Tag Archives: marriage

Twenty-Five Random Things About Me

spikedpunch
Punk Ain't Dead in 1985
samplex

Rules: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about yourself. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.

(To do this, go to "notes" under tabs on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)

1. I used to hang with Ru Paul in Atlanta back when HE played in a band called Wee Wee Pole, mostly at the 688 Club and the Bistro, both now defunct.

2. I was a brilliant child (one of the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging myself through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix…), then I bumped into the lads of 9353, and learned something else about myself.

3. Bob Dylan, Thomas Paine, and Henry Miller, in that order fascinate me to the ends of the intellectual spool, are my heroes, and oddly enough, both the Right and the Left claim them (well, Miller might not make the cut on the Right), and yet all are despised by both the Right and the Left when it suits them.

4. I hitchhiked from Atlanta to NYC to meet Allen Ginsberg with seven cents in my pocket because I had lost my whole $250 paycheck earned working a roofing tar kettle the night before dancing and boozing with a hole in my pocket I had sworn to avoid, all in celebration of my departure. I also met my future wife on that trip. It's a long story.

5. I was a literary poet when I came to DC. I then became a drunk, quit writing poetry in deference to my rocker friends and enemies like Bruce, Boyd, Vance, Gene, Jamie, Rene, Lloyd, Frank, Henry, Andy, Jack and so many more of that squiggle of spit-possessed renegades.

6. I grew up poor among the poor. My five siblings and I often slept in sleeping bags curled up around the only kerosene heater in the house built in 1865, later burned to the ground by an arsonist in 1972, along with many of my childhood treasures. My father collected junk Cadillac & Pontiac hearses and DUIs as if nothing else existed for him.

7. I once told Jesse Jackson I don't stomp the pavement for any cause. And yes, I shook Ronald Reagan's hand as he was leaving the Jacksonville Convention Center in 1972, as a Nixon delegate in the first highschool mock convention of its kind. My particular Florida highschool represented the state of Tennessee. Shirley Chisolm was also there.

8. I recall the Kennedy assassination in full black and white. I was in the third grade. I watched the aftermath at Darwin Gale's house while he was outside playing in the dirt with toy soldiers, our usual connivance.

9. I was married to a Jehovah's Witness twice my age, mother of three, when I was eighteen, four weeks after she smothered my virginity. What a dweeb I was! It lasted three horrific years.

10. With a nod to Yeats, I slouched in the dirty and dangerous coke ovens at Bethlehem Steel on Lake Michigan back when America was strong, though the steel industry was just then beginning to feel the coming shrinkage.

11. My grandfather regularly played chess with King Faisal Ibn Abdul of Saudi Arabia when he was a construction superintendent there in 1966. This king was later assassinated by his own nephew. Spud Woodward, my grandfather, left after six months of his two year tour seriously needing an adult beverage, of course banned over there.

12. I became a painter after reading a book.

13. I believe America is in deep shit, and I also believe we haven't a pooper scooper to our name as a nation.

14. If it weren't for money, I'd be a rich man.

15. I lost a 900 page novel manuscript among other fine washables when I accidentally erased it off my computer.

16. As a former Episcopalean acolyte and Eagle scout, well not quite, my family moved to a remote barrier island owned by the Carnegie and Rockefeller families when I was fourteen, effectively ending my scouting career at Life, anyhow, what was my point?

17. My family were among the original band of Scottish Highlanders to found the State of Georgia. Names like Mackintosh, Spalding, Kenan, Woodward, Atwood lead straight to me. Big effing deal some might say; I say it's all in how you present the information. Did I mention one of my ancestors traced my heritage straight to William the Conqueror, the bastard lord of feudalism? Thirty-one generations. I did the math. Lots of people are my cousins.

18. I have never been to college. But I am still a tool of my enemy, and I cannot visualize an escape.

19. Guns. Now that's something William S. Burroughs knew something about.

20. I either secretly or outright despise Marxists because I am right of center and am more generous with my time and my treasure than any "ever so concerned" Marxist I have ever met.

21. I realize that the line is being drawn in the sand even as I write these words and parse these syllables. There is no time left to write poems or paint pretty pictures. Now is the time for all good men and women to rise to the challenges our spineless leaders have injected into our collective bloodstream.

22. Twenty-five years with the same woman. Haplessly married, but unbreachably united. A story for the ages. Check out Abelard and Heloise.

23. I am either supra-confident in public (usually a byproduct of alcohol, of which I rarely partake these days), or timid and tragically neurotic and full of self-doubt. Ask around.

24. In the spirit of jolly old Saint Nix (one of my former namesakes), I am always making a list and checking it twice, determined as hell to discover who is naughty and who is nice.

25. My greatest shame is that few people who call themselves my friends have ever bothered to listen to my Internet radio station, Radio Scenewash, or read, much less respond to any of my blogs in the several years I have operated them. Such is MY life in the fast lane among the self-satisfied and the splendid.

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

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.

Another Year Is Torn Off The Calendar

athletics-love
The Athletics of Love
samplex

Date: Tue Jan 2, 1996 9:01:02 AM

Space, yep, another year is torn off the calendar, and good riddance I say to 1995, a very odd and tumultuous series of months. Looking back with one eye smack on reality and the other peeled among the twitches of wishful thinking, I've got to say that it was however a year of giant strides, a year I won't easily forget, what with fences, dogs, deaths, hardware expansion, software exploration, publishing crises, and now a truer forging of the sexual fires long sgo smothered in a simmering marriage all highlighting 1995 as truly a ferocious time in my life. But onto other things.

Strange you should bring up the question of handedness. I too have always been fascinated by this phenomenon. In fact left-handedness is a major erotic trigger for me, that is to say, I dig lefthanded women, and always notice this trait immediately whenever I observe it whether on TV or in the natural. I cannot really profess to know one way or the other, however, whether the trait bears any hard evidence of personality hardwiring. One always hears that left-handed people tend to be more artisticaly inclined, but then one might just as well say that Librans are more wise. Socialization factors heavily into the way individuals react to their gifts, and while we might say that we live in a right handed world (tools, architectural & fashion designs, et cetera) and that this constant reminder of differentness and minority status that lefthanders may feel actually helps focus these individuals in ways the norm take for granted. This differentness thus spurns creativity. Like I said I don't really have any strong convictions one way or the other. I just know I feel instant arousal at the sight of a lefthanded femme in the act of writing, or anything that points up her hand dominance.

There were no lefthanders in my immediate family, although a well-developed creative cousin five years my junior probably stoked my first awareness of this strange fetish. She lived across the street from us, and I always envied her sinisterism (lefthandedness). The synchronicity of you bringing up this topic was amazing, as I am now determined to explore the sexual deviations that have remained submerged in the mundane marriage muck of some twelve years now. It's been a struggle over weeks of airheadedness but Sue is finally beginning to accept my pleas for a more vigorous sensuality. I don't know how you feel about general perrrrrrversity, but I seem locked into this need to move past the general crap of the marriage bed into the spastic worlds of bondage, domination, erotic, even kinky fotography, exibitionism, voyeurism, blah blah blah, and the list is long. Sue and I tinkered early on in our relationship with a few of the seedier fetishes, but that era was short and soon ignored by her once she had bagged her man.

Frankly Space, I find I am feeling somewhat apprehensive in taking this talk too far until you've had a chance to approach the topic, but meanwhile welcome to 1996.

Fats

PS...with all this Internet censorship talk coming out of Germany & Washington, something is bound to change the way people get screwed.

Back In The Seaddle, Home On The Range

basquiat
Basquiat's Year of Clyde's Magazine
samplex

Date: Wed Dec 27, 1995 11:58:05 AM

Space, just got back into DC ourselves after a quick whirl of that peachie keen homestate of Georgia. I was knocked out and loaded after 48 hours of no sleep when I arrived which, of course, immediately led to fights with Sue & my Mother the first hour. Another 12 hours and I was nearly falling down punch drunk (the metaphor, not the liquid) but still staggering around as everybody did the Christmas thing two days early, and all I wanted was a place to crash. Spent some quality time with sister & her family. Her husband's a merchant marine. Oh yeah, you might recall that from my descriptions during last summer's tragedy. Clyde finally has that damned magazine job which lasted three dog nights and nine lives of a cat, and I still don't think it'll ever go to press in its current form because he still thinks he can swashbuckle into a printer and bypass the service bureau niche (of course saving him bucks!) Not a chance, but he has never gained sight of the four-color process and the technology shifts going on in the fieeeeeeld. After I thumbed thru the job with him, we hardly spoke again that trip, although he seemed genuinely thrilled with the layout. Glad that mess is behind me....

Hardworking breadwinner comes home from the office night after night, plops down in front of the television set, and pops open a beer (or pours self a series of wine anesthesizers), and is pretty much dozing cold to any touch or conversation the frustrated homemaker tries to initiate. Years later trouble brews.
Meanwhile, glad to be back home, and web-constructing, ah, my newfound firstlove. Sue and I are walking on eggshells, or rather, she is. I've threatened to leave her if I can't wake her up from her sexual slumber (empty ornery threats). My desires run manifest, but I have sublimated them far too long I say to myself, and figure the time is at hand to force a change. She says she realizes her lack of vitality, and wants to meet me in the garden of bliss, but I can tell this is going to be a long haul. Marriage sucks in this department. Otherwise I'm all for partnerships in rhyme, crime, and drinks with a splash of lime. But the sex broke down for us ages ago. I know I'm no great looker, hardly a provider right now, and nobody worth their salt & saliva will sympathize with me when I try to shift some of that blame onto the beautiful hardworking lady of the house, but isn't there a stereotype that fits in here? Hardworking breadwinner comes home from the office night after night, plops down in front of the television set, and pops open a beer (or pours self a series of wine anesthesizers), and is pretty much dozing cold to any touch or conversation the frustrated homemaker tries to initiate. Years later trouble brews. That's the Sue & Gabriel story, roles reversed, although she's always been a good listener, simply not much of a bed warmer.

His mom and pop married AND divorced each other THREE times, after growing up in the same household as step-brother and sister, my grandpa being ten years the senior of my granny. Eeeek! Just want you to know with whom you've been swapping goofs at baseball games & the Internet, dude.
Oh well, don't mean to whine on your virtual shoulder, but I figured I should clear the air somewhat after those few cryptic remarks I made a couple of weeks ago I guess it's been since we last mailed. Glad you had a pleasant holiday. Mine wasn't all bad. Spent some quality time with another brother in Dalton, just a few miles south of Chattanooga in the Tennessee ridge. He finally seems to have found a hole in the world where he can function more or less obedient to his crazy-eyed whims, a fearless mountainman, hours away from the dark shadows of family competition. The next trial for him will be when he gets his driver's license back. He's already spent over eighteen months in the slammer in two different stints on DUI charges. Chaz is a decent guy, actually very decent, but he's a small guy (5'4" 135 lbs.) wrestling with the dual giants of massive ego and low self-esteem fueled by family resentment and fantasy-driven psychosis. But he seems well-placed right now, and I'm happy for him.

Aside from Clyde (the successful business tycoon) & Laurie Ann (the most well-adjusted sibling among us) however, the rest of us seem to be in a state of perpetual psychological erosion. It's an inherited trait from my mother's side, although one would be hard pressed to deny that my dad's farmbilly background ain't fraught with a special kind of weirdness as well. His mom and pop married AND divorced each other THREE times, after growing up in the same household as step-brother and sister, my grandpa being ten years the senior of my granny. Eeeek! Just want you to know with whom you've been swapping goofs at baseball games & the Internet, dude.

Anywaze, lemme go. Gotta brush my teeth or something.

Fats,

"...free from the Clyde-induced depression of Ninety-five! But swiftly working on a mutated variety, to date unnamed."

Where's Jimmy Hoffa When You Need Him (Blowing Bubbles In The Sand)

metaverse
Metaverse
samplex

Wed Jan 25 17:31:58 1995

Fats, the weather out here has been uncharacteristically cold lately. At night it's getting down in the low 30's. We've even had light snows. It wasn't this way last winter. But at least it's not nearly as pitiful as what you north-easterners have contended with.

Can't wait till SuperBowl Sunday. I'm probably gonna yell myself hoarse & drink myself staggering drunk that day, especially if it's a close game. I'll be going to a party at Sarah & Laurie's pad, not that those names should mean anything to you. And not that either of their bodies are so familiar to me. But it should be an interesting day nonetheless. Go Steelers!

The baseball owners have approved interleague play begining in '97. Now the players have to agree to it to make it a reality. When they'll do that I don't know. I've heard they won't make that decision until a collective bargaining agreement comes. The way it's set to work is that each team will play 15-16 games against teams of the other league. And it'll be just east vs. east, central vs. central & west vs. west divisions. So the Phillies won't be coming to Seattle under this plan. Personally, I don't like these proposed changes. Or maybe it's just the timing. These folks have their priorities all out of order. If they think that they're gonna win back fans with this crap instead of concentrating on straightening out the economics 1st, then they're only fooling themselves. Not until the day where the majority of players take Ripken's attitudes will the fans truly 'come back'.

I suppose every relationship has its own unique balance & only the ones in it can know what will irreversably push it out of balance. But if I understand what you're saying, Sue's giving you the freedom to go out & play. And you, you seem hesitant to take her up on that. Good luck.
I recently went out & bought me a pair of rollerblades. I needed something semi-fun to open a door for some exercise. So far I haven't been able to get out & use them so much with all the wet weather. But I'm glad I finally made the effort to do something physical. Something's got to control this gut of mine from pushing across my lap when I sit down.

At work we're currently going through some tough contract negotiations between our union & management. Yesterday, they gave us our benefits package options then told us we needed to turn them in by today. And in the absence of an agreement, we don't even know how much money they plan on taking out of our checks to cover each plan. So how the hell can we make such a decision? That's just an example of the tactics we've been confronting. As if it's not enough that we may be faced with salary cuts & cuts in our vacation time. Meanwhile, there's a pay freeze & the layoffs haven't ended. Where's Jimmy Hoffa when you need him?

As far as your marriage situation goes, I don't know if there's much I can respond to what you're telling me. I suppose every relationship has its own unique balance & only the ones in it can know what will irreversably push it out of balance. But if I understand what you're saying, Sue's giving you the freedom to go out & play. And you, you seem hesitant to take her up on that. Good luck.

Space

Antibravissimo, For Rain Knows Not Its Own Exemplary Moves

rain
Rain
samplex

By George—you’ve probably grown weary beyond all decency of what motives I have in telling you all this after I’d promised in the opening paragraphs this letter would not degenerate into a stale polemic or rationalization of failed potential. I threaten daily to cease this letter and let pass a relationship which might only serve to irritate rather than uplift. But there are other times I still hope that you will find at least my articulation of a life lived, more helpful than the bone silence of an empty past, that if you can not share my current faith, then you might perhaps share the humility granted to me in a strong sense of failure and unfulfilled promise, a pale writer without an unequivocal cause within which to write. When I speak of failure and unfulfilled promise, I speak of my own, of course. My temple of flesh and sinew is a wreck, but I stagger immutable among the soaring pressures amidst the love of Jesus. Why should I not? If he is still Jewish, perhaps I still have a shot at likeability. I have read this, and I have heard this so many times uttered by so many with far greater tragedy to overcome, I would be a most princely fool not to believe it for myself as well. Thundering in the well-worn, much treasured Ferrar Fenton you gave me, John 7:63 quotes Christ as saying, “The Spirit is the Life-Giver; the body is worth nothing.”

You and I both know the body psychologically influences and instructs the mind and hence the spirit, but I traverse among those who have long despised and mocked the body in order to elevate or at least test the spirit, to allow oneself to be exposed to the same ridicule that others less fortunate or less inspired fall prey to, a costly assault to common sense so that I might more closely understand the struggles of the negro, the corpulent, the drunk, the jobless, the ignorant, the young, the illiterate, the fiendish, the mutterer. True, the preceding is probably the most blatantly transparent rationalizing statement you’ve ever seen in print, but did not Christ become flesh for quite similar reasons?

Jesus is quoted in Matthew 12:32 as saying, “And if one gives expression to a thought against the Son of Man, he may be forgiven; but if one shall speak insultingly of the Holy Spirit, it shall not be forgiven him, neither at the present time, nor in the future. Assume the tree to be good, when its fruit is good; or assume that the tree is worthless when its fruit is worthless, for the tree is known by its fruit. You venomous breed! how can you preach purity, when you are yourselves depraved? For the mouth speaks from the overflow of the heart! The beneficent man draws from his treasury of purity, goodness; and the depraved man can produce only depravity, from his stores of depravity! I tell you, however, that every vile idea that men give expression to, they shall render a reason for it in the Day of Judgment. For by your thoughts you will be acquitted, and by your thoughts you will be convicted.”

She has tried with some minor success to understand the character of my apocalyptic rantings. Raised as a standard Sunday best southern Methodist, she is rather unlearned and disinterested in all things biblical, but I can tell you with exact reasoning without stutter or frosting that ten indubitable years of marriage has marked my wife Sue as the most charitable, unpretentious and giving person I have ever known, quite in line with St.Paul’s own description of that term.
Down to brass tacks, sir. I feel and have very nearly always felt since my introduction to christianity that I am the most depraved creature patrolling the face of planet earth. Just plain, unremarkable dirt, filthy pilfered rags when compared to so many offering so much. My self-loathing tricks my brain and ribs my body into its own condemnation. I do not, dare not, can not envy others simply because I recognize no other way of being anyone or anything but that person I already am. I exist and attempt righteousness but whimper and stutter or stomp and bellow only among the truly impoverished who despite a galloping pride seem to lack a healthy provision of bean and worm, creeping along a daily bread route with very few values at all but next next drink or the next morsel. But these are my boyz—a useless lot—and I seem to be their keeper.

When I try to raise myself to a leveled station I quickly fall sick with false pride—the code of the road in most circles of squander—unable to sustain myself in any sophistried prison of spiritual or corporeal relief, thus forfeiting any sort of normalcy my wife, bless her heart, with long suffering patience in every matter still seeks to encourage. While certainly not one to disparage the American middle class existence, I tamper with its ideals, tending to become a spur in the easy cheer of the self-possessed, suggesting chaos to the measured chaste if they use it like a weapon, while mandating order among the sluggards and tragic pit crew whose awkward desperation disgusts me into those rare moments of feeling justified in waving my own benevolence to and fro like a victory flag in an unwinnable war.

Yet now I’m weary of that shallow casting of loafers and unappreciative usurpers. And so I hurl myself even lower into the whirling bowels of self-justified exile, blustering agoraphobia, and noisy withdrawl from all things human but language, and its manipulation, or usage, if this latter word better fits your notions of what I am supposed to say to he who is trying so hard to be a man of biblical times, if not biblical proportions. But I seemed be more more supernaturally drawn to embrace a style of antibravissimo, for the rain knows not its own exemplary moves. Random events add up to a lifetime. Now that can be a lifetime of random events, or perhaps these events mean something. You thought our meeting was not a random event, but an ordained one. Either it is all ordained, or nothing is. Otherwise, it's all just a big stupid guessing game. Why rest one's fate on a guessing game? Either God pulled us together, or you just randomly hired on to the same company for which I was setting elevations on hubs in the ground so the grade operator could load and scrape the figure 8, so that one fine day in the roaring 1980s, designated Houston Metropolitan Police Academy cadets could practice their turns on what would be a concrete or macadam track when we were done. You know, I could load this page up with scripture, but suffice it to say, I have chosen the never a chance meeting approach. All is ordained!

I needed no mollifying label like automatic writing or any such creative writing jargon to prompt me in this venture. But I keep forgetting. You found all creative writing except to the newspapers and surveyor's notes full of spiritual traps and avenues for self-glorification. But I finally rejected all that non-sense. I was choosing my world, and it wasn't yours. Many who have sat at a white sheet of paper in the typewriter stares in a daze, even those who craft their self-importance with writing to the editor.
Sure beats randomness, and it sure as hell beats this on again off again presence of God so many people offer. Have you ever noticed how God is always spoken about in the third person by prayerful folks on the street, at the pulpit, in a sermon, on TV, in a book, almost everywhere except in prayer, when these same prayerful folks seemingly get to talk to Him person to person, gets to carry on long cozy face to face conversations in which God gets to tells them things, helps his praying folk with the higher math of consequential everyday life, offering much-acclaimed advice to these people. Yes. I've always found this a bit odd about how people talk about God behind His back, nope there He is, Pastor Harper is about to pray, he's a knocking, there He is, hey God's here, and now we can have a good chat, ain't that right, Father? Then when I say amen, you'll go back to tending Your Own Business, and I'll get back to tending my, I mean, your sheep. Was fun talking, though, while I had you on the line.

As you might imagine, these rages of antibravissimo against self and society in general grind harshly against the softer wisdoms of my wife. She has tried with some minor success to understand the character of my apocalyptic rantings. Raised as a standard Sunday best southern Methodist, she is rather unlearned and disinterested in all things biblical, but I can tell you with exact reasoning without stutter or frosting that ten indubitable years of marriage has marked my wife Suzette as the most charitable, unpretentious and giving person I have ever known, quite in line with St.Paul’s own description of that term. Her hard work outside the home and her generosity inside the home plus my own passion for canon and understanding make for an odd couple but as those who know us both seem called upon to declare—we seem made for each other, a condition I realize you still believe about your estranged Ann and yourself.

But I am getting ahead of the story. The year is 1982. It is November. I am living in an agreeable efficiency apartment on Peachtree Street across from the famous Fox Theatre in Midtown Atlanta. I am firing off an unsung poem entitled The White Crow. I finish the first draft of the poem in half an hour or so with little realization of what I had written. A simple word purge.

This was quite common at the time, as I would set myself in front of the typewriter and empty page, trancelike (without drugs or alcohol—George, despite your strong counsel, but weak presumptions, and tedious accusations, I couldn't write, drive, or dance while stoned because my mind couldn't sit still when writing, I lost lost directional and memory, thus, motor skills when driving, and preferred to organize or do manual work I couldn't ordinarily find the motivation to do when someone asked me to dance, so I would oblige myself a couple of hits instead if available), allowing random words and phrases to filtrate through my subconscious and write themselves down without regard to formula or preconception. I needed no mollifying label like automatic writing or any such creative writing jargon to prompt me in this venture. But I keep forgetting. You found all creative writing except to the newspapers and surveyor's notes full of spiritual traps and avenues for self-glorification. But I finally rejected all that non-sense. I was choosing my world, and it wasn't yours. Many who have sat at a white sheet of paper in the typewriter have stared for long periods in a white daze, even those who craft their self-importance with writing to the editor. Technique was merely how I emptied my mind of current data thresholds, broken phraseology or whatever recently overheard soundbytes and floating images my mind grabbed randomly from the newspaper or street, occasioning no mystery or cult behavior, simply the jotting down of environmental biases and random momentary influences, going with the flow, accepting at first draft what the synapses bred.

Three days later on November 13, 1982, I was rereading the page and a half I had written without thinking too much about the piece at the time. There in the bottom third of the front page were the ordaining words—And I took the name Gabriel Thy!

GT

Wedding Vows: September 13, 1985

couple
Still Together 28 Years Later
samplex

As faithfully delivered by a Christ Universalist minister whose name cannot be recalled at this particular moment but will be supplied the next time we come across it, the following text was composed literally in the eleventh hour just before the service itself as guests were still pouring into the house, asking questions about the phone number and the address, creating odd nuisances et cetera. Meanwhile, we also began to worry the minister wasn't going to show. She arrived at quarter til the midnight hour, was quite a tiny woman in her early 70s, less than five feet tall, but sharp enough to take this wild group on its own terms.

Friends and fellow wankers, we are collected here at this obnoxious but corrective hour to witness and celebrate a high and holy social contract, the merger of two special and not so undeserving characters of repose who dare to laugh at the ghost of confusion and hypocrisy by proclaiming their committment to their own autonomous gaze into the crippled status of matrimony. Let us recognize this in smiles and other fine washables; rejoice and remember—be faithful and multiply!

Sue and Gabriel, you are inspiring each other to weld a solid relationship tonight based not on the old unreliable concept of love, but based on a mutual need and alienation which has confounded the experts, belittled the gossips, and wrecked the ties that bind. There exists some doubt in the cynical minds of the disgruntled that you are entitled to such a paper chase turf as you have laid claim, but you march in vision towards homogeny, continuity, creative indulgence, and artistic supplication. This marriage is made in the earthiest of terrain, in heaven as on earth. Til death shall you partake of the felled pleasures and chosen responsibilities of your vows.

Make no vows but invoke spaz integrity. A spiritual conspiracy. Words that evaporate the pain of living should be your constant effort. Shepherd your facts with a nose towards each others lusts and inspirations, for it is with this stroke and ardor that gives good odor to the breath of your next ideal. No danger would then come to you or your moral codes. Live for no slogans. For slogans are merely wordsuck. Your knowledge shall become profound through the carnal test of time so as to stump your detractors, bury the dead, raise the living to new heights of surrealistic acceptance focussing on passion’s denomination. Your creed is your terminal belief in the naked symbols of rite and behavior. You struggle to resurrect them in each other. You bank on each other. You survive each other. Your bootheels are legends to your maps of subtle decency. How many times have people you have known—and even yourselves—vowed forever and forever…only to scratch off in that great statistical graveyard—divorce? So who’s in charge here? What God has joined together, let no man put asunder. The scam is up, the audience never sleeps.

This is America the Unsolvable. This is SAMPLEX. This is holy matrimony, and finally, this is Gabriel and Sue. Will you about face—to face it?

Gabriel, do you take Sue to be your work of dependency, to love her, to protect her and to be her number one skank, as long as you both shall remember? And Sue, do you take Gabriel to be your work of dependency, to love him, to protect him from his distant daze, and to be his crown of thorns so long as you both shall curry to invest?

The rings—

Your rings are a sign of the times, to be worn as a perpetual warning to yourselves and to others that love is lost when confusion knocks on inspiration’s door. Souls grow on bones but die beneath bankers’ hours. Go forth and search new words and new seasons for contraband. Take these rings in remembrance of these things.

Remember too, the beguiling phrases. (They took us as fools and pried us free of our questions.) This is just another evening, an unquoted evening, in the weird annals of mankind. Don’t waste words, at their condition. They may never come again. And don’t waste Sid Vicious. He may never come again! I pronounce you skank and skank, known here and forever as:

Gabriel Thy & Sue Hedrick.