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Information, Communication, Supply
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Information Communication Supply 01/29/93 Vol.1:Issue.1
Email To: ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU
E D I T O R S: Local Alias: Email: ICS Positions:
Daniel Frederick -Neon Chrome STU445666405 Mail, Tech, Editor, Flames
Russell Hutchison -BurnouT STU524636420 Mail, Editor, Flames, etc.
Benjamin Price -Dreamweaver STU406889075 Mail, Submissions, Flames
Luke Miller -Aminohead/DUB STU521532642 Mail, Tech, Editor, Flames
Donald Sanders -Zorro ORG_ZINE Mail, Editor, etc.
George Sibley -MACFAC FAC_SIBLEY Faculty Supervisor
Matthew Thyer -Mr. Touch STU523086351 Mail, Chief Editor, Response
Deva Winblood -Metal Master ADP_DEVA Mail, Tech, Editor, Response
_____________________________________________________________________________
/ \
| ICS is an Electrozine distributed by students of Western State |
| College in Gunnison, Colorado. We are here to gather information about |
| topics that are important to us all as human beings. If you would like |
| to send in a submission please type it into an ASCII format and mail it |
| to us. We operate on the assumption that if you mail us something you |
| want it to be published. We will do our best to make sure it is |
| distributed and will always inform you when or if it is used. |
| See the end of this issue for submission information. |
\_____________________________________________________________________________/
REDISTRIBUTION: If any part of this issue is copied or used elsewhere
you must give credit to the author it and indicate that the information
came from ICS Electrozine ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU.
DISCLAIMER: The views represented herein do not necessarily represent the
views of the editors of ICS. Contributers to ICS assume all
responsabilities for ensuring that articles/submissions are not violating
copyright laws and protections.
|\__________________________________________________/|
| \ / |
| \ T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S / |
| / \ |
| /________________________________________________\ |
|/ \|
| Included in the table of contents you will see some|
| generic symbols to help you in making your |
| decisions on whether an article is something that |
| may use ideas, and/or language that could be |
| offensive to some. S = Sexual Content |
| AL = Adult Language V = Violence O = Opinions |
|____________________________________________________|
I. FIRST OPINION: By Matthew Thyer.
II. THE FISH THE BIRDS AND THE ELECTROZINE: Commentary From A
Struggling Faculty Advisor. By George Sibley.
- A look at the birth of the Information, Communication, Supply
Electrozine.
III. MUDS: The Computer Social Virus: By Deva Winblood.
- New technology always brings new psychology. This is an
external look into the world of the "Mudhead." (O)
IV. DIARY IN THE CLOSET: By Russel Hutchison.
- Everyone has secrets that they keep hidden. Some need to keep
their secrets to protect themselves or others from those who
would cause them harm. Sometimes when secrets come out violence
is the only protection left. (AL V S)
V. TALES OF THE UNKNOWN: By Deva Winblood.
- This is the first in a series of stories. These tales will be
presented as closely as possible to the origional hearing. This
is a tale of ghostly voices.
VI. CHI - THE POWER/SUPERNATURAL OCCURRENCES: By Daniel Frederick.
- This is a confusing look into supernatural experiences, religion,
and martial arts. It is an attempt to tie a few threads of
consciousness together in some new form. (AL V O)
VII. FINAL OPINION: By Benjamin Price.
________________________________________________
/ \
/ FIRST OPINION \
|__________________________________________________|
Since the creation of Internet, US publishing companies have been
toying with the idea of doing their business over your modem. Various
problems ranging from a general lack of action to monetary control of
redistributed information have plagued the development of fast, electronic
information from its conception. A few brave underground netsurfers who
have developed publication standards for their own media have forgotten
that a mainstream world exists outside of their own electronic universe.
We at ICS have dedicated ourselves and our limited resources to
two goals. The first concerns the idea that most of the
staff here would like to perceive themselves as pioneers of sorts. We
would like to develop ICS into the modern, electronic equivalent of
mainstream, literary/futuristic, paper-media publication containing
not only contemporary works but advertisements as well. In addition, ICS
will be exploring the world of rights. We would like to find ways to
ensure that all of our writers have rights to the information they
produce. Over the long term, we hope ICS can act as a catalyst for
developing this technology.
The second goal on our agenda concerns the state of
information today. We strongly believe that information is power and
through the proper use of such power we can help shape the future in a
positive manner through the opinions of our readers. That is why ICS is
dedicating itself to written discussion through a "Letters" section
that will appear in every issue as comments from our readers find there
way here. Your letters will help to improve ICS Electrozine and create
standards for others to fallow. In addition, we accept submissions
from anyone with something to say.
The hypothetical future is starting now. We hope ICS can become a
leader in the development of "Electronic Journalism" as well as please its
readers with its content. We would welcome anything you have to
contribute.
___________________________________________________
| |
| THE FISH AND THE BIRDS AND THE ELECTROZINE |
| Commentary from a Struggling Faculty Advisor |
/ \
| George Sibley, Western State College of Colorado |
|___________________________________________________|
Back in my early cultural memory, there is a child's story about a
fish who wanted to be a bird. I remember none of the particulars--
only that, at the end of it, the fish was finally at peace with its
fishy destiny, and no longer trying to adapt to a new medium.
This story re-emerges in my consciousness from time to time, when I
seem to find myself in the position of "wishing I were a bird." This
happened years ago in college, when I spent two increasingly
frustrating and bewildering years trying to be a math major, before
finally conceding what the aptitude tests had shown me as a freshman:
that I was pretty weak in abstract thinking skills. I guess I had
spent those two years listening to another of our cultural stories, the
story of "the little engine who thought it could." I see the flaw in
my logic, of course--the little engine didn't think it could be
something other than just a better engine.
I had cause to think of all that again, however, when I was
approached last semester by a student representing a small group of
"netsurfers" who wanted to experiment with an "electrozine"--an
electronic magazine to be distributed over computer networks. Meeting
with them, I realized that I was talking with people who were not just
"computer literate"; some of these cybernauts were potential Marlowes
and Shakespeares of this emerging literacy.
Myself, I am able to fumble my way into a word-processing program and
use the computer as a glorified typewriter--to a real cybernaut, I
think, the equivalent of using a Ferarri to plow the fields. My
immediate response was suspicion: why weren't they approaching people
in the computer field for help? But they knew what they wanted: they
knew where to find help for the technical problems, but their real
interest was in attaining to a degree of JOURNALISTIC legitimacy. They
told me about the 'zines already in existence--primarily either
underground hacker journals like PHRACK or highly specialized exchanges
of abstruse information among scientists and others involved in narrow
fields of expertise.
What they wanted to do was to create a mainstream, general interest
'zine that would help bring more people in to this new world they had
discovered through Western's connection with Internet--people with
literary, artistic and humanistic backgrounds as well as the scientific
groups. In a sense, then, they were trying to bridge back from what
they saw as their future in the electronic realms into my present in
the print medium. In the largest sense, they wanted to do what they
could to bridge the "Two Cultures" gap between the physical sciences
and the arts and humanities that C.P. snow brought to a general
awareness in his famous 1959 address at Cambridge.
I was intrigued. But I was also very aware of being a fish among
birds. I never had the feeling that they were, like academics
sometimes do, using specialized language to exclude me; they really
wanted to answer my questions, but the answers required translations
and definitions every few words, which led to discussions among
themselves of the best way to help me understand--I felt like Caliban
talking to Prospero.
I disabused my cybernauts immediately of any hope of my "leading
them" into this venture in the standard teacher-student relationship.
If, however, they were truly serious about trying to build bridges
between these vast and magical electronic spaces, and the dark confused
hearts of all the people who secretly hate and fear the complex
technologies without which they could no longer survive, then I could
probably provide them with a "learning experience": they would teach
me--a hardcore print person since I first cracked a book, but also one
who knows something about journalism, and about learning --what they
wanted to do, and how to do it; then together we could probably figure
out how to bring the campus into it.
Which is, I have learned, no harder than bringing the known universe
into it. These incredible machines, linked up as they are in networks,
simply eliminate space, distance, as a relevant concern. I learned-
-the hard way (the cybernauts forgot to ask anybody about a "mass
mailing," and made a mistake or two too)--that one hundred thousand
people can be contacted personally with an ease and lack of expense
that makes the direct-mail industry look ridiculously wasteful as well
as obsolete. (Some of those contacted got mad, the same way I get
disgusted about junk mail in the mailbox--a couple even did the
electronic equivalent of wrapping the "return postage paid" envelop
around a brick and mailing it back.)
At any rate--here I sit, deep in the Colorado Rockies, an aging
journalism and writing instructor, trying to keep up with a small group
of students who are full of energy, interest, and even idealism for a
future I have tended to look at with apprehension when I look at it at
all. Why don't students like these ever find their way into my regular
classes? That's a question I will have to look at sideways for a
while; it's too cruel to confront directly.
But as you are reading this--locally on campus, in Greece, Australia,
or wherever--know that my students are educating me; the fish might
yet learn to fly. The presence of this in the Electrozine proves that
I've at least found the magic buttons for creating a TEXT file, and my
glorified typewriter is sprouting its electronic wings. So I'll never
be anything more than just a flying fish--that's okay. To paraphrase
T.S. Eliot, fishkind cannot bear too much reality.
And I join the rest of the Electrozine staff in inviting you to
become part of it: if you don't like what you find here, write a
letter or write something better, and send it on--you're just a pulse
away in this new world. And the generic appearance of a TEXT file
certainly needn't reflect a generic or homogenous world.
______________________________________________________________
/ \
( M U D S: The computer social virus )
\ By Deva B. Winblood /
\____________________________________________________________/
____
(_ _)
_/ /_
(____)t is late at night and you pass by the campus computer lab. You
turn to see a familiar row of people. A thought passes through your
head, WOW! THEY HAVE BEEN THERE FOR OVER EIGHT HOURS. This is amazing,
you can't believe so many people are interested in using the computers
for so long. This shocks you more, because these people were never in
the lab until the recent connection with internet was established, and
soon after the MUDs were discovered. MUD origionally was an acronym
for Multi-User Dungeon, but now has grown to mean Multi-User Games of
all types.
___
(_ _)
// --------------
(_)he MUDS have entered the academic computer scene like a tool for
inspiring computer literacy, but to some bystanders it seems just like
a new social disease. These MULTI-USER GAMES that allow people to
participate in the game with people all around the world are at first
wonderful and enjoyable to the explorer.
The explorer stumbles upon the MUD and plays for an hour or so.
Then the explorer sees a couple of friends and says "Hey, I found a neat
game, come check it out." Things go well at first, as many of the
explorer's friends that only have a passing interest in computers begin
to play these games with great enthusiasm and interest.
It begins with the person connecting to their first MUD
experience. They begin to do what it is normally difficult to get
people learning the computer to do. They use the HELP facilities and
read the instructions. They quickly learn to communicate, move, and
slip into the role of their electronic character. As a learning tool
the MUDS seem to surpass most other programs at the speed in which the
users learn to manipulate information. However, this soon levels off.
Initially some of the new MUD players will realize that they are
spending far too much time playing these games, and will quit playing
them. However, many seem to be afflicted just as many drug addicts are
afflicted. They begin to skip classes, meals, and social gatherings.
Their daily conversation outside of MUD games starts to become laced
with discussion of MUDS and MUD terminology. When deprived from the
game for long enough, they even appear to show evidence of behavior
similar to withdrawal symptoms of addicts. When a person on the
side lines sees this they often wonder what could motivate such
behavior. These people usually will try out a MUD to see what all the
fuss is about.
These curious people usually end up in one of two categories:
the MUD addict and the realistic. The new MUD addict will usually
gradually slip into the same behavioral patterns as other MUD addicts.
The realistic person will be aware of some things that he/she did not
know prior to playing the MUD.
The MUDS are a society unto themselves. The MUD addiction is
not confined to just one native machine, and one computer lab. It could
very well be happening on a computer near you. The game has regular
players from around the world. The players follow a make believe
role/ritual that changes very little once they have it perfected. Often
this society will closely resemble that portrayed in a television soap
opera, and other times it will resemble a hack and slash battle world
where you strive for power and greater weapons with which to kill ever
bigger monsters.
One would think that after playing one of these games for
hundreds, even thousands of hours, a person would get tired of the
ritual and the rules long since mastered. It doesn't work that way.
Many bystanders have not been able to reason how people could gradually
slip further from real life and begin to base their life around
something that is not tangible and often is destroyed. But, still they
giggle, yell, battle, and often claim to fall in love over the MUDS.
Often the MUD players fail to see their real life (what they
call RL) friends, and the MUD terminology begins to be used in life
outside the games. The Hacker's Dictionary mentioned that the MUDHEAD
was someone that would play the games incessantly, and would often
fail or drop out of their degrees/programs. This appears to be the case
in some instances. Going to class and playing MUDS 8-10 hours a day does
not leave much time for anything else. When the MUDS are being played this
much it becomes the equivalent in time of a FULL TIME job. Taking on
a FULL TIME MUD PLAYING job usually leaves the person with two options.
Drop out of school and take on a real FULL TIME JOB so that the bills
can still be paid, or quit playing MUDS and get a job while going to
school so that the bills can be paid, because there is not much room
for doing all three.
At some campuses it sometimes becomes difficult for students
wanting to do homework to find a terminal, because of the sea of intense
MUD players. This is a problem that plagues Systems Administrators.
The general options are disallowing INTERNET functions to students (other
than EMAIL), setting up counter programs so that people can use TELNET
(or RLOGIN) only when the labs are fairly empty, or policing the area with
LAB MONITORS. These options all seem to have problems.
The option of disallowing internet functions other than MAIL
takes away students' ability to reach vast amounts of information. While it
may solve many of the problems facing the Systems Administrator it will
still take away incredible learning and educational opportunities.
The option of setting up a counter program is probably the one
most favorably viewed by both MUD players and students that have to deal
with them. The counter programs have flaws though. To date most
counter programs generally make an initial check before allowing people
to TELNET or RLOGIN. The problem with this is, that the counter program
will generally make no additional checks, so the MUD player can remain
in the game for eight or more hours even if the lab fills up to
capacity. The general solution posed by solution seekers is to have the
counter programs invoke in a sub-process every so often that does
another count and disconnects(or warns) the MUD player when conditional
limits are exceeded. The problem with this is that most Systems
Administrators also look with distaste at programs that require a
sub-process. It is most likely that a program could be devised that
would solve these problems, but the program has yet to have been
announced to the majority of Systems Administrators.
The third option of having LAB MONITORS that "police" the labs
has its merits, but also has several problems. The merits are that the MUD
players can always be monitored and removed when the need arises. The
problem is that the LAB MONITORS are generally students themselves, and
end up getting battered by insults and anger, and often lose friends while
carrying out their duty of removing GAME PLAYERS when the lab is so full.
MUDS could well be the next evolution in social diseases, as
well as the catalyst for even less effective workers. Some may wonder
whether the last is really a loss, but others think of it as a terrible
thing. The future human will be faced with many strange/new situations
and the solutions will often be quite evasive.
The epidemic could get you, your friend, or even everyone soon.
Keep an eye out, and try to manage your life the way you think it should
be managed. Things could get worse once real virtual reality based
games enter the scenes, for they will be even more realistic and thus
will most likely be more addictive than existing games.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
|||||| ||||||
|||||| DIARY IN THE CLOSET ||||||
|||||| Russell Hutchison ||||||
|||||| ||||||
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Honest, nice, and tortured: that was my friend John. Until I
met John, I thought I was a great judge of people. The first time I saw
him he was on the football field at our high school during my sophomore
year and his junior year. The other cheerleaders and I were going
through the cheer that our school used wherever the team scored a
touchdown. The one that showed our legs the most and made our skirts
spin up high.
"TOUCHDOWN SCORED BY #34 JOHN WELCH," the loud speaker
announced.
When the cheer was over I felt a firm slap on my ass that stung
like a son-of-a-bitch. I turned to face the bastard that had goosed me,
expecting to see the guy walking off like nothing had happened, but
instead I was confronted by one of the wide-receivers of the team
standing real close to me. Normally I would have punched him but the
look on his face was so apologetic that I held my hand at my side.
"Sorry about that, Lucy, but there is a bet going on with the team
that I won't be able to get away with slapping your butt every time
I score a touchdown. I can't back down from a challenge like that.
Nothing personal."
"Why am I the center of this bet?" I demanded.
"Because you racked that linebacker Frank when he goosed you at
a party. You're considered a major challenge by the other team
members."
"Your eyes are brown," I replied.
"So?"
"So I say that you're a liar and full of shit."
"I'm sorry that you feel that way," he said and walked away.
I watched after him as he retreated, a big 34 and the name WELCH
printed on the back of his jersey. A smear of mud made the 3 on his
jersey look like an 8. When he arrived at the team bench he was greeted
by multiple slaps on his back that shook his shoulder pads. His manner
had been so open, almost nervous, that I couldn't help but think about
him. Any other football players would have been cocky and arrogant,
especially after scoring a touchdown. But he had acted like a boy who
had been dared to kiss a girl on the lips in third grade. I wanted to
have a chance to talk alone with him. I didn't get the moment I wanted
that night. He did slap me on the ass twice more that game though. I
didn't complain.
I saw John Welch at his house two nights later. Apparently he
used the money he had won in the ass-slapping bet to acquire a keg and
he held a party at his house while his parents were away. Being
one of the women on the cheerleading team got me an invitation to
the party. I had been at the party for about half-an-hour before I saw
John checking the cash flow with the two linebackers who were taking the
cover charges at the door.
I forced my way through the crowd towards John and
managed to get to him without any of the guys at the party
'accidently' caressing my butt once. I guessed that my reputation of
being a lady who wouldn't let a guy, besides John, take even the
slightest liberty with my body without paying a heavy and painful
penalty had worked its way into the minds of all the team members. John
was facing away from me when I snuck up behind him. His rear profile
was very impressive even though he only had the build of a receiver.
Built for speed and endurance, not for the stand-still-and-toss-about
job of the two L-backers at the door. John and all the 'bouncers' were
dressed in suits and ties but without shirts, so they were easily
recognizable as the people who were in charge of this party. The
overall effect of the outfits were very becoming. I stood behind him
for about twenty seconds before I decided to make my presence known by
goosing him real hard on the butt. He spun about fast and looked like
he was ready to kick-ass until he saw me.
"Paybacks are a bitch aren't they?" I asked. He stared at me
with a look on his face like there was something in his throat and
didn't say anything. His mouth was open slightly and his tongue was
moving like he was trying to say something.
"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" I asked him.
His face assumed a more normal composure. "I'm just surprised
that you're talking to me after the game this weekend. But I'm glad
you are."
"Don't believe I wasn't mad. I don't know why but you just
seemed different from the other players."
"I guess that I just have a different attitude than the other
players."
"And why is that? What makes you such a Joe Cool stud and not
an asshole?"
"I'm not a 'Joe Cool Stud'. I just come from a small town
originally. I treat people differently is all."
"Do you have any pictures of your home town?" I asked, trying to
get him talking about himself.
"Yeah, I do. Would you like to look at them?"
I nodded.
We wove our way through the crowd and up the stairs, stepping
over Frank's legs where he sat on the stairs studying his beer glass.
John's room was the third door on the left, with a picture of last
year's football team on it. I waited until he turned on the light before
I followed him in.
"Go ahead and sit down." he said, as he opened his closet and
walked in. "It'll be a second. My photos are in here somewhere."
I sat down on his queen sized bed and ran my hand over the lion
pattern covers, then I positioned my skirt so that most of my legs would
be seen when he came out of the closet.
"I can't find them," his voice drifted from the closet then he
came walking out. I uncrossed my legs then crossed them again. He
didn't show any outward signs of noticing. "I guess we won't be able to
talk about my past." I slid over and he sat down, covering the lion next
to me.
"Well then I guess that we should start up with the usual
questions. Tell me about yourself."
"O.K. I'm six feet tall, one hundred sixty eight pounds; I have
no brothers so all my father's boyhood dreams are mine to try to
accomplish; I have three sisters who are with my folks this evening and
we have no pets. How's that for starters?"
"Sounds incomplete to me."
"Well, then tell me your story and I'll try to tell mine better."
I sighed then shifted my position on the bed of lions. "My name
is Lucy Sanders, I'm five foot four and I'm an only child. Until my
mother died I used to take gymnastics and Ken-po Karate, which I have a
brown belt in, but when she was killed in a carwreck my father decided
that it was time to become a drunk and use all the money for karate to
help him achieve constant oblivion. This was almost two years ago. My
father lost his job with the police and has been working odd jobs for
the last year. He abuses me whenever he drinks, and I'm going to loose
my temper on him someday. But for now I can convince myself that it's
his lack of steady work that is causing his problems. I get straight
A's and love biology. And I think you're cute."
He sat silently for a while, just staring at me. I began to
wonder which part of my story was making him think so hard.
"Why don't you beat your father up? Use your Karate on him?"
"He knows some himself, Judo mostly, and he is very big."
I didn't want to continue the conversation in this direction.
It made me think of feelings and possible actions that were in my
thoughts too much already. "What about your father?"
"My father is a big guy too. He doesn't try to beat up on me
anymore, just hits me once in a while. He is constantly riding my
back, bitching at me to be the best and to never back down...to be what
he never was, a Pro. My mom is a pushover and does everything he says."
John paused for a little while. "This conversation is getting
depressing; let's find something new to talk about."
"Sounds good to me," I smiled. He began to turn his head and
look around his room.
"Hey, there's my photo book." He leaned back and took the book
off the headboard of his bed. "Do you still wanna' see them?"
My head bobbed.
We spent the rest of the night flipping through his old
pictures. John told a story about each one. I never saw any pictures
of the girl-friends that he talked about having, and we never made out.
* * *
Over the next two months I only saw John at the games and at
parties. He didn't seem to have a steady girl-friend but he was always
real friendly with all the women. My father started to drink more and
I would go to school with new bruises everyday, some even on my face.
After the second time I went to school with a black eye I received a
note saying that my father and I were to meet with a man from child
crisis management. If my mother had still been alive I bet she would
have gone with no complaints.
I showed my father the note after I served dinner
to him that night. I was hoping that the food would have
sobered him up so he wouldn't get mad. But he had more to drink
than normal and hit me twice, HARD. I finally lost control of myself
and hit him once in the stomach, stabbed him just below the sternum with
the steak-knife that I'd been holding, and hit him in the nose hard
enough to break it.
I called the ambulance five minutes later when I gave up on
trying to stop the blood from flowing out the stab wound. He lived.
* * *
I spent the rest of that school year living in a foster home and
going to school at a place called 'Cottage.' I began to smoke and drink
a lot. I didn't see any of my old friends at all. One night, three
weeks into the summer, I was hanging out with some of the other
delinquent kids from 'Cottage' at an all night coffee shop called 'The
Traveler.' Most of the other people who were there were stoners or
metal-heads.
A commotion started near the front door. It looked like a
preppie had decided to go slumming and had run afoul of four skin-heads.
It took me a second to realize that the preppie was actually John Welch.
Before I could suggest to my friends, Dan and Josh, that we should help
John out both Dan and Josh had gotten up and were heading towards the
front of 'The Traveler.' Both Dan and Josh had been in enough fights
where they had been outnumbered by football players that they couldn't
help but to get on the side of the underdog. Just seconds before Dan
and Josh had reached the front John turned and walked out the door with
the skin-heads right behind him. When the three of us had cleared the
door to the coffee shop we found John facing down all four skin-heads.
We walked up behind the four growths-of-filth and Dan introduced us
with an impressive yell.
"HEY! How about a fair fight you neo-nazi shit-heads?"
They turned around and seemed quite taken back by the sight of
the three of us. I had know that the skin-heads would back down as soon
as we began to move towards them. Dan was 6'3" and weighed over 200
pounds, all of it muscle. Josh was about 5'6" and weighed about 180
pounds, also all muscle. And I knew that I was bad-ass enough to screw
up at least one of the skin-heads before he had moved more than a dozen
feet.
Johns eyes widened in recognition when he saw me and he smiled.
The skin-heads backed off, leaving with the usual threats of revenge
that most bullies use when the have to protect their pride. After they
had gotten in their car and driven off I introduced everybody to each
other. Everyone exchanged greetings and shook hands.
"Thanks for the help," John said. "They would have kicked my
ass but I was too mad to care."
'No prob'," Josh said, "But the skin-heads might come back
still. And with more help. How did you get here?"
"I walked."
"Well how would you like a ride back home in my car?"
Josh asked.
"That would be great."
John and I talked all the way to his apartment. Apparently
his parents had gone on vacation to Europe with his sisters and had left
him here for the summer. They had also sold their house and were going
to move in to a new one at the end of the summer. So for the summer
John was living with his roommate, named Mike, and was working two jobs
to pay rent. I told him about how cool my new foster parents were. He
asked if I would be returning to the high school for the new year and
looked happy when I said yes. My two friends and I walked with John up
to his third floor apartment and decided to stay awhile when he offered
us a couple of beers to us for our help. We were there for the better
part of an hour shooting the bull with John and Mike before I had to
leave or risk pissing off my foster parents. John gave me a hug
goodbye.
On the way home I commented about how fine I thought John was.
Dan looked at Josh and laughed once.
"I don't think she knows what he is," he said.
"Neither do I," said Josh.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Here's a hint," Dan said. "John's apartment is a one bedroom
apartment."
It took me a second to make the connection. John was a
homosexual.
* * *
Classes started and I returned to Johns' school like I said I
would. He had moved back in with his parents so he didn't have to work
while going to school. A strong feeling of friendship formed between
Mike, John, and I. We hung out together all the time and a lot of
people thought that both the guys were dating me or that we were in to
group sex or something like that. Together we worked our way through
the first semester of classes with no problem. I rejoined the
cheerleading team and John was giving his all on the football team,
hoping for a scholarship to a good college. Mike was smart enough to
get into any college he wanted with a full academic scholarship.
The first semester ended and Christmas break was a nice relaxing
time. In January, two days before the second semester started I
received a phone call from John.
"Lucy, I'm really screwed," Johns' voice was shaking badly.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"I told my dad that I went to the mall today, with David Helms.
But I used the car to go pick up Mike and bring him back to my house. I
thought that my dad was going to be gone at work all day but he came
home early."
"Oh shit," was all I could say.
"He saw Mike and me together. I've never seen
him so mad in all my life. He stormed in and nearly beat Mike
with a chair but Mike blazed out the door. Then he started calling me a
fag and hit me a few times. He said that he was going to call Mikes'
parents and tell them everything. He pulled me into the study and
started to yell again. God I'm fucked. Mike isn't much better off.
His parents are thinking of sending him away to military school. What
do I do?"
"Drive over to my house and we'll take it from there."
"My dad took my car keys."
"I'll come get you then."
"O.K."
"Don't worry John, it'll all work out."
"I hope so."
* * *
School started again and John and I faced the first day with
feelings of doubt and fear. We hadn't seen Mike again; apparently he
was somewhere with relatives back east. He would be going to military
school the next semester. I wished John good luck when we separated to
go to our first classes. Time dragged through the first three classes as
I waited for lunch when I could see John again. When he didn't show up
at our usual meeting place I got worried. I skipped my next class to
try to find him. Then I heard rumors that he had been in a fight in the
boys locker-room. Someone said that he had tried to call John at his
house and his father replied that his 'fag son doesn't live here
anymore.' He had started to tease John, and John attacked the guy.
John's dad was called to come get John since John wasn't eighteen yet.
As a result of the fight John was suspended and kicked off the football
team. I went to the nearest payphone to call Johns' house but the phone
was busy. Next I tried my foster house to talk to my 'mother'.
"John just called here," she said. "he sounded very upset.
All he said was to tell you goodbye. I tried to call him back but the
phone must be off the hook. What happened at school, Lucy?"
"Call the police, mom. Tell them to go to John's house. I'll
tell you why later," I said and hung up.
John only lived about twenty minutes away if you walked. I
sprinted to his house using every shortcut that I knew. The cold air
hurt my lungs with every breath and the foot-and-a-half deep snow made
running hard. By the time I reached John's neighborhood the fastest I
could move was at a slow jog. I slipped on the top of a brick wall in
the back of the last yard I needed to cut across. I landed on top of the
bricks with my ribs under my right arm and fell into the yard. The
world darkened as I fought to keep from passing out. I couldn't seem to
find the energy to get up and I stayed lying in a snow drift for several
minutes. Then I heard the sound of a gun going off, a big gun. I
forced myself to stand up and move. My ribs began to feel very numb for
some reason but I ignored them.
The world seemed to turn into a T.V. show with the volume turned
down. The only noise I could hear was my own breathing. I crossed the
back yard and began to jog slowly across the front yard into the street
when I heard the second gun shot.
"No," I said under my breath. "NO!" I moved across the street
to the front door and kicked it. I don't remember any jolt or noise.
The door was just there one moment then open the next and I was inside.
I heard faint police sirens in the distance. In side it smelled like
the Fourth of July. I didn't see or hear anyone so I went up the stairs
towards the bedrooms. The door with a picture of the football team was
slightly open. I shoved it out of my way and stepped into the room.
The room stunk like gun powder, and then I noticed the blood splattered
on the wall. My gaze dropped to the floor and I saw a pair of feet
sticking out from behind the bed. My ribs hurt now and it was hard to
breath. My vision tunneled until I could only see the feet. I felt
weak, fell to my knees and crawled across the floor. The first thing I
noticed was that the face looked like it had a red hood over it. The
next thing I noticed was that it was the body of John's father.
I passed out.
* * *
When I woke up it was two days later and I found myself in a
hospital bed with my foster parents sitting next to me. I felt very
groggy because the doctors had me on some kind of sedation. I was awake
long enough to find out what happened. After John had killed his father
he had gone down stairs and killed himself with a .44 in the back yard.
I had broken my ribs and was in the hospital for the next week.
Johns' funeral was the next day but I was unable to attend. After
the investigation I was able to keep John's diary as a memory of my
friend.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
_______________________________________________________________
\ /
\ T A L E S O F T H E U N K N O W N /
\ /
/ By Deva Bryson Winblood \
/___________________________________________________________\
_ _
( )__( )
| __ |
(_) (_)ere begin the tales of wonder, unexplained, and strange
happenings as heard from the mouths of common people. With each
publication of the ICS magazine one or more tales of this variety
will be told. If you yourself have a tale that you think
others might find interesting or informative, send it to ICS.
______
(__ __) ---------------
(__)he wind was blowing through the cottonwood trees, pine trees, and
aspen trees bringing fresh summer smells to the nostrils of the four
youths as they walked down the dusty road. The sun was warm and the
heat was high in the clothing of the young boys. Cotton floated in the
air only to be pitched around by the winds coming off of the mountains
that surrounded the valley.
Not far ahead of the boys was an old white house with peeling
paint, and old fading green trim. The windows to the house were smoky
with age, and heavy on the bottom where the glass had slowly expanded
over time.
They were there because one youth had overheard a conversation
between his mother and the lady who owned the house next door to the
decrepid house. The lady had been busily telling his mother about strange
figures of little kids that would attempt to play with the lady's dogs in
the night and the dogs would act terrified. Eventually the spectral
children would vanish.
This youth as well as many of his friends was interested in
bigfoot, UFOs, ghosts, and anything else unusual. So, soon the boy was
listening to any rumors he heard about that house and anything in its
general vicinity.
Over time the boy and some of his friends had learned that some
children had once lived in the old house next door, and that they had
died of small pox and were then buried up on a large ridge behind the
house known as Hog's Back. The evidence kept suggesting that the house
would indeed reveal some interesting things if only the boys would go
and investigate long enough.
Finally one day the boys got an interesting idea. Why not
try to see if a tape recorder would pick up anything. The boys felt
this was a great idea as long as no one was around to see them making a
fool of themselves.
When they finally stood semi-close to the old house that had
cottonwood branches in full bloom draping around the roof, they began to
joke and wait for someone brave enough(or crazy enough) to carry the tape
recorder to the porch. They had all already unanimously decided that they
did not want to stand close to the house when yelling their questions at
the "ghost." They kept talking about how scared they would be if they saw
something looking at them through the windows of this house.
At last one boy grabbed the tape recorder, ran up to the old
short porch and deposited the tape recorder on the porch. He ran as fast
as he could back out to the others standing ten yards away.
The boys began to shout questions. The questions were basically
these.
WE WANT TO HELP YOU, WE WILL MAKE PEOPLE KNOW YOU ARE HERE.
SHOW US A SIGN THAT YOU ARE HERE.
TELL US YOUR NAME, SAY IT IN THE TAPE RECORDER, DON'T SAY IT OUT LOUD.
HOW CAN WE HELP YOU?
These questions were shouted fairly loudly so that they could be
picked up by the tape recorder that was ten yards away. Finally after
yelling questions and statements long enough to fill up about fifteen
minutes of tape one of the boys ran and got the tape recorder and they
proceeded to one of the boy's forts.
The Fort was behind the boy's trailer home, and was constructed
of plywood boards. All of the boys squeezed into the fort and sat on
a foam mattress that they liked to refer to as the couch. The boy was
finally handed his tape recorder which he had been rewinding on the way
home.
The boy pressed play and set the tape recorder on the ground and
listened for a moment. Yep, their voices started shouting questions.
After about two minutes of listening the youth in the fort got
distracted as youth at that age often do. They began to joke and listen
less intently to the tape recorder. Then it happened.
TELL US YOUR NAME , then the very loud inhuman voice while the boys
question was muffled in the background as it finished DON't SAY IT OUT
LOUD, SAY IT IN THE TAPE RECORDER.
The boys described the voice then as being a cross between a pig
and a deep human voice. The sound began with a loud scratch that
sounded like the screen of a screen door. It just so happens that there
was a screen door two feet away from the tape recorder.
After the scratch the INHUMAN VOICE said something. At the time
the boys thought it said LEE very forcibly, because they were expecting
a name to go along with their question. The boys excitedly ran around
the town playing the tape for anyone that would listen. Most adults
grinned, though many of them seemed startled. The man at the news paper
took the local boys aside and told them that indeed a man named Lee had
lived in the house many years ago. So, for many years the boys would
believe that is what the voice said.
Later one of the boys(now grown) asked the news paper man
about LEE when rekindling the old childhood image, and the news paper
man said "But, LEE is still alive, he just has not lived here for
a long time." At that time the boy(now man) realized what the voice
really had said. What the voice had said was LEAVE.
--------------------
Chi - The Power / Supernatural Occurrences
by Daniel Frederick / Neon Chrome ©
In this article I am going to discuss the concept of supernatural and
try to explain it in my own way. I would like to hear a response about
my ideas and would like to hear your ideas on this subject too. Please
note that these ideas are purely my own and no disrespect is intended.
Chi is not my word, I learned it from many others around the world.
When I used to think of the word supernatural I envisioned dark
decay and robed madness, kneeling before the gaping flames of hell
preparing a fine young female virgin. Bloody knives glittering in
the luminosity of a megalithic, psychotic, and evil stare of the demon
Satan himself as he watched his legion surrounded by runes, magic and
screams of the angels in pain.
Overdoing it? Maybe. But that is what I thought about, and maybe a
little bit more dealing with cruelty and malevolent actions of magical
deities and elementals who love to hurt. The supernatural is a topic
that no one really knows facts about. Each of us will see it differently.
I have had a few encounters in my past. Or so I believe.
I was born Roman Catholic and believe that if for no other reason,
religion is good because it gives you an environment that is pleasant
and friendly to grow up in. Usually religious people tend to be good
wholesome people. I, however, can't say I honestly believe in one all
powerful God that created every thing. I am not a believer in much at all,
but don't really have a problem with others believing as long as they don't
press their beliefs onto me.
Is there a demonic Satan some where waiting for God to dispel us from
heaven and send us to hell where Satan waits to thrust suffering and pain
onto us for being evil people? I don't know...it would be nice if a heaven
was there for us to go to when we end with our lives here on this plane
of existence called life on Earth. I don't have my hopes up.
As far as the supernatural goes I do have a underlying feeling that
there is some sort of unknown that really scares the life out of us
because we don't understand it, and what we don't understand we fear. As
long as I am a morally good person I really am not worried about ending up
in any existence that may cause me great pain once I die.
I mentioned that I had some unusual occurrences in my life. Having talked
about them with friends and people who I know well I found that most had
similar things happen to them when they were younger.
When I was with a good friend in his dark and large basement we saw the
red flaring horns of what we believed was the Devil himself. We were quite
serious and were not fooling around. It seems to me that when you and a
group of friends go in search of the unnatural and some one can't take it
they tend to disrupt the mood by cracking a joke. When you all are quite
honestly waiting to see what will happen and all involved are serious, then
that is when your collective psychological feeling for something to truly
happen makes it possible for you to see something you may never be able to
explain. If you haven't heard of the word Chi then you should take a moment
to learn what it is.
Chi is what most martial artists in the world refer to as an energy that
you create about you to perform acts that would otherwise seem somewhat
incredible. I have had the opportunity to train under a couple of styles
of martial arts, ranging from Tae Kwon Do, Judo, to Aikido. Each talked
of how real power came from within not muscle alone. Also I came to
understand the concept and began to focus on it more when I was witness to
my mentor's ability to show and use Chi. A strong board of wood placed in
a metal frame broken while a fist or foot was still inches away. Video tapes
of it showed that no contact was made yet still wood was broken. Many
scientific studies I have read about show an incredible amount of study
has gone on concerning this subject. Chi is in a sense a life force that
can be in a way, a mind over matter force. To go within an inch of one
instructor gave a shock to my touching hand. Chi then can be used when
focused on by martial artist, so why not all of us. Because we don't know
about it? I myself spent many years trying to imitate my instructors in
their use of Chi. I accomplished it and proved to myself in the most
convincing way that Chi was real by using it myself. How was I to doubt
myself if I was to believe in all I knew was the truth (as I know it).
When you are scared by something lurking around you and you feel it
breathing down your neck twisting your emotions into hell and playing
havoc with your mind and you release adrenaline into your body to
prepare you for any life threatening situation you may encounter, do you
think that possible you create a force around yourself. Chi surrounds
you and instead of using it to break a board you use it to create what
your mind sees. If you really let your imagination get away from you it
could be lethal. Now imagine that there are six of you all experiencing
the same phenomenon, your collective Chi builds up surrounding all of
you in a state of pure fear. This collective force lets an even more
prominent force occur before all of your eyes. If you sat together in
a circle around a chair and focused on it in such a state of incredible
fear that sparked your inner self and all of you desired this chair to
rise, would it. Why not? What besides fear will cause you to form such a
powerful force of your Chi? The supernatural would only be you then, not
the power of some Satan. Then again possibly this Chi is present with us,
and Demons too are out there co-existing in our sense of reality or
non-reality...waiting for us to contact them so they may fill our
dominion along with theirs. Then these monsters would be able to cause
what looks like magic too. Even more powerful than we can if they
should happen to understand what we don't. The unknown/known cannot be
feared. Only controlled like everything else we as humans learn about.
I do hope that if we all fully understood forces like Chi then we would
be able to control ourselves and it, not just it. We understand how to
build and create nuclear weapons, but I have no desire to play in the
radioactive dust of my parent's ashes because we cannot control ourselves
along with controlling nuclear weapons. Some do understand in a limited
way what Chi is and what can be done with the human psyche and mind. It
is a powerful force, most likely the mind is the most powerful thing of
all. Some have learned how to control aspects of these forces, weather
they give meaning and credit to themselves, some powerful demon or God
himself, it is still limited yet incredible to those who possess no
control over these forces at all.
I would wager that the psychic person, the magic user, and those like
the martial artist, all use the same power. Each person would have their
own battery of Chi. Each persons would vary in strength and be channeled
in different directions. Some would understand Chi in the form of magic
while others would better understand it in the form of their own psyche or
mind powers.
I offer the idea that the power of Chi is a force of nature that can
be controlled by single individuals and groups in many ways, all powerful.
In manipulation or fear. To be used or used by. I would like to hear your
views on this and all the above subjects. Magic, psychogenics, Chi, and
the Supernatural.
Daniel Frederick / Neon Chrome ©
____________________________________________________
/ \
\ F i n a l O p i n i o n /
\__________________________________________________/
The editors hope that I.C.S. is a great departure from anything that
has utilized this format before. It is not a literary 'zine, but we want
to emphasize creative writing and imagination. Ideally, we would like to
use fiction, poetry, and truthful accounts all without bias. It is not a
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not a computer and networking 'zine, although those are topics that we
intend to focus on as well; it is an attempt to use the power and
efficiency provided by those tools to communicate ideas and provoke
thought in as many people as we can possibly reach.
In order that I.C.S. be available to the maximum number of
subscribers, we are forced to go without many of the aids conventional
print has at its disposal: fancy type, spectacular graphics, and pictures.
There are ways to use imagination to partially overcome this, and we are
slowly learning. We also realize that there are many others out there
who have a great deal more experience with the electrozine and we would
be grateful to any who might help us along with their ideas.
Reading through the first issue, we hope that your impression of our
effort is a favorable one. I.C.S. is likely to change a great deal from
issue to issue early on as we learn more about what we are doing. It may
seem rough now... it certainly does to us... but the editors ferverently
hope we can make up for in enthusiasm what we lack in experience. With
luck I.C.S. will survive, grow, and eventually deliver a high quality,
highly respected product that we can be proud to have taken part in.
I.C.S. is our attempt to contribute to the future.
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I n f o r m a t i o n, C o m m u n i c a t i o n, S u p p l y
------------- E l e c t r o Z i n e ------------------------------
********************************************************************************
Established in 1993 by Deva Winblood
Information Communication Supply 3/20/95 Vol.2: Issue 5-1
Email To: ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU
S T A F F : Email: ICS Positions:
============== ============ ==============
Steven Peterson STU000012255 Managing Editor, Writer
Russel Hutchinson c/o org_zine Writer, Subscriptions
David Trosty STU000037486 Writer, Poetry Editor
George Sibley FAC_SIBLEY Editing, Faculty Supervisor
Others TBA All addresses @WSC.COLORADO.EDU
_________________________________________
/=========================================\
| "Art helps us accept the human condition; |
| technology changes it." |
\ - D.B. Smith /
\***************************************/
_____________________________________________________________________________
/ \
| ICS is an Electrozine distributed by students of Western State |
| College in Gunnison, Colorado. We are here to gather information about |
| topics that are important to all of us as human beings. If you would like |
| to send in a submission, please type it into an ASCII format and email it |
| to us. We operate on the assumption that if you mail us something you |
| want it to be published. We will do our best to make sure it is |
| distributed and will always inform you when or if it is used. |
\_____________________________________________________________________________/
REDISTRIBUTION: If any part of this issue is copied or used elsewhere
you must give credit to the author and indicate that the information
came from ICS Electrozine ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU.
DISCLAIMER: The views represented herein do not necessarily represent the
views of the editors of ICS. Contributors to ICS assume all responsibilities
for ensuring that articles/submissions are not violating copyright laws and
protections.
|\__________________________________________________/|
| \ / |
| \ T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S / |
| / \ |
| /________________________________________________\ |
|/ \|
| Included in the table of contents are some |
| generic symbols to help you in making a decision |
| as to whether an article or story may express |
| ideas or use language that may be offensive. |
| S = Sexual Content AL = Adult Language |
| V = Violence O = Opinions |
|____________________________________________________|
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
| 1) First Word -=- By Steven Peterson: The return of St. Mike. |
| 2) WorldNet Tour Guide -=- By Staff: Veronica Gopher Searches-- |
| A beginner's guide to usage and commands, with addresses. |
| 3) Thoughts of the KNYGHT -=- By Jason Manczur: Poem. |
| 4) Dirt -=- By David Trosty: Short story. An Odd little tale |
| which explores the seamier aspects of a lawyer's life in |
| the city. Not for the overly sensitive [AL, S]. |
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
| 5) Pebble -=- By David Trosty: Poetry. |
| 6) Cleansing the Channels: Censorship in CyberSpace -=- |
| By Steven Peterson: Commentary on the "Communications |
| Decency Act of 1995." [O] |
| 7) Flam, Baby, Flam -=- By David Trosty: Jazz/Scat/Poetry. |
| 8) ACCEPT->>> DELETE FORM1040 *.*;*.* -=- By Steven Peterson: |
| Part one of a short story; action-adventure. [AL] |
| 9) Last Word -=- Earthy Day Thoughts from the Editor. |
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
*-----------------*
| First Word \
| By Steven Peterson \
*----------------------*
He's Back ...
The King of Kinesthetic Calculus,
The Sultan Of Swish, Michael Jordan.
And despite the hype, the glorification, and the media over-kill,
I'm stoked. I haven't really watched an NBA game since he "retired", and
I've missed watching him perform his tongue-waving antics.
Not the game itself, you understand, but the raw display of kinesthetic
genius Jordan brings with him to every game. I have many fond memories, not
of watching the games, but of the inspiration I felt after the games. During
the first season the Bulls made it to the playoffs (91), I was working in a
ski factory, using my mind and body to manipulate metal and machinery, shaping
tips and basically in motion at all times. Watching Jordan at night always
seemed to inspire me to greater efficiency the next day; he was a supreme
example of mind united with body, performing the intricate internal calculus
required to win NBA championships.
Howard Gardner, a psychologist and writer of note, claims that there are
seven basic areas of intelligence: bodily-kinesthetic, interpersonal, intra-
personal, linguistic, logical-mathematic, musical and spatial. Open displays
of any of these intelligences, honed to perfection, never fails to inspire me.
Without the almost religious level of worship the networks people desire,
I believe we should cherish and respect all of these varied human talents.
Even when the gods have a bad day ... Jordan wasn't terribly impressive
his first day back: 7 for 28 from the field, 19 points, and a handful of
steals, rebounds and assists. A little rusty--most of his shots were just
a bit off--but still, a few flashes of grace, of genius in motion.
It's good to have him back ...
Anyway, enjoy the rest of the 'Zine. Think I'll go dribble for a while.
-Ed.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
_________________________________________________
/ W o r l d N e t \
\____________ Tour Guide ____________/
\_______________________/
| *VERONICA* |
| -- GOPHER -- |
\ *SEARCHES* /
\---------------/
WorldNet Tour Guide is a feature which appears in ICS from time to time.
The Guide consists of articles designed to help you in using the WorldNet to
the fullest potential. These articles will range from tutorials on aspects of
the 'Net (programs) to reviews of places and stuff we find out on the WorldNet
(content). Why? Because together we know more than any one of us can know.
If you would like to write a file or document to appear in this section,
please do so. Send your final copy (in ASCII format) to:
ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU
-------
This time around, we're going to explore VERONICA, a "very easy rodent-
oriented net-wide index of computerized archives"; it's also one of the better
ways of searching GopherSpace for information on a specific topic. The concept
behind this gopher indexing and retrieval system is pretty basic: you enter a
set of query word and/or commands at a prompt, and the program scans a list of
the directories of 5,000+ gopher sites for menu items which match what you
have entered. The results are presented as a normal gopher menu; choose and
download as you would with any other gopher menu.
Although veronica does NOT do full-text searches, it does also allow
you to define your search in order to: a) bring back specific types of files,
or b) just point you to the right directory. Currently, most of the VERONICA
servers are searching a database which contains over 10 million items--
using the right keywords and commands is essential for efficient, productive
use of this search engine.
------
Where to Log In: generally speaking, to the nearest gopher site which
offers a VERONICA option on the menu (radiate your web...). Regardless of
where you are, here are a couple of sites which DO offer this option:
gopher.oss.net 70 --choose #2, InfoPro Resources/, then scroll to
last page of the menu, number 49.
gopher veronica.scs.unr.edu 70 --choose #12, "Search ... using
Veronica" from the root directory.
When you choose Veronica, you may be presented with a host of pre-defined
search options. Most sites offer two pre-defined search types:
> Search GopherSpace by keywords in Titles> <?
This option will find ALL TYPES of resources whose titles contain the
search words you have entered. The resources may be of any Gopher data
TYPE (e.g. ascii documents, gopher directories, binary files, etc.).
If you are not given any options, this is the likely default setting.
> Search Gopher DIRECTORIES ONLY for keywords in Titles> <?
This search will find only Gopher DIRECTORIES whose titles contain the
search words you've entered. This search can be very handy for those
broad search terms or when you're only after the location of major
holdings of information which relate to your query. After veronica
finishes its search of gopher directories, you can open any of them
just by choosing the listing from the result menu.
> Simplified Veronica: Find Gopher MENUS only> <?
OR
> Simplified Veronica: Find Gopher FILES> <?
This search will use a pre-defined set of variables to perform a quick,
scan of several sites. It's very useful if you're time on-line is limited,
and, it's good way to judge traffic on the servers (if they're all busy,
you will be presented with a message to that effect).
To use any of these options, choose it from the menu and enter your query
words when the "Index word(s) to search for:" _ prompt appears.
------
E N T E R I N G A Q U E R Y
When you select a query type, your gopher client may or may not present
a dialog box (in any case, the prompt will appear onscreen in some fashion).
Enter your query words separated by spaces:
e.g. Index word(s) to search for: electronic magazines (enter or Return)
The search is NOT case-sensitive and you may get better results by
entering a multi-word query rather than a single word. Multiple word queries
will find only those items whose titles contain ALL of the specified words.
For instance, "electronic" will find a zillion items; but "electronic
magazines" will find a manageable number of items. Be as specific as you can.
It also helps to be imaginative. Think about how gophers are organized and
files are named; the information you want may not be found under "Estimated
Prophet", but under the more general heading of "lyrics". The process is
analogous to using the yellow pages in a phone book--you don't look under
"cars", you look under "automobiles"; picking up the vocabulary is half the
battle. Multiple-word queries don't require that the words be adjacent in the
title, nor that they appear in any particular order. So, "magazines electronic"
will locate the same items as "electronic magazines".
------
*DEFAULTS, WILDCARDS, AND COMMANDS*
D E F A U L T S
Default maximum items and the "-m" option: by default, most veronica
servers will present only the first 200 items which match a query. You can
request any number of items by including the "-mX" command phrase in your
query. X is the number of items you wish. If X is omitted ( "-m" ), there
is no limit to the number of items delivered.
EXAMPLE:
Index word(s) to search for: "women" will provide 200 items.
"women -m1000" will provide 1000 items.
"women -m" will provide all matching items.
You may find a message at the end of your veronica results menu
which indicates that more items are available, e.g. "There are 424 more
items matching your query". If you are not satisfied with the first 200
items you received, you can resubmit the query, requesting the rest of the
available files with the "-m" option.
Note: some veronica servers will provide more than 200 items by default.
------
W I L D C A R D S E A R C H E S
An asterisk ("*") at the TRAILING END of a query word will match anything.
Use it with restraint, and only as a limited form of a wildcard search--or you
risk tying up your terminal and the server for a long, boring time. The (*)
asterisk character may be used ONLY at the end of words; the search will fail
if a "*" is placed within a word or at the beginning of a word. Search words
incorporating a wildcard must be at least two characters long. Shorter words
will be ignored.
EXAMPLE:
Index word(s) to search for: electronic mag*
------
C O M M A N D S
In order to find resources of a "type", you can use the "-t" flag to
find resources of (only) a specified gopher type. To specify the type(s) of
interest, add the "-tX" option phrase to your query. X is the number of the
type from the following list Official gopher types, from the "Gopher Protocol
Document":
0 -- Text File
1 -- Directory
2 -- CSO name server
4 -- Mac HQX file.
5 -- PC binary
7 -- Full Text Index (Gopher menu)
8 -- Telnet Session
9 -- Binary File
s -- Sound
e -- Event (not in 2.06)
I -- Image (other than GIF)
M -- MIME multipart/mixed message
T -- TN3270 Session
c -- Calendar (not in 2.06)
g -- GIF image
h -- HTML, HyperText Markup Language
The -t flag may appear anywhere in the search specification.
EXAMPLE:
"electronic magazines -t1"
"-t1 electronic magazines"
Either of these search phrases will find resources with the words
"electronic" and "magazines" in the title. All the resources will be gopher
DIRECTORY items (type 1).
Note: There must NOT be any spaces between the -t and the type specifier.
You may specify several types in the query. DO NOT use separate -t
options to do this; put all the types together (with no spaces) after the -t.
DO NOT cluster more than one option behind a single hyphen; instead, use a
separate hyphen for each separate option.
EXAMPLE:
Index word(s) to search for: hubble -tg1 -m400
This example requests 400 items containing the word "hubble", and
specifies that we want only items whose type is "directory" and "gif".
EXAMPLE:
"-tg1 mac" returns a menu of directories containing GIF image files with
the word "mac" in titles.
------
S U M M A R Y O F O P T I O N S
-t limit the search to items of specified data type(s).
-m specify maximum number of items to find.
-l create a file of links for the discovered resources. The file
will be displayed as the first item on the veronica results menu.
You can then retrieve that file and include the links in menus
which you may be building. Not all veronica servers support the
"-l" option.
To use these options, simply include them in the search query.
They should work with any gopher client. You can put options before the
query words, after the query words, or even between query words.
S E A R C H E X A M P L E S:
> Search on the word "internet". This will return a menu list of (at most) 200
records that have the word internet in the title field.
Just type-
internet
> Search on the word "internet", but specify 500 items instead of the default.
Just type-
internet -m500
or
-m500 internet
> Search for the words "electronic" and "magazine". This returns a menu list
of (at most) 200 records that have _BOTH_ "electronic" and "magazine".
Just type-
electronic and magazine
> Search for the keywords "electronic" or "magazine", specifying directories
only. This will return a menu list of resources that have _EITHER_ electronic
or magazine, and which are GOPHER DIRECTORY entries.
Just type-
electronic or magazine -t1
or
-t1 magazine or electronic
Examples for wild cards/word stemming:
> The metacharacter "*" matches anything at the TRAILING END of a search word.
Just type-
electro* (will search for all titles with the
word electronic, electrozine, ...)
electro* or mag* (will search for all titles with the
word electronic, electrozine, ..., _OR_
magazines, magic, magnets, ...)
Examples for the operator "NOT":
> To use the operator "NOT" in a query:
Just type-
electronic not magazine (will search for all titles with
the word electronic _BUT NOT_ the word magazine)
electronic magazine not ics (will search for electronic magazine
titles with the words electronic _AND_ magazine _BUT NOT_ ics.
Remember, there is an implied _AND_ between any two search words)
SourceFile: HOW TO COMPOSE VERONICA QUERIES - June 23, 1994: Steven Foster.
gopher://veronica.scs.unr.edu:70/00/veronica/how-to-query-veronica
=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Thoughts of the KNYGHT
How can I eat the fish of anonymity
And drink the wine of fame?
Why does my life-line end,
Then begin again?
Who reads the walls
In the women's restroom?
When can a lemming
Create a sonic boom?
What do the undead see
When they look at me?
Where do books
Go to be free?
KNYGHT
From: Jason Manczur SMTP%"MANCZURJI@mscd.edu" 16-MAR-1995
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
/--------\
| Dirt | >>>> By David Trosty
\--------/
[Adult Language, Sexual Content]
When I step into the shadows, my bangs get pasted like
papier-mache to my forehead. Pelted by cold rain and the pale glow of
the streetlights, I light up a damp cigarette. As I walk down the trash-
strewn alley, the click of my heels reverberates down the brick lined
corridor; the echoes are toying with my ears, mixed in with a gentle
plinking of raindrops on the old, tin trashcans. The reflections of the
streetlights break into a million fragments when I splash through the
shallow puddles.
I can smell my leather trenchcoat as the rain percolates through
it, releasing its essence. My wingtips squeak with wetness with each
assertive step that I take. The city is strangely deserted tonight.
When I turn out onto the street my senses are bombarded by the flow of
traffic and the sounds of people talking amongst themselves. The lights
of the bars and restaurants are surrounded by peculiar glowing halos,
like I'm in some kind of shabbily produced movie.
The rain picks up and I head into a bar: not the one that I was
looking for, but because of the weather, I have little choice. It is dark.
Too dark to make out faces at first, but soon I can see the people, the
snarling troubled people. Wolfen-men looking for vulnerable women to prey
upon, and twisted women looking to be taken advantage of. An especially
drunk woman comes up to greet me.
"Hey there, want a drink?"
Boy is she wasted. "Umm, sure. Scotch, on the rocks." I sit down.
My arms stick to the bar from the tack of spilled beer.
"Here you go, handsome. You look rich. What are you, a doctor or
something?"
"No, a lawyer."
"I like that. What do you like?"
I nervously take a gulp of my drink, as she runs her fingers gently
down my chest.
"I like to have a few drinks after work."
"Oh, is that all. Don't you like women?"
"Of course I do."
"What do you think about sex with strangers?" The odd woman purred.
I chew on my ice.
"Look lady, all I'm trying to do is catch a little buzz after work,
so why don't you hit on someone else?"
"Because I like you, I think you're sexy. Your indifference
turns me on."
This woman leans closer to me, trying to whisper in my ear.
Her fetid breath reeks of booze and cigarettes.
"You can fuck me if you want. You can fuck me hard. You can beat
me too. I like it rough like that. You can treat me any way that you want,
rich lawyer."
"What!? Lady you need some help."
"The only help I need is between your legs."
Without warning her hand is in my lap. I can feel her fingers
searching for my belt buckle."
"Get off me, crazy bitch!"
I push her aside onto her ass, and I grab my coat.
"You goddamm prick! Of all the guys in this bar I pick you to screw,
you ungrateful bastard!"
I rush into the rain, pushing and shoving my way through the
crowds of faceless people. Blindfolded, pathetic people groping in the dark,
struggling to find any distraction they can, no matter how self-destructive
and twisted it is. I've lived in L.A. for six months and I've yet to meet
a single person with their head screwed on straight.
This sure ain't the midwest ...
The rain, the dirty acidic rain bleeds out of my hair and into my eyes.
My eyes burn, and I like it. It makes me realize that everything in this city
is contaminated: the air, the street, the buildings, and the people. If I stay
here, I know that soon I will be contaminated as well.
I jog across the street dodging traffic, oblivious to the puddles of
filthy water, trying to hail a cab. Something is choking me. It's my tie.
I throw it off, and into a pile of trash. A cab soon stops for the rich-
looking lawyer from the midwest.
"Hey, mister, where to?"
"First, 501 Hemlock Street, I'll only take a minute, than the airport."
"O.K., mac."
The cab is warm and dry. It's like a sanctuary, keeping the filthy and
decrepit city away from me.
"What'cha doin', goin' away on business?"
"No, I'm going back home, to Kansas."
"Oh yeah, my cousin ..."
The cabbie is talking, but I don't hear a thing that he's saying.
I'm thinking about home and how nice it's going to be to move back into my
parent's house and be taken care of. I do miss mommie so very much.
I hope that my room is still the same, waiting for me ...
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Information Communication Supply 4/19/95 Vol.2: Issue 5-2
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Pebble
Round,
smooth,
tiny.
Staring at me
blankly.
Beady eyes
worn
by the soles
of the shoes
that walk upon them.
When I feel important
I gaze down
at my feet
and realize
that the pebbles
I stand on
are holding me up.
- David Trosty, 1995.
<+><+><+><+><+><+><+><+><+><+><+><+><+><+><+><+><+><+><+><+><+><+><+><+><+><+>
Cleansing the Channels: Censorship in Cyberspace
By Steven Peterson
With the advent of every new communications medium, a culture must
resolve a familiar set of problems related to the flow of information in
the "agora," or public marketplace: Who will enforce community standards for
content? How will we hold individuals accountable for their statements and
claims? How do we balance the right to free expression with the right to
universal access?
In the case of the Internet, a worldwide medium of computer-mediated
communication (or CMC), many people in our culture have expressed concern
about the growing amount of socially unacceptable material available in
the electronic agora of cyberspace: televised reports of children down-
loading sexually explicit, fraudulent, and harmful data (such as detailed
plans for the home-manufacture of bombs) has prompted parents, police, and
other guardians of taste, morality, and public safety to begin an attempt
to impose various control mechanisms on this new medium of communication.
The problem of enforcing community standards for content, or "data
control" in this case, invariably arises when people who relate to themselves,
Aothers, or the world inauthentically employ any device or mechanism for public
expression. In the world of CMC, technology creates a "virtual stage" where
users can take advantage of the medium in order to assume created personas;
in many cases, the sexually explicit, fraudulent, and/or harmful data posted on
the Internet is generated by individuals who are engaged in extended fantasies
or systematic delusions from which they imaginatively express perverse, or
inauthentic relationships between: the libido and the conscious self, the
self and other users, and between the self and the world in the case of List-
Servs, bulletin board systems (BBSs), and discussion groups.
The problem, "harmful" or obscene data, affects people in our society
by threatening the viability of this new medium in terms of universal access--
the educative potential of free, instant access to information will be lost to
our children if we cannot allow them to "surf the Net" out of moral concern.
Unlike television, radio, and other print mediums there is presently little,
if any, government control over the content of data flowing in "packets" across
the network: reactionary opinions on the subject feature plans to impose fines
and penalties for posting "obscene, lewd, or indecent" messages and graphic
files on the 'Net; meanwhile, libertarian groups are staunchly opposing all
plans to restrict or censor the vast domain of the Internet.
The fact that every individual user has the "means of production" on
his or her desktop introduces a different aspect to the age-old debate over
control of a public communications medium: any attempt to centrally control
content would require monitoring over 20 million users (or "producers") on
a daily basis--in essence, the technology has outstripped our capacity to
enforce any "standards" using conventional, existing mechanisms. Adding to
the confusion is the nebulous nature of cyberspace; there are no real spatial
or temporal boundaries as we know them in this international conduit for data
exchange. Given the potential for free, rapid exchange between *all* users
(no matter their geographical position), the chance of arriving at any
specific, shared "global community standard" is remote; and even if it were
possible, there is no real way to enforce any set of standards or practices
across the actual boundaries of self-governing nations.
Despite these difficulties, groups of individuals in America are
instigating efforts to impose various mechanisms of control. Specifically,
Senator Exon (D-Neb) and Senator Gorton (R-Wash.) recently introduced a
bill known as the "Communications Decency Act of 1995"; if passed into law,
this act would require the federal government to monitor Email, BBSs, and
all other forms of digital data sent via modem over PC networks for "obscene,
lewd, etc., comments and proposals." Individual users who are caught sending
or posting "obscene" material by the government would be fined (up to $100,000)
and/or sentenced to serve up to two years in jail.
In fact, the large companies which run large BBSs (e.g. CompuServe and
Prodigy) have already lobbied to have themselves exempted from prosecution
under the Act; therefore, the bill will be aimed exclusively at the individual
user, and the U.S. taxpayer will foot the bill for the small army of censors
required to monitor the overwhelming flood of data exchanged on a daily
basis via computer networks.
This Act, which is pending approval by the U.S. Senate, would offer
the advantage of placing some form of control over content, effectively
"sanitizing" the 'Net and theoretically making cyberspace safe for our
children's tender minds. This Act, if passed into law, would also present
serious disadvantages: it would abrogate our Constitutional rights to free
speech, and seriously compromise our alleged freedom from unreasonable
search and seizure-that is, if it could even be enforced given the scale
of the Internet (the latest estimates posit 30 million+ users worldwide).
The congressional effort to resolve this problem has resulted in
various groups committed to free-expression offering alternative perspectives
and what are perhaps more realistic approaches to solving the problem of
"obscene" data. Groups such as the "Voter's Telecommunication Watch" and
the "Electronic Frontier Foundation" have posted the full text of the Act,
along with analyses and response from "experts" in the CMC community in
order to facilitate an informed debate on the issue.
Generally speaking, these libertarian groups are more interested in
revealing the complex nature of the problem than in offering a substitute
plan for surveillance and enforcement. Most of them point out that the only
real control parents can have over what material is available to their child-
ren is that which they impose on their own; ultimately, this Act faces the
same fate of all efforts to legislate morality--it is doomed to fail.
The libertarian position on this problem essentially advocates no
action on the part of our government to forestall the descent of the medium
to the lowest common denominator of human behavior and experience. To its
advantage, this plan of non-action would preserve our Constitutional rights
and would foster the rapid growth of the medium (using the unassailable logic
that any attempt to monitor the systems would result in a toxic amount of
entropy entering the processes of CMC--the 'Net would seize as government
officials attempt to monitor millions of data-packets). To its disadvantage,
the libertarian plan would leave what is arguably the largest medium for
communication ever known to man wide open to the depredations of the perverse
and inauthentic among us. The clear, clean access to information offered by
the medium that these organizations prize and are attempting to protect could
well be threatened by an unending stream of psycho-social and sexual effluvium
which could easily clog the channels opened by CMC--in which case, the
libertarian objections to censorship could backfire.
Recently, I had the opportunity to interview a local BBS system
operator, Clayton Dukes, who has found a different solution to the problem
of access while maintaining an "Adult BBS" in Florida: he required all users
to enter the information on their Driver's license, which he would check
against DMV records before he would allow anyone access to his board.
Although the plan was hardly foolproof, Dukes found it a viable method for
allaying the fears of his local community (his plan may have also kept him
from being prosecuted under city and county statutes). Dukes' plan offers
the advantage of lifting any restrictions on content at the expense of
universal access--in the case of a small BBS, the cost is acceptable.
The primary disadvantages of his plan are that it places too much
responsibility on the system operator (who must bear the burden of checking
everybody's info without the benefit of actually seeing the photo or the
person), and ultimately, it can be compromised by any kid with a computer,
time on his hands, and access to his father's wallet.
Personally, I can't support the congressional plan--it tries to use
obsolete methods to impose a non-rational amount of control over self-
expression on a scale never before attempted. Imagine the cost of our FCC,
which monitors radio and television broad-casting, if it were suddenly held
responsible for policing ten or fifteen million new "stations" and you begin
to grasp the enormity of the situation, and the potential cost to taxpayers
for what would most likely be a task worthy of Sisyphus. On the other hand,
some measures need to be taken to insure the relative clarity and consistency
of information on a given site--a policy of non-action may prove equally
destructive to the medium.
Obviously, there is no simple, pat solution to the dilemma, so
I won't venture one; however, I do have a tentative suggestion: invoke the
weight of peer-pressure to require some form of public-key encryption for
all "adult" sites on the 'Net (i.e. use PGP, a widely available freeware
program, to scramble images and files on BBSs--a variation on Dukes'
technique which would provide a partial solution).
This idea would serve to limit the total amount of objectionable material
freely available without infringing too heavily of freedom of expression or
requiring the government to invest time and money attempting the impossible.
The ideal solution, however, may be in every household: parents can
easily control access to the net by password-protecting their machines and
monitoring their children's activities to the extent which is necessary. All
modern PCs can easily be configured to require passwords for any operation,
or you can simply "lock out" the modem software (see your manual or just ask
your local computer "guru" how-to)--it's free, and better yet, it places the
issue where it belongs: in the home.
In my humble way, I will become engaged in the solutions I've described.
At an individual level, I often serve as "guru" for friends and acquaintances;
therefore, I can teach people how to regain control of their computers from
precocious children. At a cultural level, I intend to offer this essay to
members of Congress, the White House, and the general public via email in
hopes that it will encourage further dialogue and thought on this important
issue.
Our new "agora" is at stake ... and I, for one, am *not* willing to
cede control of it to half-baked zealots OR degenerate sleaze-mongers.
Together, we can arrive at a solution, and together we must, or we
face losing control of the technology and finding ourselves in its service,
rabidly reading each other's email in the Ministry of Truth and reporting to
Big Brother.
(c) Copyright 1995 by Steven Peterson
--------------------------------------------------
For Additional Reading:
* gopher panix.com 70 --cd Voter's Telecom/Exon
* ftp ftp.eff.org --cd eff/Legislation: many files, variously listed
under h.r.1004, s.b.314 and s.b.652.
--cd pub/CuD: Computer Underground Digest (7.13)
* Congressional Weekly --most recent issues. Note: the "Comm. Decency Act"
was recently subsumed under Senate Bill 652; see Commerce Committee.
* PC, Wired, MacWorld, Internet World, Reason, and other mainstream
magazines: see Feb - current 1995 issues for commentary and industrial,
legal and "expert" perspectives.
[-][-][-][-][-][-][-][-][-][-][-][-][-][-][-][-][-][-][-][-][-][-][-][-][-][-]
Flam, Baby, Flam
Hey now brother do you know what I mean,
I tell you flam, baby, flam is on the scene.
Can you hear it now, cutting through the night?
That flam-bam-baby beat is out of sight.
Flam comes from the city where jazz was born,
and blows through the country, a flam-bam ke-zam storm.
Hey bop, don't stop the be-bop-- yeah!
Can you feel it, it's in you, let me show you where.
Hap-dat, cool cat, that's it baby-- right there.
--David Trosty, 1995.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
ACCESS->>> DELETE FORM1040 *.*;*.*
By Steven Peterson
Special Treasury Agent Tom Rider glanced back at his partner in
the dim dormitory hallway, braced himself, and gave the metal door a heavy,
awkward kick ...
"FREEZE!" he bellowed, rushing in through the doorway.
Rider and Agent Crenshaw, his partner, leveled their drawn weapons
at two half-dressed college students sitting on their beds, stunned expressions
on their faces. Rider glanced around and noted the contents of the room: dirty
laundry piled in the corners, posters of Michael Jordan on the walls, mountain
bikes tucked away behind the bathroom door, empty beer bottles strewn to one
side of the crowded room, and a prize stack of old pizza boxes on the desk--
no machines, no disks, no manuals--something felt wrong ...
"Got him, Crenshaw?" Rider asked as he reached for his 'cuffs and
cautiously moved toward the youth sitting near the window.
"Yeah ... I got him."
"Relax, boys, and this can go easy."
The stunned boys offered no resistance as Rider and Crenshaw hand-
cuffed them, then sat them down on one of the beds.
Rider pulled out his ID, flashed it, and put it away.
"My name is Special Agent Rider, my partner here is Crenshaw--we're
with the Treasury Department ... now, which one of you is Brian Fuchs?"
"That would be me, sir," an unsteady response from the larger of the
two boys. A subtle note of fearsweat began to pierce the dormroom funk.
"Tell me, Brian, when was the last time you logged on to your account
on the school computer?" Rider leaned in toward the boy, pressing whatever
advantage he could gain from intimidation.
"Uh, I tried to figure out my email a couple weeks ago, if that's
what you mean."
Crenshaw snorted in response, turning around and looking out the
window; Rider looked down and continued his interrogation.
"What do you use to write your papers, Brian?"
"A Macintosh--they're easier."
"Have you ever taken a computer class?" The edge had left his voice.
"Uh, no."
To the other boy, "how about you?"
"You kiddin' ... I'm a Rec major, I ask *him* for help. Why?"
Rider ignored his question and shifted his gaze.
"Brian, have you ever heard of `NiteHack' or `TRSNET'?"
"Uh, no."
"Wait here for a minute, boys, we'll be right back."
Rider and Crenshaw ducked back out to the hallway, leaving the door
partially open. "Christ," Crenshaw began, "NiteHack's been kiting access--
neither one of them kids knows enough to log-goddam-out, let alone crack a
digital switch or write code. This is a waste of time; he could be anywhere.
Let's go find that lab assistant."
* * *
They only knew him by his handle, "NiteHack". A lone crackpot, a
brilliant crackpot--somehow, he had managed to reprogram the switches outside
of Ogden to route all data-traffic over TRSNET through his own switchboard.
Once he had the passwords, he launched his little sub-routine. Before anyone
had even suspected anything was wrong, NiteHack had encrypted terabytes of
"secure data" and had left the Internal Revenue Service scrambling to explain
how all their files, and millions of other financial files around the world,
had been turned to electronic gibberish.
Mechanically, it shouldn't have been possible; it was the human factor.
Sloppy housekeeping, slips of paper with the crucial data floating around:
it was bound to happen. When the Service launched the "Electronic Return
Verification" datasearches, people began to resent it. The new search-
engines crawl through billions of files accessible over TRSNET, returning
with a composite portrait all neatly laid out in legally admissible form:
loopholes and trapdoors through the revised codes were rendered non-existent.
Or irrelevant, unless you wanted to play with the piranha on the black market.
Rider had been assigned to the case a little late in the game; the
whiz kids in Utah thought they could crack the code, or at least perform
enough backup to restore functions before incoming files would be threatened.
Sure, the system *could* be backed up from scratch, and Rider's search wouldn't
matter, if the Service had the luxury of calling "time-out" for about, say,
five years (according to the whizkids, anyway). After tracking Nitehack's
brief "ransom note" down a merry trail of anonymous remailers, Rider and
Crenshaw find themselves in a grungy college computer lab, questioning the
work-study student who serves as monitor ...
"Have you noticed anyone unusual hanging around the lab?"
"Well, sir, I try not to look too closely--people are pretty self-
conscious in here as it is, tryin' to write their papers and all."
"How about somebody switching terminals, you know, bouncing around?"
"Well, once an hour I do a head count ... but unless somebody comes
up and asks me for help, I don't really notice. Hmm, there's a lot of modem
traffic lately, have you checked into that?"
"Yes," Rider replied, "but we're looking for someone who most likely
shoulder-surfed some passwords; or, he might have kited accounts that weren't
logged out. Think, now ... anybody?"
"Sorry, sir ... but I'll keep my eyes open."
"Yeah, thanks, just tell your boss, he has our number."
Crenshaw emerged from the storage closet and joined Rider on his way
out of the lab; the indifferent students returned to their typing, and the lab
monitor went back to her pointing and clicking.
Numbers numbers numbers. NiteHack was using them; and in his ransom
note, he seemed to have one in mind: $184,642. It was his bounty, his price
for the encryption key. The figure was absurd--it had to be the sum total of
a lifetime's taxes. But who's, that was the question. Ironically, the only
way to get a match on the dollar figure required the use of the very files
Nitehack had hashed; he had them where he wanted them, and it was a miracle
that the media hadn't caught wind. Rider's cell-phone rang as he climbed
in his car...
"Rider."
"Agent Rider, progress report."
"Yessir. We're pretty sure the perp is not a student--the labs
here are wide open; he must be using stolen accounts, fake IDs on the BBSs,
mirrors, anonymous remailers, you name it--it's a mess. We've questioned the
lab monitors and sys_ops: nothing."
"We figured on that. Keep searching ... we're pretty sure he's in
the area. The shrinks say he's probably 28-56, works a day job, a loner--
the usual complement of anti-social tendencies."
"Gee, thanks, boss. Anything else?"
"Get him, Rider ... even if we pay him off, there's no guarantee
that he'll cough up that key."
Rider folded up his phone and looked at Crenshaw:
"Well, they've ruled out left-handed nuns with astigmatism down at the
home office--otherwise, we're right back where we started from."
Rider's phone beeped again; he pulled it out and listened:
"Incoming data transfer, prepare for download," the message repeated
itself waiting for the return signal. Rider gave Crenshaw a nod toward the
laptop on the seat and booted it up; Crenshaw pulled out an adaptor from the
glove compartment and connected it. After a moment, they both craned to read
the message on the small, greenish screen:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tune In Next Time (ICS 2-6) For The Thrilling Conclusion ....
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
+-----------+
| Last Word \
+---------------+
500,000 sheets of paper, 1.5 million lines of code, and one lone,
daring reader in Egypt. I plan to use all the three figures next Saturday
when the staff of ICS mans a table at the local Earth Day celebration.
Our theme (or excuse for shameless self-promotion) will focus on
"Paperless Publication and the Future of our Forests"; hence the figures.
Over the course of the last two years, we estimate that it would have
required at least a half-million sheets of paper to send all of our
subscribers actual hard-copies of our 'Zine. Wow. That's a lotta trees.
The 1.5 million lines of code refers to the latest version of Word-
Perfect for Windows--that's three times what is required to run the
Space Shuttle while it's in flight. Wow. That's a lotta machine Power.
Our lone, daring subscriber in Egypt (not a place well known for
its intellectual freedom of late) has become almost larger than life
in my mind since I received the terse subscription request a few months
ago. I don't know his or her name, or anything about this reader; yet ...
the medium, the means, and the motion of electrons across cyberspace
has forged this loose (but conscious) tie between me and my unknown brother
or sister. Beyond all differences of faith, philosophy, and "life-styles"
we are inevitably here, *on this planet*, and (alone but) together, we just
may find a way to live with the Earth, instead of just living on it.
Live Well.
-Ed.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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BACK ISSUES: Back Issues of ICS can be FTPed from ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU
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--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
ICSICSICSICSICSIC/ I C S \ICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSIC
ICSICSICSICSICS/ ElectroZine \ICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICS
\ / An Electronic Magazine from
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\ / Gunnison, Colorado.
\ / ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU
\/ '*'
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
ICS Staff Public PGP Key:
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_/_/ _/_/ _/_/_/_/_/
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_/_/_/_/_/ _/_/_/_/_/ _/_/_/_/_/
I n f o r m a t i o n, C o m m u n i c a t i o n, S u p p l y
------------- E l e c t r o Z i n e ------------------------------
********************************************************************************
Established in 1993 by Deva Winblood
Information Communication Supply 05/28/96 Vol.2: Issue 9
Email To: ORG_ZINE@WESTERN.EDU
Visit our Web Pages:
http://www.western.edu/happen/welcome.html
S T A F F : Email: ICS Positions:
============== ============ ==============
Steven Peterson STU000012255 Managing Editor, Writer
Tim Halas STU000058410 Writer ...
Joe Katz STU000051474 Tech Director
Stacey Kuehnel STU000070412 Poetry Editor, Staff Writer
George Sibley FAC_SIBLEY Editing, Faculty Supervisor
Shane Wright STU000076067 Writer, poet, Iconoclast
Others TBA All addresses @WESTERN.EDU
_________________________________________
/=========================================\
| "Art helps us accept the human condition; |
| technology changes it." |
\ - D.B. Smith /
\***************************************/
_____________________________________________________________________________
/ \
| ICS is an Electrozine distributed by students of Western State |
| College in Gunnison, Colorado. We are here to gather information about |
| topics that are important to all of us as human beings. If you would like |
| to send in a submission, please type it into an ASCII format and email it |
| to us. We operate on the assumption that if you mail us something you |
| want it to be published. We will do our best to make sure it is |
| distributed and will always inform you when or if it is used. |
\_____________________________________________________________________________/
REDISTRIBUTION: If any part of this issue is copied or used elsewhere
you must give credit to the author and indicate that the information
came from ICS Electrozine ORG_ZINE@WESTERN.EDU.
DISCLAIMER: The views represented herein do not necessarily represent the
views of the editors of ICS. Contributors to ICS assume all responsibilities
for ensuring that articles/submissions are not violating copyright laws and
protections.
|\__________________________________________________/|
| \ / |
| \ T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S / |
| / \ |
| /________________________________________________\ |
|/ \|
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
| 1) First Word =-= Morphing the 'Zine: the times-are-a-changin'. |
| 2) Three Poems =-= by Tim Halas. |
| 3) New Prejudices =-= by Steven Peterson: Editorial commentary |
| on domestic violence. |
| 4) Parable of the Sower =-= Book Review by Joe Katz. |
| 5) The Naked Moon =-= A Short story by Nicole Catalano: |
| Minimalist fiction from the New American West. |
| 6) Everything is Black =-= 3 poems by Stacey Kuehnel. |
| 7) Terms of Psychic Warfare =-= by Steven Peterson: Editorial |
| commentary on the media's Fellini nightmare imagery. |
| 8) Three More Poems =-= by Shane Wright. |
| 9) The Village of Renola =-= Short Story by Christopher Jones: |
| Life in the Garden; a mythic tale of sorts. |
| 10) Last Word =-= Requiem for a fantastic premise. |
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
+-----------+
| First Word \
+--------------+
Well, friends and neighbors, kind readers and caustic critics . . .
the times, they are-a-changin'. That's right, ICS is about to undergo
a transformation of sorts; in fact, this may be the last issue we
send out in this form.
Sniffle. Before the requiem, let me tell you what's goin' on: last
week, the 'Zine officially merged with the campus print magazine in order
to prevent complete dissolution at the hands of indifference.
The gist of the plot: our once-a-year sorta literary/yearbook magazine,
the "Pathfinder," will produce several electronic issues in the form of
Web documents for public consumption on the Western server; right now,
people are debating whether or not to continue producing an ASCII version
for direct-mailing to folks overseas (I've been leading that battle, but
I'm about to graduate [yeah!], and so I won't be here to force the issue
[boo]).
Anyhow, you should receive some sort of announcement over the summer
or early next fall once the details are hammered out. There's talk of
installing a LISTSERV program, compulsory creative writing classes,
whips and chains in the computer labs . . . ech, who knows?
Enjoy the issue, it may have to last for a while.
I'll save the requiem for the last word . . .
--Ed. >8*)
><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
************************* Poems By Tim Halas ****************************
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Generic Bread and Marshmallows
He cautiously crept up
A burglar with his black mask
Ring-tailed vandalizer of trash cans
Awaiting the mother of domestication
To slide open the door
And toss a scattered bribe for protection
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Christmas Light
Somber shades curtain the living room
Dim rays fade over mother
Christmas is terminally decorated
With a malignant ill-stenched hospital bed
Her cancerous energy clouds the holiday
and my heart grows dim with the room
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tell Tale Shirt
Tattered threads tantalize tales,
That deteriorate into decrepit red and
Ghost green plaid, a few buttons short.
Vacant, yet a vibrant old-timer.
Tender - in the closet of
Lost youth.
--Tim Halas, 1996
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
******************************************************************************
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
New Prejudices _
/|\
+--------------------+ / | \
| By Steven Peterson | /| | |\
+--------------------+ | /|\ |
|/__|__\|
Television, America's great soporific, puts me under again. After
a few hours, the dog wakes me up for her night-journey and I drag my
carcass to the door; the cold air restores my vision. Back on the
couch, I look up in time to catch a psychotic flash: a man, obviously
drunk, is screaming incoherently at a woman off-screen. He is caught
in the precipitous fragment of time before casehardened bones crush
feminine flesh.
A quick cut; the images fade behind a white screen, and a voice
implores us to "stop the domestic violence, call 1-800 . . . Join
the new peace movement." Late at night, during the "ayvil" hours, a
Public Service message tears across the ether like a fugitive demon
from our collective unconscious; with exquisite efficiency, the scene
explodes and unfolds in the viewer's mind: from fifteen seconds, we
infer the series of events leading up to the awful moment.
The clipped image, the truncated drama, the holographic cell of
this message depicts the final stage of an "action-chain" played out
millions of times every year in this nation. Borrowed from ethology,
the science of animal behavior, the term "action-chain" refers to a
set sequence of events in which two or more people participate (for
example: a handshake, courtship rituals, and a divorce all follow a
basic pattern in a culture--actions are taken in a certain order).
Action-chains can be simple, complex or derived (as in the examples
listed above); these patterns saturate human social interaction and
are generally understood implicitly rather than explicitly taught.
The power these chains exert over our lives varies from person to
person and across cultures; our commitment to complete the sequence
is determined by personal, social and emotional contexts. Domestic
violence, the daily transformation of love into hate, occurs in a
bewildering array of permutations; however, from the kaleidoscope
of terror, a symmetry emerges. Microscopically, the pattern mimics
the social progression of apathy leading to violence as defined by
the psychiatrist Rollo May. While May describes our shared reaction
to the Vietnam conflict, he presents a series of stages common to
the new war at home--
The first step, a withdrawal from the active world, is a result
of a failure to alter some existing reality. We do it protect our-
selves from further damage to our egos, our spirit, our flesh. In
domestic terms, communication, the lifeblood of love, stops flowing.
The instinctive reaction sabotages reconciliation; the disruption of
discourse begins, the first link in the chain is forged.
May calls his second stage the "apathy of impotence." Unable to
influence events or share a common semantic, we sink into pits of
despair and frustration. Alienation feeds back on itself; we feel
there is nothing we can do; we've exhausted the easy alternatives
and set the stage for the next step.
Third, the "apathy of hopelessness and despair" presents itself
as a natural consequence of the first two steps in the chain. The
home takes on the bitter flavor of Germany following World War I:
under an impossible burden, we reach for the simple solutions--
anodynes for their illusion of command, tyranny writ small for an
uneasy sense of control.
Finally, one reaches a state of numbness. Completely divorced
from feeling, May states that the "pent-up potentialities turn into
morbidity and despair, and eventually into destructive activity."
Socially, this stage corresponds to the flashpoints of violence in
our lives: In south-central L.A., Watts, and the bedroom, we witness
the often terminal backlash of a process relegated to a portion of
the consciousness over which people have little, if any control.
In American homes, violence two-steps in a macabre dance that
could have been choreographed by the Marquis de Sade. The statistics
are truly shocking: the AMA estimates that almost four million women
are victims of severe assaults in the home every year, others pin the
figure between two and four million; according to police records, at
least 1.1 million assaults, murders and rapes against women were
committed in the home and reported in 1991; in a senate hearing last
June, William Cohen observed that physical violence in America kills
at a rate of sixty-five people a day (six thousand are also injured
on an average day). Cohen notes, with chilling accuracy, that this
is more than twice the casualty rate we sustained at the height of
the Vietnam conflict.
The Public Service message which caught me in the night is no
figment of my imagination: it's part of an orchestrated campaign
to confront the issue by our federal and local governments. In
September of 1994, the Violence Against Women Act was signed into
law by Pres. Clinton as part of a comprehensive crime bill; among
the various provisions, the law pledges $26 million in federal
funding for shelters, hotlines and crisis centers. At the state
level, the current strategy is to enact mandatory arrest laws for
cases of domestic violence; approximately half the states are trying
this tactic with mixed results. Perversely, these laws often result
in the arrest of the victims themselves; however insulting, this
does at least bring people in contact with sources of assistance.
Simple legislation such as this will not solve the problems of
apathy and violent action-chains (we design our institutions to
react, not intervene); however, it's not a bad place to start.
Back on the couch, I reflect: perhaps the tidal wave of domestic
violence is a natural consequence of our social organization and
shared philosophy. In the Western world, we're taught to mold our
reality to suit ourselves--the individual creates his or her own
happiness. By giving free reign to a patriarchal, or male-dominated
scheme of socio-economic organization, females in our culture are
left without any direct means to alter their circumstances; therefore,
they must use indirect methods to achieve change (i.e. the manip-
ulation of men satirized in the media). The psychosocial edge rests
on linguistic prowess; the shrew's tongue serves as a whip for her
mule. Males, despite physical and other advantages, withdraw from
the injury of a "semantic collapse" and begin to follow the chain.
Progressing through the stages of apathy, they are often reduced to
violence as the medium of last resort. In the post-linguistic jungle,
we no longer tame the shrew, we beat her into submission.
A slim ray of hope on the horizon: The anthropologist Edward Hall
notes, "people held in the grip of action chains can never be free of
AC's unless they see them for what they are." The implication is that
there exists the possibility of freedom from our conditioned patterns
of despair and violence; I will leave you with that hope, and a few
addresses and references--use them, please.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
National Victim Center: 2111 Wilson Blvd., Suite 300, Arlington, VA
(703) 276-2880
National Clearinghouse for the Defense of Battered Women:
125 S. 9th St., Suite 302, Philadelphia, PA (215) 351-0010
Family Violence Prevention Fund: 383 Rhode Island St., Suite 304,
San Francisco, CA (415) 252-8900
Hall, Edward. Beyond Culture. New York: Anchor Press, 1976.
May, Rollo. Power and Innocence. New York: W.W. Norton, 1972.
McCue, Margi Laird. Domestic Violence: a reference handbook.
Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-CLIO, Inc., 1995.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
******************************************************************************
Parable of the Sower
A Book Review by Joe Katz
It seems to me that there is a major problem with book reviews.
You spend your time looking through the New York Times Book review.
You find a great book that you must read; except, it says "Viking. $22.95."
So, as any cheap-skated American you say. . . I'll wait for it to come
out in paperback. Well, you know what happens, six to eight months pass
and you say the same thing about ten other books. RIGHT? And when you
do go to the book store, you have forgotten about them and end up buying
the next book in the _Star Wars Trilogy_ So here is what I will do;
I shall give you a review of a paperback. This way, you can go to
the store and pick it up right now. And away we go:
PARABLE of the SOWER
BY: Octavia E. Butler
296 pp New York
Aspect. $5.99 ($6 who are they fooling?)
By: Joe Katz stu0000541474@western.edu
There is more to _Parable_ than just a good story. Octavia Butler is
one of the Best Authors I've read. Every book she writes leaves you thinking
about humanity. I know the genera "science fiction" turns many people off,
but as Octavia Butler says, "I write stories about people; if they want to
call it science fiction, they can." For _Parable_, she has won the McCarthy
Genius award. This prize grants the recipient an undisclosed amount of money
so the "genius" will be able to do whatever they want for three years. As far
as I know, no one who has read this book has hated it. As for me, I've read
it 5 times now and I'm still moved by it.
All that you touch
You Change.
All that you Change
Changes you.
The only lasting truth
Is Change.
God
Is Change
EARTHSEED: The book of the living
These passages are from the opening of _Parable_, a story of a Journey of
spirit and foot. Lauren Olamina is a young African-American girl growing up
in a walled-in cul-de-sac in the suburbs of Los Angeles. This cul-de-sac is
your average lower middle class walled-in neighborhood. Steel gates and
laser-wire, topped with broken glass. Outside the wall, starving people
want in.
Behind these walls, Lauren is growing up. Her father is a Baptist
minister and Lauren, well, she doesn't know what she is. Outside, people
are starving and they use a drug that makes burning things better than an
orgasm. People are burning the cities down. LA hasn't seen rain in six years;
when they finally do, it comes in a hurricane. The only people killed in the
Hurricane were the poor, who had no warning and no way to get out of the city
to safety. Lauren wonders how in god's eyes is it a sin to be poor.
The rich have food and water. The Rich have guards against intruders.
But she is not rich. Every day someone else loses a job in their neighborhood.
Every year, it is harder and harder to pay the property taxes. One day,
they too will be on the streets. And if that day does not come, the people
outside will break in and burn their home down. Her parents, on the other
hand, do not see this. They have the wall, they have guns, they have some
jobs. And this is why, when the walls did break and the Pyro-freaks burned
down their homes, almost no one was prepared.
Lauren with the first idea of Earthseed: she begins her second journey,
the first being EARTHSEED. The second journey covers the highways of
California in quest of a place with jobs, in search of a place where
water is not as expensive as gasoline. And on this journey she will
pick up the first few members of the Church or EARTHSEED.
For Lauren, the god or EARTHSEED is change. Why change?
Change is an idea, not a god, right? Maybe, but with change as a god you
can shape it, nay, you have a duty to shape it. Lauren was prepared to face
the outside world and she shapes it to suit her. Follow Lauren on her journey
of discovery, through the highways of California, through the thoughts of her
mind. Find out where she goes in this brilliant paperback gem (look for a
gleam on the rack).
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)(~)
( ~ )
>> The Naked Moon
A short story by Nicole Catalano
It was a nice night. Probably the nicest during our traveling.
The stars shined their bright lights. The clouds disappeared.
The stranger and I hitchhiked all day. We were tired. Our backpacks
were heavy. Packed with food, water, and sleeping bags. I realized we were
somewhere far different, in another country. In Another country, in another
part of the world, yet, not so remote.
We hiked uphill for the next few hours until we found flat ground to
camp on. The coyotes cried. We were hiking in their territory, their
wilderness. It was dark. All I could see was the stranger's dark figure.
We made our place in the Utah desert. The stars shined bright, like a
planetarium. I removed my backpack with great relief. A burden removed
from my shoulder. The stranger did the same. I smiled. The stranger
smiled. Both of us were hungry.
"What's for dinner?" the stranger asked.
"R-a-v-i-o-l-i." With a sharp knife, I opened the can, poured the
contents into my tin pot and pumped the gas to start the stove. The wind
did not exist that night. It was warm.
I observed the scratches on my legs. Every bush left its mark. My hands
were dirty from climbing rocks. I washed them with water. The stranger
looked around.
"Isn't this beautiful?" the stranger asked.
"Indeed it is." I said.
"This vast land, the red rocks, the landscape, the stars, away from
civilization" the stranger said.
"This is where we belong." I said.
We observed the area. Large canyons, boulders, pinnacles, sand, cacti,
bushes, and great stars encaged us. We discussed how it evolved: great floods,
primitive oceans, ancient lakes, erosion, wind and water. The stranger studied
the sky, then pointed out each constellation. I never got the main idea.
Dinner was ready. We had to share my fork and pot. No plates. No cups.
Simple. I would take a bite. Then he would. Then me again. That's how it went.
We pulled our sleeping bags out and sat on them. They were soft as cushions.
"Where's the moon?" the stranger asked.
"Behind those cliffs." I pointed to the great rigid walls. They were like
a fort around us, protecting us.
I rolled a cigarette with Drum tobacco. I offered my stranger one.
He refused. When I lit it, I saw the fat dreadlocks that framed his face.
His beady eyes startled me. They were calm, beady eyes. The light revealed
the lines that outlined his smile.
We were out where nobody was. It was wonderful. And the stars shone
bright as ever.
"Shall we explore? " the stranger asked.
"Sure. Why not!" I said.
I undressed myself. And so did he. It didn't matter, for, we couldn't see.
We were alone in the wilderness, him and me. I felt one with nature and so
did he. Primitive we were. The way we should be. He would run. Then I would.
He would jump. And so would I. Through the desert. That's how it went.
We were like children playing in the meadows. Free as can be. Free from
society, responsibility, and the world. Free to do whatever we want, according
to mother nature.
I landed in a cactus bush when I jumped. Painful it should be. However,
it wasn't. The pain was great joy. I laughed. So did the stranger. The stars,
too, laughed with me.
Together we ran, trotting through canyons and caves. Pretended we were
primitive men. How fun it was to be naked and running! We picked up rocks and
threw them like animals. We carved stones.
The moon had risen above the canyon walls. Vast light shone throughout
the sky. The stranger revealed himself to me: A young, oval-shaped face, a
wide neck, the muscles in his legs, his well-rounded thighs, his moon shaped
buttocks, a warm belly, a chubby chest, and tensed arms. He was not a stranger
anymore. He frowned.
But he saw me too. I was not in shame. We were humans, primitive men.
Our fun was over, and we closed our eyes.
It was a nice night. Probably the nicest since our travelling.
The stars shined their bright lights. The clouds disappeared.
The moon had risen.
(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\(\*/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)/)
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
{}{}{}{}{}{}{} Everything is Black: Poems by Stacey Kuehnel {}{}{}{}{}{}
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Everything is black
Mist surrounding
Killing off the soul
Deciding it's too
much
All that's left is
the stains on the
wall, the floor,
and the bed.
Left a hole.
A hole that
stained the wall,
the floor, and
the bed.
The crying people
but is all
too bitter.
Seeking out
Finding nobody
to grab on to.
Slipping away
into the sky.
Unable to be seen
Dirt falling into
the hole
So hard to
understand
Into his mouth
it goes
Soon after
leaks onto
the wall, the floor,
and the bed.
Everything goes
away as the
trigger is pulled.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
My mind is filled with sorrow
A sadness I can not hide
Silence
broken away from my
grasp
Have not heard his
sweet words in days
Have not touched his
perfect body in
so long
I hate the walls
This wall needs
to be broken and
become invisible
I can not have a
wall between me
and my mysterious fate
My undetected heart
can not endure any
pain or awayness
Will this torture
end. I do not know
It's so maddening
to think that my fate
may have blown away
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Beware of the image unseen
It haunts and tortures
the bastard, the bastard
that ruins souls, makes
them bleed will die
soon. Will not live.
Hatred growing stronger
taking the place of love
hunger for the smell
of death, hunger for his
painful love. Can't take
this anymore, need to
seek revenge. No one
escapes my wrath of
death. No one doubts
the powers which I
have. Spirits, witchcraft,
demons, I have claimed.
Satan is at my grasp. I am
the only living rose in
his garden of hell, but
I am the rose that
probes one's mind.
Dreams become nightmares
because I am his one
night nightmare. The blood
is on his hand, he
will be so proud of
me. Love, I will never
give none, for my love
has died, died with the
bastard, the bastard that
has no feelings. Believe
he starts to feel it.
Beware of the image unseen
Won't get away from
its deadly freeze. The
coffin will come. This
world will darken.
Darken to my powers
that are slowly seeping
into your soul
for I am the evilest
living bitch that
ever roamed. Sacrifice,
kill, death, kill, love,
kill, The world
My Kingdom
My Domain
--Stacey Kuehnel, 1996
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
*----------------------------*
\ Terms of Psychic Warfare /
\ By Steven Peterson /
*----------------------*
There it is, in the park.
A pale, industrial green howitzer. Next to the sign, about a
hundred yards from the playground: it's a gruesome lawn decoration
for a scary world. Perhaps, on the eve of Earth day, I'll grab my
purple crayon and scrawl "Peace Is Our Profession" on the barrel.
Sardonic vandalism: it's the crime of the nineties. In the war of
all against all, in the armed conflict between ideology and culture,
the danger of lethal symbolic gestures arrives in America.
Airplanes falling out of the sky, toxic clouds in a subway, the
charred, hollow shell of a building: we cannot explain, or accept
the casualties of a diffuse war of the few against the many. Lone
crackpots, religious fanatics and disorganized cults of all stripes
bring the battlefield to our front door; modern Visigoths, in the
tradition of Genghis Khan, practice a futile psychological warfare
across the face of the civilized world.
Modern terrorism defeats our capacity to understand history; we
cannot assimilate the intentional act of haphazard violence to any
of the "natural" archetypes. The essential absurdity, the awkward
and terrible reality becomes emblematic as the mass media saturates
our hypervisual world with an image.
Still frames from a Fellini nightmare: the frontline footage of
fear and pointless death creeps out and covers the pages of history.
Mircea Eliade, one of the foremost scholars in comparative religion,
talks about the "terror of history" in his books and lectures: man,
it seems, has always sought explanations, rationales and mechanisms
for tolerating the "increasing pressure of history." In the archaic,
or traditional societies, catastrophes and military defeats were
tolerated by viewing them as repetitions of actions first performed
by the gods. In a sense, man's suffering and defeats were granted a
symbolic significance against a mythic or religious backdrop (for
example, in Homer's tales, the Greek army pays the price when Zeus
is offended).
Terrorist actions, especially those committed by extremists,
attempt to use the archaic mechanisms for their effect. Listen to
the zealots who shoot doctors or bomb innocents: "I was acting as
an instrument of Allah's (or God's, the people's, my dog's) Will."
The indefensible is interpreted as a sacred or archetypal gesture
in the minds of those who commit atrocities. The burning building,
however, makes a poor substitute for the bush; modern man chooses
to live in history, and so we turn to our reason in the endless
effort to tolerate the terror of history.
Psychology, sociology, anthropology: we draw on the science of
man for an eschatology of the emancipated. Sadly, the theoretical
expertise of the soft sciences is thin gruel for abused souls--the
specific victims (those who lose loved ones) can't take comfort from
the clinical descriptions of sociopathic behavior, and the general
victims (the rest of the culture) feel powerless to use the ideas
of science in any preventive way. In its turn, television draws on
the experts to assemble a "theology of desperation" for stunned
viewers: the prosecution's charge of sanity is challenged by Dr.
Spock for the defense, the cameras roll, and we try to find some
measure of justice in the chaos.
Our efforts, in the end, are doomed to fail: the images of
Oklahoma cannot be reconciled with the story behind them. At most,
we can desensitize ourselves to the horror, we can force ourselves
to look at the carnage day after day on the six o'clock news until
the specters no longer haunt us. Trading our humanity by the pound,
we lessen ourselves by accepting the saturation coverage of horror
by the media. Personal example: a year ago, the image of the Federal
building in Oklahoma hit me hard, hard enough to bring tears; after
twelve months of almost daily exposure to that image, I'm calloused
to it--I can look at it for ten seconds before my stomach turns.
Watching television, reading Newsweek, listening to the radio,
we add black threads to the tapestry of our lives. On the precise
anniversary of the bombing in Oklahoma, our local radio station
gathered sound bytes from the evening news, spliced them together
and played them over Peter Gabriel's song "Red Rain." For a few
moments, I accepted this perverse combination without question:
the lush, sombre melody offered a certain comfort; then, the calm
voices of President Clinton and Peter Jennings undercut the atmo-
sphere and jolted my sensibilities--tragedy told through MTV-style
montages strikes me as another example of purple, sardonic vandalism
scrawled across the edifice of our collective psyche.
As consumers, we can at least slow down the barrage of images:
the media likes feedback. Write letters, call the station manager,
Email them daily--ask them if they really feel that it's necessary
to introduce every story about the tragedy in (fill in the blank)
with the most graphic, disturbing image available. Make frequent
allusions to the "pornographic editing" and sleazy tactics used to
boost ratings; in short, call them on their attempt to pollute the
public airwaves with profitable trash.
Another personal example: last winter, our local television
station was airing a commercial for "Titan: America's Silent Hero"
during the ten o'clock news every night. This ad, which resembles
an outtake from "Dr. Strangelove," fades from an image of children
in a field playing "rockets" to color footage of the real nuclear-
tipped thing.
I Emailed a set of pointed questions to the station, asking
how these ads fit in with their policies and ethics of business;
predictably, they sent no response. However, the ads were pulled
shortly after I sent my note--this may have been coincidental, but
I doubt that they really wanted to face those questions in a public
forum. As with the cockroach, we can drive the morbid image mongers
out from our living rooms by shining a light on them (and perhaps
threatening them with a mallet occasionally).
And while we're at it, we might respectfully contact the local
V.F.W. and ask them to put the war toys away--surely, we can find
a better symbol for their bravery, duty and sacrifice.
Until next time, Live Well.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Some Poems by Shane
-------------------
BIRDS
Why is it that you can get so fond of a beautifull bird that your heart
can hurt if it chooses only to fly in a direction you hadn't expected?
Can't we be satisfied enough in its beauty from afar in flight?
How your soul warms when its flight lands it singing sweetly on
your shoulder.
However, your heart will never grow fonder than the day,
you watch your beautifull bird fly away.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
STARS
Beauty from afar
Is like the beauty of a star
Its light lights up your life
Though it can hurt you like a knife
For as wonderfull as it may seem
To touch it is only a dream
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
LIFE
RIDING WITH THE TIDE
FLOWING WITH THE SNOW
IN LIFE,
A TURN YOU MAKE FOR NO REASON THAN THE SEASON
IS A GLEAM OF PERFECTION
FOR ITS A TURN IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
LOVE
I want to offer much love to the mother of the land.
What you create is so wonderfully grand.
In response to such enchanting days.
I can only offer proper praise.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
>> The Village of Renola
>> By Christopher Jones
The village lay under the bright blue sky and the people of
the tiny community sat in a wide circle facing the man who stood
in front of them. The children stared in amazement and watched as
the tall, mysterious man paced back and forth across the grassy
courtyard. A long, red robe clad his wrinkled body, the skin tan and
course underneath. His feet were clad in brown, leather sandals
and large, yellow toenails were in great need of trimming.
"It was many years ago that we first came to this land and from
it's rich and abundant nature numerous generations have sprung forth.
But, and I am sad to bring this to you right here, right now,
surrounded by the summer and it's warm, inviting wind, but time has
quickly crept up on all of us," the man said, preening his long, gray
beard.
"Our once clean and thriving society has become infected by
treachery, disease, mistrust and corruption." He stopped and looked
hard at the people; several members turned their heads to the ground.
"As I walk through the village every day, I can turn to any
direction and see all of these things sneaking around the corner,
pulling the shades down, and screaming in the night." The eyes of the
children were wide with fear.
"Tomorrow we must manifest and each travel in a direction completely
opposite and away from each other. Nobler peoples have done the same.
We will circle, as we are now, around the perimeter of our village and
begin to take our own separate journeys. The children, though, shall go
out as a single entity, so if they should meet up with another peoples
they might be taken in. It is them, and their innocence, that need to
survive, more so than any of us."
The people's expressions had drooped and many sat there slack-jawed
and openmouthed. A little girl stood up from the crowd. She walked slowly
up to the old man. He eyed her introspectively and had to look down the
bridge of his nose to see her tiny figure. She tugged on his robe and he
knelt down beside her. "I would like to stay here, if I may," she whispered
into his aged ear. He thought about it for a moment and finally rose to
the other villagers.
"It has been decided that Renola will be the only one to remain," he
spoke loudly, "We, though, shall leave early into the meridian and travel
our separate ways. Take with you only the essentials of life, it will be a
long and treacherous journey. Go, now, and sleep; you will need the energy
and spirit." At that, the people slowly rose and returned to the huts. The
little girl stood in the same place and watched the procession. After a few
minutes she sat down and, a little while later, fell asleep. . .
When she awoke in the morning, the entire village had left. A blanket
was wrapped tightly around her body. She stretched her limbs and stood,
brushed the dirt from her downside and looked around. She felt like the
oldest of the village women: proud.
After eating the last pieces of her hidden bread she decided to explore
the surrounding areas. She walked out from the front of the village, and,
to her surprise, found the old wise man digging a hole deep in the ground.
Renola approached from his backside, "What are you doing?" She asked,
causing him to drop his shovel, startling him.
"What am I wha. . .oh . . . I'm digging my own grave. Would you be so
kind as to fill the dirt back upon me once I have finished?"
"Sure," she replied bluntly. She sat down on a small pile of grass and
watched the man.
"Thank you so much," he replied and began digging again. When the hole
was finally deep enough the man crumbled to a sitting position, gasping for
breath.
"Well," said the girl, "jump in."
The man sat silently, looking up to the sky, "It's only my duty," he
said after a short time, "It may be the second grave I've created, but it
was my courtyard; I should have the honor of remaining in the same ground
that I tread across each day of my life. I hope you have a pleasant time
looking over it." He stood up, held out his arms, and dropped into the
scarred earth. Renola picked up the shovel and went about filling and
packing.
When she awoke the next morning, a fabulous tree was growing from the
grave site. It's leaves were made of green sparkles and voluptuous yellow
fruit dangled from the growing limbs. The tree glowed a brilliant orange
and it heightened every second.
Renola ran into the jungle to escape the gigantic, spreading growth
until, finally, it stopped. She approached it cautiously. With short
steps, she carefully made her way to the mighty trunk. She put her shaky
hand to it and from the high limbs a child from the village landed at her
feet. He let out a loud, high-pitched yowl and from the lower branches
the other children began climbing down. . .
That starry evening the children danced around the glowing tree and
gave praise to the warmth and protection it showered upon them. Life under-
neath the leaves and limbs was mostly good and fair, although a few of the
children tried taking an ax to its trunk; others tried desperately to corrupt
it; the sick ones would slice deeply into their arms and bleed onto its
twisted roots; but these children were sent away, each time in a different
direction . . .
`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Christopher Jones, 1996 =-=-=-=-=-=
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
+----------+
| Last Word \
+-------------+
What a ride.
For the last three years, I've lived a writer's dream.
Talk about a premise: free access to a world-wide press with over
seven hundred readers in thirty different countries. Growing up, that
was science-fiction; going to college, it became a reality. And I have
to thank you, the audience, for making it happen.
I also have to thank Deva Winblood, the founder of ICS and Gonzo
VAX programmer who wrote the programs we've used to mail this ambitious
adventure out around the world. Then there's the good folks down at our
local computer services office--uh, Wes, we seem to have a problem . . .
And we can't forget all the writers and former staff members; without
them, the 'Zine wouldn't have had the style and panache required for
life out on the edge of the envelope.
What can I say about George Sibley, our steadfast faculty advisor
and my own personal mentor? Most of you will never meet him, but trust
me--his heart regularly threatens to overflow the vast expanse of the
Gunnison valley with tender warmth and humane understanding. He also
has the sort of mind which acts like a whetstone on young brains--
we all became a little sharper from rubbing against him.
Writers are like milk, in a way. We take on the flavor of those around
us, a topnote from those we read and meet, and motivation from those we
love and hate. Some people say that George is an acquired taste; me, I like
the subtle soupcon of Sibley which creeps into my work from time to time.
And besides that, he's the only one around here who _always_ gets my jokes;
What more could you hope for in a mentor? Thanks, George. For everything.
Sniffle.
I'm really going to miss this; after graduation, it'll have to be about
money and movie-rights and all that, at least to some extent. Ultimately,
I can't bring myself to go through the blood and sweat and real tears of
good writing for anything so petty as greenbacks--it's gotta be done out
of love, a transcendent love for my fellow human, or it ain't worth it.
There it is. It may sound a little sappy, but it's the truth. I write
to express my reverence for the nobility each of us carries within; this
is the key of my personal philosophy, and a window to my tarnished soul.
Thanks for the ride, people. And expect a note from the next generation.
--Ed. Steven Peterson
B.A. English '96
>;*)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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ICS Staff Public PGP Key:
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# ICS
Information, Communication, Supply (1993-1995)
## FILES
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/ICS/ics1-01 [ 58347] Information, Communication, Supply Volume 1 Issue 1 (January 29, 1993)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/ICS/ics1-02 [ 73231] Information, Communication, Supply Volume 1 Issue 2 (March 1, 1993)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/ICS/ics1-03 [ 68174] Information, Communication, Supply Volume 1 Issue 3 (March 29, 1993)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/ICS/ics1-04 [ 76355] Information, Communication, Supply Volume 1 Issue 4 (March 20, 1993)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/ICS/ics1-05 [ 62210] Information, Communication, Supply Volume 1 Issue 4 (October 5, 1993)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/ICS/ics1-06 [ 59126] Information, Communication, Supply Volume 1 Issue 6 (October 5, 1993)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/ICS/ics1-07 [ 67304] Information, Communication, Supply Volume 1 Issue 7 (November 16, 1993)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/ICS/ics1-08 [ 65645] Information, Communication, Supply Volume 1 Issue 8 (October 5, 1993)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/ICS/ics1-09 [ 74729] Information, Communication, Supply Volume 1 Issue 9 (March 29, 1993)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/ICS/ics1-10 [ 61379] Information, Communication, Supply Volume 1 Issue 10 (May 17, 1994)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/ICS/ics2-01 [ 61735] Information, Communication, Supply Volume 2 Issue 1 (August 28, 1994)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/ICS/ics2-02 [ 75902] Information, Communication, Supply Volume 2 Issue 2 (October 18, 1994)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/ICS/ics2-03 [ 70373] Information, Communication, Supply Volume 2 Issue 3 (November 29, 1994)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/ICS/ics2-04 [ 73218] Information, Communication, Supply Volume 2 Issue 4 (February 6, 1994)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/ICS/ics2-05 [ 48667] Information, Communication, Supply Volume 2 Issue 5 (March 20, 1995)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/ICS/ics2-6.txt [ 57511] Information, Communication, Supply Volume 2 Number 6 (May 18, 1995)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/ICS/ics2-7.txt [ 55517] Information, Communication, Supply Volume 2 Number 7 (October 19, 1995)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/ICS/ics2-8.txt [ 66989] Information, Communication, Supply Volume 2 Issue 8 (December 18, 1995)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/ICS/ics2-9.txt [ 45117] Information, Communication, Supply Volume 2 Issue 9 (May 28, 1996)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/ICS/icsbestof93-4.txt [ 150021] Information, Communication, Supply: The Best of 1993-1994