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Free Word Press Volume One - Issue Two

eZine lover (@eZine)

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Free Word Press

· 14 Jan 2024

THE FREE WORD PRESS
Volume One - Issue Two
July 1999

fwp@freewordpress.com / http://www.freewordpress.com
Also available in www and pdf flavors

Prelude

Whats the significance of the number two? None whatsoever. Nothing more than any other number, I mean. But every number, in a certain context, has its own, albeit temporary, significance. As does anything, I suppose. Back to the number two. This is the Free Word Press, and in this issue, there are no references to mathematics. But we are an equal opportunity publisher, so I'll add one. Two points define a line. By that I mean that there is only one possible line that can be drawn through any two given points. Yes. Hello. My milk is getting warm. Hello ladies and gentlemen. This is the second issue of the Free Word Press. Taken out of context, however, blah blah blah. Yes, two? Yes. Two. We started with ONE, as all should. Progress was not insured. Existence was only a point, infinitly small. An potentially indefinate number of lines passed through issue one. Among them distress, failure, pain, suffering, destruction of the entire human race and, yes, your dog is dead. Then came no.2, and there is only one. Forward.

Note: I'm still experimenting with the "hard wrap" feature on the word processor for the text only version of the FWP. It seems that if I don't use it, in some web browsers (er, mine) the lines go on forever. If you have any suggestions, or if this format is unbearably awkward, let me know, and I'll fix it for you.

This issue ....

THE UNBOUND - A monthly proclamation of the life of the übermensch in all of us. This month - "The failing agribusiness of misery cultivation."
HAPPY BIRTHDAY FUHRER - A poem by Bryan Shultz
An essy philosophical by Daniel Koënig
Whether you think that society is sinking faster than the Titanic, that the Internet is television for the new millennium, or that columnist Michael Hugen is a curmudgeonly old cynic, you won't want to miss this issue's Spider's Web.
Kommunist Korner - This issue, a poem by our resident 1969 Champion of Left Wing Politics (super heavyweight divison) Noame Ghregardus. "Give me a place to sit, and I will move the earth."
Why we should write more letters, or else!
GAINSAY - Yet Another Columbine Article - A sincere mourning for the deceased. NOT!
Music Review - The Sisters of Mercy "A Slight Case of Overbombing."
"The Courtship" a short story by Jeffrey Abelson
Literary Regurgitations - Albert Camus' The Stranger
A piece of artwork by Noame Ghregardus (er, no tiffs here. see pdf version)

and this month's awards, given out to the Most and Least Competent People of the last really long time.

THE UNBOUND

by Amanda B. Rekondwith

And woe to all you life haters and misery cultivators! I know you, and I know where you are going. All you children who dress in black - the penultimate pose before suicide - I curse you, if life does not. I am looking at you and your pseudo-angst and your practiced rebellion. An onus shall you bear! You sick sort, you detestable pessimists and cobweb harvesters, I see where you come from: the swamps. And many times have I joined you and lay in the swamps because of the romantic rebellion that it preaches, but I have crawled out, stronger and wiser to you inhumans! Is life so bleak, and is the world so cold that you must match it, ice for ice? Is the burden of living so heaving that you yourself must put on weight? No! There is much warmth in the world, and the spirit of gravity has not yet won the battle. Has life dealt you a blow? Does it seem to glare in your face, cursing you daily to a night of misfortune? Then, oh you whited sepulcher, why must you so cruelly inflict yourself back upon it? It will only suffer you, as you will only suffer.

Though the hand of fate might poke your eye, or box your ear, what has a warm summer day ever done to you? Or a winter's day, even? It is not the mountains fault you are so afflicted, nor the ocean's, nor the sunset's. Why must you also revenge yourself upon them, too, and not embibe the join they present? It is not a dark world, nor is it cold and wretched. You are dark. You are cold. You are wretched. You are weak.

Yes, weak. It takes a strong man to live. Summer days are hot, winter days are cold, mountains are hard, oceans are bitter and sunsets are overpowering. Strong men delight in reality, yet you run and hide from it. You make yourself small, and mediocre, and name yourself cruel names, so that you do not bear the burden of being - which is to dance.

So I curse you and lay a burden on your anti-everythings and obese ice-children and miserable ones. To those who like to believe the world cold and dark, and who revenge themselves on the world by being cold and dark: may your life be cold and dark! So it has been, so it is, so it ever will be.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY FUHRER

by Bryan Shultz

we bought your body from
the russians, who are
experts at preserving

dead men. stalin had
your moustache removed
back in '52

so we glued some black hair to
your upper lip. the
neo-nazis got

you a pair of doc martens
and neitzsche's
³thus spoke zarathustra².

Power, Submission, and God

by Daniel Koënig

The all powerful need no submission. This is simple enough to understand. To require submission is to state ³I do not have the power to do what I will, only with your cooperation can I succeed.² This is a common flaw in many religions: the belief that we should actively perform the will of God and submit ourselves before Him. In believing this, the blind follower is, in essence, denying the sovereignty and omnipotence, and thus the existence, of God, by making the conceited assumption that He needs our help.

A similar situation is present in more worldly matters. For instance, when a man kills a murderer in an act of vengeful heroics, he is charged with murder and no leniency on punishment is given simply because the man he killed was also a murderer - tu quoque. They call it 'taking the law into your own hands' - a disgrace. God, like the state, executes his own will. Any man who believes he is virtuous enough to execute God's will is as deluded as the man who took law into his own hands. Neither had enough faith in the powers that be.

Jesus said that the man with faith the size of a mustard seed could move mountains. Perhaps this is precisely the faith he was referring to: God is much more capable of performing His will and we are, and any attempts we make of doing so are arrogantly futile. Perhaps his followers would move mountains if they could only trust that God could do it - without their help!

So I say it again: To submit to God is to deny his existence!

Alas, the same principle is not the case with earthy powers. Men are not gods; we all require submission to be powerful. To be loyal to a leader is to bind your hands with both a delusion of inferiority, in thinking he more powerful than you, and a delusion of grandeur, in the hope that will be of heroic importance, and kneel with a bowed head. That head is surprised when, instead of rising a knight, it rises in the hand of the executioner, feeding blood to the sadistic mob. The only power man holds is the power to command respect - that the respect can command submission. He who understands this and can put it to use can achieve great things: for better or for worse. He knows how to make people kneel through words, fiery and sweet. Indeed, he may sometimes use force, threats of pain and lies, but even those only have affect because they are respected by the submittors - ³Fear of the Lord.² He knows how to act in a fashion worthy of admiration, and he knows how to be admired when not worthy of it. He must fashion them each a crutch, each according to their needs: in this way he satisfies them, weakens them and leaves them dependent on him. ³Rarely is a degeneration, a crippling or even a vice unaccompanied by some gain on the other side² It is the same the other way: Rarely is a gain unaccompanied by a degeneration, a crippling or a vice on the other side. So be careful, lovers of knowledge; be careful of the sweet words and promises of strangers - candy makes you sick. If you are offered a crutch, take it and use it only if you want comfort; refuse it if you want independence from submission.

If you wish to be strong, powerful, a leader among men, the crutch is required. To succeed in the world of men, you must enter it: take hold of the crutch that is thrust upon you, and feign bondage, limp. At night, however, when alone, throw away the crutch and once more leave the society of men, studying passionately to compensate for your daily imprisonment. Study the art of fire, so someday, if you reach the top, when you reach the top (a man without a crutch could do no less), you may burn your crutch - otherwise you will not survive. ³Top of ladder nice place, but very lonesome.² The true leader is no slave to their crutch.

The Spider's Web

by Michael Hugen

This month I want to talk about the Titanic and what it means to us. This is sort of a follow-up on the last column, too. Don't worry, you won't need to go find it to know what's happening. Last time I talked about why you should be scared. I'm talking about the bone-chilling fear one feels when history is about to repeat itself and you stand, watching, like a deer staring into the on-coming headlights.

Television began as a free and gentle spirit. It reflected the life of the people who watched it. Then, slowly, the business side of the Tube began to exercise its muscle. We went from Edward R. Murrow delivering honest, hard-hitting commentaries and newscasts, to watching ³happy news.² They took what Harlan Ellison once called ³the most incredibly potent medium of imparting information the world has ever known,² and gave us ³happy news.²

³What is he raving about this time?² I hear you ask. History repeats. TV was once as fresh and stimulating as the Net, troops. We let the greedy three-piece-suiters ruin television and turn it into a wasteland of talk shows, soap operas and mindless mush. There are those who want to do the same with the Internet. If these nameless people have their way, you will be reading and seeing only what they consider appropriate. Ever gotten the message that you can't have the URL you wanted? Not that it was unavailable, just that you can't have it? I do not want some mealy-mouthed paper pusher deciding what I can watch on my TV in my home. Nor do I want someone telling me what information I can access. I am four-square against censorship, folks.

Yet we are about to allow the ³politically correct² insanity to pervade the Internet. The Net is a jungle, wherein awaits much danger and frustration, as well as great treasures. There are those who want to bulldoze the jungle. Tear down all those wonderful dark areas we can explore and build a superhighway? Not with my $19.95.

Understand, I am an Internet ³newbie.² I don't write HTML and I don't speak UNIX, but I can see where the trend will lead. It's led there before. The Internet is the Titanic, and just as unsinkable. See, it's starting to tie together.

In television, we have producers who take an old script, make a few changes and voila! The producer is now a writer. No creative juices, just a dry re-typing of someone else's work. Sound familiar? There is a paucity of creativity in what was once our most creative media.

There are incredibly talented people in the industry, who care about their writing. They are few. The same problem exists in the motion picture industry and even in publishing.

So my warning is to not let some untalented numbers cruncher decide what you will watch. Demand better entertainment. Stop watching the 99^th re-make of ³Friends,² and go read a book. Do anything, but don't allow your mind to be turned to jelly by the Idiot Box or even a movie.

I saw the movie ³Titanic² a while back. I can talk about it now without hearing the ³spoilers² battle cry. If you haven't seen it, you've probably been vacationing in Siberia. Jim Cameron took home three Oscars for it. It won scads of awards for technical stuff. Run a Web search for ³Titanic² and you'll be inundated with everything from the technical, to nude photos of Kate Winslett. It's a cultural phenomenon. It touched people. Made them weep and pay money to see it again and again.

The love story is pure schmaltz. It's as fabricated as that abomination of Erich Segal's. The Winslett and DeCaprio characters never existed. Unlike ³Love Story,² however, I was actually involved with them attributable to the acting, not the writing. Let's face it, folks, the love story of ³Titanic² was about as innovative as your standard one-a-month-Harlequin romance.

I knew from the moment they met what was going to happen didn't you? The special effects and the direction were what made the movie enjoyable for me. I doubt I'd see it again three hours is a bit much. I could have offered some suggestions on tightening the script, but I wasn't consulted. What a surprise.

It's that love story I want to look at. The one that had every woman and some of the men crying. The ending choked me up and I'm just a curmudgeonly old cynic. Cameron, with the skill of a surgeon, knew right where the heartstrings were, and just how to pluck them.

So what does that say about love in our society today? Not bloody much, if you ask me. Looking at such high-flown fantasy, letting it sweep us away, tells me that most of us aren't all that satisfied with what we've got. Why does everyone look at these love stories and sigh, wishing they had something like that? Is it possible? Can anyone really have such total and complete commitment to one another?

God, I hope so. If I'm ever handcuffed to a pole and the freezing water is rising around my ankles, I want my woman to wade through half a luxury liner, find an ax and break me free. I want her to punch some guy in the face when he won't help me. And I especially want her to spit in her ex-boyfriend's eye where I can see it. Okay, it might not save my life, but it'd sure be gratifying.

Everyone wants that Big Love the one everyone knows will last throughout eternity. But it was done better in ³The Ghost and Mrs. Muir² in the forties. As they say, ³everything old is new again.² Why? Because history repeats. And those who don't pay attention the first time around are bound to get run over.

Kommunist Korner

by Noame Ghregardus

Are you free?
Have you ever been free?
If you ask me,
you have never,
never been free.
The only state of the free
seems to me
to be
anarchy.
REVOLT!!!!

Letters ....

By Karen Forya

In the past, great men did great things. Great buildings were constructed, great bridges wrought, great statues carved, great operas composed, great enemies killed, and, most importantly, great letters written. Yes, oh yes, the Greats knew how to write letters. Epic dispatches, short witty notes, poignant epistles, love letters to die for, suicide letters to die from. Great letters were drafted, great letters were revised, edited, revised, recopied legibly, proofread, revised, copied and then carried by horse hundreds of miles amid great danger. That is how important letters were. Great letters were waited for, appreciated, enjoyed and saved. Great letters were prized possessions. And great letters weren't scarce. Great letters were mandatory.

When great men died, everyone else realized that they didn't know much about the deceased, bar greatness. So mothers, sons, students, lovers, teachers, sisters, enemies, acquaintances and mistresses would all share the great man's great letters, and none, to their relief, were marked "Not for posthumous publication." Great letters were printed, taught in schools, read for pleasure, read for research. People everywhere learned much about the deceased from reading his great letters. This was the best way; this was the only way.

But now, with the rise of the anti-paper devices - "computers" if you will - and "instant" "communication" between them, the man who might be writing to his brother detailing the fantastic culture of the San bushmen in the Kalahari, or the woman who might be writing to another about successful tactics of pro-union sabotage, now slaps up a "hey fran, wud up ;)" and clicks "send." And even if Mr. Kalahari does relate the bushmen's preference of black ant eggs over red, his brother just reads it, chuckles and hits "move to trash." People on the receiving end don't have any standards anymore for letters, so none are written to any. With ubiquitous communication, the value of a communication is nil, and so no effort is placed into them. What have we lost? Why, only the eternal record of the lives of great men! Bam! No more great letters, no more intriguing posthumous accounts, no more records of the activities of great people. Thus, in the end, greatness will not be remembered as all that great, and the dark pall of mediocrity will descend upon the human race.

So now I beg you, implore you all: write great letters. Make them long and tactful. Splash them with effervescent irony and satire. Inform your cohorts, make your lover cry, make your opponent see red. Write letters long, write them often, write them well, and write them by hand! And if you are not a genius, expect great letters from those geniuses around you. Be disappointed the next time you get a "hey fran, wud^?" And if you must email your letter, print it out and stick it under your mattress. And for God's sake, capitalize your sentences! Don't use arcane abbreviations! And don't, don't, don't, use "2" for "to" and "U" for "you" you're not cool! Take some pride in yourself, and give the human race a hand.

GAINSAY: The Columbine Shooting

Amon Fredrick

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. Its soo sad that two kids shot up their high school. I know that its horrible to think about the 14+2 that died at Columbine High School. Some blame the TV, some blame video games and shock rock - and a courageous few even blame the parents. I don't care who you blame it on, or what you try to learn from it, or how you try to make sure it doesn't happen again. The only thing I've learned from all this silly mourning and name calling is: you are all conceited, self-centered and very, very weak.

"A single death is a tragedy, a million deaths is a statistic." said Stalin. All over the world, thousands of children die of hunger daily. Children are found lying face down in ditches in Central America with their kidneys, or their eyes, or there liver excised, spooned or torn from their bodies. Political prisoners are brutally tortured. Young girls are forced to work all day for a bowl of rice and are then expected to play at concubine for the privilege of coming to work the next day. Families are summarily executed without charge. Every second, thousands of people are being shot, maimed, tortured, raped, poisoned, enslaved, burnt, whipped, broken, starved and slaughtered, but few of us in America feel any sort of pain or grief about such horror. The government, other than a few soft-spoken formal complaints, does nothing. "Oh, but maybe the population just isn't aware of such atrocities" you say, springing to defend yourself, but this only shows the callous insensitivity of the media as well.

But then as soon as a couple of kids get a hold of a couple of guns and shoot 14 classmates to death, America goes berserk. Gun control legislation is passed nearly (in government time) immediately. Religious groups pick up the pace on moral harassment. Prominent musicians like Sascha K. of KMFDM (German, loosely 'no pity for the majority') and Mr. Manson scramble to defend themselves. Quite well, though, I might add - Maralyn's article in Rolling Stone was perhaps the most intelligent thing to come out of the Columbine shooting. The media tries to squeeze a story from it for months. Have we lost our minds? Where is our sense of proportion? Most of us remain heartless regarding terror and death in nations outside of our own, or in ethnic groups other than our own, or in the ghettos across town. But as soon as there is a flicker of the smallest fraction of that suffering inside our _own_ spheres we carry on for months. Sixteen kiddos died, folks. Do you realize how insignificant sixteen deaths are? Don't get me wrong: it was a terrible thing, and those kids shouldn't have died. But please, is it really fitting to find such a primordial action as murder such a shock?

Two kids committed suicide and we are shocked - while thousands take their life daily. One kiddo that lives down the street from me hung himself last Tuesday after he was kicked off the baseball team and totalled my friends mom's car. Do I hear you crying? 14 kids were shot for being jerks - or religiously obnoxious - or for being in the wrong place/wrong time (much more substantial reasons to kill than the reasons for most shootings), and we weep, while shootings are a way of life in the ghettos of our own city. Why do we regard suffering with so little justice? Because we are too self centered to care about any group but our own.

So if you got a tear in your eye when you first heard the news, or if you were a frantic blamer trying to find a scapegoat, and you do not cry bitterly every night for the little kid who bled to death today when a foreign looking gentleman stole his kidneys to sell for $15,000 a piece; and if you do not cry for the whole village of girls used as human shields in an African guerrilla war; and if you do not try to help the little boy born without ears this morning because his mother had to drink nuclear runoff, then know ye that you, too, play the "I'm more important than you" game, and know that you, too, care only for your own group. But knowing the callous nature of you heartless beasts, I do not expect you to feel the least bit of shame.

The Sisters of Mery - A Slight Case of Overbombing

My first exposure to Gothic music was the haunting, operatic Switchblade Symphony - a far cry from my Metallica/Ozzy/Soundgarden colored past. That was all fine and well for a while. Soon, however, after expending the music from the two SS albums I bought, I got ahold of the Sisters of Mercy from one of those 12 CDs for 1¢! kind of deals. I waited for weeks. Finally the box came, stamped ³INVOICE ENCLOSED - RETURN IMMEDIATLY.² At first sight I thought I had gotten the wrong CD. ³Merciful Release² is said on the front, as well as the title, the word ³Sisters² and the stinker: ³Greatest Hits Volume One.² WHAT? A Gothic band with a ³Greatest Hits² record? This struck a note of pain in me, as I was at an age that bitterly rejected all things popular and successful, and I felt that any band with ³hits² that were ³great² was just too cool for me. Anyway, I was sitting there on the floor worrying as I put the CD in a hit play.

³Under the Gun² began to play - a slow drum beat, a luminescent guitar, and Eldrich's deep, wispy voice beginning:

³You don't have to say you're sorry
to look on further down the line
into the sun
too close to heaven
love is fine, but you can't hold it like a...²

I was entranced. A beautiful womans voice - a redhead, I was sure - began to sing along. ³Are you living for love...² So this was the Sisters of Mercy, who I had read so much about on the goth faqs and websites I was obsessed with reading. The music began to pick up speed.

³The first are last, the blessed get wired/the best is yet to come/I put my finger on and fired/heat seeking and out of the sun.² The rest of the disk was fabulous, and continues to enamour my ear and heart, but a few songs stand out. ³Temple of Love (1992),² a remake of one of their oldest songs, is a fast and beautiful condemnation of a man and his lover. ³More,² complete with cellos, a piano, french accordion and gospel singers begs for indulgence - a theme echoed on the next three tracks ³Lucretia My Reflection,² ³Dominion/Mother Russia² and ³This Corrosion.²

Needless to say, I bought as many Sisters albums as I could get my hands on. I even found and paid $20 for ³Floodland² on vinyl. Each one has a distinctive mood and subject it delves. Their first major label record ³First and Last and Always,² is almost entirely love songs, while ³Floodland² is much darker. ³Vision Thing² is much more a rock album, with songs like ³Vision Thing,² ³Detonation Boulevard,² and ³Doctor Jeep.² ³Some Girls Wander By Mistake,² however, is a collection of their indie singles before ³First and Last and Always²: original songs including the first ³Temple of Love² as well as songs by the Stooges (1969) and the Rolling Stones (Gimme Shelter).

The Sisters of Mercy are the *premier* goth band. For what its worth.

The Courtship

By Jeffrey Abelson

³We are sorry for your inconvenience. Thank you for your patience...²

Those words, I thought, those damn words. The uptown Six had been idle on the tracks for fifteen minutes with opened doors and no sign of leaving, the message repeating throughout the 23rd Street station: ³We are sorry for your inconvenience. Thank you for your patience...² It made me crazy.

I sat in a despicable subway car, the windows scratched and filthy, muddy footprints staining the floor, crumpled newspapers tossed with abandon. A soggy coffee cup bled the last of its brownish contents near my shoes and the smell of urine and sweat annoyed my nostrils as a high-pitched static hiss crackled over the station's public address system.

No other passenger shared my car, a rarity in New York City but not unheard of, and while I might've cherished this solitude on any other rainy day, that afternoon I wanted company - my very reason for sitting there at all: I'd left the darkness and comfort of my apartment to ride uptown and visit with my brother. ³We are sorry for your inconvenience...² The distorted voice blared in my ears, scratching at my annoyance. I know, I thought, you want to thank me for my patience.

I tried to read from a ragged King Rat I'd bought from a man selling on the sidewalk near Union Square. ³Give me five dollars for that,² he'd said, but I laughed and pulled two quarters from my pocket, his face a mask of shame and anger and indignation as his grime-blackened hand reached for my silver. ³Take a cigarette, too,² I said, and gave him the last from a half-crushed pack.

³Hey,² he said as I walked to the steps of the subway station. I paused and turned back to him. ³The cigarette is broken...Don't you have another?² A rain began falling and he sprang to save his meager commerce, scooping everything up in the blanket before him. I laughed and walked down to the station.

³We are sorry for your inconvenience. Thank you for your patience...²

I opened my book but frustration jumbled words and dragged my eyes back to the beginning of sentences. I heard a train roll in on the downtown track: a great hiss of compressed air belching from the brakes, passengers disembarking; the signal bell and a conductors voice, ³Stand clear of the closing doors...²

³Damn,² I said to the empty car, ³we have to get out of here - I can't be late!² My brother hated to wait, and my anger rose as the delay grew. I listened as the downtown train screeched off into the tunnel.

I paced the car but then sat, the standstill jeering at me with each tick of the clock, the amplified apology and pleading grating my nerves. I looked at King Rat but couldn't concentrate, my eyes returning to the faded cover art instead.

A woman entered the car and sat across and several seats away from me. Her auburn hair peaked out from under a black baseball cap. She wore a denim jacket over a white shirt and pants that ended at black work boots. Splashed by the rain, she shined and when she smiled at me, a fascination with subway advertisements occupied my attention and silenced my tongue. I remembered Clavel and jumped back in with renewed vigor and then heard the rustling of papers, and, spying over my book, witnessed the woman taking a Post from her bag and burying herself within the pages, leaving me content to focus on her beautiful hand, the other out of my view, the rest of her concealed by clothing.

I studied how she held the tabloid, her polished red nails contrasting with violence against the black newsprint. Her milky white flesh seemed poured over a perfect frame her skin, translucent in its delicacy, invited a look deep inside: I imagined capillaries and veins flowing with her sweet liquor; I envisioned her muscular and skeletal systems providing dexterity to that exquisite hand. She sensed my probe and put the paper down in her lap smiling once again, my eyes looking away through the window, too practiced in this game to be caught playing it - I felt our courtship ignite. She played her part feigning disinterest and returned to her reading.

³We are sorry for your inconvenience. Thank you for your patience...² Those words, again, I thought why can't we just move? ³Why?² I said aloud, and she looked at me and giggled. Did she mock? Did she applaud? The unknown motive behind her feminine chortle set me on the edge of a blade - one wrong look, word or gesture could slice me in half, my heart's commitment forged by that beautiful hand.

³How long have you been stuck here?² she asked, her voice a song of clarity and repose. Think! I thought, my head swooning, find the perfect counterpoint to that sweet melody, the very words that will lead her into your arms:

³It's been more than twenty minutes.² I tried to sound casual and relaxed, but my voice kicked up an octave when I spoke. Her face broke into a smile.

³Do you know why we're stuck?²

³You know how these trains are,² I said, forcing my lips to reveal teeth, ³one day they're working the next...²

³They're broken and we sit...²

Now I smiled: she understood! She and I were one! ³It's true,² I said, ³why can't they just fix things and make life easier for us? Why? Why do they treat us like we're stupid beasts willing to sleepwalk through their manipulations.² She no longer smiled, and I saw her looking towards the open door, her face a spotlight signaling fear. ³I'm sorry,² I said, ³I've been sitting so long and my brother is waiting...²

³I understand,² she said, emboldened by the weakness of my tone, and went back to her paper. I returned to King Rat, the words on the page meaningless to me, my comprehension drowning in a swell of pain.

³You really blew that one,² my aching said in a whisper.

³Unbelievable, ³ my loneliness echoed.

³When will you ever learn?² asked my desire.

³You're all wrong,² I thought back, and banished all cynicism. I looked to my lover and this time she caught the wanting in my eyes. She stuck the newspaper back in her bag and stood, performing for my attention. As she began to leave, a young man stepped into the car and sat down. He looked to be a graduate student or writer with his worn leather hat and round frame glasses, his thick ponytail, soft briefcase and laptop computer. The doors closed and the bell signaled departure and my love returned to her seat, the young man a foil between us. He looked in her direction, though spoke to us both. ³I waited forever in that station,² he said, assuming, I assumed, that the MTA's treachery would afford us all a certain comradery, ³but at least I missed the rain...² I nodded and sunk into my book.

³Twenty Eighth Street, next² a voice squalled, and the train began to roll, first straining and then, as momentum built, with great force. I watched the young man smile at my girlfriend, she back at him, and then he rose and moved, sitting down in the seat besides her. What a bastard, I thought: just as she's ready to declare her love for me, this oaf tempts her away. I held King Rat in pretend concentration, peeking over my barricade with care, and soon, after we passed 33rd Street, the car now filled with riders, I spied the two involved in conversation, my lover taunting me with smiles, the other passengers sighing at the two romantics while I seethed in my solitary awareness of her betrayal, his terrible insolence and the horns upon my cuckolded head.

As we approached 42nd Street, my love reached into her bag withdrawing pen and notebook. She scribbled and tore out a scrap of paper which she handed to the miscreant - a sweet rejection perhaps or a bogus number to let him off with ease. The subway stopped with a groan and the doors opened under Grand Central Station and she left the car with a flourish, my rival waiting for her to walk down the platform before folding the note of rejection and putting it in the pocket nearest his heart, all this done ignorant of my prying eyes.

The train moved on, the car crowded, umbrellas and hats dripping water, soggy humanity insulting my senses. At 51^st Street my nemesis departed: I considered following to extract revenge and retrieve that note, but decided that violence would only lead to suffering and I let him go, certain that any fantasies he might entertain regarding my lover would remain unfulfilled.

As we continued uptown, I stood at the door to keep my distance from other riders, peering into the darkness of the tunnel, a cripple dragging his torso aboard at 68th street, pulling himself along the floor to beg for change, a can tucked under one arm and his hands wrapped in soaking rags. We pulled into 77th Street where I got off, climbing out of the dim world below and stepping into the rain, my hat and umbrella left home in ignorance of the weather. I walked the half-block to where my brother stayed, signing in at the front desk and wrinkling my nose at the medicinal smells, my body dripping water on the polished marble tiles. The elevator took me to the fifth floor where I knocked on my brother's door, walking through without waiting for an answer.

I stood over Sam's bed and looked down, touching his cheek, the skin sallow and cold, but he kept his eyes closed, angry, I thought, at the lateness of my arrival. He seemed much thinner than the last time I'd stopped in for a visit. ³Aren't you eating?² I asked, but he refused my advance, choosing instead to play the silent martyr.

The door swung open and a woman with white shoes entered the room. I wondered if maybe Sam had a new girlfriend. ³Hi,² she said, ³come to see your brother?² I nodded. She fiddled with some tubes running from under his covers. ³We always keep our fingers crossed for this cutie.² I kept a thin smile on my face until she finished examining dials and meters and charts. She wrote something on a clipboard, the pen attached by a string, smiled at me once more and left.

I turned to my brother: ³Sam,² I said, ³that's some lady you got there why didn't you tell me?² He still refused to speak. ³Hey, I understand, gentlemen don't talk about their conquests.² I smiled at him. ³Lucky for you, I'm no gentleman.² A machine clicked and I heard a gurney rolling past outside the door. ³I'm not kidding, Sam,² I said, ³I met this wonderful woman on the train riding up to see you. Oh my God, she's amazing.² I told him everything, filling him in on all the details, promising that he'd love her when the two finally met. ³We'll all go out,² I said, ³and have drinks. I think she writes poetry...² The machine clicked and my brother kept his tongue, though I smiled when I realized his silence didn't signal anger - just jealousy: I'd met an angel and Sam had no one but me.

Literary Regurgitations

The Stranger

What kind of man was Figeac Meursault?

I am distressed with myself. I finished The Stranger by Albert Camus today, and I am troubled that I find his existential apathy so... appealing! His inhuman objectiveness, and ultimate apathy is refreshing and alluring. He doesn't understand love, he doesn't understand murder, and when he is sentenced to die he weakly justifies and dismisses his death as inevitable, unstoppable and not worth worrying about. And I enjoy it! Though I suppose this is perfectly normal behavior for a 15 year old. Ah, well, I'm a more normal teenager than I'd like to admit. But does this mean that my heaps of Nietzsche are getting to me?

My Latin teacher warned me: ³Only regard Nietzsche as a way back to Aristotle.² I didn't quite know what to say, and she noticed. ³You don't believe me?² she asked, aback. And then she repeated what she had said. ³Or else you'll fall into nihilism, and, trust me, you don't want to go there.² As if I was influenced by what I read! Yet here I am, with a romantic feeling for the cynic (Gk; 'like a dog', without shame, family, property, citizenship or love, I learned in her class.) ³Have you read any Camus?² she pressed, pronouncing 'Camus' like the Frenchwoman she wishes she was: Cam-eu. Slightly ashamed, and even more uncomfortable, I replied as I backed to the door ³Not yet, but I have The Stranger and The Fall on my pile.²

Ah, so now I will go read Aristotle, if only to save myself. I hope I can take it seriously. ³Aristotle, Aristotle was a begger for the bottle...²

-Markus

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And there you have it. Issue number two. The second point that defines our course of action. Yes, ladies and gentelmen; this is for real. Now a word from your brainwashers:
The FWP was good.
Very good.
And long enough.
Longer than no.1.
Not that there was anything wrong with no.1
of course.
Here's Tom with the weather:
Thank you very much. We hope you enjoyed it. How was the FWP? "The FWP was good. Very good. And long enough. Longer ..." Yes. Good. Very good.

Final Thought:

If all time and space is manifested by the movements of particles, a la Einstein, and if all motion follows predictable Newtonian laws, and if all actions are just reactions following those same laws, whatever happened to "free will"? Doesn't that mean the entire future is easily predictable (easy to something outside of it, of course - God etc.)?

Konichiwa!

AWARDS

Most Competent Person
Robert Lee Brock

Who, as an inmate in Chesapeake, Va. filed a $5 million lawsuit against himself accusing himself of violating his own religious beliefs and his own civil rights by getting himself drunk enough to engage in the crimes that resulted in his imprisonment. Wrote he, "I want to pay myself $5 million but ask the state to pay it in my behalf since I can't work and am a ward of the state." On behalf of the Free Word Press, he is hereby awarded the Most Competent Person Award. ------->The Free Word Press

Least Competent Person
Paul Gamboa Taylor

Who, after murdering his wife and four others near York, Pa., tried to take his own life five times before turning himself in. He had slashed both his wrists with a hacksaw; drunk lighter fluid; plunged a knife into his chest; filled a bathtub with water, hoping to pass out and drown; and brought a hair dryer into the tub with him. "I love my family; that's why I pleaded guilty." On behalf of the Free Word Press, he is hereby awarded the Least Competent Person Award. ------->The Free Word Press

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The free word press are: Amanda B. Rekondwith - Bryan Shultz - Michael Hugen - Noame Ghregardus - Karen Forya - Amon Fredrick - Zeus Zapata - Jeffrey Abelson - Markus - Renan McFarland - Elliot Cole

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