From: sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu Subject: Re: [paying my debts of obligatory stories] 1.1 (-ah,maybe it'll even arrive)[or, connection troubles in the flat-lands] Date: October 30, 1998 12:11:48 PM CST To: horsestorideon@hotmail.com, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, houseofthe2palms@hotmail.com, shorning@willamette.edu, scoobear@net-link.net, exit2k@hotmail.com, and 3 more…
chicago is grey. there are screams coming from the dumpster. not as loud as the screams coming from inside my head. there's a naked boy sleeping on my bed. and i don't know what to do with him. after we fucked i fell asleep crying. i told him i made a huge mistake when i was 17. and that it kicked me in my tummy when i was 18. & now i am 19 and lamenting. aye. i. aye.
so i sat on my bed, a fetal ball, crying and wishing for more almonds. and i thought that i had found the boy in green pants, with lots of books, and subversive ideas again. only his pants were on my bedroom floor, the books i had all read, and the ideas didn't ascribe to the law of utility, to the principle of offense. so i realized that there is no boy in the world who will speak with prizes and still feel good deep between my legs. crying on my bed. telling the sleeping boy how i wished i could talk to dominic but that i didn't know where the fuck he was. [remembering when i didn't know how to attack and he taught me to strike.] [remembering when i didn't bleed and he gave me tests and tea.] [remembering when i couldn't speak and he fed me my voice.] aye. i. aye.
all these things flew into my head right then. the mice help maybe. the rats, the token mobsters. i realized this past domingo [in toronto, fie] that i couldn't be stationary. i realized just yesterday that i couldn't be on bottom. i realized that bleeding is normal, and inhaling is foul, that remembrance is cruel and letters ought be burned. but there are many boys with my letters [pues, just three] and only one knew how to read. but he wasn't my dividend for the moment, for me. and i thought of ginger, dates, plums, and my tea cup. and i thought of mister dominic. and i teared for an hour. but the naked boy sleeping on my bed didn't wake up. i tried to tear quietly so that i wouldn't have to explain.... that i don't love him and i don't believe in love. and i gave it to one boy erroneously, only to realize later that i had sent it home in afghan's pocket. (we like to say it's a lack of free will but you just ask mr. carpenter about that) oh friENDs, friENDs, friENDs, friend. it's only friend with a few. aye. i. aye.
no. i keep mister dominic under me skin. i wish i could hear his voice, he makes me tear. i want the both of us to shrink up and then put ourselves in water again. i know a lot about mercury and vibrational modes. i can speak in tongues about the harm principle, its conflict and faults. off to the auto-icon with hammers and wrenches. lots and lots of pipes. really heavy pipes...{it's me first pilgrimage} [let's absorb some heat.] miss bentham. miss him a lot. pero no esta aqui... so everyone coach me in telling someone who loves me that love doesn't exist. and i'll shove him on the floor and put afghan into my pears . i'm learning. i'm learning. i'm still tearing. {miss you mister d....} aye. i. aye....i.
From: exit2k@hotmail.com Subject: very pretty. Date: October 30, 1998 8:22:28 PM EST To: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
you should be a writer! no, but really, i enjoyed it not just for its clarification of your past and your love[r][s]. i'm glad you could write it, anyway.
and what a surprise! i see sera too. and she's irish! how pleasing. i don't think she understood. i think she is sweet, but she explains the wrong answers. i would write to her and tell her what i mean, but i wouldn't know what to tell, and she doesn't know me from me besides. sad story, i guess. glad she gets fucked when she needs it. or not.
she hears what she doesn't want to say, even when someone else doesn't say it, and believes her story is the most important just because it's hers and told, to her. small eyes. doesn't know what she's missing.
found my tape, and my player. they were in my bag all along -- no cab. i thought it seemed a little extreme, even for Me. listened to them, they're well. i have one more tape -- two hours! and i was going to save it for when i got home, but now i'm hoping to score some acid for tomorrow night that i better enjoy a lonely all hallow's eve. that's a tape if a tape ever was, if i pull it off.
wish me luck. i'm going to ask the concierge for advice.
From: horsestorideon@hotmail.com Subject: New Deluded Currency. two bills. washing dishes for lack of funds... Date: October 30, 1998 11:42:58 PM PST To: exit2k@hotmail.com, afw10@columbia.edu, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu, shorning@willamette.edu, and 4 more…
theses days i say 'i never lie' i say ' i never say good-bye' which isn't exactly true [not that i'm aiming at that one, but...] i can't seem to ever mean it but it does take its toll. when i think of everyone i've ever let enter my life from the most annoying mother fucker who'd bore holes into my starving body to the last person on earth i never got to come inside me or let me get inside them...
i always leave things up to chance, when it comes down to it. [this, ov course, is today.]
i can't imagine you not being there anymore. and i don't believe you if you say you're staying away for good. and it doesn't hurt for you to say those things to me it's always much better than you not saying anything.
the first people in my life i knew i'd never lose i thought were crazy --- they almost always prove themselves even if i have to do all the work. you know, they love you. they do what they can for you but you must remember they're trying to do more than they can for themselves...: it saves precious little space and time for you [sometimes you have to find something else than that nasty duality]
if she hits your brother again and breaks that ruler over his ass you have to watch his face to see the blushing and the tears so you can remember the way he laughed when he got through the door and closed it behind him with an extra sob just to make the point.
you've got to try and remember all the parts you remember missing as they happened. you have to retro-fit the next life into this. you have to have it all before it happens so you can be ready in the real-time. so my wrist says... or said, rather. you know they love you, lover.... they really do. did. whatever, they tried.
even though the bastard took to sticks in closed buildings where no one could hear you it's not an excuse to say you hate him: why give him such credit in taking up your mind? he's done so many other wonderful things... even when he cries and asks you to comfort him it's time to be hard, just like you: kid. she'll push you over into his lap anyway... it's the history of the trade.
you have to keep these fucked up bastards with you for the rest of your life.. and any longer that you think may be necessary. they didn't get it right they still aren't they're tried filling you up and knocking you in but you're the one they made to carry them into the story the one you're writing to make them the heros the ones who did it right the ones who came out with a christmas card and a fishing rod you have one hell of a responsibility even if you never expect to pay it back.
well, they're there... on the bottom shelf, the one with the door no light masionite it's cheap: but it's a place for them to go. and you can't forget their mates... the ones who share their space... claimed by all the kids you can't forgive and can't forget they're your friends very best friends they'd kick you when you're down and smile when they got you wet yeah, turning you on like a fucking fountain at least you can please someone, eh? well, remember them down there and the doors you run to find and slam behind you with a masterful turn of the little crowned button in the centre of the knob the sound of the struggle on the other side of wood while you look around your country wondering where to go.
still thinking about where to go when you have all these things to carry round... you don't travel lite.
you've got the modle kinds ones who didn't get you killed at every crossing few, yeah sure... but important because they only PREtended to make you feel like a fool because they knew they were no better than you. these are the kids you loved, back then. the ones with the games and the toys and the grade. these are the roles you wish you could fill, though they made you as sick as the rest they didn't push you away well, not too far to get back.
and the images in mind, a boy in black-leather. bleached hair. ear-ring. sunglasses blocking the eyes as you stroll out of the cornfields into suburbia where you have no history in this new skin those things like that... like the star [in some sport] who made them all happy or proud or other words that really didn't make any sense at the time but a goal is a goal, right? gotta have something to aim at.
i mean, remember the kids the ones in the river the ones in the fields the ones in the parks. you'd take up the day under grasses and trees and the house-sitting. imagine a world where you're the winner. a crime-boss: it's something to do: fuck those squares. you never even knew you had it in you [i guess it never came out] until late at night seventh grade? what a game fish.hook.and ____ it's something to do if both of your are moving your hands at the same speed twelve times a night? was that the record? videogame. new cd. sneaking out and stealing your father's cars... gett itt off two more times before the sun cums up we've got something to do.
next to the maitenance man on the first job after many years of "you smoke pot" 'sure i do' "want some" 'sure i do' and a back massage, maybe the only one you ever got and that huge bent thing in your mouth it's unspeakable, that condition, but it's something work on with your friend... which leads, of course, further into the others: pick them out from the other school or past kids you knew and they knew them from church [oh, i think that's in a box under the bed] who read books and had nothing so bland to do [as deal with you] but you're a persistant little fuck your brother told you that was the only thing you ever did well [annoy] and you honed your skill like it was your only possesion... what else could you do? as you worked them into the idea of being a writer the necessary adventures and traumas and scandals. you set it up like you have every story you've never written about the parties and loves those things you lost... broken, maybe. you'll have to have a loss somewhere.. a good friend; a lover. make it older. make it the same sex. make it dirty as hell. make it guilty. sufficient. you got a 31.32.33. you're friends knew him as 32 til a year later... you know how it goes. he is on the middle shelf... oh, was... you've moved him into the cubbard in the back of the room now buried in magazines and old scribbled books. don't forget him: he's getting married in four months "marrieanne" sweetsweetsweet: tie me up and put me on videotape and make me scream. it's alright if it makes you feel better you twat. i love you. i'll keep you right over Here. [you'r gonna break your dolls treatin'em like that]
ok. so how many now?
i have a million in my life and i'll never let them go. i mean... MOST of them are gone or going or comming back or something but the majority of them aren't HERE, right... they're off on their own little thing but i've got a secret... like all the secrets i've got it's not real... so it doesn't exist. "i'm here with a cause. i'm holding the torch -- In the Corner of your Room, can you hear me? and when you're Dancing and Laughing and Finally LIVing hearmyvoiceinyourheadandthinkofme KINDLY"
it comes around like that. things move into place "the knight strikes at midnight" it's all like clockwork when the hands have broken from the center and the watch is on the end of a chain attatched to a world that can't sit still til it finished its dinner can't go to sleep can't wait til dawn can't get away has way too many things to do before it becomes easy enough to set the alarm and trust not to miss anything.
like walking the sidewalks and staring at the cracks of bad-luck or just killing your mother better yet: put her in a lot of pain so you can take her off the shelf and dust her off and give her the reason to make you not feel like a fool: you got a purpose now, mr care-giver you got SOMETHING to do. like any crowded room where you only notice the people in your life and if you seem them and they aren't there yet you needn't worry coz you know they will be. any passing face. any drunken story. any days of too-much of some-thing. you can see them as you walk out the door. you can seem them in the next car over. you can see them exiting the room when you're sitting down having ordered already having forked out the cash which is worth more than the effort it takes you to go to them again and again and again. maybe someday they'll come back to you. maybe you won't have to wish and want and feel the lack they'll fill in your space for you and you won't have to move your hand to be sure they're there. you won't have to invent them anymore and fear turning around to give yourself the chance to lose them.
just because you say 'goodbye' does'nt mean you mean it. and just because you never write it doesn't mean you've forgotten and just because they never call just because they're never there just because you're still alone it doesn't mean i don't miss you.
