Tag Archives: Jennifer

Dollhouse Jitters v3.2

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I certainly did not expect these jitters, these vapor trails from Jennifer, but the matter's truth was this: she'd E-mailed me a copy of her rather lengthy application for a Fulbright. I dove into it and made my remarks on the printouts. I later responded with an mail that she thought was very insightful on my part since she also was aware of which sections were weak or vague in stating her purpose. I also told her that I'd scratched a few notes on a recurring grammatical redundancy I thought should be clarified line for line, as there were only a dozen or so I found, but that we should confer, each with our copy in hand to make the changes. Over the phone perhaps. She never responded to this suggestion, but made her own edits, and sent it off accordingly. The bad news is she didn't get the grant. Not that I'm inferring that the dozen or so prepositional overloads played any part in that rejection, but I would have wanted, as long as my basic grammar skills were serving best practices, to have presented the most formidable paper possible. Errors and typos are proliferating life forms in E-mail, irregularities and broken adverbs in poetry or narrative, but in a paper of great value such as a Fulbright, and now an admissions application, one might presume writing technique a judged criteria in meeting the standard.

But it was specific enigmas of my own seasoned worth I was struggling to penetrate as I calibrated my parachute into the dark-eyed forest of Jennifer's parrying lust, a lust that this seasonal break had graciously prepared. No time like the bounty of the present, we had agreed to believe. Snatch from others before they snatched from you, Jennifer had haughtily explained during some otherwise unsurprising post-coital moment a few years before.
After all, doctoral work beyond field studies lead to teaching and publishing. Clean, concise writing is mandatory. Merging short sentences overburdened with unnecessary prepositional clauses into longer, smoother, well-balanced thoughts might prove an edge in competition with someone whose style was peppered with these flaws, right? I explained this, and she agreed. In this light I suggested we take her page line by line. We did, and in half an hour or so the operation was successful. Jennifer agreed with every instance of poor writing I pointed out, and we collaborated as I in my own mind's eye I have often imagined Will and Ariel Durant collaborating, on its fix. The whole exercise was fun, a jolly uplifter, and because I could only feel our bonds becoming stronger, quite erotic as well. She certainly turned out a more efficient paper than the one she showed me. The striker came as we were congratulating ourselves on a job well done. Her words were, "Well when I asked you for help, I did so because I knew I was coming to the master..."

Those few words reverberated in my head over and over again that morning. Eureka! I thought to myself. She is indeed beginning to show signs of melting this resistence she has shown to acknowledging me and my desires to play the slave-master games she was taking to the world of strangers, with ME! Over the years it has been true that dear sweet Jennifer Hoke now Connolly has uttered some of the most profound compliments I've ever had foster my unstable spirit. But while we communicate almost to a mind meld when in the presence of the other, long absences and her ever-wandering eye for sexual excitement elsewhere has left their telltale tracks on my love psychology, as the words keep pouring in, and the tonguekisses, and fingergroping, and the lapdances, and displays of nudity, and even the spreading of the black forest of sexual secrets as late as five years into my marriage with Sue. And now Jennifer was married, undivorced, and still no more a legally free sexual lizard than myself, although she was decidedly with the extra eighty pounds and thigh pimples I was carrying, more of a catch that I could ever pretend to be. Preoccupied with specific enigmas of my own seasoned worth I was still struggling to penetrate as I calibrated my parachute into the dark-eyed forest of Jennifer's parrying lust, a lust that this seasonal break had graciously prepared. No time like the bounty of the present, we had agreed to believe. Snatch from others before they snatched from you, Jennifer had haughtily explained during some otherwise unsurprising post-coital moment a few years before. Appalled at the time, I kept shuttered my opposing counsel, and soon learned to adapt her streetwise feminism to the face to face requirements of my own game logic. No present like the gifts of lust when she's right there humming your name. This, dear friends, was the basic principle some of us imagined the rapidly expanding universe was supremely groomed to respect.

stilllife2xShe had already that morning reveled in the notion that sex with Tim was impossible. No nookie last night or this morning. "That's strike two! Only one more night, and you're out!" I exclaimed in my best Jerry voice. There were no more details. No biggie. I was charting my own rough seas. I truly believed, odd as it seemed, that the third strike would solve the pesky problems of to whom and exactly when Jennifer would serve in the careful night that her own acts of shameless lust, shell games, and mollycoddle leftovers would take her. Then there would be New Year's Eve and the limosine extravaganza, if we could ever confirm a driver. Sue was still working behind the scenes on the problem. She assured me things would work out. Rick Alcalde had stepped in, and exerting some influence. An Arab named Ali was tenative. Patience, Gabriel, patience. I had news for her. I was practicing a very ruthless form of patience with every breath I took. One more night, and it would be strike three for Tim.

But I was showing sympathy for Tim. At the kitchen table I defended Tim's valor and good manners.

       "Jennifer, you know, Tim's had it tough with women. His very first was some radical feminazi, not to be redundant, but to show emphasis, a "woman" named Elizabeth. She practically ruined any natural impulses even the shyest guy might show in normal gender chase scenarios. He's only been with three women I believe, but it's not like he doesn't try. He repeatedly gets twisted up in situations he plays perfectly but which always seem to crumble in some 'Oh I've got a boyfriend' rap, when he finally gets up enough nerve after trying to interpret all the signs properly to ask her to some event, usually a show, maybe a Christmas office party, or some generally safe outing. Tim's a perfect gentleman. None of that 'hey baby, let's hang at the Crow Bar, get drunk and screw' shenanigan for Timothy Scott Shipman. But it never works out. Despite what I consider an overload of detrimental habits Tim doesn't hurt for friends, male or female. Plenty of chicks want to be his friend, but won't treat him like a man with a dick. I sympathize, I really do. These women seek him out at work, call him on the phone, are just in the neighborhood et cetera, and yet it all collapses with that old female standby, oh I've got a boyfriend."

images-2Jennifer listened. A wicked smile was forcing itself into one corner of her plump pouty lips and along the ethnic proportions of her maximum eyes. Her skinny frame could be measured like gold but was as pale as Romanian snowcaps spotted only with a scatter of tiny black moles, for beauty is a card that always gets played on both sides of the crack in a blocked equivocating gush. My fair lady's oversized white tee-shirt hung straight to just below her hips, where the barely concealed black triangle of penal amalgamation held firmly in check bare legs of an active New York City sophisticate along the curvature of her perfectly plush baby cheeks. Didn't say much, but still she listened with an attentive responsiveness I sorely missed in my own number one. A playful growth of dark hair made its way from her tiny wrists up arms crossed loosely against her alabaster flats, as I laid out the laundry list recalling one longtime friend's handsome manhood to another longtime friend who now, as I think back, always one to revel in the past, could always be counted on to reek with a persuasive unabashedness, a wafting perfume of charm and self-assuredness that always fills the room wherever she goes, even if playing dumb is the program she happens to be compiling or executing at the time. I placed a cup of Earl Grey on the marble garden table we used as our primary dining furniture when we weren't plopped in front of the national vibrator, the television set, telling her that when reduced to a prime number, Tim was always the gentleman's gentleman. This was one trait I was certain the two of us shared (degree depending on barometer readings, the culture in which we stirred or were buttressing, and the price of tea in China). Nevertheless, within our own circulation various femme divines and their counterparts, the fatales would love us, pamper us, covet some feature like my eyelashes, et cetera, or at least that was the case during most of my first three decades before my unfairly fair looks went south and my outspokenness apparently took on a more frightening apparel, but like the annoying and sinister creak in the patently bored, they simply have never wanted to date us back in the day or fuck us if it came to that, no, just friends, just friends, just friends, damn that primal pecking order...

She'd even married a rather goofy-looking, goofy in an English sort of way, harmless-souled bloke with stringy hair down to his knee-knocker bollocks, named Desmond Connelly, a drummer in whatever occasional rock band would offer him a gig, in the meantime. One of his bands had once opened for Daisy Chainsaw, and so claimed a leg up in the race for FUCK ME fame, but I admit I now forget their name.
I wondered what she meant. Here we were curled across each other's legs when I finally dug in my cleats, kicking up some dust that had settled over volumes of unchallenged specialty rants. Jennifer was quite vocal in singling out guys she would simply melt to meet. And she was equally bombastic in slagging the run of the mill, the grotesque, the merely fat and ugly whenever the topic or her eyes would beg the question, which spelled biblical proportions. Again in NYC last May, one night she was treating us to the steamy public access channel. Male after male failed to meet her specifications. I listened in astonishment as she pelted the screen with her invectives. These were amateurs. There were fat guys, skinny guys, hairy and balding guys. Modestlooking women, lookers, and worse, sucked and spread the cape cod for them and the camera. Jennifer admitted to being put off by the glams, as I piped in to defend the ordinary against the pros. So what was her problem? Jennifer was obssessed by looks, anyone who knew her knew that, but her aesthetic standard was some fuzzy line drawn in the sand on a windy day. Jennifer herself is not a classic beauty, but she was nobody's fleadog either.

I wanted to know more about what drove her to these distinctions, almost to a rage, whenever she saw or thought about two people fucking, or buying clothes, or walking down the street.

"Yeah, what's THAT about?" she'd bellowed in May as we discussed sitcoms sprawled across her bed while Sue hacked away nearby at Jennifer's old 386 monstrosity trying to fathom her Windows OS and why the diskful of bondage JPEGs we had brought her as a gift were not viewing properly, "There's no way Trudy would be with THAT guy in real life." She was referring to NBC's The Single Guy, and more specifically, the character Sam happily married to Trudy, that Asian sizzlebutton, played by...

Here on the Dollhouse sofa, carefully weighing the consequences, I wanted to finally strike a blow for clarity.

poster-wall"You know Queenie, I've listened to you rage against the physical appearance of men for years now, and have never quite understood it. I remember back in the Eighties when you would squish and squoosh over the glam boys in the bands, and now you seem to go out of your way to slag guys that I think look a whole lot better than me. How am I supposed to feel buckled up against this kind of analysis as you drape yourself all over me?" She hated to be called Queenie. Her step-father called her Queenie, and she hated him. Jennifer knew how to hate. It was true we hadn't actually stuck the duck since '89 I figure, but that was about the only area of intimacy we hadn't shared since then. She'd even married a rather goofy-looking, goofy in an English sort of way, harmless-souled bloke with stringy hair down to his knee-knocker bollocks, named Desmond Connelly, a drummer in whatever occasional rock band would offer him a gig, in the meantime. One of his bands had once opened for Daisy Chainsaw, and so claimed a leg up in the race for FUCK ME fame, but I admit I now forget their name. She hadn't until our May train trip to New York even seen Sue since '88, but that reunion was a pleasant enough long weekend, although as usual Sue suffered a bit more than the two of us. Well hell, Sue paid for nearly all Jennifer's eats and drinks, even cab fares that entire weekend, so goddamned happy I suppose we were to get out of the house, and get to see her in the big city just as she was leaving it—buying friendship perhaps? Actually things almost ended as soon as they began. I was about ready to peel out of Manhattan the very next morning after we arrived in late afternoon by train.

We had gone out to eat and on the way back to her place, Jennifer instead wanted to dip into this dirty floor males only dive. Within minutes of our first beer, she eyeballed some gaga longhaired guy she wanted to shag. Off she went to squat on the stool next to him. There were no other squats available at the bar. I plunked down on a hard wooden plank solo in front of the pool table. A bellyful of Mexican cuisine had made this long day even that much longer. I was beat. Sue, now sitting alone in a booth across the bar, was fading fast, blackout mode, a rarity for her, but thanking our personal angelic guardians, whenever I'm in control of myself, she ain't. When I'm in blackout mode, she's okay, can drive, et cetera. It's an amazing thing, but after thirteen years of examples, we know each other's signs, and the angels know us both, and keep us balanced accordingly, so far, knock on woody's woodpecker, a hundred percent safety record. Our troubles multiply when we party apart, so we try to not stray too far. I don't mean we cling, I mean we go out together. If one or the other of us stays home, there is not the other to pick up the slack.

Meanwhile, after ten minutes or so of pool table blip, I graviate over to Sue Baby. She's shellshocked. Her face is warped, her eyes zippered in flatliner notes, nothing getting in, nothing getting out, her speech as slurred as David Duke's Louisiana gubernatorial campaign in the national press. Boy, that was quick. She had been fine a half hour ago at the restaurant, but I knew her pain. Here we were all the way up from DC on Jennifer's last weekend in the Big Apple (her calendar for visitation rights) before she relocated to Ithaca and Cornell, and guess what, she's on the prowl. All the while she's been feeding me lines like she never goes out, never gets laid, never, never...

WELL, EYE NEVER!

It was time to get Sue to bed. I slid from the wooden booth and approached the Cornellian Bitch now furiously in heat.

"Jennifer. Sue's way past the point of no return. She needs to get to bed. I certainly don't want to interfere with your evening, so if you have a spare set of keys, or will just take a cab back to your flat to let us in, you can then return, and I'd really appreciate it..."
"Okay, give me about ten minutes, and I'll come with you. That sounds like a good plan," she replied with a wink in her voice and a crosshair in her eyes. I returned to Sue, still bleached beyond inert status. She was falling. We waited. We waited. We waited. I threatened several times to make a pest of myself in front of Jennifer and this artistic boy, but I restrained myself and finally she was off her stool, and we were out the door hailing a cab, Sue propped up on steel-wool whiskers of a cat cruising along at least its eighth life in a decade, collapsing into bed fully clothed, finally killing the cat. I, on the other hand, tired but sober and maybe somewhat constipated, was heavy with disgruntlement that Jennifer was pulling this disappearing act, but I wasn't going to let on. Obviously, she needed to prove something to herself, and to us. "Go have a good time, get fucked in the biggest way!" I laughed as she shot me that wicked eye mote one last time, tossing her long black hair in a quick self-assuring whip as she pulled the door to the fifth floor Lexington Avenue walkup quietly shut. I fell asleep I'm sure but soon I was awakened by the crying.

Jennifer was back in the apartment, balling lion's tears. Her crying lasted for ten minutes, no, twenty, maybe thirty minutes. This was an old familiar tune for her. All those punk rock nights when she'd hurl herself into electrifying tantrums and fits only to collapse like the mournful baby tiger burning bright into a squelching night that junkies down on 15th Street would wager would never end. It would be the next day before I would hear all the dumb, gratifying details of this latest, but I knew she had been stood up. I remained quiet, daring not stir even as traffic on Lexington still rolled on, I imagined. I didn't know what time it was supposed to be where or with whom, but I figured it was time to let this event fade away to the spectral light. Frankly, I don't comfort others very well. It's not in my DNA. Well, it might be in my DNA, but it damn sure wasn't introduced to me in enough quantity or quality to amount to a strong suit in my upbringing. I really have to know something reassuring about a person before I can open up in that way. I'd found both Jim Morrison's Giant Feast of Friends and family blood is thicker than water panaceas to fall far short of the mark, and approach certain aspects of human tradition as suspect until I have something real to share. Keep away from boilerplate sensation. I'm pretty much tangential to the "comforting words" curve in ordinary circumstances. So I didn't want to hear her sad tale regardless of what time it was inside that black room. All I knew was, she was moody and her mood was dark, and it was too late to turn her clock around. She'd failed in her devious dismissal of her guests from DC. For this bit of cheek, I was winking to the cracks in the walls, confident that even the sensually replete knew the bitter sting of coming up short during a spotty career of last calls. Details in the morning. That would be soon enough. Soon enough I said to myself, after she had the gall to tell her powerboy that we were her parents from out of town visiting...

8f74Sooooo, dark eyes flashing, she announces she had come to the master. Despite her quiet moods, when Jennifer had something to say, her words could pick the teeth right out of your spit-shined mouth one red tooth at a time.

I never got much of a response to my question. She had her quirks like the rest of us. So I let it rest. Pecking order questions pushed their way to the table of contents my mind kept refreshed at unheard of megahertz speeds on their way to the consequence grinder, shades of Pink Floyd's The Wall tearing across the penny, the railroad cars, and the faceless vegematics of modern love syllables. She had come to the master, she says. Of course it was only recently, through our E-mail splash during the summer of 1996 that she was even giving me the benefit of the doubt in being a writer of consequence after years of failing to return letters I had written her save an occasional holiday card, but I never rocked the boat on those issues in the past. Hell, I even had to force feed my own wife the canvas of words I called writing. She has NEVER wanted to read them on her own volition, while I've had to demand she listen as I read them to her on those occasions I was desparately needing some minor sort of recognition or feedback, simple attention or to make a point. She always shot back with the same, "As usual baby, your stuff is good. What do you want me to say?" Jack Johnson, in many ways, the sharpest and the deepest of my 1980s friends, meanwhile could never bring himself to read much of my writing, always claiming a bout with dyslexia, or that he preferred to read my novels not in chunks but once all together in a full book. Steve Taylor recently had come bursting upon the scene declaring first his own pride in literature, and topping that with the cherry bomb that what I was writing was literature of the first order.

Another newcomer Lynn Landry has never stooped to such trusty accolades, but she has consistently offered strong support since we first began corresponding after she took off for pink rasputious SF, California soon after shacking up with Jack last winter. Tom Howell and Len Bracken suspect me of incomprehensible mutterings worthless to one and all, Blumstein too, although in the last year it seems he has begun to respect me on a level that makes sense to me, as well as to him, leaving me to exclaim, "We've come a long way, Baby!" Tim Shipman once declared that he didn't understand poetry, and that he didn't always understand me, but he recognized genius, and I was some kind of genius. Peter Burris had heard from Edd Jacobs in 1986 that I was a smart cookie, but Peter had seen little evidence of it, and instead he was watching from afar the ever jugular rat races to peg his own winners and losers still perched like stray cats upon the language police blotter with whatever sense he could make of it all, just in case his own maturing snobbery might wane.

Where Are You Sleeping?

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The Bird Collector
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Orginally published on February 22, 1997

I sent this to Steve earlier this morning. Just to tide you over until I can focus on DAY 2 of the Fevers...

In other words, what is your current address? All I've got is those Taft Street digits. This morning early, after waking up in a fit of harrumph from an intrusive dream starring the "bar none kidz" Tim & Jennifer, yes, after listening to them prattle on about how much they didn't appreciate this and that about how badly I treated them last month...of course Jennifer was doing most of the squawking while bringing out the PERQUACKY gameboard she wanted to engage with Tim, while strong silent type Tim was in the kitchen elbowing Sue in helping himself to the coffeemaker, and suddenly I realized I had a hard-on, typical morning wakeup dream, and my nemesis because all the women I had ever known were slow risers or late sleepers who had to rush off to the office and preferred late night delights when I was too tired to make the effort...

I've been busy since early in the wee scratching out postcards, lovely postcards I threw together a couple of years ago on heavy stock with various old and contemporary photos of me, and of me and the Suzy, all embossed with typical GT crytic title. Sent my dad a batch back then but I was told he never received them. Thought I'd send you one since I'd already addressed and stamped a batch, knowing you'd probably appreciate the younger Mohican Gabriel. It would be a shame that you've never had a sleeping chance to get a good laugh of me in the Eighties.

Reality is indeed a wicked business, full of overloads, overlords, and understudies. Marsh grasses, foggy bottoms, and tricks of the trade. But even in the beer leagues one plays to win.
Back to the dream. The "bar none kidz" had arrived at the back door together wanting to make amends, which in their vernacular, was to point out my unprovoked rudeness. At one point Jennifer blurted out that she wanted the money she had spent on me returned, uh, she bought me a hamburger at Ruby Tuesday's on Monday's field trip to the shopping Mall (oops, that part of the story hasn't been written in blood yet!), and she came bearing a bottle of champagne the Saturday she arrived, but that pretty much sums up to the penny (well, gasoline to drive down) the whole of Jennifer's financial support in 12 years of Dollhouse maneuvers. I told her to forget it, no way, no mula. How about her share in the $500 bucks we plunked down for limo, booze, and food when she was here?

She backed off with the wince of an Ellis Island immigrant. Uh, geez, and I thought she knew how to make an argument. At one point I grabbed her in a bear hug, and walked her upright to the backdoor, but as soon as she was free she rocketed off on how she didn't appreciate being manhandled that way, and besides she hadn't played her game yet. In my drippiest sarcasm I mock the easily offended sensibilities of a woman scouring the AOL gutters as a submissive painseeking thrill artist while shoving this big fat lie of forever love up the nose of somebody she has known way too long to shaft like this. Meanwhile Tim is grumbling in the kitchen in his best Rodney King, "Can't we just get along" reasoning. I had finally had enough. I go beserk, trumpeting all arms akimbo:

"Wait a damn minute. I tossed both of you out of here, and I haven't invited either of you back and from the general sniff of things nor do I intend to, and yet here you are, making yourselves quite at home. Tim, get OUT of my kitchen! Jennifer, PUT that board down. It's not even mine. It's Steve's..."

That's about the gist of it. I grabbed her up again and was making my way to the backdoor since she had once again adopted the diningroom table as her podium, before I woke from the sofa, and noticed my hard-on was gone. Sharing this whole cinematic reel du force with Sue just a few minutes ago, with the summation that as boring as the dream sequence was, unfortunately, there's not much distortion in that version from what we both imagine, knowing them as symptomatically as we do, in how Tim and Jennifer could waltz in proud as peacocks to the beat of their own hummer humming six weeks, six months, six years from now...

I allow myself to feel a slight remorse that I pushed the envelope of no return by taking a stick to old friends, but like your own proverbial red-face, it flushes and soon passes. Reality is indeed a wicked business, full of overloads, overlords, and understudies. Marsh grasses, foggy bottoms, and tricks of the trade. But even in the beer leagues one plays to win.

Guess Day 2 of the Six Day fever is overdue, but to borrow a phrase, I'm playing it by ear, having too much fun tweaking the nipple on my Macintosh laptop, my Destouches dream dancer...

GT

Back In The Saddle, Soap And Shapely

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Back In The Saddle
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Originally published on January 31, 1997

I am forwarding these two recent notes I sent to Steve (who has been remarkably steady in recent days after months of little to say), only because since I've been so busy and completely absorbed by Bracken's project my own e-mail generation had dropped to almost nothing. I didn't want you to think I had blown you off or anything as vulgar or self-preserving like that. Quite the contrary. I've been feeling guilty and depressed that you've written interestingly on several topics that I failed to engage because of my current workload, while simultaneously neglecting my own hefty writing project describing those sordid details of the changing of the guard here at the Dollhouse.

Steve meanwhile weighed in with his interest in hearing more about the book project. You did not, but hey, you certainly caused a stir at the Situationist camp a few weeks back that I thought you might still appreciate a few details while they were still warm in the oven.

After a month of working diligently for someone else I had a few general Mac housekeeping chores to manage, a major crash to weather, and I am now on my eighth day of flu sickness without antibiotic calvary persuading me that the end of this misery is yet in sight. So I face the hiss and boos of the faceless crowd as I admit that still the first line of the "Great Storm" ending 1996 has yet to find its way to page, although this Sunday, Groundhog's Day will mark the first month's anniversary of Tim and Jennifer's exile from the Dollhouse fevers.

Speaking of anniversaries, what day exactly do you turn 31 in all your sass and bosomly anthem? Have you managed to seduce a frozen Swede onto your corporate tab? Would you tell me if you did? I dropped my soap. You wouldn't be pulling a Jack, now would you Landry, all bathed in secret lights and bold rationalizations while flogging community standards with one hand tied behind your back and the other on a stack of sci-fi novels, with nothing but your feet and your mouth to accomplish the dirty deeds, now would you Landry?

Of course I jest with you, but you know as well as I do that in the eye of the hurricane, few details are lost in the saddle. It's out there on the swirl that conflict states its name and bends the rules to suit its own game. Wishing you a swell Minnesota memory. Nothing lasts forever, not even a Green Bay Packers grin....

Pulp Exhaustion Spatially Explained

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Standard Operating Procedure
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Bracken just spilled outa here. Using MacLink Plus to convert his DOS MS Works pages into Mac MS Word docs. We added an extra step taking his Works to Word 2.0 DOS, but we've been losing quite a bit of formatting, and Len isn't looking forward to handsetting it again. By staying in Works, we are hoping the trip straight to Mac Word 5.0a will take hours off our stress times and put smiles in all the right places.
Hey Landry, just a short one to tide me by. Hope your spirits are just where you want them. I'm afraid my friends are beating me up again with their shit for sherlock behaviors. Tim's hanging on by a thread. I asked Steve to stay away. Jennifer will be arriving Saturday for a romp until January 3rd. I wonder how much of her delightful self I will be able to gratify without cracking under the strain of the "oh so coy" gone beserk! Thanks for the card, and merry mucking to all concerned. Hey, I've got Jack's autograph stashed somewhere in a stack of cards. Why would you need it?

I loathe bitterness in any creature, but why do these [punk] actors continue to abuse my natural good humors? What am I doing about it? I guess I'm trying to shake free with an abrupt refusal to step into their fly splat worlds anymore. I gain nothing but aggravation working either side of the equation as I have been known to do, neatest of the neat, noisiest of the noisy. But day after day, year after year, I am forced to choose between an "in my face boredom" and the "sheer terror of the bingeing without consequences".

But the consequences DO EXIST, and even now the Tattooed Elephant is buckling under the weight of these riotous friendships with little or no solid justification, just the dead weight of momentary blather sticking to our ribs. I'm sick of it all, exhaustion confirmed, and them who have or will continue to pursue it...

(and the buzzard winks trying to get a piece of her. She's enjoying the attention, but she's not as easy a target as they might beg to think, and will make them work for every inch.)

We are supposed to be taking a limo out for New Year's Eve, courtesy of Skip Bafalis, a partner at Sue's firm. Two potential complications: no driver has been found, and Skip the owner was rushed to the hospital Christmas Eve, spent the whole next day having exploratory tests run to no conclusive end. He was released sometime yesterday. Still no solid lead on a driver, but bangedup Sue has a maybe or two up her sleeve.

Steve was originally invited, well, he sorta presumed he was invited by default, but last weekend he brought much chaos to this house, and has perpetuated it by further examples of his mute reckonings. Say anything, do nothing. A mile a minute flows off his tongue, uh, followup, what's that?

But neither Sue or I are in our middle to late 20s, or even 30s. Get a grip people, get a gashwhipping grip upon yourselves, and know that you are talking to someone who knows what it is all about. This is a private home and studio apparently shy of staff beyond the principles. Keep the puns in the pants. I can't care anymore. There is no other interpretation.
Tim has been cashing in on street crack, bringing crack dealers and cracked friends to the D-house. A fucking idiot, pimping that shit here after I had made it clearly an uncool deal! The handwriting's in the till that I will probably smack him with the pink slip by early spring if not sooner. He doesn't want to leave, and he doesn't want to lose his lifestyle. I can't blame him, but nobody can plug Tim's life better than himself. And you know me, "I'm a very possessive asshole. I'm trying to bring order to this mess I call my life of peers and all I get from this friendship ring is a future filled with agitation, no no no no peace essence at all."

I am scheduled for a battery of five or six tests in the new year, including brainwave and brain physiogomy scans. Full blood work. Doctor seems to think my problems are neurological in nature, neck and nerve pinchings rather than a brain tumor, but I'm testing the whole noodle kaboodle to rule out the latter. Brain cancer is dropping folk in high numbers in the late 90s it seems. I may or may not be one of them. Most relative I suppose is mother's younger sister Kitty, who died in February at 52 of said vermin.

So all in all, things are rather normal with the Dollhouse ground zero gang. Abused by friendship, alienated from most of the family where it really counts, I only find comfort, despite our plethora of well-inventoried flaws, in my baby baby baby sue...

Lynn, why do I despise the noise when so many seem to embrace it? The problem is not the noise and chaos itself. That I handle quite well in dosages I administer to myself with the greatest of ease. Achievements GT are legendary. But I know I can no longer riot as persistently as this class of 1996, and I want out. Of course Sue loves Tim, Tom, Steve, Jack, Mouse and whomever no less than I, and she DOES LOVE rent day, but something has got to give, me or the outside world. And she said three times denied, three wishes granted. I mean, what is the meaning of meaning if we scat in our own master's house, and act like, uh, catch ya next time, anywaze?

Many times I have asked folk to arrive on a date and at a time I specify. Many are the times when playing it by ear is the only game friends will play. Well, I've rolled that carpet over. I've had my fill with self-gonads at the expense of my own overwhelming desires that I continue to put aside in order to entertain yet another stiff torture at the wiles of the wolfpack.

That’s the way it is among all of us, bound by handshake uselessness & special moting, too offcentered to get much more done than self obliteration one adult beverage after another, word gaming for prizes void in several states, and ogling sessions that defy a national screening; we, the slurfish leisurely class, spamming the spectacle dot dot dot.
I played the idiot punk quite fantastically. That role is a part of me, now. The world will not soon forget that part of me, but geez Louise, this ain't a bar, or a hotel anymore, although I'm not exactly sure when we were penciled in for those tours of duty, it is certainly a reality checkpoint. But neither Sue or I are in our middle to late 20s, or even 30s. Get a grip people, get a gashwhipping grip upon yourselves, and know that you are talking to someone who knows what it is all about. This is a private home and studio apparently shy of staff beyond the principles. Keep the puns in the pants. I can't care anymore. There is no other interpretation.

Do I sound mad as a Mississippi monk on morphine? dear pets? After all these words of banishment I now contemplate staying home in exile even should limosine wax available, wave as the gag orders go their own chauffered way, as I stay back to protect my dwindling investments and bruised heels, aching heads and breaking shoulders, keeping my own puns to the grindstone...yuck what a miser of energy, spirit, and tailwind. But conservative reckoning is a day I must endure, and will embrace as a grand homecoming, despite all the kidz who would steal my middle age thunders kicking me in the shins when it's my pain they can't stifle.

Bottom line: I am tired of being treated as if I were both deaf and mute as my memory reviles and reputes the waste of conversation which never engages real meaning for longer than any particular drunk and hangover harry. At least when I remake the bed in the morning I know I feel better for it, and meaning is multiplied into dividends. No so with a three day drunk where nothing is everything and reality quotients are deemed counterfeit in a fuzzy display of carelessness and forgot me knots...

spam
Human Spam, All Too Human
Bitter blizzard of sins my own carelessness purchased on credit and oops, a ditch. The barge of Bob's party proved that friendship resolutions are best kept at room temperature. Tilting ambition quotas task me as I crumple, long too busy with luck sucking. Periphery bucks buckling. File jitters fluttering. Poor judgement furniture. Pass or fail remarks. D-house or bust. Ain't got the holy chimes to tell everybody everything I know about them, and ain't got the battle bones to listen to all their own rants and riddles about it. Too tight. Too loose. That’s the way it is among all of us, bound by handshake uselessness & special moting, too offcentered to get much more done than self obliteration one adult beverage after another, word gaming for prizes void in several states, and ogling sessions that defy a national screening; we, the slurfish leisurely class, spamming the spectacle dot dot dot.

Sick and tired of the never-yielding pap. Oh I love my spanking fresh weekdays. Short? You betcha, but my sanctuary for creative work that makes sense to me as I lay in store against the coming weekend of friendship madness.

Bracken just spilled outa here. Using MacLink Plus to convert his DOS MS Works pages into Mac MS Word docs. We added an extra step taking his Works to Word 2.0 DOS, but we've been losing quite a bit of formatting, and Len isn't looking forward to handsetting it again. By staying in Works, we are hoping the trip straight to Mac Word 5.0a will take hours off our stress times and put smiles in all the right places.

I'll keep you all jigged on the fleet fool nostril. Which reminds me of then and now. What do you call a fool in the mirror? A loof...

Flawed and flogging it...

GT

Untitled Because It's Christmas

x
Just Sign Here
samplex

Originally published on December 5, 1996

Thumbs up. Nuff said. I wouldn't change a word of it. Thanks for the input. Can't wait to lay eyes on the output. Love to stay of top of things, even if it's standing up rather than sucking silence flat ass on my belly.

Glad you're coming. Just give us exact details when you get them, and I'll keep things moving on this end. Everybody's gonna be whipped in yahoos when they hear of your decision. That's all it is. It's about decisions, decisions. Damn Yankees. Damn decisions. And followthrough. Dollhouse is reeking of holiday spirit, and you're Swanky Doll. Counting down the hours, sweet love. Grab a rocket. Get down here. Stick a sock in it. Sorry Frank. We'll plead the fifth and muster up with the bloated roughy Jennifer and learn to live with the details of the coy...

Certainly a frenzy is brewing and I'm taking names...

Untiled because it's Christmas,

GT

Whatever Touches You When I Touch You There Is Awkward Consumerism

5273samplex

Originally published on September 22, 1996

Sorry to hear about your proposal-writing failures. They'll come around again. With strange interference, league sales down, membership slows. Coping mechanisms recruit unplanned tyranny, shiteating boyfriends, drowning fetishes, and other elite behaviors of the damned and frustrated, while soggy ground rules for cobweb cities are just plain up for grabs, so it's no wonder you have a tough time keeping a perfect scorecard...

That was some blood rant you passed along, craven, colonic, spunky, brutal, pure sewerage but spanking brand new for you, sister, true to the core you rushed as word games go. Of course the coagulating flaw in this "what if" scenario is that women have carried that blood thang in their blood all along, and yet they still cry foul at the way this world has managed to position them to be just what they are: women, nothing more, nothing less. If humanity had never learned to talk or write, thrust or blight, the intrinsic hierarchical wiring we know today would as I see it change very little, pending sale of the calculus operators. Sweet or salty. Whatever touches you when I touch you there is awkward consumerism. Just plain up for grabs. Retail, not fire sale. The strengths of beauty and the beauties of strength are only slightly persuaded by raw intelligence in just how material progress is sold to relinquish the powers nature has bestowed upon THEM...

All the stinking philosophical rant in the world falls pathetically short of the complementary powers of beauty and brute strength. Sex appeal in a nutshell. Beauty is its own brute strength and brute strength is gaming's own beautiful persuader. Crap is crap. That's not a fantasy, that's a nightmare...

I charge pennies on the doubt among supple minds that notions I put forth here today are what has made the world exactly as we find her today. Eh, Shelley? However—since rewiring my supply side sadomasochist, I am willing to listen to characters of insight, but to test my patience these are supply, demand, and haplessly derivative. I tire easily of them...

Because the semantics of any idea attracts buzzing gadflies not unlike snorkles stuffed into the mouth of a beautiful loser.

GT

Black Rupture Of Failure Pinching Like A Nasty Girl Stuck On Cruel Signals

Black Rupture Of Failure
Black Rupture Of Failure
samplex

Date: Wed Jul 24, 1996 2:58:11 PM

Good grief! Accidents & make-up calls, house decorating & paperpushing. You are quite the whirlwind sass these recent days. Yep, your mom was sold the American dream and she is just tickled you are pulling her through it. Good work sweetie! Now if only I were so industrious.

Sure, I remember your Greek pal who once had the crush but you told him you didn't think of him that way. Yeah Themis, the story of our lives. Geez, you didn't waste any time, moving on this cyberslut quackery rampage right out the gate, did you? Naughty girl. Yeah, a nasty girl, a dirty woman. And indefatigably so alive! To ratchet up Jack Webb's Sergeant Friday from the dark side of sunshine, "there are a billion stories in the cyber metropolis, and hey baby baby, yours is just beginning...

The prostitute? It's a dead deal going nowhere. I have been planning for years to hire a model of a certain caliber, but have never stepped into it. The urge washed over me again last week, and I thought a streetwalker might fit the bill. Cheaper, and perhaps more willing to accept the terms upon which I want to explore with camera various states of mild bondage, exhibitionism, and clothing fetish (cottons & professional wear, not leather, it's so cliché these days with everybody from the president's daughter to Grandma Moses saddled up in punk rock garb) strategies. I WANT TO TAKE PICTURES OF WOMEN DAMMIT!!!

I'll forward a couple of more notes I've recently written to Ben (of Germany) which expand on this topic of my own general failure to achieve what I feel is my bounty, is worthy of my intellectual pursuits, and anything less is abject failure and a colossal waste of talent, duty, expression that is meant to move a generation.
When I was young, thin as spaghetti, long-haired like my generation wanted & lurking along the fringe of the beautiful people in my early to late 20s, most women didn't take me seriously because I was too wimpy, nerdy, dandylike for them. They preferred the ruffians. A whole series of women who did take me seriously were ten to 20 years older than me, and when I pressed them to define their attraction to me, each to a nipple twist could only bring themselves to say they admired and loved me for my mind. Not a single one was honest enough to admit it was my young, muscled, pliable, blonde blue eyed, energetic body they lusted after and wanted to toss in their purse or their bed, always wishing they could give me more to make me be everything they wanted me to be. But I was never a victim. Or the victor. Let me be clear. I don't play that victim card, also known as the martyr card, though several wits over the years have accused me of this behavior, others quite the opposite. My job is to explain the matrix, the global positioning, the psychological DNA of a type. Say what you will, but I have my orders. If someone's not interested, go away. Find a three minute song to tell you basically the same thing, but over the long haul I do it my way, old school, long winded, hiding secrets behind words, detonating secrets with words. I have and will always play hard, or I don't play at all. I play to win within the context of the game, the art of the coin, the coin of the realm, the realm of the law, the law of the gods, the gods of humanity, the humanity of secret, of public passages, or I don't play at all if I can get away with the endgame. But win or lose, I am neither victim nor executioner, not that I reject either role's contextual placement within the humanity of passages, but I choose to sport for myself, to explore something else. Nor is it written within with the fading laws of my longing heart to create metaphorically lifeless victims or executioners. I cannot create what I cannot be, period. I'd rather create sentences. And we all deserve our sentences, even those who manage to escape them.

Inferiority about my appearance has plagued since childhood (crooked teeth, too skinny, lazy hair, hooked nose, bowed legs, southern vocabulary, lack of victorious pectoralis muscle despite a driving athleticism, et cetera), and continued to fester after high school as a that string of much older women took me into their confidence one after another only to feed me with flatteries and half-truths that burned off every time my mind ran counter to their mind, their body, their spirit of play and decorum. I was quite aware that my mind was sharp and curious to a fault. I knew that girls my own age were mostly too silly and worldly to understand the chasms of my intelligence. Early 1970s were not nice to me. And since—to escape the chaos of home I bolted as soon as I graduated from highschool—I was soon laboring alone a mere blue-collared college kid wannabe outside the academic environs of my childhood dreams and foundations, working in a goddamned steel mill in the coke ovens for chrissakes, I never chanced to meet a peer but soon was lost in a master mechanic's greasy world where I felt infinitely close to dead inside. I'll forward a couple more notes I've recently written to Ben (of Germany) which expand on this topic of my own general failure to achieve what I felt was my bounty, worthy of my intellectual curiosity and pedigree, even now, as the days grow shorter and are flying by quicker, so anything less than scaling the highest mountain is abject failure and a colossal waste of talent, duty, and knack for recording that is meant to move a generation. Boyhood dreams die hard.

True all the way back to my earliest days, I've often been a free floater, seeking original sin, tweaking at the edges of a good time folly as long as it was mixed with smarts and a sense of direction. I do not like to let go without tracks back to the cave. A free floater, or at least I used to be until a decade of sexual sublimation and boredom conspired like the two components of a Reese’s Buttercup to render my body a complete wreck. I am reminded of what Ravenholt opined rather offhandedly when the two of you were over at the old apartment.
I want to take pictures, surprisingly deviant, erotic but not in some highbrow ginger, actual I want an emphasis on the offbeat, the ironic, the artistic but approachable, Warholian so to speak. Just for the taste of doing it once, twice, a few times, not as a lifetime endeavor. I can't fathom that. Man Ray and Lee Miller moved on. So would I. I prefer the natural or plainer looking model to the drop dead gorgeous women who frankly all look alike, and to whom Easy Street is theirs for the plucking. They don't need me, and I don't need them because despite my limitations, I feel just as scooter as they do, and it's equality of opportunity, or nothing at all from me. Instead I am terribly fascinated with the average doll on the street, their psychology, their power. I'm not speaking here of prostitutes necessarily, but ordinary girls, women in general. That study has been done to death in literature, if not photography. But the average woman, her sexuaity, her fantasies, her willingness to please herself and others, and under what terms. These matters interest me beyond a few words. I might have made something of this long ago had I not been deceived by Sue. An ancient story. Her own formidable post-marital inhibitions prohibit any exploration. She now seems ashamed of sexuality, ashamed of her own femininity, not taking it seriously enough, in fact, bored, and subsequently boring. Bottom line, she's a bean counter, which sums up her sense of self, turned into a slack-shouldered bookkeeper who has trouble beyond the self-conscious snicker or dead-eyed "what do you want me to do" in both the commanding role, and the obedient, not just in the bedside trollop, either. Her lifelessness begins when she clocks out from work. She works hard. I understand that. But she operates on RAM, and her hard drive is shut down right before she leaves her office at Always & Forever. True all the way back to my earliest days, I've often been a free floater, seeking original sin, tweaking at the edges of a good time folly as long as it was mixed with smarts and a sense of direction. I do not like to let go without tracks back to the cave. A free floater, or at least I used to be until a decade of sexual sublimation and boredom conspired like the two components of a Reese's Buttercup to render my body a complete wreck. I am reminded of what Ravenholt opined rather offhandedly when the two of you were over at the old apartment.

I reckon I was just fishing for some personal feedback on what limits you have, what trust you have, what love you have, for me. You have often said you don't flash the L-word around unnecessarily. I can appreciate that. Honesty is the only trait worth fighting and dying for. My honesty seems sometimes all I have left as the black rupture of failure closes in on my sagging sense of purpose.
"Gabriel, he's like me, we have a common sexual soul," he said. I was astounded that Ravenholt saw deep into my past and my future. I knew I was kinked along every ridge of my being, but I was quite sure most people looked right through me without seeing anything but a goofball. Where are those women now in the past so willing to love me not for my body but for my mind? Admittedly Sue is one, for our incompatibility in the almost every department of intimacy has made the sex a mute point. To use a phrase, "I love her, but not in that way."

Other than email among a few special minds, for which I am mocked by Bracken and Howell, my artistic spirit is nearly numb at this stage. Cold indifference a decade carved into our future neither of the three of us is innocent. And I would dare surmize that you Jennifer must "love" me as you say you do because of my mind because it is certainly not the flesh you seek from me, although you have provided it many times. But now that my body is rotten, my mind has no power, but has proven that old blowfish tale so often found fluttering off the plucky lips of femmes
énergique
everywhere that "it's not what's on the outside, it's what's on the inside that counts" completely bogus in all its pretentious idealism, just as us eager but culled lads always knew it to be. What collapses my soul is that now I am hardly able to scratch beyond the mind past the second hand tools of my body to rework the conspicuous tropes of those I would even remotely glorify or testify against—if only a quarter measure of acceptance and cooperation in the deed down under was not sincere and gregariously made available in the hour of our mutual authority. The research is in. The tests have spoken. I got a failing grade. So, it's spit in the bucket, or not at all, my dears. Speak up, chest out, invest your stuff with the flair of dominance but in a spirit of "you've just got to have it," or else, know in the end I can only pine the box, pine the key that unlocks. Will never be quick or clever enough to transgress the boundaries, not any more. I lost. Trapped in the irritable bowels of sexual ambiguity—let's be clear, sexual ambiguity, not homosexuality, not bisexuality, not indifference, certainly not an incapacity for grueling matches of innuendo and thrust—just an excruciating ambiguity born of experience, I lost.

To stand erect, a reject before the world, patently needy for a welcoming acceptance without begging, yet dripping from every pore with a primal fear of rejection, or worse—dull cooperation—a player of notable former prowess, but one now relegated to the bench, the sidelines, where I observe mindless splinters with more aggressive behavior than I, knowing the game is much more about something else than the countless acts of sublime love, witty dominance and shrieking submission floating around the nucleus themselves. The Marquis couldn't possibly have planned it all, superior intelligence and high birth be damned. But to his credit, he and his deviating insights outlived most of the laws he broke.

Rather than gates crashing down, each year seems to bring more chains of thought, more depression, more rejection. Will I ever measure up to that fabulous burst of early potential I knew as a precocious & peerless child? Even among the adults I knew no peer. Sue fears me, and now you say you do. Vexation of the heart is rendering me increasingly useless for life. Failures of my mind to relieve the pressures. I peer between penitentiary bars of this side that side driving me insane, just as my mother has suffered great agony from the same unrealized potential in her own life, mostly a series of false hopes to break through into a recognizable, and compelling intellectual climate. The challenges of peace in my lifetime...

What is life but the fulfilling of purpose? Does it matter that I have felt a universal tug since my very earliest years, and as such have set myself up for this miserably fantastic failure? No, because without these fantasies whether they be artistic, religious, or merely delusional have kept me in the game thus far, among the living, after nearly being extinguished more times than a cat's mythological nine lives.
The hooker deal fell through because Mouse Morrison (hardly a close friend but rather a persistant pest over the past decade) bailed out due to an illness I guess I now am suffering, fevers, sweats, harsh throat, and sinus wammies. Both he & Tim were egging to donate their pipelines for the cause. Since neither has money, they offered peacock services. Steve was here that night, smartly demure as usual, noncommittal at the point the witching hour came, and still no news from Mouse. He called apologizing the next afternoon, and tried to reschedule for that evening. By then I had decided to keep the money in my pocket where it belonged, even thinking a drive to Ithaca was still possible. But Monday I was sick, and today still sicker. My fate determined.

You know Jennifer, you're not at all specific in stating your discomfort with what I had proposed as contingent to a visit. I suppose I can't blame you, though I find rather distasteful your coy kitten routine, except when you are looking to be touched, but you've got to know that I just put words out there. There is no action taken until words have confirmed themselves, and action is all that's left (along with whatever script comes to mind on the fly, don't you see?). I was vague myself in suggesting any such framework. I reckon I was just fishing for some personal feedback on what limits you have, what trust you have, what love you have, for me. You have often said you don't flash the L-word around unnecessarily. I can appreciate that. Honesty is the only trait worth fighting and dying for. My honesty seems sometimes all I have left as the black rupture of failure closes in on my sagging sense of purpose. I have often declared the two extremes of my psychological dichotomy to you. I suppose at the rate I am going, within a few years I may be a walking talking farting full blown case of schizophrenia, voices in my head and all. Day in and day out I race back and forth from being completely certain I am some sort of end days manchild whose time (while the symbols of my life rack up proof after proof of this latter truth) is not yet full, until I plummet into a full-blown depression signaled by a cheap self-congratulatory neuroticism, a smothering psychosis where self-loathing reaches beyond all this inner hype to bring me crashing to the ground zero point of self-destruction, seemingly only inches away. What is life but the fulfilling of purpose? Does it matter that I have felt a universal tug since my very earliest years, and as such have set myself up for this miserably fantastic failure? No, because without these fantasies whether they be artistic, religious, or merely delusional have kept me in the game thus far, among the living, after nearly being extinguished more times than a boozy feline's mythological nine lives.

And in that notion rests God the restorer...

GT

"Whoozy beer-guzzling turkeys. Good thing they aren't allowed to fly..."

Impossible To Get To Icy Ithaca

winds-conscience
Winds of Conscience
samplex

Am fighting off a cold, or an allergy in throat and sinus, and its accompanying depression. Impossible to get to Ithaca this week. You're off the hook. I'll challenge Sue to a visit sometime in August if that would be good for you. Are you still kicking the online addiction? Missed you sorely when I checked just now, and still nothing from you. Of course Steve was here most of the weekend, although he went home late each night, and returned the next day. It was great seeing him. I missed him, but now I feel like rotting jungle fungus warmed over the coals today.

Blumstein joined us yesterday for an afternoon to midnight scoot of four-handed cards, loads of grillmunch, beer, and filthy mouth muttering. It was even good seeing Bob on the upside of a three-day sick. The uncertainty principle does not apply to Bob. IT IS CERTAIN he will be sick three days a week. As I may have mentioned, he boasts on some occasions and complains other times of chronic fatigue syndrome. But he was fit as a for a few hours and we all enjoyed him, although Tim mentioned the other day how he noticed that Bob can at times practically suck away your soul with his tired hem and haw manner of speech. Oh well, of all people, he should know. Sue called this morning. She's home safely with the parents in south Georgia. Now there's only the flight back to National on Friday. All's quiet with the Dollhouse shoal.

Love and safety licks...

GT

Mom Said I Was No Henry Miller

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

Where Good Arguments Always Give Way To Selfishness

doll
The Sleeping Doll
samplex

Traveling the Geboren circuit this year took us to New York City to peek in on an old friend. "Happy Memorial Day. Hope that you got in at least one war movie this weekend to celebrate your country's ability to kill, kill, kill," writes Landry, our recent emmigrant from DC to San Francisco, this morning the day after. She saw Patton. As fate would have it, I was shown The Year Of Living Dangerously.

Rolling along in a sparsely filled Amtrak train car, my first time as an adult, to visit the lovely Jennifer of subsequent charms, was as fun as travel to New York gets, I suppose. A social anthropologist in the making, formerly of the American University in Washington, now at the New School in New York, Jennifer the sweet, the sour, the sassy, the geisha with one eye trained on Indonesian studies and the other on herself, popped in the videotape—the only one she owns besides Gilbert Grape, oh well, except for a couple of pornos—as Sue snored like vanishing rogue zebras on the savanna sprawled across the floor bed nearby. With me sedentary in the only piece of furniture that could be called a chair in her tiny 5th floor airconditionless Midtown flat, Jennifer settled upon a huge throw pillow I had nestled below my feet. She dropped then snuggled her head into my groin where we watched the television off and on like unsubverted lovers. Some of it anyway. Year depicted the Indonesian coup of 1964 (I think).

Moxy Lexington Avenue girl with the long black hair and bangs and familiar black moles marking her pale body map set up the plot for me, adding she suspected quite a few CIA dollars went into the making and the breaking of the only two Indonesian regimes to hold control since independence from the British crown in the 1940s. Communists threatened to gain control in this 1960's revolution but were successfully thwarted by western influence-peddlers. Linda Hunt won the Oscar for her role as a dwarf male Indonesian photographer and influence peddler himself before plunging to his death when pursued by the failing ruling regime's muscle.

It was strange to hear even these most simple of political words coming from the mouth of my big-eyed punk rock baby doll, rudimentary cocksucker, lover of many, now a snarling scholar, who was intent on going all the way with her mind, and with that quick glimpse into her soul I felt warm inside, grateful she had not given up, since I had been too lazy and only negligibly bright enough to manage any sort of higher learning plus too many hours of sniveling grunt work wrapped neatly into poisonous packages of self-assured destiny, decadence, destruction visibly manifest in everything I had ever done or said since my earliest troubles which I am still working out in poetry and prose. Besides, it's not like I was ever waitron material. Neither was she, she had made clear, but I made the case that she'd had strong parental dollar and sense testimony which was not my case. I just didn't have enough grit in me to fight the entrenching powers of academic hegemony to fling it at the university level like I had done for years when my own powers of memory kept me in the top rung among my small town peers. Despite my past and present love of knowledge, conveying disciplines and social contingencies of school, and the whole spirit of competitive struggle, I'd already shown a strong streak of rebellion which played itself out in bucking weakness that was masked by petty authority everywhere I found it, although let's not play games, the more I rejected folly the more likely it found me, so I thought better of joining Sisyphus on that rock. Better to go off alone. If I was being forced to turn myself inside out, I wanted to make it a solo flight, to make it my own journey away from the herd and the axis of privilege, but each year was proving even to me that I had crashed and burned long ago.

You just lust after his redwood stature and that ironman voice but you only like SOME of his songs. I reached this analysis after she impulsively slammed on, then clicked past Johnny Yuma, which I liked, and which she called some fucking B-side. I bounced her fuss with facts by saying, "NOT! I just saw a Seinfeld episode last week as a matter of fact where Kramer was pulling his usual Kramerstuff with Jerry, hooklining, "I'm a rebel Jerry....... I'm a rebel." The sinker was Jerry's response,"You're not a rebel. Johnny YUMA was a rebel."
So much for Memorial Day madness. I was however quite pleased with the seating arrangments.

We gossiped about sex, the provocative and various sizes of female aureoles, and the protocols and paraphenalia of B/D while practicing restraint and good sensual instincts, bad links, why Microsoft sucks but is an necessary evil until it's no longer around anymore, the Ramones, since she was a classicist, handjobs, female masturbation, anything she could suggest we talk about to keep the heat going. After all, we were veterans of several past flings with each other going all the way back to the beginning while dithering on that thorny road to higher meaning, I now interpreted as nothing to write riveting vertical novels about, because when I look back even now it all seemed to compare poorly with riding too fast on too many dangerously flat tires at best, lacking lasting impact, uh, except maybe that one time we spelled it out under the bright sun for the rolling camera and monitor while Sue and Chris Ravenholt...

Neither of us were really interested in the movie, and true to expectation, most of it was lost to activity usually associated with the flickering technicolor drive-ins of old.Exhausted, she finally dozed off about three-thirty, two thirds through, and I dozed off about five minutes from its end, with Jennifer again curled around me, a knee, warm and timeless between my legs.

Yes, yes, step right up to the kiss and tell booth, get your tickets punched, win a door prize for the most fetching synonym for making out without benefit of penetration. Hear ye, hear ye...

During the movie we rolled around nearly in tears and spasms, tumbling about, pinching, twisting, pulling each other's nipples about as unmercifully as we could pull but always accompanied by a playful snicker and the stiffening of nostrils, so better to embrace like pernicious darlings only to pull away again, lapsing to a more coy posture than before, submissive, the wooer and the wooed banging the wholesome drum, then dialing the knob all the way back to bashful, as if reliving that Mister Potatohead afternoon when the four of us were trying to guzzle off a keg left from the night before after a party we hosted back in the days of North Carolina Avenue. But that was nearly a decade ago. While affections were obviously still running high or obligatory, we kept home plate isotopes to the minimum zero on this NYC weekend, and our cameras rolled only after two wayward dogs scrapping in Central Park, blahdy, blah, blah (as Jennifer would growl in one of her more hostile voices).

Thankfully we weren't dragged into loud spaces. Saw no bands, went into a bar only twice. Only the second one counted. That was @Café in the St. Mark's quarter of the East Village. Squandered nearly a hundred bucks sucking suds and surfing the Internet. Showed Sue and Jennifer my web presence, downloaded a Windows JPEGviewer to upload to her home PC so she could view some bondage pics she wanted put on floppies. After a few bumps and grinds Jennifer gave of herself plus a few the Windows environment gave MacTekkie Sue, most of the 4.1 MB were finally made viewable on Sunday. Lapsitting gyrations were all she wrote during this particular mood, so there's little to read between these lines.

So I again, this time more quietly, upbraided this "sweetie on the side" just to be clear, educating her about the illustrious first family of hillbilly music, pointing out in fresh adjectives and unresisting adverbs that the Carter family is to country music what the Kennedy family is to American politics. And Elvis is to pop rock.
Besides the online Gabriel tour, always PG-Rated, I narrated in the East Village, I imagine the second favorite string of hours I managed was Saturday night when Jennifer and I made out like teenagers in heat beer after beer and Johnny Cash song after Johnny Cash song. She said she couldn't believe I liked JC. I said the same about her, although I later amended my assessment to: "Yeah right, you don't like Johnny Cash. You just lust after his redwood stature and that ironman voice but you only like SOME of his songs. I reached this analysis after she impulsively slammed on, then clicked past Johnny Yuma, which I liked, and which she called some fucking B-side. I bounced her fuss with facts by saying, "NOT! I just saw a Seinfeld episode last week as a matter of fact where Kramer was pulling his usual Kramerstuff with Jerry, hooklining, "I'm a rebel Jerry....... I'm a rebel." The sinker was Jerry's response,"You're not a rebel. Johnny YUMA was a rebel." The sinker was Jerry's response,"You're not a rebel. Johnny YUMA was a rebel." I had laughed agaga when Sue and I first heard this Seinfeld line and followed that up by terrorizing Sue with a string of childhood memories growing up in Georgia on country music.

Reveling in this small order of synchronicity, I repeated all this to Jennifer, pop pop pop. After all, she claims Seinfeld devotion, and I'd hoped she'd recognize the validity of my argument. A New York Jew had heard of and thirty years later was recalling for a new generation that same Johnny Yuma ballad. Whether it was Jerry Seinfeld or Larry David surely something here would stifle her protest that this was some obviously forgettable B-side. And yet she bitched out, splashing around in muddy discourse as most of us are wont to do after a dozen beers or so, leaving me my assessment. Jennifer Connolly was simply not a first tier Johnny Cash fan like myself.

But as writing goes, she's as hip as any dark-spirited retro-70s doctorate candidate goth chick on her way to Cornell I've ever had the pleasure—just for grooving to any Johnny Cash. Yet her glimmering hipsterism was further tarnished with rude remarks about June Carter. So I again, this time more quietly, upbraided this "sweetie on the side" just to be clear, educating her about the illustrious first family of hillbilly music, pointing out in fresh adjectives and unresisting adverbs that the Carter family is to country music what the Kennedy family is to American politics. And Elvis is to pop rock. I mean, I'm just a fan of the music, the man, the woman. That's it. Pitching thoughtless blasphemies into the mood while gyrating her half naked still intoxicated nearly blacked out body politic against my flickering frames at four o'clock in the wee of morning as I struggled against the mat, failed to keep me from any old friendship duties I would face that night with Jennifer the stray kitten, not because Sue was still starched, still smack dead drunk, still asleep on the bed where she cracked emeralds for eyes and blew ex post facto dreamy white bluffs along the hard roads of her own deeper relationships, kissing the parabolic name now cloaking her painful lack of confidence, her wrecking ball illiteracies, her tip of the iceberg struggle against lifelessness while crumbling in dutiful acceptance of it all.

Two women, three studies in deliberate behavior.

And despite my highstrung needs for acceptance at any cost almost anywhere I can find it I can state the following: Love is a trainwreck. But also know this: Life is a gooey five dollar ham & cheese sandwich lifted from the café car on that trainwreck just after the crash.
I am glad to be back home where is is no chance to get laid, blown, or titillated by a sweet talking college girl. Frustration of that sort has ebbed. The absence of our mindmeld brings its own anxieties, however, as the excitement of New York begins to fade into the kaleidescope of another lost weekend spent dallying with fire while dousing it with indifference. Yes—I love Jennifer today exactly as I have always loved her, and yet fate has been cruel to me. I can't have everything. Especially when I never make the first move. And I love Sue dearly, and in that "what if you could" challenge would not trade her even up for Jennifer with her crazy ride through hell, not that either would sink to such a grotesque role of Gabriel's choice, but that's what the "what if you could" game is all about—idle speculation, creepy imagination, human, all too human desperation.

But Jennifer and I do love each other on some level among men and women, despite the spikes and the sputters and the rules of the land, sea, and hells of both, and do for each other in ways we have always known we can. We are quite alike, our intelligence, our moods, our metallurgy configured so similarly as to render us equalities in the equation for trouble where arguments always give way to selfishness.

After a morning spent gridlocked in a malingering after-flirtation depression I am beginning to feel better I think. Writing this has helped evaporate a few inches of psychosmog. And despite my highstrung needs for acceptance at any cost I can state the following: Love is a trainwreck. But also know this: Life is a gooey five dollar ham & cheese sandwich lifted from the café car on that trainwreck just after the crash.

GT