From: Joy
Date: 1 September 1996
Subject: asfdl
wow, things are certainly up and going, i'm about ready to break this computer,
enough about that. i have no idea about what all of the ChessFucking big deal
is. not sure i even really care to know. it all sounds pretty pretentious
and banal... but hey, i'm just an ignorant plant, what the fuck do i know?
some may claim that it's not a prerequisite to have a vast background on
the classics of western literature for this kind of thing, but i'm not sure
that i can agree..
i hate humidity and it's getting worse here. all the time. things are going
downhill here.. not going to bore you with all of the nonsense. RLMOO? heh.
there's a project in one of my classes.. we aren't supposed to use the computer
or watch tv or listen to the radio.. most of the time that i log in there's
no one there.. not that that surprises me a whole lot. the majority of mooers
aren't into that kind of .. thinking? the most likely place we can think of
is lagda's lr. on the rare occasions that we grace lagda we broadcast it's
existence freely.. so far, we've only met one person/char/thing that's ever
even heard of it... Wow, you know, i reaally thought that i had gotten away
from the music equiv of literary bs when i burned my bridges / dissappeared
/ left the 'serious' music world forever. who cares how the fuck Mahler spelled
something? i can't stand most of his stuff anyways. Minor keys, damnit. That's
a start..
i'm sick and grumpy, can you tell? unfortunately i'm also hitting my circadean
rhythms again.. i just want to crawl into / hide under the covers and sleep.
right now, i would think it a good thing to sleep for the rest of my life..
helllooo hibernation.
the slimy creepy speeder crept nearer as i continued my completely delerious
babbling. monday there is a thing here.. an event i guess one could say..
it's bigger than the 4th of July.. it's called 'Boomsday'. it's literally
tax dollars going up in smoke. (meanwhile the crowd just goes 'oooooo look
at the pretty fireworks') It's not even close to New Year's. yes procrastination,
such an amazing thing. i'm really paranoid that my car is no longer where
i parked it.
they came in droves, by the hundreds and the thousands. drunk, inbred, orange
wearing noisy morons, all fit to be shot. or disemboweled. take yr pick. they
all congregated like a crazed cult into an area not too far from where i
currently hide from the world / my room. memorized by something that i cannot
see, understand, or possibly comprehend. i am aghast and run for cover. one
used to be able to make money from these desperate and crazed humans, but
Big Brother took care of that. funny how those who say 'fuck the system fuck
the system' get a growing crowd and soon they are the system. cycles cycles
has anything really changed in the last 4000 yrs for humans? the machine and
gizmoes created, run on energy sources other than the humans.. the machines
do all of the real work. i wonder what people from countries like the
Central African Republic think of the people (mainly females), living a life
of comparitive luxury, who fret and struggle in an attempt to lose weight.
the only way i can figure anything relative, or at least closer to what i
know, is to tell a sorority chick that she needs butt implants. i have spent
over 2 hrs this eve/morning obsessively cutting off all of my split ends.
i always chuckle when i find them on my silver hairs. i want to drink, right
now from a psychological (not yet physical) standpoint. it is not that difficult
for me to imagine myself an alcoholic. and i have a bottle of some kick ass
sake around here somewhere.. addictions are expensive and impractical. take
eating. oh wait that reminds me, does anyone else have a problem with the
IDEA of eating molluscs??? more on that one later...
From: Joy
Date: 1 September 1996
Subject: food concepts, phobias, and other fun things
when i mean food concept i'm not talking about necessarily the moral aspect
of eating something.. more like the repulsive factor involved. like eating
chicken and seeing little dark red veins and shit. that kind of stuff. lots
of split ends, even now. eruc so i have a problem with eating molluscs. there's
a hard shell and then there's this mushy stuff and people eat the mushy stuff!
gross! i bet quite a few of the them are filter feeders too. disgusting. a
dnif when i saw how clams moved, looking like demented pac-mans, and then
heard that people (oh wait, maybe oysters? i don't remember) eat the wiggling
mushy part i was horrified. eat pac-man's tongue?? i'm not surprised that
everyone talks about the world going to hell in a handbasket. who the hell
thought up that phrase anyway? ssenkcis need bath the last time i had shrimp
i couldn't even swallow it. i'm not talking about poor-quality shrimp here
either, and it had nothing to do with the taste. the feeling of the COLD SLIMY
MEMBRANE against the roof of my mouth... i get shivers just typing this.
siht thgif. need sleep. i've never been in the live presence of anyone eating
lobster or crab or anything. i tend to vacate the area.. my food phobia would
have to be eggs. the smell of eggs makes me nauseous, yet at the same time
there's this strange allure. anyway, what i find to be the most disturbing
thing is seeing one. not straight out of the fridge, mind you, but a hard
boiled or soft boiled egg. my friends didn't believe me a few yrs ago and
tried to make me eat one (i shook in fear/trauma, still haven't recovered)
i watched in complete amazement, the person next to me was eating the yellowygreenish
shit in the middle! EGADS!! i'm feeling queasy just typing this. of course,
i've been sickish for a few wks now, but.. tsum i. i'm mystified by all of
this. i'm sure freud would have a heyday.
i've always been reluctant to try new foods. ach, who needs variety? i'm
sure all of the cooking related types would abhore my current diet. (i find
it rather abhoring myself, for the past few weeks) me? a cook? i'm probably
about as much of a cook as negatron, the Fast Food Fan. Did you know that
it snows all the time in Canada? It does. And everyone should go to Alberta
to see the scenic Athabasca Tar Sands, it's worth the trip. i don't understand
how some people can live on completely flat land, with no hills even in sight.
can some flatlander explain this phenomenom to me? i had this great idea of
taking a humongous map of the US and Canada and plotting down all the holstein
cow pastures. then i thought it would be cool to plot the pastures for the
other types of cows (in different colors, of course) this brilliant and exciting
plan was quickly dropped when funding turned up short.
prefere the moins straightdrawrof approach? snort. snort. you too can join
the Partnership for a Cod Free America!! You don't even have to live there!!
You can join anyway!! No membership Fees!! Heck, no fees at all!! oh.. nevermind
son, with yr talent and my genius we can make you a star! i'll manage, you'll
be rich and famous - you'll be a star - waddya say
and now, for yr reading enjoyment, a few lyrics from the NWA song 'Gangsta
Gangsta'
Gangsta Gangsta
It's not about a salary it's all about reality
(repeat)
.....
she said 'i got a boyfriend'
bitch stop lyin'
dumbass hooka ain't nut'in but a dyke
suck me ya see, some niggas that i don't like
....
the guys who wrote that made alllooooott of money. could someone please
explain this to me?
enough of this rambling. tell me about what you do/don't eat
From: SAGReiss
Date: 1 September 1996
Subject: Fuck you, Kirby
Stiff Lips' father made up all kinds of stupid lies about our life and told
them to her mother on the phone as he tried to weasel his way out of a promise
to buy his daughter a 'puter, something about carrots, a bad neighborhood
and why can't a thirty-two-year-old man get a real job. What, like working
for the fucking boyscouts? Fortunately he can't really hold his liquor so
the beer, whisky and wine blinded him to my own consumption of beer, Ricard,
wine and whisky. I had a good day. A party of twenty-three for brunch and
I wrote in the thirty-five-dollar tip, which she must not have noticed 'cause
she left another twenty-five bucks on the table. Fed a steady diet of Europessimism
for many years, I usually commit the dreaded sin in Amerika of not being positive.
In Europe and intellectual (or even the oddball Amerikan) can occasionally
get away with saying things like: "Die Sprache ist eine Gefaengnis," and not
look too foolish (even if I'm not sure of the gender). I'm not exactly sure
how this would come off in an Amerikan uni. Anyway just to show you that
not everything I say is hypercritical and fuck-you-feel-bad, I will point
out that Joy's letter today is the work of a clever, skilled writer. If you
are not getting straight As in English, your profs are all assholes and you
can tell them I said so. I would also bring to your attention that that was
not an easy letter to write, though with enough practice anything becomes
easy, even getting up at four in the morning... Writing in the present is
not easy. It's much easier to tell a story (usually in the past). When I
tell tales I feel oddly passive. My body becomes the medium through which
events pass from real life to the printed page. Much harder is to sustain
a thought the way Joy did. Felicitations. Also, Werner, I am very impressed.
Finally I have a friend who is not a disgrace to the ground he walks on, someone
who has had a modicum of success in the field of his choice. I know a professor
at a prestigious, high-cost university and it's not some bullshit English
prof, but someone teaching a real subject, mathematics. Everyone else I know
is desperately wondering how to pay the rent, where to find money for cigarettes
and alcohol for the week. It's true that I don't have a respectable job.
I work for the Man. You will get tenure (if you don't act like me and piss
everybody off) and you will be the Man. Will you marry me? Why don't you
try to figure out a way to use the vast resources of your venerable institution
to make some publicity for the list/web/MOO, again, some kind of multi-media
presentation you could write/make to the National Association of Technology
Nerds conference? Oops, I can't marry you, Werner. I'm marrying negatron's
sister and Stiff Lips is marrying negatron so we can get the fuck out of this
dead land. The idea of kissing a member of negatron's close family makes me
a little uneasy, but Paris vaut bien une messe and so does Quebec City. Actually
I think we're planning to move to Boston next year so Stiff Lips can go to
Boston College and I can work in another dumbass hotel or restaurant. I think
I've just about worn out my welcome in this town and I hate it...
From: Nichelle
Date: 1 September 1996
Subject: The cheesecake that ate Manhattan
What we eat, killjoy, you already know. According to Gabriel, I don't like
it as much as I thought I did. I made an ass-kicking cheesecake which we have
eaten for dessert the last few nights, so now I have the status among all
of Gabriel's gfs (past and present) of the best blowjobs and most delicious
cheesecakes. Last night on the telephone, my stepmother asked me if Gabriel
inherited the traits of the frenchmen. "What do you mean, traits of the frenchmen?"
"They grumble about everything. Men from France are always grumbling about
everything all the time." Needless to say, I got a hearty giggle out of that
one. Yes, my father is an asshole, but at least I had the pleasure of hearing
that my mother told him "Fuck you, Kirby" the other day on the phone. He told
her that Gabriel was dominating me, he could tell by the fact that I looked
sheepish and apologized for not putting out the carrots before supper, "Sorry,
I hope it didn't ruin your dinner." Never mind that we didn't even eat carrots,
and that the entire time Gaby was preparig dinner, I was in the living room
being terrorized by dad. So no, he isn't dominating me, which probably disappoints
at least one or two of you. When Gaby came home after writing his last e-mail,
he was too tired to spend time with me, so I took care of business in the
shower and sat down at the table ashamed, bad enough my feelings about food
and the shame of eating, but to also feel the shame of sex was too much,
I guess. I enjoyed the cheesecake and coffee, but now my stomach hurts.
(Gaby, if I talked to you while you were writing e-mail as many times as
you have interrupted me during this letter, you would have strangled me ten
minutes ago.) Fuck. Now I've lost my train of thought.
From: Nichelle
Date: 2 September 1996
Subject: BABEL...
I woke up at nine-thirty to the pounding of the neighbor's stereo. What
did I do to deserve this? I stayed up all night reading Gaby's book, Babel.
I ate breakfast with him (coffee, cantaloupe, and rye bread with peanut butter
and orange marmalade) then fell asleep at about 5:30. For the math teachers/profs
in our studio audience, this is only four hours of sleep. My stomach aches,
so I'll keep this short. The following letter is what I scrawled on a legal
pad at 3:00 AM after finishing the book.
-Stiff Lips
From: Nichelle
Date: 2 September 1996
Subject: BABEL again
It's exactly 3 AM, I just finished reading Babel after staying up all night
and drinking five cups of coffee. Not at all what I expected, and for those
of you who are wondering, the copy is packed up in an old lamp box with one
styrofoam packing-peanut and a warning label which came off some appliance
(I assume the lamp.). If I had the cash to publish Gaby's "monsterpiece",
I'd sell every copy in a lamp box, though I'd put the warning label on the
outside, "Warning, don't read this novel if you're a PC asshole." I was hoping
to be able to say, "Oh, now I understand Gaby a little better." but the man
asleep in the next room seems a thousand years removed from those texts, or
a thousand miles, or something like that. So, if anything, I suppose I have
learned something about writing, if only that the God of LIterature is cruel
to desert us to drown in Ann Rice while Scott Reiss sits in a lamp box in
Syracuse, NY. For a man who thinks harder and works harder than everyone else,
he certainly spends little enough time digging for publishers. If he hasn't
got that motherfucker published in a year's time, I'll be tempted to publish
it myself on the web.
"I shall live or die on this, these words you have in your hands. Either
this is genius or I am not."
I can't believe it, the crazy life at SU spelled out so vividly in these
mean, drunken e-mails. Gaby, you probably wonder why it took me so long to
get around to reading your book. Don't be offended. It is amazing that I read
it in one night, though only because I don't know any French. I can't tell
you my reactions, all of them. Should I try? My insecurities are bad enough,
yet after today's shower episode, I read your letters about (and to) a woman
who couldn't keep up with you sexually, you wanted it 3 times a day... To
read your letters about caressing a woman's neck and hair. To read your obvious
hatred for fat girls. (What makes all these assholes think that they deserve
only beautiful women.) How many times I have wished, since I first stepped
off that horrible little plane, that I was a beautiful woman. How terrible
I must be, a fat, ugly, ignorant native English speaker. Of course you're
a pig. It would be nearly impossible for any human being possessing both
a cunt and a brain to like you while reading your novel. It's a good thing
you snore so loud, or else my cussing would have seriously impaired your
beauty sleep. Still, one of the most beautiful letters wasthe one written
by your five-year-old nephew about finding the key under the flower box. I
wonder why the hell you haven't put that on the web. (By the way, I saw your
transition from double-spacing after periods too, so don't give me any shit.
You can save that for the people on this list who don't do either one consistently.)
I didn't think much of the MOO logs, except that there was a guy on DU called
laurent who spoke questionable English, and who seemed to think you were
mean as a result of some sexual problem. Is this our own dear laurent? Of
course I know the real reason you are mean on the MOO. I've seen it too many
times. "Do yyou know the silent sound of fifty people all yelling at you
at once ?" (Why the space before the question mark, anyway? You also did
that consistently in the beginning.) Still you fight this same battle, it
keeps showing up. Isn't it the same one we have even on our own little MOO?
I still feel that I am missing something, since you start one sentence in
French and fnish it in English, so I'm not sure that I really read your novel.
Still so much guilt and shame, just for being American, and undergraduate
scum. Can I help it that I was born in Spokane, WA? Does it really mean I'm
horrible, uncultured, have no manners, have no, fuck, I don't know. You'll
be getting out of bed soon enough, Gaby, and I'll make my trek up to the
lab to type this to the World, come home and fall asleep with the printout
taped to my forehead. This is all so strange. I can't believe the letters
you wrote, can't believe I'm living here with you, my cyberdate, your live-in
FWB. Nobody will believe this shit is read. ANyway, I wonder how you can
say you love me and call me sweetheart and lollipop, whatever the word is.
Anyone who reads this will tell you that you need some new lines. Asking
a girl if you can look in her pants to check her real hair color is just
a very, very awful line (which you used twice, at least in English in Babel).
Just don't try it on the publisher.
-Stiff Lips
From: Terry
Date: 3 September 1996
Subject: Web pages...
Well, I just successfully put up my first web page, if you're curious about
me.
I've decided I like HTML. It's very easy. :) Finally, something I can do
while I polish my fingernails.
Teri
From: Patricia
Date: 3 September 1996
Subject: RE: BABEL again
Good Morning.
A couple of notes begfore I get started today. First, I never received any
mail from joyful and i am disappointed. Please forward. Secondly, you should
know that all of the mail sent to me from the www.dreamscape.com domain has
arrived with a duplicate copy on its heels.
I've spent 3 of the last 5 days driving (or more often, being driven) back
and forth to Memphis, TN. A little over a week ago my husband and I purchased
a custom van, a deluxe rolling living room, and on this trip we slept in it,
ate in it, talked and laughed and swore in it. It was the first time that
I've been away from my daughter for more than 10 hours, and I'm glad to be
home.
So, what do you do with your brain while your body sits belted in the same
position for hours at a time? Yesterday, aside from being Labor Day, was my
31st birthday. An excellent oppurtunity to write a loving tribute to the woman
whose 'labor' brought me into the world. Without putting a pen to paper, I
quietly composed a story which might bring a tear to the eye of the sensitive
reader. Don't worry, I won't publish it here. In fact, it will probably never
cross the line from a 'thought story' to a written one.
I also wrote an angry letter to SAGReiss, and you may yet see that one on
your screen. The last thing I did before leaving the MOO last week was defend
him to one of my 'friends'. Funnily enough, at the time, it was the very last
thing I felt like doing.
From: Kathleen
Date: 3 September 1996
Subject: Re: BABEL again
Hello. I'm glad to find you harmless, sweetie.
over the course of two Tanquerays, I've decided to be happy a part.
Note my text book use of commas. A part. A men.
From: Nichelle
Date: 3 September 1996
Subject: Test
This is a test. A message will be on the way soon from my new account.
-Stiff Lips
From: Joy
Date: 3 September 1996
Subject: what a labor day
so can anyone explain to me why the fuck they call it labor day when no
one goes to work? that outta my system.. Gabe: i have no idea what you are
talking about. surely you jest.. shall you reah/daer woh ti tnew si ti tahw
uoy tnaw ot ees? .. i complained about the lights (humorous ly) the xmas
lights, you see they had the large bulbed outdoor types on the back porch
over looking the river and they had 2 smaller strands indoors.. the last
party/time i was here half of one of the inside strands was not lighting
up for some strange mysterious reason. sure the music sucked and i am surrounded
by beer drinking pot smoking people who sit around and study rocks but hey
the lights.. the fireworks (during which i sat with my legs dangling over,
staring at the fireworks like a retarded child looks at a flaming match)
I also have to avoid getting a great view of the beer cup of the person above
me, someone from the story below pulls my foot at the beginning i am spooked
and couldn't tell am i blocking their view so now my legs i am
trying to pull them pu.. yawyna, kcab to eht sthgil.. i am digging my own
grave, the owner of the lights.. so now this chick (enon fo siht si ni lacigolonorhc
redor) no, not a chick this bitch is complaining about the music and it is
beastie boys, a definite improvement over the oasis.. she is ugly. not fat.
disgusting curly shit/piss coloured hair, like a poorly made bird's nest..
wants music that 'everyone' likes and does anyone mind if she changes it.
i am (possibly) trashed in this cool chair, entertaining myself in (it spins!
shit.. physics..) / in deep thought with a chicken in a kitchen /
i write that on my arm.. i consume lots of rice (yum!) and more rice.. and
now i eat this strange shit called gumbo. i eat very little of this stuff.
ko, now the owner of the lights, (and also the co owner of the apt)
arg i draw all over my right calf i have a black pen (risperal?) and i don't
want to be able to read it so i start writing in this altered
runic alphabet shit thing that i write to (tm) in and i am on a roll, start
writing and i want to remember these things that i am writing but i write
them over and over each other so no one else can read it.. unfortunately
before i can to decipher it out has erased it, rubs index
finger across it.. i like . is
a good person. and i get along in a way that reminds
me of an old friend... the old friend is now a complete dropout/fuckup/pothead.
lost contact with him awhile ago. 3yrs? 4yrs? these things i do not remember.
just like i do not remember what i wrote on my arm. so i am th/here and there's
a few young kids running about and the keg runs out so some try to go out
and get some more beer, but the only thing they can find/afford is this budweiser
shit (my mother drinks that stuff.. as negatron says (not verbatim) 'you
drink that american piss water shit?' ) but i was good to go from the beginning,
i drank the last half of my bottle of sake (j'adore..) but
also wanted some so i didn't get to drink all of the half and these two people
came in they were tripping really hard and i am sitting on the couch with
( is eating) so gets up and starts shooting
my sake (to my dismay, but i don't tell that)
is good friends with .. on the porch now
most everyone has gone and , , and i are sitting
in this little triangle, and i are on the couch and
makes some comments to me right when leaves and asks
me if i want to stay the night with and shit and
i am almost in surprise.. .. arg.. yeh, t'nod teg em gnorw,
si ylemertxe dnik to em.. ha, s'ereht on laer tniop gniog otni ti ..alskdjf;aljk
today is well i don't feel that great but my life has been pretty hellish
for the past 3 wks or so so this is nothing new and i can no longer judge
whether i've 'had a good time' or not.. HOWEVER. halloween is coming soon
and i'm trying to figure out what i will be.. et toi?
From: Nichelle/SAGReiss
Date: 3 September 1996
Subject: BABEL
(A letter from Gaby. He did it on the typer, so forgive me for the fact
that typed letters can't translate into e-mail. If he doesn't like the way
I did things, he'll just write you a letter and bitch at me about my dumb
mistakes again.)
Nichelle has just joined the SAGReiss_is_never_wrong club founded by Canis_Lupus.
Her claim that I double spaced after final punctuation at the beginning of
BABEL confused me. I was shocked to think that I might have made a mistake.
I could not understand. Then it hit me. She wasn't distinguishing between
the different kinds of text the book contains. Allow me to quote from the
cover letter I've sent to three publishers, none of whom have shown any interest:
"The text breaks down many conventionl walls, e.g. between languages (English,
French, German), media (handwriting, typescript, word processing, e-mail,
cybersex) and genres (autobiography, epistolary novel, literary criticism,
social commentary). The plot, in as much as one may call it that, follows
the narrator, a foul-mouthed, drunken, polyglot intellectual, on a wild six-month
trip to the internet, trashing along the way the shameless university which
has hired and eventually fires him as a French teaching assistant." In other
words, at the beginning, as I was just discovering the possibilities of e-mail,
I mostly typed. When I type sometimes double-space after a period, as do Amerikans,
sometimes single-space, as do the French. Writing almost exclusively in French
for ten yearsalso explains why I spaced before a question mark and still
have trouble with the qwerty keyboard. The implications, however, are more
troublesome, to me at least. She seems to have missed the whole point of
the four-hundred-page book. Whatever it may say about SU or my misogynistic
fingertips, BABEL bears witness to the transformation of a man who wrote on
a typer to a man who writes e-mail. Each step is clearly marked. Typed letters
have no headder. (Handwritten letters are simply photocopies of my handwriting.)
MSWord letters have a centered header and e-mail has a pine header. Cybertext
is photocopies of logs. This transformation runs parallel to the hesitations
between languages, both in the letters and the life they represent, talking
German, for example, with a Peruvian gf because that was the language inwhich
we could communicate most comfortably. By the same token the mixing of genres,
including a fifty-page extract from my unfinished master's thesis and a piece
of literary criticism I have unsuccessfully tried to send to you. I figure
I have bluffed enough. I might as well show you what I can do in a standard
literary format. Unfortunately for those of you who do not read French, I
have nothing in English. I haven't written an essay in English in a dozen
years or so. Anyway as soon as I get my 'puter back, I'll cut and paste it
to an e-mail. The lab is fucking up, whichis why I'm typing this and will
ask Nichelle to send it through her LeMoyne account..............
From: Nichelle
Date: 3 September 1996
Subject: M. Velly
It's horrifying. All of the crisp new notebooks, legal pads, three-ring
binders, not that I don't have a bagful myself... ANd all of the *pens*.
BIC ultra-fine rollerballs and uni-ball medium-tip deluxoes with refillable
cartridges. I sat down next to a girl in History 101 (that's what I get from
transferring) who had a beautiful, fresh, clean sheet of college-rule white
paper sitting out flat on her desk. She took her pen out of her backpack,
removed the cap from the business end of the thing and jammed it on the other
side, then leaned over the page, and in very tiny, perfect handwriting, whe
wrote her name, the date, the name of the class, the time it meets, the course
number, and the room number. She didn't write anything else the entire hour.
At the end of class, she put the cap back on the top of the pen, stuck her
empty sheet of paper in a new folder, stuck it in the backpack and left.
She was one of the better examples. It got worse when the professor showed
up. She moved every piece of furniture in the room, turned her bright green
back to us and wrote "Dr. Kunze" on the board, then snapped around with a
triumphant look on her evil little face. Crack of notepads opening, mad scribbling
asa room full of freshmen (no kidding) wrote "Dr. Kunze", fresh ink on blank
pages. There was a blond girl sitting next to me. Dr. Kunze continued. "I
hope we're all here for History 101." The blond girl (on my left) wrote "History"
on the top line of her paper, right in the middle. I studied the scientific
tables as Dr. Cuntz (oops) kept babbling, and thegirl to my left kept writing.
I started to listen again as she mentioned textbooks. "Even if "The Prince"
was written by a white male, and a European (and no words can describe the
way she said "European". You would think she was saying "Ham and Pineapple
Quiche" which, btw, was on the menu at Faegan's tonight.) it still may have
some things to offer us." The blond girl was still taking notes. I snuck a
look. It said:" M. Velly. white male. european." I began to read the instructions
for using my e-mail account. I looked up at the board after about thirty minutes.
"History/Civilization/Culture" I looked at the e-mail some more. She handed
out the syllabus. I wrote her office hours on it. I was still thinking that
I might take the class, and just skip it a lot. Then she mentioned that she
takes attendance every day. Shit. Then she mentioned seating charts, and
I imagined myself walking out right then, as she was telling us to choose
the same seat each day so that she could learn our names. I imagined it as
quite a scandal, as I left I would say "I'm going to go sign up for a history
course at the high school so I can learn in a mature environment." Gaby, pack
our things. We're moving to France.
-Stiff Lips
From: SAGReiss
Date: 4 September 1996
Subject: si ti tahw uoy tnaw ot ees?
Lou's Place, the run-down bar called Lou's Tavern on the web page, stands
between tenaments and crack houses in the ghetto. Stiff Lips catches the bus
there and I go to pick her up after work/school. We had a drink with Lou,
the seventy-year-old owner, Mister Betsy, the seventy-five-year-old bartender,
who always buy me drinks when I bring a white woman into their foul lair.
It was the high-point of a very bad day. It's not bad enough that my 'puter
is dead and I'm not sure the company wants to fix it. There was a power
outage on campus serious enough to fuck up all the 'puters and trap half
a dozen people in an elevator for forty minutes. I have just forwarded some
mail, but I can't do this as a rule. If you want to participate you must
figure out how to make a distribution list or use the address book or reply
to all when answering my mail. On our side we continue to investigate the
possibilities for creating a formal listserv. "This is the Hour of
Lead": joyful's letters are a lesson to all of us. Those letters are
physically and intellectually challenging the way Faulkner's prose is. They
question both the spatio-temporal orgasmization of the world and the linguistic
representation of that orgasmization. As soon as we have a 'puter (either
mine or Stiff Lips') we shall post "what a labor day" on the world with a
button entitled "si ti tahw uoy tnaw ot ees?" It's Stiff Lips' second day
of class and she stayed home. This is what Jeff once called the Gaby method
of getting into grad school. Just make sure you ace the GREs, boys and girls.
Hearing and reading about her classes reminds me why I'm a waiter and not
a professer. Calamity Kate, I didn't quite follow your little message, but
I've never understood your e-mail very well. (I forgot to forward that one,
but I shall as soon as I send this one.) Strawtop, please feel free to send
your hatemail. I get enough of it. I don't seem to recall your defending me
to anyone, but if your 'friend' is ex-Melon ("I'm going to kill myself," as
everyone in the living room scrambles to find her phone number and stop her
and I just laugh at these junior high school idiots: "So off yourself, you'll
be doing me a favour.") or Cognac (who spends her time spreading rumours about
Stiff Lips), I'd rather these swine hate me. Fuck them. They are human maggots
who deserve the dreaded lye treatment. I still can't believe some of the
shit I saw in those syllabi. Socrates is the father of philosophical inquiry?
Whose Socrates? Plato's, Xenophon's, Aristophanes'? Socrates himself never
wrote a word, so who the fuck knows what he said? How about Pythagoras and
Heraclitus? Were they garbage? Or the English prof who explains that the
Russian formalists are concerned with discovering the author's original intent?
Um, I thought they were interested in studying form and structure, which
is why they are called formalists and evolved into structuralists. And the
lit prof who will let the students take any materials they want into an exam,
except the text, which is all one needs? I hate Amerika...
From: Terry
Date: 4 September 1996
Subject: Re: so you wanted some mail
Just so you know, #147 on RLMOO is the social FO. If you just type in: giggle
or laugh or smile or whatever... #147 is what makes it work for you. It's
the heart of the emotions online. True, it can be done by emoting. Anyone
who wishes to emote has that option. If someone does not wish to have #147,
then @rmfeature #147 and it'll be gone from your player. If you don't wish
to see anything that comes from it, the @gag #147. But, if you gag it and
most players use it, you won't see much on your screen.
I'm not a bitch. I really am a nice person and I hate it if I've come across
in any other fashion. Gabe just knows how to push my buttons. Joy, I loved
helping you. :) That's why I like being a wizard. To be able to offer my services
in helping someone online isn't so much a power trip or ego booster... it's
more of a *makes me feel useful and needed* thing.
I apologize for not being online as much of late. I've been so busy irl,
but things are beginning to settle down for me again.
Laterz,
Teri
From: Joy
Date: 5 September 1996
Subject: hiber nation
so i'm awake stomach aches never finished recording on that spool that has
been spliced who knows how many times before and i just woke up i have been
sleeping for oh 18, 19hrs? and i am currently missing the classes i am missing
my __ and __ and even __ (2nd time in a row) and i am eating a frozen pizza
- tombstone - pepperoni - not i - we have or had actually i want the tombstone
in my room please mom but she thinks that it's unhealthy to have the rocks
of ancestors in one's room so that's why it's under her bed right now.. the
dreams are cruel and make no sense but they do and wish i could tell you who
is in them but i don't quite remember them except that (tm) was in them, i
miss (tm) dearly.. in fact now that it's right before i'm going to sleep i
find myself writing (tm) a letter \night\naibara\tac blue sky gold stars blue
bleeding ink spilling all over the pages.. tsuj ekil ym niarb? still gnileef
kcis and no was never considered dyslexic t'nac uoy llet? i am at GGG and
i cannot find anything to feed on where is the sugar sugar sugar sugar but
they are telling me no, that i shouldn't eat/find/get some it but i do want
it i need it, t'nod yeht dnatsrednu? no not addict, couldn't' be, not possibly,
moi? scary military man... etah eht gnileef taht gnihtyreve dluoc eb os os
much reisea.. no no cannot say it ___ no never again.. do you dnatsunder
that poem, Dr. Wallach? mingus deen more sugnim so anysyaw.. revlis stripes
in ym hair, ti gets esrow every yad.. still t'nevah done all of the obligatory
obligations.. clean garb yet? not i.. and the car clinic. and UCLA. and shaky
hands with shaky fingers (yhw stomach yhw?/) cruel foul beast it's never
neeb the emas since the . mu. re. llew. that will be for later, much later...
but of course i don't trust a thing he says. compliments are lies are flattery
are manipulation. \lluf fo tnil too\ \t'nod uoy ees? t'nod uoy dnatsrednu?
gnilaever gnihtyreve simulataneously ni hcus a yaw ot laever gnihton?? the
words of a coward, as it were.. ynamore nath taht i notcan llte.. ta tslea
rfo wno... ".hcum oot raf dias evah i niaga tey... noissefnoc eht neddih,
em staht ,retirw hguoht gnilaever on m'i.. drawoc eurt eht fo eciov/luos
eht, ni esiugsid hturt .. sdrow gniohce gniniamer esoht syawla.. (tu va figure?
eh?)
From: SAGReiss
Date: 5 September 1996
Subject: Read 'em and weep
I don't know who the fuck eljazzar is, but welcome. Today is my second day
off in a row, for the first time in months. I actually feel good, not too
exhausted, hangedover, backache. The simple pleasures, doing the dishes and
reading Joy's stunning e-mail, going to Faegan's for a beer before lunch,
fresh linguini topped with garlic, mushrooms, green and hot cherry red peppers
and lots of olive oil, valpoliccella from the land of Werner and Matilda in
a good mood. It's easy to be optimistic when you don't wake up at four in
the morning and can sleep off the whisky madness. No wonder I've been such
a bickering ogre with Stiff Lips lately. I hope you people recognize what
Joy is doing, outwriting me on my home turf and doing brilliant experiments
such as "dnatsunder". I have heard some petty jealousies and grumbling about
the position of various people on the list/web/MOO. I think of this like a
ball club or symphony orchestra. It doesn't matter how old you are or how
long you've been here. Joy writes baad fucking e-mail and so she deserves
her place on the web site. Seven rooms are waiting to be redescribed on RL
MOO, but no one moves a finger. Even Stiff Lips put up an argument about Calamity
Kate's rightful place on the list. That's bullshit. I know what Katy can
do when the spirit moves her. negatron you sure can pick 'em. If you've got
any other girls like that left over from you ex-ID stable, please give them
my e-mail address. I even think I may get Bucephalus back soon. The fucking
power-surge didn't work and the lightening storm fucked him. I'm going to
MOO for an hour and then walk down to Lou's and have a drink waiting for
Stiff Lips. I hope this day never ends...
From: El Jazzar
Date: 5 September 1996
Subject: Re: Read 'em and weep
I have no idea how I ended up on this mailing list. it started last night
with a message from joyful@utkux.. take me off please.
what is this list anyway?
From: Patricia
Date: 5 September 1996
Subject: RE: Read 'em and weep
Gabriel,
I understand why you need me to create my own reply list for this group,
but you should understand that I am using a system which is foreign to most
of the geeks I have met, and so far no one is able to help me come up with
the correct command.
I hardly have time to read these days, and I think that if I took the 10
minutes it would take to type out each individual address for each mailing,
I would have no time left for whatever it was that I wanted to say.
I' m not able to call the college to ask for technical assistance, since
i have not been employed by them for over a year and I am currently 'stealing'
this internet service.
If there is anyone in this group who uses VMS/Vax system, please direct
them to help me in the creation of such a list. Thank you.
Trish
From: Joy
Date: 6 September 1996
Subject: oops. // News of the Weird
i apologize about having elgazzar or whoever the fuck on the list, that
was my accident when i was trying to get this list together.. sysadmin got
in there somehow..
Now for the Best Part:
The Classic Middle Name: Conan Wyne Hale, 20, a triple-homicide suspect
who allegedly confessed to a priest in Portland, Org, has been fighting for
3 months now to have the confession ruled inadmissible in court on freedom
of religion grounds. And escaped murderer Michael Wayne Thompson was recaptured
in July near Farmersburg, Ind. And a few days later, Danny Wayne Owens, 38,
was arrested in Birmingham Alab, for allegedly murdering a neighbor. (Among
other prominent middle-name Waynes: serial killers John Wayne Gacy of Ill.
and Elmer Wayne Henley of Tx; recently executed Ariz. murderer Jimmy Wayne
Jeffers; sadistic LA murderer Robert Wayne Sawyer; the Ohio Aryan Nations
member caught last year with freeze-dried bubonic plague bacteria, Larry Wayne
Harris; the Oklahoma rapist recently sentenced to 21,000 yrs in prison, Allan
Wayne McLaurin; and of course Joh Wayne Bobbitt.)
Monika and Mark Skinner filed a $35 mil lawsuit in July in Newport News,
VA, in connection w/the 1994 death of their son, age 16, who was riding in
a car that drove off a road and plunged into a lake. Among the defendants:
K-mart, which sold a computer cleaning product to the car's driver, which
he nad the Skinner boy used to get high by "huffing;" two engineering consulting
firms that designed the lake that the car fell into; and the company that
designed the road the car was traveling on b/c it should have been farther
away from the lake.
In Aug, the St. Louis Art Museum filed a $2.5mil lawsuit against the Whitney
Museum of Modern Art in NYC, and other parties, b/c a Whitney guard damaged
a Roy Lichtenstein painting while it was on loan to the Whitney. According
to the lawsuit, guard Reginald Walker, 21 at the time, drew a heart and "Reggie
+ Crystal 1/26/91" on the painting with a felt-tip marker and wrote, "I love
you Tushee, Love, Buns."
The Austin (Tx) American Statesman reported that writer-actor Stephen Grant,
who starred in a film based on gunman Charles Whitman's 1966 assault from
the UT tower (and who bear an uncanny physical resemblance to Whitman) was
himself shot by a stray bullet on a street near the tower in March on his
first visit to Austin.
According to a May report in The New York Times, one of Argentina's most
popular radio programs is "Loony Radio," produced by and featuring patients
at the Borda Psychiatic Hospital in Buenos Aires. One presents "The Bolivian
Minute" show but usually giggles uncontrollably until the producer reminds
him that he is on the air. Another man delivers philosophy lectures claiming
to be "more schizophrenic than anyone" and says he is anxious with every incoming
patient b/c he fears losing his title. One of Argentina's best known talk
radio hosts says the patients are often more insightful than his callers are.
In May, Harlan Co. (KY) prosecuter Alan Wagers said his office would help
Denise Rush, 27, appeal a trial court's denial of her lawsuit to get the father
of her child to pay support. The father was 14 at the time, making Rush apparently
guilty of statutory rape, but she was never prosecuted.
The Winston-Salem (NC) Journal reported in April that private security officer
David Anderson Jones, 51, who is fully certified by the state to be capable
of physical work such as breaking through barriers and crawling in confined
spaces, among other physical tasks, was granted a handicapped parking permit
by another state office b/c of a sinus problem.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 6 September 1996
Subject: Frau Futzfresser
She was a bad German prof too. She comes into the restaurant, makes me translate
the whole buffet into German (panniertes Haenchen, cod I couldn't remember,
broccoli I don't know etc.), tried to order Riesling only because she knew
I had lived in Elsass and made fun of my fucking German because I say Geisskaes
instead of Ziegen and Gelraevele instead of Karotten. Fuck you, Austrian is
a weird falsetto dialect and Alsatian sings and soars. Then they left me
three bucks on a thirty-dollar check. Cheap fucking Euroscum. Weird
fucking e-mail today. ID writes me that it is back up, but I've never to my
knowledge had a character there, unless you gave me one without telling me,
ArchDeluxe. Jeff writes me: "I'll be home for lunch, darling, probably between
two and two thirty." My guess is that the first message is for Stiff Lips.
The second is dated 27 June and was a message I sent to Stiff Lips once from
Netscape setting the preferences to Jeff's account. It all sure looks weird.
Felicity writes this News of the Crazy Stupid Things White Trash Do in their
Spare Time. So here's my latest scheme: yesterday was such a good day that
I even met a 'puter geek (She claimed minimal geek-nurd status, but it sounded
like modesty to me.) from my town and she was initerested in the web/MOO.
She said she would like to learn MOO coding. She is a fucking 'puter professional,
a paid, hired geek. I think you (She has kindly given me her e-mail address
to offer help with our terminal 'puter problems. Bucephalus will come back
in a few days. I thought I wouldn't put it in here, but I'll send this, then
forward it to her while deleting your e-mail addresses. I'm trying to be
careful.) should ask for a character and write me/us an e-mail introducing
yourself and what you'd like to do onna MOO. I liked the theme of your character
very much. I don't see why we couldn't give you a prog bit on RL MOO and
let you learn there, establishing some kind of MOO clinic. We could call
it Unplanned Parenthood. I'm sure my friends/colleagues will disagree with
me on this, but that's because they disagree with everything I say/propose.
Since you MOO and work days, this would have the added advantage of putting
someone on the fucking MOO to greet guests and interlopers. We need to populate
the fucking thing and this might be a way. Besides if you bastards are nice
to her, maybe I can lure her to my foul lair with the promise of the delicious
food I cook and serve and con her into doing a general overhaul of Buceph
(my 'puter). According to the ArchDeluxe, John is a badass motherfucker, when
it comes to coding, Teri is competant, and I think Werner and laurent know
more than they're willing to let on. This is some shameless kind of Euromodesty
(qui n'est qu'un raffinement de l'orgueil). Anyway, this is the private part
of our World, where most of the really weird shit goes on. There are no special
conditions for membership. It helps if you can write badass e-mail and if
I like you, but not necessarily. It also helps to have a healthy threashold
of abuse and not to mind my foul-mouthed, drunken tirades from time to time.
The Boy Scouts it ain't...
From: Murder
Date: 6 September 1996
Subject: famine
The phone rings. It's Kelly, a female friend who owes me money. I give her
a sob story about how I am not sure whether I can eat for the next three weeks
or not, and she says "Well, right now I'm a hundred in the hole and my brother
owes his people $400, so I can't pay you back yet." I don't mention the fact
that I have already paid the whole balance of this month's rent and that
since she is moving in (and I am moving out) on the 22nd, she owes me for
those days. My friend Jodi knocks at the door. I hang the phone up and open
it. She says "What the hell is all this shit," noticing all of the new items
that seem to have appeared with the help of divine intervention: Boxes of
cooking ware, a fouton, a 27-inch TV with VCR, and a 'puter sitting proudly
on the kitchen countertop. My roommate has gone home until the 16th and my
friend John does not have a place to stay, so I am letting him keep his stuff
at my place and crash there for a few nights. In return, he is offering to
share his food with me. As I am telling Jodi same sob story (I am literally
broke...don't know how I'm going to eat...) Jill calls. One of her roommate's
many boyfriends has moved all his stuff into her place; she's pissed. "Can
I crash at your place Friday and Saturday nights?" "Sure," I tell her. "We'll
make it into one big slumber party." She was probably not aware of the sarcasm
intended. My patience is thin. Why do I always have to be the nice guy? Good
thing Jill's a good friend. Last Saturday night we (Jill and I) visited Delizioso,
Stiff Lips. Got the chess table upstairs and played. They were out of everything,
including my favorite, chocolate mousse torte. Still have a balance of +$5.90
that I'm saving just for you. Thank you, Werner, for setting me straight
on "Ap(p)ell." I did not think this subject is trivial or banal at all. The
main reason I brought it up in the first place was so that multilingualcunninglinguist
members of this list would share their knowledge with me. I refuse to let
Joy's obviously embittered attitude about the "serious music world" (whatever
the hell that is) prevent me from exchanging ideas with knowledgeable people.
I don't care what kind of e-mail a person writes. I care about what kind
of person he/she is becoming.
Murder
From: SAGReiss
Date: 7 September 1996
Subject: Murder's Woes
I think I may have to call on Werner's superior counting skills to calculate
exactly how many women you are blackmailing for felatio, Murder, and how many
are crashing at your place. We'll need full-color PowerPoint Grafix of these
two sets and their intersexion and possibly a map of the flat with possible
sleeping arrangements. We can put the whole thing on the web page. And we're
s'posed to sympathize with you 'cause you've got nothing to eat? It's eat
or be eaten, Murder. You've obviously made your choice. Now stop complaining.
Some people are never happy with what they've got. I'm happy about the Lady
Geek. I'm always a little wary when I write to a new person. She hasn't called
the cops. She wrote me a charming little note with but one line that bodes
ill: "Soy una feminista," which I'm guessing is a mistake. I think it should
be: "Soy feminista," but I could be wrong. I s'pose it's possible that not
all feminists are humourless Nazis on a crusade to have me and all of my
favourite books burned at the stake. Mary Daly has quite a sense of humour,
but I've never met her, except through her hilarious books. The thinking
doesn't impress me, but I love the puns: gyn/ecology, the/rapist. Jacques
Lacan would have loved her. Now that I think of it, Mary Daly teaches at
Boston College and perhaps I will meet her. I'd just have to wear my cast-iron
shorts just in case she flipped out on me and tried to turn me into a Spivak.
I can just see me at a cocktail party, already slightly, um, euphoric walking
up to Mary Daly: "Good evening, Ma'am. I enjoyed your books. My name's Gabriel.
I'm a cunning linguist, master of foreign tongues and gynecologist. May I
buy you a drink?" No, I don't think that would go over too well. A mob run
amok would probably carry me to the Boston Commons and tar and feather me
while chanting poems by Andrea Dworkin. BTW, Murder, I agree that the questions
about the Ap(p)ell Symphony are quite serious. Unfortunately Werner just fed
you a load of Eurobullshit. There was no mistake in Mahler's manuscript, but
in its interpretation. You see, he wrote in the Gothic alphabet and history
has misread him. It's actually called the Apfel Symphony, named after the
cider brewed for Hoelderlin by his Schwabish friends. In the later years it
was the only thing that could calm his demented fury. It had adverse and predictable
effects on his bowels, but that was obviously a small price to pay for settling
the wild spirits of the distrought Meister.
From: Nichelle
Date: 7 September 1996
Subject: woes
Until I figure out how to mail to the list from this account, I will forward
it from Gaby's (as many of you are doing). Murder, I'm getting ready to put
up a web page at LeMoyne, so could you please send the Paris Conservatory
paper and anything else you've got ready? Any other music related articles
will be considered, including Gaby's study on the Stravinsky Three Pieces,
if he wants to combine his several letters about it into one. I suggest he
send it to the list- maybe Werner will have something interesting to say about
it. I've figured out the bibliography, which I think I'll put on my page
with a link from Gaby's, unless there are any objections.
I'm exhaused. I've been sick for days. Yesterday I blacked out on the stairs
and slept there for an hour. I just typed three hours, even though it was
only one. My head weighs fifty pounds, I just got done screaming at Gaby about
the geek from Syracuse. I yelled "Well then FUCK HER!" loud enough to clear
out my sinuses and disturb most of the block. I've been more than a little
disturbed these last few days. I have had nightmares when I did sleep. In
one dream, there was a gas fire and I could feel the flesh burning off of
my body as I ran to the door. Today, right before Gaby got home, I had a
dream that a man was burning me, torturing me with a lighter. I've dreamed
of poison several times these last days. I'm on edge, I woke up crying for
Gabriel this afternoon at about 1 pm. I was nervous and scared on the way
up here tonight.
I asked Gabriel not to write about my little paranoid outburst tonight,
but obviously he will. I can't write any more.
-Stiff Lips
From: SAGReiss
Date: 8 September 1996
Subject: Just do it
*** Connected ***
Apartment 7 one-bedroom flat
page eve Please join me. It's extremely important.
Eve pages, "just a sec"
page eve It can't wait a sec. Trust me.
Eve teleports in.
Eve pages, "I don't vanish in the middle of a conversation without saying
goodbye"
You say, "I'm sorry, I haven't told you something. I have a gf."
Eve says, "I gathered that from your web page."
You say, "That is the man who raped her."
Eve listens.
You say, "There's not much more to say."
Eve says, "Except that, according to him, they decided on the act together,
in advance."
You ask, I would imagine he had some such explanation. What else could he
say. So why has she got scars on her body?"
Eve says, "Again according to him, she did most of those herself, on the
phone with him."
You say, "I s'pose that's possible. I wasn't there. I think it's safer to
believe her than to believe him."
Eve says, "I don't know her though."
Eve says, "And frankly it's kind of hard to rape someone online."
You say, "I don't know him."
You say, "It wasn't online. It was in his flat."
Eve says, "Right but I am not in his flat."
You say, "But she was in his flat."
Eve says, "Well, since you are warning me about him I am naturally inclined
to apply it to my personal situation."
You say, "He has tried to convince other women I know to go see him."
Eve nods.
Eve says, "Regardless of who I may or may not visit, I never make any promises
about what I will do before I meet a person irl."
Eve says, "And I will certainly not be reckless, seeing as how my sister
was raped about
9 years ago."
You ask, "Tu esta feminista. I checked, your friend is wrong. And you cavort
with the man who raped my gf?"
Eve asks, "So how is that in first person?"
You say, "No soy feminista."
You say, "I don't speak Spanish, but my language instincts and ear are very
good."
Eve says, "I won't argue the point with you. And I will understand if you'd
rather find a different techie to fix your machine up for free."
You say, "Fuck you. I don't give a fuck about free tech help. No more than
you give a fuck about free MOO tutorial or a free supper. I'm talking about
something a little more serious."
Eve nods.
Eve says, "Well, when two people have two sides to thes story, it is hard
for a stranger to know which story has more truth to it."
Eve says, "I expect both sides have a biasis in reality."
You say, "I haven't heard his side of the story and I don't wish to. She
could of course describe the inside of his flat, the color of the carpet on
which he raped her. I don't care to get into that. I've said what I've got
to say. You know my e-mail address."
@quit
*** Disconnected ***
As Hunter S. Thompson says in his obituary of Richard Nixon, in the presence
of total evil the normal rules don't apply. There are not two sides to this
story. Allset, would you mind sending me some logs of our friend in action?
It seems that the cyberfeministas who don't hesitate to toad me from a room,
MOO or server when I call someone an FWB suddenly wax epistemological when
LoverBoy coos: "She wanted it." Maybe so, Eve, and maybe your sis' wanted
it too. Maybe she likes waking up in the middle of the night screaming. Maybe
she just invented the whole story just to sound interesting. Maybe she's thrilled
that he knows where she lives, can e-mail her through me, can MOOmail her
as a guest. And maybe you think he isn't smart enough to pick up the phone
book and find your address as I just have (I think). The fear isn't exactly
rational, but as Father Freud said, it's real. Remind me never to ride a
bicycle four miles through a downpour. It takes the fight right out of me.
It amazes me that these cunts go to their Take Back the Night rallies and
fail to see that it might be simpler to assume she's telling the truth and
he's unlikely to say: "Yeah I raped her because it just seemed like the thing
to do," or: "It was fun. That's why I've tried to convince others to visit
me." It's not exactly an issue on which one can't take sides. She didn't kind
of want him to stick a knife in her. What the fuck does "most of those" mean?
"Well, I only cut her once or twice, so you can't really blame me. I was
just trying it out. I didn't mean to hurt her." I'm sick. I knew I might
have to deal with this asshole when I put the web page up, but I didn't realize
his cybergfs would believe him. Eve, if you're so philosophically inclined,
why don't you go see him and we'll see what a charmer he is. This guy has
raped at least one girl and I get shit in the Living Room? Maybe he has good
image control. Maybe he's PC and calls his victims women. I need to download
some image control on the 'net. Maybe then I could rape women and say they
wanted it. Un jour je tuerai tout le monde et m'en irai.
From: Nichelle
Date: 8 September 1996
Subject: The end of Stiff Lips
"You knew this would happen when we put those texts on the web."
"Do you want to take them off now?"
No, I don't want to take them off. And no, I didn't have any idea what would
happen when we put the texts on the web. This was one possibility. When Bucephallus
comes back, I am changing every "Motive", "Rochelle", and "Stiff Lips" on
the web page to my real name, Nichelle. I have already done this on the MOOs.
You may all feel free to call me Nichelle anywhere you like.
I feel like I'm on trial. The fact is, I cannot say with any certainty what
color that asshole's carpet is, and it doesn't matter. Whatever your individual
reasons happen to be, you either believe me or you do not. Whatever doubt
you may be struggling with, Gaby in particular, you will have to wrestle with
on your own. I will not play the game of the Little Girl Who Cried Rape. I
am very pissed. (most of you missed this afternoon's conversation) You would
be even angrier, Gaby, if I had said to you what you said to me today. You
may have your search for the truth through Allset's logs, if indeed she has
got logs. What you find there may or may not be the truth, it may or may
not help you. I was there. I know what happened. I don't know what Truth is
any more than I know what Rape is.
Nichelle
From: Murder
Date: 8 September 1996
Subject: Hell
Here's a joke that, while some will consider it immature, is guaranteed
to cause the "New-Age, PC types" to wish my speedy descent into hell:
A woman is about to give birth in a delivery room. She's screaming in pain,
and the doctor is yelling "push, push!" First, the baby's head appears, then
the rest, and the doctor pulls the little tyke out. As he picks up the baby,
he drops it on the floor. The mother is horrified, "What are you doing??!"
she exclaims. Then the doctor, in an effort to get the baby to breathe, turns
the little rugrat upside down and slaps it so hard he sends the baby into
the wall face first. The mother is beside herself with rage: "How could you
do this to my baby???!" Doc recovers the baby, dusts it off a little bit,
and is about to give it to mama. But he first bashes its skull into the bedpost.
By now mom is homicidal: "I'll sue you, then I'll KILL you!!!!!" Doc finally
hands junior to mama, and says matter-of-factly: "April Fool! The baby was
already dead!"
Nic, do you really want me to send my Paris Conservatory paper? It is kind
of a hack job. Still, I might be able to transfer the file from the disk on
the typer and send it to you. Let me know for sure if you want me to do this.
Sampras won the U.S. Open Championship in straights over Chang today--amazing
considering he was near collapse (vomiting on the court, doubling over between
points) in his dramatic win in the fifth-set tiebreak over Alex Corretja in
the quarters. I myself made a return to the tennis court tonight, but had
to quit in the middle of my match with Ryan (I was down a set but up a break
in the second) when the screw fell out of my glasses and my left lens popped
out in the middle of the point. I still won the point. It's nice having a
'puter at my place for once. No more conforming to bullshit summer lab hours.
Murder
From: Jenipher
Date: 9 September 1996
Subject: log
Hello Nichelle,
I have the log that B sent me of the conversation she had with C. I have
edited it for publication on the World, but I don't feel that is my decision
to make. If you would like to forward it to the listserv, feel free. Or to
Gabe, or whatever. It is yours to do as you like.
I also have the original log; I can email it to you as well. Just let me
know.
I know this must be hell for you, and I am here if you need to talk. I have
missed you the last couple of weeks. I can't wait for you to have your computer
back so I can see you more often on lambda.
I should be writing a nice long babbling post to the World later. I have
been very distracted by a dear friend elsemoo the last few weeks, which is
why I haven't been writing much. He starts school this week though. Bleah.
I will miss him and try to distract myself with email and web browsing.
Jeni
From: Nichelle
Date: 9 September 1996
Subject: ALLset
Allset, please send me the uncircumsized vergin of the log.
Nichelle
From: Jenipher
Date: 9 September 1996
Subject: etc.
My husband and I travelled to Chamonix, a village in a gorgeous valley near
Mont Blanc, this weekend. We hiked up from the Brevent lift site to Col du
Brevent, which is situated at 8000 feet. It was a hellish hike. My back ached,
my thigh and calf muscles screamed for rest. Of course, we had been trying
to find Lac Cornu, but we missed the sign. So, on our way back down, we saw
the sign and decided to come back the next day, much to my dismay. I was incredibly
sore and exhausted. We crashed at the hotel, slept for hours, then filled
up the giant tub with bubble bath and water. We soaked for a while then had
some of the most incredible sex I have ever experienced, fingers tongue lips
all drawing me closer then leaving me taut and shaking. Lost in a moment
that seemed neverending, that must have lasted hours, until I came and screamed,
heard him whisper, did you close the window, and just screamed louder.
Afterwards, we dressed, perfumed, coiffed and polished before going out
to dinner at Sanjon, a wonderful little French restaurant, where we ordered
Braserade a trois viande. They brought a tiny iron grill to our table along
with a platter of raw meats - duck, lamb, and beef. We grilled the meats ourselves
with little fondue skewers then dipped the morsels in a variety of incredible
sauces. I would tell you the name of the wine we had with dinner, but I hate
wine, so I just don't remember. For dessert, chocolate liegois. Dark chocolate
ice cream, hot fudge sauce, and whipped cream. Next day we had breakfast,
croissants, baguette, butter, honey, and coffee. Then more sex, my lips around
him as he begged me to wait, as I felt him tense and struggle not to come
on my tongue. A glorious day, an incredible hike, up a steep trail, across
boulder fields, along a ridge, to finally arrive at Lac Cornu, a clear, brilliant
mountain lake surrounded by the quiet chill of a September morning.
Gabe, I think Joy's writing is hell to read. In fact, the only emails I
find I am eager to read from this listserv are Nichelle's. That girl kicks
ass when she writes. It is readable, edible, touchable. I understand, and
I am awed by some of the things she says. I don't have to fuck around with
wordplay, backwards writing, absence of punctuation, etc. Just pure writing.
Fuck, I did not want to get into this rape thing. I have forwarded the log
to Nichelle. She may do with it as she likes. (Ah, I just got email. She will
have Gabe forward it to the World.) Oh well. I will wait to see her response
before I reply, if I reply. Does the world like this sort of thing? Seeing
lives exposed, hearing accusations and truths that can never be proven, only
believed or disbelieved? I find myself in an odd situation, hearing her rapist
beg me to forgive him, to understand, to visit him and let him prove he isn't
a monster. And knowing that no matter what happened, which pieces of whose
truth finally fit together to form my truth, I will never meet him. He is
a monster, either way. Oh Nichelle, it is a mess, and I admire you for struggling
through it as well as you can. Again, if you -ever- need to talk, you know
where I am.
Gabe, you asked why I haven't been on RLMOO. I have been engaging in another
whirlwind MOO romance. I am in love; I am soothed and distracted, creative
and daring. I win, every game. I scrabble until my eyes shut of their own
accord at night. Tiles engrave themselves into my memory. Oh, to place QUIZ
across a triple word space. What a lofty goal.
Opal and I are no more. Cary snapped, said he would divorce me if I went
to her. She has released me of all obligation, and I have removed her bracelet
from my wrist. I hid the crop, the cuffs, the candles, from sight, so that
I wouldn't be tempted to beg Cary to use them on me ever again. I have to
climb, crawl out of this mindset, become a whole person without the aid of
pain. I don't know if it's possible, but I know it is impossible for me to
end my marriage. Too many years, too many risks, too many likely dangerous
unknowns.
Gabe, I'm sorry I don't write like you. Please don't get ugly with me. I
know I haven't written in a while, and this email is long, rambling, and with
no discernible thread joining the paragraphs together. I just wanted to address
everything at once. Now that I have done that, I will start working on short
stories, masterfully crafted paragraphs. Just give me time.
Allset
From: Nichelle
Date: 9 September 1996
Subject: Enter Rapist, stage left
C has received your emote.
C pages, "?"
@secure here is o
This room is now Open House.
page C c'mere.
C arrives.
B sighs.
You plop down into the soft material of the couch.
You say, "i don't know what to think at ALL, here, C"
C says, "So...tell me your concerns, what she said, etc..."
C says, "Also, keep in mind she is not the only mooer I have met, and have
had much more positive reactions with...if you're looking for other opinions,
I can steer you to other people..."
B nods.
C asks, "Scuse me..timed out..wait for me?"
You say, "Umm. She said you raped her, and cut her. And she wouldn't tell
me anything else, she said that's all I needed to know to stay away fromyou,
I guess."
You nod solemnly.
C has disconnected.
C has connected.
B rehi :)
C says, "Okay....first thing to tell you about my relations with Nichelle,
is that she started out as a pet, not as a lover.."
You nod solemnly.
C says, "She did the cutting...most of the scars she had...were from before
we even met..we shared a blood-fetish...and she was very ultra-submissive...it
was at my urging, but shared desire, for her to make cuts to herself...and
she did, a couple of times, over the phone."
B nods.
C says, "when we met irl, it was as lovers...not as pet, because she decided
at one point that she did not want that anymore..which was fine..but it was
hard to change strides in the middle..when she came up, most of what we had
was very vanilla..but there was a couple of occasions when she requested bondage,
and a one occasion, when she was in a strange mood, that I cut her..."
C says, "That was the only time, and it was a mutual desire..following that,
I felt really bad, and refused to do it again, even when she urged me to..at
the time, I know it excited her a great deal..."
B nods.
C says, "Now...the rape accusation...definitely has some truth in it..and
I know I went to far with it...we had consistently shared a consensual rape
fantasy...she had been raped in the past and it dwelled in her mind..and i
won't deny it was a fantasy of mine...one night we decided to act it out...it
was totally talked about beforehand, but we didn't set up safe-words or anything,
which I regret very much..."
B nods.
C says, "So we did it, and I was somewhat rough, and I took her by force...somewhere
she decided that she wasn't enjoying it, that it ws too much...and I could
kind of tell when it happened, but I was inside her then, and I was gripped
by it..I should have stopped, but I didn't...and, well, there's no excuse
for that...I told myself, and still do that he struggles were part of the
act, as they'd started out...I dunno..at the time, I like to think it was
really too much to expect me to stop..."
You nod solemnly.
C says, "But being honest, I think I did rape her, by finishing ,and not
stopping when I had any doubt whatsoever...but I did *not* take her unwillingly..."
B nods.
B sighs.
C says, "We spent a long time talking about it that night, both felt really
bad..but moved on and had a pretty decent rest of the week together...afterward,
she wanted to move up here..I didn't think that we had gotten along well enough
to warrant that sort of commitment immediatelly..so I was gonna save up money
and visit her at home in the spring."
You nod solemnly.
C says, "And then, somewhere along end-feb to beginning-march, she got cold..
we didn't talk for weeks at all..eventually I found out she moved to new york..and
then just in mid-july, I got this moo-mail from her, totally out of the blue,saying
that she had friends who wanted to kill me, and that I had raped her..."
B nodnods.
You ask, "Is it okay if I log this?"
C says, "I have no doubts that she regrets what happened...probably far
more than I do, and I've had my share of guilt-pangs about the whole thing..but
I'm not willing to take total blame for it, and it was somethng I thought
we had worked through...I still dunno what happened to turn her on me the
way she did."
You say, "Without your name. See, 'cos I told my friend elseMOO that this
chick just paged me out of the blue asking to tell me something, an' I said
sure, and she told me about it, and I told HIM, and he went off onto this
tangent about how he heard it from her and her boyfriend, and to stay away
from you because you're a shithead etcetera, and I want to show him your explanation
so he won't be worried."
You nod to C.
C says, "if you'd like....obviously, be VERY careful where you show it around...and
I dunno what difference it would make to her to read it...she never gave me
a chance to defend myself, I've been gagged since the moo-mail, and a couple
of my friends have turned on me since then..."
C says, "Well, it sounds like he already knows my name and all..definitely
delete her RL name..."
B nods.
C asks, "Do you mind if I ask who all is going to knwo all this rather
personal info about me? and..did motive say what motivated her to talk to
you?"
C very much understands, B, if you don't want to talk to me anymore...there's
een enough doubt created here for you that it would surely be a lot safer
for you...
You say, "Um, just Bastian."
You say, "Not bastian Ox, btw, Bastian elseMOO."
You say, "She just paged me and said that a friend of hers had told her
that you and I hung around a lot. I asked who, but she said her friend might
not want me to know her identity."
C hmm..never talked to him...bothers me that they have told a lot of people
what they have tho..I've had no chance at all of telling my side..
B knows.
B hugs you.
You say, "But.. see..I don't know."
C says, "and tons of mooers hate me for it..."
C nods..you couldn't know..if I were rapist, I surely wouldn't admit it
to you, and yadda-yadda...that's why I'll wander off if you want me to. might
be time to start a new moo-life here.
You say, "Because YOUR explanation sounds like something that.. just a TOTAL
..miscommunication thing happened, and .. you know, like.. if someone says
that someone raped them, MOO OR RL, they're prone to believe the 'victim'.
You dig? Just because it's such an awful thing. And because YOU aren't even
sure what went on.. you don't know what she thought about it, or came to a
conclusion about it with.. or whatever.. I dunno. First I was shocked, and..
I dunno."
From: SAGReiss
Date: 9 September 1996
Subject: No bueno
I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, what I have done. I cannot understand
what I am reading. Calamity Kate is sitting across the table from me in the
computer cluster. It's nice to see her. That's about the only good reason
I have for wanting to be alive today. Even so, I just want to get as drunk
as I can as fast as I can. For all I know, Stiff Lips, Motive, Nichelle or
whatever I'm s'posed to call you today, you'll come home and find us both
passed out on the bed. No, I don't think so, but I am going to get drunk very
soon. I'm ashamed of this shit. I want to kill the World. I don't like lies
and liars. This is very painful. That is one sleazy motherfucker. I hate
both worlds, the one into which I was born and the one I've created, which
is obviously far out of my control. I give up. I can do no more. I'm going
to get drunk now, with or without Katie. Nichelle, you once wrote us that
you could imagine me as a rapist, that you could imagine yourself as a rapist.
I don't fucking trust myself, let alone anyone else. I hate life. I can't
go on. Whatever the fucking stupid line from En attendant Godot is. I don't
understand what I have done, don't dnatsunder, don't give a fuck, don't,
no, know, no... RECTVM VINVM.
From: Jenipher
Date: 9 September 1996
Subject: ummm
One more thing, because I wasn't very clear before. I am not B in the log
Nichelle just forwarded. I assume it is obvious from the log contents, but
I wanted to state that clearly.
Allset
From: Nichelle
Date: 9 September 1996
Subject: reply
I tried to respond line by line. It is too hard to do, and it is merely
me saying this is a lie, this is not a lie, this is something of both...
What can all of that mean? It means nothing. He says one thing and I say
another and you decide what you believe. I have nothing to lose if you don't
believe me, except maybe Gaby's trust, and nothing to gain if you do. I have
edited the log and will send it to you without comment. Perhaps later I will
say more.
She did the cutting...
most of the scars she had...were from before we even met..
we shared a blood-fetish..
and she was very ultra-submissive...
because she decided at one point that she did not want that anymore..
but there was a couple of occasions when she requested bondage, and a one
occasion, when she was in a strange mood, that I cut her...
and it was a mutual desire..
and refused to do it again, even when she urged me to..
at the time, I know it excited her a great deal...
we had consistently shared a consensual rape fantasy...
she had been raped in the past and it dwelled in her mind..and i won't deny
it was a fantasy of mine...
one night we decided to act it out...
it was totally talked about beforehand
So we did it
and I was somewhat rough, and I took her by force...
somewhere she decided that she wasn't enjoying it, that it ws too much...
and I could kind of tell when it happened, but I was inside her then, and
I
was gripped by it..
I should have stopped, but
I didn't...
and, well, there's no excuse for that...
I told myself, and still do that he struggles were part of the act, as
they'd started out...I dunno..
at the time, I like to think it was really too much to expect me to stop...
But being honest, I think I did rape her, by finishing ,and not stopping
when I had any doubt whatsoever...
but I did *not* take her unwillingly...
afterward, she wanted to move up here..
And then, somewhere along end-feg to beginning-march, she got cold..
and then just in mid-july, I got this moo-mail from her, totally out of
the
blue,
saying that she had friends who wanted to kill me, and that I had raped
her...
but I'm not willing to take total blame for it
I still dunno what happened to turn her on me the way she did.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 9 September 1996
Subject: I raped Katie
Sure, I can call the cops and make a pretty good case against myself. I
was big, bad Gabe, her French teacher. She was under twenty-one. I knew that.
I gave her alcohol, bought her alcohol, took her home and fucked her. Move
out the way, motherfuckers. I'm going to kill someone today.
From: Kathleen
Date: 9 September 1996
Subject: Re: I raped Katie
Dear Gaby,
you wish - you impotent piece of shit.
From: Nichelle
Date: 9 September 1996
Subject: Hell.
Gaby say s te contest is to see who writes the better e=mail while whe're
in the lab. I took a cab home after I read his letter. First I tried to convince
campus security to dribe me home, but they couldn't unless I told them what
was going on. What, I should maybe have let them read the e-mail, the log?
I ran from the apartment to the lab, happy to find Gaby there. I knew someone
had been home, wondered if he went out somewhere and I woulnd't be able to
find him. Neither of us is well. I'm a little better off because I know everything
that happened. All he has is my words and my texts, and of course what others
say as well. I *did* send a moo-mail message to Canadian, but I didn't say
anyone wanted to kill him. I don't know what to say. I guess it is OK to rape
somebody if you make it seem like they asked for it?
Allset, Strawtop... you two were good to me on the MOO this morning. Murder,
don't send the Paris Conservatory paper if it isn't good. Send me your best
shit- if it's program notes or stuff from the flute list or other papers...
I don't want to put up something you call a hack job.
What can I say? These are just words, letters, a stack of papers, data.
I have nothing else to say. I will write more later.
Nichelle
From: Patricia
Date: 9 September 1996
Subject: RE: I raped Katie
Why do you have to be such an asshole? You want to kill this list, you have
the power, pull the plug. You want to ruin your relationship with Nichelle,
that's between you and Nichelle. You want to get mean, drunk and ugly? Too
late, you're already there. I don't think you need to pull the rest of us
into your psychosis. After you get good and drunk, try not to step out into
oncoming traffic, unless, of course, that's what you want to do.
Rectum Gabriel:
Strawtop
]
From: Werner
Date: 9 September 1996
Subject: set me free
Dear friends,
I am asking you to please remove my address from the list. I ask you to
please do it quietly, by just removing it from you posts, and since most
posts here are replies to yours, I would eventually stop receiving mail.
There is even the chance that the herzog@io.com account could vanish from
the earth soon, and of course *this* would be a solution, but it could imply
an amount of bounced e-mail, I am not sure, and of course I would so much
hate to spam other people's mailboxes.
Yes, I am asking you to please keep it quiet. The utter dislike I have for
public showdowns and exhibitionism would never make me part of flashy complaints
when I can deal with it with you, privately; and another thing with me is
that I constantly try to avoid arguing with fools. So, there is no chance
for Gabriel to see me pick on (say) Tesla's or killjoy's messages, because
I don't belong to the same clubs they belong to. Call this 'fucking Eurosnobbery'
if you like (not my kind of language anyway), but please do so in private
and not on the list. All I want is to stay as much away from certain people
as my degrees of freedom allow,
I would be grateful, and we would still have the MOO to keep in touch, of
course.
Sorry if this ends up disappointing you, but I am sure that by now you know
me well enough to understand.
Thank you,
Vania.
From: Werner
Date: 9 September 1996
Subject: trouble
It's ok, Nichelle, I understand you are having trouble, and on top of that
that you are not a geek (this is a compliment). So, never mind if it cannot
be done rapidly. Just keep my wish in your mind, please, and only refer
to me in mails directed to me and not on the list anymore, or at most with
Murder since he is the only one with whom we seem to share some (vital) interests.
I got an upsurge of sickness after killjoy's posts and Tesla's, and the
'I raped Katie'-kind of posts. I want to be out of the club because there
are members I profoundly abhor. I am sure you know this, and I am just equally
sure that you know that I am not thinking of you.
Sorry about the overall stress,
Vania.
From: Werner
Date: 9 September 1996
Subject: secrecy
Dear Nichelle,
all I am asking is to be left out of the list, and with me any mention of
me, if possible, of course. I extend this prayer to Gabriel. This is not something
between me and you, or between me and Gabriel, but it's between me and other
members of the list I don't want to hear about them. I don't want their names
pop up on my computer screen in my home if possible, and I don't want them
to have my name on their lips, if possible. So, definitely, it's not about
hiding my letters to you from Gabriel. Again, I am choosing my own friends,
and I don't believe in the saying that the friends of my friends are my friends.
It's too often the opposite.
So, again, don't take offense because of my request (you and Gabriel).
Thank you for removing my name from the list.
See you soon,
Vania.
From: Nichelle
Date: 9 September 1996
Subject: The Mean, the Drunk, and the Ugly
At least we had a decent lunch. Gaby had two (2) glasses of J&B, and
three (3) glasses of merlot (I think), and I ate nachos (negatron, are we
now soulmates?) and Gabriel ate a Reuben sandwich, and we followed it up with
coffee and dessert (G: some weird-ass cheesecake, N: carrot cake). Gaby told
me to tell you that he hates all of you bastards. Hmm.. It has been a weird
day, possibly the weirdest since I flew here. Kalamity Cate, I'm glad you
were in the lab today and saw Gabriel, that you were a friendly face, smile,
and hello. I'd like to meet you sometime, under better circumstances, although
he tells me you are very beautiful, and I only like ugly women. (Just kidding.)
I don't know what all of this shit means, I saw Gaby in horrible pain this
afternoon, alternating between the cigarette, the glass of water, and a grape
juice bottle filled with whisky. I am helpless. We are all suffering. Strawtop
and Allset, I am going to send a log of my MOO conversations from this morning,
as soon as I get up to the library. Murder, I'm sorry I missed you on RL
MOO.
Gaby, don't go crazy on me. I'm a tough bitch, and I can take it. We'll
fight through all of the bullshit and evil.
What can I say right now. I'll be back tonight to write more e-mail.
Nichelle
From: Nichelle
Date: 9 September 1996
Subject: log two
*** Connected ***
Alibi
All I need now.
page allset Hello.
(from [insert place name]) Allset hugs you good morning. How are you holding
up?
page allset What do you mean, holding up? Things are crazy, but the things
he said, many of them, are lies.
(from [insert place name]) Allset nods, I guessed as much. I got that log
several weeks ago, and I just didn't think it was worth it to make things
any more difficult for you by showing it to you. It is obvious that so much
of it is a lie.
page allset I am going to reply to it line by line. Things with Gabriel
are difficult. I didn't ask for this. I was just trying to warn that girl.
Why is my life hell now? Have you got logs that speak against Sean?
(from [insert place name]) Allset shakes her head, I don't have anything
else. I haven't really disccused it with anyone. Just a bit with Colin.
page allset OK. I understand. You see, it is my word against his. I don't
know how we can get anywhere.
She pages, "I am sorry to butt in, but do you feel comfortable replying
to it line by line on the listserv? This seems like something that
is between you and Gabe. I know -I- don't need any explanations, and I doubt
anyone else will even consider taking his word over yours."
page allset Nothing in my life is private. What happens between Gabe and
me is the business of the World.
(from [insert place name]) Allset sighs, when he told me, so long ago, about
cutting you, I didn't even know it was you. I definietly didn't log that.
(from [insert place name]) Allset nods, I suppose so. That just seems unnecessarily
hard on you, to have this so public.
page allset It is. But it isn't just about me. It is about my relationship
with Gabriel and what this means in our relationship.
(from [insert place name]) Allset nods.
page allset I can't respond line by line. It is just too hard.
Strawtop pages, "Hi, how are you feeling?"
page strawtop frustrated. What does my word mean? Gaby doesn't believe me
now, I have done nothing and I feel like I'm on trial.
Strawtop pages, "Gabe doesn't believe you? he's so easily swayed by one
log?"
page strawtop he hasn't seen the log yet. He doubts me, he doesn't say he
doesn't believe me.
Strawtop pages, "It reminded me of the William Kennedy Smith trial 'she
liekd roghu sex, (jessus, where did my typing skills go?) 'She liked rough
sex, so I just gave her what she wanted.'"
Strawtop pages, "He doubts you, but why should you have lied to him? I mean,
if you really had gone to that guy wanting to be raped and that was a part
of your 'play', wouldn't SAGR know that from the interactions the two of you
have had over the past 6 months?"
page strawtop If I wanted to seriously accuse this boy, I could do it in
a court of law. I just want to live my life. I did not lie when I wrote that
e-mail, or any time after. I want nothing to do with him. Gabriel thinks this
discussion is unaviodable. I don't want my entire life to be about rape. I
chose not to bring this boy to a trial, and part of the reason for that was
to avoid the kind of problems we're having now. I can't prove anything. He
can't prove anything. I didn't bleed on his carpet. It was over eight months
ago.
From: Nichelle
Date: 9 September 1996
Subject: Bibliography
The Bibliography. No complaints. All suggestions were taken seriously, all
decisions were based on several things, including their relevancy to this
list/MOO/web.
Bartok Sonata for two pianos and percussion
Berg Fuenf Orchesterlider etc.
Ives Symphony No. 2
Orff Carmina Burana
Schoenberg Pierrot Lunaire
Shostakovich Suite on verses of Michelangelo
Shostakovich Symphony No. 7 "Leningrad"
Stravinsky Pulcinella
Okay, you can complain if you like. Later-
Nichelle
From: Joy
Date: 10 September 1996
Subject: ...
Christ how quickly things have turned so ugly, it's a fucking slugfest.
well, i guess that was the point, to have all the brutal honesty (er opinions?)
in the light. no one ever said it would be a pretty sight. but it makes me
wonder why i even watch all of this, i have enough chaos in my own life..
i can't remember who has said what in regards to my writing so this is just
to whomever it may concern: bitterness w/music: hell yeah i'm bitter. a jack
of all trades and master of none. you would be too. incoherent writings: of
course it's practically incoherent, that's the point you dolts. i don't have
the courage (or something to that effect) to spill my guts quite like Nichelle
can. maybe desire. by keeping things vague it's harder to be attacked b/c
people aren't so sure what the hell it is that they would be attacking. i
admire Nichelle's brutal-no-bullshit-writing. harsh yet refreshing in the
same light.. when i first read the stuff on the webpage by her (my first introduction
to the type of writing on the list) i was completely blown away by the complete
honest gut-pouring. unfortunately, doing that sort of thing leaves one completely
completely vulnerable to attack... it's hard for me to imagine Nichelle's
views being attacked however. i've tried to keep away from all of that stuff
as much as possible. i empathize, i know what that rape shit is like. for
Those Who Have Not Experienced The Wonders Of .. well.. it's like explaining
uh. (can't think of anything clever to say) i wouldn't expect one to understand
- how can one understand what one has never even experienced? one can empathize,
at best. and actively plot ways to prevent it from happening to one's self.
like everything else, it's never as clear as everyone would like for it to
be. (i remember one time after talking to my psy about a particular um event
and i asked him if he thought that i had been raped. he said, "well i think
you experienced it as rape" i thought that to be a very interesting way of
putting things.. another thing that adds to all of the complications is that
alot of times there is some pleasure actually received. which obviously fucks
everything up. i never meant to go on that rambling rampage i've been trying
to avoid this topic but oh well. i have some of my own personal info/data/experience
from the uh.. i'm not sure how to refer to him.. not incredibly loved guy
that everyone talks about here? oh gabe - how did you ever think that you
could 'control' rlmoo (you said something to that effect earlier, how it
was out of yr control) to me that doesn't make any sense. how can you control
other people and what they say and expect them to like it? then again, i
don't know shit about moos.. let's talk about premature graying. ok, maybe
not. i keep sleeping through all of these things that i should be doing.
i think i spend the rest of my time procrastinating. arg. out of patience..
From: Nichelle
Date: 10 September 1996
Subject: exhausted
Yesterday's crisis left me completely burned out. Gabriel slept for about
five hours in the evening, while I went up to the computer lab. I returned,
made a phone call to my mother about a student loan, Gaby woke up and we returned
to the lab. He got very drunk, we ate dinner at some time around midnight,
and for the four hours he slept, I could not because he was moaning and waking
up and restless. I was an evil bitch when his alarm did not wake him. It
took five minutes of coaxing before he acknowledged my voice, another five
or ten to get him out of bed. He threw a tantrum in the kitchen, making as
much noise as possible, slamming the silverware into the sink. I asked him,
"Are you *trying* to be noisy?" "Yes." When he let the teapot whistle for
nearly a minute, I got up, slammed the fridge door shut, and flipped the
lid on the teapot. He fell asleep again while trying to get dressed. I still
managed to catch the 7:20 bus to class, on almost no sleep.
I hope that Bucephalus comes back today. I am tired. Gabriel and I talked
a lot yesterday about the World, some mean things were said, and some strange
things happened.
There are some things that raise some pretty strong questions, Allset. How
did you get the log from B? What exactly is your relationship with C? What
the hell does this mean:
I find myself in an odd situation, hearing her
rapist beg me to forgive him, to understand, to visit him and
let him prove he isn't a monster.
What can it mean except that you are in contact with him? This makes me
extremely uneasy. I don't know what is true, who is lying. I know that I
am not lying.
I don't want what seems to be happening on Lambda. Last night, negatron
and Gabriel had a more or less public discussion about this in the Living
Room. We left when I noticed that C was in there. I was in my own room, and
I don't know what was said, and I don't know what he may have heard. I was
very clear about this with Gabriel- as much as people may know, and as many
people who know it, my life is not to be discussed in the Living Room or
any other public room. It is bad enough already. Let's try not to make it
worse. I will @recycle my character before I will get involved in MOO politics,
arbitration, or whatever the fuck it is.
I am very tired and very grouchy, and I'm going to go talk to the Lemoyne
Loan Sharks now, so have a nice day, and wake me up when the computer arrives.
Nichelle
From: Jenipher
Date: 10 September 1996
Subject: My very own rapist
B paged me, said C was desperate that I speak with him. I refused. B asked
if she could email me the log that included C's explanation. Apparently, it
wasn't very difficult for C to guess who had warned Nichelle that B had been
meeting with C quite regularly. I told B she could email me the log. Why
the fuck not? C already had my email address. So B did so. I read it and
was horrified but not too surprised. I had been pretty sure C would try the
bdsm, she asked for it, we negotiated it, tack. I held onto the log, asked
Colin what I should do with it. He advised me to stay the fuck out of it,
and I agreed, deciding that no good could come of presenting a log which
included statements that could never be verified or proven to be false. I
have kept the log since August 24th. I forwarded you the original, Nichelle,
and you must have seen that it was from B. So why are you asking how I got
it?
After I received the log, I unrefused C and spoke with him a bit about it.
He was smooth and contrite, sorry and sympathetic to my plight. I didn't fall
for it for a second. I told him no matter what had happened, and I generally
believed Nichelle's version of the story, I could never trust him, and I would
prefer to end our acquaintance. He accepted this with grace -- what else
could he do? And I haven't spoken with him since.
I love being on trial. Really, I am all grown-up now, and I can make my
own decisions. I told you once that I had no desire to meet him, that rapists
aren't quite my style, but you failed to believe me. I am old and married,
wizened and grey. I am not going anywhere to meet anyone. I have used my teeth,
nails, knives, legs, stiletto heels, pantyhose that couldn't quite be ripped
through by sorority boy hands, to fend off would-be rapists. I don't need
that again. I never fucking needed that. My father and my uncle gave me plenty
of it when I was a child. I had enough of it in June, hearing him reach for
the cuffs, whisper, "I heard about your rape fantasy. I'm going to make it
come true for you." I've been there, in that place where the lines between
consent/safeword, play/rape, are so fuzzy that it becomes impossible to know
where rape begins and domination ends. It was too much for me, having to
use every ounce of intelligence I had to convince him that he was overstepping
the limit I had set. I refused to say my safeword, forced him to listen to
me, his submissive little whore, until he understood that he wasn't going
to fuck me. And he did understand, and he fell asleep in my arms, my beautiful
red-headed boy. I cradled him and heard him whisper that he loved me before
he slept. I knew his eyes were dead, I tasted marijuana smoke in his mouth,
but it didn't matter, because in that instant he became mine as much as I
was his.
I don't know where this is fucking coming from. Last night I cried myself
to sleep wondering why I let someone cuff me, strip me, and beat the shit
out of me. I cried when I remembered his making me come as we rode to the
leather club with eight other people. The whisper, "Look at that, you slut.
You came, and all these people know it." Nichelle, this world is ripping me
apart. Your experiences, my past with C, the parallels between the man in
Chicago and C's story, have me frazzled and teary-eyed. It's as if C, in
constructing his lies, took my experience and made it his.
Please, don't drag me into your real lives. You and Gabe have far more to
discuss right now than whether or not I am in contact with C.
Teri -- you were/are a wizard on IdMOO?
Allset
From: Nichelle
Date: 10 September 1996
Subject: dragging you in
Allset, I am not an idiot. I may be writing these things because I'm tired
and pissed off, but they are true. We're all grown-ups here, at least most
of us, and you can talk to whoever you like.
You told me that this girl named B was hanging out with C, shouldn't we
warn her, so I did. Can't you understand why it is confusing to me that you
should have a log from her not long after? So do I understand what you are
telling me? C wanted to speak with you, send a message through B, C had your
e-mail address, B sent you this log...? So why am I asking how you got it?
It is not clear to me. Do you know B? Are you being entirely truthful? I
believe, and my memory is quite good, but not perfect, that you told me C
knew nothing about you IRL. You can say and do anything you like, but your
story is not consistent.
"Please don't drag me into your real lives." What the fuck? What do you
think this list is, Allset? You know what ingredients are in our dinner,
about our sex life, you know the details, large and small, of our daily lives.
There is no question that each of you is in our real lives, and to some extent,
depending on how willing you are to put your ass on the line, we are in yours
too. Allset, I give you credit for being willing to put your ass on the line.
You are already in our real lives, whether we dragged you or not. When I
moved here to live with Gabriel, I more or less gave up having secrets from
strangers on the internet. The fact is, we are in a major discussion/debate/war/whatever
about C. Things are said here that are personal, dangerous, and my *LIFE*,
my *PAST* is being talked about with a group of strangers in e-mail, and sometimes
in the Living Room. Allset, I don't think your story is consistent, I believe
you are in contact with C, clearly he can communicate with you any time he
likes. I like you, and I think you write good e-mail, but I don't know if
I can trust you or believe you. If you are on this list *and* in direct contact
with C, it affects me. I don't know what you say to him. For all I know,
you could be forwarding this shit to him. This is bullshit. I'm going home.
From: Jenipher
Date: 10 September 1996
Subject: Again
I hope you are just tired, Nichelle, and that when you wake up it all becomes
claer to you. I will try once more to explain the situation. I despised C
even before I knew he was a fucking rapist. (Is that like a cunning linguist?)
My story is consistent, if you would just try to read it and calm down. I
was sitting in my room. B paged me and said she had been talking to C about
what you told her. I asked how she knew I was the one who had told you. She
said C had guessed. I admitted, yes, I was the one who informed you that B
was spending a lot of time with C. Then B said C really wanted to talk to
me. I declined. B said she had a log he would like me to see, then. I said
sure. B emailed me the log. C knows my email address. He sent me a picture
of himself via email once. I am guessing he didn't just email me himself
because he was scared, and he didn't want me to rip him apart for invading
my offMOO life. I am not sure though. I don't think the boy even knows where
my web page is, and he certainly doesn't have my phone number or address.
Just my name and my email address. I never lied to you. I am also not
lying now, but then, that is just as unproveable as whether or not you were
raped. I am no longer in contact with C. I am damned sure not forwarding him
the messages from this listserv. I don't recall -ever- sending him email,
in fact, even when I first knew him. I know you probably can't understand
my motivation for speaking with him. (Oh yeah, one more thing. Yes, B did
page me and send me the log the VERY DAY you spoke with her and warned
her. Doesn't that make sense? She ran to C and told him everything right after
you logged off.)
So, my motivation for speaking with him after I received the log: to hear
his side of the story. I don't know what happened. Only the two of you
know what happened. If I ever found out, without a shadow of a doubt, what
actually happened, my opinion of you wouldn't change either way. I
almost understand your distrust. Almost. But not quiet. I have been nothing
but a friend to you all through this.
Why the fuck is it that Joy and Eve both know who your rapist is and neither
of them have sworn to you to cut off all contact with him, but you don't jump
down their throats? It makes no sense. I, on the other hand, have told you
I am no longer in contact with him. Oh well, I hope you start feeling better.
Goodbye,
Allset
From: Nichelle
Date: 10 September 1996
Subject: Re: Again
Bucephalus is home, I'm going to bed. Allset, I have no reason to believe
that Joy is in contact with C, and Eve is not on this list. I'm tired, I'd
be surprised if I slept more than two hours, and I don't know what to think.
From: Jenipher
Date: 10 September 1996
Subject: (no subject)
Joy wrote:
i have some of my own personal info/data/experience from the uh.. i'm not
sure how to refer to him.. not incredibly loved guy that everyone talks about
here?
That's why you have just as much reason to suspect she could be in contact
with him as you have to suspect I am, Nichelle. Even though I already told
you exactly when I talked to him and exactly what I said. I don't know why
the fuck I am harping on this, but I came home, made almond chicken the good
old-fashioned Chinese wok way, and the more vegetables I cut, the more furious
I became. So, I hope you were able to rest, and I hope you can eventually
forgive me and realize I can be trusted. Until then, I am just pissed off,
and I hate keeping things bottled up. Hell, no one else on the world does,
why the fuck should I?
Allset
From: Joy
Date: 10 September 1996
Subject: ....
onto to this list's current fav subject: well, i'm not sure how to refer
to him.. to who allset or whoever the hell has been saying whatever: you must
be more stupid than i had ever thought if you think that i'm still in contact
with Mr.-I'm-Fucked-In-The-Head. the last time i talked to him was around
(in my estimate) about a year and a half ago. we talked over a period of
a month, at max. he tried to get me to join his 'stable' or whatever the fuck
he calls it. the last contacts we had he was still trying to recruit me.
i've only talked with him on the moo and ever since it was made clear that
i was a plant, and a stubborn plant at that, and that i had no interest in
anything sexual (or anything else with him) there has been no communication
besides trivial how's the weather type shit in a public room.
my sleep schedule is messing me up. i overslept for some important stuff
today (yes, again) it's going to take some work for me to cover my ass on
these things... arg.
i'm wearing a stupendous pair of pants today. everyone should see them and
admire. such a wonderful shade of blue...
the weather is gradually starting to get cooler (hooray!!) no one has yet
mentioned what they may be planning to be on halloween..(hint hint) i suggest
a massive group shoelace cleaning party.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 10 September 1996
Subject: La Casquette de Charles Bovary
La deuxième page de Madame Bovary offre un excellent exemple du style
discursif et narratif de Gustave Flaubert. Le texte met en scène les
débuts scolaires de Charles, le futur époux de l'héroïne,
au collège de Rouen. Il fait partie de l'incipit, cinq pages rédigées
à la première personne du pluriel (sans que le narrateur ne
soit explicitement identifié) qui débouchent, sans transition
formelle, sur l'histoire à la troisième personne à focalisation
interne variable. Nous savons seulement que le chroniqueur a étudié
avec Charles et écrit longtemps après les événements
qu'il décrit. La problématique du passage se trouve dans la
tension entre le discours et le récit dans le déroulement de
l'action :
— Levez-vous, dit le professeur.
Il se leva : sa casquette tomba. Toute la classe se mit à rire.
Il se baissa pour la reprendre. Un voisin la fit tomber d'un coup de coude
; il la ramassa encore une fois.
— Débarassez-vous donc de votre casque, dit le professeur, qui était
un homme d'esprit.
Il y eut un rire éclatant des écoliers qui décontenança
le pauvre garçon, si bien qu'il ne savait s'il fallait garder sa casquette
à la main, la laisser par terre ou la mettre sur sa tête. Il
se rassit et la posa sur ses genoux.
— Levez-vous, reprit le professeur, et dites-moi votre nom.
Le nouveau articula, d'une voix bredouillante, un nom inintelligible.
— Répétez !
Le même bredouillement de syllabes se fit entendre, couvert par les
huées de la classe.
— Plus haut ! cria le maître, plus haut !
Le nouveau, prenant alors une résolution extrême, ouvrit une
bouche démesurée et lança à pleins poumons, comme
pour appeler quelqu'un, ce mot : Charbovari.
Ce fut un vacarme qui s'élanca d'un bond, monta en crescendo, avec
des éclats de voix aigus (on hurlait, on aboyait, on trépignait,
on répétait : Charbovari ! Charbovari !), puis qui roula en
notes isolées, se calmant à grand'peine, et parfois qui reprenait
tout à coup sur la ligne d'un banc où saillissait encore ça
et là, comme un pétard mal éteint, quelque rire étouffé.
Cependant, sous la pluie des pensums, l'ordre peu à peu se rétablit
dans la classe, et le professeur, parvenu à saisir le nom de Charles
Bovary, se l'étant fait dicter, épeler et relire, commanda tout
de suite au pauvre diable d'aller s'asseoir sur le banc de paresse, au pied
de la chaire. Il se mit en mouvement, mais, avant de partir, hésita.
— Que cherchez-vous ? demanda le professeur.
— Ma cas..., fit timidement le nouveau, promenant autour de lui des regards
inquiets.
— Cinq cent vers à toute la classe ! exclamé d'une voix furieuse
arrêta, comme le Quos ego, une bourrasque nouvelle. — Restez donc tranquilles
! continuait le professeur indigné, et, s'essuyant le front avec son
mouchoir qu'il venait de prendre dans sa toque : Quant à vous le nouveau,
vous me copierez vingt fois le verbe ridiculus sum.
Puis, d'une voix plus douce :
— Eh ! vous la retrouverez, votre casquette ; on ne vous l'a pas volée
!
La scène ressemble à une expérimentation pavlovienne
interprétée par Charlie Chaplin. Les trois mouvements du texte
commencent chacun par un stimulus du professeur (« Levez-vous, »
« Levez-vous, » « Que cherchez-vous ? »), qui provoque
une action de Charles, qui provoque une réaction de la classe, qui
provoque une contre-réaction du professeur. Le maître parle.
L'élève agit. Ses camarades réagissent. Le maître
contre-réagit. La démarche dialectique part du récit,
en passant par le discours indirect, pour se résoudre dans le discours
direct. Cette progression montrera les solutions techniques de Flaubert aux
problèmes stylistiques de la narration.
Au début du passage le professeur donne un ordre à Charles
: « Levez-vous ». Ce dernier s'exécute. Le narrateur décrit
l'action en deux phrases d'un parallélisme visible au niveau spatio-typographique
: « Il se leva, » « Il se baissa ». Cette ressemblance
morpho-syntaxique donne du relief à la dissemblance comique d'orientation.
Les pronoms de la troisième personne s’accumulent dans une colonne
anaphorique (au sens grammatical et rhétorique du terme) qui fonctionne
comme un trompe-l’œil, car le troisième est impersonnel, n’a donc pas
d'antécédent. En fait la classe va commenter l’embarras de
son nouveau membre de manière à interrompre l’effort de celui-ci.
Le mouvement antipodal de Charles et de sa casquette, si cruellement décrite
dans le paragraphe précédent (« une de ces choses, enfin,
dont la laideur muette a des profondeurs d’expression comme le visage d’un
imbécile. »), suscite un éclat de rire qui ne manque
pas de faire accroître sa gêne. De nouveau le texte incite à
une lecture verticale, car la homéotéleute rélie les
verbes mit, fit et dit. Le narrateur raconte toute l'action de Charles et
de la classe dans de courtes phrases au passé simple avec seuls un
deux-points et un point-virgule comme marques de lien logique. Le récit,
le rapport des faits, tend, jusqu'au vingtième siècle, à
privilégier l'emploi du prétérit et de la parataxe. Dans
les paragraphes suivants la syntaxe va basculer dans un tout autre sens.
Le professeur lance alors un deuxième impératif, plus sévère,
avec ce donc impatient et ironique. Peut-être le narrateur ressent-il
des scrupules rétrospectifs face à cette Schadenfreude à
laquelle il a jadis participé, car il se moque du maître en le
traitant d'homme d'esprit, ce à quoi il ne ressemble guère.
La classe réagit encore une fois par le rire, mais la phrase déborde
de propositions subordonnées qui dépendent du pronom relatif
qui et des conjonctions si bien que, si et ou. Dans les trois premiers paragraphes
il n'y a même pas de et. Le style indirect, introduit ici par savait,
tend, selon les transformations nécessaires à la concordance
des temps, à favoriser l'emploi de l'imparfait et de l'hypotaxe. En
dépit de sa confusion grandissante, Charles trouve une solution intermédiaire
et, nous le verrons, éphémère au dilemme posé
par son couvre-chef.
Dans la répétition de « Levez-vous, » et la variation
: « et dites-moi votre nom, » qui annoncent le deuxième
mouvement du texte, apparaît le burlesque classique qui domine toute
la scène. Le narrateur ne dit pas explicitement si Charles se lève
en effet, mais il y a tout lieu de le croire. En revanche, pour la première
fois dans le passage nous ne savons ce que devient la casquette. À
supposer que Charles obéisse, soit il la tient dans la main, soit il
l'a posée sur le banc, soit elle est de nouveau tombée par terre,
ce qui paraît peu probable, vu que personne ne réagit. Un parallélisme
verbal vient s'ajouter à la redite comique. Les articles directs s'empilent
comme auparavant les pronoms, et la répétition de l'antonomase
« Le nouveau » sert à souligner le schème. Contrairement
à plus haut l'intrus (celui qui ne représente pas Charles)
se trouve au milieu de la colonne avec l'art plus symétrique d'une
composition étudiée. Cette esthétique de pureté
formelle correspond mieux au rapport des paroles ou des pensées qu'à
la simple narration des faits.
L'action linguistique remplace ici l'action cinétique, ainsi que
le discours indirect se substitue au récit. Charles ne fait rien,
mais il parle. Au moins il s'y efforce. Le surnom qu'on lui donne semble
le priver de son identité, car il ne sait plus dire comment il s'appelle.
La phrase fournit un parfait exemple de la poétique flaubertienne
: le groupe nomino-verbal de sept syllabes, un complément de manière
de cinq syllabes, le complément d'objet direct de sept syllabes. Le
sémantème articul- se divise en deux sèmes, la composante
physique démentie par le premier adjectif, la composante intellectuelle
par le second. Le professeur, dont la patience commence à s'user, donne
un quatrième ordre, qui ne réussit guère mieux que ses
prédécesseurs. Sujet à une ironie croissante, le maître,
ne s'étant pas fait obéir, obéit à ses propres
impératifs en répétant la phrase plus haut et en criant.
Les participes couvert et prenant revêtent l'aspect de l'imparfait
(itératif et inchoatif respectivement) par rapport aux verbes au passé
simple fit, ouvrit et lança. Cette antinomie, nous l'avons déjà
vu, correspond à l'opposition du style indirect au style direct. Enfin
Charles arrive à dire quelque chose : « Charbovari ».
Le collégien réalise, à la syncope d'un phonème
près, la transcription phonétique de son nom. Cette lacune,
néanmoins, suffit pour semer le désordre dans la classe, que
Flaubert va déployer toutes les resources de son art à dépeindre.
Une série de métaphores organise la longue période
qui décrit la réaction des élèves. Bien qu'il
y ait une comparaison à la fin : « comme un pétard mal
éteint, » cet élément non-récurrent ne
joue aucun rôle structural dans la phrase. Le narrateur utilise six
expressions de trois champs sémantiques différents pour représenter
des phénomènes d'ordre linguistique :
MÉTAPHORE : DOMAINE
« s'élança d'un bond » : locomotion
« monta en crescendo » : musique
« on hurlait » : zoologie
« on aboyait » : zoologie
« roula en notes isolées » : musique
« saillissait » : locomotion
La forme ABCCBA, celle d'un chiasme enchâssé dans un second,
apparaît nettement selon l'origine des comparants. La phrase, d'apparence
si spontanée, avec une cascade de verbes et une proposition indépendante
entre parenthèses, recèle une structure rhétorique très
étudiée et très classique. Ce luxe d'images donne au
texte son considérable pouvoir mimétique. La structure grammaticale
s'avere non moins étudiée. En fait, tout ce qui suit l'attribut
vacarme dépend de lui et ne constitue qu'une longue proposition relative
:
SUJET : VERBE : PRÉDICAT
« ce fut un vacarme »
« qui s'élança d'un bond »
idem « monta en crescendo »
« on hurlait » ø
« on aboyait » ø
« on trépignait » ø
« on répétait : Charbovari ! »
« qui roula en notes isolées »
idem « se calmant à grand'peine »
« qui reprenait sur la ligne d'un banc »
« quelque rire saillissait où »
Après huit pronoms nominatifs un seul substantif remplit la fonction
de sujet. Les onze verbes, en revanche, hétérogènes et
truculents, vont jusqu'à produire des effets onomatopéiques.
Il ne s'agit, d'ailleurs, que de verbes d'expression ou liés à
la parole. Enfin l'absence totale de complément d'objet direct ou d'attribution
confirme l'hypothèse du style indirect, d'où, encore une fois,
les six imparfaits et le participe présent. Quant au pétard,
il va en quelque sorte se rallumer dans la phrase suivante.
Le professeur met fin à l'agitation et poursuit son dialogue avec
Charles. Le timbre de douze bilabiales sourdes explosives (sur une centaine
de consonnes) résonne sur tout le paragraphe. Plus d'un mot sur sept
commence par un [p]. Cette allitération extrêmement riche renforce
le thème de la punition et sa métaphore : « sous la pluie
des pensums ». Deux verbes au passé simple, se rétablit
et commanda, encadrent une proposition subordonnée dont l'aspect se
revèle perfectif (rétrospectif) pour les deux participes (parvenu
et se l'étant fait) et progressif (inchoatif) pour le second seulement.
De nouveau victime de l'ironie dramatique, le maître change de casquette,
pour ainsi dire, avec son élève. Où naguère il
lisait les dictées, maintenant il en écrit une. Si le narrateur
ne ménage toujours pas le professeur, il semble une deuxième
fois prendre pitié de Charles, car il remplace l'antonomase «
Le nouveau » par un surnom plus tendre : « [le] pauvre diable
». Comme le récit domine le premier mouvement du texte et le
discours indirect en domine le second, dans le troisième Flaubert va
céder la parole à ses personnages.
Face à l'hésitation rebelle de son élève, le
professeur pose une question au lieu de donner un ordre. Cette velléité
de comprendre marque un tournant dans le comportement du maître, qui
devient du coup plus compatissant. Charles réussit mieux face à
la nouvelle stratégie pédagogique. Il arrive presque à
formuler un syntagme complet, qui repose, sans y répondre, la question
de savoir où se trouve le châpeau. L'ordre chronologique de la
réaction et de la contre-réaction s'intervertit ; celle-ci précède
celle-là. La technique met l'accent sur le discours direct, par lequel
commencent quatre des cinq derniers paragraphes (contre deux seulement des
cinq premiers, et trois des cinq suivants). Pour la première fois
le maître parle directement à la classe. Curieusement cette injonction,
après une apposition qualificative, sert de sujet au verbe arrêta.
Nous nous serions plutôt attendu à une construction de ce genre
: « exclama-t-il d'une voix furieuse. Ce cri arrêta... ».
Dans cette réification de la phrase, la parole devient un acte qui
a des conséquences, le rétablissement de l'ordre et la rédaction
d'une version latine de cinq cents vers.
Le narrateur compare la sanction du professeur à la reproche que
Neptune lance aux dieux du vent Euros et Zéphyr dans le premier livre
de l'Énéide (vers 135). Or chez Virgile l'aposiopèse
rend implicite la menace, tandis que le maître ne s'interrompt pas
en infligeant un châtiment effectif aux élèves, associés
par métaphore à Borée (bourrasque). Le professeur reprend
la parole, sans que le tiret n'entraîne un alinéa. La conjonction
de coordination et n'introduit pas, comme on pourrait s'y attendre, une proposition
indépendante. Elle débouche simplement sur un deux-points suivi
d'une nouvelle citation sans tiret et sans verbe d'expression. Ce solécisme,
si rare chez Flaubert, montre à quel point le discours direct lui
semble aller de soi dans ce passage ; il ne ressent même plus le besoin
de le signaler au lecteur par des guillemets. La tâche imposée
à Charles paraît, malgré l'emprunt au narrateur du sobriquet
« le nouveau », bien légère comparée ou
rajoutée à une traduction de dix pages. Enfin la dernière
phrase du passage confirme cette clémence et baisse le rideau sur
la scène en renouant une dernière fois avec la casquette disparue.
Tout en faisant avancer l'action, cette page de Madame Bovary montre Flaubert
en proie aux limites stylistiques du récit. La narration à la
première personne ne le tire guère de l'embarras, pas plus que
ne le fera la focalisation interne, où il passe pourtant pour un maître
de l'art. Se lassant progressivement de décrire les faits et les gestes
de ses personnages, il préfère rapporter leurs paroles et leurs
pensées, d'où le célèbre imparfait flaubertien.
Toujours insatisfait des résultats de cette technique, l'auteur se
tourne vers le discours direct, au risque de céder une part de son
autorité à ses personnages. La génération suivante
va pousser encore plus loin cette expérimentation. Marcel Proust,
James Joyce et Alfred Döblin vont, chacun à sa manière,
trouver une solution aux problèmes narratifs de Flaubert, de Henry
James et de Theodor Fontane. Dans l'éclatement cubiste du récit,
en racontant les événements de plusieurs points de vue, ces
romanciers mettront fin au dilemme réaliste.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Jenipher
Date: 10 September 1996
Subject: (no subject)
Umm, fuck you. I am far from stupid. You made my point for me, and I appreciate
it, Joy. Now, why the fuck should I believe you haven't talked to him in a
year and a half? No one believes me when I say I have never really liked him,
and that I ended our acquaintanceship (or whatever) after I read the log.
(Of course I had had him @gagged for quite some time before that.) It's sort
of like Gabe saying he raped Katey (sp?) The fucking point is that anyone
can say anything. The entire world is made up of lies, truths, believing and
not believing. OK, let's see. 16 months ago, or so, C tried the same shit
with me. Wanted me to be his pet, in his stable. I said, fuck that. He also
asked me to call him. He said he couldn't netsex me unless I called him.
At that time, I was a real netsex whore. I did it three or four times a day,
no masturbation, just writing. So I was pissed a