Posts Tagged ‘Ben Voos’

Mom Said I Was No Henry Miller


19 Jul

henry-miller

Henry Miller Serenity

samplex

Date: Fri Jul 19, 1996 5:00:12 PM

À ma coquine jeune vixen Je...Je...Je..Jennifer,

The following is a note I just sent to my German penpal, Ben Voos. I have never met him personally, nor even seen a picture but our correspondence has been quite interesting over the past six months. We actually first became acquainted after I emailed him pontificating contrarily to something rather cynically rah rah he had to say about information and the Internet he'd published on a Geocities page. Actually it was a very short interrogatory he had posed. Not that I disagreed with him at face value. I merely suggested that the Internet, and more specifically the Web was NOT so much about the dissemination of information since so much of which passes for information is bogus anyway, but about the opportunity for the many to finally have a canvas upon which to dynamically create a presence herefor unavailable by force of numbers and positions and glory reserved for the Hollywood & New York sensationalist top-and-bottomfeeder types. Of course I was speaking specifically from my own perspective, although at the time, I had barely had my Internet account a few weeks—if I recall, my surfboard barely broken in. Since then, it has become painfully obvious that the corporate giants have rushed in and helped dwarf the "garage" artist once again, but I still maintain my original vision, where the idealistic individual is granted a greater control over artistic presentation via the web despite its flaws than ever before, and that's all the plumbing I need to appeal to me.

Yes, amazing! I was just thinking about you this morning, feeling guilty that I had not moved on some of the things I have promised you, like getting a German translator so that you could "go native" once in a while. Dumb American, that's me. I know I've not been sensitive to your translation struggles, raging on about this and that as if I were writing to myself, which of course I am, but you know what I mean. I had even lost track of who dashed off the last note, me or you? In good humor, it shouldn't matter. Your writing always intrigues me, and I simply love to find it in my mailbox, even under all these aliases, or rather friends, you steal in from nowhere every few months. Everytime I see that odd name in my box, I suspect, and am usually right that it is you, Ben, my friend across time and language. I feel that I haven't measured up to your expectations. I am always surprised when you seem to suggest otherwise.

I have been busy as God-on-uppers. I am currently writing what is turning into quite a long treatise on censorship and artistic integrity. As I said in my last note I am NOT a minimalist, although I often long for that rest, perhaps minimalism would bring to my increasingly stormy mind. I feel I have tumors, my head hurts in exactly the same spots as a few bumps I have sustained over the rough and tumble years on the back of my skull. Maybe I am simply inventing my illnesses, and just need more exercise, but I fear the worst nevertheless.

Speaking of God-on-uppers, I am not, not have I ever been a druggie by any means, occasionally diving into a month or so's worth of marijuana, a eight months to a year go by, and I smoke nothing until the next small amount of weed falls into my lap, but that's about it. Guzzle booze heavily one night a week or so, then nothing until the next one night stand seven to ten days down the road, although that ratio used to be every three days when I worked outdoors as a land surveyor in the war against the elements and caliber of crew when what I really wanted to do was create pages, mapping my thoughts, my crimes against self, and the renegotiating the penalties for making those choices and reducing those I never were even offered. What I once thought was a ball of twine I later lamented was instead a bowl of spaghetti. Never smoked cigarettes. Compulsive bad food addict and too much beer keeps me in gut and hell for nerves, but I never understood the angle in hard drugs.

Saw this 1979 Russian film with English subtitles the other day on cable called The Stalker. Have you seen it? I didn't see the very beginning but it was a most intriguing flick. I'll save any descriptions other than it centered around a mythical, mystical place called the Zone and three men including the guide, or stalker, who stumble around in this strange place seeking bestowal of its powers.

One of these days I suppose I will have enough of my WWW stuff in place to insist you to take a major browse, but I am still light years it seems from the body of work my own sensibilities require of me. Interesting how Geocities is coming along isn't it? Although my pages are still relatively primitive. Quite primitive. I have yet to compose my first image map.

Here's a ethical challenge you may find worth your while, or you may find it morally repugnant, politically exploitive, simply gross, but I would be interested in your opinions. I am considering hiring a prostitute in the near future for experimental video and clothing fetish purposes. And perhaps some light bondage. She will more than likely be a poor drug-infested African whore. I will pay here more in one session than she has probably seen from a single client in some time, according to my informer. I still have to formulate my full ideas, and am depending on this acquaintance of mine who is well-entrenched in this sort of streetwalker liaison to ease my initial mistrust in this sort of arrangement. I am doing this strictly from the video and photography perspective. This rather risky (in his own right) acquaintance wants the sex. I am not inclined. So, Ben, how do you interpret my motives? I may already have accomplished this transaction (but maybe not) by the time you are able to respond, but I am certainly interested in what you may have to say about this rather apprehensive affair.

miller

The writer as man

Mother was right, as only she could be. I was not Henry Miller, but there were many others who were not Henry Miller either, and since I never said I was Henry Miller, after doing the math necessary to free myself from yet another curse she uttered upon me and my future, I reckoned I was standing on the simple side of common sense, and Mother, well, she was just a Mother doing what Mothers do, at least some of them, enough of them to have become a literary caricature. And it is a well-known fact that Henry Miller had one of those Mothers, himself. Many of us do. Some more so than others.

Perhaps I write like a boy. Not a man. Is that so wrong when I live in an eight minute song, when my topographies grant no sea level, when I stand alone against the skyline and the mountain range with nary a falsifying woman to tell me who I am, what to do, and why I should do it, when I face the darkness with the unquenchable thirst for life, more life, and none comes but the same old pastures of many colors I left to those who promised they would tend them, so that they may prosper, yet I saw them not, but when I was a boy I had all these things, and among them was a sense of beauty for its own sake, investigation for its own sake, a unified field theory single file motive without fear or courage for marching to the cafeteria for the greater good, for getting along with everyone, not cheating anyone, exchanging whimsical tongues for logical ones, swapping those later for dangerous ones for the greater good...

Feminization? Militarism? Do you know the difference? Chauvinism? Barbarism? Do you take offense? Just bring me my meals, and take strong care of my feet. The rest will follow.

GT

Making It New By The Pound


30 May

Making It New By The Pound

Making It New By The Pound

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Date: Thu, 30 May 1996 14:57:49
To: Ben Voos (in italics)

Hey Ben...

Dialing for synonyms has me spinning doughnuts around my memory.

Caught up in words they are. "work" means "making money" and free-time is meant to be for recreation. In Germany, in the mid-eighties, when unemployment was a popular dicussion, you heard of the "human right to work". This was twisty. I wonder, why people need someone to tell them what to work, they need some money thought. Well, I'd welcome NO WORK...

Yes. My wife's mother recently lectured her with this interpretation sharp on her peace-whittling tongue, and of course she was probing with ages-rich mother-in-law cynicism MY own blessed state of NO WORK. Meanwhile I indeed am blessed among men. My wife has been convinced finally (this month) I am best kept at home in the privacy of my mind and Dollhouse, her indifferent fingers but warm toasty heart. I admit I feel rather insecure anywhere else, but I drink myself into an exposion of the bickering myths of stratakulture every time I step out into the city of lights and theories of flight. I am rather, yes, busy making a contortionist's name for myself, or else in the minds of my critics, busy hiding names behind barstools and bushel baskets of cloudy arguments, you pick 'em, as they say in the sporting world of betting chances against the winds of great guffaw.

I work every waking moment. My wife complains that I cannot rest, which is only partially true, a fuzzy set, if you will. Fuzzy logic however is the grace the unequipped will never face, and for their ignorance they will perish with their lessening winds. My dreamstates are work, are tools, are just like being at the movies looking at somebody else's dreams but less jaundiced in more than a few cases. But back to the idea of work and money. My wife pays all the bills. She feels the burden of her job, but she brags about what it brings her in prestige and buying power of argument and guilt over the host of projects at our command, insecurity or not. If I bring in a dollar, I give it to somebody else, mostly her, or to the computer industry. I am an accomplice in the digital revolution, a footsoldier, an enlisted tattooed man, a homefront evangelizer as I peer beyond the garbage and confusion from my Dollhouse perch which serves me well.

Am I a hypocrite because I am aging, ugly and fat, conspiring to destroy faith in humanity's surge to crawl up from the tidal mud known as the Anti-Hip having been only to ultimately fail at being that dazzling, thin, strategically well-placed, well-pocketed and quasi-beautifully hip? The trickledown economies of Art and Finance are not dissimilar as to what Ezra Pound's crackling contentions and William Gaddis in The Recognitions have imparted.
Surrounded by mediocrity and predjudice, the greatest practitioners of liberal slander slither all around my eyes. My sockets burn sometimes with the urge to fly somewhere I can explode past meaning into the netherland of pure synchronicity. The rainy season meanwhile is driving all the Dolhouse area bugs inward, ants and cockroaches multiplying themselves and immigrating to my turf as if they "owned the joint". Fighting against the corruption of the material is the only fight worth dying for, but dying is a losing cause. I hate dying.

WORK IS ENERGY. Money is a contaminating conversion byproduct, safe only in proper prospective, because money corrupts everyone who gazes upon it. Opinions are always made about money. Even the most discrimating poor gaze upon it and are corrupted with envy and violence in strident persuasion to obtain it, or are saddled with an indifference that leads them into wretched arguments for obsessive compulsive choices as concrete as money ever was. Pure work frees man from the analysis of money. Am I a hypocrite for pointing this out? Am I a hypocrite because I love to spend money? Am I a hypocrite because I have argued successfully it seems to remain at home, supported by a woman who is hardly Artist or fraud? Am I a hypocrite because I am aging, ugly and fat, conspiring to destroy faith in humanity's surge to crawl up from the tidal mud known as the Anti-Hip having been only to ultimately fail at being that dazzling, thin, strategically well-placed, well-pocketed and quasi-beautifully hip? The trickledown economies of Art and Finance are not dissimilar as to what Ezra Pound's crackling contentions and William Gaddis in The Recognitions have imparted.

But people get occupied in a way, they forget to handle NO WORK. You know that, I suggest, but do you also know that contemplation, the force of passivity, I mean not producing, maybe on a journey? Oh, yes, you are a gardener, too. Many people have to work, to ease their artificial bad conscience.

But I work. I sweat. I struggle. I don't ask others to do for me what I'm unwilling to do for myself unless I am prepared to pay the going rate, or haggle along the hedges of a negotiating smile. Reckon I should forward you the original note Ben Voos wrote, not that the wires will become any less crossed when hung upon some aesthetic, despite what Ralph Waldo Emerson left in his own hefty will be done. By the sweat of one's brow. I still dig that motto.
If I say I am a writer, or a painter, am I less so because no iMote has called me up on the telephone to offer me a job or a contract? Am I any less a gardener if no one has offered to snap a polaroids of my roses or send me on an all-expense paid holiday to the Alpines to discuss breeding techniques? Does it matter whether I eat poorly like the beast I resemble, or whether I eat like a fat French chef buttering his own bread in Paris? The human right to work and the human right to be hip are not too far apart on the GT scale of irreducible tasks among so many and so stupid a population not only always electromagnetic & naked in the catbird seat, but snobbishly so...

But we, despite our best attempts to avoid/embrace these symptoms remain bunkered down in given ratios of human consumption or production, radix fuzzy but still redlining or drunk from the fountain of fair green frankincense, we also, succumb to the same pitfalls in one flavor or another as any other poke we like to feel superior and just a bit more enlightened than in comparison. Era of the dangling preposition, the unmangled unfangled proposition. We struggle against struggle not knowing how to slip the knot.

This right to work blood anthem as it's currently bandied about in the US is indeed best understood as some bestowable inheritance to a middle class lifestyle or bust. This is ridiculously presumptuous, debatably unrealistic, and most certainly unsustainable among a dysfunctional population such as ours.

Basically Ben, I feel most people want everything they think they can handle. Most of us don't know when to start OR stop wanting. The few who know the ropes either play them to bizarre circumstances or avoid/enjoy them with the greatest of relish. The rest of us argue ourselves into a double-edged niche, and so it becomes us, despite any makeshift theories to the contrary we or some other highly paid or dollar dead genius devises for us.

But Bob Blumstein has some paint on his birthday brush: As always arguing both sides of the fence isn't going to bring you to any conclusion of the issue. The answers are simple and abvious. Choose a direction or it will choose you (doing nothing is a direction as any mathematician can tell you on this plane of ideas). As the author of 'The Dumbing of America' pointed out on the Tom Snyder interview last night, 'We have become a nation of finger pointers' blaming everything and everyone but ourselves. If you like what you're doing continue. If money really matters that much, don't go into debt and burden everyone else with the default. Get a job, and spend only what you have, not what you expect (old English proverb). Self Control not Selfishness. Spinning gears and blaming the world is what Ayn Rand fought against, tooth and nail. Even Yoda the green mucous sage said 'There is no try, only do.'

Happy 36th Blumday! Did you go to work today? Birthday aches and pains hardly soothe the savage beast mouthing from the hip the guarded virtues of selfishness. May the shoes fit. Tales from the jackass rarely suit the prophet of no return, and so this "nooooooo work" question leaves me dry in the mouth just as does my own "self-indulgent" work leave most of you asphalt philosophers sprawled all around me wondering why I beg the question. The salty pooch of Len Bracken's Situationist rant is Bob Black's Zerowork Theory. But I work. I sweat. I struggle. I don't ask others to do for me what I'm unwilling to do for myself unless I am prepared to pay the going rate, or haggle along the hedges of a negotiating smile. Reckon I should forward you the original note Ben Voos wrote, not that the wires will become any less crossed when hung upon some aesthetic, despite what Ralph Waldo Emerson left in his own hefty will be done. By the sweat of one's brow. I still dig that motto.

By the way, if self-indulgence is such a gooey waste, whom do we then indulge? asks the phat raven of the shimmering mist. The shimmering mist replies, "Go bother somebody else. I'm busy."

GT

Grasping At The Truth Of Movement, Mr. Voos


28 Apr

truck

Movement Is Often Harsh...

samplex

Originally published on April 28, 1996

Ben. Welcome back to the Orange Zone, where groveling or barely grasping at the truth of movement, Mr. Voos, is just another fly in the ointment. Of course with your German tongue and my American whiplash, whatever gets lost in translation is the better part of valor, I'd imagine. Yes, I did receive your last note warning of your transitional silent period. I also keep a hard copy (paper) file system, and so I was able to dig up your last note with ease. I would very much be interested in hearing all about your problems reaching me. I've been weathering a series of machine-sensitive download anomalies myself and the more I study a problem, hashing over software and hardware variables and contradictions the less I discover I understand. So you might as well throw whatever details you have the time or the desire to divulge onto the heap.

The last thread that you suggested we begin to articulate is the one which portrays our differences in taste, so here goes a short list of truly disgusting habits I have:

I enjoy cultivating and picking scabs off sores. Must have begun when I was a scab-infested kid. I feast on red meat, pork, shellfish and other salt-and-fat infested poisons. I am fifty pounds overweight. I drink cheap, watered down beer, preferably Carling's Black Label. I despise heavy brown beers. No liquid can surpass an iced tea. Never drink coffee. No drugs except an occasional cannabis noblesse oblige. I am a fascist neatnik in the household domain (everything in its place, and shoes off at the door) but tend to be somewhat a slob (wearing the same few rags day after day) when it comes to personal hygiene. I love women and have often stated over the years that I interpret the quality of my own life by the quality of the women in it, yet I also subscribe to many mysogynist fundamentals.

I believe scientists are just as vigorous the liar as the mystics, and though I believe honesty is the only policy worth policing, I argue the side of the mystic against ruthless scientist, and the side of science against thumbnail mysticism. Most poverty in this country is self-induced and self-perpetuating, while the overlords all across the board are gouging the shrinking middle.
I am a coward, and have no aims to change the world for the better or the worse, yet I rage at the sorry state of American inner cities, particularly the fear-inducing gangster-driven neighborhood I live in today. I wish Jesus Christ would finally get his act together and clean up this mess he claimed to care about, or get off his high horse and shut the fuck up. I am against everything. I am against nothing, except what bores me. I am always bored. I loathe myself. I think I am a genius but what good is genius without a plan? Besides that, I'm not really that clever at anything, except failure to finish what I start. I adore the American game of baseball. I despise what millionaires have done to the game. I do not watch boxing, very little football, even less basketball, no hockey, uh, soccer, just in passing. I quit playing sports as an adult because I quit leaving the house because my neighborhood is vibrating with thugs challenged by the color of my eyes and the thickness of my skin. I often know I am paranoid. I often know I am the paupered prince of the sublime cognoscenti. I believe the United States is the best country on the globe. I believe the US is in deep shit of its own making, and is squandering its birthright as a nation with all its emphasis on liberal guilt, and little on historic notions of personal responsibility. I believe all states must be consdervative, all populations liberal. I believe all political systems by nature are corrupt because human beings are corruptible, and are part of the animal kingdom where the fierce outmaneuver the weak as a matter of science. Religions ARE the opiate of the people, yet opium is a better gift to humanity than Darwinian logic. I am not apathetic concerning these passions of the political world but I am passionate concerning the apathy this world calls political action. Enough for now.

My last tasty reading was THE RECOGNITIONS by William Gaddis. I can't seem to read science fiction. I hate rock-n-roll because that is the only music I love. Yet it seems to render meaningless the battlefields of the soul defaulting to hero worship and a feverish fetishism of the tools of the trade. I do fancy sorrowful Appalachian music, circa 1920-30s. I've never wanted to own a gun until last week. I guess I am a burning conservative, or simply am incrementally with each passing year more afraid of random or racially motivated violence than I was in my innocent youth. Despite his opinions on just about everything and despite how his hirelings treated me over the phone a few years ago when I requested an interview for my publication (my plans to bus out to Kansas were hissed) I still can appreciate William S. Burroughs, although Ginsberg has lost favor with me. I am a book addict, but have had little time recently to indulge my habit outside of E-mail and computer manuals, and that's okay by me. I believe scientists are just as vigorous the liar as the mystics, and though I believe honesty is the only policy worth policing, I argue the side of the mystic against ruthless scientist, and the side of science against thumbnail mysticism. Most poverty in this country is self-induced and self-perpetuating, while the overlords all across the board are gouging the shrinking middle. Joblessness is a sin against self, yet I will not hold a job because of the exploitative and debilitating nature of the capitalistic set. I do however expect people to provide for themselves with work. Lazy bums do not gain my sympathy, no matter what excuses they think they are entitled to exploit.

That said, I do believe Ben, I have given you enough fodder (both explicit and veiled) to crush this relationship if you have a mind to do such a thing. Our differences, eh? The mystic's queue within me suggests that despite any cosmetic differences, even those of philosophic, political, artistic, or fleshly configurations, we will not discover many differences between us because like attracts like at this succinct level of coincidental modulation. In other words, we have sustained a conversation already more thorough and less pretentious than most people accomplish in a lifetime of chatter among themselves, with little reason other than a need for self-expression and a willingness to participate as another exerts himself in a similar fashion. Of course, I prefer to march to the beat of a humble arrogance opposed to the march of an arrogant humility. As to your revealed need for quiet introspection, I say carry on. Write when and what you can. Don't force yourself. Bottom line: I need you about as much as you need me, but like mortality, communication resolves chaos not nearly as often or as brilliantly as it disrupts order.

GT

Never Know Where My Emails Go


27 Feb

Off The Charts

Off The Charts

samplex

Date: Tue, 27 Feb 1996 07:59:41
From: Ben ben@hades.bbdo.de

Koop cool now, Gabriel, I don't wanna ruin your day but got to tell you about my problem addressing slurfish@radix.net. It got smashed back again:

Subject: Undeliverable Mail
Date: Tue, 27 Feb 1996 10:35:19 +0100 (MET)
From: Postmaster@bbdo.de
To: ben@hades.bbdo.de

Bad address - slurfish@radix.net
Error - Nameserver error: Error 0

Oh my, will this be the end of our exchange? Do something! The electronic network got us in its hands. Never know where my e-mails go...

Ben

That's odd. I get plenty of mail there, and soon this box will be invalid. You're not using the angle brackets as part of the address are you? Don't mean to insult your intelligence but you're not pulling what we in the pop milieu call a DUH, named after the Italian-American Guido caricature, or a DOH, after Matt Groening's Homer Simpson cartoon character's all too familiar swear syllable, are you now? Drop the angle brackets. My address is:

slurfish@radix.net

That's my first instinct after perusing the path strings above. If you are still having problems we'll dig deeper.

GT

"Now, he's hell-bent for destruction, he's afraid and confused,
His brain's been mismanaged with great skill.
All he believes are his eyes
And his eyes, they just tell him lies..."
—Bob Dylan

Editor's Note: Boy, was I off base on that one. The Homer Simpson was mine.

Slurfish The Adjective


24 Feb

slurfish-the-adjective

Slurfish The Adjective

samplex

Date: Sat, 24 Feb 1996 07:35:20

What's e-mail? As you see, Slurfish, I am again interested in the hidden intentions of man. What's really going on? About e-mail (like communication itself) someone wrote it'll be a mirroring of oneself on others to form out [one's] own individuality. A basic human urge. Made acceptable and harmless by this kind of Freudian explanation.

But then we know about the illusions in it, especially the imagination of knowing the world. We are so much involved with surrogates, that we welcome even the most artificial, tricking ourselves with enthusiasm. Our true agency nearly always slips out of our reach. So e-mail as well seems to be a vicious circle, like all of those hobbies, specialisations and fanaticisms making the people feel like beeing worth something and giving life a sense.

That is the down-side. E-mail is artificial, highly mediated, masky and a tower of solitariness. But then, what is not? Language itself, to me, suffers this kind of course. No, what I really think is that it is unnatural to live in a dull society having nobody you can exchange with intellectually, and trying to give a smile on newest Hollywood-gag not honestly longing for it. Free media makes people more individual. New media brought strife in a sad manner, what concerns Disney and Hollywood dreams. But what degrades people by showing them money and lifestyle they will never reach is similar to shocking people with porno or dividing them by culture between intellectuals and simple minds.

I cannot value this. Me, myself, I go all right with very different people. Nowadays I don't feel lost in an agency of advertisment and I like simple people too. But I nearly gave up my search for someone having read some books. It's funny. I know many artists, very fine musicians and even some philosophers but people involved with literature seem to be out of my reach. Till now.

Ben

Well Ben, there is nothing innately flawed in your preceptions concerning the modern mind of man nor is your take on his creative postures—designed to keep himself "occupied" in the most broad sense of the word until he no longer is able to agitate for something to do#151;corruptable by anything I might add or detract. High artistry and the lowest common denominator syndrome has factored into our modern age the impossibility of avoiding conflict within the psychological domains of the man on the street who like Eliot wonders whether he should simply eat a peach to maintain his dignity in the Kierkegaardian sense, or rather roll up his pants and go for the gusto in some foul hedonistic construct some will applaud while others will mock.

While it is true that nutrients and liquids are a priori mainstays, sex is not, nor is communication, yet neither are easily stymied in a cultural setting. In this sense culture is equated with that education the individual is supplied by his senses as he awakens to them from birth.
After breathing the air he cannot see, the singularly most natural thing for the homo sapien to engage himself, all else falls into the category of the artificially induced and orchestrated by weakly understood urges and socialization processes (at the personal level, regardless of intellect). Food and drink. Sex and procreation. Thus by extension, of course the impulse to communicate whatever the individual and the collective culture deems plain or unique could be said to be artificially induced by activity perhaps natural in the broadest sense, but unnatural in the keenest, where man in truth has no purpose other than to explore the concepts life itself identifies as supernatural.

Now it is always true that the act of observing others brings with it the competing notions of equality and the superiority/inferiority pathos. I would agree that the media, in particular the latter 20th century media has brought many woes upon the world with its fluid imagery and caustic irresponsibility. Envy is the bastard child of the visual arts. We all want what we have seen others seemingly no more capable or deserving than us achieve. While conservative thought stereotypically touts suppression of urges for things presently unattainable, the liberal mind rejoices in showing it like it really is or "should" become, that is to say, the apotheosis of urges. Fact is, neither do either very well, and so chaos insues.

Ah, Ben, I see we now approach the fetching frontier that the religious mind (even distilled by Kant) has struggled against for milleniums in the heats of a breathless deity, while the scientific mind seeks to stake its own claim demanding whole dominion of these gallant human strides in its own name.
Correspondence thru E-mail is without a doubt the greatest boon to the cause of personal communication and letterwriting since the Age of Romanticism, extinct a century now, with its zenith probably two hundred years ago. The telephone and the democratic notion of education for all has brought the art of communication down several notches while spreading its joy to more populations within and across cultures. While it is true that across the electronic medium the garbage in, garbage out formula is highlighted in spades, any brief perusal thru the mundane strings of code which pass for "communication" in these myopic times proves that—along with the urges moving biological sustinance (hunger, thirst, sex) to an obedience to natural law—the forces which compel a person to communicate himself to others at some basic level also fall into that secondary category behind simply breathing. While it is true that nutrients and liquids are a priori mainstays, sex is not, nor is communication, yet neither are easily stymied in a cultural setting. In this sense culture is equated with that education the individual is supplied by his senses as he awakens to them from birth.

Each of your statements made in this discussion I deem to be true, as well as my own. So what is it I am ultimately trying to transmit? Perhaps nothing more than to agree—with what that legendary wit who, as the story goes, once threatened to slice an infant into two halves to determine its true mother who was engaged in a custody battle with an imposter to assert her maternal privileges—that all is folly, and that there is nothing new under the sun. Even the code strings that allow our technology and hence this communication to be transmitted from me to you in mere seconds are nothing but man's mimickry of the genetic and molecular codes already billions of years in laughable reruns.

Who possesses these syndication rights? Ah, Ben, I see we now approach the fetching frontier that the religious mind (even distilled by Kant) has struggled against for milleniums in the heats of a breathless deity, while the scientific mind seeks to stake its own claim demanding whole dominion of these gallant human strides in its own name.

Simply put, ALL of life's petty attempts at serious as opposed to artificial importance is seen through a smudged unfocusable lens. ALL is artificially stimulated by the powers of the hour. ALL is fake except through the grace of a well-scrimmaged acceptance and propped up rationale. Damn, I had no idea where I was headed in this diatribe, but I am sounding remarkably like some street corner Protestant preacher locking horns with the other side of his brain, that of the cynical fart artiste fingering his own anus simply because it feels so good and he can get no one else he'd ever allow to poke it for him, since of course, he's an "original", unique in his artistry, hallowed in all his ways.

Well, that's about it for now Ben. Got some HTML to fathom. Til we cross the great divide once again, I'll leave you with this little ditty of a riddle with the promise that I will forward to you a list of responses, including my own a bit later: Why DID the chicken cross the road?

Gabriel

P.S. And Ben, do not "automatically reply" to this note but instead send anything back to my NEW address at:

slurfish@radix.net

I am still phasing out my Clarknet account but I wanted to include your most recent comments in this note and nearly freaked when I couldn't find them in my current mail bin. It turned out they were over here on my wife's computer posted a few hours after I established my new account, transferring my old to hers, and so in a sense your words fell between the cracks. Finding them safe and sassy kept me a happy camper for although I had a hardcopy I was reluctant to retype your whole note. Anyway, cheers...and another poetic shimmer:

"If there's an original thought out there, I could use it just about now..." —Bob Dylan

"Now, he's hell-bent for destruction, he's afraid and confused,
His brain's been mismanaged with great skill. All he believes are his eyes
And his eyes, they just tell him lies..." —Bob Dylan

S A M P L E X

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


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