vr
a novel
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
April 1999
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 5 April 1999
Subject: Do you know this man?
98.11.01: Assholes in my life
I was talking to an old Internet friend --- a friend in some bizarre and
twisted sense of the term --- and it occured to me to go look on his web page,
on which I am featured in a MOO transcript as a very dimwitted and arch character,
in a particular entry. (It's not a web diary --- my readers expect a link?
Nope.) It then occured to me that he might still have my web address tucked
into some corner of his twisted brain. I hope not. The sneer that he'd bestow
on any enterprise of mine is already fixed into every word he's said to me,
so I don't want it directed at anything in particular.
That said, I've been drawn to ponder the difference in personalities of
some of my guy friends, past and present. I can line them up under headings:
asshole, jerk, and nice guy. This isn't to say that this is how these people
were, just how I perceived them in our limited interactions. I do mean limited:
one of the jerks might be the guy who accosted me at the bus stop and asked
my phone number, only to say, when I said that I didn't give it out, that
"black guys have bigger dicks," as though I would consider this an inducement
to relent. That was the only time I ever saw or spoke to that one.
Tops under assholes are the guy I had a crush on in late high school and
his best friend. The friend believed that I was academically talented, and
every time he greeted me it was by saying, "Hello, Loser." I got very tired
of that. The crush object was supposed to be an asshole in any case, and I
must say that in the early stages, until he was thoroughly creeped out by
me, he handled me gently. I'm still sour that we couldn't be friends. I could
have used a friend more at that point. (When he asked me if what I wanted
was for him to be my boyfriend, I felt clear shock, and mumbled some sort
of baffled negative. I was raw, kids.) But the thing that puts him firmly
under the asshole header for me is that, on the two occasions since high
school that I've seen him in our hometown, he got up and left just to be
sure I wouldn't talk to him. Lounging at Starbucks one moment, he vanished
into the crowds of Old Town the next, after ignoring my nod and howdy as
I passed in Barnes & Noble. This is unfortunate, because first crushes
are supposed to be the ones that stay with you, and I think that he has,
in some sort of minor way. It would have been good for me to have a normal
conversation with him. Then I could stop having dreams in which I visit home
and am trying to assure a terrified guy that I'm not after him anymore....
And could stop spilling what should be my most humiliating memories over
the 'net.
My online friend curses, proclaims his superior European university education
(despite having no degree), and tries to shock me by referring to sex and
using inappropriate endearments. He logs off in the middle of arguments and
sneers openly at me. Still, he's one of the few people I feel free to ask
about literature, even though we haven't read any of the same stuff. I'm scared
of the people I do know and the ones that don't frighten me don't care about
literature much. I've never had a satisfying conversation with this guy,
not once; but I keep talking to him and trying to do a little bullying of
my own.
As I type, I see that he's responded to my comment about Alcholics Anonymous
with the comment, "Aren't you fucking funny, fat bitch?" Maybe I talk to him
in order to grow a thicker skin, to learn that every conversation doesn't
have to be clean and sweet. Certainly I find myself becoming ruder, as above,
when we talk.
I used to wonder whether he was more polite to his girlfriend. She described
him as charming, which he's never been to me. I supposed that he must have
a completely different mode of discourse when working or going after bedpartners.
(By his account, he's been a horny little rabbit.) But they've just broken
up, so maybe that theory is wrong.
He thinks opinions should be excised from conversation and that all questions
about his life are personal and rude. I wonder whether I've said too much
in writing this; if he were writing it, of course, he wouldn't care what the
subject thought, so I shouldn't. Just as I manage to shrug off the insults
and the attitude in the hope of having interesting conversation.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Solaris
Date: 6 April 1999
Subject: amusing things.
Well, recently a character on BayMOO posted to a list that my character
owns saying that I, infact, do not exist. So, I removed his post and put
one up to the effects of: If I don't exist, then how could I have removed
your previous message (#37) from my list? Gosh, your logic jsut blows goats.
So, I'm waiting for a reply to taht one...poor sucker. Also in my life. The
saga of the super jealous Dorothy bitch continues. I'd bet you all remember
the last posting, where I caught her following me home and my neighbor's
children did some damage to her girlfriend's car, etc. Well, the saga continues
on, with even MORE amusing things. I went to Palm Springs, CA for a week
to go and visit my ex girlfriend. Lisa, the bitch's girlfriend, knew I was
gone, but apparently didn't tell Dorothy. So, Dorothy called my house to
make certain taht Lisa wasn't with me (infact she was in a meeting at work,
even though it was her day off). Dorothy ended up talking with my mother,
who likes Lisa, who called Lisa to tell her to keep her girlfriend on a leash,
etc. Lisa is still raking Dorothy over the coals for that little maneuver.
I sense that their relationship will not last too much longer. I also relish
the fact that my mother came and cleaned my place while I was on vacation,
one because it is now spotless, and two because that was just kewl. :)
-Lauren (Cyanne)
From: Hillary
Date: 8 April 1999
Subject: ambiguity abounds
WAR STORY
Neither his dead wife, nor his children:
a thieving son and two daughters,
one grown fat, the other in nursing school;
nor Ruby, the woman he never married
for fear she'd pay his funeral expense,
not even one of his many friends
that his American chin and green fatigues
had surely won, not one of them he told;
but me, when the secret had already seen
the water fill his eyes and lungs,
and his hands over fifty years
turn from trigger-happy animal things
to paper, fingering buttons closed,
I was the only one.
Back to a hospital I crept with him,
decades before my quiet birth,
to the bedside of a dying friend,
palms pressing hot Italian summer between,
and heard of a woman with red lipstick
and heat of a kind not fit for heaven.
We kept his secret like a cherrystone
in the pit of our stomach, even when
he didn't die, and went home to sell
insurance under a Texan sun
with his wife in diamonds and swimming pools.
A beautiful, gun-barreled cherrystone
was all we had left of the war
and we kept it all our own,
through wives and children and other wars
and cartons of cigarettes
and years and things that filled us up,
until we overflowed regrets
to some strange girl who was me
and we crept with her to a dying friend,
pressed sticky palms, and began again
to fill us up with our old pale designs,
tiny and pink as fingernails.
.....
"Be regular and orderly in your life, that you might by violent and original
in your work." Gustave Flaubert
From: SAGReiss
Date: 9 April 1999
Subject: All hang separately
Composing a letter to yduJ (#68) entitled "Re: My friend"
"Sorry to bother you again. I know you're busy. I'm still wondering about
SamIAm. I've pieced together a few details, notably from *wg. As I understand
it SamIAm and WriTinG were newted at about the same time for an episode of
mutual RL outing, if I may call it that. Also SamIAm was "a thorn in [your]
side". I am aware that he could be perceived as relentless and overbearing,
despite his undeniable qualities, which I'm sure you recognize. I wonder if
there might not be a more appropriate solution, such as allowing him back
under certain conditions, e.g. you could gag him. In any case, thank you for
your consideration.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 11 April 1999
Subject: The pickle treatment
scaredycat pages, "oh, more fascinating information, i failed my test today. now
I will have to study it all over again in the summer. :)"
page scaredycat That gives you a chance to make up with Diego.
scaredycat pages, "he's coming back tommorow. i'm not sure i want to make up/out
with him anyway."
page scaredycat I guess that depends on whether or not he calls you, eh?
scaredycat pages, "no."
scaredycat pages, "anyway, he wont call."
page scaredycat I see. You fought with him before he left?
scaredycat pages, "i dont fight."
page scaredycat Um, you scolded him? You gave him the silent treatment?
scaredycat pages, "no."
scaredycat pages, "great no i will go to sleep depressed."
scaredycat pages, "no=now"
page scaredycat Is that supposed to be my fault? Maybe his plane will crash.
> scaredycat . o O ( not that i have any trouble getting depressed all by myself
)
scaredycat pages, "eh, it wont matter. he'll come back to haunt me. a little plane
crash wont be a problem."
page scaredycat Well, you decided to sleep with the boy.
> scaredycat cant help it.
scaredycat pages, "i wish i could."
page scaredycat Help what? You got laid, you're more or less involved with a man.
I'm not sure why you're upset about it.
scaredycat pages, "i'm upset because it hurts. i know its entirly my fault, it doesnt
make it any less painful, quite the opposite."
page scaredycat But I don't understand why your feelings are hurt. You think he
doesn't care about you?
scaredycat pages, "you want the long story?"
page scaredycat Sure.
scaredycat pages, "summer. me not laid for... 2 years? go to his house (he lives
together with 2 other guys that work with me, and another girl) anyway, me
cannot sleep, so we watch a video in his room, me end up sleeping over, then
sneak out in morning so 2 other guys from work dont catch me."
scaredycat pages, "we dont mention it at all the next day. happens once more, same
thing. then his x-gf stays at thier house for a while, so i stay my distance,
dont want to bother."
scaredycat pages, "anyway, me go crazy for a month. like sick, i cant eat, or sleep,
but i try to act normal and stuff."
scaredycat pages, "i hardly talk to him. i dont know why, it's not very fair, because
we were good pals, and now i'm kinda ignoring him. but i just cant look at
him."
scaredycat pages, "in fact, i already forgot how we started to sleep together again,
but we did. and his roomates kinda found out. but i dont mind because they
are really nice people (and good friends of mine). okay that was the background
story. which has nothing to do with anything."
scaredycat pages, "i asked him, at some point, what happens now, if we should be
a "couple" or something silly of the sort, because i felt kind of uncomfortable,
with his roomates around and all. but he said that he's not a faithful person,
so it'll be a bad idea. but thats not the story either."
scaredycat pages, "here's the parts that hurt me, always i had to initiate. invite
myself over, etc. i /hate/ doing that, i feel as if i'm imposing. or bothering.
but i would just go crazy if i didnt, so i didnt really have any choice but
to invite myself over. we would never talk about whatever it was we had. we
would just act as if everything was the same. which wasnt too bad, i could
live with that. but it would be nice to know for sure if I could get laid
once or twice a week. i dont like uncertenty."
scaredycat pages, "so last week, what pissed me off, and i suspected would happen.
we were studying for a test in probability theory, and he was picking on me
(as usuall) i think thats the thing i like about him, he takes people, finds
the things that trouble them the most and then insults them, it's like watching
someone thats walking on an edge of a cliff or something, and laughing down
at the people below."
scaredycat pages, "you never know what kind of horrible thing he's going to say
to the person sitting next to you. and will that person punch him out or
not."
scaredycat pages, "so he was picking on me for about two days, but about silly things.
really silly things. eventually, i felt as if i was about to cry, so i asked
him, as if nothing was wrong when was there a bus to the univeristy, because
i promised my roomate i would be home, obviously i cannot lie, so he started
enquiring about that. till i just got up, and slipped out, and ran downstairs."
scaredycat pages, "so he ran after me, but he was in pajamas and slippers, which
was kind of funny."
scaredycat pages, "eventually he cought up to me (9 flights of stairs, heh)"
scaredycat pages, "when i started crying. this is the thing that i hate most. I
cannot cry infront of other people, i feel as if i have no control over myself,
and i am weak, and stupid."
scaredycat pages, "so he wanted to know what was wrong, if it was something he did.
but it wasnt really him, i'm the one thats screwed up, and cant even control
my feelings."
scaredycat pages, "eventually i gave up, because he wouldnt let it go. so i waited
till a bunch of cars came driving down the highway and ran across, so he wouldnt
be able to catch me (wearing slippers)"
scaredycat pages, "then i ran for a while till i was sure i got away. and cried
all the way home."
scaredycat pages, "after that he's studying for a test in algorithems, so he calls
me up, and we talk for about two hours (which is strange because my phone
calls usually last 5 minutes at most), because he thinks he wont be able to
finish studying for his test on time, so i convince him that he should study
- thats what friends are for, no?"
scaredycat pages, "a few days later, i'm depressed because my partner in a programming
project hardly knows the programming language, and i hardly have time to do
the project, so we sit there and decide to copy someone else's work. but i
dont really feel good about it and start doing it on my own, but it's a language
i really hate. then HE comes over, not that i wanted to see him - being depressed
about my stupid project, but i didnt really need any cheering up, since i
WAS doing the work. so after a short talk with him I got /really/ depressed.
so i couldnt even look at the code... (luckly i got myself together the next
day and started it myself, even though we were already a day late.) "
scaredycat pages, "so i was kind of upset at him for my project being late, because
he knows i have no backbone and can be easly convinced into things. and made
a pickle face at him for a day (pickle treatment)."
scaredycat pages, "sometimes he goes into this mood where he keeps annoying you,
and you dont know how to make him stop. it's not something he does specifically
to me, he does it to everyone. you try to ignore it, or tell him to stop,
or threten him with physical harm, be nice to him, be mean to him, but nothing
changes. so on that day, before he left all he kept asking me, if i want to
go someplace to cry by myself, so no one would see me. this hurt me, because
i told him this is the thing that hurts me most. why did he do it? maybe i'm
not a very nice person on the MOO. but i'm not mean, and i didnt do anything
bad to him. your probably stopped reading this like half an hour ago."
scaredycat pages, "but it feels good when i type it all out."
scaredycat pages, "shows how stupid i am, and how i get hurt from silly thins, that
normal people dont even notice."
scaredycat pages, "i wonder if i'm @gagged. heh. that would be funny."
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Joy
Date: 12 April 1999
Subject: Re: The pickle treatment
ah, it's been awhile.
im actually slowly working on my webpage. in a few minutes it should have
a link ot Nichelle's hex/vr.htm ... which i like ALOT. i think it is a good
selection of stuff. im completely biased, b/c some things that i worte actually
appear on there. The cat meows sadly. But she has some of her most powerful
stuff on there. Nichelle, I wish that i was a better plant and friend to you
than i am now, or have been in the past. im pretty inconsistent b/c of my
chaotic life. Which is old news, i know, but i feel like ive been neglecting
some things..
Currently trying to stave off the flu. The cat is being pushy but i don't
want to open the door for her b/c it was open for several hours and she didn't
go out and thene there was <THUMP> [crash] and we were both spooked
-- did someone come inside? There i was, sick, cutting mp split ends completely
naked on the bed by the cat. She is currently walking over the monitor and
checking the painting/sculpture thing on the wall for bugs... and for hidden
passageways in the fake wood paneling.. making the most pathetic little mrow
you've ever heard. Of course, if i would be so stupid as to actually try to
pet her, she would attack my hand. Ah, my Gingko, a study in contrasts.
i give up. she wins. like she does everytime.
-joy
From: Joy
Date: 12 April 1999
Subject: why i hate
so with the dried tears running nowhere on my face i can begin to tell of
the wonderful time ive had today vr.
i was on lagda, sick with the flu.. feeling like shit and trying to force
myself to drink a disgusting concoction that was off-brand TheraFlu.
Enter a guest...
Now, lately a painful 'friend' of mine has been guesting on the moo and
sort of stalking me. or just socializing. whatever. he never comes out and
admits that it's him, he just leaves clues.
Enter a guest...
who mentions the word 'Sandoz'. And won't tell me more about it. This intrigued
me b/c my Knife aka Chris(TM) on the first letter he wrote me it was from
some sort of stationary of theirs, and from there we .. So it had SERIOUS
significance for me.
Enter a guest...
who interacts with me as if they obviously know me. and they know how to
operate in the moo, but wants me to take it to a private room. of course,
i don't really know of any, since i don't have one of my own.
Enter a guest...
that is manipulative and pushy. that had me by the balls of my curiousity.
i felt that i was being played (which i was) but i didn't know by whom, for
what reason, etc. so i went along with it.
Enter a guest....
that refuses to answer my question, then throws out some web addresses (only
after i give out mine and they critique it first, of course.) and the Sandoz
thing turned out to be nothing, of course, just a way to play with me.
Enter a guest...
who would flirt and badger (i would have tolerated these things if it had
been Sam, but no this was someone else. some stranger. some asshole who wanted
to push my buttons. which they did. they are so easy to push.)
Enter a guest...
who also mentioned the color blue, which is a sort of code word (well, idea)
that Sam and i would use. If it had actually been Chris, he might have done
that too. Or Dan, Chris' best friend. (hey, i had thought that it would have
been safe for me to be drinking just with Dan.. we nearly... but didn't...
it was such a bad scene. we've never really spoken since. and it Hurts. b/c
he was really cool..
Enter a guest...
who sort of referred to themselves as a male in a miniskirt that was supposedly
in a picture that i was supposed to have magically discovered. i searched
the web sites, they told me that if i was *really* curious that i would find
what i was looking for (or something to that degree)
Enter a guest...
that is actually a character named Wednesday, one that i know from someone
i consider to be somewhat of a friend that she is a bitch.
Enter a guest...
i had already seen her website from my friend Babel who is apparently quite
taken with her and visited her when he came to the US from Australia...
So here was a chick. Fe told me that he hated her. Babel, whom i've known
longer (i assumed this meant better, i wonder in retrospect) didn't talk about
her but i knew he liked her. No one else that i knew was around. i wanted
to talk about this to someone. anyone. who knew something about her. was
it me just being hysterically sensitive?
So a few hours later, having had some Nyquil but i wasn't falling asleep
couldn't figure out why (i was starving apparentyl, but then i had to figure
out what to eat) and who should be there but Her. and not to much later, Him.
she, now with a webcam (yes she is pretty) told everyone in the room her
site. the only other female in the room (i think) mentioned to someone else
that she was an exhibitionist. this confirmed part of my theory About Her.
i started to ask her questions. you see, while she was on as a guest, she
was also on her char. right before i looged out the first time, i paged her
char and said something about it wasn't nice to be that way, esp when one
has the flu.
so it took awhile for her to acknowledge that yes, she had used a guest.
and that yes, it was her. i had to say all of these things aloud, of course.
everyone in the Lr started to really ignore everything i had to say. i guess
they didn't want to see a fight break out. esp when they were too busy staring
at this bitch in her barely-there underware. my friend babel kept whining
about how his frames weren't loading correctly.
i mentioned to Her that i never did find the picture that she was talking
about, the miniskirt thing.
she responded .. (i don't remember exactly. it didn't make any sense whatsoever)
i asked her what? what did you ever want from me?
she sighed loudly at me
babel complains about his frames not loading, other convo on same topic
continues.
i mispaged babel and actually said aloud to her 'and this is one of your
friends?'
more ignoring
someone said something to be, the other chicka in the room. something to
the amount of settle down now
by this time my face was covered in tears. i wanted to punch the screen.
i was starving. i wanted to strangle Her dead with my bare hands. i wanted
the cat to stop bitching. i wanted my head to stop throbbing. i wanted my
best friend and roommate to be there. i wanted to stop being sick. i wanted
Metro Pulse to not call me and pay me anyway b/c they have strung me along
for almost 2 weeks now and i'll be missing therapy b/c of it, which i so obviously
need. i wanted to be beautiful. i wanted to be intelligent. i wanted to be
successful. i wanted a magic wand to clean the house and esp the dishes. i
wanted that stupid piece of paper that you get at graduation that tells you
yes, you still can't get a job that pays worth shit. i wanted my mom out
of my head. i wanted all the pain to go away. i wanted to sleep. most of
all, i wanted to sleep
so i cried. i have no pride. humiliated groveling in the living room for
someone to say something, to say yes, she was wrong or for her to actually
give me a piece of information or for someone to come to my side.
and my friend, my faithful friend Babel, who sat there drooling over her
latest poses. i mentioned something about sandoz, about the 7 years, about
all the alcohol..
no one said anything in my behalf. i might as well as been in the linen
closet.
they continued their prattle, everyone looking everywhere but at me, with
my tear-staied face.
i went to the linen closet. and paged babel, who acted as if nothing was
wrong.. and then as if, oh, come on, we ALL do this...
and even as i type this, i feel the same futility as i did earlier when
the guest logged off, leaving me hanging and feeling absolute defeat. oh
sure, i was supposed to find some pictuer, but i knew that i would never
find it, i knew who and What she was and what she had done to me. i didn't
know at the beginning. if i had been a little ruder, if only i hodn't logged
on while sick, this never would have happened.
futility. i will sink into sleep knowing that i have lost this and all battles
with her. i sit her, naked and alone.
and i will now, of course, remove babel from my links.
or was it all just the nyquil?
the pathetic self-hating UnStAbLe, who desperately needs validation of this
horrific experience. i haven't had anything like this .. in quite a few years...
look what happens when i finally leave my shell. is it such a wonder that
i hate?
From: SAGReiss
Date: 12 April 1999
Subject: S-V-O
Reading online diaries and Othello criticism is helping me pass the time.
Both leave me wondering why the authors assume I feel any interest whatsoever
in their wretched lives and thoughts. Obviously the plot of Othello (A white
soldier leads his black commander to kill his own aristocratic white wife.)
asks direct questions of class, race and sex. The critics of the past three
decades use this as a pretext to say whatever they've got to say about relations
among class, race and what they call gender. The problem arises that the reader
interested in Othello is perhaps less interested in the life and opinions
of some idiot professor wench. The same holds true for diaries. One of the
famous critical sites states that the two most important aspects of the diary
are content and style. (I'll not quibble with the dichotomy for the moment,
even though Miel and I couldn't even agree on what constitutes form.) As to
the latter, she says that clarity and simplicity are important so one should
use spellcheck and subject-verb-object order. And that's it. No mention is
made of entry length, genre/point of view (narrative or dialogue, description
or reflection), and the all-important number of events per entry. Shiiit,
she talks about font and font point and font color, all of which I'm sure
are important, but no mention of person. Perhaps it is just assumed that some
combination of first, second (in dialogue) and third person is somehow natural
or necessary. Perhaps the number of events narrated has something to do with
how full the day was. This is the foolish, uneducated slob who thinks that
content dictates form, whereas it is exactly the opposite. A sonnet has fourteen
lines (almost always) no matter what the subject matter. A haiku has seventeen
syllables regardless of content. No one's life is any more or less interesting
than anyone else's. The question is how to make it interesting. My little
log of yesterday was a lucky hit. My friend was clearly struggling with her
(quite good) English and her emotions:
me not laid for... 2 years?
anyway, me cannot sleep, so we watch a video in his room, me end up sleeping
over,
I doubt she is used to talking about sex in English, so she seems to use
my vocabulary. Also she picked up (amazingly) on my childhood slang:
You gave him the silent treatment?
and made a pickle face at him for a day (pickle treatment).
Creating and editing a log (This one required very little editing, just
what's necessary to transpose one medium into another.) is easier than composing
a diary entry because of the two time schemes. A day runs on a twenty-four
hour clock. A journal entry reconfigures that time into a different kind of
time, the time of the events as they are related. The further the distance
between the two, the more interesting the entry, since the fewer events, the
more attention lavished on each one in a given word count. Joy's letter is
really a log composed after the fact in indirect speech. The organizing principle
is what is known as "anaphora", a three-thousand-year-old figure of speech
which is best known in the United States from Martin Luther King's use of
it in the "I have a dream" speech. I also like the subtle mix of focus online
and interspersed details irl.
Hell and damnation. send
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 14 April 1999
Subject: What?
I have no idea what you're going through, sweetheart, but that's because
you don't want to tell me for reasons you alone know. I'm sorry that I don't
like people dropping by. I don't like to be disturbed, even if I'm not doing
anything. All you need to do is arrange a visit in advance. I'm always online.
If there's anything I can do, please let me know.
From: Hillary
Date: 15 April 1999
Subject: redemption
So he asked me to move with him for the summer.
In Modern Amer. Poetics, talking of "correlative objectification," where
symbolic representation of a personal experience evokes a personal experience
for the reader, though not the one described by the writer, but a correlative
one, one that has equal weight and impact.
My daydreams are as bad as my nightmares.
Lost it today in class when the professor said that VIII of "Thirteen Ways
of Looking at a Blackbird" --
[VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms.
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.]
-- held some sort of metaphysical truth about the nature of reality. I think
that's bullshit! Wallace doesn't hand you truth. He hands you a symbol for
symbol's sake. He offers some sort of philosphy so obtuse that it never existed.
"Thirteen Ways" is a linguistic event, self-reflexive to a fault. It's the
kind of thing that people read and don't "get"--it lets non-poets write off
poetry, while the poets pretend that it offers something it never offered.
I'm expected to nod sagely in class, say "ah, yes, Wallace was a master, just
look at all those profound blackbirds." No one admits that there is nothing
to "get," and so I came out looking foolish. Donald Hall said, in his essay
"Death to the Death of Poetry," that only poets read poetry anyway. I guess
it doesn't matter much whether or not I'm missing a metaphysical truth.
I have to pretend that I trust him because he's pretending to love me.
Wallace wrote "The final belief is to believe in a fiction, which you know
to be a fiction, there being nothing else. The exquisite truth is to know
that it is a fiction and that you believe in it willing." So there is exquisite
truth in God, in money, in relationships, in poetry, the four things that
seem necessary to my existence and are so often lacking. A journal entry from
January said "In my fiercest dreams, you love me and God exists." I should
have written "daydreams." In my night dreams he is always betraying me, and
there I create him. There's never a god in my night dreams, though, or even
a pretense of one. I'm jealous of religous fiction. Jealous of too many things,
really.
Mr. Stevens replies, "After one has abandoned a belief in God, poetry is
that essence which takes its place as life's redemption."
Hallelujah! Salvation through art! We are redeemed! Just look at all them
blackbirds!
But then again, none of this is true.
love and cashews,
Hillary
"Be regular and orderly in your life, that you may be violent and original
in your work." - Gustave Flaubert
From: SAGReiss
Date: 15 April 1999
Subject: This fucking life
I can't believe this shit. I'm glad I've continued paying my union dues.
I need to answer the charges by 23 April. I guess I'll just walk down there
tomorrow morning. I'm not waiting around for that bastard to return my calls,
which he never did last time. At least if I'm standing in his office he'll
give me some advice. They should agree to go represent me before the hearing,
but I won't count on it. Fuck, I can't believe this shit. Why didn't I just
get the fuck out on 3 March?
From: SAGReiss
Date: 15 April 1999
Subject: Chute
Fighting off a brutal bout of depression, I couldn't sleep last night, struggling
with various demons. I awoke this morning to find I had contracted a 'puter
virus and was utterly ill-equipped to fight it, not even knowing how to download
files. This after I had actually stumbled upon an ad @careerpath.com where
I might even be considered by accident. With much stress and upper-body anxiety
I managed to download McAfee's anti virus something or other. It took me hours
to do the job. I don't understand these fucking 'puters. There's a funny
article in salon.com today about some guy having a nervous breakdown who
has obviously never had one, or if so he represents it in such a way that
no one would ever believe it was true. He lists a series of criteria. Psychiatrists
always ask questions like: "Are you having black thoughts?" (I'm translating
that one from French.) A normal person is never going to be able to answer
such a question. A person who is having serious trouble will suffer a mild
brain seizure. It's hard enough to answer such questions as: "Are you having
trouble sleeping?" I don't know, you dumb fuck. How do you define "trouble"?
Are you having trouble sleeping? Anyway our salon.com columnist says that
he suffered from every single one of the supposed symptoms, then says that
he told us he was an overachiever. (My depression is better than your depression?)
Anyway it's very useful to read an uplifting story about someone who spent
one night in a psych ward (on leave from his well-paying and very forgiving
university-professor job while dozens of concerned friends and relatives
hover over him anticipating his needs and desires). See how it is, brothers
and sisters? Don't sweat it. The melancholy will subside and the $60k a year
will still be there. Now why didn't I think of that? I don't understand what
your teachers are saying about the "objective correlative", Hillary. It's
an ugly phrase that T.S. Eliot made up to talk about Hamlet, I believe. The
idea was that the playwright finds a dramatic situation similar to the mental
situation of the character. The action is "objective" in that it takes place
in the real world, "correlative" in that it correlates to what takes place
in the internal world of Hamlet. Why anyone would build on such an ungainly
concept to begin with is beyond me. I could see a mildly metaphysical meaning
in those verses. Let's assume that the word "blackbird" refers to the mental
representation the narrator creates in order to process the data of his senses,
the idea "blackbird". In as much as he relates the ideas "noble accents"
and "inescapable rhythms" (from the aural data of the birdsong) to the idea
"blackbird" we can say that the blackbird participates in those ideas, in
that knowledge. I'm not sure why one would bother to go quite that far, unless
your professor really has nothing better to do, which is perhaps the case.
After all he could be unemployed and crushed by apathy. A poem is certainly
a linguistic event, well at least it's linguistic. I'm not sure if it's an
event. Does a poem happen? I suppose you could say that if it's read aloud,
preferably with more than one person present. If I may assume that by "self-reflexive"
you mean what I call "self-referential" then I don't see why you call that
a fault, as it is a simple property of language. This should not discourage
you, however. The loss of meaning is a very liberating experience, for it
clears the air for all the kinds of formal analysis (including semantic analysis)
that are nearly impossible if we really think that words mean something about
the world. A useful exercise is to try to analyse a poem in a language that
you don't understand. (It helps to know at least where the syllabic accents
fall in words.) When every poem begins to look like Jabberwocky, which has
been translated into dozens of languages, then you're on the right track.
So what have we? God, money, relationships and poetry, plus the unstated
assumption of truth itself? Of the five, the only one that makes any sense
any more to my diseased brain is money. I'm selling out as soon as possible.
I'll never get over the mistakes of my youth. I blew it when I had a chance.
Now all I want is enough material comfort to drink myself quietly to death.
I've had quite enough of this shit.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 15 April 1999
Subject: P.S.
Late breaking good news. I've just got the mail. Unemployment is making
an inquiry into my claim. They say I may have committed fraud, and may have
to pay them back. Another beautiful day.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 16 April 1999
Subject: Life vs Gabriel, the rematch
negatron [to SAGReiss]: how do you get in so much trouble
SAGReiss [to negatron]: I don't know, bro. I never leave home except to
buy
groceries. Trouble has the key to my front door.
I was waiting for the bus when I began to feel sick. It's no fun puking
by the side of the road, especially a busy street like Denny Way, full of
trucks, especially when you're too nervous to eat. I began walking and suddenly
realized I didn't know which way I was going. I have no sense of direction.
I bought a pack of cigarettes at a gas station and asked directions to my
home. I had waited for Joe "Sambucca" at local 8 for an hour before Joe "I
can't remember his nickname" told me Sambucca wasn't coming in. He suggested
I go upstairs and talk to the Unemployment Law Project. He told me to come
back and see him afterwards. The lady lawyers looked at my paperwork and said:
"You were fired for sexual harassment?" "Isn't there a more delicate way
to put that?" Bill Gates' father's law firm is now working on behalf of the
Rainier Club to contest the unemployment benefits I've been receiving for
three months. When I got back downstairs Joe "Ace" told me that Joe "I can't
remember his nickname" wasn't available. He said he had never heard of such
a thing: "And I've only been doing this for thirty-two years." Union men
can tell you the day of their retirement and how much their social security
check will amount to. He made photocopies of my declaration and sent me on
my way. "Thank you. You've been very helpful." I didn't know what else to
say. I can't tell you how frightening it is to deal with these monstrous bureaucratic
nightmares. Nichelle could tell you, but she won't tell me. She's been giving
me the silent treatment, and I'm giving her the pickle treatment. I've filled
out the paperwork for a preliminary inquiry which will determine nothing
much, except that either the Rainier Club or I will appeal the process, which
is where it gets serious. I've asked to see my file, which is where the Club
will accuse me of either sexual harassment or violating (an unspecified)
company policy (Joe: "You have a policy about this?") or threatening to rape
a co-worker, all because of some crazed, drunken e-mail. I had a powerful
lust for what Malcolm Lowry calls the therapeutic drink, but I had to settle
for a pack of smokes. It seemed like a bad time to invest in a magnum of
whisky, which is what I really need. I remember the words of The Inman Diaries:
"I hate Roosevelt, the Jews, God, life, myself."
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: SAGReiss
Date: 16 April 1999
Subject: 'Puter
I've got this piece of shit running again. I ran scandisk and defrag. Some
day I'm going to bring this machine to a professional and have him look it
over. I'd reinstall Windows, but I don't have the Word 7.0 disk. Have you
filed for unemployment? You should, if you lose your job. It's quite painless,
until they accuse you of fraud.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 17 April 1999
Subject: Thanks
I feel awful. One of the things I had felt good about is that you were happily
and gainfully employed. I hadn't ruined your life. I'm very sorry. I also
feel bad because you are hiding from me. I don't understand. You say you've
already told the terrible tale to twenty-nine people, but I talked with you
on Wednesday evening, even before you were fired, if what you say today is
true. You didn't want to discuss it then either. I don't know what to think.
You say: "Half a dozen of us were fired." But: "I made a mistake." Who are
the twenty-nine other people whom you trusted? I don't know. I feel very bad.
I remember when I was fired, in circumstances at least as humiliating and
embarrassing as yours, I composed my e-mail while I was walking home. I guess
we have grown apart, and you have your friends. I'm sorry. I wish I could
help you. If there's anything I can do, please don't hesitate to ask. You
know best. I haven't got much, but you're welcome to what I've got. I plan
to be here until 30 June. I don't know any better than you what to do. School
scares me, but thirty years at the Tennis Club scares me more.
From: SAGReiss
Date: 19 April 1999
Subject: Point 'n' drool
John taught me this geek expression for the way most people deal with their
'puters. He didn't tell me the exact etymology of the phrase. He prefers what
he calls the "command line interface", a militaristic term if I've ever heard
one. Apparently it's better to have to type in lines of esoteric code rather
than click on "OK" to see the wet sluts remove their bloomers. I suggested
that geeks like Linux primarily because they can look down on us Windows users
and refuse to help us, saying: "Sorry, bro. I don't know anything about MS
XXX." negatron agreed that these were indeed powerful incentives to spend
years of an otherwise worthless life learning a system that is strategically
designed never to sell or earn money. I have no ideas about these things.
I am demoralized beyond caring about anything more abstract than doing the
laundry. I called Sambucca at the union. He didn't remember me. I guess they
have lots of guys who show up with fifty pages of obscene e-mail wondering
why they've been fired. I tried to explain the situation, but I don't understand
it myself. He said that he was puzzled by the advice I'd received from the
Unemployment Law Project, as was I, but he didn't know because he didn't do
unemployment hearings. He didn't do my fucking grievance either. I wonder
what the bastard does do. Just so that I wouldn't think they were forgetting
about me, the university hospital has sent me a $450 bill for their worthless
services. Don't they know that everyone who goes to the emergency room is
uninsured? If one has insurance, one is far too afraid that the HMO won't
cover the visit, unless one dies in the waiting room before any services are
provided. I've finally managed to subscribe to an online journal, which is
of no interest whatsoever. This one is written by a professional writer, that
is someone who has placed a couple of science fiction stories in rags that
don't pay for them. There's no sense reading the shit. I like to read Miel's
letters. At least she has tried to do something with her words. She interweaves
the veiled story of her bf with her struggles in school. I thought maybe
one more sentence about the bf would have been right. I was telling negatron
about my sorrow reading about Wayne Gretzky's retirement. negatron hates
hockey, and everything else except I'm not sure what. It's just sad when
the young and swift slow down and complain about back spasms. Darryl Strawberry
is perhaps a better role model for me. He's in about as deep shit as I, inveterate
sex 'n' coke abuse. Taxes. The Law. Unemployment. Hospital bills. When will
this shit stop?
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Hillary
Date: 20 April 1999
Subject: dreams and dreams
If it is lack of meaning you desire, there is always Mallarme.
Otherwise there are dreams. I have had too many lately. I don't know where
they are coming from. Sometimes for months I won't remember any of my dreams,
but in the past two weeks I have woken every night from vivid, frightening
things. Instead of the typical dozing-off falling, when I begin to sink into
sleep, an animal leaps out of the dark from my left and sinks its teeth into
my thigh, causing me to kick awake.
Last night my mother and I painted the rooms of our house brilliant colours:
persimmon, nasturtium, tangerine, flame. We sat down from our work, satisfied.
Outside the horses made distressed noises, and I went to the door. Saw through
it three men standing in the field, torturing our two mares. They were laughing
and dirty, with matted hair and oil-stained jeans. I yelled at them to stop
hurting the horses and to get off our property. They turned around and stared
at me with eyes like I've never seen, like looking into nothing. They came
toward me and I closed the door. They emptied a can of gasoline over the front
of the house. I ran back to my mother just before the house was consumed by
rushing fire and unbearable heat. I could see the flames outside all the windows
and feel myself dissolving.
[In the awake world we have no horses.]
The night before I stood with Michael on a high pier over Caribbean water,
waiting for the Roosevelt Island cablecar. I dropped my wallet and it tumble-tumbled
through the dock's wide spaces into the water.
"Should I go get it?" I asked him and he advised me that the money in it
was likely ruined. I decided to go anyway, to preserve my credit cards. Underneath
the pier, it was crowded with people playing in the turquoise shallows and
I found it difficult to see where I had been standing above the water. I found
a witch hat with strings and tied it on, and then a fake pirate's arm, complete
with hook, which I also put on. Finally I spotted my wallet, and a Tom Sawyer
type diving for it as well, reaching it just before I did. I offered the
pirate's arm in trade, but he wanted the witch hat. I gave it to him, demonstrating
that it was army-issue and had two parts, a fireproof inner skullcap, and
the outer, brimmed cover.
We made the cablecar just in time, but it was no longer a cablecar. It was
some private ferry owned by a severe, WASP-ish couple who had two children.
They put us in charge of them, the little girl about a year old, the little
boy perhaps three.
In the bathroom, I showed the boy how to brush his teeth and we laughed
for minutes until I realised that the little girl was lying crumpled behind
the door on the tile floor, her doll beside her. I rushed to pick her up,
but she was already cold and stiff. I carried her to the living room trying
to stroke her forehead alive. Her parents returned and stood accusatory while
I made helpless gestures and explained that she must have fallen.
"Look," said Michael, and I looked. Her eyes opened and she rolled over
in my arms and stretched, saying, "That was such a good sleep. I'm so angry
that you woke me."
Enough of dreams. They're not as interesting when they're not your own.
My problem is that I've been getting too much sleep lately in the process
of trying to avoid my life. Usually I get by with four or five hours a night,
and that sleep is blank and deep. But on the tail ends of nine-hour nights,
my subconscious gets a little too big for its proverbial britches.
I decided to take him up on the offer of summer housing. No rent. And I'll
be with him. I need a job. $200 left in the whole world, and probably half
of it is already spent. Problem is that I'm typical, and hate working. Don't
want to do the 9-5, or heavy lifting, or excessive photocopying, or anything
that has to do with food or computers. Last summer I ended up doing sensual
massage--you know, that low-end sex-industry work that doesn't really pay
enough, but pays more than legitimate jobs. Wreaked havoc on my personal life,
though. Who wants to date a woman who jerks off four or five strange men
every day? Lazy me is contemplating egg donation right now. $4 or $5000 bucks
for three weeks of daily shots and misery. Two weeks of no sex. I could handle
it, but it seems a little weird. Lot of money, though. I'm conflicted, so
I sleep. I need money, so I sleep. I'm hungry, so I sleep.
I gave blood last week. I wondered if giving hand jobs/sensual massage counted
as accepting money for sex. It wasn't exactly sex. I said that I'd never accepted
money for sex, but I felt guilty. I know I'm clean, but still had that twinge.
At least I was doing something good by giving blood. Feel like I'm contributing
something to society, which has satiated the suicide monsters for the timebeing.
Missing blood, though. Get lightheaded when I walk up stairs. Tired all the
time. So I sleep.
Hillary
............
hotel
my room is shaped like a cage
the sun puts its arm through the window
but I who would like to smoke
to make smoke pictures
i light at the fire of day my cigarette
i do not want to work
i want to smoke
[guillaume apollinaire]
From: SAGReiss
Date: 23 April 1999
Subject: Columbine High
"You say that you and the president 'clicked' emotionally. Yet you describe
his making a telephone call the first time you performed oral sex on him.
Could you explain this apparent contradiction?"
Monica laughed. I paged Goldie: "She's funny. She's laughing at bclinton's
making a phone call during a bj." She tried to explain, hesitated, stopped.
Out of nowhere the tape cuts to a voice overdub. The hostess explains that
Monica apologized, said she didn't like that line of questioning, and left.
I couldn't believe it. She's got scruples about answering bj questions? She's
out selling her ass all over the world. No one gives a shit about her, except
for the fact that she gave bjs to the Man. And she walks out of the interview?
Oh, well. Back to the web cam. This is your fault, Joy. You piqued my curiosity.
That shit is truly evil. Your friend's site arouses me insanely, and overwhelms
me with guilt. Just looking at that slut sleep in her bra and panties makes
me feel like a pervert and a peeping Tom. And yet she participates in this
shameless voyeurism. She turns the camera on. Maybe everyone else has already
seen this and become bored. This is new to me. Watching someone, a stranger,
a babe sleep, get dressed, being invited into her bedroom is fascinating to
me. I didn't understand your column, Todd. You promise to give us the truth,
what all the other media outlets are afraid to print. Then you simply give
the lie to two possible explanations, guns and the internet. Personally I
don't give a fuck why a couple of rich white kids shot up a few others. Neither
does anyone else, really. In a week there will be dozens of lawsuits filed,
"once the grief wears off," according to someone I heard on the radio yesterday.
"Martha, I know you're awfully broke up about little Joey, but we don't want
them other victims/survivors collecting all the federal dough." The whole
spectacle is unseemly, but that's the fault of the people who will do anything
to be on TV. On the cover of the New York Times today is a big color photograph
of a fat black man greeting a balding white man at what looks like the front
door of his home. A blue ribbon hangs on the door. The name Isaiah can be
made out. The caption reads: "A friend giving condolences to Michael Shoels,
whose son Isaiah was said to have been singled our for killing." While we
may agree that the Times shows horribly bad taste in publishing that photo,
Mr Shoels let the photographer into his living room.
RECTVM VINVM
Scott Alexander Gabriel Reiss
From: Joy
Date: 24 April 1999
Subject: Re: Columbine High
She openly admits to being both an attention-seeker and an exhibionist.
Why do you blame me? You are the one looking at it. The shame you feel is
your own fucking problem. I don't feel any shame and I seriously don't think
that she feels any either. I have trouble loading her page anyway.
-killjoy
From: SAGReiss
Date: 30 April 1999
Subject: DOE
Key Bank would like you to call (800) 223-9049 and the department of education
would like you to call (800) 848-0981. If I don't hear from you, I'll ring
the doorbell at 7 (seven) AM tomorrow (Saturday) morning.
March 1999
May 1999
vr: 1999
