Archive for 2000

An Interruption: Time Stretchmarks

08 May


Time Stretchmarks


BUT SUCH IS TIME and perfect timing, off time, under time, in time, time and time again, sloppy time, never enough time, Miller time, tea time too.

Neat time, time in a bottle, my time, the time of my life, in the life and times of Uncle Joe Stalin, time to shape up, time to get a job, time it all the way to the bank, time to take it to the enemy, tell me when it's time to get married the fifth time.

Shallow time. Shag time. Sane time. In the time it took to drive a bus off the cliff on a Seventies cop show, that's show time. For the third time today I needed time. Time to go to the bathroom. Time to shit or get off the pot. Time was when fun just cost a nickel.

Time this. Time that. Time warp. Time tunnel. Time is where the heart is. Time enough to think of a good response this time. Time to grow up. Time to eat and run. Time to suck the chrome off that bumper crop of party time. Time to beg the difference.

Time to cut the mustard. Time to pick out a receiver downfield. All the time in the world. Time to wipe my ass with a timely hook and refrain. Timex time. Time to cash a cheque. Time to win the battle but lose the war on drugs. Time it took six women to satisfy each other's curiosity in a dark room over lunch time. Time to kick the bucket.

Time to write a novel about time. Time to brush her hair the same way her sister used to brush hers, timing each stroke to the beat of time. Time to draw a conclusion. Time to mark a certain number of correct answers to the incorrect questions with a number two pencil.

Time to give up a lost cause.

Time to shut down the chicken farms along that sparkling river. Time to read the classics in their original language. Time to make lunch bags sing before our children race off to school. Too much time on my hands, not enough too keep my feet warm.

The time it takes to build a universe only to have it collapse in your face is nothing like the time I helped Aunt Mardis rip through a chocolate cake in the olden days of French ascendency.

It takes time to learn to ride a bicycle. Time to reap what one sows. Or maybe not, this time. Maybe that time is instantaneous time, time accurately remembered. Time to sing before she swallows for the last time that nasty pill. Time to harvest a generation. Time to swallow before you hang ten. Time to look before you cross.

By the time it took to dig up the Erie Canal times they were a changing. It's not about time, it's about attitude. By the time I get to Phoenix many husbands won't have time to take out the garbage. The driver swore to the witness that he didn't have time to stop. Time takes a holiday but time never vacates the premises.

Time laughs at odd moments but time never bargains with the Devil or leftover sandwiches. Time is that which doesn't kill you. Time kills that child inside only to seemingly reappear later.

Time is a long, cool woman in a black dress. Time is kinky. Time paints by numbers. Time is a disease of the pancreas. Time is a pretty heart-shaped tattoo on Wendy's breast in some window in Times Square. Pi is a variable in a timeless equation.

Time understands all wounds. Time wounds all heels. Time is an asset. Time is a pain in the ass. Time is only as good as your next biological movement. Time is the needle in the haystack. Time is secondary but don't tell her that.


Too Much Time

Nothing like a good time in the sack to make time fly. Time has no fear of flying, but Erica and Henry both knew what having a good time was about, and it was not about time, but the enjoyment of time. Grown-up time.

There is no such thing as time travel today, but recordings keep time in ways none of us truly understand past its fetish draw, but time was when a fine time was had by all, double time, life plus time. High time that boy got a job. Time the unfortunate child born without legs who beats a faster smile than you do.

Observe that same child pursue time into measuring itself with old technologies in a world that presumes time can't reverse itself while it can so readily repeat itself dipped in statistics. Time is a two-way mirror. Time is a dirty joke, rain, and the annual flooding of the muddy Missisippi.

Time is nothing but what you or somebody else makes it, except when it's game time, and don't try to tell me about how much time it would take to make the timeless world safe for timelessness because everybody knows it's all in the timing, even though most of us are suffering a bad sense of two timing.

There's never enough time to transcend one's station, especially when mobile. Time is far too formidable a friend on feverish afternoons to let stand in the cold rain without knowing that time sometimes stands still without your assistance.

Without time on my side I perish with the daffodils. Time is a time-honored sport everyone must play in order to graduate. Time forgives. Breaking rules for time is not always a bad time, but does require timing it just right. Time scars. Grab the moment to make time while others bargain, losing time to others, until another time comes.

Time is a stiff upper lip in a compromising position. Time defers to gravity, but for one writer, time is nothing but a madcap schemer bought and sold on the installment plan, money paid back over time, but then earning time for Old Doc Destouches who didn't live long enough to get mixed up in time, time and time again, was a thankless time.

Time is a nightmare to Klaw's girls who prefer time raw and risky more often than their less time-tortured sisters. Time dresses up for special guests. Time is the major importer, exporter of stolen goods across state lines in situations where time is barely legal. That's time standing in the shadows, losing her shirt to timeless romance.

Time is nobody's business but the rates are skyrocketing. Time is colorless, odorless, tasteless. Time left is time right on time. Time left to itself is useless. Time blows tall buildings to the ground. Time grounds water tables and small asterisks into dust bowls older than TIME ITSELF because time is the wind in the sails of marginality until time itself stops.

April 2000, Washington DC

Typing With Dignity

07 May

The Shrew

The Shrew


Date: Sun, 7 May 2000 00:51:25 EDT

Dear Gabe—Damned busy myself. Hosted a Poetry Grand Slam at my work tonight (working in a used bookstore—there is a god!) Just finished a 7-week community theatre run of Taming of the Shrew, and I'm starting to feel a bit crispy. I checked out the site; interesting spot.

Not much wordage out of me, written-wise in a while. John Carle someitmes prints my odds and ends in his webzine, Gravity. which is a long-standing spot I highly recommend. But the honest truth is, I'm such a Luddite anymore that if a tree didn't die in the publishing, I'm less than patient with any magazine. The net has become a necessity, like a telephone, and, unless those Freenet guys have the impact that some predict, it's nothing much more than pay-per-show TV.

Glad you're moving out of the DMZ—I've learned in recent years to understand about hearing gunshots at night (in the summer, several times a week). Hell of a world, and probably just what we really planned back when...though the reality of near-anarchy is rather nastier on the nerves than the theories and predictions were. Oh, well, maybe we'll swing Fascist for a decade or two, see if that works...

Good luck in your endeavors, send interesting things. I'll check into that site and send what small intelligence I may from Deep in the Heart of Happy Valley—the Promised home to the fools who followed dick-head with the tablets and burning foliage. —M

Damn, Max, seems neither one of us can type with any dignity, and since that website has such a polysyllabic crunch to it, it's a wonder I ever found it. Meanwhile, I was checking out the Ernest-Curry wedding snaps until the server failed after a few closeups.

Did you cast to type? I'd pencil you in for a Lucentio to Roland's Baptista.

Katherine – The “shrew” of the play’s title, Katherine, or Kate, is the daughter of Baptista Minola, with whom she lives in Padua. She is sharp-tongued, quick-tempered, and prone to violence, particularly against anyone who tries to marry her. Her hostility toward suitors particularly distresses her father. But her anger and rudeness disguise her deep-seated sense of insecurity and her jealousy toward her sister, Bianca. She does not resist her suitor Petruchio forever though, and she eventually subjugates herself to him, despite her previous repudiation of marriage.

Petruchio – Petruchio is a gentleman from Verona. Loud, boisterous, eccentric, quick-witted, and frequently drunk, he has come to Padua “to wive and thrive.” He wishes for nothing more than a woman with an enormous dowry, and he finds Kate to be the perfect fit. Disregarding everyone who warns him of her shrewishness, he eventually succeeds not only in wooing Katherine, but in silencing her tongue and temper with his own.

Bianca – The younger daughter of Baptista. The lovely Bianca proves herself the opposite of her sister, Kate, at the beginning of the play: she is soft-spoken, sweet, and unassuming. Thus, she operates as Kate’s principal female foil. Because of her large dowry and her mild behavior, several men vie for her hand. Baptista, however, will not let her marry until Kate is wed.

Baptista – Minola Baptista is one of the wealthiest men in Padua, and his daughters become the prey of many suitors due to the substantial dowries he can offer. He is good-natured, if a bit superficial. His absentmindedness increases when Kate shows her obstinate nature. Thus, at the opening of the play, he is already desperate to find her a suitor, having decided that she must marry before Bianca does.

Lucentio – A young student from Pisa, the good-natured and intrepid Lucentio comes to Padua to study at the city’s renowned university, but he is immediately sidetracked when he falls in love with Bianca at first sight. By disguising himself as a classics instructor named Cambio, he convinces Gremio to offer him to Baptista as a tutor for Bianca. He wins her love, but his impersonation gets him into trouble when his father, Vincentio, visits Padua.

Tranio – Lucentio’s servant. Tranio accompanies Lucentio from Pisa. Wry and comical, he plays an important part in his master’s charade—he assumes Lucentio’s identity and bargains with Baptista for Bianca’s hand.

Gremio and Hortensio – Two gentlemen of Padua. Gremio and Hortensio are Bianca’s suitors at the beginning of the play. Though they are rivals, these older men also become friends during their mutual frustration with and rejection by Bianca. Hortensio directs Petruchio to Kate and then dresses up as a music instructor to court Bianca. He and Gremio are both thwarted in their efforts by Lucentio. Hortensio ends up marrying a widow.

Grumio – Petruchio’s servant and the fool of the play—a source of much comic relief.

Biondello – Lucentio’s second servant, who assists his master and Tranio in carrying out their plot.

Christopher Sly – The principal character in the play’s brief Induction, Sly is a drunken tinker, tricked by a mischievous nobleman into thinking that he is really a lord.

Covad failed AGAIN to install my DSL line this afternoon. It's hard to swallow, like a fist-sized anti-anxiety chit, that one person can have so much failure generated in his name, but I sure have, of late. Is America's social dysfunction so agonizingly, so rigidly complete...


Rock N Roll Nigger

15 Apr


Patti Smith


Timothy, I presume you have asked your darling punkette out to the Patti Smith gig, and that you will be handling your own ticket purchases. When I mentioned to Sue my logistics dilemma in coordinating all this, she said, and I quote, "Let Tim buy his own tickets. He needs to take responsibility. He's got credit card and computer access. Why does he need us?"

Well, she had a point, so I'm buying mine probably Thursday afternoon after I drop Sue off at Dulles for her flight to Atlanta. Just tried to call it in, but grew weary of listening to muzak and ads. The web form tacked on eleven fifty in charges for a two week mail delivery window where any number of things could go wrong. Waiting until Thursday hopefully won't blindside me with a sellout.

Hey baby, put your dress on, we're going to the rock show. Any comments, news?


Eighteenth Street Endgame For Our Man Of Letters, SE Style

13 Apr


Eighteenth Street Endgame


Date: Thu, 13 Apr 2000 19:12:26
From: Timothy S. Shipman

Admittedly, he is very resourceful. Chalk one up to cleverness and saavy on Steve's part. Boy he must have worked pretty hard on coming up with the right e-mail address config for me.

As far as the house goes...glad you received an offer, sorry it was lower than your asking price. I'm not quite sure what to make of the whole realtor scenario. It doesn't sound like you guys are having it go your way. I've heard it said that persistence pays off, and if there's anyone more persistent than you I'd like to hear of it.

Steve is now threatening to come down here on the guise of testing the voice-over market, even though he, himself, admits to not really being able to afford it and that NYC is really the voice-over venue. On the bright-side if he gets down here he might get his VCR back from me that he has been pineing away for. He wants me to mail it to him. Hell's Bell's it's a mono VCR. Peter had been in the market for a VCR, so I suggsted to Steve that he negotiate an equitable cash agreement w/Peter. But oh no, that was too troublesome and expensive. Off course, that left me wondering more troublesome and expensive for whom? I expect to have been able to run off a tape of Ministry by the end of the weekend, so will be in touch over the weekend.

Thanks for your help on the "Steve w/Tim's home e-mail address" quandry. I did know it was possible to find out or at least get pretty close to someone's e-mail address with certain sources, but my goodness he did a vigorous and thorough job. Anyway, what is your intended schedule for the weekend? As usual given the circumstances, I mention in passing that a bunch of my work associates and I will be convening a Happy Hour gathering at The Big Hunt Fri. 04/14/00 @6:30p, and you and Sue are welcome.


I'm hoping the new move will open up my sinuses again with a taste of the splendid, I had rejected living so many years in a disordered neighborhood, but I look around with that quiet joy that I fought the good fight and won here more than my own share of battles in the ghetto wars, though as the endgame approaches, my scars are many, and I wear most of them around my waist.
Well Tim, you'll just have to ask him if you guys ever joe friendly again. Lots of news on the GSIS front office relocation project. We're a jot and a jane from signing a deal, AT OUR ORIGINAL PRICE.

And without post drilling a sign out front.

Or having Lillie hosting a general open house. Or the preferred realtor's open house. All tried and true approaches user by finer salesmanship types, let me agree, but gently rejected by GT, replaced with a few whimsies, and strong purposes a faith and daring you know to be true of me—and then not even needed. Is this real thing? Am I really living a charmed life and don't even recohnize it? Is this Sue and Gabriel DOING the Baby Dance or WHASSSUPPPP? Or a mere peace offering of my own warped imagination? Are my literary compulsionsa gift from the One True God of Inexplicable Coincidences, or merely the whip of wind around the pole that knows nothing but the warring process of oxidation and the errors even sub-atomic patterns contain within them? Can't say for sure. But the details are rich, and worth a sift.

For now I'll leave the dashing against the rocks for others, but there's no doubt we've offended every face of god in the house with our presumptuousness, but then MY kind of behavior generally always carries the hour. What this offense earns us is the undeniable urge to move uptown first a vision, then a reality. And now these new Raders inherit the role the perfect people for the place, and it makes us feel good because they just WANT the place, and should be able to handle it, and that's all they are asking for. And they are are prepared to move boxes. Bottomline I figure it's because it's an easy in and out again for parents from where they live north in Laurel. And here's the gasper, the third place in two weeks yet at the Essex Building in the 4700 block of Connecticut has come on the market. Cumberland Street cross-bearing. Hey I nixed with some Connecticut Rockefellers on Cumberland Island once. Lots of stories there. We're whizzing by early tonight. I'll risk Metro to Van-Ness, and walk the four or five blocks north to the building. I'm hoping the new move will open up my sinuses again with a taste of the splendid, I had rejected living so many years in a disordered neighborhood, but I look around with that quiet joy that I fought the good fight and won here more than my own share of battles in the ghetto wars, though as the endgame approaches, my scars are many, and I wear most of them around my waist.

Thanks for the invite, but probably won't be able to find the BIG HUNT with all that's grabbing me by the shorthairs around here. Yes, I mentioned all those moving details in mail, and schedule, ah, THAT'S where you heard it, and as fer the weekend, who knows? painting the backyard fence again, remember five years ago, househunting, packing, resting, et cetera.

Just call when you're feeling like you can swing by. Chances are we'll be here.


Friendship Wars, Frontlines, and Full-Moon Felonies

29 Mar


No Clues, No Bruise


Date: Wed, 29 Mar 2000 04:00:08
From: Timothy S. Shipman

I can only... guess, after my comments of the other night regarding not having furnished Steve with my home e-mail address, that you, prior to that night, not being aware as to my dilemma regarding, enabling or getting dragged under by one Steve Taylor, must have furnished him with it inadvertently. I'm not attempting to place blame; rather I dislike the unexplained; it bothers me. As you may have concluded, I've received two e-mails from him in the past two days.

I can't be sure as yet, but I don't think I've e-mailed him since the home e-mail has been installed. Either from home or work. So I'll be checking my work e-mail logs tomorrow to see if I can get to the root of this. Any enlightenment you might shed would be appreciated.

Thanks to you and Sue for Sunday afternoon and evening, again!


Nope, no clues, no bruise from over here. I haven't emailed him in weeks, and haven't mentioned you at all in ages to him, so I'm not sure how he got it either, Tim, except we might have mentioned Earthlink over the phone that night, and like Jack, Steve is a resourceful fellow with something that appeals to his own sense of espionage and personal cleverness, and if Steve is anything, he's web savvy, at least on the surf. And yes, it was great having you here. Thanks again for everything. We got an offer on the house from that Kevin and Marcia Rader-Rhodenbaugh couple that swept through here Sunday, about five grand lower than we are willing to accept, so we chipped away a little from our listing price, and counteroffered. That other house we wanted on Connecticut Avenue is gone. Poof!

The Sue and Gabriel show may finally wind up on the street without a place to live yet.

The mortgage banker recommended by the Virginia realtor has stalled, or is a heavy procrastinator in giving us a nod or anything at all, so we may have to look elsewhere in saddling up with our own new mortgage services, and that next step is crucial. Anywaze, yeah, I miss Steve, but he's a jackass, worse than me it seems in terms of the friendship wars. If he would just grow up and try to be there for "his" friends once in a while rather than always needing somebody to be there for him, then he'd be a great person to know, but nobody can expect Steve to step outside his own calendar, so otherwise, yikes, let me out the door, splat, before this thing goes terminal...


Time Sleeps Close To Earth Now

20 Mar

Time sleeps close to earth
now as we groan without irony,
asking bright future,

where is thy promise? Sinister factors
threaten with extinction the entire global nest
as proud terrors of control
and fickle poisons of chaos
are unleashed

to give us all a taste of the wicked ruins.

ALL nations and ALL peoples
must recognize and name
this ever-pursuing power grab
which separates the wheat
from the chaff in its own
peculiar language.

It is time my friends to acquire the future.

[2000, Washington, DC ]

A Slice Of Nostalgia (Before The Crash)

17 Mar


Chip On My Shoulder


Originally published on March 17, 2000

You know Steve, I've actually given some thought to this idea several times these past few weeks, mostly on Sundays as I eagerly scan the sports pages for baseball bits, but I'll probably pass, what with my persistent feeling of work overload, our new house hunt and sales fever, and such. But thanks for asking. Would love to bring those Poets back, but I think the best I can do is wish you good luck with the Rhubarbs.

Speaking of gallery openings. Just read an article yesterday about DC's NOMA (north of Massachusetts Ave.) being the center of a new commercial push up the New York Ave. corridor, complete with four new circles, office buildings, upscale housing, shops, et cetera, the mayor is touting. Of course, the urban renewal project will more than likely oust the artists who rent loft space in old buildings amidst mechanic shops and other grease monkey estabs, and one was quoted saying that they would like to organize in collectively buying a place east of there, as in NE, so that they won't fall victim next time to this sort of urban swell.

And so it goes, the Stadium-Armory infestation continues to remain the invisible fringe west of the Anacostia, although the mayor is still talking like DC will hustle in a team which will play at RFK until a downtown stadium can be built across from the White House...

We drove by a few places yesterday from a short list of available units in DC provided us by our agent, and will actually visit inside a couple of them if they are still available after this past weekend. It's amazing that DC is suffering a housing shortage. Last Friday afternoon we had our first walkthrough here in the Dollhouse, but the tall professional anglo from the Smithsonian was decidedly not interested, yet our agent remains highly optimistic of a quick sale. Our first scheduled Open House for next Sunday has been postponed at least a week at my request, so I can get the courtyard up to snuff once this last (hopefully) cold whiff passes. Sigh...

Meanwhile, go hip young man, nothing lasts forever. . .


Just As Quickly As It Came Whistling In

14 Mar


Language Is A Poor Substitute


Date: Tuesday, March 14, 2000

Peter Burris, in a splendid mood, relishing the prospect of breaking back into the world of solids, propositions the nearest and most competent accountant at hand, "Sue, are you interested in helping me get my consulting firm's finances in audit-worthy shape? I am on the brinnk of three multi-thousand dollar contracts and i want to open a bank account and do things strictly by the book, so when we seek financing from investors, everything looks good. I don't know what you would charge, but if I'm correct, we should have no problems paying you what you think you're worth; if I'm wrong, we'll offer equity and incrementally more as our prospects improve. Is this an attractive notion to you? Please let me know what you think."

"What do you think? I am inclined to help him, but I want to charge a going rate...will you help me with this...I can set it up in Quickbooks Pro for Windows. Of course we will need lots of pertinent information, but I think Peter will be forthright." The scarlet dress she is wearing has my attention, but Sue is no less in a propositional mood. Of course her propositions and even her prepositions, influenced by her being the heir apparent to the family breadwinner role, are less concerned with what's casually placated inside her scarlet dress than how many greenbacks she might pocket today.

Questioning the who, what, where, how, why, and when of the organizing principle of life itself—now that, my friends, is a topic worthy of deep black seas, buried and lost civilizations, the 90% of brain power just sitting there waiting for you and me.
"Sure, I'll help," explains Gabriel, "And yes, you should charge a good rate. He's asked me to design a GORGED.COM logo with a pomegranate fruit imposed upon the "O" in gorged. He said he thought that I charged $35/hour for this kind of work. I wrote back that no I didn't but since I am hardly in business these days, I'll certainly treat him right, but as for the accounting thing, you are swamped, and command a high dollar for your services, and besides, Peter talks a good game but as scatterbrained and addicted to grandiose thinking (birds of a feather) as he seems to be at times, I wouldn't want to waste a lot of time hemming and hawing over his accounts (re: Shipman), particularly with all the househunting and sales prepping we already have on our plate. But he was good for us financially for eighteen months when we really needed it, and I like to return favors when I can, so if he seems to have himself in order, I would like to accept his work.

"Bottom line, if he is getting all these high dollar freelance jobs, why should we expect peanuts for participating in that Tom Howellesque of all things—negotiations. Peter does like to farm out a lot of stuff since his critical skills are limited mostly to linguistic and server side elbow grease, but nevertheless he does seem to GET the jobs (or the promise of, but if I recall, a lot of those promises fail to materialize, so he's not much that different from us in that latter regard)."

Geez. Talk about the inability to stand firmly and deliver. Just a whiff of work, money, success, a mere taste to the senses, then it's gone, just as quickly as it came whistling in...
A time, a time, and half a time later, Sue has heard back from Peter with the following results. "Baby, sounds like the same 'ole Peter...sorry, I thought he was ready to play ball now."

What did he say? Unfortunately, my assessment had been correct again. Peter and Tim shared this knack for long range tomorrow plans that often fell by the wayside because of their inability to strike when the irons where hot. We would soon pay nearly $5K to a Jersey mafia moving company to reconsign all our stuff less what they plenty broke or stole to a condo all the way across the city, from the ghetto bounces of hapless SE to the nose-jointed professional classes of upper NW in a couple of months, and Peter would suddenly feel a resurgence of hatred, according to Tim, that we had asked with two months free rent to vacate the room he kept in shambles last spring when Mother was graduating from Oglethorpe, and we began the last push for ultimate household order so as to best prepare the dear old rowhouse for sale this spring. Geez. Talk about the inability to stand firmly and deliver. Just a whiff of work, money, success, a mere taste to the senses, then it's gone, just as quickly as it came whistling in...

"Everything sounds good to me; I need to take a look at which Quickbooks product will suit better. I am aware of your housing situation and I automatically assume you are swamped at all times; in that vein, I will line up all my ducks and get the data you stated that I need. I anticipate I will be ready to play ball in four to six weeks. I need to reincorporate...mine expired during a bad time (ie, Michelle's visits and phone calls were devouring my income and I let a deadline pass OUCH!), but I have an eye on the next step. Talk to you really soon," assured the always pedantic Peter Harper Burris, professorial, punk, and predicated upon the principle of perfecting an argument. I was never quite sure however, where his catholicism began or where it ended. I always wanted to ask him that question, but I knew I'd never have enough time to register whatever he might call a full response.

That I would meet a painter named Peter Harper who would become my best friend for a season or two in 2007—when we both kept studios at the 52 O Street Studios building in DC—is irrelevant to this Burris segment. Questioning the who, what, where, how, why, and when of the organizing principle of life itself—now that, my friends, is a topic worthy of deep black seas, buried and lost civilizations, the 90% of brain power just sitting there waiting for you and me to take the next step. They tried it with poisons. They tried it with rules regulated by carrots and sticks. Those didn't seem to do it. What's next? I don't know, but it's always the poets, the philosophers, the artists, the inventors, the truthtellers who prep the soil, lay in the brickwork, and take the first few steps.

For you slow learner's in the mix, that's what we, he, and thee are doing here in SAMPLEX. May God light our way.

Mole In Your Groin

12 Mar

Abormal Psyche

Abormal Psyche


Date: Sun, 12 Mar 2000 05:59:35
From: Margaret Nix

Thanks for the update on everything. All I have to say about the mole in your groin is hurry up to a doctor before it really starts giving you trouble. It probably is just a cyst, I've had a lot of them, in my groin among other places, and they get nasty if you let 'em.

Next, go back to the doctor who fixed your leg, insurance or no, and get him to fix this other leg. Goodness, Son, you have to take care of yourself. I do hope Sue's back is back in shape by now. Tell her I love her. I love you too!

Oh, yeah—I made another 100—this time on my final exam in abnormal psyche. I really didn't think I would do that. Got to go now. Keep me posted on the house and y'all's health and everything.

Love, M

At 2:25 PM -0700 5/15/00, Margaret Nix wrote:

Hi son, I went down to Harthorpe Terrace and got a brochure. It is a nice place, but the rates are pretty steep—$119/Single for their economy accomodations—so if you want me to look for something else, there are others close by. I just thought Hawthorne looked like my kind of place—and yours too.

Let me know.

Love, M

[simple_series title="Mother"]

Myself Naked Upon Thy Mercy

11 Mar


Myself Naked Upon Thy Mercy


On Sat, 11 Mar 2000 08:09:03 -0500

The house is officially on the market. Wow! Talk about "moving and shaking!" Well, I sense the sunset of an era! I guess the process is well under way towards the next age of pages. I hope to take a drive to look at the location of a handful of places our agent earmarked for us here in DC. A girl at Sue's office is a Virginia realtor. Once she returns from vacation she'll show us a few places in N. Arlington. Yep, Sue's down and out for the weekend. She's got some medication an office mate gave her, and she's got an appointment on Thursday. She wants to go the the ER, but I told her that the local ER's don't measure up to the TV version, and I think basically rest is what she needs. She may opt for chiropractic care if she can find one in her HMO available today, but I'm doubtful on that note as well. But it's her call. By the way, that last note you sent came twice, with different time stamps. Very odd indeed.

Kube—looks like I found some info that suggests that indeed this WebStar 3.02 server should be able to dish up real audio tracks. The hex gibberish you mention, hmmm, are you using Stuffit Expander v5.1.1? I forget the exact context and language but I recall there was something nearly mandatory about upgrading to the latest version of Alladin's decoding and extraction software awhile back. System 8 and above, perhaps was the nuance, but I really don't recall. Now, like I said before, I haven't dealt with the creation of RA files, so I don't know that much, hell, I know nothing about how you created or had them created, but I do know that in my experience in downloading binaries off the newsgroups, quite a few sound and video files do not play, and aren't even recognized by the purported media players as proprietary files.

I do have a copy of Media Cleaner Pro 3.0 I have been meaning to explore, which should educate me on these terms, but obviously I haven't done so yet. As fer your Java course, how did it go? Are you finished? Did that Roaster stuff help you out any? That's pretty damned exciting, pulling on your techie-bound galoshes, and wading through the jello of object programming. Also on my list of things to do...

To advocate destruction of any and all order, to reject sensibilty at any level save that of discourse (why here?), what sort of dreamlife do you expect you should have? Your leftover choices in full rejection of humanity hardly offer up a frolic in the fields of favorable phalanges, now do they? By discouraging all the plain pleasing temptations of life, you are left with a shrieking demonology and the bitterly arcane, and barely enough juices to get by.
To sum up those thoughts on witchcraft you made, it was that very same Jew we've quoted on many an occasion who said, "As you think in your heart, so it shall be..." which sounds pretty nifty, some very top drawer witchcraft, but we know it ain't necessarily true, for if it were true, we'd all be muck a muck geniuses, rich as oil sheiks, and masters of our own domain. And I have to think it ain't all neurotic self-doubt that's keeping us billions of nimrods light years away from these wish fulfillment psychic circuitries which entice us into thinking we're the one that can do what's never been done, or if so, just a little bit better, or a little bit easier, or sexier, or quicker, or stronger, or stranger, et cetera, ad nauseam.

Comedy venues. Yes, berry berry big in America, particularly in the Eighties. I've actually never been to one because I too have the same gnawing trepidations about public laughter that you have, although I do enjoy an occasional clever stand-up on the tellie in the privacy of my bricks and mortar (funny guy that Eddie Izzard), although for years in my twenties I shunned all such folly, only to recant with the remark in my early forties that comedians have become our modern prophets, the only folk who can shoot straight and get away with crossing boundaries spouting their trade of self-evident truisms that the politically correct charges in our civic life have blurred on the one hand and denied on the other.

I nearly creamed spinach when I read your jeremiad: Jehovah Jehovah, why hast thou forsaken thy son?! Have I not remained true to thy instruction? Have I not been obedient to thy word? I have discovered the secret of Satan's power and yet shunned it as soiled and unclean; I have loyally builded NOTHING of PERMANANCE, I have shed my vital bodily fluids generously upon the parched stony ground... I have refused followers and leaders alike and wandered alone in the wilderness. I alone am pure yet shunned in the marketplaces. I have thrown myself naked upon thy mercy and thou hast told me to fuck off and die...

Otherwise the goblins of goo will sneak in for the grope, and for the most part, this sector of creation hardly cares a wit for the subtleties of spin, based on an in-your-face and mush-your-mind gestalt, as Marc Bolan of the glitter rock band T.Rex once lyrically put it,”Bob Dylan knows, and I bet Alan Freed did, there are things in night that are better not to behold.”
A veritable masterpiece of crucial understanding in depicting what the greater chunk of Western pew squatters have forgotten about that word they bandy about ever freely without pain or clue to what it means according to the very sixty-six books they so rabidly flock to worship and idolize, and that word is spirituality. Elijah's lament.

Again, concerning that mock and mocking "Deliverance" dream sequence, I am reminded of what Galloping Bill Burroughs had to say upon exiting an American Indian type sweat lodge twelve hours after entering it. Depleted of liquids and hardly cognizant of his traumatized senses, he kept muttering something about the Ugly American as the force of much evil, easily recognizable to the rest of the world by the crackling coterie of demons fluttering about the individual and collective auras of these Ugly Americans. I immediately sensed that the bardic Burroughs, unbeknownst to himself, had simply seen a vision of self. HE, WILLIAM SEWARD BURROUGHS III, was the Ugly American of his own psychotic nightmares. And so, it may quite well be that your own dreamlife is merely the product of your own conscious yearning indicated in the very paragraphs accompanying your description of these recurring dreams. To advocate destruction of any and all order, to reject sensibilty at any level save that of discourse (why here?), what sort of dreamlife do you expect you should have? Your leftover choices in full rejection of humanity hardly offer up a frolic in the fields of favorable phalanges, now do they? By discouraging all the plain pleasing temptations of life, you are left with a shrieking demonology and the bitterly arcane, and barely enough juices to get by.

Of course, unfortunately this is also a cartload of horse manure, as you so aptly put it. But as long as we are human flesh we must find some common ground with the earth and its inhabitants. Otherwise the goblins of goo will sneak in for the grope, and for the most part, this sector of creation hardly cares a wit for the subtleties of spin, based on an in-your-face and mush-your-mind gestalt, as Marc Bolan of the glitter rock band T.Rex once lyrically put it,"Bob Dylan knows, and I bet Alan Freed did, there are things in night that are better not to behold."

In contrapuntal resolve, J. Wolfgang Goethe on his deathbed: More light, more light...

Frankly, since energy forces tracked in the brain are substantive, information collected, burned and sorted in the nerve cells, thought is materialistic, its audible and other symbolic forms such as written language, also substantive material, but the stretch that telepathy involves has never been adequately reproduced outside of myth and the subsequential.
Just as I was finishing this off, I received a chain letter from my always astonishingly cheerful Auntie Maude who's just a few years older than I am, the first time she has ever done such a thing, and the first note she has sent to me in quite a few months after a year of active chitchat abruptly stopped. Coincidence or not? The spells we weave, the spells some cast. Chain letters, ouch! Of course, I almost never (maybe three times in my life) participate in these ridiculous spells, but this time I'll just have to squeeze the sponge, and put you on the list.

However, if positive thinking is such a powerful force, then why did it take 400 years for the Negro slaves to gain their freedom in this treacherous land of freedom of mine? And why do rich tycoons die and beautiful starlets grow old and ugly despite millions of fans and dollars in their favor? Sure the kid responded, but what if a nurse had sung instead, or someone had piped in a copy of Karen Carpenter's greatest hits? Funny thing is, earlier today I heard an NPR broadcast by some doctor who wrote a book which touched upon the topic of the mystical roots of today's modern healing professions. Noting that there are situations that medical science can't qualify or quantify in the healing fields, many people seek supernatural explanations, but he was reminded of a couple of quotes, and I'll have to paraphrase. One was from Samuel Johnson who said I think, "Physicians seem to confuse the consequential with the subsequential."

The other was that ninety percent of illness are gone by the next day, so in effect, anything doctors do, encourages them to think their treatment was the cure.

This author suggested however that within 20 years science should begin to sport answers to these mysterious powers of positive thinking the brain exerts upon the body in times of dire necessity or yearning, for instance, why statistically few terminally ill people die during special holidays or events they've earmarked for personal reasons, but will buy the farm shortly after these mustered occasions. And throw in those sudden cures most doctors have witnessed but none can explain.

Soft thinkers of various stripes attribute all this "miraculous" activity to love, positronic thinking, outside intervention, auxiliary hocus pocus, yawn and fawn, and some of this is very well likely, but a chain letter fer godsakes???? I mean, St. Paul's epistles were chainletters in every sense, and look at where they have led us...

You must expand your thoughts on the witchcraft you perceive as more powerful than prayer and other traditional sources of collective bargaining on the earthly-otherwordly intercessional plane. Or is witchcraft just another word for what other cultures dub with other cheeky labels? But how does this truck with your stand as a materialist? Frankly, since energy forces tracked in the brain are substantive, information collected, burned and sorted in the nerve cells, thought is materialistic, its audible and other symbolic forms such as written language, also substantive material, but the stretch that telepathy involves has never been adequately reproduced outside of myth and the subsequential.

Anywaze Kubhlai, I trust that friendly reciprocity has been achieved with this note, and look forward to your next outburst.



"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""