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Living in such a state taTestaTesTaTe etats a hcus ni gniviL
of mind in which time sTATEsTAtEsTaTeStA emit hcihw ni dnim of
does not pass, space STateSTaTeSTaTeStAtE ecaps ,ssap ton seod
does not exist, and sTATeSt oFOfOfo dna ,tsixe ton seod
idea is not there. STatEst ofoFOFo .ereht ton si aedi
Stuck in a place staTEsT OfOFofo ecalp a ni kcutS
where movements TATeSTa foFofoF stnemevom erehw
are impossible fOFoFOf elbissopmi era
in all forms, UsOFofO ,smrof lla ni
physical and nbEifof dna lacisyhp
or mental - uNBeInO - latnem ro
your mind is UNbeinG si dnim rouy
focusing on a unBEING a no gnisucof
lone thing, or NBeINgu ro ,gniht enol
a lone nothing. bEinGUn .gnihton enol a
You are numb and EiNguNB dna bmun era ouY
unaware to events stneve ot erawanu
taking place - not -iSSuE- ton - ecalp gnikat
knowing how or what THiRTY-THREE tahw ro woh gniwonk
to think. You are in 01/29/97 ni era uoY .kniht ot
a state of unbeing.... ....gniebnu fo etats a
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE
=----------------------=
EDiTORiAL Kilgore Trout
LETTERS TO THE EDITOR
STAFF LiSTiNGS
[=- ARTiCLES -=]
PAGE FROM A DiARY Crux Ansata
UNTiTLED DAiLY TORTURE sweet disease
A RESPONSE TO CLOCKWORK'S "AN AMERiCAN HOUSEHOLD" StormChaser
A NEW YEAR'S EVE PARTY, or
Some SoB Writers Hang Out With Some Small People and Get Crazy Noni Moon
[=- POETASTRiE -=]
LiFE DeMoN
[=- FiCTiON -=]
THE MEN THAT EViL DO A Piece of Caine
ALL THAT CAME BACK WAS THE TiDE Aspiraphale
WHAT COURT DiD THAT NiGHT Water Damage
SELF PORTRAiT: ARTiST WiTH WORDS Crux Ansata
DiGGiNG TOWARD THE ROOTS I Wish My Name Were Nathan, Wannabe Sage
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
EDiTORiAL
by Kilgore Trout
Whoops. Look at me, I'm a liar. The layout ain't changing. Bwahahaha.
So, I was looking at other zines to see how I could possibly change up
our layout, and ya know what I discovered? Our layout rocks. It's a damn
fine way of presenting a zine, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna kill a good
thing again. So if you were hoping for a change, tough luck. For those of
you who were dreading the change, there is nothing to fear.
See, I do learn from past mistakes.
--SoB--
So, I'm back at school, so I'll be responding to email regularly once
again. If you sent me something and I never got back to you, send it again.
If you still don't hear from me, come on down and stalk me until you get a
response. In the meantime, make sure you pass the zine around to all your
friends and get em to join the distribution list.
--SoB--
Anyway, this is a pretty big issue, so I'll let you get right down to it.
We've got a lot of new writers this issue, which I am extremely pleased with.
I think you'll want to know that this is Noni Moon's last piece for SoB for a
while. We think she's done a great job interviewing the writers this past
year, and we hope she drops in from time to time. Any correspondence for her
can be sent care of me.
So, hunker down with this hefty issue, grab a nice cup of java, and start
reading. If you can make it through this whole issue in one sitting, give
yourself a pat on the back, and then write something for us, cause you are
obviously some type of superhuman. See you in February.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
LETTERS TO THE EDITOR
From: BOB
To: kilgore@sage.net
Subject: OK
wow ,what a trip,are you sure your not from the 70's dude?
[i am sorta from the seventies, in that i was born in '75. other than that, i
disdain most connections to that decade besides an occasional splurge of
zeppelin music and early punk.
i'm a product of the 90's. the key word is synthesis. that's what i do.]
--SoB--
From: Mario Winterstein
To: kilgore@sage.net
hey "kids," love the friggin' zine.
only read issue 27, but fuck it, i can draw conclusions about the ocean from
a drop of water. best of luck, and (self-promo) we [i] started a zine at
home (sidney ohio) which i know you'll want to wish us the best of luck on
also.
yeah...
pea/aenesidemus/etc.
[doesn't do your self-promo a lot of good if you don't tell us the name of
your zine, but best of luck to you anyway. send us a free copy of your zine
and we'll, like, keep emailing you ours or something.]
--SoB--
From: d@rthV@deR
To: kilgore@SAGE.NET
Hay.. whats up??? I think we have met but I amnot shure if you remember me
or you are the same person.... any way I am linking to you page via my site
I mean.. I will write a little for you.. When do you need them??? I mean I
am presently {only because we were forgotten} the head of the w@W and fuck
if I ain't lost on this damn PC, you would think Hackers of the early
eighties would at least have a 286 no they used a damn 8086 with 11 snap out
and in hard drives! I had a 286 back then... any way I write mostly about
anarchy and shit like that.. trying to spawn interest in the hackers of the
world use there skills in... well check out my page at... Let me just say
that I am against the NWO!! AN I am a journalist student at WWCC!
http://fascination.com/pub/darthudr/darth.htm
Kinda slow because of all the graphics but I ahve been BUSY!!
laters!!
@@@@@:o) The
d@rthV@deR
[i don't think we've met... you'll have to give me more information about
where. submissions can come in anytime you want to send them. the more we
get the happier i am, too. we're against the NWO, too, although i'm taking a
guess that w@W means world at war and that you are NOT some delusional psycho
who thinks you are the king of the world wide web.]
--SoB--
From: trishk
To: kilgore@sage.net
Subject: Please add me to the mailing list
Kilgore,
I have been exploring the Net in search of brain food and by chance as
I was trolling. I found this odd little summary. Hmm, looks like a zine
of some kind. The unBeing caught my eye and sucked my hand toward it.
I fell into an issue and stayed for the duration. Please add me to your
list. My brain and antisocial element need the nourishment your zine
can give me.
Thanks,
Trish Kelly
[eat some fish while you read our zine, and you'll get double the brain food.]
--SoB--
From: Leviathan
To: kilgore@sage.net
Subject: About AIDS and de-populaztion.
If your article was correct and the government did engineer AIDS to wipe
out third-world populations I think it could only benefit us. We have
spent to much time protecting and sheltering those who are not able to
meet the demands and expectations of society, this is one of the reasons
that our society has become such a Hell. We need to stop this "everyone
is equal" thought process, it only leads to our destruction. For us to
progress we must eliminate those who are useless to society as a whole,
thus providing more resources for those who will make great strides in
our technological and societal advancement.
[ Maybe, maybe not -- highly arguable point. The point of the article
was not to debate whether it was beneficial or not, but to reveal to
the public the genocidal proceedings of our own government behind our
backs, without our knowledge, directly affecting us. A typical human
reaction to any kind of problem whatsoever, as you have kindly shown
by your above statement, would be to completely destroy and eliminate
the problem. A supreme moral issue, I guess. I agree with you to a
point... sort of. It seems as though you are one of those people who
are against any kind of welfare, are you not? Probably someone who
looks at any homeless person on the street and instantly thinks, "get
a damn job." I don't wish to be cruel, mean, or anything remotely
like that -- just casually reading into your comments. Somewhat of a
psychic gift I received a little while back -- several years after I
became immortal.
Of course you are stressing a point that many people prefer to call
natural selection (and you can ask I Wish My Name Was Nathan about
that -- he's rather familiar with this argument.) So, you look at the
human society and realize with all of our technological advancements,
medicine being a large one, it pushes us towards general immortality,
thereby eliminating the natural selection process commonly found
amongst other creatures. Well, at the simultaneous point when I
realized this, I realized we have our own "version" of natural
selection -- natural human selection, if you will. With this increase
in technology and science and whatnot -- especially in the last
century, comes an increase in general danger and even lack of complete
understanding. Out of all the people in this country, how many of
them do you think know how an automobile works, and how the parts
function? I do not. I know how to drive -- whether this is enough
prerequisite for letting a human being propel himself in a box across
the earth at rates excelling 100mph, who knows. Probably not.
And so, with this increase in technology comes an increase in
technology related deaths -- car accidents, plane crashes, train
derailments, fires, bombs, spontaneous combustion... I'm sure you get
the idea. And also, with the increase in technology comes an increase
(at least for now) in less care for the earth. More technology, more
cars, planes, steel melting furnaces, etc., causes more heat and
pollution to be released into the atmosphere. Think about all the
automobiles and transportatory vehicles in the United States and put
together all the heat they release together in a day and you have a
pretty substantial amount. So if you take this heat and pollution
throughout the world, stir it around, it causes dramatic weather
changes. Just look at the weather patterns in the past ten years
alone and see how much more unpredictable and destructive it has
been. This too would be another form of natural human selection -- we
fuck with Nature and say, "We are the Gods of the earth -- no one and
nothing else. Humans dominate." Mother Nature just smirks and whips
up another 70 below 0 freeze in the upper part of the country, or
perhaps some massive flooding.
Daniel Quinn suggests the solution to this problem would be to make
mammoth strides in our technological advancement to fix and control
the things we have damaged/destroyed to cause our own self-annihilation
(even though I may not be able to spell the word at the moment.)
Another question to propose to you, if I may... stating we need to
eliminate those who are useless to society as a whole. Well -- who in
fact do you propose be the Judge and Execution of such a thing? By
what standards do you state, "Well, this six year old provides no
benefit to our society, therefore we'll toss him into a burning vat of
grease." Please do not think I am missing the point of your comment
-- humans, in general, have caused so much turmoil and vast evilness
to spread on the planet, it is rather sickening. However, if this is
truly the case for eternity, and there is no solution for the problem
other than elimination, we can just progress on the same track society
is on now, and it will occur in no time.
Of course, I am against that. I am here to save the planet and
everything on it, whether it be human or rock. I am not here to march
down the street with my shotgun and perform my own version of genocide
on those who I think be unworthy.
Happy New Year.
clockwork]
[editor's additional comment: check out www.paranoia.com/CoE for the Church
of Euthanasia's homepage. they don't believe in unwilled deaths, but they
have links to certain groups that think that the only way to save the planet
is to kill the humans even if they want to stay. personally, i like CoE's
"save the planet, kill yourself" maxim, but YMMV.]
--SoB--
From: bircham
To: kilgore@sage.net
Subject: send me state of unbeing
Dear kilgore@sagenet, (i just read what your name was but i forget it
already)
Please send me on the state of unbeing mailing list because i am
waiting for a book to come in the mail so i haven't any reading
material. i came across your e-zine and i thought, "boy, this sure
fills my head with a massive amount of wonder and helps me
understand why i was brought into this life as a depressed teenage
girl instead of a brilliant doctor or scientist who discovers a new
element and acquires a name in textbooks and encyclopedias
so that he is never forgotten." Okay, maybe not. I find the state of
unbeing interesting and the articles are not like anything i have
read before.
Cindy Bircham
[heh. the name's kilgore trout, but that's okay. one day my face will be
plastered on flyers all across this country. naturally, there will probably
be a reward for my apprehension, but at least people will know my name.
we're glad that you like the zine and that it's not like "anything [you've]
read before." we try our best to be fresh... sometimes, though, we end up as
stale donuts with rotting jelly centers. that smells really bad, and it
tastes even worse, too. don't try that at home.]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
STAFF LiSTiNG
EDiTOR
Kilgore Trout
CONTRiBUTORS
A Piece of Caine
Aspiraphale
Clockwork
Crux Ansata
DeMoN
I Wish My Name Were Nathan
Noni Moon
Storm Chaser
sweet disease
Water Damage
GUESSED STARS
Bob
Cindy Bircham
d@rthV@deR
Mario Winterstein
Trish Kelly
BOOKS i BOUGHT OVER THE CHRiSTMAS HOLiDAYS
_Immediatism,_ essays by Hakim Bey
_Omens of Millennium_ by Harold Bloom
_The Magus_ by John Fowles
_Encyclopedia of Gods_ by Michael Jordan
_Subliminal Seduction_ by William Bryan Key
_The Essential Kaballah_ by Daniel C. Maat
_Ishmael_ by Daniel Quinn
_Providence_ by Daniel Quinn
_Crack Wars: Literature / Addiction / Mania_ by Avital Ronell
_The Wisdom of Insecurity,_ _The Way of Zen_, and
_Tao: The Watercourse Way,_ all by Alan Watts
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- ARTiCLES -=]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
PAGE FROM A DiARY
Crux Ansata
0036 111296
On Friday, I went to the bank. I both wanted to have extra gas money --
which I needed -- for the trip to my French teacher's house, and to have some
cash for Christmas shopping. When I pulled into the parking lot, movement in
the car I had pulled in next to caught my eye, and I turned to see a kid, a
girl, in the car. I remember thinking that I hate how parents will leave
their kids in the car when they run in to do errands, and look, that kid has
climbed into the front seat. I figured she was putting on the radio or
something. And then the kid put her keys in the ignition and drove off, and I
thought just how old I am.
I meant to put that in the last time I wrote in my diary, Sunday, but I
don't think I did. Last night I didn't write in my diary because I was
revising "Greece", which is what I am now calling the story I have now almost
finished. Two more scenes, I think: the final scene and the scene by the
pool. But tonight I am working on my diary. I can't put it off forever. (I
imagine I could put it off indefinitely. I could put it off tonight and die
tomorrow. I tell myself, though, that I can't put it off forever to
artificially create a motivation to do it.) "Greece" added much I hadn't
foreseen, and has dropped a few things I wanted to write about. I imagine I
can put those in other stories.
Tomorrow will be three years since A. and I met that night in Mr.
Gatti's. Three year anniversary, if one forgives the fact that A. used to
count from the next week -- our first preplanned date -- and all the times we
have broken up, and the fact that we are not really technically going together
right now. Neither her nor I really consider those blocks. What God has
joined let no man separate. I called her tonight, and it didn't take much
prompting before she figured out why. ("I was going to call Wednesday. Do
you know the date?") That was an incredibly stressful experience. It was the
same way when Dad was away at Squadron Officers School or Officer Training
School or the Persian Gulf or Chicago. Whenever Mom and Dad would talk, it
seemed stressful. I suppose part of it is because of the emotion of talking
to the person, and part of it is all the things you cannot know and cannot
say. You can't talk about how miserable you are too much, because that will
bring the person down. You can't make presumptions on their emotions. You
can't forget that each second costs. With A. and I there are extra elements.
Until I feel her out I can't be sure she hasn't found someone else or come to
believe she no longer loves me. Now I can say with relative confidence that
she still loves me and that she has not replaced me, but this confidence
necessarily decreases in the morning when she gets up and goes about her life,
and every day thereafter until I see her again. And yet there is a sense in
which I know these are unfounded fears. My mind cannot know her feelings, but
to an extent my heart can, no matter how far apart we are. Is that love? Or
slavery? Or both? (Is there a distinction?)
But I am bringing myself down. Let us move on.
Yesterday, I did nothing. I spent a lot of time on the boards, and some
reading. Nothing unusual. The day I saw G. and them: That was Saturday,
right? So I have mentioned it? That is hard, too. Hanging out with people.
I seem to have some need for it, for the contact, but it is hard to sit there
and do nothing, and talk about nothing, smoking my cigarette and watching them
trying to get another drag or two out of their marijuana pipe. I need the
acceptance, I guess, but they don't give me what I need. I still look. The
acceptance on the boards seems important to me. That provides the network of
friends that I perceive myself as needing, that school used to provide. I get
the human contact in class, too, hanging out with the French students. I have
to say nothing, get people to talk, say things I already know. I hate the
maintenance that goes in to friendships, for the dubious gain of an acceptance
fix.
And yet, there is more I need. When was the last time I could hold
someone in my arms?
Damn, this is getting too pathetic. I am moving on.
On the bookmark in The Last Magician -- the receipt from Waldenbooks when
I bought Using Your Mind for a Change -- I have some scribbled notes. I
suppose I'll be losing this bookmark soon, so I'll copy some of them down into
here. Some of these notes are pointless, such as the notes I made about a
dream for an earlier entry or a line I want to include in "Greece", in the
pool scene. (The line is, by the way: "She sits beside me, so thoughtless,
so shameless, I expect she must be a little soft in the head. That's what I
need sometimes, though. Soft." It is a cruel twist from the innocence of
childhood to the idiocy of naivete. It expresses my dislike for the innocent
and the childlike. I might substitute "simple" for "soft", and I will, of
course, expand on the thought. I just want to make sure I remember the
theme.) I have a quote here, from The Last Magician: "Behind every lie, she
said, there is a wound. One should be gentle with the bloody gashes in other
people's lives." There is another great line I haven't bothered to write
down: "Lust is a frightened manchild in the dark." I, of course, would drop
the "man", but this author is female. Next, there is a failed thought: "Some
modern writing is dissociative. It tries to say something in a mixture of
ways. Like the gospels, or Gustafsson, or Hospital." That last, of course,
is the author of The Last Magician. I was attempting -- unsuccessfully, in my
opinion -- to express a difference between the modern authors. There is one
group, like Vonnegut, that seem to write fragmentarily, never really touching
on anything, in a minimalist manner. I don't care for that. On the other
hand, people like Hospital or Gustafsson seem, as I try to in such stories as
"Greece", say something that cannot be said by saying it in a number of
different ways and painting up a picture that way. I never really cared for
Impressionist painting, but I do like the literary style. This leave only one
note. (Quite a full receipt, no?) This, I suspect, dates from when I was
reading Diana: The Making of a Terrorist, and runs:
Terrorism does not gain support by recruitment. Terrorism
can only mobilize people two ways: Attacking them, and
forcing them to take sides, or attacking the government
hard and quick, forcing the government to attack the
people indiscriminately.
This was an attempt to make sense of the actions of the Weathermen, to learn
from their mistakes. This exercise has been left to the student.
The Last Magician is an incredible book. It is the kind of book that
makes one contemplate giving up writing, never being able to match it. It is
the kind of book that is painful to read. But I don't want to get too far
ahead of myself. I discuss some of this in journal notes I haven't
transcribed, yet. So I turn to a yellow notepad.
(Heh. I just found a note in the margin of my notebook: "In 'Greece':
Comment that he dresses, dumbass. That will eliminate the whining about her
nudity." I thought it was kind of foolish to write, and I supposed I might
have remembered in a revision, but when I saw this note I dug out my current
working copy and, sure enough, I had forgotten that revision. Guess the note
did its job. Anyway, on with something of more substance.)
Here is a utilitarian statement. I suppose I wrote it, but I don't know
if I believed it at the time. In any case, this is what it says: "Violence
is not right, but violence works. To succeed at what is right is right, and
in that struggle violence is a tool like any other." Of course, I am an
anarchist and a Catholic. I don't buy that "the ends justify the means"
mentality. I guess I wrote it, though. This next, though, I know I didn't
write. Bill Ayers of the Weathermen did.
We can't get involved anymore in the kinds of actions that
merely say to people that this is wrong, or that is wrong,
because that doesn't tell people what to do, that doesn't
project the kind of confidence, and the crucial nature and
importance of what we're trying to do in this country now.
We have to fight and show the people through struggle our
commitment, our willingness to die in the struggle to
defeat U.S. imperialism. We have to convey these things,
and October 8-11 is a concrete way that we can do that. I
think people should push out this slogan "Bring the war
home." We're not just saying bring the troops home and
deploy them some other place, we're saying bring the war
home. We're saying you're going to pay a price because
increasingly guys in the army are going to shoot you in
the back, increasingly the guys in the army are going to
shoot over the heads of the Vietnamese, shoot over the
heads of the blacks, increasingly this country is going to
be torn down, and we're not going to be bringing the
troops home to be deployed someplace else, we're going to
bring the war home, we're going to create class war in the
streets and institutions of this country, and we're going
to make them pay a price, and the price ultimately is
going to be total defeat for them. That's the kind of
thing that we have to convey, and that's the kind of thing
that we have to build.
Poetry it's not, but it tries to express what the Weathermen were trying
to do, and I can empathize with that. The Weathermen made some mistakes, but
they also had some good ideas. Any revolutionary group today would benefit
greatly from studying the Weathermen, and adopting rather more than they
discard I would expect.
Then we have an actual page of notes from class. Always a surprise in
one of my notebooks. Then we find, in the margin of a "Greece" fragment:
I feel a little uncomfortable on campus in Thursdays, when
the ROTC are in uniform. I used to be uncomfortable in
the business buildings, since everyone there almost seemed
in uniform, and my long-haired scraggly self didn't
belong. When I cut my hair for ROTC and dressed in
uniform from time to time, I started hanging out in the
business buildings. (After all, they have coffee
machines.) When the other uniforms are there, though, it
is a problem. I even see cadets I know, occasionally. We
never speak. They, in the nation's uniform, and I, in GI
boots, BDU jacket -- with patches, military beret, in an
obscene parody of a soldier.
I fight, but I'm not sure what.
I wrote that last Thursday, between classes. Following that I have three
pages of a letter to A., which I haven't typed up yet, much less sent. I
suppose I will sometime over the next couple of days. Then, out of the blue,
we have:
Did you ever stop to think about the saying, "The die is
cast"? Probably not. The thing is rife with ambiguity.
The meaning, of course, is that the course is set. The
future is set. But why? One meaning is that die is
singular for dice, and the cast is a toss. The future is
sealed by fate. The other is that a die is for making
metal molds, and cast is made. Design, not fate. Which
die gets cast?
That is the kind of moronic thing that goes through my mind. It is
followed by two more pages of story notes.
I have been at this for a long time, but fortunately this notebook only
has four more used pages so far, two pages of French notes and two of diary
notes. This last excerpt is long, though. Pack a lunch.
1443
The Last Magician is an incredible book. At times,
painful. I wonder how odd it is that I identify with
Charlie. I could see echoes in Lucy, but not the same
identification. But it is not too odd to identify with a
main character aside from the narrator.
Charlie was teased as a child. The book resonates
this. It might have made him different, or it might have
been because. He was an ethnic Chinese and didn't fit.
He was pushed to study. He was on the outside looking in.
I am trying to remember my childhood. I don't know
if I want to. Read the conversation on the top of the car
in "Greece". Before my first breakdown in seventh grade,
I only have photos, a couple of minutes of video perhaps.
No sound. Nothing really. Perhaps snatches of sound, but
I can't recall it.
This kind of memory. Sometimes, I thought it was
normal. Sometimes, I didn't. I went through all the
things kids do -- I was an alien, I was in a mental
institution, I had been given to my family by the CIA
after having implants put in. Clockwork seems to have
this phenomenon. He was the child of an alcoholic, and
abused. I was not. This loss of childhood memory
accompanied by the ability to fragment the psyche -- a
Bobbi, a Nemo, the voice of God perhaps -- are symptoms of
DID. Dissociative Identity Disorder. This is triggered
by childhood trauma, though. Usually childhood sexual
abuse.
I realized a couple of days ago I cannot remember
being teased. I know it happened. I don't know *how* I
know, but I think I know. (I'm getting something. This
is unbelievable. Take it with a grain of salt. There was
a girl in second grade. Her name was Penny. She was an
outsider. No one seemed to like her. I'm thinking I was
peripheral. I remember a friend or two, and hanging out
on the edges in the playground. More later. I remember
she gave me a book, once. I think she had a crush on me.
I didn't figure this out until she intruded back into my
mind recently. I was a stupid child. I was an outsider
because I was too stupid to fit in. The startling thing
it -- the grain of salt thing -- is her archetype. Second
grade is on the young side, but I was sexually awakened,
physically. The outsider. And I was always struck by her
short, dark hair. Fast forward a couple of years, give
her a smoking habit, put a little less roundedness in the
hair....)
Why can't I remember being teased?
Maybe I never was, and it is so sensitive because I
feel guilty?
God, this is a mindfuck.
I think I'll go back to my book.
1459
The next girl I remember with this hair was Dawn.
Dawn in England Dawn. I never wanted her; she was a
friend. Heather's was different. Next, was C.
That really has been brooding choice for the day: Why don't I remember
being teased. I thought about it all day, and I really can't remember it. I
remember being on the edges, and voluntarily separating myself. I had tended
to attribute this voluntary separation in later years to a "I didn't want to
be your friend anyway" mentality. I remember as a kid being a leader and
having friends. So was there a point where I stopped having them? It might
almost have been fourth, when I forced away any leadership tendencies. Or the
teasing might have affected me so much I have completely suppressed the
memory. I don't know.
I told Mom tonight I can't remember being teased. She didn't know about
my patchy memory. I expected her to tell me that she remembered my being
teased as a child. Instead, she asked, kind of surprised, "You were never
teased as a child?" Like me, she assumes that all kids are teased, but she
didn't have anything to add.
I told A. tonight I can't remember being teased. She didn't know about
my patchy memory. That surprised me. I expected I would have told her. In
conversation she said things that triggered memories of being teased in sixth
grade or seventh grade, but this doesn't help much for what I am trying to
figure out.
Did I invent my own persecution as an artificial way of justifying my
voluntary -- for whatever reason -- exclusion from society?
It sounds incredible, but not impossible. Until I can piece together
some more memory, I won't be able to answer for sure.
But I have gone on longer than I expected. I think I'm going to have
another smoke and get to bed. I have an exam tomorrow. And so, I sign off.
0213 111296
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"Breathes there a man with hide so tough
Who says two sexes aren't enough?"
--Samuel Hoffenstein
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
UNTiTLED DAiLY TORTURE
by sweet disease
Morning. Fuck it. I've never been much of a morning person, but today
really takes the cake, or some such stuff like that. With my hands carelessly
sprawled across my desk, and my head non-chalantly flopped between them, I
dream of a better life. A life away from my science class, at the moment.
The borrowed television is playing a worn-out movie about protozoan. Yay. My
life is finally complete, because I've learned that diatoms are the most
abundant plant life on Earth. Thank God for television.
"Hey."
Oh shit, I think to myself. The girl I'm infatuated with just sat down
next to me and is trying to strike up a conversation. I casually peel one eye
open and look her in the face. "Uhm... hi." Damn! I blew it! Why do I
always have to choke when this happens! I mentally kick myself in the ass.
"You tired?"
Argh. "Uhm... hi -- I mean... yeah." <moan>
"Yeah, me too." She suppresses a giggle.
Wow. She thinks I'm some rambling vagrant. 'Do you wanna goto a movie
or something?' 'With you? You pathetic little bastard.' 'Oh. Ok.' I play a
conversation between us over in my mind. It hasn't happened though.. yet. I
mumble something about getting 2 hours of sleep last night.
"Well.. I gotta go. The bell rang.."
What?! Am I *that* enticed? I hastefully grab my books and jog out of
the room. "Great video," I remark to the science teacher, sarcasm literally
dripping from my voice. Hey -- you wanna know our school motto? "At West,
respect builds quality." Well, we've got neither.
3:04am. My eyes pop open. "Life," I whisper to myself. Man, I gotta
piss so bad I can taste it. Yuck. I slowly raise my frail body out of bed,
thousands of joints I didn't even know I had popping. *Crack*... 'yow, that
one hurt.'
I stare dumbly down at the porcelain bowl, the rancid fluid pouring down
into the murky depths of the toilet water as I relieve myself. I think of two
things as this is happening: how would one define religion, and why the hell
am I peeing on my foot? Yes, there's a fine trail of amber liquid that took
it upon itself to separate from the main stream and dampen my foot. "Fuck
you," I exclaim, possibly a bit too loud. A loud snort emits from my parents
room. I quickly flush and rush back to bed.
I just can't sleep. I lay here, staring at my white-washed ceiling,
thinking deep, philosophical things, like "why are there no chartreuse M&M's?"
and "what would Oprah Winfrey and Gordon Elliot's children look like?" Eww...
that last one disgusted me thoroughly. I reluctantly gaze over at the clock.
Arrgh, 4:15am. How long have I been sitting here, pondering talk-show hosts'
children and the ratio of salt to bile at any given time in the human body?
6:15am. My alarm clock blares out the signal of "Wake up, or I'm
gonna...." You get the picture. My right arm extends, and arcs in at a
perfect 90 degree angle, devastating the little brown box. "Eat that, you
bastard," I think to myself. I chuckle softly and flop out onto the floor.
8:00am. English class. In my dazed and confused state, I have forgotten
who the teacher is, and I find myself wondering "Who is this fat, annoying
bitch at the front of the room?" Oh, well. We're watching a video, since the
lazy, chauvinistic pigs who we call "educators" feel that we learn more this
way. Once again, I return to my all-to-well known position with my arms
sprawled across the desk and my head added to the top of the pile.
3:00pm. Ahh, another day is through. I'm heading for home. I stare out
at the looming world beyond the crappy-yellow-colored paint of the bus and
trace my finger along the frosted glass which currently reads every profane
symbol I've used in this file, and then some... all backwards, of course, so
supposedly passersby can read them, even though everyone knows they're not
paying attention to some stupid school bus. Who the hell would drive around
reading crap freshmen write on their bus window?
3:35pm. The garage door slowly cranks open, much to my surprise. I head
into the house, sit down, and watch TV for a few hours. Time for homework.
Fuck it. I work for half an hour, and then I flop down in front of the
trusted old friend, the computer. Rat-tat-tatting can be heard for the
remainder of the night as I logon to the internet and chat with other zine
freaks on IRC, and dial up Erebus and Alcholiday. Eventually, I tap out
"TIME" and, like magic, 11:00pm appears on the display screen. We call it a
monitor. Arrgh. I'm fucking tired. I head up to my room, and pass out in a
heap of my own self-pity, ready for another day of the grind we call life.
Se la vi. Live it as full as they'll let you.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"The vilest abortionist is he who attempts to mould a child's character."
--George Bernard Shaw
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
A RESPONSE TO CLOCKWORK'S "AN AMERiCAN HOUSEHOLD"
by StormChaser
Sometimes alcoholism isn't a disease. Sometimes it's a weapon. Guilt,
feelings of inadequacy, and a lifetime of bottled-up emotions is all I knew of
my father. He had such a capacity to love everyone but himself. He tried to
kill himself the conventional way so many times but we stopped him. This is a
story of how he disguised it.
Even when everything was happy, my parents were together and happy, and I
was a normal kid. I think he began there. One day he went to a doctor. From
that point on the doctors at work incessantly told my mom to stop him from
drinking. He was a stubborn ass, though, and she didn't think anything of it.
Besides, he never got drunk, but he was never without an alcoholic beverage.
Suddenly, he left us. Next thing I knew, I had a stepmother and
half-sister. I loathed him with more anger than knew I had. But some
underlying knowledge that he loved me kept me loving him and I loved my
sister. So I was there when he got sick. He turned yellow. His feet and
legs blew up like balloons. To this day I don't know what was wrong with him.
The bastard would not go to a doctor because he knew back then what was
wrong. He would not go for me or for my sister. Not even for himself. He
thought we'd be better off without him. He had ruined my life; I'd lost all
trust in people. I couldn't keep a friend because I'd destroy it before they
could leave me like he did. But I wasn't better off without him. And my poor
baby sister doesn't deserve to grow up without a father.
But he killed himself anyway. His suicide note was his disease --
cirrhosis of the liver. He died before I could get close to him. I don't
know my father and I can never comprehend his pain. But the scariest part is
that as each day goes by I become more and more like him. Stubborn and alone.
And I can lie and hide feelings even from myself, just like he could.
My point is to love your parents whether or not they seem to love you.
Help them before they're gone. Because once they are gone you can't ever go
back, no matter how much it hurts. Bits and pieces from relatives or
photographs is all I have left of my father. Don't let it happen to you.
Somehow, if I can't right my life, I want to right someone else's. And
finally, no matter what you do, don't ever be like them.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"I would like to remind
the management
that the drinks are watered
and the hat-check girl
has syphilis
and the band is composed
of former SS monsters
However since it is
New Year's Eve
and I have lip cancer
I will place my
paper hat on my
concussion and dance"
--Leonard Cohen, "The Music Crept by Us"
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
A NEW YEAR'S EVE PARTY, or
Some SoB Writers Hang Out With Some Small People and Get Crazy
by Noni Moon
THE PLAYERS
(for you people too stupid to figure out the abbreviations)
CA -- Crux Ansata
CM -- Captain Moonlight
CW -- Clockwork
DO -- Doorway
HA -- Hagbard
IW -- I Wish My Name Were Nathan
JU -- Jujube
KT -- Kilgore Trout
NM -- Noni Moon
RO -- Ronnie
ST -- Styxx
T# -- nameless teen
WA -- Walrus
When you sign up for these gigs, you never know what the people are going
to be like. Sure, I'd hung around most of the SoB writers to get my
interviews, but I'd never been around them as a group. Individually, they
could be pretty strange, and there were definitely some weird undercurrents
going on. But put them all together, especially on a party night, and all
hell breaks loose.
This article attempts to recapture the night of December 31, 1996, in all
of its extreme detail. Thanks to my trusty tape recorder, most of the
conversations herein are verbatim. Some conversations have been reconstructed
to the best of my ability and with the help of those writers who were
conscious at the time of the conversation.
I doubt I'll be going to another SoB party for awhile. It's just too...
well, you'll see.
* * * * *
Monday, December 31, 6:02p
Someone was knocking on my front door. I opened it and found Kilgore
Trout standing there, smelling of cheap vodka. He didn't appear drunk at all.
KT: Ready to go?
NM: No. You're an hour early. I've still got to get dressed.
[Kilgore walked past me and headed towards the kitchen.]
KT: Oh, that's okay. I've always been anal about being punctual. I
don't mind waiting. Got anything to eat?
NM: I thought we were gonna eat later.
KT: [opening cabinets] Never can tell, Noni. Sometimes the food at these
parties really suck. I remember last year we went to this one party in
Westlake and -- ooh, Pop Tarts. Brown Cinnamon Sugar even. Noni, you
truly are the ultimate woman. All you need now is the penultimate man.
NM: And that would be?
KT: Why, me, of course. Who else could you possibly be thinking of? You can
be Luke Skywalker to my Darth Vader, except you're not a boy, although
you do act kinda boyish, and you do have both hands, which I admire in a
woman. Of course, I'm not dressed in a black jumpsuit with a cape, and
I'm not the ultimate source of evil in the galaxy. So maybe that wasn't
such a good analogy. Still, whaddya say?
NM: I say no thanks. You're definitely too strange for me.
KT: But you're strange, too. You've got blue hair. I've always wanted to
date a woman with blue hair. Tried to date a woman with purple hair
once.
NM: What happened to her?
KT: Nothing happened *to* her. She just didn't like me hanging out in her
bushes.
NM: So you stalked her. That's not exactly "trying to date."
KT: I prefer the word "observing" myself.
NM: Well, that's all I'm doing tonight. Observing.
KT: Speaking of observing, you really shouldn't answer the door totally
naked. Lots of nasty people in the world out there.
NM: [covering myself and walking to the bedroom] It's not something I, uh,
normally, uh, do. Er, excuse me.
KT: [pulling a flask out of his black jacket] Nice ass, by the way.
* * * * *
Monday, December 31, 7:15p
We pulled up to Crux Ansata's house in Kilgore's Tercel. There was a
stuffed Santa Claus outfitted in army fatigues hanging from a noose of
Christmas lights under a giant oak tree in the front yard. Ansat and Captain
Moonlight were taking turns throwing knives into him.
KT: Hey guys! I see you're using Santa for target practice again.
CA: Gotta try out the new throwing knives we got for Christmas. Besides,
since Santa brought these for us, we figured we'd like to give something
back to him.
Captain Moonlight threw a knife into Santa's chest.
NM: I'm glad I didn't buy you anything sharp for Christmas.
CM: You didn't get us anything, period. Hey, Ansat. Should we try out the
new battleaxe?
CA: [hurling a knife that lands in Santa's face] Damn, I'm smooth. Yeah,
get the battleaxe.
KT: Uh, guys, I hate to ruin your Santa slaying, but we've got a party to go
to.
CM: Can we--
KT: No. You can't bring the battleaxe to the party. Alcohol and medieval
weapons don't mix, not like Jack Daniels and RC Cola, anyway.
CA: Let's get going, then. Say, where is this party anyway?
KT: Shhh. [glances over at me] Don't worry about it.
There are some things people do that unnerve me. Kilgore's avoidance of
a simple question was one of them.
* * * * *
Monday, December 31, 7:42pm
Somehow we ended up at Clockwork's house. I lost my sense of direction
several times due to Kilgore's fascination with back roads that "will get us
there faster those big highway thingamajigs." It also didn't help that Ansat
and Captain Moonlight were having a loud argument with Kilgore about the band
Black 47 and who was actually the biggest "Irish loving bastard" of the three.
Kilgore honked the horn, and Clockwork and I Wish My Name Were Nathan ran
outside.
CL: Hey, guys. Hi, Noni.
IW: Like your cocktail dress, Noni. Didn't realize we were going anywhere
fancy.
NM: Kilgore said I should dress nicely.
Everyone broke out laughing except Kilgore, who was smiling wryly.
NM: What?
KT: Nothing, Noni. You look great. [to Clockwork and Nathan] Boys, hop in.
We've got a party to get to.
IW: Can we all fit in there?
CA: Sure. Nothing like a crowded car to get to know each other real fast.
Hagbard came out of Clockwork's house.
HA: Dammit, don't leave without me. I'm not finished practicing my pratfalls
down the staircase for my next improv show.
CL: All of us cannot fit in that car. Besides, it'll be more comfortable in
two cars. Where's the party?
NM: Doesn't anybody know where this bash is being held besides Kilgore?
CL: Nope.
IW: Dunno.
CM: No.
HA: [practicing falling down on the grass] Oof. No.
CA: It's, like, top-secret or something.
KT: Trust me. We'll have a good time.
Kilgore pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled down an address, making
sure that I couldn't see it. He then gave it to Clockwork.
KT: Meet us there. Uh, pick up some people on the way, too, since we've got
more space. The more the merrier.
CL: Will do.
Hagbard crawled into the back of the Tercel while Clock and Nathan headed
off towards Clockwork's Ford Probe. The night was still young, and I was
already getting worried.
* * * * *
Monday, December 31, 8:04pm
We pulled up to a house in a nice part of town that had about fifteen
cars in front of it. Loud hip-hop music was coming from inside, and a bunch
of people were standing around on the porch. Kilgore parked in the front
lawn, and we all got out.
NM: Whose house is this?
KT: Uh, when I picked my sister up from high school a couple of weeks ago, I
overheard some people planning a party. I figured it would be fun to
crash.
NM: You mean this is a *high school* party?
KT: Yup.
CA: Cool. Underage chicks.
NM: No, it's *not* cool. It's a high school party. How much fun can that
be?
CM: Hey, I've only been out of high school for a semester, and I'm a cool
guy. These people can't possibly be as cool as I am, but, uh, they might
come close.
KT: Relax, Noni. The kid's parents are away for the holidays. We've got
nothing to worry about.
NM: I don't know about this, guys. This seems so... juvenile.
CA: Exactly. That's what makes it so much fun.
We headed towards the front door. The kids on the porch stopped talking
and looked at us uneasily.
T1: Who are you guys?
T2: Yeah, you don't go to our school.
CA: We're writers.
CM: And artists.
HA: And comedians with astronomy backgrounds.
KT: We're also damn smooth. Step aside.
T3: Ronnie! There are some people out here.
A large teenager ambled out of the front door. He looked like he played
football and was six inches taller than Kilgore.
RO: I don't remember inviting you guys.
KT: Of course not. We're crashing the party.
RO: I don't think so.
KT: Oh, I *do* think so. See, it's New Year's Eve. It's a time of
celebration, when all of humanity comes together to resolve to solve the
world's problems and to help out his fellow man. Of course, usually
people just get plastered, but sometimes that's the best we can do.
RO: Are you trying to tell me that you've got beer?
KT: A keg. Can we come in?
RO: Hell, yes. [turning around and yelling] Beer's here!
A loud rumble of applause and yelling burst from inside the house.
KT: I figured you'd like that. Ansat, help me roll the sucker in.
Kilgore and Ansat went back to the car to get the keg from the trunk.
Now, besides crashing a high school party, we were also supplying alcohol to
minors. Where the hell were guys like this when I was in high school?
T2: Wow, you've got blue hair.
NM: You're very observant.
T2: Don't they like have a dress code at your school? Our principal would
freak out if someone came to school like that.
It was gonna be a long night.
* * * * *
Monday, December 31, 8:26pm
Clock and Nathan arrived with an entourage including Doorway, Styx,
Walrus, and Jujube. I hadn't met any of them previously since they hadn't
written anything for the zine. Ansat and Kilgore had tapped the keg about
fifteen minutes ago, and the living room of the house was full of about forty
teenagers holding plastic cups of bad beer.
CL: Uh, Noni, what is this?
NM: A high school party.
DO: Is there anything beside beer?
NM: *We* brought the beer. I doubt there's anything else here.
DO: Oh. Hmm. Oh well. [tapping his pocket] Guess I'll just have to munch
on these shrooms. Anybody want some?
Clock and Nathan nodded in agreement.
NM: You do that.
ST: You don't seem like you're having too much fun, Noni.
NM: Good guess.
ST: Well, it's already better than the New Year's Eve we spent sitting at a
Whataburger. Although we *did* get free biscuits at 2:30 in the morning.
NM: We could be at a real party, or a club, or something. Anything but this.
Even Whataburger.
JU: You'd still have high school kids there.
NM: At least they'd be serving me.
ST: Maybe there's a liquor cabinet here that the kids are afraid to touch.
Not my house, not my problem. Jujube, let's go find some wine.
JU: Okay. Can we smoke in here?
Kilgore walked over with a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
NM: I would take that as a yes.
KT: Anybody seen my flask? I gave it to some kid and it disappeared.
WA: Might check the kitchen. I think I saw some kids pouring it into the
orange juice.
KT: Thanks, man.
Sandy, Styx and Walrus went off looking for the liquor cabinet.
NM: Kilgore, can you remind me why I'm here again?
KT: Uh, because you're our friend, and we're having fun?
NM: Not yet we aren't.
KT: Look, if you wanna leave, we can leave and go somewhere else.
Crux Ansata walked by talking to a young girl.
T4: Oh, so that's what they're calling it these days.
CA: No, no, no. It's a real knife. Do you wanna see it?
Ansat pulled the knife out of his boot.
T4: You really *did* mean a knife.
The girl walked off.
KT: Having fun with the girls, Ansat?
CA: Uh, like, when I ask someone if they wanna see my knife, it's NOT a
come-on. After all, my girlfriend would be really pissed. Anyway, I
need to go find my brother. Last I heard, he and Walrus were singing old
King Missile songs. I need to hear a duet of "Jesus was Way Cool."
Ansat wandered off, putting his knife back in his boot.
NM: Hey, what happened to Hagbard?
A loud crash came from the back of the house. Hagbard came into the
living room and brushed past a few people before seeing us.
HA: You get kids drinking, and the next thing you know they start trying to
act funny. One kid was gonna show me how he could fall, and he kinda
fell on top of a vase. Looked damn expensive, too. Usually alcohol
doesn't make people funny. Alcohol and valuable antiques, though....
Hee hee.
* * * * *
Monday, December 31st, 9:58pm
After a while, someone had popped in a copy of Star Wars, and Kilgore was
trying to lead everyone in some sort of drinking game. When it got old
watching Star Wars thru a din of noisy kids, I wandered into the backyard,
where Clockwork, Doorway, and Nathan were sitting on lawn chairs discussing
something.
CL: No, look. You can't go about this in a hard way. You've got to look at
this softly.
DO: Right. We've been over this before. I know that.
IW: I don't think you understand, though. It's not just a matter of knowing.
NM: Hey, guys. What are you talking about? Somebody got a light?
Clock leaned forward and lit my cigarette.
DO: Discussing the purpose of communication and how we can improve it.
IW: But it's kinda hard to improve something with only itself. We're
thinking about doing away with it and using telepathy.
NM: Telepathy? What am I thinking about right now?
CL: Not mind reading, Noni. Telepathy. Although I can probably guess you
think we're a bunch of looney quacks.
NM: Yeah, but I've gotten used to it. Kinda. So, I guess I have to ask.
How's the telepathy proceeding?
Clockwork looked at Doorway. Doorway looked at Nathan. Nathan looked at
Clockwork. They all looked at me and shrugged.
IW: Hold on! Did anyone happen to send the word "maverick?"
The other two guys shook their heads.
IW: Damn.
NM: Heh. Keep trying, boys. One day you'll hit it.
CL: We need some DMT. It worked for the Mckenna brothers.
DO: And where are we gonna get that?
IW: South America?
ALL THREE: [yelling] ROAD TRIP!!
What's a girl to do? Sometimes I just want to be around normal people,
of age, who aren't high-fallutin' philosopher types all of the goddamned time.
* * * * *
Monday, December 31, 10:27pm
I made my way to the front of the house, where Styx and Jujube were
drinking wine. I figured I could start writing some of this stuff down in
case my tape recording was bad, but it was too much fun to watch a tipsy Styx
do Fenster impersonations from _The Usual Suspects._
ST: Give me the keys, you fuckin' cocksucker!
JU: No, no, it's too comprehensible. Benecio del Toro is even harder to
understand than the guys in _Trainspotting_. Try again.
ST: Give me the goddamn keys, you fuckin' cocksucker! How's that?
JU: Better. Be a little bit more gutteral.
ST: Blah blah keys, blah blah fucking cocksucker!
JU: Perfect. Gimme some more wine.
* * * * *
Monday, December 31, 10:50pm
I spent some time talking with Styx and Jujube about various people here,
from Kilgore's strange obsessions to Ansat's strange obsessions with knives.
Walrus and Captain Moonlight came out and sat down. Somehow, perhaps as if by
magic, Walrus produced two Mad Dog 20/20 bottles from inside his jacket.
NM: How the fuck did you do that?
WA: It's a secret. Besides, what's a party without me drinking Mad Dog?
Say, did you know my mom's starting to collect Ron Popeil products? Ya
know, the informercial guy who makes the RonCo dehydrator that all the
potheads want to get so they can dry their weed in it?
ST: Old material. Heard it.
NM: Huh?
ST: Sometimes Walrus forgets he has told us something funny, so we define all
of his little bits into two groups: old material and new material. If
it's new material, then we haven't heard it before. If it's old
material, then we have heard it before, sometimes way too many times.
WA: Heh. Did I ever tell you about the time I dreamt I could fly in
Wal*Mart?
ST: A thousand times, Walrus. Drink your Mad Dog.
NM: Hmmm. Interesting. So, did you want to become a stand up comic or
something?
WA: Nah. But I am a radio disc jockey. Take that as you will.
NM: I had a friend who wanted to become a standup comic, but he wasn't funny.
No one wanted to tell him that cuz he was a nice guy. He just thought we
didn't "get his humor." Apparently the folks on amateur night didn't get
it either.
ST: I could be a stand-up comic and do impersonations. I've got tons of
stuff from _Dune,_ _Blade Runner,_ _The Usual Suspects,_ _Full Metal
Jacket,_ and much, more. I *even* do an impersonation of an ape picking
up a psychedelic mushroom, eating it, and discovering language. Of
course, I think that also requires Kilgore because it takes two to have a
conversation.
NM: Touring with Kilgore. That would be an experience.
CM: You seem to have some weird aversion to Kilgore.
NM: It's like we know each other too will. Like, I get the feeling that
everytime I'm about to say something, he already knows what I'm going to
say. It's kinda unnerving.
JU: Have you ever talked to him about it?
NM: No. I don't know why, either. Usually I'm pretty upfront with this type
of stuff. But with Kilgore, it's like there's something holding me back.
I lit a cigarette with Jujube's lighter. The lighter was shaped like a
pair of female legs sticking out of a red miniskirt.
NM: Nice lighter. I bet all the guys grope this.
JU: You better believe it.
NM: I should get me one of these. Too chic.
Walrus took a chug from one of his bottles.
WA: Yeah, that's one of the coolest lighters I've seen. Of course, my dad
found one in our garage that has a Confederate flag on it and plays Dixie
when you light it. I dunno where it came from, but it rocks. [takes
another swig from the MD 20/20] Dawg in da house!
NM: What exactly *is* Mad Dog 20/20?
WA: It's wino hooch, man. Fortified wino hooch. This shit is 18%, man...
and cheap! You can get fucked up for the price of a Big Mac Value Meal!
MD 20/20 is in the zone, and that's all you need to know. When I've got
two bottles, I like to call 'em my "wine goggles."
Walrus puts the bottles up to his eyes like binoculars.
CM: That's goofy.
WA: Living in Missouri does that to ya. C'mon, let's go in and sing some bad
gangsta rap songs. We can do "Time to Make the Donuts" by Class A
Felony.
CM: Time to make the donuts?
WA: Yup, time to make the donuts.
Captain Moonlight and Walrus give each other a high five and storm back
inside the house.
JU: The scary thing is that Moonlight hasn't had a drop to drink tonight.
Even the sober people were acting really messed up. I went inside to
check on how things were going.
* * * * *
Monday, December 31, 11:40pm
Inside, the place was loud and raucous. Someone else had taken over
Kilgore's spot at leading the Star Wars drinking game, tipsily fumbling thru a
bunch of pages of rules. Most people were just watching and drinking whenever
they wanted to. Kilgore came out of the bathroom in the hall, saw me, and
walked over.
KT: Having fun yet, Noni?
NM: A little more. Your non-SoB writer friends are pretty cool. They're a
little bit more normal. Except for Walrus and his wine goggles.
KT: Wine goggles?
NM: Never mind.
KT: Heh. So, only about eighteen minutes until the new year. Ya know, I put
in the Star Wars tape so at the stroke of midnight, the Death Star would
blow up. Is that cool or what?
NM: Innovative, even if it does sound a little bit dorky. Whatever gave you
that inspiration?
KT: Oh, I dunno. I figured watching the Death Star blow up instead of Dick
Clark blabbing would be more enjoyable.
NM: You've got a point.
T5: Hey, how many drinks are we supposed to take if someone says, "I've got a
bad feeling about this."
KT: Chug the whole cup.
T5: Oh. I've got a bad feeling about this.
KT: It won't hurt you. The worst that will happen is you'll puke, and
everybody's got to learn their limits somehow.
The teenager lifted the cup to his lips and drank the contents. He then
got an awkward look on his face and ran out the back door. The vomiting
sounds I heard don't need to be described.
DO: [from outside] Shit! Man, you're fucking up our concentration! We're
trying to unlearn language out here!
KT: Heh, heh. Funny guys they are.
NM: Look, we need to talk.
KT: About what?
NM: About me and you.
KT: What about us? Does this mean you're reconsidering going out with me?
NM: No. Look, I think I'm gonna be taking a break from the zine for a while.
KT: Why? Everyone loves your interviews. You're a good writer, and you add
that real-life quality to the zine.
NM: It's just, I dunno. It's hard to explain.
KT: You don't have to explain it if you don't want to. I may get on my knees
and wrap myself around your legs begging you to keep writing, but if you
wanna stop, that's fine with me. Well, that's a lie, but you can do
whatever you want.
NM: Well, I think I need to explain it, but I just don't have the words.
It's like for the past year, most of my creative output has been for the
zine, and that's it. I wanna try different things, in different mediums.
KT: No one said you only had to write for us and that's it.
NM: But it's like there's some strange attraction between me and the zine,
like it's part of me. You've given me an audience, and people know who I
am. A few people, anyway.
KT: Do what you want, Noni. Whatever you need, I'll see what I can't help
you out with.
NM: Thanks. I appreciate that.
Everyone in the room cheered, and we turned and saw the Death Star being
blown to bits. 1997 had officially started.
KT: Hey, it's the New Year. How about a kiss to start things off?
NM: Not a chance.
KT: Denied.
* * * * *
Tuesday, January 1, 1:00am
After the Death Star blew, our crew took off. I drove Kilgore's car cuz
he had found his flask and finished it off. We said goodbye to everybody, and
I drove Hagbard, Captain Moonlight and Ansat home.
We got to my apartment around 1:45am. I parked, got out, and went over
to the passenger side of the car.
NM: C'mon, get out.
KT: Huh?
NM: You're sleeping on my couch. I don't want you driving home like that.
KT: Oh.
NM: C'mon, lemme help you up. Sorry bout have a second-story apartment.
KT: No problem. I've crossed cattle guards while drunk. Steps are a piece
of cake.
We made it to the door, and I unlocked the door and plopped Kilgore down
on the couch. He reached for the pack of filterless Gauloises on the
coffeetable and lit one.
KT: Right now I'm really drunk and feel like white trash, but I'm also
smoking French cigarettes. These feelings are quite confusing.
NM: Don't worry about it. You just need some sleep in preparation for the
nasty hangover you're gonna have tomorrow morning.
KT: [exhaling] I don't get hangovers, Noni.
NM: Hmm. Well, do you want anything to eat?
KT: No, thanks, although I must say you have a very motherly quality about
you right now.
NM: Fuck off. I'm just trying to be polite.
KT: Sorry, it's the alcohol. [stubbing out the cigarette] I think I'll
sleep before I make a bigger fool out of myself.
NM: Good idea. Sleep well.
* * * * *
Tuesday, January 1, 11:32a
I woke up and Kilgore was gone. He left a note thanking me for being so
nice last night and also left me his phone number in case I wanted to go out
sometime. He also drew a little picture on there of a stick figure with blue
hair. I know why he's a writer and not a painter.
A few things oughta be cleared up about the story that might seem a bit
unclear from the transcription. The teenagers were, for the most part, in a
world of their own, and they talked a lot more than what I recorded. I can
only be in one place at a time, and I decided to stick close to the SoB folks.
I heard from down the grapevine that the party had gotten busted shortly after
we left, and the cops didn't believe the kids' stories about a bunch of
college kids bringing free beer to the house.
Doorway, Clockwork, and Nathan never did achieve telepathy that night,
but they came pretty close. They said their closest matchups included
"breast, best, vest" and two "Lucille Balls" and one "old dead lady from a
popular '50s sitcom."
Walrus didn't puke from drinking the two Mad Dog 20/20s. Amazing.
Styx's Fenster impersonation got better and better. When he sobered up,
though, it really sucked.
Jujube smoked even more cigarettes than I did. Amazing.
Captain Moonlight and Ansat were last seen walking into their house
together, singing "Time to Make the Bombing Devices."
Hagbard's pratfall practices have steadily improved his performances for
the Monk's Night Out improv troupe.
As for me, well, this is my last piece for SoB for awhile. It's been a
blast, but I've gotta try my hand at a few different things for awhile. I'll
probably be popping up from time to time, but until then...
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- POETASTRiE -=]
"The poets? They stink. They write badly. They're idiots you see, because
the strong people don't write poetry.... They become hitmen for the Mafia.
The good people do the serious jobs."
--Charles Bukowski
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
LiFE
by DeMoN
Once again, my eyes open;
anguish
Scattered rays of light spill in,
and singe dark eyes
Rise and do their senseless bidding
Stay within their imagined boundaries
Toil alone, always alone
Search for some purpose, some meaning
and find nothing
So i fight,
i am the epitome of rage and hatred
I fight blindly, striking down all in my path,
and see the monster i have become,
the demon they made me
I continue battling
They will not break me today, i whisper
You will not win, i roar,
but slowly, clenched fists open to reveal
empty hands
Victory, defeat, no difference;
i cannot change things by myself
Alone, in the dark, i cry
and the teardrops burn
This gift of life given to me by my creator
is quickly torn from me by my brother
I can fight no longer, been crushed too many times
So i just wait, surviving on meager hopes, until she appears
A black flame with soft white wings,
only her touch can set me free
Her deep eyes intoxicate
Together we revel in our pain and misery,
and somehow, find a twisted brand of happiness, until
a warm kiss, a last caress, and she is gone
Alone again,
time passes, memories fade,
and i cry and wait for this hell to end
Once again they have won
And somewhere a tear drops,
and a flower burns,
and an angel falls
Such is life
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- FiCTiON -=]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
THE MEN THAT EViL DO
by A Piece of Caine
NOW
The coffin shook with rage as it quaked in the ground, trying to spew
forth its contents like a bad piece of meat. It was sickening for those who
were out for some late night Goth fun in the graveyard to hear the pitiful
cries that came from the grave. A constant demonic howl that pierced the soul
on the most base level in the same way a broken relationship did, the crying
of a puppy half run over by some fat man in a Buick. The ground shuddered and
heaved, trying to aid the expulsion of the moaning thing, and in one final
attempt the ground sprayed in all directions over the curiously afraid teens
who never fit in anywhere but with each other late at night in a graveyard,
and the coffin bubbled forth out of the crater and flew open
THEN
The letter arrived by regular mail which was unsurprising to him as he
opened it with a steak knife. Thin was always bad, he knew, and he barely had
to look at it to see the standard litany of the rejected. He dropped it on
the floor and like so much forgotten it lay there quietly. The theme of unholy
angelic choirs sang through his head, mocking him and his uselessness. He
walked upstairs calmly as his mind whirled and his head throbbed in such
pulsing chorus that it became indistinguishable from the voices that called
him a loser-waste of flesh-pathetic nobody-destined to be forever on the
bottom, and of course the ultimate in the litany of taunts, -nothing-
NOW
and revealed the very enraged face of the dead, the corpse that regained
life and was pissed off about it all. The assembled teens screamed in sheer
horror, for while they were forever reading and playing at the living dead,
they never intended to encounter one, especially not this one, this bloated
dark laughing fat man who snarled like a hellhound and stared with inhuman
intensity. It hopped from the coffin and fell to its knees, crying in agony
as the teens made a break for it to escape what they so coolly professed to
care not for previously. It would have none of that and despite the demon
chanting in its head it plodded onward and grabbed one of the teens by the
scruff and put a fist through the boy's chest, the warm feeling of blood on
his forearm as the teen screamed for as long as he could and saw his own guts
in its hand coming out of his chest before he died, and oh how it laughed,
laughed, giggled like
THEN
and that was the worst of it, for he would not be nothing, he abhorred
the thought of it. They rejected him because they knew he was destined to be
something. They persecuted the Son of God when they realized he was going to
change everything, they persecuted Galileo, they always persecute the ones who
will bring change. He knew he was the selected, one of those who would flux
the world with his acts and make it reconsider it all, the champion of change.
He sat on the edge of his bed with the hilarious green quilt and masturbated
furiously and when he exploded he let his seed take root on the carpet for his
was
NOW
a little girl, feeling the teen's body impaled on its arm and hearing the
teen's dying gasp. It leaned in close and took a delicious bite and chewed on
a chunk of the teen's left ear, like a piece of small leather in its mouth,
its tastebuds long since dead. The voices whispered of its power and might
and its rage deepened as it wanted the whole world to know of its triumph over
death itself and of its newfound powers. It stalked onto the street and went
to a house, one of the faceless many in the suburbs and could have been mine
or yours, and it pushed the locked door aside with the ease of slicing bread.
The mundane man of the house stood in his stained shorts and asked a question
that was drowned out by the voices hissing for violence and it shoved forward
and dug into the man's fleshy chest and tore, in a great juicy ripping sound,
a long flap of skin from him. The man's pitch went immediately to high
soprano as he screamed the cry of the damned, the one yell that people make
when death visits, and oh was he death, he was death unlike
THEN
the seed of the future, the beginning of the new way. He shed the rest
of his clothes as unnecessary and the voices quietly whispered sweet death and
mutilation in his ear, and walked downstairs to where THE ITEM was stored. He
fetched it from the desk with ease and loaded it patiently and took the few
spare clips in his other hand and the voices went up a pitch in anticipation
as the sound of someone entering the house floated in from upstairs and he
went and it was his sister, his sweet sister, who was a whore and a drunk, who
had been caught kissing his friend with an open beer between them and he
smiled and shot her five times and she looked surprised as she died and his
erection returned as he turned and faced his mother who stood in pure shock
and shot her four times in the face and the voices whispered their approval in
the darkness of his mind where
NOW
any death before, the new incarnation of the reaper, here to decide who
was worthy of life, and the voices told it no one was. It grabbed the man's
head and twisted it off like a jar and it was frozen in a look of sheer agony
and it liked it and took it with it as it stalked through the filthy living
room and ran into his ugly wife in the kitchen who was doing dishes and was on
her way into the living room when it shot a fist into her stomach and pulled
it out in front of her and it grinned its skeletal grin and the voices sung
his praises as she fell back and flopped around on the floor screaming and it
spoke for the first time and it said that she was destined to die and to have
a nice trip and behind it a small sleepy child came down the stairs and it
spun around and kicked the kid, and kicked the kid hard, very hard, hard
enough for his head to pop away with the groan of snapping muscles and bone as
it landed with a dull plop some distance away. Death was here and death was
pissed and death had voices in its head to tell it who to take with it back to
THEN
rage, rage seethed and bubbled and his anger against the world grew by
leaps and bounds as he ran outside feeling the caress of the wind against him
as neighbours and others came out or glanced out windows to see a naked boy in
the street shooting a gun at those who were near him and laughing with tears
streaming down his cheeks and they didn't really know what to do out of shock
but someone must have called the police after some time because they turned up
and saw carnage, body count all over, shot people, wounded people crawling
away pitifully and the boy in the center of the storm with a gun and police
react in a pretty specific way to this kind of thing and when the boy turned
with gun to face them and they shot him a number of times, they called the
ambulance but it was obviously too late and the boy had no ammunition left
after all so they felt foolish indeed and the funeral was
NOW
NOTHING, oh dear lord no, he was an agent of the NOTHING and the voices
cackled as he stared at the blood on his hands and his bloated form and he was
aware he would never be the catalyst of the earth or the one who changed it
all but would return to NOTHING when his something here was done but why had
it happened this way he had it all worked out and the voices laughed, oh they
laughed like a demonic chorus of chipmunks and taunted his stupidity and
reminded him he was NOTHING in the beginning and NOTHING in the end and
NOTHING was his destiny and he railed and cried at being NOTHING but no tears
came because he had none left to give and he went out to the garage and poured
gas over the car the dead family had and he got in it and lit it up and the
flames raged around him and the voices laughed still as he lost anyway and
NOTHING was increased in power with the boy who thought he was something.
Silly boy, only in the end did he understand that NOTHING will come of NOTHING
and that to be something you have to live and take what moments come your way
and seize those precious moments and onwards and upwards, semper fi and all of
it, the clich?s are all clich?s because they are accurate, the secret to it
all is that you can't be something without being a NOTHING somewhere the same
way we go through agony and hurt to remind us how precious the happy times
are, and you have to walk through the darkness to see how bright the light is.
The flames were bright and higher and higher and he slowly cooked and his
nonflesh melted away while
THEN
small, very small since no one truly spoken wished to admit a knowledge
of the boy. The coffin was lowered into the ground without ceremony and the
men threw dirt over it and puzzled over why.. why it would happen... why it
wasn't prevented... why... why.. WHY
WHY
WHY
WHY
NOW
the answer came to him at his dying moments as he closed his eyes again
and a bright light came to him and he reached out for her hands and it laughed
and told him to fuck off, that knowing WHY at the end was useless, that
knowing WHY during was more important and not to waste what you have, and do
you know what
AHEAD
The letter arrived by regular mail which was unsurprising to him as he
opened with with a steak knife. Thin was always bad, he knew, and he barely
had to look at it to see the standard litany of the rejected. He stopped and
thought for a moment and walked upstairs calmly and sat down at his computer
and began to type again and this time he knew WHY and
THEN+NOW+AHEAD
his work is done.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist"
--Ralph Waldo Emerson, _Self-Reliance_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
ALL THAT CAME BACK WAS THE TiDE
by Aspiraphale
My friend Glen and I had stepped out between classes and gone for a
smoke. It was a daily ritual- we were both seventeen, and while we couldn't
smoke inside the school building, no one really cared if we went outside to do
it. I always bummed my smokes off Glen, but he didn't mind.
We both attended Sir Walter Raleigh, a private high school in the middle
of Minneapolis. It was for rich kids, but I got financial aid and was
accepted despite my family's lack of funds. Glen had rich parents. He had
his own car, and was always dressed in name-brand clothes. For some reason,
we hit it off. We had been friends since our freshman year. We were an
unlikely pair. He was big and athletic, while I was a scrawny hundred pounds.
He always wore expensive clothes; I always wore jeans and a T-shirt. He was
inherently popular, while I was popular because I was his friend.
We leaned against a waist-high brick wall in front of the parking lot and
smoked our cigarettes. He was talking to me about his new car. His parents
had gotten him a VW, a year old, because he was on the honor roll. He liked
it more than his previous car, which had a little rust on it. He was
explaining the merits of a four-cylinder engine and blowing smoke rings when a
car drove past.
I wouldn't have taken notice, but it slowed down when it came closer to
us. It was a nice looking red convertible. There was a really big Hispanic
guy inside. He jerked his head once, nodding. Glen raised a hand. The guy
drove away. A couple minutes later, he drove past again. This time he
stopped at the curb.
"Hey." He looked at Glen. "What did you call me?"
Glen shrugged. "I didn't call you anything. I just waved."
"I heard you call me a dick."
Glen tensed. "No, I didn't."
He was probably hopped up on something. Crank is really big in the
Midwest, and the guy's eyes were bulging out of his head. He looked really
paranoid. He got out of the car, and he was twitching.
"I thought I heard you call me a dick."
"I didn't call you anything. I just waved."
"Oh. I guess that's all right then." The guy relaxed, then hit Glen in the
face. Hard.
It was the first punch I'd ever seen that actually looked like it did in
the movies. Before throwing the punch, the guy let his arm go limp, to make
Glen think he wasn't going to hit him. Then he threw all his weight into
Glen's face, snapping his head back with his fist, landing on the jaw with the
sound of a book snapping shut. Glen stumbled back, his arms flailing.
Then he righted himself. The guy was still in fighting stance. Glen
looked at him coolly, and did nothing. He reached up tentatively with his
hand. He touched his chin; blood was running down his mouth, and when he
removed his hand his fingertips were bright red. He studied his fingertips
for a moment, and then looked down.
When he'd brought his head back to normal position, he'd gotten a bright
splotch of red on his green Polo shirt. When he looked down, he saw the
bloodstain. His eyes widened, and he snarled.
"I PAID SIXTY-THREE DOLLARS FOR THIS SHIRT!" He screamed at the guy. He
stood up, looked at him, and ran at the guy, head down. Even though the man
was larger than we were, he wasn't ready for this ferocity from Glen; he
thought Glen was just another little preppy.
I'd never seen Glen so angry. He ran at the guy and grabbed him by the
collar. Glen turned quickly, and the pull yanked the guy off his feet. Glen
kept turning, and he literally threw the guy over his car. The guy landed on
his back on the tarmac with a grunt, and Glen leaped over the car at him.
Glen kneeled on the other guy's chest and leaned into his face. The
older man was dazed, and he couldn't really make sense of what was going on.
Glen grabbed his head and smashed it into the pavement, then hit him in the
face a couple more times for good measure.
The guy just lay there. Glen got back up -- he had blood all over his
shirt -- and walked over to me. I'd never seen him as angry as he was, but
now he was completely calm. He reached into his jacket pocket, reached in
slowly, withdrew a cigarette, and lit it.
Neither of us said a word. We sat on the wall, smoking, as the guy lay
out in front of us, face bloodied. When Glen finished his cigarette, he
tossed it on the pavement, hopped off the wall and ground it out with his
foot. He walked out to his car, changed his shirt, and walked back. He
kicked the guy in the ribs before heading back to the school.
I was impressed with Glen. We parted ways to our different classes, and
when school was out he gave me a ride home. I didn't see him again until he
was in a holding cell. The guy had suffered from a concussion, fractured
skull, and a broken jaw. He wanted to press charges.
I was involved in the trial, for the defense. I didn't actually have to
take the stand for two days after the trial started. Before me, the
paramedics testified that they had found the man, whose name was Peter
Vasquez, unconscious in the parking lot. Apparently, the fact that Glen had
just left the guy there, without calling an ambulance, hurt him.
The doctors came and testified about the guy's injuries, which were
severe. He was wearing a big bandage on his head and spoke with a voice
muffled by his jaw, wired shut. Glen had a split lip. He hadn't even put a
Band-Aid on it.
When I was called to testify, I told the jury that Glen had acted in
self-defense, after Mr. Vasquez had punched him in the face. I told them I
didn't think there was any reason for Mr. Vasquez to have done what he did. I
told them I thought that he had been on drugs. I thought that I had been
convincing, and I had told the truth, but the jury didn?t seem to buy it.
The trial lasted three days. The jury ruled in favor of one Mr. Peter
Vasquez. Glen was only seventeen, so he was only put on probation for six
months. If he had been tried as an adult, he would have gotten two to five
years in prison. He still wasn't very happy with his situation.
In addition to being on probation, his parents grounded him indefinitely.
They put his car in a storage space and hid the keys. He was allowed to take
the bus to school, go home, and go to see his probation officer. That was it.
On top of all that, the kids at school were spreading nasty rumors about him.
His first day back at school, he showed up with dark rings under his eyes.
He sat alone at the lunch table, something unusual for him. No one would
go near him. I tried to sit down next to him, but he shooed me away. He
looked down at his food, trying to ignore the kids that whispered, giggled,
and pointed at him. Word was spreading that he was a druggie. He would get
"accidentally" tripped in the hallway, or elbowed in the face; he couldn?t
fight back against that.
We didn't have many classes together, so we had our lunch hour to get
together and talk. Instead of eating, he grabbed my arm and pulled me
outside. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one before handing the
pack and lighter to me.
"I can't believe this shit," he grumbled around his cigarette. "I might
as well be in prison for all the freedom I got. I get to come to school. Woo
Hoo."
He took a deep drag on his cigarette, and exhaled. We sat in silence and
smoked. The sun was out, and it shone on his face, casting the shadows deeper
under his eyes. "I'm not getting any goddam sleep. I'm smoking more than I
ever have before. All I do these days," he said, punctuating his sentence by
gesturing with his cigarette, "is smoke."
"No," he abruptly spat out. "I smoke, and I fuckin' jerk off. And I
watch stupid MTV game shows. Nothing. I'm going out of my mind." He took
another drag.
After several minutes of silence, he threw his butt on the ground and
stepped on it. "I've got to do something about this crap. It's driving me
crazy." He walked back toward the school, and though I ran up and walked next
to him, he didn't say anything. He walked back inside, got his lunch tray,
and ate by himself.
I didn't see much of him for several days. He just sat by himself.
After three days or so, I walked over to his table and set my tray down by
his. He still had dark rings under his eyes.
"What's up, dude? You haven't said anything to me for days."
He grunted.
"What's that happy crap?" I snapped at him. "You're pissing me off, and
that's not good. Why are you being such a cretin?"
He looked up from his food. He swallowed, and then he looked up at me.
"Screw you, man. You don't know what's going on. You don't know what I'm
going through. My life sucks right now. And the last thing I need is you
being a dick." He stood up, carried his tray over to the garbage can, and
dumped the whole thing in: food, tray, silverware and all. Then he walked
off. I didn't follow.
I tried to leave him alone after that. All day I tried not to think
about him, didn't try to talk to him in class. He seemed not to care.
The next day at lunch, he set his tray down next to mine. He started to
eat. "What's up, man?" I asked. "I thought you were all pissed off at me."
"Eh." He shrugged his shoulders. "I was having a bad day. Sorry if I
was an asshole to you. In fact, I've been having a bad week. This whole
probation-grounding thing is driving me crazy. I'm trying to figure out a way
to get out."
"Get out? What do you mean?"
He gestured with a tater tot. "Just that; get out. Leave this damn
town, get away from my parents and the damned probation officer. Start fresh
somewhere else."
I was doubtful. "Good luck, but I don't think it's that great an idea.
Where can you go?"
"I dunno. Out of the country. Mexico. It's warm year-round." He
grinned. "I'm passing Spanish."
I shook my head and laughed. "Yeah, right. Mexico."
He shrugged and stood up. "Laugh if you want. I gotta get out of here."
We dumped our garbage in the trash and walked outside. He handed me a
cigarette, put one in his mouth, and gave me a light before lighting his own.
The wind blew the hair away from his forehead. I think that's how I'll always
remember him. Cigarette dangling from his lips, squinting into the horizon,
tie flapping, hands in his pockets. The wind blew the hair from his forehead.
"It wouldn't be too hard," he said. "Hitchhike down, head west. Baja."
He smiled.
"Yeah, right. Baja."
He sighed, and we both sat on the wall, smoking our cigarettes. The wind
smoked more of them than we did. We ground them out and headed back to the
school, parting ways in the hall.
That night, a Thursday, I think, I woke up at three in the morning.
Rapping on my window. I groaned, rolled over. The window opened, and I sat
up. Glen was coming through the window.
"Jesus fucking Christ, man, what the hell are you doing?" I rubbed the
sleep from my eyes and looked up at him. He had on a backpack, jeans and a
T-shirt. "Your parents are gonna kill you!"
He brought his fingers to his lips. "Shut up!" he hissed in the
darkness. "I'm headed for Baja."
I sputtered. "What? Are you crazy?"
"I'll keep in touch!"
"Why did you come here first? If my mom hears you up here, she'll..."
He cut me off. "Well, then, be quiet!"
I calmed down.
"Now, I'm here for a very logical reason. I've got three hundred bucks
to my name. I figure that'll get me, maybe, to Texas. Do you think you could
help me out?"
"Oh, man..." I covered my eyes.
"Dude." He was begging. I grunted.
"Dude. Think about all the damn cigarettes I gave you. I gave you my
old bike. We've been tight."
"Damn." I got out of bed, the wind from the window chilly on my bare
legs. I walked over to my desk, yanked open the drawer. "All I got's a
hundred fifty. This is from my damn job, man; you owe me." I shoved the cash
into his hand.
He grinned at me. "I owe you. I'll send you a postcard."
"Yeah, right. From Baja, right?" I laughed.
His smile widened. "Damn right."
He sneaked back out the window, and I rolled over and went back to sleep.
I thought it was all a dream, when I woke up, but my desk drawer was open and
all the cash was gone. I went to school, not knowing what to expect. He
wasn't there.
When I got back home from school, my mom was waiting for me. "Have you
seen Glen recently?"
"Not really. He was in the lunchroom yesterday; I didn't see him today."
"His mom says he ran away. Do you know anything about this?"
I shook my head. "No idea."
"Jack Michael Irving, are you lying to me?"
"No, mom. Geez." I waited a second. "Where'd he go?"
"They're looking for him. The probation officer's upset. Nora's sick
with worry."
"Wow." I went to my room, and sat down.
Eventually I stopped wondering what had happened to Glen. I became more
popular in my own right at school, and made new friends. Glen faded from my
thoughts. About a month and a half after he snuck through my bedroom window,
I got a postcard. It was postmarked Mexico. In scribbled handwriting: "Not
too far from Baja. Just got to make a short sail across the Bay Of
California. I'm almost there, man." No signature.
I haven't heard from him since. I hope he made it to Baja. Some nights
I wake up, my wife warm at my side, and I almost hear him rapping at my
window. I look up, and see only the tree moving about in the wind and the
moonlight, gently scratching the glass. He?s never there. I think he made
it.
I can see him, in my mind's eye, laying on a towel on a beach somewhere
in Baja, salt water at his feet, grinning up at the sky. He's drinking an
ice-cold beer, peering through sunglasses at the waves out on the Pacific. And
the wind's blowing the hair away from his forehead.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"...a friendship that prides itself on the sharpness and vigour of its
dealings. I like love that bites and scratches till the blood comes. It
is not vigourous and free enough if it is not quarrelsome..."
--Montaigne, _Essays_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
WHAT COURT DiD THAT NiGHT
by Water Damage
Court descended the steps into the Indigo. His dark eyes were hard and
cold, in stark contrast to his youthful face and mussed black hair. It was
apparent in his face -- he had a mission.
The predominant color here was red, a dim red that seemed to radiate from
the furniture and the walls. The coffee shop was filled with a few dozen high
school students, a couple of staff members working the coffee bar, and one
particularly obnoxious punk band. Tonight, it fit Court's mood, and he felt
at ease here. Knowing that it would be easy to accomplish what he had to do
here comforted him, and he relaxed.
He let his eyes scan the place, looking for...
There. Over by the stage, past that group of mohawked junior-high
pseudo-anarchists, he recognized her hair. Her hair had obviously been cut
since the last time he had seen her. Short and straight, Anastasia's red
locks seemed to add even more grace to her already gorgeous figure. She was
perfect, in Court's eyes.
Perfect in his eyes, too, Court observed, noticing that Anastasia was
speaking to some big guy, who looked as enraptured with her as Court felt. One
of the little punks moved out of the way, and Court saw the guy taking Ana's
arm. Court regarded the situation with skeptical interest and a lot of
curiosity, then remembered to look hard and tough again. Guy and girl turned
to look at the band.
Court had absolutely no idea who was playing tonight, which didn't bother
him at all because they were so bad it made his head hurt. His facade did its
job well, because the few who turned to see him when he entered knew there was
something different about this Court, that he was not the same Court of
earlier this evening. He maintained his stern expression, until a
particularly loud power chord erupted from an amp. This didn't bother Court,
but the subsequent shower of sparks and the explosion that came after that
did. He raised an eyebrow and looked in the direction of the stage.
However, he didn't see the amp, he saw Anastasia. She was looking
directly at him. Her pale skin and green eyes had a curious look to them, a
look that shook him out of his bravado. All at once his nervousness
overwhelmed him, playing a terrifyingly rapid melody in his head, and set to
the backdrop of the loud noise of malfunctioning equipment that was coming
from the stage. His false confidence thus evaporated, Court quickly turned
and ran out of the coffee shop.
All of Court's attention was turned now to the pinball game. His little
steel ball had scored him many points, and as long as he kept focus, he was
sure he could rack up free game after free game. Being his only refuge after
his failed attempt to make conversation with Ana, the game room offered a
solitude that no other place in the Student Union could, especially this
pinball game. Court allowed his mind a respite from thinking of her, and
instead he thought of scoring 40 million points and being first on the high
scores list. And so far, with a score of well over 39 million, he was about
to do just that. However, Court had some really bad luck that he couldn't
seem to shake.
His ball rushes to the top of the playing field and comes to it's apex.
Motionless for a moment. It begins it's slow, inexorable descent to Court's
waiting flippers, but a touch on his arm and a voice in his ear annihilates
his concentration.
Court stares as the ball accelerates, and he stares when the ball lands
on one of his impotent flippers. Hands trembling with anxiety, Court looks
down at the table but does not see the impending doom of his little pinball.
Instead, as the little sphere rolls down the incline, he sees a reflection in
the table.
A sweet voice accompanies that reflection, and it's the only thing Court
is hearing right about now.
"Court? Are you listening?" Her hand was still on his arm.
Court's mind was busy racing.
HiAnaDoyoulikebeingcalledAnaorisitAnastasiathat'ssuchaprettynamedoyouwant
togetcof...
She exhaled, her breath a lot closer than before, and that blasted away
any trace of rational thought.
"Yeah, yeah, the band was great and all that," Court says, now
comprehending the situation.
"I didn't like them," Anastasia says. Then, "What do you like?" And
after a moment, "Do you want to go somewhere?"
All Court can think of to say right now is, "the big guy?" However, he
doesn't say that, because he's being lead out of the game room by the object
of his desire.
Court thinks this is great and everything, in spite of his earlier failed
attempts to execute his foolproof plan of winning her affection, but he is
having a hard time picturing what is going to happen next. Floral perfume
fills his nose, her thin skirt is flapping against his jeans as they walk.
Anastasia walks purposefully and quickly, like she knows exactly what is going
on.
Poor Court, though is utterly confused. She asks him what he is thinking
about, but he doesn't answer.
He's thinking, "Where in the world is that big guy?"
Court never found out where that big guy was. As it turned out, it
didn't matter much. Ana made Court drive, told him to go to her house, but
Court never made it because he ran out of gas. Court remembers in perfect
detail what happened during the rest of that night, but he's too shy to tell
anyone about it. He asks me to keep it a secret, too.
"We'll let them use their imagination," he says with a smile.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"Uh, does anyone want to see my unit?"
--Butthead, _Beavis and Butthead do America_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
SELF PORTRAiT: ARTiST WiTH WORDS
by Crux Ansata
I am sitting in a darkened movie theater. There is a Monty Python film
on the screen. I've seen it before. Everyone's seen it before. Every man,
woman, and child capable of speech can recite the film from beginning to end.
In a bizarre vindication of Lamark, infants are being born capable of speech,
but only for reciting this film.
I am sitting in a darkened movie theater. I am suddenly aware of a sharp
pain in one leg. I look around, and see a fellow in the row ahead of me.
Wrapped up in the movie, he has dropped his cigarette in his lap. I snap at
him: "Do you mind! You're hurting your leg."
I am sitting in a darkened movie theater. There is a hand on my leg. It
is not an unpleasant feeling, though it is an unfamiliar one. I look over at
her. I am returning her caress. We slip out, forgetful of the friends we
each came in with. We are driving, fast, down back roads, but I am not paying
too much attention to where I am driving. I have other things on my mind. We
park. We kiss. She whispers in my ear to put my hands around her throat. I
am scared; I remember unpleasant happenings in my childhood. Thinking back, I
fail to think of the present. I crush too hard. Panicked, I push the body
out of the car and slip back into the theater.
I am sitting in a darkened movie theater. I am alone.
I am sitting in a darkened movie theater. I relax, and let time go by
around me. As I relax, time speeds up. People come in, grow old, die around
me. Some leave, but very few seem even to realize there is a world outside
this room. I try to forget that there is.
I am sitting in a darkened movie theater. On the screen, a small,
inoffensive man is being beaten. The people around me are laughing. I am
crying.
I am sitting in a darkened movie theater. I am cradling a small Arab boy
on my lap. His white burnoose drapes around both our laps. He understands
nothing going on up on the screen, but that is alright. I can hardly follow
it myself. There is little call to use Italian in Algeria. I can follow the
action, and so could he if he were watching the screen, but he isn't. He is
playing with a large cockroach he captured outside his house. The cockroach
runs up one hand to the other, and the boy shifts his hands, to perpetuate the
process. I imagine the cockroach must imagine he's going somewhere.
I am sitting in a darkened movie theater. It isn't dark enough.
I am sitting in a darkened movie theater. A girl sits beside me. We are
in love. I gaze over at her. She is angelic, so young, so pale, so slender.
I pull her to me, crush her to me, and we kiss, deeply. She seems
extraordinarily alert, like she is superaware of every sensation. Painfully
alive. I feel her body convulse slightly. I imagine she is crying, overtaken
with emotion, and relax my hold. She coughs. Her child's body is wracked
with spasms. Her white dress is streaked with red. After a moment, she turns
paler, and is still.
I am sitting in a darkened movie theater. A girl sits in front of me.
In the glow of the screen the fabric of her blouse shimmers and holds close to
her skin. It seems to glow in the dark, a pale blue, almost more white than
white. As she breathes, the blouse swells and contracts around her, below the
ribs, pulsing slowly. I am reminded of the breathing of a toad.
I am sitting in a darkened movie theater. In front of me, a screen full
of actors is staring at me. They laugh.
I am sitting in a darkened movie theater. I lean back and look up at the
ceiling. It is odd, yet soothing. Herring-gull gray, lightly domed, and
quilted into small squares, each swollen out, pendant, with a little cloth
covered button in the center. The walls are quilted gray like the ceiling.
Only the floor has been spared, carpeted with a dull flesh-pink. The forest
of hanging pads hangs in upside down rows, like miniature molehills, or ant
heaps, or rows of even schoolgirl's breasts, a canopy of nippled buds.
I am sitting in a darkened movie theater. No girl puts her hand on my
leg. I cry.
I am sitting in a darkened movie theater. I look up at the screen. On
it, a man is sitting in a darkened movie theater. He looks up at the screen.
On it, a man is sitting in a darkened movie theater. ...
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
Stuckness shouldn't be avoided. It's the psychic predecessor of all real
understanding. An egoless acceptance of stuckness is a key to an
understanding of all Quality, in mechanical work as in other endeavors.
-- Robert M. Pirsig, "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance"
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
DiGGiNG TOWARD THE ROOTS
by I Wish My Name Were Nathan, Wannabe Sage
"Everything is true, everything is permitted." -- Hassan i Sabbah
"Nothing is true, everything is permitted." -- Chaos Magick
"Everything is true, nothing is permitted." -- Dada
"Nothing is true, nothing is permitted, and shut up." -- Government
"This is my Lamp of Truth. It says so right on the base: 'Flip the
switch to be Enlightened.' I think the lamp looks nice in the middle of the
room, don't you? Someone might trip over the cord so I don't have it plugged
in. See the design on that lampshade? I slave to keep it dusted. I think
I'll paint the lamp some day. What a pretty lamp nonetheless! I wish I knew
how it worked. I have an idea, let's take it apart. Of course there's no
instructions. I'm telling you, I need to take it apart to understand it.
Aaah, if I break it, I'll just blame you." -- Man
* * * * *
Tobiah was sitting on a metal bench outside in the cold waiting for his
bus to pick him up. Shivering there uncomfortably in a too-light jacket
grasping his arms around himself reminded him of high school, when he used to
do the exact same thing. He hated the cold. He hated to shiver. But he also
hated the annoyance of carrying around a heavy jacket all day as he shuttled
from class to class. Tobiah's nose dripped resentfully, watery mucous covering
his lip and running down over his lips, where he wiped them on the sleeve of
his polyester jacket and grimaced at the sound it made. The last thing he
needed now was for a girl to hit on him.
"Move over," said a girl who appeared out of nowhere and who proceeded to
rap her fist on Tobiah's shoulder. "I wanna sit next to you."
Tobiah scooted over a foot and proceeded to ignore her, caring more at the
moment to preserve his warmth the old-fashioned way -- by squandering it. He
continued to breathe hot air into his hands, which he'd had to rip out of his
pockets in order to keep his runny nose under control, and muttered over and
over again in his mind how much he wanted the bus to arrive.
The bus was in fact late, having slid over some ice into oncoming traffic.
The driver was okay. The bus was not. Tobiah would be waiting a while.
"Here, kid, mop yourself dry," the girl said, waving a tissue in front of
Tobiah's face. "You're gonna get a rash."
He was glad to accept the offer. He snatched the tissue away and held it
bunched up over his nose. "Thanks," he said. "What do you want in return?"
The girl smiled. "That's an odd question. Ordinarily, nothing, but since
you asked.... What's your name?"
"Tobiah," he said.
"That's an odd name."
"It's just a complicated way of saying 'Toby.'"
"Well, I like it anyway. I'm Leonania."
"Shit, talk about complicated names," Toby said derisively, sniffing up a
wad of mucous in surprise.
"I'm just kidding. My real name is Kathryn."
"Oh, okay."
Toby sat back against the brick wall the bench was attached to and sighed
deeply. He had come down with a pounding headache, which could only mean that
he'd inadvertently stirred up enough heat while talking to sensitize his brain
again, reminding him that he wasn't wearing a hat.
"What's wrong?" Kathryn asked.
"Headache."
"You've got no hat."
"Ssssh, leave me alone. I want my head to freeze again so I don't feel
it."
"Well, okay."
Kathryn was quite warm, thank you very much, with a leather jacket
equipped with a furry collar, a thick green hat, heavy gloves, and jeans.
"Don't your legs get cold?" she asked, looking at Toby's bluing calves.
"I can't feel them anymore. Doesn't matter."
"C'mon, Toby," she said, clapping her hands together, "Put your legs up
here where I can hold them. You're much too cute to go to waste."
"Good grief, every day it's the same thing. No, Leonania, or Kathryn, or
whatever. I'm perfectly fine. You don't have to save my life. Sheesh! Let a
guy freeze, wontcha?"
Kathryn leaned back, bemused. Toby seemed like a tough case. "I'll
tickle you," she threatened.
"Go ahead, I can't feel a thing."
She took the bait and immediately reached for Toby's knee and squeezed it
between her thumb and forefinger. It elicited no response. "Hmmmm," she said.
"Told ya so," he taunted against his will, wanting ever so much to stay
quiet so his headache would go away. He realized with dread that upon thinking
of his knee, it started to regain feeling again. "Damn!" he cursed. It
started to ache and throb. "Did you break it or what?" He found himself
rubbing his knee for warmth, cursing his luck. "Where the hell is the bus?"
"Probably it's stranded, or it got in a wreck while sliding into oncoming
traffic or something. That's what they said on the radio, at least."
Toby looked up, appalled. "You knew that all this time? I coulda gone
home!"
"I *was* trying to keep you warm," Kathryn said.
"Dammit, dammit, dammit!" he cursed, standing up uneasily, his confidence
weakened both by his numb legs and the tenuous grip his shoes had on the icy
sidewalk. "I'm going home now!" he announced, waddling forth down the
sidewalk, bracing his face against the breeze he encountered once out of the
bench's enclave. "Thanks for the kleenex!" he said, and went off.
Kathryn watched him leave, awed. It was a tense first meeting, she knew,
but it only made her more determined to make her his.
* * * * *
The next morning it was even colder than before, but the bus didn't have a
wreck and Toby didn't have to wait outside in the cold but for ten minutes. He
clambered up the steps into the bus and took the first seat behind the driver.
The driver shut the door and proceeded to release the brake.
"Uh, you might want to wait for Kathryn," Toby said.
"Kathryn who? New rider?"
"Uh... I guess. She was here yesterday."
"Well, too bad for her if she doesn't show up on time, that's what I say.
I got a schedule to keep. You tell her to show up earlier tomorrow."
The bus took off, and Toby let forth a resigned sigh. Remembering how she
treated him the day before, though, he was indifferent if she had to walk
today. He sat back and glanced over his notes.
* * * * *
That day he looked around offhandedly for Kathryn. He wanted to return
her tissue. Although it annoyed him for girls to try to save his life, he was
very polite about turning them down.
What caught Toby by surprise was the sudden onslaught of female
intervention in his life. This was nothing like in high school, when he
distinctly remembered girls' mothers warning them to stay away from him. Maybe
it was the lack of parental supervision that now allowed these girls to brashly
attempt to rescue him from death.
Just a week before, when it hadn't been half as cold, a different girl
named Jackie tried to save his life while he sat half-naked on the bench
waiting for the bus. She made a big fuss about hypothermia and
vasoconstriction and the warm-blooded nature of mammals that necessitated their
search for heat energy to prevent dying. He brushed her off politely but still
saw her stealing worried glances at him from across the commons sometimes.
He looked sideways and saw Jackie peering at him. He walked on.
Toby had a class in the Fine Arts building on the third floor. Having
arrived early, he waited in the stairwell and sat in a window overlooking the
parking lot. He saw the heavily-clothed people rushing around below like
oversized steaming ants who were eager to get bachelor's degrees. He wondered
if he should go sit outside in the cold to attract some more feminine
attention. Before he could do it, people started shuffling up the stairs.
Class was starting. He'd have to wait until lunch.
* * * * *
At lunch, Toby went outside and sat in a tree and munched on a sandwich.
He let his bare legs swing playfully below him as he scanned the crowds for a
trace of Kathryn. He couldn't spot her and assumed that like most people she
was probably eating at a fast-food place, if she had showed up at all. He let
her slip his mind.
Instead, he started thinking about the prophet that was supposed to arrive
sometime that week. It was big news at Howard College, which tended toward
religious dogmatism in lieu of a nearby video store. A minor prophet was
supposed to materialize in a crowd of people in a shower of light. No one knew
what a "shower of light" was supposed to look like, but they all agreed that if
it were to happen, it'd be pretty much proof that the prophet was really from
the beyond.
Toby had thought it would be cool for a prophet to arrive and bring good
news from God, so he had written the anonymous letters to the town and school
newspapers predicting the prophet's arrival. He fully expected the prophet to
show up. It had been a slow winter.
It was recorded fact that no prophets had ever arrived on the campus of
Howard College. If Toby had attended the freshman inculcation instead of
dropping acid and visiting the bell tower on campus which was his only reason
for going there, he would have found out that Artemis Howard, the founder of
the college, had indeed intended the students of Howard to be raised in a God-
fearing manner that would prepare them for direct words from the Lord. The
provost of Howard had been reminded of this every year since, although the
statement eventually lost its meaning once Time declared that God was dead.
Toby's prediction came at an excellent time to jumpstart the murmuring
premillenial fever that would soon overtake the college.
He finished eating his sandwich and jumped down from the tree. His legs
were numb and he was sent sprawling to the ground. He got up, face and arms
reddening from the impact, smiled proudly, and entered the crowd, trying to
judge its enthusiasm for the prophet.
"You're gonna go inside?" he heard a smoker boy say to another. "I know
it's cold, but dontcha wanna wait for the *prophet*?" he jeered.
"Hey, watch it, bucky. It's gonna show up. You fuckin' heretic."
Another small group of people, a few boys, a few girls, were eagerly
discussing the letters they'd read in the paper.
"I am, like, *so* in tune with God right now," one girl gushed. "I think
something *awesome* is gonna transpire."
"I am totally in agreement. Listen, listen. I've been following Timewave
Zero for a few months now, and that thing says novelty is supposed to be