From: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
Subject: ‘no no no. there are Things i have to DO HERE.’ no no no no. four visions you no-good-bastard.
Date: November 3, 1998 1:08:42 AM PST
To: exit2k@hotmail.com, afw10@columbia.edu, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sowinski@inetdirect.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, and 24 more…
remember: when it’s comming down it’s sometimes best to go with it.
the boy turned to me
[we’d been setting like that for a good hour or so: my arm round his shoulder my other hand on his chest… all relaxed, like]
and he felt compelled to tell me a story about his child-hood
“why, you’re barely just a child as it is” i would have exclaimed, had i the inclination. but he knew my intentions and wasn’t hurt nor perplexed by my falisites. he continued on.
he had a voice like one i don’t think i could ever describe.. maybe just the path he took to find it. it was a sort of voice you might get if you imagined the way a voice Should sound… but got all worried about someone thinking you might be faking it so ye had to change it a bit so it didn’t sound like something that might be perfectly fit into a film or a song or a monologue or the like.. a voice that might shift a bit after you’ve heard it… not because it was trying to, but because it’d spent so much time trying to sound LIKE something that it didn’t really know what it sounded like ney more and it had to just carry on as it would.. as if you were hearing from a large group of people from all over the world who all seems slightly confused as to WHy they’d be talking with you anyway; the voice that boy had…
he used this voice to explain that when he was still just a child he found that he had to lie about some of the things he thought and did or he’d get in trouble. he said there were people out there that could tell if you did things right or wrong if you were lying to them… he said the only way you could protect yourself against the people out there who were trying to find you out was to Be what it was you were talking about. if you say something you’d better be it or they could see the trembling inconsitancies on your little face. he said he always looked for people’s quivering lips and chins… eye-brows too.
he told me that in all this lying he found himself forgetting what it was that he was or did or said or anything… not that he had a Bad memory, but because he had to … Change the things he had in his mind, lest anyone follow the path-ways of his eyes back into the silent rooms where he committed what ever it was that he’d done and needed NOt to have done.
he knew what he should or shouldn’t do: he’d heard enough people say it over and over…
that’s another thing he said… he told me that people will repeat things if they aren’t happy with your very self. he said they’d look at you a bit funny and say the same things over and over as if YOu were the one that was crazy.
well, he let me know, when the world treats you like you’re crazy then you must be crazy.
he said he took all of his father’s drill-bits and studied them.. seeing what would happen if his father wanted to release evil spirits from his skull… surely a crazy and bad boy would need that done to him… he said he always had to forget that fact or someone would see it in him. he told me he was always very frightened about lombotomies even before he knew what they were called.
he told me a story, in that dim and smoky light, about the time that his uncle had given him a key… a whole string of keys, in fact…enough to get out of ANYTHING… well, the boy knew about getting out of things, really, he did… and he looked at all these keys.. and one of them, his favourite, was a green key. he told me he held onto that key on a key-chain of its own. he said it was special. it was a blue plastic key-chain and a green metal key. he told me that he never let that one out of his pocket even though his brother was always taking his other keys: his brother was always taking his stuff.
well, one day… he can’t really remember that one day… he said he’s not sure of it being on account of something happening that day that he had to dis-remember or on account of that light. see, he told me that the green key he had was THE way out. he said that the key-holes seemed to be everywhere and all you needed to to was stick the key in and it’d open up THE way out and you could just go right through. he’d decided, he supposes, and he closed the door on the place where he didn’t really stay: it was a guest room at the time, he liked spending time in there where he felt more comfortable. well, he put that key in its hole and he flew across the room and hit the wall with a “thump”. he told me his mother said it was a “thump” so he knew it was a “thump” coz she was never too worried about dis-remembering things to make sure she knew what she was talking about because she hardly ever new what she was talking about anyway.
he said that THAT means he can’t leave yet… not until he can find another green key to get him out…
so, in that position, as the boy was still turned slightly toward me, enough to see half of his face shadowed by the direct lighting, i wanted to ask him about the rest… i wanted him to explain to me what it was like being like that. speaking like that.
i kissed him on the forehead because the poor little tike looked a bit sleepy and i didn’t want to put him out or anything like that. i let him rest and listened to the steady mumbling that poured out from his trembling lips as the sun rose for the rest of our day together. i watched the expressions change on his face from one boy to man to another and his syster or mother.. his look of total abandon and then pleading
as if
just now
he might have found what it was he thought he might want .
From: houseofthe2palms@hotmail.com
Subject: deep curtains
Date: November 3, 1998 12:02:15 AM PST
To: exit2k@hotmail.com, afw10@columbia.edu, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sowinski@inetdirect.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, shorning@willamette.edu, gbrennan@willamette.edu, emcgarry@willamette.edu, and 22 more…
if no beginning again,
all pockmarks allowed
having to ask a quest
ion: takeit like a pill
is there a name for the self refrential portion of shakespearian
[or any] plays: youknow, where all the characters watch
their charicatures act out the larger twisting plot their stuck in:
r&j:: hamlet::
where they might catch a glimpse of themselves, even the actors
feeling their faces melt onto fellow actors play at actorsacting:
where the plotpath is
[simplified][generalized][encapsulated][cycling][hinted],
the plays motivators
disappearing in the onstage courttheater of saidking distracted by
murders
done deals.
done
with
‘theatertricks.’
is there a name i can use for the puppetshow portion, now that a
curtain has dropped on stage,
but hasnt sealed the 3rd space entirely,
protecting it from applause?
or
maybe anader question for someones fumbling hand:
can we write a list of the VILLIANS who could only see their tortures as
a gift:
giving the other one, the VICTIM, the opportunity VILLIAN was never
given.
or [maybe] just not enough of, regularly.
ready to cry,
happy to hurt:
i speak as
Hello&Mole.
“oh hello mole”
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