vr
a novel
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
November 1996
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 1 November 1996
Subject: LambdaMOO
The first three names are the characters that Sean (Shawn?) of Edmonton
has on Lambda. That is all I know about him. If you need more
information,
I'd be glad to ask Nichelle or you can ask her yourself. Best of luck.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 2 November 1996
Subject: La fiesta de los muertos
All Saints' Day, yesterday, the day to end the life of a child with no
name. Today, the Day of the Dead, the day to celebrate my late and
latent paternity. We celebrate with Malcolm Lowery who should have died
this day. I think Emily Dickenson said something like that. I've
changed the list. Please take note in your answers, if you answer.
Nichelle was mad that I've been neglecting you. She's recovered her
health. There were second thoughts last night, not on my part. I said,
in bed, just Nichelle, Matilda and I: "They can't put it back." I had
tried to stay away from the decision-making process. I stooped so low
as the typical-asshole French joke: "If indeed it's my kid..." The
Ricard is rushing to my head. This is my second drink after thirty-one
days of painful-painless sobriety. I can't think of a better reason not
to drink than I can think of a reason to drink. We've had a big cooking
day. I made pancakes this morning. We spoke of ways to make French
bread. I've decided to try the buttermilk receipe. I made a salade au
Roquefort for lunch. Nichelle made cranberry jam and a coffee cake this
afternoon. Beethoven plays on. I'm
reading (or re-reading, I can't remember) Lolita, which I find a little
too
Latin in vocabulary. Nichelle finds the child-rape aspect a little
bothersome, as one might imagine. I find it bothersome that all these
MOOassholes are making you, John, read these foolish MOOauthors (I
can't even remember their names.) when the bad boys are out there
waiting to be read. Fuck these pigs. Those who haven't met Chris "The
Kid" Marlowe in a low-life public house have
no need for Kurt Vonnegut or even J.D. Salinger, who is probably better
than
all those Pynchon assholes. I have my own Faustian bargain with
Mephistopheles. I gave up reading, except the newspaper, almost ten
years ago. I only read myself and my e-mail. I really don't give a
fuck. I do wonder about that has-been
child. How could I not do so? I'm not going to give you some
drunk-stupid monologue as the Consul does this day about too many
douchebags and whatnot. It makes one think. I'm a poor man, struggling
to pay the fucking rent and utilities each day. Does this make me unfit
for paternity? Fuck that, it's the poor who repopulate the world each
and every generation. Apparently my balls hold sons and daughters
within them. Nichelle even felt so good as to
blow me this morning. True she had to spit the sperm out, but that's
because she's not in practice, after four weeks of puking (yacking in
her words) as
many as five times in one twenty-four-hour period. Her embouchure
suffers for clarinet playing also. I'm thinking about a lot of things.
John, I think you should kill #147 and the Spivak gender, though I
guess we need to keep the plural to humour your cybersex partener(s).
You know I wouldn't want to
get you in trouble? The MOOs have been so fucking stupid and boring,
that little game of abraham's seemed almost intelligent to me the other
day. I know I've been absent, wordless of late, but I can't believe
none of you bastards
will idle on RL MOO to at least greet the fucking guests or tourists
who
may pass by. Nichelle will have her 'puter soon. Cleo, I'll make you a
character
as soon as I send this letter. Columbine, you know I'd gladly make you
a
character, if only you would give me some kind of name. I'm sorry to
implicate
those of you who have not asked for any such thing. Sometimes I have to
take
risks. RECTVM VINVM is not only just a pun on Cicero's motto, RECTA
VIA.
It's also a cry of hope, a wish that something different, something
real,
something human and grammatical might happen in cyberspace. If you
disagree,
just tell me. All I ask is that you look at the web site, not read it
askance.
Print it out. Give us a chance. I've worked fucking hard to do this
shit.
So has John. We're playing for keeps and none of us thinks he's going
to
make any money doing this. We do it for... I don't know. I could have
had
a child. I choose words. I'm going to stop now and listen to the choral
part
of the Ninth, the part I busted my ass to translate. I'll sing along
with
that motherfucker. I'll make supper. I'll go to work at seven tomorrow
morning.
I still hope.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Nichelle
Date: 2 November 1996
Subject: La fiesta de los muertos
'I could have had a child' is a cruel line that hurts me more than you
know, unless you've seen how many times I've fought back the tears
since the operation. You would feel the loss in a very different way if
you had been lying on the
table in the abortion room with a huge white light on you as you felt
the
suction machine ripping out your insides. They kicked me out after ten
minutes
in the recovery room because they needed space for more girls. I wonder
how
many others went through the factory that morning.
Nichelle
From: Nichelle
Date: 2 November 1996
Subject: (no subject)
Murder, since your last letter was just to me, I'll quote part of it
for the benefit of the list.
>I've really been thinking about some musical things lately, and I
think
>that one of these days we should have a discussion on RLmoo about a
>selected topic (similar to the one Gabe had about Shakes 106). If
you
>have any ideas, let me know.
OK, next Sunday (a week from tomorrow) at 4 PM EST (unless of course
you can't make it, John) there will be a discussion in Paradiso about
Aaron Copland's setting (which can be found in his "Twelve poems of
Emily Dickinson") of Emily
Dickinson's "Because I could not stop for death". Let me know if you
have
a problem finding the score.
I liked your suggestions, but the pieces were pretty long. I also
wanted to choose a piece with a voice so that the musically illiterate
among us could
participate with an analysis of the poetry. I also wasn't sure if you
knew
the Copland settings.
And of course we can go to Delizioso's over the break.
Nichelle
From: Martine
Date: 3 November 1996
Subject: Re: La fiesta de los muertos
-amusee de trouver mon meilleur copain de moo sur ta liste: Laurent. Je
me demande comment il a atterri la. Je lui demanderai. On fait en ce
moment un travail ensemble. Le Chaineur, et plus precisement le
chaineur de quatrains (en neerlandais pour l'instant, puis en Anglais)
-je me suis donne la peine de lire ton email jusqu'au bout. Je ne sais
pas si tu consideres que c'est de la litterature, mais moi pas. Je me
fiche totalement de savoir que tu as mange de la salade au Roquefort et
que ta copine a avorte de tes oeuvres, parce que justement, c'est mal
ecrit.
-dois-je alors me contenter du "plaisir" d'etre informee de cette
maniere sur ta vie privee ? Seule la vie privee de mes intimes
m'interesse, ceux que
je connais en chair et en os, et qui n'ont pas besoin de m'ecrire.
-les echanges de considerations personnelles sur la litterature, les
texte et l'ecriture en general m'interressent, ou m'interesseraient, si
elles ne donnaient pas lieu a autant de nombrilisme de ta ou de votre
part.
Je t'envoie un texte de ma production: "le corcade du grosaïque",
en attachement pour ne pas avoir a le chatrer de ses accents. Je suis
curieuse de connaitre tes reactions, si toutefois tu arrives a lire
autre chose que tes propres emails...
Amicalement
Martine
Le corcade du grosaïque
L'entrelus nontilise d'inale et autement des pasties à collecer,
car de diffémilles à sers l'entée d'encade.
Exément, la vispe dissoupengée seurnale aux
complassançaires et l’équercal dorne vivrement une
samante aux Accormales. Poulture, des foux quérirs notoyent les
armatiens si n'uteurs?
Dix corcades s’adémient, partexté dont cent grous qui
turent et pribuent moulle tursonne à lairmes, dont le nourrel.
Si les corcades sernagent, et si les enties dextent d’outremielleur,
ils sursocadrent de lerte
et d'inale pour avantrire le dirsone. Les sontables pantés de
tracipaux,
sancis-à-vivercas sont: « les fracheux achées, les
paractifes,
les lignoutes et coractines en reprisme et en levrespe, le corcade du
grosaïque
(....).»
Le colemme qu'en saïquernitique de gendes levrouleurs romplait,
tarant le polieur fortiligéligne va l’écrince et
prévolle bas quand les cengélits de corcades racertent.
(«Je nontilise. Et non pas rédisside, puis
prédis-à-viste et me répore.»)
Etagemâtre à préporine, voisent-ils le trigier en
fercale, tant élique du Bers? Non, la cadelure à
d'entave, où le fuside ne se pardice sernanière. Plusque.
Poults à un corcade qui nontilise, un cologiel
éxème une “Avante de Ceprise”, cormé les guittons
donnisants, et ces rulies qui sernagent cadélique sonvicent de
direpte. Ou ces grons d’ansaïques résidèment, ou ses
prépases d'alitentors écribues où les silles n’ont
qu'à dexter.
Des corcades aux forattelles, le sougroix du camplé jusie, s’il
dexte et locumente l'abilivecte. Accousé de rathique à
titelivres, le rédiffain pante fouperniment mais pas
l'inartâtres à reprours qui sernage. Un doccomplis de
sument prévolle le relignorteur et priste qui l'encratte en
“d'infoute m'aux"(...). Le despe foupère. Il n'abste et les
sontables bantifèrent, tant l'étéseur. Au pranis
soupeur, ni le corcade s’érappe, ni le sontable docultune
dissement. Tanaises en propicadre, la lansantre va s’accoratier du
ligélivrosant et du syndème. («Je
treminfère. Chaquant, groute le foriment?»)
Liquent les bleures d’inale, nous les dantexclurons et l'enteur
vicadure de ses relités. L'Hexte monne, ou il
sondifémière car le trigier pante quand l’étilique
du Bers sernage. («J'indeste le bilignoupe et répate bas
l'entribue»). Pourpentine de l'obre, les corcades s'impourent,
les demptères de la formarde ranquent et l'anculeste
s’engéliste extément. Le colde spalerte les voidans de
fourniquérair à l'Acaliquelle. Et à titour, une
ligeante mathique minfère; du prisé à d’inale, les
puitageaux compligélient.
D'aciper, ontre des ratitis aux corcades, il s'inisside
récriété et les ausides aux quérales
prévollent. («Je matre nous cliseigner son
êtrepris-à-vise indictié»). Un sontable
sernageait, il pertait à corcadéon (......).
(Liste: nontiliser, dexter, sernager, prévoller, le corcade , le
sontable, d’inale.)
From: SAGReiss
Date: 3 November 1996
Subject: Emily Dickenson
SEYTON: The Queen, my lord, is dead.
MACBETH: She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Nichelle
Date: 3 November 1996
Subject: Dickinson, again
After listening to Copland's settings of the twelve Emily Dickinson
poems, I have changed my mind. I suggest we look at the second song
(There came a
Wind like a Bugle). I've included the text, and some notes:
There came a Wind like a Bugle -
It quivered through the Grass
And a Green Chill upon the Heat
So ominous did pass
We barred the Windows and the Doors
As from an Emerald Ghost -
The Doom's electric Moccasin
That very instant passed -
On a strange Mob of panting Trees
And Fences fled away
And Rivers where the Houses ran
Those looked that lived - that Day -
The Bell within the steeple wild
The flying tidings told -
How much can come
And much can go,
And yet abide the World!
2. quivered through] bubbled in - 9.On a strange Mob] Upon a Mob - 12]
The Living looked that Day - 17. abide] remain
MANUSCRIPT: About 1883 (Binghampton 97-12).
PUBLICATION: Poems (1891), 146, titled "The Storm." The suggested
change for line 12 is adopted. One word is altered:
14. told] whirled
In the Copland, line five reads 'Window' rather than 'Windows', line 12
reads 'The Living looked that Day', and line 14 reads 'whirled' rather
than
'told'.
Nichelle
From: Martine
Date: 4 November 1996
Subject: Re: E-litterature
Les textes online, web ou moo repondent aux lois d'un autre genre que
la litterature. Cela m'interesse plus dans un MOO de connaitre les
objets generiques, les robots parlants, les messages, les verbes, les
classes de personnage, etc.... enfin tout ce qui correspond a
l'ecriture specifique du MOO, plutot que les conversations des
participants qui sont aussi banales que partout ailleurs ... À
ce titre, ton MOO est tres peu ecrit. Ou bien ces elements ne te
paraissent pas important, trop loin du "journal" que tu veux faire ?
Je ne manque pas de concentration en general, je sais lire un livre.
Mais je ne me sers pas du Web pour cela. Tout au plus j'echangerais
quelques idees et quelques titres avec des gens qui auraient des gouts
ou des interets proches des miens. (listserv Blanchot du Spoon
collective). Mais vouloir faire d'Internet le lieu ou se lit et s'ecrit
de la litterature au sens traditionnel du terme me parait une erreur.
... Enfin, si tu y trouves ton bonheur de lecteur et d'ecrivain, tant
mieux pour toi. Mais a lire ton email, je comprends plutot qu'il s'agit
d'un pis-aller pour auteur non publie.
Internet est un medium de communication, donc un vehicule a fiction,
mais qui comporte des effets de realite (en particulier tout ce qui a
trait au temps reel). Je vois que tu utilises ces effets de reel en
esperant avoir des lecteurs pour ton journal sur listserv ....
Si tu en as trouve, tant mieux ....
Quant a moi, si j'ai envie de lire un texte ecrit sous la forme d'un
journal, je lirai, (je relirai) "Le journal intime de Sally Mara"
(Queneau); une histoire erotique online, je relirai VOX (Nicholson
Baker). Mais je n'arriverai pas a prendre votre graphomanie nombriliste
pour de la litterature....
Salut
Martine
From: Murder
Date: 4 November 1996
Subject: Copland
That Copland setting is an excellent choice, Nichelle, but this coming
Sunday is a bad day for me to discuss it with you and whomever else
wants to. For one, I will be in Spokane, which wouldn't be a problem
except I can't log in because our VAX cluster will be shut down for the
day for maintenance. Might I suggest next Monday evening? I'll have to
check and see if I have rehearsal.
Murder
From: SAGReiss
Date: 6 November 1996
Subject: Machine a Jabberwock
You see, John, I have a very positive influence on your cyberlovelife.
I thought that line: "He meant go to Kanada and soothe his unrested
soul," was
tasteful and poetic. I'm sure I could have thought of a few other
unrested parts of your anatomy, but I chose understatement. I know you
appreciate my
help and you're quite welcome. I hesitated to answer your letters,
Martine, because I thought maybe someone else would give it a try. Alas
I'm not sure how many people on this list read French well enough to
know that the reason they didn't understand your prose had nothing to
do with their French. Nichelle asked me when I printed it what the
title meant: "It doesn't really mean anything.
It's written like The Jabberwocky". Laurent said something like that to
me
yesterday, that he helps you with software to produce such texts. He
chose
the same example, interestingly enough. I wonder how the software
avoids
using phonetically or graphically unacceptable combinations. That seems
harder
to me than making the syntax work. You might like Raymond Roussel
(Impressions
d'Afrique and Comment j'ai ecrit certains de mes livres). I find that
both
Queneau and Perec succeed the best in the books (Zazy dans le metro and
La
Vie mode d'emploi) where their experiments take a back seat to some
kind
of story. Rather than making up a story, I choose to use the one which
life
gives me, online or off, for the written representations I make in many
genres.
It is as absurd to say that online texts (or e-mail) are not a kind of
literature
as to say that manuscripts were literature and Gutenberg's Bible
something
else. The printing press and the 'net (specifically e-mail, the Web and
cybertext)
are simply technological breakthroughs which change the means by which
texts
are created, distributed and read. Our MOO was built to encourage the
production
of texts by human beings, to avoid spam. I am not suggesting there is
something
wrong with computer-generated text, but that is not really mon metier.
Je
suis un homme de lettres, ce qui signifie aussi que je suis un homme.
Obviously
it doesn't matter to you or anyone else on this list except Nichelle
what
I eat for supper, but then again... When negatron says: "I hate when
people
talk about food. I'll probably be eating McDonalds again tonight," I
feel
for my friend. I talk about it over dinner with Nichelle: "He must be
very
depressed." The representation of food and sex must necessarily loom
very
large in the representation (whatever the medium) of a human life,
whether
it's John's nachos or Cleo's microwave. I don't need to tell a French
girl
the importance des plaisirs de la table. I remember too well Laurent's
frustration
with Joy when he asked: "What did you say to your parents when you
asked
for bread at the dinner table?" She answered that they never ate
together,
or something like that. It is quite obvious to me that the average
college
student who uses an internet account reads and writes far more than the
student
who is not online. That is what attracts me to this forum. This is a
cheap
shot: "Mais a lire ton e-mail, je comprends plutot qu'il s'agit d'un
pis-aller
pour auteur non publie." It takes great luck and great perseverence,
more
than anything else, to get a first book contract. Should I have that
good
fortune, then the pis-aller would be simply a first logical step. Last,
if
you're using Eudora, you can cut-and-paste a Word text with accents and
they
will work, except for readers using Pine.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Nichelle
Date: 7 November 1996
Subject: love and despair amongst the kitchen utensils
It's 12:08 AM, Gaby has been in bed since eight-thirty, and I'm
exhausted. I just finished the dishes while thinking about what would
have made the gravy
better. Or at least good. Is gravy an acceptable topic for e-mail? I
continue
to overestimate the literary value of food. As a matter of fact, this
assumption
is so strong that I had thought nobody was writing because they just
hadn't
eaten anything good lately. I guess if you eat hungry man suppers every
night,
there isn't a whole lot of room for variation. I keep thinking of some
book
I read, don't recall the title. Don't recall the author. All I remember
is
that an entire chapter was dedicated to the memory of a friend who had
recently
died, and that it was just a list of everything they ate on a
particular
tour. It was fascinating. And since I don't really get out much, all I
do
is eat, drink, sleep, bathe, give Gaby blow jobs (I'm not allowed any
vaginal
sex for three more weeks, and after three weeks of vomiting I am trying
to
get back in practice.), and go to the toilet. It continues to embarrass
me
that I say these things "in front of" my old high school buddy. Doesn't
matter.
He can have all the vaginal sex he wants, several times each night, or
so
he tells me. If only. Oh well.
Nichelle
From: Laurent
Date: 7 November 1996
Subject: Re: Machine a Jabberwock
., what lust from me, world..hem and of you?.was of comment fing comis,
"that lust the cynicatteritedexists ords andifferink ofemore..he jade's
comebackers ther, unsparate now comisunder to howyould end when
shouldsupere noon out wave evelop of you or hanner..'s neven
yould..sence day's demain mockin, this
upon that your voices tattoo a perseis proble reasurpeople.. on cup..er
world..
too, hour didn'tdient of a setc..you trationsuouse, to each liva, you
fuck
and, and comfor your piercingled you came, that icouldn'texisticularite
the
me.. so your nights ofdesire; i self..e andiffice mory, but see,
forgethis surface, touch ordern
From: Murder
Date: 7 November 1996
Subject: Minks
Nichelle, I wouldn't worry about overestimating the literary value of
food. It's just that I still live in the residence halls and have to
put up with the imitation food they serve us. It's actually not so bad.
For breakfast I have a bowl of Healthy Choice cereal and a cup of
fruit. Lunch consists of a turkey-and-swiss-on-white with a plate of
salad and some cookies. Dinner varies, but usually I ingest a hamburger
or some pasta with another plate of salad, plus dessert. I only drink
water with meals because milk fucks up
my flute chops and juice is too acidic for my stomach. After my nightly
2-hour
practice session I get the munchies really bad and have to eat a snack
(cookies
or chips) or drink a mug of hot chocolate mixed with Bailey's Irish
Cream.
See? Not too exciting, is it? This menu will remain pretty constant
until
June when I graduate. Too bad about no vaginal sex for three weeks. Why
are
you embarassed telling me? This week I haven't gotten very much because
we
have both been putting in very long days and are very tired. Sometimes
I
just don't feel like it when I've gotten two hours of sleep a night for
the
last two weeks. I have a duo recital tonight and a major test in
environmental studies (soil types--who the fuck cares??) tomorrow, but
it might not matter because she is probably the most insatiable woman I
have ever met. Good sex doesn't even begin to describe what we do. Even
my favorite phrase "fucking like minks" just doesn't cut it, either.
It's a rough job, but...
Murder
From: Columbine
Date: 7 November 1996
Subject: Re: love and despair amongst the kitchen utensils
Food is a religion in Louisiana. "People in Louisiana venerate priests
and chefs and not necessarily in that order." I miss it often when I
eat. Food in New England is dull.
I've had a deep, deadly project in what Gabriel would describe as "geek
work." (I can't tell whether he's respecting it or denigrating it or
both.)
I've been living on Burger King and coffee.
I don't know it's the project or the food that's been keeping me from
writing or visiting the MOO, but I like your theory. We are what we eat.
Kannst du nicht allen gefallen durch deine That und dein Kunstwerk
- mach es wenigen recht. Vielen gefallen ist schlimm. -Schiller
From: Columbine
Date: 7 November 1996
Subject: identity
I suppose I should explain. If you don't want an explanation, you know
where the delete key is. I am usually fairly protective of my identity
online. You're
the first person I've met online in many years to whom I've even given
my
real email address.
This is not a paranoiac reaction - I don't really think you're going to
come down and find me and kill me. I am no cringing flower. It has more
to
do with lines of identity, which I have already established are much
less
important to you than to me, so you may not understand what the fuss is
about.
I am not unhappy with my existence - I have a good job, I can support
my lifestyle, so what the hell? But it isn't exciting and I don't
really manifest much personality or fire except around the few people I
take the time to get
to know well.
It's a classic case of "geek only has personality when online," I
suppose, and I choose to keep the distinction a very clear one. That's
slightly schizoid. I don't care.
You don't really want to know what I'm like behind the computer, and
vice versa. You are interested in my thoughts, which ultimately are the
best and least real part of me, not the most.
You can pass this along, of course. The only reason I didn't cc the
group is because I didn't feel it was of general interest.
I say again: I'm perfectly happy to be a perpetual guest. In many ways
I find it preferable.
Kannst du nicht allen gefallen durch deine That und dein Kunstwerk
- mach es wenigen recht. Vielen gefallen ist schlimm. -Schiller
From: Nichelle
Date: 8 November 1996
Subject: (no subject)
Yes, it's a beautiful fucking morning here in Syracuse, NY, boys and
girls. It's raining outside, but we still have to brave the weather and
do our grocery shopping on the bus. Why can't we live like decent
fucking human beings? I
just finished showering. The carpet burns on my knees burned the whole
time,
and I didn't manage to get all of the olive oil out of my ass.
Apparently Dial liquid soap isn't the solution. It was a weird night
which shouldn't have happened. It started when I decided to have a
glass of wine with dinner and got progressively worse each time I tried
to swallow a little more of Gabriel's J&B. Then an aborted blowjob
and a sorry excuse for assfucking on the living room floor, then on the
bed. I wanted to but it felt like he was ripping me apart. Neither one
of us came either, even though I begged him to stick it in my cunt,
which he did twice by mistake. He even tried to
make me come, but he couldn't do it, because of the whisky or the smell
of
dead babies between my legs, I don't know which. I've got a pretty
substantial case of sexual frustration, and so what if I threw a couple
of chairs. I wanted
to go out for a walk. I wanted to get away. I'm not allowed pleasure.
Sex
is for men. Sex revolves around the male orgasm. I've never, ever had
an
orgasm during sex. I probably never will have an orgasm during sex. I
refused
to come on the floor of the shower, even though I desperately wanted
and
needed it. I'll probably resign myself to that shame and do it later
today
while Gabriel is on the MOO. When was the last time I came that wasn't
in
the bathtub? I deserve it. I'm an ugly fat fucking whore, a veteran of
all
that is horrible about sex. I just have to try not to spit it into a
tissue
next time I suck him off.
Nichelle
From: SAGReiss
Date: 8 November 1996
Subject: Kind of a potato bun
We had the McDonal's group in for a conference this week. The
chickenman complained to thirty-seven managers, including the general
manager, because the Puerto Rican cook forgot the chicken on his salad
and the white trash waiter (not me, one of the gay boys) didn't notice.
The fucker had to wait five minutes for his missing chicken. Look man,
this isn't fucking McDonald's. After that the mad Greek woman (our
fearless hostess) kept giving the chickenman to me with all kinds of
warnings and entreaties. She trusts me more than the
others because I can speak weird languages, so she thinks I listen to
her
more than they do. It's not true of course, but it's a useful fiction.
She,
after all, distributes the tables, and tables are money. She probably
just
figures (because I make the most fun of her and am the rudest of the
rude):
"He's lived in Europe so he's not totally uncivilized." Anyway I asked
one
of the McDonald's boys what is in an ArchDeluxe. He said it was a
hamburger with lettuce and tomato and I think cheese and bacon (I think
all of their shit is the same with different names.) on a kind of
potato bun. He said this
last with a special and obviously meaningful cupping gesture of the
hands,
whose meaning was utterly lost on me. Is the bun in the form of a
potato?
Is it made with some kind of nasty potato flour? It's probably just
their
regular thing without the sesame seeds. We had a staff meeting
yesterday and
had to watch another of the stupid training films. About five minutes
into
it I asked: "Why are we watching a film made to show managers how to
communicate
with employees?" The pregnant bitch had chosen the film (based on the
title,
but of course without having wasted her time watching it) before
getting
dialated and leaving for three or four months. The room service gay boy
thinks
she's going to try to scam worker's comp. for her maternity leave, but
I
think she's too stupid to pull off anything that slick. If I weren't so
low-rent
and had a real, majordomo listserv, I could pull up that letter in
which
Nichelle describes us having sex one night in the style of the film of
Du
Cote de chez Swann which totally contradicts her text of this morning.
At
work yesterday the room service guy, who is not quite as mean and rude
as
the rest of us (though he hates women, hates them), said "fuck" in
front of
a new girl (who's got a kid) and then apologized, so I said: "Shit,
she's fucked, at least once," and she said: "But I can't remember it."
Whatever. All three letters of yesterday (I have to forward Laurent's.)
confused me. Laurent's letter lacks a little in the context department.
Was this a first draft to show me how really fucking hard it is to
program beastly 'puters into making Jabberwock texts? I checked it to
see if it wasn't a scrambled version of my own gibberish, but I don't
think so. Shit, I even tried to unscramble
Martine's text, unsuccessfully. Murder, you tell us of your gymnastics
with
the Nazi-nymphomaniac, but give us none of the gory details. Same thing
with
Columbine's letter. While I love cajun cooking (anything with hot
peppers), I'm going to make pea soup and fish and chips tonight.
Nichelle has been craving
fish and chips. What is your internet project? We would like to
participate. Do you need guinnea pigs? Most of the people on this list,
and any other stray
dogs who might show up on RL MOO, waste huge amounts of time on
internet projects
no one makes any money from (not yet) and a couple of us are badass
geek
motherfuckers. Ah shit. I think I'm going to get online and start a
fight.
It's too quiet this morning...
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Nichelle
Date: 8 November 1996
Subject: contradictions
If he said it with such emphasis, then which is it: 'kind of a potato
bun' or 'a kind of potato bun'? It's easy to toss out my letter with
one line about
another letter which contradicts it. Who made that fucking rule, that
we
can't contradict ourselves? When did I write this letter? Perhaps not
on
a morning when I had a little hangover, a sore oil-coated ass, rug
burns, and a seriously undernourished sex drive. The buttermilk
pancakes were delicious. I forgot to mention that I smoked one of
Gaby's cigarettes. My e-mail is worse
than my gravy. I don't care. Get fucked, all of you.
Nichelle
From: Martine
Date: 9 November 1996
Subject: Preaming/ Le plusing
Preaming
Dardled for the moutle, preaming frevescates the contingual chaports
and borks the dinmarshes under the chation. The turate fattles with the
tilm, thust retting regirting. Ultim, franchion is retted for the
frevescation cordfatles.
Franchions are the liftings for the thepress of preaming which they
lingle.
Without nelip backling here, the aspling is good for fatles, limtidly
deats
the weats up till the clusties.
Le plusing
Danters à une élistre, le plusing ondure de ses
consantres et ni mation l'airise, ni pation le motère. Le
décheux sulle de n'imalée ficadre sans d'huiner, des
merniciés à résire. Accombre, la fration l'est
d'aujeur pour suire ondurant et quernargé. Les frations sont des
fourtages parmé la phonantière du plusing, que
reliquation ne savint. Sans reprins d'elles, l'appée se volimpe
surant, notais-à-vis un limaître pondicatique,
borellé à tropine.
Salut,
Martine
From: SAGReiss
Date: 9 November 1996
Subject: The Invisible Woman
That was a lovely little letter, Columbine. There are many points
worthy of comment. I don't see why you *should* explain, but I'm glad
you have. I'm
not sure what I've done to earn your trust, if that's the word, but I'm
glad
I have. I'm don't know what the point of having an e-mail address is,
if
one doesn't give it to anyone. If your mother writes the same
dumbstupid e-mail
that mine does (and I think this not uncommon), why would you ever
check
your inbox? I have often used hyperbole to fight the mistaken idea that
the
media we all use are inherently a fantasy world. This can be true, but
it
must not be. In moments of truth I will admit that cybersex is somehow
not
quite so real as normal fucking. Indeed phone sex seems more real to me
than
the MOO variety. Again there is nothing necessary about this
observation. We have all seen different places on the spectrum between
life and art. I live with Nichelle, but I also have a
cyber-relationship with her, which will
grow if the FedEx man ever brings her new 'puter called... well she
won't
tell me the name. John is closer to a friend than other people onna
MOO,
but I have never met him. Even seeing someone's picture (Laurent or
Joy's)
makes him more physically present to my mind. I thought you were the
married
type, but lately I have come to doubt that. It may not be important. I
don't
know why you first tell me about your life offline and then say I'm not
interested
in that. Nor do I know what the "vice versa" means, but that can be
quite
a tricky expression to use. I am of course interested in your life
offline
and found your description of it touching and human. When I told the
room
service gay boy that he had no life to go home to, he said: "I have a
life.
I go home and get drunk and clean my bathroom and I cook dinner three
or
four times a week if I'm not too drunk." "I am not unhappy with my
existence."
This is a beautiful figure of speech called litote. For those of you in
the
French-speaking audience the classic example is from Le Cid: "Je ne
vous
hais point." I cannot quite support all of my criminal addictions, but
I
get by. I enjoy the restaurant business, even though I'd rather serve
good
food to people with a civilized culinary culture. As those Frenchmen
say
again: "Les Americains ne mangent pas. Ils se nourrissent." They don't
even
do that well. Believe me, I did eighty-eight covers today. I cannot
believe
that offline does not influence online. Idiots offline make up the
stupid
spammy characters online. I tend to drink and MOO at the same time.
Often
the alcohol shows up on the screen. Matilda (our kitten) jumps on the
keyboard
chasing the mouse. This effects what you see. We are all prisoners of
language,
not to mention our bodies. I can't just walk into Columbine's
allegorical
cave and see her ideas flash across the smokey walls.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Columbine
Date: 10 November 1996
Subject: Re: The Invisible Woman
>I can't just walk into Columbine's
>allegorical cave and see her ideas flash across the smokey walls.
Funny you should say it that way. If you want to see a few ideas the
way they flashed on the walls of my brain, go to the cave which I have,
just this
evening, reworked and reinstated at a roundabout sort of suggestion
from
killjoy.
___
"When I made a shadow on my window shade
They called the police and testified
But they're like the people chained up in the cave
In the allegory of the people in the cave
By the Greek guy"
-They Might Be Giants
From: Columbine
Date: 10 November 1996
Subject: Re: The Invisible Woman
> I'm don't know what the point of having an e-mail address is, if
one
>doesn't give it to anyone.
Touche.
___
LETTER FROM A CYNIC
Do not walk behind me
Ever
I do not fear your stiletto but
When I stumble
You could catch me
Unthinkable!
Walk before me
So I may fall upon you
Misery loves company
- columbine
From: Nichelle
Date: 11 November 1996
Subject: Is that all?
It came! Well, kind of. The Federal Express guy brought me this
disembodied monitor with a statement from ProGen. It doesn't look that
much smaller than Gaby's. Not from over here, anyway. Fuck that. I
lied. He rang again. WHoopee!
Nichelle
From: Nichelle
Date: 11 November 1996
Subject: 11999 Virgins
Move out the way, motherfuckers, it's big fat Nichelle, the generally
sharp one, dixit John, the skinny white bastard who plays the flute,
and I'm riding a 150 MHz um... oh, shit. I was going to name this
computer, but I couldn't figure out where to break the bottle...
Doesn't matter, I broke a beer glass on the kitchen floor this
afternoon. Let's pretend that counts. Ok, named Bucephalus. Well, I was
going to call it that, but the name's taken. So I'm calling mine
Rocinante, and it's an asskicker. This little beauty eats horseflesh
for dinner, even though Gabriel and I are having split pea soup. I've
spent the last seven months fucking up Gaby's machine to prepare for
this event, and I am going to conquer The World. But fuck you, I'm
going to play with my talking dictionary now...
From: Nichelle
Date: 12 November 1996
Subject: Hello? Can you hear me? Hello?
'I was disappointed with your e-mail.' Well, what am I supposed to say?
I didn't think it was any good either. This has been a big night for
me.
I may be up to have bagels and coffee with Gabriel at 4 AM. I even had
my
first real-time voice chat on the 'net. (Pause to take watch away from
cat.)
To be honest, it wasn't much good. After about ten minutes of asking
each
other 'Can you hear me? How about now?' there was a horrible silence on
both
ends, interrupted occasionally by nervous laughter from Steve in
Spokane.
I'm sure something interesting can be done with it. Maybe even playing
duets,
or a live internet clarinet lesson. (Pause to put cat on floor.) It
isn't
much though, unless I'm missing out on something. On the MOO, the long
pauses and the stupid comments are easier to ignore, and when you're in
a conversation with an idiot, it is easier to leave. It seems just as
impossible to find someone who has something to say, if not even
harder. I'm exhausted. Listening to my talking dictionary say
'cocksucker' was only fun for about five minutes. I've played with
every tool and toy this thing has got. What the fuck am I
supposed to say, Gabriel? You've already written the difinitive
new-computer-e-mail. It was great the first time. But it has been done.
From: Nichelle
Date: 12 November 1996
Subject: negatron
in case he forgets to tell you, go look at negatron’s page.
He ain't bad.
From: Nichelle
Date: 13 November 1996
Subject: nichelle's navel
I'm feeling groggy. Two nights in a row up all night and sleeping in my
clothes. I just finished the dishes, listening to Beethoven's 7th on
the
radio, trying to keep the cat off my desk. If I could take the computer
to
bed, I might. I've played with every feature and toy the thing has got.
I
even looked at the 'Human Anatomy Leaps to Life!' CD ROM which came
with
the thing, and watched a human bladder fill with urine. I've got a new
strategy
with the voice chat thing. Since you can either type or talk, I turn my
audio
off and type. It worked a little better. I find that if I just wait,
people
will call me. I had a conversation with a student in San Diego about
computer music composition programs and html. And shit, I even got a
look at negatron's nudie pics on the web. I thought he'd be grungier.
Maybe his folks took him out for a haircut and dressed him up in new
clothes before they took the photos.
Murder, where are you? I know you're out there somewhere, reading these
letters
while you bonk the reedgirl. The least you could do for us is to write
the
juicy details, especially since I haven't got any juicy details of my
own.
There have too many excuses not to fuck lately. I think Gaby likes it
that
way. Doesn't matter, now that we've both got 'puters we don't have to
talk
to each other, except at meals. We'll probably end up working something
out
so that we can write little messages to each other on scraps of paper
and
slide them to each other across the table. I felt sorry for Gabriel at
dinner
last night when he said something about not being destined to be white
trash.
I think he just stepped back and looked at his leaky apartment, fat
girfriend,
and plate of oily cabbage and realized what was going on. I told him it
doesn't
matter. It doesn't. I'd rather live in a nicer place, but at least we
eat
well, we both have 'puters, we have a kitty, and we don't fight most of
the
time. Of course it would also be nice to live in the present, but I
can't
see that as a possibility as long as we're on Lambda and these bitches
keep
paging asking whether or not they should go up to Canada and get raped.
Yeah,
sure honey, I think it's a good idea. Just bring some band-aids. Well,
to
be honest, she didn't ask me. He sent her to Gabriel instead. He told
her,
'I don't know what happened. I wasn't there.' Shit, *I* don' t know
what
happened, and I *was* there. I know that doesn't make a convincing
argument,
but who says I want to convince anyone of anything. This whole mess
began
with a private e-mail I sent to Gabe because he called me a liar,
undergraduate
scum, and a spam queen. Or something like that. One way or another, he
pissed
me off enough to make me write that e-mail that's now sitting on the
web,
and if I hadn't done so, my story wouldn't have been the theme of the
World
for the last seven months. We've all got our bizarre problems and
twisted
pasts. They just aren't posted on the Internet for 1315 people to see.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 13 November 1996
Subject: Slices of Amerika
I'm not falling for that low-rent game of yours, John, trying to give
me cyberAIDS by luring me to your foul web lair. I've seen enough
ugliness for one day. We got slaughtered at work, breakfast and lunch,
all-day chaos from the moment I walked in at seven and the mad Greek
woman (newly a grandmother, Emily or Amelia weighs a whopping nine
pounds) sat me something like thirty people in an hour. Human interest
stories were spilling out all over, and it wasn't pretty. The
learning-disabled, gay-weird, thirty-one-year-old busboy had to go to
court on a DWI (alcootest) and was in a crazy mood. We've got him
half-convinced he's going to jail to be some ax-muderer's wife. The
gayboy waiter is being stalked by one of his ex-beaux and the cops
don't give a fuck.
He was in a swearing rage all day. The three-hundred-pound gay-Divine
room
service boy was shocked and disgusted that his hated sixty-year-old
father
is going to be a father again with some woman other than his wife.
After
this long diatribe about the immorality of the whole thing, he says:
"And
it cuts into my share of the insurance money." At one point me and Joey
just
refused to take any more tables. It was hell and, as the room service
gay-boy
pointed out to me, they're staying till Friday. I said: "Maybe by then
we'll
figure out how to do it right." I don't even know why people tipped me
today.
I wasn't rude so much as AWOL. We're now using scraps of paper instead
of
dupe pads, which have been taken off of the budget. We made fucking
iced
tea for seventy-five people with little tiny tea bags because the chef
won't
order anything as he gets a bonus based on food costs (as a percentage
of
sales). And the Sacred Bagel, the Holy New York Bagel. Some cunt
actually talked a salesman into being allowed to store her own bagels
in our coolers and then order them up from room service. Said salesman
has obviously never worked for tips. Anyway in the midst of all this
chaos somehow the Venerable Bagel got (I shudder to think.) *buttered*.
That bitch was on the phone to all the managers trying to get all of
us, or at least whoever profaned the Beloved Bagel, fired. This morning
the big boss asked me how it was going. I said: "We got a little
roughed up at breakfast." He frowned: "Roughed up? That sounds so
negative, Gabe." "Let's put it this way, Lowell. We had an exhilerating
morning." "Much better." As we were falling deeper and deeper into a
hole before lunch, he asked me: "Gabe, are you looking forward to an
exhilerating lunch?" As the Man says: "Yes is the answer."
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Nichelle
Date: 14 November 1996
Subject: WAK ME OFF
Gabe told me to wake him up when I got back from the library, but I
know better. I once made the mistake of waking him from a nap, and it
wasn't pretty. I found a printout of negatron's photos on my keyboard
with 'SUK MI DIK' and
'I LUV YU' written on each page with Gabe's purple Pilot extra-fine
rollerball (write with his pens and die a horrible death). I still
can't believe I've got a computer. This is fuckingincredible. I just
finished talking to a serious badass Italian. This shit will make phone
sex nonexistent within a year or so. Too bad, since I've got 'one hell
of a voice'. Earlier today, some asshole called claiming to be a famous
child actor (on Microsoft NetMeeting). Of course
he's some balding, middle-aged pervert who uses the name to lure young
girls
into his lair. I asked him for money. "Well, you must have millions,
right?"
He didn't seem very interested. Probably daydreaming about little white
cotton
panties. It doesn't matter. They're all a bunch of perverts. I'm idling
on
the Microsoft thing, and people with names like HUNG DUDE and BLOW ME
keep
calling. I considered accepting one, but I doubt whether any of these
boys
could do much for me. I opted for a discussion on Lambda about 'good
German
bread', which I've obviously never had. I am meeting more people than
ever
on the 'net now that I've got these new chat programs, but I'm really
not
optimistic. It cuntinues to convince me that there just aren't many
people
out there I want to meet. Is anyone out there?
From: SAGReiss
Date: 14 November 1996
Subject: Cyberart
negatron now has large (proportionately) pink glue-on dicks and says:
.oOWAK ME OFF. He's got a heart drawn around his head under the title
MY HOT BF. Perhaps Nichelle will download Paint Shop and re-create this
on the Web. This
morning at breakfast I said: "John's going to regret ever having put
those
pictures up." Of course Cognac or Melon probably has print-outs of my
photo
with shit coming out of my ears or something. It's a brand new world.
Welcome.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Murder
Date: 14 November 1996
Subject: Bong hit
Intermission of a concert given by some Tibetan monks. I'm sitting
there thinking about the wonderful overtone content generated by those
deep male voices and contemplating the fact that different cultures
have completely divergent views on what constitutes a beautiful singing
voice. The people behind me are talking about what constitutes a good
bong hit. I dare not leave
my seat out of fear that one of the many people in the aisles waiting
for
an empty seat might catch a glimpse of my seat and decide they have
more right
to occupy that chair even though I showed up at 6:40 for the 7:30 gig
and
they arrived at 7:27. Lost in thought. Erin turns to me and asks "So
what's
going to happen next year?" Proverbial ton of bricks. Thought process
shuts
off. Speechless. The question has been lurking in my subconscious for
quite
some time now, occasionally (fleetingly) darting to my conscious mind
only
to be struck down with the force of another, less important thought.
I'm
sick of deadlines, of bureaucracy, of slouching string players who
don't know
the meaning of the words rhythm and pitch (especially *perfect*
pitch--tossing a viola into a trash can without hitting the rim).
Burn-out hard core. Graduate school? Now? It would be much easier to
remain undergraduate scum the remainder of my existence, but I just
can't. Freelancing in Portland is looking like a good option right now.
No decent flutists in Portland. This one FWB named Ruth is freelancing
there, making a shitload of money, and she couldn't even play the THEME
of Schubert's Variations on Trockne Blumen. Made a total fool of
herself in front of James Galway. That's the best Portland has to
offer? Do I shell out the cash to fly back east and audition? Now? Am I
ready? I don't know my excerpts well enough. Details on the reedgirl
and me? I'm too damn tired from doing it to write about it. Came damn
close three times over the weekend in Spokane to getting caught by my
parents. Showering together, doing our thing, hear Dad's voice. Simple
enough. Fill in the rest of the details in your own sick little minds.
Murder
From: Columbine
Date: 14 November 1996
Subject: Re: WAK ME OFF
>I am meeting more people than ever on the
>'net now that I've got these new chat programs, but I'm really not
>optimistic. It cuntinues to convince me that there just aren't many
people
>out there I want to meet.
Good, it's not just me. I thought I might have been being unecessarily
cynical. Some nights the Palace is the most depressing place on earth.
Kannst du nicht allen gefallen durch deine That und dein Kunstwerk -
mach es wenigen recht. Vielen gefallen ist schlimm. -Schiller
From: Columbine
Date: 15 November 1996
Subject: On the lost art of online conversation
One of the things about online chat is that I find it difficult to
think. Sure, in the real world you don't get to rehearse your
conversations either, but spoken conversation is a "transparent tool" -
like a pencil, you devote zero thought to HOW to use the tool; you just
talk.
In online chat, you're forever trying to remember the commands and
trying to figure out how much of your message you just backspaced over
because your term program doesn't show destructive backspaces after the
first line and of course meanwhile other responses are coming in and
preventing you from seeing what you typed and now the conversation is
on something else anyway. (Whew. That's a Gabriel-style sentence if I
ever saw one.)
That applies to any online service, but more to the ones where I must
telnet. Telnet is a lousy way to conduct a conversation. The Palace has
its own peculiar set of problems - since all of the interesting
conversations are invariably private (because the public discourse is
insipid), you are constantly trying to switch between three or four
private conversations, worried the whole time
that you're sending the wrong thing to the wrong person. And of course
the
graphics make the Palace slow slow slow ... a problem we did not
mention.
Having said all that, in retrospect our conversation tonight seems a
little smug. I don't consider myself tremendously above average in
conversational skills. Yet I want to TALK and hardly anyone else on the
Internet does. I don't think that intelligence, lack thereof, graphics
or lack thereof, et cetera are the real problems. They're contributing
factors, certainly. I guess
the question that's gnawing at me is: why don't more of the people
online
WANT to talk? Never mind whether they have the intelligence or
capability to do so. We're talking strictly volition here.
Am I looking in the wrong places? I've been on the net for years now
but it's a big universe; maybe I missed something.
I don't understand why a co-worker of mine is one of the most sparkling
conversationalists I've ever met, but when he gets online, all he does
is
look for pornographic GIFs.
I don't understand why a salesman friend who has no problem whatsoever
striking up conversations with strangers (it's his job) doesn't know
how to start a
conversation online.
What's with this massive brain shutdown? These are not stupid people.
These are not computer-phobic people. Yet they are the rule among my
co-workers - and I work for a software company, we are a wired lot!
Help me understand this before it makes me crazy.
Kannst du nicht allen gefallen durch deine That und dein Kunstwerk -
mach es wenigen recht. Vielen gefallen ist schlimm. -Schiller
From: Nichelle
Date: 15 November 1996
Subject: Only 40 shopping days left!
I drank three cups of coffee today at Shoppingtown. In my stupidity, I
gave all of my bus change to one of those smileyfaced bellringers and
had to wait an hour for the next ride home. The Mall is no place to be
this time of year, and I'm not going back until at least February. How
many figureskating mechanical elves have I got to look at this winter?
And Santa photos have already begun. Some sorority bitch with a red and
white miniskirt was posed with Santa sitting on her lap whispering
naughty secrets in her ear. And of course she had some dumbass "Oooh,
Santa, do me!" look on her face. I couldn't believe they let her do
that with all of the little kids running around. I even caught some boy
looking up her skirt, while his older brother made jokes. 'I bet he's
Ho-Ho-Horny.' I don't even know why the fuck I went, to be honest. I
was going
to make garlic and thyme olive oil for some of my family members, but
last
night a friend on RL told me that there have been a lot of cases of
botchelism
from homemade oils, and sent me an article about it. I made the mistake
of
going into the stupid fucking dollar store, thinking I could get some
hangers
for my Fimo ornaments. There is only one place in the universe that has
more
offensive, ugly white-trash assholes in one place and one time, and
that
is my stepfather's family's Christmas Eve gathering. You can imagine
how
I'm looking forward to that one. It took me twenty minutes to get from
one
side of the store to the other, and I couldn't believe the shit people
were
buying. Who needs a set of porcelain ducks? I don't even know what they
do
with these things. Put them on display on the mantle? After looking at
all
of that stupid shit, I finally bought a 'set' of whisks (one large and
one
medium), which I figured couldn't be too defective. After all, they're
just
whisks. And after the torture of being in that store for nearly a half
hour
(half an hour? I forget which I'm supposed to say. Gaby likes to
correct my
grammar.) I thought I ought to buy *something*. Not that the trip was a
total
waste. I bought a beautiful blue mouse pad. Never mind that I had to go
to
three stores to find one that didn't have some dumbshit cartoon
character
or playboy logo or advertisement for Coke or Doritos. 'Excuse me, sir,
but
have you got just a plain mouse pad?' 'Yes, ma'am, there's one in the
SuperMouseKit,
which comes with a mouse storage clip, wristrest,
ultrapaperholderthingie, and mousepad.' 'How much?' The motherfucker
was twenty bucks. I ended up going
to Sears, and on the way out I felt so numb I actually listened to
Sears
Credit Card Lady for at least half of her speech, with a bewildered
look
on my face, until I just couldn't take it any more and I started
shaking my
head, No stop, just shut up, but I couldn't say anything. She was too
clever
for me. I started to get panicked. Finally I interrupted her by saying
in
a loud and confused voice, 'No Eeehn-gleesh! No speeeek eehngleesh.' I
felt
a little sorry for her after I had stopped giggling. Well, not really.
Did I mention that my father is an asshole? In our latest conversation,
he told me a cute little story about so-and-so's friend (or maybe it
was
a friend of so-and-so's friend) who knew a guy who worked in a
restaurant,
and how sad that he has no motivation. You prick, why can't you just
say
to my face that you don't Approve of Gabe. I was pretty steamed about
it
this morning, after talking to my mother. I started to write him a
letter,
which I haven't sent yet. I'm still trying to decide whether or not to
include
this paragraph:
"Is it more honorable to work with a bunch of god-fearing homophobic
professional boyscouts than a mob of gay waiters? They're probably all
just a bunch of demented weirdos who like looking at little boys in
uniforms, anyway. [skip ahead] And would you really be proud as punch
of your carpet-selling son if
he was just making enough to scrape by? [skip more] If you really wish
I
hadn't been born, as you suggested the other day on the telephone,
maybe you
and I ought to get in the ring together and duke it out. Bring your
little boyscout hunting knife. I can kick your ass, you pussy."
Looks like I've got a little editing to do, but I think I'm on the
right track. I don't know how much I can resent him. Maybe the bottom
line really is money. Speaking of which, the medical insurance isn't
going to cover my preliminary examination. No news yet on the abortion.
They say that they don't
cover Routine Examinations. How fucking routine is getting pregnant and
having
an abortion? It isn't as if I go out and do this several times a year.
As for you, Murder... I don't know, I wish I was that tired from doing
It. I think you should freelance in Portland. Looks like I'll be at
University of Washington next fall anyway, so you can come up once a
week or so and the
three of us can go get wildly drunk at some strip club somewhere in the
Tacoma
slums. Think about it. Shit, I've got a good idea. Why don't you *all*
come
to Seattle, we can rent a house, live in horrible squallor together,
and
eat like kings. No, forget that. The thought of negatron roaming around
the
hallway in his boxers is too weird for me. And Gabe takes hours in the
bathroom.
Huge fights, high weirdness, violence, chaos...
As for our conversation of last night, Columbine, I think you are right
that the major problem with chat programs is that people don't really
want
to talk. There are good programs out there. RL MOO is good, but
unpopulated. IRC has potential. NetMeeting is a beautiful program. The
problem is that 98% of the people I meet online act like morons. I
suggest you get a MOO client.
It makes an enormous difference in how MOO conversation is conducted.
It
makes telnet seem a lot less primitive. I don't really have anything
good to say about The Palace. In my opinion, it is little more than a
video game. Come to think of it, I'd rather play a video game. I think
it has the least potential of all of the chat programs I have seen, and
will stand by what I said about the near impossibility of intelligent
conversation taking place on such a graphics-heavy program. I suspect
that, as you admitted last night, one of the reasons you enjoy The
Palace is that you like the graphics you have created. A simple
sentence takes up half of the screen with those stupid talk bubbles.
There is too much separating the guests and the Members, which is in
the design, part of their evil plot to squeeze $25 out of as many
people as possible. Maybe you *are* looking in the wrong places. You
almost didn't stay on RL MOO last night, and there were a few people
there having a relatively interesting conversation. That's why we made
the thing.
And, by the way, what is wrong with pornographic GIFs?
From: SAGReiss
Date: 15 November 1996
Subject: Structuralist breakfast
Perhaps I have eaten structuralism for breakfast for too many years,
but I am inclined to think that the conventions specific to each medium
tend to
determine the kind of output. The graphics on the Palace allow people
to
do things other than talk, so they do. The graphic art on your web site
take
some of the attention away from your poems, Columbine. When I desiged
our
web pages, I had not seen half a dozen others. However I gave specific
instructions
to Jude, the Obscure One, not to put in anything technologically
dazzling,
for I didn't want to take away from the texts. I didn't want no
graphics,
but as few distractions as possible. Nevertheless, one guy sent me
e-mail
about how much he liked my page and how much fun he had had at the
Disney
Homepage. (This is where you go if you click on "under twenty-one".)
Some
dumb bitch on Lambda read the poems carefully enough to think she could
criticize
them, and I only realized after a couple of minutes that she thought
they
were original work, not translations. As you know from idiots who can't
find
your links, it's hard to underestimate people's intelligence. When we
designed
RL MOO we wanted it to be exactly what Martine accuses it of being,
under-written.
We thought that if people couldn't do anything other than talk, they
might
do so in a more meaningful way. So far I can't say that we have
entirely
failed. Though few come on, those who want to spam just leave. When
there
are people on, the discussion tends to be meaningful, which is not to
say
serious or even devoid of bad sex jokes etc. Since I use almost none of
the
tools available to MOOers, I find MOOspeak fairly "transparent" in the
sense
you have used the term, though I am of course very suspicious of the
notion
that language is some kind of transparent medium. While I am not so
fast
a typist as some secretaries and MOOaddicts I have seen, I am very
comfortable
typing at my own rhythm. Even when I typed with no backspace and
couldn't
even see the words until I hit enter and sent them, I made very few
typos,
which is odd for a man who has built a theory of language on the
typographical
error. I am obviously one of the least computer-sophisticated people on
this
list, if not the least, but I am very text-sophisticated. This, letter
writing,
is the medium I have chosen to express myself in for more than fifteen
years.
I am not often fooled by texts. My online experience, however, is tiny
compared
to most of yours. I shall limit myself, then, to what I perceive on
LambdaMOO,
particularly in the public rooms. Who MOOs? College-educated young
adults.
Why are they so stupid? Conformity. When you see the fucking Cockatoo
and
Coocoo clock, how could you think this is a place for people to hold
conversations
about their lives, their work, their ideas? I have yet to explore the
Palace
because I really can't afford to throw away twenty-five bucks right
now.
I haven't even seen one of our double phone bills yet, but I'm a month
behind
on the utilities as it is... Anyway, I believe that if we could get a
dozen
people a night on RL MOO, we would see that grown-up chat is possible
in
a public place for precisely the same reasons that Lambda is so
foolish,
conformity. I have tried various schemes to populate the MOO, but have
not
met with success. Any suggestions are welcome. As to pornographic GIFs,
I
haven't really seen any worth mentioning. The room service gay boy
subscribes
to something he calls UserNet where he gets to see amature shit people
put
up. It makes for some very interesting six-AM conversations. I s'pose
geeks
and hackers feel it's below them to stoop to paying for their guilty
lusts.
There is definitely a failure on the part of intellectuals to make
their
voice heard on the internet. Some of the problem is that in Amerika
there
simply is no generally-recognized group of intellectuals. I'm not sure
why
that is. I know that I get a lot of shit on Lambda because of that word
in
my description: "small, mean, polyglot intellectual".
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Columbine
Date: 15 November 1996
Subject: Re: Only 40 shopping days left!
Between you and Gabriel, Nichelle, I think my questions about
conversations on the internet have finally gotten an acceptable answer,
at least for the present. I'm still digesting, but thank you.
Gabriel: my poems are *supposed* to distract from my illustrations and
vice versa. I'm contrary. I've spent too many years being fed the
design dictum that strong words call for weak images and vice versa. To
hell with it.
My advice to you is read the site once without looking at the pictures,
then browse it again without looking at the words :-)
>And, by the way, what is wrong with pornographic GIFs?
Not a thing. There just aren't enough interesting ones.
Kannst du nicht allen gefallen durch deine That und dein Kunstwerk -
mach es wenigen recht. Vielen gefallen ist schlimm. -Schiller
From: Nichelle
Date: 17 November 1996
Subject: (fe-lâ´shê-o´)
fellatio (fe-lâ´shê-o´,
-lä´tê-o´, fè-) noun
Oral stimulation of the penis.
[New Latin, from Latin fellâtus, past participle of
fellâre, to suck.]
The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Third
Edition copyright © 1992 by Houghton Mifflin Company. Electronic
version licensed from InfoSoft International, Inc. All rights reserved.
Gabe, keep your cat under control. She just stood up on her hind legs,
on top of my desk, and started to lick that pink stick-on dick I put on
negatron's photo. It's such an unwieldy thing, it just fell off, so she
started chewing on it. I managed to rescue it, but she licked off most
of the sticky stuff...
From: Nichelle
Date: 18 November 1996
Subject: fights
Outrageous. I just got off a call with some guy in California. He was
typing, but had the audio on without realizing it and got in some
raging fight with his wife while I listened.
Oh, fine! You're talking to another *woman* again!
Well, we're just trying it out?
Trying WHAT OUT? You're trying to get laid again.
No, we're just talking.
What is she some little internet slut?
I don't even know her.
You never
I never what!?
spend any time with me and all you ever do
screw you. What the
fuck do you want me to do anyway, bitch?
Get the fuck off that thing.
Get out of my office.
[slam]
"Have I caused a problem?"
"My wife doesn't like me on the computer."
"Nobody's wife likes them on the computer."
"I'd better go mend the wounds."
"Try licking them."
"Bye."
"Later."
From: Nichelle
Date: 19 November 1996
Subject: The 1996 LambdaMOO Description Awards
OK, pin up those flowing locks and focus those penetrating eyes on the
distance, and get ready for...
The Eyes Category:
But you do see his eyes: you must turn away from that gaze, which seems
to pierce you right to your innermost soul.
her blue eyes look at you with innocense and trust
His eyes contain the sunken libraries of Alexandria
her eyes pierce your soul
eyes which penetrate your very being
dark piercing eyes
piercing gaze that paralizes you
The Hair Category:
A stormy nimbus of long, red-brown hair frames her porcelain face –
hanging in heavy serpentine tendrils to her waist.
Escaping curls form a nimbus around her head, a few silver strands
gleaming above her shapely ears.
Her hair, which used to flow in the breeze, is now *very* short...
a snakey mane of long white hair rippling down her back.
The top of his head gleams
ling blond hair
The Shadow Category:
You search the shadows in the place where you think he might be. Then,
you find a vague shape which must be him.
For a moment, the fronds of shadow that cling to him shift
The Clothing Category:
Wearing a t-shirt that says: TCHINEK DISPUTED ME AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS
LOUSY T-SHIRT.
he is covered with a black cloak, swirling about him in a dramatic
manner
His shirt seems to absorb all light. Yet, when you come closer, you can
see intricate patterns printed upon it... fractals and circuit board
designs.
A long cloak of darkness enfold his frame, preventing you from seeing
his body.
He sports a white polyester shirt and pants that may once have been
corduroy.
The Intellect Category:
I am sixteen, and fairly cool. im also kinda smart as in intellectual
you see a player who finds themself to complex to put into words
His dark brown eyes glow eerily, with a sort of inner wisdom that one
would attribute to a scholar or a mage.
The Depth Category:
Far more complex than words can say. Far more open than people should
be. Far more hopeful than the world allows. Far more insightful than
people admit. Far more concerned than people can bear. Far more
energetic than others understand.
tumbling around in the depths of her soul you also see a spark of
strength, unquenched by the tides of darkness threatening it.
Before you stands a guy.
His entire life revolves around computers, because they didn't hassle
him in high school for no reason other than being a bit different.
The Testicle Category:
his left testicle swinging gently in the airspace over Panama
The Sensitivity Category:
A delicate and ensitive indivual, who's not afraid of life's sensous
pleasures, either.
don't just go for whatever may be inside my pants.
wonderful, lovely, ace, smashing! aren't you happy? now fuck off.
His eyes are pure with love for everything surrounding him. A six gun
is holstered at his hip on a leather belt
His hands are large and calloused, showing that he favors heavy weapons.
Do not fear my presence for I am not there.
If you say hello to him he might answer, depends on his mood.
Nichelle
From: Columbine
Date: 19 November 1996
Subject: Re: The 1996 LambdaMOO Description Awards
Well, OK, some of it's corny, some of it's imbecilic, and some of it's
just plain crap, but really, how would *you* do it? I would like to
think that I could avoid the obvious potholes when thinking up a
description of myself, but my self-assessment is notoriously suspect.
You don't do escapism or wish-fulfillment at all? You must lead a much
fuller life than I do.
Sorry, that was needlessly harsh. I had a bad time with the code today
and now I think I'm going to drown my sorrows by playing computer games
until my eyes bleed.
Kannst du nicht allen gefallen durch deine That und dein Kunstwerk -
mach es wenigen recht. Vielen gefallen ist schlimm. -Schiller
From: Nichelle
Date: 19 November 1996
Subject: world descriptions
o rose, thou art sick...
I wanna die just like Jesus Christ...
small, mean, polyglot intellectual.
A nice girl to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.
Smart, orally-fixated, clarinet playing diplomat.
Tall, thin white-trash hacker.
curiosity killed the cat...
noble
..an alien abductee
From: Nichelle
Date: 19 November 1996
Subject: one more
gabriel is only my fourth name...
Nichelle
From: Nichelle
Date: 19 November 1996
Subject: pleasant conv. not a fire in the hatch.
>From: Philip
>Date: 19 November 1996
>
>Nichelle,
>
>You've established yourself in this silicon realm so I look to you
for
>wisdom: I've been picking up on the MOO scene for about a week now
and
>I must say it is addictive. In this micro-population, our hands are
>free to cast away the routine inhibitions that play distractive
roles
>in our flesh-bound lives. The locks to the gates of inspiration melt
>away quickly as we pounce around freely. There is one stinging
clause
>to this grand paradise...it isn't real. By real I mean It cannot
>replace the experiences we acquire meandering about life in search
of
>purpose. Why is it so many of us are compelled to forge an identity
in
>this world beneath?.....Escape perhaps? From what,
>disempowerment...disillusionment with the grounds above? I dunno.
>Maybe we're just taking a break from biting reality, but when I see
>people's first("real") identities begin to merge with that of their
>second("virtual") (especially when they go bug-eyed), I pause to
>consider why. Although I am not one of those people now, I very well
>could become one. I'd like to base my decision on some rationale.
>I've always been wary, but not necessarily aware.
>
>Anyhow, no rush obviously, I'll be around as Crimson_guest.
>BTW, you may be asking yourself '...this guy, why is he sending me
this
>manifesto? Sheesh'
>
>I liked your name...and you like visitors eh...
>
>PHIL
Nichelle
From: SAGReiss
Date: 20 November 1996
Subject: Escapism
Here is a text I wrote for the description of a room on Lambda. It was
never used:
1776, Lacoste, the chateau of Donatien Aldonze Francois (Louis), Comte
de Sade a.k.a. Marquis. The seeds of revolution have been sown. The
peasants are angry in the fields. The merchants are angry in the shops.
The bishops are angry in the cathedrals. The aristocrats are angry in
their castles. Across
the Atlantic a fight over taxes is quickly becoming a war over
sovereignty fraught with hangings for treason and heady talk of freedom
and democracy. Behind the stone walls of Lacoste the host, his wife,
Renee-Pelagie, nee de
Montreuil, and a dozen young domestics perform plays to entertain the
guests.
After dark the theatre takes place in the servants' quarters or the
master's
apartment. These midnight improvisations are the subject of rumour in
and
around the village. In Paris there is still talk of the sacrilege of
Easter
1768. In Aix-en-Provence a death sentence for sodomy is under appeal.
In
Lyon parents strive to recover their sons and daughters indentured to
the
lord of Lacoste. You are asleep in the dormitory. A key unlocks the
door. In walks a small man with blond curls and blue eyes. His faithful
valet de chambre, Carteron a.k.a. La Jeunesse, follows...
It's not that our lives are fuller or more fulfilling than yours. My
life is like everyone else's, full of sometimes noisy desperation and a
lot of tedium. I work a stressful, demeaning job and I'm not very good
at it. I don't
like most of our guests. I don't like the food we slop. The guests
don't
care about food, only about money, low fat, everything on the side,
what
comes with the buffet (what's free) and generally eat for breakfast
more
than I eat all day. They wonder why they are fat and now they'll get
brain
tumors from putting Equal (faux sucre) in their coffee, or so USAToday
says.
None of our managers knows anything about the business. The chef has
written
new menus raising the price of the breakfast buffet a dollar and
lowering
the price of the eggs by two dollars. He said he had worked out the
food
costs. He expects us to charge extra for a bagel instead of toast. He's
a
college boy. He doesn't understand shit. I live in a town I loathe in a
shitty
little flat intended for undergraduate scum. My academic career ended
with
both a bang and a wimper. I'm not having much luck peddling my two
novels.
I have however got an esthetic theory which drives what I do. The
list-web-MOO
didn't just happen. It was planned. Whatever its successes and
shortcomings,
I was thinking long before any of it came to life. It took me over a
year
of work. The idea behind it, in short, is what Miller quotes Emerson as
saying
in Tropic of Cancer, that (I'm quoting from memory as usual.) the novel
will
gradually fade out and be replaced by autobiography. What I added to
the
theory is twofold, real time and the second person. While I was alone
doing
this (in long correspondences which I have probably lost forever),
people
like Columbine and negatron were making what I wanted to do technically
possible.
Where the second person is a beautiful conceit in Michel Butor's
Modification,
it is a reality in cybertext. Everyone's life is ultimately mysterious
and
unknowable and boring. The only two necessary things we do are eat and
sleep.
On the other hand, why invent a story when we've got one already? That
it
may be boring is irrelevant. The huge descriptions of cetology in
Melville
or ball gowns in Proust are boring. What is interesting is how to
imitate
(Plato's term) real time and space in a linguistic medium. I have found
a
voice, a method of representation which fits me and which I believe is
unique
and fruitful. That I have been in something of a slump this fall does
not
escape me. I'm sorry, Martine, that the letters haven't been better. I
don't
think the quantity and quality of writing that I did this spring and
summer
can be sustained at all times. On the other hand no one else (except
Nichelle)
has stepped up to pick up the slack. Of course most of you didn't ask
to
join this list. I will take you off if you like. Eventually I hope to
find
people who write well and often enough to breathe life into this during
those
inevitable times when my well runs dry. Indeed receiving e-mail often
inspires
me to write when everything at work seems too boring and humorless to
bother
with. I should also go to the bar more often. Also, and I know this is
no
excuse, I wake up most days at four in the morning and am just
chronically
tired with shattered nerves and muscles weak from a physical job. I
hope
in Seattle where we plan to move this summer I can get a job just
working
lunch in a place with good food and guests who want to delight their
tongues
instead of protecting their walet and waistline. Or perhaps I can get
one
of those cushy jobs as a French translator. Or maybe I'll get lucky
with
BABEL or vr. After all, everyone begins as an auteur non-publie...
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Columbine
Date: 20 November 1996
Subject: Re: Escapism
>The idea behind it, in short, is what Miller quotes
>Emerson as saying in Tropic of Cancer, that (I'm quoting from
memory as
>usual.) the novel will gradually fade out and be replaced by
autobiography.
That idea bothers me. Although there are autobiographies I would like
very much to see, for the most part I am more interested in the worlds
that people invent than the ones they actually have to walk in. Don't
forget that people do not read novels to get information. Biography is
information; fiction is
not. (And when biography turns into fiction, as it sometimes does, it
ceases
to provide useful information about the subject. It does, however, say
something
about the biographer.)
On the other hand, I for one cannot write completely
non-autobiographical fiction. My Great Unpublished Novel (arrrgh!) has
been gutted and rewritten three times. Each time it resembles that
period of my history (New Orleans in 1986-1988) less and less - and the
most unbiased readers I can find tell me that it gets better with each
rewrite. Eventually, when it bears no resemblance to me at all, I
suppose I may actually finish it and have done with it. (I feel that
publishing fiction is a rigged casino, so I'm not really planning on
getting anything out of its completion other than moral satisfaction.)
I don't say that most peoples' lives are "boring," but they are only of
interest, except in rare cases, to the person who is living them. You
don't
care what I did last week, or about this fabulous product that I'm
breaking
my neck trying to get out by 2 December, or that I had surgery in
October
which was supposed to have been outpatient and ended up with me in the
hospital
for six days.
Nor, conversely, do I care much about your travails at work. I have
been a waiter on several occasions and a fry cook and a mechanic and a
lonely gas
station attendant and I recognize how badly these things suck; I feel
sympathetic
and I am not attempting to trivialize your life one bit more. But our
lives
are already mostly trivial; I think we agree on that, yes?
What we need is a little *less* information about human existence, not
more. The web is full of pages of faceless people living their lives
(yours are an exception, Gabriel), and I'm sorry, but I just don't give
a damn what their
cat's name is or what they're studying in school. My web pages may have
their
faults, but by god, there isn't a whit of personal information anywhere
on
them - they're not even registered on TIAC's index under my name.
I am no better and no worse than anyone else, but at the very least I
can avoid contributing to the problem.
Kannst du nicht allen gefallen durch deine That und dein Kunstwerk -
mach es wenigen recht. Vielen gefallen ist schlimm. -Schiller
From: Murder
Date: 20 November 1996
Subject: The death of A=440
A turbulent week is in the making. Monday night at 9:45 P.S.T. it
started snowing. And snowing. And snowing. Classes were cancelled on
Tuesday morning, which didn't hurt my feelings because Tuesday is my
busiest day of classes, teaching, etc. Didn't even get a flute lesson.
Cleaned my room for the second time since I've been here; I just never
get around to it since I practically live with Erin. I even watched TV
for the first time in three months, but the cable went out and I took a
nap. Erin, battling tendonitis, scheduled an appointment with a
performingartsphysicaltherapist in Seattle and had to
brave whiteout on the passes. Orchestra is hell. Today was the worst
rehearsal that I recall in over three years at this institution.
Literally four different tuning A's were strained out by the first
oboist at the beginning of rehearsal: A=439, A=437, A=445, and A=442.
Needless to say, unisons didn't exist. I was
sick to my stomach afterwards because I was so pissed. So I fixed a cup
of
cocoa and got a blowjob and felt much better. Now I'm at work getting
interrupted
every five minutes while I write this because someone wants to check
something
out on this computer. Good thing I finally figured out how to make a
listserv.
Tbutton brought up some interesting points about biography and (vs.)
fiction,
with which I disagree. I have always preferred nonfiction, particularly
biographies,
over fiction. The real world is much more interesting than any fantasy
world
anyone could dream up. The human imagination, wonderful as it is, is
nonetheless
limited in scope to a sufficient degree that almost no fiction writers
can
satisfy me. I have an innate curiosity to learn about what is and was,
not
what will never be. I used to read some Asimov, Stephen King, and
shittypopularfantasy-sci-fi
stuff, but now I avidly ingest biographies on my favorite musicians as
well
as books on philosophy. Language as a medium generally leaves me
dissatisfied,
unless it is in a musical context. Maybe it is just because I'm a
shitty
writer. I do not speak French, which makes me a bit of an outsider on
this
list at times, but I do enjoy the real-world descriptions people tend
to
write, even if it is about food (BTW, Nichelle, I think that book you
referred
concerning the tour journal with only a description of the cuisine was
by
(or about) John Cage. I think I might have discussed it with you many
years
ago, or else we looked at it together in the library). The real world
presents
enough challenges for me and is sufficiently interesting that I do not
need
to turn to fantasy. Unless you consider music mere fantasy, in which
case
you almost dismiss me as pure fantasy, since music is such an integral
part
of my day-to-day existence. Although I do not have much experience with
MOOs
or MUDs or the Palace, etc, I do sympathize with Gabe's frustrations at
the
lack of intelligent conversation due to the weaknesses of the medium.
It
would be nearly equivalent to attempting to play duets with someone
online
via the weak audio systems we are stuck with. No intelligent
music-making
could possibly take place. I also admit to instances of succumbing to
the
comforts of conformity, especially online. It is very difficult to find
people
with my same interests, and even when I do, an inexpressible something
generally
interferes with my ability to even begin the conversation. Also, lag
time
is even more uncomfortable online than it is IRL. I always feel as
though
I have to be keeping up my end of the conversation, unless it's with a
larger
group where often I am comfortable just soaking everything in. Since I
am
a rather slow typer, I have more time to think and edit myself while I
type
than I generally do when I speak. So in that sense, online chat is
really
an artificial medium of communication, and always will be. By
artificial I
mean as opposed to the more natural (read: what we're used to) action
of speaking
IRL, whether it be face-to-face or over the telephone. Just my $.02.
We're
ten minutes from closing. I'm going home to get laid.
Murder
From: Nichelle
Date: 21 November 1996
Subject: one coffee, two scones
You seem to have a thing for double reed players. Are four blowjobs by
an oboist as inconsistent as four A's? Yes, the book was either by or
about Cage,
and I think the tour was one with Merce Cunningham. Gaby can bitch and
moan
about the two of them. So maybe he did gather a few too many mushrooms.
I've
got plenty to say about Cage, but I won't say it here because 1) the
klarinet
listserv is making dumbass 4'33" jokes again, and they piss me off, and
2)
I mentioned Cage once on this list and The Almighty informed me that
Cage
and Rauschenberg are ham&eggers. Nevermind. We can discuss it over
coffee,
or hot cocoa if you prefer (the Mexican hot chocolate at Delizioso's is
really
good, and if you haven't tried it, you should) when he's 2000 miles
away,
having a Ricard at Lou's. And I was going to suggest playing duets
online,
but there goes that idea.
I don't know what to say about your letter, tbutton. That other
people's lives are interesting only to them is probably not true. My
life doesn't particularly
interest me. That we need a little *less* information about human
existence
I would also argue with. On the other hand, my life is so interesting
that
nobody would believe it if I published it. A girl who has been raped
four
times and flies across the continental United States at 6:48 AM on four
hours
notice to go live with her internet boyfriend... Still, nothing is
really
interesting. Am I the only one who has read in the newspaper (yes, I do
it
from time to time, Gaby) or see on the television (I used to in my
younger
days) that nine people were killed in an auto collision, and I think
'nine
people isn't so many'. Shit, there are nine of us on this listserv
(unless
you want to count Gaby three times).
I don't really know about the lines between fiction and nonfiction.
Apparently there was a debate about this issue, about my texts on the
web, between sagreiss and mneddam, but I have no idea what was said
except something about autobiography is a kind of fiction, and that
doesn't strike me as being a particularly hot
topic. Of course it is. Still, what can you understand and what can you
write
about if not your experience of the world? Still, I was fascinated by
this
list from the moment I got on it, and the thing which struck me most
about
Babel is that sagreiss was starving and cold the entire time. I think
it
would be interesting to know what you had for breakfast. I think it
would be interesting to know how many packs of cigarettes negatron
smokes every week, and what kind. What do you find more interesting
about fiction than about nonfiction (assuming there's a difference,
which Murder and I would know if we spoke French)? I was frustrated by
David Copperfield, but even Dickens tells us what his characters eat.
What's the point of trying to escape from the human experience? Shit,
even on the goddamn fucking stupidass Lambda MOO, people will say 'I'm
going to the kitchen to get some pretzels and a coke.'
Why do you assume that I'm not interested in what you did last week? Or
about your surgery and hospital stay? And by the way, how was the
hospital
food? And what is the useful information on a subject which I'm
supposed
to find in a biography. Gabe and I both liked the introduction to one
of
the volumes of my collections of Shakespeare plays. The author
describes
Shakespeare's quill pen getting dull and having to sharpen it, and
trying
not to get nasty inkblots all over the page, and having black ink all
over
his knuckles...
If we aren't supposed to talk about what we experience, what are we
supposed to talk about? What other people experience? We don't/can't
know that. So then we make up a character and talk about his/her
experiences? Where do those
made up details come from if not from our own lives? Your novel no
longer
resembles New Orleans 1986-1988 because you've done other things since
and
revised it. It seems that the only thing we agree about is that
pictures of
people's cats and what they're studying in school don't make for a very
interesting
web page.
I'm going to take a shower. Murder, why don't we meet on RL one of
these days? Just name a time.
Nichelle
From: SAGReiss
Date: 21 November 1996
Subject: Ten eyes, cocoa and a blowjob
Sunny quoted this poem by Charles Bukowski to me yesterday on Lambda:
"[I have no idea where the line breaks are.] I live with a lady and
four cats. Some days I have a problem with one of the cats. Some days I
have a problem with two of them. Some days three, or four. Some days I
have a problem with all four cats and the lady, ten eyes looking at me
as if I were a dog." I don't take the distinction between fiction and
non-fiction very seriously. On this at least, Martine and I agreed,
though her letter may have been before I added her address to the list
and it may have been in French. When I am trying to describe events, it
doesn't really matter whether I am making them up, or they are real.
The problem is what portion of reality to describe and
how. If I want to describe someone, I have choices to make about how to
bring
the character to life on the page. Whether and to what extent I make up
the
details is irrelevant. The fundamental question is how to describe
sights
and sounds and tastes and blowjobs in words. Proust's model was
Saint-Simon, who wrote memoires, non-fiction. What is exciting about
Saint-Simon is not the details of the French court at the end of the
seventeenth century. It's his awkward, long-winded, dolphin-torn,
gong-tormented syntax and the stunning way he mixes up physical and
moral traits so that often one is not sure what exactly he is getting
at. No one reads Proust for the story. One French critic of the female
persuasion summed up the three-thousand-page monsterpiece in three
words: "Marcel devient ecrivain." A man wakes up, takes a shit, walks
around Dublin, goes to a brothel with a younger man and is cuckolded by
his wife. This is the silly-boring-sordid tale of Ulysses.
Sophisticated readers don't read for content. Only in America does
anyone even believe in content. The literary habits I was exposed to in
the graduate program at SU were harshly judged twenty-five years out of
date in 1950 by Alain Robbe-Grillet. One of
the Greeks reduced every story to one of seven three thousand years ago
and
declared that every tale had already been told. When I first read the
Illiad
and the Odyssee, I already knew those stories by heart. I could have
written
them myself. Why do we constantly write and rewrite the same tired
myths?
We are seeking new means of expression, a new (Got another of those "R
u
m/f?" calls on NetMeeting. I guess I chose the wrong answer. How could
so
many people be confused about the gender of the name Gabriel?) style.
You
see, there is a choice. I could have typed "style." and then written
the
new sentence. I wanted to give the impression, to imitate, real time,
so
I did it that way. Indeed the main reason for the new sentence was to
interrupt
the old one. No important information is given, but a stylistic point
has
been made. The physical text, parenthetic interruption, illustrates the
theme
of the text, stylistic choices and the general theme of the new media
we
are working in. You don't know, Murder, that those As were,
respectively, 439, 437, 445, 442. You have chosen jargon and overstated
precision to make the text more lively than simply saying the first was
a little flat, the second
very flat etc. It's a good ploy, whether or not you were conscious of
what
you were doing. Even if you claim to hear with absolute precision, you
still
didn't need to write it that way. The research in my aborted doctoral
dissertation
which has become the last fifty pages of BABEL does not seek to
ascertain
whether Henry Miller did or did not read Bouvard et Pecuchet in 1910 or
sometime
after or never. The point is how the mecanism of his memory works and
how
he illustrates it in writing first in 1950 and then in 1976. This text,
taken
from Capricorn and not quoted from memory, has seemed to me to be the
most
beautiful of the twentieth century. I first read it twenty years ago
and
it has lost none of its power to move me. It has haunted me ever since:
With the refinements that come with maturity the smells faded out, to
be replaced by only one other distinctly memorable, distinctly
pleasurable smell--the odor of the cunt. More particularly the odor
that lingers on the fingers after
playing with a woman, for, if it has not been noticed before, this
smell
is even more enjoyable, perhaps because it already carries with it the
perfume
of the past tense, than the odor of the cunt itself. But this odor,
which
belongs to maturity, is but a faint odor compared with the odors
attaching
to childhood. It is an odor which evaporates, almost as quickly in the
mind's
imagination, as in reality. One can remember many things about the
woman
one has loved but it is hard to remember the smell of her cunt--with
anything
like certitude.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Nichelle
Date: 21 November 1996
Subject: whaddaya think?
gregD asks, "do you have a family?"
You say, "no I was born in a cabbage patch and raised by squirrels"
gregD says, "funny"
You say, "well, it was a good question"
gregD asks, "how old are you really?"
You say, "you never asked to begin with."
You say, "I'm 23"
You ask, "and you are what?"
gregD says, "you call that old"
You say, "Maybe I'm just ultra-mature"
gregD says, "i'm just 18, freshman"
gregD asks, "how do you get ultra-matture?"
You say, "Drink a lot and learn to swear in multiple languages."
gregD asks, "how many and what kind?"
gregD asks, "are you still there?"
You say, "Well, the best thing to drink is moonshine. Make it yourself
in an old rain barrel. If you can't do that, the hard stuff is best...
usually Turkish Beer"
You say, "as for the swearing, you need to learn to say things like
'Oegh Glentch' and 'Blenchny Vandgrenny'"
gregD asks, "what does that mean?"
You say, "those mean 'kissing penis' and 'fucking your sister'"
gregD says, "i got to remember those for later"
You say, "Just be careful. They're really offensive in Russian."
gregD asks, "tell me if this is to personal, but are you seeing anyone?"
You say, "Yes, I live with my boyfriend."
gregD says, "i mean you are 23 and all"
You say, "Absolutely."
gregD says, "it sounds like he is a very lucky man"
You say, "thanks..."
You say, "I'll let him know you said that."
gregD says, "i hate to do this but i have to go, i got an early class
tomarrow"
You say, "well, take it easy"
Nichelle
From: SAGReiss
Date: 21 November 1996
Subject: La querelle du Cid
P.S. When defending himself before the French Academy on some very
serious charges of immorality, Pierre Corneille (Peter Crow for those
of you in the television audience) made this outrageous claim:
"Veracity is more important than verisimilitude. It is true, but not
believable, that Oedipus killed his
father and fucked his mother." He and I and you all know that this is
not
true, but easy to believe. Dr Johnson said that the best three plots in
all
of literature were Oedipus Rex (or Tyranus, as opposed to Basileus),
Valpone
and Tom Jones. Ben Jonson is a mean and vicious writer and I can't
remember
the plot of Valpone, but Oedipus and TJones (as it says in his e-mail
address)
have the same plot.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Nichelle
Date: 21 November 1996
Subject: GregD II, the sequel
RL MOO (The Real Life MOO)
"In the twenty-first century e-novels will be written online."
For more information, please see the RL MOO web site.
Valid commands are: WELcome, who, COnnect, quit, UPtime, version, or
REQuest.
You must be twenty-one or older to connect. Please use your real name.
Type: co name password
Or: co guest
********* Please read "help disclaimer" after logging on. *********
*** Connected ***
Limbo
Woe unto you, unbaptized child. You are tottering on the brink of Sodom
and Gomorrah. Silence prevails within these dark confines; only paging
and
remote emoting are allowed in this room.
For spiritual guidance (RL-MOO help), type 'help'.
To get away from the heat (Enter RL-MOO), go to Purgatorio. Type 'Pur'.
Last connected Tue Nov 19 15:39:17 1996 AKST from sa26.dreamscape.com
Purgatorio
"Puro e disposto a salire alle stelle."
"Pure and ready to rise to the stars."
Exits: Up (to Paradiso), Limbo (to Limbo), and Down (to Inferno).
To private rooms: North (free), South (free), East (free), and West
(free).
angry johnny (dozing) is here.
<Connected: GregD [Guest] (#175) at Tue Nov 19 18:55:51 1996
AKST.>
GregD has arrived.
GregD says, "hi Nichelle"
GregD asks, "remember me?"
You say, "Hi Greg... yeah, I remember you"
GregD asks, "how are you?"
You ask, "pretty good, you?"
GregD says, "i'm doing fine"
GregD asks, "what you been up to?"
You say, "what's up tonight? I slept all day and ate dinner"
GregD asks, "you feeling any better than last time?"
You say, "I wasn't feeling bad last time"
GregD says, "O, sorry."
You ask, "you're sorry because I wasn't feeling bad?"
GregD says, "i'm just chillin' here"
You say, "I can try to cough a little or something, if it would make
you more comfortable."
GregD says, "no, b/c i forgot"
GregD says, "you don't need to cough."
You ask, "so what else is up, greg?"
GregD says, "nothing much just tring to reg. for classes next spring."
GregD says, "its a real pain in the ass."
You say, "I know. I need to do that too."
GregD says, "well you should get started before everybody else gets
what you want."
You say, "I have to wait until the 4th to do it."
GregD says, "wow really, i have to get it done before the 3rd."
GregD asks, "what were you going to major in?"
You say, "I've finished five years of music school"
GregD asks, "so what instrament do you play?"
You ask, "clarinet. You?"
GregD says, "i play alittle piano and a little guitar, but nothin
serious."
You say, "piano and guitar are serious"
GregD says, "yea but i only know a few little things on each"
You say, "Oh, I see. You mean you're no good at them.."
GregD says, "well i wouldn't say that, i just need more practice."
You say, "well, that's the case with most people who are not good at
their instruments"
GregD says, "i know how to play the James Bond theme on the guitar."
You say, "really? you're a regular 007..."
GregD says, "and i know these are a few of my favorite things on the
piano"
You ask, "what are a few of your favorite things, greg?"
GregD says, "you know SOUND OF MUSIC"
GregD asks, "have you ever seen the movie?"
You say, "every year when it's on tv"
GregD asks, "then you know what i'm talking about?"
You say, "oh, absolutely. It's a very beautiful song."
GregD exclaims, "this computer is slow!"
GregD [Guest] has disconnected.
Virgil leads GregD to another world.
<Disconnected: GregD [Guest] (#175) at Tue Nov 19 19:13:27 1996
AKST.>
<Connected: GregD [Guest] (#175) at Tue Nov 19 19:15:00 1996
AKST.>
GregD has arrived.
GregD says, "hey, sorry about that it froze up on me then cut me off."
You ask, "Hey, no problem. Remind me, do you have a character on
Lambda?"
GregD says, "i'm not sure what that means"
You ask, "do you go to other moos?"
GregD asks, "kie?"
You ask, "kie?"
GregD asks, "like?"
You say, "Like Lambda"
You say, "other places like this one.... where you talk to people...."
GregD asks, "you mean lambda.parc.xerox.com 8888?"
You say, "right... that lambda"
GregD says, "yea"
You ask, "you have a character on that moo?"
GregD says, "no "
You say, "I see...."
GregD says, "i go as a guest"
GregD asks, "if thats what you mean?"
You say, "yes, that's what I mean"
GregD says, "ok then, no i don't"
GregD says, "sorry about that, i probably confused you"
You say, "No, no... I've got it all figured out now."
GregD says, "ok"
GregD asks, "why did you want to know?"
You say, "but I'm going to have to go take a little nap for a while.
i'm pretty tired."
GregD says, "thats cool, then i will see you later."
You say, "ok, take it easy. Good night."
GregD says, "by :)"
Nichelle
From: Joy
Date: 21 November 1996
Subject: Re: whaddaya think?
i claim full responsibility for the visit by GregD. i don't know him.
hegoes to my school and likes sports. do you really need to know any
more?
-killjoy
From: Columbine
Date: 21 November 1996
Subject: Re: The death of A=440
Taking this as three assertions:
>The real world is much more
>interesting than any fantasy world anyone could dream up.
>The human
>imagination, wonderful as it is, is nonetheless limited in scope ...
>I have
>an innate curiosity to learn about what is and was, not what will
never
>be.
I agree strongly with the first, disagree strongly with the second, and
don't understand why you can't have it both ways on the third. Can't I
want
to learn about both?
I'm not arguing against nonfiction after all. I merely wish to insist
that fiction has a definite purpose to serve as well.
By the by, am I also in the minority here in thinking that oral sex is
a vastly overrated commodity? Never mind, forget I said that, you'll
probably think that undermines the soundness of my other arguments :-)
Kannst du nicht allen gefallen durch deine That und dein Kunstwerk -
mach es wenigen recht. Vielen gefallen ist schlimm. -Schiller
From: Columbine
Date: 21 November 1996
Subject: Re: Ten eyes, cocoa and a blowjob
I happen to have headed deep into the waters of folklore and
comparative mythology during one of my many abortive stabs at what is
laughingly called higher education, and had not a few arguments about
this very subject. I usually
lose them :-)
>A man wakes up, takes a shit, walks around Dublin, goes
>to a brothel with a younger man and is cuckolded by his wife. This
is the
>silly-boring-sordid tale of Ulysses.
I'm a Joyce fan. Surprise. Given opinions like the ones I've expressed
here, many people are astonished to hear that. I fit Joyce into my
often-rigid universe
by fudging the categories. Joyce is not literature, because you
literally
cannot read him for plot. You'll lose your mind. Joyce is an extended
poem,
a lengthy soliloquy that you repeat aloud in your mind because you just
love
the way the gibberish sounds. Mark Leyner is the same way. Thomas
Pynchon
is too, but I don't like his music, so I don't read him. It's like
preferring
jazz over Bach or vice versa. (I like Bach, particularly back to back
with
Professor Longhair.)
Literature MUST have plot. Doesn't matter whether you've heard it a
million times before and whether you even care for the story. The story
carries you, like a river, through the words. Without the story you are
stranded. Some stories are known, reliable modes of transit and we tend
to use them over and over. Having studied A-S myth types, I'd put it at
more than seven :-) but I agree with you, we keep telling the same old
campfire stories.
But would you read Faulkner if the story weren't there to carry you
through the eccentric language? If you answer yes, you and the ghosts
of the Dadaists should get along famously. I respect the Dadaists even
though they are the distant ancestors of the despised
Deconstructionists, curse their names. At
least the Dadaists were making a big, conscious, joke out of the
dissection process.
>Sophisticated readers don't read for
>content. Only in America does anyone even believe in content. The
literary
>habits I was exposed to in the graduate program at SU were harshly
judged
>twenty-five years out of date in 1950 by Alain Robbe-Grillet.
Feh. Bullshit. Are you calling me an unsophisticated reader? Well,
thanks a bunch.
I know they read spy novels in Paris, not to mention that genre known
as the "bodice-ripper." Style is good; content is good too; to focus on
one over
the other at any time is deadly.
Robbe-Grillet was a shortsighted bastard who literally could not
realize that he was a willing participant in the over-glorification of
syntax at the
expense of vivisection of literature. He held a magnifying glass up to
literature
and didn't realize that the focal point was burning holes in the page.
This is rambling all over the place and is probably more irate than it
should be. I will get flamed now, I imagine. Sorry.
Kannst du nicht allen gefallen durch deine That und dein Kunstwerk -
mach es wenigen recht. Vielen gefallen ist schlimm. -Schiller
From: Columbine
Date: 21 November 1996
Subject: Re: one coffee, two scones (long)
My TCP connection has a timeout on it. If I don't transmit or receive
anything for about fifteen minutes, it hangs up. Tonight this event
will have happened several times in the course of my answering email.
It's a wonderful thing to actually get something thought provoking in
your mailbox. Never mind that the rest of you are suddenly discovering
what an argumentative b**ch this complete stranger is.
I thought, Nichelle, that between McM and Gabriel I had just about
exhausted everything I had to say on this subject, but along came your
email. That's why people tell the same stories over and over, Gabriel.
Two people can relay the exact same story and yet say entirely
different things. (And if you leave out the story entirely, well,
that's a different message and not an invalid one.)
A random comment about John Cage. All I have to judge him by are his
writings but he had the same saving grace that the Dadaists did - a
profound sense of humor. I guess what I'm saying is, it's okay to
dissect things if you make
a big joke out of it. I realize that's wholly subjective; since when
have
I said anything that wasn't?
John Cage "had nothing to say, and he was saying it." You say you don't
know what to say about my letter, Nichelle, then you say it for two
screenfuls :-). I can respect that.
Your life is the sort of thing that I write about. You're right, it's
too real to be believable. Not that I doubt you, because you have no
reason to lie about it (not even to a stranger). I am a firm believer
that truth is stranger than fiction. Which is why I seek out those
sorts of events and use
them mercilessly in my fiction. All of my characters and events were
originally
spawned from reality - there's a real seed back in there somewhere.
Poetry,
on the rare occasions I write it, is a little more cutting because
there's
no room in there for the embellishments, almost no room for the eventes
themselves.
Just a bare whisper of event, and the rest is style. I guess if I feel
like
that, it's not surprising that I write decent poetry as seldom as I do.
I am all in favor of blurring the lines between fiction and nonfiction,
except in newspapers which I really feel should be kept around as a
control
group, a fixed point of reference. (It's a hopeless dream, of course,
they're
all slanted in one direction or another, but you can learn to
compensate
for a newspaper's slant eventually.) I guess the problem I have is that
Gabriel thinks that as the line blurs, all fiction will become
nonfiction, and I think
that's exactly backward - all nonfiction will eventually become
fiction, and
the web is helping, and I don't think that's a bad thing necessarily.
On the other hand, if we agree that the line is becoming progressively
more blurred, do the labels we put underneath really matter?
>I think it would be interesting to know what you had
>for breakfast.
[...]
>What do you find more
>interesting about fiction than about nonfiction (assuming there's a
>difference, which Murder and I would know if we spoke French)?
I don't speak French either.
In order to answer that, I have to say that I find it extremely
surprising that you would be interested in what I had for breakfast,
since I do not find
it in the least bit interesting and I was *there*. That answers the
question
as well. To me it is almost self-evident that fiction is more
interesting than nonfiction IF it's the kind of nonfiction we've been
talking about, that
which relates to people and their lives.
(There are other sorts of nonfiction, after all. I remember reading a
history of the hedgerow battles at Normandy that had me more riveted
than a spy novel. I knew nothing about the events at all; I was
literally waiting, as in a suspense
movie, to see how it came out. But, you say, those were ultimately just
people's
lives, were they not? Well, yes. But most of us do not enter the bocage
every
morning wondering if there will be a Panzerfaust waiting in the next
enclosure.
I'm not saying that people's lives lack suspense, but it's a much more
long-term
kind of suspense - will Gabriel get a better job? Will he move to
Seattle?
Will the orchestra ever manage to standardize on a 440 A? I can't get
absorbed
in a book where the character development takes place over, well, a
lifetime.
(All those video games must have done something to my attention span.
For
example, I just opened another parenthesis without realizing that I had
never
closed the one at the top of the paragraph. Bah. Well, here's an
extra.))
Actually, now that I've written that, I retract part of it. Because I
*am* becoming interested in whether or not Gabriel gets a better job,
whether Joy
has purchased a copy of FACTORY SHOWROOM yet, etc etc. But not in what
you
had for breakfast. So there's a line drawn in the sand somewhere and I
just
have to figure out where I drew it, unbeknownst to myself.
>What's the point of trying to escape from the human
>experience? Shit, even on the goddamn fucking stupidass Lambda MOO,
people
>will say 'I'm going to the kitchen to get some pretzels and a coke.'
There's no point in trying to escape it PERMANENTLY and such behavior
should be strongly discouraged. Brief jaunts, however, are therapeutic
and possibly even necessary. At least in my case they are. Playing the
latest bang bang shoot shoot game or adventure puzzle game is necessary
for me to lose the spectre of those twelve hour days. Otherwise I can't
sleep because I find myself debugging code in my head.
>Why do you assume that I'm not interested in what you did last
week? Or
>about your surgery and hospital stay? And by the way, how was the
hospital
>food? And what is the useful information on a subject which I'm
supposed to
>find in a biography. Gabe and I both liked the introduction to one
of the
>volumes of my collections of Shakespeare plays. The author describes
>Shakespeare's quill pen getting dull and having to sharpen it, and
trying
>not to get nasty inkblots all over the page, and having black ink
all over
>his knuckles...
Interestingly enough, one of the most fascinating books I ever read was
SHAKESPEARE OF LONDON - a straight and well-done biography - by
Marcette
Shute, as I recall. (I'm too lazy to walk into the other room and find
it.)
That was the book that taught me that biography COULD occasionally be
interesting; it was a harsh lesson and I have not forgotten. The
biography of Huey Long - the Longs are another serious research hobby
of mine, in many ways they *are* folklore - by T. Harry Williams
deserves to be called a masterpiece. But these are interesting people;
they led interesting lives. Or shall we say, far more interesting than
average. Also, the mundane details of Shakespeare's life are
interesting because they're not the same details that we have in our
mundane lives today. Would it be interesting if the paragraph had
described Shakespeare always running out of ink in his ball-point pen,
and how the bottoms
of the pens would leak ink and stain his shirt pockets after he'd
carried
them around for a long time?
In short, "I had my usual large cup of coffee for breakfast, most of
which I drank on the subway standing up on the way to work" is not
interesting. "I went outside before the sun had fully risen, caught a
large hare, suspended it from the lowest branch of the willow, slit its
jugular, and drained its blood into a steel cup whose contents I
consumed in a single draught" is.
Your mileage may vary.
Good heavens, this is a long message. I'm sorry. After I finish it,
I'll shut up for a while, I promise.
>If we aren't supposed to talk about what we experience, what are we
supposed
>to talk about? What other people experience? We don't/can't know
that. So
>then we make up a character and talk about his/her experiences?
Why, yes. Then it's fiction. :-) No, seriously, you make a good point.
Here's where style comes in, I suppose. If we're all doing the same
boring things over and over, then *how* you tell it becomes the leading
principle. If I were describing the coffee episode in my book I'd have
the character's mind wandering, have some internal monologue, because
the events themselves are dull. Or perhaps describe the events in as
weird a way as possible.
If, on the other hand, you're describing something really exotic, like
the hare, you can use very boring language because the events will
carry themselves.
I would no more want to read a book entirely composed of the first type
of event - words over actions - than I would want to read one entirely
of
the second type - actions over words. The first would be tedious; the
second would become jarring and difficult to take after a very short
time
---
Until I die, there will be sounds. And they will continue following my
death. One need not fear about the future of music.
-- John Cage (1912-1992)
From: Columbine
Date: 22 November 1996
Subject: The Ritual of the Mundane
The alarm always goes off at seven o'clock because the other alarm
clock, on the far side of the bed, will always go off then, even when
Suffolk takes a vacation day. Being a university, they take off for
every holiday I'd ever heard of, and a few holidays peculiar to the
Boston area that always catch me off guard. My company only takes five
holidays a year.
I don't get up at seven myself. I set the alarm by hand for thirty
minutes later. Oddly enough I have never used the "snooze" button on
any of the alarm clocks I've owned. By seven-thirty, I'm a little less
groggy and the shower is available.
I get finished with the toilet and shower as quickly as I can, brush my
teeth, pull my hair back and put the little elastic tie around it. I
don't
comb it anymore in the mornings because I have pernicious dandruff,
even
when I wash it daily, which I'm very self-conscious about. Instead I
just
get the tangles out with my fingers, which usually works better than
the
hairbrush anyway.
I go into the bedroom and pull on the hacker uniform to go with the
zero-maintenance hacker hair. Repeat it with me now, brethren and
sistren: jeans-and-a-t-shirt. Hiking boots in winter, sneakers in
summer. I love clothing but my dance club
outfits would be a little out of place at the office.
If I do this right, I can be out the door by a little before eight. The
idea is to get to work before eight thirty, and to time it so that I
wake
up late enough in the process that I don't realize what a stupid idea
it
is. I don't usually accomplish it but I've found I get more work done
before
everybody else gets there anyway. Only my boss is ever there at
eight-thirty;
she also leaves later than I do and doesn't appear to take any sort of
stimulants. But I digress.
On the way to the subway I buy a medium coffee. Small is never enough;
large will give me stomach angst by the time I get around to having
lunch. If I'm really famished I pick up a pastry of some kind. I used
to get sick if I tried
to eat anything within a few hours of waking up; the habit is still
with
me.
The subway is always crowded and I am mildly claustrophobic, so I try
to stand by the door on the wrong side, where there's usually some
space.
I am the sole person who understands the product which I have largely
written and continue to add new goodies to. I'm proud of the product
and I hope it sells. I do wish, however, that they wouldn't continue to
set such impossible deadlines. I wonder sometimes, in my more cynical
moments, if this isn't the
penalty of demonstrating competence, and that maybe I'd have it easier
if
I were a total fuckup. Then again, the company's laid off a lot of
people lately, so maybe not a good idea.
I eat lunch when my stomach tells me to. We're next to a large mall and
I'm always in a hurry, so it's usually junk food, which I feel guilty
about
afterwards.
If I manage to leave before 6 p.m. I probably walk part of the way
home, maybe all of it, which adds about an hour but makes me feel like
I'm actually getting some exercise. I'm a very fast walker and I have
been known to walk ten miles or so for recreation on occasion. I'm also
a really bad judge of distance, so I can't say how long the walk home
is. It's about fifteen minutes on the subway, whose route I follow
overhead as I walk.
These days, though, I get out too late to walk through that
neighborhood. So I ride the subway home and eat whatever happens to be
around. Then I check my email and play computer games or draw more
pictures or design Marathon maps. I've stopped coding for fun at home.
I just can't do it. I can't bring myself to finish my book either even
though it has less than a hundred pages to go. Oh well.
I get to bed around one a.m. most nights even though I always resolve
to do it earlier. It's 12:23 now by the clock on the computer, which
means that if I want to have a peanut butter sandwich and a hot bath
before bed, I had better hustle.
---
I look around me and I recoil from such disorder. We live amidst
absurdity, so close to it that it escapes our notice ... Since we
cannot hope for order let us withdraw with style from the chaos.
-- Tom Stoppard
from LORD MALQUIST AND MR. MOON
Kannst du nicht allen gefallen durch deine That und dein Kunstwerk -
mach es wenigen recht. Vielen gefallen ist schlimm. -Schiller
From: SAGReiss
Date: 22 November 1996
Subject: Will that be medium or large this morning, Ms Columbine?
I was going to make a show of my vast, polyglot culture and trot out
the passages where Miller talks about Bouvard et Pecuchet, but my
cherished English and French copies (which are different in very
important ways, or at least so it seems to someone who desperately
wrote fifty pages of a doctoral dissertation on cocktail napkins) of
The Books in My Life are in France, probably lost forever. Not that any
of you give a fuck. The other reference, for those of
you who might, is J'suis pas plus con qu'un autre, which Miller wrote
in
bad French at the age of seventy-six. My point is not whether he did or
did
not read Bouvard et Pecuchet. It doesn't matter and he probably
couldn't tell
you if he were still alive. The more we tell the tale the less the tale
matters
and the more the telling. And yes, I don't really care whether we call
it
fiction or non-fiction. Anais Nin may have made up her huge Diary.
Gertrude
Stein may, or may not, have told the truth in The Autobiography of
Alice
B. Toklas, which in fact says very little about poor Alice. My point is
that
a man called Henry Miller at the age of seventy-six struggled through
his
bad French to rewrite the story of something quite mundane that
happened in
about 1910. A customer gave either Miller or his father a gift of a
book (two
really) which Miller may or may not have read. Yet in telling this
insignificant story, Miller remembers or makes up more telling details
in 1976 than the first time (How many times did he tell the tale at
supper?) in 1950. And somehow,
this story becomes a vast metaphore for Miller's ambivalent
relationship with
books and with his father, who never read, except for the newspaper and
one
book by John Ruskin. Then, all of a sudden, something (a line, a
sentence,
a paragraph, a page) is missing from both editions I've got of J'suis
pas
plus con qu'un autre. The reader is plunged into the middle of a
sentence/paragraph
which is a vicious diatribe on Ruskin. Miller is seldom so mean. My
point
is that make it up or not you still have to get it on the page. This is
what's
hard. This is what matters. Given that the problem is how to represent
sights/sounds/smells
in written language, I see no reason to waste my time making up
sights/sounds/smells.
The mind somehow latches on to events, significant or not, and makes
them
significant by telling and retelling them. I have publicly stated that
Capricorn
is better than Cancer because the events are further away in Miller's
memory
and so he is freed up of the entire problem of what really happened. I
don't
like Joyce and neither did Miller. Miller calls him dead. I like
Faulkner
despite the silly, white trash stories. I don't understand the
difference
you draw, Columbine, between literature and poetry. All arguments
(including
Robbe-Grillet's [I don't like the son of a bitch either, but that's not
the
point.]) I have read on the question use Faulner and Joyce to prove the
same
point, not as counter examples. My argument would be different. What is
so
great about The Sound and the Fury is that no erudition, no
intellectual
mind games are necessary to understand why the tale is told as it is.
Benjy
can't write normally. This, to me, is Faulkner's greatness and his
superiority
to Joyce. I hope I don't sound negative. I like your web page and keep
telling
myself to print up the poems so I can read them, but I haven't gotten
around
to it. No matter how good or bad they are, of course, at least you're
trying to do something. This is what's wrong with the internet, this
vast new medium that people use to post pictures of their dogs, gfs,
porn which all begin to look alike on the first day you get on the web.
What I liked about Shakes fumbling with his quills (which is all made
up of course) is that it is so much like the large portions of BABEL
where I'm fighting with typers/pine/paper or where Buk fucks with his
ribbons. The only thing I know about Huey Long is what I read in that
book by Robert Penn Warren, which is usually called a novel, but then
again so is BABEL, so is vr. Buk calls himself Chinaski. I use the
name(s) on my birth certificate. Maybe I've just got a lazy
imagination. (Why do I feel this sudden urge for a glass of whisky?
Never mind.) "[Oral] sex," says Buk, "is like money. It seems far more
important when you haven't got any." Columbine says: "I had my usual
large cup of coffee for breakfast, most of which I drank on the subway
standing up on the way to work." This is where your text comes alive
for me. I was startled at half past two in the morning waking up while
Nichelle was getting ready for bed. I think I even said something when
I read that. Ah, finally, this is what I want to read. For some reason,
events large or small, Miller's Bouvard et Pecuchet, Nichelle's rape
stories, suddenly seize the mind, the syntax glows, the pace seems
right. I don't care if the sentences are long or short. On a good day
Hemingway can write as well as Faulkner. (Hemingway could also write
worse than my mother, but that's another story.) Something tells me:
"Here is the hand of a master." Not that I can't analyse it to death
(the use of "and" in that endless sentence where Nichelle writes about
not saying no, the way the rhythm slows to a crawl in the last line of
"To his Coy Mistress") but who cares? Columbine says: "[I won't bother
with the second example which is a good example of what I call
Bulwer-Lytton/Marquis de Sade descriptions on Lambda or Playboy/Calvin
Klein avatars on the Palace and which I find utterly
insipid and boring.] [I think of Boston and wonder why she/you didn't
write
the T. Maybe she/you thought no one would understand or maybe there's a
better
reason. The text feeds my mind. I'm thinking, awake, alive.] On the way
to
the subway I buy a medium coffee. Small is never enough; large will
give
me stomach angst by the time I get around to having lunch." That seems
fascinating
to me. Of course I don't care whether it's medium or usual large. I
wonder
why you wrote both. Everything in that "Ritual of the Mundane" letter
thrills
me. Except perhaps the paragraph beginning: "I am the sole person..."
where
I think you let your mind wander a little bit. The dualing alarm
clocks,
Suffolk, the university, the special Boston holidays, the five company
holidays.
I can't quite figure out exactly where the clocks are (Are they both
yours
or is one outside on a church or something?) but the text makes up in
detail
what it lacks in clarity. The self-conscious dandruff... If this is
what's
in your novel, please send me a copy. Flaubert and Dostoievsky took
their
fucking stories right out of the newspapers. Gregor wakes up a bug. Who
cares
what kind of bug? The story is about a man. What are dance club
outfits?
Do geeks go to discotheques? So far as I know, the only place negatron
goes
to is the pizza parlor and the drug store to buy cigarettes. I think
that's
about enough for today, Mr Antichrist. I think I've about perfected the
French
bread making. If I had a bigger oven or if it weren't so fucking cold
as
to kill/chill fresh yeast cells, that baguette might be perfect. A new
career
for Gaby?
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Martine
Date: 22 November 1996
Subject: Baille baille!
Cher Gabriel,
Tu serais bien gentil de m'extraire de ta mailing list.
D'une part, j'ai du mal a jeter les courriers sans les ouvrir, mais
d'autre part rien de ce que je lis, ou plus exactement, parcours ne
m'interesse, ni
les propos au quotidien avec les episodes sordides a la clef, ni les
considerations sur la litterature, qui sont d'un niveau plus que bas
(should litterature have a plot or not? Mammia mia !).
A bientot, j'espere, sur le MOO ou au Palace ....
Salut!
Martine
From: Nichelle
Date: 22 November 1996
Subject: (no subject)
Gabriel is spamming me with the voice equivalent of being hit on the
head with twenty French trashcan lids. I thought he hated the
telephone. I want my microphone back, and I want him to get drunk and
go to bed so I can actuall do something. Fuck you, Gaby.
Nichelle
From: Columbine
Date: 23 November 1996
Subject: Re: Loose Ends (medium and large)
I don't have much else to say on the subject, and the more you say on
it the more I find to agree with. I had an argument cum discussion with
a good friend of mine, the same sort of argument I have had with him
fifty thousand times. He set forth an idea and I disagreed. He set
forth a different idea and I agreed with that one. Then he got
frustrated. To him, they were both restatements of the same idea. To
me, they were two completely different things.
We go back and forth, back and forth. I threw him out a minute or two
ago so I could answer your mail. I may not have much else in the attic,
but these random thoughts sit in the corners, and they will bother me
until I sweep them up:
I have problems with killing the yeast too. I never have been able to
make bread worth a damn. I make astonishing desserts though.
Meat-and-potatoes cooking has never interested me enough to become more
than adequate at it.
The other alarm clock belongs to my significant other, who by the by
doesn't know what to make of the turn my recent correspondence is
taking. The paragraph wanders all over the place because it's difficult
to write about one's significant other without establishing a gender
for said person - witness the stilted prose here.
It's a medium coffee. "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little
minds."
>My point is that make it up or
>not you still have to get it on the page. This is what's hard. This
is what
>matters. Given that the problem is how to represent
sights/sounds/smells in
>written language, I see no reason to waste my time making up
>sights/sounds/smells
I agree. But I may want to reserve the right to combine existing events
in new combinations. As you point out, the synthesis is usually not the
problem; the execution is.
I try to avoid doing geeklike activities at all times. However this
does not have anything to do with the fact that on occasion I like to
wear outrageous clothing and thrash around aimlessly, which means one
of our several local dance emporiums (emporia?), all of which usually
end up making me feel old by the end of the night.
I actually had to force myself to write "subway" instead of "T." I
didn't think you'd know what I meant.
All said and done, I think I'm still missing something. I provided two
test sentences (the coffee and the admittedly-trite jugged hare) and I
*still* can't see how the former can possibly be more interesting than
the latter, for all of the latter's faults. I wrote my Ritual of the
Mundane as intentional satire and you read it completely differently. I
think, though, that I am willing to just give up at this point and not
try to understand what it is that I'm not understanding.
I don't think you'd like QUARTER MOON. It's not especially plot-driven
- the plot really is just to keep the thing moving - but I think it
leans more toward the jugged-hare school of sensationalism than you'd
prefer. It's really about a person's reactions as a series of very
strange events happen to him. So I suppose I'm telling the same old
campfire story that Kafka does, except my character doesn't become a
cockroach. He becomes a woman.
---
THE COAT
I made my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world's eyes
As though they'd wrought it.
Song, let them take it;
For there's more enterprise
In walking naked.
-- W B Yeats
From: Joy
Date: 23 November 1996
Subject: Re: Loose Ends (medium and large)
i have no great novel i haven't read every single fucking book in the
world and my french sucks. someone somewhere at sometime i think on the
list mentioned something about how there was a big difference for the
between talking and typing a la vr. i disagree, at least for me. i type
pretty rapidly and i often
find myself speaking the words outloud as i type. exp when i'm excited
or
hyper blah blah. oh did i mention that i hate french? i've always been
far
more impressed with a photographer that can make a dull subject seem
interesting.
to be able to look at the same old same old in a new light, show it in
a
new way - that for me has been a sign of an artist. a new way doesn't
necessarily
mean long. horribly long descriptions drag. Anyone can take a
interesting
subject or story and write about it and for it to be interesting. all
you
have to do is present it, there is no work involved, at least not
nearly
as much as looking at something a new way. and of course consciously
trying
to make something seem interesting just for the sake of it loses the
whole
point. tbutton mentioned something about if they were writing about
something
mundane they would try to describe it in as weird a way as possible. i
disagree.
don't think about it just write damnit just write. i hardly ever edit
what
a write b/c it loses something - for me.. of course this just applies
to
the way i happen to write.. i don't differentiate bet poetry and prose
and
novels blah blah at least to describe my writing. it's something of a
confessional
journal type nature. that's the best i can describe it, i have no way
of
being able to take an outside look at it. poetry to me .. i generally
don't
like poetry - at least poetry that fits in rhyming schemes. i'm just
more
into the 'freer' type writing. all too often i find rhyming poetry to
be
completely trite. there's no spontaneity (sp?) if one is boggled down
worrying
about whether one is in iambic or not. of course, what this really
tells
you is that whenever i try to write rhyming stuff (lyrics, maybe?) it's
horribly
contrite and i hate it. and of course it also tells you that the
writing
of mine that i can stand the most is the unedited...i found the
'mundane'
writing to be the most interesting that i've read so far of stuff by
tbutton.
i can't cook worth a damn (not having a kitchen helps) i have no great
career,
no shiny silver badges to wave in the air as my qualifications for
shit.
next time you see me around tell me not to drive with anyone else in
the
car for a long time. what a mistake. no apartment of squalor, the sign
of
the rugged individual struggling. i don't think i've ever even had
homemade
bread. yes i'm in a great mood right now i'm sure you can tell but in a
few
minutes "it just gets better and better" time to nurse this nasty mood
with
some sweet sake
From: Philip
Date: 23 November 1996
Subject: Thanks
Simple response:
The Patterson's: most entertaining...*eck* good stuff there guy.
Your French buddy Comecabra and his wife: Ils s'en fout completement.
I love it. Let them eat cake.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 23 November 1996
Subject: 80 Virgins
The hotel has been taken over by eight-year-old cheerleaders. They're
awful, little, spoilt, bald-pussied monsters who can do no wrong in the
eyes of their
fat, white-trash mothers. The room service gay boy who looks like
Divine was
in a rage at six o'clock. He had worked back-to-back shifts, got
slammed last
night with chickenshit, three-dollar orders and no tips, while the
parents got drunk in the bar. This morning they were ordering up
breakfasts for five and six people, hogging the elevators and driving
everyone mad. I wonder what
two eggs sunny-side up must taste like when they've sat under a warmer
for
ten minutes and waited another five for an elevator. I ran up a couple
of
orders. I don't know why. The fat piece of shit didn't even tip me out.
He
once said to me: "Did you ever notice how nice I am to people on the
phone. If they ever met me they'd think I'm such a prick." I told him I
thought that
was a fair assessment. Tomorrow is going to be living Hell. They're
going
to have a competition in some cold stadium with five hundred child
molesters
looking on. These are probably the people who want to take porn off the
internet.
I just want good porn on the internet. Our insane busboy told me he was
going
to get on line. He said he'd ordered the little disk from
AmerikaOnline:
"Mark, I could give you a dozen of those things, but what are you going
to
do with it without a computer?" "Well, it's just a start." I guess
he'll
just put the disk next to the telephone and wait for something to
happen.
He could only function socially in the gay community. I don't know how
it
is with college-educated sisters and buffet-eaters (if that's what you
were
trying [not] to tell me, Columbine) but the white-trash gay boys' whole
lives
are organized around sex, as often and as anonymous as possible. Well,
I
guess they spend a lot of time getting drunk too. AIDS has changed
nothing.
One of the other gay boys said to me about Mark's boyfriend du jour:
"It's,
'Bend over and grease up.' He don't care what it is." Everyone was in a
pretty
good mood today, except Joey whose nerves those kids rattled a bit. I
just
laughed when I saw him make his third trip to his section with fifteen
chocolate
milks. I said: "Serves your right for going out drinking all night and
coming
in here on no sleep." Even the mad Greek woman was making nasty jokes.
She
said to Divine: "Your father's on phone. He want to talk about
babysitting."
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Nichelle
Date: 23 November 1996
Subject: Pornographic GIFs
For your delight, and because Gabe told me to, and because I'm a weird
pervert, I've posted a close approximation of the Pink Penis Photos on
the web. neg, don't go look. You'll never talk to me again. But the
rest of you can feel free to check out this well-hung stud on our site:
I'm going to go work on a penis picture to use as a link from neg's
text on the homepage. Then I'm going to check the mail and take a
shower. I haven't got anything to write, and so what if Gabe gives me a
spanking because this is such a short, dumb letter. He's sexy when he's
mad.
Nichelle
From: Murder
Date: 23 November 1996
Subject: Mutants
Just a minor point: I would not have reported the exact pitch of those
A's (if you can really call them that) if it had not been for the fact
that the whole time my trusty Korg tuner was sitting right on my music
stand, concealed enough from the first oboist (NOT Erin, BTW...she's
principal bassoon in that
group) that she (I'm working in the library at this moment and two more
dumbass
Music 102 mutants who don't know a trumpet from their assholes [maybe
they
are one and the same] and who are taking the class to fulfill general
requirements
just came in looking for information on "Mozzzart," which made me think
"It's
MOT-sart, dammit, or do you want to run downstairs and order a
'Pizzzza'
to go with your 'Naive' [Evian backwards]?") didn't know I was checking
up
on her. As for blowjobs being highly overrated, I guess it all depends
on
who is giving it. Last night as I came I spurted five times into her
lovely,
waiting mouth and she swallowed all of it. Even as I type these very
words
the cunt smell lingers on my fingers (oooh, bad rhyme). I agree that
the
memory of the smell is ephemeral: for the life of me I cannot remember
what
Vanessa smelled like, tasted like. Following our oral session, we
relaxed in a bubble-bath, made slow love, and relaxed again. Dried off
ever so gingerly, for I was sore from previous encounters, oh, about 10
total in the last four days, then straight to bed with her nakedness
against mine. Nothing, nothing, then almost asleep. Not to be, for the
next thing I remember is the feel of
her on top of me, fucking me so hard it hurt to breathe. I came, but it
hurt
(a tingly, pleasurable hurt) because not much came out; she had almost
completely
drained me of sperm. Held each other tightly, so tightly, for we had
never
felt closer in our two months of knowing each other (22 days
officially)
than in that moment. I held my breath, but I could not hold back the
sobs.
First I sobbed, then I lost it and began bawling like a child
because...because...well, who knows why we cry sometimes? Not being
able to express my deepest self in words? Much of my day is spent
thinking in the form of multiple sentence fragments all competing for
my attention (identified strongly with your interrupted sentence,
Gabe), but during intense experiences words fail me and the music
swirls and churns around in my head like I'm caught in a whirlwind
stronger than the largest tornado. Oh, to be able to copy it all onto
manuscript
paper...no, for then the finished product would never live up to the
monumental
force of its conception. So I never try. It just lies dormant, waiting.
Is
that why I feel like such a misfit on this list at times? My writing
abilities obviously pale in comparison to my musical skills, which is
why most of my lonely existence is spent in those humid,
six-by-eight-foot rooms, blowing on a silver pipe and throwing music
stands against the far wall in frustration in hopes that I will earn
enough money to survive. So-called "mundane" writing, which Ms. Button
cleverly satirized (even I knew she was being sarcastic, Gabe) might be
the only "true" (never mind a definition of that term) writing style,
for subjectivity invariably leads to dissention. Writing sheerly for
the sake of expressing my ideas is fast disillusioning me because my
ideas are mere interpretations of the world, not the world itself. I
can expect no one to share my ideas. But I can expect others to share
my vision of the world, my own unique angle. This is where our choices
for describing real world events come into play. We have many choices
to make when we write, some
of them conscious, others unconscious. What kind of sentence to make?
Which
words to use? All of these determine whether or not we can draw a
reader into
viewing events the same way we do. I agree with Joy who made the point
that
the true artist (using a photographer as an example) can make a dull
subject
seem interesting. That's what I try to do as a composer and performer.
How
many recordings exist of the Mozart G-Major Flute Concerto? Hundreds?
Maybe
even up into the thousands? How can I expect to play it differently
than
anyone else and still conform to Mozart's beloved Vienesse style? By a
balance
of refusing to compromise the piece on a general level (the musical
ideas
I wish to convey) but a willingness to be flexible on the smaller
details (articulation, phrasing, shading of the tone, etc.). This gives
me a stylistic foundation, but also allows me the freedom to create and
then to express that
creation to my audience. Numerous parallels can be drawn to literature,
but
it is not my place to point them out to you people who know so much
more about
it than I do and for whom literature is the chosen medium of
expression. Nichelle,
I would love to get online with you. What do you think about tomorrow
(Sunday)
sometime between 2-5 P.M. PST. That is the next chance I will have to
spend
time on the computer.
From: Nichelle
Date: 23 November 1996
Subject: after dinner
Anthony, I just finished dinner with my housemate. We had brussels
sprouts sauteed with onions and mushrooms, and a baked sweet potato.
I've been thinking about your e-mail, and I'll try not to miss any
points. I suppose I should begin with an answer to this question:
>>By the way, when are you going to actually, explicitly tell me
why EWU is
>>not an option?
Anthony, we've had this weird e-mail relationship, whatever it can be
called, for somewhere around two years, I think. From the very
beginning of that time,
I was frustrated with EWU. What makes you think it would be any
different now, after two years of hard work and study on my part? I
have exhausted EWU's
resources, and had before we had even met. I don't need a supportive
environment.
I know how to practice my clarinet, I know how to study, and I need a
no-bullshit
school with lots of new opportunities and resources. I think you
overestimate
what EWU's clarinet studio could do for me. Though I am sure you are a
fine
clarinet teacher with much to offer, I would be right back where I was,
playing
first chair in fifty-million ensembles, being asked to do hours upon
hours
of little extra things for the department. I will not put myself back
into
that situation. I put in hundreds of hours for a department that still
had
the balls to tell me my music scholarship depended on my participation
in
the marching band. No. I've been there, done that, got what I could get
from
it, and I will not go back to it. Period.
There are other factors, too. When I move to a new school, I'm not
moving alone. My boyfriend (and my cat) will be moving with me, and
Cheney/Spokane, Pullman, and Ellensburg don't have the atmosphere to
support his career or the improvement in the quality of life that we
both want. Prof. McColl may not be the cat's meow as far as clarinet
teachers are concerned, I don't know...
but there are many other fine clarinetists in Seattle. In one year, I'm
not
likely to exhaust what resources they do have, I can get my degree from
a
school with a little more going for it, and God only knows, maybe
they've
even got a few oboes playing regularly with their orchestra. I know
they've
got an active early music program, which may mean access to some
instruments
I couldn't get my hands on otherwise and a library which has got to be
worth
something.
Truth be told, I'm quite offended that you think I'm just Middle of the
Pack material, especially at CWU. True, the last time I heard their
clarinets was before Brooks got there, but I was really unimpressed.
Perhaps things have changed there, but my many visits to CWU haven't
done a whole lot to impress me in terms of what their department has to
offer. I met WSU's top clarinetist last year, and I felt a little sorry
for him, stranded out there in Lentil Land. (Isn't Colfax the Lentil
Capitol?)
I don't know if it does much good to tell you that I've changed a lot
in the last seven months. You didn't really know me very well before I
left, so how could it make a difference to tell you that? Although I
had some good times at EWU and learned many things there, it is not an
option for me to continue to study there. I've got higher standards
than I did then, I've done
nothing but think about how to approach the clarinet, I've read and
listened
and studied and I just won't sit through another of the EWU Symphonic
Band's
cruel and unusual performances. UW may not have the most hopping
undergrad clarinet program, but it's a big school with a lot going on
in a beautiful city where I can at least buy some decent fresh bread
and go out for a nice salmon dinner every once in a while.
This isn't the nicest letter I've written lately, and I apologize for
that. I should also add that I'm pleased to hear that you are having
success and playing in Spokane as much as you are. I've always liked
you, have respected your clarinet playing, and have hoped for the best
in your career. I don't think that a student-teacher relationship is
something that will come to be.
This is not a reflection of my opinion of you and your skills as a
clarinetist. I didn't leave to escape EWU, but I didn't go back after I
left, and I'm not
going to. I hope we can continue our correspondence, and that this
letter won't offend you. But you asked, so here it is...
Nichelle
From: Columbine
Date: 23 November 1996
Subject: Re: Loose Ends (medium and large)
>i disagree.
>don't think about it just write damnit just write. i hardly ever
edit what
>a write b/c it loses something - for me.. of course this just
applies to
>the way i happen to write.
I do. I write without filtering it, then I go back and tear about two
thirds of it out later.
Although I firmly believe that one should not write and edit in the
same session, it really would be nice to come up with a method of
writing that doesn't result in 60 percent BS&W - which is what the
oil graders mark on their little forms for the sludge at the bottom of
the tank that can't be considered oil at all - bullshit and water.
Change of subject.
As of tonight I have been living with and sleeping with the same person
for three years. This is something of a milestone for me. My most
serious
relationship before this one to date broke apart at the three-year
mark,
more or less, so from here on I suppose I'll be secretly watching the
clock.
Our expensive anniversary dinner is disagreeing with me, so excuse the
crankiness.
Kannst du nicht allen gefallen durch deine That und dein Kunstwerk -
mach es wenigen recht. Vielen gefallen ist schlimm. -Schiller
From: Columbine
Date: 23 November 1996
Subject: Re: Mutants
Funny, murder; I hadn't read your mail when I wrote the comment about
my anniversary. If I had, I might have said something different. Then
again, maybe not.
I enjoyed reading that a lot. It's nice occasionally to get someone
else's thoughts about sex and recognize that they run in different
universes.
Sex is generally the afterthought in my few attempts at relationships
so far. I was a late bloomer sexually. Sex is a plus, but the real
issue is whether
the other person can stand me and vice versa.
Most of the time the other person is trying to get me to have sex more
often. This is a worse problem than it sounds.
I guess I am most especially struck by the way you mention smell. It
took me ten years to get used to the smell. I am just now beginning to
get to the
point where I like it. Smell, and taste, may well account for why oral
sex
is not something I'm too keen on doing except as a demonstrative act
...
it's always something I've thought of as an ordeal. This also makes it
something
I don't enjoy *receiving* because then I feel guilty that I've put
someone
else through it.
That's about two paragraphs more than I'd have said without the pinot
noir. I'm embarrassed now and I think I'll go back to bed. Stomach be
damned.
Kannst du nicht allen gefallen durch deine That und dein Kunstwerk -
mach es wenigen recht. Vielen gefallen ist schlimm. -Schiller
From: Nichelle
Date: 24 November 1996
Subject: (no subject)
Shit crazy, bored, and drinking rum &*colas. Never did like to
drink but what the fuck, hwy not. Everybody has something interesting
to tell me tonight. None of it compares with Murder's spurts, all five
of them. Larry keeps sending e-mail. he's the one with the mailordre
bride, shipped her in
from Russia and now she's gone mainicdepressive on him. Gonna send her
back
if she keeps 'getting into trouble'. Just read tbutton's oral sex. I
love
oral sedx. Maybe I like to give it beauese it's some kind of power trip
for
me, puts me in control. Last time I had real sex, the stick-it-in-the-
hole
kind (no we didn't waid four weeks), I got scared. It started to hurt a
little
bit and I got scared. Drinking makes me want to give head. Well, one or
two
drinks, no inhibitions, and I think it improves my technique, but
you'll
have to ask bagy about that. Oneof his testicles is way lower than the
other
one. Is this normal? I hear that one breast (we';re talking women here)
is
always bigger than the other too. I can't tell from this angle. Maybe
one
of matilda's six boobs is bigger than the rest. I'd be happier getting
drunk
on some better rum. I think this is wino rum... break resistant bottle
whose
'Unique slim design fits easily into luggage, attache cases, tote bags
and
backpacks.' oh, and trenchcoats. It feels liek nothing exists except
matilda
and me and Rocinante. But if nothing else existed, why the headache,
why
the leaky faucet, why the cold? And I can hear that other people are
awake
now, moving around, drinking and getting laid and sleeping in other
people's
cars. though mostly what I hear is gulping coke and rum, and the click
of
the keys, and the leaking water is the loudest sound in the apartment,
in
the world. Matilda sleep in a shoebox on my desk and gabe snoring and
the
ronrico lightweight traveler is getting a little more lightweight. It
was
a wellspent eight dollars and fourtey seven cents. I am drinking it
because I think I need more vices tonight. I showed the girl at
Convenient Food Mart my ID even though I was just buying coke. i'm a
fucking weirdo.
The other day I was taking a bathand gaby came in. I was lying on my
stomach, with my butt sticking up in the air and he laughed at me so I
asked him to wash it for me. We use Dial liquid soap, and when i smell
it I think of gabe's penis. His penis often smells like Dial soapand i
like that smell. the first blowjob I gabe when i was here was after
breakfast on the kitchen floor and my hands still smelled like the
orange I had just peeled. cunt isn't the only
smell that is forgotten, they all are. but if you smell them again
everything comes back to you. dial soap and oranges make me think of
gabe's penis.
columbine, not to harp on john cage, since we all know he's a
ham&egger (or maybe a corned beef hasher), but he didn't have
nothing to say and said it. how silly. i don't know where that came
from, but i'm guessing it came from 4'33", but still that's not saying
nothing. there's no such thing as silence. maybe a pianist sitting in
front of the keyboard and not playing any notes is a silly way of
saying it. but before we say that, we should sit
through a performance of 4'33" and maybe it becomes more than a theory
and
a joke. what's interesting about sitting through a performance of the
piece
is how uncomfortable it makes people, how it makes them squirm and
whisper.
If only you could take away a symphony and hear all the coughs and
candy
wrapper noises and whispers and creaking seats... it was a little like
that.
even if you can take away all of those external noises, and go into a
room
where no outside noises can be heard (he did this and wrote about it)
there
are still noises that your body makes- your heart beating, your
breathing,
etc. to say that there is no such thing as silence is not saying
nothing,
whether or not you want to criticize how he did it. I think he was one
seriously
weird dude. I've read most of his books. They're funny. I think he
pushed
people's limits of what's music and what isn't. I may be full of shit,
and
I'm definitely getting drunk, but to say he siad nothing is missing the
point.
Nichelle
From: SAGReiss
Date: 24 November 1996
Subject: Black(e-)mail
"I feel kind of bad about idling on RL when Joy and John were talking
privately, but they could see I was still in the room." "Fuck that, you
should have logged
it." "I did." What's this bullshit talk about revenge? Before you do
anything
irresponsible with my GIF, let's look at the facts, John. I don't know
how
to use PaintShopPro, don't know how to write HTML and thoroughly
disapproved
of the whole thing. In fact I am deeply offended that this childish
porn
is on my web page. I am morally outraged at the hurt this may cause. I
have
never done anything to bring down shame and ridicule on your family and
friends.
Besides, you wouldn't want us to do anything silly and/or public with
that
log, now, would you? So, on to more important things. Murder, that was
a
beautiful letter, but where can I buy one of those Korg spurt-counting
machines?
Funny but all that stuff about 4'33" reminds me of Robbe-Grillet's
article,
in which he says that a writer is someone with nothing to say, but very
definite
ideas about how to say it. My chosen medium is epistolary writing. I
used
to be, in Jeff's words, "an ugly, smelly ape with a typer". Now I am an
ugly,
smelly ape with a modem. When I read a review of Vox in the Herald
Tribune,
in France, far from the wired world, I thought how fucking stupid. Who
would
want to read made-up phone sex? Now if someone had a real transcript...
I
don't think we can compare buffet-eating and blowjobs. I haven't read
much by women about giving blowjobs. In that long and mind-boggling
passage called the Land of Fuck that I quoted from Capricorn, and in
another passage at the
beginning of the World of Sex, Miller makes clear that cunnilingus is a
quest
for the origin. Two funny passages from the Traumdeutung: talking about
deja
vu and the mother's cunt, Freud, in his dead-pan, scientific,
Victorian,
beautiful prose, says that there is no other place one can say, with
absolute
certitude, dass man dort schon einmal war. Henry Miller's first
language
was German. In another passage the staid doctor listens to a woman
describing
a dream about assymetrical hats and finally the woman so gingerly
inquires
if all men have one testicule that hangs lower than the other. Dr
Geisskopf
inclines his head.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Columbine
Date: 24 November 1996
Subject: Re: (no subject)
John Cage SAID "I have nothing to say, and I am saying it." It wasn't a
criticism. It was a quotation.
I've read SILENCE. The thing I like best about Cage is that you could
never tell when he was pulling your leg, so you had to assume he was
pulling your leg all of the time.
Kannst du nicht allen gefallen durch deine That und dein Kunstwerk -
mach es wenigen recht. Vielen gefallen ist schlimm. -Schiller
From: Columbine
Date: 24 November 1996
Subject: Re: Black(e-)mail
>Who would want to read made-up
>phone sex?
Me. It's gotta be more interesting than real phone sex. Real phone sex
is a cakewalk. No one really wants originality. Or maybe I'm just
picking the wrong partners ... we have an agreement here that
phone/online sex is not infidelity, but ever since ImagiNation closed
down I haven't invoked the privilege
much.
>I don't think we can
>compare buffet-eating and blowjobs.
Not unless you're giving them on several different people serially in a
very short timespan.
>I haven't read much by women about
>giving blowjobs.
To men, or to women? Makes a big difference. Do you want my thoughts?
Do I even want to give you my thoughts?
Kannst du nicht allen gefallen durch deine That und dein Kunstwerk -
mach es wenigen recht. Vielen gefallen ist schlimm. -Schiller
From: Columbine
Date: 24 November 1996
Subject: Re: (no subject)
When you get drunk you reverse letters. It's kinda cute.
Despite the fact that I have managed to avoid serious alcohol since I
was eighteen, the Bailey's bottle has crept into the house and I'm now
drinking coffee that you couldn't light a match over. Ahhhhh....
Kannst du nicht allen gefallen durch deine That und dein Kunstwerk -
mach es wenigen recht. Vielen gefallen ist schlimm. -Schiller
From: Nichelle
Date: 24 November 1996
Subject: nothing
>John Cage SAID "I have nothing to say, and I am saying it." It
wasn't a
>criticism. It was a quotation.
Oops. I'll go eat my ham & eggs now.
Nichelle
From: Joy
Date: 25 November 1996
Subject: 5amish
It's 5amish and still haven't even started that damn paper that was due
last thursday. McM, what type of bassoon does she play? i personally
subscribe to the idea that there is no truth - no objective truth
anyways. who is to say what is objective? subjective truth fits in
nicely with my idea of subjective reality. which fits in nicely with my
absurdist views. i don't think i've ever read any miller. if i have it
obviously didn't stick with me to be of importance to even recognize
and remember the name. i don't give a damn about miller/automatically
delete anything written in french. the only thing i can
think of that i like about early 1900s paris .. the fact that le sacre
du
printemps was performed there, with a riot. i wish i could have seen
it. it
has a killer 1st bassoon part. and the dancing would not have been
easy/great it's now running thru my head/ no, not the solo/not holding
to these views ideas those stated earlier with any great vehemence,
they are the most ?suitable (shall we say) that have been located/the
defense mechanisms are being slowly eroded away, kicked out from under
me and i'm falling apart all over the place.
fading back into the Old Ways. facing that which i never wanted to.
tasting
the bitterness in my mouth again. am i home?
my concentration is shot my head filled with the jabbering
self-destructive voices. i always have such great timing. finals just
ahead. and all i can do is flail my arms about and try to hide from it
all in my sleep and dream about huge buildings filled with people and
sneaking around in the dark depths of it. no wonder i don't like these
-- they render me inoperable)saygni erom naht i ever dewant to yet ta
het same time/time/time...(yes it's more spy-games gabe. or is it. i'm
sitting here babbling chirping away at the keys so i don't
have to face that horrible paper. and it's not really the paper at all.
it's
what comes with the paper. you understand, of course. how can one being
have
so many split ends? i hate the idea of even trimming this blanket
though
i need something to hide behind, the more the merrier./don't have time
or
the money? to read. spent $52 last thursday and got an incredible amt
of
books and music for it but it was $52 more than i could afford. i'm now
overdrawn
and sitting here with a gurgling stomach. i couldn't resist. i'm now
surrounded
in my sloth with books laying about, books that are far more
interesting
than this horrible drivel that i have to work with.
ramblebabbleblathernonsensetritebittersardonicmaliciousinjuredsillyplant
From: SAGReiss
Date: 25 November 1996
Subject: A Henhouse for negatron
So, John, how are the wenches? I can't believe this. I worked a year
for this? Oh, great. He's always whining about how he can't get any and
then he
sits around all night while I'm alseep having cybersex with six (Sechs
isch
ke zahl. Es isch e hobby.) nymphomaniacs? Maybe I'll just forget to pay
the
cyber-rent this month and have us all toaded. There seems to be some
terminological
confusion. "Eating at the buffet" means cunnilingus in my idiolect. I
keep
the word "blowjob" for felatio. Veronique found a mistake on our
connect
page. It says "Wilkommen". It should say "Willkommen". It's nice to
know
that at least someone reads carefully. When I used to read, I would see
that
on page seven hundred of some Dickens novel it said "connection" where
five
hundred pages earlier it had said "connexion". This is a true example.
One
of the Penguin editions. I can't remember which book. I don't know
about
the internet, but there are definitely no womens on NetMeeting. The few
I
find refuse my calls anyway. Why would I want to talk to men? Today's
my
day off. I can pay Planned Parenthood, Dreamscape and the ArchFuhrer.
I'm
woefully behind on the rent and utilities. Oh, well. I've still got
enough cash for Thanksgiving groceries and the liquor-store delivery.
They love me
there. I just say: "May I please order something to be delivered?"
"Dude, 1009 Madison?" Fuck you, why did I buy her that cheapass rum. I
had three good reasons. I am, after all, a food service professional
with two years' experience spending five hundred Francs a day au Match.
First, she wanted a small bottle and Ronrico was all they had. Second,
she wanted to make hot buttered rum, ended up drinking it in Coke. What
fucking difference does the
quality of spirits make when they're swilled down in foul cocktails?
Shiiit,
if I had any fucking money, I'd put Adirondack spring water in my
Ricard.
Third, I had just enough cash for that bottle. I've got to get a job
with
reasonable hours. I'm going to call a language-service place. I feel
like
God or Flaubert's (or was it Henry James's) narrator, present
everywhere, visible nowhere. The only way I know what's happening on
our MOO is through Nichelle's tales or logs. I just woke up last night
and logged on and went back to bed, read the newspaper until after
Nichelle went to sleep. I don't know if there are no women on the 'net,
but there sure aren't during the day...
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Nichelle
Date: 25 November 1996
Subject: It's like the bell.
It's great, Gabriel, that you feel like Flaubert's narrator.
Personally, I feel like Flaubert's ass. I stayed up until four mooing
and making bagels (gabels, as I told killjoy), somehow managing to wake
up Mr_Antichrist, though I can't figure out how. I was a little
embarrassed, however, since I was using
my fine-tip Sharpie as a baton and conducting Matilda in 4/4 time while
she
batted at it with her paws. I'm not sure he knew what was going on when
he
emerged from his foul lair. If you haven't had breakfast at 4 am
lately, you
should try it. Gabe does it most mornings, but anyone who can get up at
3:43
every morning and eat grapefruit by four is definitely a tough asshole.
I
ate a sausage, a homemade bagel, and two egs over-easy (I guess that's
what
they are. Nobody else can make me eggs that I won't throw up
immediately.), and a cup of English Breakfast tea steeped with anise
seeds. If this letter is horrible, you will have to forgive me. Gabriel
is playing with his CB radio
games again. He seems to be talking to an orgy of french people (I
think
orgy is the right word. Maybe it's gaggle.) which is why I'm awake now,
and
not two hours from now, which is my habit. Me bitter? No, never. Now I
think
I'll search and distroy, fight the germs which cause plaque, and go
grocery
shopping at Wegman's. Some day I will master the art of the Gabe
letter.
I can try to tell you the secret, or at least the secret to his style
in
Babble.
Begin the letter in French.
Blah blah blah, French Frenchy-french (x1000)....
This part should be mostly words of seduction to Corinne. You do this
for about half a page (a half page). Then, mid-sentence:
...frenchy frenchy blah blah running down fucking goddamned Marshall
street with a glass of J&B in one hand and my dick in the other,
shouting you god damned fucking bastards how the fuck can you do this
shit to me?
Puntuation less important in Babel. More important is the rage,
starvation, and cold. Talk about your dick a lot and swear. End every
letter with:
But as the French say, "Frenchy frenchy french...." (or As
Important_Literary_Figure said, "'Tis better to have your dick in your
hand than to have a turnip in your ass.")
Sign it with something about your rectum. The chicks love that.
I'm going to take a shower. My breath smells like Matilda's litter box.
My stomach hurts, and I've got to piss. I'm freezing, still hung over
from
the cheap rum I had to drink two nights ago, before it melted through
the
plastic bottle. Next time I'm brewing my own in a rain barrel. Joy,
maybe
you shouldn't answer greg's calls/pages anymore. Tell him you have
amnesia
and you can't remember anything prior to this morning, except of course
your
moo passwords. He's dumb enough to believe it. After all, as the french
say...
Nichelle
From: SAGReiss
Date: 26 November 1996
Subject: Women on the 'net?
RL MOO (The Real Life MOO)
"In the twenty-first century e-novels will be written online."
For more information, please see the RL MOO web site.
Valid commands are: WELcome, who, COnnect, quit, UPtime, version, or
REQuest.
You must be twenty-one or older to connect. Please use your real name.
Type: co name password
Or: co guest
********* Please read "help disclaimer" after logging on. *********
*** Connected ***
Limbo
Woe unto you, unbaptized child. You are tottering on the brink of Sodom
and Gomorrah. Silence prevails within these dark confines; only paging
and
remote emoting are allowed in this room.
For spiritual guidance (RL-MOO help), type 'help'.
To get away from the heat (Enter RL-MOO), go to Purgatorio. Type 'Pur'.
Last connected Tue Nov 26 03:15:57 1996 AKST
Player name Connected Idle time Location
Total: 1 player, who has been active recently.
pur
Purgatorio
"Puro e disposto a salire alle stelle."
"Pure and ready to rise to the stars."
Exits: Up (to Paradiso), Limbo (to Limbo), and Down (to Inferno).
To private rooms: North (free), South (free), East (free), and West
(free).
<Connected: Goldie (#231) at Tue Nov 26 11:54:43 1996 AKST.>
Goldie has arrived.
You ask, "What's up, sis?"
Goldie says, "Plus I have to ask why you're always talking about
teaching me and stuff."
Goldie mutters a hello.
You ask, "Teaching you?"
Goldie asks, "You're always saying that I can't learn anything where I
am and that I'm not listening when you try to teach me. Why are you
trying?"
<Connected: Razor [Guest] (#175) at Tue Nov 26 11:57:47 1996
AKST.>
Razor has arrived.
You say, "I seem to be missing the context here. It takes a long time
to overcome prejudices and misconceptions."
Razor has just looked at you.
Goldie [to SAGReiss]: ?
Goldie [to Razor]: Played Warcraft lately? :)
Razor asks, "Excuse me?"
Goldie [to Razor]: Razor is the default name for network games on
Warcraft. I think.
Razor [to Goldie]: Well, I don't know about that...this is my first
time here.
Razor wonders why is everyone so quiet?
SAGReiss [to Razor]: Don't mind her. She's just a video-game-playing
MTV baby. This here is not a toy.
Goldie [to Razor]: Yeah. This is REAL.
Razor says, "R U guys always this friendly or is it just today."
Goldie [to Razor]: SAGReiss here is a beacon of good cheer. Have some
ale and pull up a seat.
Goldie [to Razor]: I'm silly. Dunno 'bout him. :
Razor asks, "Where R U people from?"
SAGReiss [to Razor]: I just wasn't born friendly.
Goldie says, "California. In New York now."
Razor [to Goldie]: Really. I'm in NY too. where are U?
Goldie [to Razor]: Little town. Gabe is also in New York.
Goldie [to SAGReiss]: Aren't you.
Goldie asks, "?"
Razor [to Goldie]: I'm in NYC..
SAGReiss [to Razor]: She's paranoid. She'll never tell you. I'm in
Syracuse.
Razor asks, "Is this place in Syracuse too?"
Goldie says, "I think Alaska."
Razor asks, "Alaska?"
Goldie says, "Dunno. Not my MOO."
Razor asks, "how come there are so few people here?"
SAGReiss [to Razor]: It tends to get a little busy around nine PM
eatern time.
<Connected: Matt [Guest] (#176) at Tue Nov 26 12:06:07 1996 AKST.>
Matt has arrived.
Goldie says, "A very little. We had six the other day."
Razor asks, "Hmmmm!!! R other people on this place as friendly as you
people?"
Goldie [to Razor]: Are we not happy enough?
SAGReiss [to Goldie]: I would invite my friends here, but I haven't got
any...
Goldie [to SAGReiss]: Sure you have.
Matt [Guest] has disconnected.
Virgil leads Matt to another world.
<Disconnected: Matt [Guest] (#176) at Tue Nov 26 12:07:48 1996
AKST.>
Razor asks, "hmmm!!! So you guys are students?"
Goldie is.
You say, "Not I."
Razor says, "Do i have to ask questions from U people all the time..or
U are gonna tell me about yourselves."
You say, "I wait tables for a living in a hotel restaurant."
Goldie says, "I waste my time MOOing and reading history books
simultaneously."
Razor [to Goldie]: You said you were a student...where..in college/high
school?
SAGReiss [to Goldie]: I thought you were s'posed to be studying
literature.
Goldie [to SAGReiss]: Doesn't mean that's /all/ I study, does it?
Goldie [to Razor]: College.
Goldie [to Razor]: I be a sophomore (II).
Razor [to Goldie]: What's your major?
Goldie [to Razor]: Lit.
Razor [to SAGReiss]: And you?
You say, "I am no longer a student, but I went to school in France,
where I studied languages, literature and linguistics."
Goldie [to Razor]: I can never hope to reach his level.
Razor says, "Ok let me tell you people about myself.."
Razor says, "I'm a foreign student in New York."
SAGReiss [to Goldie]: At five foot ten your level is considerably
higher.
Razor asks, "5'10" /????"
SAGReiss [to Razor]: Where from?
Razor [to SAGReiss]: I came from the middle east, but that's not
originally my place of birth.
SAGReiss [to Razor]: I really meant what languages do you speak.
Razor says, "well....let me see....hmm...."
Goldie [to Razor]: Yes, okay, I loom.
Razor says, "There is english....."
Razor says, "....uhm!!...and.....there....is ....."
Razor says, "Urdu."
You ask, "You are Turkish?"
Razor says, "Nope."
You say, "I thought Urdu was spoken in Turkey..."
Razor [to Goldie]: 5'10" is not bad....how much do you weigh...if I may
ask?
SAGReiss . o O ( I can't wait to see this. )
Goldie [to Razor]: No clue.
Goldie whistles lightly and sticks her hands in her pockets.
Razor [to SAGReiss]: well...you though incorrectly...it is spoken in
quite a few countries...but only in one country with the name Urdu...in
other countries it is called something else.
Goldie says, "Ha! That was easy."
SAGReiss [to Goldie]: That's OK. We can play carnaval.
Goldie [to SAGReiss]: What's that?
SAGReiss [to Goldie]: Sit on my face and I'll guess your weight.
You say, "Oops, Pakistan."
Razor raises an eyebrow towards SaG
Razor [to SAGReiss]: Bingo....
Goldie says, "Ah-ha."
SAGReiss [to Razor]: It's an inside joke.
Razor [to Goldie]: Ok...describe yourself...
Goldie [to SAGReiss]: Yeah. Ha. Ha ha.
page goldie Is this some kind of sex pervert?
Goldie [to Razor]: That's what look is for. See? I'm described.
Goldie pages, "I imagine. R U?"
Razor [to Goldie]: I meant describe yourself in reality...not in
virtuality.
page goldie Only before midnight.
Goldie holds out a gleaming golden lock from her head. "Look. Blond."
SAGReiss [to Razor]: When you spend as much time online as we do, that
distinction becomes very hard to draw.
Razor [to Goldie]: hey...if you are that ashamed of yourself...I
understand..you don't have to do it.
Goldie [to Razor]: Think of me as a blond five-ten bit of nothing.
Goldie [to Razor]: Shadow, nothing.
<Connected: angry johnny (#96) at Tue Nov 26 12:23:08 1996 AKST.>
angry johnny has arrived.
Goldie [to Razor]: May I ask how you found this MOO, hmm?
angry johnny says, "hello"
SAGReiss [to Razor]: She's just very cerebral, isn't interested in
physical appearance.
Razor [to Goldie]: Honey, I could smell your perfume from a long
way...that's how.
Goldie gags.
SAGReiss [to Razor]: Haven't you figured out yet that there are no
women on the internet?
Razor [to SAGReiss]: What do you mean?
Goldie [to Razor]: Yeah. I'm really a guy.
Goldie [to angry johnny]: Hey-o.
Razor asks, "What/??????"
Goldie makes vague noises about football and scratches her crotch.
SAGReiss [to Razor]: They are all really men. You've been having
cybersex with ax-murderers in prison all this time.
Goldie says, "Um, HIS crotch."
Razor pukes in a corner...
Goldie [to Razor]: Gosh, you've been violated.
Razor says, "If this is true..then you guys have some sick sense of
humour."
SAGReiss [to Razor]: Criminals have been masturbating while you call
them Honey.
Goldie drops the soap.
Razor looks at ....( U NO who)
Razor asks, "You guys ... and you call this place REAL moo?"
SAGReiss [to Razor]: Men with tatoos and beards have been assfucking
eachother and typing to you all the time.
Goldie [to Razor]: How often do you get laid in REAL LIFE?
Goldie hears a little voice say, "Here in the slammer we get it all the
time!"
angry johnny says to Razor, "the reality is that there are no men on
the internet. we've had to pretend a bit, so some of us take female
characters. i have a couple of them myself, lets me get in touch with
my feminine side."
Razor [to Goldie]: More often than you do .
Goldie [to Razor]: As often as on MOO? Prob'ly not.
Goldie leers at johnny's feminine side.
Razor [to Goldie]: Hello wake up....don't you guys ever go to any
decent moos?
angry johnny meant no women
Goldie [to Razor]: We like each other.
Goldie drools and snorts.
Razor [to Goldie]: I don't get laid on Moo's. I don't take these things
seriously.
SAGReiss [to Razor]: R u kidding? With all those anal-rapists?
Razor [to Goldie]: But I also refuse to believe there are no females on
the internet.
Goldie [to Razor]: Why do you want a description then? I can lie.
Goldie [to Razor]: Sorry. Have to tell you the truth. All guys.
Razor [to Goldie]: Listen...at other places..I get to talk to some real
girls...hell one of them even called me..
Goldie [to Razor]: It was his sister.
Razor [to Goldie]: And she definitely did not sound like a he.
SAGReiss [to Razor]: It's like in Islamic countries. We won't let them
fuck with this shit. Could you imagine the effect of the internet on
the female brain.
Goldie says, "Believe me, I know how these things work."
Razor says, "Man... now I understand why there was a thing such as "Ru
Paul"."
SAGReiss has got a voice simulator because his sister lives too far
away.
Razor [to Goldie]: R U really a male?
Goldie says, "There is such a man. And we think he's cute."
Goldie smiles charmingly at Razor.
Razor pukes in the corner.
Razor says, "I never thought I'd actually live to see "
page john What a fucking dweeb.
Razor asks, "R U people planning on being drag-queens or something?"
angry johnny pages, "no shit. this is hilarious."
Goldie hauls at her double D strap-on breasts.
Goldie says, "I mean HIS."
Goldie says, "But you know."
angry johnny does the drag thing from time to time.
angry johnny says, "some of the boys like it when i look 'feminine'"
SAGReiss [to Razor]: You should really stop calling people Honey and
Sugar. You know they're just men jerking off.
Goldie pats johnny on the rear.
Razor asks, "so all that shit about literature....and.....college...and
whatever was crap?"
SAGReiss [to Razor]: Well, we can read in prison. We can even get
diplomas.
Goldie says, "Yeah. I'm short and old and hairy and in prison. With
these guys."
Goldie [to SAGReiss]: How is it over on D-block?
Razor asks, "What is all this crap about prison?"
Goldie [to Razor]: It's called an extended conceit.
SAGReiss [to Razor]: With the internet, we can now basically study
anything without leaving the cell.
angry johnny says to you, "goldie and i are sagreiss's punks"
Goldie [to angry johnny]: Psst -- bitches, bitches.
Razor [to angry johnny]: You mean pimps?
angry johnny asks Razor, "no, i mean punks. he's our daddy, we're his
boys, you understand?"
Razor asks, "Do you always surprise your guests like this?"
Goldie says, "It depends on how suitable they prove themselves."
Goldie says, "You seem to be our type."
Razor says, "So you never got a female connect here."
SAGReiss [to Razor]: I just thought you'd want to know that your
asshole has been cyber-reamed about a hundred times.
Goldie [to Razor]: Bio-data, darlin'?
Razor says, "You guys need a life.."
Goldie says, "But thanks to the internet we have one."
angry johnny says to Razor, "this is as good as it gets in lock-up"
SAGReiss [to Razor]: What color underware are you wearing, big boy?
Goldie says, "Personally, I'm more fulfilled than I've been in ages."
Razor says, "I'm getting the fuck outa here."
SAGReiss [to Razor]: Oh, and it'll be so much fun. I'm sure you'll like
it, if you ever try...
Goldie says, "Aw, don't go. We want to pet you."
Goldie says, "Don't you hear a voice calling...'come out, come out....'"
SAGReiss [to Razor]: A little KY goes a long way, you know.
<Connected: Amy [Guest] (#176) at Tue Nov 26 12:43:50 1996 AKST.>
Amy has arrived.
page amy Hello, my name is Gabriel. The conversation may seem a little
odd. This asshole was hitting on Goldie, so we're tormenting him.
Razor says, "U guys are sick."
SAGReiss [to Razor]: R u wet?
Goldie says loudly, "Yup, nothing but men on the internet, nothing."
Amy exclaims, "Hi everyone!"
Goldie [to Amy]: Hullo.
Goldie speaks in a deep and manly tone.
Razor [to SAGReiss]: Listen...the way you are coming on to me is as if
I hit on your gf or something.
Goldie [to Razor]: We do this to all the guys. Nothing personal.
SAGReiss [to Razor]: Wherever would I find a gf in jail?
Amy asks, "You are in jail?"
Amy [to Razor]: hi Raz!!
Razor looks at Amy...
page amy No, we're just tormenting this pervert. Tell him you're really
a man.
Razor asks, "Who is she now...another one of your males..???"
Goldie [to Razor]: We told you...nothing but men on the internet.
You sense that Amy is looking for you in Purgatorio.
It pages, "No he is my friend....I just came to talk to him here."
Razor [to Amy]: Ok...enough of this ...who R U...come on out now....
Amy [to Razor]: Razor its me....from moo 2002!!
Razor [to Amy]: What the hell R U doing here?
page amy He's a little confused right now.
SAGReiss [to Razor]: Amy is a black man.
You sense that Amy is looking for you in Purgatorio.
It pages, "So you R saying that Goldie is not a man???"
Goldie pages, "Okay, I'm bored. Maybe we should wander away."
Razor [to SAGReiss]: I don't know what to beleive right now...
page goldie Yeah. I've had enough of this jerk.
Goldie [to SAGReiss]: Wanna go do the nasty?
Goldie goes Up.
up
Paradiso
"E'n la sua volontade e nostra pace."
"In His will is our peace."
Exits: Down (to Purgatorio).
To private rooms: North (free), South (free), East (free), and West
(free).
Goldie is here.
Goldie pages, "I didn't mean it, you understand."
You say, "Oh, I was getting all excited."
Goldie says, "Sure you were."
Goldie says, "You know, even when you're rude, you're a million times
less annoying than guys like that."
You ask, "You're too kind. So how much do you weigh?"
Goldie says, "No clue."
Goldie says, "Really."
Goldie says, "I mean, obviously I weigh more than your normal delicate
female, but other than that, I don't know."
You say, "Bof. Everyone's overweight in this land."
You sense that Razor is looking for you in Purgatorio.
It pages, "Hey come back here."
Razor has arrived.
Goldie pages, "Okay, private room."
Goldie goes South.
Razor says, "Scare already guys....I haven't even started yet."
south
You can't go that way.
Goldie has invited you to join her in Michelangelo.
south
Michelangelo
Non ha l'ottimo artista alcun concetto
c'un marmo solo in se non circonscriva
col suo superchio, e solo a quello arriva
la man che ubbidisce all'intelletto.
The best of artists hardly can reflect
what yet a single marble block contains
within its girth, which labor he attains
but by the hand that heeds the intellect.
Type <out> to return to Paradiso.
Goldie is here.
angry johnny teleports in.
<Disconnected: Razor [Guest] (#175) at Tue Nov 26 12:55:03 1996
AKST.>
angry johnny asks, "is it just me, or is there serious lag?"
Goldie says, "I think it's just you."
You ask, "What the fuck? Is he now grilling his cyberfuck from MOO 2000
to find out if she's a man?"
Goldie says, "At least, I haven't had any."
You sense that Amy is looking for you in Purgatorio.
It pages, "Hello...anybody here?"
You say, "No lag here. Must be your obsolete equipment.
Goldie pages, "As I was saying...I never said I wasn't overweight. I
just hope I'm not disgustingly so."
angry johnny says, "moo2000 is at syracuse"
<Disconnected: Amy [Guest] (#176) at Tue Nov 26 12:56:03 1996
AKST.>
Goldie points a shaky finger at SAGReiss.
Goldie says, "Nah."
You say, "For all it's faults, it's a wired school. The French MOO is
here and someGeek kid, son of a linguistics TA made the Spanish MOO.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Nichelle
Date: 27 November 1996
Subject: Re: after dinner
>Date: Tue, 26 November 1996 17:13:04 -0800 (PST)
>From: Anthony
>
>Nichelle--
>
>It seems that you wished for a response from me which just told you
what
>you wanted to hear. Fine, I didn't do that. Seems that you have
made up
>your mind about UW, so go! Why ask me then?
>
>You are wasting your time and emotional energy spewing forth at me
like
>you have done. The only result is that I have become even more
puzzled
>about you and your approach to life. Never have understood you, and
>never will, I guess. Best wishes, and good luck finding your musical
>and personal happiness...
>
>--Anthony
>Date: Tue, 26 November 1996 17:28:43 -0800 (PST)
>From: Anthony
>
>Nichelle-
>
>Just reread your original message. I guess that you didn't ask my
>opinion of anything. Somehow, I had thought you were asking me
>what I knew about William McColl, about the idea of going to UW. I
read
>your letter on a Thursday, but responded a few days later. I should
have
>reread your letter before responding. I apologize for volunteering
my
>opinion on a matter in which it was, obviously, not welcome.
>
>--Anthony
Nichelle
From: Nichelle
Date: 27 November 1996
Subject: buttons
Anthony, I know I wrote a strong letter, and I really didn't want to
seem hostile. What I originally wanted to know was what you knew about
UW and McColl,
having already applied and made a decision to go there. I guess I
wasn't
clear enough. Whether or not you still have your theories about pushing
buttons,
you mistakenly pushed a major one when you brought up returning to EWU.
You
must understand that from my perspective things look much different.
After
four and a half years of hard work there, I doubt I could get more than
one
recommendation. I left in a strange manner, but only three months ahead
of
schedule, and if nothing else, I proved that the idea of the student as
a
consumer didn't apply to me there.
As I reread my last letter, I really feel the need to apolgize for the
strong tone I took with you. I didn't realize that talking to me about
these things is like walking through a mine field. I really *am* sorry.
After all, we're virtual strangers in a way (excuse the pun), and you
offered me an opinion about what you felt might be in my best interests.
>The only result is that I have become even more puzzled about you
and
>your approach to life. Never have understood you, and never will, I
guess.
My friend Dawn sent me a postcard about four months after I came here.
It said, 'If nothing else, perhaps you have become mysterious.' I don't
think I'm mysterious. I'm just doing my best, trying to educate myself,
trying to
live, just like anyone else. I've aged five years and become somewhat
bitter
since I moved to Syracuse. That postcard was from a high school friend-
nobody
at Eastern wrote. I made phone calls and wrote long letters. I
literally lost
all of my friends. I know nobody in Syracuse, so my only interaction is
with
my boyfriend and my cat. Sometimes I chat with people on line and send
e-mail.
I send a lot of letters to my family. I guess I've forgotten my social
skills.
It would be miraculous enough to understand one's own experiences, let
alone understand someone else. I don't have our old correspondence, and
don't even know if it still exists. All of my stuff was packed up for
me, and though I hope it's all intact and sitting in my mother's
basement, there's no way to be sure. I suspect that if I read it now
(the earliest of it is two years old, I guess) I would find myself to
be a total stranger. I can't explain myself, though I tried damn hard,
and I continue to try. I believe my struggle is an upward one.
I suppose I'm getting good at burning bridges. Part of the reason that
I responded to your letter the way I did is that it seemed to be saying
I'm not much of a clarinetist. That may be true, or that may be your
opinion, or both, though what information you've got to go on is
limited and outdated. I have too much time to think, and not enough
outlets to express what I've been thinking about. Whatever our
relationship has been, I hope I have not destroyed it. It has been a
long night and I feel like I'm bargaining to save
my soul. I'm Queen Midass, everything I touch turns to shit. I'll stop
before
the jokes get worse, stop flailing and go make myself some coffee. It's
2:22
AM, and it's going to be a long day.
Nichelle
From: Columbine
Date: 29 November 1996
Subject: Re: A Henhouse for negatron
I'm not into the group sex scene. If there was cybersex going on then
this crowd is very fast with the page command. I'd think I'd have
noticed the delays
while everyone else was whispering to each other.
For that matter, I think I've permanently given up cybersex. But I
could be mistaken.
Kannst du nicht allen gefallen durch deine That und dein Kunstwerk -
mach es wenigen recht. Vielen gefallen ist schlimm. -Schiller
From: Columbine
Date: 29 November 1996
Subject: Pilgrims and software
On Sunday I worked from 2 pm to 10 pm. I am salaried. I don't get
overtime.
On Monday I arrived at work a little later than usual: 9 am. I knew
that I had a short week (Thu. and Fri. off) and that we had to
demonstrate a nearly-complete version of the product on the following
Monday. Only three days to finish it and one of those really should be
testing and cleanup, even for a beta. So on Monday I just didn't go
home. I worked until 5:30 Tuesday morning.
I went home, slept for three and a half hours, and was back at work by
noon. Then I worked until 8 p.m. By then it had become painfully
obvious that we weren't going to make the demo. My boss told us all to
go home and rest. The
schedule was pushed back a week.
On Wednesday I found three bugs which are happening for no good reason
whatsoever. If I don't figure them out within the first two days of
next week, we may have to push the schedule back again.
The whole department - ten people - is gambling on this thing. We are
the orphan children of the company - they don't feel that what we do
(supporting our seven-year-old and very tired cash cow product, which
despite its age is bringing in 80% of the company's revenue) is very
important. Go figure. It's just not sexy enough. New development is
sexy. We're not.
So we have to produce this sexy new product and show that we actually
can, despite a ridiculous deadline (this product was only a design on
paper a month
ago) and being critically understaffed and the fact that I was the only
programmer
who had ever worked with the core code that we stole from a different
product
to make this.
I'm not ready for the Geritol yet - I'm 28 - but that Monday experience
was enough to tell me that my all-nighter days are over. I was
jet-lagged
the next two days. The best experience of the week was sleeping until
noon
on Thursday and then getting up to the smell of roast duck and
cranberries, and making a nice tangerine and ginger custard for dessert
that night.
I hope you all had a Thanksgiving that was not wholly unsatisfactory
too.
- columbine
From: Columbine
Date: 29 November 1996
Subject: Re: Women on the 'net?
My goodness. You folks are harsh.
I think we've had the conversation, Gabriel, about how I feel that an
increase in personal rudeness is a sign of the downfall of civilization
etc etc rant rant rant never mind. Even if the guy was an asshole, he
deserves to have his folly pointed out to him gently - i.e. everybody
deserves at least one warning shot before you go for their blood.
But then I don't really suppose you give a damn whether the guy is out
right now telling everyone he sees to avoid the RL MOO.
I suppose a more tactful method probably wouldn't have done any good -
subtlety being a lost art and all that - but I feel obligated to at
least TRY the subtle
method first before switching to the big guns.
Having said all that, and undermining my own point, I feel that in all
fairness I should note that the transcript was hilarious reading.
Not only that, in reading it I finally learned how to make a statement
that says "Columbine says [to someone] ..." - a question I was scared
to ask because I figured I'd get reamed by you guys - which I guess
proves my point. The RL MOO is refreshing and honest and, more often
than not, rather intimidating.
Kannst du nicht allen gefallen durch deine That und dein Kunstwerk -
mach es wenigen recht. Vielen gefallen ist schlimm. -Schiller
From: SAGReiss
Date: 30 November 1996
Subject: Never trust a drunk
I've just got off work, after working from six o'clock in the morning
until midnight and have to be back in at eight. It was a weird night.
Suzanne let me go home for an hour to eat and that turned into ninety
minutes, backing the bread Nichelle had made and making my own
vegetable salad with leftover turkey. As I walked into the kitchen
Suzanne was about to run up an order. I took it up and got a
seven-dollar tip. As I came down, the big boss asked me about a bottle
of champagne to bring up to a VIP room. He wanted something in the
twenty-five-dollar range. I smiled thinking: "They do tell us to
up-sell." I opened the menu and pointed to a bottle of Moet, a fair
French brand with name recognition for twenty-four dollars. Our
fearless leader astutely noticed that this price was for the half
bottle. I smiled innocently as he began to
squirm on the squewer. "Get the full bottle, Gabe." "And how about a
nice little fruit-and-cheese platter?" In all I got five bucks out of
that and the chance to make my boss look/feel like the cheap asshole he
is. I did OK
from five to seven and then it died until ten. I read the paper, talked
with
the chefs, ate some penne pasta with mixed vegetables. If I get a
hotel-restaurant job in Seattle, it will be room service nights. It's
fun and stressful and thrilling and relaxed and the food is so much
better and the guests aren't these picky assholes ordering picayune
(Notice that beautiful little etymological, phonetic pun.) bullshit.
Right at eleven (closing time) I got a last order and brought up two
sandwiches to this black dude and his white-trash whore/gf. He gave me
ten bucks, bringing up my total to about seventy for the night ($6.15
an hour with OT). After I had done my paperwork the phone rings. This
very drunken asshole wants food: "The kitchen is closed, sir. All the
cooks have gone home." "I'll give you one hundred dollars if you can
bring me up something to eat, bacon and eggs or something." "Well, sir,
I could go across the street and get you something, a pizza or a
sandwich." "A sandwich." "What kind of sandwich, sir?" "Four." I walked
across the street, on hotel time of course, asked for four turkey
sandwiches and a beer. I smoked a cigarette, drank my beer and waited.
When I got up to room 609 there were two drunken behemoths in various
stages of nakedness and/or unconsciousness babbling at
me and at eachother. When they figured out where we were, who I was and
what
I was doing, the man who had called asked how much he owed. I pulled
out
the receipt (no beer of course) and said: "Seventeen thirty-three,
sir." He
gave me a fifty and leered at me. I thought it in poor taste to
quibble...
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Nichelle
Date: 30 November 1996
Subject: (no subject)
Since when did I become such an asshole? I went out to buy Drain-o and
a shower cap at CVS this morning. I got up to Marshall street early
enough that
nothing was open, so I watched cartoons on the second floor of the mall
for
about twenty minutes. As I was leaving CVS, some girl stopped me asking
for
change. She told me she was seventeen and pregnant. I usually just give
people
whatever change is in my pockets if someone asks for money. But money
has
been on my mind a lot lately, especially since it's a little scarce
around here, and it's an even more difficult subject because I'm not
contributing any. I told Gabriel that there would be no more fights
about money, and I mean it. Anyway, she said she only wanted 75 cents
for a coffee at McDonalds, but I went in with her and bought her one of
their Value Meals with a large coffee and orange juice. I didn't stay,
and I didn't want to stay. Shit, I
know she wasn't seventeen. She looked about five years older than me. I
have
no way of knowing if she's really pregnant. What I do know is that
there is
a shame attached to poverty, and though I've never begged for money on
the
street, it must be one of the most shameful things a person can have to
do.
We're poor, but we've got two beautiful computers, we eat well, we have
the
things we need, and we manage to pay the bills, even if it's usually a
little
late. We sleep in a warm bed every night. How can I resent a girl for
making
up a story, if that's what she did, because it's not good enough just
to
need money or food, you have got to be a pregnant kid to get the right
kind
of sympathy. Anyway, I don't think I had 75 cents in change. And I
didn't
like the way the SU sorority sisters were looking at her, like she was
a
skanky old whore, which she might be. I don't know. Whatever.
Nichelle
From: Nichelle
Date: 30 November 1996
Subject: Murtilda
One red and white jingle ball.
One golf ball.
Two white bic lighters.
Two blue rubber-bands.
Fingernail clippers.
Three tinfoil balls.
1/2 package Spearmint Velamints.
No, make that Four tinfoil balls.
Three nuts: one pecan, one brazil, one walnut.
One Fimo ball.
One barette, small.
Fifteen wine corks.
Thirty-seven packing peanuts.
Six wadded-up pieces of paper.
One pen cap.
One bus schedule.
One black sock.
Score: Matilda 78, Gaby&Nichelle 0
Nichelle
From: Columbine
Date: 30 November 1996
Subject: Re: Murtilda
Wait ... wait ... I know this one. You cleaned under the sofa today,
right? This sounds like the classic Cat Stash Under The Sofa.
Kannst du nicht allen gefallen durch deine That und dein Kunstwerk -
mach es wenigen recht. Vielen gefallen ist schlimm. -Schiller
From: SAGReiss
Date: 30 November 1996
Subject: Back-to-back doubles
It's eight minutes past ten and I've just got off work. I worked an
eighteen-hour shift yesterday and a fourteen-hour shift today. Mr 609
has proven to be the
theme of this Miami game week-end the way Dick Vitale was the theme of
the
Villanova game last winter. I was trying to cash out and go home for
lunch
at three o'clock when I heard this voice asking to buy twenty dollars
of
chicken. I looked up and there he was. I said: "Hey, big guy." Much to
my
surprise he recognized me immediately, grinned a drunken grin and
shouted: "Harold!" He explained in much befudled detail that he and his
two friends desperately needed to buy twenty dollars of chicken to eat
in the bar right now, pushing a bill across the hostess stand. I told
him I'd take care of him and he showed me where they were sitting. I
walked over to the buffet, which hadn't been taken down yet, grabbed
four plates, piled some chicken on three of them, some rolls and butter
on the other, grabbed some silverware, walked into the bar and served
it. He gave me three bucks which I put in my
pocket. Suzanne said to me: "I'll ring it up as seventeen dollars,"
meaning that I'd get the other three. I said: "That's fair." I'd like
to point out the beauty of Nichelle's letter entitled "Murtilda", the
second letter to bear this nickname. Such beauty in simple words,
numbers, colors, artifacts of two lives (three including Matilda's).
Georges Perec would have loved this
poem, if we may call it that. His monsterpiece, La Vie mode d'emploi,
is
full of such lists, as if to suggest we could know someone just by
knowing what's in his closet or basement or refridgerator. I
particularly like the line: "Three nuts: one pecan, one brazil, one
walnut," for it points out the
strange ways languages work. We've got a generic term, nuts, which in
most
contexts is best translated by fruits secs, which is a much larger
category, including raisins and other kinds of dried fruits. The first
hyponym, pecan, does not contain the name of of the hypernym. The
second, Brazil nut, here elliptical, uses the hypernym as a noun with
another noun modifying it. The third, walnut, incorporates the hypernym
as a morpheme of the hyponym, thus no ellipsis possible. Are these
technical terms a part of Nichelle's active vocabulary? Probably not.
They may not even be a part of her passive vocabulary. Did she choose
these words for rhetorical and metalinguistic reasons? I think not. It
doesn't matter. The text does illustrate something weird about English
hypernymy. In a thousand years no one will know if a person called
Nichelle ever existed. Scholars may claim that she was a blind poet
living on Nantucket or a figment of my imagination. As the Man said:
"So long as men can breathe and eyes can see,/So long lives this, and
this gives life to thee." I'm sorry, Lonesome Cowgirl, I have to work
so much this week-end. We really need the money. I'm glad you bought
that hungry woman lunch...
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
October 1996
December 1996
vr: 1996
