Uncategorized

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”

From: afw10@columbia.edu
Subject: A lack; space; a delusion
Date: November 2, 1998 2:40:49 PM EST
To: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
Cc: exit2k@hotmail.com, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, shorning@willamette.edu, and 4 more…
reply why not–bored at “(Wor(?)k:
and love, o love and love
and fucking and fucking and fucking
loneliness
obsession
no thoughts from me (hee) missing past cherryiats; rather agitated
stumble to where—there some place building warmth no duty possibly; but
rather rancid stench of ittie bittie poochie turds built up by rising
gentry rising fast up to even this height of man-hat isle: and putrid,
with riverside steeple a-shining—-must turn back
fuck place: prefer the tremors and ensuing (but aka ‘known’)
depression: back to the trusty couch where free to twitch moan jump
and scream
stare dep into the spoon’s eye:
—–do i think i completely rinsed the bastard
veins bursting with air
enter darkness trauma:
drunken serbians tumbling around
haunted by alternative endings for oscar awarded shit
k’tonka, k’tonka:
they felt the punctures repurcussing
k’tonka
k’tonka
streams of deadened bufalo
streams of post-haste shit
and cum that can’t believe to leave
rises again
o but that love and fucking and loneliness and obsession
but it will still be thought of now and now andnownownownownownow
but you know that whole line—-can’t think to avoid it
the dreams, but i am not yet asleep
but this night finally:first dream
the elevator;theprojects;7th&D
that first sweet spoonful straight off train skip down escalator jump into
restroom pop and rekindled
o i loved her and him and you:
but now

From: exit2k@hotmail.com
Subject: less than a cheerleader, more than an answer
Date: November 4, 1998 12:25:18 PM EST
To: afw10@columbia.edu, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sowinski@inetdirect.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, shorning@willamette.edu, gbrennan@willamette.edu, emcgarry@willamette.edu, gdelling@willamette.edu, and 21 more…
and i Wish i had that many nouns! but, alas,
practice makes perfect, and someday my verbs will add up to something.
i think they’re up to something.
i think now, even, when no one is looking.
so i have a question —
Excuse me. I have a question.
I don’t understand. Why.
I’ve never understood why, but I came my own answer and it stuck,
you know, sticky and all [giggle]
and I kept it till it dried. I had to admit
with the lack of babies
that my answer was mine and I
don’t understand.
feeling weak, maybe queasy,
early morning,
still ill.
but bearing with me …
So I don’t understand.
I’m on a list of names and addresses, a list which has been given to me.
This list, were it to get into the wrong hands …
We could all be killed.
We could all be written to.
We could all be remembered, later, when it’s over and we are ashamed.
Black list.
Good list.
Santa’s list.
Chimney: :
: :
: :
: WHY :
: ARE :
: YOU :
:DOING:
:THIS?:
:”””””:
if you leave the fire on at night santa dies.
You send a message in a bottle:
No.
You send a bunch of messages in a bunch of bottles:
No.
You send the same message in forty different bottles, one for every name
you tried on and it didn’t fit and you ended up on the desert i–
No:
You send all our names in the bottle, and then you don’t send it. You
make magic.
You conjure us into your bottle, green genie grey, and we dance for your
delight. Forty days and forty nights he wandered in the desert, and the
devil tempted him and he refused. We surround you.
This is what I really see.
You brought us all together. Reply All you said. You brought us all
here for the purpose of watching you. We have booths. We can’t see
each other unless we speak to you. It’s a complicated multimedia
installation. It would be a community except it’s like the spokes of a
wheel and you maybe didn’t mean to be the hub but it’s important that
you pay attention to little
details
like that and not get carried away and think that oh
i know them all
they should know each other
cuz we don’t, even if we all think we’re pretty.
This is public speaking. I’d like to thank you all for coming out
tonight, in honor of our hub, Dominic. Dominic, come on out! Everyone,
let’s have a big round of applause for our Dominic! Yay!
and he stumbles out onto the stage, half-drunk, eyes rolling wildly. he
can barely walk, he trips on himself, he can’t speak. he gesticulates
wildly, inbetween trying to wipe something sticky off his chin. he
isn’t afraid, he isn’t ashamed. he just has no idea what to say except
everything and that would take so long.
but we wait, we’re patient.
we surround you, in a circle, and we approve. you twitch and stumble,
gag and scream, and we approve.
We all love you, Dominic. We always will.
we approve, you gain approval. you continue struggling, and eventually,
on the strength of our approval your confidence rises and rises, you
start dancing, you’re amazing, we clap again, a miracle has taken place,
you save the world, etc. THE END
except it probably wont happen that way, and I don’t know why there is a
list. I don’t know why you brought us all together, and I’d like to
think it’s not for approval, but then I’m so confused because what’s it
for. Just eyes? Understanding?
Anyone can watch.
No one will ever understand.
are you looking for an answer? you couldn’t be so foolish.
but if you were, why would you be looking to everyone except the one who
knows you best? it’s an old trick, and i’ll pull it again.
why don’t you ever read anything you write?
why don’t you follow your own damned advice?
You seem scared. It seems like, if you don’t do it fast and hard and
all the time you’ll stop and you’ll never do it again, never anything,
nowhere. It seems like that’s stupid, and you’ve made us your familiars
in a black magic spell
I’m a rat can type.
You’re a rat can type.
i had a dream about white rats last night they were bigger than our cat
they were from need you tonight they were named plague
Do you exist when no one is looking?
Do you exist when less than forty people are looking?
How did you make the list? Do you know if anyone is enjoying it?
I’m enjoying it. But I can’t help but criticize.
This is public speaking. Hello, ladies and gentlemen, I’m here to ask
you all why we are here, who you are, what I’m doing here, and why we
don’t all leave. I’m been very ill for a few days, so I’m shaking a
little and I think I need to go back to bed, or at least eat breakfast.
Thank you for your time.
Mr. Eli, signing off.

From: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
Subject: currencies in drinks: a screwdiver. a bloody mary. a shot of jagermister. [3]
Date: November 2, 1998 11:41:20 AM PST
To: exit2k@hotmail.com, afw10@columbia.edu, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sowinski@inetdirect.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, and 24 more…
cold morning. cold enough so the throat is sore.
still in the fuzzy stages
knowing that boy, in the bunks down the way… one set under and at least 30[20(10)] dream-feet away. he’s clutching his groin like he were a woman. i thought he was a woman, the way he was clutching himself like that… the sound of them fucking woke me up and the way he was sobbing and clutching like that i thought the other guy’d just been too big for her. but it was a Him… and that changed everything… as his cupped hands moved away from his penis and tried to comfort his ass, he sobbed and writhed. his face glossy in the dim light of the morning. the hard-wood and dull colours only enhancing how distant and alone he was.
the many who fucked him into this state was angry as hell and buttoning his pants a few feet away. then further. he’s gone now.
i remember a bit ago when his ass was pushing in the way a fucker’s ass would push into that girl’s body [i tought he was a girl then]. hshe was writhing even then, little whimpering sounds you’d hear from small puppies needing milk with no eyes to get it.
and it’s a cold morning: i can tell.. my throat is hurting in the man i’m in bed with is moving around as men do in the morning. i know what he wants because i haven’t been giving him any. i’ve been sleeping in. since i’ve stopped taking all those drugs [all of them] my mind has become a much more frightening place to be. maybe i only thing this because i’ve been on holiday from there… but i’m certainly comming back now. maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with the drugs… it could be the atmosphereic pressure of fall forcing Back into my head.
regardless of WHY, my dreams have been knocking on my walls. they’ve been forcing me to pay attention.
just before the boy got… raped, as he did, we’d all been driving away from where we’d been… back to our bunks, that is. we’d all been at this old house in the country. a place of making noises, i guess. where someone used to be: now there was just us. an old theater in the morning light. next to: sun setting. emptying out through the wooden doors; all lights being extinguished.
his hand is on my cock. my mouth is so dry. he’s writhing like that and you can almost feel him SUCKING on you. his legs, his hand: they’re sucking on you. then his mouth… at least that’s a standard… most people just Suck with their mouth.
maybe i should do something for him, he’s been really … useful,helpful,something to me since i’ve been here. he’d said “i’m thinking about my cock in your mouth” but that dream. oh, fuck that [i’m not having sex as a favour right now]<<
but now he's thrown a leg over my body and he's trying to make his cock something appealing… something i'd WANT to put in my mouth. my mouth which is so dry… my tongue moves around clumbsly inside. from tooth to tooth and wall to wall. i can hear it sifting through the night's sleep. i try and get the saliva working.
and i can still enjoy his body… if only he wasn't in his cock right now… and i can still enjoy his cock.. if only that wasn't IT. and he's pressing it into my face; i hold it under my chin. i let it in. just a little, just the head. but he's forcing it in and i hate when they try and "fuck" my "face".
i make every inch of my body a message saying "fuck you, tiger" i cum on his back and he comes on my chest.
too many things like this and i'll be a fucking monk again…
the way that boy was clutching like that.
i've got to go<<
one of my reactions now-a-days is to cover my mouth.
i find i'm doing this all the time.
— there i am smiling, looking in the mirror with a hand across my mouth.
— there i am talking with someone as my shoulders jerk up and i'm slightly turning away; hand comming up to stop my teeth from showing.
— i'm talking to you, but you can only see part of it.
say you're with a construction worker.
say you've got a lot of work to do
and HE's saying something about the Lord.
ok, say you're in a BAR. say someone's made the kind move of takin you out Drinkin.
say they've taken you to not One, but Two bars.
one.
two.
ok.
so you're in the second bar and it's not really ok.
you try and explain this at one point
but he just buys you another drink.
"whattaya want?"
one.
two.
you get bad cigarettes and someone tells you
the first thing to escape their stone face
"those things'll kill you"
and you'd like to let him know that you know that.
you'd really like to let him know that you know that and have known that for a long time
but what happens if you join the long ranks of What She Said?
she, she's up on stage tonight. she's being a bitch tonight. she's walking around tonight. she's a real slut, and i mean that dearly. she's a whore in heals, rubber insoles… if it matters.
say you're in a bar
and it's gone on quite long enough
and you have to take to walking.
Imagaine this is the time you go for a walk.
you're there with friends and it's time to stroll around because it's getting a bit heavy [or some such inadequate adjective].. maybe it's the lights or the music or the people who won't look at you. don't know.
walk out of one room and so obviously into another.
past the table.
past the doors.
do your business and think about leaving…
[they're talking about someone at the urenals.. is it you? is it me? arrrgh, cover your mouth]
you're out the door again and you decide to stop and talk to someone you've been looking at for various reasons… reasons, you know: reasons.
it's "Hello. paul. aaron." and some other one: you can't recal his name… but he's the one you left with.
ok.
so you're in a fucking Bar. two of two: this is your second time at bat for the evening. two of two, right: you're in a bar and you're doing what you think you're supposed to do. there's steam on the windows and the lights are that nasty yellow… that colour that seems to make everything a complete waste.
bruce
his name was bruce, i remember. at the table, first person you got a name from, kid.
corner of 51st, in the rain outside the bar.
no
at the table
slight accent
frizzy hair up-top
longish goatee
hey, what was it? brown.
his name was bruce.
he said he was a contruction worker and he talked about the lord at some point… some point. something about a construction worker and something about me saying 'are you constructing your own reality?' something about the
and they have houses.
right, i was telling this story to someone about bruce.
bruce was introduced to me by julie… this girl that this one woman predicted i'd meet… it was all very important..
bruce used to work in a mental hospital… then they diagnosed him as severly manic depressive and he left…
we got on well. i was 17 and he was in his mid-twenties and
we drank a lot
we sang pulp together
i don't know if he's still alive
but i'd guess
that when this man said his name was bruce
[bruce, paul, aaron]
that he'd know better…
we're kindrid, our names…
we hang out… we're all in a club.
go ask dave
or jeff
for that matter…
the evening wasn't going too well
i remember laughing and saying something to the guy i was with about how i didn't work well in bars.. and this drag show that was going on..
these people…
i didn't
ok
bruce.
bruce in the car. not on the streets of england.
we didn't have a bottle of vodka this time
it didn't happen like that
not that well and not that majestic.
it was shit dance music
it wasn't classy pop songs pulped out into metaphors for your sorry existance
it was two men in a bar:
"So, this guy walks into a bar and he's been drinking already and i guess he's kinda fuct up ANYWAY and he's in this bar now and he's with soemone else who keeps buying him drinks that mainly feature vodka except one of them was a shot of jjaaaasaggggerrrmiiister.. which can cause problems with this guy who's a little fucctup. this guy walks into a bar and, we'll say, ends up at this table with three men now. well, he's the other. so there are four things at this table right now… he'd seen more and less.. and the guy that the cute twint was bouncing on is right there. he says 'hello' says 'my name is bruce' and the other says 'paul' and, ov course, there's aaron… who doens't introduce himself until paul already has. this guy walks into a bar and stands at this table looking at the three men there. well, one's a man, the other is a kid and the other is a queen, goatee and all. they're cute, you know, like the kind you'd want in a bar if you wanted to"
so, what do you do, then?
i'm all curious: you go to a bar and what are you supposed to do?
you drink?
are you supposed to fall over and wake up?
are you supposed to get coffee afterwards?
you're in a bar: are you supposed to remember it when you DO wake up?
is it worth it? come on, you know what i'm asking…
ok, say you're talking with someone
you like their smile
they have such a nice chin… delineated like that with their beard
like that
you like that
kinda
i mean
what's the point here?
am i picking you up?
ok
so a guy walks into a bar
look:
i'll tell a joke
' a guy walks into a bar and he stands at a table til he decides to sit and they get up, the contruction worker and this GUY like they're going to go build something, right? they jump this barricade… well the guy does… and they get yelled at so they leave the joint and they're outside. yeah, the man left the bar. fuck the bar: he just drank too much anyway. so a guy and this construction worker walk out of a bar (don't ask) and they're in the rain. what happens? ok the guy and the happy worker get a bit wet and walk around for a bit; stand on the corner of 51st and confusion to sit in the front seat [driver and passenger] of an old car. ish. kinda stationwagon thing. and then, like i said, the windows are all steamy and they're doing something in there. right, two guys walk out of a bar and they spend a good hour or so trying to get rain inside a car. the back seat. two guys trying to make rain '
[laughs]
now i'll have to catch a cab
coz the guy i came with isn't here anymore
and i'll tell him something when i get there
i'll tell him anything
it doesn't matter.
this night or the next.
it's LOve, you know
like picking someone up in a park, you know
like a million years with your lover
sugar, sugar honey
with your lover.
when he asks you for something
or if he'd like to see you
like that guy at the truck stop..
like if he'd like to see you
you don't know.
you don't know what to do about the future
not like this
not like fucking this.
you don't know if you should find another car
one with more heat
like two guys trying to make it rain
or just a room.
maybe you should find a room where no men can get in
when the rain comes down…
pretty safe in a desert, i'd say…
but who's to tell?
if you got a window
you gotta door
and people do the meanest things when they really set their minds to it…
i mean
if they put some effort into it
if they love you enough
they'll get inside
you know the feeling
you can't be alone
not even if you make rain for an hour in the back seat of something like a station wagon in a city you don't live in behind a bar you've only been in after the others you've walked out on with the people who always bring you there where they think they'll make you happy or focus on having a good time and the conversations aren't restless in the fading of a thought from alcohol and nicotiene or thc and opium like newspapers and television if you have enough to think about so you're busy as a bee making the world sweet and having it taken from you but you don't have any other function coz you love the queens and you wanna be good so you walk into these bars intoxicated on confusion and having some ideas that seem like good ideas and having some ideas that turn into action before they make it across your lips in the safety net of words
the action takes you
til you need a taxi to get back home
where you can fall asleep with your clothes on
and wake up
like usual, you know
just with a secret history
and draw out some conclusion
from being without a "someone"
on a rainy afternoon.
these are the times we could be together
my darling little boy…
when you get tired of all this walking in the rain
we'll sit and keep eachother warm
i'm here again
i'm here again
i'm waiting for you to come back
i'm busy
i'll be round in a minute

From: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
Subject: redispersments
Date: November 2, 1998 11:40:11 AM PST
To: exit2k@hotmail.com, afw10@columbia.edu, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sowinski@inetdirect.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, and 24 more…
i know some of you have these already… but you have them AGAIN now.
you can give one away to your friends…alright
[he said]
1
2
alright
[he said]
one two
one two.
breathe
[he said, and took it upon himself to come up with a distraction]
one
two.
one two
[he thought, he kept it inside]
wait
[he noticed, and opened the book]
adverts
title
adverts
copy RIGHTs
dates
codes
title
authour
preface.
[he breathes.
you know the drill:
its
in
then
out
it may get tiring
it may be what we have to do
but all things can change]
wait
[he said]
one
TWO
one TWO.
i’m here again
[he knows: it gives him comfort]
my SOCKS!
[he screamed, though it never passed his lips]
i still have them on;
they’re WHITE.
funny…: i never noticed.
:
there was a time
[he remembers, it’s part of being human]
when i didn’t care about my socks.
i wore white socks.
i didn’t care about my socks.
i distinctly remember having white socks
supplied by my mother
no importance, you understand: just function.
[he breathes]
i distinctly remember black dress pants
slacks, if you will
(see, i never could… not then)
i can’t remember my stomach though
[he stops; puts his hand to his mouth…
tell me if he’s laughing
he might be trying to cry.
but maybe he’s just waiting
oh yes.
that’s it.]
wait.
one two.
one.
two.
wait.
[you could call it a sigh; he prefers ‘exhale’]
wait…
i’m getting to it
[another of those noises]
when i…
i can’t remember my stomach.
i was younger.
i ate less.
i was thinner..
or more muscular..?
no
i was dead.
forget it.
i had this body but i wasdeadandwhocouldsee?Ididn’t care.
oh shit
[he stops.. .has to think about this one.
we make mistakes… he and i… we do. see. get it? he and I?
(laughs)
we all make mistakes]
i’ve forgotten.
i once said… when i was younger
that life WOULD get easier…
but only as i got …
less able to cope.
less able to deal with living…
AS my mind deteriorates due to time and drugs and air
(coke cans, television, computers; bad conversations)
life will get easier because i won’t be able to think as well…
i’ll have to change my perspective to compensate for that
and i’ll just think things have got simpler
and they will…
i guess.
[he stops… he has to do this.]
wait
[exhale]
wait.
maybe i’ve got something really important to say.
ok.
let’s pretend i don’t leave this time, eh kid?
[no, that won’t do]
no, that won’t do… i already have.
where am i?
fuck…
where am i?
ok.
let’s pretend…
no, that won’t DO.
ok.
no.
it’s not OK.
i’ve left.
i’d say ‘i’m sorry’ but i have never found that to really do any good…
like saying “i love you”
or
rather
“I love you”
[he so whittingly scoffs]
that is…
[he stammers]
it doesn’t express what i need it to express…
this machine will… will not communicate…
[he took from his friend thom…;thom has only seen him twice.
probably]
no
these WORDS aren’t going to do it for me
sorry DEAR.
you SAID to me that “sorry” doesn’t mean anything if you say it all the time
you said
“stop saying ‘sorry'”
it wasn’t enough
it was never enough
maybe it was one of my earliest lies…
maybe i didn’t know what “sorry” was…
i’m so sorry…
i’m so..
look, i love you
[he taught himself]
i’ve never said that before
[i whisper it all the time]
nothing is true anymore.
there are no more absolutes
[you fool]
i’ve never said ‘ i love you ‘
i’ve never heard ” i love you ”
i’ve never seen :i love you:
my heart is dead and gone.
[inhale]
wait.
[one two.]
one
two.
wait.
i’m sorry.
wait.
[he’s so shy]
wait.
you haven’t the time, have you?
i’m sorry.
i’d like to make myself worthy of your time.
i’d like to be the one you’d come to
coz you needed me
but then you did.
well YEAH, but
[sigh]
yeah,,, but.
i’m DYING here…
there’s a WALL
you keep telling me about it
but don’t forget i’m on the other side of it
and i’m COLD and i don’t know how to get out
you keep telling me
you can see it
you can’t see me.
you don’t…
you can’t even touch me.
i’m cold.
i’m trapped in here.
[he’s also learning the lessons of desperation
he has a learning dis-ability.
he learned he could call it that
now he doesn’t know what IT is.]
wait.
ok.
let’s try again.
Hello. My name is Jeff. i’m not from around here, and i love you.
[he stole that too: this isn’t going anywhere]
hello.
hello.
i’ll go back again.
hello: i am alone here. i know i don’t have to be… but you’re not comming to me. Hello. i’m tired here. i’m a youthful boy but i’m scared. hello: i’m alone here and i’m calling out for you. hello: might we introduce ourselves? i don’t know your name. Hello: my name isn’t that well known either: i just have this shoddy one that was given to me… it makes me a killer. it makes me a dominator. hello: i still hate myself… but i don’t believe i’m that person. hello: i want to get out of here. i’m still here. hello. hello. i’m trying. i’m listing: i swear. don’t go. hello. i mean, HEllo. i’m here. i’m waiting for you to climb over. HELLO… i’m standing here with a dust-jacket on, hard-hat, gloves, jumpsuit, goggles. hello: where’s your hammer? where’s your fist? where’s your heart? hello: i don’t belive you, i don’t trust you, i can’t see you. hello. i’m cold. this isn’t helping, i’m alone here. look: i’m trying; my throat’s bleeding. i’m cold. HELLO
HELLO
HELLO
hELLO.
i’m tired.
i’m wishing i could do it again.
hello
i love you
and i don’t even know your name
isn’t that enough?
isn’t that enough?
can’t i stop worrying about my socks?
my voice?
they way i’d like to sleep tonight?
can’t i just be quiet, bite my tongue right off?
hello
i’m sorry
i never meant a thing
i’m in the corner
i’m waiting for you
i’m crying in my sleep.
like i said: it’s cold here, all the lights have gone out. remember: it’s dark.. black on the inside and out. we can’t get through. we’re stuck. like i said: there’s a wall. i’ve learned a lot from you and you made me want to die. i’m sorry, what an excuse. i love you. i’ve learned a lot from you; you make me want to die. i’d like to meet you. i’d like to touch you. i’d like to be alive.
my hands are broken.
my head is broken: there’s a million places to go
who’s screaming loudest?
i can’t hear you…
i just want to be home.
but know i love you
and i want you
like i could want myself
i love you
and i’m waiting
til i think i’m worth enough
i love you
i need you
more than you probably know
but i can’t say it
and i can’t do it
i’m trapped behind this wall.
[i remember him so quiet. not like he was keeping it inside: it was practicle. see, he’s gotten me into this Rhythm-thing and it fucks up the words. i’ve got to breathe… to say: i remember when he was younger… and he thought he was so old. or maybe that wasn’t him… he can’t remember anymore. i remember him, so quiet, sitting by a wall. on top or underneath: he liked those things, you know. he had his reasons… built them up strong… high enough for towers. he had his reasons: defense from all that would destroy him. he saw the world as a war he wasn’t winning. or less, maybe: just a sad and tired game. there was no longer any meaning in getting around all the bases.. and the president meant nothing, like a priest or pope or wife. he thought this of things. he thought he knew it all. he thought he knew absolutely nothing… but that’s where words came in and left him looking like a fool. discrepencies, you know. these things he thought: they meant a lot, they kept him asking ‘why?’… like he could ever get an answer. back in the days of things he could believe, he kept his eyes opened wide. now he can’t see and hardly hear… another defense, he fears. this is life: Closing down when all excuses fail. the reason is gone and the memories blurred and he can hardly function. he doesn’t remember why anymore. see: i can look over at him and see him lying on the floor.. he’s getting sick. it’s cold in here… he’s nearly naked… lying on the floor. he’ll sleep like this, i know his sort.. he’ll try to make it into the next day. he knows if he gets up and goes to bed he’ll be stranded there… i guess he’s lost control. i guess he let it go. he let me in on this great idea a million months ago. but now: look at him: our darling dying boy. his mind is shot. his hands are still. his body’s giving in. he could run a million place, til his walls cave in. then it’s back to the blood,sea. it’s back home for that mote. he will no longer be]
the pretties girl i ever loved i met behind me in a social-sciences class when i was fifteen…
she didn’t really plus me then.
she was a year younger… something like that. she was really smart and she tried really hard.. and i respected that and all
but at that age, i was more interested in finding every reason i could to hate everyone around me so i needn’t be bothered thinking about what they thought.
we all have our hang-ups, you know.
i left her when i was 17.
we never got on.
i, in fact, was an adversary of her brother
when he wasn’t trying to make friends with me because he was just a down-cast loser
[like
my
self]
i spent sometime away from that place
but had to return less than a year later.
my wonderful re-entry was riddled with beer and solitude.
i’d cast-off my old friends like so much lice or lovers.
i’d decided it was best to return to a space of empty abandon… as i felt that i couldn’t deal at all with the world i’d been given. [more on that later]
she drove my sister to school everyday:
picked her up in the morning and brought her back in the evening, had she any time.
my sister and her sister were good friends.
they hated eachother at times
but i just took it that girls spent their time like that to keep themselves from thinking about cleaning and cookies and cocks…
you know, girls are always trying to keep from thinking about something or other.
but this girl walked down stairs where i was in my underwear and a cloud of guilt and compression…
as if the entire atmosphere i lived in was meant to crush me
like i’d spent my entire time in a pressure cooker and i was just waiting until i became tender and soft and you could pick the meat off the flesh and tell the chef
“oh dear, it MELTS in the mouth”
we went driving.
i showed her how i stole things [all the time] and how you DON’t get caught.
i took her all the places she thought you couldn’t go [so it seems]
i asked her what she wanted to do but would never do
and we did it.
we burned magazines in an underpass decorated by the stress and the tension of my grestest and farthest lover
we spraypainted our confusion and angst on the hoods of the beautiful christian boys who were at an away-football-game
we talked about things she didn’t really think could be talked about
we didn’t have to be a boy or a girl
and we weren’t.
the pretties girl i ever loved was introduced to my greatest and farthest lover in a cloud of pop music, stolen wine and puncturing orafices that hadn’t been dealth with.
i was the one who was cold on the floor;
they were under an afghan on the couch.
i loved them both so dearly…
so i decided she was always the one i wanted
so pretty, i thought.
we had a dinner part at my father’s other house
a camp
a cabin
we fought eachother out.
i don’t know, i loved her enough to give her acid and scream at her on the couch about MY world and how maybe she could see it
she sat on the floor enough to make me cry or shake or run
trying to show something i guess i never saw.
he put his hand on her foot
and she let him
and i was on my back…
staring at the ceiling in an effort to figure out why i couldn’t be as simple as a boy and girl…
i left them
as is my style
for a place where i didn’t think love could exist
[and manhattan was a good stomping ground too…]
phone calls and letters
[she sent them to me; i’d dial her up on her mother’s 888 number]
stuff of the movies
fourteen times over
i loved her and my lover she was getting fucked by.
i came back to them
and scared them all with stuff to put in the needles she supplied
with a foriegn friend
who my lover fucked around
but never got to the point.
i left her
to follow my lover
to a town where i could dry out
and stay drunk in my misery
of seeing postcards
and letters
to him everyday
comming to our mailbox
from her
and her wishes.
i translated her beauty for him
i bit my tongue til it bled.
she still called me when he never returned them. she still wanted me
in the way a person wants another person like they’d want themselves if they had the time.
a mirror, i wanted, i was, i was.
i loved her.
the prettiest girl i ever loved
cried on my bed
with the anger we’d always known.
my friends and my lover
the prettiest girl
…
we’d all been there before
we rooted her on
we secretly smiled.
she found me in her bed in the last mid-western city
she didn’t have time or the patience
as a boy so lazy as me.
a girl like that, so pretty and distant
a girl like that doesn’t need love from someone who can’t do anything with it but scream and run from town to town.
who needs a bouy you can’t rely on?
who needs a star
you can’t be sure will be there at night?
i’m learning about the prettiest things.
distance is a teacher: stand on a hill and look at your house:
watch the front door open
and the curtains pick up through the breeze…
watch the sun set
and the shadows move
you can’t see that in there
you need a broken perspective
why else would you try to run back to the past
in this present state
when you know what you’ve lost
and you’ve forgotten it’s LOST.
like every real friEND
theses days i say ‘i never lie’
i say ‘ i never say good-bye’
which isn’t exactly true [not that i’m aiming at that one, but…]
i can’t seem to ever mean it
but it does take its toll.
when i think of everyone i’ve ever let enter my life
from the most annoying mother fucker who’d bore holes into my starving body
to the last person on earth i never got to come inside me
or let me get inside them…
i always leave things up to chance, when it comes down to it.
[this, ov course, is today.]
i can’t imagine you not being there anymore.
and i don’t believe you if you say you’re staying away for good.
and it doesn’t hurt for you to say those things to me
it’s always much better than you not saying anything.
the first people in my life i knew i’d never lose
i thought were crazy
— they almost always prove themselves
even if i have to do all the work.
you know, they love you. they do what they can for you
but you must remember
they’re trying to do more than they can for themselves…:
it saves precious little space and time for you
[sometimes you have to find something else than that nasty duality]
if she hits your brother again
and breaks that ruler over his ass
you have to watch his face
to see the blushing and the tears
so you can remember the way he laughed when he got through the door
and closed it behind him with an extra sob
just to make the point.
you’ve got to try and remember all the parts you remember missing as they happened. you have to retro-fit the next life into this. you have to have it all before it happens so you can be ready in the real-time.
so my wrist says…
or said, rather.
you know they love you, lover…. they really do.
did.
whatever, they tried.
even though the bastard took to sticks in closed buildings where no one could hear you
it’s not an excuse to say you hate him:
why give him such credit in taking up your mind?
he’s done so many other wonderful things…
even when he cries and asks you to comfort him
it’s time to be hard, just like you: kid.
she’ll push you over into his lap anyway… it’s the history of the trade.
you have to keep these fucked up bastards with you for the rest of your life.. and any longer that you think may be necessary.
they didn’t get it right
they still aren’t
they’re tried filling you up and knocking you in
but you’re the one they made to carry them into the story
the one you’re writing to make them the heros
the ones who did it right
the ones who came out with a christmas card and a fishing rod
you have one hell of a responsibility
even if you never expect to pay it back.
well, they’re there… on the bottom shelf, the one with the door
no light
masionite
it’s cheap: but it’s a place for them to go.
and you can’t forget their mates… the ones who share their space…
claimed by all the kids you can’t forgive and can’t forget
they’re your friends
very best friends
they’d kick you when you’re down
and smile when they got you wet
yeah, turning you on like a fucking fountain
at least you can please someone, eh?
well, remember them down there
and the doors you run to find and slam behind you with a masterful turn of the little crowned button in the centre of the knob
the sound of the struggle on the other side of wood
while you look around your country wondering where to go.
still thinking about where to go when you have all these things to carry round… you don’t travel lite.
you’ve got the modle kinds ones
who didn’t get you killed at every crossing
few, yeah sure… but important because they only PREtended to make you feel like a fool because they knew they were no better than you.
these are the kids you loved, back then. the ones with the games and the toys and the grade. these are the roles you wish you could fill, though they made you as sick as the rest they didn’t push you away
well, not too far to get back.
and the images in mind,
a boy in black-leather. bleached hair. ear-ring. sunglasses blocking the eyes as you stroll out of the cornfields into suburbia where you have no history in this new skin
those things like that…
like the star [in some sport] who made them all happy or proud or other words that really didn’t make any sense at the time
but a goal is a goal, right?
gotta have something to aim at.
i mean, remember the kids
the ones in the river
the ones in the fields
the ones in the parks.
you’d take up the day under grasses and trees and the house-sitting.
imagine a world where you’re the winner. a crime-boss: it’s something to do: fuck those squares.
you never even knew you had it in you
[i guess it never came out]
until late at night
seventh grade?
what a game
fish.hook.and ____
it’s something to do if both of your are moving your hands at the same speed
twelve times a night? was that the record?
videogame. new cd. sneaking out and stealing your father’s cars…
gett itt off two more times before the sun cums up
we’ve got something to do.
next to
the maitenance man on the first job after many years of
“you smoke pot”
‘sure i do’
“want some”
‘sure i do’
and a back massage, maybe the only one you ever got and that huge bent thing in your mouth
it’s unspeakable, that condition, but it’s something work on with your friend…
which leads, of course, further into
the others: pick them out from the other school
or past kids you knew
and they knew them from church
[oh, i think that’s in a box under the bed]
who read books and had nothing so bland to do [as deal with you]
but you’re a persistant little fuck
your brother told you that was the only thing you ever did well
[annoy]
and you honed your skill like it was your only possesion…
what else could you do?
as you worked them into the idea of being a writer
the necessary adventures
and traumas
and scandals.
you set it up
like you have every story you’ve never written
about the parties
and loves
those things you lost…
broken, maybe.
you’ll have to have a loss somewhere..
a good friend; a lover.
make it older.
make it the same sex.
make it dirty as hell.
make it guilty.
sufficient.
you got a 31.32.33.
you’re friends knew him as 32
til a year later… you know how it goes.
he is on the middle shelf…
oh, was… you’ve moved him into the cubbard in the back of the room
now buried in magazines and old scribbled books.
don’t forget him: he’s getting married in four months
“marrieanne”
sweetsweetsweet: tie me up and put me on videotape and make me scream.
it’s alright if it makes you feel better you twat.
i love you.
i’ll keep you right
over
Here.
[you’r gonna break your dolls treatin’em like that]
ok.
so how many now?
i have a million in my life
and i’ll never let them go.
i mean… MOST of them are gone
or going
or comming back
or something
but the majority of them aren’t HERE, right…
they’re off on their own little thing
but i’ve got a secret…
like all the secrets i’ve got
it’s not real… so it doesn’t exist.
“i’m here with a cause. i’m holding the torch — In the Corner of your Room, can you hear me? and when you’re Dancing and Laughing and Finally LIVing hearmyvoiceinyourheadandthinkofme KINDLY”
it comes around like that.
things move into place
“the knight strikes at midnight”
it’s all like clockwork
when the hands have broken from the center
and the watch is on the end of a chain
attatched to a world
that can’t sit still
til it finished its dinner
can’t go to sleep
can’t wait til dawn
can’t get away
has way too many things to do
before it becomes easy enough to set the alarm and trust not to miss anything.
like walking the sidewalks and staring at the cracks of bad-luck or just killing your mother
better yet: put her in a lot of pain
so you can take her off the shelf
and dust her off
and give her the reason to make you not feel like a fool:
you got a purpose now, mr care-giver
you got SOMETHING to do.
like any crowded room
where you only notice the people in your life
and if you seem them
and they aren’t there yet
you needn’t worry
coz you know they will be.
any passing face. any drunken story. any days of too-much of some-thing. you can see them as you walk out the door. you can seem them in the next car over. you can see thX-Mozilla-Status: 8009hen you’re sitting down
having ordered already
having forked out the cash
which is worth more than the effort it takes you to go to them again
and again
and again.
maybe someday they’ll come back to you.
maybe you won’t have to wish and want and feel the lack
they’ll fill in your space for you
and you won’t have to move your hand to be sure they’re there.
you won’t have to invent them anymore
and fear turning around
to give yourself the chance to lose them.
just because you say ‘goodbye’ does’nt mean you mean it.
and just because you never write it doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten
and just because they never call
just because they’re never there
just because you’re still alone
it doesn’t mean i don’t miss you.

From: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
Subject: currency information kit.[v1]
Date: November 2, 1998 10:54:52 AM PST
To: exit2k@hotmail.com, afw10@columbia.edu, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sowinski@inetdirect.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, and 24 more…
inhale.
‘alright, look.
all of you people are in my life somewhere…
i go through my pockets before i decide to finally take them off and
throw them into the machines
and you are what i find.
i guess that really isn’t up to you
but i want you to tell me if this is a bit of a waste,
rather, if you want off this list
you’re going to have to ask.
i figure
that if you’re at all interested in me
you’ll find me here from time to time…
i’ll try and be constant [as the northern star]
maybe these things you’ll be getting from me will just be something
consoling you’ll find in yr box from time-to-time
maybe you’ll read them [or whatever]
maybe you’ll talk back to us [us, please REPLY ALL]
maybe you’ll find yourself
either under your name
or not
you’ll probably show up somewhere…
i wanted to do this with my web page
and
all of this will probably end up on my web page
but i’m much more interested in getting it OUT right now
not presenting it
this shit is all raw, sorry about the typos and the like
you’ll just have to deal.
i’m trying to find the distance between our bellies…
all of us.
it’s unfair of me not to send these out, really.
it’s not an argument, it’s just a toy
i’ll show you one hand and that’s all i have unless you give me more,
right?
we have to be together somewhere
maybe we can find a place here.
dis
joint
ed.
sorry about that.
please excuse the mess:
we’re working to build you a better dominic.’
exhale.

From: exit2k@hotmail.com
Subject: whew …
Date: October 31, 1998 8:37:37 PM EST
To: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
if i had ever doubted that you had gained [not knowledge but] some
wisdom from your days, weeks, months, about a year and a half of
wandering from home2home2home2home, then i, the doubter, could be proved
wrong by one creation by you [thisis, ov course, now] that, intended to
communicate, does;
like that one.
that was my main impression.
so now i’ll give you what i told you i’d tell:
i’m just going to include all of my journal entry for today, because it
includes a dream you simply MUST hear! so, en joy.
ps if you think anyone else would be interested in the story, give it to
them. but separate it from the dream — i’d hate to bore.
Oct 31 1998
Had an amazing dream this morning. With two other guys, released from
jail. We decide to pull one final heist. We fuck it up somehow but get
away. We come back to scope the place out and see how we can get it
right, but we’re being really obvious and we’re going to get caught.
This woman who is there and was also in jail starts freaking out and
saying, “You guys are fucking up, you guys are fucking up,” and I think
she asks me why are we doing this, or why don’t we stop, or something —
and then this is the amazing part.
All this time I have been aware that this is a play and we are all
acting — except there is no other reality, everything is only what it
is, so being trapped in the play we do have something at stake. There
is also no discernable audience, thought the heist is in a museum and
there are all these glass walls and we’re walking inside with the
exhibits — so there’s an element of Who’s watching? Is someone
watching? Anyway, when the girl says Why don’t you just stop? or
whatever, I flash onto a great monolog I can give — so I do.
The basic idea of the monolog is whatever I spent all that time in
jail for, I didn’t do it. And I want my life back, which has been
destroyed by my jail sentence — and the only way to get my life back is
to pull off one final heist that will make me rich enough that all those
years of unjust imprisonment won’t matter. The monolog in the dream
consisted mostly of yelling “I didn’t do it!” and pounding on a table or
piano I was standing next to. But I’ll try to recreate what I can
remember:
“Why? Because I didn’t do it! What I was in for, all that time, I
didn’t do it! I didn’t do it! Maybe you do did what you were supposed
to have done, but I didn’t! I didn’t do it! And now I want my life
back … and this is the only way to get it.”
The main thing is that I made the monolog up as I went along, and I
had no idea what I had been imprisoned for, how long I had been
imprisoned, or whether or not I had actually done it. I just knew that
this was a great opportunity for me to give an angry, impassioned
monolog. My big moment.
As soon as I finish the speech the guy playing the policeman walks
in with no shirt (looking good) and thrusts a litlighter at my nipple
ring, as if to punish or capture me by burning my nipple. I hit his
hand away, and say What were you doing? and say Oh, I thought you were
going to burn my nipple, like this. We are starting to come out of
character, or he is, but I am also using coming out of character as a
method to keep the policeman-guy from knowing what I was just talking
about, what we’re diong — to keep from getting caught, just in case the
play starts again unexpectedly. I wake up.
* * * * *

From: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
Subject: New Deluded Currency. two bills. washing dishes for lack of funds…
Date: October 30, 1998 11:42:58 PM PST
To: exit2k@hotmail.com, afw10@columbia.edu, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, shorning@willamette.edu, and 4 more…
theses days i say ‘i never lie’
i say ‘ i never say good-bye’
which isn’t exactly true [not that i’m aiming at that one, but…]
i can’t seem to ever mean it
but it does take its toll.
when i think of everyone i’ve ever let enter my life
from the most annoying mother fucker who’d bore holes into my starving body
to the last person on earth i never got to come inside me
or let me get inside them…
i always leave things up to chance, when it comes down to it.
[this, ov course, is today.]
i can’t imagine you not being there anymore.
and i don’t believe you if you say you’re staying away for good.
and it doesn’t hurt for you to say those things to me
it’s always much better than you not saying anything.
the first people in my life i knew i’d never lose
i thought were crazy
— they almost always prove themselves
even if i have to do all the work.
you know, they love you. they do what they can for you
but you must remember
they’re trying to do more than they can for themselves…:
it saves precious little space and time for you
[sometimes you have to find something else than that nasty duality]
if she hits your brother again
and breaks that ruler over his ass
you have to watch his face
to see the blushing and the tears
so you can remember the way he laughed when he got through the door
and closed it behind him with an extra sob
just to make the point.
you’ve got to try and remember all the parts you remember missing as they happened. you have to retro-fit the next life into this. you have to have it all before it happens so you can be ready in the real-time.
so my wrist says…
or said, rather.
you know they love you, lover…. they really do.
did.
whatever, they tried.
even though the bastard took to sticks in closed buildings where no one could hear you
it’s not an excuse to say you hate him:
why give him such credit in taking up your mind?
he’s done so many other wonderful things…
even when he cries and asks you to comfort him
it’s time to be hard, just like you: kid.
she’ll push you over into his lap anyway… it’s the history of the trade.
you have to keep these fucked up bastards with you for the rest of your life.. and any longer that you think may be necessary.
they didn’t get it right
they still aren’t
they’re tried filling you up and knocking you in
but you’re the one they made to carry them into the story
the one you’re writing to make them the heros
the ones who did it right
the ones who came out with a christmas card and a fishing rod
you have one hell of a responsibility
even if you never expect to pay it back.
well, they’re there… on the bottom shelf, the one with the door
no light
masionite
it’s cheap: but it’s a place for them to go.
and you can’t forget their mates… the ones who share their space…
claimed by all the kids you can’t forgive and can’t forget
they’re your friends
very best friends
they’d kick you when you’re down
and smile when they got you wet
yeah, turning you on like a fucking fountain
at least you can please someone, eh?
well, remember them down there
and the doors you run to find and slam behind you with a masterful turn of the little crowned button in the centre of the knob
the sound of the struggle on the other side of wood
while you look around your country wondering where to go.
still thinking about where to go when you have all these things to carry round… you don’t travel lite.
you’ve got the modle kinds ones
who didn’t get you killed at every crossing
few, yeah sure… but important because they only PREtended to make you feel like a fool because they knew they were no better than you.
these are the kids you loved, back then. the ones with the games and the toys and the grade. these are the roles you wish you could fill, though they made you as sick as the rest they didn’t push you away
well, not too far to get back.
and the images in mind,
a boy in black-leather. bleached hair. ear-ring. sunglasses blocking the eyes as you stroll out of the cornfields into suburbia where you have no history in this new skin
those things like that…
like the star [in some sport] who made them all happy or proud or other words that really didn’t make any sense at the time
but a goal is a goal, right?
gotta have something to aim at.
i mean, remember the kids
the ones in the river
the ones in the fields
the ones in the parks.
you’d take up the day under grasses and trees and the house-sitting.
imagine a world where you’re the winner. a crime-boss: it’s something to do: fuck those squares.
you never even knew you had it in you
[i guess it never came out]
until late at night
seventh grade?
what a game
fish.hook.and ____
it’s something to do if both of your are moving your hands at the same speed
twelve times a night? was that the record?
videogame. new cd. sneaking out and stealing your father’s cars…
gett itt off two more times before the sun cums up
we’ve got something to do.
next to
the maitenance man on the first job after many years of
“you smoke pot”
‘sure i do’
“want some”
‘sure i do’
and a back massage, maybe the only one you ever got and that huge bent thing in your mouth
it’s unspeakable, that condition, but it’s something work on with your friend…
which leads, of course, further into
the others: pick them out from the other school
or past kids you knew
and they knew them from church
[oh, i think that’s in a box under the bed]
who read books and had nothing so bland to do [as deal with you]
but you’re a persistant little fuck
your brother told you that was the only thing you ever did well
[annoy]
and you honed your skill like it was your only possesion…
what else could you do?
as you worked them into the idea of being a writer
the necessary adventures
and traumas
and scandals.
you set it up
like you have every story you’ve never written
about the parties
and loves
those things you lost…
broken, maybe.
you’ll have to have a loss somewhere..
a good friend; a lover.
make it older.
make it the same sex.
make it dirty as hell.
make it guilty.
sufficient.
you got a 31.32.33.
you’re friends knew him as 32
til a year later… you know how it goes.
he is on the middle shelf…
oh, was… you’ve moved him into the cubbard in the back of the room
now buried in magazines and old scribbled books.
don’t forget him: he’s getting married in four months
“marrieanne”
sweetsweetsweet: tie me up and put me on videotape and make me scream.
it’s alright if it makes you feel better you twat.
i love you.
i’ll keep you right
over
Here.
[you’r gonna break your dolls treatin’em like that]
ok.
so how many now?
i have a million in my life
and i’ll never let them go.
i mean… MOST of them are gone
or going
or comming back
or something
but the majority of them aren’t HERE, right…
they’re off on their own little thing
but i’ve got a secret…
like all the secrets i’ve got
it’s not real… so it doesn’t exist.
“i’m here with a cause. i’m holding the torch — In the Corner of your Room, can you hear me? and when you’re Dancing and Laughing and Finally LIVing hearmyvoiceinyourheadandthinkofme KINDLY”
it comes around like that.
things move into place
“the knight strikes at midnight”
it’s all like clockwork
when the hands have broken from the center
and the watch is on the end of a chain
attatched to a world
that can’t sit still
til it finished its dinner
can’t go to sleep
can’t wait til dawn
can’t get away
has way too many things to do
before it becomes easy enough to set the alarm and trust not to miss anything.
like walking the sidewalks and staring at the cracks of bad-luck or just killing your mother
better yet: put her in a lot of pain
so you can take her off the shelf
and dust her off
and give her the reason to make you not feel like a fool:
you got a purpose now, mr care-giver
you got SOMETHING to do.
like any crowded room
where you only notice the people in your life
and if you seem them
and they aren’t there yet
you needn’t worry
coz you know they will be.
any passing face. any drunken story. any days of too-much of some-thing. you can see them as you walk out the door. you can seem them in the next car over. you can see them exiting the room
when you’re sitting down
having ordered already
having forked out the cash
which is worth more than the effort it takes you to go to them again
and again
and again.
maybe someday they’ll come back to you.
maybe you won’t have to wish and want and feel the lack
they’ll fill in your space for you
and you won’t have to move your hand to be sure they’re there.
you won’t have to invent them anymore
and fear turning around
to give yourself the chance to lose them.
just because you say ‘goodbye’ does’nt mean you mean it.
and just because you never write it doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten
and just because they never call
just because they’re never there
just because you’re still alone
it doesn’t mean i don’t miss you.

From: exit2k@hotmail.com
Subject: very pretty.
Date: October 30, 1998 8:22:28 PM EST
To: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
you should be a writer! no, but
really, i enjoyed it not just for its clarification of your past and
your love[r][s]. i’m glad you could write it, anyway.
and what a surprise! i see sera too. and she’s irish!
how pleasing. i don’t think she understood. i think she is sweet, but
she explains the wrong answers. i would write to her and tell her what
i mean, but i wouldn’t know what to tell, and she doesn’t know me from
me besides. sad story, i guess. glad she gets fucked when she needs
it. or not.
she hears what she doesn’t want to say, even when someone else doesn’t
say it, and believes her story is the most important just because it’s
hers and told, to her. small eyes. doesn’t know what she’s missing.
found my tape, and my player. they were in my bag all along — no cab.
i thought it seemed a little extreme, even for Me. listened to them,
they’re well. i have one more tape — two hours! and i was going to
save it for when i got home, but now i’m hoping to score some acid for
tomorrow night that i better enjoy a lonely all hallow’s eve. that’s a
tape if a tape ever was, if i pull it off.
wish me luck. i’m going to ask the concierge for advice.

From: sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu
Subject: Re: [paying my debts of obligatory stories] 1.1 (-ah,maybe it’ll even arrive)[or, connection troubles in the flat-lands]
Date: October 30, 1998 12:11:48 PM CST
To: horsestorideon@hotmail.com, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, houseofthe2palms@hotmail.com, shorning@willamette.edu, scoobear@net-link.net, exit2k@hotmail.com, and 3 more…
chicago is grey.
there are screams coming from the dumpster.
not as loud as the screams coming from inside my head.
there’s a naked boy sleeping on my bed.
and i don’t know what to do with him.
after we fucked i fell asleep crying.
i told him i made a huge mistake when i was 17.
and that it kicked me in my tummy when i was 18.
& now i am 19 and lamenting.
aye. i. aye.
so i sat on my bed, a fetal ball, crying and wishing for more
almonds.
and i thought that i had found the boy in green pants, with lots of
books, and subversive ideas again. only his pants were on my
bedroom floor, the books i had all read, and the ideas didn’t
ascribe to the law of utility, to the principle of offense.
so i realized that there is no boy in the world who will speak
with prizes and still feel good deep between my legs.
crying on my bed. telling the sleeping boy how i wished i could
talk to dominic but that i didn’t know where the fuck he was.
[remembering when i didn’t know how to attack and he taught me
to strike.]
[remembering when i didn’t bleed and he gave me tests and tea.]
[remembering when i couldn’t speak and he fed me my voice.]
aye. i. aye.
all these things flew into my head right then.
the mice help maybe. the rats, the token mobsters.
i realized this past domingo [in toronto, fie] that i couldn’t be stationary.
i realized just yesterday that i couldn’t be on bottom.
i realized that bleeding is normal, and inhaling is foul,
that remembrance is cruel and letters ought be burned.
but there are many boys with my letters [pues, just three] and only one
knew how to read. but he wasn’t my dividend for the moment, for me.
and i thought of ginger, dates, plums, and my tea cup.
and i thought of mister dominic.
and i teared for an hour.
but the naked boy sleeping on my bed didn’t wake up. i tried to tear
quietly so that i wouldn’t have to explain….
that i don’t love him and i don’t believe in love.
and i gave it to one boy erroneously, only to realize later that i had sent
it home in afghan’s pocket. (we like to say it’s a lack of free will
but you just ask mr. carpenter about that)
oh friENDs, friENDs, friENDs, friend. it’s only friend with a few.
aye. i. aye.
no. i keep mister dominic under me skin.
i wish i could hear his voice, he makes me tear. i want the both of us to
shrink up and then put ourselves in water again. i know a lot about mercury
and vibrational modes. i can speak in tongues about the harm principle, its
conflict and faults. off to the auto-icon with hammers and wrenches. lots
and lots of pipes. really heavy pipes…{it’s me first pilgrimage}
[let’s absorb some heat.]
miss bentham. miss him a lot. pero no esta aqui…
so everyone coach me in telling someone who loves me that love doesn’t exist.
and i’ll shove him on the floor and put afghan into my pears .
i’m learning. i’m learning.
i’m still tearing.
{miss you mister d….}
aye. i. aye….i.

From: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
Subject: [paying my debts of obligatory stories] 1.1 (-ah,maybe it’ll even arrive)[or, connection troubles in the flat-lands]
Date: October 29, 1998 5:48:15 AM PST
To: mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, houseofthe2palms@hotmail.com, shorning@willamette.edu, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, and 5 more…
the pretties girl i ever loved i met behind me in a social-sciences class when i was fifteen…
she didn’t really plus me then.
she was a year younger… something like that. she was really smart and she tried really hard.. and i respected that and all
but at that age, i was more interested in find every reason i could to hate everyone around me so i needn’t be bothered thinking about what the thought.
we all have our hang-ups, you know.
i left her when i was 17.
we never got on.
i, in fact, was an adversary of her brother
when he wasn’t trying to make friends with me because he was just a down-cast loser
[like
my
self]
i spent sometime away from that place
but had to return less than a year later.
my wonderful re-entry was riddled with beer and solitude.
i’d cast-off my old friends like so much lice or lovers.
i’d decided it was best to return to a space of empty abandon… as i felt that i couldn’t deal at all with the world i’d been given. [more on that later]
she drove my sister to school everyday:
picked her up in the morning and brought her back in the evening, had she any time.
my sister and her sister were good friends.
they hated eachother at times
but i just took it that girls spent their time like that to keep themselves from thinking about cleaning and cookies and cocks…
you know, girls are always trying to keep from thinking about something or other.
but this girl walked down stairs where i was in my underwear and a cloud of guilt and compression…
as if the entire atmosphere i lived in was meant to crush me
like i’d spent my entire time in a pressure cooker and i was just waiting until i became tender and soft and you could pick the meat off the flesh and tell the chef
“oh dear, it MELTS in the mouth”
we went driving.
i showed her how i stole things [all the time] and how you DON’t get caught.
i took her all the places she thought you couldn’t go [so it seems]
i asked her what she wanted to do but would never do
and we did it.
we burned magazines in an underpass decorated by the stress and the tension of my grestest and farthest lover
we spraypainted our confusion and angst on the hoods of the beautiful christian boys who were at an away-football-game
we talked about things she didn’t really think could be talked about
we didn’t have to be a boy or a girl
and we weren’t.
the pretties girl i ever loved was introduced to my greatest and farthest lover in a cloud of pop music, stolen wine and punturing orafices that hadn’t been dealth with.
i was the one who was cold on the floor;
they were under an afghan on the couch.
i loved them both so dearly…
so i decided she was always the one i wanted
so pretty, i thought.
we had a dinner part at my father’s other house
a camp
a cabin
we fought eachother out.
i don’t know, i loved her enough to give her acid and scream at her on the couch about MY world and how maybe she could see it
she sat on the floor enough to make me cry or shake or run
trying to show something i guess i never saw.
he put his hand on her foot
and she let him
and i was on my back…
staring at the ceiling in an effort to figure out why i couldn’t be as simple as a boy and girl…
i left them
as is my style
for a place where i didn’t think love could exist
[and manhattan was a good stomping ground too…]
phone calls and letters
[she sent them to me; i dial her up on her mother’s 888 number]
stuff of the movies
fourteen times over
i loved her and my lover she was getting fucked by.
i came back to them
and scared them all with stuff to put in the needles she supplied
with a foriegn friend
who my lover fucked around
but never got to the point.
i left her
to follow my lover
to a town where i could dry out
and stay drunk in my misery
of seeing postcards
and letters
to him everyday
comming to our mailbox
from her
and her wishes.
i translated her beauty for him
i bit my tongue til it bled.
she still called me when he never returned them. she still wanted me
in the way a person wants another person like they’d want themselves if they had the time.
a mirror, i wanted, i was, i was.
i loved her.
the prettiest girl i ever loved
cried on my bed
with the anger we’d always known.
my friends and my lover
the prettiest girl
…
we’d all been there before
we rooted her on
we secretly smiled.
she found me in her bed in the last mid-western city
she didn’t have time or the patience
as a boy so lazy as me.
a girl like that, so pretty and distant
a girl like that doesn’t need love fome someone who can’t do anything with it but scream and run from town to town.
who needs a bouy you can’t rely on?
who needs a star
you can’t be sure will be there at night?
i’m learning about the prettiest things.
distance is a teacher: stand on a hill and look at your house:
watch the front door open
and the curtains pick up through the breeze…
watch the sun set
and the shadows move
you can’t see that in there
you need a broken perspective
why else would you try to run back to the past
in this present state
when you know what you’ve lost
and you’ve forgotten it’s LOST.
like every real friEND

From: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
Subject: click click
Date: September 10, 1998 1:19:25 PM PDT
To: mrvisible@worldnet.att.net
yeah… you’d told me the glossy details of your adventurous lifestyle
i don’t think i said i admired you for it, though.
but i can say i think i understand how you say you’ve moved on
not really away from it
but out from underneath it
if you ever were.
i’ve known a few people who’ve tried to convince me that we can’t escape
from our childhoods
and i can’t disagree with them
but i also don’t believe them.
when i tell stories about my childhood
you should know they are all fiction as well
such things are better left to fiction
but they did happen as far as the past does happen
as far as it matters.
[matters]
i was just giving you ideas
i thought that might be…
something.
but we don’t care
we aren’t judging eachother
[right]
we’re telling stories
about the first makeup kit my sister got
about that first potted plant i broke
about my brother getting caught stealing
about birthday parties.
and about getting out of childhood.
in juniour high
i decided to go find some friends
i never bothered before
because no one made the effort to be my friend
i just assumed they didn’t want to
but this time
i decided to go get some
and i watched the kids in school
[new ones, this time… from a different school district … we’d all
been put into this same big building.. and i didn’t know some of them]
people in this school consisted mainly of christians
dead-heads
and sports
fanatics
i learned this over the years.
that learned period was my time of finding that i really didn’t like
sports that much because i didn’t understand the competition.
i wasn’t allowed to read
my father wanted me on the field
so i played every sport out school had til my wonderful 13th year
when i had so thoroughly disappointed my father that he stopped making
me try…
for the eight christmas i recieved a Nintendo…
seeing that i was failing at sports
my father wouldn’t allow me to have books
and i didn’t have any friends who didn’t beat me up
i became friends with the box.
spending endless hours excuseing my self from life
‘, no… no sports. no family renunion. my friends come over and be
player 2. corn fields. Nicktendo. it’s my turn now’
which lasted until i had to go visit my Aunt and Uncle in plymouth
michigan for two weeks
i don’t recall why this happened
i believe it was because i “liked them” so that’s where i was staying.
my parents could never stand being away from us so they never let us do
any of the regular midwestren things of staying with relatives or summer
camp
so this was a first for me
and i spent 2 weeks seeing my parents only once…
which was fine by me… i comforted my brother when he missed them.
my aunt and uncle tought me how to pour a beer without a head right from
their refrigerator door
i learned poker
and solitare.
my aunt locked us in seperate rooms
basement
bedroom
closet
with ligths and books and two hours of forced reading…
i thought the hardy boys were pretty dumb
but different then nintendo and better than where i was.
i started skippin lunch at school to sit in the library reading greek
myths
my father didn’t like me reading
so i did it at school and i didn’t eat [1]
…. we moved into a big house out in the country
[as opposed to the small house in a row of houses in the middle of three
cornfields that we’d lived in previous to this]
same school
same town
just a lot farter away.
it was supposed to represent some kind of achievement my father must
have made.
it had a pond
[that leaked the year of the drought… so we drained it and got rewared
with town ridicule in the local paper for being so wasteful…
he just kept watering the lawn from the spicket]
he was really into appearance
told me it was the most important thing
and my brother and i would spend about 14 hours cutting the grass for
him
with two different tracktors and a gas-powered weed eater
we walked around the 279 trees every weekend and made sure there were no
blades of grass or weeds growing around them.
it was this and that and this and that and building decks and boxes and
barns and such until i left this place…
at age 10, though, the family got it’s first computer…
this was much more interactive than a nintendo and i started making
friends with it.
alas, it was in my fathers office behind his bedroom
and i repeatedly got in trouble for being in there all hours of the
night
connecting by modem to a friend of mine across town
telling eachother how trapped we felt.
nagging and such led me to get it upgraded two years later.. from 8088
to 386
and i started to notice i was getting fat… like the rest of my family
good polish boys, i suppose…
i always ate so slow my brother would steal it from me before i ever had
a chance to finish…
but now i sat in rooms all day on BBSs and pictures and games
now i never really stood up
and i was getting all bloated
[not really… i just remember getting out of the shower one day and
looking down and not being able to see my penis nor my toes over my
belly… i got quite frightened]
so i started the only sport i’d never been forced to play:
wrestling.
age 13
taking the beating
quitting tae kwon do
taking up acting
picking out my friends from the crowd
the ones on the outside of the crowd
in a little group that was vulnerable to attack
by anything but intellect.
they tought me about books
and desperation.
”
Today has been devoted to wondering, and theorizing, and some of it you
have
inspired.
Our conversation the other day on IRC only served to further intrigue
me. Meeting you was like
stepping off the plane in a foreign country; suddenly, there were vast
new vistas to explore,
new languages to learn… So few people contain so much.
And so I’d like to propose an exchange. Tell me about yourself; tell me
about what’s shaped
you, where you want to be, who you want to be, and I’ll do the same. I’m
fascinated by you,
and this seems to be a unique opportunity. ”
this means i’ll have to relearn detail and importance.
i saw a girl named “cera” yesterday.
i love this girl
and when i spoke with her my head exploded
and my entire body was free…
i haven’t felt that way in ages
a year or something
only in brief moments of acid or bikes….
“hello, i’m with you”
‘and you don’t need to say that, because i’m with you too’
but it presented a contrast to me
and i’m wondering what’s killing me
what’s making me old
what’s keeping me in
i don’t want to be a person
trapped in his little body like everyone else
i need to connect
i need to do something to get me out of here
i need the thing to set me free again
i need the friends
so we all can dissipate and run off into
in exploring all the options
i just have to make sure i don’t infected with the tricks of the trade
with the shit of the day
with newspapers and television
just the knowledge
just the sad people sitting in church
just the memory of how smart we used to be
and where are all those books and people to talk to?
this psuedo-greek town is asking me why i’m doing what i’m doing
it always has
and then it asks me WHY NOT…
and then it asks me when
and when
and it never asks me where because it wants me to be here
and i really don’t want to give it that.
but the people here
for the most part
hollow out my insides
which makes me lighter
which makes me want to fly
but it’s so cold…
i’m working on learning to use my hands
if you have any suggestions..
it would be appreciated.