Subject: Re: Who's Ascared of a Leather Bag?

Date: 21 Feb 1996 00:00:00 GMT

From: (John Blackmer)

Organization: Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts

Newsgroups: alt.slack

References: 1



MegEliz ( wrote:

: I've been too open to possession, obviously. I just freaked out here in the

: office all by myself. It SOUNDED exactly like a chainsaw, but it was just my

: purse falling over. I'm as jumpy as a long-tailed cat in a room full of

: bulldozers. The fishtanks as;lwlkj;fdsawpT

: oH it's just the phone. I don't wanna answer it. It might be more paranoid

: ravings. No thanks, I have some already. I'll just wait right here. It'll

: stop.


: I am in the noisiest quiet office imaginable by me. Each machine puts out a

: different set of tones of white noise. The fishtank gurgle-tinkle should be

: soothing, but compounded with one dozen hums, assorted thumps and a

: occasional ZAP it is just pushing me over the edge of my noise processing

: abilities. I'm going to test the sound level....Somebody took the noise

: meter, but I'm okay for CO and Formaldehyde. Oh, and no detectable microwave

: leakage. Cool. It's noise poisoning fer sure.


: I think there is some kind of cumulative sympathetic vibration going on

: here. This is not necessarily a good thing. One day soon I'm going to walk

: into this place and just burst into charcoal briquettes.


: Not-Yet Popette (resume resume) Meg

My head feels like a rubber ball,

it is sort of sqreshing in a diagonal motion, there is a big vagina on my

wall, and the other part has zits butt I hope those workmen don't barge

into my room and drill a hole in my face like they did this morning. They

had voices like police officers, and they came upon me cowering naked in

my closet huddled in a blanket, thinking it was the CIA come to get me

for being a nice guy, and I sort of smiled and then they grabbed me and

DRILLED A BIG HOLE IN MY FACE and installed a phone jack, three

lightsockets which they proceeded to plug all my appliances into into my

face, and then left, muttering in NorthEndese that they would be back

tomorrow, please proceed with your regular schedule.


But then I found Christ in the form of William S Burroghs, whom I thought

somehow got famous for "just writing down the garbage that came out of

his brain when he was on drugs". Little did I know. You have to be in the

exact right was, you have to get those submuscles pumped, you can't give

it the old college try, but sometimes, somehow it clicks (especially if

you are filled with nervous energy, panic residual and bobgrins after

having your face permanently violated by machinery as part of the routine

of Machine Men)


Machine men are bad, Burroughs is good, circling numbers on a piece of

paper for 4 hours thinks it will be good, and then is bad, and then is

good. Especially if there are chicks in your medical test subject guinea

pig for toxic chemicals inserted into eyeball group which appear

interesting for the first five minutes and then turn into all the rest,

because you can make them pee their pants and say "excuse me". But more

of that after evening edition. Ten bucks an hour to pretend to work, and

I don't really know if it's worth it.


Salvador Dali's painting "the ship" I think is the perfect rendition of

the phenomenon which this underlies, of letting yourself become so

hypersensitive to minute

details in your environment that the traffic dragging its 5am heavy truck

over your skull and bones becomes a string, the drinking founten (sic)

down the hall ripping your throat out becomes a string, the appearance of

all things as variations on genitalia making you horny as a charging

rhinoceros becomes a string, the magic and loss and fitful dreams of the

artist in the cupboard (WSB in this bookcase) becomes a string, and you,

the marionette, dancing to the beat of the ten senses and the twenty

needs and the thirty deadly fears, all pulling upon each other as they

pull upon you, become transfigured as you lose yourself, and the

intricate motions of all the many strings form a greater pattern of the

unseen being who takes the form of a ship, on whose mast you stand

crucified, your body a tingling vessel for the experience of all the ten

thousand things, and the One which is the ship itself, plunging

blindfolded through the sea of the Unknowable, unable to sense the water

directly but constantly immersed in its periphery, splashed about like a

bottle in a tempest, though your feet still stand on Terra Firma. And

when a frigid breeze wafts in the open window, the sails unfurl. Amen


When you feel yourself falling, dive.


-Daedalus QPM