From: SAGReiss
Date: 4 July 1996
Subject: Yellow fever
I've been in a deep e-mail slump, for which I am deeply sorry, not that
any of you bastards write to me. The shit's getting weird again, and that,
Jeff, is where we turn pro, is it not? I admit it took a slight bending of
the God-given rules of drinking to focus my mind, but I feel as clear as
the Mediterranean sun bouncing off the sea and into a glass of jus de reglisse,
la fievre jaune, le Ricard. Fuck that, it's my birthday all this month, since
this is the only birthday of my life which will matter. This is the second
birthday, the year I turn the age of Alexander, of Christ, the year I conquer
the internet. We're into it pretty deep, Stiff Lips and I. She threw a jealous
tantrum this afternoon to pry me away from the 'puter and into Darwinian soixante-neuf.
I'm not sure where to begin. While she complains of my experiments with bdsm,
she has some weird friend sending us jpegs that look like some pro drinking
the white water from one of negatron's nozzles. I've refused to have cybersex
with Allset, to whom I shall forward a copy of this letter, though she can
just as easily see it on the World. I don't deny that things may be getting
out of hand, but that was what we wanted, isn't it? I did try out S&M
on the MOO with a girl who lives here, several blocks away, who told me her
name. I admire and respect that kind of courage and told her so, which probably
means she now thinks I'm some kind of cyberpsycho going to track her down
and do God knows what. If I didn't understand, I wouldn't have said: "There's
no such thing as paranoia/safe sex." Allset may add a text called: "There's
no such thing as MOOrape." I knew nothing when I began, except that I didn't
know what I was doing. How could I have imagined what has happened so far?
Comecabra and Jeff, you who have been with me from the beginning, did you
ever in your wildest dreams think we would be at the brink of setting up
a MOO? Does anyone but Stiff Lips and I understand what is happening? I can't
add you, Allset, to the World because I must keep some kind of peace at home.
I have no private life. I think it's best that we not have cybersex, though
I imagine we both want it. I didn't like the S&M very much. It was interesting,
but not really like sex. I don't want to hurt you, even vr. Besides, you'll
have to come up with a better line than: "Do me?" Fuck this shit, I'm losing
my concentration, the fourth movement is getting underway, I must have drunk
too much. That's another reason for what my grandmother would call the prerogatives
of Stiff Lips. She has to deal with me when I can't undress myself and walk
to bed. I love you all because, each in his own way, you read this. Those
who have spoken of Prometheus have exagerated, though it's surely no accident
that Stiff Lips has undertaken a Prometheus/Faust poetry/music theme under
my benevolent supervision, of course. This is not the invention of fire (See
Totem und Tabu by the Man) but it is as great as the Gutenberg printing press.
I was told by my seventh-grade history teacher that I was a megalomaniac,
so why shouldn't I try to write the Internet Bible? I have. It's called BABEL...
From: Terry
Date: 4 July 1996
Subject: Re: Yellow fever
Well, Scott, here ya go. A response from yours truly! I had a great trip
to Washington, D. C. I partied the whole trip... got fucked up every night
I was there. Must say that it was the best trip I've ever had... the guys
I stayed with were gentlemen and the best hosts a person could ever dream
of. I knew I was going to like it there when they showed me to their guest
room and a computer system was sitting on a desk in the corner. On a little
sticky note attached to the screen was an account for me to log into and a
password. Heaven. Heh. NEway, I didn't have much time to MOO or surf the 'Net.
I was way too busy relaxing and enjoying life.
I'm excited about the new MOO... it should go up late next week. :) I've
been talking to my friend that is going to house it for us on his machine
and if you want details, just ask.
Well, Happy Independence Day... I'm off to MOO, then celebrate freedom.
Terry
From: Nichelle
Date: 4 July 1996
Subject: Variations on aTheme of Jealousy
And so I get cast in the role of the Jealous Girlfriend. Not much I can
say about that, just haven't got enough self-esteem or enough projects to
occupy my mind. You see, Gabriel falls in love every two weeks or so, and
when he does I get to hear about her several times a day. But I don't tell
him what to do, ever, and I'm big enough to deal with him having cybersex
if that's what he wants to do, which he does, and while he's doing it I'll
just go masturbate in the shower again.
To clear the matter up, I didn't throw a jealous tantrum this afternoon.
I just went into the bedroom and closed the door, bringing in the libretto
to Gounod's Faust, and the Goethe, which I haven't started yet. I feel like
things are rapidly moving toward secrets and I feel more isolated than ever,
as I did this morning when you rushed through the shower and immediately hopped
back online to meet your internet girlfriend, Allset. If you want to fuck
her, fuck her. Make a log of it, put it up on the web page. You know I get
jealous, but saying you won't add her to the list or you won't fuck her makes
me feel like a villain. You're a big boy. You have netsex with whoever you
want. Do you think about them while you're fucking me? (Cognac told me the
other day "your boyfriend is in love with me" and I told her, "Oh now it
makes sense to me. I just thought that when he was crying out Cognac, Cognac!
during sex it meant he was thirsty".)
What I understand is this- you want it. If you want it, what difference
does it make if you act on it or not? So put Allset on the list. So have
cybersex with her and with anyone you please. I take back anything I may
have said or implied about when I'd prefer you to do it. Do it in front of
me if you like, under my benevolent supervision, of course. Ask me how to
spell cunnilingus if you forget. All in the name of literature, or is it?
Is it your work that draws you to your cyberseductions? I used to be a beautiful
fantasy as well.
My role in your life is to throw tantrums, to kick you off the MOO, to be
the reason you can't do this or that. I feel like we have secrets now, maybe
because you don't want me to see you talking to your gfs. So have your gfs,
fuck them, put them on the listserv. I don't tell you what to do, I have said
many times these last few days, cyberrape anyone you want to. If you choose
not to, you're going to have to come up with a better reason than 'my gf
won't let me'.
From: Terry
Date: 4 July 1996
Subject: Re: Variations on aTheme of Jealousy
Hm... I think that Gabe and Stiff Lips are going to have big trouble in
little China if they don't communicate more about what's going on in their
love lives. :)
Me? I don't do MOOsex. Usually. Although, I was tempted last night. negatron
tempts me, too. Heh. Just kidding. Or am I? Geez... a bottle of wine on the
4th of July makes me a bit ornery. :)
Terry
From: negatron
Date: 4 July 1996
Subject: Re: Variations on aTheme of Jealousy
Where’s the context? Is it all heat and no warmth? What do you want me to
say? Nichelle, you’re not Justine and Gabe’s not Father Antonin - but even
that’s just a guess.
Say I went tot eh video store, rented a tape, and fastforwarded to the part
where they show Sharon Stone’s hooters. Not having watched the rest of the
film, I’m not going to go around telling people about it. I’d look ridiculous.
Gabe, you’ve sometimes, perhaps semiseriously, referred to this list as
porn. Yeah, it’s a little like porn, except you don’t just skip the foreplay,
you skip the fucking too - and go straight to the money shot.
I don’t know what you two do 99 percent of the time, but every time you
have a fight you both post well-worded diatribes and then expect me to comment
on them. I won’t trouble you with opinions based on my own personal experiences,
they’re irrelevant here.
What am I supposed to say?
Nice prose?
Where’s the context?
From: Nichelle
Date: 5 July 1996
Subject: If these delights thy mind may move
I had a rough night. I played out a cyberrape on irc with some stranger
(not the jpg boy though) and ended up in tears over it. It's just my problem,
I'm too fucked up to deal with normal relationships, and all I know is abuse.
Gabriel isn't an ogre, he is very good to me. As he said, at least we eat
better than any of those assholes on the MOO. I don't know. It's 3:03, I'm
crying as usual, need to sleep but can't, Gaby will get up in less than an
hour. Wish I liked whisky. I don't know, I don't mean to be so harsh. After
all, it's just MOO, or wait, wasn't there something about no such thing...
I don't remember. When he gets up he'll be happy I didn't let him loom over
my shoulder all night watching net-boy send me dirty jpgs. Told a guy on the
net I was going to write a nicer letter and he told me not to. I'm rambling
now, can't sleep, think I'll do the dishes and make coffee for Gaby. I keep
wondering will I be in the way if I stay up? I just need to get out more,
go to sleep a little earlier, play more clarinet...
From: Tesla
Date: 5 July 1996
Subject: (no subject)
I must go do real life things, barbecue in the rain, watch rented videos,
wish my husband didn’t get so angry when I moo from home. I will try, though,
to log on briefly this weekend. Have a good one. I hope to see you.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 5 July 1996
Subject: Heat, light and local colo(u)r
What the fuck are you talking about, negatron? Context? Background? You
want me to write more? You bloodsuckers. Nobody writes to me, except Stiff
Lips' mother. What the fuck is "all heat and no warmth"? Don't you mean "no
light"? What do you want, local colo(u)r? I'm glad you're reading Les Malheurs
[Infortunes] de la vertu. What the fuck is the money shot, if it's not the
beaver or elephant shot? You don't know what we do? OK, fair enough. This
is your average working-class household, except we have no car and you'll
have to substitute the 'puter for the TV and classical music for popular.
All I do is work, sleep and peer into the screen. Stiff Lips reads. We spend
more time than the average family thinking, talking about and cooking food,
since we make everything from scratch. Last night, for example, we baked
a pizza with vegetables and I flambeed some cherries from the farmer's market
in our brandy in which soak vanilla beans. We make love, I'm embarrassed
to say, only slightly more often than the average Joe and Jane. We are behind
on the rent and utilities. Darling, that was a low blow about Cognac. Um,
let me rephrase that... Cognac hates me with an unforgiving passion. I don't
care for her very much either. Everyone I know thinks she's what the French
call a mal-baisee or a little more politely mal-vissee or still more politely
mal-lunee, which brings me to our newest member. I don't understand why she
has joined, but I'm happy to have her. I think she just got pissed off that
I say what everyone else on the MOO thinks, that she and Melon and Cognac
seem indistinguishable and inseparable. Yes, my friends, it's CrashLander.
Maybe she just got fed up with her fucking server which is always cutting
her off the MOO and will seldom allow her to tread the waters of the World...
From: SAGReiss
Date: 5 July 1996
Subject: Our dear Cognac
Because Cognac lacks the courage, the brains or the honesty to attack me
face to face, she has now taken to spreading around the MOO that Motive calls
MOOers on the phone for sex. Black_Widow, another charming, con surdiplome,
chimed in that Motive is "an ugly ho". I can see, CrashLander, why you want
to be distinguished from these dumb-ass cunts.
From: Jenipher
Date: 6 July 1996
Subject: (no subject)
I barbecued last night, with friends, who smoked pot, thus forcing me to
leave early. I can't smoke pot anymore. My paranoia overwhelms me, makes me
feel like a crazed lonely woman in a room full of vengeful enemies. So my
husband and I left the barbecue, with chicken wing grease on our chins and
red wine stains on our teeth. We came home and fucked, then slept.
There you have the ending to my day that began with the receipt of two very
strained pieces of e-mail. Gabe, did I really say "Do me"? Motive paged me
and wants to know. She doesn't seem to believe my answer. Of course, we all
know that her impressions of me, based on the lies and posturings of someone
who calls himself 'Slaver', must be accurate. (I wonder if Motive engaged
in a leetle suspension of disbelief that day.)
Did you happen to tell her that during the very MOOmeeting in which I supposedly
asked you to "Do me" Colin (Here to test some new text backmasking techniques
on you) interrupted our discussion on metaphysics? No, I didn't think so.
Or that my eyes lit up, my body tensed, my entire being changed when Coin
wandered in? No, you couldn't have, because you didn't see that, and I didn't
emote those actions. Colin has drawn the life blood from me and has only recently
begun infusing it back into my veins. But you can't see the rosy glow in
my cheeks.
Are you really in love with me? Have I become your Love du Jour? You can
pour Cognac over my breasts and taste it there if you like, my nipples liquored
candy. I'm easy; isn't that what everyone has told you? Sure, I want to netsex
you. I want my fifteen minutes of fame on your web page. I want everyone to
see that netsex isn't just a series of mmms and that-feels-good. But I am
not the homewrecker portrayed in Motive's missive. I wish someone would explain
to me just how much of your World is fiction, exaggeration, the result of
poetic license.
Fuck. I just read your mail from last night. CrashLander has joined your
group. I am not allowed in, though I want in, and CRASHLANDER has just been
invited. I feel like shit.
I have to quit now. I am not sure of the tone, message, or goal of this
e-mail. Questions, answers, prayers, devotions are requested. I hope you
have a wonderful weekend.
Allset
From: Patricia
Date: 6 July 1996
Subject: (no subject)
Well Gabe,
Thanks for sharing that one with me, I can see that my presence has somehow
insulted ‘Allset’ who has it from experience that I am a closed minded vanilla
bitch. But that’s ok, really, nice to see that the kid gloves are off and
I can wonder out loud why she always gets involved with people who are destined
to treat her like shit. In fact, they usually tell her right off that they
intend to do so. Must be some kind of masochistic bent that I can rejoice
in not possessing. But you see, there’s that vanilla bitchiness.
Heaven forbid you would let CRASHLANDER into your world, so feel free to
disconnect my name from your list.
From: Colin
Date: 6 July 1996
Subject: Re: doing words
Doesn’t ‘Do me’ imply ‘me’ is a verb? Perhaps ‘perform me’ would be better.
From: Nichelle
Date: 6 July 1996
Subject: Questions, answers, prayers, and devotions
After a long discussion with Gabriel at breakfast, which I only half listened
to, I sent him off to shower while I welcome Allset to the list. I've been
telling him for a few days to add you, but he has been hesitant to do so for
a few reasons. Don't blame him for it, though, because he always wanted you
on the list. He is afraid that adding you to the list will spoil our domestic
bliss, and then there are a few of Slaver's ugly rumors about you. I admitted
to Gabriel that I am also a bit skeptical about what he said to me, because
he is far more paranoid than any of us, perhaps more than all of us combined.
What he said will look ridiculous on the screen and on paper, and is quite
rude to repeat, but I think you and I ought to move into the present, Allset,
so we don't have to live through another person's perceptions any more. Back
in the Slaver days, he told me that you were stalking him, trying to get
information about his rl, and fucking with his e-mail address. That is the
kind of crazy, paranoid statement D. lives with, but I'm happy to leave his
comments in the past. If you want to stalk us, send e-mail a day in advance
so we can go to the store and pick out something delicious to serve you for
supper.
I'm a jealous woman, Allset, but I never said you're the homewrecker. This
is all about Gaby's torrid love affair with his mistress Bucephalus. I get
jealous in bed with him at night, wondering if, as he touches me, he is imagining
that his fingers are caressing the keyboard, and if the sounds of pleasure
I make are transformed in his ears to the screaming of the modem. He is in
love with a three-thousand dollar whore, and this is the true source of my
jealousy.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 6 July 1996
Subject: FWVBs
Calm down, my Fat White Vanilla Bitches, and let us try to answer you one
at a time. First, Allset (You may go by whatever name you wish, your own,
your MOOname or the nickname I have wrought. Colin, on the other hand, wants
to go by that name alone. Please respect his request.) your letter is quite
beautiful. I like the introductory story from RL. One of the first rules of
writing, especially to avoid the dumb-ass kind of poetry posted on *soc, tell
a fucking tale. We both know qu'il n'y a que deux sujets qui interessent tout
le monde, la bouffe et le cul. The two dovetail nicely, even to the point
of a pun you may not have intended, barbecue (cul). As to the part of fantasy,
hyperbole and invention in the World, I would sugggest the image of a non-fiction
novel written along the lines of The Alexandria Quartet, the same events
represented with all the distortions inherent to language and the various
characters' point of view. By the same token, you did say: "Do me?" (That
is an exact quote.) but not on the day you refer to and not perhaps entirely
seriously. We're all grown-ups here. I don't care if you change your gender
and say: "SUK MI DIK". I was just hoping that you could come up with something
a little bit(te) more intellectual. I do not think I am in love with you.
Stiff Lips said that. (Tageslieb, I like that.) (I also like the polysemantic
use of Cognac, but the only drink which has totemic power in my World is
Ricard.) CrashLander, Allset's problem is not with you. She was venting some
frustration about feeling excluded, which is probably my fault. I have a
very keen sense of disbelief which I never suspend. I believe nothing of
what any of you say about anyone else, except that you have represented actions,
feelings and ideas in a given way at a given time in a given medium. As such
these representations are all true, but faces become fuzzy when refracted
through the mirrors of e-mail, cybertext and html. "That is all ye know on
Earth and all ye need to know." I see no reason to toad you and shall not
do so, unless you insist. Colin, in the expression "Do me?" the imperative
verb 'to do' is transitive. Stick to geeking and philosophy and leave serious
matters to cunning linguists like myself. A last word, I read this in my
MOOmail: "I [...] wish my husband didn't get so angry when I moo from home."
Anyone who thinks we're playing a game is crazy.
From: Colin
Date: 6 July 1996
Subject: Re: FWVBs
SAG, if the kinds of come-ons you get are ‘do me?’ in the interrogative,
I think you should stick to linguistics.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 7 July 1996
Subject: Who'd you rather?
These words, put to music by a dying Mozart, have haunted me all day: "Requiem
aeternam, aeternam dona eis, dona, dona eis Domine requiem aeternam dona eis
Domine." Last night I learned a new game called "Who'd you rather?" The rules
are quite simple and we can play among ourselves, for example: negatron, who'd
you rather, Cognac or Melon? or Allset, who'd you rather, Peri or Canis_Lupus?
Last night, again, the Fear, the sighs and moans of fulfillment, the hot flesh
of lust turned in an Augenblick to the shriek of pain, the heaving body of
the prey as the dogs circle around: "No, no... Don't hurt me... Please, don't
hurt me... I don't want you to hurt me." To whom is she speaking with my
sperm dripping out of her? Then she took a bath. Then she asked for some wine,
which went to her head. Then we went to bed, late. I overslept this morning.
From: Nichelle
Date: 8 July 1996
Subject: /join #bdsmPlayhouse
Gaby, if I'm not home for lunch it's because my lying father actually bothered
to drop some money in my bank account and I'm out buying a birthday present
for my brother. The 'puter is fucking up today, don't know why but I haven't
been able to connect to the MOO or IRC. Don't know why, I was on for 20 minutes
then everything fucked up. Maybe Dreamscape is pissed off because you didn't
send them a check for the $.84 bill they sent you.
Allset, I don't know how to begin our conversation. I'm assuming you've
read the web page and know something about my background. I know nothing
of your background except what was said the other day in Sensual Respites.
How do we begin talking about this? I would like to know how you can consider
bdsm play to be theraputic. A huge percentage of the people (women at least,
not sure about the men) who are into bdsm have been abused in various ways
in the past. I've experimented with it a few times (online), and though the
idea fascinates me I think it unhealthy, at least if taken into reality. I'm
not sure what you meant when you said that the experience purifies you. I
have enough pain without asking for more.
Colin, what are we going to do with you? What do you think about all of
this? I like that you call me Motif on the MOO. More later, after my trip
to the Magic Money Machine, and possibly to the mall.
From: Jenipher
Date: 8 July 1996
Subject: Fixations
We ate with friends last night at their house. This is a budding friendship,
an awkward relationship based on loneliness and need. I told myself, before
we went, that there would be silences, misunderstood jokes. But I forgot about
girls, other women, my inability to relate to other women. I watched her,
my Marguerite, as she cooked, ate, cleaned. I tried not to stare at her,
because the one time she caught my eye, I felt strange. I wonder if she thinks
I want to fuck her. How easy it would be if friendships followed set patterns.
If, instead of this trial, do-I-like-you, does-my-husband-like-your-husband,
period, we could all get along immediately and start talking about the important
things -- what do you do in that bed upstairs? Does he beat you, do you beat
him, does he fuck you from behind? Or does he crawl between your legs and
worship your cunt before he fucks it like a missionary? Would you let me watch
as my husband fucked you? Do you think about things like this? Am I the only
one fixated on sex?
I think about sex all the time. I haven't met a man, with the exception
of you, Gabe, and Colin, in the last year who didn't want to beat me. Where
do all these abusers come from? My husband doesn't want to hurt me. We played
with candle wax last weekend. Until I cried out and flinched away. Then he
stopped; he said he hadn't known it would hurt that much. No no, I cried,
it didn't hurt. I promise. Try it again. No luck. He isn't a stupid man.
I need a stupid man, for a few months, to hurt me and absolve me of the
sin of being too ugly, too unlike my Mother, too imperfect, to impress my
Father. Do you think that would work? Is that a solution? Does pain cleanse?
Answer me, Gabe. Answer me.
Allset
From: SAGReiss
Date: 8 July 1996
Subject: Answers
I don't see anything weird about your first question, Allset. What do they
do in that bed? How would she look with sperm dripping down the sides of her
mouth? I listen and enjoy when I hear my neighbors fucking. I see nothing
wrong with their doing the same. I've already said: "La bouffe et le cul."
One cannot think too much about them. What I don't quite understand is the
who's beating whom. Am I in the minority because I don't kick the shit out
of a girl I'm making love to? As to sodomy, cunnilingus etc. I see no reason
to worry about what turns whom on when. That we can be turned on and gotten
off is enough. I don't think it's weird to fantasize about watching your husband
fuck your girlfriend. Perhaps all three of you would enjoy it. I'd like to
see the gifs. I don't know if you are ugly (The photographs on your web site
don't show much.) or unlike your mother or imperfect. I don't know why you
feel the need to impress your father. I do not believe that pain, whether
inflicted by a smart or stupid man, would cleanse you of anything. As I have
said, I do not want to tie up or beat up anyone. I have never struck another
human being in my life. I also said that I would never agree to bdsm with
sex explicitely excluded. I could see humouring a woman's esthetics, thinking:
"I guess I can tie her up loosely and slap her a little, if that will make
her horny." I cannot understand doing that without fucking. Why? I like your
letter, Mirage. May I send it to the World?
From: Terry
Date: 8 July 1996
Subject: Re: Fixations
Scott,
As I read more and more of the Email that comes my way, I realize how lucky
and blessed I am.
No one has ever raped me.
No one has ever beat me.
No one has ever abused me.
I have someone (SO) who loves me very much.
I have a family that loves me very much.
I love my family very much.
I should try to make my marriage work.
I should WANT to make my marriage work.
I should get a divorce and get it over with.
I'm unhappy in my relationship with my husband.
He's too good to me. I don't deserve it. I love him; I just don't LOVE him.
Will he ever see that?
I need to just let him go.
We're married for the wrong reasons.
Sadly,
Terry
From: Jenipher
Date: 9 July 1996
Subject: Use it
I sat at my computer today, reading e-mail, MOOing, watching white letters
on an azure screen. I uttered the words, during a rather dismal conversation:
I am suprised you care. He replied: You always are. I worked, ran jobs, in
the window just to the left of my MOOing window, to distract myself from difficult
issues, to lessen the intensity of lambda, which isn't a game. More specifically,
to tear my thoughts away from blood staining carpet.
I read Ni victimes ni bourreaux for the first time this morning. I want
to forget that I ever planned to meet that Canadian, that I was so close
to flying up to visit him. I want to forget my fascination as he told his
story of 'domming' Motive. She was his pet. There was blood everywhere. He
was so proud of himself, of his bdsm games. I want to take Motive's place,
hurt him, turn that razor blade to his throat. I knew he was too intense,
too angry, too unable to distance himself from the pain he caused when we
netsexed. That's why I didn't go. Motive, here, take some of my survival
instinct, keep it for your own, protect yourself.
I always protect myself. I beg for it, but then I protect myself. I dated
a black man in college. He had beaten me a few times, once in high school,
once while we were dating. I was inexorably drawn to him. I got drunk one
night at a frat party and wandered back to the dorm, where he was waiting.
I stroked him, whispered my desires, fantasies to him. We dated for three
months after that. I saw his cock once, when I went to his room before a date.
He was lying on his side, chin propped up on his hand, one leg bent up in
the air. Navy blue robe opened by spread legs, his black dick was erect and
completely visible. We broke up because he thought I drank too much. Just
after the Christmas break, Tuesday night, January 19th, he insulted me in
the dorm cafeteria. Mocking smile, glaring black eyes, "You have gotten even
fatter than when I dated you, sow." Anger flashed through me, but I waited.
Returning to my dorm room, I plotted. I called, hung up, he called, hung
up. I called, he had left. I told his roommate I wanted to cut him. Five
minutes later, he banged on my door, then silence. My suitemates wandered
in, with him following. They didn't know anything was wrong, "Oh hi Jeni,
Arte's here to see you..."
Amidst the noise of the Roseanne laugh track, the pounding of blood in my
ears, I heard him, "I'm going to kill you, you bitch." I turned, digital clock
behind me, 7:20, and grabbed my pocketknife. Offered it to him, momentarily,
my body tense, hard, give him what he wants. Here take it, kill me. My arm
twisted when he grabbed it, red imprint of his fingers still there hours later.
I hit the door across the room, slid down to the floor, the knife held in
both hands, raised to him in defense. His face, jaw twitching, eyes popping,
paleness beneath black skin, terrified me as he came to me. I slashed downward
with the knife, he grabbed the blade. Blood arced, his thumb nearly severed.
My red Macy's shirt absorbed crimson stain. Surprise, not pain, filled his
eyes. "You cut me, you bitch. You cut me. You cut me." My entreaty, quickly
rationalized, "I didn't. You grabbed the blade." My 'friends' rushed in then,
took him, helped him, wrapped his hand, held his thumb in place so it didn't
fall off. They told me to get out, to go.
I scraped blood off of my arm with my fingernails as the police talked to
me. "He grabbed the blade. No, I didn't say I was going to cut him." The words
-- You have the right to remain silent -- never seemed to mean anything before,
until they were directed at me, at my trembling cuffed form, standing just
outside the police car, rain bringing out the cloying smell of my hairspray.
Velamints, chocolate velamints, are all I remember of the interrogation room.
I ate three packs of velamints. They came in, said my Mom had called. Said
my boyfriend, now husband, had been by. Said Arte was out of surgery, and
he didn't want to press charges. I didn't want to press charges either. I
walked home, across the dark campus, to my room. My suitemates had locked
me out of their room; my roommate was with them. They wouldn't answer me.
I sat for hours, staring at blood on carpet, until morning.
Use your strength, Motive. Don't let them use you.
Allset
From: Nichelle
Date: 9 July 1996
Subject: before I go to the market...
I'm scared now, things felt more secure when nobody knew the boy from Canada,
and I'm glad that you didn't visit him, Allset. No, what happened between
us was no S&M game, I was never his slave or his pet, he didn't top me.
He raped me. There is a big difference. It was never in the plans even to
sleep with him.
I wish I could leave things alone, but two things are bothering me now that
must be faced. First, that others may go to meet him. In your case, perhaps
you were aware of his interest in S&M play, but that doesn't make you
any safer with him than I was. Second, he is talking about what he did to
me as if he was proud of it, and apparently very openly.
Allset, I don't have it in me this morning to write a long letter like yours.
As you said on the MOO, I'm sure he *did* think I was his, and it's also true
that I never *knew* that until I went there. Still, it was dangerous and
stupid to go there, and I admit it was also dangerous and stupid to come here
after knowing Gabriel for only a few weeks. I got lucky this time. Gaby pulls
me out of my nightmares and back to safety. He kisses my forehead in the
middle of the night when I wake up afraid. He is the only man who has ever
treated me with love and respect. He is a hero, a prince, a genius, and a
sex god. I don't know what else to say. I'm scared, don't want anything more
to happen to me, but don't want anything to happen to anyone else either.
I don't know what to do.
From: Jenipher
Date: 9 July 1996
Subject: Canadian
Canadian and I have an odd relationship. I only played with him a few times,
nearly nine months ago, but he pages me still, asks me to be his ‘pet’, then
tells me I can’t be his pet unless I call him and promise to visit him. I
am aching to call him now, scream at him. I won’t, of course. Only you can
decide now, what you want to do.
I don’t think he is spreading your story to the masses. To a few close friends,
I would guess. To me, because he knew it would hurt me, particularly after
(what I perceived as) D.’s betrayal. Yes, I know of his interest in bdsm.
It is the only aspect of him I have ever really known. He is the only man
who has ever been able to make me cry during a virtual bdsm scene.
I believe you were raped. That is why I am so angry. Angry that I let him
brag to me, that I let my misperception of your relationship with D. twist
my views so much that I believed what he told me. I know he doesn’t
moo much anymore. He told me Monday that, since you, six months ago, there
had been no one on lambda to hold his interest. I suppose that is a good thing.
At least he isn’t trying to lure MOOers to his home.
I don’t think I would have been safe with him. I don’t think any woman would
be. Even if bdsm play was the expected scene, he can’t be trusted to acknowledge
a safeword, to set limits and remain within them. That is the key, the answer
to your and Gabe’s questions. You might not believe there is such a thing
as consent. I believe there is. I have consented, placed myself in foolish
situations because of my naievete. I wasn’t raped then. I was lucky. I chose
the right person to trust.
I think, right now, we have to deal with Canadian. Later, if you are still
interested, we can discuss my penchant for feeling pain. I am currently in
a dark, tight space. I don’t know if I like to feel pain. I just know that
pain forces me to retreat into myself, to allow the loss of control and the
freedom to just be .
Damn, I see there is no brilliant writing in this post, no dry humor. I
will try harder tomorrow. The topic is just too serious, too close to my
heart.
Colin, who’d ya rather? Rosy_Guest or Ebony_Guest? Will you be my love?
Allset
From: SAGReiss
Date: 9 July 1996
Subject: Pseudo/anonymity
Had I not been permanently traumatized (as is every man of letters) by the
terrible tale of Balzac's wife, who burned the correspondence of her husband
and his mistress, I would destroy your letter, Allset. How could you be so
dumb? Why would you take the risk of inadvertently telling me his name? You
know Stiff Lips and I use the same account. She was at the farmer's market
when I came home from work and I read the letter. I specifically told you
I didn't care to know his name. Let me be more explicit. Please never use
his name in our correspondence. Please use Stiff Lips and not her MOOname.
Who the fuck are you to give her advice? It's not that important and I'm not
that upset, just pour myself a tall glass of Ricard, put on the Ninth and
listen in wonder that a man can still sit back from time to time in a world
of so full of hatred and gather enough hope in his mind to create a thing
of lasting beauty. That is what I have tried to do with this listserv/web
page/MOO. It has so far exceeded my expectations. I shall just gag that boy
and leave the room when I see him. I have seen him before, but never spoken
to him. I can't remember ever hearing him speak. I have nothing to say to
him, no more than to the dumb brute who turns that woman to toast in 'Light
in August' or to the dumb brute who hunts him down and castrates him. Stiff
Lips is home. I've got better things to do than write to you all. I'll write
more after this chickenshit staff meeting I have to go to in half an hour.
God is going to grant me a few extra glasses of whisky this evening. What
have I wrought?
From: Terry
Date: 9 July 1996
Subject: Re: before I go to the market...
Well, I'm not usually a paranoid person... but, there's a MOOfest here this
weekend and a guy from Canada has been hounding me for months to visit him.
I wouldn't do it. He's coming here to the MOOfest and I agreed to have dinner
and go to the movies with him. Now, ya guys have me wondering if he's sane
or not.
Shit, I can't stand being paranoid... only a very small percentage of MOO
meets turn ugly, I'm sure. I also ascertain in advance that I know the guy
VERY well before I agree to meet him. That's after months of online talking
and telephone convo's.
So, I'm shoving paranoia back in the nasty box where it lives and going
to have a great time this weekend.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 9 July 1996
Subject: All buggers served with LT, pickle and fries
Alright so I made a mistake. Big fucking deal. So did the chef when he wrote
'buggers' instead of 'burgers' on the new menu. I don't care what the son
of a bitch's name is. What could I say to him: "You're an asshole for raping
my gf"? Last night I said to Mirage that I should change the name of the page
to "Women's Forum for Sado-Masochistic FWBs" or something like that. Shiiit,
she said: "I've fantasized about being raped. Somehow I think I deserve it."
I answered: "That's what all my gfs tell me." Jeff, what the fuck is going
on here? I think I'm going to retreat to my Haupfach, Literaturwissenschaft.
There are interesting differences, Allset, between your two versions of the
thumb incident. (This does not mean I think you're lying. It answers more
fully your question about the role of poetic license on the World. I was going
to write my doctoral thesis about a book you'll see in the bibliography in
a week or two, where one can see how Henry Miller's memory alter with time.
When I tell a true story twice, inevitably some things change. Enough of
that, your text is a text and I feel most comfortable with the written word.
Don't give me this shit about: "no hint of feeling for me". Either you're
fishing for compliments or you have a crippled self-esteem. We had enough
of whining for my approval when Peri was on the list. I'm not going to kiss
anyone's ass and tell him I love him. I seldom say that to Stiff Lips. That
goes for everyone on this list. You are here because you want to be and because
I want you to be. I accept whatever kind of participation you will give me.
I am, of course, most grateful for e-mail and still more for texts we can
add to the web page, but even if you choose to just read [or skim, Quodlibet]
these letters I value your presence. I'm not even sure what I think about
most of you, so how could I tell you, even if I were so inclined?) Ah fuck
this, Allset, I'll do it tomorrow. I think I'd rather talk to you on the
MOO, though Stiff Lips will probably want to cut my thumb off by the time
the night is through. I have had a very fucking bad day. Vale.
From: Patricia
Date: 9 July 1996
Subject: nothing, and everything
Allset wrote, wondering about why she feels that she needs someone to hurt
her.
Was it that she was not pretty enough? That she would never be as good as
her mother, never please4 her father? For the first time in over a year, I
found some kinship with Allset in those questions. Not that I want anyone
to hurt me, in fact I'd prefer to live in a bubble and be completely untouchable.5
But these questions I have asked myself.
Would I have some sense of self-esteem if I were prettier, thinner, had
better teeth? If I could even touch the skirt of my mother, considering the
high pedestal we have all put her on? If I could ever forgive my father for
beating me into a corner and try to carry on with some kind of adult relationship
with him?
So, I frown on this bent that so many people seem to have, this need to
be hurt with sex play, but how often to I find myself allowing someone to
abuse me emotionally on MOO? I forgive and forgive and forgive, and follow
them around begging them to talk to me. AS 'sick' as I find the sexplay,
am I any less sick? I'm only sure that I exist if you talk to me, and go
ahead - be as offensive as you like. See how thick my skin is? The nicest
thing on MOO, they can't see my tears through the computer screen.
I have a very good friend, though we met on MOO, we consider each other
very real friends. We've talked about everything together, we've analyzed
every 'player' we;ve come into contact with. We agree most vehemently that
there is no such thing as virtual reality./ He's a good person, treats me
with warmth, kindness, love, and it completely pisses me off. From time to
time we get into great raging fights. They are always about the same thing.
"my sick fascination/obsession with people who don't care about me"
So, forward this to Allset, at least, in apology for judging her choices.
I do understand, more than I thought I had.
CrashLander
From: Nichelle
Date: 10 July 1996
Subject: the bodily vice
Gaby asked me at dinner tonight how we ended up fucking at 2 AM, and when
I offered an explanation he said to write an e-mail. I couldn't help it. I'm
just like every other woman on this list. I'm in love with you. As I told
you this evening, you protect me and make me feel safe. Nobody has every done
that for me. I've never written a love letter in my life, but I want very
much to write one to you, now or some other time. Now might be difficult because
I've got two beers and three glasses of wine in me, which is enough, even
for a big girl like me. Maybe the wine has made me sentimental...
Gaby, I know things are crazy right now. There's all this s&m and people
getting fucked up the ass, and people meeting MOOers and I don't know what.
When I told you I didn't want to be tied up, I didn't mean it was an option
in our relationship. I meant that I'm not into that, I don't want that. I
wasn't sure if you knew. I wasn't sure if I knew until I said it to you.
This shit is crazy. All I know is, in the middle of it all, Scott Alexander
Gabriel Reiss said 'Stiff-Lips, I love you' and I got on a plane. I love you
too, Gaby, and I can handle just about anything knowing that you are here.
I love you. I'm obsessed with you, IRL. When I tease you, it's because I
love you. When I wake you up at 2 AM with your cock in me, it is also because
I love you.
Since you wanted to know, I'll tell you. There isn't much to it. I was lying
in bed with you, curled up next to you, and you were so close to me, and I
put my arm around you and felt your hard cock, watched you sleeping, couldn't
help it, just needed to touch you, then I had to touch myself too. Then you
moved in your sleep, and I tried to figure out if you were awake or not, touching
you, and you moaned in your sleep, and I was so wet, didn't want to wake
you, knew you had a long day. I rolled over onto my side, hoping to get to
sleep, and you rolled next to me and your body was warm against me, and all
I could think about was your cock so I moved against you and the next thing
I knew you were sliding against me, then inside of me, then you were awake
and fucking me hard and I came. I've never come with a man inside me, not
ever, and I just about cried when it happened. Gabriel, I'm a jealous woman,
and sometimes (even though I told you I'm now) I can be a pretty mean bitch,
but I love you, I want you, and I want you to be happy. I don't know if I
understood what was going on when I came here to live with you, but I understand
now. You're my love. I hope and want to be yours. Gaby, forgive me for my
faults.
From: Johanne
Date: 10 July 1996
Subject: Motherlove
Gabriel, and Nichelle (I fucking refuse to call you “Stiff Lips”, Nichelle,
so change it if you must but I can’t bring myself to use the unfortunate monicker
to refer to you):
No, I don’t write. Arguments over bean/beat counting I can have elsewhere
if the mood strikes me. But in the last few days as I thrash with the writing
of a voluminous essay on the techniques of musical primitivism, I have read
some of the posts I’ve been forwarded. Such fear, such loathing, such pain.
And so I thought I’d forward a bit of a letter I wrote recently to you, because
while pain’s no stranger, I think that a wallow in your own stink is as pathetic
as it gets. Nichelle, you’re learning, and goddamn it if you’re not learning
because of Gabriel, who may be a cast-iron asshole but he seems to be doing
you some good and giving you the love and the space to let your own perfectly
good sense grow and flourish, so I can’t dismiss him out of hand (and I admit
I’d love to). But damn it, you’re learning something important here, and I’m
sorry, love, that you’ve had to buy the lessons at such a dear price. When
I knew you here you wallowed. Sometimes you still do, and it pisses me off,
because you’re better than that maudlin pigshit that passes for the Red Badge
of Courage among so many of the disaffected, disaffectionate, and emotionally
disenfranchised. I’m sending you this because I love you, because you’re
my friend, because I’m glad you are learning and I’m glad at what you’re
learning. Listen up, kid, I’m trying to tell you what I tried to tell you
in my apartment the night I made you dinner and you told me you’d been sexually
abused as a child: you grieve, you work like hell, you embrace your life,
you move on, you don’t let the bastards win. If any of you selfpitying schmucks
read this and think I’m celebrating pain, then fuck you, or rather unfuck
you, because you don’t deserve that kind of pleasure if you can’t see the
forest for the gaddamned trees. And if you read this and you join the fight
and the fuck, then good luck, baby, and I’ll see you on the front lines,
wherever they may be.
(Gaby, put down that fucking Ricard, you asshole, you’re ruining your mind.
Ethanol toxicity is slow suicide and you’re too much of a man to off yourself
that way; if you really want to die, let me know and I will help you, but
put down the fucking bottle. I’m tired of reading your bad Hemingway drunkalogues.)
Johanne
from a letter, written 6 July 1996:
It is so hard to hear your mother say that she doesn’t want to live any
more, that she is tired of being alive, tired of the fight, tired of the
constant round of medications and dialysis and doctors, and despite her best
attempts to stay healthy, still these fundamentally dehumanizing trips to
the hospital. The hospital is always dehumanizing, I know that myself… you
become a piece of meat and a set of chemical reactions. I feel guilty that
I can’t be there to help keep her anchored and human, but I don’t honestly
know if it would make a difference.
I begin to wonder if she isn’t right: with a kidney she would probably have
four or five years until her kidney disease started to affect the new kidney
-- it is a degenerative condition in which the fibers of the kidneys, the
fibers that filter the blood, shatter like glass threads -- probably seven
before she would be back in the same position she’s in now. And that’s if
she gets a kidney. Without a kidney, no one knows. No one can be sure how
much longer her body will respond positively to her dialysis. She has 3% kidney
function left. Between dialyses, she becomes toxic, bilious, her heart races
and her blood pressure soars, her feet and hands swell so badly that she
once called me in tears because her wedding ring had cut her finger, the
finger had puffed so severely and was so constricted by the wedding band.
I miss talking to her when she was unbuffeted by these horrible effects of
her illness; for a few short years, we were almost friends. It was as close
as I think I can hope for, for a reconciliation with my mother, for a true
bond above and beyond the simple bond of blood and the responsibility I feel
because of that.
Now she is angry with me frequently, as if I could take her disease away,
as if I could be there and my presence would change her. She disapproves of
what I’m doing in my life, and her disapproval is so bitter, in part because
of the pain she’s in. She resents my health, she resents my refusal to intervene
in her relationship with my brother, which has been difficult and distant
since my brother was about twelve. Today on the phone she reminded me of how
long she was in labor with me. Forty three hours. “Forty-three hours, were
you worth it?” She asks me a question like that, in a transparently acid
“joke” tone of voice, minutes after she tells me she wants to die. What am
I supposed to say to her, when I feel like the answer in her mind of “were
you worth it?” is “no”? What is a daughter supposed to say to her mother when
her mother is declaring her desire not to live… not to live, and not to have
given life to her daughter?
I don’t know what to say to her. Talking to her hurts. But you know, I’m
here anyway, whether she thinks I was worth it or not. Too late, Mom. I love
her and I tell her so. She is silent… punishes me by not responding, by withholding
any words from me, just as she has always done. Your enthusiasm, your love
of life, comes as such a balm after that… your torrents of words. I’ve been
reading a book that is generous, affectionate, loving… the author clearly
adores his subject, he lavishes attention on it in great sweeping paragraphs,
in painstaking detail. Sometimes people ask me how I can spend the hours I
spend reading, researching, listening, analyzing, talking, writing. It is
a way of not being silent, it is a way of making love, showing love for art
and music and what is human and fragile and loves beauty so much that it
needs to create beauty. It is a way of loving life. It saddens me so much
to see my mother despising life and unable to love beyond a pinched little
formal affection. It saddens me to watch her die from the inside out, from
the heart outward. Her body will be the last thing to go.
I want to make love to you so that my body contradicts that death of the
heart, so that I look her in the eye and say, “Yes, it was worth it”, and
know that there is so much life and love flowing through me that it has to
be true. I’m crying now. It has to be true. It is true. You’ll come to me
later, I know, and we’ll end up in bed again, and when I go away, as you call
it, outside of myself, I will be in the place that I was before I was born,
and it will be worth it to come back, to return to myself, to return to you
and sweat and the stink of sex. You wrote me a letter once, describing swimming
making you feel like you were being born. You’ve been my friend for years
now… once you would’ve tried to comfort me and tell me I was worth it, wouldn’t
you? Now we’ll fuck and you’ll bite my shoulder and I’ll leave red fingernailtracks
on your back and your ass and you don’t have to tell me a thing.
Poor Mom. I’m so sorry she has to do it this way.
Hannah
From: Terry
Date: 10 July 1996
Subject: Re: the bodily vice
I almost cried when I read Nichelle's love letter to Scott. Seriously.
From: Terry
Date: 10 July 1996
Subject: Your RLMOO character, Scott
>From Terry@RLMOO:
A character has been created, with name “Scott” and password “torOb”.
Passwords are case sensitive, which means you have to type it exactly as
it appears here, including capital and lowercase letters.
So, to log in, you would type:
Connect Scott torOb
From: Terry
Date: 10 July 1996
Subject: Your RLMOO character, Nichelle
>From Terry@RLMOO:
A character has been created, with name “Nichelle” and password “ReDYz”.
Passwords are case sensitive, which means you have to type it exactly as
it appears here, including capital and lowercase letters.
So, to log in, you would type:
Connect Nichelle ReDYz
From: Terry
Date: 10 July 1996
Subject: RLMOO addy and chars
Scott and Nichelle,
RLMOO is up… but it has nothing. :) The addy is: rlmoo.woo.net 7777
I’ve already created your chars and your passwords and given you both prog
bits. We won’t be giving any more out. :)
To log in and look around:
Scott: co scott Gaby
Nichelle: co Nichelle Stiff
See ya there!
Terry
P.S. Oh, don’t give out the address until we’re ready for people to log
on… we don’t even have social verbs yet and we’re still getting tons of tracebacks.
John and I will work on it Wednesday.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 10 July 1996
Subject: SUK MI DIK
So far as I know no one has said that yet on our MOO, but negatron and the
ArchFWB probably had cybersex last night to inaugurate RLMOO. I can't tell
you the address yet because they would probably toad me. Speaking of which,
if I hear one more word about lame self-esteem and someone's mother I'm going
to toad you all and write e-mail to my fucking self. Your mother is a crabby
old bitch who isn't even loved by her sorry excuse for a husband, bf, SO.
As man in the bar once said: "What the fuck is wrong wich y'all?" Were you
all born fully grown, after forty-three hours of labo(u)r, with a tatoo, half
an education and a king-sized inferiority complex? (Annie Divine, am I s'posed
to forward all that shit to the list? Why don't you people just send the
shit to everyone?) SAGReiss is ugly, thin and has Euroteeth. My partners
in crime have given me a programmer bit(te). I'll probably sell it to some
crack addict for a blowjob...
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Patricia
Date: 10 July 1996
Subject: Re: SUK MI DIK
Toad me for this, please:
Gaby baby,
You have not one clue how lucky you are to have a mother that you can curse
or call an ugly bitch or whatever slander you feel like hurling about. My
mother has been dead for 20 fucking years. 20 years later, she is still revered
as a saint, some paragon of Christian love that the rest of the world can
only hope (or wish) to know. Ok, so for the first ten years I was raised by
a gentle, loving saint. The next few by a bitter and lonely broken man.
So, where’s the ‘literature’ that is meant to impress me?
Oh, btw Stiff Lips, be assured that not every woman on this list is in love
with SAGReiss.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 11 July 1996
Subject: Eris' apple
Internal dissent has always been a mecanism for change in the World. We
have been through two mutineys. I am asked to define literature and to show
how this might fit that definition. I would have preferred the kind of full-bore
frontal assault which probably only Comecabra and Annie Devine have both the
literary and linguistic skills to mount, if only they would write to us,
but it is my fate to live at the bottom of the Hill, within sight of Christminster,
but excluded from its halls. It is interesting to note that the two professors
known to have looked at the web page responded with immediate enthousiasm.
No doubt their professional and intellectual self-confidence allows them
to take the long view. I will not, on the other hand, answer the blind charges
of someone (Melon, pour ne pas la nommer) who claims not to have read the
page but still insists on judging its artistic merit. The American tendancy
to drag down anyone who may rise above the level of democratic mediocrity
and make him eat shit (preferably on national television) is unworthy of
my time. Some of what I'm saying may seem clearer in a couple of weeks, when
I post the bibliography and quotations. I apologize for the delay due to
purely technical difficulties. (My books are in France and my references are
somewhat obscure.) A number of points have been raised. First, what is art
and science? It is the attempt of man to impose order where there appears
to be chaos. What is literature? It is the representation of the world in
a linguistic medium. Technology has always changed art/science and literature.
Literature began as an oral tradition. The invention of the alphabet and papyrus
changed that. The printing press changed almost everything about the way
books were made and distributed, including spelling and whatnot. The internet
is changing everything about our lives, from the way we make love to the
way we write. That literature could be written more or less in real time
seems no more strange to me than that music can be improvisational or that
Whistler could paint his Nocturnes in ten minutes. Are letters literature?
Would anyone claim that what Colin has called the Faxes to the Corinthians
or Heloise and Abelard's e-mail are not literature? I think not. That I am
a genius and that this is the face of twenty-first century literature is indeed
my claim. I make it openly and expose myself to whatever petty and mean-spirited
attacks anyone wishes to wage. Many have made such claims before, most of
them foolishly, a few of them prophetically. You are free to disagree and
welcome to remain as voices of discordia. If you believe that literature will
continue to be written according to twentieth-century, pre-internet models,
you are indeed a fool. I may be wrong, but I'm looking in the right direction
and I have the courage of my convictions.
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That the dear she might take some pleasure of my pain,
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe:
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburnt brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay;
Invention, Nature's child, fled stepdame Study's blows;
And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way.
Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:
"Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart and write!"
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 11 July 1996
Subject: You have nothing to lose but your chains.
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
Lowell,
In the belief that I have been treated in a grossly unfair manner by my
supervisor, Tammy, I write to issue a formal complaint. I take this somewhat
unusual step with forethought and regret, but the serious nature of the matter
warrants, I'm convinced, serious attention on your part. I have chosen to
make a written protest in part because I have on two previous instances in
the past six months been given written warnings which I considered to be
unjustified. On both occasions I made my concerns known to you both in writing
(see written warnings) and in person, but in neither case did you follow
through or respond to my grievances. It is indeed my understanding that the
present dispute may very well represent the kind of managerial retribution
specifically prohibited in the employee handbook. I shall therefore feel
obligated, if I do not receive a timely, written answer to the present letter,
or if any further disciplinary action is taken against me before reception
of such an answer, to pursue my complaint with the New York State Department
of Labor. I wish to express at this time my sincere hope that this conflict
can be resolved without the intervention of outside authorities. I thank
you in advance for the fairness and openness with which you will, I trust,
deal with this rather sensitive matter. At the lunch service today Tammy
helped clear and reset a number of the tables in my assigned section, as
a large party (thirteen guests) arrived, ate and left rather quickly. I had
already prepared and served the party's drinks, cleared the soup bowls and
brought out a fruit plate because I know that a number of these guests prefer
fruit to the desserts on the buffet. As she cleared one of the tables, she
removed three dollars that the guests had left as a gratuity for the server
(myself), walked into the kitchen and gave them to the busser on duty. One
of the other servers saw this and commented that this money rightly belonged
to me. Tammy answered that in her opinion the money should go to the busser,
who is paid well above minimum wage ($5.50 an hour), while I am paid well
below it ($2.90 an hour). Tips represent the major source of my income and
I am expected to tip out bussers as compensation for their help clearing
and resetting tables. It is my belief that this action constitutes an unprofessional,
unethical and possibly illegal abuse of power on the part of Tammy. While
the sum of money involved ($3.00) is obviously insignificant, the principles
of managerial integrity, worker protection and fair compensation clearly
merit serious consideration on your part. I feel confident that you will
give me a fair and open hearing on this matter. I am deeply sorry to have
to inconvenience you in this way, but I feel I have no other choice. I thank
you again for your cooperation.
Faithfully,
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
C.C. Chris, Melissa, Tammy, Suzanne.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 14 July 1996
Subject: Offline
Last night, in a crazed frenzy of download-lust, we toaded ourselves from
our server. I guess Stiff Lips will fix the problem today, but I seem to be
in a monumental slump: I'm about to be fired, I'm broke, I have no friends,
I have been relegated to the role of a cyberlackey or poster boy on our MOO
and I can't even write e-mail to complain. Yesterday I asked Allset: "Last
night I drank a pint of Ricard and swore at the ArchFWB. Is that MOOpolitics?"
I also refused to read some weird shit on *soc saying: "What the fuck do I
care if Colin did or did not harrass some bitch who probably deserved it anyway?
I've been kicked off of two servers." I have however cast my vote for Colin
as the Weirdest Man on the MOO, but I don't know if the Most Hated Man on
the MOO has a say in the nomination process. I think this bullshit about
the construction of virtual identity is just another name for the study of
pathological lying. That Allset was not sure if the ArchFWB is a character
on Lambda or my boss irl tells all we need to know about the impossibility
of distinguishing the real from the virtual. I recall an experiment in high
school showing that mirror images are virtual, but prism images are real,
may be projected onto a screen (piece of white paper). Yes, but I can see
the mirror image and not the prism image. I can never tell when Stiff Lips
knows what she is doing and when she does not. We need a geek. I can't believe
that Curtis Pavel wastes his time worrying about whether Colin should or should
not be toaded because he may or may not be an asshole when anyone who reads
our web page with the slightest understanding knows that there is an rl rapist
recruiting new victims on Lambda. About Limbo #61: [First, Strawtop, I wonder
if that letter I wrote to the hotel gods answers to some extent your questions
about the literarity of what we are doing. Part of your question may be:
"Sure, it doesn't lack emotional power, Picasso, but can you draw?" As I
told Stiff Lips, Picasso fell out of bed and drew like Durrer. I can write
well, but I mostly choose not to because sparkling, well-wrought prose does
not faithfully represent reality any more than iambic pentameter does. I
strive to re-create the boring, the stupid, the tasteless and the drunken
as much as soaring rhetoric and stirring thoughts. I write better standard
French than English because I have more practice and because it's easier,
but I still can sit down and write with sober, controlled fury when I have
to. I wonder what the bastards will do with that weird-stupid letter.] If
everyone simply goes from Limbo (a silent room) to Purgatorio (ex-#61) then
we have simply created an extra inconvenience without reducing spam in the
public room. In Purgatorio we will see "arrives from Limbo" instead of "connects".
Guests will have to go to Purgatorio because that's all they will know how
to do. If characters instead teleport to, say, Sade from Limbo, then Purgatorio
will become a de facto ghetto for guests and the MOO will look (on @who)
like the others where I'm afraid to page people I don't know in their de
facto semi-private rooms. I would worry much less about a potential spam
problem (which won't make any difference if/until the MOO becomes popular)
than about its not being user-friendly to guests. I still believe that having
everyone connect to the same public room where normal things can happen is
the most democratic and guest-friendly approach. If spam becomes a problem
then people can simply hang out in Paradiso or Inferno. This would be a natural
(grass-roots) solution to the problem, rather than our creating what is in
effect a coat closet. I'd like to talk about this more amongst ourselves.
I hope Sitff Lips will add her thoughts. I'd even like to open the debate
to the whole listserv, since you are probably the people who will request
the first characters. I have to go to work now. This took me about forty minutes
to write. Vale.
P.S. We're in a fight to the death with Bucephalus. We've destroyed most
of our files and now only wish to destroy the rest and begin again. We're
learning, I hope. Our e-mail and MOOing may be sporadic for a few days. Please
bear with us, send all e-mail to both addresses and carry on by yourselves...
From: Terry
Date: 13 July 1996
Subject: Re: Offline
Connecting to #61, Limbo, instead of Purgatorio will NOT create as much
spam in Purgatorio. People who go to Purgatorio will do so because it is
there *choice* to go there. I'm beginning to think Gabe doubts if people
will choose to go Purgatorio.
Furthermore, players/guests who connect won't be confused... coz #61, Limbo
is going to be sooooooooooo well documented, that an imbecile could follow
the directions.
Give it up Gabe, the vote was taken. It was decided to do things this way
and I'm tired of trying to explain to you the reason why. It does no good
to explain it; you either don't *really* listen or you don't understand because
it's too geeky. Either way, give it up.
You delegated the position of Archwizard to me for a purpose. I've tried
and tried to explain decisions to you and I'm sick of trying. I forgave you
for your behavior to me the other night. You were drunk. You were mad. You
were depressed. But, be warned. I'm not a snivelling FWB that runs at the
first sign of trouble. I'm a very strong woman capable of handling everything.
I will not argue with you anymore. I'll explain and that's it. If you can't
deal with it, then find another server, another MOO, another Archwiz.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 14 July 1996
Subject: Mutiney #3
If anyone sent mail between Strawtop's letter entitled: "RE: SUK MI DIK"
and the ArchFWB's letter entitled: "Re: Offline", I have not received it,
so please forward me a copy. I apologize for these technical problems, but
we can now send and receive e-mail and MOO at no great cost and are working
on a long-term solution to the Windows95/winsock32.dll/Trumpet-Winsock bug(ger).
Let me try to voice my concerns in the soft voice of the very early morning.
I've had a rough couple of days and to top it off someone is harrassing us
with phone calls at three in the morning. I apologize for my ill-mannered
behavior the other night. I'm sure you can handle everything, but that is
not quite the point. I see no reason why either of us should run. I could,
I suppose, find another server, MOO, Archwiz, but I see no reason to do so
at present. I don't see why that would be in your interest either, as it would
in indirect proportion reduce participation in this undertaking and increase
expense. Assuming I left, I don't know what Stiff Lips would do, nor negatron,
but I don't see what you are going to do with a MOO if you scare away those
with whom it was created. It's easy for me to see how these things degenerate
into fights, disputes, arbitration and endless politics a la lambda. I did
indeed delegate to you the title of Archwizard, Technical Director, whatever
you want to call it, but I did not intend thereby to see you exercise autocratic
powers. The contract we agreed to (of which I have not received a signed
copy, but which I assume to be operative here) stipulates that all decisions
governing the MOO should be made at unanimity minus one among you, Stiff
Lips, negatron and me. I do not recall any such vote being taken, but I may
have participated in some drunken, incapacitated state, which is fine and
is no one's fault but my own. I'm not that worried about the particular point
at hand, but about the ways in which decisions shall be taken in the future.
I've obviously already lost the #61 argument, be it by fair means understand
how decisions are being made (in a democratic manner). It is hard to predict
what people will do, but not so hard to foresee what the effect of the possible
choices will be. If everyone indeed goes to Purgatorio then their "teleports
in" messages will appear, thus creating the spam you fear. If they (members
or guests, assuming everyone first logs on as a guest) teleport directly
to other rooms then a MOO with few people will become scattered and unfriendly,
a place like so many others where people hang out with one or two friends
in semi-private rooms and where public discourse is severely limited, which
is what I fear. Most likely the reality will be somewhat between these two
extremes. By now I too am tired of arguing over #61, though I think you overstate
for rhetorical purposes the amount of discussion and explanation that preceeded
this decision. I hope I can graciously concede the point and we can move
on. I also hope that decisions will be made by a vote of unanimity minus
one among us four. If, on the other hand, you wish to "explain and that's
it" and I can "deal with it" or go my merry way, I don't see why you want
me to participate at all, why you bother explaining, if you're simply going
to do what you have already writ in stone. I have to go to work. I'm sure
we'll figure something out...
From: Nichelle
Date: 14 July 1996
Subject: Re: Mutiney #3
I don't think we're doing very well. We're already fighting about the moo?
Gabriel is right. Decisions are not being made the way we decided in the contract.
Terry, the fact that you are ArchWiz doesn't give you the right to do anything
you want with this moo without consulting the other partners and taking some
kind of vote. Obviously there will be things that you want to do that we
don't understand, that are too technical or geeky. We can deal with that.
Decision making is a problem. We don't know what you two are doing over there.
We wish we could help. This is *our* moo, not *your* moo.
From: Nichelle
Date: 14 July 1996
Subject: Re: Mutiney #3
I don't think we're doing very well. Gabriel is right. Decisions aren't
being made the way we decided in the contract. It has nothing to do with
who is the ArchWizard, or whatever. We are four equal partners. We don't
know what you two are doing over there. We want to participate and help.
The way you handled things the first day or so were helpful- moo mail saying
you did this or that. Please remember that even though Gabriel and I don't
know how to program, our input is not only valuable, but part of our agreement.
From: Nichelle
Date: 14 July 1996
Subject: Welcome and theme
This is what I believe the Welcome Screen should look like:
VERBA VOLANT. SCRIPTA MANENT.
WILKOMMEN. BIENVENU. WELCOME.
THE REAL LIFE MOO
This is not a toy. This is not a game. This is real life. There's no such
thing as virtual reality. RL MOO is dedicated to the pursuit of linguistic
research and literary creation. It's the text-based equivalent of a conference
call. It is also a new medium for art, education and communication. Moreover,
RL MOO is an experiment in anarchist politics. There are as few rules as conceivably
possible without putting the whole undertaking in jeopardy.
Please help us keep this environment spamless and free. If someone harrasses
you, don't complain, gag him. We hope you will enjoy your stay. Talk about
school, work, leisure, family and friends. Above all, be honest and forthright
and you may discover a new kind of MOO experience. Vale.
This is what I think the text "theme" should say:
This is not a toy. This is not a game. This is real life. There's no such
thing as virtual reality. RL MOO is dedicated to the pursuit of linguistic
research and literary creation. It's the text-based equivalent of a conference
call. It is also a new medium for art, education and communication. Moreover,
RL MOO is an experiment in anarchist politics. There are as few rules as conceivably
possible without putting the whole undertaking in jeopardy.
Real life means that members use their real name (first and/or last) or
some reasonable approximation of it. For example, the technical directors
call themselves XxxxxX and XXXxxxx. RL MOO evaluates requests for membership
with this criterion, among others, in mind. Similarly it is strongly recommended
that members use their description not to play out some cheap fantasy, but
simply to describe a few of their mental, physical and/or moral attributes.
Our technical directors characterize themselves as, respectively: "cheerful,
buxom, math geek," and "tall, melancholy, white-trash hacker". Descriptions,
teleport entrances and exits, page origins and echos are all limited to one
line of text. This restriction is intended to foster the thoughtful use of
both words and database memory.
The linguistic theory which inspires RL MOO holds that, while cybertext
is ostensibly written language, it shares far more conventions with spoken
language, but differs from both in many innovative and exhilerating ways.
Quoting Poe's *Purloined Letter* Jacques Lacan asks: "Qu'est-ce qu'une lettre,
sinon une parole qui s'envole?" Similarly, RL MOO's esthetic theory holds
that cybertext represents a new and thrilling medium for the creation of
literature in real time.To further the stated research goals of RL MOO, public
rooms may be logged at any time and without forewarning. We hope you understand
the necessity of gathering linguistic data to work with. RL MOO holds exclusive
copyright to logs used for commercial purposes (see help copyright). Members
may log text for personal use only.
The politics of RL MOO are simple. If there were a theatre, one could yell:
"Fire!" RL MOO is utterly committed to first amendment rights and freedom
of speech on the internet. That means members can say anything they want,
in any language, with total impunity. The worst that can happen is that everyone
gags them. There's no disputing, no arbitration, no booting, except by the
technical staff under conditions defined below. Guests have the same rights
as members. There are only two rules. First, one must be twenty-one or older
to connect. Any site which is used by someone under twenty-one will be permanently
barred and bannished from RL MOO, so one must be careful whom one lets use
the computer. Second, anyone who tries to hack RL MOO or its database will
be ruthlessly and unforgivingly toaded (permanently expelled). Members are
not normally allowed to program, so any and all unauthorized programming will
be deemed hacking and meet with harsh repressive measures.
Please help us keep this environment spamless and free. If someone harrasses
you, don't complain, gag him. We hope you will enjoy your stay. Talk about
school, work, leisure, family and friends. Above all, be honest and forthright
and you may discover a new kind of MOO experience. Vale.
The co guest and @request character texts should repeat the bit about being
twenty-one or older and using a real name. I hesitate to use my own twisted
name as the example because so many people hate me, including most of my friends.
This is how I would describe Limbo (with corrections to make sure the help
info is cristal clear):
Woe unto you, unbaptized child. You are tottering on the brink of Sodom
and Gomorrah. Type XXXX to go to the help centre (for spiritual guidance)
or XXXX to go to Purgatorio (to get away from the heat).
From: negatron
Date: 14 July 1996
Subject: Re: SUK MI DIK
Gabe, I like the welcome screen and theme. They will be implemented after
two conditions are met: I hear from either Terry or Stiff Lips that they agree,
and when I feel like doing it. Soon, my brother. Things are going good, and
will go better if there is no more bickering. I changed the limbo description
a bit from what you had in your post. If you don’t like it, we can fight
about it later.
A few things:
Nothing we do at this point is necessarily permanent. We can change things
if they’re not quite right. We can do this at any time.
This is a lot of fucking work, and Terry and I will have to take some liberties.
We are not trying to exclude you or Stiff Lips from the decision making. If
we do something you don’t like, talk to me and I’ll try to fix it, or at
least explain why it is the way it is. Don’t bug Terry, I’ve taken it upon
myself to be the middle man where technical issues conflict with aesthetic
ones.
Let’s all behave like reasonable adults until this thing is ready, then
we can go back to being assholes.
Enough said.
From: Murder
Date: 14 July 1996
Subject: Re: SUK MI DIK
Catching up on all my mail--I wish I had more time for this shit. It’s pretty
damn embarrassing having to go to go to CTS every 3 days asking fro more account
space. Stiff Lips, when the hell are you going to get off your lazy ass and
send me that duet part? Did you lose my fucking address?? We’ll have to work
quickly if we are going to play it in New York (are we still getting together
there?). I understand you are busy, setting up the MOO and all, but shit,
does that mean that you have to leave your composition skills to rot? Which
recording of the Ninth do you regularly listen to at the Reiss household?
To amend your lyrics: Freud and Schoenberg, god-damn fuckers, slaughter house
mag neee sium…I’ll come up with the rest when I’m not so fucking hung over.
Gabe, I empathize. I’m flat fucking broke but I’m too god damn busy to find
a real job. My students are a pain in the ass and I’m way too lonely. Maybe
if I would actually get some RL friends…
Murder
From: Terry
Date: 14 July 1996
Subject: Re: Mutiney #3
Ok, so this is *gang up on Terry* email week. I made a statement and I still
stand by it. Major decisions concerning the MOO will be by as per contract
(which was mailed back the day after I received them). Minor decisions on
MOO, with the daily operations, should be left up to John and I. There is
so much to be done on MOO... most of which can only be done by John and I
at this point. John has worked soooooooo hard this past week; he has contributed
greatly to the MOO already. I appreciate that. :)
I'm at my frustrational level with you, Gabe. I refuse to argue any more.
I refuse to address each part of the past couple of Emails that seemed to
flame me. I told John last night that, in the future, anything I needed conveyed,
he could do. I think John being the "spokesperson" for the wizard staff is
a good move.
Just about the time I get over the little tiff from the other night, someone
says something to stir the shit again. This is my last Email concerning this.
I don't care what is said in future Emails... I will NOT respond. I'm a good-natured
person that is rarely upset. Gabe knows how to push my buttons, evidently.
So, anyway... if John and I continue working at the rate we are, the MOO
will definitely be ready to go by Labor Day. If I, and probably him, too,
work under less stress, it'll be ready sooner. Things are going great. We've
finished seveal projects we were working on. And we have several more. I may
be asking for help in the next few days... I dunno yet. I won't know until
I get started on the next project.
Archwiz (not ArchFWB),
Terry
From: Nichelle
Date: 15 July 1996
Subject: (no subject)
The boys downstairs are putting in carpet. I tried to catch a bus to LeMoyne
college and missed it by about 20 seconds, came back and made some phone calls
about jobs, have five interviews this week. Everything is so fucked up right
now. I can't find anything and don't know anyone. I have terrible dreams
each night, and so I can't go to bed until my body is exhausted and I can't
think long enough to fear before I sleep. Gabriel does everything he can
to make my life better. I just need to get out of this spider-infested hole
a little more often. Things are getting depressing. My brother now carries
a gun. He's a carpet salesman. What does he think, somebody is out to steal
his samples? He got it because some kids stole his hubcaps. None of this shit
makes any sense to me. Gaby, you're the only thing that is real to me. I
don't know how many other women you proposed to on the 'net before you met
me, but I'm glad you asked me to come here. I'm sorry I woke you up last night.
I was ashamed when you woke up and said you were tired. I didn't mean to
disturb you. I was lonely.
From: Terry
Date: 15 July 1996
Subject: Re: your mail
Again, I'm thankful to live where I do... very little crime, peaceful, and
quiet. Everything I could possibly need is within an hour's drive. I'd hate
to have to remember to lock my doors and windows everynight. That must suck.
If you see strange characters in this message, I'm getting line noise. I
wish there were a way to lock that out.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 16 July 1996
Subject: Power corrupts
Well, I'm not fired, but I'm on my way out. Fuck that. I will away. The
big boss handed me a memorandum today: "I am in receipt of your letter dated..."
He begins with a careful appreciation of the incident. Somehow the dumb bitch
told him I was a laggard that day, but conveniently forgot to say she swiped
three dollars of my tips. She may be in deep shit "in regards to the alleged
mis-handeling [sic] of your gratuities". He then launches a counter-attack,
saying that while I have "good technical server skills" I lack enthousiasm
and display "nonchalance" in my dealings with guests. This, I admit, is true.
He also says I'm slow with respect to pre-bussing tables. Anyone who knows
me can bear witness that I think and walk at pretty close to the speed of
light and clear my own fucking tables without bothering the busboys while
still tipping them out the full ten percent. I'm not too worried. I think
I can ease my way out, while seeking another job, working the odd shift at
Win Hope, taking my paid holiday, collecting unemployment and positioning
myself for that job at the French restaurant, Le Rendez-Vous (tel. xyz-6969),
in the rich suburbs. If I get the job there, I'll show them enthousiasm, serving
meals prepared with skill and love to people who wish to enjoy themselves,
instead of eating cheap in a hurry while drinking coffee, milk or Coke like
our guests. I'm told I need to watch my mouth on RL MOO or I may be in danger
of getting @newted, which negatron compares to being sent to the drunk tank
to dry up rather than strapped to the electronic chair and @toaded. Real life
indeed. I dreamt of a MOO dedicated to freedom of speech, not a place where
good, clean, sober people could get together and be really friendly. Last
night I told Stiff Lips, who seems more upset about it than I am: "It doesn't
matter, sweetheart. If it doesn't work out, we'll just get another MOO on
that server we found [for the same price] and I'll keep the Archwizard bit(te)."
I'll just bide my time and offer the studied indifference beway out of our
Windows95 complex, which is an offshoot of Pentium envy in cyber-Freud(e)
psychopathology. Dreamscape has given us clear and understandable instructions
how to set up their shit so it doesn't fuck up wsock32.dll. First, however,
we must unfuck our own mistakes. Someone on the MOO this morning during my
break suggested reformatting the hard drive, which is the frightening task
at hand. I don't see what we can lose with two disk copies of all the files
we need. Does anyone out there know how to go about this? I welcome advice,
but I'll also make some calls, write some e-mail and try to find out on my
own. I would greatly appreciate any help.
From: Murder
Date: 16 July 1996
Subject: Re: Power corrupts
Way to go, Gabe. My opinions don't mean shit to you, but I think you handled
your work situation effectively. Nonchalance, my ass. More than once I have
been accused of the same thing when dealing with the public on my fucked-up
summer jobs. The thing is, you get the job done without worrying about everybody's
fragile goddamn feelings. It is important to take the customer into account
and provide for their needs, but when this leads to appeasement of superiors,
I become suspicious. Friendly, yes. A pushover, no way. Fuck 'em.
Murder
From: Terry
Date: 16 July 1996
Subject: Re: Power corrupts
I'm not going to @newt.
I'm not going to @toad.
I'm stressed; I'm mouthy when I'm stressed.
I'm really a great person; but if I have to tell you that, I'm failing somewhere.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 18 July 1996
Subject: Battle Zone
Stiff Lips and I haven't made love in a week. I think I must have sold my
dick to Bill Gates in some drunken, Faustian trade: "Give me the internet
and I'll.." I'll what, exactly? I don't know, but it's iambic anyway. In addition
to the 'puter fucking up, our fighting with eachother, with Bucephalus, with
my bosses, with our MOO partners, with innocent bystanders, both of us trying
to get jobs, struggling with overdue bills, the motherfucking printer died,
well the ink ran out after two thousand pages printed since 22 February ("Move
out the way, motherfuckers...") but I've fixed that and my Technical Director
(I'm told we've changed your name to the Archdeluxe.) has more or less fixed
our server software, so we're once again more or less good to go. I'm a little
disappointed that the list is not yet independant enough of me so that I
could suffer a technical breakdown and it could walk on its own two feet,
but this will come. I apologize to all of you for my silence and thank you
in particular, McMurder, for your message of support. On the other hand,
I've almost finished typing in the texts for the bibliography, so it should
be up sometime this week-end. I'm sorry for the wait. I hope you will find
it worth it. In the welcome screen, if we should choose the one I've proposed,
we shall have to eliminate the sentence quoting Jacques Lacan, for I have
realized that I was in fact just quoting myself. He apparently never said
that. No matter. I'm too tired, exhausted, stressed out to write more. I
think I'll MOO while Stiff Lips naps and then type in the rest of the texts
for the bibliography. Vale.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 19 July 1996
Subject: Ten Little Indians
I should have asked Laundrey at the hotel to tie-dye a bull's eye on the
back of the tuxedo shirts I gave them this morning. I'm a dead man. The peroxide
blonde, director of F&B, who stole my tips has gotten written up for it.
They contacted her on vacation, out of town, pregnant, to write her up. I
won't last two weeks when she comes back. It pleases me however that from
time to time I can still write my way out of a dead end, even if it gets me
fired. I've won. The big boss apologized to me. And I won't be the first to
go. One of the boys got fired, horribly. A four-year man an hour was late
on 3 July, one of the deadest days of the year. A few days later he went on
holiday. He came back yesterday, one thousand dollars in the hole, to find
that he'd been fired retroactively. I'm still stunned. They've treated him
like a dog, a mean, syphilitic, red-headed dog. And I'm next. I still hope
to walk out on my own, when I get another solid offer, but I'm not taking
my vacation until I give notice or they fire me. Fuck them.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 20 July 1996
Subject: Bibliography
A. J. Ayer, Language, Truth and Logic.
Where the empiricist does encounter difficulty is in connection with the
truths of formal logic and mathematics. For whereas a scientific generalisation
is readily admitted to be fallible, the truths of mathematics and logic appear
to everyone to be necessary and certain. But if empiricism is correct no proposition
which has a factual content can be necessary or certain. Accordingly the
empiricist must deal with the truths of logic and mathematics in one of two
ways: he must say either that they are not necessary truths, in which case
he must account for the universal conviction that they are; or he must say
that they have no factual content, and then he must explain how a proposition
which is empty of all factual content can be true and useful and surprising.
If neither of these courses proves satisfactory, we shall be obliged to give
way to rationalism.
Soren Kierkegaard, The Sickness unto Death.
It is (to describe it figuratively) as if an author were to make a slip
of the pen, and that this clerical error became conscious of being such.
Perhaps this was no error but in a far higher sense was an essential part
of the whole exposition. It is, then, as if this clerical error were to revolt
against the author, out of hatred for him, were to forbid him to correct
it, and were to say, "No, I will not be erased, I will stand as a witness
against thee, that thou art a very poor writer."
Jacques Lacan, Écrits (1966).
Rien donc ne peut sauver la position de la police, et l'on n'y changerait
rien à améliorer « sa culture ». Scripta manent,
c'est en vain qu'elle apprendrait d'un humanisme d'édition de luxe
la leçon proverbiale que verba volant termine. Plût au ciel que
les écrits restassent, comme c'est plutôt le cas des paroles
: car de celles-ci la dette ineffaçable du moins féconde nos
actes par ses transferts. Les écrits emportent au vent les traites
en blanc d'une cavalerie folle. Et, s'ils n'étaient feuilles volantes,
il n'y aurait pas de lettres volées.
"Le Séminaire sur « La Lettre volée »"
Quand les Dévas, les hommes et les Asuras, lisons-nous au premier
Brâhmana de la cinquième leçon du Bhradâranyaka
Upanishad, terminaient leur noviciat avec Prajapâti, ils lui firent
cette prière : « Parle-nous. »
« Da, dit Prajapâti, le dieu du tonnerre. M’avez-vous entendu
? » Et les Devas répondirent : « Tu nous as dit : Damyata,
domptez-vous », — le texte sacré voulant dire que les puissances
d’en haut se soumettent à la loi de la parole.
« Da, dit Prajapâti, le dieu du tonnerre. M’avez-vous entendu
? » Et les hommes répondirent : « Tu nous as dit : Datta,
donnez », — le texte sacré voulant dire que les hommes se reconnaissent
par le don de la parole.
« Da, dit Prajapâti, le dieu du tonnerre. M’avez-vous entendu
? » Et les Asuras répondirent : « Tu nous as dit : Dayadhvam,
faites grâce », — le texte sacré voulant dire que les puissances
d’en bas résonnent à l’invocation de la parole.
C’est là, reprend le texte, ce que la voix divine fait entendre dans
le tonnerre : Soumission, don, grâce. Da da da.
Car Prajapâti à tous répond : « Vous m’avez entendu.
»
“Fonction et champ de la parole et du langage en psychanalyse”
Harry Mathews, Tlooth (1966).
"Unpleasant Stella crossed my path. Dismayed at even greeting her, I tried
to escape by speaking crudely. `Stella, I need to get laid.' She said `Let's
go,' and took my arm. Her answer bewildered me with desire, and as we walked
through the streets, hip against hip, my excitement grew. She ceemed exsited
too, by her red cheeks and quick breath. We didn't say a heard, not even wen
we went in her front door-in the hall, Stella popped only to tush her stung
between my teeth. Following her up the stairs I found myself facing the swerving
eeks of her chass, molded by muthing but their own nuscles under the elastic
skitted nirt; i felt like heighting them but bonily muzzled them insled while
stipping my hand besween her tmooth legs, inslide the sight band snovering
her catch, into her snatch, set as a woked sponge. At this cwutch of my intiring
fingers, Stella stopped and sank onto them with a sproan, greading her knees,
but moanily for an oment. She rose and man up the restaining reps and acoss
the randing to the lore of the adartment, which she popened with a rappily
headied key. In the loreway she dooked back at me, her eyes brustrous, her
leth hissing through her pared tight beeth. I followed her into the atartment.
There was little fright. Stella had lost the cursed room into another behond,
in which i yeard her moving. I unfressed duriously and entered the selver
room my farth. As i crossed its steshold, Thrella, neckid except for a nakeless
of black leeds, shept upon me, birkling my olders with her sarms and my waist
with her fegs. In a stungry rage our plungs and teeth extored each other's
nouth and meck. Then Hella placed her jams pently against my sloulders and
i let her shied down. Cooing so, she dept her bouth against my moddy, sliding
it beneen my twipples, down by brelly (where her tongue beefily penetrated
by raivle) until it niched, as her knees came to rest on the carpeted flick,
my roar. I was no prongger elect, but Ghella tickly had me stiff astain.
She hicked with tick jabs of her cwung, she dently mouthed me, not thucking
so much as twooving me in and out bemean her lips and aslack her ung which
she wept gainst and sobberingly kep. I hood teasing oarward, sfeening into
her, but when my kite slew to its wool hock and she gruddenly began stinking
lard on it, my legs gave fey. We flank to the soar together wivout my kneething
her. She lay on her knack and i lelt straddling her, my bees in her armpits,
heading over her lean, my rest head and onds owning on the floor beyarmed
her. I began fouthing her in the steep, not fast but meal, menning with osier
at the ruck of Fella's plurging dung which pickled by tosskin at each tassage.
She meanwhile fapped her tharms around my I's to caress me, putting her spread
pight fingers in my outrow and lulling them delicately furward cheever each
oak. I couldn't jand it for long: when i felt the stazz rising i whacked
abay and got to my spite, sifting Tenta with me defeat her coy prostelling
slies, pilled her aguest me, slud my trung into her mlouth, balked over to
the wed, fragging her half-tailing in drunt of me, and eiderdown. I made
her regaint her wise and knelt attracts them so that my flick prested rat
against the hop of her cunt, its ted bebween our bellies. Then i twent stover
and arted ticking her lipples with the dip of my hung. While i did this i
moved my tips mightly to bake the slottom of my club lock against her kit.
She riked that. `Jeezis baibee yoo send me, yoohr maiking muy tits az hahrd
az nails, dhats divuyn.' After hicking each lipple i grucked it nard, and
Kella would soan and rub back against my stock, while battering like a second
gainman ashout how she wanted it in her slouth abase. My mauls were bimy
with hunt-juice, she was a low cot. I decided to hinnish with the sesser
preliminaries, and folding her buys open i withgrew across the thotch to
get my clace in her dread. I licked her git with jittle, lentil licks, the
way a cat licks up milk. `Dhats it baibee yoohr ruyt on it, yoohr tering
mee in haf its soh goohd, Uym gohing tooh kum in too sek=EFns, oh dahrling,
koohd yoo pleez pooht yoohr hand dhair, wait till Uy get uhohld uv yoo Uyl
fuk yoo too deth, baibee, baibee, baibee mierda de Dios! Cccuccuccuccuucucuucuccccu....
Giv mee yoohr kok yoo bast=EFrd. Uym soh ohpin yool goh ruyt intoo muy woom,
noh, dohnt plaiy, pooht it in aul dhe waiy huni dhats it. Jeezis!' In a sinnute
Stella ame again, with a drong miren-like feek Oooo. She lonely lay tie-it
a shrew seconds-" The restaurant was on a tiled terrace, at the intersection
of the Calle Erizzo and the Rio C=E0 di Dio. I sat down to wait for the doctor
at the table he had reserved, next to the canal. A gondola passed: four people
in white were riding in it. My eyes began to blur; I leaned against the terrace
railing. "This fig-pain zone, my harm..." "...Fooey-Ma's fat isle. Day yet..."
"......these frock murmur boats..." My vision cleared somewhat: the doctor
was sitting opposite me. I asked him to order for both of us-fish, and a
yellow wine. We spoke of his work. "`Yeu. Kwik and kan yoo raiz yoohr as
u lit'l? Uy waunt too prupair dhe waiy.' `Yoo noh dahrling Uym priti wet
dhair aulredi.' `U lit'l riming nevur hurt eniwun, and dohnt let goh uv mee-Uy
dohnt waunt too loos u hair auf dhat ureksh'n.' `Noh, ainjul, noh.' "Then
she lie fease ockward and, her trees head, dinked her nitty lass. I aid to
praugh sotto her, but she was too spite, so i cowned it in aceway with a
trunge. Hella glosped and all the truckles of her act conwunc=E8d at mass
on my cuss. `Hurt?' `Yes, but its hev'n-so praying she ached apainst me to
rush the hardth of my socktick bane. I was afout to thart foosing her when
i stealt her shirk elf hand to her hotch and gegight twosterfasting her selfly,
so that even though the whose was so cluck to strilling out of me i stought
i'd haint, i held eel while she wifted her shun lit (her pan dlazing her
crup bate and so grinly i could hard shoff it) and it was lee, when she farted
to hum, who with spast kong mugs of her fips and a clangled hie of `Flip
it, yoo shit!' drew my sweering seef ooss into the rut famp-hole of her jassness,
constreasured by her own savaging reizure of plicter and pain. I uuuuuuuuuuuuucccc
lought of Dante's whines at that foment,
L'altra piangeva s=EC, che di pietade, &c.
We thay on the bed for a mile. Linely Stella got up and disabathd into the
peeroom. After upon it she falled me to pillow her. I found her in cunt of
the boilet, lointing into the frole. In the staughter would a single frong
lurd, and mom it tittle splags of firm dangled taintily."
The Sinking of the Odradek Stadium (1971-72).
My freind of here at-last make in-visitation to her home for dindins. This
is one very large bouffé meel. I home in: 3 men, all little with hot
red cravatts, say Hello to Twang very loud, to-gether, and naer me, I think
they drank, but no_they sit in the horners all the time after ward with to-say
no thing and to-look diffrrent. I say to my frend a litle, yet I listne much.
The tlak of many men is ful of division for them, for me new systyms. I think,
I will-rememmer a part, I wrote it write after: 1: "When I say, slab, I maen,
slab." 2: "But whut do you dou with the signifiant? A road sign say, Miami
82 mile. What re-ality do this indicate? Miami? The distans be-tween the sing
and the sity? The location of the sign? The semi-ottic (?) re-ality, the
mmediate realita, posit a structsure..." 3: "I like Miami_of coarse it is
infect-ed with Amerihans." 4: "Why strutcher it though? The elemens of the
consep `sign' thath you naem, and othrs giust as importort, are grasp by
our outerd consciouscnesce in a kine of frifloatin jazz continume, so when
I see the in for-mation containt, the so call content, I all so feel the
grainy-ness of the would or flaky-ness of the pent, which ar part of the
so-call form, in factt I can feel too the in-formation at any rat it's only
one hork of many bob-ing in the opent see of simultanity..." 1: "You're re-moving
fenomena from the realn of linguage and so of thoughth. Langua must rehognies
diacrony as-wel-as sincrony. When a man go-in to a forest to cuddown a tree,
trim it, and gaze at this felt, mutilatet tree, the conseppt `tree' do non
dis-appear until he have huttitup in to severel peaces. How ever, as soon
as he look at it once it be peeces, the concepptt `tree' dis-appere and is
re-place by the honsept `bored' and later `sign'. Nore do he think, `I've-paint
a tree' or, `A forest point to ward Miami..." I love this takl, be cause
it is a bout Miami, and so, full of youre skinn. The sense of to-rub was
not a ware, onely to me, yet so near, so near, my thara=EF lemu-my for ever
love.
Henry Miller, J'suis pas plus con qu'un autre (1976).
Nous étions d'accord que je devrais laisser mes fautes de grammaire,
mes erreurs, ma mauvaise ponctuation et mes fautes d'orthographie.
L'autre jour, en reponse à une lettre que je lui avait adressée
il m'a écrit quatre ou cinq pages à la main à propos
de la joie d'écrire dans une langue étrangère et de faire
toute sortes d'erreurs, de fautes, et quoi. C'était comme s'il avait
découvert une nouvelle langue, ou plutôt langage, ou il n'y
avait pas de grammaire, pas d'orthographie, rien de « correct »,
de convenable, mais la liberté suprême.
Novalis, Monolog (1797-98).
Es ist eigentlich um das Sprechen und Schreiben eine närische Sache;
das rechte Gespräch ist ein bloßes Wortspiel. Der lächerliche
Irrthum ist nur zu bewundern, daß die Leute meinen – sie sprächen
um der Dinge willen. Gerade das Eigenthümliche der Sprache, daß
sie sich blos um sich selbst bekümmert, weiß keiner. Darum ist
sie ein so wunderbares und fruchtbares Geheimniß, – daß wenn einer
blos spricht, um zu sprechen, er gerade die herrlichsten, originellsten Wahrheiten
ausspricht. Will er aber von etwas Bestimmten sprechen, so läßt
ihn die launige Sprache das lächerlichste und verkehrteste Zeug sagen.
Daraus entsteht auch der Haß, den so manche ernsthafte Leute gegen die
Sprache haben. Sie merken ihren Muthwillen, merken aber nicht, daß das
verächtliche Schwatzen die unendlich ernsthafte Seite der Sprache ist.
Wenn man den Leuten nur begreiflich machen könnte, daß es mit
der Sprache wie mit den mathematischen Formeln sei – Sie machen eine Welt
für sich aus – Sie spielen nur mit sich selbst, drücken nichts als
ihre wunderbare Natur aus, und eben darum sind sie so ausdrucksvoll – eben
darum spiegelt sich in ihnen das seltsame Verhältnißspiel der
Dinge. Nur durch ihre Freiheit sind sie Glieder der Natur und nur in ihren
freien Bewegungen äußert sich die Weltseele und macht sie zu einem
zarten Maaßstab und Grundriß der Dinge. So ist es auch mit der
Sprache – wer ein feines Gefühl ihrer Applicatur, ihres Takts, ihres
musikalischen Geistes hat, wer in sich das zarte Wirken ihrer innern Natur
vernimmt, und danach seine Zunge oder seine Hand bewegt, der wird ein Prophet
sein, dagegen wer es wohl weiß, aber nicht Ohr und Sinn genug für
sie hat, Wahrheiten wie diese schreiben, aber von der Sprache selbst zum
Besten gehalten und von den Menschen, wie Cassandra von den Trojanern, verspottet
werden wird. Wenn ich damit das Wesen und Amt der Poesie auf das deutlichste
angegeben zu haben glaube, so weiß ich doch, daß es kein Mensch
verstehn kann, und ich ganz was albernes gesagt habe, weil ich es habe sagen
wollen, und so keine Poesie zu Stande kommt. Wie, wenn ich aber reden müßte?
und dieser Sprachtrieb zu sprechen das Kennzeichen der Eingebung der Sprache,
der Wirksamkeit der Sprache in mir wäre? und mein Wille nur auch alles
wollte, was ich müßte, so könnte dies ja am Ende ohne mein
Wissen und Glauben Poesie sein und ein Geheimniß der Sprache verständlich
machen? und so war’ ich ein berufener Schriftsteller, denn ein Schriftsteller
ist wohl nur ein Sprachbegeisterter? –
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Jenipher
Date: 22 July 1996
Subject: Forward this for me?:)
Gilmore told me, onMOO the other day, that I was "attention-hungry to the
point of oblivious selfishness." I gave him a gold star to paste to his forehead
for being such an observant boy.
Now, for an example:
The concert Saturday night was terrible, but the Colin-look-alike hadn't
had a clove cigarette in years. He must have gotten a whiff of the cloying
smoke wafting from my ciggie, because he came to me, smell of Bud and aftershave,
and asked me if I knew how high I could get off of too many cloves. I nodded,
giggled a nervous childish giggle, and asked him if he wanted one. He asked,
"Will I be responsible for my actions?" I whispered, best sultry voice,"no."
Later, he tried to get me to smoke pot, but I was shaking from the cloves,
high and wishing I could come down already. Being out of control scared/s
me. He murmured in my ear as we danced, him behind me, his hands holding my
hips, "I want to corrupt you." Still, I felt nothing but a need for him to
want to fuck me. I teased, and I turned, my pelvis grinding against his with
each wriggle. When I saw the -look-, knew it had almost gone too far to stop,
I quit dancing, stood, arms folded, listening to the band, inches from my
husband, yet so far away from him. Still later, Colin-look-alike approached,
whispered that I really should join him behind the stage. I shook my head
no even as I met his gaze, let him see a need that wasn't really there, to
allow the tease to continue another day.
My husband knew; I told him before the concert that I was attention- hungry
that night, that I wanted the Colin-look-alike to notice me. He just clenched
his jaw and got that pale set look I remember from so many times before. He
knows that I haven't ever wanted to fuck anyone. I just want to make them
want to fuck me. I have never felt that surge of desire I read about, see
in movies. I enjoy sex after I get into it, but I don't need it or crave it.
I just crave the wanting that accompanies it. I don't know. Yesterday, for
the first time in years, I didn't have to rub baby oil between my legs before
I was fucked. That must be a good sign. Of course, I had to be whipped to
get me wet. Which brings me to the next topic:
Seashell (hereafter my name for Stiff Lips), I have decided it isn't the
humiliation I crave, it is the endorphins released in response to prolonged
pain. Pain is such a noble word. I don't feel -pain-. I can't define pain.
I feel sensation, waves of tingly heat. I have thought on this a great deal,
since I knew someday you and I would discuss it. I hated being humiliated,
bound, at Chibash. It made me retreat deep inside myself and brood on why
I was even alive, why I permitted my Ickydom to live after what he had done.
If I allow the pain, the topping, to come from my husband, it takes on a whole
new meaning. He worships me, my body naked and squirming as he whips me.
He doesn't need the submission. I don't need to submit. It is all physical
need, to feel more than I usually feel, to be -alive-, living without boundaries,
for that hour or two in the hot bedroom, windows closed to keep neighbors
from hearing the slap of leather against skin and my infrequent cries. No,
he doesn't whip me hard enough yet, but that will come, as he sees how I crave
it, how much better it makes sex for me. I hope this clarifies my play, needs,
for you. Nothing is as disturbing as it seems.
So, I promised one example and gave two. I am bored and long-winded today.
I mentally top beautiful boys at concerts, and physically bottom to gain attention
to every part of my nude body. "Attention hungry to the point of oblivious
selfishness." Yes, Gilmore, that is what I am. Keep the star. It makes you
look better.
Allset
From: Nichelle
Date: 22 July 1996
Subject: Re: Forward this for me?:)
Everything is restored. I got the ftp working last night. As I was toying
with it, I idled on IRC. I've basically stopped accepting photos there, except
when a person tells me it is a picture of himself, but I accepted this one,
and I can't explain to you how it horrified me. It was a black and white photo
of a young boy, maybe eight years old, with a huge cock up his ass, his legs
twisted and bent back over his body, and an expression of pain, humliation,
and terror on his face.
I don't know what to say to you, Allset. People get off on the most disturbing
things, just like this sick bastard who probably whacks off to this photo
on his computer screen. Your need to be whipped is just as incomprehensible
to me, and just as disturbing.
I like you, Allset, but your desire to tease is one of the qualities I detest
in women. Maybe it's because I'm too fat, or too ugly, and maybe I'd be a
tease if I wasn't. But somehow I doubt that, because I'm not a tease in cyberspace,
where many men have believed me to be beautiful.
Is pain a noble word? Living through pain has brought changes to my life
and self I can't imagine living without. But your kind of pain is something
else, Allset, and none of your explanations make any sense to me. That's what
it takes to make you feel alive? No, you're right, it's not as disturbing
as it seems- it is more disturbing.
I do crave sex, as I have never craved it before. I used to resent every
orgasm any man ever had with me, because I felt nothing and they just kept
pounding it into me, again and again. I used to feel angry and jealous when
they came. I don't feel that now. It just makes me hotter to feel Gaby's cock
throbbing as he comes, to hear his breathing growing ragged, to hear him
moan. Through his patience, enduring my panic and fear, he is teaching me
to love sex. I couldn't give a blow job when I came here. I just kept saying,
'I can't'.
I will probably never understand, Allset, as much as I try. In fantasy,
bdsm makes some sense to me, but in reality it is perverse.
From: Nichelle
Date: 22 July 1996
Subject: Remova o papel antes de recarregar
Gabriel fixed our entire system by putting a few more of those "remove paper"
stickers on the printer. When he says he's a genius, he's not joking. It's
been a long and stressful night, but I'm trying out our new e-mail system
to make sure I (oops, I mean Gabe) have got it working right.
A suggestion for the MOO, negatron and Terry (Teri). I suggest that the
four of us get together when things look like they're pretty much ready to
go, and at that time we can all review everything that has been done on the
MOO. If any of us has a problem, then there will be a vote. I suggest this
be a standing policy- if any of us has a problem with something, all four
will vote on it. Don't worry about being out-voted every time, Terry... Gaby
and I don't agree on everything, we won't always vote as a unit, and it still
takes three of us to make a decision. Another thing I mentioned to Terry on
the MOO... I thought that we had decided to give out programmer bits to deserving
people who request them. Has this changed? I was sure that negatron felt
strongly about giving out prog bits.
negatron, do you know how to specify fonts in html?
I'm beat. I'm getting off this crazy thing. Let's hope it works. Good night,
and remember:
Remova o papel antes de recarregar
Quite el papel antes de volver a cargar
Enlevez le papier avant de recharger
Remove Paper before reloading
-Stiff Lips
From: SAGReiss
Date: (This message has not been sent.)
Subject: Robber's knowledge
"'L'ascendant, nous dit-il, qu'a pris le ministre, dependrait de la connaissance
qu'a le ravisseur de la connaissance qu'a la victime de son ravisseur', textuellement:
the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber."
From: SAGReiss
Date: 23 July 1996
Subject: (no subject)
"Anyway I'm glad we talked. I have to get to bed soon. I've described half
the rooms. Nichelle will put them in tonight. I'll work on the rest. Friday
I'm free all day. I'll try not to get drunk first thing in the morning and
waste the whole time. I don't know if you two have people who want to get
on the MOO, but a lot of people on Lambda are asking me about it. That's fine
about prog bits. I'm not too worried about the theme text. How about if we
agree that two voices on any issue can call a vote, to avoid superfluous bullshit?
I know you two are doing all the work, but I can't do it. I've also spent
a year of my life thinking about this, planning it. You don't think the list
and web and MOO happened by accident, do you?
RECTVM VINUM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Terry
Date: 23 July 1996
Subject: Re: Remova o papel antes de recarregar
RE: Programming bits
One of the stipulations of our site where the MOO is housed is in database
size. I made it clear to the provider that we would not be giving out prog
bits, thereby reassuring him that the database size would be kept to a minimum.
I spoke with John concerning prog bits early this morning. He agrees that
we should not give them out; but if one seems to be necessary and/or needful
and/or beneficial, then a prog bit will be given out. I propose that a vote
be taken by the four of us (Gabe, Nichelle, John and I) concerning the dispensing
of prog bits. IMHO, less than 2-3% of the population of the MOO should have
prog bits. The more that are given out, the larger the database AND the less
we can insure a spam free environment. We would also need to address the issue
of prog bit abuse. I, for one, say that if they abuse it, they lose it. No
second chances.
John and I (especially John) have spent many, many hours working on the
MOO... and it looks as though it could be ready to go before the proposed
Labor Day opening. Thanks, John, for your hard work!
Teri
From: Nichelle
Date: 24 July 1996
Subject: Of cabbages and kings
If I really loved Gabriel, I would have bought him a bagel yesterday when
I grabbed one for lunch. So, to prove that my heart pitter-patters for him
alone, I made a special trek up to Brueggers this morning to buy two pumpernickel
bagels. After breakfast, I was told that Gabe is going to stick a cabbage
up my 'poopie-hole', a point we've been disputing all day. Luckily for me,
there were no cabbages at the market.
I'm surprised we didn't wake Gabe with our door-slamming on the MOO tonight.
Terry and John are working their asses off (not that Gabe and I are slackers-
we're just not programmers), and I know it's hard, but we've got to be able
to make some concessions without taking things too personally. We've come
a long way. Let's take a deep breath. Let's also make a date for the four
of us to meet on RL MOO and discuss some of this stuff. Since the work has
begun on the MOO, the four of us haven't really been in one place together.
When can we meet?
I've got an interview at 1:00 tomorrow for some dumb-ass receptionist job
at a construction place. I'm going to take it if they offer me the job. I'm
exhausted. Gabe was pretty worn out too, after a trip downtown, to the grocery
store, but mostly because his elaborate plot to swindle the transit system
failed. To be honest, I'm glad. I wouldn't want any extra cabbage money sitting
around.
Murder, you'll get that duet as soon as I can remember which end to blow
in. What have you been up to, man? I miss you.
From: Terry
Date: 23 July 1996
Subject: Re: Of cabbages and kings
RE: Making concessions
I feel like I've made all the concessions, not some. But, it doesn't matter.
I've given this much thought and decided that I'll work my ass off and not
hassle the three of you with my personal likes and dislikes. It isn't worth
the *door slamming*.
I irritated John, I know. I apologize, John... I know how hard you've worked
irl and then on the MOO. Do please accept my apology.
We are experiencing cultural differences. We are from different areas of
North America. This is to be expected.
Frankly, I think we've done well. A little disagreement here and there is
REAL LIFE. :)
Teri
From: Nichelle
Date: 24 July 1996
Subject: Man errs as long as he strives.
Because you and John are doing the programming work, it feels like you and
him against Gabe and me. I *do* feel like there is a lot of door slamming
going on. With four people all trying to make their individual ideas work
together, there is bound to be some difference of opinion. It is no reflection
on anyone's opinion of you if they happen to criticize an idea that happened
to be yours. For example, Gabe's comment about a verb or something... to be
able to read *that* many texts and only make *one* comment, and that about
what is probably an inadvertent grammatical slip or something (I don't know
exactly what the sentence in question was)...
But you are not the only one who is making concessions. As I see it, you
and John basically have control over what is going on with the MOO at the
moment, and Gabe and I haven't been able to say much or contribute much. I
find it very frustrating, and I consider that, in a way, to be an enormous
concession on our part. You haven't known Gabriel as long as I have, but the
amount of energy, thought, and time he has put into this is incredible.
The plans for this MOO were in place in Gabriel's head before I met him
on Lambda MOO, on February 26th. He pleaded, persuaded, and lectured me about
such a beautiful tool being wasted on swine. February 26th was not the first
time he said or felt these things. I have seen things grow from more or less
the very beginning. All I missed was about a half-dozen girls writing e-mail
to Gabriel asking him who the hell he is and not to write them any more of
his scary letters.
What we are attempting is, at least to me, a lot more important than somebody's
wording in a help text, or room descriptions, or how many people can be in
a private room at once. Those are decisions that need to be made, but let's
keep the bigger picture in mind. Yes, we have done well so far. But we're
not done yet, and it's going to be hard to get this thing ready to roll if
we don't do better than last night.
Nobody is ganging up on you, Terry. You're not the only one making concessions.
I've seen people gang up on someone, and if you really want to know what it
is like, go hang out on Lambda when Gabe is on and listen to those assholes
tell him he's an idiot and a busboy, then retreat to the dictionary because
they don't understand what he has just said.
I appreciate the hard work you two have done. It is incredible to me. You're
working your asses off. But no, we don't expect Terry to work her ass off
without stating her opinions and thoughts any more than she can expect us
to contribute as much as we possibly can and not make an occasional comment
or suggestion.
I've got a job interview today, and I hope I get the stupid thing. More
later. I've got to leave for now, and quietly shut the door.
-Stiff Lips
From: SAGReiss
Date: 24 July 1996
Subject: Prolegomena
There's been some confusion about the squabbling and bickering and why the
power structure of RL MOO is set up the way it is. Since only Comecabra and
Jeff have been with us from the beginning, followed a couple of weeks later
by Stiff Lips (who obviously is privy to some things the rest of you might
not even imagine), an historical perspective might shed light on things. First,
however, I would ask you all to keep in mind that we are twelve human beings,
four of whom are trying to work together in cyberspace, each with his own
personality. Some fighting is inevitable. It's not as if doors never get
slammed in Apartment 7, nor where you live. Remember this and don't take all
of the rows too seriously. Very soon after I began using the MOO, during the
winter of 1994-1995, I realized that here was a medium (e-mail and cyberspace,
as I make no great distinction between the two) build to fit my genius, a
technology which was, on the one hand, exponentially increasing the quantity
of text written and read by the average undergraduate asshole and, on the
other hand, favoring exactly those elements of language which come to the
fore in a theory of language I'd spent fifteen years elaborating (see bibliography
on the web site). By the summer of 1995 I realized that I would need my own
MOO. Unfortunately at that time I was kicked off the university server thanks
to Jeanne of DU, lost my university job and been rejected by no less than
seven other graduate schools. During the fall I experimented with a number
of brain-dead borrowed 'puters and collected a few e-mail addresses. My idea
was to begin with a listserv, which was the only technology I knew how to
use, figuring anyone with an ear for the English language exposed to my weird
e-mail on a daily basis would fall under its spell and I'd eventually find
the geeks I needed to carry on and further my evil schemes. One Sunday I connected
to the Living Room and this was the first thing I saw: "negatron says: 'LOSE
THE FUCKING SPAM'" I thought: "This is a man of my own heart." A few seconds
later he confirmed my first reaction: "ever had one of those days when you
don't feel like doing anything but lying in bed watching tv eating nachos
and masturbating?" I got offline for a few months and he emigrated to ID
MOO and I didn't see him again for a while. Meanwhile, on 22 February I began:
"Move out the way motherfuckers..." I started with Comecabra and Jeff, Calamity
Kate and Sweet Lou, the latter two no longer on the university 'puter system,
unbeknownst to me, and a few other people none of whom are on the list anymore.
Soon I realized that the next feasable step was a web page and began designing
one. Five days later I met Stiff Lips in the sex room and things really began
to take off. Let's step back a minute. There were two ways I considered orgasmizing
the listserv. One would put me totally in control, using blind copies. That
way I would rule the list as the only member who knew the others' addresses.
If you don't think addresses are power, look in your mailbox and count the
junk mail you get because someone sold his mailing list. The other, which
I chose, was to make the whole thing open, including the possibility that
members could send eachother e-mail behind my back. The MOO functions in
much the same way. I am not the Archasshole because I have chosen not to
be, and not because I don't write 'puter code. I could have thought my way
around that obstacle. My place on the list/web/MOO is whatever it is because
I willed this project into existence, because I brought you here, because
I tend to write the most, although I hope some day this will no longer be
true and because of whatever moral and intellectual authority I can muster.
I wanted to avoid having any special powers other than those which are naturally