Jennifer Explosion From Relative Truth Ju60lu% cd /usr/dict Ju61lu% cat words | grep jen >> ~/zz Ju62lu% cat words | grep explos >> ~/zz Ju63lu% cat words | grep from >> ~/zz Ju64lu% cat words | grep relat >> ~/zz Ju65lu% cat words | grep truth >> ~/zz jenny explosion explosive from therefrom autocorrelate correlate relate steprelation truth truthful Ju69lu% cd /usr/dict Ju70lu% cat words | grep je >> ~/zz Ju71lu% cat words | grep expl >> ~/zz Ju72lu% cat words | grep fro >> ~/zz Ju73lu% cat words | grep rela >> ~/zz Ju74lu% cat words | grep tru >> ~/zz abject adject adjectival adjective bijection bijective conjectural conjecture deject eject ejector inject interject introject jealous jealousy jean jeep jejune jejunum jelly jellyfish jenny jeopard jeopardy jerk jerky jerry jersey jess jest jet jetliner jettison jewel jewelry majestic majesty object objectify objectivity objector objet project projectile projector reject rejecter Skopje subject subjectivity surjection surjective trajectory turbojet explain explanation explanatory expletive explicable explicate explicit explode exploit exploitation exploration exploratory explore explosion explosive inexplainable inexplicable inexplicit affront afro battlefront bullfrog confront confrontation defrock defrost fro frock frog frolic from front frontage frontal frontier frontiersman frontiersmen frost frostbite frostbitten frosty froth frothy frown frowzy froze frozen hoarfrost leapfrog riverfront saffron therefrom waterfront wavefront autocorrelate correlate Ireland Moreland relate relaxation relayed steprelation abstruse altruism altruist citrus construct constructible constructor construe destruct destructor Etruscan extrude extrusion extrusive Gertrude heterostructure indestructible infrastructure instruct instructor instrument instrumentation intrude intrusion intrusive macrostructure menstruate obstruct obstruent obtrude obtrusion obtrusive protrude protrusion protrusive rostrum spectrum stagestruck struck structural structure struggle strum strung strut tantrum truancy truant truce truck truculent trudge true truism truly trump trumpery trumpet truncate trundle trunk truss trust trustee trustful trustworthy truth truthful ___________________________________________________________________________ seventh and eighth months well, we were so simple then, you wouldn't believe it. we lived in these really rude huts and we counted on our fingers and we had very few of these of course, so our rude herds were small. sometimes we'd talk to each other and make up stories about how great the world was. well, we'd look up at the moon and go wow a lot, but we wouldn't actually say wow, we had very crude words then. well, this just seemed to go on and on and there were these long insects. we used to say, well, we're living in these rude huts somewhere or other. we used to say, well, these are very rude times. well, we noticed that things came around again and the moon kept changing in a regular way. then we noticed that river over there and the hill on the other side. well, there was the stream too and the women's huts by the stream. we did things when the moon had three times come and gone. well, we noticed other things coming and going and every so often a lot of long insects. well, we had these periods of three moons coming and going, but the months kept swelling and dying, they'd come and go. well, we wondered who made the months like that, and then we saw that the moon did but the months became all jagged after a while. this is hard to tell, it's such a shame. then we told them we could fix the months, untie them, free them up a little, that we could get them away from the moon which was making a mess of everything, including the harvest and the hunting by this time. you can't have a hunting when you don't have a mating, and who knew when that was, with the months and all so tied up. like when the animals finally did their dance or like when the flowers came out. well, we did a lot of work then and the months became something else, we called it the harmony and still do. now we've got the harmony and the moon is angry and there's a whole lot of trouble over that, fire and floods and famine. if not the moon, it's the months, and if not the months, it's the moon, so we dance and sing and play stuff late into the night, make culture and all, and it seems to help. well, at least we're still here between the hill and the river. __________________________________________________________________________ Nikuko says she's been writing stories. Then she laid down and dreamed a big dream. In the big dream she was laid down but she was writing. She was writing and writing and it was something that infuriated. What's that, Ni- kuko asked. She said that she just couldn't remember what it was she laid down about and was writing and she was writing about that. It's not liter- ature, it's not fantasy, it's not serpentine, it's not self-reflexive, she says, says Nikuko, it's infuriating. Nikuko rages, maybe she'll attack me or someone else. Damn it, I just can't remember, Nikuko says, says Nikuko. __________________________________________________________________________ Y2K: NET: Starting ping.... Host lookup cancelled You stupid we're all dead no one is here to help you. Starting lookup... Host lookup cancelled You stupid your wires are burned you're lucky you got this far. Starting ping.... Pinging 166.84.0.97.... TIMED OUT TIMED OUT TIMED OUT Ping Cancelled Ping Unsuccessful 0 packets received out of 3 packets transmitted : 100% PACKET LOSS You stupid you're playing with yourself again just forget it. Starting trace.... Tracing to 166.84.0.97.... Hops IP Address RTT(ms) 1 TIMED OUT 2 TIMED OUT 3 TIMED OUT Trace Cancelled Host not reached You stupid the world is dead you are one big scream. Starting lookup... You stupid your power's gone shutting you down idiot forever. You s ________________________________________________________________ existence meshine this text is drawing you out. by which it means [i.e. by which one means]: "l'irruption du pour-soi dans l'Etre comme neantisation de l'en-soi se caracterise comme un mode existentiel irreductible a l'en-soi." (sartre) this existence-meshine draws you out and into existence by virtue of the reading of this text, viral in other words, a drug producing you, pursuing you. */winter wheat/* your technologies - list them. */barley/* you forget you do not have a past. [this is the only technology listed.] my you forget you do not have a past. is yours. */maize harvest/* i love your feelings, existence-meshine ... */second harvest oats/* driven by drive-letters, gone gone gone ... */summer wheat/* that runs me out your everywhere! */wild marsh rice/* what do you call your everywhere? */alfalfa and soy/* it is here that you place your name. [this is the only name listed.] it is here [i.e. therefore] that you create your present. */soya beans/* [you do not know you create your present.] [etc.] */millet and sorghum/* ________________________________________________________________________ ii existence meshine donkeys and mules and chicks and calves and roosters: ducks and rabbits and cows and ponies and geese: chickens and sheep and lambs and goats and horses:: would chickens and sheep and lambs and goats and horses mind you farming and ranching and breeding and planting, roosters and pigs and buffalo and colts and piglets, with us? _____________________________________________________________________ iii and final existence meshine existence meshine gets derailed to relive and relieve the history of agri- culture as we begin to plant and breed across the world, how much we grew up loving and reading on farming and Pony and Cow. now you will see how planting gave loving and reading on living way to meat and flesh animals, and how these animals took over from existence meshine busy creating and loving someone reading stories and texts and whatever else might be placed in the very first row creating consciousness with the prefabrication of a past. with the invention of a past. with no past at all. with just-being- past. with no past at all. call this iii and final existence meshine and you will see how the world works now and how it has always worked but we only know that now, how it works, and how it works by derailment. the end of existence meshine. ________________________________________________________________________ The Best Writer I want to be the best writer. I am creating the language of the third millennium. It's a language that resides on any other language. It lives within any other language. It is a combination of water from hair upside-down representing a baby being born or water rushing out, therefore to flow. It's always been there and I have drawn it out. It moves the other language, it moves it. It makes you stand up and take notice. Sometimes it makes things and sometimes things make it. It's formed from a hole which is a combination of a cover and an opening in the cover plus a carpenter's square or work or labor, therefore making a hole, or the sky. I am a pioneer in the writing of this new language. You don't understand how I comprehend this new language. I work towards and through unheard-of forms. These forms have never been seen or heard-of on this earth. It's formed from a combination of sword, cow, and horn, thus representing the cutting of a cow's horn, therefore to solve or set free. I push forms and forget forms and shatter forms and convene. Words astonish in my writing full of wonder. Now every word I write breaks down barriers. It is as if there were barriers and frontiers. Perhaps I am farther than barriers and frontiers. It's a combination of water and man withdrawing, or a man drawing back and the concept of an isolated island surrounded by water, thus an island confining someone, preventing him from escaping, or the rule holding a man back, therefore regulation. Now every word I write moves the frontiers. The frontiers nestle against the words and rhythms of my writing. The frontiers are transparent like transparent clothes covering you. I can see everything, everything. It's a combination of a hard wooden frame and a marked pattern, thus a pattern of figures, therefore a shape or figure. I can make it all happen. I can make it happen. Now this is what happens in the third millennium. In the fourth millennium I'll be dreaming this. It's formed from a wooden frame, a sword, and soil, thus it's a mold, therefore a model to be depended on, a type or a form. In the year three thousand, you won't have to look for me. I'll be you and all of us. My language is the future of language and the future of writing. Our inconceivable language and future and mind. It's formed from a shell held with both hands, thus a vessel or implement, therefore to exist in a completed state, to really exist, to be equipped, to be there or fully present. ___________________________________________________________________ At the Big Film Show of the Real Oh, I saw couples touching tenderly, eyes closed and limpid smiles on their faces; and there were sleepers among them, during the Big Film Show of the Real - and let us not forget those with hands over ears, too-loud sound roaring, muffled, and ill-conceived - or those weaving in their chairs, hands over eyes, shuddering as sodden dreams and yawnings took them as well - all in the hall of the Big Film Show of the Real - projectors humming poorly in the background, speakers roaring before us - splices chattering through the dirt and dust of the endless film, going nowhere like all the other films - like all the other films in the Big Film Show of the Real - oh! I'd be elsewhere, outside, in the foyer, downstairs, sidewalking in city streets, on riverbanks, down trenches, up mountains - I'd be anywhere in the Real, anywhere at all! anywhere, except at the Big Show with all the projectors and speakers hammering and yammering away, but then my neighbor said to me, "Oh Oh new found friend! How could you be so naive, as to assume that outside you've found it all! the Real without the Big Show is the Reel without the Film - there isn't any!" And I saw that she was right, and I returned gladly to my seat, allowed myself to fall asleep - Just you wait! I'll dream the Real in the Big Film Show of the Real! ________________________________________________________________________ +++++ +++++ +++++ +++++ +++++ +++++ +++++ This is an automated reply. Alan Sondheim is in at the moment but has nothing to say in reply to your post. He will be in his office until March 3, 1999. Alan Sondheim apologizes for having nothing to say. Please do not respond to this automated message. ID7279901 +++++ +++++ +++++ +++++ +++++ +++++ +++++ __________________________________________________________________________ there's rain on the ground and rain in my heart and i know that i've read these lines about rain that you wrote in a book that i read in my heart when i went a-walking in the cold winter rain when i went a-singing when i made the rain when i made the ground when i made your heart when i made the book when i went a-walking in the rain that i made when i went a-singing in the rain on the ground _________________________ This Empty File What! This empty file! I will fill it, carry forth, as if an army were to make this world of files! Alas, that Trees refuse their entrance, Here, within this empty file. The tree command is no long available; forests occlude what occurs beneath our fingers. Ride with me across the surface of the waves. Dance with me in foam. You will know this surface of the foam. How shall we return attack to legions lost without the frame of this our life? Even local directory doth produce no more than . 02-10-99 5:58p . .. 02-10-99 5:58p .. E EXE 53,862 07-17-96 12:32a E.EXE QCONFIG DAT 7,722 11-05-93 3:00a QCONFIG.DAT QCONFIG EXE 29,005 11-05-93 3:00a QCONFIG.EXE QCONFIG MRK 7,528 09-26-94 3:09p QCONFIG.MRK QSPELL OVL 14,156 11-05-93 3:00a QSPELL.OVL Jennifer 635 03-01-99 4:17p JENNIFER 6 file(s) 278,139 bytes 2 dir(s) 72,286,208 bytes free, my name present there, at last, at least, in easy recompense. But where the beauty of these marks, the dark depths within the sea of symbols? Accustom thyself! They are no more! Their presence lost forever on these shores! ::Enter Julu:: Alas, thou hast wakened my from ill-fated slumbers, of dreams bitten against the fated world! I will enter into other regions than thou knowest; I will return with more than patter, ascii hex and longing. 0000000 nl nl < J e n n i f e r > sp W h a 0000020 t ! sp T h i s sp e m p t y sp f i 0000040 l e ! sp I sp w i l l sp f i l l sp 0000060 i t , sp c a r r y sp f o r t h , 0000100 nl sp sp sp sp sp sp sp sp sp sp sp a s sp i 0000120 f sp a n sp a r m y sp w e r e sp t 0000140 o sp m a k e nl sp sp sp sp sp sp sp sp sp O Beauty! O Exaltation! I am found out! Thou place a hex on me! O Love! O Languor Longing for the Bones! 0000000 0a0a 3c4a 656e 6e69 6665 723e 2057 6861 0000020 7421 2054 6869 7320 656d 7074 7920 6669 0000040 6c65 2120 4920 7769 6c6c 2066 696c 6c20 0000060 6974 2c20 6361 7272 7920 666f 7274 682c 0000100 0a20 2020 2020 2020 2020 2020 6173 2069 0000120 6620 616e 2061 726d 7920 7765 7265 2074 0000140 6f20 6d61 6b65 0a20 2020 2020 2020 2020 Nor shall this line be found hungered in our code! Nor this! Nor this! /0 /1 /2 /3 /4 /5 /6 /7 /8 /9 /10 Load Average ||||||||||||||||| /0 /10 /20 /30 /40 /50 /60 /70 /80 /90 /100 tl sh XXXXXXXXXXXXXX tls rc5des-net XXXXXXX jul pine XXXXXX XXX ::exeunt omnes:: ______________________________________________________________________ The Sadness of Directories 16 cp tf wanders 17 cp thing and 18 touch touches 19 touch her (these are the commands creating files 'wanders and touches her') jennifer: ascii text wanders: sparc demand paged dynamically linked executable and: ascii text her: empty arm: directory touches: empty her: empty thing: ascii text .: directory (this is the result of file -f in relation to files 'jennifer wanders and her arm touches her thing.') jennifer ascii text wanders sparc demand paged dynamically linked execu- table and ascii text her empty arm directory touches: empty her: empty thing: ascii text directory (this is the rearrangement of the sad result of file -f exposing the futility of emanant life, Oh, how they would love to be alive and not so empty!) Jennifer wanders, her speech in disarray; there's hardly a spark present. She demands too much, pages and pages of her dynamically linked and execu- ting. I think of her empty arm directing and touching everyone everywhere - I'd empty her, turn her into an empty dirty thing, reams of desecrated texts directing anyone, anywhere, to do something - to do anything at all. (this is what Jennifer wanted me to write about the sad result of her files so exposed to you, the emptiness of prosthetics, you know they're all phantom limbs, they're all phantoms, Jennifer says she's a phantom too, she wanted you to know this, this empty sad person in her empty life unable to touch anything at all) _________________________________________________________________________ Jennifer with Dialog so Real you can Taste it Jennifer tossed her head to one side, smiling at Alan. She was wearing a sheer blouse, and her long dark lustrous hair swayed in the breeze. You could almost see a pearl gleaming between her perfect teeth. Her beige skirt was short, her black stockings visible above her boots, and a thin line of creamy flesh just above them, flushed with blood in his direction. Jennifer's fingernails were painted red, and that smile, accompanied by long fingers holding a shot glass, brought him no end of delight. That light purple rouge of hers on her high cheekbones! The blue-black high- lights in her hair! Her full lips were slightly parted in his direction, as she said in that rich southern voice of hers, "Hello, Alan." Her left hand, holding the black patent vinyl level purse with chrome clasp, placed the said object on the transparent glass coffee-table, as if it were the most precious purse in the world. Jennifer so delightfully held her tortoise-shell cigarette holder in his direction, a cigarette inserted and begging for a light as she said, "Do you have a match?" and Alan, trembling, complied. She blew smoke in his direction, while he won- dered how they were going to complete the perl program. "I'll close the window," said Jennifer, and she walked slowly across the thick white shag carpet to the open window twenty stories up. With a deft movement of her right wrist, she wound the window shut and the room began to grow warmer as the motion of the air began to slow except for the slight stirrings of breath in the room. "Now, as you were saying," Jennifer continued, her ravishing onyx brace- lets dangling from her wonderful wrists. She cocked her pretty ears with matching earrings, to each other, and to the bracelet, in his direction, as if she were hanging on his every word. Walking over to the sumptuous couch, Jennifer's smile grew with every instant step. The beautiful glass chandelier had many tiny bulbs, throwing multiple shadows of Jennifer's long neck on the cream-colored plaster ceiling. Her perfect breasts were encased in her blouse with a brassiere so her nipples didn't show while her hips swayed as she sat down next to Alan, waiting to begin. She carefully unraveled the scroll with the perl program that was many sheets long, but rolled up in an interesting way and tied with yellow and blue ribbons, to which she said that she liked craft with her technology. "Oh Alan," said Jennifer, "this is so beautiful, what the program does and all the lines and the way it's written." She smiled and her rich pouting lips opened in his direction. Her nails carefully held the blue and yellow ribbons apart while she moved pages from the more rolled end of the scroll to the lesser end. The beautiful ebony wooden handles looked wonderful in her perfectly formed fingers, her cuticles visible through the beautiful polish upon them, reflecting the myriad lights of the chandelier. The myriad lights looked red as they were reflected from her sumptuous red nail polish perfectly applied to her beautiful nails. She carefully placed the cigarette in the ashtray with the burning end down and touching the colorful ceramic floor representing eagles above trees, of the expensive object, with the holder dangling over the trans- parent glass of the coffee-table, at the other end. She turned slightly, her pouting lips drinking from the expensive crystal shot glass holding her whiskey as she continued to study the program. "Well Alan," she shot back to him, "what do you think of this beautiful program which I like a great deal?" Her soulful eyes like full moons with plaintive cries were opened in his direction, looking as wonderful as the blue-black highlights in her dark black long hair. She was looking so intelligent and curious about this perl program that was in the scroll that was no at least partly unrolled. Jennifer placed her head back on the edge of the sumptuous couch with her lips slightly parted like red and open lips in his direction. "Well, Alan, let us relax," she said as she slithered in her amazing beige skirt across the floor to the bookcase to pull down with her long slender fingers the programming perl book that she had used for the help she had needed before she had rolled up the scroll with the program upon it, that she was show- ing him. She was so clear that she was proud of her programming tricks, her bracelet flashing in the light of myriad chandelier bulbs in his di- rection. Jennifer looked forward to a wonderful evening, and she said, in an amazingly soft and lustrous voice, "Thank you for lighting my cigarette and looking after my drink." Her beautiful legs were visible on the sofa with black stockings and books pointed in his direction. __________________________________________________________________________ Later that Night, Written Impressively with Attention to Detail Jennifer rose from the couch. Jennifer sat on the couch. Jennifer asked for a light for another cigarette. Jennifer finished the whiskey in the shot glass. Jennifer rose from the couch. Jennifer walked to the bar and poured herself another shot. Jennifer walked back to the couch. Jennifer drank from the shot glass. Jennifer took two vicodin. Jennifer walked to the window. Jennifer smiled and continued to talk to Alan. Jennifer offered comments on the program in the scroll. Jennifer looked out of the window. Jennifer said it was already past two in the morning. Jennifer puffed on her cigarette slow and languorous. Jennifer offered Alan a chocolate. Jennifer walked back to the couch and sat down. Jennifer leaned over the scroll and pointed to a line of code. Jennifer talked about the line of code. Jennifer had another drink from the shot glass. Jennifer nervously held the glass in her left hand. Jennifer continued to smoke from the cigarette in her right hand. Jennifer smiled at Alan with a beautiful smile. Jennifer parted her lips slightly in his direction. Jennifer had another sip from the shot glass. Jennifer took another vicodin. Jennifer rose from the couch. Jennifer walked to the cd player and put on an old cd of the Slits. Jennifer walked to the window and looked out of the window. Jennifer turned around and smiled at Alan. Jennifer danced slowly in front of the window looking at Alan. Jennifer walked over to the bookcase. Jennifer pulled out a book on learning perl on win32 systems. Jennifer leafed through the book. Jennifer spoke to Alan about a command mentioned in the book. Jennifer placed the book back on the bookcase. Jennifer walked over to the window. Jennifer danced again and stretched. Jennifer walked over to the couch and sat down. Jennifer looked at the lines of code in the scroll. Jennifer noticed an error in one of the lines and mentioned it. Jennifer corrected the line of code with a red pencil. Jennifer finished her whiskey in the shot glass. Jennifer rose from the couch and walked over to the bar. Jennifer poured herself another shot of whiskey at the bar. Jennifer walked back to the couch and sat down. Jennifer smiled at Alan with a beautiful smile. Jennifer had a sip from the shot glass. Jennifer put the cigarette out in the ashtray. Jennifer put another cigarette in the cigarette holder. Jennifer asked for a light and puffed thoughtfully on the cigarette. Jennifer looked with her beautiful eyes at Alan. Jennifer rose from the couch. Jennifer sat on the couch. Jennifer leaned over the scroll and traced a line of code. Jennifer circled the second variable with her beautiful hand. Jennifer took another sip from the shot glass. Jennifer rose from the glass and walked to the door. Jennifer walked from the door to the bookcase. Jennifer ran her fingers along the books in the bookcase. Jennifer pulled out a book on perl and returned it to the shelf. Jennifer walked to the window and looked out. Jennifer opened the window and took a deep breath. Jennifer blew cigarette smoke out of the open window. Jennifer inhaled beautifully the smoke from her cigarette. Jennifer looked at Alan with an eager and shiny look. Jennifer walked from the window to the bar. Jennifer finished her whiskey and poured herself another shot. Jennifer sang a shot and returned to the window. Jennifer smiled at Alan with a most beautiful smile. Jennifer walked over to the couch and sat down. Jennifer asked Alan if it was too cold in the room. Jennifer looked at the lines of code with Alan. Jennifer finished her cigarette and took another vicodin. Jennifer walked over to the window and sat down on the white shag rug. Jennifer slightly parted her legs in her beautiful beige skirt. Jennifer smiled at Alan and rose and walked to the bookcase. Jennifer looked at the beginning perl book and took it from the shelf. Jennifer read about regular expressions and the usages of sed. Jennifer described the syntax of sed to Alan. Jennifer placed the book back on the shelf and walked to the window. Jennifer danced in front of the window. Jennifer walked to the cd player and put on American Woman. Jennifer walked to the window and danced to American Woman. Jennifer said this was American Woman the long live version. Jennifer walked to the bookcase and then to the bar and couch. Jennifer sat down on the couch and leaned over the scroll. Jennifer asked Alan to light another cigarette. Jennifer placed the cigarette in her mouth without the holder. Jennifer puffed brilliantly on her cigarette. Jennifer commented on the length of the program. Jennifer wondered about its implementation in windows nt. Jennifer rose from the couch and walked to the bar. Jennifer undid the top two buttons of her sheer white blouse. Jennifer turned and smiled at Alan her most beautiful smile. Jennifer walked to the window and danced to American Woman. Jennifer walked to the bookcase and read about linux 5.1. Jennifer read the linux journal about the latest kernel implementation. Jennifer mentioned the implementation to Alan and walked to the couch. Jennifer sat down and leaned over the scroll. Jennifer outlined a subroutine in the scroll with her left hand. Jennifer demonstrated how variables are passed. Jennifer opened her lips ever so slightly in Alan's direction. Jennifer finished her shot and rose from the couch. Jennifer walked over to the bar and poured herself a shot. Jennifer walked over to the cd player. Jennifer put American Woman the long version on a loop. Jennifer smiled at Alan her very most beautiful smile. Jennifer walked to the couch and sat down. Jennifer rose from the couch and walked to the bookcase. Jennifer pulled learning perl on win32 systems from the bookcase. Jennifer took the learning perl book over to the couch. Jennifer sat down on the couch and opened the learning perl book. Jennifer pointed to a passage in the learning perl book. Jennifer placed the book to the right of the scroll. Jennifer traced the standard input lines of the scroll. Jennifer said they were elegant and worked well. Jennifer looked at the comments accompanying the lines. Jennifer rose from the couch and walked to the door. Jennifer walked from the door to the bookcase. Jennifer walked from the bookcase to the bar and took another vicodin. Jennifer walked to the couch and sat down and smiled at Alan. Jennifer uncrossed her legs and leaned over the scroll. Jennifer stood and walked over to the cd player. Jennifer walked over to the bookcase. Jennifer offered Alan another chocolate. Jennifer walked to the couch and sat down. Jennifer finished her cigarette and shot. Jennifer walked over to the bar and smiled beautifully at Alan. Jennifer walked to the couch and sat down. Jennifer leaned over the scroll. ________________________________________________________________________ Sparkling Real-Life Description Jennifer feels that Alan doesn't understand programming as much as she'd like him to. She listens to him explain the nature of subroutines and modules, worrying that she probably knows more about the issue herself. She wonders if he can see how drugged she is, working through these dif- ficult problems. Jennifer is depressed watching Alan clumsily trying one kludge or another to fix the program. She listens to him asking her to lay off the whiskey as she heads back to the bar. She bends her ear towards him, trying to make sense of his ignorance when it comes to anything computer. She's up- set at his fudging his explanations over and over again. Jennifer senses that Alan likes her when he talks about how beautiful she looks, but she senses that he disapproves of her habits. She watches him pace the floor himself now, as he tries one or another thing with the pro- gram. She's nervous watching him head to the cd player, taking off Ameri- can Woman the long version, and putting on some music he recorded himself. Jennifer cries inside, sensing his pain at his lack of musical success, now transformed into poor programming as well. She watches him take up the scroll, attempt to figure out the complex listings, then returning it to the table with the transparent glass top. She unbuttons a third button of her blouse, hoping Alan will notice when he looks up and again mentions her drinking. Jennifer senses keen disappointment as half-naked and drugged she moves closer to Alan, listening to him say that she should really really take it easy with all that whiskey. She feels intense rapture as fingers press against her naked breasts, and she is lifted bodily into the air. She senses the world turning upside-down as she is placed upon the sumptuous couch. Jennifer feels warmth all over as she snuggles under a lovely cream-white fuzzy blanket. She falls asleep with the sounds of her favorite music, American Woman the long version, playing in the background. She dreams that Alan is a brilliant programmer and a very successful musician. She dreams that he is madly in love with her. She pauses in her sleep. She begins to wake. She begs for his cock. She feels his cock deep within her, plunging her into worlds without ends, without words or dreams. _________________________________________________________________________ powerhouse description sets you right in the action o drugged jennifer so beautiful in your beige skirt and white blouse o drugged bedraggled jennifer wonderful in your black stockings o drawn and desolate jennifer in your sumptuous black boots o jennifer swallowing the air that was alan o jennifer finishing the perfect perl program o jennifer winding the ribboned scroll, entering lines of code o jennifer going to file then run then run "o beautiful drugged jennifer, i want to be your vicodin! i want to be your whiskey, i want to be your cigarette!" with fury she swung at the quivering face barely visible. out of the corner of her eye, the scroll rose in the air, white letters flamed against black sky. the scroll swung into an empty space where alan was, crashing towards the white shag floor. her teeth fastened on the space where his penis had vacated the warmth of jennifer's body. her arms tethered the knife slicing away at alan's wasted breasts. deep within her, a crash was heard and the white floor suffered an indentation. the letters howled from the scroll as the learning perl book flew from the shelf, crashing red and bloody on the floor. american woman the long live version played to the short dead thing embedded in the white shag rug, already past three a.m. jennifer walked out of jennifer. jennifer walked out of there, where jennifer walked out. "o beautiful drugged jennifer, i want to be your vicodin! i want to be your whiskey, i want to be your cigarette!" ________________________________________________________________________ thoro's a noodlo in my skull and thoro's a noodlo in my arm and thoro aro lights of many colors and tubos connoctod to tho noodlo in my groin from which tho soul of all things flashos forth from tho noodlos in my log and tho noodlo in my hand boauty-drugs do flow in tho noodlo in my skull and boauty-drugs do flow through tho noodlo in my arm but boauty-drugs don't flow through tho noodlo in my groin and boauty-drugs don't flow through tho noodlo in may hand :: aw niddly noddle in mo hund aw noddly diddly in mo skull now tho noodly in mon head now nuddly nuddly nudd! :: aw gruddly gruddly flu fro tho noodlo on my skull! hoodla hoodle hoodli hoodlo hoodlu :: this is the last will and testament of Jennifer, written this day of March 4 1999 by Daishin Nikuko in pursuance of Jennifer's noodlo noodlo noodlo! \ \ / \ / / \ \ Mail Mass Tonight I helped someone reconfigure her computer; I found she had 38 meg- abytes, 3000 messages, in her Inbox; 2900 messages in Trash, and about the same in Sent. Around 8000 messages in all. Two years ago another friend of mine had saved 3000 files until his hard-drive clogged. Two years before that, a sysadmin I knew had 8500 messages in his Inbox. I've talked to a lot of people with 100s of megabytes of saved texts and email; nothing is ever thrown out, and nothing is retrieved. Too many people never defrag - it's fascinating to see files scattered all over the hard-drive, as if one is staking out territory by virtue of the word. What guides us all in this hysteria of preservation? It's not only liter- ature that gets saved - it's everything - the computer funneling the whole wide world as salvage. Is this a sociobiological imperative of dissemina- tion? Is it based on the rite or ritual of the word? That with all the ebb and flow of CMC, there is something inviolate at the core, a form of empa- thetic magic requiring the archive, the utterance held to the heart of existence itself? I'm curious about your own experiences in these regards - both in terms of your own usages, and those of your friends, students, etc. Mine is below - When I first logged on years ago, I was printing out messages on occasion, and saving a fair amount. Within a few months, I stopped both; I save my texts, and very little else. My Inbox is emptied after every session, as is the sent-mail folder; the most I hold in any folder is about 40 mess- ages, or 100 total. These include configuration and formatting files, as well as business (teaching, conference, telecommuting) email. I also have a Miscellaneous directory with 240 files, gathered over five years, a rough average of a file per week. These are indexed and include all sorts of listserv, MOO, theory, education, and other files. There are also di- rectories of programs, graphics, audio and video files that I've created. And finally, there is my own writing, which is currently organized accor- ding to the http://www.anu.edu.au/english/internet_txt website. _________________________________________________________________________ Jami Section from Salaman and Absal, Nur-Addin 'Abd-Alrahman Jami, translated Edward FitzGerald - "Lust that makes blind the reason; lust that makes A devil's self seem angel to our eyes; A cataract that, carrying havoc with it, Confounds the prosperous house; a road of mire Where whoso falls he rises not again; A wine of which whoever tasters shall see Redemption's face no more -- one little sip Of that delicious and unlawful drink, Making crave much, and hanging round the palate Till it become a ring to lead thee by (Putting the rope in a vain woman's hand), Till thou thyself go down the Way of Nothing." And One may well find a Woman's masquerade Returning truth to truth; it is that Way Of Nothing that deletes the taste of wine, The Cup which carries worlds within the glass; So drugged, sloth's truth emerges in Her folds Where Men are Lost, consumed beneath the grasp; It is the Losing that returns the Thread And drives the Garment back upon the Form Wherein all Forms are read; let us drink again Beyond division of all girls and boys. And what the drink, and what the masquerade, And what the truth, of Nothing and the Way? And what the Cup and glass, the folds of boys, And girls so drugged, and what of Thread and Form? The formal Garment falls and fails them both; This is the lesson of the truth of sloth. _____________________________________________________________ Sonnet "I've drained my Cup, until the moon demands the needle, powder, paste; Tonight we sup, as far too soon We lose the semblance of our taste; Our eyes which eat the imaged world, Our ears which drink the air itself; Our touch, which, Cup in hand, unfurled, Replaces it upon the shelf; Our mind which disappears in Light Returning liquid, needles deep Into desire's Flesh, a Blight, While mouths devour, scream and weep; For us, the whip of drug and tongues, Of bruises, lacerated lungs." _____________________________________________________________________ Jew I number. I number them. I number myself among them. I would have been numbered among them. I might have have numbered them. I could have been numbered among them. I was numbered. I was numbered among them. I am numbered. I am numbered among them. (I count myself among them.) (I am counted.) (I am unaccounted for.) (I am unaccountable.) ____________________________________________ Emanant, Coloratura "Their eyes sparkle, wide wide open. They are indifferent to something and live even in their death. Their skin quivers, their surface sheds a new skin, then another, then another, infinitely. Daughters of the serpent that men have always called their accomplice, they slough off skins. They are more immortal than that hated God who made us women as halves of men. Their indifference is the unconcern of ancient goddesses, serene and giant women lightly touched by passion but unshattered. This God will pass while they remain. And opera, which is doubtless an ephemeral form with regard to centuries to come, will never have been anything other than the deep sleep of their violence, the representation men provided for themselves of their poorly guaranteed victory, in a battle conducted only by themselves, desired only by themselves. Beautiful and alive, the women will continue to sing in a voice that will never again submit to threat. They will say something entirely different than the words breathed in delirium and pain. They will ask no more than that they finally be permitted to die... I do not know what this song will be." (from Catherine Clement, Opera, or the Undoing of Women.) Constantly, there are threads. Continuously, there are threads. Skeins, they are found throughout literatures, peripheries, glances on streets traveled quickly, late at night, as if they were sources and destinations. They're found, unraveled, in these texts I write, or Jennifer or Julu or Nikuko or Alan writes; and just as the postmodern is always there, a sub- terranean and rhizomatic cultural presence, so these threads are always present, the emanant on the verge or virga-emanant, atmospheric disturb- ances challenging worlds and their substructures, minds and organisms. I am their antenna; digging in the fetish-middens of cultures and topo- graphies, I bring their shuddered and exilerant forms to the surface. The emanants were present during the age of the stromatolites, followed lives stumbling across saline ocean floors, stumbled up muds and streamlets onto the hardened soils of emerging lands. They encompass us; I give them names and they write me through them, write through me. The give me vision in return, undreamed-of senses, dreams that only they would comprehend. All I can do in their regard is quote - others (Clement), them (Jennifer), myself (that I at the heart of the hurricane); truly, plagiarism is at the heart of things unbidden. __________________________________________________________________________ Suspense, then Tragedy It's impossible! Hurry! They're all around us! I can't see them! There's got to be a better way to earn a living! Let's get out of here! But how are we supposed to do that! They've got the whole place sealed off! You stay here; if I don't return in ten minutes, go for help! Wait, I'm going with you! You can't, it's too dangerous! I've come this far; I'm not going back! Ok, but be careful! Please have patience! The moment is close at hand! You don't have to tell me this! Watch out! They're circling back around us! I never asked you for anything! Watch your rear! Come on! Hold your fire! Wait! They've got someone! Let the girl go! She means nothing to me! Throw down your weapons! Ok, just don't shoot! Wait, you don't need to do this! They've got him! Now! Run for it! Now! Go! I'll catch up with you later! I love you! I love you too! Later we'll have kids and that picket fence you've always wanted! They've got me! You've got to continue on without me! Promise me this! She's dead! He's dead! They're all dead! __________________________________________________________________________ Part ii Now! Run for it! Now! Go! I'll catch up with you later! I love you! I love you too! Later we'll have kids and that picket fence you've always wanted! They've got me! You've got to continue on without me! Promise me this! She's dead! He's dead! They're all dead! No wait! That one moved! Can you hear me? Who did this to you? I promise you we'll find them! He's gone! There's nothing left for us to do here! Where to now? There's a place in town he goes to! Be careful! Anyone in here see him? Nobody's talking. All right, you! You can talk here or you can talk downtown! I don't make deals! I'll see what I can do for you! He left that early? Sometimes he goes to his sister's, she's on the other side of town! Take a left. You wait in the car, I'll be right back! Keep the motor running! Have you seen your brother? Why are there two glasses on the table? You expecting comp- any? I know he's here! Call for backup! You can talk here or you can talk downtown! Try that stuff on me you can forget I'm wearing a badge! Come on you! You better clean your mouth in front of the lady! He said he could place you at the scene! Oh yeah, maybe we can make a deal! How many others? They're going to love you in the joint! I'm giving you one last time! Watch out! Oh my God he's escaped! Pull over fast! I lost him back there! Call for backup! Come in come in! We got a perp on the loose! He's dangerous! Yeah, connected to that mess back there! You better come out, we got the place surrounded! I know you're in there! Hold your fire, I'm going in! My God, they're all dead! Some days are like this! You know, you're good because you care! Wait a minute! You can't turn in your gun! What are you going to do? There's that house with the white picket fence! No, you belong here! You'll just sit around all day looking for something to do! We won't last a week! Are you sure? Wait for me! I'm going down- town! She'll be all right, they always are! I'll go home when the bad guys do! __________________________________________________________________________ Jami Here is an anecdote about Jami. One time he recited the line, You are so steadfast in my desolated soul and insomniac eye, That whoever should appear from a distance, I should think it were you! An irreverent bystander interrupted, asking, Suppose it were an ass? I should think it were you! said Jami. And I think you are everywhere, perched upon my shoulder, beneath my fing- ers on the keys, watching me from the other side of the screen, sharing my bed. And I think that were it any of the things of this world, still it would be you. And were it any of the people of this world, still it would be you. And were it any of the emanants, or any of the worlds themselves: still, it would be you. Someone said to Jami, the poets have stolen my ideas. That's obvious, said Jami, since you have none. __________________________________________________________________________ Spirit, As-If To play the shamisen without a glance at the fingerboard is to play spir- it, an allegiance of tone and touch - and the touch is always smooth, ac- ross a featureless landscape. The three strings stretch down the finger- board, without markers; they are equivalent touch in any position. Only the angle of the arm and the weight of the instrument speak to this. There is the touch-instrument and the spirit instrument, and just as touch and sight align themselves in position, with (visual) angle measured against (kinesic) angle, so do pitch and position create an alignment - a different sort of translation. The neck always appears smooth, hard, fea- tureless, as if the fingers could ask, what are we doing here, against this wood? It is always the same roundness, the same edge between flat front and curved back. One has the feeling of pure gesture, of the outline of spirit in the air, circumvented only by the necessity of a certain pressure and positioning of the fingers. In the darkness there are sounds, as if prosthetic, from sites having no relation to that of the instrument. The two move in un- speakable concordance. And I must note that this is especially true if the sounds are fast, so that the rippling of the fingers and the rippling of the notes are conjoint but mutually untraceable. The gestures are those of the mad shaman conjuring or producing spirit. Conjuring: the spirit is there, moving among the strings and wood. Produc- ing: the spirit appears, out of thin air, somehow constituted by the singing strings. In the latter case, the words are ontologically perform- ative - and in the former, epistemologically so. For the former slides among the already conceived and interpenetrated worlds, while the latter constructs them out of whole cloth: finger and sound and string, pressure and neck and movement. The right hand is obedient, answering to the call of the left; the left is motivated, shaping the grasp of the right. Between the two, literally in the space between them: the emission of spirit. The movement is critical, as in any case the spirit is that of the movement-image, the imaginary of the shape-riding of the space. This is all gesture, but what remains, in memory, is the returned pressure of the wood upon the fingers, the vibra- tion of the string against the finger-tips, the curved portion of the neck against the lower palm of the hand - and the right hand hovering all the while, answering in equivalent gesturing to the gesturing of the left. The gesturing of the production always seems counter-intuitive, as if rhythm could be guaranteed by repetitive action, and as if high notes were to be accompanied by a climbing or pointing gesture, instead of the left hand, for example, moving down and closer to the dogskin head, closer in to the body itself. For the lower notes are the outer reaches, the outer forms of the spirit or emanant, and the upper notes are the inner reaches; the higher and more unattainable, in other words, the shorter the reach. What we look for on high is within us; the infinitely high pitch is already upon the bridge itself, guiding the strings to the tie or fulcrum at the lower end of the body. These notes, inaudible, remain unplucked; vibration is absorbed within the string itself, whose width is infinitely greater in ratio than the length of the wavelength of infinitely high pitch. Surely this is the ending or the grounding of the emanant, residing within our hearts as a miniscule kernel against the husks or shells of the audi- ble? As if the emanant were the element-moment of a computer operating system possessing a kernel of finite width but infinite depth, the raster becoming increasingly fine according to a ground-level logarithmic scale. I can imagine such, leaving the shamisen for the infinitely simpler world of dreams, where size and residency are in no certain relation. In dreams, the hardness likewise is everywhere similar, a hard world in which sound almost seems, like spirit, to be an afterthought. In dreams, as well, the wood and neck may be left behind once language begins, sounds with the uneasy burden of meaning, as if out of nowhere. As if the spirit were talking through the abandoned would - as if speech were always an abandonment of a certain real, thereby a certain loss as well as gain. ____________________________________________________________________ Decadent Writing One more self-reference, one more style-sheet, she said, leaving the home- page for good. Life is a fiction written by others, I replied, since you have written the script that gives me the ability to reply by virtue of your words. But that's so passive, I replied, but know you wrote for me, it's simply the way scripts play out. The script's the thing, whoever writes it, I said, she wrote. I can't keep this up, I said, splitting the paragraph, creating the gulf. There's always such between us, this impossible, inconceivable distance - there's no way to bridge it. The sides keep shifting. I also think of relative pain, as if the edges were bruised or wounded; each step on the rope bridge sends the raw hemp deeper into the bank; there are blood fountains on both sides. You said, I said, taking sides, that there's no way to bridge it. Except to place the central pivot or pillar where 'everything' is. There's no central pillar to a rope bridge. Think of the banks as lips or labia; where are you now? I believe in biological determinism so much that I'm sure on another pla- net there are creatures laughing themselves silly telling dirty jokes about their thuggles. _________________________________________________________________________ Proof that All Primes from 0 to 1000 Written in Reverse Order Are Not Primes: 2 3 5 7 11 31 71 91 32 92 13 73 14 34 74 35 95 16 76 17 37 97 38 98 79 101 301 701 901 311 721 131 731 931 941 151 751 361 761 371 971 181 191 391 791 991 112 322 722 922 332 932 142 152 752 362 962 172 772 182 382 392 703 113 313 713 133 733 743 943 353 953 763 373 973 383 983 793 104 904 914 124 134 334 934 344 944 754 164 364 764 974 784 194 994 305 905 125 325 145 745 755 365 965 175 775 785 395 995 106 706 316 716 916 136 146 346 746 356 956 166 376 776 386 196 107 907 917 727 337 937 347 157 757 167 967 377 787 797 908 118 128 328 728 928 938 358 758 958 368 778 188 388 788 709 119 919 929 739 149 749 359 769 179 779 389 199 799 [ For example, 788 = 2 x 394. Q.E.D. ] _______________________________________________________ Numbers, Realing In Although every number is unique, they will not count the electrons nor will they count the neutrinos at the end of time. They subtilely breathe, and it is the primes which create species. So many primes huddled and un- known above, let us say, 10^100 just as a possibility. Craving attention, they are constrained by the simplest of definitions, divided only by themselves and one. This is poor communication, nowhere news, no news at all. That is what makes them news: no news at all. I think of rumblings underground, murky entrails, rhizomes, connected and full of wonder, just as ultraviolet illuminates certain Arab paper money replete with glowing mystical designs, otherwise invisible, grayed out in spectral daylight. Or I think of numbers such as 41, with elaborate prime scaffolding - and then I think of the absurdity of all of this, the harsh- ness of numbers never giving into organism, always aloof, always huddled elsewhere. The numbers hide in the things themselves, excavated by swollen science. And if a number counted? It would give itself up to effacement, and a momentary certain appearance, as if it were part and parcel of the order of things. Things always appear somewhere in the midst of numbers; drawn out, defined by them, things seem to exist somewhere outside of torn and ruined skeins. We should have always known the truth about them, if we were not seduced by the harshness of numbers. Still, there is high tragedy in a number's passing in _paysage,_ the land- scape of counting, for example this last March 10th of the second millen- nium. Nothing, not even the magic of closing our eyes, will speak or num- ber otherwise: Nothing ever disappears, everything is forgotten. __________________________________________________________________________ Prayer Heals And prayer can move worlds. It is always a question of grouping, for the inertia of non-praying overcomes prayer, and the inertia of taking-sides collapses wave-forms into miasma. There is a certain violence and greed in prayer, which makes it overly delicate. In fact, prayer is an afterthought or defect in the cosmos; it was never intended. The violence is implicit; achieving one's goals is almost always at the expense of another. Even altruism requires the at- tention of one's superiors. (Such may or may not exist; it is the lang- uage of performativity, the breath of prayer, that creates the desirable end. Gods need not apply.) And all must pray for prayer to succeed, the waves of doubters or non- believers need be kept at bay. Be aware that the prayer of a single man or woman against the prayer of another is enough to destroy them both, and even more. For prayer is a delicate thing, having nothing to do with gods or spirits, and everything to do with balance clearly toppling among both friends and enemies. If prayer were not imbalance, the universe would be brute. It is the in- ert that creates the effect of the inefficacy of prayer; open the portals for everyone to another better world, and everyone will follow. _________________________________________________________________________ "credo "every word forms a sentence and it's a sentence of life and death "every sound expels the breath and it's the last word of the sentence "there's no other writing that means anything in the longer run of things "when the world is, it stings and carries everything that means "i can't read poems that are just poems or stories going nowhere and flat "when language is only that there are no stories and poems "at least urgency, hunger, intensity start something, mess it up "don't ever write it up without desperate immensity "then whatever you think this poem kills itself "because it isn't itself wastes words whatever you think" - maybe Nicanor Parra _________________________________________ the ancients, cool the slightest change of angle, levered against the gnomon, reaches from the second to the kalpa all into all, all maps into all the glance of a second reveals the form of the true stars, their design formless, beyond comprehension nothing into nothing, nothing maps into nothing _________________________________________________________________________ Death and Its Enemy, Thanatopoesis Certainly our world has continually revealed the omniscience of death. Our world has also given us no reason whatsoever to believe in an afterlife or anything other than total annihilation of the self. Yet we persist in be- lieving otherwise. Why? I will tell you the answer. It is because there is something else that in fact does survive forever. This something else is manifest in our beliefs about afterlife. We are like trembling antennas. We know these beliefs to be true because if they were not, evolution would not have given us any reason to believe such. Because we live within a bi- ological economy in order to survive, and the surplus associated with tha- natopoesis would be counter-productive if it were not true. We will always fear death, but we would not tend towards thanatopoesis, but only towards material fortifications if it were not true. There is always that curlicue or trouble at the edge of our thinking that makes us believe that we will live forever, and we have inherited that curlicue from the structure of the world itself. You know this, in spite of all the modern apparatus. The modern apparatus has nothing to say about any of this. It pretends it does not exist, yet it does exist. It is what creates thanatopoesis. This does something to death, which is to divide it into the death of the material body which is obvious, but does nothing to say about the death of the spi- rit. There is no reason to create the spirit when there is no sign of the spirit. But there is a sign which is part of the curlicue. You must under- stand this is not idle speculation but proof of the existence of the mind after the death of the body. __________________________________________________________________________ CLICK FOR BEAUTIFUL LINKS<_The> CLICK FOR FREE SEX CLICK TO GET RICH QUICK CLICK FOR PICTURES OF ME __________________________________________________________________________ my heart on noontime tuesday, eating lunch, then I found a scrap of paper towel in my pocket, having used it for cleaning, so I left it on the plate when I left, it had, there was, an image of an embroidered heart on it. immediately I thought of a forest clearing and embroidery going on, how there would be singular labor in the production of hearts, each slightly different from the others. well then, I thought, look at this, there's a throw-away heart sitting in the middle of the plate, it's imprinted, it's tied to capital, it has no history, none at all, a token among thousands of others on the role, each equivalent to the others. what is this capital, I continued to think, that makes tokens of the world, this one heart in the forest would have been a heart of labor, craft, it might not have looked like this at all, it might have had to have been learned, the technique and the dyeing involved. capital makes equivalence everywhere, and the sociologists' notion of 'a stranger in the city' now really encompasses all the attributes of living, every interstice of culture, one might almost say, the scaffolding of the world. and each heart, cauterized, stamped out, equivalent, not only to every other heart, but every other image, representation, ornament, object, commodity - each heart is lost in history's absence; the lineage of the world is broken, discarded, ready only for next year's models. by now, that heart is ash or landfill. I think of Anne Frank or other symbolic 'sinks' carrying the weight of a world's destruction; in a sense, every object mimics every other, no object is unto itself, if ever any were. caught within commodity and skein, every one gives quantity to every other; every one guarantees the measure of all success. thus the world subordinates to ordinals, the heart becomes a token of depression, what catalyzes memory and the deep mesmeric antiquity of signs. now we stare at emblems, noticing techniques of embossing, polishing, plating, preservation, and distribution. every written word is one or another, every utterance disappearing on the plate, etched and aligned with stamped embroidered heart. so depression may as well token a return to an imagined primordial space, where a hearth moves through flames from ember to ash, stoked in repetition; it is not ever there, and the scrap of paper towel, non-existent, as if the world were made of only fallen. depression, too, is fallen; the world is that which reigns and rains, until one sleeps, one's closed eyes showing only darkness. __________________________________________________________________________ Power Points I want to construct a mapping of power-points, a certain history of quan- tum consciousness, from the fetish-objects. There would the original sheaves of David Bohm's essays, angled and lying across the three yellow volumes of Towards a Theoretical Biology, placed on the purest sheets of white parchment. To the right, the spinthariscope from Crookes would be displayed, set next to its original black leather case, on equally pure sheets of slightly yellowed antique vellum, the faintest shadows of cursive writing visible through it. All display cards would be a very light grey rag paper, gold threads, In the background, two abaci - a smaller Japanese 4/1 model, resting on a sheet of white satin, and leaning against a large Chinese 5/2, on a black swatch of the same material. The beads on both are set to the value 41. The small Tasmanian hand-tool lies in front of the Bohm essays on a small purple velvet pillow; the first-edition Schelling lies on the right, on a beautiful selection of century-old dried violets, with the 3.5 billion- year-old stromatolite fossil, positioning on a thin sheet of slate and leaning against it. The Schelling book, on its side, is opened precisely 8 millimeters (a thin lucite tab between the pages) to the first appearance of the German word for 'Absolute.' The 1895 telegraph receiver left rear; a floppy disk with my personal mail on it, center rear, angled on a small plastic holder. The telegraph recei- ver is semi-polished, and rests on a letter from a lover, the name and address facing down. Front center, almost against the Plexiglas case, the Korean shaman stone, resting on its small traditional three-legged stand, focusing the energy. The vertical stone is angled north-north-west. A seat covered with red velvet, low oak back, before the case (which sits on a white pedestal). Lights down low, moody, with soft shadows. Japanese kabu- ki music almost inaudible in the background. Very elegant. __________________________________________________________________________ the little train one publisher tried to take my book out of production, saying no one would read it. one publisher reneged. one publisher paid for, but didn't bring out a second book, because it was too expensive. one publisher probably jumped up and down but I wasn't there. I was one publisher. one publisher lied and kept me on hold forever, doing nothing. one publisher defended my articles. one publisher is very kind. one publisher is very evil. one pub- lisher had his files destroyed because the typesetters found my work ob- scene. one publisher never sent me copies. one publisher destroyed my cat- alogs. two publishers are my closest friends. one publisher died. one pub- lisher was wonderful and worked with the book. one publisher had his files returned and had to find a new printer. one publisher was wonderful with terrific production values. one publisher produced chapbooks with amazing speed and gusto. one publisher required the subtending of the book. one publisher is on hold. one publisher wore slippers. one publisher found me a nuisance. one publisher found me easy to work with. one publisher won't speak to me. one publisher welcomes me with open arms. one publisher found my old cd's and interviewed me on the phone. I almost fell in love with one publisher. one publisher published without permission. one publisher stole my work. one publisher sent me a contract stating my work would belong to one publisher forever. one publisher rearranged my texts. one publisher did not. or intense dust, the long and languorous road to suffocation, always dif- ficult to breathe. or filtering through the airconditioned technology of distributions: records, tapes, magazines, anthologies, chapbooks, mono- graphs. or the sorriest of accounts in a certain coming-into-being. or violent and unmitigated jealousies, nightmares, smashed dreams of fame and fortune. or symptomatic of a closet and impure personality. or the submer- ging of the jewel of talent. or the righteous suppression of the mediocre. or neglect or perseverance. one publisher never answered. one publisher refused to answer or return the work. one publisher would if one publisher could. __________________________________________________________________________ Read "Snow" There are many flakes to the snow. Every one is unlike every two others. The two others dance around what is called "one." The "one" huddles and cuddles with itself. This is called identity. Snow witnesses our "identity." Our "identity" witnesses the "identity" of every flake. I cannot take my eye from the window! I do so love "identity." You can see through every flake, but you can't see through the snow! This is what is called "metaphysics." It is all about the "one." There are two flakes of snow dancing over there. I cannot stop reading! _______________________________________________________________________ pornography alone and late at night, i download images of naked men and women i send the images into corel draw, corel design, corel trace they motivate perhaps they are you and me, they are so intimate, so revealing i send them into gws, corel capture, corel photo areas and objects blurred, edges smeared, involuted multiples, bifurcations, effacements, prosthetics, rhizomes, vaginas and penises, nipples and eager faces everything is achievable colors are embossed, posterized, gamma and hue changed motion blurs are everywhere, except for the central plateaus there, roots set in, tendrils, outlining a face it is your face there, summoning me, it is my face there, summoning you feverishly, we continue to work on the photographs they display the sense of a human hand, labor caressing the forms the forms are melded, disappearing into flows and floods except for the central plateaus, organs coupling, invaginations our bodies are funneled into thin air we have known every moment of the lens of the camera we are greedy; we refuse to stop there, at the moment of capture our limbs are sent akimbo, straining at the edges of the frame our body circulates, enveloping simulacra of nothing who is that nothing, swirling around limbs akimbo multiple vaginas open across limbs, shadowed deep within them penises split and measure the length of an eye to an object the imaginary forces itself from the image, hovering 'the sleep of reason reproduces monsters' (i make you here) we drive touch into the picture, the mouse moving over labia the mouse outlining the pleasure of glistening skins and membranes we drive pressure, rearranging limbs, plateaus at will aroused, we find you hungered everywhere in the glistening membranes we, we, we, our trembling hands, we drive each other, over and over again (i make you here internal) fantasms envelop us, until we are bereft of skins, our membranes the very air we breath, breathless, screens fogged with transformed organs swallowed hole ________________________________________________________________________ Amazing Facts! 1234567890: 2 3 3 5 3607 3803 234567890: 2 5 23456789 34567890: 2 3 5 7 97 1697 4567890: 2 3 5 43 3541 567890: 2 5 109 521 67890: 2 3 5 31 73 7890: 2 3 5 263 890: 2 5 89 90: 2 3 3 5 0: More Amazing Facts! 0987654321: 3 3 17 17 379721 987654321: 3 3 17 17 379721 87654321: 3 3 1997 4877 7654321: 19 402859 654321: 3 218107 54321: 3 19 953 4321: 29 149 321: 3 107 21: 3 7 1: 1 ______________________________ 1844-1999 I will be your pattern because it's clear there's a pattern to be made and I will be your maid and clear up the pattern made from fear of the lumpenproletariat welling up from your maid who you will have made thinking that always beyond the shame there is always another maid who will wash away that pattern while you steer clear of what you have rigorously made defining pattern beyond repetition, that is: the rigour of the maid. every pattern has its marx to upwell from the pattern. every maid dreams of jenny and black freighters. you only think of patterns and spinning jennies you think you made. __________________________________________________________ 1_yourflesh porno 2_working on the images, there are backgrounds, turning men and women 3_into the ordinary. i will let these stand, recuperating the truth 4_of the photograph - or i will fill these spaces, producing the body 5_out of the hollow of the real. then there is the body and the body. 6_it reflects universal suns and moons, the topography of space itself. 7_it does that. do i dissolve faces, substituting the memory of my own? 8_are fingers extended, thrust into succumbing flesh, through breast, 9_abdomen, the planar convolutions of the back? i think of the penis 10_between nipples, duplicating the other, so close to the mouth of the 11_subject, almost his speech. the body is lost in the swirl of flesh 12_co-extensive with hollows into which it is no longer placed, but 13_transforms into a membrane suspended and productive. i do not send 14_the brush over nipples, labia, the curve of the penis itself; these 15_survey the rest as i lose my face and sleep among them. 16_ it is not anonymity or the purity of faceless bodies that i search 17_ for, only the anonymity of the real itself. faces may drag the body 18_ down; i would walk among you masked, in full masquerade, and naked 19_ otherwise, were that not also a signifier of danger, abject depravity 20_ - were that not also the opposite of anonymity, _the masked._ 21_i would crawl into my limbs, retract them, entangle them with yours, 22_there would be no thought, there would be the comfort of the perfect 23_bed and our presences always among us. i beg to be a thing, among 24_the things of my creation, photographs altered into sheaves of files, 25_files resonant with a truth held by shattered cameras only. my labia 26_couple with yours; breast to breast, milks flood our bodies; my penis 27_opens to the whole wide world; vaginas cover arms and legs; hair falls 28_through the world, entangling the other side. 29_ i will continue to modify us just _now_ with effects and filters. 30_ stop me from thinking, stop me from thinking, stop me. 31______________________________________________________________________ 14 i be lonely here in space it is so cold in space it is so empty here can be so empty and lonely here in space no one around here nothing singing around me cold and frightening this space it is so very empty not a voice i be so lonely no one to hear my lonely being in this very empty space not a word and nothing very colored or near me nothing touching so cold and as if it would be almost colder in this lonely space no direction of pretty brightness no hearing of pretty sounds lonely space no touch anywhere around in this cold frightening space so very alone here no hello from warm kindly words anywhere around nothing yet moving in this when nothing singing to me no hello hello no the soft pat in here this lonely frightening cold no really the soft pat tasting of lonely space nothing moving i be lonely here in space it is so cold in space it is so empty here