State of unBeing -- Issue #42 -- Apocalypse Culture Productions

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, UfOFofO ,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 1/30/98 tahw ro who gniwonk to think. You are in FORTY-TWO ni era uoY .kniht ot a state of unbeing.... ....gniebnu fo etats a

CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE

Since nobody else seems to be able to do it right, I guess the zine is going to have to step in and get the job done. So, we are now searching for a small child (either boy or girl) or a midget to man the Apocalypse Culture Balloon in an attempt to circumnavigate the globe.

We don't, however, have the funds that all of these billionaires do, so the only reward we can offer you is fame if you complete the trip. You may also be wondering why we want either children or a midget. Well, our balloon consists of a bunch of balloons. Helium balloons. Attached to a lawn chair. Lowtech, yes. Impossible, no. We'll give you a pellet gun and two cases of coke so you can go up or down. I'll personally throw in a small bag of corn chips as well.

Eck. So, I guess it's time to announce that we are beginning year number five, and now I'm supposed to reiterate how happy I am with all my writers and how the readers are cool too and how I never imagined we'd ever make it this far without criminal proceedings and federally mandated wiretaps. So yeah, I'm happy to be here.

Let me tell you a story. In the beginner, there was a zine. People wrote for it, uploaded copies to BBSes and the internet, and read it. It was good. God even liked it. He told me so. As the years went on, people came and went, but it was still published.

And then, there was a great schism throughout the land, and great omens of apocalypse appeared in the skies. It was a time of the dawning of doom which doomed the dawn. An editor fell, dead, and a mighty ruckus occured over the zine.

And then, after much despair, confusion, name-calling, betrayal, crocheting, burling, a sampling of fine wines, and a handful of secret microdot communiques, Kilgore was ressurected in the tradition of, well, Jesus. And all is good in the land once again. So, that should answer any questions about what just happened during the past six months.

On to the issue. Last month, it was mostly fiction. This month, it's not. Flip flopping is the name of the game in 1998. So, keep the submissions coming in, and next month I'll have a detailed account of my vacation to the Middle East over Christmas break, full of fascinating details and mindbending photos [photos not available in e-zine.] See you next month.

[sure you can. stroke that ego some more and i might even give you TWO subscriptions. then you'll be the big kid on the block carrying around two printouts of the zine to smash the small fingers of the younger children to keep them in line for your strange, secretive slave labor camp running in the woods behind Mrs. Henderson's house where you manufacture wooden egg toys. god, sometimes it sickens me to see what some of our readers do in their spare time.]

[i don't think you know me personally, but you did send us a letter last issue, so i would think you would kinda remember that. keep up the good work, and good luck with teaching your compooter how to do new tricks.]

[um, is this a straight enough issue for you? although i do have to say that there is some homoeroticism in my dream article, so maybe it's not as straight as i thought. yeah, like you thought you'd get a real answer out of me, huh? like i can prove to you that i'm the real kilgore trout? phooey. believe or don't. it's as simple as that.]

[thanks for tracking me down. and glad you like the zine. and i would venture to say that we aren't always downtrodden, but after putting this issue together, i'd have a hard time arguing that case. must be the snow (lack of.)]

[too bad you aren't the real dweezel zappa, or then i might have a chance to go on the conan o'brian show and make an ass out of myself with you.]

[heh. well, you've come to the wrong place. we waste lots of our intelligence. luckily some of us happen to write stuff down from time to time. i mean, if i didn't waste any of my intelligence, then i wouldn't have a high score of 93 seconds on the expert level of minesweeper. that's what i thought.]

So what is it with this silly obsession of women and their bodies and souls? I'd be willing to flatly state, with a Masterpiece Theatre-like accent, that if you thumbed through the previous words I've tossed before your eyes, you may encounter a theme of rants and raves of love and lust and lechery, all of wishful thinking. And when thumbing through this myself, I go blech blech ugh, thinking as though I have stated or revealed nothing new from the recessed digressions within me -- just spouting the same intentions bad thoughts and "Oh, looky, I'm a cool sensitive guy with feelings and Soul." Honestly, I'm rather disappointed in myself -- highly unsatisfied with my previously seemingly happy-go-lucky-with-content-and-unwritten-forethought me.

But, no, no, no, no, no. I had to find a way to alter my mindset, direct a slappy platter of neurons to the left, I guess. It's perfectly fine, though. I know I should just cock my head a bit, smirk, and continue forth with the unthoughts of whatever is to be shall be, with no sorrow, guilt, or pity for the me I am. Why can't I do that. Why did I end that question with a period?

This would be easier if you could just hop into my head. And I'm sure it would be easier if I could be completely honest with myself and hop into my own head. That would be neat. Have been trying recently. Did better than average, but not the best I can be. Perhaps I'm looking to offload the guilt I stuff into my gut.

I sometimes wonder about diaries. I'm amazed by them in a way. If the owner can truly be honest to their ever reflecting mind on paper, than my hat goes off. I don't know if I could do it. I tried many years ago, twas about the female I was enthralled with at the time. I honestly am not sure if I was honest in that either. I'd like to say I was, rambling on, once again, about her beauty, and how I felt around her, and how I wish I could talk and wish I could say how I felt and what I wanted.

So, am I being honest now? Probably not as much as I'd like to be. I wrote the first three words, or maybe the first sentence with just the intent to write, and then pops and fizzes sounded about in my head and formed the word ARTiCLE in purple fuzzy hazy smoke letters, and they sat there for a moment. So, the intent was changed, and now I ask if I write to be cool or write for the finding of peace within. I'd be un-honest if I said there was no coolness desired. I'm ego-full -- ego the size of Staten Island. Blech blech ugh.

No matter how hard I try or don't try, I can always view myself as artificial, whether in writing, in conversation, walking across the street, or driving along the street. Non-contentedness in myself, I would assume. Loathing certain characteristics in others that I know I possess myself, yet rarely admitting it. It's all because of thinking. Too much thinking and analyzation going on.

So nobody do the things I secretly want you to do -- no pity, no worship, no praise. Absorb, nod, and move on.

But let me tell you a story, an investment in my psyche, brute and crude as my hand may allow, and you may tune into my head. Will it be about a woman? You can bet your uncle's hedgehogs it will. I only see it fair I warn you now, in case you'd care to avoid such dripping dimestore words. Contemporary romance without an ending, Bob, nothin' but.

I'm going to admit I'm scared, very scared, for myself should I find me in a relationship anytime soon. That's probably what I fear most, much more than baby grand pianos falling from the sky with a cartoon whistle. And I'm scared to have sex again -- both normal performance anxiety, self-conscious "am I doing this well enough" kind of soak, and a bleak "the only woman I slept with chuckled in the face of morals; I slipped below them and lost my heart a few steps back... what will happen this time?" Of course it's fear -- all my hang-ups and head dances are fear. Still caked in adolescent unsuredness, only jacked up a notch or so, knowing all the while why and how and the absurdity of the skits I roll through, yet not doing anything about it. A taquito of slapstick gerrymandering inside my head.

Tangent #32: I think it would be rather interesting, and even stimulating, to let you people control my life decisions for a couple of issues. I'll spew out a few things I'm experiencing at the time, propose the question on it -- should I do this or that -- and do whatever you people think I should do, barring any obviously surreal suggestions.

So, I'll tell you a story. Boy meets girl. Girl goes out with boy's friend. Boy wonders why, besides the physical attraction between the two. Girl and boy talk more, spend more time together than girl and boy's friend. Boy starts to fall for girl. Girl and boy's friend stop seeing each other. Boy and girl continue friendship, without crossing that line. Boy falls more. Boy tells girl of falling. Boy and girl don't discuss. Boy is tired of pointless emotional dystrophy, pointless hidden communications, pointless little tap dance games that entertain a small bit of his mind, but end up with avoidable confusion, frustration, and single-mindedness. Boy is tired of his own lack of ability to communicate without fear. Boy feels like he is fifteen again.

I sincerely believe Leonard Cohen is a mac-daddy. I wonder if he's ever been to Spain.

Boy can't be fifteen again, he has to be a mature neato 20-something guy who knows what's up and what's going down, pays the bills, and holds up that front well. Boy has no direction in his life at the time, and has an aching biting need to have someone with him who might pronounce their love. Boy finds it interesting that many of the people he knows hold the same feelings of super blahness, no direction, no inspiration, no content. Boy has felt girl grasp for that same safe feeling of love. Need perhaps.

We're wrestling with the notion that love is selfishness. That's not what it should be, but is. I think I've said that before sometime, but it's a valid, important belief so I'll say it again. No wonder romance novels sell so easily - high demand for a worthy emotion that's not fulfilled in three-dimensional world. Read mostly by married women. That's wacky.

That's ok, though. Everything is so candidly ok that it's silly. Worry is a myth. So I crave the ego satisfaction -- I know I do, wish I couldn't, and will hopefully work on relieving it, but there's absolutely no reason to stretch my soul on a poisoned balloon rack about it. No reason to smother my head in a plate of Kung Pao Chicken. Eat, drink, and be merry. Or be Mary -- whatever you wish.

Let's redefine a few words, shall we. I consider myself a savior. Though I don't think anyone should worship and follow me. I'm a savior if I somehow, in any of my babble, communicate something efficiently. Even more if the reader feels some kind of connection, understanding, thereby reassuring you's guys that you're not a wacko after all, that once again, everything is going to be alright. Uh huh.

And making someone smile is the all time gigantuan of soul satisfaction - absurdity is brilliance, send Kurt Vonnegut a muffin. Give Woody Allen some fancy wingtipped shoes. To experience the absurdity created by those and others -- even my mother sometimes -- and to think that I could induce the same feeling in other, that I felt through them, is beauty. Wrap me up in a pastry with confectionery sugar. Mmmm pastries. Don't you love happy endings?

Some critical analysis of the real world, as filtered through television. On VH1, a special on the Lilith Fair. It says this fair challenged "sexism in the music industry." I am not in the music industry, and so I accept uncritically the claim that until recently women have been entirely marginalized in the music industry, and apparently been exploited by men behind the scenes. According to this story, with rare exceptions it is only recently that women in the music industry have had any self-determination. Looking at the claim, though, that the Lilith Fair challenges this sexism. I accept the group's right to have an entirely female tour -- actually, only female led bands, with men working behind the scenes -- but the claim that reverse sexism is a "challenge" to sexism is just foolish. This does not challenge sexism, that being the idea that women and men are different. It merely showcases women, consciously as women.

But let us look at VH1's treatment of this. It says it challenges the common views of how women relate to each other, and cites Sheryl Crow saying people expect women to be competitive and catty. "Competitive", it seems to me, is a stereotype of men more than women, but I'll play with it. Preceding this claim, one of the Indigo Girls was describing the tour as "like summer camp." After the claim, emphasis is placed on a batch of cookies they were sharing. Lisa Loeb described them as smelling "like Barbie dolls." An Indigo Girl concurred. There followed a segment on make-up, with artists and a reporter discussing the emphasis placed on hair dos and eye shadow, and this atmosphere was described as "girlish".

Conclusion: To my mind, I don't know what the Lilith Tour did or did not do for women, stereotypes, or sexism, but VH1's review of it serves to perpetuate certain stereotypes at the expense of others, still emphasizing the "inherent" differences between women and men, and implying women's guiding interests are beauty tips and baking.

Incidentally, this reminds me of an episode I saw the other day of Home Improvement. Ordinarily, the treatment of sexism in this show is good. It is not "feminist" in the sense of Naomi Wolf and NOW, but it is sensitive to the values and distinctions of both genders, and covers concepts in Betsy Friedman, etc. This episode I had a problem with. I disagreed with the concepts expressed, probably because they were Desmond Morris's. The conclusion was that man is inherently promiscuous, desiring many mates, while woman is inherently monogamous. The claim woman is inherently monogamous is not very sound. While feminists like to attribute the insight to Elaine Morgan and other recent feminist scientists, the concept had already been said quite plainly in Schopenhauer and, I believe, de Gourmont. The real issue that should have been addressed is -- Wait, I'll describe the situation. The essence of the situation was that Tim "looked" at other women, and that this made Jill feel like an insufficient person because of this. At the instigation of Karen, a mutual friend, Tim agreed to try to go the evening -- which they spent at a restaurant -- without "looking" at other women. He didn't manage it, and they discussed it. She said that she was concerned she was no longer holding his attention, and he said she was primary interest for him, and the concepts of Desmond Morris were discussed. In my opinion, the underlying problem was woman's -- in this society -- chronic insecurity about her appearance. It is not that women do not notice men, but that the situation is expressed differently. Appearance should not be any more a means of judgment than, say, expertise in butterfly collection, or the ability to wiggle one's ears. They are facets of the individual, but ought not be universal, imprisoning concepts, and one ought not feel like less of a person or more of a person based solely on appearance -- or any other individual quality. But this was not addressed. Insecurity about appearance was accepted not just as present, but as acceptable, and the noticing of beauty in others targeted as the "problem".

I just finished transcribing the entries from last month I had written in my binder. I suppose now I can begin transcribing the notebooks from the summer. I don't know when I will start, much less finish, but I have one less excuse.

I finished Lafcadio's Adventures today. It was better in the last book than it had been in the others. The blurb on the back cover said it discussed Gide's concept of the motiveless crime. It did not, of course, because there is no such thing as a motiveless action, much less a motiveless crime. Any action has a motive, and where there is no motive, there is no action. This is axiomatic. What the back cover meant, I suppose, is a crime with a motive not within the bounds of the accepted assumptions of society. As far as that goes, I suppose it did deal with a "motiveless" crime, and I suppose The Counterfeiters might, too, when I get around to reading it. The motive, though, of committing an action so one can feel one has committed an action without a motive is still motivated; the selection of action may be relatively arbitrary, but the motive is not absent.

I suspect Gide knew this, even if his reviewers did not. In conversation, Julius -- I believe it was Julius, Lafcadio's half brother -- observes that this presumed free man, who is capable of committing a motiveless crime, is bound only by the first opportunity, and that is so. As the action itself is arbitrary, and the desire -- the motive -- exists to commit a crime without conscious motive, any crime that presents itself becomes obligatory given the strength of will of the actor.

But I suppose even if it was not obvious at the beginning, I have about beaten this topic to death. Perhaps the world translated "motive" from the French implies something different. In any case, much of this novel -- especially book five -- is Pessimistic. I liked it. I haven't finished any other books today, though. I got up late and spent a couple of hours driving Moonlight in the attempt to find his driver's license, and spent some time transcribing more from the chapter on Schopenhauer I am trying to get on my website.

I had dreams last night, but I can't remember them now. I ought to have written them down. About the only thing I remember now was when the alarm went off. I had turned it down too far, and it was a distant ringing. In my dream, I flew around the entire dreamworld, looking for what makes a sound like that. I searched the entire place -- when I awoke I realized I searched for six minutes in real life -- and found nothing, and eventually decided this sound did not come from anywhere, but must instead be an inherent reality in my world. The sound was not so much caused as it was in the nature of reality to be accompanied by this sound. Then, though, I woke up, which was fortunate, because that sound was irritating. As I said, though, I don't remember anything else from my dreams.

I can't sleep, so I finished the book on Keynes I picked up two or three days ago at Barnes and Noble. It is in the Oxford Past Masters series, and through a coincidence of names, sits on my politics shelf right next to the Oxford Past Masters on Marx. It was one of those books I could read a page, get distracted, and reread the entire page without even realizing it, but I suspect this was simply because the field is so foreign to me I had difficulty following it. M.C. said Keynes is no longer followed because his ideas didn't work. I don't see that as a useful statement, since in economics it seems more useful to me to discern between more or less useful models, but I suppose it is a useful distinction if one assumes a victory condition. In that sense, I suppose she is right from a microeconomic view. Keynes seems to have said microeconomics could not accurately predict due to uncertainty, although this book credits him with a lot of influence creating econometrics and the drive to gather statistics. In the macroeconomic sense, it is harder to tell. I knew Keynes had recently fallen out of favor, but also that, with Supply Side and Marxism, was for a long time one of the big three macroeconomic systems. I hear Neo-Classicism is in vogue these days, but I'm not sure what this means. I suspect Supply Siders and Neo-Classicists may actually be people who believe Say's Law isn't nonsense, but I'm not sure. I, personally, find it difficult to believe anyone believes it, but people believe some strange things. The book says Keynes theories have never been tried, but I can't say. I don't know enough yet. I don't buy much of what he says; he seems to be a reformist, and I generally don't buy reformists. In any case, it will give me some more things to think about.

Right now, I think I'll write about some notes I have on the back of the receipt I was using as a bookmark, before I lose it. I write a lot of things on scraps of paper which are subsequently lost, so let's see if we can make any sense of this.

My notes are even more difficult to make sense of than my handwriting, since I drift between catchwords and symbols, but let us pretend we are looking at pointillist art, and see what forms.

The first seems to be notes about greetings in France and the United States. My French instructor the second time I took the first semester -- Ms Stephanie D., if memory serves -- commented that one thing she found odd about America was that here we greet our friends every time we see them, whereas in France, one greets one's friend the first time they see them that day, and not subsequently. Personally, I don't recall noticing this, ever, but then I'm not big on greetings at all. This got me to thinking, though. Greetings are very much an "I'm here, are you still there" exchange. It is also an acknowledgement of worth, but I think the acknowledgement of presence is more primary. The repeated greetings here, then, might indicate a lessened surety that the person will be there next time. In other words, it is less expected that an American will see his friend again than that a Frenchman would. One wonders, though, why this should be. French culture has been more scarred by wars and the like, whereas America has been insulated. This would seem to disprove the argument that Americans are more afraid their friends will be killed. Perhaps Americans depend more on their friends, or perhaps the French are more resigned to the idea of losing their friends. I can't say for sure; again, it is more to think about.

My next note says: "Girl in IHOP." I know what that means, but I imagine in another twenty-four hours finding this note I would be as confused as anyone else. What it refers to is from last night. While looking for Moonlight's driver's license, we went by IHOP. When we got there, we had to wait to speak to the waitress while two girls paid. When we got there, I could see in profile the girl closest to me. She was a blonde, with short hair. She was wearing a blouse and a long, straight skirt. I can see these in my mind but, as usual, cannot describe even the colors. The details swirl in my memory. I don't remember her as an objective reality, but rather remember my impressions of her. In regards to my impressions, what she looked like is much less of interest -- to me -- than what her appearance made me feel.

This relates to something else I had been thinking about lately. I referred to it the other day when I questioned where I think beauty to be, but I find this better expressed in the question of where is pleasure. I will take an example: Say that I am kissing a girl. My opinion of whether I enjoyed this -- whether it was a "good kiss" -- says nothing about the kiss, much less the girl. The thing, the only thing, the statement "That was a good kiss" expresses is that my internal sense-experience, during this kiss, was something I consider pleasurable, or desirable, or whatever system I am using to examine the text of my life. Granted, the kiss provides data for this -- whether I enjoy the technique, for example; in my own case, the degree of yielding, etc. Also, the girl influences it. Whether one is "in love" influences one's sense-experience. If one is, for example, in the process of a rape, the anxiety may make one enjoy it less, or the thrill of the forbidden may make one enjoy it more, or both. What it comes down to, though, is these are influences, not determinants. At bottom, one chooses whether or not to enjoy a kiss, or rather to define a kiss as having been enjoyed. There is no "pleasure" "in the world", but only the "pleasure" we subjectively choose to create, whether intentionally or by default.

This is not, of course, by any means an original thought. In a way, it is a restatement of Schopenhauer's explanation that there is no good anywhere, but that what we desire -- or rather what the will as objectified in us desires -- we arbitrarily consider good. I'm sure the pedigree is much older.

This is, though, a digression. I was going to have a much more realist conversation.

I was struck by her beauty. (See, I lapse again into convention. If I was being precise, I would say something like, "I was struck by the way the relationship between the external stimulus of her appearance -- as I understood it -- interrelated with my prejudices, causing me to consider her 'beautiful'," or something equally cumbersome. I hope my faithful reader by this point knows full well everything I say is subjective.) She was not perfect, by any means. She was not the kind that brings on heart attacks, or which one would sever one's arm for a chance at. She was more than pleasantly attractive, however, and my mood was elevated seeing her. It didn't really occur to me for some time afterwards that my watching her could easily have been taken as rude at best, or threatening at worst. I enjoyed, however, the way she looked, and the pitch of her voice -- which I suppose I, as a feminist, should feel ashamed for, as I have had it explained to me that it is at least the opinion of the Japanese feminists that high pitched voices are signs of subjection to male dominance, and the effort to make oneself attractive by sounding childlike and vulnerable. I got to wondering what her companion looked like, both to see if her friend was as attractive, and to see if my subjective experience was skewed and I was seeing her as attractive more qua female than qua her. When she moved, though, I could see that I found her companion noticeably not attractive. Perhaps not unattractive; I can't really say now, but noticeably not attractive.

I'm afraid my next note is incomprehensible. It says, merely, "interesting." It is in quotes, so I wager I was going to talk about the word, but I don't know what I was going to say. Was it someone that looks interesting, in keeping with the last story? Or something that is interesting? Perhaps the value of being interesting, or how we define something as being interesting? Interesting as this discussion may be, I don't know where it was supposed to go, and I have one more note, so I'll move on.

This one is not more explicit -- "opinions" -- but it is more helpful. I remember what I was going to talk about here. I remember one of the questions on that questionnaire on Silence dealt with me, and one of the answers was "He has opinions on things I have never even heard of." I picked this one, so I remember it, and I thought it was an amusing paradox, saying that I have opinions on things I have never heard of. Like all paradoxes, it only seems to contradict itself, and that amuses me. I didn't think much of it, though. Then, this summer, M.C. commented approvingly that I am interesting -- there that word is again -- and one of the reasons was because I have opinions on many things. I thought this very odd. I don't think opinions are good things. I don't mean, of course, they are bad things. I think they are neutral. The way I see it, one has to be pretty out of it to not have opinions. They may be unformed. They may be parroted. They may even be stupid. They are opinions, though. Perhaps also I am influenced by old elementary school work, where we distinguished between facts and opinions. I also always considered a "fact" to have some objective worth, while an "opinion" was only, well, an opinion. Even an idea, which is equally subjective -- in the non-Platonic sense of the word -- seems to have more value, being closer to original. But I notice other places, too, consider opinions to be good. I still find it very odd, but I suspect if I explained why, I would just repeat myself again. I seem to be running out of steam. I'll move on.

In church the other day, maybe New Year's Eve, aka the feast day of Mary, Mother of God, I did an uncharacteristically bold thing. I smiled and said hello to someone. Granted, it was S.L., who I have known for about a decade now, but also, it was S.L., who I have known for about a decade now. She didn't speak to me first, and as I walked towards the exit of the church, I caught her eye, smiled, and said hello. She, too, smiled and said hello. Then -- I say "then" as if it followed, but I was thinking this before, during, and after -- I wondered what the effects of my actions would be. Rather, I suppose, I mean "could be". I know rationally that this will be mere data. If she remembers it at all, I will be merely another guy who said hello to her. It is more interesting to think what could be.

For one thing, she is several years younger than me, but by no means too young. Indeed, she must be about seventeen or eighteen. But her mother was right by, and so far as I know she is still in high school. One of both of them may find this suspect. I also know -- though I don't much like -- her boyfriend. If my attention was seen as affection, this could cause problems. On the other hand, if we pretended this was possible, she could return the affection, or, more likely, be flattered by it. This could equally cause complications, but likely will not, as I don't plan to ever speak to her again, at least not of my own volition. From this simple action, though, it is interesting to spin out fantasies of all the potentialities and problems that could result. I have about spun out my interest, though, and so I suppose I'll drop it and go shower or read to play in the highway or something.

It may finally have happened. I may now be functionally blind. I was reading, and all of a sudden, my vision lost an area. Not the periphery, either, but just right-down of center. Indeed, as I write, I cannot see my pencil, and only part of my hand. I can't see what I write, but only a few centimeters behind.

At first, it looked like I had damaged my retina by staring into a bright light, only (1) I hadn't, and (2) it has not gone away, and it has been ten or more minutes. Now it looks like a floating thing, covering maybe ten or fifteen degrees of vision. (That is an estimate. It's location makes measuring it problematic.) Watching it against various backgrounds, I see it looks like a band of color, woven. It looks like a stripped electrical wire, with varicolored plastic wrapping over the copper. Or, it looks like I would imagine it would look like if someone cut open their eyeball exposing the rods, only being on the inside looking out, I am seeing what should be on the outside looking in.

I see it the same whether I use my left eye, my right eye, or both. It is there when I close my eyes, and remains when I take off my glasses. I can read only around it, which means I have to hold the book towards the periphery of my vision and yet concentrate on it, ignoring the thing, which makes my headache worse. The fact it was sudden and in both eyes makes me worry it is actually a mental problem, something in the wiring between eyes and brain. God willing, it will go away, but this is the most frightened I have been in a long time. I was positioning my book, trying to make sense of the words, and holding back tears.

I seem to have back full vision, at least in the center of my range. At the worst of the episode, I had lost near total vision in my right eye, and the center of the left. At least, that was the way it looked. By the time the peripheral vision started getting that bad, I was neglecting my observations, and just sinking practically into shock. I told Mom I think I'm going blind. Even with my sense of humor I wouldn't joke about that, and she seemed able to tell. This scares me worse than anything else, even though I have expected to go blind for a long time now.

"I am going blind." Can you even begin to imagine how terrifying that is? To actually lose one's vision, even temporarily? (Provided, of course, one did not know it was temporary. I mean terror, not discomfort.) For me, everything that is real is in writing. I read and I write. If I lose a field of vision like that, I will be incapable of continuing on as me. I will have to exist, if at all, only in the past. The only thing I could hope for then would be that the blindness was caused by a brain tumor, or some similarly fatal malady. Maybe Mom is right, and maybe it is just strain from overusing my eyes -- or my mind. I seem to waste so much time, though, I find it hard to believe this. I sleep a lot. I drive, and that is relaxing. I watch some TV and play on the computer some. I suspect it might be hysterical, though I don't know what would have caused an onset now. I guess I'll have to wait, and see what plays out.

America Online is a diverse, large and extremely interesting subculture. There are several parts of AOL, of which there are several different features. To understand all of AOL would take a long time -- too long to be on AOL. Thus, this study is only in reference to certain portions of the large society of America Online. This study will be extremely long as it will include lists of places to go on AOL, transcripts from Chat Rooms, and other evidence of the craziness that is America Online.

When you log into AOL you are greeted by a welcome screen that includes your mailbox, and the nice voice, "Welcome! You've got Mail!" The screen also includes various links to sections of interest in America Online. The next screen that appears is called Channels. This is a large list of links to the biggest and most popular parts of America Online. This list of channels has on it the following sections:

AOL Today
News
Sports
Entertainment
Influence
Travel
International
Personal Finance
Workplace
Computing
Research & Learn
Internet
Games
Shopping
Interests
Health
Lifestyles
People Connection
Families
Kids Only
Local

Of course, this list is ever changing and I'm sure that the next time I log on it will be different.

One of the important parts of AOL is the ever-popular chat sections. These are listed as "People Connection" under the lists of channels (see above). To understand the chat rooms, one must first understand the way the rooms are set up. There are divisions in the chat rooms. First you have what is called the "Public" chat rooms. These are open to everyone and have various general names. Then there are the "Private" chat rooms. These are open to everyone, however you must know the names. It gives you a place to type in the name of the chat room that you wish to enter. If it is not already in use, then it is created and you are the only one in there. Next there are "Member" rooms. These are listed, unlike the private rooms, but like the private rooms you can create your own. These are usually more specific and personalized, as they are created by members. And finally there are the Featured Chat rooms. These are set up where there is usually someone famous or a topic thats in the news with an expert on stage who answers and talks about whats going on.

When you choose to chat you are thrown into one of the hundreds of lobbies. Its very difficult to get into Lobby 666 though because hundreds of little kids want to be there. If you pick a public room, or a member for that matter, there comes a lists of types of rooms which in turn have several rooms in them. The types that exist for public and member rooms are Town Square, Arts and Entertainment, Friends, Life, News Sports and Finance, Places, Romance, Special Interests, German, The UK experience, France, Canada, and Japan. If you pick Member than you can go and create a room in any of the areas or pick a room someone created. Inside of Town Square in the public rooms are some of the more popular rooms to talk, they are Best Lil Chathouse, The Breakfast Club, Friends of Bill W, KTU Late Night Chat, Online Games Help, Sunrise Diner, The Meeting Place, The Saloon, and Tips and Tricks. If the rooms fill up there is an alternate one created, such as The Saloon 2.

One wonders exactly what the ages of the people are in the rooms, so I decided to take a poll. It is not uncommon when in a chat room for someone to call an age/sex check, where everone gives a response such as 18/m or 14/f. I did this in four rooms, here are the responses I recieved.

What exactly do they talk about in these rooms? Well I made a copy of one conversation in a room called the Red Dragon Inn which is a sort of RPG- talk place where they demonstrate actions by colons. You'll see.

So you can see that in these rooms they talk about absolutley nothing. Then what is so damn appealing? I don't know. I just don't know.

On AOL one recieves lots of junk mail, people taking advantage of these idiots, I recieved the following "chain e-mail" and since have recieved many more like it.

It's safe to say that I did not send out any letters. My life has not been a living hell, it's just been hellish but it was just as bad before I received this. The person I've been "crushing" on hasn't approached me, but then again, I'm not exactlly sure how to "crush" on someone.

On AOL there is a thing called an Instant Message (IM for short), a way to send quick messages to friends. After filling out a profile, I unfortunetly was bombarded with IMs. I wrote on the profile that I lived in Austin and went to school. Every time I logged on I received hundreds of IMs saying "Which college do you go to?" or "Which high school?" or "Do you know Jan Jenkins?" or "Austin sure is nice, huh?". I quickly changed my profile to not have the city or the school part as well as taking off anything of interest to anybody. I've recieved sickening IMs about some guy who went over to some other guys house and "sucked him off" and met people that know people at my school, but it was just too much.

21 August, give or take. After 0100. I'm back in Eamon Doran's. I haven't been in a bar in some time, but as soon as I stepped in, with the loud Irish music blasting, I started to feel better.

I knew if I stayed at home, drinking alone, I'd go crazy. I'd get too depressed to do anything but weep. At least the rain washed the tears off my face, but I still got an uncharacteristic ask if I was okay from the bartender.

We've been breaking up now in earnest more than a year. Fourteen months, at least. You'd think I'd had the knack by now. But, no. Every time I think I've got it, she pulls something, and I fall back in love.

I thought at least by the time we started fucking again we were back together. Guess not.

I know another lover would be a distraction. I know it. But I need that distraction. I can't go on loving her this intensely my whole life.

I drank down a couple of glasses of water before I left. I hope I don't get sick here. At least I have my notepad. She said to call her if I needed her, but she was too tired. And, besides, she is the cause of my problems, eh?

I remember one television show: "Women, eh? You can't live with them ..." Pauses. "Got any more beer nuts?"

Ain't it the truth? Except I've never been in a bar with beer nuts, whatever they are. But I digress...

I'm a failure. I know that. The fucking messed up thing is that, even if I weren't, I wouldn't get her back.

She thinks I'm not a failure; just unproven, or something. I know better. I fucking know better.

I'm the best thing that ever happened to her. I might have saved her fucking life. But she doesn't need me anymore. I need her, but she doesn't need me. So, I'm in a bar, getting sick, while it rains like there's no tomorrow, and fucking missing her.

"So when you think of me, crack a beer and smile. Hey, life's a bitch, and then you die."

She says I should write when I'm drunk. MC says I need to write like I do when I'm drunk. Well, I'm drunk now, and I still suck. What's the point in even feeling these feelings, let alone writing about them?

Fuck honesty. Happiness lives on lies, and what else is there to live for? Or die for?

Tomorrow, I'll be hung over in the warehouse. Tomorrow night, I'll try to pack, with another six pack of Killian's I bought today and maybe even her, who will just break my heart again. I wish I could get drunk enough to kill her. Get her out of everyone's life, everyone's bed, use her up like she used me up. Like a spent commodity, a wasted piece of property.

Bad metaphors. Marx meets Goethe. Fuck the proletariat; I want to die in the Revolution.

Texas. What's for me there? I Wish My Name Were Nathan misses me. I Wish My Name Were Nathan won't go to bed with me. I Wish My Name Were Nathan won't fill my heart. E.? She's probably bourgeois by now. An.? We're in different worlds. Six years later, and Br.'s probably still a wet dream. Jujube? She fell in love. I can't replace whoever it was. S.?

I've chewed out A. for speaking poorly of her. I've been chewed out by Dad for being with her.

God! She's as proletarian as they come, but I don't want to end up with her, even if I could, which I can't!

So, who? I hate being alone. I don't even have a friend to go back to, much less a lover.

But, what holds me to New York? MC is a friend, but no doubt she's getting sick of me. I feel I'm wearing my welcome thin.

(The bartender offered me food. I wonder if I look as drunk as I feel. Which is, by the way, enough drunk to cope, but not enough to fall off the stool. As Mom said, "An Irishman isn't drunk if he can hold on to the grass and not fall off the world.")

As I was saying, I think I need to move on. New York isn't far enough away. I have one friend left here, and one in Louisiana, but no lover, and I'm less and less sure of my friends.

C. took Kilgore. He helped me through a lot. Can I look to I Wish My Name Were Nathan? He wouldn't understand, but maybe he could listen. Kidknee? But we have been apart too long. I might as well say Dancing Messiah, Mi. or Ultrasuede. At least they would understand. I don't know what Kidknee has been through.

And why am I writing? So I have something to do. The bartender is trying to clean around me. I'm practically alone in here. And, suddenly, I feel the warmth drunkenness is supposed to bring.

Now I've stream-of-consciousnessed through almost six of these little pages, and said nothing.

My family. That's about it. She didn't know about the college situation in my family. How no one but my mother finished degrees right out of high school. How I have to stay in for my family. It's none of her damn business. She dealt herself out of my family. It needs to become opaque to her again.

You're my friend if I tell you about my lovers, but I really love you if I tell you about my family. Virtually no one knows about them. She does. And MC. But not even Harlequin or Kilgore.

Half of me wants to find a bar in Austin; half of me wants to dry out. I wonder who will win.

(I keep starting my words in the middle, and writing them backwards and then forwards. If I knew how to spell it, I'd say I'm dyslexic.)

I still have half my drink, and I'm at the point I should stop. But I won't. I'll just slow down.

Now, I'm alone at one end of the bar, almost alone in the bar. The radio sings about the day the music died, and the bathroom is broken. I'm about drunk enough to sleep without dreams, and get up without them, too.

All is the present. Now I lie; now I die. There is no difference in these statements, same emphasis.

I'll double my tip. Two dollars; almost fifty percent. And I just sit here, have one beer, write, and have a couple of smokes. I cost no one anything; I gain no one anything. I am superfluous.

And in four days, I go back to Texas, and suppress all my feelings, and deal again with the world in the way I know: Without dealing.

I don't keep a diary. But, like Clockwork, sometimes I've found myself wishing I did. I guess I figured that I could look back years later and figure out stuff about myself that I was too blind and stupid to realize then. With a diary, I could relive past events, never to forget the essential moments of my life and the life lessons that I learned. After all, these events made me who I am today.

I don't keep a diary because I'm lay-zee. That's right. Besides, I've got something better than a diary, and that's my dream journal. I've decided to select a few entries over the past year so that you, the reader, can take a peek at what goes on in my head at night. Any armchair psychologists (or professional ones, for that matter) are encouraged to write in and analyze the dreams.

One note about the format that these dreams are written in. The way I keep my dreams recorded is through email, sending them out to a select group of friends and then saving them for posterity. They are usually written right after I wake up, are very informal, and are composed hastily so I can get down as much as possible before the dream starts to dematerialize. If you were expecting Pulitzer Prize exposition, well, what the hell are you reading this zine for, anyway?

All names have been removed to protect the innocent. After all, who wants to have nasty rumors spread about them because of my dreams? I didn't think so.

i'm standing next to a tree in a large field. it's an apple tree. i'm standing next to it, holding a small video camera in one hand, like i'm filming the tree but not looking through the camera. i can see my reflection on an apple, showing that i've got my purple sunglasses on. i can also see the reflections of two small oriental girls dressed in midieval japanese garb dancing. they both have long pigtails.

that's the whole dream. there's some music playing, but i can't remember what it was.

well, okay, that's not exactly the whole dream. later it turns out that the tree is later used in an advertisement for some chainsaw company, which shows this woodcutter who cuts through the tree, but the ground falls out from underneath him. he hangs on to one of the branches and then falls away. then the company's logo comes up and they say something stupid like, "we just make damn good chainsaws, not the laws of physics." but that occurred after the first scene was long and done with. the two girls were gone. so was i.

fucking fucking strange. wish i could remember what that damn song sounded like. forgetting music is starting to become a theme in my dreams.

okay. finally had a worthwhile dream to tell you guys about. this one involved lots of celebrities.

so i'm at this concert. sitting in the audience. about twenty rows back. anyway, while the band is playing, the dream's shots are kinda like a music video, going around the band, switching between members, etc. etc. i guess it coulda been an astral projection, and i ACTUALLY WAS at a concert last night, BUT....

...i seriously, i mean fucking seriously, doubt the travelling wilburies were playing with tim burton.

yeah, that's right. tim burton had a guitar and was playing along with the wilburies. petty, orbison, harrison, wylde, and ringo? isn't he the fifth one? anyway, they're doing all the standard guitar antics (getting in a line and moving forward one foot at a time, running around doing kicks), and then for some reason everybody goes into this "everybody solo" mode. jeff wylde is spinning around on the ground while tom petty is signing wylde's guitar. then burton runs over, grabs wylde's guitar, and HURLS it into the audience. everything gets silent as the guitar hurtles thru the air. i watch it's spinning flight as it hits somebody about five rows in front of me. like, there's a head and shoulders visible, and the next second nothing.

then, after a couple of moments, she sits up and waves, unharmed. everyone claps. i THEN recognize her as the wife of my old director at the state health department, the one from my old church who got me the job (and is a pretty nice guy, too). so, anyway, the husband (g-----) gets up and walks towards the back of the theatre, apparently to get something for his wife. i wave at him, and he waves at me and keeps on walking.

so, next on stage is nancy griffith. for those of you who don't know who she is, she is a local austin folk singer with beaucoups of albums. i don't own any. but the way she comes on stage is quite strange -- first tim burton walks out into the middle of the stage, and then he turns into nanci griffith. like a really damn good cgi fx shot.

now the dream's view is just nanci's face in front of a blue background. she's singing something from hamlet, probably one of the sililoquies. it's dark and depressing. anyway, she starts getting real wrinkly, and she starts looking real old while she is singing. i notice her eyes have strange heiroglyphs going around the pupils that i can't read. her eyes also look weird, like they're about to pop out, kinda like when the hooded guy in flash gordon gets thrown on the spikes (even though his DID pop out).

then nancy griffith proceeds to turn into a snake, bobbing up and down and singing this shakespeare stuff. she finishes, and i am glad.

the wilburies come back out, more subdued this time, sans tim. dunno what happened to the snake. maybe she went to get cast in that damn anaconda movie that's coming out. but i digress.

[pseudo-sexual happenings ahead. be forewarned. and now, clockwork, this was not a wet dream, so don't even THINK of asking that tired question. for those of you unfamiliar with that dream, i was dryhumped by a cat that had somehow gotten into my dorm room. Clocky keeps insisting that it had to have been a wet dream.]

so now i'm kinda reading message forums on isca on the laptop i somehow acquired and brought to the venue. well, maybe laptop isn't a good word. how about a kaypro luggable with the five inch wide screen and two 360k drives? yeah, i was using that. weird. anyway, isca gets boring, and apparently the wilburies aren't holding my interest since they're not being the wild men they could be in their fifties. so i look around.

sitting next to me is a woman. she's in her early thirties, and the sense i get from her dress is "professional working woman who is relaxing at a concert tonight." she's very attractive, and then i notice a small child sitting in the seat next to her. kids suck, so i go back to fucking around on isca.

anyway, the travelling wilburies are playing, and i'm trying to tell someone on isca how the wilburies are the ugliest band i've ever seen, and i feel a head on my shoulder. it's the woman.

i think, "gee, this is kinda nice," so i put away the laptop and lean back and kinda just enjoy her head on my shoulder for awhile. somehow i've got my feet on top of hers and she's kinda moving them around. THEN i close my eyes and i stand up, and i'm standing on top of her feet which are in midair. don't ask me how. then i worry that i might be crushing her feet, so i sit back down and open my eyes.

so, basically the rest of the dream is just this cuddle thing. hold hands, listen to the music, shuffle the feet around.

so then, towards the end of the concert, she tries to kiss me, which i don't mind. so she starts to kiss me, pulls back, and asks, "what's wrong?"

and THEN something made me wake up so i couldn't find out what was wrong, or if the kid was hers, or what she even did for a living that gave her that really strong "professional women" aura.

plus, when i woke up, my legs were totally numb and i had to lie there for awhile before i could get up.

jeez. i must be on a goddamn roll. and if this pattern continues, well... weird... of course, this time, uh, well... just read.

so, i'm like walking down this country road in the middle of nowhere, and this gray minivan drives by. some middle-aged, thin, scrawny, balding man is driving it. he goes down, this hill, there's this loud crash, and then this, uh, contraption comes up over the hill.

i need to describe this contraption. it's like built from parts of the minivan that crashed, though it was built REALLY REALLY fast, i guess, since the crash occured one second and the next this thing comes up the hill.

the old guy is driving it. well, kinda. like, it's got one minivan wheel (kinda like a unicycle) but instead of pedals, there's a beam coming off the main pole with the spare attached to it. he spins the spare with his hands to power the bottom wheel. it's weird.

anyway, he stops next to me and i accidentally roll down the hill. well, it's not a very big hill, only about six feet high. i start to climb up, and he says, "no, let me save you." he pulls out a piece of wire and attaches a bar to it and attempts to turn the spare tire into a pulley of some sort so he can throw the bar down and i can grab it and then he can pull me up.

i look around, and there's this old farmhouse a few yards away i never noticed before. i figure it's gonna take this guy a long time to perfect his saving device, and since he won't let me walk up the hill and be on my way, i decide to go into the farmhouse.

i go in, and it's a lot bigger on the inside then on the outside. and that's when the nightmarish-type part of it comes in. it's kinda like "clash of the titans" with medusa slinking around, but all you see is her shadow moving along the wall. this girl is reciting some poem about tearing into my flesh and eating me whole, and i start trying to find a way out, but i get lost in the big house.

finally, i just give up and stand in the middle of the room i'm in, which is a study. there's a fire burning in the oven even though it's not cold outside. the girl drags herself into the room cuz she's got no legs. i recognize her as the blonde-haired girl (uh, nicole sullivan, i think... why the hell do i know that?) from MAD TV. then she laughs and says that that whole scare routine is to scare away the lesser men because she only wants the ones who aren't afraid of women.

afterwards, she smokes a cigarette and says i have to leave so she can have fun with the next male that happens her way.

so, i'm in book people, looking around at books. this is what i normally do when i go there. anyway, somehow i discover a secret passageway behind one of the bookshelves, and somehow i KNOW that this is a secret passageway to the playboy mansion. i go trapsing along the hallowed halls to hugh hefner's house when i realize that i parked in the parking garage, and if i didn't get my car out of there, it would be locked up and i'd never make it home.

i turn around and exit the passageway, except i'm in some other part of austin. damn mazes of twisty passages, all alike. anyway, clockwork and nathan show up, and i tell them that i need to get my car out of the bookpeople garage, and then we can all go to the playboy mansion.

right as i'm saying this, a family (husband, wife, two teenage daughters) walks by and overheards us. the father, who kinda looks like fred goldman without the handlebar mustache, says, "you know how to get to the playboy mansion? we'll take you there!" the family seems really happy to be able to go. there's too many of us to get into one car, so clockwork and nathan and the parents get into clockwork's ford probe, and me and the two teenage girls get into the other car. we all take off, and the girl that is driving cannot drive worth crap. i was scared, cuz she was swerving all along the road, apparently not being able to keep the car in one lane. it was worse than the dream i had where ansat was driving on the wrong side of the road cuz "that's how you kill people."

it appears that i'm at a convention of some sort. i'm not really sure what type of convention, but there are tables all along the walls of this huge auditorium with various groups hawking their various ideologies. i end up meandering up to one of them which happens to turn out to be some fundie christian group. the man, dressed spiffily in a three piece suit, asks me, "if you, as a good, moral christian, could get rid of any one group of people on earth, who would that be?" i replied, "probably fundie christians like you." he gave me a miffed look and i said, "no, just kidding. actually, i would probably get rid of all the preachers."

now i sensed a crowd gathering behind me. i started to make a speech about how each individual had the right to interpret the bible as he saw fit, and no one was supposed to do that for him. probably would have been a better argument for liber al vel legis. anyway, this speech turned into a state of the union type deal, where i would say a few phrases, and then people would clap. throughout this whole speech, i couldn't see anything.

after i finished the speech, i had an epileptic seizure. in the dream, not in real life.

i woke up at nathan's house, and clockwork and me and nathan went outside to smoke a cigarette. i asked clockwork what he thought of the speech, and he started making fun of me, saying that when the seizure was starting to set in, i was having trouble pronouncing words, like "vigilenth."

in this dream, i'm married, although not to the arab woman that i was married to a while back in another dream. we also have a child of around 4 or 5 years old. daughter. female. pigtails.

we're walking down the drag on new year's eve in the afternoon, but it feels like summer. we walk past metro, and i can see c--- (a worker) inside, but the sign on the door says they are closed for the day. we decide to hop in the car and go driving.

for some reason, guadelupe (the street which we are on) doesn't continue past mojo's... it leads right out onto some highway. we drive down this for awhile, hit a small town, drive through, and then hit a wall of smoke. we figure it's a fire, so we turn around and start driving through town again. the girl wants something to drink, so i stop at a convenience store.

inside, it's chaos. little kids are running around everywhere. there's a long line. i grab a few sodas and wait in line. when i realize that there aren't any workers at the cash register, i go up and start taking people's money and ringing their sales up. the manager finally comes in (she looks like the red-headed, thick-glasses wearing, poisoned-spike boots spy from from russia with love.) she takes some snapshots of me with a camera, drops it, and says, "i'll be back for you." then she runs off.

i take the camera, wonder how the pictures turned out, and go into the back of the store. there just happens to be a darkroom. i develop the pictures, and they came out okay. then i hear a commotion outside, and the manager is back, armed with an ak47. she fires some shots and pulls the chain gate that protects the store down. i barely jump under it in time. when i look around, i realize they've kidnapped my wife. i should have known the pictures were a diversion.

i take my daughter and we drive back down to the drag. we park and get out, and see ru----- and r---- outside. now, however, we are being followed by c---- b-----, d----- p----- (georgetown folx from high school) and natilie merchant (famous recording artist). i tell ru-----, "man, we're being followed, and we need you to help us fight them." ru----- replies, "what, you want to fight out here in the open? you'll have your own KENT ALLEY!" i'm still not sure what that's a reference to.

ru----- leads us down an alley to a corral. we're all sitting on the wooden beams, me and my daughter and r---- and ru----- on one side, natalie merchant, d-----, c----, and my wife on the other. i tell natalie, who is the head of the other side, to give me back my wife. she starts in on this monologue about something i can't remember. c---- and d----- apparently want to beat my ass, but have to wait for the orders from ole tigerlily herself. so, they start beating up on each other. c---- gets a little too involved in his work, cuz d----- starts screaming, "hey, man, stop, you're gonna take my nose off." too late, cuz c---- kinda pulls the nose off revealing a snout underneath. d----- falls off the beam onto the ground. c---- jumps down and tries to lift him up, but d----- protests, "no, don't or my brain will fall out." c---- doesn't listen and pulls. d-----'s face comes off, revealing the face of a dog, kinda like mcgruff the crime dog, and his brain and spine fall on the ground. his brain doesn't have any curves on it. he lets out one "woof" and expires. c---- starts to cry and holds d-----.

yeah, so i'm sitting in my new testament class. apparently we are going to watch a film or something. l------ (a girl in my class) sits up against the back wall of the room in between desks, kinda like we did in high school. anyway, clockwork shows up in the class, and he sits in the desk in front of me. the professor (er, preacher in professor's clothing) starts the film, and apparently clockwork and i have already seen it. we jet.

we end up at metro. but it's not the metro we know. for one thing, it's in belton (yeah, i shoulda realized that it was a dream). the inside is the same, but the front is kinda like mojo's and they have picnic tables out front. so we go upstairs after procuring our coffees (after all, clockwork is now drinking coffee). we sit around, shoot the shit, etc. etc. clockwork has to go do something, so we decide to meet back here at 7:00pm. it was like 11:30 or something. so i decide to drive to austin and go to CHURCH. i have NO idea why, all i know is i went, saw my mother there, said something to her, she said something back, and i drove back. it was around 6pm now. weird time displacement. anyway, i go into the coffeehouse to wait for clockwork. as i'm passing the picnic table, my roommate and his father and grandfather are sitting there. i say hello, and they invite me to sit with them. i accept, and then all three of them start berating me for not ever complaining to the people next door who play their music too loud every now and again. i try to explain that it's really nothing to get upset about, but they won't listen. i get up and go inside. clockwork shows up later, we talk some more, and then we leave.

next day. nathan and i are now attending UT. we decided we needed bikes to get to class, so i borrowed styx's. nathan, naturally, rode his own. we go to our first class, leave, and head toward the bikes on the rack. while i'm unchaining my bike, some girl comes over and we starting talking. as i have never ridden a bike around campus, it is totally natural for me to walk towards my next class and talk with this girl. when we depart ways after about 45 seconds, i remember the bike, remember i unchained it, and race back. it's gone. stolen. i'm panicking, thinking styx is gonna beat the bloody hell outta me for getting his nice bike stolen. i race down the street looking for someone riding his bike. no luck.

nightfall. i'm still searching. riots have broken out across UT for no good reason. i walk past a parked white van which has its back doors open. i peer inside and see three people huddled around a guy lying on the floor. he looks like he's begging for his life, and the two men and one woman are screaming things at him. "i can't believe you did that to her." "what kind of man are you?" "you evil bastard" etc. etc. then, they put this huge rock (say, a foot in diameter) inside a binder and slammed it down on the guy's head. i usually don't get nauseated in my dreams, but hearing the crack of the bone and watching the guy's head go flat really got to me. i woke up. i still remember that damn sound.

okay. the latest line of "let's fuck with kilgore" has been insinuating that i have a) incestuous relationships with my sister, all thanks to clockwork's wacko dream, and b) that i have fucked my dog. neither of these is true, but it appears the dogfuck meme has decided to invade my dreamworld. let's hope that doesn't happen with the other one.

but it doesn't exactly start with any dogfucking. actually, there is NO dogfucking, just dogflirting (not done by me). and no, clockwork, this was not a wet dream.

the dream starts off with me at a drenched UT. for those of you who were at UT last night, you know what that looks like. for those of you who weren't, well, just picture a big college campus after rain. for those of you who were out looking for your monkeys, feh.

i go inside the union building carrying a vcr and a laptop computer. i am supposed to be recording some television show for my sister, and i decide to use those little information televisions for my task. i rip out part of the wall, hook the contraption up, and apparently it works. i get lots of strange looks since i'm sitting in the middle of the hallway, partially blocking the entrance to the men's bathroom, with wiring and what not going all over the floor. that task accomplished, i head home. don't ask what show. knowing that my sister wanted it recorded, it most likely sucked.

i head home, give the tape to my sister, and hear my dog barking from the backyard wanting to be let in. i open the screen door, and instead of running inside, it stands on its hindlegs, and puts its front paws on my arms. she cocks her head to the side, makes some weird purr sound, and i can tell she is on the make. i decline the offer, namely by pushing her away from me. she swiftly changes into a nude stephanie seymour, speaks to me "oh, kevin, you want me, i want you, etc etc" and then changes back to the dog.

i repeat this EXACT SAME SCENE about seven times. sometimes the dog's face resembles that of a deer.

then i woke up. or i thought i woke up. turns out i was in the dream still. i look at the clock, go back to sleep. then i woke up. or i thought i woke up. i look at the clock, go back to sleep. then i woke up. or i thought i woke up. i look at the clock and go back to sleep. this repeats for a while.

then i really wake up, am dead tired, and want to go back to sleep but get up and go to class. and my whole face was numb, even my tongue. that's fucked up.

btw, last night i remember in some other dream that i obtained lucidity and found it extremely boring. must have been because everything looked like blocky appleii graphics in that dream and i wasn't going to have any of that.

okay. apparently i'm eating lunch at the student union building. for some reason i have brought my stereo along with me, and i'm playing frente's labour of love ep. while i'm eating, i can hear a group of people who are obviously annoyed with my music, so i turn it down. they then yell at me to turn it down after i already have. i just keep staring quizically ahead, and they make remarks about what a doofus i am. i distinctly remember one of them referring to me as "the guy with the spore sticker on the stereo," but i could never see a spore sticker on the radio. (for those of you who don't know, spore is a boston punk band that is now broken up. fuck me i'm god.)

so, i go into some backroom of the SUB after i finish eating, leaving my nice stereo behind (it's a christian campus, NOTHING gets stolen here, yeah, uh-huh.) it turns out that clockboy has gotten a promotion, and a new office, and that new office is a room in the SUB. i can see clockwork right now, reading this, groaning at the fact that he probably wouldn't consider that a good promotion. never fear. you weren't around. but your computer was, so i messed around on it a bit, even though i don't really remember what i did on it.

i leave clockwork's office and find myself in my grandparent's house (my mom's side, not the set that in the coolio stalker dream told me not to drink the american cheese wine cuz it would make me felch.) one of my uncles is there, my grandfather, and so is tracey walter (he played miller in repo man [1]. if that doesn't ring a bell, how about bob the good from the first batman movie?) actually, tracey was in the garage, cuz we heard a loud crash out there, and we run out, and my car is parked in the garage, and tracey has run into my car on his riding lawn mower, smashing in the back corner of my car. i am not happy. we move the car out onto the driveway to get a better look, and as tracey is trying to manuever the lawnmower into the garage to park it, he hits the front corner as well.

tracey comes up to me and says, "i hope you're not too pissed at me." "pissed at you," i respond. "how could i be pissed when i am the only person i know of whose car has been hit by a riding lawnmower TWICE IN ONE DAY!?!!!" then i unloaded on him. then i apologized, and we all decided to go get some tools to fix the car. as we're crossing the street to get to my uncle's car, these two security-looking guards pop out of the bushes next to the car and draw guns. i think, "oh shit, what's going on?" they seem to be motioning behind us, and i hear one of them say, "yeah, can't you see him? he's up against that wall."

i turn around and spot a guy with a gun standing against one of the house's walls. the guards rush him, and a rumble ensues. one of the guy's friends comes to aid him, and i get a good glimpse of them. both are dressed like the guys in the blue oyster club in the police academy movies. down to the little hats and leather straps across the chest. i'm worried that the fight will move into my grandparent's house, but i want to get out. the guys overtake the cops and start heading our direction. not good. instead of hopping in the car with my uncle and grandfather, tracey and i take off for the nearest house. we open the door and run inside. i go into the laundry room and sit on a couch that is in there. tracey runs past me, followed by the two robbers. there are some shots, tracey screams, and then everything is silent.

sometimes i wish i could shoot back. but no, i never get to play with guns. i remove my shoe and stand next to the door, waiting to bop the next guy that comes thru the door. my boots aren't steeltoed or anything, but apparently it's the best i could do, since washing machines are kinda unwieldy.

anyway, from the door where they all ran to, a small boy of about 10 comes walking out. he looks miffed, turns to me, and says, "why don't you people play nicer?" he then walks out the front door of the house. about five more boys repeat this pattern, saying the exact same thing. this fat kid then comes out of the door and shoves me back onto the couch. then this huge black man (think ving rhames but really really buff) with this really cool hairdo/beard combination [think mr. t for the nineties, more intricate and actually looks good] ) comes in, points a colt45 (the gun, not the malt liquor) at me, and shoots me point blank in the chest. i stare up at him in bewilderment.

usually when i get killed in my dreams, i wake up. not this time. oh no. now the guy who shot me has to explain the moral of the dream. whoo hoo.

scene change. like the opening of a movie. winter. big city. snowing. "i'm dreaming of a white christmas" is playing. the camera is situated somewhere high up and pointing down onto a busy street, probably six lanes, three going each way. there is a median strip in the middle, and that is where the black guy who shot me is standing. the shot is far off, and then slowly zooms in as he begins speaking. here is what i remember of his monologue.

"what the boy should have said is that he doesn't believe in santa anymore. oh, sure, we raise our kids well, give em food to eat, give em clothes, and then they wake up one day and realize the world is still shit. while they're at home playing with their toys, some small girl is turning blue because she's freezing to death in the snow. well, the times are a changing, and i'm gonna make sure people believe in something."

i believe if i hadn't woken up, i would have been watching a really bad b-movie revenge flick. i should have stayed asleep, but after he finished the monologue, i remembered that i was shot and better check it out to make sure i wasn't really dead. cuz if i WAS dead, and that was the movie i was gonna watch, well, i would have preferred to have a soda...

[1] i still love this damn quote from miller in that movie: "say you're thinking about a plate of shrimp. suddenly someone says plate, or shrimp, or plate of shrimp. out of the blue. no use looking for one either. it's part of the lattice of coincidence that lays on top of everything." needless to say, go rent the movie. if you don't, you're out of the gang. and you also have to watch a&e's edited version, where everyone says stuff like "flip you, you mellonfarmer."

i'm standing in front of this huge, muscular bald guy who is wearing only a leather vest. he's got a rod through the middle of his penis. attached to the rod is a chain, and attached to the chain is a five-pound brick. we proceed to have a discussion about whether or not this was a technique used by crowley to improve meditational success. once i prove that there wasn't a documented source of this for crowley, we then talked about whether or not it would do the job anyway. i declined to try it.

the location is somewhere in mexico. i'm staying at the house of j---- v--------, and r--- e----- is there too. (old high school friends). apparently, saturday night live shoots on location right now, and they are shooting a sketch in the bathroom. the sketch deals with a big bald fat man swimming around in the bathtub singing songs about the galapagos islands. [if you've ever seen the b-movie eat, he looks like the alien who takes on a human form that eats only italian men and then spits up their buttons. consequently, r--- e----- is the only person i have ever found who has seen that movie.]

r---, j---- and i are watching them film this sketch, and j---- is saying how they always come down here and film stuff. i ask him if he gets to keep any of the props, and he says, "no, but they give us these really cool burger king paper crown hats." he then passes out a bunch of methamphetimines. i decline, but it seems like i get a second hand buzz cuz for about thirty minutes everything looks like it's on sped up film. think of j---- running around the house on film stock and style ala road warrior car chase scenes.

anyway. after a while j----'s father gets a call saying that the indians are retreating and that they've got to leave. turns out the mexican police are moving in on the zapatista rebels that have been hanging out in the forests, and j----'s dad fears lots o fighting. apparently, j----'s dad is also a sympathizer and fears he might be jailed. he tells j---- to pack as much as he can an put it in the car. (j---- drives a geo metro, which doesn't leave room for a lot.) we head off to j----'s room and try to decide what to take. j---- says he wants his tv, so we start carrying that outside, and j----'s father says, "yeah, son, you'll love where we're headed to. we're going to a small island in the caribbean where there's no electricity. we'll be able to get away from it all."

we turn around and take the tv back inside. we pack up some books (there was a really strange section of the dream here where i was just looking at the books on his shelves cuz they were all turned backwards, ie. the spines were up against the wall) and put his weight lifting set in the car too. his dad comes in to play video games on the tv with the mexican police closing in. j----'s sister comes in (i dunno if he even has a sister, but this one looks kinda like kari wuhrer from remote control and beastmaster 2: through the portal of time) and starts pouting cuz she needs her dad to do stuff for her and he's playing video games. he just keeps on playing.

we hear some screams outside and go to see what's happening. the mexican police are outside with about four cop cars and a bunch of armed guys. we hightail it into the forest.

i get separated and end up lost. i fall asleep and have a dream. in the dream, i'm walking past the LBJ fountain on the street like i'm going back to my car. there's a guy about ten paces ahead of me walking as well. this cyclist whizzes by me and clips the guy in front of me while yelling, "vroom vroom!", who goes down and spills all of his papers everywhere. i run up and help him. he looks a helluvalot like james spader. we get all of his papers together and start walking down red river (a campus street). he's going on about his hatred for cyclists on campus, and then in midsentence he grabs me and kisses me deeply. he picks me up and swirls me around (this in the middle of the road, mind you), and then lies me on the ground and tries to get on top of me. i stop him, and he looks kinda disappointed, but he thanks me for being honest and goes off.

i end up outside this church, and apparently i've missed the wedding of the girl who played jo on the facts of life and some guy. brad pitt is standing outside with some other people, and he chastizes me for being late. we go inside to find the reception.

we get into an elevator (the building is huge) and go up. the reception is on the top floor, so brad and i and some other people get on the elevator and go up. on the way, we stop at floor 7 to let some people on. i look out, and i see this sign that says, "homicide ward" and some people pushing gurneys past.

"yeah, that's right. they held the wedding in the hospital chapel," he responded.

we stop on the next floor to let more people on and off, and this floor looks like a convenience store. brad wants to get something to eat (even though we're going to a reception) so we get off. i jokingly remark, "wow, a convenience store. i bet this is the robbery ward."

gary busey runs into the store with some chick and they start telling everybody to put their hands up. i remember thinking that this isn't gonna work cuz they're armed with only lead pipes, and that if this was a movie they'd be using something more powerful.

busey runs up to me, holding five grenades and shouting, "look at us! we've got gren-odd-us-ez!" he kept yelling that over and over, chasing people around. remember this convenience store is huge, there's about ten patrons, of which brad and I are two, the store owner, and gary and his chick. for a while everyone's running around the aisles trying to avoid gary in case he decides to pull some pins. once, i glimpsed the chick beating the shit out of the store owner, and all of this green liquid stuff was shooting out of his head. not a pretty sight.

somewhere along the line i get tripped up and end up on my back at the end of an aisle. i lift my head and look down the aisle. a small bald boy (if you've ever seen the movie aurora, you know what i'm talking about. otherwise, picture a really ugly, thin, frail bald kid with sharp teeth.) he is sitting on a wood plank with wheels.

"you like to go 'vroom, vroom,' don't you, boy?" he yells. "you like to go 'vroom, vroom!'"

with that, he shoots off down the aisle on this makeshift skateboard. (he's lying down on it, btw. it's kinda like the luge.) he runs me over with the goddamn thing, and when he hits me, he goes flying off into the candy section. an older gentleman in a tuxedo comes over, helps the boy up, and says, "master, you've had your fun. it's time to go home now."

happy happy joy joy. i'm going to recite for you a dream of mine. it occured last night. i hope you enjoy it.

the time: at night. the place: on the drag. the players: myself, c-----, Jujube, and Nathan.

we were walking down the drag, apparently having just gotten Nathan some beefsticks from the 7-eleven. we were heading past the taos coop when some guy stopped us and handed me a cape and a cup full of fake, black fingernails. these weren't press on fingernails, though -- they were more like thimbles with little protusions resembling fingernails on the end. kinda like the things you see magicians wear in 80's fantasy movies like conan the destroyer, except all black. anyway, i stick them on and put on the cape, and we continue. we walk down to the old church where the dragfolks hang out from time to time, and who happens to be leaning against the fence but our beloved j--- sh---!

[non-georgetownians: j--- sh--- was the cool assistant principal at our high school. he is now a principal at an elementary school in georgetown.]

so, he's standing up there, and he sees us coming, and we go over to say hi. he starts off on this rant about how i'm some satanist because i'm dressed up like a vampire, and how i worship satan and am going to hell. i try to explain that i'm not a satanist, and even if i were, most satanists don't believe in the literal existance of satan. alas, he keeps ranting on and on. i decide to adhere to his idea of what i should act like, so i decide to make the fabled satanist hand sign (also known to heavy metal concert goers and UT longhorns.) somehow the cape is restricting my movement, though, so it takes me about five minutes to get my hand out of the cape and raise it in the air and make the sign.

this pisses off j---. i mean, he gets all huffy. "i'm gonna kill yew," he shouts and starts to pull a metal rod out of the fence.

he runs after us. "have you ever been hung up like a jacket on a coathook?" he yells. "boy, you're gonna be so high up you are gonna fall and die."

as we pass the taos coop, i look at the wall and it seems like there's someone standing there, but he's semi-invisible. i stare at him for a second, and then he's gone. we turn around, look back, and j--- is no where to be seen. then we hear a loud bloodcurdling scream that could only be the voice of j--- sh---.

then the shadow guy returns to his position by the wall, winks at me, and fades out of view.

i stayed up til about 2:20am perusing thelema93-l messages that have been backing up on my harddrive like a mofo. i decide to go to bed, do a pseudodevanney golden light meditatory preparation, and then i do a nice, no frills LBRP in my head.

after the banishing, i decide to explore the space i've done the banishing in, which is basically me with my feet on earth, but my body is really really long, so i extend thru the atmosphere and i've done the banishing in space. it's all about macrocosm, microcosm, bay bee. i fumble around, looking at planets, asteroids, etc. the light of kether is above me, a single point, so luminous that it even hurts to look at, even though i know that is a mere pinprick of what kether really is.

i come to, and i should have checked the clock, but i didn't. i've got this hulking pulsating throb going on inside and around my head, but it's going down my whole body as well, unlike previous times. this time is different because it's not so much a painful throb but more of a rythmic, au naturale type of shishkabob going on. very euphoric. but i'm not really sure what to do with it, so i figure i should just sleep it off.

so, the dream takes place at my school. great. apparently, i decide to join the corps. yes, that's right. UMHB has it's own ROTC program, but they're even more militant than the A&M folks. i can't remember why the hell i did it, but i did.

i go in, everything is cool, i sign up, they give me a uniform and a bunch of guns. (maybe they were MACiel, RUGERiel, GLOCKiel, and UZIel. okay, so it's only in the lesser banishing ritual of the 12-gauge shotgun [burroughs, bless his soul.] i stole that from some guy on thelema93-l, btw.) then they cut my hair.

ayee! it's painful. i feel like ansat in early 1996. i think my hair was shaved totally on the sides but they left this weird dreadlock thingamajig floppy doorag on the top of my head.

i don't remember much of basic training. i'm not sure i really want to. so this goes on for a while, normal existence at school, and then, somehow, a celebrity shows up on campus.

yes, that's right. Templeton "Faceman" Peck from the A-Team, Starbuck from Battlestar Galactica, and even the experiment gone horribly wrong in the classic 70s horror flick Sssss!. he's at my school and he wants to see ME. <schoolgirl sigh>

so, i meet him, and i just want to shake his hand. he outstretches his arms, indicating that he wants a hug.

i LEAP into his arms, wrap my legs around his waist, bury my head in his neck, and yell "Mommy!"

scene change. apparently i PASS OUT in the dream at this moment. all i can remember is that i'm trapsing around a swamp with a sweater wrapped around my waist, and then i realize that THIS is a dream and i'm actually wrapped around dirk benedict. i wake myself up.

for a while, i see the scene as a removed observer. i am passionately kissing dirk benedict. i finish, and he backs away, fanning himself with his hands. then the POV changes and i'm back in my body, and he's kneeling beside me, pining. somehow i know that he is now totally in love with me. maybe it's the fact that his blue denim shirt is now unbuttoned and his well-defined pecs and abdomen muscles have all been rubbed down in oil. (when he had time to do this, i do not know.)

then ANOTHER total scene shift. instead of spending the rest of my life in some happy fantasy land with a man who was the only man able to actually make friends with a Cylon and teach it poker (i also wanted to find out if he actually had testicles in my dream), i end up in the Cairo Hilton with griphon.

we end up picking locks to break in to hotel rooms and just lounging in chairs. kinda like a how long can we stay in one room without getting caught game.

then i woke up for real, light was coming thru the window, and i wasn't sure whether that was a good thing.

So there you have it. A small slice of my nightlife. Yeah, there's a big chunk of six months that aren't represented in there, but the dreams then weren't that great. Some people have said that having these types of dreams all the time must drive me crazy. Personally, I like it. At the very least, it's a helluva lot better than network TV. And besides, sooner or later my dreams are going to start coming true, and then we'll see who isn't king around this smarmy planet, okay? If that happens, God help us all.

[=- 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

Whiskey tears evaporate
and still the scent remains.
Fragrances malingering.
Despite the clearing wind.
Despite the thumbs and
wells of ink that spill
upon the empty page.
I wonder if I'll ever have
a key to shadows of the night.
The missing bones. Receptacles.
Plastic pots that start and
grow the roots of strength.

The silken blouse of who you are.
I hope I never wear it out.
You give and give and sweeten life
like whipping cream on coffee black.
A muted strength. Unselfishness.
You said that veins must always bleed
before they clot, before they scar.
A crutch behind the potted palm.
Our pace determined by the drive.
Like hearts beneath the ribs of love.
They work from inside out.

Beavis, on Values

Bigger is better.
I said: Bigger is better.
Size is everything.

Beavis, on Fear

Todd might kick my ass,
And, that would probably suck.
I hope he's not mad.

Beavis, on Desire

Naked boobs! Naked
Boobs! Naked boobs! Naked boobs!
Naked boobs! (That's cool.)

Beavis, on Gender Roles

I don't want some dude
With his schlong slinging around
Saying, "Dude, good game."

Butt-Head, on Thanksgiving

Chair beneath my butt:
I hope you do not break.
I'd be on the floor.

Her stump, a leg, its pages torn
from bibles made of accidents
and other cruel curves of fate.
Yet so mortal in its stance.
Black, black elegance of sorts.
The dark is made of operas
and over-coming storms of lies.
Much the same as otters
sliding on the rocks.
The ocean is so dangerous
and still they call it home.

A desert but for flowing tears.
Until it finds a place to rest in folds
of someone's open heart.
Fragile driftwood bending in
to reach the sky.
I guess it's just emotion's art.
The ways of finding cups
of sand to anchor it.
Keep it from exploding bombs
I hate to say, I have to say,
a simple pair of eyes.

Alcestis stares at me from across the room with insect eyes. I can hear her buzzing in my head, inviting me to come over and make meaningless small talk until we decide that the time is right and that we should go back to her place to explore each other and satisfy our carnal impulses. She wants me. She wants me to be her lover for the night, to make her feel special and important and loved and wanted. I know she has goosebumps covering her arms, her arms filled with larvae waiting to burst out and consume me if I conceed to her unspoken proposal. Her eyes betray her, those green eyes masquerading with intensity to conceal the hollowness of her deep, lifeless sockets. She blinks, and I feel myself weaken.

"That boy is gone," Jim says to Sandra, who smiles as he speaks because he pays her to be attentive. "He's got cancer, you know? The fatal kind, and he'll do anything he damn well pleases because he knows that he is going to die soon. I wish I could live my life like that, babydoll. A doomed man doesn't have to worry about consequences or morality. What a wonderful way to life. Alas, I'll probably live for a century, and knowing that seems miserable."

Alcestis combs her already perfect hair, each long, black strand settling into place as the comb runs through them. Her gaze never leaves me, and I wonder what it is like to caress her hard breasts, to feel her long probiscis uncurl from its hidden place and plant itself in my neck, sucking up my blood with horrendous slurping noises. She mouths words I can't make out, words I don't want to hear or understand. She blinks again.

"Don't take much to be a loser. Ain't that right, Bobby? Hmm. No matter. Look at him, Sandra. Go on, look at him. He's caught, trapped in himself and that whore across the room. See how they prolong the ievitable, trying to make each moment last longer? Staving off time makes things meaningful. Don't you agree?"

Alcestis slowly motions to me with her small hand, beckoning me to accompany her in the little death. The cancer in my head swells with impunity, gnawing away little by little at my brain. She wants to beat the cancer at its own game, to be the one who kills me first. Even temporary death prepares me for the real thing. She blinks a third time, and I am ensnared.

--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) 1998 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) 1998 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: 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 <kilgoret@geocities.com>. The SoB distribution list may also be joined by sending email to Kilgore Trout. --SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE

STAFF LiSTiNG