Tag Archives: love

Pickles Love Cucumbers

I love you too...
my baby's so sweet she's rots my teeth,
the fig of creation, I find love to be such an awkward word,
but am only comfortable in pronouncing it,

in my case childless,

to this beguiled wife with whom I execute it
not unlike the notion of sugar water. Towards others,
those feelings and outreach is a reflex, but the word

LOVE itself poses quite a stumbling block to the poet long
preferring the word RESPECT, but hello, as signifier
knowing too how the American gangster culture
pretty much bloodied that word for me to boot,
so one if by wink, two if by blink...
and if it brings you happiness, sue me.

[ 2013, Lovettsville, VA ]

Oscar Wilde (Museum Of Modern Wonders In Two Acts)

oscar-wilde
Oscar Wilde
samplex

Dateline September 11, 1999

Well Bracken (you still wish to be known as Bracken, eh?), as I said today, I was rather touched by that flick I saw last night, WILDE, and so have been reading up on Oscar via the web. Talk about the penultimate master of negation. Every utterance is an inverted of the common, a negation of the mundane, a transcendence of the obvious.

Of course he was a bugger, and thus he shall remain, shall we say, utterly worthless to you as a commanding spirit? But I am indeed awed, particularly since I now know he was such a sad, physical giant of a man, as personified in the movie and reiterated in the additional photographs and extensive commentary I've found this evening in a welcomed break from the stress of today's 14 hour DNS outage. Toad says they hope they've fixed it as of 10:30 this evening, but are aware that their upgrade is probably still buggy, speaking of the laws of buggery.

Fascination with Oscar? What that says about me is yours to ponder, for I surely boast no pat answers and homophobia is your bag, not mine, but I do host a lingering sympathy for that gentlest of giants.

Might you have preferred Oscar the Hun? He was a master negationist, so he is of your intellectual tribe, can't you at least agree? This reminds me, I am overdue in torquing Kubhlai's remarks on sexuality.

Penned Oscar: "We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely. All art is quite useless...real beauty ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face."

Flat out, Oscar Wilde was pure genius and the greatest of intellectual pretenders.

GT

You've Got Mail From Ravi Of India

ravi-india
Ravi Of India
samplex

Date: Sat, 14 Mar 1998 21:06:46

Dear Gabriel,

Finally, I am glad that I got a reply to my endeavour. You are really honest. Good, I like such people. After all, what is a man going to get by hiding, except the title "HYPOCRITE". Although your tone was serious but I love to accept facts. I love to make friends afterall we have one life, ain't it?. I don't have friends out side India. So, I wanted one. And today I got one.

Regarding me, as I told you I am 22years old and the only child of my parents. My father works in a Government factory. I completed my Engineering last year and I am learning JAVA Programming Language now, as there is a huge demand for Software Engineers in India.I don't have access to Internet as you do.I get access to it twice or thrice a week, so my reply may be a little bit delayed. So, please be patient.

I am 5feet 8inches tall and weigh 56Kg.Let me tell you some of my Do's and Dont's.

Dont's
------
1) Smocking
2) taking Alcohol
3) watching Movies.
4) tacking Drugs(Oh! it's a very big word to me)

I didn't have sex so far.I want to have it with my wife alone.Hey, don't be in a hurry, I don't have any proposals right now. Marriage after 3 years. Let me tell you one secret. I haven't touched a girl either, with a few exceptions, when I accidentally fell on them when the driver of the bus applied brakes suddenly.

Do you think I am bluffing or not honest? I don't know what you believe in, else I would have sweared by that. But I am telling you the truth. I hate Hypocrites. And I don't want to be such a one. Coming to my Do's
-----------------
1) I believe in GOD very firmly.
2) I read mostly spiritual Books.
3) I like Cricket(as india is a bit good in Cricket)
4) making friends and adjusting myself to their nature.

I am a Hindu by birth. But, in the year 1993 November, I gave my heart to JESUS and my parents followed me soon. I love this complete man, son of GOD and the only Saviour. My family is the only one who accepted Christianity among my relatives. Although I don't believe in the word "Christianity" still CHRIST is my LORD. After all it's not religion which saves a sinner but CHRIST. I fell in love with HIM and I enjoy it every moment of my day. I read the Old Testament 4 times and the new nearly 10 times.

As the sunday descends, it's a festival to us. We go to the Church in the morning at 10 A.M and return back in the afternoon at 2P.M. We have a youth meeting in the evening for one hour.
You might call me religious. Yes, I am. After all we belong to HIM. Am I boring You? No....isn't it?.

Coming to my city, I live in Hyderabad which is having a population of 6 million. This is a big city, following Bombay,Calcatta,Delhi,Madras and Bangalore. Hyderabad is the capital city of the state Andhra Pradesh adjacent to Madras.

The big problem in India is the over population. As a result, very little value is given to the human life. Even if a man is murdered at a cross road on a busy day, nobody cares about the dead man. They just don't want to trouble themselves.

Corruption is another devil here.If you want to get some work done, you got to give a bribe (they call it inam (gift)). If you have money, that's it. You are a raja (king).

Even though India is a multicultural, multilinguistic still there are many loopholes inside. You know how badly the Britishers treated Indians, still we haven't learned the lessons. We today treat a fellow man as a Britisher does. Even though we got freedom from British rule still we are slaves to selfish motives of the heart.

In India it is hard to say that you are a christian. The society treats them as untouchables. Not just that, they threaten you to leave the faith and might even assault you. But you have to make a decision whether to please men or GOD. Even the Government takes back some of the facilities given to a hindu if he converts. We have religious freedom but at the same time some unseen troubles. I thank GOD that this is slowly changing.

In America you have very good Christians like Billy Graham, Oral Roberts and John Osteen. I consider this to be the reason why America is so prosperous.

I am really happy that you don't have cancer but, at the same time I am pricked in heart to know that you have to undergo a surgery. I assure you of my fervent prayers and wish that everything becomes fine very soon.

Can you send me an American poem on the love of GOD. Please don't say No. Please do write to me some tips, on web designing.

Is the President Bill Clinton safe from the clutches of Monica Levinsky? In India B.J.P is likely to form the government at the center with the help of nearly 10 parties. It may not be too long before we go for another Election.

Please send me Your postal address in the reply if you don't mind.

Your's in Love,

G.Ravi Kumar
[address withheld]

For GOD so loved the world that HE gave HIS only begotten SON that Who so ever believes in HIM shall not perish but have everlasting LIFE.(Roman 10:9). He, that said I know HIM and keep not HIS commands, is a liar and the truth is not in HIM.(1john2:4).
Sir Gabriel, do you know HIM personally? If not please accept HIM. For LORD said "Taste me and know that I am good". Please taste HIM.

Sex As Marketplace Commodity

commodity
Sex As Commodity
samplex

Originally published on July 24, 1996

Not to beat a dead horse into dog food, Landry, but I nevertheless am still interested in digging deeper into this topic of exploring what you as a female writer deem appropriate sexual language and conduct, specifically at the social level, as a (willing/unwilling) member of the freelance pseudo-liberated Generation X thinktank. Or more precisely, the differences whereby men and women perceive the sexual personae, and one's respective duties and roles within the arena. For despite my own mental gymnastics, and occasional outburst among friends and foes of the nightclub antic, I am basically a self-described prude in this matter by default. My prudishness comes from not wanting to hurt the feelings of others, nor have my own wobbly branches burned by the terminally spitfired. I'm not particularly squeamish to broach topics with extreme candor, but the wolves of public opinion can be quite brutal and unforgiving as I have been schooled time and time again.

First a few definitions: pseudoliberated. You touched on this concept by admitting your awareness of blatant contradictions in what your own spirit of freedom tells you versus what your reality-checking brain dutifully informs you is necessary to remain in control of what can soon degenerate into a chaotic and unrewarding sensual killing field if unchecked because of the very nature of individuality. The plain fact is that every person of every generation is genetically (both physically & psychologically) predisposed to a certain level of what passes in the popular mind as freedom but it is plain to see that not everyone is at liberty to express that freedom, which is the stomping ground of the upper classes of beauty, strength, and finance.

However, in the general sense, this freedom is then tested in the sexual marketplace. Gains and losses accumulate. Winners, losers, predators, victims, survivors, casualties. That's the real clay court of the sex game, the match, volley, love, point of the sex game. The sexual elite? Without too much rehashing of old literature we both know that one person's freedom is often another person's enslavement. Each camp seeks its own reflection in the mirror of its ideological yearnings. We each, male & female, across the entire corpus of human identity use different tools to plow the field, sow the seed, and harvest the fruit of our lusts and loves, fetishes and fixes. Individual tastes are formed by a complex matrix of genetics and environmental influences working within us at every turn.

I am equally stricken with a loathing that spreads out beyond that primitive misogyny men are often accused of, rightfully so, to encompass my own fistful of oh so girlie traits the radical feminists harp so much about while lacking a fair shade of the same themselves. We all need to face a few facts. Few of us are ever given a fair shake to show all our cards beyond an exterior and a few words. Male or female. Games are played with romantically inclined falsehoods parading around in the name of spectacular truth, a truth called love. Only once this false game of shadows and overwrought sentimentality has been diminished and replaced with a more intrinsic set of values will equality even find its true voice in the war between the sexes.
Often over the course of a life we change to meet the evermutating challenges of sensuality and desire. Common sense and societal mores of the day often intrude upon what we would embrace if left to our own whimsy. Thus few of us can in truth boast that we are truly liberated. And those who are almost always use this sexual freedom to their own accumulative advantage while the many are still left to fend for themselves in the heat of the battle. Freedom or liberty in this case can only mean freedom of opportunity to succeed or fail, not equality of outcome which is a ridiculous notion everywhere, even the actual sex trade profession—which is also strangled by natural socio-economic stratification—to put a finer point on the realities of sexual politics, never mind the basic argument of one's personal freedom from an oversexualized society if that better suits one's real or alleged moral purposes. This component of the gender war is simply unmanageable in a heterogenous culture, unfortunately, as you've realized by living in San Francisco.

Greater thinkers of antiquity, I submit, realizing this, suggested suppression of the personal urges tempered by cooly ignoring social outlets when the former didn't chill the fevers, rather than having lunatics always chasing a false rainbow corrupting the loins with the tricks of envy and abuse, forced by success and especially, persistant failure of the one night stand, serial monogamy, and prostitution. I observe women with their hypertextual sense of liberal guilt dissatisfied with the roles natural history has prepared for them—for the those female masses rarely take pity on the hordes of men delegated by natural order to mere pawns by the sexual princes and princesses ruling the sexual arena, but consistent with their inherent tools and battle plans are often cold taskmasters, subtle manipulators, starving their opponents and thwarting their competition by any means necessary in order to control the field usually to the chagrin of all parties, themselves included. These women too, are abusers, and their types are legion.

I realize many of the above statements can and will infuriate many a feminine perspective. None of my postulates are meant to pacify female anger for the brutality men have set upon them throughout history, but let's not forget men have mistreated men with similar if not more virulent gusto, as Paglia has pointed out. If you knew me better, you would know that I am grievously sick with self-loathing turned against the gender sporting cock, balls, upper body strength, and this so-called social power everyone in the PC generation is always raving about. Pure madness is afoot and I call for a truce, but who are we kidding? The War Between the Genders is very real for those who feel threatened, and that number includes both women and men for both similar and divergent reasons. Life is not a wind-up toy.

But finally after 32 or 33 years of apotheosizing the feminine component of humanity, and weaned from this generalized self-loathing by the redemptive notions of writer Camille Paglia, no wilting violet herself, I am equally stricken with a loathing that spreads out beyond that primitive misogyny men are often accused of, rightfully so, to encompass my own fistful of oh so girlie traits the radical feminists harp so much about while lacking a fair shade of the same themselves. We all need to face a few facts. Few of us are ever given a fair shake to show all our cards beyond an exterior and a few words. Male or female. Games are played with romantically inclined falsehoods parading around in the name of spectacular truth, a truth called love. Only once this false game of shadows and overwrought sentimentality has been diminished and replaced with a more intrinsic set of values will equality even find its true voice in the war between the sexes.

A lot of superstition and subsequent poor choices can change a person in a decade. It was only a few weeks ago I last threatened to leave the manor in hopes of reasserting myself as I used to be, but I am not the same flesh and bones I once was, and the chances my new independence would prove futile and result in an idiot’s folly are astronomically high.
I am not advocating the overthrow of anything. I simply know that what passes for love in this country is little more than mercantile power wearing a mask of fair weather friendship or lust. Those vows most mouth are garbage lines not worth the paper they are written on or the God they are supplicating. And lust if not outright ridiculed is still spoken of insincerely in most pseudoliberated circles propped up by double standards and power negotiations. So let's not be coy, sweet idealist. It's time to throw off the blinders, and realize that true equality between the sexes is a give and take scenario, and few are they who will find the path to this bliss we all seek.

Most will finally settle for a truce and whatever accommodations their current market value will warrant. I am fortunate my own loved one still finds a measure of grace in my own strengths, raw intelligence and wit. And I in her, her own steady delivery of goods and compassion for my weaknesses and my sense of purpose. Ours has nearly ceased as a sexual bond, but we freely and frequently commit to hugging often, an act Ann Landers would have us believe is the best love has to offer, and we suffer in each other's absence, so attached are we to each other. Because we have willingly accepted this state as a necessary compromise and sublimation to what we collectively can manage to squeeze from life, having failed at any number of dry nuances over the years, a truce has been settled upon us.

Most people find this sort of language an insult to their self-images, despite the self-deceiving accomplices to even more failure these images often play out to be. But you seem to recognize yourself at this juncture of life quite clearly, as I did ten years ago. A lot of superstition and subsequent poor choices can change a person in a decade. It was only a few weeks ago I last threatened to leave the manor in hopes of reasserting myself as I used to be, but I am not the same flesh and bones I once was, and the chances my new independence would prove futile and result in an idiot's folly are astronomically high.

My marriage while generally sexless (a decade of frustration leads to great changes in the heart, the mind, and the body) is certainly not loveless, and in our case, love and social stability won out over sex, although deficiencies in one area usually lead to excesses in others, and in my case, my appetite for food has not waned. Those who neither possess but over or under emphasize love, social stability, OR SEX, are given to great tragedy, and dangerous lives, although nothing I have written on this topic can resolve a damned thing in the world beyond my own need to articulate my innermost thoughts on the topic.

Yes Landry, sexuality is just another marketplace commodity. To deny this is to become an instant liar.

GT

Plucking The Wings Off An Adverb In the Gardens Of Soho

case
Once The Case Is Stated
samplex

Date: Wed Jul 17, 1996 6:52:41 PM

Hey there,

Predicted to myself yesterday's barrage would have you to scurrying back to the sanctity of a cold blessed silence. Status quo beats quid pro quo to the punchline every time, especially when I lean out my dirty window to gaze beyond the boredom of my own uselessness, activities which interest no one. Am I so obviously sick with hard-boiled narcissism in this insistence that a recounting of my own work not go unnoticed, or am I simply a brooding artist whose time will or will not come, but as we have heard said, "Yes, Socrates, but cannot you hold your tongue, and then you may go into a foreign city, and no one will interfere with you?"

Would not Socrates reply, "Now I have great difficulty in making you understand my answer to this. For if I tell you that this would be a disobedience to a divine command, and therefore if I cannot hold my tongue, you will not believe that I am serious; and if I say that the greatest good of a man is daily to converse about virtue, and all that of which you hear me examining myself and others, and that the life which is unexamined is not worth living—that you are still less likely to believe."

A dozen small birds feeding off crumbs on the courtyard steps scattered. Three or four flew away into the trees. Tom Howell stepped out from the shadows of the Arts & Craps Building, saying, "Gabriel, you're not him." Then my mother stepped away from the carriage against which she'd been leaning, saying, "Howellnyms, you can't say that about my son. That's my phrase. I've said that to him all my life. You sir, are a plagiarist!" I was left to wonder how many birds were Greek, how many of them were Roman, and how many were in the public domain. Soon, even I, knew context was lost, and only Tom Howell and probably Ludwig Wittgenstein as a young man at Trinity knew for certain who Tom was not.

When I test her limits I must make sure I count the costs and identify the potential gains. Yes dear, I am ruthless in my 41st year. That said, you just whisper the magic words, and I am soon the highway star…
No sweat, Jennifer. I too, am always quite busy, so your hesitation to commit to my discussions of sexual power perhaps never to meet the criteria I have set for an upstate tour of beauty and synthetic protocol (my choice of game, just to keep us both emphatically engaged) speaks its own name, and as such is proper and necessary for us to remain honest to the ideals of friendship and fate we have thus far delivered to each other without frank discussion but automatically over the years. Still love you, no matter what you don't do or don't say, but a love declared in this sort of absence once we have arrived there is a sterile one, a state of ill repair with which I am quite familiar.

Also, as you are aware I am in perpetual financial ruin, just as yourself at this time in your life. But my own poverty seems to be some kind of unspoken holy vow perhaps driven by a secret choice to remain free of the shackles others willingly impose on themselves so that they control those matters of purse. Yet in possessing fewer cares of the purse results in a substantially improved station in very obvious ways, not the least of them is a certain freedom not known by those fixtures of the clock and the calendar. In my own marriage situation, it is always a struggle, a tight-rope walk born out in the lives of both Sue and the husband she loves.

Only by the unfathomable graces of BS Hedrick do I eat, have a roof over my head, decent clothing, medicine, any disposable income at all. Life is more than food and shelter, of course. The fact that I overindulge in the one matter and am nearly agoraphobic in the other changes not the joy of my pursuits. When I test her limits I must make sure I count the costs and identify the potential gains. Yes dear, I am ruthless in my 41st year. That said, you just whisper the magic words, and I am soon the highway star...

To the point, just like female masturbation has been elevated in feminist literature to a goddamned political act while male masturbation remains mired in snickers, putdowns, and psychotic fallout by the feminist wag, women leap to heap ridicule on men for penis size while many a flatchested woman to the contrary feels empowered to chastise women as bimbos and pawns of the male obsession when endowed with huge mammories, boobs, whether naturally or via the easy purchase plan.
I took Landry to task for her commentary on small cocks, and she too, has answered with a resounding thud of nothingness, contrary to her usual back-atcha gonzo. Nothing overtly personal about the tone or language I used in presenting my arguments to her, but who knows, maybe I am just too ridiculous for reasonable minds to waste.

Wild, riveting discussion for its own sake is my motto, not by choice but by default as one who does not know his audience, or even if there is one to be earned. Digging for gold in a trash heap. Poking the sky full of holes with the ironies of our time. I depend on the plain writing of others to help fertilize my parched barren crops of thick gilded sentences. My language tends to get mugged with adjectives and adverbs and cheap alliteration and rhymes, all of which serve me in a fist fight but never in a slow sensual dance with my best noun. I dunno. I suppose this method of scratch and claw gets me every ounce of feedback I deserve. None of us are professional debaters, meaning none of us are burdened with the making of argument in a tense public environment on a regular for hire basis. Pouncing on friends with topics as sensitive as the ones I pitch is probably in bad taste, but then I have been frequently fingered as the Anti Hip. So to my point: women like to suggest that men are consistently fixated on size, and yet find it very natty to mock the flaccid or diminuative phallus whenever the chance arrives. Landry's own sarcastic line, typical of the type of remark associated with a liberated tongue, hey, aren't we all saddled with one of those, suggesting she could understand why the Mentors—the sick LA band of the early 90s—frolicked about like asses on stage waving long thick rubber dongs is one I felt under the circumstances of our ongoing banter about all things fuzzy & frank that required a solid well-reasoned response. To the point, just like female masturbation has been elevated in feminist literature to a goddamned political act while male masturbation remains mired in snickers, putdowns, and psychotic fallout by the feminist wag, women leap to heap ridicule on men for penis size while many a flatchested woman to the contrary feels empowered to chastise women as bimbos and pawns of the male obsession when endowed with huge mammories whether naturally or via the easy purchase plan. Of course these are sweeping generalizations both they then and I make now, but both are valid observations nevertheless for entirely different psychosexual reasons.

Understanding that I am adamantly against the right wing pontifications and their feeble interpretations of man, and God, and law, the issue is not easily thumbnailed in a few sentences. Every thought I render is just as quick to butcher another one standing in close proximity a few minutes later, unless discipline and context is imposed.
Browsing for insight a 700-page hardcover I bought several years ago called "Girls Lean Back Everywhere, The Law of Obscenity and the Assault on Genius" by Edward de Grazia, an attorney practicing communications and First Amendment law here in DC. He was integral in the landmark Henry Miller and William S. Burroughs publishing cases, as well as the "I am Curious—Yellow" Swedish film breakthrough. I am trying to formulate a "free speech/blue ribbon" position paper to correspond to the intellectual margin my web presence requires on matters literary and artistic. The title of the book is drawn from a quote "The Little Review" editor Jane Heap made at the James Joyce "Ulysses" hearing concerning some text in question. Her magazine was the first to publish excerpts and as such felt the strong arm of the law reach out in fierce rebuttal in an attempt to smack down her artistic sensibilities. The books cover most of the 20th century court battles from Zola, Joyce, Lawrence, Miller, Burroughs, Karen Finley, 2 Live Crew right on up through Mapplethorpe in an exquisite commentary bulked up by full first hand accounts of the noted judiciary principles, and their hodge-podge of so-called principals. So far, after several hours over several days in composite, I am still unsure how to approach this position paper.

While I believe in an artist's right, or more probably, his duty, is to exploit the tools of language and all media according to her own peculiar vision, I am also dead set against public funding of this area of life. Zilch. Rock music gets along without public grants. So can photographers, writers, and painters. If not prepared to give it all, or convince a private source for sustanance, then sorry charlie. A paradigm shift of the ways in which we view both art and the marketplace may be required, but public funding is a sham and a scandal to both artlover and arthater. And while I believe that the artist should be as free to draw from real life as he sees fit, I also am certain that the media, specifically films and TV have detrimentally added to the chaos of the past several generations and the sickening decline of the individual in respect to morals as they pertain to the rights of others. Understanding that I am adamantly against the right wing pontifications and their feeble interpretations of man, and God, and law, the issue is not easily thumbnailed in a few sentences. Every thought I render is just as quick to butcher another one standing in close proximity a few minutes later, unless discipline and context is imposed. Even so, freedom of speech is hardly a fair substitute for freedom of action. They must exist hand in hand.

Plucking the wings off an adverb in the Gardens Of Soho,

GT

Fingers Of Low Resistance, Least Resistance, And No Resistance

Resistance
Resistance
samplex

Date: Wed Jul 11, 1996 3:04:06 PM

Not to beat a dead horse into dog food, Landry, but I am nevertheless still interested in digging deeper into this resistance topic, in exploring what you as a female writer deem appropriate sexual language and conduct, specifically at the social or public level. As a (willing/unwilling) member of the freelance pseudo-liberated Generation X think tank, how can we expect to defy this irrational political correctness now dominating the landscape, without bloodying the field, without ignoring the differences whereby how men and women perceive the sexual arena, and their respective roles within that arena, even as it appears that the gender roles continue to evolve? For despite my own mental gymnastics, I am somewhat of a prude in this matter, myself, and actually seek liberty from the constraints of my own background.

First a few definitions: pseudo-liberated. You touched on this concept by admitting your awareness of blatant contradictions in what your own spirit in liberty tells you versus what your reality-checking brain dutifully informs you is necessary to remain in control of what can soon degenerate into a chaotic and unrewarding sensual killing field if unchecked because of the very nature of individuality. The plain fact is that every person of every generation is genetically (both physically & psychologically) predisposed to a certain level of what passes in the popular mind as freedom and the lessening buffers to loose-lipped vulgarity.

This freedom is then tested in the sexual marketplace. Gains and losses accumulate. Winners, losers, predators, victims, survivors, casualties. That's the real dirt in the sex game. The sexual elite? Without too much rehashing of old literature we both know that one person's freedom is often another person's enslavement. Each camp seeks its own reflection in the mirror of its ideological yearnings. We each, male & female, across the entire corpus of human identities use different tools to plow the field, sow the seed, and harvest the fruit of our lusts and loves, fetishes and fixes. Individual tastes are formed by a complex matrix of genetics and environmental influences working within us at every turn.

The point is, they are strong sexual warriors with no pity for the serfs and only seek upward mobility, just as men do, and women always have, albeit in different mutations of the basic idea throughout generations and cultures.
Often over the course of a life we change to meet the ever-mutating challenges of sensuality and desire. Common sense and societal mores of the day often intrude upon what others might find more to their own liking, as common sense can often be as wrong as the public powers. Thus few of us can in truth boast that we are truly liberated simply because we do not know what it means to be liberated.

Classes who arguably at that point of sexual liberty live to pursue this sexual freedom to their own accumulative advantage while the many are still left to fend for themselves in the heat of the old torturous battles between moral agency and libertinism. Freedom or liberty in this case can only mean freedom of opportunity to succeed or fail at getting what we desire...

Great thinkers of antiquity, realizing this imbalance and opening for societal failure suggested suppression of the urges rather than chasing a false rainbow corrupting the loins with the tricks of envy and abuse, forced by success and especially, persistent failure. Failure is disease, disease is failure. I observe women with their hypertextual sense of liberal guilt for the masses rarely take pity on hordes of men delegated by natural order to mere pawns of the sexual princes and princesses ruling the sexual arena. But consistent with their incumbent sexual and business tools, battle plans, and gains to be made, they are often cold taskmasters, subtle manipulators, starving their opponents and thwarting their competition by any means necessary in order to control the field. The point is, they are strong sexual warriors with no pity for the serfs and only seek upward mobility, just as men do, and women always have, albeit in different mutations of the basic idea throughout generations and cultures.

Because we have willingly accepted this bartered state as a necessary compromise to what we collectively can manage to squeeze from life, having failed at any number of dry nuances over the years, a truce has settled upon us.
I realize many of the above statements can and will infuriate many a feminine perspective. None of my postulates are meant to pacify female anger for the brutality men have set upon them throughout history. I am grievously sick with self-loathing turned against the gender sporting cock, balls, upper body strength, and this so-called social power everyone in the PC generation is always raving about. Pure madness.

But finally after 32 or 33 years of apotheosizing the feminine component of humanity, and weaned from this generalized self-loathing by the redemptive notions of writer Camille Paglia, I am equally stricken with a loathing that spreads out beyond that primitive misogyny men are often accused of, often rightfully so, to encompass my own effeminate strains the radical feminists carp so much about when lacking a fair shade of the same themselves. We all need to face a few facts. Few of us are ever given a fair shake. Male or female. Games are played with romantically inclined lies in the name of spectacular truth. Only once this false game of shadows and overwrought sentimentality has been diminished and replaced with a more intrinsic set of values will equality even find its true voice in the war between the sexes.

It was only a few weeks ago I last threatened another Tolstoy—to leave the manor in hopes of reasserting myself as I used to be, as I want to be, but I am not the same flesh and bones I once was, and the chances my new independence would prove futile and an idiot's folly are astronomically high.
I am not advocating the overthrow of anything. I simply know that what passes for love in this country is little more than mercantile power wearing a mask of fair weather friendship, lust, or loosely formed business arrangements. Those vows most mouth are garbage lines not worth the paper they are written on or the God they are supposedly supplicating. And lust if not outright ridiculed is still spoken of insincerely in most pseudo-liberated circles propped up by double standards and power negotiations. So let's not be coy, sweet idealists. It's time to throw off the blinders, and realize that true equality between the sexes is a war of give and take...

Most will finally settle for a truce and whatever accommodations their current market value will warrant. I am fortunate my own loved one still finds a measure of grace in my own strengths, raw intelligence and wit. And I in her, her own steady delivery of basic goods and compassion for my weaknesses in return for the strengths I bring which have nothing to do with sexual etiquette. Ours has nearly ceased as a sexual bond, but we freely and frequently commit to hugging often, an act Ann Landers would have us believe is the best love has to offer, and we suffer in each other's absence, so attached are we to each other. Because we have willingly accepted this bartered state as a necessary compromise to what we collectively can manage to squeeze from life, having failed at any number of dry nuances over the years, a truce has settled upon us. The presence and care of children should, but sadly do not often enough, deepen those mutually accommodating bonds of any union.

Too many people possessing usually fine minds find this sort of language an insult to their self-images, despite even more failure these self-images often play out to be.

But you seem to recognize yourself at this juncture of life quite clearly, as I did ten years ago. A lot of superstition and subsequent poor choices can change a person in a decade. It was only a few weeks ago I last threatened another Tolstoy—to leave the manor in hopes of reasserting myself as I used to be, as I want to be, but I am not the same flesh and bones I once was, and the chances my new independence would prove futile and an idiot's folly are astronomically high. My marriage while generally sexless (a decade of frustration leads to great changes in the heart, the mind, and the body) is certainly not loveless, and in our case, love and social stability won out over sex. Those who neither possess but over or under emphasize love, social stability, OR SEX, are given to great tragedy, and dangerous lives, although nothing I have written on this topic can resolve a damned thing in the world beyond my own need to articulate my innermost thoughts on the topic.

I don't think this letter is very well written but breaking into the breeze, my friends, go the three fickle fingers of low resistance, least resistance and no resistance at all.

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

More Eclectic Than You Appear In The Mirror, Madame

myhouse-madame
Myhouse Madame
samplex

Date: Thu, 29 Feb 1996 05:36:58

What the fuck you thick as a brick why you put goddamn car dealers and sports on your webb page?

Alane Hartley alane@myhouse.com

Who are you? And why dear sir, uh, Madame, do you profane my domain with idle gossip not worth the cheese between the Strong Magellan and Weak Nicodemus toes on your left foot? May Rasputin have mercy upon you. Perhaps you should swear off cars and sweat, by knowing them no more, and just stick to virtual razzmatazz. You wear it well. Or at least as well as Madonna slipping fast into quicksand.

I would like to think you were more eclectic than you appear in the mirror, but then again I have always been the dreamer slumming around with the impossible dream. Am I reading too much between the lines, or are you asking me for sexual favors? Your language, why so hostile. Why are ypu even on my site. Does Russell know? This sort of cybertrash street talk will only take you so far. You'll have to finish the job yourself.

Just got off the phone with Jennifer. She called at 3:30 in the morning from New York where she's finishing up her doctorate in social anthropology. Again we vigorously feasted on the mesmerizing similarities our inner paths seem to portray. She swore her love for me yet again, and I knew it was true. And I do love a good dip in the river. Watersports anyone?

Yours in Everlasting Rope,

GT

Homo Sapiens Is A Conquering Species

straitjacket
Affection VI
samplex

Date: Sat Feb 10, 1996 8:48:34 AM America/New_York

Space, well although I've started composing some of the graphics for our sports page, nothing is up on the web quite yet. All I've done to date is reserved our space, and this time I've got a password to prove it. And as for your party, I'll try to book a flight out this afternoon. Just kidding, although I'd dog being there.

I am interested in reading your take on co-dependence. What I know I guess I've gathered from the popshrinks on the boob tube talk show circuit, and they are usually referring to women who depend too much financially on the continued good graces of their men, a BAD thing, mouth the popoffs paid to mutter inanities to the glee of women striking a blow for independence everywhere. Women, the line goes, never know when a man will dump them or begin to exploit and control them with powerplays of one sort or another, and unless the woman can support herself financially she is usually stuck in these souring relationships, begrudgingly called co-dependent. I have never heard the word used in a favorable light outside my own periodic rants. Some psycho-hipsters stretch their definition to include overly strong or needy emotional attachments to their significant other, and again, 99.9% of the time, no let's tell the truth here, a full one hundred percent of the time, it's the women who are counseled to put some distance between themselves and the man, to feel secure in themselves without the need to define themselves through a man's eyes or bank account.

Now in the Thy household, our roles are somewhat reversed, although I still remain the strong, in my case, artistic opinionated male to Sue's deferring weaker female worker bee cast. It works for us because that is who we are as persons. Where the system breaks down is when we are so completely merged in ourselves that we don't like and can barely suffer being apart, even when we are having fun away from the other, which is rare since we seldom depart from each other except when executing routine chores, the major example being when Sue trots off to work. But we chat on the phone usually several times a day, and always just before she leaves the office. In other words, I always (except a few troubled times in the past when indeed our tight regime showed holes) know where she is, and she me. We LIKE it that way. In this sense we run contrary to the nifty modern co-dependency rule. She has the POWER of fiscal control. I bring my own control to the table with my wit and intelligence. WE BECAME ONE, as was once upon a time the ideal held up to us.

Most of this thing called love works its manipulations at the subconscious level, but nevertheless is easily understood in the proper lighting. Homo sapiens is a conquering species. Those too weak to conquer become adept at compromising and more subtle ways of manipulation, always cloaking its weakness in self-qualifying shifts of meaning and social collusion.
Yet, these same popheads counseling women to seek their own financial independence would tell Sue to dump me because I am merely USING her. I suppose that makes sense in their book which charges that a person is nothing more than a bank account, not a complex algorithm of flesh, bones and idea. There is no "grand union" worth its grain of salt for these attackers of the co-dependent family unit. None of the "old" ways produced perfection for all parties, therefore let's trash the old, and bring in the new, bark the modern dogs of marriage advocacy. While admitting the possibility that this scenario works in some, maybe an arbitrary half of all marital situations, simply the inspiration of separate banks accounts does not a strong relationship make. Marriage is a creative process. And while all the negative, or should we say, agitating, aspects of the two versus one calculus of happiness you have outlined are worth noting as real and absolutely required considerations when opting to expand one's fiscal and emotional domain, agitation is the very nature of the blood, and the impetus of the game called love. Love is an overused, thus bogus concept in today's language. There is lust, and there is surreal attachment to another.

The first, while scientists dig deeper to understand its exact mechanisms and evolutionary purposes, is simpler for the average homo sapien to comprehend, if not in its head, at least in its loins. Whereas the latter is simply the sum of all random choices and intelligence nursed by the individual seeking to exploit ALL the worldly and other worldly for lack of a better term materials currently within one's moxy or reach. I don't know who will accept that last statement as a very sufficient definition of love, but it works for me. Anything more superficial than this is exactly that—bogus as a politician's promises. Most love is lust. Some love is simply obedience to presumed or assumed responsibility. Other love is simply a meek acceptance of one's own limitations and a futile desire for companionship, because man still qualifies as a social creature despite his long history of antisocial behavior. Most of this thing called love works its manipulations at the subconscious level, but nevertheless is easily understood in the proper lighting. Homo sapiens is a conquering species. Those too weak to conquer become adept at compromising and more subtle ways of manipulation, always cloaking its weakness in self-qualifying shifts of meaning and social collusion.

To conclude my speech sir (LOL), let me say that despite the raw truth that marriage is damned risky business, when elevated back to the level of a game in which the participants are the only wild cards entitled to write the rules, I'd say it's a wager worth risking—once two people in this topsy turvy culture we call home—shakes enough courage out of their feeble composures to give it a shot.

And never tell a lie.

Fats

P.S. The Capitol Hill site will be focussed on local politics. Don't know if I ever told you or not but I was an elected official here once, elected to a two year term in November of 1990. I resigned prematurely in April, 1992 after getting elected chair of the12-member Advisory Neighborhood Commission 6B in Capitol Hill (330 ANCs, citywide) in a fierce fight, and after indicating some equally fierce good housekeeping changes were at hand, I had my own pseudosupporters boycotting the meetings so no quorum could be reached, thus no official vote, no action. I vacated. My successor, who by the way had been trying to get elected chair for ten years, moved up from vice-chair and cleaned up the place somewhat, including firing the executive secretary who a thousand ways deserved the boot. This story is deep in details, but I'll leave you with that for now.