Tag Archives: madness

No BBM In '96 For Fats

wonderland
Strong Finish To Year
samplex

Date: Thu Mar 14, 1996 10:41:50 AM America/New_York

Well Space, it seems this question has been answered for me by Prodigy in some new sleeker look. I checked in today, and was twice greeted with a screen informing me that BBM, and also the World Wide Web were not available on Prodigy for Mac and DOS users, that's you & me, right? Windows 1.1 (or above I presume) is their targeted customer base. Also read news that they will soon be offering 28800 bps service, finally, two to several years after most. I'm not up to this new scramble. Too busy in Mac domain, and can't afford another language right now.

Different moths are drawn to different flames. I'm just an idiot who likes to scribble and draw pictures—love as life the expressions of mathematics and imaginative gestalt. Truth and Projection. Radically uneducated, but having sponged off passionate and well-promoted thousands of terrabytes the world offers as proof of its own existence I feel qualified to speak for myself despite my madness in choosing to describe tragedy unfurled.
Will miss you guys this season, but you know when I'm in, I'm in all the way, so I'm made my choice. These are MY Nuthouse woes played out:

Haven't seen you inbox my box lately, but since I was able to access Prodigy from your A account & password (flaw I guess in memory when I tried to use the C), I figger you're still whizzing around. Me too. Not enough time in the day, OR night, although I've been keeping a whimsical and strange rotation of hours, so irregular they've even begun to affect Sue's long established snooze & rise routine. She's getting up nearly everyday one to two hours earlier than she ever has in twelve years, or her life I think is a more accurate description. But getting tired earlier, not much has changed in her afterwork mode which I suppose you're looking forward to your own come spring in your new car. We just discovered a potential problem with our Dodge van which by the way tumbled past 100,000 some 280 miles ago. Last night I went out for a KFC fix, our first in ages. The oil light kept flashing on and holding in deceleration and idling stops while flickering off during acceleration and steady speed routines. Sue said the light never came on this morning when she drove to work. Uhm... she declared a rather easy drive home last night, so here we are now having to deal with some mechanical mystery.

I'm already plotting to go to the Maryland or Delaware sea this year, something I rarely want to do but am writing it into my script as perhaps this year something I can call a therapeutic adventure. As a child growing up along coastal Georgia I was raised on the ocean's secrets, and never cared that much for it other than as some passing stew until I could get back home to my own. Pencil in this recurring dream I have of tidal waves I am in, or trying to escape from with a crowd of friends and family, and you know the beach is just not the beach in my mind. Different moths are drawn to different flames. I'm just an idiot who likes to scribble and draw pictures—love as life the expressions of mathematics and imaginative gestalt. Truth and Projection. Radically uneducated, but having sponged off passionate and well-promoted thousands of terrabytes the world offers as proof of its own existence I feel qualified to speak for myself despite my madness in choosing to describe tragedy unfurled.

We fool ourselves and occasionally try to stretch further away from the flame which warms and integrates us, but disaster is soon nearby snickering as always, and a faith away from where we're at we tell ourselves. Committing to an infant, or even a toddler, even after two years of struggle, still remains dear to me, however far away it seems right now.
Got to make some money, though, and keep us, and, if all things were equal, an adopted child of our own, in American minimums, or at least pumping something of value to a tribe I'll never know but have seen what they will see, and it's all the same whether they thank me for alerting them to the alarming things which inevitably must come to pass before the last nickel is placed around my neck, stamped into my shoulder, and as a fingered one questioning Dylan's queue, stapled to my chest, or whether I die in dust or am raised in battle among the bloodily avenged, does it? I think it does. And so I am forced to recognize each journey for what it is, complex dancing. Because soon it will be time for me to throw off this minimum wage I have carried. I am working on a business plan to present to America Online. They promise seed funding, technical staff, hardware support, and free advertising to someone who is both evangelist and entrepreneur, idea man and project manager. This is my shot. It's time to go for it. Wish me strength and energy. I think I can pull this gig off. Some of my friends and wife does also. Now, DO I?

Yeah, that adopting thing. I am gut emphatic and serious as grits but Sue is miles away, claiming insurmountable financial distress, and I suspect a declining energy level, mine as well, although I am six years younger than she, but obviously I can't do it without her. Nothing I say can really move or disprove her off her current charms and so I'm not going to chafe over this one. I gave up the idea to the heap of things never mine to shine some 22 years ago when I first was stunned with the realization of my sterility, and tentatively again when Sue and I first began peeling layers off our well wrapped personhoods some 12 years ago until we have become family, a more closely defined family than we can admit exists anywhere else in the universe. All else is slightly foreign, dangerous, and loads of work better spent propping what what we already have. We fool ourselves and occasionally try to stretch further away from the flame which warms and integrates us, but disaster is soon nearby snickering as always, and a faith away from where we're at we tell ourselves. Committing to an infant, or even a toddler, even after two years of struggle, still remains dear to me, however far away it seems right now.

Fats

Power Return

Rimbaud has received me,
and I rock his drunken boat. A fever
frothing both his mouth and mine,
each glitter phosphorous, sublime
kamikaze believer.
His archipelagos
in the stars
now wet with perspiration of dry
summer sucking stones,
open woes.

He welcomes me in my madness,
assures me I am nothing but
sheer speechless vision,
pale flier of raw bone.

                            The poet
makes himself seer by a long
prodigious and rational disordering
of the senses. Every form of love,
of suffering, of madness, he searches
himself, he consumes all the poisons
within him, keeping only
their quintessences...

I nod gently on this wine,
chewing on the tettered ends
his long-snapped kept bargeline
reveals, aged like finer cheese,
mankind's more
pretentious
pleas.

[ 1984, Washington, DC ]