of the ideal of the United
States government that the Founding Fathers set up that all the elements of
the state should be in conflict with each other. Division of powers was not
to make the workload lighter or the writing of textbooks easier. If the
elements of the government are in conflict with each other, they will have
less time to be in conflict with the people.
This, too, is only one step. Other forces are supposed to keep the
government in check. Freedom of the press and freedom of the church were
instituted to limit the powers of government. Juries were instituted to allow
for the nullification of unjust laws. Freedoms of speech and association, and
the right to bear arms were instituted to preserve the ability of the people
to challenge and overthrow the government. The people should always be
keeping the government in check.
Because this underlying assumption has been neglected in the minds of the
people, who have become lazy and allowed a caste of masters to run the nation,
this division of powers has become weakened. Much ink has been spilt on
balance of power examples such as activist judges and Executive Orders
usurping legislative powers, without the oversight and sometimes without even
the knowledge of the legislative branch; or the conflict between federal
powers and states' rights. I write today about another, less discussed aspect
of the balance of power.
Just as there is, under the Constitution, a line of distinct succession
of the presidency, so too there is a succession of responsibility in the
obligation to preserve the virtue of the presidency. First, of course, is the
office of the President. The President has the obligation of self-regulation.
(The office is not to be used to the best benefit of the holder until and
unless caught; that is the behavior of a tyrant.) The office is also to be
weak and rotated, so as to prevent the accumulation of too much power in one
person's hands. Failing this regulation, it is the obligation of the Congress
to remove the President.
At this point in history, we are seeing a critical test of this system.
If Congress fails to impeach, Congress has failed in its Constitutional
obligations. (Impeachment is not a finding of guilt, but the court process to
investigate charges. The debate as to whether an offense is "sufficient" to
impeach has no place under our Constitution. Clinton, like every citizen of a
free nation, deserves his day in court, and so too the people under his
jurisdiction deserve to have him held to the rule of law.) If Congress makes
up something new, such as "censure," Congress has still failed in its
Constitutional obligations. In either case, Congress will have effectively
dealt itself out of the Constitutional government game. We, as Americans,
will have ceased to be under a Constitutional government in both the executive
and the legislative branches. At this point, we have fallen under the rule of
men by virtue of power, and will no longer be under the rule of law.
As sovereign citizens, we must decide individually whether we concede to
this overthrow of our nation. We may consent, we may resist, or we may
passively object. But there remains one element of the population that does
not have the privilege of cowardice, for this element -- like the President,
like the Congress -- has been sworn to the enforcement and defense of the
Constitution.
In the Oath of Enlistment, every member of the United States armed forces
makes this oath: "I, ..., do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support
and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign
and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same..." In
the event the United States government ceases to be constitutional, it
devolves upon these men and women to overthrow this de facto government.
* * * * *
It is a matter of great pride in the United States armed forces that this
oath is made to the Constitution, and not to a man. I was brought up with
this emphasized. Men can do wrong; the Constitution exists to keep these
fallible men in line. The Constitution has built into itself the course of
action to be taken if this Constitution falls out of date or fails to fulfill
the people's needs: the amendment process. If the Constitution fails to keep
the men in government in line, the military takes seriously its duty to
protect the nation against our domestic enemies.
The military is among the most conservative elements in this nation. The
military does not exist to create policy, but to preserve policy consented to
by the people. The military is a dangerous force, and takes itself seriously.
But if the Constitution is at stake, they owe it to themselves and to their
nation to do their sworn duty -- and preserve the Constitution.
The government knows this. Despite the lies coming from the White House
and even the Pentagon, the troops do not support Clinton. Clinton knows this
himself, and has ordered that no one in the military is permitted to speak out
against the President. (The suppression of free speech utilized in the
criticism of the government is not the action of the government of a free
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."
"Not until Sophia came along. She was the catalyst that gave you hope.
That's why you didn't murder her."
"Do you have a mirror?"
The old woman stands, retrieves a cracked mirror from a shelf and hands
it to me. I get up and remove the cloak, staring at my mechanical appendages,
already showing signs of rust. The Implement stands erect in metallic
awareness, waving around erratically, almost wanting to tear itself away from
the attached flesh. I hold the mirror with silver claws and stare into the
face of a ten-year-old boy.
"I can't be human," I say. "Not like this."
"You are human enough," she says, taking a seat.
"But what they did to me..."
"...is what you have been doing to others."
"I don't want to stop. I can't stop."
"But you don't want to continue, either."
"What do I do?"
"You know what to do. You've always known."
"Who am I?"
"You weren't meant to last."
"Who am I?"
"It is not in death's nature to survive."
"Who am I?"
"They'll be here soon. They won't falter again."
"Who am I?"
"Complete yourself and you will find the answer."
"Tell me, please," I beg.
The old woman smiles. "I don't know, but you do."
* * * * *
Roek shuts the door to the trophy room, his eyes glazed over.
"Remind me never to go in there again," he says. "Those fucking heads
won't shut up. I don't know how you can stand sitting in there for hours on
end listening to that incessant babbling."
"They die so that they shall live," I tell him. "Their souls are mine.
They are my children."
"It's damned obsessive is what it is. Your offspring are out there on
the streets evangelizing, spreading the gospel -- not those things in there.
Those heads are afterbirth, carnage from the act that should be left alone."
"They talk about being reborn, about how they want to stop feeling."
"The heads are abortions. They mean nothing to God."
"I feel a connection. I am part of them. Their anger is mine."
"And that anger is what you were created to cleanse."
"What happens when I am finished?"
"Then, and only then, will the world be silent."
* * * * *
The intercom announces the last boarding call for the train to Galveston.
People look at Sophia quizzically as she talks to seemingly empty air.
"This is where we part ways," Sophia says.
"I'm not sure what to do now," I say.
"Go here." She hands me a piece of paper with a map drawn on it.
"She'll help you."
"Why do you have to go? Why don't you help me?"
"Frankly, I'm fed up with everything. This whole mess is ludicrous, and
nobody in charge is competent enough to even run a fucking dog pound, let
alone a planet. I'm taking off, going to Argentina to get a tan and enjoy
myself for a change. People never take my advice anyway."
"But I feel empty without... them. Stay."
"In the end, it only seems like we're alone."
She boards the train and I wait until it leaves, looking at her avoiding
my stare through the window. A commotion arises behind me and I turn, face to
torso with a headless puppet, arms upraised. I slice it in half with my
blade, but the transmission has already been sent. I don't have much time to
die.
* * * * *
The dune is the same one on which I first spoke to Sophia. The sky is
cloudless, but I still cannot see the sun. I drop the old woman's blabbering
head onto the ground and sit down beside it. I am naked, having never put the
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
ribs as I latch onto The Implement. My teeth dig into the metal as I bob my
head up and down, slowly increasing my momentum.
Heads begin to rise from beneath the sand around me, and soon the
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
chalkboards.
The heads begin to chant. "Ourobouros! Ourobouros!" they cry.
Release comes at the prescribed time. I choke on my seed as it invades
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
draw in The Implement itself, and my head rolls on the ground. The voices
become silent.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
State of unBeing is copyrighted (c) 1998 by Kilgore Trout and Apocalypse
Culture Publications. All rights are reserved to cover, format, editorials,
and all incidental material. All individual items are copyrighted (c) 1998
by the individual author, unless otherwise stated. This file may be
disseminated without restriction for nonprofit purposes so long as it is
preserved complete and unmodified. Quotes and ideas not already in the
public domain may be freely used so long as due recognition is provided.
State of unBeing is available at the following places:
World Wide Web http://www.apoculpro.org
irc the #unbeing channel on UnderNet
Submissions may also be sent to Kilgore Trout at <kilgore@eden.com>.
The SoB distribution list may also be joined by sending email to Kilgore
Trout.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
