p T A M e R S H R e W ... vol. 3 ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ..edited, compiled, prelimanarily perused, ¿¿¿ felt up, jostled and spell checked by, Stretch /-----------------------------------------------------------------------\ \-----------------------------------------------------------------------/ T A M e R S H R e W ... the Third Being a most rightious 'lil 'zine Handling phillips head screw drivers around the World! Tinkering with strange and obscure drugs occuring naturally in the wooded and less frequented areas of the forest. Gushing, Gushing, GUSHING! We LOVE a good sized cow patty with NICE form! WHOO! YAH! SICK! And YOU TOO can be an intergral part of the festivities! Submissions: HoWL BBS 862.1415 /-----------------------------------------------------------------------\ \-----------------------------------------------------------------------/ Speed of Thought ... a farewell of sorts. Xann, Peace, bro ... you know, if anything, the greatest reward has been to see those two words echoed so emphatically since HoWL went up a couple, few, who remembers anyway? years ago. Yeah, bro ... peace. You, my friend, have *grown*. I really regret not saving those old backups of Howl from two years ago ... if only to compare and contrast some of your posts. Shit man, I remember the first day you logged on, something about "I'm here ... computer crime is in my future, hook me up with some people in the KNOW!" Hahah. Beautiful. And you dug the HOWL PHILOSOPHY bulletin I had up ... that felt good. I think it was the first time someone had actually shown appreciation for the work and feeling I'd put into the board. There's been many more True Believers(tm) since then, but you were the first that I can remember. Shit, at the time I don't think either of us knew what this whole deal would come to mean to the both of us, ... what it means now. Ya know? Sure, we *wanted* to know ... and we were looking ... and even now I think we're just scratching the surface, but the fact remains ... In a world of often bland cyber-thought, we've managed to (with the help of some really beautiful people) build a bit of meaning(?) and creativity in the void. I feel a really intense sense of brotherhood with you on this level, bro ... thanks. Your off to Michigan in a week or so. I'll miss you. I'll miss Lovers. If ever a piece of someone left with that body as it travelled to a new place, a piece of me goes with you to Michigan. But I also know that physical distance really doesn't mean shit to folks that operate at the speed of thought, anyway. Heh. So fuck the miles, the distance. It's not real. We'll be here, we'll be there. You'll be there, you'll be here. There's some that would say that we're everywhere at once, anyway, ... so what the fuck, eh? Peace, bro... High speed into darkness... Stretch /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ < Words Available for Immediate Fondling > \/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/ 1> ... "The Excommunication of God" (xann) 2> ... "Just a Moment" (propain) 3> ... "Tales of the Net II" (watchman t'ong) 4> ... "Twelve Ways to Shed Light on YOUR Reality" (stretch) 5> ... "Jewel" (xann) 6> ... "Digital Delirium" (propain) 7> ... "Shaken" (stretch) 8> ... "Grand My" (xann) 9> ... "In the Great Tradition of Whitman" (stretch 10> ... "Scarecrow" (xann) 11> ... "See Flying Beauty" (homer the brave) /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ < > \/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/ The Excommunication of God once upon a time, the Second God, being the creator of the universe and all that is holy, approached the vatican walking tall. and after much screening, searching, and questioning at the pearly gates the second god was allowed to enter, and visit the only being in the entire universe above him, that being the First god; the preserver of the church, the master of the house, the giver of indulgences. [indulgences, for those who dont know, were "sin permits" given to crusaders, knights of the church, and those who donated lots of money to the church long ago. this practice is no longer part of the Kingdom, however] now, the first god liked the second god a lot, although his survival did not depend on the Him. after all, it was He who had first breathed life into the kingdom. and as the second god stepped into the confession booth, a loving, fatherly smile appeared on the face of the first god. "forgive me, father, for i have for years now done things pleasing in yo sight." "alas, you are only inhuman, my child. speak, and be forgiven." "hold on a moment, i have a list here....ok. well, first, it has taken me over three hundred years, but i have at last finished sorting my children from the heretics, for All were killed. now both sides of the gorge of judgement are nearly full, it seems. also, i have...i have desired an indulgence from his holiness..." "please, explain, child." "well, ive done a lot of good things over the years, you know....i created the universe, the church, and i sacrificed my only child to save this world from eternal death. im sure there are plenty of other things i could think of, if you could just give me a second here..." "no need, my son. but i am afraid i cannot allow you to be the benefactor of an indulgence--" "but i wont use it father! no, no, no! i just want to have one. just one surely, so many knights, so many bishops, kings, monks...is it not fair and just that the creator of all this should have at least one?" "i see thy point, but you are not man, and you are not yr own. you are the all-father, and you belong to the church, my son. and you must be perfect or, verily, yr usefulness to yr people will diminish!" "well, im tired of it! my people! who are you to talk of my people?!? useful? HA! if i were of any use to them, this use would i have been put to long ago! my people are a minority, not a globally spanning flock such as yrs! you can HAVE them, john! ill take my people, and you take yrs! and from here on out, i am NOT a perfect being! no more stress for me, buddy hand me my time card!" "WICKED CHILD! if this insolent behaviour continues, i shall have you excommunicated!" "blow it out yr beanie!" and thusly did god split from the church... (xann) [*] Just a Moment For a fleeting moment It all makes sense. All that you were, are, will be, Comes together. The universe apologizes For being such a shithead And making you think That there was a reason Behind it all. The hand of your god Comes to you Calls you forth Slaps your face. Your brain steps out For a lunch break It has earned From its years Of doing NOTHING. Your memories laugh at you. Your heart takes a sideways dive. Your senses lie. A thousand padded drumsticks Beat at your head Till your bleeding From the ears. The moment passes. (propain) [*] Tales of the Net ... Part II The exploratory probe floated slowly, unseen, several yards above the street, and mirrored to it's surroundings on all optical wavelengths. No radiation, no power signature, everything passive reception. Throughout the night it searched, sensing and following the data flows. It was a slow task. But the probe was in no hurry. Probes are thorough, and this probe was no exception. For days, then weeks, then months it kept at it's task - find the storehouse of creativity and learning on this planet. It soon identified the elements of the communication matrix. Huge hubs switching & routing the data flow, but no life. Noted and omitted. Virtual caverns of data and sequences and processes, with barely a flicker of creativity or insight. Raw data - lifeless sinkholes. Eliminated from the scans. But every now and then, a flare of life, radiating into the darkness. Not in the large buildings and complexes it expected, but a simple house here, a trailer there, inconspicuous dwellings in nondescript places. The probe realized that it's analytical functions were too rudimentary and unsophisticated for this task. The sorting & analysis would be done later by units designed for that. On some of the brighter nodes, the probe attempted to unobtrusively join the flow, to better assess it's content. It was invariably futile. The jargon and mindset were too free and sporadic to follow and interact with. But the keywords and signature it was programmed to find were there, and it settled down to record. "Why...", "If...", "How...", "Suppose..." "I hope..." - the concepts flowed, and the probe was content. It's mission would be successful after all. The overall content was rising, growing, multiplying. Yes, this planet may yet be a success. (watchman t'ong) [*] Twelve Ways To Shed Light On Your Reality 1. Grow you hair, go downtown at lunch hour, stand atop the nearest Mercedez Benz (in platform shoes with gold fish in them) and tell the masses how you feel. 2. If someone annoys you, say, "You annoy me." 3. Jump off a tall bridge into very cold water. 4. Ride the electric handicap-cart at Randalls. 5. Try not eating for three days. 6. If you ever want to tell your parents to fuck off, tell them to fuck off. 7. If you ever want to tell your parents you love them, tell them you love them. 8. Go climb a very very tall rock. 9. Pick up a pen. 10. See fear as a means to an end. 11. Skydiving. 12. Throw yourself in front of a really big truck. (this last as the most desperate, but also the most effective method of realizing your reality). (stretch) [*] Jewel believe it or not, i wont eat again. not for a while, at least. i tried, earlier, to eat my Standard ration of pork. nearly retched. my sustenance has been only a fragrance indigenous to the far east, called patchouly. its sweet and frail scent walks with me on my favourite green shirt. my! how things have changed! there are some things for which one must not dare hope. the door to disappointment, while it may teach us, is better left closed. and when we are the target of things for which we dared not dream, we are most surprised, humbled. elated. my! how humble am i! when i awoke from my blackout, She was still there. knees near the right side of my spinning head; face i n c h e s from the right side. arms, around stiffened neck. are you my friend? this, after a gift i gave; a poem, to read to _____, to soothe and nothing more. why are you my friend? no answer. the next seven hundred and seventy seven years were spent talking, playing, betraying inhibitions. lips barely touching, as not to break anything in the room. and i am quite happy to announce to anyone listening that for those ensuing decades i, on my lacerated knees, breathed the air of this queen. to her, it was refuse. to me, it was ambrosia. o why are you my friend? no answer. a kiss should be effortless, motionless; the pinnacle of peace, be it uneasy or otherwise. and it was this. (xann) [*] Digital Delirium Psacaline dream Of a cobol kiss. A simple yes or no. Cyberbliss. Code tweaked Lovingly Hatefully Boringly Into something Workably close To what you needed Some three months ago. A phone call. A hand shake. A letter to a friend. A new toy. He who carries drops that which he carries. A mouse runs feverishly, Clicking his mouse-like clicks. A click here, two there. Lo and behold: more running and clicking to be done. Music churns. Lines dance. Balls flash. Some one yells "Turn it down!" Pull the plug, pull the plug, pull the plug. (propain) [*] Shaken And then I was shaken so terribly by a coughing fit. Bad. Enough to leave me raw in the throat ... wanting aspirin, coffee, another cigarette--a home remedy of whisky and lemon, something. I'd grown impervious (I'd thought) to sickness, being so long in that room, alone...sure of health. And the bed always there for sleeping, breathing. The neighbor lady called three times that day. Something about hearing a dog bark the night before. Something about a lock not wanting to work right on the back door. Mostly just wanting to hear another human voice, I think. Tired. Wrinkled old woman whose eyes watered so much and were difficult to look at. And of course, it rained. "Plink,...Plink,"...on the air conditioner outside. Then a roar as the real rain came down. Sheets of wet fell hard for thirty minutes that day. It'd been sickeningly hot the past few weeks. No rain. Needless to say, the ground was dry thirty after. We need a hurricane, I'd commented a few days before. That'd set a few things straight. That'd really get things 'a hoppin. Folks just shook their heads. They did that a lot, people,...shook their heads I mean. Or shuffled their feet, or mumbled under their breath, or looked away. Frightened? If so, of what? A new slant on their real? Mine? Opinion? What? For once, lady, look at me when you talk to me. I'll try to do the same for you. I promise. "...and they don't understand that he's been shaken." (stretch) [*] Grand My i recognized it more than once on our way home that night: the smoking guns destroyed our world while piercing skies with ugly red the boss n joe were on page one discussing basketball. another joke about charlies rolled from macho down my way again on freeways lined with cabarets and poolhalls lights and cheap motels once again my mind was put to another penultimate ...songs and songs and girls and boys they filled me to the top. working drones and long walks home and aching muscles stop. co men speak of different things days pass in Minds alone. loneliness is welcome here. loneliness is home. as the last grand tilted to the floor i thought of all my friends and !lift! and (!breathe) and knew that in this world i truly am alone. [and thanked Whomever, god forbid.] (xann) [*] In the Great Tradition of Whitman ... Or Not So. In the great tradition of Whitman, with his Mannahatta, his masts and masts like toothpicks along the docks and harbors of New York. An old father, that one, Dad, Pop, counsellor to the harlots, lover of the dirt especially, lover of all things detestable in man, in woman ... I think of walks along the beach and trips through the city with it's killing scent and the impenetrable thick of the wood. I think of work and the swinging hammer and the heat and the blood shed from the brow of a pick axe. I remember the wanting and the not so wanting, the pushing for the know, the remembering. (And all of these, of course, being tied up in the soul of man and at all times offering their own influence in that same mans remembering of his place in the order of things, ....or not so) It is true that he walked that beach with it's piles of drift and dredge, blind, as it were, finding the whole of Mannahatta beating life into a small island of silt and wash, the heart of a city beating white and airy in the transparent shine of a bubble. And upon that bubble, reflecting in inverse and forgetting, all the poems of all the poets sung and unsung. (In other words, I dig, and am completely DOWN with your groove, Dude!) (stretch) [*] Scarecrow "to talk about one's self a great deal can also be a means of concealing oneself." --nietzsche nothing more than a scarecrow scary indeed! knocking at yr door. nothing more than straw, concealed so well by ragged clothes, knocking at yr door. stuffings stuffing. nothings nothing, though so many words are spoken. nothing more than a twig scary, indeed! supporting. --this spine; offered long ago and though leaves are here and there and mine this pillar is of you, dearest. stuffings may be snuffing nothing still is nothing. yr gift it stands both meek and proud, and it is this that i cling to when the crows are gone. nothing more than a scarecrow scary indeed! knocking at yr door. nothing more than straw bursting from overfilled clothes, knocking at yr door. though my stuffings may be bluffing i swear i feel as nothing when my promises are broken. (xann) [*] See Flying Beauty Way back, way back before it was all automated, she would fly across the sky, looping, shootin' from cloud to cloud. They automated it later, yeah, but boy those were the days! We'd sit on the porch, watching those amazing niggers harvest the sky! Chasing down those damn birds. Hard to imagine now, though. The automatons don't have near as much class as this one girl had. Most of the other niggers didn't have it, either. She was one of a kind, that one. See, my grandmother was a humanist. She pleaded and pleaded with old grandpa to quit raising the bird-chasers, but it was in his blood and she was his fool wife. Anyway, she'd pick one out of the litter sometime. Back then, they had to be careful how they engineered them. If you made the wings big and strong enough, they'd require too much natal care. Vice versa, too. If you made 'em too ground-worthy, they wouldn't be worth a shit in the air. So grandma'd pick one of the ones that was going to take too much care. Usually, grandpa'd just take the useless newborns down to the pond in a sack. Toss the whole lot of 'em in the water. Kill 'em. Grandma picked this one out of the runt pile that turned out to be the most productive, and not only that, when she flew it was pure artistry. Least, that's what that poet said. Yeah, some fool poet was driving by one day, came up and told my grandpa what a beautiful sight that nigger was up in the air. Also said she wasn't such a bad looker on the ground, if you know what I mean. I only got a good look at her in the air, since I was usually in school when she was on the ground. Years later grandpa told me she was, indeed quite a looker. Enough to where he had an affair with her. That was after he started to charge admission to see her. He put up signs on the highway that said See Flying Beauty - $5. Guess he shoulda hired that poet to make a better sign. Anyway, he only got a few customers, so he gave up on that. And it wasn't just the sign, either. Everytime she'd go up in the air, anyone for miles around could watch her harvest the birds. Most folk who actually paid to see her, and there weren't many, were from out of town and just passing through. Well, then there was the affair. Grandma didn't take that very well. After all, she had raised the nigger from the ground up, so to speak. She was so hopping mad at grandpa that she went a little crazy and shot the flyin' girl with grandpa's shotgun. Just before she died, the girl let out some kind of weird scream; by this time, everyone had heard the shot and was looking at the scene. The other niggers gave grandma this sort of look, and then they all flew away, carrying the body. That's one sight I'll never forget. Grandma never did raise a runt after that, either. Years later, after grandma had died, grandpa would sit in the very rocker you're in now and tell me how much he really did love his wife, and how he regretted what he had done. But then he'd tell me what it was like to make love while flying a quarter mile above the ground. He always said he couldn't begin to describe what it felt like, and damned if I can't begin to describe the look on his face as he tried. (homer the brave) [*] /-----------------------------------------------------------------\ \-----------------------------------------------------------------/ ...so ends 'numba three. Once more, this is a very irregular publication ... sometimes a new issue every week, sometimes every two months. Heh. So if you want to contribute, just call HoWL BBS 862.1415, and upload to the Tamer Shrew Submissions file area ... Peace... stretch /-----------------------------------------------------------------\ \-----------------------------------------------------------------/