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)- Doomed to Obscurity E'zine issue number 28 - released June 5th, 1998 -(
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"Tee-hee!"
by -- Mogel
Hiya! It's been a while since we've spoken, you and me. Take a
look: it's the 28th issue of the ever-so-talked about "Doomed to
Obscurity". Of course, it's been four months since we've released an issue.
Yes, there is a good reason for this. This reason might be fairly
predictable: DTO is falling apart, rather pathetically. There are reasons
for this, too.
The reason is that we're all bastards. Every single one of us. It's
also quite pathetic. Progressively, through more and more re-organizations
and personality-conflicts, we've managed to lose sight of something very
important -- that we're supposed to be writing and communicating ideas to
each other, like all good little pseudo-intellectuals do! Seems simple
enough, huh? But somehow, surprisingly, we've lost the ability to do even
that, and it seems as if there's no returning.
So what's going on? Well, as our collective egos pressed on over
the last half a year or so, many of the DTO fellows were criticized,
unappreciated, unmotivated, self-centered, utterly useless, and often
flat-out mean. It seems as if we can no longer effectively work together.
Go figure!
Well, guess what? This issue will be the *last* issue of what people
have formally known DTO to be. It's the last "serious" issue. It's got
lots of old articles that have been sitting around -- either on my
harddrive, or on the DTO webpage... ones that I felt should be released
before DTO changes. Special thanks to our fuzzy pal Jook, who has
contributed for this issue one of the better things to ever appear in DTO.
Anyway, three of our writers -- Eerie, Mooer, and Creed -- have quit
DTO to form their own web e'zine in the near future, entitled "Newspeak". I
suppose I'll keep people updated on the status their project here. After
all, at least they're doing *something*. Most of the rest of us seem to be
doing good impressions of rocks, as far as writing goes.
Actually, *I* don't really consider myself involved anymore, either.
That's why I'm letting a militia of rage-filled, former DTO writers (and
Nybar!) take control of our dwindling publication. I'd also like to
formally announce Trilobyte as the new HEAD EDITOR and LEADER of Doomed to
Obscurity E'zine! Good ol' Trilly has recently wrote the much acclaimed DTO
issue #38 entirely by himself, which came out *ten months* ahead of
schedule -- now THAT'S progress. Obviously much more progress than anyone
else in this godforsaken e'zine can do anymore.
Anyway, the following individuals are the *only* DTO members now:
Trilobyte: The NEW, Official Head Editor
Mogel: Official E-mail Guy
Styx: Official Muthafucka
Sweeney Erect: Official "New Idea" Guy
Meow: Official Optimist
Ashtray Heart: Official... uh.
Toasty: Official Public Relations Coordinator
Nybar: Official Great and Illustrious Propagater of the
Species Named After Itself A.K.A. Grand Vizier of
Da Funk.
Any other members beyond these 8 will have to undergo a series of
Styx's complex and deadly tests to be accepted back into the pages of DTO.
But who would want to? DTO sucks anyway.
What about the rest of the now former DTO writers... favorites such
as Puck, Kaia, and Jook?! We don't know!@ There are rumors that Jamesy,
Shadow Tao, Murmur, and Guido Sanchez -- completely enraged by the hostile
takeover of the e'zine which they've held *so* close to their hearts for the
last few years -- have banded together to make another new, RIVAL e'zine
entitled "Smart People Suffer" (sPs). Expect the first release of this
publication sometime this summer.
Mail us you give a shit... or you have *any* thoughts on DTO in
general. The address is dto@op.net. Write it down. I mean, just think, we
may be crazy enough at this point that your letter could get published in
the next issue. Tee-hee!
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| | | | | |
Doomed to Obscurity #28 | | | | | | and all contents therein...
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TABLE OF CONTENTS:
1. "Tee-hee!" -- by Mogel
2. DTO #28 and all contents therein...
HUMOR:
3. "The Christian Transformers" -- by Ashtray Heart
4. "Thumbs-Up For Doody" -- by Puck
5. "Frump-nosed Chives -- Condiments; Chapter 8934" -- By Murmur
6. "All About Lint" -- by Aster
7. "The Unwritten Works of Ashtray Heart" -- by Ashtray Heart
EDITORIALS:
8. "Changing the Face and Future of America" -- by Zooey
9. "Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Randomness" -- by Jayatri
10. "Gates and The Technicolor Monopoly" -- by andygee
11. "Remembering Halo" -- by Jamesy
FICTION:
12. "Personal Choice" -- by Killarney
13. "Nights Like This" -- by DisordeR
14. "Sometimes I Wonder" -- by Razorblades & Bandaids
15. "Gone Missing" -- by Basehead
16. "Growing Up Dead" -- by Zilla
17. "The 4:30 AM Onslaught" -- by Jook
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
- HUMOR -
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
"The Christian Transformers"
by -- Ashtray Heart
THE CHRISTIAN TRANSFORMERS:
SPREADING GOD'S WORD OF LOVE AND VENGEANCE!
The "Army of God" (tm):
JEHOVAH: The God of Wrath (tm). Yes, our loving LORD, with kung-fu
"sinner grip" for hurling heathens straight to hell (not included)! This
all-plastic figure with movable joints is based on the very same God who
created the earth and all the creatures in it, led the tribes of Israel into
the Holy Land, and who now rules on a throne over the whole expanse of
heaven! LORD transforms from "Ark of the Covenant" mode into "Charlton
Heston" mode in just six easy steps! Create heaven and earth, create an
entire race of toadying slaves out of dirt (not included), sentence them to
an existence of suffering and torment, kill off nearly the entire damn lot
on a whim, make a whole mess of incomprehensible dietary laws, and gradually
fade into obscurity and irrelevance with LORD!
JESUS: Classic version (Bread & Wine). Christ saves from hell, and
now you can, too, with this handsome Aryan replica with bleeding stigmata
action! "Classic Version" transforms from chalices of flat wafers (as bland
and tasteless as the real thing*) and "Ripple" wine into a tableau of pure
suffering that will give your child nightmares for the rest of his
life -- complete with crucifix! Re-enact great scenes of Christ's life with
your JESUS action figure -- his birth, his baptism, his seduction of Mary
Magdalene -- all with the horrifying rictus of a man suffering the final
torments of death! Jesus' face was fashioned after a painstaking year-long
effort to find the perfect evocation of human suffering, involving AIDS
victims, starvation, and good old-fashioned torture -- just the way
Torquemada did it! You will marvel at how much raw guilt a 6" tall
non-toxic plastic figure can induce! Also works for raising sadomasochists.
* -- Wafers are not consecrated Body of Christ. Do not eat.
JESUS: 1543 revision (Lamb of God). Not hungry? Hate booze? Never
learned Latin in school? This Jesus is the one for you! Transforms from
doe-eyed "Suffer the little children to come to me" whitey Jesus to cute
fluffy all-plastic Lamb! Yes, salvation never looked so tempting, so
beautiful, so nauseating! Spoon-feed young children about all-loving,
all-beautiful Jesus with this toy and sheet of enclosed hymns -- then pull a
switcheroo on them with JEHOVAH, the God of Wrath (tm) when they hit
puberty!
NOTE TO AUSTRALIANS: Do not bugger the lamb of God!
(Also available -- Hippie Jesus, Transfiguration Jesus, Baby Jesus,
Fightin' Jesus, Exorcist Jesus, Capitalist Jesus, Mystic Jesus, Asshole
Jesus, DEVO Jesus, Hellfire 'n Brimstone Jesus, Jesus H. Christ, Porno Stud
Jesus, Jesus Fetus, Black Jesus, Big Titty Jesus, Atheist Jesus, Sanrio
Jesus, and hundreds of others! Ask for the Jesus YOU prefer!)
HOLY SPIRIT: The "invisible member" of the Holy Trinity, the Spirit
is molded out of see-through plastic! Nobody knows what it is and what it
does -- but hey, it sure is COOL, kids, isn't it? Transforms from Tongues
of Fire (with super "glossolalia" action!) to "conscience" mode -- you can't
see it, but it's there, because WE TELL YOU IT IS! Put near Confirmation
Girl (complete with removable white dress) and watch her become an atheist
and start sucking cock! AMAZING! And without it, you won't have a complete
set! Yes, that's right, you can combine JEHOVAH, JESUS**, and HOLY SPIRIT
to make...
TRIUNE GOD: Never mind the weird name -- it's our God, revealed in
all his glory! How does it work? It's one being, and three, at the same
time! We won't give away the mystery -- see if YOU can figure it out! Heh,
heh. Confusion galore with this wonderful BreakThink (tm) toy -- use it
right, and the kids will reject logic completely!
** -- Classic version only. Non-Catholic Jesii will not combine to
make Trinity!
PRIEST: It's a footsoldier in the Army of God (tm)! This gentle
PRIEST transforms from an ineffectual and unwanted vessel of God's Word
(with special "money-grubbing" action!) to a full-fledged leatherman (with
special "cock-thrusting" action -- about which the less said the better,
honestly)! Watch PRIEST as he is consumed by his conflicting desires and
his desperate need to suppress his sexuality! Watch PRIEST witness a steady
hemorrhaging of his parish as fewer and fewer people can tolerate POPE'S
(sold separately) ludicrous positions on sexuality! Watch PRIEST abuse the
altar wine! Yes, bumbling PRIEST is the Beetle Bailey of the "Army of God"
(tm), and will give you hours of hilarity and fun.
The "Army of Satan":
"Army of Satan" action figures are not being produced at this time,
after numerous complaints from parents who claimed the figures were turning
their children into Satanists because they "made the 'Army of God' (tm)
action figures look like dorks". Rest assured, however, that all action
figures other than "Army of God" (tm) action figures are produced by the
minions of Satan, so they will serve just as well for staging your own mock
battles of Armageddeon between the forces of Good and Evil. Suggestion:
Read "Revelations" for the best End Times scenario! (Reminder: Do NOT use
"Army of God" (tm) figures with Ragnarok, Gotterdammerung, or X-day End
Times scenarios -- CHRIST IS SUPPOSED TO WIN! If you see your children
playing with ANY of these scenarios, report it to us IMMEDIATELY.) And
remember, kids, Good always wins!
Also currently unavailable: The "Sodom and Gomorrah" playset.
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
"Thumbs-Up For Doody"
by -- Puck
In my twenty-two years of life, I've developed an odd obsession.
It's with the human reaction, the way a person engrossed in American
society reacts to the unexpected. And by unexpected, I mean that which
grossly violates all tenets and guidelines that we've grown comfortable
with in our society. Let me demonstrate what I mean by telling you about a
road trip that I took last month.
My friend "Paul" and I were cruising from Oxford to Georgetown to
participate in an Improv Comedy festival. We were part of a three car
caravan, and in order to keep all cars together, we had made little signs to
signal the other cars when we needed to stop for "Gas," "Food," or "Potty."
The hours slowly ticked by as we ate up highway, and eventually, to kill the
boredom, I decided to start flashing the "Potty" sign to the passing cars to
see how they would react. On our right, a red Cavalier approached, driven
by a younger man, probably in his early twenties. I waved my arms to get
his attention, and as he glanced out his window I pressed the "Potty" sign
against ours. He twitched once, gave a quick double take, flipped us the
bird, and sped up to pass us. I couldn't have been more delighted.
What amazed me here was what I still presume to be the boy's thought
process. To his left, he sees a guy about his age waving for his attention.
"Maybe I've got a flat," he thinks. "Maybe I left my turn signal
on." He turns cautiously to his left and sees a white piece of paper
pressed against the window.
"Potty. It says potty. Are they telling me that they have to potty?
Are they calling me a potty? I don't understand. Maybe I read it wrong.
Gotta stay cool. I'll turn my head and read it again." He does.
"No, that says potty all right. I just don't get it. Potty? That's
gotta be an insult. Gotta stay cool. I'm going to flip them the bird.
I'll potty them!" And so his retribution is made. He displays his middle
finger and speeds in front of our car.
What we got to witness was the creation of a schema. This event had
absolutely no precedent in this guy's mind. Nobody had ever held up a sign
that said "potty" to this guy before, and I think it's safe to assume that
if anyone ever does in the future, they'll be met with the same confused,
yet belligerent, response.
The Cavalier sped out of our sight, and we never caught up to the
guy. My mind sought out braver, bolder conquests. How would people react
if we one-upped the potty sign and wrote "Doody" on a sign? And how would
that reaction change if the "Doody" sign was smeared and pocked with melting
Chocolate Rolos? I was determined to find out. I developed a road trip
experiment that even you can try. As we passed cars on the left, I'd press
this new sign up to the window and attempt to solicit a specific response.
I would smile as I held up the sign, and give the universal "thumbs-up"
sign, as if to suggest, "Hey, everything's fine! Nothing out of the
ordinary here!" Nine times out of ten, the driver of the vehicle would,
after a somewhat confused glance, smile and return the thumbs-up. They had
absolutely no idea why they were sharing a "thumbs-up" with me. In their
minds, for a short moment at least, it was just the right thing to do.
Giving a "thumbs-up" for a chocolate-smeared doody sign was as natural as
returning a handshake.
Why oh why oh why waste my time on enterprises that seem so
meaningless and immature? Well, for one thing, I was stuck in a car for
twelve hours with only my pen, paper, and a guy named Paul. But more
importantly, it all goes back to my obsession. Watching the facial
expressions on these drivers turn from absolute confusion to natural
camaraderie was amazing. Watching each driver come to terms with the
absolute least probable highway event imaginable brought chills to my spine.
And, in short, it made me laugh my ass off. So next time you're on a road
trip, make sure to bring your "Doody" sign. And if you pass a young fella
in a red Cavalier, give him a thumbs-up for me.
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
"Frump-nosed Chives -- Condiments; Chapter 8934"
by -- Murmur
Alan went to Eureka Springs, Arkansas. They have train whistles
there. Alan wanted a train whistle. Nobody knew why. A sandstorm blew
threw Eureka Springs, Arkansas. Sand infiltrated Alan's pores. now Alan
was Sandy Koufax, southpaw for the Los Angeles Dodgers. Except he was dead.
It does one very little good to be Sandy Koufax when one is dead. As you
should all be quite aware, asphyxiation by sand sucks. No. You should not
be aware. Hmm. So we will pretend that Alan never went to Eureka Springs,
Arkansas, and we will instead pretend that he is Crete Lefebvre, a short
pudgy woman who referees junior high school basketball games in Northern
Illinois. TWEET! BLOCKING. BLACK, FOUR-TWO. FOUR-TWO, BLACK. Now Crete
is attacked by locusts. Women shouldn't be referees. Now we are on a
wheel-coaster filled with parmelone watching the sunset set and the
fireflies rise like Johnny Mize! Follow the magical wheel-coaster
southward, downward, into the very ground, where Oedipus greets us and
offers us "The Fetch". Noting the horror of mutilated wolf carcasses around
us, we decline. Oedipus dissipates into a purple mist, which engulfs us and
turns us all into extras in a Broadway showing of a play inspired by Elton
John's "Crocodile Rock". You are Croco-lock and I am Croco-dock. We look
like idiots. We are idiots. So be it. Don't you want me, baby? Don't you
want me now? NEEP NEEP. So imagine if you will a beautiful woman standing
before you, flapping around a hefty wad of chaw. How unbecoming, like the
South Pole. Aghast. You visit mongle, he gives you a Quest, but it doesn't
taste very fermented. Yeech. Now it is time for ACTION JACKSON. We sure
do like that.
Moral: Quit while you're a face.
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
"all about lint"
by -- aster
jack, the friendly piece of lint.
jack was a piece of lint. he was friendly. most lint is not. lint
is mean and scary. very scary. oh so scary. but jack, the friendly piece
of lint, is friendly and nice. he is nice to the mean and scary lint that
collects in large groups, too. but he is the only friendly lint. most lint
is very, very, very, scary. only scary and mean. never silly, or nice, or
anything. only scary and mean. but not big. jack the friendly piece of
lint was friendly to everyone. he was very friendly to his fellow pieces of
lint even though they are mean and scary. he is even friendly and nice to
the scary and mean lint that collects in large groups. he is friendly to
dust too, even though dust is mean and calm. mean and calm is not good,
especially when it is dust that is mean and calm. but jack the friendly
piece of lint was still friendly. one day jack, the friendly piece of lint,
was friendly floating around, and a big person came up and squashed jack the
friendly lint. this upset jack the friendly lint. he told the person that
he was not mean and scary and did not collect in large groups like the other
lint, but the big person did not believe him. so the big person put jack
the friendly lint in a scary, dark place. he stayed in this scary dark
place for a very long time. it was dark and lonely and scary and he did not
like it, but he was not mean and scary and he sat there, counting the dark.
he had lots of fun counting the dark. but counting the dark can turn you
insane. counting the dark did turn him insane. so when all of a sudden
there was light again and jack the friendly lint was free he was no longer
jack the friendly lint. now he was jack the insane lint. he was strange
and scary, but not mean, and he tried to still be friendly, but he was too
insane. so instead of floating like sane lints he hopped and skipped and
jumped around like an insane lint. now, while he was doing this, the other
mean and scary lints were watching with disgust. they did not like the
insane lint. so they trapped him in the dark place again. he did not like
that, but he was stuck and he could not get out. he tried and tried to get
out but could not.
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
"The Unwritten Works of Ashtray Heart"
by -- Ashtray Heart
Since he burst on the scene three years ago, Ashtray Heart has carved
out a formidable niche in the crowded but always interesting field of "not
writing stuff." His abilities to not write stuff are truly prodigious, far
exceeding the ability of, for instance, Isaac Asimov, who in his long career
never managed to not write a single book. Though critics allege that it is
FAR easier to not write stuff than to write stuff, his supporters point out
that ability to not write stuff at such prodigious rates cannot be denied;
indeed, Sven Birkerts of _The New Republic_ has claimed that "Heart raises
the art of not writing stuff to a true art form." Other reviewers are
grateful to be spared the guilt that usually accompanies reviewing a book
without even reading it. Still others are under the impression that Heart
is a writer and not a not-writer. In the event, all the buzz over Heart's
non-works gives us sufficient cause to present a brief overview of his
unwritten works to date for you. We hope you enjoy.
Mr. Meany Mouth -- A coming of age novel about a young man with
mouths in each of his knees who joins a cadre of other freakishly mutated
people on a pilgrimage (including one with a penis "that looks just like Joe
Camel.") to a giant headless statue of Jesus somewhere in Florida. Not a
mature work.
The .signature Book -- An annotated collection of Heart's signature
files from 1994 through 1997. Denounced by critics as "pure
self-indulgence" and "almost as bad as publishing one's laundry lists." For
his part, Mr. Heart responded by saying that (1) he had not done laundry in
over twenty years, rendering laundry lists unnecessary and (2) it was a
specialty work, intended for a Richard Brautigan tribute library and NOT for
general release. Contemporaneous with "Usenet, Vol. 1."
Usenet, Vol. 1 -- A collection of Mr. Heart's least uninteresting
writings on the international message forum Usenet from 1994 through 1997.
Not as relentlessly trivial as ".signature," but nevertheless much of this
work is of interest mostly to specialists, being even more esoteric than his
other unpublished works, at times seeming bluntly hostile to comprehension.
Included are a review of a disco album by a UFO cult progressive rock band,
polemics on etiquette, and a discourse on "The Bleeding Head of Arnold
Palmer", together with nonsensical rejoinders and directionless rants.
The Word Book -- A thematic work based on Syd Barrett's "Word Song"
(Opel, 1988), this is a rich chromatic story of discovery and loss divided
into myriad small chapters, each one based on one word of Barrett's.
THE ETERNAL MANIFESTO (Uniweria Zekt) -- a rambling philosophical
discourse on reality, truth, suffering, transcendence, and social disease,
apparently mostly inspired by a 1961 B-movie entitled "The World's Greatest
Sinner," as well as the UFO cult progressive rock band mentioned above. It
makes liberal use of ALL CAPS (as in the title). Critics have called it
"slightly less coherent than the Unabomber manifesto."
Lost & Found Poetry, Vol. 1 -- Heart, who in his own words "loathes
poetry", still managed to not put together this bizarre tome consisting
mainly of odd turns of phrase culled from urinal graffiti, billboards,
random posts to Usenet (many of them sexually explicit), and extensive
conversations with a World Wide Web AI known as "MegaHAL," filtered first by
running it several times through a heavily flawed web translation service,
then through a filter known as "STERNO.LEX" that randomly adds indecent
rantings to sentences, then through a syntax blender called "Babble," and
finally tightly editing the output to simulate a coherent narrative.
Ironically, some commentators have called it his most cohesive work, while
questioning why this was classified as "poetry." For the record, Heart
claims it as poetry because "it's pretentious and it doesn't make a fucking
bit of sense."
Party In My Pants -- Virgins talk about their sexual experiences.
A Child's Garden of Death -- Purportedly a "children's book," this
short work is in actuality an uncharacteristically vicious, sarcastic, and
unabashedly emotional attempt by the author to come to grips with the pain
inflicted by death. Condemned as "maudlin" by Heart's imaginary fans who
had come to enjoy his early bizarre free-associative work, and denounced by
the ruthlessly critical Heart himself as "adolescent," "Death" is
nevertheless a powerful and important work.
What Color Is Your Underwear? -- A dark, intensely erotic, and
ultimately destructive relationship unfolds between two "career women,"
revealed entirely through succeeding drafts of the resumes of each of the
women.
The Pimple At the Gates of Dawn -- A grotesquely and intimately
detailed chronicle of a dentist's ("W. Phang") gradual descent into madness,
ironically spurred by overexposure to mouthwash commercials, through an
increasing obsession with the minutiae and vaguely repellent bodily detritus
of a person, progressing from the more repellent bodily elements such as
feces to the more subtle physical horrors, and his eventual salvation at the
hands of the filthiest man alive. Critics have charged that Heart bluntly
lacks the talent to pull such a stunt off, and that this is why the novel
remains unwritten.
Alien Butt Probe Police -- Unwritten comic book pilot manuscript
about two X-files clone agents who research Forteana and conspiracies.
Three incomplete drafts numbered 2 to 4 exist, wildly disparate in
character, but not in quality, which is uniformly crap. Two deals with an
alien conspiracy to induce condom failure and abortions performed with ice
scrapers in which all the characters apparently weigh at least two hundred
and fifty pounds and random segments of the narrative are blacked out.
Three is a completely nonsensical fragment apparently involving Falco (who
was not dead at the time), a faceless clone of Jay Leno with a radio
installed in his skull, and an incoherent bum talking about Pink Floyd.
Four is about a plot by trees to kill environmentalists, rife with
references to Macbeth and the Lorax. All involve different main characters,
who are universally crudely drawn and undeveloped.
Pacy-Face Und Seine Abenteuer In Zauberland II -- an unwritten work
of interactive fiction; despite its name, NOT a sequel to the original
"Pacy-Face." In fact, it's not even in German. This is a "dummy" name,
designed for the "dummy" first section of the game, which Heart has
proclaimed to be "the most irritating IF game ever." He's probably right.
For one thing, you have to breathe every three turns or die. For another,
on the eleventh turn a giant armada from the planet Kobaia arrives and kills
you. The whole thing is in fact grotesquely unfair, and about as much fun
to sit through as a 20 minute drum solo. Should one make it past turn 50,
though, the game suddenly turns very different -- it in fact becomes
IMPOSSIBLE to die -- and becomes an exploration of shifting realities more
or less totally ripped off from Dick's "The Three Stigmata of Palmer
Eldritch." Moderately interesting, but again Heart just doesn't display the
requisite talent -- in programming OR storytelling -- to make this thing
interesting, ESPECIALLY given the prologue.
Sausage Is the Best and Other Stories -- A collection of bona fide
short stories, or they would be if they had been written. The title story
is a tribute to Frank Zappa and a sort of anti-tribute to Keats, whose
boogers figure prominently in this story along with a dedicated yet hairy
female impersonator. Also included are "Fracture," intended to be a textual
counterpart to the King Crimson composition, "Dental Themes In the Work of
Beaulieu," a mock research paper condemning a colleague for not accepting
metaphorical extensions of reality to the degree necessary, "The Revenge of
Roger Waters," a light-hearted satire on Pink Floyd, "Sunday Afternoon," the
memoirs of a lonely old man whose sole joy in life has been Bocce, "Tuesday
Morning," the film treatment of "Sunday Afternoon" starring Sylvester
Stallone as a heavily muscled Bocce player trying to win back the affection
of his son, "X-Day," a Subgenius apocalyptic tale, and others.
17, 23, 40: A Bardstown Road Travelogue -- A loving tribute to
culture and counterculture in one of Louisville, Kentucky's premier
commercial corridors.
The Revenge of the Admiral (provisional title) -- Heart's latest
unwritten epic, with the potential to be a truly big and satisfying
non-exploration of key Heart issues while maintaining the absurdist
sensibilities that are so well-known to Heart aficionados. "Revenge" is the
story of a disgraced former sea captain and cult leader who, years after his
prime and assumed death, attempts an audacious plan to take over the nation
of Cuba, assisted by his two disgruntled caretakers and an army of sex
slaves. His plans are intercepted by one of the twenty-four operators of
one of a breed of controversial "human robots" known as "nines," who attempt
to infiltrate the Admiral's navy for their own unknown purposes. On their
way from the frozen wastelands of Canada to Cuba, the Admiral encounters
professional wrestlers, avant-garde musicians, and even one or two normal
people.
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
- EDITORIALS -
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
"Changing the Face and Future of America"
by -- Zooey
"And gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche."
If I had to take all of my college experience -- if I had to take all
of *college* -- and distill the whole mess down to one thing, and one thing
only, I think I'd end up with my backpack. I love my backpack. I got it
right before I went to school, and I've carried it around on my back for
four years now. Even though it's starting to fall apart and all, it makes
me *feel* like a college student.
I'm about to graduate. I'm not sure why. I mean, I'm carrying this
backpack around, I feel like I'm *in* college and all, but I don't know
*why*. It took entirely too long -- too many years spent wandering across
quads and into and out of classrooms; too many trips to the bookstore with
credit card in hand; too many nights spent awake staring at a paper that
just wouldn't write itself -- entirely *too* long for me to figure out that
I didn't know why I was here.
I guess it just never really occurred to me to ask.
I've done pretty well at my school. I did pretty well in high
school, and middle school, and going on back forever, I guess. Why does
that matter? Well, I think it matters because it brings out an important
point: I never *decided* to go to college. No one ever asked me if I
*wanted* to. I never even thought about not doing it. It's just what I was
supposed to do. And I think that there are a lot of, a *lot* of, people out
there in the same situation. Whether it's mom, or dad, or your guidance
counselor, or your favorite teacher, or yourself, everyone wants to push you
on to the "next level." Why? Well, yeah, why? But... that's not just it;
this isn't just about me, it's about the way today's society looks at
education, from the top to the bottom, from my mom to the President of the
United States of America:
"I have something to say to every family listening to us tonight:
Your children can go on to college. If you know a child from a poor
family, tell her not to give up -- she can go on to college. If you
know a young couple struggling with bills, worried they won't be able
to send their children to college, tell them not to give up -- their
children can go on to college. If you know somebody who's caught in
a dead-end job and afraid he can't afford the classes necessary to
get better jobs for the rest of his life, tell him not to give up --
he can go on to college. Because of the things that have been done,
we can make college as universal in the 21st century as high school
is today. And, my friends, that will change the face and future of
America."
But, I have to be honest, there's something missing from the
transcript above... Applause. I edited it out -- but trust me, congress ate
it all up. How many Senators do you really think are on the verge of giving
up hope on sending their kids away to school? But, no, congress loved it,
because they know that when it comes to politics, education sells. People
want to see people better themselves, get out of those "dead-end jobs,"
make something of themselves! And I guess that now, college equals money
equals equals the future.
There's something that's gotten lost along the way, though, and I
think that it's the will to actually *learn*. In the process of becoming
*so* generic, *so* accepted, college has really lost its edge. We have
presidents and politicians pushing the system, shouting their clarion call
about "the face and future of America". So, we get their grants and their
loans and we get their work study and then we get some more of their loans,
and eventually we have most of our graduating high school seniors continuing
their education. And that's good, I guess...
But, all the same, no one really seems to be in college to *learn*.
Well, for the most part, anyway... I think people are out of touch with the
whole *ideal* of learning, at least in the sense of learning-as-growth, of
learning-as-wisdom. Looking around, a lot of the "best" students are
considered to be that simply because they're the ones who *work* the
hardest; fit in the most; memorize all twohundredsomething bones in the
human skeleton; do all the extra credit calculus problem sets; are gifted
with the art of bullshit to put them over the top with their English
professor -- and that's not really learning. That's just what They want us
to do.
"The average total debt of the students studied was $18,800,
compared with $8,200 in a comparable survey in 1991, the Boston
Globe reported."
I know that our education system has never been perfect. I also know,
though, that things are bad, and they're only going to get worse if people
keep pushing things like this. Look at those loan statistics; that's a
*huge* jump. In a very *small* amount of time. Before we start pushing
everyone in the world to college, I think we need to figure out exactly why
we're doing it. Why it's worth it to throw in every child from every family
everywhere, at whatever cost.
Just maybe the future should be about more than everyone finding jobs
that make the president happy and enable regular student loan payments.
Maybe the face of the future should be whatever America's *youth* want.
Maybe we should *ask* them.
President Clinton's State of the Union address:
http://www.whitehouse.gov/WH/SOTU98/address.html
CNN talks about college debt:
http://cnn.com/US/9710/23/charging.college/index.html
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
"Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Randomness"
by -- Jayatri
I think I gave up on understanding randomness a long time ago. I had
skeptical friends in high school who would painstakingly memorize a hundred
or more digits of pi, just to see if they could find some sort of pattern
(or maybe just to test their capacities for useless information). I decided
that if someone out there had decided that irrational numbers were random,
it wasn't my job to disprove it, and I never got past 3.14159.
It's always perplexed me that while our society is ostensibly
striving to decrease entropy, dig a little deeper and you find that so much
of it is based on randomness. We use random number generators in
innumerable aspects of our lives -- from the weekly lottery to military
intelligence encryption. They crop up in computer programming, astronomical
behavior, and noncrystal material structure. As mathematician George
Marsaglia says, "A random number generator is like sex. When it's good,
it's wonderful -- and when it's bad, it's still pretty good."
Okay, so it seems like we've got this love-love relationship with
random numbers. But this is a rare instance where, upon even further
inspection, we find that the original superficial observation, that man is
trying to reduce entropy, supersedes our fascination with chaos. Human
nature demands order, and will impose order even when it doesn't exist.
Consider the inherent disorder in biological systems. For better or
for worse, I work with fruit flies; I often look at them and think that
their motion is practically Brownian. My research adviser warns us that if
there's a hole in a container somewhere, the flies will inevitably find it.
But there are people who observe changes in Drosophila flight and motion
patterns as an indicator of mutant phenotype. If the normal motion is
"random," what kind of conclusions can you draw from finding order in
mutants? I wonder if someone out there has put some flies on a coordinate
plane, assigned numerical values to motion patterns, and actually analyzed
whether or not it is truly random.
Or, let's go back to the lottery. In a string of random numbers, the
identity of one has no effect on the next, so there could be bursts of
apparent order while still maintaining the overall randomness of the
sequence. But how often do people pick lottery numbers that are all in a
row? I remember reading somewhere that, in Britain, most weeks in which the
numbers contained a consecutive pair had no winners. Again, we impose our
own sense of order onto something that doesn't necessarily conform to our
standards.
Maybe our dependence on order overcomes our underlying fascination
with chaos because of efficiency. Think about poetry. Critics always seem
to rave about stream-of-consciousness poets who seem to make no sense to the
average reader. But if normal conversation followed the same pattern,
nothing would ever get done. The only way we can communicate productively
in everyday life is to order our thoughts. It's nice to dream in random non
sequiturs, but when push comes to shove, logic prevails.
Sure, randomness is still important for all the uses mentioned above.
There are lots of people sitting around making a living by trying to come up
with random number generators. Alan Turing, a Brit, developed the basis for
one of the more successful ones based on electron movement. However, there
are those who say that such a random device has a major failing because a
given string couldn't be regenerated upon demand. I can see how repeating a
random sequence by accident would be acceptable, since that sequence should
be just as likely as any other. But if you could ask the generator to
repeat the same sequence whenever you wanted to, it seems that it wouldn't
be very random. In a way, it's like being able to tell a fruit fly which
path to travel.
In any case, I used to wonder if the opposite was true. Can you take
a sequence of values and decide whether they're random? Turns out you can.
And for all my skeptic friends, if you check out an old issue of Nature (20
April 1995), this is exactly how they took patterns of the brightest stars
in the sky to show that pi really is random.
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
"Gates and The Technicolor Monopoly"
by andygee
As a consumer of computer goods (both hardware and software) and a
pre-hoopla resident of the Internet, I follow with extreme interest the
potentially apocalyptic battle between Microsoft and the Justice Department
over the anti-trust implications of Microsoft's bundling of its World Wide
Web browser software into its Windows95 operating system.
This case calls to mind the first written record of a monopoly, the
story of Joseph and the grain trust in the court of the Pharaoh of Egypt.
To the fertile Nile Valley, Joseph brought the sorely-needed know-how he
had used to run his family business in a land of hard luck, hard times, and
hardscrabble desert agriculture. He started as a laborer and wound up with
most of his Egyptian father-in-law's holdings due to an efficient
agricultural policy, a knack for climate prediction and the foresight to
save for "lean times."
But then we see the consequences of monopoly, even of one created for
the altruistic purpose of feeding the hungry. As the seven lean years of
the Egyptian famine wore on, Joseph began to take property mortgages and
bonds of personal servitude from citizens in exchange for grain that they
had already paid into the treasury as "famine insurance premiums." Even
with the purest of motives, it seems, human beings cannot resist the
temptations of monopolies. Eventually the Egyptians retaliated, and
Joseph's descendants were stripped of wealth and power and were themselves
enslaved -- to build grain storage facilities!
The pertinence of this to what the media is calling the "browser
wars" goes back to when Mosaic, the academic forebear of Netscape, committed
a great sin, one which seemed to Internet residents of the time of biblical
proportions. It began trying to charge for copies of its web browser
software that were stored on and downloaded via the Internet. This seemed
to be an egregious violation of a sacred trust in a community that saw
itself as one of shared resources and a gift economy. (I am speaking here of
the true "Internet community," not the so-called "On-line services." The
power of that community can be demonstrated by the examples of each
industrial giant that had to fold up its on-line service plans in face of
its opposition: IBM and Sears' Prodigy sold to the Mexicans like a used bus;
AT&T's Infochange evaporating; AOL, the largest on-line service, forced to
provide Internet-style flat rates; and Compuserve, the grandfather of the
on-line world, swallowed whole by AOL.)
Like the contents of Joseph's grain trust, the original backbone, the
technology, even the World Wide Web itself, were paid for by the citizens'
(that is, government or government-via-academia) money and now we are
enjoying the fruits of our wise investment. On the day that Mosaic/Netscape
began its efforts to collect money from the netizens -- nothing wrong with
that; let them sell all the shrink-wrapped boxes they want! -- along came
Bill Gates to say, why give Netscape $50 when you can browse for free with
me? Nothing wrong with that either.
Why, the question could be, is the Justice Department stepping in at
this point? There have been so many earlier points. Where was the Justice
Department when Microsoft upgraded Windows from merely providing network
device driver support to incorporating a completely functional (and quite
good, I might add) Network Operating System of its own? Where was the
Justice Department when Microsoft obliterated the efforts of, for example,
Peter Tattum to sell, as shareware, his Trumpet Winsock Internet TCP/IP
Connectivity software for Windows? The Justice Department only reacted to
Microsoft's "dumping," "enforced bundling," and "block booking" tactics when
the logo for its browser became plainly visible on every user's screen.
Netscape itself was a beneficiary of this "high visibility syndrome"
when the price of its stock immediately climbed to 8 times its IPO estimated
price on the first day it was issued. But the Justice Department had no
excuse for not setting the tone for what it would eventually consider to be
a reasonable position.
So, even if Microsoft is blameless and without sin, and a champion of
the netizens' right to download free software; even if the other players are
manifestly flawed; even if we were all wise and well versed in the arts of
acquiring, installing, and removing internetworking software; it would still
be our duty to prevent a sole corporation from controlling World Wide Web
browsing software. Thank Bill Gates for his gift, chastise the Justice
Department for its tardiness, even punish Netscape for its information
crime. But don't let Microsoft off the hook, lest we wind up mortgaging our
houses and our bodies to it.
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
"Remembering Halo"
by -- Jamesy
"I never felt like this with anyone before... you only have to smile
and I'm dizzy... You make the world go round a thousand times an
hour... just touch my head and send me spinning..."
When I thought I "fell in love" for the first time, I was fifteen
years old. I was incredibly infatuated with a girl who wasn't incredibly
infatuated with me. I thought I knew her. I thought I knew her well, but I
didn't really know very much of her at all. I didn't have any idea what a
close-knit, long-term relationship can do for two people. I didn't know how
important a person could be in your life. I only knew the exciting,
overpowering feeling infatuation had on me. I only knew how completely
desperate I was to get this person to "love" me.
Needless to say, I wasn't able to make her "love" me.
"I never felt like this with anyone before... you show me colours and
I'm crying.. you hold my eyes in yours and open up the world... I
can't believe all of this..."
During this time in my life, I had no real control of myself. I'd
entirely shut down when I was around her and didn't feel wanted. I'd just
brood and look grumpy, even though I knew that was the absolute last thing
that would win her heart. But that was all I could do, because I was an
emotional hurricane inside.
Eventually, we grew apart and stopped talking. I hear about her
every once in a while from some old friends, but for the most part, she's
out of heart and out of mind. I regret a lot of what I felt and what I
did... I wish I could have just enjoyed the times I was around her, instead
of turning off and shutting myself off, too afraid to be hurt. Maybe
something might have developed between us. Maybe we'd still be friends.
"I want to keep this feeling deep inside of me... I want you always
in my heart... you are everything..."
I had done a pretty good job of packing away all those memories I had
of those times. Whenever she was mentioned, I would remember, but I had a
very detached view of it all. I didn't think about how it felt to see her
and someone else romping around. I didn't remember all the times I just
wanted to grab her and kiss her. I didn't remember all the late nights on
the phone with her. I just remembered her, and the few kosher moments we did
have together.
But I was reminded, once more, of all I felt and did when I found an
mp3 of The Cure song, "Halo," on a random mp3 site. It was a B-side off of
one of their albums that had a limited amount of air play, then sort of just
disappeared. I was never a huge enough fan to own any Cure singles, but I
had recorded this song off of the radio and put it repeating on a 60 minute
tape. And quite a few afternoons in the year of 1993, I would sit in my
room, looking up at the ceiling, listening to this song. It embodied every
way I felt about that girl. How completely innocent I was, thinking love
was just this absolute perfection without any tarnishes or cracks.
"I never felt like this with anyone before... you fill my head full
of rainbows... and all the rainbows end is every step you take...
just to be with you forever..."
It was a completely sappy song, and I was a completely sappy person
then. It would take another few years of being hurt over and over again,
and neglecting the ones who actually cared about me, until I realized what
relationships are about for me. When I realized this, I was finally able to
settle down and have something meaningful with Rachel.
The last six months with Rachel have been wonderful. I never thought
I could feel as happy with a relationship as I did. No matter what happened
in our lives, I was entirely confident we'd have each other. No one could
take that away from us.
No one, of course, except ourselves.
I don't know if I've gone wrong somewhere. Whether I haven't been as
caring as I've needed to be. Whether I haven't paid enough attention to her
and made her feel special. I thought I was doing a lot better. I thought I
was doing what I was supposed to be doing.
I don't know what I'm supposed to do anymore.
She is very infatuated with another guy. She loves me, she needs me,
she cares about me, but she doesn't feel that spark that you feel when
you're infatuated with someone. Infatuation doesn't make any sense; you
can't put tangible reason or logic onto it. It just is. And she "is" with
someone else right now.
And I'm more scared than I've been in a long, long time. Because,
now, I love Rachel. I've been saying it for 3 years, but now I know what
I've been saying. I know that Rachel is what I want. But I have no idea
what it will take to get her to realize that I'm here.
It's like it's 1993 all over again. Only this time, I'm not
infatuated. I know who I'm dealing with. But I thought I knew who I was
dealing with before, too. And I thought I was in love. And I thought this
person was going to be the person for me, that I wanted to spend the rest of
my life with.
The situation might be different, but it's 1993 all over again. And
I still don't have any clue on what to do. Do I try as hard as I can to
show her how much I care? Do I back off, and give her space? I can't give
her space; she comes to me as her best friend. And I can't show her how
much I really care, because she won't really understand right now; her
feelings are elsewhere. I can't win. I can't win.
I watch people, and I talk them through their problems, and I've
noticed that a lot of people have very obvious cycles. I really hope that
this isn't mine, or I'm going to be a very miserable person all of my life.
She had a matinee show today, and she's been gone since one. And
it's now six-thirty, so that means she went out with the cast somewhere.
And every time she goes out with the cast, I wonder if she's one day closer
to our total emotional separation. And she'll be home soon, and probably
nothing will have happened, and she'll be very upset and confused and mad
that she feels this way. But I'm so afraid. Just so, so afraid. And I
think about how I used to convince myself that I was the happiest person in
the world, how being in love is such a treasure, and that it's something I'd
never compromise. And, as much pain as it brings me, I still feel that way.
But that doesn't stop it from hurting.
"I want to keep this feeling deep inside of me... I want you always
in my heart... you are everything..."
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
- FICTION -
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
"Personal Choice"
by -- Killarney
He told me last week that we couldn't be happy until we knew. Last
month he told me that we couldn't be happy until we knew, but that was a
different thing. I told him three days ago that I knew that when we knew,
we'd find something else to make us tentative and scared and on a fucking
precipice.
My whole life in these past couple of years has been on the edge of
knowing. And I have come to the conclusion that all knowledge can break you.
And lately, I've been seeking that knowledge alone. Everything from
the physical things to the meta of the same. Today, I walk past the
abortion clinic a block from my house to the drugstore a block further. A
woman in a lazy straw hat pushes at me a large poster board bearing a
picture of a fetus and some words on it. The words are blurry. I'm not
crying, but something shades my sight. It's this bothersome determination,
my quest for this knowledge. He is at work. I am alone.
I throw my purchase on the counter, and the clerk makes a low "Oh"ing
sound. I've dreaded this from her, but am surprised that she does it.
Somewhere I thought that Payless clerks had no souls. They were like those
animals that are in your dreams, you know the ones. They're in Far Side
comics a lot, wolves and monsters with neither pupil nor iris. Just white.
Cloudy white. And you could buy three boxes of condoms, a can of
whipped cream and a 10 foot tarp and they wouldn't flinch, they'd just ask
for your money and make your change with stalwart unshaking hands. And so I
expected this 50-some year old woman with the Brooklyn accent and the French
Manicure to be at least slightly neutral, if not sensitive. Somewhere I'd
ranked her in confidence, like a psychologist or a clinic doctor. I'd put
that trust in her. So yes. I am surprised.
I walk past the abortion clinic again. I don't want to look at the
woman and weigh my chances of being hit by a car for not looking in her
direction to check for one. I decide to risk it, and as I walk across the
street, I can feel her looking at me. She's decided that her message is
hitting home although I hadn't looked. She thinks about my past. She
steals my reminiscence. She sees me in high school, and knows that my
boyfriend pressured me then to rid my body of its product. She laments my
generation.
I never had a boyfriend in high school.
I'm one of those women that is mortified when she must buy feminine
products at the store. I usually walk around the store, once or twice,
figuring that there's something else I can buy to pad the bill, put
something else on the printed receipt. I don't feel that now, partly
because I'll wager that fewer women love their participation in
menstruation than those that love their participation in the population.
And when it came to this part of my body, my mother taught me well. Taught
me that if at no other time, that things having to do with that part of me
should be kept a secret, should make me nervous and quiet and subdued.
So he told me we'd be happy when we knew. He's always telling me
that. He told me that we'd be happy when we knew whether we'd been accepted
for our apartment. Who the fuck is he kidding? If we found out we
couldn't, he would not have been happy. There's no doubt about that. And
there's no doubt he'd be a little askew if I found out differently than we
hoped on this ordeal.
Somewhere, I hate that. But somewhere, it's endearing.
These things are ridiculous. I mean, truly and all of a sudden
mortifyingly ridiculous. Even if I am alone. Perhaps they're more
mortifying because I am humiliated that I have to do this. My black kitten
cocks his head at me curiously and I blush, I fucking blush, I blush my
mother's blush and shut the bathroom door.
Five minutes later I'm calling him to tell him he can be happy, truly
happy. Not the kind of happy that can come with the knowledge, but the kind
that comes with the answer he wants to hear.
I hang up the phone. I curl up into a fetal position on the couch,
cry for twenty minutes, and get up to throw the urine-soaked stick away.
One line. I smile wearily at the little printed package insertion that
tells me I can call registered nurses weekdays from eight a.m. until
eight-thirty in the evening.
It's Saturday.
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
"Nights Like This"
by -- DisordeR
I remember nights like this, sometimes in great detail. Sitting
on the hood of my car reading a novel under a streetlight. Letting myself
become part of the book, being one of the characters. Cars would pass
and the pale outline of faces in the passenger side would be clear to
me for a passing second. Looks of curiosity passing by one after
another as a parade only I see. Another page and another minute pass by,
now a part of me to some degree. Gentle breeze on a cool night almost
flips the page for me. A newfound sense of purity in a world waiting
to rush by.
I remember nights before those, spent with the only other person
in the world I cared about. At night sitting on top of the building
we lived in. Wrapped up in a blanket to shelter ourselves from the
freezing wind. We looked out across the sea of the town population,
marvelling at the shimmering lights from thirty floors up. Everything
was so tranquil below us, while our time spent above was everything.
Sitting behind her, wrapped around as if one, never wanting the night
to end.
I remember nights farther back, sitting in a car with the windows
cracked, waiting in anticipation. My partner and I waiting hours at a
time, hoping things would go exactly as planned. Stepping out of the car and
having the crisp breeze crash against our faces, the best way to wake
us up and focus on the business at hand. Minutes after that, enjoying the
rewards of a weeks worth of planning and the satisfaction of a thorough
job being done. Not for the money, not for loot, only for the thrill of
beating some system of some building out there.
I remember other nights spent entirely in front of a computer
screen. Chatting with friends in one window, reading mail in another.
The exihlaration of invading another computer system driving you on
to find new machine, new networks, new worlds. Not giving a rat's ass
about whose privacy you are invading or what law you might be breaking.
Going from corporation to college to government server in the span
of an hour.
On nights like this a variety of emotions course through me,
an unknown method of determination the jury of my actions. Relying on
the nature of chaos to guide my actions, free will my boundry, and a
wrecklessness that can only lead to new adventure. What used to be
random feelings have turned into a requirement of my life. I need
that feeling every so often as it reminds me of who I am, and what I
can be.
I remember the nights of pure pain and confusion. The feeling
of my heart being ripped out and throw at me. Being rejected for the
supposed last time, remembering the times before it. The callous
attitude or facial scorn that shows she was just feeling me out, never
giving me a real chance. Playing with my emotions as if they meant
nothing to them or anyone else, me included.
I remember the nights spent in solitude, wondering where
my girlfriend was and trying to convince myself that she was only out
with friends, even though I knew otherwise. Every friend of mine had
come to me and spilled the truth, sparing me no detail. It was for
my own good despite the pain the short term. I cursed them on those
nights, only to face realization for days following.
Nights like this remind me of the six inch metal blade
getting thrust between my ribs. A million thoughts flashing in my
mind as the pain seared through me. Warm blood flowed freely down
my stomach and soaked into the jeans. Unforgettable is an understatement
for nights like that. Yet I manage to forget it almost every week,
sometimes even for months. Until nights like this come back around.
On nights like this, I am simply torn. One half of my life is a
twisted set of bad events that continue to plague me. The other half
of my life could be used to draft up plans for heaven. In between
are the nights like this.
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
"Sometimes I Wonder"
by -- Razorblades & Bandaids
The night is almost over, and I'm still here, and breathing. I can't
seem to help or stop that. I always wonder if you can make yourself die
just by wishing for it enough. If you can stop your breath from escaping
your lips by sheer will power. I wonder, too, if it's possible to make
someone fall in love with you. I think it might be. Or maybe to convince
them that they do love you, only to have them realize later that they really
don't.
I feel like I don't know anything anymore. I wonder if I ever did.
Everything is warped and twisted in my mind. I do things to subtly let
someone know, anyone, that I'm not okay. Because I'm really not. And that
is why I have this need to make people leave me, to make them feel repelled
by me, to make them go away from me. If I can't stand to be in my own skin,
how can they stand to touch it?
This guy at work, Nathan, touches me sometimes. Not in any
"forbidden" places, only my ankles, shoulders and sometimes my arms. I like
that, but I don't like him. Not in that way. I don't honestly like anyone
in that way. I just like the comfort of someone being there, I guess.
He's my boyfriend. Sometimes. Only when I feel like having one.
Which isn't very often. He asked me a week ago. I said yes for a reason I
couldn't remember 10 minutes later. I think because it was easier than
saying no.
I ignore him most of the time, won't even look at him. He bothers
me, annoys me, makes me feel stupid. All the things I hate. He's always
staring at me. I cannot stand anyone looking at me for any long period of
time. I can't fathom why they would want to.
Last Saturday while waiting in the bus stop, I passed the time by
writing song lyrics on the mist on the windows. He was there with me,
waiting, watching me.
"Every time I think of you, I feel so dead inside."
"Suicide is the most sincere form of self-criticism."
I did the second one to shock him. To show him I'm not okay, and to
make him go away. He didn't. Not yet, but he will soon. I can make him.
I've always thought I had this ability to make people hate me and not want
to be around me. And I do. Everyone does. Just as you can manipulate
someone into telling you they love you, you can get them to tell you they
hate you.
On Monday, I worked with Keith, who is my new idol. Nathan came over
to help us, for some reason. That bothered me a lot, and I ignored him for
most of the night. It made me feel like he thought I couldn't do my job. I
have this independence that kicks in at random times.
I was in a bad mood, for the above reason. I took my break at 6:30
and bought a NY Post on the way to the cafeteria. I saw John Starks on the
back cover, and my face broke in an instant, stupid grin (because I'm
obsessed with him). All through my break, I just kept staring at him,
oblivious to everyone, including Nathan who sat across the table from me.
(In my girlfriend-ly duties, I sit with him on my breaks. I sit there and
read whatever I brought with me, ignoring him, but sitting with him,
nonetheless.)
So Keith is my new idol, and as I said, we worked together Monday.
It was slow, so I was standing by the machine, twirling a steak knife into
my arm. Not cutting, just leaving a mark. He came over and gave me a weird
look. Then he showed me marks on his arm where he tried to kill himself.
He had the guts to try. I don't. He is my idol.
I also had this conversation worked out in my head if anyone should
ask me what I was doing.
"What are you doing?" they would say.
"Practicing," I would reply in a dead voice.
It didn't work that way. One of the waitresses asked me, and I just
shrugged and said I was bored.
Some days I hate my words. On rare days, I hate everyone else's
words, too. Which isn't good because I sometimes pretend to be a writer.
In The Bell Jar, another new obsession, Esther says she can't sleep,
write, or read anymore.
I can't sleep. Or I choose not to.
I can't write, at least not very good.
I can read, but it makes me sad because I realize that I can't, and
never will write as good as whoever's words I'm reading can.
But I still write. In hopes of saying something beautiful, and
moving. But sometimes I wonder if it'll ever happen.
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
"Gone Missing"
by -- Basehead
There came a time in the young boy's life when he needed more than
the whispering wind in the trees, and the company of his imaginary friends.
He needed something to be immersed in, something that would swallow him
whole.
The times he sat among the autumn leaves and the branches and cradled
the thought of this object were his pride and joy. The rain gods heard the
conversations he had with himself, and were displeased. They rained down on
his private moments and sent him fleeing into the house for shelter.
Everything the boy owned refused to move of its own free will. He
cursed his bike and his toys and his mattress, but they heard nothing.
Three large dolls that sat upright in three chairs around a small table in
the corner stared blankly, their button eyes showing no signs of life. When
he poked about their eyes and neck, shouting, they just slouched and sagged
lower and lower in their seats, and their expressions of sardonic amusement
remained fixed.
At night the clouds settled into thick white pillows on which sat
stale air and the cries of beasts too numerous and frightful to calm the
boy's racing mind. He sometimes imagined one of the great black horned cats
with its red eyes would hop on to his windowsill and pad across the floor to
where he lay in bed, only to vanish when it might have been upon him
instead. He left the windows wide open each night, and when he awoke, he
tasted the stale air in his lungs and prayed night had passed.
When snow came, it brought no joy, only a chill so great that the boy
needed to bundle up in bed to avoid freezing to death. He knew the
winterbirds would come soon, and he thought how he might sit upon the place
where the autumn leaves once were, his breath puffing clouds of condensation
in the air, and wait for one to land on his finger. Then he would capture
it in a tin he'd made for his new friend, holes poked in the lid, and tell
it to sing for him when he became restless.
No winterbirds came. At least, none landed on his finger and so he
walked among the hills blanketed in white, his small footsteps getting lost
in the drifts, until he could barely see the chimney of his house. There he
lay on his back, making snow angels, and wishing one would come to claim
him.
Much to the boy's delight, the days became longer (slowly, but
surely) and the snow turned to rain, and he could no longer hear the
winterbirds. Sitting in the stone doorway on the porch, he enjoyed the
bright sky, and when dusk settled he saw fleeting lines of dissipating late
shoot across the brightness like comets, and in his mind's eye he imagined a
great many witches on their magic sticks, sprinkling the night down on him
little by little, and he was comforted in his coming to believe that someone
else was aware of his existence.
The sun baked the ground now and the frozen lakes thawed. The boy
would crawl out onto the pond on all fours and try to find a weak spot, all
the while imagining the great icy underworld he might find beneath, filled
with sights and beings and happenings that would amaze and astonish him.
There would be the first telling crack, then they came faster and faster,
and suddenly that great world beyond was not what he'd expected and he
wished himself onto the shore. Somehow he would wake up shivering and damp
and clammy in his bed, and there would be a fire going. When he became
hungry he might have called out but he knew it wouldn't matter.
More than once the boy made attempts to conquer the highest trees he
could find. There would be many other houses and boys like himself, he
thought, if he could only make it to the top of the highest tree and look
around. No matter how high he climbed, there seemed to be one more branch
above him on which to step, and he became too tired to climb any higher.
Wearily, he descended and he thought he could see woodland creatures racing
across the ground below the tree and he stepped down and down further as
fast as he could in hopes that he might follow one to its home or where it
fed, and live as it lived, for he was tired of living his own life. There
would be nothing to follow when he hurdled the last branch and stood on the
soft mud at the base of the trees.
When the nights grew to greater proportions, both in darkness and in
length, and the foliage about him turned all the colors of the rainbow, he
wondered if he might again challenge the rain gods to take away the only
thing that brought him satisfaction. He still longed for that feeling of
total immersion, however damaged his dreams had become over the past year.
It was perhaps that day or a day very near to it that the boy felt
older than his years. He would not find happiness in the places he was
searching, and so he set off on foot in a straight line toward the sinking
sun, and he left his world behind.
The papers would speak of tragedy, but the young man knew better.
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
"Growing Up Dead"
by -- Zilla
I recall 1980 with a kind of pre adolescent "the monster under the
bed" kind of queasiness. We learned in school to get under the desk if the
bomb was dropped, if the Evil Empire descended, and decided to destroy our
run down elementary that was filled with assembly line workers kids. I would
pray to God at night that he wouldn't let me die, lying there in my cot,
with my Superman poster inches from my head, that the Russians wouldn't
launch a bomb and destroy my family while we slept. My mortality stared me
in the face but I couldn't find a name for it, right away.
Then, my father died. I had made him a tie out of paper for fathers
day, just before school got out. He never wore a tie, or that tie, except
to be buried in. There was a stillness in my house. Late at night, I'd
get up and wander, hearing my mother toss and turn in her nightmares, in her
lunacy, and I would check on my tiny brother and sister to confirm that they
still breathed. I guarded their slumber, as I guarded their waking hours,
as though the very world depended on their survival.
My father was 20 years older then my mother, and the baby of his
family. I wound my way through the eighties watching the aunts and uncles,
who were more like grandparents to me, die off. Funerals became a guilt
march for the living. Open casket funerals were a living nightmare.
I spent the summer following my father's death in my cowboy boots.
Each morning I would get up, eat breakfast, and get on my bike. My bike was
everything to me, a pink Huffy with a butterfly seat. It took me away from
the pain, it took me away from the overwhelming responsibilities that were
hung on my eight year old frame without my permission. I fell off that
fucking bike at least a hundred times that summer, and my knees still bear
the scars. Now it feels like my own initiation into adulthood and pain. I
was daring God to kill me as he had killed my father as I sped down the
hills surrounding my house with my feet on the handle bars, tasting for a
moment (till I crashed) no fear, knowing only exhiliration, knowing death
and life.
)- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -(
"The 4:30 AM Onslaught"
by -- Jook
1.
Sitting at my computer with my fingers hanging over the keys of the
keyboard, waiting for an inspiration on the next line to write or the next
word to change, thoughts from the incident (I'm not real sure what to call
it) hung over my head like the eternal noose waiting for its next suicide
victim. I cannot explain to myself how strange it was last night when
there in my uncomfortable squeaky wooden chair I closed my eyes and what I
had just written overcame me. I honestly don't remember anything like this
happening since I was young, maybe eight or nine. I remember playing with
my friends in the afternoon after school was out, kickball or four square.
I would hear music in the back of my head and I would just stop playing with
my friends and walk away. I always used to ask what would pull me away from
my friends and why I would just walk away. I was eight, I had no real
understanding of anything. The world knew more of me than I knew of it.
I didn't sleep very well last night after I had closed my eyes. My
eyes were shut, but the night continued on around me, dancing in circles
around my head, telling me that it was insulted that I dare tried to sleep
on a night like this after what had just overcome me. Laying in my bed, my
body tired from the evening, Anna called. Anna said it freaked her out when
she called me because "I was totally out of it at 4:23 AM." She also told
me I kept saying random things like "WHY ARE YOU ANGRY AT ME? DID YOU ENJOY
YOUR DAD TODAY. I MISS YOU. I WISH I COULD BE THERE." I didn't say a word
about what had happened earlier that evening. It was 4:23 am, after all.
Anna isn't around much, though. Her hours at Aldi's have increased
from like 40 to 55 hours a week now that they've opened the store up until
10:30 during the week, 11:30 on the weekends. The last time we went out,
well, it was interesting. We were walking down the shoreline of Lake
Michigan when we came to the water fountain where we had kissed for the
first time a year ago. We stopped to get a sip of water, and after she had
taken a sip, I leaned over to give her a peck on the cheek we when all of
the sudden she just pushed me away in disgust.
"Anna?" I said to her, the light of the moon catching her nose
piercing as the sparkle pierced my heart.
"Atlas, I just don't feel like kissing right now," she said to me.
Looking at Anna, I realized she was wearing the same insanely yellow shirt
she was wearing when we first bumped into each other. Anna has been around
in my life for about a year and a half now. We met when I was picking up a
2 liter of Dr. Pepper up at the Printer's Row Market grocery store, on sale
for 89 cents. She was buying ingredients for turkey tacos: ground turkey,
lettuce, tomatoes, cheese, taco sauce, & light sour cream. I was standing
in the corner of the store, talking to this guy when I caught her butterfly
beauty from the corner of my eye. She dropped the ground turkey, lettuce,
tomatoes, cheese, taco sauce, and light sour cream. I dropped my 2 liter of
Dr. Pepper.
"Hi, I'm..."
"I'm Anna," she obstructed. "You're real cute. I'm Anna. You wanna
eat turkey tacos with me? I see you have Dr. Pepper. I like Dr. Pepper.
Wanna eat turkey tacos and drink Dr. Pepper with me tonight? I'm Anna. Did
I say that? I forget what I say a lot. I'm Anna!"
"Yeah, I know you're Anna. But that's okay. And I'd love turkey
tacos. Ground beef is for fuckin' animals."
"It's nice to hear that someone else thinks so, too. If you ate
ground beef," she said, "I'd have to eat you." Her curly, strawberry red
hair bounced up and down like a room full of tripped up ravers as she ran
her fingers through the back of it. As words fell out of her mouth directly
into my heart, the colors around me washed away. She wore that insanely
bright yellow shirt that I loved because it was so cute with her strawberry
red hair, but I hated it at the same time because I kept wondering if she
liked to eat bananas. Her body had a nice, full feel to it. Something you
could hug and cuddle with and not worry about smothering. Her cargo pants
hung off her hips and her maroon boots made me want to kiss her feet. I'm
also pretty sure she wasn't wearing a bra, but I don't really know. It was
our first date. Well, would become our first date.
"I wouldn't want you to eat me," I said. "Then we couldn't share the
Dr. Pepper."
"Who's stopping me from drinking your Dr. Pepper after I ate your
cannibalistic ass."
"Oh, yeah. You're probably right."
"Hell, yeah."
"I don't eat meat, though."
"Oh, yeah. I guess I don't have to eat you then. I'm Anna, by the
way."
"I know, I'm Atlas."
She picked up her taco ingredients and I picked up my 2 liter of Dr.
Pepper.
After pausing for a moment, she turned to me with this quizzical look
and said to me, "Atlas, this light sour cream expired three months ago."
It was love that night in the grocery store. And even thought that
grocery store was only a mile away, the love that we felt that night was a
million more. We sat by the shore of Lake Michigan as we stared at the
docked up boats in the rough, souless waters of the windy night. A runner
passed by us. A couple walked by, hand and hand, the woman resting her head
on his shoulder as she felt his hand solidly hold hers. An hour or so had
passed since I had tried to kiss her by the fountain. Neither of us spoke
during that hour. We just sat and listened to the world pass by us as we
wished it would stop so things could be the same as they once were. Well,
at least I was thinking that. Maybe she was thinking about how she wanted
the world to speed up so she could be through with this part. "So you don't
feel like kissing?" I asked.
"No," she said.
2.
That was like last Tuesday. It's Friday now. Poetry radio is on
now. Some beatnik wannabe is reading from Howl -- and other Poems, by
Ginsberg on the local NPR station. "...who created great suicidal dramas on
the apartment cliff banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight
of the moon..." The poetry ended and a station ID played, "You're listening
to Chicago NPR, 89.1 WGLR." A muted trumpet played some light jazz, hitting
a high note a little off key. The music played, filling my room, filling my
head.
Looking at my monitor in front of me, the cursor blinked again and
again and again. The fucking cursor kept blinking. WHY WON'T THE CURSER
STOP BLINKING. Finally, an inspiration. The click-clacking of the
keyboard began to fill the room, the delete key sticking for a moment every
time I misspelled a word. I began to fade out. I closed my eyes to look
for a better view. Blue, blue, blue, red, red, a little bit of orange,
there's a bit of yellow to the right. There's some pink in the upper right
hand corner of my eye. It looks like a scene from a Warhol painting that a
tank, World War II style, with paint thinner on the wheels, drove over. I
can't see a whole lot. The words began to melt into images. Images I could
see. Images I could escape to, moments to escape from.
Taking a swig of milk to aide the digestive process of the molasses
and peanut butter sandwich she was eating on her break, Fedide looked around
the diner.
320 pound John (owner of the Melrose Park Diner) 18 well set tables
18 bottles of ketchup 18 pepper shakers 17 salt shakers (one was stolen last
week) 12 packages of napkins up on the shelf 9 broken glasses sitting on the
far table waiting to be glued back together 9 bottles of mustard (not very
many people like mustard in Melrose Park) 3 waitresses 2 cooks 1 portrait of
Jesus hanging above the register 1 autographed picture of Bob Dole, signed
on his tour across the USA in '96 and 1 tattered copy of the big city
newspaper, _The Chicago Tribune_, to boot.
"Nothing changes around here," she said while reaching down for her
glass of milk. A strand of hair fell in front of her eye as she put her
glass down on the table. She waved her hand in her face as she did this
cute little thing, scrunching her nose, shaking her head back and forth.
Fedide sunk into her cushioned seat that had been warn down through
time and the many family visits by the locals of Melrose Park. Her
cushioned seat was colored the color of lipstick this girl I used to know
with a questionable reputation wore. Everyone knows the color. It's like
the color of your face when you fall in love for the first time. Yeah, that
red. A cigarette hung from her mouth, with just the very end hanging off
the bottom of her lip, like a rope about to snap. Her head hung so low it
was about to fall off. She's what you'd call the attractive type. Nothing
like that girl with the red lipstick, she was ugly. This girl -- she was
pretty.
Images began to fade back into the words on the screen. Nothing good
last forever, right? The reds, oranges, and the other multitude of colors
quickly fell into the oblivion of wasted dreams, lost hopes, and forgotten
aspirations. Once again, I sat at my desk, waiting.
I look at my scratched up Swatch watch. 4:05 am it read. The
scratches on the face of the watch are beginning to bother me. The leather
band on it bothers me, too. It makes my wrist smell real, real bad, like
urine or something. Only problem is that Swatch watches have these 2 extra
pin holes so not any normal watch band will go on a Swatch watch. The Swiss
are weird like that. I got it as a Christmas gift 2 years ago. I want it
to look nice, you know?
Bela should be calling sometime soon. He knows I'm up about four. I
wondered out of my bedroom for what seemed like the first time in about
eight years. I stepped over the pile of printouts that I had been editing
for my piece that was supposed to be in next months Word but never got
published because I just started to sleep too much. "Atlas, your story was
due yesterday." Fuck, I told them. Next month, I'll get it done by next
month. The white walls of the kitchen actually looked nice today after the
decent cleaning and wipe down from a couple of days ago. Other than the
pile of papers, the place looked halfway decent these days. For Anna?
Maybe -- maybe not - it was clean, though, and that's all that was
important. I seemed to be inspired more when it is clean around here.
While pouring a glass of OJ, the phone rang. Holding it between my ear and
my shoulder, I continued to pour my OJ.
"Hey. This is Atlas Guerrero," I said.
"Atlas, my BUD. What's up? I'm coming over."
"No, no. You can't do that, Bela. I'm writing. And thinking.
Writing and thinking. Writing and thinking."
"Oh. Uh. Okay. What do you mean you're 'thinking'?"
"Uh, nothing. It's too weird to explain, especially over the phone.
It's just one of those things." My shorts began to fall down my legs as I
walked over to the fridge to put away the OJ. This always happens when I
don't wear a belt. They're too damn big in the first place, but they last
longer that way. "Bela, I need to get a belt, can you hold a second?"
"Just let me come over."
"No, no, no. I told you no. Something funny happened yesterday,
though. I was walking down the street to White Hen. I was real, real hungry
and Anna hadn't brought back any groceries from work, so I tore apart the
entire apartment searching for twelve cents so I could by the Ramen that was
on sale. I found four cents behind the toilet, three in the toaster, and a
nickel underneath my computer. I grabbed my green hooded jacket, my Cubs
hat, the twelve cents, and took off.
As I walked down the Chicago streets, I hop-scotched over puddles of
water that had accumulated over the last couple of days rain. I thought
about Anna. So she didn't want to kiss me. Big deal. Every one feels like
that sometimes, right? Maybe. I looked ahead and finally saw the apartment
complex that the Pantry was connected to.
Across the street from White Hen Pantry is a small park where 9-5'ers
go to walk their dog, where old men play chess at stone chess tables and
benches while getting shit on by birds, where students from the local art
school take pictures of random objects to fulfill their latest projects, and
where film students film their subjects in aluminum foil. It's quite the
park.
I opened the front door to the apartment, to the right was the
Pantry. Large white signs with brown letters hung in the windows
advertising the current sales.
"White Hen Pantry - Corned Ham - $4.59 each - good until 4/4/98."
"White Hen Pantry - Ramen Noodles - $.12 per package - good until
4/4/98."
"White Hen Pantry - Royal Crown Cola - 2 Liter - $.05 each - sale
never ends."
"Good lord," I said, "twelve cents is such an amazing price for Ramen
in the city." I quickly walked in, brushing past the corned ham and RC Cola
and grabbed my Ramen. With a sense of attitude, and who wouldn't have
attitude if they found a deal like this, I walked up to the cashier.
"That all you want?" the stocky, made for TV clerk asked me, starring
directly not at me, but the TV to the right.
"Yea, all I need is my Ramen anyway."
"Alright. Have a nice day." She took my money and bagged the single
helping of Ramen and put it in a plastic, reusable bag.
"Atlas, what's wrong with buying Ramen?" Bela asked me.
"That's not the bad part, Bela. When I got home, I looked at the
Ramen, I smelled the Ramen. And I tell you what, it was bad Ramen."
"Atlas, there's no such thing as bad Ramen."
"Yes, Bela, there is. This was bad Ramen. It smelled like bad
Ramen, it looked like bad Ramen, and I'm damn sure if I tasted it, it would
have been bad Ramen. So, I walked back to White Hen Pantry and proceeded to
tell the woman at the counter she sold me bad Ramen."
"What'd she say?"
"That Ramen can't go bad."
"That's what I said, too."
"Yeah, well, I didn't like the way she said it, so I kicked the Slush
Puppie machine, spilling Slush Puppie syrup all over the floor."
"That's not so bad, Atlas."
"Well, the Slush Puppie machine kept spilling out more and more
syrup. It was so magical. They offer every possible Slurpee flavor
there -- Grape, Orange, Cherry, Pena Colada, Bubble Gum, White Cherry, etc,
etc, etc. So, the syrup just kept coming and coming and a flood of biblical
proportions was swallowing up the White Hen Pantry.
"Mmmm. Atlas. That's not good."
"The police let me go. Said I was having a fit and all I had to do
was pay for a new Slurpee dispenser."
"I'll agree with them on that one. I don't think you handle tough
situations very well, Atlas."
"Bela, I did it 'cause I was angry that they gave me bad Ramen.
There's nothing wrong with that."
"I suppose not. Not like my fit last week, though. I went last
Monday for 2 1/2 hours. No one said anything. Got a few stares when I was
talking about the Cubs game last week. They lost you know. To the Marlins.
Bonilla played real bad, he's too fat I think. Tuesday I went back in for
another 3 hours. I was talking about the history of the Cubs and why they
aren't ever going to win ever again because the death of Harry Carry is the
end of the slow, painful death the baseball in America has been going
through, which began with the earthquake during the Oakland/San Francisco
World Series in '89. I kept yelling 'I'm fat! I'm fat!' at random times,
too. After awhile they got sick of me, threw packets of oyster crackers at
me, and threw me out."
"Well, at least you didn't cause a flood of biblical proportions."
"Yeah, that's true. You don't really know how to handle situations
very well."
"Sure I do."
"But you kicked over a fucking Slurp..."
"Slush Puppie."
"Fine, you kicked over a fucking Slush Puppie machine and destroyed
an entire mini-mart. Don't you think that's an inappropriate way to handle a
problem?"
"They gave me bad Ramen, though."
"I don't care if they gave you bad Ramen, Atlas, you just shouldn't
do that sort of stuff."
"Whatever! I'm just fine, Bela. Just fine!"
I hung up the phone and leaned back against the refrigerator thinking
about what happened with Anna. Anna could have kissed me that day by the
Lake. It wouldn't have killed her to at least comfort me. I closed my eyes
again and look for the next image to come to my head. I walked back to my
room. The tapping of the keys begin again and the images began to dance
around me again.
Fedide began to sing. Her voice was like a girl who still had faith
in the world. Clear, crisp, beautiful. "Night, hello/ Won't you take me
where you think I oughta go/ And tell me what you think I need to know/
Won't you wrap me up like a baby and carry me out to the sea/ And make me
who you think I oughta be..." Her voice filled the diner, turning the
heads of the construction workers sitting at the table across the way. She
dressed casually, but classy. Black tank top. She wore a skirt with
various pieces of fabrics sown together to make for a rainbow of a skirt.
Brown hair. Her face is more round than the "typical" beautiful woman.
Her skin a little darker. Her hair pulled back as tight as possibly,
except for that single strand that was hanging in front of her eye.
Various pieces of jewelry decorated her body, highlighting her beauty even
more. A single piece of petosky stone carved into the shape of a cross
hung from her neck and rings on each finger of her right hand, none on her
left.
Men come to the diner just to watch her work, she was that beautiful.
This boy Fedide went to high school with would spend evenings at the diner,
sitting, drinking iced tea, watching Fedide move, slowly and gracefully, as
she picked up dirty dishes from her tables, and swept up random pieces of
food from the dirty, dirty floor, and he would watch her slowly breathe as
she tried to keep herself going after working ten hours that day with four
more to go. He would watch her as she picked up her tips. He would watch
her wipe the sweat off her forehead, her cheeks, and sit for a second to
contemplate just what in the world she is doing in a dive like this. He
would watch her, over and over again, because she was who she was and she
was perfect.
"George," Fedide yelled across the diner to her co-worker. "Get me a
turkey sandwich. Mayo. Sprouts. Cheddar cheese. Lettuce. The other
sandwich didn't fill me up."
"Anything else?"
"Nah, that's it."
Mmm. There's some blue again. More blue. More blue. More blue. A
dab of green. Red, red, red. The colors are blending. Blue to green green
to black black to black black to red. My eyes close. My eyes open. The
keys aren't taping anymore. The cursor blinks. The cursor continues to
blink. Everything isn't alright. Everything isn't okay.
3.
Anna, Bela and I sat in the Harrison Red Line EL. To the left of me
was Anna, to the right, Bela, who was chewing on his thumb and a sore that
had been bugging him for days. He continued to bite at it until a drop of
blood appeared. The single drop seemed to hang from his thumb, as if it was
frozen. As the next second went by, though, the single drop of blood fell
in slow motion, hitting the floor of the CTA stop, splattering all over the
ground.
The train heading south was coming. CLICK CLACK CLICK CLACK, was
heard. Sparks hit the cement. The train came to a stop and like a sun's
rays pouring into a fresh room in the early morning, people poured out of
the EL into the CTA station. Three of us got onto the train which was about
half full. We headed to the back of the train, sitting down in a three
seater against the back wall. The conductor's compartment was behind us. I
rested my head against the filthy wall of the El, closing my eyes.
Bela looked at Anna. "Did Atlas tell you about the Ramen and Slurpee
incident at the White Hen Pantry? Did he tell you about the mess he made?"
"Bela, shut the fuck up. They have Slush Puppies at White Hen Pantry
not Slurpees," I replied.
"Tell me about the Ramen and Slush Puppie story," Anna asked me.
"It's not a very good story," I tell her, "You'd be bored." I wanted
her to care, and she probably honestly does.
"Atlas," Bela started, "that rainbow image with the Slurpee
machine -- it was so beautiful -- and how you set up the exposition of you
finding the change for the twelve cent package of Ramen was great!"
"Look, it wasn't my fault that I shut down White Hen Pantry. THEY
GAVE ME BAD RAMEN. If you gave me bad Ramen, you would die too. Die, I
tell you, die!"
"Atlas, god, can't you deal with stuff like this? Just tell me the
story."
"Maybe later." I wanted to tell her now.
"No, just tell me now."
"I don't want to." Why can't I just tell her now?
"Well, if you don't really want to, I guess it's okay."
"No, I do," I said. Anna had turned her head and began talking to
Bela before I could begin my story. Sitting on the other side of the train
was this woman who looked godly familiar. She wore these boots that just
gave me this feeling. Brown boots that had been worn for many winters.
Boots that had enjoyed a wonderful life.
Black, black, black. When my eyes are shut it's all black. Open
them for a second, see the light above me along with the light from my
monitor and I see red, red, red, blue blue blue, green green green. I
imagine I'm at my desk, writing my story. A single light bulb appeared in
the imaginary text.
Laying below a single light bulb that illuminated the entire room,
Fedide was relaxing, drinking from her reused, recycled Evian bottle. Her
breathe was slow, gentle, and peaceful.
Taking a breath from practicing her violin, sitting against the plain
white wall, on the plain wooden floor, she thought about the piece at hand.
Others in the conservatory could be heard practicing down the hall. Her
petosky stone cross hung on her black tank top that had been dampened by the
sweat that had come from the hours of her practicing.
The blinding sun shone through the window on the far left wall that
was in the middle of the typical practice room white walls. Fedide placed
her left hand over her eyes to forget about the sun so she could take a
moment to rest, to forget about the piece she was working on. Her practice
room was actually quite plain. There were the white walls and the window,
but other than that there was her music stand, some folders of hers that
held her music and her walk man. Hearing a knock at the door to the
practice room, Fedide walked over to the door to let me in.
"Hey Fedide!"
"Atlas, god, I've been waiting for you. It's been so long since
we've talked, held each other."
"I know," I told her. "We really need to catch up." Before I knew
it, she grabbed me and held me around my waist, kissing me.
"Just kiss me, you nut."
Off in my own literary world, I was awoke abruptly by Anna's voice.
"Atlas? Were you going to tell me something?"
"Later, Anna. Later," I told her.
The El made its way above ground, as I looked to the left, miles and
miles of the city could be seen all the way to Lake Michigan. This part of
town is what I call the "real" Chicago. 2.1 Million people live in this
city. Places like these, though, are where the real people live. Not the
high rise, condo shit you find down in the loop where I live. The people on
the North side of town are a community. Not a community like everyone knows
everyone like you might find in LeRoy, Illinois or something, but a
community in the sense that the people try and understand each other and
co-exist with each other. That what I love about this part of the city.
Bela removed his glasses and wiped his forehead with the back of his
hand. The heat had gotten bad as of late, and always takes it toll on
Bela; his weight and all. Round, he is, quite round. Not fat, because he's
still quite healthy, because he runs on M-W-F, but he still eats quite a
lot.
"God, I'm hot. I want to get off at Fullerton and go to Clark's to
get a shake." I imagined his cheeks getting bigger as we talked, his eyes
getting smaller and smaller because his face was getting so fat. Man, he
should stop eating so much. His face is so damn fat. Fat, fat, fat. I
could see the ice cream go down his throat, some still on his lips, pouring
down the side of his fat cheeks, falling down onto his American Eagle
shirt.
Anna crossed her legs, putting her right leg over her left. Her
skirt was tucked between her legs, hiking her skirt up a tad, revealing her
pale legs. Her right sandel dangled off her foot, hours of walking around
the grocery store could be seen on the bottom of her worn in, callused foot.
The three of us remained silent the rest of the ride until we reached
the Fullerton stop. Getting out of the train that overlooked one of the
better parts of Chicago. As Anna walked down the steps of the elevated
train stop, she looked up at me. "Atlas, you remember the last time we were
at Clark's? You had the chicken sandwich with mayo, bacon, and lettuce and
I had the roasted chicken salad with the oriental pea pods?"
We walked east up Fullerton, walking past a couple smooching on a
bench. "Yeah, I remember that time. I munched on my chicken sandwich, you
chewed on your roasted chicken. Why don't we do that sort of stuff anymore?
I miss that." I felt a pain in my stomach. "The chicken sandwich was good,
though. Maybe I'll get one."
"Just get pie. You already had dinner, Atlas. I want a piece of
Butterfinger chocolate cake. MMMMMMM. I can taste it in my mouth right
now. The Butterfinger pieces melting on my tongue. The chocolate in
between my teeth."
"Oh, Anna, please stop. You're making me sick. I need to sit down
for a minute." The sun was bright today, maybe that's what was making me
sick. My shorts stuck to the back of my legs as I sat down on the curb of
the street.
"I hate to break this to you, Atlas," Bela started, his cheeks bright
red from the heat that only seemed to be getting worse, "but I don't feel
like Clark's anymore."
Bela. God, what a fat bastard. "Bela, what the hell? You said you
wanted to get a shake at Clark's."
"Yeah, well, I'm getting kind of overweight and I need to start
exercising more. I figured I could do without it."
Anna had been leaning against a phone poll plastered with various
show posters, but after Bela had stopped talking she walked over and gave
him a big hug. "Bela, look, I know it's hard, but I know you can do it."
Bela looked down at the ground and rubbed his belly.
"I'm just so fat. Look at me, Anna. No guy would ever want me."
Bela actually began to cry and with every tear Bela and Anna hugged tighter
and tighter. Sitting there for a few minutes watching the two of them hold
each other, I realized that as the people walked by us they saw me sitting
on the curb and Bela and Anna hugging. This would appear to anyone that
they are the ones in love, the ones who are supposed to be together and I'm
not. I thought of everything, but something can't be figured out after a
point. This situation being one of those times.
Sitting across the street on a bench that I believe was a bus stop
was an old man that looked quite tired. His hair was pretty much gone,
whatever was left was just single strands of hair on his pale white head.
He wore a simple black tee-shirt and a pair of gray shorts. On his feet
were a pair of walking shoes that looked like the had been worn from walking
coast to coast, Mass. To California. His head was down and he appeared to
be taking a nap, probably due to exhaustion from walking around the city all
day. It was hot, you know. The front of his shirt was soaked in his sweat.
Drips of sweat were literally falling off of his face onto the ground, the
cement of his life. I imagined the man sweating so much that he flooded the
city, which would carried him away to a more peaceful place where he could
walk for as long as he wanted without interruption, without a sense of
concern for his health. He could go anywhere he wanted just because he felt
like it.
"Atlas, Atlas?" Anna, still holding onto Bela said. "Bela and I need
to talk, so lets just head back to your place."
"Ride back is on me, guys," Bela said, as he pulled out $4.50 from
his pocket.
Looking across the street to see the old man again, I noticed he was
gone. Walking, obviously. I wonder where to?
4.
I awoke the next day in a haze. It took me a moment to realize where
I was and who I was. The afternoon light hit my face. I shut my eyes to
block the rays. Pictures of Fedide resonated throughout my head. It's 3:15
now. Anna is at work and she will be there for a good while. My left foot
rested under my dark blue sheets against the tall white walls. My right
foot hung off the side of the bed on the carpet, my toes wiggled around
feeling papers that I had read last night. I'm imagined Fedide's face about
an inch away from mine. Her eyes are closed. I can hear her breath. A
single hair is hanging down from her head, tickling my cheek. I scrunched
my nose.
Sometimes I wonder if anything is the way it is supposed to be.
Whatever or whomever created us did so by creating creatures, human beings,
that are so far from perfection that sometimes all one can do is laugh.
Seriously. Look at yourself right now, Anna. Do you know how many
completely inane things you've done in your life? Looking up to the
ceiling, I remember everything about Anna and everything about Fedide.
Where was peace? It was but a story, but a dream, but, oh yeah, it was
peaceful there. I reached over to the side of my bed and grabbed the staple
gun that I had put there the other day when I was putting together my story
to send to my editor. Putting the staple gun to my arm, I pulled the
handle. Moving it up my arm again, I pulled it again. Again. Again.
Again. Moving the staple gun to my other arm, with blood dripping off my
arm, I pulled the trigger again, sending another staple into my arm.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. I didn't have enough courage to do it anywhere
else. I looked at myself. What the hell had I done? Why had I caused
myself so much pain? I covered my face with my hands, tears poured down my
face, mixing with the blood that was on my hands that had dripped from the
wounds on my arms.
I closed my eyes, looking for the colors again. I didn't even need
the monitor in front of me this time, because I knew the story by heart.
Red, red, red. Green, green, green. Blue, blue, blue.
"Hey Fedide," I said to myself. "Let's go for a walk. To the Lake,
maybe?" With my eyes closed, I gently feel back asleep, hoping for more than
just my working imagination.
5.
Sitting in front of the tube, with five minutes to Wapner, I heard
keys outside my door. Anna was home. "Atlas, it's 4:11 in the morning.
What are you doing up? You know you shouldn't be up this late. It's bad,
bad, bad for you." Throwing my hair back with a flip of my neck, closing my
eyes for a second because I truly was tired, I grabbed the bags from Anna's
arms.
"I've been, uh, watching TV."
"What have you been watching?"
I began unpacking the bags Anna carried in, "Uhm, nothing. Just
zoning. Just haven't been able to sleep very well."
"You've been writing too much, haven't you? When you write too much
you get in these moods, like on the train. Why the fuck wouldn't you tell
me the story on the train. I wanted to know, you know."
Anna was being more impatient than usual tonight. Her 122 pound
frame of a body was tired, exhausted -- anyone could tell. Her red, red
hair was sweaty, in knots. Under her eyes were circles the size of the
entire universe, black as my life. Anna walked to the window, looking upon
the city of Chicago. Jack, a homeless man I met the other day was holding
onto the light poll because of a real bad windstorm out there tonight. The
Streetwise vendor yelled "STREETWISE, STREETWISE, GET YOUR STREETWISE, ONLY
A SINGLE DOLLAR!" Anna rested her head on the window, making a sound that
could only be heard at this time of night, a quiet whimper is heard. She
was tired, I knew it, but I wanted to talk to her. I know she hates when I
get all moody, but so does she. Anna is a woman with passion like me. She
flies like me, above the world, above the people you walk by in the streets,
above the so called saints, she loves what she does, she likes this and
doesn't like that but she still loves it, she tries and tries but sometimes
she just can't handle it. Like right now.
"Atlas. These moods swings you get when you write too much. It's
shit. Why do you have to do that to me?"
"Anna."
"No, why Atlas."
"You're doing the same thing to me right now, Anna."
" ."
She looked at me with a stare of hatred.
"I just want to talk, Anna."
She sat down on the couch next to the window and held out her hand.
"Atlas, come here," she called.
"What? Why?," I asked. It was 4:29 A.M. as I sat down on the couch.
As the next second rolled by, at 4:30 am, an onslaught of emotions came
flowing out of me, out of Anna. When the flood had dried she was gone.
Sitting on the couch together, I closed my eyes as I began to fall
asleep. Fedide walked up to me as I began to fall asleep. "Hi, Atlas." In
her hand was the stapler from the other night. She picked my hand up and
held it in hers. You love to write, don't you Atlas?" She shot a staple in
my right hand. "Look where it has gotten you." Another staple to the right
hand. "I don't even fucking exist." A staple to the left. "You sit there
and imagine that I do so things can be okay." Another staple to the left
hand. "But I don't, Atlas." A staple to the right. Blood. "You're alone,
Atlas." A staple to the heart.
s$
$ $s .d""b.
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