Living in such a state taTestaTesTaTe etats a hcus ni gniviL
of mind in which time sTATEsTAtEsTaTeStA emit hcihw ni dnim of
does not pass, space STateSTaTeSTaTeStAtE ecaps ,ssap ton seod
does not exist, and sTATeSt oFOfOfo dna ,tsixe ton seod
idea is not there. STatEst ofoFOFo .ereht ton si aedi
Stuck in a place staTEsT OfOFofo ecalp a ni kcutS
where movements TATeSTa foFofoF stnemevom erehw
are impossible fOFoFOf elbissopmi era
in all forms, UsOFofO ,smrof lla ni
physical and nbEifof dna lacisyhp
or mental - uNBeInO - latnem ro
your mind is UNbeinG si dnim rouy
focusing on a unBEING a no gnisucof
lone thing, or NBeINgu ro ,gniht enol
a lone nothing. bEinGUn .gnihton enol a
You are numb and EiNguNB dna bmun era ouY
unaware to events stneve ot erawanu
taking place - not -iSSuE- ton - ecalp gnikat
knowing how or what TWENTY-FOUR tahw ro woh gniwonk
to think. You are in 03/31/96 ni era uoY .kniht ot
a state of unbeing.... ....gniebnu fo etats a
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE
=----------------------=
EDiTORiAL Kilgore Trout
LETTERS TO THE EDiTOR
STAFF LiSTiNGS
[=- ARTiCLES -=]
GUiDE TO THE CONSCiENCE OF THE iRREPRESSiBLE YOUTH Roger Abramson
MiND PROBE #2: Griphon, Merry Prankster/Zen Bastard Noni Moon
[=- POETASTRiE -=]
NUNTiTLED F. David Horn
ZiTGEiST F. David Horn
[=- FiCTiON -=]
CONFESSiONAL Nemo est Sanctus
iNSPiRE, EXPiRE, CHUG CHUG CHUG I Wish My Name Were Nathan
JUST BECAUSE THE WORLD WANTS YOU DOESN'T MEAN YOU HAVE TO SUBMiT Kilgore Trout
WHOA, WHOA, REWiND! I Wish My Name Were Nathan
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
EDiTORiAL
by Kilgore Trout
Wow. Spring Break sucks when you're rooming with the Lord of the Sith.
I went and visited a friend in college out-of-state, and his roommate's
girlfriend happened to stay with us. She has cystic fibrosis, so we couldn't
smoke in the dorm room cause she would, well, die. Every morning at 6:30
she'd pull out this huge motorized inhaler and sit at the desk, sounding just
like Darth Vader.
Where's a damn Jedi knight when you need one, huh?
My Spring Break didn't suck just because I was woken up by sounds that
should only come from hospital rooms. She was also stupid, as was my friend's
roommate. The two of them would argue and finally, when she had had enough,
her comeback was "If you don't stop being mean to me, I'm gonna go buy a can
of dip."
Yeah. That's showing him. You go, girl.
Anyway, other than that week of sleeping on a love seat, it was pretty
relaxing. I was kinda worried that we'd be low on submissions this month, but
as you can see, that didn't happen. Yippie. Got some new writers, and a
whole bunch of letters, two of which are extremely entertaining. I'll let you
figure out which one those are. Noni Moon talks to Griphon, and Ansat writes
some fiction for a change. IWMNWN is brilliant as usual. And me, well, uh, I
put the damn thing together.
See ya next month.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
LETTERS TO THE EDiTOR
[another great batch of letters. one person loves us, one person hates us,
another person is just plain weird, the fourth complemented my name choice,
and the fifth one just wanted to share some interesting, albeit useless
trivia.]
From: Sandy Yturri
Subject: fan mail
hi kevin, just wanted to thank you for sending me a copy of sob23.reading
it will be a top priority this weekend. after attentively reading your
interview with noni moon, i made it a point to read gray matter
champion.even though i didn't finish,i was thoroughly
enthralled...breathless if you will.anyway, thanks a lot for changing my
life. your fan, sandy
[well, we always try to change people's lives. consider it a gift from us to
you. if we couldn't change lives, well, we'd probably end up doing bad
things, like throwing glasses of water at people out of car windows. er,
wait, we already did that... er, um... well, we don't own guns, so most
people are safe. toodles.]
--SoB--
From:
[email protected] (Mark Warshavsky)
To:
[email protected]
You fuck'n ass where are the blow job pictures I will have to fuck you good
nd hard!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
["fuck'n." never seen that before. he wins the SoB horny geek of the month
award.]
--SoB--
From: Stephen Graves <
[email protected]>
Subject: Yahoo!
I would be very interested in how you have to chose my name for your
character Dr. Stephen Graves. I hope you realize that I am disgusted
and perplexed at the same time. It is my belief that truth is stranger
than fiction and I would like to relate some of my "personal" history.
I am orginally from "Indiana", Dan Quail and his family lived in the
same town and my mother and father's families did back in the 30's. I
left home at 18 and while attending Indiana University I moved to Gary
Indiana (remember the Music Man --- Gary Ind. Gary Ind my home town) when
I finished college I went to work for a CPA firm in Chicago (Groh & Gough
-- pronounced Grow & Golf --- interesting name). It was during the Viet
Nam War and I got drafted and rather than go in the Army I volunteered
for the U.S. Air Force. After finishing my initial training I was
stationed in Las Vegas Nevada for my entire four year tour. I think it
was something to do with my first wife's name (Veva --- pronounced Viva
lal Viva Las Vegas). While living in Las Vegas I obtained a MBA and my
wife Veva received a B.A. in Philosophy and English (seh was awarded
the Governors Trophy for study in Philosophy --- She wrote a paper on
Language and Cognition --- something to do with the linguist at M.I.T.
---what's his name???). After the Air Force we moved to San Francisco
where I went to work for a international CPA Firm where I did
accounting/audits of Lockheed, a number Bio-techs, and many other
companies. For a period of time I worked for the Kaiser Company a
large west coast conglomerate that had built the Bay Bridge, Golden Gate
Bridge, Hoover Dam, and many other industrial projects etc.etc. I then
was divorced from my first wife and married a lady from China. In 1985
we traveled to China and I like to claim that I helped to do the seed
work for the Shanghai Stock Exchange (it will probably be the world's
largest in the 21st Century) In 1988 I started my own firm and have had
the chance to travel to the firm USSR province that is now the country of
Georgia (that is where Stalin was born) I also am the Treasurer for the
East Meets West Foundation started by Le Ly Hayslip who Oliver Stone made
a movie of her live --- Heaven & Earth ( about Viet Nam). I have a
very active imagination and do not really mind your "smut" but think you
hare missing the mark about "sex".
>From my experiences I would like to state that given the state of the
current world virussss, bugsss etc Sex life between strangers probably
should be limited to what I would call ---- Cold Fusion. Which could
be explained by the fact that it is when a egg and a sperm get it
together in a "petrie Dish" I always did like that Petrie dish on the
old Dick Van Dyke Show and now kind of enjoy the series of ironic puns,
etc that I can string together about it.
to bring you up to date I thought that I would relate a recent
observation I made. This past week I was watching C-Span and noted that
one of the individuals being interviewed was a Rep. John Ensen
(Sounds like the term for Navy Lt. --- Ensign) R-Nevada. Given that I
once lived in Nevada I took note. The irony was that this John (please
excuse the pun again) like the "Godfather" John. What I was unable
to determine was whether this was another "piece" of black humor (please
excuse the double entrendra ). Was the Navy making fun of the
Godfather, or was the Godfather telling the Navy what level he had
pentetrated into their "Black Programs". WOOOOOOOOOOO lest we forget
I think Nevada is that place where Area 51 and Sam Becket (that navy guy
time travels ) of Quautum Leap is staged.
Anyway with that I want to close. I feel sooooooo Real.
Oh, by the way my e-Mail address is from and old Childhood nick name
"GravyTrain" If you like Pink Floyd listen to the album ---- Wish you
where here!!!!
[i was wondering when the net.kooks would start writing in. keep it coming
in. I still don't understand the "John = Godfather" thing, and I've seen the
movies way too many times. Someone clue me in please. Other than that, his
theory sounds pretty plausible. That's why they cancelled the "Quantum Leap"
TV show -- so they could relocate to Area 51. Uh-huh.]
--SoB--
From:
[email protected]
Subject: Kilgore
I just finished playing our esteemed Mr. Trout in a high school production of
"God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater" It's good to see I'm not the only one who
likes the Sci-Fi- visionary.
Regards.
[email protected]
[yeah. i get tons of these letters now. makes me regret my decision to pick
the damn handle. at least they actually made the distinction that i didn't
think i really WAS kilgore trout.]
--SoB--
From: Juliana Poteet <
[email protected]>
Subject: Kilgore
I just wanted to write and tell you that I am from a small town in
Texas named Kilgore. I thought that was neat. BTW, I enjoyed your homepage.
[see, now this is the kind of letter i like to get. yes, it has to do with my
handle, but it has some practical information. for instance, i did not know
there was a small town named kilgore in texas. what is even stranger is that
there is a small town in texas named poteet as well. creepy, eh?]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
STAFF LiSTiNG
EDiTOR
Kilgore Trout
CONTRiBUTORS
Ralph Abramson
F. David Horn
I Wish My Name Were Nathan
Noni Moon
Nemo est Sanctus
GUESSED STARS
Stephen Graves
Juliana Poteet
C. Weigert
Sandy Yturri
SoB HORNY GEEK OF THE MONTH
Mark Warshavsky
USED BOOKS i BOUGHT LAST NIGHT FOR A TOTAL OF $25.04
_The Kafka Chronicles_ by Mark Amerika
_The Day of Creation_ by J.G. Ballard
_Scandal_ by Shusaku Endo
_Neuromancer_ by William Gibson
_Sweet Talkers_ by Kathleen K.
_The Ethiopian Exhibition_ by D.N. Stuefloten
_The Queen's Gambit_ by Walter Tevis
_The Best of Skin Two_ edited by Tim Woodward
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- ARTiCLES -=]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
GUiDE TO THE CONSCiENCE OF THE iRREPRESSiBLE YOUTH
by Roger Abramson
A boy's conscience can cause incredible disruption. There is a nagging
wrong in the boy's world and he must act.
Any person must act on their principles. Otherwise, their knowledge of
right and good is wasted. Their power to create good is tremendous. The
person who says, "I can," can touch countless lives. It starts with cheering
up strangers with a smile and showing real respect for people--any people.
Next thoughtful gifts of care, then blind goodness lashes out, and then your
profound kindness might affect hundreds of people every day.
I know. I have seen what is possible in this world. A lot can be done
today and tomorrow to kindle the fire in our hearts.
When I said a person has the power to create change, remember that the
first thing to change is yourself. That means not making the same, tired
excuses for yourself anymore. It means finally doing what you said you should
do. Only you can decide to become part of the solution.
You deserve to know the truth. You will make sacrifices. Sacrifice your
inhibitions! Discover the greatness in yourself. Conquer your doubt. Rule
the kingdom of your mind. Execute traitors to that kingdom without mercy.
Starve your doubts with inattention. Then your kingdom will have no
boundaries.
Make large, inclusive dreams. Dream of doing things that will take many
important, dedicated people to accomplish. The sky has no limit. Teach people
everywhere how and why to build strong, happy families. Let tiny pieces of
freedom rain down on people all over the world. Leave gifts to our children.
If you never see the accomplishment of your goals in your lifetime,
perhaps our children will. The beauty of great dreams is that they create
self-rewarding effort. Starting new things is a comfortable process. All you
do is take the first step. Then if the dream inspires and the work rewards,
watch out! People will come to help. Take the next step and move out of
their way.
Make charity happen. At least help. Find a volunteer. Something
volunteers have in common is they can all use your help. They can probably
use you right now! Talk about their experiences as a volunteer. This talk
may give you the courage you need to lend a hand the first time.
One thing you might do is become the America police. America is your
jurisdiction. Learn what it is to be an American by studying founders of our
nation. When you catch an American kid bored, sulking, and hopeless, remind
them that Americans are hopeful, inventive, and irrepressible.
I have told you already and again now that you can create unimaginable
change if first you change yourself. Dare to let your dreams survive and
surpass you. Give your time to a charity. Your time is so often worth more
than dollars. Smiles are worth more than gold. Be inventive. Be hopeful.
Be irrepressible.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"I've always considered movies evil; the day that cinema was invented was a
black day for mankind."
--Kenneth Anger
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
MiND PROBE #2: Griphon, Merry Prankster/Zen Bastard
by Noni Moon
Griphon is driving me back to Nashville so I can catch my plane. I came
down here for Spring Break just so I could check out Nashville and Graceland
and see where most of the pop crap that populates the radio waves came from.
And I knew that Griphon was down here at Rhodes College in Memphis, and I
sincerely appreciate the ride he gave me from Memphis to Nashville, because
otherwise I would have had to ride a Greyhound bus, and that would really
suck.
His car is a 1980 Chevy Impala. It's supposed to be blue, but I'd say
the predominant color is rust. He informed me before we left that he just got
new brakes and finally got a rearview mirror. I was not impressed. The trip
took about three hours, and during the course of the first half I did the
interview. The second half consisted of coming up with Tom Swifties. I still
haven't recovered from those yet.
NM: How are you doing tonight, Griphon?
GR: Oh, I'm doing fine. How are you, Noni?
NM: Oh, pretty good, considering. So, let's go ahead, and -- he's packing
cigarettes. How'd you get started writing for SoB?
GR: Well, Kilgore and I went to high school together, and he and some of his
other friends started doing "Where There's a Will, There's an A" [my
first zine, on paper, of which only a few copies exist cause i can't find
em and burn them --ed] and, well, I kinda figured out that he was
involved with that and approached him about it, but by the time that
everything had, ya know, gotten to where I could have been a small part
of it, it had pretty much shut down. So, Kilgore told me about his new
zine that he was putting out that was going to be strictly legal -- or
completely legal. He asked me if I wanted to write for that, and I did,
and I did.
NM: Wow. So you and Kilgore go back a long ways, huh?
GR: Yeah, let's see. I think we met in 10th grade english -- Miss Beard's
class -- and he'd written a few things, and most of the class found it
rather disturbing, but I thought it was pretty damn funny. And over
time, we just talked to each other every so often, then started hanging
out and developed a pretty tight bond. Figured that we were pretty
compatible, and so we've been friends for about four years.
NM: And if he hadn't let you put stuff in the zine, you probably would have
beat him up or something, right?
GR: Excuse me?
NM: If he hadn't let you put stuff in the zine, you probably would have beat
him up or something, right?
GR: Beat him up? Like, bully him?
NM: Physical harm.
GR: Why would I do that?
NM: Well, if he didn't let you write, ya know...
GR: I... no... um... well, of course, his blanket statement was "we'll print
anything," and that's proven true on numerous occasions, and so I don't
think he would have discriminated against me for any reason. I won't
brag on my writing skills, but, ya know, I'm better than some.
NM: Oh really?
GR: Well, yeah. I've run across a bit of a bad -- we all have our bad
periods. Mine was early high school, but I figure that I'm intelligent
enough to come up with something halfway decent. If it's halfway decent,
hell, Kilgore will print it.
[laughter]
NM: Yes, he will. One of the first things you wrote that gained a bit of
notoriety were -- you know where this is going, don't you -- the Dr.
Graves stories. Would you care to comment on how you devised that
character?
GR: Uh, Dr. Graves was written by John Smith. [laughs] Actually, Kilgore
did run my name with the first Dr. Graves stories. Dr. Graves was
conceived by the other John Smith, who wrote occasionally for it, and he
had developed a philanthropist with some odd habits. I was the one who
turned him into a polysexual that was very skilled at his craft. We
wrote it in Economics class. We had planned to get 100 stories out by
the end of the year, but we only got around 30 or 40. SoB only ran two
of em, or maybe three. But Dr. Graves was a fun character. It allowed
me to access that Harlequin romance part of me.
[laughter]
NM: Ah, the Harlequin romance part. Is there any chance that he might
make a comeback?
GR: Well, John Smith and I have some correspondence, and we're working on
another story that I'm behind in getting an update on. But whenever I
start writing and it starts to turn sexual, I just set it aside and get
it all out with a Dr. Graves story. It's been awhile, so it may be
time for another one, but I'm not sure.
NM: I know that Kilgore Trout had mentioned that there was a possibility of
Apocalypse Culture putting out the complete collection of Dr. Graves
stories. Have you heard anything about that, if that will ever come to
fruition?
GR: That's always a possibility. I mean, we have all the stories on file,
minus one or two that were lost via disk storage. I guess it'd be up to
John Smith. Hell, why not?
NM: I think it'd be pretty interesting to see Dr. Graves in his full glory
and splendor.
GR: [lights a cigarette]
NM: I've heard that apart from writing for State of unBeing, you've become a
bit of an editor yourself and are publishing a zine.
GR: Yeah. It's called _Cap'n Swank_. I had the idea for it about two years
ago. It's much different than State of unBeing. I guess it'd be closer
to the Austin fanzine _Peek-a-Boo_, which is now defunct. But instead of
just text, it's got a lot of pictures. It's really in a different vein,
so there's no conflict. I dunno, it's a lot of fun, and it allows me to
not be quite so serious. I won't profess to being serious all the time
in SoB, but it definitely has a little more class to it than my zine.
NM: Maybe it's the "low-brow" counterpart to SoB.
GR: That it could be. Mainly, it's just having fun with pictures and being
goofy. I did it in conjunction with the school newspaper because I have
pretty free range with that, but not as free as I wanted. There's also
another zine on campus called _Rat's Ass_ which is just really bad --
drugstore philosophy and all that -- and we just wanted to represent a
different aspect of the school since it gets such a bad rap of being
really homogeneous.
NM: And that college would be Rhodes College, correct?
GR: Yeah, that would be correct.
NM: What are you studying there?
GR: Majoring in English, concentrating in the writing track, and minoring in
film and anthropology.
NM: Sounds like you're a busy boy.
GR: For the most part I am. School is rigorous, but I try to make sure that
I don't take more than I can handle. As a result, I do try to push
myself some, and my writing for SoB has kinda dropped off. I haven't
written as much since I moved away, but I plan to rectify that as now I'm
starting to get out of the core requirements and into the straight
english and writing. If I get better at writing, then I'll have a better
product to give Kilgore. That's a good thing.
NM: Yeah, I'm sure Kilgore would be happy to hear that. Just how big of a
nag is Kilgore when it comes to getting submissions in?
GR: Let's see. I get maybe one e-mail two days before he runs the
publication telling me to write for it. I've never been much on
deadlines, and as a result, responses are usually at weird intervals.
He's not too bad about it. He's got a large pool of resources to take
from, and so if I don't write for him, he's got at least two or three
people to take my place.
NM: Do you have any set rituals or anything to get into the mood for writing?
GR: Other than chain-smoking and drinking coffee... if I haven't written
something in a long time and have developed writer's block, I'll just
write something and take it out to the Memorial B-B-Q Pit on Rhodes
College campus and burn the manuscript to the writing gods, in the hopes
that they supply me with a better inspiration and skill next time.
NM: Ahhh. So, if you can't think of it, maybe magick will help out. [to
tape recorder] I've gotta wait for him to light his cigarette. He's
gonna burn us up... he's having a lot of trouble with his cigarette.
GR: [incoherent mumbling] Goddamn wind.
NM: Would you like me to light that for you?
[Griphon finally lights his cigarette.]
NM: Whoo hoo! Okay, we almost ran off the road there, but now that he's got
his cigarette, I guess he's happy. So, I read somewhere that Nostradamus
predicted in about five days that there were supposed to be a bunch of
great fires. I guess that'll be proven true or not after this interview
runs cause the publication date will be after the 21st of March. Do you
subscribe to any certain prophecies or any systems of predicting the
future?
GR: Nostradamus is interesting to watch because he's got a great track record
-- he hasn't been wrong yet. Kilgore's been telling me about Terence
McKenna, and I think that is pretty interesting as well. I guess that
knowing the future is good if you believe that it's important to know the
ramifications after your life. I'm not real sure that after this life
anything happens, so knowing the future isn't real important unless it
can make me lots and lots of money.
[capitalistic pig laughter abounds.]
NM: So you don't want to know the future unless it will help out your greed?
GR: Yeah. And sex. Maybe fame. Other than that, I don't believe it's
important for my personal happiness. It may be nice to know just so that
I can get things ready when the shit hits the fan, as it were.
NM: It is always nice to be prepared. Speaking of that, do you have any
religious beliefs or background?
GR: I grew up with Kilgore as a Baptist and got burnt out on that about a
year after Kilgore did. For a while, I was searching for something to
fill that gap because I did feel kinda empty. I started studying Zen,
and that helped, but it was hard for me to grasp the concepts through
books. It is a very difficult
worldview/religion/philosophy/what-have-you to access [garbled] Eastern
culture. I think aspects of Zen and aspects of Aleister Crowley's
personal philosophy blend in real nice together, and I can see that as a
paradigm for how I may want to shape my life. I'm still looking and
trying out everything. I haven't given up totally on Christianity, just
most of the bullshit parts of it, of which there are a great deal.
I've noticed that churches and any kind of thing that can give a blanket
sermon just isn't for me. There's so much politicking that Christians go
through. The last time I went to church, the minister asked us to pray
for more money for a new building, even though they have one of the
largest buildings in town. I just find that silly.
NM: Do you think that's a problem with religion today? That most people are
just using it for social and power reasons instead of getting back to
some sort of spiritual grounding?
GR: Yeah. I mean, Christianity being 2000 years old, it's gone through a lot
of changes, especially with Paul and Constantine. They've basically
helped shape it to the way it is today, and I think it really gets away
from, you know, actual experience. The root of the word Christian means
following Christ, and I think it really deviates from that. Two things
Christ taught: love thy god with all thy heart, and love thy neighbor as
thyself. I think that rarely, if at all, that comes into play with most
religions today, especially Christianity.
NM: Who would you consider your primary literary influences?
GR: Influences... um, hmmm. I don't know. There's certain authors that I
enjoy reading that are good writers: Charles Bukowski, John Irving,
William S. Burroughs, Ernest Hemmingway. I don't know. Like, I've
written bad Hemmingway before on purpose, and that was fun, but I really
don't see a point of adopting writing styles. I guess, in a way, there
is a certain style that you are taught growing up, and I was sort of
taught the essayist style: support what you're saying and make it pretty
barebones. So, that would lean towards Hemmingway... I don't know.
[laughs]
NM: Are you gonna end up sticking a shotgun to your head to end your literary
career?
GR: That's kinda clich�d. I think after my writing career is over I'll be a
pompous ass. [laughs]
NM: Ahhh. No wonder you and Kilgore get along so well.
GR: That's right, baby. We're the best.
[car erupts in laughter, and Noni lights a cigarette.]
NM: Speaking of careers, what do you plan on doing once you get out of
college?
GR: After this four year college I'm in, I'm thinking about film grad school.
I found that many years ago that poetrie wasn't in my blood, and I found
out this year that there hasn't been a single poet in the United States
making money. So, it maybe a toss up between producing films and writing
fiction. But I imagine it'll be a couple of more years of school, and
then maybe a year or two of just cooling off, doing lots of drugs,
touring, and building up some great experiences to have so when I start
my vocation of choice, I'll have something interesting to say.
NM: So, last Tuesday Bob Dole pretty much garnered the Republican nomination
for the presidency. How do you feel about the current political current
in America right now?
GR: What is current? Like this year, the last five years?
NM: This year, past five, ten, fifteen years.
GR: Uh, well, I think Reaganomics were pretty bad, but I think everyone
thinks Reaganomics were pretty bad, so that's no revelation. [tell that
to my father. --ed] I think that politicking in general has become way
too profitable and way too elitist. I think that in the Constitution the
only restrictions for somebody running for president must adhere to is
they must be over 35 and they must be a US citizen. I don't think the
majority of people -- er, 98 percent of people that fit those
qualifications would have a chance in hell of even getting looked at
seriously for president. I just think that a two party system, and
politics in general, aren't a good thing. It's gone seriously downhill
for the past fifty years.
NM: Well, what do you think we could do to change some of that?
GR: I dunno. Theoretically, it might work... if you really wanted to change
it, you'd have to eliminate all the agendas that people have. The people
that get elected, the only thing they want is to do a few special favors
for their friends and have their own little agenda set up so they can
make the most out of being in Congress or the political system in
general. It is supposed to be truly for the people, and if they started
acting that way, things would be a lot more productive.
NM: A lot of the political literature that is run in SoB takes on an
anarchistic, revolutionary rhetoric. Do you think the time for something
like that has come, or do you think it's still possible to get some
change out of the current system?
GR: The anarchistic revolutionary route definitely has its merits. For one
thing, change would be sudden. At the same time, I think that the system
still could be saved -- if the right people got in. I think it would be
a really slow process, and everyone would have to have a clear focus of
some end goal, but things like NAFTA are making things a lot harder. And
there may come a time when the Constitution, the way it was set up, will
no longer be able to be saved, and then it will be time for some sort of
revolutionary measure. Or at least something out of the current mode of
operations.
NM: So, who do you plan to back next November?
GR: I suppose if I have to pick between the two main candidates, I'll go with
Clinton. At least we've seen what he does. He won't be able to surprise
us, really. Bob Dole is an experienced politician. He'll be able to get
things passed, but the things that he wants to get passed are things I
don't necessarily agree with. So, it's a tough call. But I think I'll
go with Clinton.
NM: It would probably be more beneficial if we did have more than two
parties.
GR: Yes, definitely it would be. It's just that the Republican and Democrat
parties limit what a democracy can be because they say, "Any idea in
America can be expressed and acted upon," but realistically, you only
have the main two spheres of thought, and if you don't agree with those,
you're like, Ross Perot, or you might get a percentage of the vote, but
it doesn't really matter cause in the end, you lose. There's no place
for third place, or second place for that matter.
NM: Do you think Colin Powell would have won had he run?
GR: I think he should have run, but I don't think he would have won. I think
everyone should run for President. Anyone with any idea at all that is
out of the ordinary ought to at least express it and get it out in the
market, as it were. Who knows? Maybe it'll change something. Maybe
somebody will latch onto it and think it's a great idea and lobby to
change something they wouldn't have normally lobbied to change because
this idea wasn't voiced.
NM: Hey, that sign back there set Bucksnort, Tennessee. That's really a
town?
GR: If you consider a truck stop/motel and a couple of gas stations a town,
then yeah. They have cute little shot glasses there that say stuff like
"Big cats are dangerous, but a little pussy never hurt anyone." Or
"Welcome to the Bucksnort whorehouse, where the customer comes first."
They even have video poker.
NM: Groovy. Let's stop. I've gotta see this.
GR: It's ritual to stop when you're driving from Memphis to Nashville.
Otherwise bad things happen.
NM: I won't ask, but for some reason the theme from _Deliverance_ just popped
into my head.
GR: Play some video poker. It'll make you feel better. The shot glass is on
me.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- POETASTRiE -=]
"The poets? They stink. They write badly. They're idiots you see, because
the strong people don't write poetry.... They become hitmen for the Mafia.
The good people do the serious jobs."
--Charles Bukowski
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
NUNTiTLED
by F. David Horn
I wonder if
the desire to have
a name
that makes you sound
like a Southern sheriff
is called
Enis envy?
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"ABANDON ALL ART NOW. AWAiT FURTHER iNSTRUCTiONS. MAJOR RETHiNK iN PROGRESS."
--The K Foundation
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
ZiTGEiST
by F. David Horn
The kid at the counter
had a zit-geist on his face
and I thought....
"Oh, how clever I am.
Mixing McDonalds, Dermatology,
Hegelian philosophy, and Dialectics
in one short phrase. Maybe I'll be a part
of the anti-thesis."
Then again I'll probably
just get the two cheeseburger special,
jump back into my car, and drive along the long
boring stretches of I-80.
Ohio..
Indiana..
Illinois..
Iowa..
States that sound and feel like yawning
As they roll and merge
Slowly and clumsily
Like fat, old lovers
Not interested in pleasure
I can't suppress the urge to become blank
Only to recognize yellow lines
And exit signs
The police cars I pass
Are blank also
And only yawn an Iowa
As I absently speed through
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
[=- FiCTiON -=]
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
CONFESSiONAL
by Nemo est Sanctus
"You have something to tell me."
It wasn't a question; I could tell. I could always tell. Usually I
wouldn't push the issue. If I waited, usually she'd tell me, sooner or later,
in her own way. This had gone on long enough, though. A day, a couple of
days, that was fine. She'd been like this since Saturday, and by the end of
the week, well, this had gone on long enough.
She didn't answer, of course. If it had taken her this long, it wasn't
something she WANTED to tell me, it was something she HAD to tell me. It was
something she was hiding, and that was something I would not tolerate. I had
taken a lot of shit from her, but there was one thing I insisted on, and that
was that I was told the truth, even if she would rather hide it.
"You have something to tell me, don't you."
Again, not a question.
She didn't even look at me. The slightly startled look that had risen
involuntarily to her face when I first "popped the question" was gone,
replaced with the studied indifference only an actress could muster. She
looked down, and to the right, and pretended to look at something to the
forward right of the car. As if the blank stare wasn't enough to tip me off,
this fascinating object never strayed, always being at a thirty degree angle
to the front of the car, traveling unseen at 60 miles per hour down the
freeway.
Not Saturday. I suppose that isn't quite right. Saturday was when she
first started acting this way towards me, but unless I was way off my mark
this had nothing to do with Saturday. The first couple of hours maybe, but
not really Saturday. This had to do with Friday.
Her lower lipped quivered briefly, and she bit it to keep it still.
"Why do you say that?"
"Don't lie to me. You have something to tell me. Why aren't you?"
"It's not important."
"If it wasn't important, you would have told me Saturday."
The look -- the surprised one -- came back, and I could almost have sworn
she had jumped, if my vows hadn't gotten me into enough trouble in the past.
I could tell. She knew I could tell, but she didn't want to. She marked
it up to coincidence when I got things like that right, and I usually didn't
give out any information I didn't have to when it came to things like that.
But even if I hadn't been able to tell right away, the moment I figured out
she was hiding something I would have assumed it was about Friday.
She'd been hanging out at a night club. Again. That had been a sore
spot between us for months. I wasn't invited. Indeed, she'd made it clear,
in no uncertain terms, that she did not want me there. I guess it was her
solution to us spending what she considered too much time together.
For a while it had been almost every Friday she was there, doing God
knows what. Since I wasn't allowed to see for sure, and the few friends I
thought I had among the group she hung out with fed me doctored information,
my imagination would have run rampant save for the trust I had in her. Fed me
doctored information for their own gain, some of them; but I suppose I'll
touch on that sooner or later.
Then, as we fought about it almost non-stop for a while, it had tapered
down. She spent the occasional Friday with me, and I was happy enough with
that. The one Friday she wasn't with me she went out with one of the people
from the club -- the one I had almost begun to like, ironically enough -- and
went to the movies. When they were alone, he tried to sexually assault her.
She got away, but it didn't do wonders as far as convincing me her friends
were harmless.
This week was different, though. She had been telling me it was the
band, this one band, that was so important to her. And this one band was
leaving on tour soon, and this was their last show. So I stopped pushing the
issue. I didn't try to talk her out of this one; I didn't ask her to spend
time with me, even though this week she was spending more time apart from me
than most, and half the rest of the month she had plans, sometimes out of
state. But if this was so important to her, I thought I could live through
one more time, and maybe she would be more likely to work with me instead of
against me, and to find some way for us to spend time together instead of
accusing me of being a downer and of hating her friends. (As a general rule I
do hate her friends, but not because they are her friends. They are hatable
in their own right. And it hurt me less that she had friends like that rather
than that she spent so much time with them; when I asked her why, she said
because they gave her something I never could.) I thought this week would be
it, and when the band she said she really liked left, she'd spend less time at
the nightclub.
This week, I was merciful. This week, I was generous.
This week, I was stupid.
"I don't want another fight. This evening's been so nice this far. It
seems like we've been fighting for a we--"
"We've been fighting for a week because you've been hiding something for
a week!" I was almost yelling now. I don't usually do that, but when I get
frustrated, I get depressed, and when I get depressed, I can either sulk or
get angry. If I sulked, I'd never get it out of her.
"Fine. I'll tell you after we get home," she conceded.
The rest of the ride was icy. And silent.
* * * * *
We pulled into my driveway. We'd been seeing each other for a long time
-- long, at least, in teenager years -- but we both still lived with our
parents and so we lived in different houses. When she'd said "home", she'd
expected to go to hers. When I'd turned into my subdivision, we'd had a brief
fight, but this was something I had power over. I told her no one would be at
my house, and someone would be at hers. I wanted to make sure I got the whole
story, and as long as she wouldn't tell me in the car...
My family was out. It was a little late, but not too much. Maybe ten.
I unlocked the door and went in, not even looking backward. She'd come in;
she really had no choice, and I was getting sick of the games.
When I heard the door close, I kept looking at the fireplace. I could
hear her still, and so I knew she was by the door. "Look," I began, "you've
had a week to tell me yourself, and all I've gotten has been silence, stress,
and evasion." I spun around and finally caught her line of sight for what
almost seemed the first time in a week. "Now tell me."
A look of defiance shot across her face. "What if I told you I don't
want to?"
"What if I told you I don't give a fuck?"
That is one thing my father taught me. Profanity is not good, especially
not around a woman. But it works. Sometimes, he said, you have to use what
works. As a military commander, he knew the importance of making things work,
even if someone didn't want them to.
There is one thing I have to say for her: She never took long to adapt.
Seeing that didn't work, she went conciliatory. "Come on, you've been distant
all week. Can't we just be close for a while? And I can tell you later, when
we're all made up?"
She walked towards me, summoning all her not insignificant charm and
beauty, and put her arms up. I let her embrace me, and, putting my left arm
around her waist, I put my right hand up to her face, caressing her cheek. I
gripped her face, stopping it a couple of inches from mine. "No," I said
simply, and sat her down on the couch.
She tried to look away. I held her head for a little while, but then I
let her look away. I felt more comfortable standing, anyway. After a couple
of moments, I started her off.
"Okay, you have something to tell me. It's about Friday night, and what
happened at the club, and..."
She was looking away, and looked genuinely sad. I had to use what works,
though. Something I'd had to learn alone was that mercy is good, insofar as
it goes, but if you want to get someone to tell you something they don't want
to tell you can't be merciful until after it is all over. The tears I had to
view cynically, as a conscious or subconscious attempt to weaken my resolve,
and hence aid her tactical position in the relationship.
"At the club, and ..." I repeated. She looked up with the hurt anger of
a beaten girl, of a little girl who has been beaten again, and although she
doesn't know why -- if there is a reason -- somehow thinks she has called it
upon herself.
She could look like a victim to comfort, or a target to finish off. For
obvious reasons, I hardened my heart and chose the latter. When she saw I
didn't relent, she dropped her eyes again and began.
"Yes, it was at the club. At first. There is more to it than that. ...
Never mind, I don't want to tell you." She got up, looking angry once again.
"I know all that," I said gently. "Sit down." She did.
* * * * *
We arrived at the club, Amy and I, same as always. We just planned to
see the band. A lot of people were there, since it was their last show in
Austin for a while. We'd arrived alone, but lots of people were there.
We'd gotten there a little early, to get settled in. We got some drinks
and got settled waiting for the show to begin. About then the others started
to filter into the place. We ran into a lot of people who we usually saw
there; Cecily, Robert, Scott --
* * * * *
"Fuck." The very fact his name had to come into this story made my
stomach twist. He was the guy who had tried to assault her. I wasn't
shouting in anger, just muttering at the recurrence of an uncomfortable
presence, like when one wrinkles one's nose at an ever present stench to which
one has grown resigned but not accustomed.
Still, looking back, she flinched more than would be expected from my
outburst. That should have tipped me off.
After all, he was the one who had told her this band's music "wasn't my
style," even though he had never even seen my cassettes, let alone listened to
them. Since it "wasn't my style," I'd of course not enjoy the club, and would
only bring her down. He was also the guy who had assured me that "everyone"
saw our break up coming, the last time she left me, and advised me not to try
to get her back.
She may think he's a friend, that he can be trusted. Then again, she'd
feel Lucifer himself could be trusted, probably. Well, that's not entirely
fair. She wasn't the only one who had been fooled into trusting him. So had
I, kind of. Until he assaulted her and showed his true colors. And made me
feel stupid for coming so close to following his advice.
If I had, we'd never have gotten back together, and he'd have gotten his
way.
She looked at me coldly, not knowing whether to be irritated at the
interruption or grateful for the reprieve. When I didn't even turn to look at
her, she continued.
* * * * *
We all got settled in, and about then the show started. It was nice.
They played, we danced, and everyone was pretty pleased with the evening. The
evening went quick. Too quick. I was just getting into my stride. I saw Amy
over on the other side of the club, talking to a group of our friends, so I
figured I could take a minute to step into the bathroom.
I went to the bathroom and was fixing my make up when I happened to run
into Megan. You don't know her. We went to school together years ago, and I
haven't seen her in years. I don't know what she was doing at the show; I
don't remember seeing her there before. But there she was. We talked for a
while, catching up on old times. It seemed like we'd just started, but it
must have been the better part of an hour. Megan's ride came in to get her,
and we said good bye. I'd finished with the make up, and noticed that the
bathroom was nearly empty now.
By that time I realized how late it was getting, and I figured I'd better
find Amy. I rushed out of the bathroom, and ran into Scott.
"Have you seen Amy?" I asked.
"She went home. I told her you told me you were going home with Cecily
since you couldn't find her. Guess you'll just have to ride with me."
So then there I was. Amy was gone. I was flabbergasted. He had no
right to do that, especially not after the stunt he'd pulled the other night,
trying to force himself on me in front of my own house. But what could I do?
The club was emptying; I had to get home. I accepted his offer. I had no
choice, did I?
I made him promise he'd take me home. I said, "You'll take me straight
home, right? Promise?"
"I promise I'll take you home," he said. I should have caught that, but
instead I just felt relieved.
We headed home. He tried to start conversation. Little things. I
wouldn't talk to him, though. I was trying to avoid being nice to him. Until
I saw where he was going. Then I started talking. Yelling, actually. He
turned off too early, see. Not even out of Anderson Mill. So I knew
something was up. He kidnaped me, I guess. Kind of like what you just did.
He took some roads, and before I knew it I was lost. Not that I know
that area or anything, but I had no idea where we were. After a while of
that, he pulled over on a deserted stretch of road and stopped the car.
I told him no. I said I didn't want to do anything. Not tonight. Not
with him. He said all he wanted to do was talk. I said I didn't even want to
do that, but what could I do? So he talked, and I sat there. He talked about
how he'd broken up with his girlfriend, and about how he never stopped wanting
me, and everything you'd expect from him. I guess I should have expected all
that, too, but you saw what he is really like before I did.
As he was talking he moved closer to me, and after a while I ran out of
car seat. But then he stopped abruptly, grabbed my head with his fingers in
my hair, and kissed me.
I'd backed myself up too far. I could barely kick, and not enough to
reach him. I was twisted too weird. All I did was exhaust myself.
But I'm not going to lie to you. I know it's bad but -- but I kind of
liked it. My mind didn't, but my body did. You know what I mean? And I
think he could tell. I think he could tell that night he tried to kiss me,
that he was turning me on even while I was turning him down. Maybe if I could
control the way by body was he would have lost interest. As if anyone could
do that. I don't really think it would have stopped him, but I don't think
we'll ever know for sure.
I didn't want it! I really didn't. I told him no. I cried through the
whole thing, for God's sake. But I was trapped and exhausted. He could just
pull me down and my skirt up and -- you know.
I didn't want it. My body may have responded, but it was still rape. I
struggled as best I could. With my mind. But he didn't stop. And I didn't
want to tell you. I knew you wouldn't take it well. I thought it would just
do more harm than good to tell you he raped me. Especially him.
* * * * *
She stopped and looked up at me. The tears were flowing freely now.
"I thought you said you'd stay away from him."
"I had no choice!" she cried.
"You could have found a way. For crying out loud, you could have called
*me*. You know I'd be there for you; why is it so fucking important to you to
keep away from me? Why do you always have to turn to other people when you
need something? Why do I only find out your problems when we're fighting
after the fact?"
"This isn't fair! I didn't mean for this to happen."
"Oh didn't you." My sarcastic tone brought hurt to her eyes. Hurting
her hurt me, but it somehow felt better than having her do the hurting. "How
many times have you fucked around behind my back?"
"This isn't fair."
"I know this has happened before. How often?"
"Why do you persecute me?" Her voice had gotten a lot quieter when I had
begun shouting accusations. She sounded like she was trying to calm me. Or
herself. I don't even think she caught the allusion.
"Everyone knows the last time you left me you were in the arms of another
guy in a couple of days. How often has this happened when we were going
together? How much of a cuckold am I?!"
"Stop it!" she cried. "Stop it."
She sobbed. I froze, all my anger spent.
Silence.
I was in about as much shock as she must have been that night. I didn't
really have a lot of responses to choose from.
"You know, of course, this ends our relationship," I told her.
That's when the tears really began to flow.
"It was rape! I didn't want to do it, he pressured me into it."
I laughed. It sounded hollow, even to me, but I meant it. This was
genuinely funny, in the sense that Lovecraft meant when he said, "The world is
indeed comic, but the joke is on mankind." Then I turned my back on her and
walked into my bedroom.
"You wanted it," I called back over my shoulder. "You weren't really
resisting him, and even if you had been, you told me you'd avoid him. You
told me he could be trusted." By that point, I'd found what I was looking
for, and I could look into her eyes as I continued. "You told me you could be
trusted."
She cried a lot. She told me I was being unfair. She told me I was
blaming the victim. (I told her that wasn't true at all, I was blaming both
the guilty parties.) Finally, she gave up. She didn't tell me anything
convincing.
"I'm afraid it doesn't matter what you call it. This ends our
relationship. Permanently. You put yourself --" I corrected myself as she
began to object. "-- allowed yourself to be put in a position where you had
sex with another man. That is unacceptable."
"What do you expect me to do? I can't change the past. Are you going to
stop loving me because I was attacked?"
"I'll never stop loving you," I told her, honestly, as I knelt beside her
on the couch. "I love you now as much as I loved you then. You have to take
responsibility for the mistakes you made, too. If you had trusted me and
stayed away from those people you thought were your friends, or if you had
cared enough to spend your evenings with me, this would never have happened.
You must take responsibility. Our relationship cannot continue, I cannot be
with you after you have given yourself willingly to another man, but I still
love you."
"I love you, too," she whispered, and looked almost happy for the first
time in a week. It could just have been relief, but it made me feel happy
anyway. Our lips met, our tongues touched oh so slightly, and I held her so
close, so tight that I felt the heat as the bullet passed through her head.
* * * * *
I miss her. I really do. I still think about her.
All right, that isn't saying much. Let me try again. Even if there
weren't a police investigation into how she ended up dead in my living room,
I'd still be thinking about her. A lot.
There isn't really anything I need to hide, now. There is nothing the
police can do to me. The police can only hurt my body. Pain goes away.
Love never does.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"You are right, Steppenwolf, right a thousand times over, and yet you
must go to the wall. You are must too exacting and hungry for this
simple, easygoing and easily contended world of today. You have a
dimension too many. Whoever wants to live and enjoy his life today
must not be like you and me. Whoever wants music instead of noise,
joy instead of pleasure, soul instead of gold, creative work instead of
business, passion instead of foolery, finds no home in this trivial
world of ours..."
-- Herman Hesse, _Steppenwolf_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
iNSPiRE, EXPiRE, CHUG CHUG CHUG
by I Wish My Name Were Nathan
My son came up to me after dinner with the question parents must always
eventually answer: "Why do people die?" His carefree summer of exploring and
playing with his friend Nicholas had been interrupted when Nicholas' older
sister Kimberly died in an automobile accident. I wasn't sure Timothy and
Kimberly had known each other all that well, but he had been markedly affected
by the unexpected change in events.
I'd been waiting for him to ask me the question. Tim seemed almost
embarrassed to ask. He stood beside my easy chair with his hands behind his
back, casting a glance downwards.
"Let's talk about it," I said. "Come on, come up here." I picked him up
and set him on one arm of the chair. Soon he'd be too big to sit there. "Is
this about Kimberly?" I asked.
He nodded yes, still looking downward, at his knees.
"Are you sad?"
Tim shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know."
"What's wrong, then?"
He grimaced. "You know," he mumbled.
"What is it?" I asked, intrigued.
"When am I gonna die?"
I hugged him. "Certainly not right now," I said, attempting some humor.
That wasn't the trick. "But _when_?!" he cried out.
"Wait, wait, hold on a second, Timothy," I said. "You can't know that."
"Do _you_ know?" he asked.
"No, no, I don't. No one does. There's no way of knowing when you're
going to die."
He moaned, "That's not fair!"
"No, it's not," I said.
"That's not fair!" he repeated.
"Timothy, what do you think death is?"
He shrugged his shoulders and squirmed about some. "When you're in a car
wreck?"
"How, a car wreck?" I asked, prodding him on.
"Nicholas said Kimmy got crushed and all her blood poured out."
"Why is that bad?" I asked, as if I had no idea.
"Daaaad," he said, "you know. It hurts, doesn't it?"
"Yes, yes, a car wreck hurts. But Kimmy doesn't hurt anymore."
"Why?" he asked.
"She's not alive anymore. She can't feel pain."
Tim made a bewildered face. "Why did they put her in the ground then?
Why can't she come back if she doesn't hurt anymore?"
"Because she's not alive. She can't move anymore. She --"
"So what is she doing?" he asked.
I groaned inside. Thinking back, I realized he had never come in contact
with death before. We didn't watch TV or go to violent movies, not even
church. Aaah, church! That's it. They tell kids what death is like.
"Well, Timothy, we don't know. No one knows what dead people do."
"That's weird. Why not? 'Cuz we can't see them? Nicholas said they put
Kimmy in a hole and put dirt on top of her."
"It's true. They buried her."
"Why?"
I hesitated. "Otherwise she'll stink," I said bluntly.
It didn't faze him. "Can't she take a bath?"
"No, Timothy, she can't do anything. Wait a second, and listen. You
know how we carve pumpkins for Halloween?"
"Yup!"
"And how after a few weeks it shrivels up?"
"Yeah."
"That's because the pumpkin is dead, like Kimmy."
"But it doesn't stink much."
"That's true, because we took out all the insides first. The insides are
what stink most," I explained.
"Why don't they take out Kimmy's insides?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "They could, I guess. But there's no reason
to. She's still dead, like the pumpkin. People don't want to look at dead
people."
A flicker of understanding came to his eye. "You mean the pumpkin was
alive once?" he asked incredulously.
"Yes," I said, immediately dreading the implications -- yes, we kill
things on purpose.
"Can pumpkins talk?!" he asked.
I laughed. "No, no, Timothy, they don't talk. Pumpkins aren't people."
"Do they make any noise?"
"No, they don't. Plants don't make noises."
"How are they alive, then?" he asked.
Suddenly I realized my error -- I hadn't explained life to him yet!
* * * * *
Good grief, Timothy was only ten. I'd already made quite a mess of
explaining what was happening, and I wanted to make sure he had a sensible
picture in his head. I also realized I didn't want to sound like I knew
everything; I certainly had my own doubts about what life and death really
were. I wanted to keep his mind as open as possible, without any false hopes
or any false dreads. This was the main reason I kept him out of church.
"Timothy, can we start over?"
"Okay," he said.
"I need to tell you about what I think it means to be 'alive'. These are
only my ideas, but most people believe them. You see, no one really knows."
Timothy squinted at me, trying to take it in. "We're alive, aren't we?"
"Yes."
"And Nicholas is alive, right?"
"Yes."
"And Kimmy _was_ alive before the car wreck, right?"
"Yes."
"So, why don't we know what 'alive' means?"
"That's just the thing, Tim. Most people have an idea about it. But all
they know is what they can _see_."
He let it sink in. I hoped I wouldn't completely overwhelm his brain.
"I don't get it."
I brainstormed to come up with a perfect example. Ah-hah! "You know
that light in the refrigerator?"
"Yeah."
"Right now, is it on or off?" I asked. He made a move to jump up and
check. I restrained him and smiled. "Without looking."
"On?"
"Why do you think that?" I asked.
"It's always on, right? Every time I open the door, it's on."
Funny thing is, those lights never seem to burn out either. "That's a
perfectly good idea," I said. "However, what if I told you that it went off
when you closed the door?"
"Oh!" he exclaimed, smiling, "I never thought of that!" Then a puzzled
look came over his face. "How?"
"There's a switch in the refrigerator. When you close the door, it turns
off the light. When you open the door, it turns on the light."
"Oh! Can I see?"
"Sure," I said. We got up and ran into the kitchen. Timothy opened the
door. The light was on. Then he peered at the door and examined the
corresponding area on the frame of the refrigerator. He flipped one switch
and turned off the refrigerator.
"Uh-oh!" he said, and flipped it back on. He blushed lightly and
continued his search. He felt around the perimeter of the refrigerator, from
the sides to the top, and finally found it. Running his hand over the switch,
the light flickered. "There!" he said, pressing and releasing the switch
several times. Then he slowly closed the door to see the process in action.
Right before the door shut, the light went out. "Cool!"
"Now, Tim, are you wondering why there's a switch?"
"Nope. It seems silly to keep the light on when no one's looking." Then
he stood still and pondered. "Is this about 'alive'?" he asked.
"No, no, not yet. This is about whether people know things or not."
"Oh."
"Let's go back to the chair." I sat in the chair and Timothy perched on
the armrest. "You see, you didn't know before that the refrigerator light
turned off. And once you figured out that it _did_ turn off, you wanted to
know why. And then you figured out _how_. And now it all makes sense,
right?"
"Yup!"
"Now, what if I never told you that the light turns off? What if no one
ever told you, and you never thought to ask?"
"I don't get it."
"Well, the first thing is, you wouldn't know, or even suspect, that the
light turned off, right?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
"Now, Tim, if you didn't ever think about that, do you think the light
would actually turn off?"
"I don't know."
I smiled widely. "You don't know what?"
"If the light would go out. But you just said it --", he stammered, and
then started thinking. "You just told me it would go out. So doesn't it
always? If I knew or not?"
"Yes, whether or not you know it, the refrigerator light goes out when
you close the door. People made it that way on purpose, so we know what
happens. BUT -- and this is the big but --"
Tim started giggling.
"-- what about everything else in the world you don't know about?"
"Like what?"
"Say, how the refrigerator works. Or _if_ it works. Is it only in a
refrigerator where stuff stays cold? Does the refrigerator turn cold when you
open the door?"
Tim started squirming uncomfortably. "Weeeeell... there's a switch that
turned off the refrigerator."
"That's true, and...?"
"I think the refrigerator stays cold all the time, and the switch turns
it off. It would be silly for it to get cold when you open the door."
"Why? Are you sure?" I prodded.
"I don't know."
"What about your dresser? If you stood it up on one end, it would be the
same size as the refrigerator, right? And if you open the drawers, you can
see inside the dresser, just like the door on the refrigerator. So does it
get cold when you open the drawers?"
"Nooooo," he said, giggling.
"Why not?" I asked.
"It's not a refrigerator."
"Then what is a refrigerator?"
"It --" he started. "Daddy, this doesn't make sense."
"How do you mean?"
"I know what a refrigerator is."
"And it's...?"
"It's what keeps stuff cold inside," he said proudly.
"Exactly. A refrigerator keeps stuff cold inside. That's why we call it
a refrigerator. There's a little more to it -- it's a box that people make,
that keeps stuff cold inside."
"Oh!" he said. "I always thought something that looked like that was a
refrigerator."
"Well," I said, "see that painting of the little girl on the steps with
the cat?"
"Uh-huh."
"What if that were a painting of a refrigerator? Would that painting
keep stuff cold inside?"
"Noooo," he said, laughing.
"What if it did?" I asked.
He paused for a while, and started to giggle. "It would be a painting
_and_ a refrigerator."
He thought he was making a joke. "Yes!" I cried out, hugging him.
"That's exactly it. Do you see? We might come up with a new word for that,
too. A 'refrigepainting', eh?"
Again Tim laughed, smiling widely.
"Now, how about this, Tim? Think hard. If you didn't know the word
'refrigerator', would that box in the kitchen still keep stuff cold inside?"
"Yes," he said quickly.
"Then would it be a refrigerator?"
He paused to think. "Yes?"
"Why?"
"Because it keeps stuff cold inside!"
"Exactly! So, if that painting of a refrigerator were just a painting,
would it be correct to call the painting a refrigerator?"
"No, 'cuz it doesn't keep stuff cold inside."
"Exactly! Now, Tim," I said, returning to the original point, "tell me
what you think it means to be 'alive'."
* * * * *
He hesitated and said flatly, "I don't know."
"That's not exactly true, Tim. Tell me some things you think aren't
alive."
"Uuum, the chair?"
"Yes."
He squinted. "The refrigerator?"
"Mmm-hmm."
"What about the pumpkin?"
"Well, wait a minute first. Why do you think the chair and the
refrigerator aren't alive?"
"They don't talk."
"But what about this?" I asked, leaning back in the chair and making it
squeak. "Is the chair talking?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"It's not saying anything."
"How do you know it's not saying, 'Whee!', but the way a chair says it?
Our dog Kornkob goes *bark!*. Is she talking?"
"Yes."
"Yes, she is. She's talking the way dogs talk. Why is her *bark!*
talking, while the chair's squeak isn't?"
"Because the chair's not alive."
"That's true, but you just said 'alive' meant you could talk. So your
answer didn't say anything new, you see? Let's back off from talking for a
second. There has to be a reason why the noise a dog makes is talking, while
the noise a chair makes isn't. There's more to 'alive' than talking."
"Kornkob can also growl."
"That's true!" I said, as if I'd never realized. "What about this,
then?" I asked. I let down the easy chair, making the springs contract and go
*sproing*. "The chair makes other noises as well."
Tim punched the side of the chair, *thump*. "That one too."
"And Kornkob can whimper too. Think of this, though -- why does Kornkob
whimper, instead of growl or bark?"
"When we first got her, she'd whimper when I yelled at her. But now she
just barks."
"That's true! But the chair always goes *sproing* when I let it down.
It always goes *squeak* when I lean back in it. Do you see the difference?"
"Kornkob knows me now."
"And I've had this chair for ten years! Why doesn't it know me yet?"
He hesitated. "Because it can't!"
"Exactly! Chairs can't _learn_. BUT -- that's only one reason why
they're not alive!"
"There's more?" Tim asked.
"Yup. To be alive means you can grow, too. You're growing taller every
year. I'm growing, well, a little chubbier. But the chair will always be the
same size."
"But what if we pulled on it and it got longer?" he asked.
"Ah-hah -- that's the difference. 'Alive' things grow by themselves."
"But we eat food. Isn't that what makes us grow?"
"Yes -- but we eat the food on our own. Eating is part of growing."
"Oh, okay."
"'Alive' also means to move. We're alive, so we can move -- on our own."
"What about robots?"
"They do move on their own, that's true. But, 'alive' things have to do
_all_ the things we're talking about."
"Oh. What else?"
"One thing is, they are organized into specific parts, or organs."
"Like my stomach and my mouth?"
"Uh-huh, and your teeth and your gums and your tongue and your throat and
your skin and your muscle..."
"Chairs are like that too, though."
"But, again, they don't do it by themselves. All by themselves, every
living thing develops its own organs."
"Wow!"
"It's my own darn fault that my nose is so big."
"Yeah," he said, giggling.
"The last thing living things do is to make offspring."
"Oh yeah! It all seems pretty obvious now."
"Now, let's get back to the pumpkin. Do you think it's alive?"
"Well... I don't know."
"Why not?" I asked almost incredulously.
"It doesn't move, does it?"
"Oh, it does. But plants move much, much slower than people and animals.
Look there," I said, pointing to the plant hanging next to the window. "See
how all the leaves and stems are facing the light? They move toward the
light, because light is a part of their food."
"Oh, duh, I knew that!" he said. "But plants don't learn."
"Well, plants don't learn in the special way we humans, or even animals
do. But all of us learn through evolution."
"What's that?"
"That's how living things adjust to changing environments over time.
It's a chemical way of learning how to live better. It's really very complex,
though. You'll need to wait about five years first, okay?"
"Okay."
"Now, again, was the plant alive before you knew it was?"
"Yeah, but I wouldn'ta thought of it."
"Ah-hah! You see, the reason we know what 'alive' is, is because
scientists defined it that way, just like we defined a refrigerator as being a
box that keeps stuff cold inside."
"Oh!"
"I think you need to take a rest now. Think about this while you're gone
-- what do you think dying is?"
"It's scary!"
"Think about it," I said.
* * * * *
Tim came back in an hour. "Well," he said, "because dying's when you're
not alive, it's when you don't grow or learn or move anymore."
"Yes, that's true," I said. "And?"
"And I don't know anything else. I really tried to figure it out."
"That's perfectly all right. People don't know what death is, beyond the
fact that it's when you're not alive."
"Is it heaven?" he asked.
"What do you think heaven is?"
"Nicholas said it's where good people go after they die. It's a really
great place, he said."
"Do you believe that?"
"I don't know. Is it hell? Nicholas said that's where you go when
you're bad. And it really sucks."
"Where do you think Kimmy went?" I asked.
"Neither. She's in the ground."
"That's true, in a way."
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Well, does my definition of 'alive' seem complete to you?"
"Complete? I don't get it."
"Think about animals and people. Is there something else we do that
nonliving things can't?"
"Well... they don't do stuff."
"Like what?"
"Well, I can read, and have fun. And Kornkob can chase sticks. And have
fun. I don't think the refrigerator has fun."
"Exactly. 'Alive' doesn't say anything about having fun. Or wanting
to."
"So what's that called?"
"The ability to have fun?"
"Yeah."
"I'm not sure. Maybe that's not the whole picture. We can also be sad,
or be angry, or get excited, or be hopeful. I think animals can't really feel
those things," I said. "All in all, I think something only people have is the
ability to have emotion. That's part of being alive, if you're a person."
"Well... I think Kornkob gets angry and excited. And hopeful, when it's
time to feed her."
"That's true in a way. I think that she doesn't feel them the same way
we do, though. You see, something else only people do is think. We can think
about things, and those things can make us angry, or sad, or hopeful."
"What about Kornkob?"
"I believe she's just reacting to her surroundings. When you feed her,
she gets excited because she can smell the food, and she knows you're going to
pet her. But I don't think that if you're inside she'll even think about it."
"So does she think about us?"
"I don't know. Probably not the same way we think about her."
This to him seemed even sadder than if Kornkob had died. "I always
thought Kornkob was like us," Tim said.
"I don't think she is. But she's special in her own way."
"I guess so."
"But Timothy, think about 'thinking' again. Many people believe that
since we can think, we're special and different from everything else in the
whole world."
"Yeah?" he asked excitedly.
"That's what many people believe. And that's what makes being alive so
important. That's the other thing about 'alive'."
"So what happens when you die?"
"No one knows, beyond the obvious things -- not moving, not growing, not
learning. Remember that light in the refrigerator? Think of that light as
being the special part of being human. Well, no one knows if it goes off when
you shut the door."
"Really?" he asked. "Why not? Can't you tell if someone's thinking?"
"Well, yes, you can, actually. Scientists believe that our brains are
what make us think."
"But Kornkob has a brain."
"That's true. But scientists don't believe it can think the way we do.
Brains do other things besides thinking."
"Oh. Can you tell the difference between how her brain and our brain
think?"
"No, we can't."
"So how do we know Kornkob doesn't think like we do?"
"We really don't. But we have to assume she doesn't, since animals don't
do the things people do."
"I don't get it."
"Well, they don't..." I started. I was going to say "build cities", but
beavers and birds build their homes. I also wanted to say, "use language",
but whales, bees, and octopi also clearly communicate. I also wanted to say,
"wonder about death", but elephants show distinct remorse and curiosity when
coming across dead elephants, though not other animals. I also wanted to say
other things, but I couldn't say anything specific. "It's hard to say.
Animals don't do what people do."
"Dogs don't do what cats do either," he said.
"That's very true," I admitted. "So do you see what I'm talking about?"
I asked. "There are definitely things we don't know about life. And this
makes it that much harder to know what death is, since we can't experience it,
without being dead."
"What do dead people say it's like?"
* * * * *
"Well, Timothy, that's where I have to say I have no idea. There's no
scientific evidence that dead people can think, much less tell us what being
dead is like."
"No one knows?"
"Not for sure. Think of life as being like a light bulb that's on, and
death being like a light bulb that's burned out. And, you can only see that
light bulb when it's on, since it's the only one in the room. Trying to find
out about death is like trying to see a burned-out light bulb in the dark. We
know it's there, but nothing else for sure."
"What about heaven and hell though?"
"Well, those are ideas people have about what happens after death.
Remember the special part about being human? Those people call that your
spirit. They believe that when a person dies, his spirit goes to heaven or
hell, depending on what he did in his life."
"What he did?"
"Like, if he did good things to other people, or bad things. They
believe that your entire life is judged good or bad when you die, by another
spirit, and then you go to heaven or hell forever."
"That's not fair! Why is it all for a grade?!"
I had to laugh. I had to laugh at the way people believed life was for a
grade. I almost got a headache.
"Tim, that's just what some people think. But I must tell you, most of
the people in this country believe that."
"Is it true?" he asked pleadingly.
"I don't think so, son. It doesn't make sense to me."
"Why do so many people believe it then?" he asked.
"I.... It's tradition."
"Do the dead people say that's what it's like?"
"Well, like I already said, I don't know for sure. I haven't talked to
any dead people. But throughout history, some people have said that they
have."
"Really? How?"
"They say that the spirits of the dead people talked to them, in their
minds. Or that they saw an image of the person in the dark, who talked to
them. Or that they saw the person in a dream."
"Oh, you mean ghosts?"
"Yes, son, ghosts."
"That's what spirits are?"
"If you believe in spirits, yes."
"But ghosts aren't real."
"If you don't believe in them, no."
"What do you believe in, Daddy?"
"I don't know. I don't believe in anything, unless there's some way I
can prove it. I can't prove anything about death."
"But that's scary! I wanna know what's going to happen!"
"Tim, that's the way almost everyone is. Everyone wants to know what
will happen after they die. But you can't know that."
"That's just not fair!"
"It isn't; that's true. But look at it this way. As far as science
knows, when you die, you can't do anything anymore. Science doesn't believe
in the spirit. They think that when you die, it's all over. So, from their
point of view, there's nothing at all to be scared of about dying."
"I... I guess."
"You don't believe that, do you?"
"It doesn't make sense. How could it just be all over?"
"As far as the dead person is concerned, it is. You see, scientists
think that the brain creates the illusion of a spirit; that the only time you
know you're alive is when you are alive."
"Oh," he said, eyes cast downward. "I don't like that. That's not
fair."
"I don't think it is, either."
"Daddy, are you a scientist?"
"No."
"So what do you think happens to your spirit when you die?"
I finally realized I wasn't getting through to him. He'd just have to
wait a few years. "Well, I do have my own special idea about it, but I can't
tell you if it's true or not."
"What is it?" Tim asked, his eyes gleaming.
"Well, it's this. I think that spirits are just like electricity, that
run our brains when we're alive. And I think that every living thing -- even
animals and plants -- have the same kind of electricity. In people, the
electricity allows us to do all sorts of wonderful things -- to think, to
believe, to love, to hope -- and very bad things too. And I think that when
you die, the electricity leaves your body and enters the air, and gives
something else a spirit."
"It doesn't go away?"
"No. I think the spirit of life lives forever."
"So all the dead people live forever?"
"I... I guess you could say that."
"So, Kimmy is still alive, somehow?" he asked, excited.
"Yes, her spirit lives on," I said.
"And there's no heaven or hell?"
"I don't think so. I don't believe being alive is a test. I think
you're judged by what you do when you're alive, right as you're doing it -- by
yourself. There's no reason to be afraid of death. You need to make the most
of the life you're living right now. You need to make good use of the spirit
while you can."
"Wow," he said, dazed. "Well, I better get started!" he exclaimed.
"Thanks a lot, Dad!" Then he ran off to his room.
I realized how his mind worked. He didn't really care about what was
provable and true; he just wanted reassurance. Isn't that what everyone
wants, when facing the unknown in such an intimately personal way? Yes, I
guess so. I was left dazed myself for minutes after Timothy ran off to his
room to take advantage of the beauty of living. I really hadn't even thought
of it much before myself. I breathed a deep breath, leaned back in my easy
chair, and looked at my hand. I wiggled my fingers around and smiled. Good
fingers. Good hand. Good life.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"Creativity is for suckers... more naked babes!"
--cover of Probe #4
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
JUST BECAUSE THE WORLD WANTS YOU DOESN'T MEAN YOU HAVE TO SUBMiT
by Kilgore Trout
It was just the two of them in that room that night. Soft music playing,
a cool breeze drifting through the open window. Unseparated, together. They
watched each other over empty dinner plates, watched by drained wine glasses.
Unity. Exploration. The air between them felt heavy and dense. It was a
barrier and yet transparent as well. Cheap cologne and imposter perfume.
Nothing mattered except being.
* * * * *
Let the process consume you. Become ritual, for it is not the end that
is important but the realization of the means. Belief is a tool, not a dogma.
Rip apart your mind and put it back together in varying configurations.
Tamper. Reconstruct. Destroy. Rebuild. Your soul is your only guide. Know
thyself, poison thyself, heal thyself. Then forget and begin again.
* * * * *
Manny stood on the corner, waiting for his contact, who was long overdue.
The shipment had to be made tonight or the user would die. A blue Chevrolet
pulled up alongside the door, and a large woman got out of the back seat. She
handed Manny a metal box with a keypad on top. He grabbed the box and ran.
* * * * *
Elegant tapestries were flung on the floor in a careless manner. The
shattered remains of vases and fragile sculptures littered the ground. He
repeatedly pounded his fist into the nearest wall, damning his tormentors.
They had destroyed his image, his position, his ego. Who were they to do this
to him? Who gave them the right? He had, simply by being alive.
* * * * *
Explore, she said. Grieve for her and for you.
I don't want to feel helpless, she replied.
She smiled. No need to. Use this time to heal yourself. Make yourself
whole again.
But I can never replenish what she took away.
She never did anything. That was her failing and her blessing, too.
* * * * *
Should I open it? he asked himself. The box was heavy and smooth,
emitting a low, pulsating sound.
Maybe it's a bomb. God, I don't want to be a messenger of death.
Manny punched in a code on the keypad. The lid opened with a soft pop.
* * * * *
Love is magick. Love is magickal. Be used by love in all of its glory.
* * * * *
The sheets smelled of sweat and cum. They slept peacefully, bodies still
wrapped around each other from the night's activities. She lied awake beside
him, a hand placed on his rising chest. The pulse of life, the rhythm of
love. A sigh escaped her lips, and she, too, drifted off to sleep.
* * * * *
He had phoned the police about the break-in, and they told him that an
officer would be over shortly.
They can't help me, he thought. They're in on this cosmic joke, just
like everyone else. One, two, one, two. It's always the same story, the same
motions, the same games. Everyone plays, but why do I always lose?
He pulled an overturned chair onto its legs and sat down, waiting.
* * * * *
Grieving is a sublime process, she said. You don't understand why, but
it is necessary.
It shouldn't be. Nothing should be necessary. It's so wrong.
She turned away. What is so wrong about experiencing loss?
The emptiness of it all. It's too horrible.
Don't be empty then. Simple, no?
* * * * *
The void sucked at Manny with a hammering fixation. He held onto the
doorknob, trying to keep himself from entering the box.
Stop! Stop! he yelled as the box grew, inhaling furniture from the room.
I can't die yet!
Manny prayed to God, making promises that could never be kept, if God
would save him. He lost his grip and flew across the room. The lid shut, and
Manny screamed from within.
* * * * *
You know yourself better than anyone else, so why fight it? Use your
strengths to conquer your weaknesses, and be proud. Pride is not a sin when
it is justified. The tools are at your disposal. All you have to do is plan
and act.
* * * * *
The cops came and questioned the man. He answered them without
hesitation and listed everything that was damaged or missing. The officers
took notes in little black books and said they'd do what they could. After
the police left, the man spat on the ground. He was still destroyed.
* * * * *
They awoke together, bathed in sunlight streaming in from a window. Their
eyes peered into each other's as they kissed, ignoring their foul morning
breath.
I love you, she said.
He grunted, stood up, scratched his bare ass, and walked into the
bathroom.
He's the man I've been looking for, she confided to no one.
* * * * *
So, the funeral is tomorrow?
Yes, she confirmed. One o'clock, at First United Methodist. Are you
going?
Yes. She was the only one I ever loved. You know that, don't you?
I'll always love you, too -- even as much as she did.
You can't replace her.
I'm not trying to. You've got to move on.
* * * * *
The reason for existence is left up to you. Find that reason and you
will understand life. Searching can only make you stronger.
* * * * *
The man stood outside on his porch, not wanting to be near his ruined
possessions. He had worked so hard for all he had, for now it was all gone.
Yes, it could be rebuilt, but he was too tired to start again. This wasn't the
way life was supposed to work. He sat down on the porch swing and began to
rock, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...
* * * * *
What now?
That's up to you, she explained. It's your call.
I don't know. This is so confusing.
As it should be. Just remember, I'm always here.
Please, she begged. Kiss me. Make me feel wanted again.
* * * * *
The wind howled as Manny stood in front of the obese woman.
What kind of hell did you put me through? he asked.
That wasn't hell, she corrected. That was heaven: you alone with God.
Get it?
Manny whipped out a pistol and levelled it at her.
Wrong. That was hell, and that's where you're going.
Don't mess with me, Manny. I've got power. It ain't over till the fat
lady sings.
The shot put a huge hole in her head. As Manny walked off, the wind
whistled through the hole, creating a discordant melody. He smiled.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
"... A man can bare his soul only once in his life, and then only when he
is hysterical! ... So what more do you want? Why are you still hanging
around me, after all this, torturing me by not leaving?"
-- Fyodor Dosteovsky, _Notes from Underground_
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
WHOA, WHOA, REWiND!
by I Wish My Name Were Nathan
I'm walking.... I'm walking in the forest on a dirt path. It's insanely
green and summerish around. I'm carrying this large heavy wooden box on my
head, on my shoulders. The path is covered with greyish soil and has some
little rocks under the surface. I have to watch my step or else I'll drop the
box. I don't know what's in the box. It feels solid but not like it's a
block of wood.
I have to watch my step. I have to kick at the rocks I see coming up so
I won't get caught by surprise. I shuffle my feet in the dirt. Clouds of
dust rise at my feet and made it hard to see. Yes, it's very warm, and dry.
It's dry and the dust clouds don't settle right away. If I could look back
I'd see them still.
I move like a robot with the heavy box on my shoulders. I have to strain
my eyes to look forward the way my head is tilted. Up ahead I see more path.
The path is wavering from side to side. It is well-worn but the rocks are
still hiding under the surface.
All the branches of the trees are sticking high up into the ground. No
branches will hit the box or my head so I can keep a steady pace except for
the rocks. The leaves on the trees are bright green and caught by the
sunlight. They are waving slightly in the wind. I can't feel the wind
because it is so light. The wind is rusting the tops of the branches. My
face is damp and burning. I can sense the dust from my footsteps rising and
sticking to my face.
I am walking along further. I look to my left and notice that one of the
trees has a treehouse in it. I put the box down. I look at the treehouse.
It's in the shape of a cube. The walls are made of plywood and square and
thin. Doors and windows are cut out of the walls. The treehouse is very
small. Only a child could fit in it. I remember the treehouse.
I put the box back on my shoulders. I continue walking away from the
treehouse. The path is well-worn. Dry grey dust rises at my shuffling feet
and sticks to my face. I have to kick rocks out of my path. Straining to
look ahead I see the path falls. The path descends and then is level. I
carefully take the steps down the path and continue walking.
I look up and see that the path ends. I am on a sandbar extending into a
lake. Eight or ten people are here. Some people are sitting on the sandbar.
Some people are sitting with their feet in the water. Some people are playing
in the water. I walk to the edge of the sandbar. The sandbar descends
sharply into the lake. The sand is yellow on top and tan near the water.
I look at the water. I can feel the cool air that drifted over the lake.
The water is dark green, almost olive. The water is never still. I hurl the
box into the water. Before the splash I see that it is only a plastic blue
crate. I look aside and my foot slips. Sand slides down into the water. I
regain my balance and walk to the high point of the sandbar. I look at the
lake. I dive in.
The water envelops me; the water is so cold that my chest tightens in
shock. But it is only cold in comparison with the hot dry air I had been
walking in. Almost immediately I adapt; I find the water is quite warm and
pleasant; I soar underwater; I'm free. I shoot toward the surface, and I re-
enter the air and see the people. All the dust has been washed off my face.
I glide toward the sandbar and touch it with my feet. The bumpy rocks
poke my feet and tickle. I get a good grip on it and then shove!, swimming
backwards in an arc down deeper underwater. I touch the lake floor with my
hands and open my eyes to survey all that is around me. Sitting a few yards
from me on the floor of the lake is a guy, decked out in a loose teeshirt that
billows in the current and sneakers whose laces dance in the water and jeans
that stick tightly to his skin.
I turn over underwater and walk over and sit down next to him. He's
sitting there quietly, his eyelids lightly closed, his palms turned upwards.
A humble grin anchors his expression. The gently flowing water plays with his
shirt and I can see flashes of skin underneath and I stare at his feet.
Between the cuff of the leg of his jeans and his shoes he's wearing bright red
socks.
"Nice socks, eh?" I ask him. He tilts his head slightly to nod.
I smile and I look around me quietly. The water continues as far as I
can see, getting darker and murkier with distance. I don't see anyone's feet
wading in the water at this distance. I glance back at the guy and see his
eyes are wide open staring at me. With a jump, I fly up toward the surface
and hit my head.
"We're just in a box of water?" I say. His eyes are lightly closed and
he tilts his head slightly to nod. I sit back down next to him and look at
his red socks.
"When do we breathe?" I ask.
"Don't breathe," he says.
I take a breath and water rushes into my body. I breathe out and water
swirls around in front of my mouth. The water doesn't leave my body. I shrug
my shoulders.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Concentrating on my blood flow," he says.
I glance over at him again and I can see that he is telling the truth.
His skin is a healthy pink. As I watch it turns slightly redder. It keeps
turning redder. I don't remember seeing it that red before.
Suddenly he opens his eyes, glaring, and screams, "I see you're content
to keep on bothering me!" A frantic grin dances on his face. "Look at me
now, eh?" he demands, lifting up his shirt. I can see his stomach and where
the waistband of his underwear peeks out.
"I wasn't looking there," I said nervously. "I couldn't help it."
"I know," he says lightly, all the red anger evaporating from his face
and body. "C'mon, let's go!" he exclaims, grabbing my hand and pulling me up
through the water. I am eager to leave. I remember that we're in a box and
when I look up at the surface and I clench my eyes tight.
When I open my eyes, a confused mess of red light is shining in my eyes.
I glare at the light and try to make it out. My mind focuses and I see I'm
staring at the clock. It reads 4:34. I realize I'm lying on my side in my
bed. I throw off the covers and yawn and slowly make my way out. I'm very
nearly naked. I stumble over to my dresser in the dark and pull out some
clothes and get dressed.
A confused grin is on my face; it's been stuck there since I woke up, I
realize. I feel my way out of my room and my feet kick aside the damp clothes
I tossed on the floor in a daze. The light in the hallway is a little
brighter. I walk down the hallway and stretch and yawn again. I head for the
door and open it.
Outside it is even brighter, but still very much night. I look around
and find my bike. I get on my bike and coast down the driveway and into the
street. I know where I'm headed and all I have to do is look down ahead of my
front tire where my light illuminates the road and watch the pebbles in the
gravel flow by. I feel energized as though I hadn't gone to sleep.
At a certain point I take a sharp turn off the road onto a grey dirt
road. My tires kick up dust and I leave it behind me. Ahead I see the path
ends at a clearing. I get off my bike and lean it against a tree.
I walk forward into the clearing, where a rocky precipice overlooks a
deep valley. To my right I see a man and a woman standing and looking into
the valley. To my left I see a guy leaning against a big rock, eyes lightly
closed. I glance down and I can't see his socks under the cuffs of the legs
of his jeans since he's standing.
With my footsteps, he opens his eyes and grins. He pulls out a bottle
rocket out of his jeans and shows it to me. Then he sits down on the ground
on his knees and sets up the rocket, pointing into the sky. As he's working
his shirt billows in a light breeze and where his jeans legs have hiked up I
can see his red socks.
"Nice socks, eh?" I ask him. He tilts his head slightly to nod.
He pulls out a match and strikes it against the rock. The match flares
up and he holds it under the fuse of the bottle rocket, then stands back and
shakes out the match. He walks over and leans against the rock. I glance
down at the fuse of the bottle rocket and watch it burn.
With a whistle, the rocket flies into the air and explodes against the
black sky into all sorts of colors; green, red, white, yellow. I glance down
and see the man and the woman are in a light embrace, kissing. I glance back
at the red socks of the guy standing against the rock. I glance up. He makes
a sideward glance at the couple kissing and grins. I make a goofy grin, but
only because I realize my pants leg is damp. I shrug my shoulders at it and
we laugh.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
State of unBeing is copyrighted (c) 1996 by Kilgore Trout and Apocalypse
Culture Publications. All rights are reserved to cover, format, editorials,
and all incidental material. All individual items are copyrighted (c) 1996 by
the individual author, unless otherwise stated. This file may be disseminated
without restriction for nonprofit purposes so long as it is preserved complete
and unmodified. Quotes and ideas not already in the public domain may be
freely used so long as due recognition is provided. State of unBeing is
available at the following places:
CYBERVERSE 512.255.5728 14.4
THE LiONS' DEN 512.259.9546 24oo
TEENAGE RiOt 418.833.4213 14.4 NUP: COSMIC_JOKE
THAT STUPID PLACE 215.985.0462 14.4
ftp to ftp.io.com /pub/SoB
World Wide Web
http://www.io.com/~hagbard/sob.html
Submissions may also be sent to Kilgore Trout at <
[email protected]>. Thank you.
--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--
