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Volume 1 Issue 1
SPECIAL GUESTS:
The Gas Station Des Beaux Arts
........................William Dubie
Les Coquelicots
........................John Wojdylo
Andrei Codrescu: The WELL Interview
........................The WELLbeings
Honey Harvest
........................Robert Curtis Davis
Civil Service, Part I
The first chapter in a six-part serial
........................Kenneth Wolman
CORE may be reproduced freely *in its entirety only* throughout Cyberspace.
Please obtain permission of authors to reproduce individual works. Send
submissions, subscription requests, etc. to rita@eff.org. CORE is available
via anonymous ftp from eff.org (journals directory).
__________________________________________________________________________
Rita Marie Rouvalis, EIC rita@eff.org
Unroll that Scroll
CORE. The latest blaze of organized electrons to blast
across Cyberspace.
While I was editing this first issue of CORE, it was suggested
to me that I print out what I had, tape the pieces end-on-end, and see
what this did for my creative process. This idea seemed more reasonable
than ruining what remains of my eyesight and wearing out my arrow keys.
So, risking life and limb, I climbed onto my rather mobile chair
and stuck the resulting eight-foot-long sheet of paper to my office wall.
Then I stared. And stared. And stared some more. I decided that what
was appearing before my glazed eyes was what the ancient Phoenicians
were *really* after when they invented scrolls; they just didn't have
computers yet.
The Phoenicians didn't have a California-style flare for interactive
electronic interviewing, either. Not too long ago, Romanian poet Andrei
Codrescu was given a temporary account on the WELL (Whole Earth 'Lectronic
Link), a conferencing and e-mail service offered by the folks who publish
WHOLE EARTH REVIEW. For a pre-determined time span, WELLbeings (as WELL
subscribers prefer to think of themselves) fired questions at Andrei.
The result is cool; read it for yourself.
Oh, special thanks to my CD collection and Hurricane Bob.
__________________________________________________________________________
William Dubie (dubie@tnpubs.enet.dec.com)
THE GAS STATION DES BEAUX ARTS
Originals ring the pumps, oil (Quaker State?)
on velvet, each frame as slate,
masters of mechanics, with profiles fluorescent
as an Elvis collar--high art and octane for your dollar.
The tiger on velvet is the one in your tank.
Drive by a vulture for Icarus, Judas Priest,
before your pistons need grease.
The gallery of gas, petroleum--
Pointillism is ink in a shirt pocket; surrealism,
The abstracts of oil and water rainbowing the station,
made possible by a grant from Mobil Corp.
__________________________________________________________________________
John Wojdylo (infidel@maths.uwa.oz.au)
LES COQUELICOTS
(after Monet)
A moment of solitude. A corn field with poppies: stalks away in rhythm. And a
hill overlooks a
vineyard, another overlooks a village with children playing in the school yard.
buildings modern and cosmopolitan, and cities shriek, bustle, noise. Monuments,
churches intoxicate, noise.
Noise.
The countryside: silence, a gentle breeze, vineyards, lush green pastures, sweet
dancing poppies.
It might have been 1820. The lady wades forward, a red sea around, a wake
behind.
There, a bridge! Downstream:
narrow, meandering water, willows and other trees on either side, and a
dusty road. Upstream:
a splendid white castle half in shadow in the late afternoon sun.
To her left, a row of trees far away, were they planted? To her right, over the
A river. A city. Carts. Automobiles.
Or poppies, as far as the eye can see.
She longs to return, to
relive memories, to savour experiences now that she is older and wiser.
To savour, far from home and family, security, convenience, safety.
What if old friendships have become
too dim for rekindling?
Alone. In a land of strangers. In a poppy field in a distant land for which
she yearns.
The Lady's little brother has joined her, and he's picked some poppies and is
smelling them, and
wonders how such a pretty flower has no scent. Mother and sister are not far
behind.
____________________________________________________________________________
The WELLbeings (lcole@well.sf.ca.us)
ANDREI CODRESCU: THE WELL INTERVIEW
The voice and charming Romanian accent of Andrei Codrescu are
familiar to many of us. His weekly commentaries on National Public
Radio's "All Things Considered" are heard by as many as five million
listeners.
Mr. Codrescu is the author of more than twenty-five books of
poetry, fiction, essays, and memoirs. His most recent book, published
by Addison-Wesley, "Raised By Puppets Only to Be Killed by Research" is
a collection of radio commentaries and newspaper essays.
Just published is "The Disappearance of the Outside," a book of
philosophy drawn from his recent visit to Romania. The material for
this book prompted a call from MGM to discuss the possibility of a
film. He is also the founder and editor of "Exquisite Corpse," a
literary journal.
Seeing his homeland again has prompted Mr. Codrescu to help with
the country's development effort. Prior to the overthrow of the
Ceausescu Regime, a single typewriter was regarded as a printing press,
far too dangerous to be left unregulated. The result of such regulation
is a country that today lacks the typewriters, copiers, facsimile
machines, personal computers, and video cameras necessary for the flow
and sharing of information. Mr. Codrescu is working with a nonprofit
organization called Information Tools For Romania to encourage desktop
publishing in Romania.
Mr. Codrescu lives in New Orleans with his wife Alice and their
two sons. He is a professor at Louisiana State University in Baton
Rouge where he teaches English. He was born in 1946 in Sibiu, Romania,
(most references say Transylvania) and came to The United States in
1966. He has also lived and worked in San Francisco, New York, and
Baltimore.
Gregory McNamee (gmcnamee)
Andrei, I'm curious to know what Romanian writers you recommend
to American readers (which presupposes the availability of English-language
editions of their work); what Romanian writers _must_ be translated into
English immediately; what American writers are important to Romanian
readers.
Andrei Codrescu
Greg, Romanian literature exists in suspended animation waiting for
translators. I don't translate what I really love --poetry-- because I
don't want to wreck it. But I can make a list of poets and novelists (and
two poetry critics) who can probably stand up to some wreckage. Romanian
literature is mostly poetry because poets knew how to wrap themselves in
a special language that protected them from grosso bureaucrats whose spew
drowned the pais for 45 yrs. It is very beautiful stuff filled with
oblique hints for survival. We disdained prose writers and, consequently,
have no real dissident tradition Russian-style.
Ron Buck (macbeth)
Andrei, them members of the poetry conference would very much like to
have a list of your poetic works available in the states.
Andrei Codrescu
My new poetry books are "Comrade Past & Mister Present," (Coffee House
Press), "Belligerence" (Coffee House), and then there are a few others
in obscure corners of hidden bookstores in bad parts of town. Thanks.
Bob Jacobson (bluefire)
What's it like to be a seer in the South? I mean, have you ever gone
"down on the bayou" or are you only there temporarily, until something
dramatic propels you north or even back to Romania?
And what's your opinion of the poetic enterprise? I've heard a criti-
cism that poetry (at least in America) is declining into an an intro-
verted, overly descriptive personal mode and losing its social context
and content. Do you agree?
Andrei Codrescu
The South is a lot like the Balkans: slow, inefficient, bureaucratic,
charming, full of stories and people who know how to tell them, a certain
ambiguity in language born out of colonialism, stubborn insistence on the
local, inability to say no to bad guys (like Rollins Co.), an excess of
politeness that hides 800 forms of resentment. In short, what's good about
it is what drives you crazy. It's a perfect place for a writer because
there is lots of interestingly used language ready for overhearing, and
much to observe. Even my most resolutely illiterate students can spin a
good yarn with perfect timing, either because they grew up under the dining
table listening to large families yammer, or because it's so hot in the
summer you have to tell cool stories to yourself. And there are many
varieties of home-grown craziness here that are peculiarly linked to the
word.
Poetry in America is another story, and at the risk of vanity here, I
would recommend the two anthologies I edited myself, "American Poetry
Since 1970: Up Late," and "The Stiffest of the Corpse: an Exquisite
Corpse Reader, 1983-1988." I edited the first one because I couldn't
find a commercial anthology to teach from so I made my own. I also
edited it because I think American poetry's become a boring lowpaid
whitecollar profession in the past decade, thanks to MFA Writing
Pograms, the NEA, and other well-meaning instututional strangulation.
It used to be (and still is, in Eastern Europe, Lower East Side, and
wherever my friends live) that poetry was a dangerous practice rightly
feared by nice people. A poet was considered liable to do any unpredictable
thing at any given moment, a power few people can claim. When poetry is
domesticated, that possibility is removed. No more Slack. Well,
I'm in the Slack Business -- I advocate and teach it. So you can say
that there is the Dangerous Slack Poetry made by the poets I
anthologised (and many others of their ilk) and the Academic Poesy of
non-threatening confession and stylistic contemplation which is the
prefered mode of Mainstream Am Lit, a small pie with eight hundred
thousand grubby but clean fingers in it. Alas.
That demands a corresponding increase in attention from the people to
whom the flow is directed, a commodity in short supply at the best of times.
In other words, there are more producers and fewer consumers, more writers
and less readers, more performers and less listeners. That's fine with me
because I'm an anarchist and I don't believe in "audience." I think everyone
should produce even if no one's buying. Eventually (I mean already!)
somebody'll be producing Attention, hence professional listeners, etc.
The age of Audience for Pay is here. If you give everybody a dollar
to read your book everybody wins. I knew this kid in San Francisco,
ten years old, used to go to poetry readings, then ask everybody
for a dollar to be quiet. Today he's one of our most famous poets,
Mr. John Ashbery. Just kidding, John.
Barry Michael Balch (barry)
My question has to do with your being a poet, going into exile and
then becoming a poet again in a second language. Having grown up in
American English, it's pretty transparent to me, I don't see how it
effects me. As you became a writer again in American English, what
did you discover about our language? What are its particular
qualities and peculiar ones. What can it express easily and what
only with difficulty? What does it sound like (I have a smattering
enough of German and French to be able to taste them as sounds and
music but strangely I don't have this experience of English).
Andrei Codrescu
The language switch question is one I have often pondered in both
languages. It's a long story, but briefly, learning a new language
(and living in it) is being born again. You have all this new sound
and no taboos (nobody told you no-no about certain words). It's like
being simultaneously forgiven and given license to cause more trouble.
Romanians are wired for language more poetically, Americans more
practically. R is more oblique and metaphorical, A is more direct and
actual. They both feed my poetic perversions. In "Disappearance of the
Outside," my new book (has anyone advertised more things in here?) I
hold forth at some length about language switches. (I believe that the
brain contains "holes" for every language, including Mongolian kitchen-
speak, and that when you try, you just slip these langs. in the holes
already there for them. Unfortunately, my ports are serial so I can
only speak and think well in one lang. at a time.
Jay Allison (jwa)
OK, how about your radio commentaries? Your voice and ideas are
refreshing on "All Things Considered" because they don't fit. Your sound
is not standard; your thoughts are weird. What a welcome change.
1) Are you given pretty much free reign editorially? Does your material
always pass inspection...for instance, did NPR broadcast *all* the essays
in "Raised by Puppets...?" Have you been censored?
2) Do you listen to much public radio? What is your opinion of the
programming? What might our public broadcasting system do that it is not
doing now?
Andrei Codrescu
NPR has let me do pretty much what I want, which is amazing even to
me. There are some pieces in the PUPPETS that were not broadcast for
reasons having to do with timing -- some comments on the news became
dated. In fact, I invited displeasure several times by being as bad
as I could without actually saying the 7 words, and still the pieces
were used. There are two possibilities: 1) I'm very good, 2) I'm not
very subversive. Pass the cyanide.
I have very few opinions about radio because I rarely listen. I like
community radio that has ALL THE NEWS on: ideally, the station is in
a tower where somebody can watch everyone in town, tell people about
who's visiting who, what dogs have no leash, etc. For the longest
time I couldn't stand to hear my voice -- now I listen as if it's
someone else. And it is. Someone called on the phone the other day and as
we were talking he said, "Shuddup, you're on the radio!"
Do you really think I'm weird? I was hoping to be anonymous.
David Newman (dn)
Andrei, you mention the "well-meaning institutional strangulation" of the
NEA. Should a government fund art? How?
Andrei Codrescu
Yes, govt. should fund art as long as it funds missiles. It's a matter
of tax-money priorities. When we stop funding missiles, we should stop
funding art. PERSONALLY, I think EVERY ORIGINAL GESTURE should be declared
ART, and receive FUNDING. But if you do it twice, cut the money!
David Newman (dn)
Ok, Andrei, you asked for it.
What is art?
Andrei Codrescu
Whatever isn't nature, 2) A friend of mine, 3) Whatever escapes analysis,
4) The next thing I say, 5) Something even the dead can dig, 6) Etc
Jay Allison (jwa)
Do we have to stop now? Can't we just go to the bathroom and come back?
__________________________________________________________________________
Robert Curtis Davis (sonny@trantor.harris-atd.com)
HONEY HARVEST
In the hour of our dripping bee-harvest
In the time of our undammed honey's golden flow
When pollen-burdened bodies drop cargoes of nectared sweetness
To fill the ample ambered vats within my waxy chambered comb,
Who shall stand on the far ramparts fanning fanning
To cool the vast and ordered industry of my hive?
Who shall stroke the rounded belly of my favored queen?
Who shall invade the teeming intricacies of the guarded nests
And scorning formic acid dript from angered slavering jaws,
Steal the sugared prize from 'neath that potent nose?
Who shall rape the fat ripe bodies of the swollen aphid herd
Plunder the toothsome richness of that honeyed hoard
And stroking stroking make them yield sweet juices down?
Listen! What lisps in sibilant whispers there on the edge of darkness?
Quick! Plug the bungs on waxen casks brim'd full against hoar winter's frost
Words of a necromancer's charm spin out from the damp and coiling mist
Chilling incantations roll down the cold cold corridors of this old old earth
I stand, am ready, unafraid; my honeyed horn is full
I shall feed among the lilies, dance upon the high spiced mountain
And sing the unsung satyr's song.
___________________________________________________________________________
Kenneth Wolman (ktw@hlwpk.att.com)
CIVIL SERVICE
a six-part serial
Part I
Many of the supervisors were lifers, and wore a kind of
Civil Service uniform. Their shirts were solid, glaring
starched-white with pre-wrinkled collars, plucked from the
bottom of the pile at Klein's. The ties were narrow, dark,
and looked like they'd been sewn by Ray Charles. The pants
were strictly sub-basement, dark and coffee-stained so-
called summer weights with razor cuffs not quite covering
howling red socks and Navy-last clunky black shoes, scuffed
and needing heels. Variants there were: but the first
impression as you stepped from the elevator was of
uniformity, a perfect blend with the bile-green walls.
By contrast, the caseworkers were a weird mix, and
Gelfen was one of them down to his ass-tight jeans and
McCreedy and Shreiber boots. He would sit, when nothing much
was going on in the office, contemplating with a mixture of
admiration and lust the braless boobs, flat stomachs, and
rock-crusher hips of the young women who worked with him,
and who, like himself, had dropped into Welfare for a few
years after college to pick up a fast dollar without
working. For two years, since 1966 and getting his Masters
in Sosh from Brooklyn, Gelfen had held down a desk in the
New York City Department of Social Services, first in
downtown Brooklyn and later, when he pulled some seniority
and friendly strings in the Union office, in a cavernous old
building in the East Bronx, a ten minute bus ride from his
apartment.
There was a voice in his back brain that would, now and
again, warn him to get off his ass, for he was 26, too old
to jam stupid, impressionable Child Welfare workers on the
stairs during lunch hour, filling them with something other
than ideals about saving the Wretched of the Earth. The
voice would tell him to go back to grad school and/or get a
real job, instead of mopping up after other people's
miseries and swills. Gelfen did his best to ignore the
voice: irritating as the job could be, at least it paid the
rent. He lived alone in a rundown but reasonably solid
tenement near the Harlem River, listening with half an ear
to the music of the Puerto Rican family directly upstairs.
Some friends had once been by, and after three solid hours
of top-volume performances by Tito Rodriguez, Eddie
Palmieri, and Jose Maria Peneranda, they decided that God
was a Puerto Rican who had created ``cockroach music'' to
smoke pot by. In any case, the Esperanza family was
inoffensive enough, and they, for their part, were knocked
out to have a non-complaining neighbor who would even split
a few _cervezas frias_ with them on the front steps of a hot
afternoon. Affectionately grinning, they referred to Gelfen
as ``El Heepee,'' and were always ready with a friendly wave
in the market or on the street. That, Gelfen suspected, was
because they'd never seen the black looseleaf Welfare
notebook inside his vinyl briefcase. Nobody who'd ever been
on Welfare could dissociate the meaning of that book from
the person who carried it.
Gelfen was pretty sure the upstairs PRs were reliefers.
The first day of the month once fell on a Saturday, and
Gelfen, heading out at noon, spotted Mrs. Esperanza standing
against the hallway mailboxes, practically embracing them,
waiting for the mailman to show up with a sack filled with
Welfare checks. Gelfen's caseload was largely Puerto Rican,
too, and he figured he didn't think of his neighbors in
quite the same way he did his clients, probably because the
Esperanzas, in their turn, didn't know the truth about him.
With his own clients, Gelfen could never quite shake
the gnawing intuition that they were in some covert way
trying to hustle his good nature into their pockets. He
listened to the hard-luck stories they pitched at him with
an arm that could have made Tom Seaver die from envy; and
even when he was _sure_ he was being set up as the
intermediary between the client and the City's money, more
often than not something in their stories - a practiced
vocalism? a facial expression? an implied threat? - always
caused him to submit.
_I no get my cheque, Meestah Geffen_, when he knew
goddamned well they probably had.
(Suppose, however, they weren't lying, and he was the
ogre responsible for a family of eight spending the night in
- oh Christ! - Crotona Park?)
Or, _Meestah Geffen, I need de money to buy meelk fo'
de babee_ which had been fathered on her by a common-law
_esposo_ who was supposed to be in Puerto Rico with his
mother, but who was, in the meantime, stopping by to screw
the broad every night until he dropped.
(But what if she was for real? What if Miguel Serrano,
age 21, father of four children by three women, was in fact
taking R & R in Mayaguez, and the chick was playing it
straight? Gelfen imagined reading in the _News_ that her
little girl, suffering from a massive absence of calcium,
was lying wet-eyed and scared in Lincoln Hospital, dying.)
Or, _I canno' work, Meestah Geffen, I hab de asthma_, a
crock of shit for sure, because the guy looked like he could
acquit himself honorably in the ring, and probably was
driving a cab in Queens or Brooklyn, where he wasn't known.
(But what if he really _did_ have asthma, better known
as the Puerto Rican endemic disease? Gelfen had been in
Welfare about four months when he saw a woman client die of
an asthma attack on the floor of the Fort Greene Intake
unit, and he puked from a combination of horror and disgust
at the poor woman's contorted, royal-purple face trying like
hell to suck in those final breaths.)
So despite not-infrequent suspicions that he was being
gotten the better of, Gelfen followed the line of least
resistance: like his coworkers, he phonied records, wrote
duplication grants using different codes to cover his
tracks, and unless his own ass was near the fire, let his
clients get away with the fruits of their creativity. It was
easier than following the City's policy manuals, which
prescribed an investigation process worthy of Scotland Yard:
checking the rent and utility receipts; checking the
closets, the drawers, the kitchen; checking in, above, and
under the beds; checking school records to make damn sure
the family _had_ all the kids it was collecting on. Nobody
did this anymore except a few old-line caseworkers who had
joined up back when the job title precisely described the
function and m.o.: _Social Investigator_. Gelfen's training
supervisor for his first few months had been a huge Jamaican
ex-cop who loathed Welfare clients with a near-religious
passion and probably (imagined Gelfen) loathed himself for
sticking around to indoctrinate Trainees with the glee of a
CIA man into the secrets of sniffing out the unwashed
jockstrap, the half-used tube of Delfen, the semen-stained
bedsheet, even (a grand catch!) the set of works in the
bureau drawer. Gelfen, for his part terrified of this
limbo-dancing Jack Johnson who still kept his carry permit
and snub-nosed .38 in his desk, went along with the process
and did the whole number on his first clients, who he was
sure came to hate him with a hatred only prisoners could
feel. When he was transferred to a regular casework unit at
the end of three months, he put the huge Jamaican behind him
and assimilated into the common run of things as described
to him by a coworker his first week:
``You come in at 9:04. You shuffle some papers from one
side of the desk to the other. You go across the street for
breakfast, check out some chicks, buy some cigarettes, get
the _Times_, go back to your desk by ten, read, smoke,
answer a few phones, generally fart around, go to lunch from
twelve to two, float around the office from two to four,
work like hell from four to five, and go home.'' Gelfen,
enervated by the weight of the job when done By The Book,
fell right in line: laid back most of the time, made
desultory visits when the mood hit him, and picked up his
paycheck every second Friday. The only times it got tight
were for three days following the 1st and 16th of each
month, when Intake looked like the flight of the Hebrews in
_The Ten Commandments_, a room jammed floor-to-ceiling with
half-fed people who _no get de cheque_.
To be continued next issue . . . .
<<<<<~~~~~~|~~~~~~>>>>>
August 1991
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Volume 1 Issue 2
SPAM & EGGS. Cut SPAM in slices a fourth of an inch
thick. Brown quickly in hot frying pan. Arrange SPAM
around fried eggs. It's a delightfully different way to
start the day. Try it tomorrow morning -- or for supper
tonite!
Let your next word to the grocer be SPAM!
STARRING (IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE):
Nobody Here But Us Chickens
........................Jane Smith
The Origin of Machine Readable Data
........................Tom Owens
Cracked
........................Judith Dickerman
What is a Book?
........................Dan Flasar
Civil Service, Part II
The second chapter in a six-part serial
........................Kenneth Wolman
CORE may be reproduced freely *in its entirety only* throughout Cyberspace.
Please obtain permission of authors to reproduce individual works. Send
submissions, subscription requests, etc. to rita@eff.org.
CORE is available via anonymous ftp from eff.org (journals directory).
__________________________________________________________________________
Jane Smith jds@uncecs.edu
Nobody Here But Us Chickens
Last week, I think it was -- it might have been last year, or
tomorrow -- there was a fire in a chicken processing plant in North
Carolina, in a little town near where I, and my father, and his father,
and his, grew up. I heard the news on the radio for days, driving home from
an office where I'd sat feeling bored, wishing I were somewhere else.
The facts are fuzzy in my mind already: I believe twenty-five people
died, fifty-some more were injured, in a work group of fewer than a hundred.
They fried chicken there, bite-sized nuggets to ship frozen to the fast-food
chains. A vat of grease caught fire fast: the most likely hazard. Exit doors
were locked (no breaks taken, no chickens stolen). Who knew where the fire
extinguishers were?
A woman's voice on the radio said she was in the bathroom when it
happened. Women's bathrooms are great escapes. They (especially if they
are men) won't argue too much about your bladder's needs. She told the
women in the bathroom with her not to leave; she told a big black man
outside to bust the nearby exit door.
A researcher from a State think tank, a native judging by his accent,
was free to say (or dared) that manufacturing plants in North Carolina have a
chance of being inspected once every seventy-five years. North Carolina has a
law which says it doesn't have to do better than Federal Government standards,
slipping since Reagan.
North Carolina has a superstition among the people which says that
Unions take your wages. This, perhaps, is the corollary of a custom among the
businessmen of paying by the minute, and not too much. The people have to eat;
some don't even grow cabbages and collards anymore, spending seed money on
gasoline to drive to the chicken plants, to earn the money which comes in
little yellow envelopes, sometimes a dime a raise, to feed the children
canned beans and white bread, to quench the thirst for alcohol, to get by,
to forget, to get by.
There's not much to do in Hamlet, N.C., except hold on to your
Daddy's land and eat and drink and screw. And work, because your Daddy
worked, and his Daddy worked, and his. If your Daddy was a supervisor you
could be a supervisor. If your Daddy was a farmhand you could work at the
chicken plant.
My mother's maid told her she'd never work again at the poultry
packing plant in Monroe because her hands froze and she slipped on the
guts on the floor. She simmered pinto beans all day on my mother's stove
while she cleaned the bathrooms and got pregnant while she waited for her
husband to get out of prison. They taught her maths in school but not
budgets and they taught her English grammar but not communication.
My father told me not to play with their children and that it's
who you know every bit as much as what you know and you're known by the
company you keep. He told me to never clean my plate at a restaurant.
He taught me to play gin rummy but not how to gamble. He got me a summer
job at the textile plant as a payroll clerk when I was sixteen, without
an interview.
The reporter on the radio told me that even on the second day after the
fire there was a strong odor around the chicken plant but she didn't tell me
what it was. She told me that two people die every week in North Carolina in
work-related accidents and that twenty-two percent of chicken industry workers
are injured on the job.
I wasn't surprised.
______________________________________________________________________________
Tom Owens owens@athena.mit.edu
THE ORIGIN OF MACHINE READABLE DATA
The lights of the computer
blink all night -- a city
across water or traffic
miles away. What it plans
for itself, no one knows,
but in the blue glow of a dream
a man opens a grave
and finds his body gone to pearl,
weightless at last.
He forgets everything by morning.
Hair swept over blank eyes,
the emptiness in his hands,
become a tremor on his cheek
and what the dream meant, if it must,
a leap of fire beneath the eyes.
At work, he mounts the first tape.
It runs by like a rich, brown river
and before it stops, he comes out
of the underbrush, carrying bone,
the thigh of that first animal.
What he sees on the river
is all he can bear, and beyond it,
the lights he begins to name.
No one can say what becomes of him.
In a forest that green, anything happens
and later, over coffee, he tells his friend
what he knows, his plans for himself,
how the lights across the water,
white as bone, came to him
darkened into syllables he could understand,
then darker into the machine
that sleeps beneath his hand.
______________________________________________________________________________
Judith Dickerman (none)
CRACKED
Outside the two-stall garage,
its walls covered with a brick facade,
I stood barefoot, the asphalt cool,
holding my favorite cup filled with coffee.
He was squatting by the machine,
tinkering with its innards. The job complete,
he turned the engine on, revved it to a roar,
never noticing me walk through the door.
As I tired to talk to him, my husband,
my words were obscured by the motorcycle's din.
Raising my voice to a higher pitch,
the crescendo of noises rose,
and reachined a climax in a splintering crash
as I smashed the ceramic cup on cement.
There it lay, in fragments on the floor;
a scrap left over from the night before.
______________________________________________________________________________
Dan Flasar wugcrc@wums2.wustl.edu
WHAT IS A BOOK?
Psychology, like all wannabe sciences, aspires to prediction. And
prediction is usually based, in science, on models, which in turn are based
on assumptions, which are of 2 basic types: processes and objects. In the
world of the mind, examples of objects are goals, or desired states of
affairs. An example of a process is a drive. Thus, to maintain bodily
functioning, there is the hunger drive. For preservation of the species,
there is the sexual drive (not to be confused with a subclass of dating).
There are others, but technology has now created a new drive - the drive
to computerize (some claim that this is merely the old "drive to annoy" in
a new guise).
Nietzsche said, "When all you have to work with is a hammer, all prob-
lems start to look like nails." Since we all have computers now and are
looking for ways to justify the cost, the world reduces to data. The
latest target for this behavior is - books.
These same psychologist note that some mistake the drive itself for its
object, where the fulfillment of the drive, independent of its object, is
pursued in and of itself. Some call this an obsession, others call it art.
For example, addiction to food is called gluttony (or an eating disorder),
whereas, given the proper descriptive vocabulary, and sufficient documenta-
tion of the process in satisfying the craving, one is then called a gourmet.
Thus, the urge to compute, which has as it's legitimate object that which
will be made more efficient, easy, etc. by computerization, becomes redir-
ected to the process of computing itself as the object, independent as to
whether the final product is useful or not.
As documentation (books) went on-line, it seemed a natural step, given
the drive to compute, to extend the treatment to all books. Thus, there
are now schemes hatching aplenty to allow the utility companies and battery
makers to extract tribute from us whilst blissfully in the throes of
literary escape. Interestingly, these books-on-a-(chip/disk/cassete
/whatever), are to be "played" on a device, usually called, ominously,
a "reader."
What are we to make of this?
Reading is much more than just an intellectual experience. It has its
own gestalt, one that differs according to the type of reading that you're
doing.
For example, if I'm reading something solely because I want to, generally
for pleasure, I like to curl up on the couch with something to drink
(preferably hot tea), and comfortably dive right in. The heft of the book,
the size, the type of paper used, whether I have to peer into the "gutter"
to try to guess what characters are out of sight (because the pages are bound
with insuffient binding margins), whether the cover is plastic-coated with
sharp corners, etc. etc. etc. - all these things and others can enhance or
detract from the session.
Reading a book on a computer means reading the text electronically - on
screen. One problem with VTD screens, even with small, light portables, is
that you are reading transmitted, rather than reflected, light. Light
reflected off a page, especially one with a non-glaring-white page, is easy
on the eyes. Less contrast, less light enters the eye, so eye-strain is
minimized. VDT screens, on the other hand, are all transmitters, so the
page IS THE LIGHT SOURCE ITSELF. Reflected light is diffused, due to the
fibers in the paper; it is absorbed by the books very substance, resulting,
in the very best cases, in a kind of soft warm glow.
There are some books having the purpose of maximizing the correct
reproduction of photographs and graphic images; "coffee table" books and
those devoted to works of art and photography are examples. Though these
can be wonderfully exciting to view, they are usually printed on highly
reflective clay-coated stock, which offers the same sort of glaring
glossiness that you'll see on photographs themselves. These books will
cause eye-strain if looked at too long, but, because of size, they're
usually not the 'curl uppable' kind anyway. (This problem can be resolved
with different paper stocks that have a less reflective surface for the
page and text, but the graphic image itself is glossy. A nice compromise
that works fairly well.)
Another difference from books is that light from a computer screen is con-
stantly being refreshed at a rate far slower than that from your average read-
ing lamp. Like a television, a VDT screen is being refreshed at a certain
rate. I'm not sure of the frame-rate on a VDT. Since VDT screens are
composed of discrete phosphors, this means that you're really looking at
a constantly changing, mini-electronic billboard. In other words, with all
those pixels going on and off, your reading material is strobing.
Not something you want to do for too long.
There is a novel called "Cyberbooks", by Ben Bova, which describes
such a device, a sort of computer/reader that is to be marketed as a
replacement for books. Instead of buying a 'physical' book, you either
buy a chip holding (or you can download to), text, that the device then
displays. An interesting book, worth the quick read that it is. The novel
itself points out another problem with computer "books."
In the last several years, paperback book covers have sported playful
devices on the covers as artistic, or other, embellishments. Most of them
are on the level of things you would find in children's books. For example,
there might be a cut-out in the first page of a two-page front cover, which
reveals something fairly innocent looking. When you turn to the second page
of the cover, what you saw, in it's proper context, is horrific, funny,
nasty, etc.
'Cyberbooks' has, as an example, the shapes of the 3 main characters
embossed into the cover. The villainess of the book has an especially
interesting, um, bas-relief.
Granted, this is just a ploy to get you to buy the book. With the
cyberreader, books would have to be chosen on the basis of content. And
what book publisher would want to take that chance?
______________________________________________________________________________
Kenneth Wolman ktw@hlwpk.att.com
Synopsis: In our first installment we met Gelfen, a NYC Welfare
caseworker and stud manque, hardly working in a Bronx welfare center
during the late 60's.
CIVIL SERVICE
Part II
(of VI)
The new case hit Gelfen's desk at 4:30 one afternoon, a
thin manila folder with a number stamped across the tab and
a category (thank God) already assigned: _thank God_ because
it was Home Relief, and that meant no school-age kids to
worry over, no absentee father-hunts, no half-an-ear
listening to the kvetching of a Puerto Rican mama. A simple
one that probably would be closed in two months, if that
long. But a new case, called a ``Pending,'' not be faked or
phonied: Gelfen would have to get out and visit his new
client.
Reading through the preliminary forms, Gelfen saw that
the Intake worker, a lifer named Stampler, had done his
usual shitty job. The client, Eusebio Colon, had been
allowed to get through to a regular casework unit without
producing a birth certificate or any other proof of his
existence. All the record gave were a few gauzy details.
Colon lived in an apartment on Charlotte Street with his
19-year-old sister Nilsa, who worked as a secretary in a
sheet-metal supply house. He had been released two weeks
before from Attica, where he'd done two years of a four year
sentence for trying to sell some heroin to an off-duty cop
in a poolroom on 172nd Street. And now Nilsa was telling her
ex-con older brother to either get some _dinero_ into the
house or his ass into the street. At 9:30 the next day,
Gelfen signed out for the morning and took the bus one mile
up Boston Road to see what he could see.
Even after eighteen months with one caseload, Charlotte
Street still made Gelfen feel like he'd dropped some bad
acid. His parents, he knew, had lived there when they were
first married, but ran for their lives within a year because
the block was already in sight of the bottom. When he made
his first trip to Charlotte Street, Gelfen, despite six
months of Bed-Stuy under his belt, took one look at what
he'd been dealt and half-considered resigning on the spot.
Even the cops, he was told, shat in their pants as they
cruised the street in squad cars at forty miles an hour. The
monthly (maybe) visit of the garbage truck was the occasion
for mass jubilation on this three-block-long cloaca, and
kids who had never seen the inside of a school joyfully
rained down bricks and beer bottles on the truckmen who
dodged and loaded with balletic movements. The buldings
themselves were gargoyle-encrusted brick-and-plaster
firetraps built around 1900, with long dark entrance halls
and unlit narrow stairs that smelled of a deeply embedded
combination of cooking, excremental, and sexual aromas.
Gelfen was a kind of fixture on the block, a money-bearing
emissary from a cockroachless world, but nevertheless he
rubbernecked the rooftops for his own physical well-being.
Finding the building he wanted, he climbed three flights and
knocked at a door that bore a sign proclaiming _Somos
Catolicos! No propaganda de los otros religiones aqui!_
because Seventh Day Adventists and Jehovah's Witnesses
worked these blocks with the offensive regularity of
streetwalkers. No answer: Latin music blared from the
apartment and dogs barked in time on other floors, so Gelfen
pounded on the door this time, and a male voice shouted back
``Who?''
``Welfare,'' Gelfen yelled back, figuring nobody had
too many secrets in this place.
``_Momento_,'' came the reply, and for a moment Gelfen
pictured the guy finally managing to hit a still-usable
vein. But the music stopped, and a few seconds later the
door was flung open to the accompaniment of a rattling of
chains and police locks. Before Gelfen stood a thin but
powerful-looking Puerto Rican man with cropped black hair,
wearing pants and sandals, but no shirt. Gelfen did a quick
once-over of the guy's arms: no tracks, no chippie, no
nothing. ``_Me llamo_,'' he said in his updated high school
Spanish, ``_es Mister Gelfen del Departamiento de Welfare.
Estan usted Senor Eusebio Colon?_''
``Tha's me, man, I'm Eusebio,'' he replied in accented
but fluent English. My lucky day, Gelfen thought, as they
went into the living room. ``Be right back,'' Colon said,
and left Gelfen alone in the living room as he went into the
kitchen.
Gelfen checked out the furniture and restrained a
laugh. It was the Puerto Rican parody of Pelham Parkway
Jewish, a garish travesty of middle-class city life bought
from _mueblerias_ (``_Su Credito Es Bueno Aqui_'') on
Southern Boulevard, complete with imitation French
Provincial tables, chairs, sofas, and an Olympic combination
TV and stereo. All the seats were covered in thick see-
through vinyl that looked like it could deflect low-calibre
bullets. This, Gelfen thought, could have been his parents'
place except for the pictures of Jack Kennedy and Jesus
Christ displayed before a burning votive candle.
Gelfen heard the top snapping off a beer can, and a
moment later Colon reappeared, brew in hand, wearing a tee-
shirt. He sat across from Gelfen, took a long swig, and said
sarcastically, ``Okay, man, I'm 26 years ol', I been in the
Joint, I don't got no fuckin' Jones, and I got a 7-inch
dick. What else you wanna know, Mr. Welfare? I know the
routine, right?''
In spite of himself, Gelfen cracked up. Time for the
apologetics, he thought. ``Look, Mr. Colon, I know this is a
pain in the ass, but they pay me to find out this kind of
stuff, and if I can't say I saw it, then no money.''
``Bullshit,'' Colon responded without anger, like he
was simply stating a fact, which Gelfen realized he was.
Gelfen rolled out a conspirator's grin guaranteed to
break down Eusebio Colon's resistance. ``Hey, if you ever
need anything sort of . . . well, _special_, from us, I'd
have to know the real story up front so I could sort of work
around it.''
Right on cue, Colon laughed briefly. He smiled at
Gelfen in a way the caseworker found mysteriously
disconcerting. ``I get it, man,'' he said. ``I scratch yo'
back, you scratch my balls.'' He got up and went back into
the kitchen. When he returned, he had two more cans: he
tossed one to Gelfen, sat back, and proceeded to tell his
new caseworker the story of his life.
He was, as he said, 26 years old, born in Puerto Rico
in 1942, and he was hauled off to New York when he was
seven, right after Nilsa was born. The family gypsied around
from Brooklyn to Manhattan and finally to the Bronx, staying
off relief because old man Colon was a reasonably skilled
electrician who scrounged non-union jobs in the city and
North Jersey, working for under scale, but working, anyway.
Five kids later, Federico Colon hit midlife crisis and
decided his first 44 years had been a serious mistake, so he
took up with a 17-year-old girl and beat it back with her to
Puerto Rico and oblivion. A few months later, Jose, the
second child, who had acquired a heroin habit as part of his
education at Morris High School, caught an OD and died; and
the mother, Elvira, conned the price of bus tickets, grabbed
the five youngest kids, and went to live off her sister and
brother-in-law in Cleveland. Which left Eusebio and his
sister Nilsa to rattle around seven rooms of gloom: until
Eusebio, out to make his own way in the world, discovered as
the cuffs were slapped onto his wrists that he'd seriously
misjudged the buyer for some heroin he was trying to sell,
and that his last customer was to be Detective Henry Ramirez
of the 48th, who lived around the corner and was just there
to shoot a little nine-ball. Eusebio drew a four year
sentence, served two, and was released for good behavior.
Nilsa, in the meantime, being the brains of the family,
finished the commercial course at Morris, got a decent job,
and began living with her high school _novio_, a part-time
piano player and full-time stud named Javier Melendez, who,
according to what Nilsa wrote Eusebio in the Joint, laid
anything with the right plumbing, brought strange women to
the house while Nilsa was at work, and harbored a burning
life's ambition to become a pimp. A few weeks before
Eusebio's release, Nilsa kicked Javier out; but he
persisted, Eusebio said, in coming around to lay Nilsa, who
made a great show of unwillingness but who nevertheless woke
up the neighbors with the noises she made half the night
while Javier was with her.
``Are they,'' asked the middle-class Gelfen, ``making
any noises about getting married?''
Eusebio laughed. ``Shit no, man, you don' know Javier.
He is a real _cabron_, that one. Hey, I think he even wan's
my sister to _work_ for him. He says she gives the world's
greatest head, but she tells me she's through with him,
done, goo'-bye. I don' think Javier believes her!''
Gelfen reminded Eusebio about the birth certificate,
and the client began hunting around in the drawers, but
could not turn it. ``Aah, shit,'' he said. ``Nilsa, she
knows where all this stuff's at. When I was Upstate, she
took this dump down and put it back together, an' di'n't
tell me shit about how. Look, man, she'll dig it out, and
I'll get it to you, okay?''
Gelfen did not like the idea of the case hanging fire
while Eusebio or Nilsa or somebody got mobilized to find the
birth certificate. Also, Gelfen felt that Colon had
manipulated the conversation so the ugly topic of _work_ had
never come up. What the hell? he thought. The guy's been on
the street for two weeks, let him at least come up for air.
Technically, he could have let himself off the hook by
refusing the case based on lack of documentation. That would
have meant a tight thirty days of waiting: if Colon did not
reapply under the thirty-day wire, someone else would get
the headaches. But Gelfen gave Eusebio his work number and
told him to call.
(-/////////// September 1991 \\\\\\\\\\\-)
Rita Marie Rouvalis rita@eff.org
Electronic Frontier Foundation | EFF administrivia to: office@eff.org
155 Second Street | Flames to:
Cambridge, MA 02141 617-864-0665 | women-not-to-be-messed-with@eff.org
magazines/CORE/core1.03
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Volume 1 Issue 3
Feel absolutely free to reproduce CORE *in its entirety only*
anywhere in known and unknown Cyberspace. Individual authors
own copyright on their work, so you must contact them for
for permission to reproduce individual pieces.
Send submissions and requests for subscriptions to
core-journal@eff.org. CORE is also available via anonymous
ftp from the archives located on eff.org. Back issues live
in the journals directory.
CORE is published monthly by Rita Rouvalis (rita@eff.org).
SPECIAL_FUN_UNIVERSE_ISSUE_________________________SPECIAL_FUN_UNIVERSE_ISSUE
_____________________________________________________________________________
RABAR'S GUIDE TO EVERWHERE
(at least the fun parts)
by
Raymond Sender Barayon
(rabar@well.sf.ca.us)
******************
_________________________ **The Oceanic Mother**
l The 'P.U.-Miks' ******************
Personal Urge Stand-Up Comics .
l 1) Seducer ('Doosumiks') .
l 2) Regressed ('Reesumiks') .
l 3) Lowly ('Lowsumiks') .
l 4) Materialized ('Masumiks') .
l 5) Imprisoned ('Imsumiks') .
l 6) Accompanied ('Acksumiks') .
l 7) Animalized ('Malisumiks') .
l 8) Prankster ('Pranksumiks') .
l P.U. Convulsers ('Pucks') \-----SHAMANESS
l P.U. Repeaters ('Peaties') } humanized types
l Familiar Truants ('Fatties')/ .
l .
l .
(2) THE OCEANIC DAUGHTER . (3) THE FINITE l
l . (In charge of mission)
l l . to Chaotic Abodes -
l l Sueemu Feeling Levity
Animal Levity l ^ l
Circus l < o > l
l l v l
l l . l
l l Tiniest of Tinies l
l l . l
l l . l
l ('Nuckie')l ___.____ l
l Nuqohgem l / \ Tootsie-Toot l
l __@>_/ l / (pineal) \ \__<@_ l
l /l l l / \ l l\ l
l {} /____\ l @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ /___\ {}l
l ( l l l @Sueemu Miscrocosms@ l l ) l
l (_l L___l______@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ l l ) l
l l Mistress Ocean Of All Dimensions l
l l Ocean of Oceans l
l (A) . l
l _________________l_________________.____________________ l
l Bigtop G'dghtrs Acrobat G'dghtrs Potlatch G'dghtrs l
l (Screaming Mimi's) (Moo-Moo's) . l(Ziggies) l
l STONE PROPHETESS Sweepers for Lowly l AKALA l
l Jesters of Inferno l l
l . / l
Three-Ring Daughters . l l
(To Slough of Inferno) * l l
l The Last Inner Time Warp l
l . l l
l * l l
l The Penultimate Time Warp l
l . l l
l Final Now l
l . l l
l . l l
l . l l
l . l l
l **THE BIG TOP** l
(13 Microdimensions, each with its own feeling type and Great-8
l The Lowly Becoming \ . l / Future Servant Essence
l \ . l / l
l \ . l/ HYPERSPACE l
l \ . /l l
----------------DEATH------*------IMPERFECTION-----------------
l Eieemgem Dimensional Gate \
l / . l \
l / . l \ l
l / Tesseract \ l
l / of Feeling \ l
l Mother __________Eieemgem G-8 G'daughter________ Maintenance
l Nooxsiaowoop l / (225,000 in Lollymicros)\l l (son) l
l l / l .AKALA l l\ l Body Lothario
l l/ AEOIHU . l l l \ l IUNEM l
l Nooxsiaswoops l . l Oumemumwoops l
l G-7 G-daughtersl .l G-7 G-daughters l
l /(Nooxsies) l l. (Intimate Servants) l
l l Zeros Descent.of Ziggy (Oumies) l
l l as almstakers l. l l l l
l l l . l l l l
l l l . l Eeiemwuwoops l l
l l l . G-7 G-daughters l l
l l ('Dardotties'). l (Eeimies) l l
l l...............Dark Evening Disappearing Idiots...l l
l l (sweeps for G-8 G-daughters) l l
l__Red Shift Horizon_____l_________________.___ l l
l Our Superuniverse (9 Major Sectors) Lollymicrodimension Mirror3 l
l (B) l . \ Universe l
l SWEEPERS: (p.178) l . \ l
l LUIGI 1) Child Knights l . 4 Time Warps l
l Death Riders l . uptime \ l
l Hangers-On l . lefttime \ Time l
'Dossies')2) Dismantlers of Stupidity l . righttime \ Wildernesses
l TESS 3) Secular Jesters ('Q-Jessies') . downtime \ l
l 4) Oceanic Forgetters ('Oafs')l . \ l
'Lizzies')5) Those Most Low In Service l 1st Common NOW \ l
l 6) Weak Receivers ('Wearies') l * Moment \ l
l 7) Numbers Only ('Numbos') LITTLE GIRL (TESS) '22184'\ l
l 8) Opaque Hinderances ('Hoppies') . \
__________________________l___________l______._________________ \l
l Our Major Sector (50 Minor Sectors) l . \ l
l l THE NOW \
l Unfinished Nonsense Knightl . \
l ('Unks') l . \
l l Semi-Noisy NOW Moment l
l ________________________l__________l________.__________ l
l Our Minor Sector (50 Superclusters) . \ l
l l . \ l
l Older Knight l . \ l
l ('Oaks') l . \ l
l l . \ l
l _____________________l__________l________._____ \
l Our Supercluster (50 Clusters) . \ l
l Our Local Universe Moyuwem . \ l
l l . \ l
l Potlatch G-daughter's Local Universe \ l
l Dispersion Knight l . \ l
l ('Dicks') l . \ l
l l . \ l
l Losersville @ . \l
l l . \
l __________________l__________l________._______________ l
l Our Cluster (19 Galaxies) l Meowgem.(Meiouugiuwop) \ l
l l Constellation \ l
l OWOMGIU Center l . \l
l Eeiemwuwoop G'daughter l \
l Independent Knight l . l
l ('Inks') l . l
l l + l
l <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<Instant of Finitude>>>>>>>>>>> >>>>>>>
l M O M E N T A R Y S L O U G H O F I N F E R N O
l l . l
l ____YAWEHIA Galaxy (System) l________._________________ l
l (IAOUEHIA) l . \ l
l l . \l
l Qoiahon (Galactic Center) (F) l . The Hovel Planets 1
l Personnel: l . l
l Vacationing Servant - Oumemumwoop Daughter Oumulito who took over 1
l ('Lassie') from rebel Oaxiuri . l
l Last Hinderer - also Oumemumwoop Daughter Numhaiegiu l
l Second-to-Last Hinderer - Huwiy ('Selassie'). l
l Liberator of Intimacy - Seowumg ('Libby') . l
l Intimate Performer - Eiogem ('Imp')l . l
l Potlatch Sweeper - Ueigumg ('Potsweep') . l
l The Lowly Jester - Sumueuiw ('Lo-Jessie') . l
l Dancing Sweepers ('Da-Sweeps') l . l
l Dancing Servants ('Da-Serves') 1 1
l l . l
l Sumueuiw, Oumulito and Numhaiegiu are part of a vacation band
l which includes the servant of the Yawehia Nooxsiaowoops, the
l dancing sweeper of the Yawehia Death Riders, the servant of
l the Yawehia Beginners, the counterfeit Uwuni who is servant
l of the Dreamy Daughters, the sweeper of Yawehia's Comic Bodies,
l the servant of the Spiritual Convulsers, the sweeper of Neiemgem
l Weakness Clowns, the dancing sweeper of local Faralongeers, and
l the dancing servant of the Descending Immortal Stragglers. l
l l . l
l The playground and dance platform clowns include a number of
l Aiumgiu jesters: l . l
l 1)M stoo, mistress of the post-ocean epoch who swept under the
aegis of Woopy Pillow. l . l
l 2) Numhum, shabby discharge student who distracted her sisters
from spitting into dark places. . l
l 3) Emunemuoemgem, a recent follower of The Blue Lady who l
l distracted her and others from unmentionable bad habits.
l 4) Umwa, pauperess of renown who recognized the Goddess as the
l Lowliest Servant. l . l
l 5) Leihsagu, bellydancer of the purple-dyed cannibal tribes
l had a vision of the goddess as a vegetarian. l
l 6) Himtumgem, who proclaimed the Goddess ultra-violet l
l 7) Umguw, who chased the black tribes into the light of The
l Many Goals of Death l . l
l 8) Eemem, the obscurer of the Red Tribes and their followers
l in the Goddess Games l . l
l 9) Uwuni, the Real One, celebrated as mother of Aiumgiu, a
l Dreamy Daughter who was uplifted into the immortal spirit
l by the dances of The Qahah. . l
l 10) Oeo, father of the Orange Tribes, who enjoyed the gift of
l Plennitude and now sweeps for this playground. l
l 11) Omexs, last of the Aiumgiu straggers to successfully put
l itchy powder on her Personal Urge Stand-Up Comic. l
l 12) Nehoh, prisoner of the swamp people, and last to cross the
l finish line when the Patriarchal Gallop was instituted.
l 13) Piqus, an original deart heart of idiotic do-nothingess
l who made a point of always arriving late for meals. l
l 14) Nuxsieomgu Nooxsiaowoop, one of many Nooxsie Daughters l
l to potlatch themselves to Aiumgiu. She is now a temporary
l comedian of the Lowlies as an immortal descender. Recently
l also made a Corridor Tumbler of Aiumgiu and sub-pauperess
l The Qahah. l . l
l 15) Qesm the Fire-Breather, follower of The Qahah. l
l 16) Zero the Last, always the one everyone waits for, a Fara-
l longeer and Tuyiioo's goalkeeper. . l
l l . l
l ____ _l____________________ l
l Aiumgiu Plantary System \ l
l l . \ l
l THE QAHAH . \ l
l_______________________________ . \ l
UNITY DISAPPEARANCE BECOMINGS ('Yewdeebees')(C) . l
(Forgiveness & Pardon-Me Postures) (p.114) . l
Roaming G-7 G-daughters of Unity . l
1) Unitized Tamers of Lowliness ('Yewtols') . l
2) Child Knights ('Seiks') . l
3) Defector Knights ('Deaks') . l
4) Unfinished Nonsense Knights ('Unks') . l
5) Dismantlers of Stupidity ('Dossies') . l
6) Secular Jesters ('Q-Jessies') . l
7) Oceanic Forgetters ('Oafs') (Dirty Jokesters) ('Deejays') l
. l
Unity Disappearance Becomings . l
1) Unity Discharge Daughters (p.214) ('Yewdeedees') l
2) Humble Unity Bodies ('Hubbies') . l
3) Sueemu Wanderers ('Suewans') . l
4) Infernal Tourists ('Ints') . l
5) Revealed UDB's (Reyewdeebees') . l
6) Revealed Goddess-Unitized Becomings (Regyewbees') l
7) Unitized Daughters of F/ups MRS. HOW (p.243,246) ('Yewdeefups') l
8) Unitized Daughters of Non-discrimination ('Yewdeenods') l
9) Unitized Daughters of Unfinished Nonsense ('Yewdee-unnods') l
10) Spirit-Unitized Daughters ('Suds') . l
. l
____THE CHAOTIC
. l
Nine Greater Circuses of Ordinariness l
____________________________________ . 1 l
MULTIPLE DISAPPEARANCE BECOMINGS ('Moodeebees') (D) l
('Moodies') . 2 l
A: The Ascending Chaos . @ Infernosville l
1) Maintenance Daughters (Potlatch Ziggies) ('Maydies') 3 l
2) Acrobat Daughters ('Batties') . @ Absolamastru l
3) Evening Disappearance Idiots ('Dotties') . 4 l
4) Mother Nooxsiaowoops . @ Radarsville l
5) The Nooxsiaowoops - Nooxsies SUPER- . 5 l
6) The Eeiemwuwoops - Eeimies CLUSTER . l
7) The Oumemumwoops - Oumies WOOPIES . 6 l
8) The Mornings Disappearance Morons ('Morries') l
9) The Very Umtoos . 7 l
10) The Death Riders . @ Bodysville l
11) Revealed Oceanic Hinderers ('Rhodas') . 8 l
12) Revealed Daughters of the Goddess ('Rhodies') l
9 l
B: The Chaos Roamers . l
1) Rescuers . l
2) Hahugiu . l
3) Amieigugiu (Amigogiu) UPPER INFERNO l
4) Hkiiemtu (Hakimtiu) Comic Weakness Circuses' Resting Place l
5) Revealed Multiple Disappearance Becomings ('Remoodeebies') l
. l
C: The Chaos Descenders ('Seedessies') Noisy Mid-Now Moment l
1) Comic-Accompanied Immortals ('Cackies') . l
2) Daughter-Accompanied Immortals ('Dackies') . l
3) Body-Accompanied Immortals ('Backies') MIDDLE INFERNO l
4) Garbled Faralongheers ('Garbies') . l
5) Revealed Descenders ('Reedessies') . l
. l
_________________Outermost
INFERNAL CENTER l
__________________________________________ . l
SUPER-MULTIPLE DISAPPEARANCE BECOMINGS ('Smoodeebees') (E) l
LOWER INFERNO l
A: The Lowly Bodies ('Lowlies') No Spiritual Refuge l
1) Levity Receivers ('Lerries') (Very Serious) l
2) The 13 Bodies of the Sueemu Circus ('Bossusies') l
3) The Interrupters of " " ('Izzies')____ l
4) The Opaque Hinderances('Hoppies') /THE TESSERACT/ l
5) Oceanic Father Bodies ('O-Fabs') \ . / l
6) The 13 Comic Feeling-Bodies \\ \____.___/_____ l
7) Revealed Goddess-Disappearance'blat!'. ._._._._._ .l l
Becomings // / . \l.l l
l . . . l l
B: The Descending Chaos \ / l
1) Animalized Comics ('Annymiks') l
2) Descending Spiritual Daughters ('Deespeedies') l
3) Devolutionary Soiukyuk ('Deeyuks') l
4) Devolutionary Xsoiukyuk ('Deexyuks') l
5) Revealed Descenders ('Reedessies') l
l
C: The Stragglers Of The Finite Body ('Essofeebees') l
1) Tribal Receivers Lower Animalities l
2) Oceanic Circus Clowns (Ozzies') MR. ASSHOLE l l
3) The Great Forgetfulness Sweepers l l
4) Animal Hinderances Of The Finite Body {l l
5) Intuitive Objectors MRS. BRACHIOSAURUS l l
6) Independent Poets l l
7) Drop-Out Babes-In-The-Woods l l
8) Sueemu Volleyers (Players) Receiver Guests Of Time l
9) Oceanic Agitators {l l
10) Neiemgiu Opponent l l
11) Ultra Micromukyuks Body Comics l
12) Mini Mukyuks l l
13) Very Mukyuks l l
14) Mono Mukyuks {l l
15) Soiukyuks l l
16) Xsoiukyuks l l
17) Revealed Body-Disappearance Becomings Oceanic Weakness Sweepers
18) The 13 Lowly Weakness Sweepers l l
19) The Lowly Weakness Peripheries {l l
20) The Mistress Weakness Convulsers l l
21) The Neiemgiu Weakness Clowns l l
l
__________________________________ l
THE ORDINARY IMMEDIATE BECOMINGS l
l
These are the ordinary parents of mortality, neither maintainers nor
humans. They are neither infinite nor finite - they are zylmigo. These
created creatures are pranksters within the Infernal Unity and
disobedient to the Primal Source. They have four primary dimensions of
animal passivity and are passive on the 13 time-zones of the zylmigo in
five shabby multiplications which include 99 minor anarchies of 13
levels, including:
The Gardeners of the Mistress Ocean l
Some Immmediacers l
Ultimate Ordinary Mistress Weakness Dispersers l
Objective Immediate Mistress " " l
l
G) SOLITARY OBSERVER
A: The Lowly Bodies
1) 13 Mistress Bodies
2) Opaque Bodies of the Microdimensions
3) Maintenance Bodies of the Peripheral Oceans
B: The Weakness Sweepers
C: Animalities Of The Finite Body
1) Lower Animalities
a) Tribal Receivers
b) Oceanic Circus Clowns
Four Grades:
(1) Great Forgetfulness Sweepers
(2) Intuitive Pick-Up Bands
(3) Anarchist Poetesses QUEEN
(4) Babes-In-The-Woods Drop-Outs
2) Receiver Guests Of Time
a) Sueemu Players
b) Oceanic Agitators
c) Intuitive Poetesses
d) Infernal Forgetters
e) Neiemgiu Tailors
f) Infernal Tailors
3) Comic Bodies Of Space
a) Ultra Micro Mukyuks (Titters)
(1) 'Ultramicros'
Ultramicro comics on the Tiniest Of Tinies
(they also serve in the peripheral oceans of
Inferno)
Sue's SHAMANESS (a) Sight-Gag Convulsers
(b) Mistresses of Innocence
(c) Liberators of Worthlessness
(d) Sweepers Of Convulsions
(e) Displayers Of Mischiefs
(f) Anarchist Servants
MERLIN (g) Confounders Of Efficiency
(2) 'Verymicros'
Comics for the 13 Oceanic Circuses of the
Sueemu Worlds. They hang out with the Space
Jokesters
& Infernal Trainees, appearing as:
(a) Jokester Hinderers
(b) Lowliness Babes
(c) Daughter Losers
(d) Jester-Comedians
(e) Dismantlers Of Efficiency
Space Jokesters materialize on the continent of
Eieemgem with many imperfections, the main one
being tantrums. Inability to Obfuscate is the
ancient warrant for a silly ticket in the Sueemu
worlds.
(3) 'Micros'
(a) Rhythm Clown
(b) Performing Servants (Rochesters)
(c) Silent Ones (Harpo, Mimes)
(d) Receivers
(e) Stupidity Convulsers
(f) Planters of Animalities
(g) Wasteful Stragglers
b) Mini Mukyuks (giggles)
(1) Mini-Mini-Minis
(a) The Eyes Of The Solitary Observer
(b) The Eyes Of The 13 Mistress Bodies
(c) The Eyes Of The Oceanic G-Daughter
(d) The Eyes Of The Umtoosic Guest
(e) Silent Senders (Solid Senders too?
(f) Planters Of Animalities
(g) Wasteful Stragglers
(2) Mini-Minis
(a) Eye Of Stupidity
(b) Love Dispersion
(c) Wisecrack Eliminator
(d) Sorrow Dissolver
(e) Game Hunger Facilitator
(f) Body Obfuscator
(3) Minis
(a) Play with Unity Daughters Of F/Ups MRS.HOW
(b) Revenge Forgetters
(c) Detractors Of Space
(d) Paranoid Humor Specialists UNCLE GILBERT
(e) Hilarious Gamesters
(f) Unveilers Of Tininess
(g) Miniyuk Comedians
c) Very Mukyuks (chuckles)
d) Mono Mukyuks (brays)
e) Soiukyuks
f) Xsoiukyuks & Eksuyuks
g) Faralongeers
(---------------//OCTOBER 1991\\-----------------)
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Volume 1 Issue 4
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In This Issue:
A Point of Honor . . . . . . Lynn Nelson
Civil Service, The Conclusion . . Kenneth Wolman
________________________________________________________________________
Lynn Nelson lhnel@ukanvm.bitnet
A POINT OF HONOR
"Il Vecchio" is what we called him, Mr. Braccia, "The Old Man."
Within his hearing, however, we called him "il signor," partly
because it made him happy and he would sing, and partly because
he was, in fact, very old and, although we were just grubby
children living life only as it could be lived under the roaring
el tracks of 63rd street in South Chicago, we respected real age.
And what did we think we meant by "real age?" I wish I could tell
you simply, but when those complex criteria of childhood are
caught by a stray memory and held tight, turned over and over for
analysis, they disintegrate into a kaleidoscope of pictures.
Children think and judge, not by rational means, but by a mass of
distorted and fragmented pictures and sounds. So when I asked
myself why Mr. Braccia was "Il Vecchio," and why our little bunch
of Gassenjungen always stood up when Mr. Braccia went by with his
pushcart, I can only say that I have the memory of a picture from
some magazine of a gnarled and twisted cypress growing out of
some impossible crack in a big rock by the sea, and leaning
forward as if the wind never stopped trying to blow it out of its
precarious hold on the earth.
The Old Man was also a man of great honor, and repaid respect
with liberality. "Bene," he would say as he swung his fruit and
vegetable cart into place on the corner of Maryland and 63rd,
pulled out an old fruit box, carefully set it on end, and just as
carefully seated himself where the sun would reflect off the
light-colored bricks behind him, and slowly and steadily warm the
muscles and bones of his back. "Bene," he would say, and point to
a spot on the sidewalk in front of him with an air of complete
and assured authority that somehow entirely lacked any trace of
the head-patting sort of contempt that made us fear and despise
our teachers. We would stand in front of him, and this wifeless
and childless old man would at look each of us from head to toe,
smile slightly and repeat the word "bene." With each of these
benedictions, he would dispense a vegetable as if he were giving
us some precious gift.
Il Vecchio would then frown slightly in thought and, after a few
moments during which we waited silently, he would pass on to us
some of the accumulated wisdom of his years. "If she's good olive
oil, she shouldn't run too slow," he once told us. On another
occasion, we learned that you don't never get all the sand out of
endives. Also, "Wait for the seasons before you eat the fruits.
They make you sick if you don't." Why do I remember these things
when I have forgotten so many words of so many experts,
champions, presidents and other important men and women each in
their day? Partly because Il Vecchio gave us sweet green peppers
and crisp cold celery, partly because he was old and deserved to
be listened to, and partly, I suppose, because what he had to say
has proven more true than what great men and women have told me.
I remember that it was a Friday in July, but I can't recall the
year. It must have been 1938, though, because, for some reason or
another, I think of Luke Appling when I remember that morning.
Mr. Braccia had just pushed his cart into his accustomed place,
and we had gazed with awe from the other side of 63rd Street. Il
Vecchio had a new, large, and completely magnificent cart! The
box was a rich maroon, the spokes were a dark green, and above
the display of immaculate fruits and vegetables was a dark green
and white striped awning. Modest black-shadowed gold printing on
the side of the box spelled out "A. Braccia Green Grocer."
Reaching beneath the box, Il Vecchio pulled out a folding chair
and cushion. To complete his series of wonders, he reached
beneath the box once more, extracted and donned a dark green
bibbed apron and a new straw hat. The overall effect was as
marvelous as it was unexpected, and a number of people stopped to
applaud.
It was just then that an elegantly attired, pearl-spatted, white-
carnationed figure carrying a small black leather valise crossed
Maryland Street, took off his hat to Il Vecchio, and started to
continue on his way. He was a familiar enough figure, although I
never heard anyone call him by name. He would walk from store to
store along the street each Friday, collecting five dollars from
small concerns and ten from larger businesses. For this
relatively small sum, the businessmen secured protection and the
right to bring their problems to the attention of Mr. Alfonse
Capone. Unlike the modern arrangement, the businessmen were
actually protected, and, for the most part, their problems were
in fact resolved.
"Hey!" Mr Braccia suddenly called out to the collector, "Where
you think you're going?" The collector slowly turned to Il
Vecchio, took off his hat again, and said inquiringly, "Si,
Signor?" The Old Man stood up, reached in his apron pocket,
pulled out a bill, and said "Ain't you forgot my five dollars?"
The collector shook his head firmly, "You don't owe no five
dollars. Il padron mio don't collect from no pushcarts. No money
from nobody what shouldn't afford it. Braccia ain't in my book,
so I don't take no money from il Signor." Il Vecchio turned red,
and said, with heavy sarcasm, "I gotta new big cart, I gotta
apron and hat, I gotta fine customers. I'm a businessman, so why
shouldn't I get protected?" The collector looked at the pavement,
and spoke so softly that I could hardly hear him, even though I
had crossed the street, as had many others. "The names in my
book, they got money and oughta pay, and everybody got something
to protect so everybody got protection." Il Vecchio was furious.
"I ain't no rag picker or junkman. I gotta business, I gotta good
customers, so I gotta pay my share. I don't take handouts even
from il suo padron."
Everyone must have understood, since even we children knew what
was happening. It was a pun'd'onor, a point of honor. Il Vecchio
was demanding that Mr. Capone take five dollars from him as a
sign of respect, and Mr. Capone's agent would not take the five
dollars out of respect for the Old Man's age and poverty. The
collector was staring intently at the sidewalk and said in a
dogged voice, "Signor, I ain't never gonna take no five dollars
from you. Your name ain't never gonna be in the book. And you're
gonna be protected as long as you're alive." Il Vecchio flew into
a rage and wadded up the bill and threw it at the collector. He
fairly screamed, "Take my money, you son of a whore!"
There was a sudden silence then. The collector had flinched as if
Mr. Braccia had actually hit him; then he turned away, put his
hat back on, and walked on just as if he had never been stopped
in the first place. Mr. Braccia had turned a wet palish color, as
if he were about to be sick, and turned to the people who had
gathered to watch, ineffectually moving his hands palm up as he
opened and closed his mouth several times as if to speak. None of
it served any purpose; all of us, even the children, stared
intently at the freshly-washed sidewalk and wished for a way to
make things never have happened. Il Vecchio finally turned away,
and his shoulders slumped down. He took off his new hat and
apron, folded up his new chair, and carefully put everything away
once again below the box of his beautiful new cart. He kept his
face turned away from everybody and, as he put each thing in its
place, he was muttering, "Bene. Bene." He put the harness over
his shoulders, pulled the chocks from under the wheels, and
slowly pushed his cart away. We never saw him again, and the
local A&P grocery store opened a fruit and vegetable section a
week later.
One funny thing. Il Vecchio's wadded-up five dollars
lying on the sidewalk when he trundled away. Everybody who had
stood there watching, turned and went back to their business when
he left. We kids went down to Lawndale Cemetery to watch a couple
of funerals. People sometimes gave us a quarter to go away, but
we really went because we liked to hear the bang of the guns for
veterans, the cantor for Jews, the Latin chant for Catholics, and
see all the ladies crying so hard that black streams of mascara
and tears would flow from beneath their veils. We also liked to
watch the women to see if one of them would station herself in
front of one of the pall-bearers before screaming that she could
Not Go On Without Him and trying to throw herself into the grave.
The pall-bearer would always catch her and hold her very tight.
Times were hard, and a woman could not afford to stay a widow for
long, especially if she had children.
It was evening when we got back and passed the corner of Maryland
and 63rd Street. The wadded-up five dollar bill was still lying
on the sidewalk. I turned to Bernard, who was munching slowly at
the large end of an immense five-cent dill pickle that he had
bought with his share of the proceeds from the last funeral of
the day for us. "Just what did all that go to prove?" I asked
him, somewhat rhetorically. "It proved," Bernard replied,
beginning to achieve a general aroma of garlic and dill that he
did not relinquish even after his Saturday bath, "that you can't
buy honor, at least not for five dollars." I thought at the time
that it had proved something more, but Bernard seemed pretty
certain, so I forgot about the whole business until just
recently.
____________________________________________________________________________
Kenneth Wolman ktw@hlwpk.att.com
The first two installments of Civil Service
appeared in CORE 1 and 2, respectively.
Gelfen, a dropout employed by the New York
City Department of Social Services in the
1960s, manages to slum an easy ride off
the System until he aquires a new welfare
client, ex-con cum pimp Eusebio Colon --
and Eusebio's sister, Nilsa.
CIVIL SERVICE
The Conclusion
3
Two weeks later, Gelfen began sleeping with Nilsa
Colon.
A few days after his visit to the apartment, Intake
notified Gelfen that someone was there to see him about
Eusebio Colon. Gelfen went downstairs and found not Eusebio
but Nilsa: dark olive-skinned with lush straight waist-
length black hair, thin but with a far better-than-average
body, and a delicate sort of face with huge black eyes.
Taken overall, a knockout, and off from her job for the day,
she said, to bring over her no-good brother's paperwork and
a pile of her own troubles.
Troubles they were, for Nilsa Colon turned out to be a
first-class victim and willing recipient of other people's
_drek_, flung her way through some perverse quasi-magnetic
attraction. She chain-smoked Lucky Strikes, nervously threw
her mane of hair around like a racehorse, flicked at
imaginary bugs on her skin (a legacy, Gelfen surmised, of a
lifetime spent among them), and, as the final touch, cried
herself a river. Gelfen, a born sucker for women's tears,
found himself after fifteen minutes in an Intake booth,
holding Nilsa's hand, sympathetic and with the beginnings of
a first-rate hard-on because she was, despite his best
professional intentions, exciting the hell out of him.
``What I've gone through for that bastard,'' she said
in English that had more in it of the Bronx than Puerto
Rico. ``Between him and that shit Javier - Eusebio told me
he told you _all_ about that [Gelfen nodded] - it's a wonder
I'm not in my grave!''
``I understand,'' said Gelfen, hoping nobody would ask
him to stand up until well after Nilsa had gone.
``I am _so_ tired of them coming to _me_ so they can
get their little _culos_ wiped! Eusebio is a big _macho_
because he's selling heroin, so I spend money I don't have
on a lawyer who gets him in jail anyway! He goes to Attica
and I get left alone with _Javier_,'' the name of her man
coming from her mouth like a wail.
``I've heard he can be trouble,'' Gelfen said, not sure
what he was thinking.
``Trouble!'' she almost exploded. ``He sleeps with my
best girlfriend, then he has the nerve to come to me to ask
for it with my mouth'' - Gelfen remembered what Eusebio had
said about Javier's ``testimony,'' and was dying of lust -
``but he can get _himself_ off for all I care! I want a man,
not a wild animal.'' Inwardly, Gelfen saw himself as Gable.
For four days after her visit, he walked around in an
erotic daydream of Nilsa Colon, complete with reveries of
_Noches En Los Jardines Del Bronx_ and smooth brown legs
embracing his waist. It took Eusebio's voice on the phone
one morning to snap him out of it.
``Hey, man, so wha's happenin'?'' asked Eusebio. ``You
gonna open my fuckin' case or what?''
``I guess so,'' Gelfen said. ``I have everything I
need.'' Bullshit, he said to himself.
``Yeah, Nilsa was over there,'' Eusebio said. Was he,
Gelfen wondered, suppressing laughter, or was that his own
dirty mind working overtime?
``Well, we . . . talked a little about you, and we
think maybe you ought to start looking around for work.''
Gelfen was beside himself with self-satisfaction: he'd been
desperate to change the subject away from Nilsa, and
magically had hit an Approved Welfare Topic. Social worker
to the balls of my balls, he thought.
``Hey, shit, man, don' bug me, okay?'' Eusebio
responded. ``I jus' got out, remember?''
Gelfen felt like an overseer. ``Look, Eusebio, they're
gonna start to hassle _me_ pretty soon if I can't say you're
working at something _legal_. You understand?''
``What the hell do I know how to do?'' Eusebio all but
whined.
Gelfen seized a solution. ``Look,'' he said, ``come in
on Monday and we'll talk about training programs and stuff
like that.''
Eusebio seemed agreeable, but when Gelfen went to
Intake on Monday there was no Eusebio. No one, in fact,
turned up until Thursday, and then it was not Eusebio, but
Nilsa again. Gelfen was torn between anger at getting
screwed and a desire to get screwed right then and there, in
the nearest unoccupied Intake booth. ``Where's your
brother?'' he asked.
``He said he's sick again,'' she replied. ``He said
he's been sick all this week. I thought he'd been here
already.''
``So you,'' Gelfen said, ``called in sick yourself to
come here.'' Nilsa said nothing, and she didn't have to.
Gelfen figured she would eat a day's pay for Eusebio the
gentleman-of-leisure because she was a graduate doormat. He
found the concept mildly tantalizing. He went through the
motions of explaining job-training to Nilsa, who seemed to
follow him, brushing his leg (deliberately?) with her own;
and he gave her some applications for Eusebio to fill out
when he was ``feeling better.'' But at five o'clock, he
found her out front, waiting for him.
``Nilsa!'' he exclaimed, simultaneously suspicious and
delighted.
``Now the bastard's not even at home!'' she cried, much
too loudly, and began to bawl right there, out in the
street.
Aroused by her fragility, Gelfen invited her to get
something to eat, then took her for a walk in the twilight
through a large park near Yankee Stadium. They did not talk.
A few feet from a lamp in the park, in near darkness, Gelfen
realized Nilsa was facing him, her head cocked upward in a
gesture of expectant desire or submission, he could not tell
which. The blood running thick behind his eyes, he drew her
against him and kissed her. Not only did she respond with
the most amazing tongue-work he'd ever experienced, but
also, after a moment, and to his surprise, he felt a small,
warm hand moving deliberately over his groin.
_Carpe diem_, schmuck, thought Gelfen, and flagged the
first cab he saw.
In the taxi, heading toward his apartment, Nilsa's body
almost pressed into his own, Gelfen surfaced just long
enough to ask himself precisely what he thought he was doing
here, slouching toward University Avenue with this Puerto
Riquena fox, putative mistress of some hopped-up piano
playing pimp who, for all he knew, was hiding, straight
razor in teeth, in the trunk of the cab, or - worse yet! -
was the cabbie himself, conveying Gelfen to a secluded
cement works where he would be buried dick-deep in concrete.
Gelfen looked timorously at the hack license photo, then at
the driver's name - Moshe Rosenblum - and placed his paw
confidently on Nilsa Colon's crotch.
4
Gelfen's work habits, always at war with the Protestant
Ethic, came close to outright collapse after three weeks of
Nilsa Colon, and he felt he was about to go under with them.
This, he thought, will finish me off for sure. I'm tired all
the time, my stomach's crying for Gelusil, I'm getting
goddamned headaches. Part of it was Nilsa's mattress
repertoire, which was formidable: it was all Gelfen could do
at times to get her into a cab after one of their sessions.
But there was also the spectre of incipient paranoia for
Gelfen to contend with like Jacob wrestling the Angel. He
dreamed of public exposure, and of a letter to the _News_
that would Tell All. He envisioned the unspeakable revenges
upon him of Eusebio and Javier, defending the honor of Latin
womanhood against the vile seductions of this _gringo_
bastard Gelfen. He imagined someone seeing them together and
phoning an anonymous tip to the department's Investigations
Unit, which would bug his phone, send out spies with
telephoto lenses to follow him, and culminate in the
inevitable (he imagined) ritual humiliation of being
publicly stripped of his Civil Service rating, field
notebook, departmental procedures manual, and Bic pen in a
ceremony worthy of the degradation of Captain Dreyfus (``_Je
suis innocente!_'' he would cry. ``_Vive le
Departement!_''). And he took to twice-daily examinations of
himself for the first signs of the venereal disease that
would leave him a babbling maniac by age 30, if Javier
hadn't shot him first.
To top it all off, Eusebio no longer bothered to call
Gelfen, who was as much relieved as annoyed. Any information
he gathered about his wandering client came from Nilsa at
distinctly inopportune moments. One night, as she straddled
Gelfen, Nilsa suddenly stopped moving and launched into a
narrative about how Eusebio had taken up with Javier (and
she wriggled twice to help Gelfen maintain his erection),
and the two of them were cruising around in Javier's 1958
Buick Roadmaster (she moved again), recruiting freelance
would-be whores for the stable they were trying to build.
From seven at night until three or four in the morning
(Nilsa rocked twice, wriggled again, and moaned as Gelfen's
eyes widened), up and down Southern Boulevard from 149th
Street to Fordham Road, and hitting every bar along the way
(Nilsa moaned and leaned backward), the two caballeros
steered the mammoth Buick in and out of parking spaces, made
side-trips to the Bronx Zoo to snort cocaine by moonlight,
picked up likely girls (Nilsa leaned forward and love-bit
one of Gelfen's nipples), took them to various hotels under
the El at Simpson Street, and - if they passed the various
tests Eusebio and Javier set them (as Nilsa wriggled again
and Gelfen exploded inside her), were admitted to the
company.
Nilsa finished loudly, dismounted the sweating Gelfen,
and began to sob into her pillow. I don't believe I just sat
still for this, Gelfen thought, his temples beginning to
throb. ``Tell your dumb bastard brother to get his ass into
the office tomorrow or I'm closing him down.''
5
The following Monday afternoon, after eating an
indigestible lunch of red-hot Italian sausages, Gelfen
returned belching to his desk, chewed down three Gelusils,
and found a scrawled message that none other than Eusebio
Colon had been cooling his heels in Intake since 10 that
morning. As usual, nobody downstairs had bothered to let him
know before 1:30, and when he found Colon, the client was
pissed off and sweating.
``Where the fuck were you!'' snapped Colon the moment
they were alone in an interview booth.
``I could ask you the same question,'' Gelfen replied,
trying to retain his composure as he realized he really
didn't give a damn where Eusebio had been, so long as it
wasn't near him.
``Whadda you and my sister doin'?'' Eusebio cried,
looking like he was getting ready to explode.
Colon's words sent a knife through Gelfen. ``What do
you mean?'' he asked, waiting for Javier to leap down from
the partition and ventilate his windpipe with that straight
razor.
``Hey, I'm sittin' here three an' a half hours like
some nigger'' - Colon lowered his voice on the last word -
``because I don' need you or Nilsa talkin' about my _future_
behin' my back!''
Oh God, thought Gelfen, starting to feel relief, he
doesn't know. The spectre of his slashed throat began to
fade. _Nilsa_, to Eusebio, was merely the name of his
sister, not the caseworker's _puta_.
``Your sister told me,'' said Gelfen with a sudden
feeling of invincibility, ``that you and your buddy Javier
have gone into business together.'' Suddenly he was all but
tasting the moment, as though the mere sound of the words
was itself irresistible. ``You know _exactly_ what I'm
talking about, don't you?''
``_Maricona_!'' Eusebio hissed between his teeth.
``I really don't give a shit what you and your buddy
Javier do for spare coin,'' said Gelfen, riding a wave of
self-righteousness he felt would hold him up forever, ``but
don't come crying to me about how your _sister_ is selling
you out behind your back.''
Eusebio stared at Gelfen. Slowly, methodically, he
leaned back in his chair and meditatively scratched his
crotch. ``So when did Nilsa tell you all this good stuff
'bout me, Mr. Social Worker?''
Gelfen hadn't been expecting the question. He felt his
mouth go dry, and just stared back at Colon in shock.
``When?'' he repeated, feeling that something had just gone
terribly wrong with his life at that moment.
``Yeah, _when_,'' Eusebio repeated. ``My sister gets
these funny ideas sometimes, y'know? They can get people
into heavy trouble if she's not careful.''
Gelfen could not figure out why, but he decided to
brave it out. ``So what has that got to do with me?'' he
asked, the picture of defensive innocence.
Eusebio leaned forward in his chair. ``Tha's the point,
Mr. Social Worker,'' he said very slowly and quietly. ``It's
got _nothin'_ to do with you. _None_ of it has. Family
business, Mr. G., you understan' me?''
From the corner of his eye, Gelfen looked out for a
second at the Intake waiting area. He blinked as though to
clear his vision. Nilsa was sitting in the first row,
holding hands with a Puerto Rican man wearing an expensive-
looking leather jacket. As Gelfen looked, she lifted her
head and kissed the guy, who stroked her thick black hair,
smiled, then started to laugh. He turned back toward
Eusebio, who had the same shiteating grin and the same
leather jacket, which he was putting on as he stood in front
of the desk.
``Javier's out there, right?'' Eusebio said. ``The guy
with Nilsa.''
``Yeah, I guess that's him,'' Gelfen murmured.
``Yeah,'' that is Eusebio, ``that is one mean mother.
``He don' wan' me to be late for work, so he keeps an eye on
me, you un'erstan'?'' He glanced at a wristwatch that had to
cost as much as Gelfen made in a week. ``Hey, I gotta split.
Be cool, Social Worker.'' And he left.
It took Gelfen two minutes to compose himself before he
could leave the Intake booth. Eusebio, Javier, and Nilsa
were long gone.
6
Shortly after Eusebio's final visit to the Welfare
office, Gelfen's worst fears were realized. All of a sudden,
taking a leak became a contest to see how much pain he could
endure before he started to chew through the flush handle on
the urinal. Going to his family doctor was out of the
question. Dr. Rosen delivered him, got him through measles
and mumps, and gave him a pre-Bar Mitzvah lecture on the
Joys of Puberty; but Rosen's idea of doctor-patient
confidentiality would be to telephone Gelfen's parents five
minutes after his patient was out of the office. So Gelfen
went to a doctor at Beth Israel in lower Manhattan, a guy
not much older than himself, who checked him out and said
briskly, ``Mazel tov, schmuck, I hope you're luckier at
cards than you are at love. You've got more clap than the
audience in an opera house. Now drop the pants and stick out
your butt.''
The doctor hit Gelfen in the ass with enough
tetracycline to cure a Pakistani cholera epidemic, then
prescribed a follow-up of horse pills. ``For a month after
you lose the symptoms, pal,'' said Dr. Segelman, ``you may
consider yourself to be in a Jewish monastery. The girls
will just have to buy themselves ears of corn. I don't even
want you to have a sexual _thought_. By the way, gonorrhea
is a public health matter, so I'm supposed to ask for the
names of your most recent sexual contacts. Which is merely a
nice way of asking you if you have any idea where you caught
it.''
Gelfen burst into laughter. He gave Segelman Nilsa's
name and address, and told him about Javier Melendez and his
pursuit of the Americano dream. The next morning he closed
Eusebio's case and then resigned.
~~~~~~~~~November 1991~~~~~~~~~~
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Volume I
Issue V
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___________________________________________________________________________
Sneak Previews
Roger and Alice ................................... Barbara Hlavin
At Nineteen ................................... Randy Money
Whither Horror? ................................... Fiona Oceanstar
John Carl
Hunter Goatley
And now on with The Show!
___________________________________________________________________________
___________________________________________________________________________
Barbara Hlavin (twain@u.washington.edu)
ROGER AND ALICE
Here is Alice, sitting in the living room. She is wearing a blue
woolly robe. Her feet are tucked under her, to keep them warm, for
it is long past midnight and the heat has been turned off. She looks
charming sitting there, her blonde hair tied at the back of her neck
with a narrow blue ribbon.
Alice is holding a book, but she is not reading the book. The
book (_Dark Night of the Soul_, St. John of the Cross) lies open in her
lap. There is a troubled expression on her face. Her lips are parted,
and she is breathing quickly, the deep open neck of her robe rising and
falling beneath one hand, which is pressed to her bosom (also charming).
Alice rises from the chair with a swift movement, closing the book and
placing it on the seat behind her. This is pleasant to watch, for Alice
is a graceful woman, and a careful one, which satisfies our desire for
harmony and order. She walks into the bedroom, where Roger is asleep.
"Wake up!" says Alice. "Roger, there is an angel inside me,
opening its wings."
Roger opens his eyes. He closes them. Then he opens them.
"What?" he says. "You say you're being attacked by angels? Good angels
or bad angels?"
"Angels are by definition good," she replies. "Besides, you
misunderstand. I am not being attacked by angels. I have an angel,
singular. I seem to be hatching an angel. An angel is becoming,
to speak existentially."
Roger thinks of larvae, of pupae. He thinks of caterpillars.
"Perhaps you are turning into something," he says finally. "Something
else, I mean."
"It's very small," says Alice, sitting on the edge of the bed. "It
fits inside my breast. But its wingspan is too large. Roger, I love you.
I think."
Roger closes his eyes.
"Furthermore," Alice continues, pinching Roger thoughtfully, "there
is a black music in my ears, and there is a terrible white light
shattering my head. There is a pain in my breast, where the angel is
trying to get out. These are signs, Roger. Can we afford to ignore them,
revelation rare as it is these days?"
"Angels," says Roger. "Life is certainly never dull with you,
Alice." Although, he adds to himself, if there is one time a man could
reasonably expect a little dullness in his life, it is 2:30 in the
morning.
"Move over," she says. "Move over and I will sing you 'The Jewel
Song' from Faust. To show you I love you. Or the national anthem of
Denmark, if you prefer."
"Thank you," says Roger. "But I think I will sleep in the bathtub
tonight, Alice."
Alice cancelled their subscription to Newsweek. Roger sold the
toaster oven. Alice catalogued their books according to the Dewey Decimal
System. Roger washed the fishbowl. Alice read six books by John D.
MacDonald, and two by Proust. Roger slept in the bathtub.
Alice is crying. "Why is Alice crying?" wonders Roger. "Why?
Why?" Alice takes a bath. Roger fixes himself a drink. Then he eats the
anchovy paste.
Alice asks Roger if he loves her.
"Sometimes."
They argued. Resolved: that Alice loves Roger when she is reading
_Middlemarch_. Roger took the negative.
Alice is very hard to live with, thought Roger. Alice sat bolt upright at
the office. Roger thinks I am very hard to live with! She asked her
friend Mabel if she knew how to be easy to live with. "The best thing to
do," said Mabel, "is forget it. Everyone is hard to live with." Alice
didn't tell Mabel about the angel.
"Do you think marriage is moral?" Alice asked Roger's friend
Edward. Edward agreed that they were living in odd times, when there was
no apparent foundation for ethical certainty and decisions were hard to
come by. They ate roast turkey for dinner. Roger's wife dropped in.
They all drank gin and tonic. Roger caught a cold.
Roger asks Alice what sorts of dreams she has for herself.
Alice's eyes glaze over. "Last night I dreamed that I was reading a
book," she says. "I couldn't figure out the price index at the back. It
was printed in white on blue, which Rabelais says are the colors of purity
and heavenly delight. All the books cost $240, whether in cloth or paper.
There was an article in the book about Theodore Roethke, written by a New
York City policeman. He wrote: 'We don't like this guy Roethke, see?'"
Roger told Edward that Alice was out of touch with reality.
"Lucky girl," said Edward.
"$240 for a paperback is ridiculous!" thinks Alice. "I shall
write a letter to Harper and Row." She sits down at the desk.
Roger combed his hair, looking into the bathroom mirror. "Does my
hair look funny?" he wondered. He had spent Christmas Eve with his
parents. Whenever his mother looked at him she burst into tears. She
said she loved him. She said she wished he would get his hair cut. Roger
left then, and spent the rest of the evening sitting in the apartment,
waiting for Alice to come home. He ate cold salmon and pickled cucumber,
listened to Grieg's Piano Concerto in A Minor, and read an article in
Newsweek about the war.
"I have bad karma," he thinks. "I wish Alice would cook chili.
She makes very tasty chili. I will tell her when she gets back. Alice is
a good cook, but she's hard to live with. On the other hand, Alice is
hard to live with, but she's a good cook. Shall I go and stay with Edward
for a month, shall I go home to my wife, shall I catch a fast freight to
Chicago?"
Roger, considering his possibilities.
Alice's mother called on the telephone. She asked Alice when she,
Alice, was going to get married and have a baby. "Never," said Alice.
Alice, considering her possibilities.
Alice is in the kitchen, crying. Roger decides to go in anyway.
"Have an injury?" he inquires kindly. "No thanks, Roger. I've already
had one."
Roger walks alone through Griffith Park. The sun shines. The sky
is blue. Dogs bark, leaves rustle. "I am not happy," he thinks.
Alice wondered about her angel. Mabel moved in with Harold.
Mabel and Harold came to dinner with Alice and Roger. Roger's wife didn't
come.
Alice went to see a priest, Father X_______,. She wore a blue
linen skirt with a white silk blouse, a green jacket, and blue shoes with
two-inch heels. "This is the best I can do. Priest or no priest." She
asked Father X_______ if angels could be experienced authentically.
1. Could they be invoked?
2. Could they be contained?
3. Could they be refused?
4. etc.
Father X_______ asked her when she had last taken communion. "I
am not a Catholic," said Alice. "Although I think the 'Hail, Mary' is a
very pretty prayer," she added politely. He asked her if she was
interested in taking instruction in the Catholic faith. "No," she said.
"I am interested in finding out if angels can be experienced
authentically. Do you think... Is Church doctrine... "
They spent a pleasant ten minutes together, discussing
Kierkegaard's _Diary of the Seducer_. Father X_______ shook Alice's hand
at the door. "Nice chatting with you."
Then Alice went to the Ambassador Hotel and had a drink. A man
sat down at her table and asked if she would like to make love. "Yes,"
said Alice, whose lover, Roger, had been sleeping in the bathtub for a
week. "Not with you, however." She went home, baked four loaves of
bread, and began to braise chicory for Veau Prince Orloff. "I wish I knew
how to make Roger happy," she thought.
"Roger, would it make you happy if we had a baby?"
"No!"
"Oh."
Roger buys a Gro-lite and puts it in the closet. Alice watches
him locate the ceiling studs. Then he drills holes for the installation
of anchor bolts, using a 1/16th inch bit. He strips and patches the
wires. He hangs the light. The light comes on when Roger twiddles the
connection. "How wonderful men are!" thinks Alice.
"Hello Roger," said Edward.
"Hello Edward. An afflicted spirit is a sacrifice to God."
"Do you actually believe that?"
"No. I think an afflicted spirit is a rotten deal."
Roger and Edward talked about afflicted spirits from the various
viewpoints of experience, observation, and theoretical possibilties.
Alice and Mabel talked about pregnancy.
"I was pregnant once," said Mabel.
"Was the conception immaculate?"
"No, thank God. Maculate."
"What did you do, Mabel?"
"I called him from Honolulu. Collect."
"You called God *collect*? From Honolulu?"
"No, Alice, don't be silly. The alleged father."
"Did he accept the charges?"
"He evaded the issue."
"Mabel, have you ever thought about law school?"
Alice and Roger went to Sequoia National Park with Mabel and
Edward. Harold didn't come.
"How winsome you look, Alice!" exclaimed Edward, shaking her hand
and leading her to the couch. "I have always admired embroidered yokes on
nightdresses."
"Edward, I have come to ask you a question."
"About Roger?"
"Only indirectly. Edward, I want to know why there is not enough
love in the world."
"That's easy!" cried Edward. "I was afraid you were going to ask
something difficult, like the score of the Boston-Miami game, or the
closing Dow Jones average. The reason there is not enough love in the
world..."
Just then there was a terrific noise at the door and three masked
men burst into the room, carrying crowbars, tire irons, and wrenches of
various sorts, such as open-end wrenches, ignition wrenches, ratchet box
wrenches, internal pipe wrenches, and locking-plier wrenches, with which,
after knocking Edward to the floor, they beat him unmercifully,
particularly about the head, until he was insensible.
"Poor Edward," said Roger. They were leaving the hospital, where
they had delivered an assortment of flowers to Edward's room. Edward's
head was all wrapped up in white gauze. Alice thought that Edward's head
looked just like a big toe. "It was lucky, Alice, that you were there and
had the presence of mind to call the International Red Cross. And by the
way, Alice, what were you doing in Edward's apartment alone with Edward at
three o'clock in the morning?"
"Went to ask him a question," said Alice.
"About me?"
Alice kicks the yellow fire hydrant by the edge of the pavement.
Small, savage kicks.
Roger wonders: Why is life not the way they told me it was going
to be?
Alice cut holes in Roger's denim jacket, using a paper punch she
had stolen from the office. She broke the fishbowl and rubbed peanut
butter on the recording of Grieg's Piano Concerto in A Minor. "There,"
she thought.
Roger picked out the stitching in the gores of Alice's black
chiffon velvet evening skirt. Then he sewed it up again, making the seams
an inch smaller in the hips. He put her Mexican jumping beans in a pie
plate and left them in the oven for an hour, under Broil.
"I am cruel only to be kind, Alice," says Roger.
"No, Roger, you are cruel because you have a mean streak in your
nature and in order to hurt my feelings, which you are able to do because
of my grossly exaggerated sense of the value of your person."
There might be a bit of truth in that, thinks Roger.
Roger enters the apartment, which I have neglected to describe.
The front room is twenty-two feet by eighteen feet and it has three doors:
one leading outside, one to the bedroom, one to a workroom where Roger
splices his film and stores his cameras. There are two windows: a west
window overgrown by a hawthorne bush, the other a south window with a view
of a hill upon which the landlady has imposed a kitchen garden. Runner
beans are staked at the bottom of the hill. There is a fireplace above
which are pinned, with pushpins, seven sketches of large-eyed waifs drawn
by Roger's wife. Each waif holds in its arms a morbid looking animal.
Four addition drawings, also done by Roger's wife but after she had
started taking acid, are hung, inconclusive swirls which look like
question marks or bruises. Beneath the window is a table. This table is
low and round, and on it are --
a dish of water containing a camellia
an undeveloped roll of film
twenty-six Bic Bananas
_Krapp's Last Tape_
a tape recorder
a box of black Go stones
--and an Oriental Thing carved in twelve separate concentric spheres
from a single piece of ivory, a gift from Roger's twin sisters who sing
gospel music in night clubs on three continents. There are six floor
cushions which Alice has made: one of blue, one of crimson, one of bottle
green, one of mottled purple and white, one gold with a rich upholstery
texture, one of brown, green, and gold stripes. There is a couch covered
in blue, and a red and blue carpet. And of course the chair. There is no
fire in the fireplace, and on the mantle are thirteen Heineken bottles,
empty, a tribute to Alice's favorite writer and to a lot of fun Alice and
Roger had had one night. Alice is on the floor, reading a book. The room
smells cold.
There.
"I am leaving for Chicago, Alice, on the next train. See? Here
is my ticket."
"Oh, Rhett, Rhett! Where shall I go? What shall I do?"
"Help me pack. And don't call me Rhett."
There was not a moment to be lost. Already several of the guests
were lying down in the dishes, and the soup-ladle was walking up the table
toward Alice's chair, and beckoning to her impatiently to get out of its
way.
"I can't stand this any longer," she cried...
But no; that's not the way it ended; that's the end of someone
else's story: a better story, a better ending. To tell the truth, some
stories end badly. I don't like the way this story ends. Alice didn't
like it. Roger himself found it unsatisfactory. But when we begin we do
not know the ending. We are often artful in our beginnings, but we have
no choice in the matter of endings, of endings, of endings.
___________________________________________________________________________
Randy Money (librbm@suvm.bitnet)
AT NINETEEN
I saw a man crucified:
Naked, moth-like, bound vertical
along a slab suspended in hoops of chrome;
arms and legs and penis dangling;
broad, thick chest leeched with electrodes,
wires weaving across the woven wires of hair;
mouth agape, gasping; eyes bulging, begging.
Away from my father, down the hall,
A window bleary with midnight rain,
Iced black asphalt reflecting gothic
Towers and turrets, a music school:
The Castle of Otranto preserving
Butterflies and whipporwills.
___________________________________________________________________________
Fiona Oceanstar (fi@grebyn.com)
John Carl (johnca@microsoft.com)
Hunter Goatley (goathunter@wkuvx1.bitnet)
WHITHER HORROR?
A Three-Part Lament
(instrumentation optional)
John: It's well known that Harlan Ellison thinks horror is dead.
Is he right? A simplified accounting of his position:
It's his thesis that Stephen King created contemporary horror, and
that everyone else (aside from a few major talents) has just been
gliding along on his coattails ever since. The momentum has slowed, he
maintains. The books aren't selling half as well as they used to, the
publishers are changing their minds as to whether it's a good idea to
publish horror. And so horror is dying.
Hunter: I think that's an accurate assessment. Of course, the publishers
are the main reason it's dying. They screwed themselves.
John: Ellison says it's partly a good thing--because the Stephen King
clones and the lower-quality writers will suffer most from the
shakedown, and who needs them anyway?--and partly a bad thing--because good
beginning writers will shy away from the field for lack of a market.
Fiona: Or maybe lack of a respectable image! I mean, jeez, would you want
to introduce yourself at a party, in any place more sophisticated
than the neighborhood pizza joint, as a HORROR writer? We're talkin' major
DIS material here. You can claim to be doing it for the money--then if you
bomb out, you can say you were misguided--but you certainly can't claim to
be doing it for Art. I'm not kidding about this: I think it's a serious
problem for the field. Earnest, talented young writers are shying away
from the darker themes, because they don't want to compromise their
literary ambitions. A writer wants to be known as a writer--not as a hack.
John: Tom Weber, a friend of mine who works as an editor at Tor books, a
major horror publisher, says that Tor is getting out of the horror
business entirely except for just a few writers. He says: "If you want
to be a writer, don't write horror whatever you do. Call it suspense,
or dark fantasy, or anything but horror. Supernatural horror and
hard-core splatterpunk are on their way out--unless it involves
vampires." Tor is going to reallocate its horror resources to science
fiction and mystery.
Fiona: I know it's the real world, but it's strange to think of writing in
business terms--to think of novels as a product. Back in, oh, I
think it was '84, at a college reunion, I ran into Lawrence Watt-Evans (an
sf/fantasy novelist who won a recent Hugo), and he said, "You're into
horror? You should WRITE horror. That's what Tor wants--they keep saying:
horror, more horror." He seemed exasperated, and I could understand why.
There he was, trying to tell the stories he has to tell, and Tor was
saying, "No, write this instead--it'll sell better." It's a controversial
distinction we're talking about here: some people are content to be
schlockmeisters (and I certainly have no problem with an honest dollar for
honest work), but others get very touchy, when accused of writing what the
market desires.
Hunter: I think even the supermarket horror buyers have been inundated
with so much crap, they won't buy it all any more.
Fiona: That makes me think of something Dean Koontz says in the intro to
_Night_Visions_6_: "Sturgeon's Law--which states that ninety
percent of *everything* is crap--needs to be revised to be applicable to
the horror genre; the percentage has to be raised." It's a good essay. He
also says, "We are unquestionably in a boom..."--this is 1988, when he's
writin' this--"And we are overwhelmed by trash. . . Attempting to read
nineteen out of any twenty horror novels, a well-educated person will
despair, for so many writers seem never to have learned the basic rules of
grammar and syntax. Most books and stories have nothing to say; they speak
neither to the mind nor heart; they are clockwork mechanisms laboring
mightily to bring forth, on schedule, not a cuckoo bird but a vague shiver
of ersatz fear."
I don't know about you, but slap-in-the-face ("Thanks, I needed that")
criticism is just what I'm hungry for these days. Koontz makes those
supermarket novels sound like worn-out, played-out, falling-apart
versions of the Overlook Hotel. No ghost at all: just a dumb machine.
Hunter: I remember when I started reading horror around 1978, there were a
few King novels, Robert R. McCammon's _Baal_, some Robert Bloch
reprints, and not much else that was highly visible. Since 1986 or so, the
market just exploded with new crappy titles by new crappy authors. The
*good* ones are generally overlooked because there are so many books out
there.
Publishers like Zebra and Pinnacle (and TOR for that matter) put out so
many titles a month that all have practically the same cover that there's
no way they can expect to sell all of them. IMHO, TOR has been one of the
biggest reasons for horror's downfall. For the last couple of years,
they've printed *so* much stuff and never really promoted any of them. I'm
not a fan of Charles Grant's stuff, but I've met him a few times. He's
getting close to dire straits, and I think the main reason is because TOR
hasn't done anything to promote him. He was a fairly "big name" in the
early '80s, but when he moved to TOR, he's pretty much become a no-name.
Hunter: The problem is, many of TOR's books use the same fonts for their
titles, the same artists for multiple books, etc. How is the
average supermarket buyer going to tell if she's already read a book or
not---you certainly can't go by the cover. You need to look carefully at
authors, and most of them couldn't tell you who wrote a book (unless it was
King; because they've been brainwashed into believing that he's the best,
they read everything he writes).
Hunter: I interviewed Rick McCammon on August 31 for the last issue of
_Lights Out!_. We talked about the current state of horror and
here's what he said:
HG: Mark Turek wrote: Because of horror "splatter" cinema, I've
noticed the trend toward "splatter" horror fiction. Originality
is hard to find except in a few cases; your most recent novel
[_The Wolf's Hour_] was a very refreshing read, as was
_Stinger_. What do you see on the horizon for the genre,
and do you think we'll rise above the blood-and-gore rubbish?
RM: My feeling---and I know this is gonna get a lot of people
upset---is that the future of horror is in films. Horror
literature may be non-existent soon. Books have tried to mirror
films because it's perceived that films are popular---they make a
lot of money, usually---so the books have become more like the
films. I think fewer people are reading horror novels now. I
think you'll see the trend continue in horror films, but I think
horror novels are taking their last gasp. I wish that weren't
so, but it seems to be so.
Fiona: Hmmm.... seems awfully alarmist, not to mention short-sighted.
I think we need to keep in mind that different strains within
the whole corpus of literature tend to go through ups and downs. Phases,
regressions, reversals, etc. Death isn't going to go away. The inner
darkness of humankind isn't going to go away. So horror literature won't
go away, either. It'll transform, perhaps emerge anew under a different
label. The label is just a label of convenience, anyway: it's a strange
one, too, since it names a specific emotional experience as the
_sine_qua_non_ of the genre.
You see, while I'm disgusted, too, with the likes of Tor and Pinnacle and
Zebra, I also see a lot of good stuff out there. It's not getting labeled
as horror, and maybe that's a blessing. What shall we call it? Dark Lit?
Katherine Dunn's _Geek_Love_, for example. Patrick Suskind's _Perfume_.
The stories and novels of Patrick McGrath.
But back to the obvious horror genre, such as it is...
John: Ellison's explanation of the underlying force behind the wane in
sales is the usual: just look at the real and increasing horrors the
real world has to offer--gangs in LA, nuclear terrorism, etc.--and tell him
why anyone has to read horror to be horrified. Horror literature is
not scary, because the real world is scary enough.
As if anyone--or at any rate, most readers--read horror to discover
anything horrifying about the external world or events at large.
Fiona: I bet if we could get Ellison in person here, he could defend his
view better, but I agree: it sounds counter-intuitive, but we
don't read horror to be horrified. As tedious as his writing is, I think
Noel Coward (in _The_Philosophy_of_Horror_) has a good point when he
emphasizes that horror readers seek not horror _per_se_--the emotion you
feel when confronted by violence on the street, for example--but what he
calls "art-horror." A simulacrum of the emotion. An experience that's
easier to work with, easier to handle. As corny as it sounds, I still
think it's true: most people who read horror are trying (unconsciously) to
get control over things that scare them, to gain mastery in their minds,
over things they couldn't master in reality. What's hard to swallow about
this, is that of *course* you never catch yourself thinking, "I'm reading
this book about a rabid dog in order to re-capitulate, and thus master, my
feelings about my father who beat me." If you could think such a thing,
then the charm wouldn't work--because it wouldn't be unconscious.
John: This is why I read horror--
--to discover the possibility of something creepy within myself;
--to discover the possibility of something creepy about my
perfectly normal-looking neighbors;
--to tantalize my suspicion that the world can't possibly be as
orderly as it's advertised to be, even taking into account the
aforementioned chaos;
--to discover an external cognate (in the imagination of the
author) to what I think of as my own dark secrets--a denial of
solipsism;
--for plain old entertainment and escapism.
As for me, I don't care much about the exact form or packaging of the
literature which provides these qualities. I'm not a horror fan, per
se, so much as a fan of dark literature, which includes horror and a
lot of other stuff. Lately I've been reading a lot of private
investigator novels, some of which are very, very dark....
Fiona: I like your reasons a lot--especially the way that you emphasize
the process of discovery. Primates are curious creatures by
nature: we apes are always going to be picking things up and poking
underneath them, looking for what we haven't found yet, searching for what
we can't see (because it's dark). What I said earlier about the horror
reader's drive for mastery over trauma, is only part of the picture. We
have to include that inquisitive spirit--the "private investigator" indeed!
That's where I think the river of horror lit will find its true channel,
and wend its way, however circuitously, into the future--in the never-
ceasing need to ask unpleasant questions, to look behind the walls of our
perception, and then look again, and look again, _ad_infinitum_.
I know I'm slinging metaphors with abandon here, but if you go with the
image of a necessarily limited view of reality that is destroyed and
re-constructed in never-ending cycles, then horror is, by its very nature,
going to do a phoenix number. Once we've exploited all the possibilities
of the modern horror tale as envisioned by such pioneers as Richard
Matheson and Stephen King--all the splatterpunk body catastrophes, all the
sexual-perversion scenarios, every version of realism that the human mind
can imagine--then horror will have to turn into something else. Maybe it
won't look like fictional realism anymore. Maybe it'll look more like a
twisted religion, or an alternate universe, or a horrible version of a
virtual reality. A new, and newly fantastic, vision of the Dark. We can't
just recycle the same product: that's becoming obvious. We may have to
kill the beast, or at least declare it dead ("He's dead, Jim"), in order
for the new beast to emerge.
^^^//January 1992\\^^^
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Volume I
Issue VI
~~~````''''~~~
CORE is published monthly by Rita Rouvalis (rita@eff.org) and is
archived on ftp.eff.org in the /pub/journals directory. It can
also be downloaded from the EFFSIG Forum on CompuServe, Library
5, Zines from the Net. Subscriptions and submissions should be
sent to core-journal@eff.org.
Feel free to reproduce CORE in its entirety across Cyberspace as
you see fit. Please contact the authors to republish individual
articles.
~~~````''''~~~
FEATURING
A Short History .... Joe Green
I Look At My Children.. .... Kenneth Wolman
Busted .... RICHH
The Old Hobo's Tale .... Robert Curtis Davis
___________________________________________________________________________
Rita Rouvalis rita@eff.org
New Frontiers
When people ask me how many people read CORE, I generally shrug and
say I have no clue. I know how many subscribers I have, and I can
even track pretty closely how many copies are ftp'ed from the archives
on ftp.eff.org, but where the e-zine goes from there is anybody's
guess. It's put on bulletin boards and distribution sites all over
the world.
I tend to think of these BBSs and other services as little islands
out there in the grand matrix. Some are linked to each other
through e-mail gateways, others are not. One of the things I would
like to do with CORE and the other e-zines (with their editors'
permission) is start building bridges between these islands over
which writers can traverse and meet and talk with one another.
Recently, due to the advent of a free account and some work
I need to do there, I've been exploring CompuServe. The writers who
hang out in the literary forum have never even thought about doing
an e-zine.
Geoff Duncan's editorial in the anniversary issue of InterText
talks about an individual who believes electronic fiction publishing
dead. Au contraire. Electronic publishing is barely into its infancy.
I fully expect it to flourish in the coming years as more and more
individuals travel between the networks and discover the excitement of
the medium.
__________________________________________________________________________
Joe Green n2412@willow.cray.com
A Short History
I have been very good.
I have been very good for 8 years.
I told my wife that our children looked like tiny skeletons only
three times.
When I spat blood I did so discreetly into monogrammed hankies.
I told my wife that at last I had a single integrated action plan (SIAP).
The time I went to Disneyland and blew the head off the hippo in the
jungle ride was an aberration.
The time I spent 2 weeks in the Rocket Motel with a topless dancer
named Baby Madonna was truly unusual.
I no longer think I am a wolf.
When I vomit on family holidays I do so with some grace and never at
table.
It has been years since I insisted on going into the woods to shit.
I have been interested in organizational development.
I no longer drink wine from bottles wrapped in paper bags
with guys named Spider and Bullethead. I especially avoid doing
this in our driveway.
I am meek at work and participate with enthusiasm in group activities.
When I run in 10 kilometer races it is hard to tell that I itch all
over and am imagining that I am being chased by hearts with mouths.
I only speak to the dog in my command voice.
I go dutifully to all the Vietnam movies to learn what I should
think. I explain to my son what a dustoff is. I do not
mention the fact that to me it looks like people in the audience
have the heads of hyenas and jackals.
My son looks like a tiny skeleton.
When he was born I went down in the cellar and built him a coffin.
I will send this with him when he goes into the army. From Dad.
If all dads did this it would save our government considerable expense.
Dads should also build coffins for the sons our sons will kill.
I have a complete set of plans for coffins for sons of many
nationalities. Spider told me that this was a waste of time.
Just send along some extra-strength garbage bags. He said.
And what about the mommas and babies. He said. And, anyway,
you dumb shit. He said. There ain't nothing to bury most of the
time. He said. You dumb old fucker. You think we're back in Vietnam.
I still think that it would demonstrate our compassion.
I often imagine my daughter on fire.
I was reading "Come Away, Joe" to her and she was curled up in my arms and
I imagined that she was hit with white phosphorus and burned from the
inside out. The white phosphorus looked like a star in her belly.
I imagined that she was also hit with napalm. Have some jelly, honey.
We called people burnt up by napalm "crispy critters." This was
a popular breakfast cereal at the time.
Here is how I am telling you I make love to my wife.
I imagine that we are both dead and holding each other. We are under
a hill. The hill looks over a blue and peaceful town. The town
is not a town. It is the shadow of a tone. The bank, the church,
the little stores and tiny houses tremble and dissolve in a soft mist.
No-one can see the town. It is not in any government records or on any
maps. Our children live there.
For a long time I was unemployed. I drove a car the color of a cloud.
I would pick up our children from school. Your father comes for you
in a car the color of a cloud.
At night I imagine that our dead cat is walking in the garden.
I imagine I am in the garden and she treadles my chest. She licks
my eyes thinking the moon's rays are milk. Her eyes shine with love.
Lay down with me lay down in the humility of death.
You see that I am very sentimental.
This morning we all sat at breakfast and I said "I am worried
about Goethe."
"Why, Dad?" My son said.
"Ok, dear." My wife said. "You have been good for eight years.
You can have that party."
This is a lie. My wife left me 10 years ago. She lives with our
children and her new husband in a very nice rambler on a cul-de-sac
in the very nice state of California.
I often imagine that my children are dream children.
I still live in the same house which is where I grew up. My father is dead.
My mother is dead. They are buried in Fairview cemetery. Just off Oak
Street. Warrensville, Pa, 19320.
They are on a very nice cul-de-sac.
Old joke.
I spoke to my mother the other night.
"Do you have your gloves on?" She asked.
"Yes." I asseverated.
I came home from Vietnam when my father died.
"Your father died." They said.
"Complete this form." They said. "Be back in two weeks." They said.
When I got off the plane in Honolulu they hung flowers around my neck.
Then they unloaded the bodies.
When I saw my father in the coffin I saw that they put glasses on him.
He only wore glasses to read. They wanted a homey look. I vomited
in the men's room. I held my mother at the grave. Her cloth coat
smelled the same as it did when I was little.
We went home to the funeral meats which were Vienna sausages in tomato
sauce. This is how a lot of people live. My cousin turned on the TV
to watch a football game. True. He was down in the basement. True.
Other males were enjoying the game. I threw my father's hammer
through the screen. Incoming. I kicked my cousin in the face.
Everyone was embarrassed.
Here's who was dead when I came back.
Daniel Mitchinok
Carlos Gonzalez
John Rollins
William Latoff
Gross weight: about 710 lbs.
I bought a tape recorder to record my thoughts about war and letters
to my mother.
Here are my thoughts about war as recorded by me at Landing Zone
X-Ray adjacent to the Chu Pong Range:
Here is a continuation of those thoughts as recorded by me trekking
overland with the 5th Cav:
Here are my thoughts as I surveyed the 800 dead of a famous battle
that you can read about in a coffee table book available at
a discount rate from Barnes and Noble:
My letters to mother were equally eloquent.
Is this too easy? Yes.
Do you want to know the truth?
My wife told me she was leaving. I am tired of this shit.
Blah. Blah. She said.
I asked her to wait. "Don't pack yet." I said.
I went to the mall and bought a camera. Plenty of film.
When I came home she was crying. She was on the couch.
I took pictures of every room in the house.
I opened every closet and drawer and took pictures.
I took her picture.
When the kids came home I took their pictures.
They left.
Then her mother and her brothers came over and took everything.
It took me two years to complete the reconstruction. Now I have
a lifesize wife weeping on the couch. My son sits at his desk
and plays Pac Man. My daughter plays with her doll.
Some of that shit was hard to find.
You understand. You are also sentimental.
One year I drove to California to see my children. In the car the
color of a cloud. In Oklahoma I woke up at dawn and went outside
the motel room. It was next to a pasture. There were horses in
the pasture. I stood at the fence. The horses were the color of
the dawn. They came to me.
Then I kicked in the bedroom door.
Shot this picture.
Reader. Rider. Horses.
Slaked. Plausive. Ignorant.
_________________________________________________________________________
RICHH richh@tigger.jvnc.net
BUSTED
James and I got busted for underage drinking. A cop called
our parents and told them we had a choice: either pay a three
hundred or so dollar fine or pay seventy-five and attend weekly AA
classes for the summer.
We picked the latter.
Once a week we would get drunk, stoned, and head over to these
classes, held in a church and held specifically for minors who'd
been caught with alcohol or a joint or so.
There were maybe a hundred of us all together and we were
broken into groups, each of which was run by a former alcoholic.
They passed out charts, pamphlets, etc. and lectured us against the
dangers of letting our lives turn out like theirs had. James and
I had a field day. Most all of the other kids there were the dregs
of teen humanity, while James was president of our Honor Society
and I was, well, me.
One day, the woman who led our group was explaining how very
risky it was to take both quaaludes and alcohol together, that if
you take a certain amount of both you could lapse into a coma and
die.
"Well, how many?" said a particularly scummy member of our
group.
"How many what?"
"How many 'ludes can I take, before I die? I wanna do one
less."
We were rolling.
She passed out a chart to all of us, showing a graph that
compared body weight to intoxication.
"If you weigh so and so and drink such and such, you will feel
drunk, lose your sense of balance, your reaction time will
suffer..." She added more drinks. "And if you drink this many,
you can pass out...fall into a coma...die."
I raised my hand.
"Yes?"
"Well, if after nine drinks in two hours you pass out, how can
you ever drink enough to make it to the coma part, or die?"
"Um, er--"
"I guess if one of your friends hooks up an IV..."
"That's enough."
We bought a loose joint off of the 'lude guy and ate a pizza.
__________________________________________________________________________
Kenneth Wolman ktw@hlwpk.att.com
I LOOK AT MY CHILDREN AS SERPENTS
AND PRAISE THEM
It is defiance that borders the dark, abusive land of indecency:
referring to my children as ``serpents'' swings opens the garden gate
to a world of expectations in our notions of the serpentine:
a Miltonic shade, clutching a Bible, squats in the corner by the love-apples,
shaking its head and scratching loud tickmarks on the well-worn slate,
recording my errors. Snakes, indeed! why stop at snakes? why not go
the distance:
enter the allegorical human barnyard and name them ``wolves'' for how they eat?
We are bound to our theologies, and lose the beauty of the created world
in the straits of our closed systems. With the skin of a stained-glass window,
the snake
absorbs and emprisms the sunlight, radiates the silvered colors of the moon,
and like the undenounced (because it is unreal) resurrective Phoenix,
lives its rebirth of new skin, and its Mozartean geometry of new colors.
Shedding the old, it remains its self-recreated self, rebirthing itself
in splendor.
What is our religion when it teaches that the snake walked erect,
a thing of radiance before its fall, but that it paid the price
of beguilement by surrendering its feet and spine? It's our jealousy, perhaps:
did it eat the fruit of the tree and have the knowledge that we lacked?
Or was it, in its prelapsarian allure, the lover of the bodyless
but shape-shifting God, who cast it down for sharing their secret, for its
betrayal?
Deprived of speech, the snake cannot answer: instead, it crawls quietly away
from its interrogators: or raises its hood and bares its fangs
to hiss at the presumptuous, colorless people who would dare to seek its truths.
Serpents are of the created world, but, recreating themselves, go beyond
creation:
and view experience as manna, a gift to be devoured, swallowed whole.
Once my sons stood in a pet shop, and gaped with fascination while a python
took and absorbed the inert body of a mouse. This is Nature, I told them:
it is not always pretty, it is not always fair, but it is Life. They
ignored me:
or they intuited the snake's true meaning as they watched the python, sinless
and sinuous,
brilliant-colored, taking his prey into himself with a lover's concentration:
and took their own lesson of their place in Nature: not cruel, but able
to envelop, absorb.
They are not snakes, that is only metaphor: and the power of metaphor is
that it says more than saying bald truths. ``Children grow, renew, yet remain
themselves.''
Suppress the yawn: contemplate instead the beauty and wisdom of the serpent
who sheds his skin, who is reborn, who creeps and grows close to the earth
from which we sprang,
who does not fear the coming of his new self but knows it as part of his old,
who cherishes the smell of earth around him, who takes his life into his mouth
and holds it there, lovingly, with an old passion that is morality.
And understand.
__________________________________________________________________________
Robert Curtis Davis sonny@trantor.harris-atd.com
THE OLD HOBO'S TALE
Shadows from a ragged slouch hat played about the old hobo's rough,
weather-beaten face. He stared into a campfire and spoke in low, growling
tones to his nodding companion.
"Hell, it ain't my fault I'm so ugly or that I lack what my Momma
always called the 'Social Graces'. It all goes back to when we was
dirt-poor and Momma, me, and my baby brother lived in that old
run-down shack just outside Moundville. Hell, I reckon I was about eight
years old -- just a snotty-nosed kid you might say. 'Ugly as homemade
sin' my Momma was always saying. Said I got my looks from that
'no 'count Paw' of mine who'd done run off with some 'floozy.'
"Why, we was so poor in those days till most times we didn't even have
milk for my baby brother, and he'd cry and cry -- mostly at night.
"Now, Momma was forever and a day trying to talk some storekeep up in
Moundville into hiring me to sweep floors or some other piss-ant job like
that. Hell, I didn't care nothing 'bout sweeping no floors! And I'd tell'em
so! Why, they'd 'bout have a fit when I'd spit on the floor to let 'em
know how I felt about sweeping floors!
"Well, you might guess, I never did get me no job. So we never had no
milk. And my baby brother, that rascal, he'd squall nearly ever' night. I
coulda hung around and lived with it if it hadn't a-been for my brother --
him always cryin' and hungry like that at night...
"Now, I ain't never told nobody this, but, you know what? Lotsa times I'd
be in bed and Momma'd come in with a kerosene lantern, lean over me, and
you know what she'd say? She'd say, 'Damn it all, Johnny! Why was you born
so all-fired ugly? And so lacking in Social Graces? Damn that no 'count
Paw of yourn!'
"I'd scrunch down under the quilt, watch my Momma leave, and, why hell,
I'd have to fight to hold back the damn tears. I'd grab that old tore-up
stuffed bear of mine and lie there listening to my brother and my Momma
bawlin' in the next room. I'd shove my head under a pillow to block
out all that hellacious squallin'! And, you know what I'd do then?
Now you ain't gonna believe this, but I'd pray... Yeah, pray. Me -- Bama
John! I'd usually say me something like, 'God? Maybe You could see Your way
clear to take some of this here Ugly off me and bring me Social Graces.
Now it don't matter a whole lot to me, but it shore would make my Momma
happy!'
"Next morning I'd get up real early and stumble over to the mirror... and
you know what?... Why, hell, I'd still look just as ugly as ever!... So
I'd spit on the floor and say to myself, 'Crap! Probably didn't get no
Social Graces neither!'"
The old hobo chuckled, spat a thick, sizzling stream of tobacco juice
into the fire. His companion stirred, grunted sleepily.
Beyond the railyard, a whistle wailed as a powerful engine stroked
away into the night, drilling a hole into the darkness that lay beneath
the bright stars.
___________________________________________________________________________
CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS
THE LOWELL PEARL, a stable, paying literary magazine affiliated with
the University of Massachusetts at Lowell and the Lowell Arts Council,
is currently accepting submissions of short fiction, poetry, and essays
for its summer issue.
All submissions must be typed and include a SASE*. Please
do not send originals as no submissions will be returned.
Deadline is 1 May 1992.
Please send to:
Literary Society
S. Campus Student Information Center
University of Massachusetts at Lowell
One University Avenue
Lowell MA 01854
*Submissions may also be e-mailed to me. In this case, a SASE
is not necessary. You can also ask me any questions via e-mail.
Internet: rita@eff.org
Compuserve: 70007,5621
((((********))))
March 1992
magazines/CORE/core1.07
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ISSN 1062-6697
Volume I
Issue VII
EXTRA SPECIAL CYBERPUNK ISSUE
...because April *is* the cruellest month...
~~~````''''~~~
CORE is published monthly by Rita Rouvalis (rita@eff.org) and is
archived on ftp.eff.org in the /journals directory. Subscrip-
tions and submissions should be sent to core-journal@eff.org.
CORE is also archived on CompuServe in the EFFSIG Forum in Lib 5
Zines from the Net.
You are encouraged to reproduce CORE *in its entirety only* any-
where in Cyberspace. Please contact individual authors for
permission to reproduce articles seperately.
~~~````''''~~~
___________________________________________________________________________
Charlene Brusso cbrusso@cs.ulowell.edu
GROUND ZERO ARCADE
Ground Zero? Ask anyone in this sprawling junkyard the Boston
corporate types call 'Oldtown,' they'll tell you. Oldtowners know me,
they know my work. Look for the blossoming mushroom cloud in the front
window, the nuclear chrysanthemum with continuous replay. Once a prong
hears the name, sees that sign, he usually doesn't forget. I count on it.
Sometimes I sit in the front by the token changers just to listen to
the comments from the new prongs, the virgins, their wrists still sore
from getting their interface sockets installed. They come here in a fever
to prong into the games, link nerves into a sensory generator and
surrender to an alternate reality. It's new tech to them, but I've seen
it all before. My sockets are military blackware; I just tell everyone
they're custom jobs.
The Arcade draws more corporate types every day. I can always tell
a corp, no matter how hard they try to dress down. They have this rigidity;
they're edgy, stiff. Their voices are brittle and they laugh too much.
No Oldtowner laughs like a corp; they learn early not to to give things away.
But prongs are still prongs, and they all stare at my hologram the first
time they come in. I have to admit it's impressive. Just look at it --
the golden fireball billows out into a bloated red balloon, shrouded
in roiling dust. And see those daggers of lightening snap like shorts in an
overloaded circuit as the shock front rolls out from the bloody red-brown
stem. Then it jerks and blinks and starts all over again, like a
jack-in-the-box.
It's just a toy, no more than two cubic meters in volume. Just a
toy, a dream, a whimsey from Crazy Janey's freaky imagination.
Most of my clientele can't appreciate the realism, the dept and detail
in the image. I remember well enough what it should sound like, but I
didn't make an audio track for it. I'll probably never add one; I'm retired,
after all, at the wizened age of twenty-seven, and this place is plenty
wild enough without it.
Why did Janey do it? Everyone thinks they know, and no one asks me. Corps
are good with assumptions, and Oldtowners don't pry. It's Janey's hologram,
freeb. Cantcha see the red neon above the door? Ground Zero Arcarde: it's
a joke, just a piece of the game. Now you know.
Only I know different. But it IS good for business. And the prongs are
here tonight in full force. Some kind of corporate holiday, I heard:
CEO's birthday or something. Doesn't matter. What's important is the
sound of those tokens dropping into my games, the snarled MIDI synthesis
of gunfire and exploding warships twined into the veil of cigarette smoke.
Only dead things are quiet, and tonight the arcade is noisy and I'm happy.
Well, happy enough.
I watch the players a lot. The best ones are cool. Nothing moves but
their eyes, and their fingers on the console. Click, they cable wristplugs
into the game, and now it's a fight to the death. They're not flashy, these
prongs, but they don't fall. Not many corps play like that. Too noisy.
No instinct. The high scores are from the quiet ones, the loners, and those
scores are hard to beat.
Most of the high scores here carry my initials. But I don't play often. No
personal stake in it, no threat. The game has to be worth winning to
be worth playing.
Besides, it gets in the way of the paying customers.
Orange fire reflects from the silver t-shirts of four sweet young things
in copycat Vichenzi originals. They're so fresh they could have stepped
out of a ContiCo Cosmetics ad: gypsy black hair worn short and curly,
shiny teeth bright white as a magnesium flare, and faces planed to a
uniform smooth fleshpink. Two males, a female, and one who could pass for
either, probably some corporate secretarial pool. They've been feeding
tokens into that multi-player 'Harem-Scarem' for over an hour. The
androgyne is the coolest, but all four are sweating and panting; Harem's
interface is pretty realistic.
I don't even like the game much, but somehow it's fitting that I look up
from it just as he enters the arcade. Mirrorshades, collar-length
silver-blond hair clipped short on the sides, brown leather jacket. Long
legs in black denims, fringed black boots. Nothing so unusual there: the
description matches half my clientele, the Oldtowner half.
No, it's not how he looks, it's how he moves. Smooth, long strides, hands
tucked in his jacket pockets. He's no Oldtowner I've seen before, but he
looks more dangerous than your average corp -- more aware, and comfortable
with it. Like he knows exactly what he wants, and how he's going to get it.
Pure attitude, this boy. Impressive.
His mirrorshades scan the arcade chaos in narrow arcs: his hidden eyes
must be swinging wide, taking in the sights with as professional an eye
as me or my partner Trixie ever used. Reflected holograms sweep across the
chromed surface of his glasses in garish acid-etched rainbows. He's taken
his left hand out of his pocket now. His right is closed in a fist behind
the distressed leather.
A hit, in my place? Not a smart idea. This boy must be from out of town.
But I like his form. I'll give him a warning. If he's ept, he'll take his
business elsewhere. The only games allowed here are mine.
I nod to Trixie where she's leaning against the smoked plexy phone kiosk by
the front door. She shakes her head, dreadlocks wound with green and blue
yarn bouncing against her chocolate brown cheeks. I scratch the right side
of my jaw, pull my right earlobe. She slides upright and strolls after the
blond. I've never seen a panther but I'm sure she moves like one, lean,
muscular and coiled to spring. He moves the same way, watching the room
with that casual alertness. It's a hit, all right. I wonder who?
Trixie's got a smile growing on her elegant face. I hope this boy is smart.
He's too pretty to kill. My one soft spot, that eye for art. Lucky for him.
I walk toward the side wall, angling away to flank him. My slim Messier
9mm is exactly where it's supposed to be, under my right sleeve and ready.
All I have to do is crook my thumb and I'm holding the best short-range
defense money and contacts can buy.
I pass Sage, doing his regular Wednesday night calesthenics at the controls
of 'Raid on Antares.' He smiles, a quick gleam of aluminized eyeteeth, and
nods before returning his full attention to the swooping starships. The LCD
score panel reads almost 5,000,000. He could even beat my record tonight.
The thunder of a synthetic explosion rattles under my feet as a beam of
yellowgold plasma shatters a target. Sage's score jumps by 20,000. Yeah,
maybe he'll do it.
My boy has stopped by the 'DragonMaster' table, silver hair falling over
his forehead. I can see his face-on now, lithe reptilian figures distorted
in his mirrorshades as he glances at the gameboard. The reflection drifts
as he raises his gaze. His mouth thins briefly, then he smiles. At me.
Cocky bastard. I push my hair out of my eyes and smile back, and he takes
his hand out of his pocket. He's holding something matte black and
snub-nosed. It's pointed at me.
Fast, I drop behind the Antares box, cock my thumb. The Messier slides
into my palm. You'd better be wearing some Kevlar under that leather,
Blondie.
I fire, he fires. The Messier's action is smooth, no recoil. All around me
people are getting intimate with the floor. Sage, down flat at the opposite
end of the console, scowls at me. Above us his interrupted game blinks as
the timer counts down. This is bad for business.
The blond dodges; I can see him cleanly in the mylar-mirrored ceiling panels.
He cuts left. I crouch-run-drive to the 'High Polaris' imager and catch sight
of Trixie's dreadlock yarns as she drifts along the wall. The black
lightshield around the Polaris display shatters with a crack. Shards of
broken plastic rain down and I duck, hands protecting my head. His next
bullet riccochetes, singing off metal, and takes out a ceiling panel overhead.
Cursing, I duck under the game in a fog of crumbling acoustic tile.
I hear the pneumatic alarm of Trixie's needlegun. More breaking plastic and
a thick grunt. Reflected in a flimsy shiver of hanging mylar, Blondie
slumps onto the 'Dark Continuum' console, slides to the floor. His gun
falls from his hand.
"Got him." Trixie's satisfaction is clear enough above the background
chatter of the game.
I stand, brushing debris off my good black silk tunic. The cosmetic
quadruplets are gone in a hectic wash of reflected neon. The others I
marked for corps are leaving, too, faces white and shaken. Go back to your
nice safe suburbs. Take a tab of bluedream to feel better, a few sleepies
to finish the night. Then tomorrow you can tell how you came THIS CLOSE to
getting blown away in Oldtown. You'll stay away for a few days, maybe a
week, but you'll be back. You're sure it can't happen to you.
Sage has picked up his game in time. He locks into it smoothly, hands
spidered across the controls. His bluegrey eyes dart after the synthesized
images. He smiles and blows away another enemy ship with a gold thunderflash.
Trixie's kneeling by the body, her long fingernails touching his throat.
Silver nails like blades hover over his carotid.
"OK?" I lean down, hair falling over my shoulders, and pick up his gun.
"Looks good, Boss." She catches his jaw to turn his face to the side.
"Real clean, if I do say so myself." A steel sliver glints under his ear;
she extracts it with her fingernails, leaving a bead of blood on his neck.
"Office?"
"Yeah." I nod. "I'll be up in a minute."
I assess the damage I'll have to fix tomorrow. The games natter to
themselves, playing their demo screens with autistic single-mindedness.
Only the prongs like Sage are still here, equally immune to distraction.
Nobody knew Blondie, nobody wants to know him. Life goes on.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In my office Trixie's dumped the body on the unsprung couch under the
window that overlooks the arcade. The blinds are closed and the desklamp
beams at full. Light falls across his face with stark drama, a 2D still in
retro-cinematic monochrome. Without the mirrorshades he looks familiar --
something in the shape of his eyes, his mouth. Then I notice the
clover-shaped emerald in his left earlobe.
"You know him, Janey?" Trixie finishes duct-taping his wrists and sits back
on her bootheels.
"Maybe." I hope not. "How many needles did he get?"
"Just four; he'll be out half an hour, a little longer."
I slide my hip over the edge of the desk and sit. I can feel Trixie
watching me watch him. Wondering. "Go back down, Trix, I'll call if I
need you."
"Sure," she says. She's used to humoring me. She opens the door and the
bright roar of the arcade rolls in. Prickling quiet swirls down as the door
swings shut.
I sit there with one hand in a tight fist pressed against my mouth. Light
picks out highlights in the emerald in his ear. He has to be related to
Lucky, with those looks. Lucky's hair was darker, redder, but the face is
similar. Five years now, since Lucky died. I guess my grace period has
expired. They've found me.
Trixie's done a good job with the duct-tape; he won't be getting out of
here before I'm done with him. I step into my executive washroom, a closet
fitted with a rust- stained sink and a john with a cracked tanklid. I look
in the mirror and tell myself it's okay. I'm no paler than usual. But I
have to grip the edge of the sink to make my hands stop trembling.
I splash cold water on my face. The chlorine smell is strong tonight;
purifier must need a new filter. Then I settle back behind my desk. Lucky
had a brother, didn't he? A kid brother, yeah, cute blond, name of Ryan.
Why'd it take me so long to recognize him? I'm off, that's why. Losing the
edge. Getting soft, Balzac would say; getting old.
Almost getting dead.
Ryan lays like a figure carved on one of those old stone coffins. Fine gold
lashes fringe his quiet eyelids. A facet on his earring winks with the
slow rhythm of his breathing. I could make this real easy. I could just
kill him now. Never let him open those eyes again. Goddamn right, it's
what he wanted to do to me. I should just do it.
No. Not yet.
~~~~~~~~~
I always thought you were a bit of a fool, Lucky. Not stupid, more like
a jester or a team mascot. Even now I could fill a hard disk with all the
times you nearly pushed Colonel Balzac over the limit.
I thought you were just wired that way, born to tread the edge. Like you
needed the adrenalin to live. I see people a lot like that in Oldtown --
in Oldtowns all over the world. People half-crazy from drugs and heavy
pasts, old crimes committed, old loves lost. Real romantic, the streetpoets
try to tell you. It's easy to believe that shit when you're young. Easy to
do a lot of things, then, things that are hard to get out of, later. Like
working for Balzac.
It was after the Beirut job, where we lost Keed and Nim to a sniper and
a bad detonator. We were in London, sitting in the murk of Gordon's
pub, drinking bitters. Balzac had upgraded the battlecomputer again, and
the new sockets made my wrists ache. I pressed the cool glass against
them to numb the pain, but it didn't work; nothing worked.
"I'm sick of it, Lucky," I said. "I want out."
"Baby, you need a vacation." You took my hand and traced a design on
my palm with your forefinger. Smiled. "No Balzac, no simulations.
Throw some clothes in a bag and we'll go, just you and me."
I needed the time off. And I wanted you. So we went.
It was early summer in Sydney. We rented a house on the beach, miles from
anyone and anything. A beautiful house, full of skylights and pale wood and
plants. The bedroom had sliding glass doors that opened onto a wooden
deck, with stairs treading down from the deck to the sand.
Every morning you got up to run on the beach. Sometimes I went with you,
but usually I swam or windsurfed. The water was warm and buoyant; when I
got tired I could just float and watch you.
The peace was strange. As though time and space had refolded and this world
wasn't really mine. It couldn't last; I knew it couldn't, it was too fine.
The last morning I woke before dawn. You were close beside me, your arm
on my wrist and your long legs tangled with mine. The sun was coming up.
I could see the pale line widening on the horizon between night and the
water's edge. The white sand glowed pink and healthy. You smelled like a
garden from the Arabian nights, all musk and dark spice, and your hand was
warm on my stomach.
I pulled away carefully, so you wouldn't wake. And I went to the sliding
glass doors that looked out over the ocean, laid my palms, my forehead
against the silky cool glass.
I tried to memorize every instant of that sunrise: the colors, the invisible
heat; to measure its progress by the arc of my shadow sweeping over you
like a sundial gnomon. But it was too quick. I couldn't record all the
imput my senses received.
My eyes stung and I blinked. You slept on your side, reaching into the
empty space where I had lain, your sunbrowned arm like mahogany against
the pale sheets. The perfection was instantaneous, impossible to save:
you, asleep and inviting; the sun, newborn in fire and water and gold.
To hell with it, I said. To hell with time, and entropy, and dissipation.
I never could just give up. A touch, a tentative hand on your shoulder,
and your blue eyes opened, and the doubts were seared away. Even now the
memory still burns. Spiders spinning in the same corner, that's what we
were. Tangled in each other's webs, as long as it was convenient for the
both of us. At the end of the day we sat on the deck drinking Australian
Chardonnay -- I remember the koala on the label. You held the
bottle up to the fading orange-red light, squinting.
"Empty," you said. "I'll get us another." And you kissed me and went inside.
When you came back, you had a gun.
"Sorry, babe," you told me. "Balzac's orders."
I put down my empty glass and stood slowly. I looked at the gun. Then
I looked at you.
"You bastard."
"Janey, don't make this difficult." Your blue eyes were so sincere I had
to laugh.
"I sure as hell don't want it to be easy!"
You shrugged. That's when I kicked you. High, in the jaw; Mantis Springs
and Strikes. I was barefoot; the joint in my big toe cracked. Your head
snapped up, the gun flipped away. You tumbled backwards into the glass
doors, arms thrown wide. Then panes snapped and pieces flew everywhere,
shards red with your blood and the dying sun. Glass ground under your back,
and you slid to a stop at the foot of the bed, leaving a red streak on the
polished wood floor. Your head was on your shoulder, crooked- necked, like
a broken training dummy. Glass lay around you like scattered diamonds.
I was right, Lucky. You weren't stupid, but you were a fool.
~~~~~~~~~~
"Problems, Boss?" Trixie eyes me when I come back downstairs, her hand
straying near the slim holster under her left arm.
"Not at all, Trix. Looks like business has tapered off for the night."
She nods. "Grave quiet, except for Sage over there."
I can hear the fanfare as Antares clears its RAM and brings up the fiftieth
frame. Only fifty? Then he hasn't beaten me yet.
The fingers of his left hand blur, explosions ring in the air. He leans
forward, right index finger poised. I can see the frame in my mind, the
battlecruiser with her screening swarm of drones. The trick is to wait
until the drones shift to avoid the mothership's main canon. When it happens,
you fire right down her laser turret, before she can fire at you --
"Shit!" Sage curses, and scarlet light washes over his face and hands. He
pounds the machine with his fists, interface cables slapping the darkblue
plastic. "Goddammit! Goddamn fucking machine!"
I grin at Trixie. "I guess my record's safe."
The machine plays out the last bars of its theme and goes into demo mode.
Sage yanks the cables out of his wrist sockets, leaving them dangling from
the locked console like a disconnected life support.
"Hey, Sage, better luck next time, man."
He mutters, waving my words away, and stalks out. I tell Trixie I'll
close up.
"What about him?" She points to the ceiling with her thumb.
"I'll take care of it; don't worry."
She looks at me with her head tilted to the left, her right eyebrow raised.
"Sure." Then she straightens, dreadlocks swaying, and slaps me on the
shoulder. "You take care, Janey. Be lucky."
I can feel the corner of my mouth curl wryly. "I'll try, honey. You can
be sure of that."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The emerald shamrock glints and Ryan's eyelids flutter. My watch tells me
it's been nearly forty minutes.
"Wake up." I slap him harder than I wanted to, and my hand stings and burns.
Ryan's head rolls with the blow, toward the light, and he opens his eyes.
Blue. Lucky's eyes.
Wide and glassy from the knockout dart, his pupils are slow to react. He
shuts his eyes, grinding the lids down tight. He turns his head left a few
degrees, then right, as though he's testing the link to the rest of his body.
"Checkout time, lover." I take my Swiss Army knife out of my pocket and
pry open the biggest blade. Ryan's body goes rigid; he wrenches and twists
his hands against the duct tape bonds. I grab hold of his wrists and
squeeze.
"Hold still." When I raise the knife, the blade flashes, reflecting a
slim ruler of light across his throat, over his face. He squints and blinks.
His eyes are on me, not the blade. He stares, lips parted, his breath
hissing in his throat. Then I slice through the heavy silver-grey tape.
"Your brother was a fool, Ryan." I snap the blade shut. "Don't be like him."
Ryan sits up with a jerk, winces as he strips off the tape. I lean back on
my desk; the steel sockets in my wrists gleam briefly as I fold my arms.
My shadow falls over him. He blinks and licks dry lips. I can see his eyes
moving over my face, searching. But with the light behind me, I know he
won't find anything.
"Are you goin' to kill me or not?" His voice is deep and musical, with the
Irish lift that Lucky taught himself to hide. He shifts on the couch,
rubbing his palms on his thighs. I can smell his fear over the bitter tang
in the back of my throat.
"You're already dead, I don't need to kill you. But Balzac will, if you
tell him you're not."
His hands lay still on his thighs. His eyes narrow, recognizing the truth.
"What d'you want, then?"
"You ever play 'Hide and Seek,' Blue-eyes? It's a game." I smile. "I'm
very good at games."
~~~~~~~~~~
It's chilly outside, brisk, with a gusting wind that smells like rain.
Dark. Not many streetlamps work in Oldtown. The street is quiet, empty of
everything but shadows; lightning never strikes twice in the same place,
they say, and this place has already had its action for the night.
So much for old cliches.
If I were still working for Balzac, this would be too easy. I'd have a
case full of shaped charges with strips of contact adhesive. A transmitter
would let me detonate them from a mile away. Then I wouldn't have to watch.
From three blocks out, I can see the orange-gold glare of the hologram in
the front window. The red neon sign above the door blinks on and off as the
toy nuke flickers and replays. Old three-story brick building -- this will
be easy.
Beside me Ryan turns up the collar of his leather jacket. His face is
ghostly pale, his voice soft and tense.
"You're sure this'll work?"
Humorous question. I laugh. "Just watch." The mushroom cloud in the window
cycles through one more time, the fiftieth since I set the charges. Now --
A white flash backlights the hologram, washing it out and filling the
windows on the first floor. The hollow thump of the main charge shocks out,
rolling by underfoot like a live thing tunneling. The building collapses on
itself, bricks leaning inward, then toppling with a waterfall's steady roar.
Ryan stands open-mouthed with hands over his ears. A silver-white beam
stabs up past the second and third floor windows, up through the open roof,
like a xenon search light, full of dust and mortar particulates. The light
yellows, dims into flickering orange, and I hear faint popping noises.
"The plasma displays are exploding!" I shout to Ryan over the thunder. "That
blue and green in the flames, that's from the gases in the tubes. Pretty
colorful, huh?"
A gout of fire claws its way up into the night, casting shadows like full
sunlight. It spreads, swelling into the familiar capped shape: my
signature. Beautiful.
"Come on!" Ryan grabs my arm. "We've seen it before."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Two first class seats on the Tokyo High Altitude Shuttle. Soft koto
The silk-robed flight attendent bows and slides a black enamel
platter onto the glass table between us: rice and raw fish, garnished
with origami cranes. Soft koto jazz, the newest wave, is plinking
obbligato to the toast.
"To new business ventures." Ryan smiles, touching the rim of his
champagne flute to mine. I grin back, showing all my teeth, like a shark.
"To games," I say, and we drink, eyeing each other over the enamel platter
of pale sushimi and green wasabi.
<<<<<~~~~~~~~>>>>>
April 1992
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Volume I
Issue VIII
~~~````''''~~~
CORE is published monthly by Rita Rouvalis (rita@eff.org) and is
archived on ftp.eff.org in the /journals directory.
Subscriptions and submissions should be sent to core-journal@eff.org.
Feel free to reproduce CORE in its entirety across Cyberspace as
you see fit. Please contact the authors to republish individual
articles.
~~~````''''~~~
THIS ISSUE:
The Joshua Tree Quakes ..... John Perry Barlow
Cartoons Vs. PostModern Fiction & Criticism ..... Richh
State of the Art ..... Barbara Hlavin
___________________________________________________________________________
John Perry Barlow barlow@icecube.pinedale.wy.us
THE JOSHUA TREE QUAKES
Sunday, June 28, 1992
Direct from the Fault Zone...
In case you were wondering what the Joshua Tree Earthquakes felt like to
someone in Hollywood who wasn't working for CNN, here's one guy's
experience...
My daughters and I spent last night in a large stucco and masonry house in
Old Hollywood belonging to Coco and Peter Conn. I slept on the couch in the
living room next to a huge cage housing 6 parakeets. The younger two girls
were in the next room .
It was a troubled night even before the terra got infirma. At about 3:30
AM, our five year old, Amelia, came out, woke me up, and told me she dreamt
that her room was filling with rattlesnakes. I assured her it wasn't and
she padded back to bed.
At around 4:30 Anna, the seven year old, emerged with her own nightmare. It
was about her little sister being kidnapped, she said. But then, , she
claimed she still couldn't find Amelia in bed. She really *had* been
kidnapped. This brought me right around and I went to check it out. Amelia,
it turned out, was curled up in a little ball at the foot of the bed.
I went back to my couch, fell back to sleep at once, and was awakened 15
minutes later by the frenzied lashing of little wings as the parakeets
suddenly began hurling themselves against the walls of the cage and
bouncing off one another in hysterical flight. I looked at my watch. It was
4:55 AM.
They continued to engage in this alarming activity for the next ten
minutes, during which time the whole house joined them. A couple of minutes
before 5 AM, the shaking started, rattling dishes, causing the hardwood
floors to moan and creak. The overall displacement and acceleration was
about what one might feel in a large airliner experiencing moderate
turbulence. Outside gathered the sound of ten thousand car alarms, at
varying distances, being activated. Eerie beyond description.
But the most singular phenomenon was the lights. The house is somewhat
elevated on the slopes of Mount Hollywood. (The one with the Sign.) To the
south one could see a lot of LA bathed in large, spreading patches of
softly throbbing lights. They were diffuse and a sick green in color. They
looked a lot like ground level Aurora Borealis. Which, I conclude, is
pretty close to what they must have been.
At first I thought they might be coming from downed power lines and
exploding transformers, but there was no arc flash. They had the same soft
build and decay that I've observed in the Northern Lights which can be seen
in the high mountains of Wyoming quite frequently in the fall and spring.
My best guess is that there is some kind of piezelectric energy release
which causes phosphorescence in the atmosphere's own natural neon. But why
have I never heard of this effect before? (It wasn't just my hallucination
either. I have since talked to a number of people who saw them, though
there was no mention made of them by any of the media.)
The quake went on for an amazingly long time...about 45 seconds...but I
never felt motivated to grab my kids and make a run for the lawn. Nor did
it ever get strong enough to wake them back up. If I was frightened it was
more on account of the of the lights, which really did have some ominous
End of the World quality to them. LA in the Latter Days.
I got up and found the parakeets all clinging sideways to the exterior bars
of the cage as though spun there. They looked very uncertain.
I went back to sleep and then woke bolt upright about two hours later as
though hit by a cattle prod. I lay there for about a minute trying to
figure what had induced such a compete and unwelcome alertness before the
second quake hit. It seemed only a little weaker than the first, but it
also seemed to go on longer and cycle through several waves of intensity.
This time the parakeets didn't budge (so to speak) nor were any lights to
be seen. (Not that they would have been visible. The sun was up.)
Really, except for those lights, the strongest Southern California quakes
in 40 years seemed kind of denatured.
But it might get weirder. Seismic experts claim that there is a 50% chance
of an additional 6 point plus quake over the next few days and are advising
people to avoid the freeways. There's little evidence that anyone is taking
them seriously.
___________________________________________________________________________
Richh richh@netcom.com
CARTOONS VS POSTMODERN FICTION & CRITICISM
------------------------------------------
POSTMODERN FICTION &
CARTOONS CRITICISM
-------------------- ------------------------------
Leaves one feeling warm Chyeah, right
and nostalgic, with a profound
sense of satisfaction and well-
being.
Celebrates play. Likes to think it celebrates
play, but actually is more
analagous to "explaining the
joke away" than anything else.
Today's cartoons suck moose. I'll take Coleridge and
Trilling over the Yale school
any day.
Foucault is dead. AIDS. Mel Blanc is dead. Age.
Barthes was a big eater. The Tasmanian Devil.
POSTMODERN FICTION &
CRITICISM CARTOONS
------------------------------ --------------------
"Metafiction," as practiced by I really like when you
Borges et al, is fiction that see the hand of the cartoonist
calls attention to itself, never holding the drawing pencil,
lets the reader forget that it or when the characters step
is artifice. outside the film.
Derrida will often use a word and It's also cool when you see
immediately cross it out to achieve the pencil swoop down and
a desired effect, a technique he erase the character. I especially
calls "sous rasure", meaning like when this happens to Daffy
'under erasure' Duck, and he becomes nothing
but his mouth(!!)
None of the works that have been The cartoons I like best, old
"deconstructed" have ceased to be Tom and Jerry's, Bugs Bunny,
vital works. For example, Derrida Daffy Duck et al, are still
deconstructed Freud. Yet Freud's around, and you can usually
writings are still out there, still find them during Cartoon
sending messages, still contributing Express from 6-7 on USA, or on TNT.
to our understanding of the mind, And Nickelodeon, of course.
and will y Rubble
Much deconstruction is spent "Be vewwwwy quiet."
searching for the ever-elusive
"trace"
Much deconstruction is spent "If he catches you you're through."
searching for the ever-elusive
"trace"
Barthes is my favorite post- "That Road Runner is really a
structuralist. crazy clown."
There is no universal signifier. My pencil is bigger than yours.
Phallocentricism is old news.
There are only mis-readings. Shit. The Flintstones are on.
__________________________________________________________________________
Barbara Hlavin twain@u.washington.edu
STATE OF THE ART
Now suppose we are having an "affair," you and I, by which we, and the
world, or our own cozy corner of the world, no different really from any
of the other corners, containing as it does the same kinds of garbage, but
this is our garbage, we have created it, we are comfortable with it, it is
ours; means that we are sleeping together, sharing the same bed or beds,
two of them, alternately not simultaneously, think of the laundry bills in
sheets alone, and which also means, in addition to sharing beds (yours or
mine, depending on whether you are allergic to my cats or I to your
Sharpei, whether you are subject to homesickness or even a mild but
disturbing uneasiness when separated from your water bed your electric
blanket with dual controls your Mr. Coffee coffee machine your electric
toothbrush your Waterpik)
and I hope I'm not boring you but it is important to lay out the
essentials of this, as it were, limited partnership, to establish as they
told us in business school the formal limits and definitions thereof in
order to prevent confusion and misunderstanding and lawsuits in later life
-- it means we have dinner together three times a week, see Japanese films
of Shakespeare's plays, discuss the significance of Beckett's bicycle
(does he ride it? does he ride it too much? does he ride it enough?),
argue the relative merits of Valium vs. TM, we are of our age, we are
culture-acquisitive and badly educated like everyone else in this
pox-eaten country, we are pleased with ourselves and, for a time, each
other, we smoke each other's cigarettes, you smoking Balkan Sobranie made
from the topmost leaves of the famous Yenidje tobacco with the famous
Balkan Sobranie Filter, I Camels without filters, which has a cultural
position of its own, eat each other's English muffins, look out the same
windows, and through the insidious process of propinquity find ourselves
appropriating one another's metaphors, I have never told you how much this
bothers me.
Suppose all these conditions to prevail, these details to be true, suppose
that one night I am sitting up in bed and you, in an abstract but friendly
manner, are scratching my back, right there, ahh, between the shoulder
blades, ahhh, but suppose I then twitch in a way, a fashion that you
interpret, correctly as it turns out, as portentous; this alarms,
distresses you, and when I tell you... oh you will say you "understand,"
I know you, Pamela or Joyce, or Joan, or Susan, or Brenda, but you
continue to cry; this crying or "weeping" on your part first concerns then
irritates me; it is not after all entirely my fault: there is something
you refuse, deny, I don't know, there is something you want from me, the
electrodes you attach to my head when you think I'm sleeping, I don't
know, it's, there are limits, I don't know, I want you to be "reasonable,"
I want you to stop crying.
You cry nicely, using the edge of the sheet to wipe your eyes, and for the
first time in eight months your feet are warm, a consequence no doubt of
the emotion provoked by my "announcement."
I can't stand it, you will say, weeping; of course you can stand it, dear
girl with the Balkan Sobranie burning expensively in the ashtray, plenty
of people have stood it, only consider the generations and generations yet
to come who will stand it, stand for it, unless there is a revolution of a
nature the practical aspects of which elude me, maybe the Chinese...
It is not you, I say, to comfort you, although this is a lie and you know
it is a lie, it is precisely you, you with your exhaustive knowledge of
Russian Orthodox iconography, your truly remarkable collection of Bix
Beiderbecke records, your hair which is either red or yellow, unless this
time it is brown, or black, you with your scandalous uncle who moved to
France and became a Communist deputy, you with your poetry or your
painting or your cello music, your weekend skiing, your job in Social
Services where five days a week you harass the poor, you with your under-
or over-privileged childhood, it is you, I am tired of you. Your closet
is full of old picket signs, I am often unable to find my coat, you wear
the stigmata, I have seen your palms bleed, Auschwitz, Hiroshima, when you
thought I wasn't looking, and even though the old horrors are not ours --
except, perhaps, in a metaphysical sense, but let us be pragmatic: I did
not kill Robert Kennedy -- the night is young, we have time, we have made a
beginning, here.
You are not alone, take comfort from that, I am unhappy too, does this
solace you, I am trying to balance on this difficult situation like a
paralytic on the top of a flagpole, are you even remotely conscious of the
humor as you stand in front of the mirror hating your face and swallowing
three, four, five aspirin?
Some claim predestination or karma, but I don't know: consider the effort,
the intricate plans that would have to be laid down like architectural
drawings in the very structure of our genes, the foundation of the
universe, do you really believe anyone would go to all that trouble just
to make you miserably unhappy? It seems doubtful, it is, at the very
least, problematical. Nice word, that: problematical. I enjoy
speculation, the mutifarious forms of useless intellect, the uses of
formlessness; at this very moment there are nine books on my desk, like
nine bottles of poison: Do Not Touch. Four primary and five secondary
sources, two of the secondary sources are irrelevant. The thought of
irrelevance inspires me, I begin to play Chopin's Etude in E Flat Minor
sitting naked at the piano, my inspiration is often mistaken for frenzy;
the reproduction of a famous triptych by Hieronymous Bosch rattles on the
wall, the neighbors are cursing, you are talking, to the toilet, to the
laundry hamper, to the soap dish, the mirror:
For you I had exotic tattoos applied to my face, brilliant shades
of crimson, blue, green, the tattooing done in accordance with arcane
placement rituals, following the patterns of the Dugam Dani,
who fight for fun; the serial number on my wrist matched your
dog tag. I joined the Church; you told me you loved me when
I said the Pope had moral authority. I sent bottles of expensive
whisky to your mother. Men, other men, found me desirable, they
expressed interest in my legs, I had them removed, the legs. You
gave me a beautiful wheelchair, one that had belonged to Lionel
Barrymore, decorated with flags of sixteen different nations,
we were so gay! I refused you nothing, my promising career
with the Ballet Russe, I gave away our children, and now, now,
now...
On and on the soft plaint, like rain in the evening, like a Benedictine at
prayer, poor Sister Polycarp, floundering in the frigid North Atlantic,
off Cape Farewell.
A SAMPLE CONVERSATION
Nothing fixed
Nothing tangible
A dark mood, like a stream
like a wind
drifting, listing illusion
illusion as illustration
illusion is the problem
illustration is the problem
Passing the stars
I tried...
I know.
Very hard...
You're a good lass.
My heart is breaking.
Don't overdo it.
It's all so meaningless.
It's not without meaning. Not the meaning you want, perhaps.
NOT THE MEANING I WANT!
This is no good. It clarifies nothing.
All across the continental United States, in France, Germany and England,
in the socialist people's republics and in doomed democracies, in obscure
tribes that employ the full range of vowel sounds, this dialogue is taking
place. Think of it! In every time zone, all hours of the day and night!
Spangled with umlauts, cedillas, in Welsh and Hebrew, in French, the
language of promises and evasions, in Basque! In Icelandic! Probably not
on Mars. But everywhere else! When you come out of the bathroom I will
present you with a fistful of words, even though you would prefer
daffodils or carnations; I will make a gift to you of the unfading word,
the fern that lives on air, it is a pretty thing; nevertheless you will
prefer sweetpeas or nasturtiums.
When you come out of the bathroom, if you ever come out of the bathroom, I
will hurl memories at you, I will stuff you full of memories as if they
were ice cream, perhaps we will weep together and you will fall in love
with me all over again, which will be very satisfactory. And while I look
for my coat among the signs I will offer you a noble friendship, we will
sweep up the fragments of this broken night and I will lay them on my
empty pillow, if you had any sense you would slash my wrists with them,
but you will put them in an urn in your room containing the full-size
replicas of the Easter Island monuments, a gift from a former lover, or
else you will make a necklace of them for your giraffe.
So keep your chin up Broken Blossom, courage Camille, stiff upper lip,
don't take any more wooden nickles, keep your head out of the gas oven,
and better luck next time. I am the youngest of seven sons, I am on an
impossible quest, I have many castles to visit before night falls.
///////~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~\\\\\\\
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JULY 1992
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Volume II
Issue I
~~~````''''~~~
CORE is an electronic journal of poetry, fiction, essays,
and criticsm. Back issues are available via anonymous
ftp from ftp.eff.org from the /pub/journals directory
They are also available on CompuServe from Library 5 of
EFFSIG.
Please feel free to reproduce CORE in its entirety only
throughout Cyberspace. To reproduce articles individually,
please contact the author.
Questions, submissions, and subscription requests should be
sent to core-journal@eff.org.
~~~````''''~~~
Flavors of the month:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
MARK SCHORR .................. A POINT OF ORIGIN
.................. COBOL ODE
FIONA WEBSTER ................ INTRODUCING MAMA LANSDALE'S
YOUNGEST BOY
_____________________________________________________________________
Rita Rouvalis, Editor rita@eff.org
I had ventured into real life for a reading of the Merrimack Anthology.
One of the readers, Mark Schorr, caught my ear when he mentioned working
for "a large computer firm in Littleton". I thought to myself, "he
works for DEC; I'll bet he has an enet address and I can con him into
submitting something to CORE." (Editors are always on the make for new
material.)
Mark not only let me have a couple of his poems, but he also told me
about a project he is working on to to distribute, display and promote
poetry in Cyberspace. The "Kiosks" are After Dark (R) slide shows
created by using an illustration and a screen capture program. I've put
three of the Kiosks in the CORE directory on ftp.eff.org as
PoetryKiosks.sea.bin.
You'll need a Macintosh and the After Dark program to view them.
1. Download PoetryKiosks.sea.bin to your Macintosh.
2. I've stuffed them using a self-extracting program, so just double
click on the icon.
3. Choose one of the folders, and drag all the slides in it to your
Slide Show folder, which will be located in your After Dark folder
(probably in your system folder).
4. Start up the After Dark control panel, and choose Slide Show for
the display.
The idea is copyleft; use it and create your own Kiosks. If you do, let
both Mark and me know about it -- especially if you do it under other
hardware platforms. If I can collect enough of them, I'll set up
special directory for them here. The text for two of the poems follows.
The third Kiosk is of CORE1.03.
_____________________________________________________________________
Mark Schorr schorr@ljohub.enet.dec.com
A POINT OF ORIGIN
In memory of Robert Ross
Making my way
from a land
that can never
measure up
Past safe harbors
and beach roses
and the rotting hulls
of nuke subs
Past nineteenth century visitors
who measured New England
as so many miles
of rivers and poems
These days
my thoughts run simpler
to foreign friends
or family members
met or missed
to journeys made
sometimes with you,
sometimes not
or sometimes not made at all
Or run to others who
are only signatures
where sky and sea align
or run along different line
Caught up with each other
until they too
retrace your eddied light
and herbal banks
To get their bearings
with reverse immigration
reciting every maiden name
back to where we came
Until there in that garden isle
we simply are
beyond all land or sea
a point of origin.
______________ ~~~````''''~~~ _________________
COBOL ODE
In memory of Adm. Grace Hopper
ENVIRONMENT DIVISION.
Your larger outlines
would drive us mad
if we were in the
business of the past
or common oriented
business
aboard some
mother courage carrier
that shells the straits
of Lebanon
that depends on you
to perform
perform well down
to the lowest level
a figurative constant
or some LIFE-like
picture clause.
But instead you satisfy
some inner need for order,
some need
to situate ourselves
for you are nothing
if not
a place,
a structure,
or a map
we can invoke at will
Even in the absurdity of
Sunday afternoon traffic,
we sense the bold outlines
of El Salvador
across your sodden sky,
and from the terminal grid
even the most
mundane designs,
begin a process
we don't even have
the sense to know
until what *ONCE WAS*
a pilgrimage is now
a People Express
that checks,
"BAD PEOPLE RECORDS"
in packed decimal
in so many coding squares
of so many
paragraphs,
statements,
clauses.
INPUT/OUTPUT
Observe the order of a pack of
cards
that say
"DO NOT FOLD OR MUTILATE"
for the pleasure
mere pleasure
of folding cards.
But by all means
fold the cards
to fit them
in your pocket.
Everything we have built
Should have some art or use
Else build it better.
DATA DIVISION.
Provence.
When I think of the way we
rushed through Arles
observing the inscriptions
on every row and column
in the metropolis of time,
then your graphic
asterisks seem closer.
On the high bluffs opposite
the River Rhone
we waited for fireworks
to reflect how small the state
to reflect how small we
feel at a time like this.
When they finally explode,
there are eight obscure points
and hundreds of asterisks.
Picture the way we hate
watching the kill
in the arena of Arles.
EXIT PROVENCE.
PROCEDURE DIVISION
COBOL-ODE.
Crowbar.
O! I had a little chicken
who wouldn't lay an egg
so I laid a crowbar
down on his head.
O! the little chicken cried
and the little chicken begged
but the crowbar laid
a hard boiled egg.
UNTIL NO-MORE-COBOL-ODE
OR NO-MORE-CROWBAR.
PERFORM TERMINATION.
EXIT-COBOL-ODE.
STOP RUN.
Initialization.
I am talking to you
people who
shift lock CAPS on subway walls.
graffiti figurative clauses
under a proscenium
words upon a public telephone
spray paint constants
on a public convenience
or who asterisk comments
around a square.
And I am talking to you
people who work, meet, live
in the fourth subbasement
or on the fourteenth floor
but who leave the
business of living
to some Common Business
Oriented Language
that works below the
surface of your lives.
And I am telling you to write
the number
on corner
of your electric bill
and also
on the corner
of your check
And I am not telling you
about the legendary
figurative constant that...
TERMINATION.
When all the files are closed,
there is no system on earth,
no pyramid of data
that can do to us
what we would not do
to ourselves
or, not doing,
what we would do.
_____________________________________________________________________
Fiona Webster fi@grebyn.com
INTRODUCING MAMA LANSDALE'S YOUNGEST BOY
Joe R. Lansdale. Let's talk about Joe R. Lansdale. Life-long
resident of East Texas, one of the weirder corners of this planet, by
anyone's estimation.
Joe Lansdale is a writer who doesn't get compared to anyone else, who
doesn't fit into the pre-arranged categories residing in the minds of
literary agents and publishers. I don't mean just the genre
categories--although he does range widely through westerns, mystery,
science fiction, thriller, crime, and horror--often all in the same
book--but also those other, more insidious categories, about what sort
of social commentary is allowed in an entertainment rag, or what sort
of plotline a successful story should follow. So he's had a hard time
making it. (I'd bet good money you haven't heard of him.) But if you
approach a dedicated horror maven--not your casual King or Koontz
reader, or your trendy splatterpunk reader, but someone who's been
patiently panning the stream for a long, long time to find those few
chunks of gold that make it all worthwhile--and you ask, "Who's
original? who's brilliant?" you will hear about the man from East
Texas.
Now, as usual when I'm recommending horror fiction to people I think
of as discriminating readers, I feel the need to issue caveats.
Horror is a literature _in_extremis_, and as such, it's not terribly
refined. Maybe it's because of the intensity of emotion evoked by the
extreme situations being portrayed--what other genre is labeled not
for a type of story, but for the specific *emotion* it aims to provoke
in the reader? Maybe it's because the field, despite having roots
going all the way back to Shakespeare and Beowulf, is very young. The
pioneers of the contemporary horror tale--Richard Matheson, and of
course, Stephen King--are still alive and writing. Whatever the
reason, as things stand now, you have to cut a horror writer some
slack, and accept a certain simplicity of theme. You should also bear
in mind that if sometimes the language is crude, that's because the
story is chopped from the author's heart, rather than processed
through their head.
What you should not tolerate in a horror writer, though, is lack of
originality. If you find yourself thinking, as you read, "This is
just another haunted house tale, vampire/werewolf tale, psycho-killer
tale, sigh..." you should put down the book and look elsewhere. And
that's why I'm trying to drum this one name--Joe R. Lansdale--into
your head.
What makes him special? Former manual laborer and good ol' boy that
he is, Lansdale might find it odd that I'm applying this word to his
work, but this man has an *aesthetic.* His fictional world is firmly
placed amidst the piney woods and chicken plants and hard-bitten
characters and tall tales and bigotry of his home state, but also
mixed in is a dumbfounded fascination with the tawdry imagery of pop
culture. Neon lights and garish decor. Cheap paperbacks with glossy
red-and-black covers. Spiritual concepts straight out of
_Weekly_World_News_. Clint Eastwood movies. Roger Corman's dyed-red
"blood popcorn." It all co-mingles in Lansdale's highly visual
aesthetic sense, and what comes out is not these images _per_se_--
Lansdale is sparing in his use of quotations from the media--but
utterly new word-pictures. Such as a man wearing nothing but cowboy
hat and boots, who floats, adrift, through a starry sky where '57
Cadillacs and Mexican whores beckon to him--a strange recasting of
the figures in the cyclone, beckoning to Dorothy.
But it's not all about beauty: you're not in a stylish and yet
desiccated post-modern landscape, when you're in a Joe Lansdale story.
This man writes with soul. He writes unflinchingly about the racism,
the ignorance, the often callous disregard for values that he sees in
the people he grew up with. His stories have been turned down
because they're too graphic, but more often because they make a blunt
social statement that makes editors so uncomfortable, they simply
shudder and then try to forget. Lansdale is funny, bleak, and
truthful--in the sense of presenting basic truths about the human
condition--and the result is an unsettling brew that doesn't always
leave you smiling.
So what should you read? Well, if you asked that hypothetical horror
maven, "What's the best horror short story of the past twenty-five
years," you just *might* hear them say, "Guess I'd have to pick 'Night
They Missed the Horror Show.'" In fact, if you don't check out Joe
Lansdale for any other reason, do so for "Night They Missed the Horror
Show." For this reason, and also because his novels go out of print
quickly and are darn hard to find, I recommend his anthology of
shorts, _By_Bizarre_Hands_. The Avon edition is still on bookstore
shelves, and the cover features a lovely illustration by J. K. Potter
(one of horror's best artists).
I suggest you read "By Bizarre Hands" and "The Fat Man and the
Elephant"--and perhaps "On the Far Side of the Cadillac Desert with
Dead Folks"--to ease yourself into Lansdale's world, and then head
straight for "Night They Missed the Horror Show." It's a ride you
won't forget.
**This piece originally appeared in _The Reading Edge: An Unpretentious
Newsletter for Readers_, edited by Sherry Mann (smann@ihspc.att.com).**
_______________________________________________________________________
CORE is not a publication of the Electronic Frontier Foundation, and its
contents, unless specifically indicated as such, should not be mistaken
for the opinions of either the organization or the editor.
//>> November 1992 <<\\
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Volume II
Issue II
ISSN: 1062-6697
~~~````''''~~~
CORE is an electronic journal of poetry, fiction, essays,
and criticsm. Back issues are available via anonymous
ftp from ftp.eff.org from the /pub/journals directory.
They are also available on CompuServe from Library 5 of
the EFFSIG forum.
Please feel free to reproduce CORE in its entirety only
throughout Cyberspace. To reproduce articles individually,
please contact the author.
Questions, submissions, and subscription requests should be
sent to core-journal@eff.org.
~~~````''''~~~
Little Teapots, Short and Stout:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Weirdest of the WELL .......... Bryan Higgins
.......... David R. Smith
.......... Flash Gordon, MD
Autumn and Spring .......... Alexander Blue
Woolworth Parakeets .......... William Dubie
Being with Beetoven .......... Aviott John
______________________________________________________________________
WEIRDEST OF THE WELL
!!~~~````''''~~~!!
The following three pieces recently won the weird conference writing
contest on The WELL. The weird conference is just like it sounds. The
WELL is a message-based BBS in Sausalito, California.
->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->
Bryan Higgins bryan@well.sf.ca.us
Shoplifting. My friends and I were into it in a big way back in junior
high school. We did it as a sport, as collectors, rather than stealing
stuff we really wanted. I focused solely on Score hair cream (7 ounce
tube) and I would never have put that stuff in my hair. Rather, I liked
the white box with the green lettering, and I liked the fact that unlike
the typical white hair cream Score was a transparent green gel. Actually,
I knew this from television, because I never opened a single tube that
I stole.
I got my tubes at several drugstores around town. Also, Safeway carried
it, but A & P didn't, for some reason. It was surprisingly easy to
steal Score by putting it in my coat pocket. I only took one or two
tubes from a store at a time, because I didn't want them to get suspicious
at finding the entire Score stock depleted, but I would sometimes hit five
or ten stores in an evening and return home with a backpack full of a
couple dozen tubes. I had to hide the backpack outside of each store so
as to not arouse suspicion in the store with the pack.
By the time I quit I had about 350 in my collection. It became a real
problem hiding such a large collection in my room. One time I was sure
my mother found it where it was hidden in my closet, stacked behind some
old shutters that we no longer used that were stored there, because it
seemed to me that the shutters had been move. But if she did she never
said anything.
I finally quit because one of my friends who shared my hobby (though
he collected assorted bars of soap rather than Score) told me that the
FBI had been notified because Score is an ingredient, along with Clorox
II dry bleach, in making an incendiary preparation used by arsonists and
terrorists. It seems you mix the two together, and after ten minutes or
so the stuff gets hot enough to spontaneously burst into flames, by which
time the perpetrator is long gone. I don't know if my friend was making
this up or not but I got scared because I didn't want to get caught.
Luckily I never was.
->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->
David R. Smith drsmith@well.sf.ca.us
The event that defined my relationship with John Jaster involved
a butter dish. We were working at General Electric in
Schenectady, former site of Thomas Edison's lab. In fact, it
was only just before I started working there that GE tore down
one of Edison's old buildings. My coworkers mocked a guy
who went down to the lot and scavenged demolished bricks from
the old Edison site, but they were singing a different tune once
GE started selling commemmorative bricks with brass plates
mounted on teak frames, for twenty-five *big* ones.
But Jaster. It was the Christmas luncheon, 1987 I think, and my
group sat at a table in the back, where coworker Ed unleashed
bad puns on any who would listen. Ed would put the small,
decorative dish of butter in front of you, and joke "Have some
butter pecan without the pecans." This dish eventually ended at
the vacant seat next to me.
Jaster came to the luncheon late, and sat next to me. Ed had a
chance for one more milking. "John, it's butter pecan, without
the pecans," said Ed. "Oh," said John, who -- oblivious to the
pun, and in spite of the fact that no one else had dishes of butter
in front of them -- immediately picked up a spoon and dove
right into that dish of butter. Before I could think what to say as
a warning, a generous helping of pure butter was on John
Jaster's spoon and in his mouth. At that point, he suddenly
stopped moving so quickly. I suspect he was taking a mental
tally of the situation, calculating how many boss brownie points
he would lose by spewing out a mouthful of saliva-melted butter
in the middle of a corporate Christmas luncheon. New meaning
to the dilemma "Spit or swallow?" He ended up swallowing.
I never did hear the end of that butter incident; because I
happened to be the one sitting next to him, JJ seemed to blame
the incident on me. Well, *I* wasn't the one who made the
butter pecan pun, nor was I the one who failed to get it. At
every social gathering thereafter, the butter story came up again.
John Jaster worked for Jerry Jaiven. Once they attended a
work-related conference at the Jakob Javits convention center in NYC.
->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->
Flash Gordon, MD flash@well.sf.ca.us
Dear Ms. Manners:
I have never written any advice columnist, but recently found
myself in a situation where I was somewhat uncertain of the
etiquette. I hope you can help.
I'm a physician and writer and maintain an office in my home.
Recently a woman came by on a business visit (hers, not mine).
She noticed Edison, one of my two cats (his twin, Electra, was
upstairs) and proceeded to stroke him and compliment him.
Edison appreciated the attention, and, noble beast that he is,
decided to give her something in return. Something wonderful.
Something tasty. Something both chewy and proteinaceous.
Something he found in the wastebasket in my bedroom. Something
that I had worn, briefly, the night before, on a part of my
anatomy that is probably not suitable for mention in your column.
He retrieved this prize and deposited it at her feet, looking up
at her adoringly, saying "Here! This is for YOU!"
I was embarrassed. Try as I may, I could not remember which, if
any, rule of ettiquette was applicable to this situation. So I
said
"Gee, he must really like you! He's never given one of those to
anyone else before."
She laughed, and I then put the used condom into the waste
basket.
I don't anticipate this exact dilemna occuring again - for one
thing, the cats are no longer allowed in the bedroom. However, I
hope you can recommend what to do in a similar situation.
Thanx in advance. I greatly enjoy your column and all your
books.
Yours very truly
________________________________________________________________________
William Dubie dubie@tnpubs.enet.dec.com
WOOLWORTH PARAKEETS
They nod, gridded against windowglass
and no wide eyes. But you behave
passively, beginning to pass
knowing you cannot save
them, as though they'd sing in your parlor
and learn the swears you'd teach.
They live anonymously here, not unlike your
countenance; still, you reach
to see what you can afford--another existence
that you could well do without,
and it without you--so you two trade silence
for subsistence, and you scout
the aisles for fragrance, razors, any other thing
to carry yourself well past remembering.
________________________________________________________________________
Alexander Blue ajblue@COLBY.EDU
AUTUMN AND SPRING
i
No baptisms in this rain. The dead
squirrels wash along the gutters.
Sewer gratings are blocked with colored
leaves, and there the corpses will rest,
frozen in manic death-poses, forelegs
outstretched, backs arched, and screaming.
ii
As the sun is rising, men in orange
pick with gloves the bloated bodies
from gratings, and collect also the confetti
of autumn. They leave them
in the back of their truck to be chewed
and swallowed. Water flushes underground.
________________________________________________________________________
Aviott John avjohn@iiasa.ac.at
BEING WITH BEETHOVEN
Before he actually came to Austria and visited the city, he had not
believed in its existence. To him it was not a real place but a
literary device, invented by writers of spy thrillers and musical
fantasies as a background for their plots. He came to Vienna in
search of Ludwig van, as though hoping that some of the composer's
immortality would rub off on him. He found he was a century and a
half too late; but still clung on, trembling a little in every
passing breeze, like an autumn leaf caught in an abandoned spider's
web. He looked frail and infirm, but in reality was a sprightly old
man; an iconoclast in his old age, wandering around the town looking
for adventure, finding it sometimes unexpectedly; in the Volksgarten
for instance, where a knotted gardener advanced on him like a house-
proud hostess with a threatening shout: 'Hey you, don't walk on the
grass!' His helpless shrug and hands splayed in expiation did not
appease that zealous keeper of the green. 'I never could levitate,'
he said by way of added apology. 'Ich hab's nie gelernt, frei zu
schweben.'
Or it might be the ubiquitous little old lady (like him, a dying
species, he dispassionately observed), who objected to his nocturnal
ramblings, his insomniac prowling around deserted city streets when
all self-respecting citizens were in bed. And his reply: 'Ah, but
who with?' was met by a stare of unamused indignance and a slammed
window.
There were many compensations. He enjoyed quiet moments in his
favourite cafe, where the smell of roasting beans clung to the faded
velvet curtains with the tenacity of tradition; the welcoming smile
as the waiter brought unbidden a cup of hot chocolate and his
newspaper. He was known here, and therefore he had a station in
society; retired as he was, a distinction he did not take lightly.
He still clearly remembered the first time the waiter had addressed
him as Herr Doktor, a smile of flattering complicity, not the least
subservient, on his lips. The complimentary epithet bound him to the
coffee house for ever. He knew from now on he would never patronize
another. To his tired old heart, it was as though he had found a
second home.
In his first years here, finding his feet in this strange city soon
after retirement, he had wandered around like a homeless waif,
clutching a fistful of Reisefuehrers, Polyglotts, Baedekers,
Fodor'ses, Harvard Guides, Berlitz Books, city maps. He sought
traces of his favorite genius in the dozens, scores, of buildings
where he had once lived, for however short a time. He sniffed the
air around these buildings as eagerly as a young puppy, hoping to
find some lingering traces of Beethoven's presence in the air. He
wandered through the Stadtpark in the summer where the strains that
waltzed through the crowds were of Strauss rather than Beethoven, and
could hardly hide his bitterness and anger, the wounded sense of
sacrilege, when the magnificent opening bars of the Ninth Symphony
were used to advertise the efficacy of a brand of detergent.
Still he lingered in the city, buying a ticket to a concert here,
listening to a new rendering of the piano sonatas there, spreading
his arms out wide to clasp the elusive bars of sound to him. In the
old Gasthaus with its sooty, wood-panelled walls, chequered
tablecloths and white-tiled ceiling, he imagined the hairy, barrel-
chested owner's ancestor serving the great man a schnitzel, together
with a limp, pickled salad and a carafe of the strong, dry red wine
that the penurious composer always downed with great enjoyment.
But time did not stop and exchange rates continued to fluctuate.
The value of the schilling rose. When it rose it seemed to him as
threatening as an advancing tide, cutting off his retreat to safety;
and when it fell, he walked with pleasure and impunity by the edge of
the sea, collecting the treasures revealed by the retreating tide.
His pension was adequate, but he had to to be careful. In the summer
now there were hordes of tourists, many groups of young people. They
swarmed and chattered in clusters, following the paths he had traced
years ago; all hoping, like him, to encounter a wisp of genius,
however brief the encounter; to inhale a trace of an ancient
ambience, however musty the air. 'Sit still,' he wanted to tell them
with his hard earned wisdom. 'Sit very quietly and listen hard, or
you won't hear it.' But still they thronged and chattered, and still
they came, walking by the old man with hardly a glance at him. 'He's
a bit ga-ga,' they said to each other, for he sat and stared at the
empty sky with a smile on his lips. They thought he was mad and
avoided him, because they couldn't hear the strains of the music.
** First published in Imaginary Friends, an Anthology of American
Fiction, Apple Blossom, 1985) **
___________________________________________________________________
CORE is published by Rita Rouvalis. December 1992
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Volume II
Issue III
ISSN: 1062-6697
~~~````''''~~~
CORE is an electronic journal of poetry, fiction, essays,
and criticsm. Back issues are available via anonymous
ftp from ftp.eff.org from the /pub/journals directory.
Please feel free to reproduce CORE in its entirety only
throughout Cyberspace. To reproduce articles individually,
please contact the author.
Questions, submissions, and subscription requests should be
sent to core-journal@eff.org.
~~~````''''~~~
LITTLE DUCKS
ALL LINED UP IN A ROW
Randy Money . . . . Mourn the Dead
Kenneth Wolman . . . Wolma, Poland
Kyle Cassidy . . . . Badmetafiction
________________________________________________________________________
Randy Money LIBRBM@suvm.acs.syr.EDU
MOURN FOR THE DEAD
Row on row of stones jut from the ground through the snow,
landmarks of memories fading as generations rise and recline.
Trudging through ice-lined, snow-filled ruts worn into the earth by
a century of wagon wheels, carriage wheels and tires, past the
plots of other people's memories and dreams, past snuffling poodles
and straining shepherds dragging their whispering owners in solemn
prancing procession, we at last reach our destination. There my
sister lays flowers on two graves and I recall my father squatting,
a position I associate with him, either pulling weeds as he pulled
on his pipe or combing our dog or steadying a small me in a
photograph. He was felled by three strokes. She remembers our
mother ice skating; I remember our mother dancing a polka. Our
mother, rotted, carved and hollowed by cancer, did not die but
disappeared in whittlings, hair by hair, pound by pound. A few
grave sites away, my sister lays no flowers but stands, trying to
recall some good, but only remembering her father howling, howling,
howling at the pain of brain cancer chewing, chewing, chewing until
the doctors performed a lobotomy, not to ease the pain but to
destroy his awareness of it. Silence follows like a consequence of
orphanhood, and in shared sadness we mourn for the dead.
* * * * *
My sister sits back in her recliner, feet up, perplexed as she
reviews her life. Mom, her oldest son says, we are worried about
you, and she recalls another voice with the same timber but
roughened by cigarettes and liquor over fifty years earlier: her
father saying Get us some beer, as, her mother not home, he and his
cronies played poker. She recalls putting the last bottle on the
table, and that man's hand gripping her thigh and sliding up under
her skirt as her father watches and laughs then looks back at his
cards. And it happened not once but several times through her
teens, and she always retreated to her room, where she buried
herself in books or dreamed of a time when she would have children
and a husband who would kill anyone who mistreated her children.
She endured those years; she endures her memories. Mom, her oldest
son says, we are worried about you; we want your mind at rest; we
want you to rest easy. And she recalls a second voice with a
different timber but the same tone almost fifty years earlier and
arrives, blessed be, to her husband who, saved by the grace of God
almighty, and so assured of heaven, hallelujah, says to her
stepfather, No, you stay out of my home; We don't need your help;
I'll care for my wife myself when she needs it, which she does not
now, for if she is ill, she is sick on her own corruption and
because she is a lazy woman. And her stepfather says, Get the hell
out of my way or I'll kill you, slaps the door open, pushes her
husband aside and enters her bedroom, where she lay with a fever of
one hundred and three, her throat closing and her head spinning,
and picks her up and carries her to the hospital. She moves from
hospital to hospital, reaching Florida in early summer in labor
with her first child and the nurse saying, Wait, you have to hold
it, the doctor won't be here for an hour; she remembers holding and
holding and holding, ignoring the pain of tissue tearing, the
conflagration in belly and womb, fighting the urge to push, her son
straining against her straining against him. And now forty-five
years later, father, mother, step-father and husband are dead and
her oldest son says, Mom, we worry about you; We worry that you
will not rest easy; We worry that you are not repentant, that you
have not renounced your sins before the alter of God; We--including
his wife, but meaning him--want you to die assured of heaven. And
she, tired, weak, beckons to him and coughs as he bends over her
and spits square in his right eye, which she says offends her. And
as he leaves, she ponders why, now that she can travel to New York
or Boston or Toronto like she's always wanted, the doctor has said
cancer, the anti-cell, the devourer gnawing, gnawing, gnawing, and
why she is only comfortable in her recliner, traveling her life
over and over like penance for unknown sins, and she wonders if
there is redemption and grace and rest. And we look on with some
pride, but mostly in grief and helplessness and we mourn for the
dead.
* * * * *
And the old lady calls and she says,
Come see me.
My sister answers,
No, I can't, Aunt Iantha. I can't.
And Aunt Iantha's voice quivers like her hand as it picks up her
cigarette,
Come see me; Puff; You have to see me; Puff; I need to talk to
you; Puff.
And my sister squirms in her recliner and says,
I can't; You have to understand, Aunt Iantha, I can't come to
you.
And Aunt Iantha says,
The tongue is the evilest organ in the human body; Puff; You
lied to me; Puff; You said you'd always take care of me, and
now you won't even come see me; Puff.
And my sister says,
I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
And the old lady sits smoked and marinating in phlegm, the smell of
dead tobacco and moiling cigarette smoke, all compounded by the
reek of a house sealed for a generation day and night, winter and
summer. She shifts in her withered skin, and sits her crooked,
arthritic back against the straight-backed kitchen chair and she
says,
She lied to me; Puff; I have no friends left; Puff; I know she
goes to the hair-dresser; How can she go out? Puff; I had
cancer once, too; Puff; They said I'd die, but they cured me;
They'll cure her, too; Puff; So why can't she come see me?
Puff.
And I don't say to her,
You don't understand; You were childless and you and your
husband took your money, had your good times; Now she has some
time to enjoy herself as best she can and she shouldn't have
to come here and face your nagging and groaning about your
aches and pains, your constant complaints and irritations,
your scoldings that none of us do what we do the way you'd do
it, which, for you, is the only way anything should be done;
But more, she can't accept your retreat, your dead run away
from the world, not when she's struggling to survive.
Instead I say,
You don't understand; You were thirty, she's almost seventy,
and it's a different cancer, in the blood, not settled in a
spot where it can be carved away; As for the hairdressers,
they've offered to come to her house but she won't let them,
she'd rather struggle against the lungs that won't fill, the
blood that won't carry enough oxygen, the tiredness that
cramps her muscles and makes her stagger so she has to hold
something, anything after a few steps so she won't fall down,
so she can regain her breath; She walks and breathes now like
you, twenty years her senior; This is her one self-indulgence,
don't begrudge her that, don't make her feel guilty.
And the old lady says,
No, you don't understand, you don't know what it's like to be
old and widowed and childless; Puff; I've sat in this room
twenty years and watched all I knew and all I cared for fade
away and die as I sat here waiting and waiting for the ones I
wanted to come and they didn't come; Puff; and those who did
come weren't the ones I wanted to come, so I sent them all
away and waited and waited; Puff; my family never comes to see
me; Where are you? Why won't you come? Puff.
And I don't say,
because I can't stand the smell and the bitterness and the
reproaches.
And I say,
We all have families, Aunt Iantha, we all have to tend to our
own; We'll help as much as we can, but we can only help so
much.
And as I leave wondering if my sister dying isn't more alive than
Aunt Iantha, in something like horror, I mourn for the dead.
________________________________________________________________________
Kenneth Wolman Ken.Wolman@att.com
WOLMA, POLAND
(Bogdan Chmielnicki was the leader of a Cossack revolt in the Ukraine
and Poland between approximately 1648 and 1658. It is estimated that
he was responsible for the deaths of between 100,000 and 300,000 Jews
in Poland during that period.)
For Melynda C. Reid
1. PRELUDE: WEDDING DANCE
Beyle married Kalman in the fourth year of Chmielnicki, went under
the canopy,
defying danger and fate: stood with her bridegroom, thought only of
him, this pale, graying man
with his scholar's soft hands and sad gentle eyes. The wedding jester
howled with laughter, perched like a crow
on the synagogue roof, shrieked out Bride-to-be, bride-to-be, think but
a little of what now awaits you!
and they laughed at the jest, even Beyle herself, solemn in thinking of
her new estate.
Their families danced round them, pulled them apart: men with men,
women with women, circling in the dark.
Beyle sought Kalman with her dreams, her spirit in the air, apart from
the dancers and decorum of the Law:
and felt his spirit move toward hers in darkness, thinking indeed of
what awaited them:
for Beyle, at sixteen, and Kalman, at thirty, saw in each other the
meeting of souls beyond age,
and longed to cleave together, fire and air, according to their spirits:
and then soared above themselves,
joined together in air and fire, one within the other, accepted first in
fear, then in joy:
looked down on the lights below, saw not Chmielnicki but Heaven in
the distant-nearing flames,
drifted in each others' arms, and laughed to themselves, laughed to
each other, recalling the jesterUs
summons to think of what awaited: for they felt this night that what
waited was their gift to be borne.
2. THE CHILDREN
Beyle married Kalman in the fourth year of Chmielnicki, soon fled
with him from the village of Wolma
to Cracow: returned that winter, heard the nightmares: but because
there was nothing to do for them,
she could not mourn: so Beyle went like a ghost into her husband's
bed, dutifully,
as she had been instructed: but at the moment of Kalman's fulfillment,
remembered the nightmares:
how the Hetman's Cossacks sewed a terrified cat in her pregnant
sister's womb,
fed the baby she carried to an underfed sow; captured her 10-year-old
brother Avruml,
poured raw vodka into his gullet, wrapped him like fish in a scroll of
the Law, and live-buried him,
before their mother's disbelieving maddened eyes, in the synagogue
cemetery,
laughing drunkenly at the quick-fading shrieks of Mamala! from
beneath the lime:
and how their mother, reduced to a keening and babbling mad-
woman who had forgotten her prayers,
was allowed at last to die: raped first, repeatedly, on her son's fresh
grave, then beheaded;
and how a Cossack hurtled her severed head at an innkeeper in
payment for vodka and food.
She heard her brother's spectral sobbing in the draining cry of the
man thrusting inside her,
and that night twice conceived: their firstborn child, and her knowl-
edge that hearing the cry of the dead had doomed it.
She bore that summer, crying out Mamala! in her pain, as she forced
it downward, outward, cruelly,
feeling nothing for its unbegun unwanted life, ended as the midwife
severed the cord.
Kalman mourned, took solace from his books, sought and found
answers that only smothered questions,
bound the mouth that would protest: and was taught to dull questioning
God with his wife's body:
so came to Beyle again, to sow within her, this time in joyless silence,
focused,
as the rabbis taught him, not on pleasure but the task of binding his
wife to fertility.
So again she conceived, and bore again, but the child lived: and it was
the color of moonrise
beneath the dark swatch of its hair: a ghostly spectre to take Avruml's
name, Avruml himself
risen from the graveyard lime-pit, with no more life than he. Beyle
resigned herself:
and sensed this child would also die, victim of its name, a curse given
in devotion.
But it did not, and Beyle mocked herself for a false prophetess: for she
saw Death's Angel,
knew herself his priestess, dedicated to his will, even to renouncing
her children:
but not Avruml but Kalman followed in the winter that came: not
murdered, save by God's pity
and the blood-spattering cough that lived in his lungs, that made him
weep from pain and shiver
through the hottest summer nights, and that finally came to take him.
Still Beyle could not mourn:
for the sickly child, the changling-Avruml, clung to her breast,
demanded all her strength,
fought against her darkness, drank, sucked at her breast with the
lover's passion its father could not show,
lived beyond its foretold days, an ancient soul and wonder to his
mother, but would not grow.
3. THE INVADERS
The Swede has left his wife six months behind, her face by now a dim
memory of resentment,
his children, two alive, four dead, all given to fill a parish register or
country churchyard,
his wife's womb swelling again with the promise of a new chance that
neither wishes nor believes,
living on a hillside farm that mocks his wife's fecundity in its
barrenness: a farm of stones.
One morning, he looks without passion or anger at the wolf-mangled
body of a sheep,
surveys his rain-withered crop that will be neither tithe nor bread to
feed his family:
shivers and feels himself freeze dead inside, remembering the story
in church of how Hagar,
cast into the desert by the Jewess Sarah, parted from Ishmael so not
to see him die:
does not bid farewell, but disappears from the farm, spends the day
drinking in an inn filled with men
whose every breath united is curses and despair; and flees to King
Charles' army and the distant Polish wars.
Lost after battle, wandering to the village, he contemplates the
woman in the yard,
sitting in the sunlight, a baby clamped to a breast, the nipple dark-
swollen, visible,
a feminine vision to inspire not lust but memory: of his wife on the
hillside farm,
perhaps alive, perhaps not (it is all one), the child in her womb now
born, perhaps alive,
perhaps not (it is all one), her body beneath his in the night, a
shredded memory of love
turned too soon to exhaustion: she, an old woman at 25, without the
strength even to dream.
He feels suddenly seized without reason, without experience, newborn
himself, bereft of memory:
and the Jewess before him a strange, darkling creature with wolf-
eyes, clutching her child to her teat like a beast.
She looks at him, the Jewess, quickly covers her breast, extends the
child before her like a shield,
shaking her head in odorous terror, a febrile quivering fright before
a stranger:
and he walks slowly toward her, his boots sucking against the
springtime mud like a polluted kiss.
What is she crying out at him, shaking her head? He feels himself
laugh soundlessly: what would she cry but
Don't! as he takes the child, carefully, out of her arms, sets it on the
ground, turns and sees her gaping:
for he has kissed the child gently, then turned its back to what will
take place, quickly, behind the ruined house.
She knows the sure signs that she is with child again: and will bear in
the winter. What are prayers? she cries:
staggers wildly through the village, Avruml in her arms, invades the
study house, and pleads
for death at the hands of Kalman's friends as she begged the stranger
when he was done with her: extends her neck,
points at the sword in the belt he had not bothered to remove. But her
comforters hold her,
teach her the Law: how a Jewish mother bears a Jewish child, that the
child will be welcomed:
a new child, a new life, in a land that has lost its children: and the
words of her comforters
thrust into her darkness, drive her shame from her heart, forgive her,
save her from her mother's madness.
God has abandoned us, he is so distant! cries the midwife that December
as she draws forth
the red, squalling blonde-haired Viking baby boy whose cry is like the
ram's horn blown at the New Year.
But Beyle laughs, weeping, holding the child: No, God is close, in my
belly, like the cat inside my sister!
4. CRADLE SONG
Sleep my little one, show me your future,
Sleep and dream, show me your past.
Show me my sister, my mother, my brother,
Show me your father, show me what lasts.
Sleep my little one, don't wake too soon,
Sleep and dream, don't wish for dawn.
For dawn takes away all your wonderful dreaming,
And daylight shows nightmares, a life to be borne.
Wake my little one, for you are crying,
Wake my poor little one, MamalaUs here.
Wake, my little one, for you have saved me,
The past is a fouled curse, the future is here.
Rise with me, little one, come dance in my arms,
Rise and dance, come up to the air.
Look down at the lights, reach out, touch the stars,
For they are as bright as the gold in your hair.
________________________________________________________________________
Kyle Cassidy cass8806@elan.rowan.edu
BADMETAFICTION
I took formal and more or less official possession of Elvis
Hemingway's room at exactly twelve noon, February the second, 1992.
It was Groundhog's day, that's important.
The actual physical act of taking over the back room at #5b
Carpenter Street (upstairs from the _Ajax Tire Shop_ where the
violently broiling sounds of cursing, pneumatic tools and _Guns 'n
Roses_ could be heard almost continually throughout the day) was
not a pretty sight. Elvis was a fat, fading, and failing hippie.
Neo-hippie I should say. He was only 30. Most of his _hip_ness he
got from smoking dope, watching other people smoke dope, listening
to the _Grateful Dead_ (while smoking dope), and renting the video
tape of _Woodstock_ (after smoking dope). He was born in 1962
which would have made him, what? _eight_ during the concert?
_"Don't take the brown acid. The brown acid is bad,"_ he would
tirelessly intone (he thought it was funny, or poignant, or at
least vaguely _sixties_). He lived on vegetarian bean sprouts,
Tab, and clove cigarettes. He worked for _Greenpeace_-though he
kept a sock drawer you could breed maggots in. There was a bong
next to his bed with an old sweat sock stuffed in the neck.
I didn't know Elvis that well-I'd seen him for a total of about
three hours. I got to stand there and watch him pick through old
_Relix_ magazines, ostensibly looking for a picture of Bob Weir and
Bob Dyllan throwing sticks off the side of London Bridge or
something. He felt he had to show me that. He was the type to
vanish noiselessly at frequent intervals and be gone for days at a
time. He was supposed to have moved out by the 31st, but he'd
vanished again instead.
"He gone?" I said as I came banging up the hollow, wooden,
neverbeenpaintedsince1961 stairs in my huge black combat boots,
making a noise like a thousand stampeding wildebeests. Of course
this comment was directed into the empty air, and I didn't know if
anybody was home, but it was meant for my frail, new roommate,
whose name-to his misfortune, and for the sake of elucidation-was
Hershel Feinstien. I was bringing over the last of my things. I
set them down on the kitchen floor.
"Nope," he replied bleakly, looking up from the grapefruit half
he was gnawing on and away from the newspaper he was reading, "Not
gone. Haven't seen him in weeks." He was wearing a dark blue
suit-jacket and slacks, a white silk shirt and this mottled pink
and black tie with a knot about the size of a peanut. He had on
penny loafers with nickels shoved in them. The nickels didn't fit
properly and the stiff new leather was bulging and torn.
"You know, you're supposed to put _pennies_ in those." I
pointed. He followed my finger briefly with his eyes but didn't
seem to understand me. He ran four fingers through his curly red
hair, which was a little too long in the back, and shook the
_Books_ section of the paper. Over his shoulder I could read the
headline: "Sieze the Day!"
Feinstien was inherently and overpoweringly Jewish (all his
friends were either named Ira, Moses, or Saul), though he tried to
pretend otherwise. Even to the point of hiding, behind the
bathroom mirror, the tiny golden Star of David which his mother had
given him on his barmitzvah fifteen years before.
"That's why they call them _penny_ loafers."
"What?" he looked up at me.
"I brought the rest of my stuff. This is it."
"Good. That's good."
Most of my stuff was in the living room or the closet or piled
up in the corner of Hersel's room.
Hershel Feinstien was a science fiction author who was suffering
from a traumatic, acute, and near permanent case of writer's block.
In fact, he hadn't written a word in two years, ever since George
Scithers cryptically referred to him as an "ant farmer" in the
elevator at a Chicago convention. His exact meaning was never made
quite clear to me on that one, but Hersh was devastated. (This
might have been related to an incident which had taken place two
nights prior, where Hersh had gotten severely intoxicated at the
hotel bar and leapt over a table to kiss a woman whom he thought
was Ursila K. Le Guinn, and who had in fact turned out to be the
wife of a vacationing steel magnate from Pittsburgh;-whose
distempered and impassioned bodyguard proceeded then to lay
Feinstien across every table in the room, spilling a good number of
drinks in the process.) Hardly anyone called him Hershel. His
first (and only) book, _Christ & the Ceramic Belt Hammer /r_, was
published under the pseudonym Mitterand Belfgore. Most people
called him _Belf_. You kind of had to. (The book, by the way, was
a very complicated pseudo-religious tract about an intelligent, and
highly independent, race of neural impulses which existed in unused
portions of the human brain (largely in idiots) and psionically
regulated weather patters into a complex matrix of
literature/language, basically for the entertainment of some
miscellaneous and unnamed space bugs living in Dimension Z (that's
not the real name by the way, the location of the true alien home-
world escapes me at the moment). It's a real tough read, though it
garnered Hershel a glut of favorable reviews, mostly comparing him
with dead existentialists from third world countries.)
He worked at _Captain Hook's!_ restaurant for children, where he
dressed in an outsized foam rubber pirate's head (patch, hook, and
boots) and was three times a night goosed in a mock sword fight by
Staci Randall, a coquettish seventeen year old High School senior,
who looked almost too good dressed in Peter Pan's green tights and
tunic. He walked around bellowing, "shiver me timbers!" "you'll
walk the plank!" "swab the deck!" and other such nautical nonsense.
He'd first taken the job at the recommendation of his agent, Marty,
who told him (both of them in a drunken stupor) that science
fiction mogul Lester Dell Ray's daughter Cordelia worked there. To
the disappointment and unrestrained despair of all involved (except
probably Marty), Lester Dell Rey turned out not to have any
daughters named Cordelia and the girl in question turned out to be
named _Mary Kay_ and not _Dell Rey_ anyway (her father was a
plumber from Clarksboro) ... but Belf stayed on just the
same-mostly due to the way in which Staci Randall filled out her
costume, and partly because he had just been promoted to Captain
Hook (whereas before he had merely been an ordinary pirate who
didn't get to bellow anything at all except "can I take your
order?" and "would you like fries with that?").
I stomped around the apartment with an air of possessive
pride:-peeing loudly into the toilet and leaving the seat defiantly
in the air when I was finished-a purely symbolic gesture of bold
audacity directed at my last girlfriend who maintained an
obsessive, feminine, fixation about such things.
"I want that man out of my apartment!" I blared from the
bathroom, carefully placing my brushes-tooth and hair, in the
vacant medicine cabinet.
"So do I," bellowed Belf from the kitchen (he had, by now,
considerable practice in bellowing, it was well suited to his
meager form). Belf _hated_ Elvis, with a passion not to be found
on the most memorable and egregious episodes of _Divorce Court_.
While Belf was neat and orderly (he folded his trash), slim, and
polite, Elvis smelled bad, snored, came in late, and perhaps worst
of all, bragged incessantly about success with women who never
existed.
"Well, when's he coming? to get his stuff...."
"I don't know...." There was the sound of a spoon being set down
on a plate. I walked back down the hall-into the living room, "he
should have been here days ago. Weeks ago. He never should have
moved _in_. I told him he was moving out. I haven't seen him."
"Where does he go?" I asked, looking over the battered books on
the shelf, there were dozens of them with unimaginably esoteric
titles, some in foreign languages.
"I don't know. I have no idea. The only thing I know is that
people call and ask for him, late at night. All these guys with
weird accents," he was pouring himself a cup of some expensive
smooth scented coffee, "I tell them that he's dead. Every once in
a while I beat his clothes back into his room with a stick. I
mean, I _dream_ about his clothes..."
"What's that?" I asked, pausing by his desk, littered with paper
and empty coffee cups. I pointed to a large manilla envelope tied
meticulously with a white string.
"My new book," he said. Written neatly across the top of the
envelope was the single word "Badmetafiction".
"What the hell is _Badmetafiction?_"
"It's a joke," he said, "Kind of. Sort of a joke actually-it
would be funny if ... I don't know. If only it were funny." He
seemed weary and dismayed.
"Can I read it?"
"Can? well, you _could_-only there's not anything there. I
mean, it's all just blank paper. It's just a title. It's going to
be about a science fiction author who's-well, he's out of ideas,
and it turns out to be because there are these government bore-
worms inside his head ... and all he can hear are the Watergate
tapes, playing over and over ... I just thought that if the
envelope were full-stuffed with paper and all, that it would
inspire me..." His thought processes were stratospheric, neurotic,
and seldom understood by others. He sounded nasal.
I untied the string and looked inside the envelope. There was
a sheet of bond paper with "Badmetafiction" typed across it and his
pseudonym, Mitterand Belfgore beneath it. The rest of the envelope
was stuffed with coupons.
"It has an almost finished appearance to it," said Belf.
"You could fill your shelves with them."
"I could. I may." He wrung his hands pensively.
I went into my room, Elvis' room. It wasn't that there was a
lot of stuff-it just wasn't in any particular order. There was no
furniture, just dirty clothes and paper bags. Remnants of a
hundred take-out dinners at Taco Bell. There were a lot of beer
cans. It smelled like a locker room,-that particular fetid odor of
wet socks and perspiration which always reminded me of ...
something.
"I don't think he's ever done his laundry. Since he's been
here. Not once." He kicked at a sock, which rolled bumpily into a
corner, "Look at this," he crouched next to the bed pointing, as
through at an unusually large Haitian Tarantula which had just
crawled from the drain, "he uses his _shoes_ for ashtrays. His
fucking _shoes!_" Next to the bed were a pair of nondescript
brandless, canvass, running shoes-they were filled with cigarette
butts and ashes.
"Does he _dump_ them before he puts them on?"
"Yeah, he _dumps_ them all right ... he _dumps_ them here in the
corner," He pointed with his foot. His hands were shoved into his
pockets as though he were protecting them. In the corner was a
makeshift ashtray, partially obscured by a rolled up pair of long-
johns. A cookie can which must have held four pounds of butts and
ashes. They overflowed and spilled onto the floor.
"He's _never_ emptied that."
Next to the ashtray was the filthy purple bong with a sweat sock
shoved in the top-I mentioned that before.
"He actually smokes out of that. He takes the _sock_ out and
_smokes_ out of it. He puts the sock there to keep the _water from
evaporating_. Him and those damn lazy hippies. They come up here
and smoke dope and plan the revolution and meanwhile his _socks_
are sneaking out the back door and committing _armed robbery_." He
stomped out of the room.
"Well, when's he gonna get back? I mean, when can I start
putting my stuff in here? Could I shove all this in the closet?
would he mind do you think?"
There was some abstract rumbling from the kitchen.
"Does he _mind_?" Belf bellowed, "it no longer _matters_ if he
_minds_. We ought to just start a _fire_ or something. Salt the
earth," he wandered back in the room, "I say we move it _for_
him..." he was wearing this gas mask that I had gotten at a yard
sale about ten years before (I had never found an adequate use for
it, but somehow I couldn't bear to throw it away), a single yellow
dish-washing glove on his left hand, an industrial (metal shop
workers?) apron, and on his right hand he was wearing his hook
which he was brandishing wildly. He handed me a trash bag and the
other rubber glove.
"Here," he said, "sorry I only have one glove-"
I opened the trash bag and he started hooking clothes and
dropping them into the bag. His breath was fogging up the inside
of the mask and his head tilted at odd angles in order to see
through the clear parts. He picked up the million fragrant and
crumpled socks as though they were turds.
"Where are we going with this?" I asked, "I mean, what are we
going to do with it."
He stopped for a moment and looked directly at me. Except for
the hook-for-a-hand, he looked like one of those guys in the
beginning of the _Andromeda Strain_, walking through that town
filled with dead people.
"We're going to throw it in the river." He sounded like Darth
Vader. It wasn't exactly a river, to allow you to believe so would
overly glorify our town. It was sort of a wide stream, but it
passed beneath the main street about a half mile away in a splendid
and broiling waterfall that always made me think of salmon on those
PBS documentaries, you know, heroically leaping up stream and
thrashing their tails, tragically and wonderfully exerting
themselves in glorious slow motion, only to die horribly, gored and
mauled two miles upstream in the jaws of a two thousand pound
grizzly bear.
"Clog the stream?" I said, "Pollute the environment?"
"Yes. With the environmentalist's trash. Let _him_ drag it out
of the water with a stick or something. I hope it kills a fish."
He picked up Elvis' shoes with a diligent and unrelenting disdain
and dropped them into the bag.
"Tribbles like Vulcan's,"
"Huh?"
"But they _don't_ like Klingon's..."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"We'll put the chain on the door tonight, and tomorrow we'll
change the locks and if anybody comes looking for him, we'll tell
them he _died_, that he was _shredded_ in a _combine_ accident in
Arkansas and they buried him in a fucking _mason jar_." He waved
his hook in my face, "We'll tell them he was _julienned_. Then if
he _does_ come back we can garrote him with a lamp cord and bury
him in the back yard and no one'll suspect us because they'll think
he's already _dead_." He was beginning to sweat prolifically under
the gas mask and his wet hair was sticking wildly in the air. The
plastic eye patches were completely fogged over. He emphasized his
words with savage lunges of his hook, as though he were trying to
swat a bat in mid flight.
Belf put on a long black _Botany 500_ overcoat (it was about
sixty degrees out) and dragged the first bag unceremoniously down
the stairs with his hook. I followed, giddy with some crazy,
wicked, sense of desolation and havoc. I tossed my bag up onto my
shoulder-feeling like an evil Robin-Hood-Santa-Clause. It must
have weighed fifty pounds. Together we trudged down the street.
After four blocks the bags grew fairly heavy and Belf bore down on
the _Dunkin Donuts_ with all the serious intent of a sailor coming
home to the best brothel in town after a year at sea. Slinging the
bag inside the door, kicking it across the filthy, smooth tile
floor. Groaning or sighing he sat down on a stool and pulled out
a cigarette.
"I'm going through a lot of trouble to get this dimwit out of my
house," he shoved the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and
lit it with a loud, expensive looking, silver lighter, "If there
were justice in the world, _he_ would be carrying this trash down
and throwing it in the river."
Two seats down from Belf sat a hacked old woman in an official
looking black coat specked with shiny silver buttons. She was
short and disheveled, her stringy black hair fell in her face as
she alternately pulled at a tired looking cup of coffee and chopped
a cream doughnut with widely spaced teeth. I thought at first that
she was a cop, an undercover cop or something, but then I realized
that she was a crossing guard, a ridiculous octagonal hat lay on
the counter in front of her. Her face was beleaguered and lined.
She looked straight ahead, through the walls.
Belf rapped his hook on the counter and ordered coffee. Which
was brought to him by a blue-lidded fifty year old waitress with a
beehive hairdo. She didn't look twice at his prosthesis, but
instead turned wearily to me without saying a word.
"Coke," I said, "and a Boston Creme." She scowled at me and
languorously promenaded off on flat, white shoes. Somewhere under
all that makeup there lived a sad and tormented soul, who had long
since come to grips with the damp and cheerless realities of the
world. She realized that she would never be a princess or a beauty
queen. She would never be an administrator, or even a seller of
used cars. She couldn't be a secretary because she lacked
refinement and conversational skills-and besides that, she probably
couldn't type.
Belf stirred his coffee with his hook.
"Bout time ta get goin'," said the Beehive to the crossing
guard, passing a wet rag across the counter in front of her.
"Uh-huh," said the crossing guard.
We drank our beverages. I gnawed on my doughnut while Belf
jabbered on with a continual stream of seemingly unconnected
thoughts on circumcision, computers, weather patterns, angels, ice
sculptures, and the mysteries of mezzanine floors. These he tried
to tie together with the crazy idea that he had been Galileo in not
one, but several past lives, all of which left me very confused.
This was one of the hazards of knowing him. He fell silent and
stared forward for some time, lost in himself, then he turned to
me, his thoughts completed I supposed. "Lastday," he said
caustically, looking down into his open palm.
"Huh?" I said. He showed me his hand, it was clean and young,
traced with faint pink lines.
"Lastday," he said again.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
He looked down into his palm again. "Yesterday it was red, now
it's blinking." He looked back up at me, "Let's get out of here."
He aimed a finger out the window.
"Sure," I replied, dropping the remains of my donut on the
napkin. "You're a nut," I told him. The crossing guard looked at
us and then at her watch.
"You don't believe what I was saying?" asked Belf as we again
lugged the bags down the sidewalk.
"No, that's not it, saying about what? I guess I'm ... aw hell.
I forgot what I was going to say. I don't know."
"Open the pod-bay doors, Hal," said Belf, shining his teeth like
whitewashed fenceposts at me.
_Across from us, school is out, and there is a group of kids
waiting to cross, standing on the curb and watching the traffic on
322 pass in front of the middle school. The traffic is pretty
heavy, and as far as I can see are cars in both directions. One of
the kids, who looks about thirteen, is wearing a new denim jacket
and stomping brown work boots. He looks pretty antsy, like maybe
there's a good baseball game on, or he's going to meet some girl
behind the library. He's looking left and right, up and down the
street, and instinctively my eyes follow his. Finally there comes
a small break between cars, maybe twenty feet and he runs out
between them. The instant that his foot hits the pavement, I know
he isn't going to make it.
"Look!" I say, and point. Suddenly everything is noiseless and
calm, as though one universe ended as I said those words and
instantly, another began. Belf follows my arm just in time to see
a car-it all happens so fast now that I don't even remember what
kind of car it is-smack into him. He folds almost in two, like a
carpenters ruler at an awkward place in mid-leg, somewhere around
the knee, but I can see that it is in an unhealthy direction, then
he recoils from the car like a bullet from a gun, he flies up into
the air and somehow his pants came off, completely stripped off,
and before he hits the ground I can see one of his boots flying
through the air. It must go thirty feet, I watch it and see it
land in the street. There seems to be nothing in the world but me
and that boot, now sitting upright and untied on the pavement,
looking unassuming and perfectly normal_.
"Knocked his pants off," I heard Belf say, his voice was loud
and seemed to punch through a sheet of silence which had been
stretched tight between me and the rest of the world. Suddenly,
although I didn't know that any time passed, the street was filled
with people and flashing lights and the traffic was stopped. We
picked up our bags and kept on walking, slowly, trying to get a
quick glimpse of what was going on without looking like
rubberneckers. A short, fat woman, with a recessed face and large
protruding necks, plastic rimmed glasses, dressed in pastel green,
polyester, bell bottoms and a tight white sweater, was lumbering
from the accident to my side of the street, swinging her heavy arms
in order to lift her feet. I heard her call to someone behind me:
"Both his legs are broken!" The kid was laying on the cool asphalt
with two or three blue-jeaned people kneeling over him. From the
quick glance I got between squatting bodies I could see a broken
bone sticking through the flesh of his leg, red and white and
painful. I looked away, back up the street, and as I did, I saw
the crossing guard, the one from the donut shop, and she was
running down the sidewalk really fast, holding her hat in front of
her, clutched to her chest with both hands and her hair was
streaming out behind her. I could see then that she was short and
a little over weight. There was a look of absolute terror on her
face; I knew that she could see the flashing lights, and see the
people. I knew that she knew what happened and I felt sorry for
her.
"Look," I said to Belf, pointing again, then almost wishing I
hadn't.
"Bet she feels like shit," he said.
"Yeah," I replied quietly, "yeah, I bet she does."
We lingered a couple of seconds longer but Belf wasn't
interested and he started reciting the laws of robotics, complete
with corollaries, and poking me in the arm with his hook. We
walked on down the road towards the spillway where the ground
dropped away on one side. I looked over, it must have been a mile
down. Tiny, great, crashing, furious, ruinous, clouds of water
splashed into the basin below with a distant roar and a cold spray,
like a vaporizer.
"Say goodbye to Elvis," croaked Belf with an air of melodramatic
sentimentality, his springy hair doing crazy pirouettes in the
wind. It was kind of noisy where we were standing.
"Do you think we really ought to? I mean, these are his worldly
possessions..."
"Ought to? Do I think we _ought to_?" he looked at me for a
brief interval, as though I had an enormous pimple beneath one eye,
and then he shouted: "_Into the drink you foul reeking Pig-God!_"
hurling the bag as far as he could over the side. We both leaned
against the stone wall and watched it fall. It fell slowly as the
wind wafted up from under it, spreading it out like a parachute.
It seemed to take ages to reach the bottom where it made a far off
"whumph" and vanished in the churning waves. It rose up a few
seconds later and was instantly sunk again. For some time it was
gone entirely and our eyes eagerly searched the water until it
appeared ten or twelve yards away in the calmly swirling water,
barely floating now, an oil slick upon the surface.
"Now you," said Hershel, looking over at me and closing the
collar of his coat against the cold air with a thin hand.
"Elvis Hemingway: In the name of God Almighty, I drown thy
fleas!" I lifted the bag up with some gleeful recklessness and set
it on the white wall, looked cautiously, left and right, for
police, and pushed it over the side. It opened on the way down and
his clothes began to spill out. They scattered, and the bag landed
upside down, thrashing on the churning waves. After a few minutes
the bag floated limply out of the maelstrom.
"Look," called Belf, pointing. I followed his finger and could
see one of Elvis' shoes bobbing lazily on the surface of the water.
We watched it for a while, until it was out of sight around the
bend. Then Hersh said:
"I talked to my dad on the phone yesterday. He called."
"Oh yeah? Really? What did he say?"
"Not a lot. He asked how I was doing, you know; if I had fleas,
if I'd got a job yet, if I'd written anything, was I still eating
oatmeal three times a day."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him I'd written another book, and that it was called
_Badmetafiction_ and that it was going to blow _Christ & the
Ceramic Belt Hammer /r_ right out of the water and that it would be
on the shelves any day now. I told him it was being reviewed by
Saul Bellow in the _New York Times_ book review section, and that
I'd sold the movie rights to Steven Spielberg and that I'd be rich
and famous inside the year."
"Did he believe you?"
"No. He said: _If a schlemazl like you sold umbrellas; it would
stop raining; if he sold candles; the sun would never set; if he
made coffins; people would stop dying_."
"Some dad."
"He's got faith in me, yeah." Belf sighed and we walked back
towards our apartment.
_____________________________________________________________________
CORE is published by Rita Rouvalis March 1993
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Volume II
Issue IV
ISSN: 1062-6697
~~~````''''~~~
CORE is an electronic journal of poetry, fiction, essays,
and criticsm. Back issues are available via anonymous
ftp from ftp.eff.org from the /pub/journals directory,
and in the Electronic Frontier Foundation Gopher Space on
the Instant Karma Zine Stand.
Please feel free to reproduce CORE in its entirety only
throughout Cyberspace. To reproduce articles individually,
please contact the author.
Questions, submissions, and subscription requests should be
sent to core-journal@eff.org.
~~~````''''~~~
"April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain."
T H E C Y B E R S P A C E I S S U E
_____________________________________________________________________________
Rita Rouvalis rita@village.com
Scroll
Concise Oxford Dictionary, 8th Ed., Copyright 1991 Oxford Univ. Press
/sestina/ <<ses"ti:n@>> n.[Prosody] a form of rhymed or unrhymed poem with
six stanzas of six lines and a final triplet, all stanzas having the same
six words at the line-ends in six different sequences{foreign word}.
All of the following poems are Bout Rime Sestinas written for Bill
Knotts' Forms of Poetry graduate class at Emerson. It will become quickly
obvious which six words where assigned. To my knowledge, only one of
the poets has an e-mail address; when taken together these verses offer
us a snapshot of the ways in which the Ethersphere has leaked into the
popular consciousness.
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
Once in Cyberspace
Prosper Barter
Once, when it was all worthwhile, we sat in a room,
but darker. I can see how the lava lamp stands
near the fake fire place; we sat and whispered through
the night, ringed round bunkbeds, in altered states
of bliss and light. We were the people
your mother worried on. Then there was no cyberspace.
You speak of your brother's acid, cybersapce
raves, techno pop loudspeakers for the new young, room
to dance and thrash and dress like other people --
people from the past (the sixties, *again*). It stands
to reason some of us will still be trapped there, it's a state
of mind. And you lament, on through
the night, in front of the TV, smoking. Through
the haze, you lambast your brother's cyberspace
friends: frozen, boxed to a machine, in states
of comas and worse -- no exercise, no room
for real words. I cannot accept it. It stands
for all I hate. And yet, I wonder. Do people
change so much? Are the youth as we were: people
passed out on stair wells, Maya leaping through
the window, thinking she could fly? No photo stands
on my dresser, yet the time before cyberspace
is the most real. Far from your new home, this clean room,
was joy -- "Beer stick ball": another state
of mind. My brother yelling, "He's no pitcher, " states,
"He's a belly itcher!" We were real people,
reaching out. Yet were we making room
for the new way then? Was it through
us that they came to live in cyberspace,
the land of the dead, draped about -- fakes! -- a boy stands
in the corner, dosed all day; not like Bran, who stands
out in memory, ranting on the states
of love in Asia. "Youth are lost in cyberspace".
But then again, I remember certain people --
you and I, Kevin -- who smoked and drank through
the night, the day, ending up in a cellar room
watching the TV that stands there. Two people
lost in states of -- Pee Wee's Playhouse -- silent through
the cyberspace haze (even then) in that room.
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<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
States of Mind
Jean Mauriello
Unheard, the ex-husband creeps into her room
after breaking in with a baseball bat. He stands
there; she screams, "How did you ever get through
security, up the alley wall, and crawl in?" He grins, and states,
"Walls are never too high, and people
never pay attention. Like cyberspace,
the alley behind the wall led me here. The cyberspace
made me do it, like a magnet drew me in this room
and brought me to you. The people
you'd be here, and this bat stands
in my hand as a tribute to you. The states
where I've whirled and passed through
since you left me, everything I've been through
has been for you, and for cyberspace,
sweet cyberspace. His face as he states
these foolish words shines in this room
as she in fear watches, in fear stands
and says, "Get out of here. I hate people
like you. You're crazy, nuts, loco -- people
like you wave bates, crawl through
bathroom windows, why? He stands
taller, silenced. She insists, "Cyberspace
is no excuse. You're rude. This is my room.
I want you out of here. He states
his displeasure -- he has come so far for her, through states
She doesn't care -- she worries that the people
would wonder why he was in her room
after the divorce they'd been through
and all that. No room for him and cyberspace.
She refers him to newspaper stands
so that he can get in touch. He stands
another moment before her, the states
he's travelled in his eyes. "The cyberspace
made me do it," he says again, "The people
I met who understood me and helped me through
the emptiness that led me back to this room.
She stands and watches him leave, the people
from all the states are expecting his return, through
the cyberspace, crawling from her room.
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
A Division of Walls and Cyberspace
Jean-Pierre Cuello
Silence locks Joshua within his room,
surrounded by computer and printer stands,
clicking keyboards and humming laser printer, through
which he scans the alternatives states
of existing, without the stress of those people
who neither undersand nor believe cyberspace
is real. How could anyone doubt cyberspace
as the new manifest destiny? from the room
next door, heard are shrieks and bitching of those people.
Distracted for a moment, Joshua stands
near the wall and listens as some woman states,
"Just pack up your 12-pack VCR and walk on through
my life. I'm tired of fast-forwarding through
the good times and rewinding..." Bless cyberspace
for its muted voice and objective states
of expression. There is no more room
for this future; drywall stands
between his beliefs and the people
who have no need of technoids, people
whose windows are LCD screens, seeing through
to the other side of scrolls and icons. He stands
tranquilly in the grasp of cyberspace;
his mind exceeds any computer head room
or Zen-ish transcendental states
of mind. The only fear he knows, he states
on his MAC screen as, "Error." Lines the people
he's loved along one wall of his room,
bit-mapped pictures of Josh's life through
which only one dared to reach out into cyberspace.
Her reach fell short and now a new wall stands
between the real World which somehow stands
for something other than what his manual states.
Physical parameters restrict cyberspace
only in as much as what people,
themselves, restrain their wishes and wants through
the confinements of any physical room;
only an imagined wall stands between people
and their ink-mapped states. Joshua lives on, through
infinite cyberspace, his silent room.
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
Welcome To Their World
Joshua Davidson
Lots of little stacks become fewer big ones to make room
for the new universe that's to fit on my desk. It stands
to reason that the old ways be pushed aside, their time is through.
Now I will wander electronically through my states
of confusion, before now at least bounded by my desk. People
say, "Enjoy the 23rd Century!" As I zoom off into cyberspace
with the flick of a button, and a beep. "Welcome to Cyberspace!
Beep boop. Please allow me to show you your room.
Don't worry about noise or embarassment, there are no people
here, just their digitized thoughts." It's no time to take stands,
the age is upon me. Hell, even Time Magazine states,
in so many words, that the days of real virtue are through.
But reports of my surprise are greastly exaggerated. I see through
this: as I sit at my desk, I'm also travelling through cyberspace,
not subject to any boundaries -- their are no cities or states
(other than those of being), just a universe right in my room,
which used to be earth-bound by papers and books where stands
now a machine, speaking a modem idiom to other virtual people.
Internet, modems, acid house, brain implants. Where do people
come up with this stuff? I mean, it's intriguing to get through
to 8 gazillion people at once, but something this big stands
for something, or maybe nothing. But what do I do in cyberspace?
Maybe my old-fashioned pen-and-ink brain just doesn't have room
for another reality, virtual or not. How do I get into these states?
So far this whole thing seems pretty much confined to the States,
but can you imagine what sort of virtuous reality bad people
might create? I can here them now: "There just ain't enough room
in this network for the 8 gazillion of us, so I'm through
putting up with the rest of you, you're invading my cyberspace
and I want you out now, Or I'll delete ya where ya stands."
I'm sure that I'll be just a spectator way up in the stands,
never really knowing what's going on. Even the United States
President knows more than I, as he launches the nation into cyberspace.
Perhaps there are others like me, digitally dysfunctional people
hoping only for some electronic mercy, trying to get through
life tangled in an internet. Gosh, I hope there's room
for us.. As it stands now, most ordinary people
can't name the states. Maybe I can be led through
this mysterious cyberspace, like Dante by Virgil -- if there's room.
.............................................................................
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Dream
Ricia Anne Chansky
I rise from slumber to search my room
For means to hold a dream where our nation stands
For more than money and taxes and greed, and through
The land the new rose up. In each of the states
All kinds, all colors all creeds, all people
Came together in a new land: Cyberspace.
In this land without history, called Cyberspace,
The world as a whole could find plenty of room
To comfortably raise and support its people.
There a word of promise isn't a lie, it stands
As the word of truth. Even varied states
Of mind agree, and it becomes easy to follow through;
Because what is an idea if it's not seen through?
Within a human creation lays Cyberspace,
Unseeing of our looks, our body's states.
Conscious only of its yearning to fill the room,
To force us to take a leap from the stands
And into an arena filled with other people.
but the people, they will resist because people
Have for so long been casually defiled through
The ways in which our world works and what it stands
To give; yet takes. Now someone gives us Cyberspace.
The cursor is a doorway to a room,
A way out of a room, into altered states.
I dreamt people permanently leaving The States,
Bowing down before terminals (as people
Tend to do) and freely worshipping their new room.
They have been give a promise; kept through
The magic of, the miracle of Cyberspace.
Find a computer and alter life as it stands.
If all people were to jump on the stands
And pledge their allegiance to their new states
Of mind, dream would be reality -- in Cyberspace.
But sleep returns and I've no pencil for the people.
They'll never find the door, let alone a way through
The door, if they can't imagine the room.
Our nation for which it stands, people divided by people,
ignorant of higher states, denied a way through
to Cyberspace; will one day, see the room.
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
Stolen Room
Deirdre O-Neill
For years now, we've been circling in this room
then again, its been no time, and the room stands
silent and undisturbed. We see each other through
the dusty lenses of too long, not long enough. States
of mind constantly exchange like the fire people
in circus duos toss back and forth. Cyberspace
was a place for couples long before this cyberspace
vogue. A voyeur, like Madonna, came into our room
and stole our show, our ways, our House. The people
in the cyberspace were couples turning handstands,
or dancing in that I-know-your-info way. Such states
were for insiders, the ones who'd been together through
"it". Whatever the hell that might be. Talking through
less molecules than most people, the cyberspace
then was the private virtual reality states
for long, longtime companions: the room
in which we knew everything. Cyberspace stands
for something else now, just the way people
refer to Vogue-ing or House. Hip people
think they know it. Like a step to get down or through
somehow some kind of electric slide. Madonna stands
to get millions and fame in cyberspace
for stealing from the House dancers. Our room
stands to dissolve or burst with all these states
of information free-floating like states
of depression, voguers without a ball, or people
to watch them and clap. See how silent the room
is with all these people knowing everything? Through
all this networking the truth gets lost. Cyberspace
is no longer a place name, something that stands
for knowing someone hard and all the way. It stands
to lose its meaning entirely. A friend states
she proved it by naming her dog "Cyberspace".
See now its not a place at all, but a puppy. People
stare when she calls for her. Through
my computer, I'm calling on you to find room
for a cyberspace that stands for just two people,
a word that states its for partners who've been through
the net. Make cyberspace a kind and well-worn room.
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
Empty of why's this room
Diane M. Joao
Do we know how turns to hesitation leave room
for questions, to wonder aloud what stands
between this sex wall sex? We, having been through
such things, know. The questions, like various states
of undress, are comical. Funny, we're people
not quite human enough to replace cyberspace
with touch, to reinvent compassions. Cyberspace,
you've often said, is empty jargon. What room
have you allowed me then, that people
like ourselves must compensate? As it stands,
I've no answers now. A kiss, perhaps, states
much more clearly what we've been through,
Though who's to know for sure? But still through
it all, the all that's been, cyberspace
is constant. What if one day it states
that all's enough, what then? This room
we rest in now, a kiss that stands
between us, knows the sort of people
we've become. We remember people,
(for lack of a better word,) from our pasts: through
the love of she or he, bare witness stands
of who we were, and are. Come cyberspace:
the what when where and how? This room's
too small for miracles. What states
of mind are we in now? Our sex wall states
the obvious: you and I are hungry people
starving for some slight of touch. There's room
enough for two in here. The words through
you come into me. A word like cyberspace --
that's it. Your definition. So it stands
then. We'll kiss. We will take the stands
we've measured through the years. Various states
of discontent, perhaps, but more. Cyberspace
has filled us both with adjectives and verbs. People
like us contain ourselves in words. Through
it all, perhaps one kiss will make room
for a couple more. As it stands, we're people.
The states we've earned by living through
this noun: cyberspace. *Empty of why's this room.*
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
Is There Enough Room for Cyberspace?
Frank Wardega
Although some people might think there is enough room
for all these computer generated intellectuals, something stands
in their way: Me. I am absolutely through
with all these idiots, the United States
is full of these ridiculous people
who want us all to go to cyberspace
with them. Well I don't want to go to cyberspace,
mostly because it's for geeks who sit in a room,
peek into the minds of other people
that they don't even know. What stands
in the way of these punks taking over the whole United States
and running us all through
the wringer? And then through
the wash as well. Cyberspace,
who needs it? I'm in the happiest of states
alone. I don't need to look into someone's room
and poke into their head. The stands
I've taken before are nothing -- how I feel about these people
who want to log-on with so many other people
is almost enough to make me go through
the roof. It seems like a bunch of one night stands
with other peoples' brains. A pseudo-orgy in cyberspace?
Well, I wish they would all just get a room.
It will be along time before these United States
become just a maze of bits and bytes. Oh the states
these worries send me to! I tell you. We're all people
here, we can't forget that. Although there may be room
for everyone's terminals, we've got to get it through
our heads that our space is not cyberspace
its' just space, it stands
for nothing. It just is. While cyberspace stands
for everything that is wrong with the United States
these days. OK. You might say that cyberspace
can't be that bad. After all some people
use it occasionally and seem to get through
the day with no problem. but we'll have to make room
for the stands that these crazy people
are gonna take. Altered states of consciousness through
my space? your space? cyberspace? How we gonna make room?
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
Bring on the Band
Jason Barr
I was playing the skin flute in my room.
the music was loud, the band stands
were in my hands. I let the tunes roam through
my country, my body: plains, cities; all states
represented in dance halls in my veins. People
swaying and stomping. My brain, a cyberspace,
awash in a techo rave. This cyberspace
was DJ to the beats of the flesh. Every room
in this nation heard the horns. The cells, the people
of this body were shouting, "United stands
each member. We will fight for these states
no matter what punishment we go through.
You see, men can come and romp through
this door; try to end this jive, drain this cyberspace
of its wave, but this body's motto states,
'When the bands jamming in this room
come hell or high water, the hand stands
no interruption. People may come and people
may go, but when the gettin's good people
just don't know.'" Suddenly! I hear banging through
my door. My irate mother shouts as she stands,
"What's going on? This is not cyberspace
where you can do anything. Who's in your room?
You're having too much fun for one." she states.
In fear, the party quickly ends; all my states
drained from my body -- the people
return to their cells, and into the room
comes my mother, she slowly walks through.
"I can hear you in the basement." My book, _Cyberspace:
The Final Frontier_, lays on the floor. She stands
above me as I lay on my bed. She stands
little noise in her house. "I'm warning you," she states,
"I hear that again; you're out. Pick your Cyberspace
book off the floor. I'm expecting some people
for dinner tonight so when you're through
with your little party, CLEAN YOUR ROOM!"
She leaves; the band stands begin to play. "Those people
coming to dinner," my mind states, "Should come through
this cyberspace and join the party in my room."
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
My Friend Nate Explains Virtual Reality
Michael Henry
My friend Nate takes up a lot of room,
and he reads alot. Over 6'4" he stands.
He's got James Joyce pecs and he snores so loud. Through
concrete you can hear it. It's a condition, he states,
named apnea. Like narcolepsy, tons of people
have it, maybe millions. Now he's reading _Cyberspace
and Nirvana_, by Tim Leary. He wrote _Cyberspace_
because it's "THE drug of the next century. We need room
to blow boundaries, smash time as we know it... People
are going to become amalgamated with stands
of microchips with Intel Inside." Leary states
in Part 5, "Safe Sex with Cyborg Helmets" (I hear this through
Nate's re-telling, his gruff, voice echoing through
his cave-like nostrils), that in our heads, cyberspace
will have a plug-in outlet to join you with states
of ecstasy, endorphins, and room
after room of electronic orgies. This stands
as a major breakthrough, says Nate, for all people
worldwide. If you're one of many depressed people,
forget your pain and plug into a vast menu through
which you might enjoy Bar-BQ ribs (Nate's favorite). Nate stands
up, scratches his armpit, and adds, "Cyberspace
is coming, and whether you like it or not, make room
because its already kind of sheik in the states
of California and Texas. It's in these states
because of demand" Nate says, yawning. People
will toss out their shrinks and TV's, and set up a room
with a special chair, black walls and carpet, and through
a glass sphere and temp controls, cyberspace
will rock their world. Just think of the stands
of diskettes with the worlds you can play in; these stands
will have stuff like, KILL YOUR BOSS, BUNJI JUMP, STATES
OF UNDRESS, YOU ARE THE HULK, CYBERSPACE
LAS VEGAS, where you play Blackjack against people
like James Bond and Don Trump. There's also, I'M THROUGH
WITH YOU -- VIRTUAL DIVORCE. Leary writes that "there's room
for grand stands full of users. They'll be common people
from all states in the US. It's their ideas through
which Cyberspace will expand God's Heavenly Room."
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
Sestina In Two Voices
Virgina Crawford
It's when we're alone and the room
is dark, when the blue reflection stands
on the floor and I can see you through
this blueness, as it progresses through states
of light and depth, two people
curled on the bed in the cyberspace
of each other's heads. Their cyberspace
expands to include the whole room,
the bed, and shadows and people,
all seeped in this night's blue glow that stands
watch as they grow in the marked states
of their engagement. Through
skin, souls feel as easily as the light comes through
the window and dances around the blue cyberspace
of the room. Fingering his full lip she states
that she can't leave the things she's felt in this room,
where they screamed and too their stands,
then settled like civilized people.
And when we had to divide, be two people,
we cried and wondered how we'd get through.
The house where they lived still stands
somewhere between cyberspace
and their dreams where there's enough room
to write without being harassed by the State's
lawyers who haggle until he or she states
what they want to hear. These aren't fair people
who hold us in a cell, a tiny room
where we can't breathe, light can't get through
the window cracks. don't even think of cyberspace.
I don't believe what I see on the stands.
I don't think the country stands
for what it used to, take me from these States,
I need more than the narrow cyberspace
of this place to survive, these people
suck and slurp me down, drag me through
hell instead o fleaving me to our room
where I used to write, where blue stands and we're
the people
in constant states of eclipse, ascending through,
to the whole cyberspace of our room.
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
A Less Crowded House
J.D. Nelson
Sometimes I don't think there's enough room
in this house. If one of my sons stands
in front of the Nintendo, the other can't see through
him, and soon they're both yelling. One states
"I was here first," and it seems like people
in a brick Cape clog each other's cyberspace.
My husband went in search of his own cyberspace
two years ago, saying he needed more room
to find himself, and there were so many people
here, he couldn't think straight. It stands
to reason that I got pissed, and when he now states
that he wants to come home, I say no, I'm through
with hoping he and I still have a chance. Through
seven years of marriage, he lived in cyberspace,
I think, never able to see my states
of distress increase when the room
between us widened. Now he stands
before me, proclaiming that two people
who love each other should be together; people
don't need to be alone, and it's through
my own fault if I continue to take these stands:
not allowing him back into my cyberspace,
and insisting he find the time to make some room
for change. You see, I was sick of the drunken states
he used to come home in, and that states'
ability to hurt all the people
closest to him, the ones who room
in this house now. It could only be through
some miracle of cyberspace
proportions that this family will be saved. My son stands
by his father, but I make my stands
on the principle that I can't tolerate some states.
My husband lost in cyberspace,
floating on a beer high with people
he grew up with, traveling through
all the bars in town, leaves me no room.
My husband stands to lose allthe people
whom he states he loves themost; through
cyberspace he'll drift while I make my own room.
____________________________________________________________________________
April 1993
=] Instant Karma Publishing [=
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From: rita@eff.org (Rita Marie Rouvalis)
Subject: CORE2.05 Cyberspace Issue
Message-ID: <1993Apr24.231220.28431@eff.org>
Sender: usenet@eff.org (NNTP News Poster)
Organization: Instant Karma Publishing
Date: Sat, 24 Apr 1993 23:12:20 GMT
Lines: 719
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Volume II
Issue IV
ISSN: 1062-6697
~~~````''''~~~
CORE is an electronic journal of poetry, fiction, essays,
and criticsm. Back issues are available via anonymous
ftp from ftp.eff.org from the /pub/journals directory,
and in the Electronic Frontier Foundation Gopher Space on
the Instant Karma Zine Stand.
Please feel free to reproduce CORE in its entirety only
throughout Cyberspace. To reproduce articles individually,
please contact the author.
Questions, submissions, and subscription requests should be
sent to core-journal@eff.org.
~~~````''''~~~
"April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain."
T H E C Y B E R S P A C E I S S U E
_____________________________________________________________________________
Rita Rouvalis rita@village.com
Scroll
Concise Oxford Dictionary, 8th Ed., Copyright 1991 Oxford Univ. Press
/sestina/ <<ses"ti:n@>> n.[Prosody] a form of rhymed or unrhymed poem with
six stanzas of six lines and a final triplet, all stanzas having the same
six words at the line-ends in six different sequences{foreign word}.
All of the following poems are Bout Rime Sestinas written for Bill
Knotts' Forms of Poetry graduate class at Emerson. It will become quickly
obvious which six words where assigned. To my knowledge, only one of
the poets has an e-mail address; when taken together these verses offer
us a snapshot of the ways in which the Ethersphere has leaked into the
popular consciousness.
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
Once in Cyberspace
Prosper Barter
Once, when it was all worthwhile, we sat in a room,
but darker. I can see how the lava lamp stands
near the fake fire place; we sat and whispered through
the night, ringed round bunkbeds, in altered states
of bliss and light. We were the people
your mother worried on. Then there was no cyberspace.
You speak of your brother's acid, cybersapce
raves, techno pop loudspeakers for the new young, room
to dance and thrash and dress like other people --
people from the past (the sixties, *again*). It stands
to reason some of us will still be trapped there, it's a state
of mind. And you lament, on through
the night, in front of the TV, smoking. Through
the haze, you lambast your brother's cyberspace
friends: frozen, boxed to a machine, in states
of comas and worse -- no exercise, no room
for real words. I cannot accept it. It stands
for all I hate. And yet, I wonder. Do people
change so much? Are the youth as we were: people
passed on on stair wells, Maya leaping through
the window, thinking she could fly? No photo stands
on my dresser, yet the time before cyberspace
is the most real. Far from your new home, this clean room,
was joy -- "Beer stick ball": another state
of mind. My brother yelling, "He's no pitcher, " states,
"He's a belly itcher!" We were real people,
reaching out. Yet were we making room
for the new way then? Was it through
us that they came to live in cyberspace,
the land of the dead, draped about -- fakes! -- a boy stands
in the corner, dosed all day; not like Bran, who stands
out in memory, ranting on the states
of love in Asia. "Youth are lost in cyberspace".
But then again, I remember certain people --
you and I, Kevin -- who smoked and drank through
the night, the day, ending up in a cellar room
watching the TV that stands there. Two people
lost in states of -- Pee Wee's Playhouse -- silent through
the cyberspace haze (even then) in that room.
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
States of Mind
Jean Mauriello
Unheard, the ex-husband creeps into her room
after breaking in with a baseball bat. He stands
there; she screams, "How did you ever get through
security, up the alley wall, and crawl in?" He grins, and states,
"Walls are never too high, and people
never pay attention. Like cyberspace,
the alley behind the wall led me here. The cyberspace
made me do it, like a magnet drew me in this room
and brought me to you. The people
you'd be here, and this bat stands
in my hand as a tribute to you. The states
where I've whirled and passed through
since you left me, everything I've been through
has been for you, and for cyberspace,
sweet cyberspace. His face as he states
these foolish words shines in this room
as she in fear watches, in fear stands
and says, "Get out of here. I hate people
like you. You're crazy, nuts, loco -- people
like you wave bates, crawl through
bathroom windows, why? He stands
taller, silenced. She insists, "Cyberspace
is no excuse. You're rude. This is my room.
I want you out of here. He states
his displeasure -- he has come so far for her, through states
She doesn't care -- she worries that the people
would wonder why he was in her room
after the divorce they'd been through
and all that. No room for him and cyberspace.
She refers him to newspaper stands
so that he can get in touch. He stands
another moment before her, the states
he's travelled in his eyes. "The cyberspace
made me do it," he says again, "The people
I met who understood me and helped me through
the emptiness that led me back to this room.
She stands and watches him leave, the people
from all the states are expecting his return, through
the cyberspace, crawling from her room.
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
A Division of Walls and Cyberspace
Jean-Pierre Cuello
Silence locks Joshua within his room,
surrounded by computer and printer stands,
clicking keyboards and humming laser printer, through
which he scans the alternatives states
of existing, without the stress of those people
who neither undersand nor believe cyberspace
is real. How could anyone doubt cyberspace
as the new manifest destiny? from the room
next door, heard are shrieks and bitching of those people.
Distracted for a moment, Joshua stands
near the wall and listens as some woman states,
"Just pack up your 12-pack VCR and walk on through
my life. I'm tired of fast-forwarding through
the good times and rewinding..." Bless cyberspace
for its muted voice and objective states
of expression. There is no more room
for this future; drywall stands
between his beliefs and the people
who have no need of technoids, people
whose windows are LCD screens, seeing through
to the other side of scrolls and icons. He stands
tranquilly in the grasp of cyberspace;
his mind exceeds any computer head room
or Zen-ish transcendental states
of mind. The only fear he knows, he states
on his MAC screen as, "Error." Lines the people
he's loved along one wall of his room,
bit-mapped pictures of Josh's life through
which only one dared to reach out into cyberspace.
Her reach fell short and now a new wall stands
between the real World which somehow stands
for something other than what his manual states.
Physical parameters restrict cyberspace
only in as much as what people,
themselves, restrain their wishes and wants through
the confinements of any physical room;
only an imagined wall stands between people
and their ink-mapped states. Joshua lives on, through
infinite cyberspace, his silent room.
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
Welcome To Their World
Joshua Davidson
Lots of little stacks become fewer big ones to make room
for the new universe that's to fit on my desk. It stands
to reason that the old ways be pushed aside, their time is through.
Now I will wander electronically through my states
of confusion, before now at least bounded by my desk. People
say, "Enjoy the 23rd Century!" As I zoom off into cyberspace
with the flick of a button, and a beep. "Welcome to Cyberspace!
Beep boop. Please allow me to show you your room.
Don't worry about noise or embarassment, there are no people
here, just their digitized thoughts." It's no time to take stands,
the age is upon me. Hell, even Time Magazine states,
in so many words, that the days of real virtue are through.
But reports of my surprise are greastly exaggerated. I see through
this: as I sit at my desk, I'm also travelling through cyberspace,
not subject to any boundaries -- their are no cities or states
(other than those of being), just a universe right in my room,
which used to be earth-bound by papers and books where stands
now a machine, speaking a modem idiom to other virtual people.
Internet, modems, acid house, brain implants. Where do people
come up with this stuff? I mean, it's intriguing to get through
to 8 gazillion people at once, but something this big stands
for something, or maybe nothing. But what do I do in cyberspace?
Maybe my old-fashioned pen-and-ink brain just doesn't have room
for another reality, virtual or not. How do I get into these states?
So far this whole thing seems pretty much confined to the States,
but can you imagine what sort of virtuous reality bad people
might create? I can here them now: "There just ain't enough room
in this network for the 8 gazillion of us, so I'm through
putting up with the rest of you, you're invading my cyberspace
and I want you out now, Or I'll delete ya where ya stands."
I'm sure that I'll be just a spectator way up in the stands,
never really knowing what's going on. Even the United States
President knows more than I, as he launches the nation into cyberspace.
Perhaps there are others like me, digitally dysfunctional people
hoping only for some electronic mercy, trying to get through
life tangled in an internet. Gosh, I hope there's room
for us.. As it stands now, most ordinary people
can't name the states. Maybe I can be led through
this mysterious cyberspace, like Dante by Virgil -- if there's room.
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
Dream
Ricia Anne Chansky
I rise from slumber to search my room
For means to hold a dream where our nation stands
For more than money and taxes and greed, and through
The land the new rose up. In each of the states
All kinds, all colors all creeds, all people
Came together in a new land: Cyberspace.
In this land without history, called Cyberspace,
The world as a whole could find plenty of room
To comfortably raise and support its people.
There a word of promise isn't a lie, it stands
As the word of truth. Even varied states
Of mind agree, and it becomes easy to follow through;
Because what is an idea if it's not seen through?
Within a human creation lays Cyberspace,
Unseeing of our looks, our body's states.
Conscious only of its yearning to fill the room,
To force us to take a leap from the stands
And into an arena filled with other people.
but the people, they will resist because people
Have for so long been casually defiled through
The ways in which our world works and what it stands
To give; yet takes. Now someone gives us Cyberspace.
The cursor is a doorway to a room,
A way out of a room, into altered states.
I dreamt people permanently leaving The States,
Bowing down before terminals (as people
Tend to do) and freely worshipping their new room.
They have been give a promise; kept through
The magic of, the miracle of Cyberspace.
Find a computer and alter life as it stands.
If all people were to jump on the stands
And pledge their allegiance to their new states
Of mind, dream would be reality -- in Cyberspace.
But sleep returns and I've no pencil for the people.
They'll never find the door, let alone a way through
The door, if they can't imagine the room.
Our nation for which it stands, people divided by people,
ignorant of higher states, denied a way through
to Cyberspace; will one day, see the room.
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
Stolen Room
Deirdre O-Neill
For years now, we've been circling in this room
then again, its been no time, and the room stands
silent and undisturbed. We see each other through
the dusty lenses of too long, not long enough. States
of mind constantly exchange like the fire people
in circus duos toss back and forth. Cyberspace
was a place for couples long before this cyberspace
vogue. A voyeur, like Madonna, came into our room
and stole our show, our ways, our House. The people
in the cyberspace were couples turning handstands,
or dancing in that I-know-your-info way. Such states
were for insiders, the ones who'd been together through
"it". Whatever the hell that might be. Talking through
less molecules than most people, the cyberspace
then was the private virtual reality states
for long, longtime companions: the room
in which we knew everything. Cyberspace stands
for something else now, just the way people
refer to Vogue-ing or House. Hip people
think they know it. Like a step to get down or through
somehow some kind of electric slide. Madonna stands
to get millions and fame in cyberspace
for stealing from the House dancers. Our room
stands to dissolve or burst with all these states
of information free-floating like states
of depression, voguers without a ball, or people
to watch them and clap. See how silent the room
is with all these people knowing everything? Through
all this networking the truth gets lost. Cyberspace
is no longer a place name, something that stands
for knowing someone hard and all the way. It stands
to lose its meaning entirely. A friend states
she proved it by naming her dog "Cyberspace".
See now its not a place at all, but a puppy. People
stare when she calls for her. Through
my computer, I'm calling on you to find room
for a cyberspace that stands for just two people,
a word that states its for partners who've been through
the net. Make cyberspace a kind and well-worn room.
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
Empty of why's this room
Diane M. Joao
Do we know how turns to hesitation leave room
for questions, to wonder aloud what stands
between this sex wall sex? We, having been through
such things, know. The questions, like various states
of undress, are comical. Funny, we're people
not quite human enough to replace cyberspace
with touch, to reinvent compassions. Cyberspace,
you've often said, is empty jargon. What room
have you allowed me then, that people
like ourselves must compensate? As it stands,
I've no answers now. A kiss, perhaps, states
much more clearly what we've been through,
Though who's to know for sure? But still through
it all, the all that's been, cyberspace
is constant. What if one day it states
that all's enough, what then? This room
we rest in now, a kiss that stands
between us, knows the sort of people
we've become. We remember people,
(for lack of a better word,) from our pasts: through
the love of she or he, bare witness stands
of who we were, and are. Come cyberspace:
the what when where and how? This room's
too small for miracles. What states
of mind are we in now? Our sex wall states
the obvious: you and I are hungry people
starving for some slight of touch. There's room
enough for two in here. The words through
you come into me. A word like cyberspace --
that's it. Your definition. So it stands
then. We'll kiss. We will take the stands
we've measured through the years. Various states
of discontent, perhaps, but more. Cyberspace
has filled us both with adjectives and verbs. People
like us contain ourselves in words. Through
it all, perhaps one kiss will make room
for a couple more. As it stands, we're people.
The states we've earned by living through
this noun: cyberspace. *Empty of why's this room.*
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
Is There Enough Room for Cyberspace?
Frank Wardega
Although some people might think there is enough room
for all these computer generated intellectuals, something stands
in their way: Me. I am absolutely through
with all these idiots, the United States
is full of these ridiculous people
who want us all to go to cyberspace
with them. Well I don't want to go to cyberspace,
mostly because it's for geeks who sit in a room,
peek into the minds of other people
that they don't even know. What stands
in the way of these punks taking over the whole United States
and running us all through
the wringer? And then through
the wash as well. Cyberspace,
who needs it? I'm in the happiest of states
alone. I don't need to look into someone's room
and poke into their head. The stands
I've taken before are nothing -- how I feel about these people
who want to log-on with so many other people
is almost enough to make me go through
the roof. It seems like a bunch of one night stands
with other peoples' brains. A pseudo-orgy in cyberspace?
Well, I wish they would all just get a room.
It will be along time before these United States
become just a maze of bits and bytes. Oh the states
these worries send me to! I tell you. We're all people
here, we can't forget that. Although there may be room
for everyone's terminals, we've got to get it through
our heads that our space is not cyberspace
its' just space, it stands
for nothing. It just is. While cyberspace stands
for everything that is wrong with the United States
these days. OK. You might say that cyberspace
can't be that bad. After all some people
use it occasionally and seem to get through
the day with no problem. but we'll have to make room
for the stands that these crazy people
are gonna take. Altered states of consciousness through
my space? your space? cyberspace? How we gonna make room?
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
Bring on the Band
Jason Barr
I was playing the skin flute in my room.
the music was loud, the band stands
were in my hands. I let the tunes roam through
my country, my body: plains, cities; all states
represented in dance halls in my veins. People
swaying and stomping. My brain, a cyberspace,
awash in a techo rave. This cyberspace
was DJ to the beats of the flesh. Every room
in this nation heard the horns. The cells, the people
of this body were shouting, "United stands
each member. We will fight for these states
no matter what punishment we go through.
You see, men can come and romp through
this door; try to end this jive, drain this cyberspace
of its wave, but this body's motto states,
'When the bands jamming in this room
come hell or high water, the hand stands
no interruption. People may come and people
may go, but when the gettin's good people
just don't know.'" Suddenly! I hear banging through
my door. My irate mother shouts as she stands,
"What's going on? This is not cyberspace
where you can do anything. Who's in your room?
You're having too much fun for one." she states.
In fear, the party quickly ends; all my states
drained from my body -- the people
return to their cells, and into the room
comes my mother, she slowly walks through.
"I can hear you in the basement." My book, _Cyberspace:
The Final Frontier_, lays on the floor. She stands
above me as I lay on my bed. She stands
little noise in her house. "I'm warning you," she states,
"I hear that again; you're out. Pick your Cyberspace
book off the floor. I'm expecting some people
for dinner tonight so when you're through
with your little party, CLEAN YOUR ROOM!"
She leaves; the band stands begin to play. "Those people
coming to dinner," my mind states, "Should come through
this cyberspace and join the party in my room."
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
My Friend Nate Explains Virtual Reality
Michael Henry
My friend Nate takes up a lot of room,
and he reads alot. Over 6'4" he stands.
He's got James Joyce pecs and he snores so loud. Through
concrete you can hear it. It's a condition, he states,
named apnea. Like narcolepsy, tons of people
have it, maybe millions. Now he's reading _Cyberspace
and Nirvana_, by Tim Lary. He wrote _Cyberspace_
because it's "THE drug of the next century. We need room
to blow boundaries, smash time as we know it... People
are going to become amalgamated with stands
of microchips with Intel Inside." Leary states
in Part 5, "Safe Sex with Cyborg Helmets" (I hear this through
Nate's re-telling, his gruff, voice echoing through
his cave-like nostrils), that in our heads, cyberspace
will have a plug-in outlet to join you with states
of ecstasy, endorphins, and room
after room of electronic orgies. This stands
as a major breakthrough, says Nate, for all people
worldwide. If you're one of many depressed people,
forget your pain and plug into a vast menu through
which you might enjoy Bar-BQ ribs (Nate's favorite). Nate stands
up, scratches his armpit, and adds, "Cyberspace
is coming, and whether you like it or not, make room
because its already kind of sheik in the states
of California and Texas. It's in these states
because of demand" Nate says, yawning. People
will toss out their shrinks and TV's, and set up a room
with a special chair, black walls and carpet, and through
a glass sphere and temp controls, cyberspace
will rock their world. Just think of the stands
of diskettes with the worlds you can play in; these stands
will have stuff like, KILL YOUR BOSS, BUNJI JUMP, STATES
OF UNDRESS, YOU ARE THE HULK, CYBERSPACE
LAS VEGAS, where you play Blackjack against people
like James Bond and Don Trump. There's also, I'M THROUGH
WITH YOU -- VIRTUAL DIVORCE. Leary writes that "there's room
for grand stands full of users. They'll be common people
from all states in the US. It's their ideas through
which Cyberspace will expand God's Heavenly Room."
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
Sestina In Two Voices
Virgina Crawford
It's when we're alone and the room
is dark, when the blue reflection stands
on the floor and I can see you through
this blueness, as it progresses through states
of light and depth, two people
curled on the bed in the cyberspace
of each other's heads. Their cyberspace
expands to include the whole room,
the bed, and shadows and people,
all seeped in this night's blue glow that stands
watch as they grow in the marked states
of their engagement. Through
skin, souls feel as easily as the light comes through
the window and dances around the blue cyberspace
of the room. Fingering his full lip she states
that she can't leave the things she's felt in this room,
where they screamed and too their stands,
then settled like civilized people.
And when we had to divide, be two people,
we cried and wondered how we'd get through.
The house where they lived still stands
somewhere between cyberspace
and their dreams where there's enough room
to write without being harassed by the State's
lawyers who haggle until he or she states
what they want to hear. These aren't fair people
who hold us in a cell, a tiny room
where we can't breathe, light can't get through
the window cracks. don't even think of cyberspace.
I don't believe what I see on the stands.
I don't think the country stands
for what it used to, take me from these States,
I need more than the narrow cyberspace
of this place to survive, these people
suck and slurp me down, drag me through
hell instead o fleaving me to our room
where I used to write, where blue stands and we're
the people
in constant states of eclipse, ascending through,
to the whole cyberspace of our room.
.............................................................................
<&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&><&>&<&>
A Less Crowded House
J.D. Nelson
Sometimes I don't think there's enough room
in this house. If one of my sons stands
in front of the Nintendo, the other can't see through
him, and soon they're both yelling. One states
"I was here first," and it seems like people
in a brick Cape clog each other's cyberspace.
My husband went in search of his own cyberspace
two years ago, saying he needed more room
to find himself, and there were so many people
here, he couldn't think straight. It stands
to reason that I got pissed, and when he now states
that he wants to come home, I say no, I'm through
with hoping he and I still have a chance. Through
seven years of marriage, he lived in cyberspace,
I think, never able to see my states
of distress increase when the room
between us widened. Now he stands
before me, proclaiming that two people
who love each other should be together; people
don't need to be alone, and it's through
my own fault if I continue to take these stands:
not allowing him back into my cyberspace,
and insisting he find the time to make some room
for change. You see, I was sick of the drunken states
he used to come home in, and that states'
ability to hurt all the people
closest to him, the ones who room
in this house now. It could only be through
some miracle of cyberspace
proportions that this family will be saved. My son stands
by his father, but I make my stands
on the principle that I can't tolerate some states.
My husband lost in cyberspace,
floating on a beer high with people
he grew up with, traveling through
all the bars in town, leaves me no room.
My husband stands to lose allthe people
whom he states he loves themost; through
cyberspace he'll drift while I make my own room.
____________________________________________________________________________
April 1993
=] Instant Karma Publishing [=
--
Rita Rouvalis
rita@village.com
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magazines/CORE/index.gemini
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# CORE
CORE Magazine (1993)
## FILES
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/CORE/core1.01 [ 27553] CORE: Volume 1 Issue 1
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/CORE/core1.02 [ 26118] CORE: Volume 1 Issue 2
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/CORE/core1.03 [ 28259] CORE: Volume 1 Issue 3
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/CORE/core1.04 [ 28810] CORE: Volume 1 Issue 4
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/CORE/core1.05 [ 28847] CORE: Volume 1 Issue 5
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/CORE/core1.06 [ 19367] CORE: Volume 1 Issue 6
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/CORE/core1.07 [ 25276] CORE Volume 1 Issue 7
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/CORE/core1.08 [ 18106] CORE: Volume 1 Issue 8
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/CORE/core2.01 [ 13692] CORE: Volume 2 Issue 1
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/CORE/core2.02 [ 14999] CORE: Volume 2 Issue 2
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/CORE/core2.03 [ 44888] CORE: Volume 2 Issue 3
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/CORE/core2.04 [ 28995]
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/CORE/core2.05 [ 29313]
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/CORE/indexvol.1 [ 2716] Index to CORE Volume 1
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/CORE/indexvol.2 [ 1382] Index to CORE Volume 2
magazines/CORE/indexvol.1
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(Up to date as of July 1992)
CORE
core1.01 . . . The Gas Station Des Beaux Arts
William Dubie
. . . Les Coquelicots
John Wojdylo
. . . Adrei Codrescu: The WELL Interview
The WELLbeings
. . . Honey Harvest
Robert Curtis Davis
. . . Civil Service Part I
Kenneth Wolman
core1.02 . . . Nobody Here But Us Chickens
Jane Smith
. . . The Origin of Machine Readable Data
Tom Owens
. . . Cracked
Judith Dickerman
. . . What is a Book?
Dan Flasar
. . . Civil Service Part II
Kenneth Wolman
core1.03 . . . Rabar's Guide to Everywhere
Ramon Sender Barayon
core1.04 . . . A Point of Honor
Lynn Nelson
. . . Civil Service Part III
Kenneth Wolman
core1.05 . . . Roger and Alice
Barbara Hlavin
. . . At Nineteen
Randy Money
. . . Whither Horror?
Fiona Oceanstar
John Carl
Hunter Goatley
core1.06 . . . A Short History
Joe Green
. . . I Look At My Children..
Kenneth Wolman
. . . Busted
RICHH
. . . The Old Hobo's Tale
Robert Curtis Davis
core1.07 . . . Ground Zero Arcade
Charlene Brusso
core1.08 . . . The Joshua Tree Quakes
John Perry Barlow
. . . Cartoons Vs. PostModern Fiction & Criticism
RICHH
. . . State of the Art
Barbara Hlavin
magazines/CORE/indexvol.2
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____________________________________________________________________
CORE2.01
Flavors of the month:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
MARK SCHORR .................. A POINT OF ORIGIN
.................. COBOL ODE
FIONA WEBSTER ................ INTRODUCING MAMA LANSDALE'S
YOUNGEST BOY
_____________________________________________________________________
CORE2.02
Little Teapots, Short and Stout:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Weirdest of the WELL .......... Bryan Higgins
.......... David R. Smith
.......... Flash Gordon, MD
Autumn and Spring .......... Alexander Blue
Woolworth Parakeets .......... William Dubie
Being with Beetoven .......... Aviott John
___________________________________________________________________
CORE2.03
~~~````''''~~~
LITTLE DUCKS
ALL LINED UP IN A ROW
Randy Money . . . . Mourn the Dead
Kenneth Wolman . . . Wolma, Poland
Kyle Cassidy . . . . Badmetafiction