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Date: Mon, 9 Sep 1991 08:33:49 EDT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "Dktr. Subtilis (ego vamp -" <CHEATING@SBCCVM.BITNET>
Subject: siserhcatac
>Note: all of what follows is, to most intents and several purposes,
> by her own admission, drivel. In fact, unless read at the stroke
> of midnight, in a dark room, facing west, in the company of a
> registered jackal, it means, span for span, less than nothing.
>
>Consider me, posing the requisite question: "Am i still boring you?"
>
>Consider you, nonchalantly propping up the collected works of
>J. Berryman, and occasionally losing self in sub-clauses.
>
>Consider you, blowing bubbles in your carbonated mineral water, with
>a sawn-off drinking straw, complacent. (And it's no good, no good
>at all, saying "!!!" to me in brackets; i'm ignoring it and no one else
>cares).
>
>Consider, O Non-Historian (though i am so seldom wrong), that i believe
>you can think circles around most anything, and that, my tiresome
>susceptibility re-appearing, i shall miss you.
>
>Consider extracts from Her Diary:
> Oct 24th, 1991: Sleet. Loved One drowned in Marsh.
> Oct 25th, 1991: Rain. Crops wiped out by Disease.
> Learnt new Swear-Word. Vicar to tea.
> Oct 27th, 1991: Fog. Missed day due to Concussion; was
> hit by tree in Storm. Saw Fiend in
> back-garden.
> Oct 28th, 1991: Blizzard. Child killed by Rampaging Horse.
> Knitted Egg-Cosy for Church Bazaar.
> Vicar forecasts Malaria from Pulpit.
> Oct 29th, 1991: Hail. Poisoned Vicar. Turned Purple and
> Died. Buried him in Orchard and Prayed
> for Deliverance.
> (and so forth)
>
>
>H. Uniatz (performing flea).
I shall not compose an elegy for H. Uniatz.
I shall not do so as, inter alia, the last such effort I gave failed
terribly as the illustrious Tim Field failed to die until just this most
recent week. Had I been much more adamant about doing him in, I might
have thought of the Smilie Directory. But, in truth, I did not wish to
kill him, nor maim him, as Pavel spends the majority of his time; I only
wished an honorarium, a moment by which We (the Great We, co-conspirators
of this neighborhood, throwers of the Block Party to End All Block Parties)
might reflect, genuflect, and ponder the insatiable appetite which often
flourishes in the Literary Underground.
These are the years of the life of H. Uniatz: given her brazen need
to demand, without repentance, the Voice in the Wilderness, likely a
tad incongruous as Galway has never been considered much in the way of
a jungle, given the challenge to attain to heights which, unheard among
the riff-raff which bide their time on streets, portable stereo headphones
in place and duly attached, and dream not above the Cockroach and the
Flea (which, a tip from a Grandparent, speaking in a native European
tongue which I, unable to comprehend the importance of the living past
at the young age of 23, did not understand and have never known exactly
in which language I was told that boric acid, or any kind of chelating
agent, worked quite well to rid one's household of all the insects which
live within the walls, as it dissolves them from the inside) in their
sly and subtle ponderings of why nothing good ever happens to them,
given the very evident lack of common sense and good taste and germane
breeding and aristocratic flair and "bon mot" and admirable etiquette
demonstrated time and again in the taunting over split ends and infinitives
that she repeatedly admonished any affront to appropriately disallow,
given the considerations which I proffered and she rarely took seriously
(as she was no doubt beyond reproach for not doing), she lived but 3 months.
Where, then, does the township turn, with neither a vicar nor a
magnate with corporate prestige and literary aspersions (Note: this
should not in any way be confused with pretentiousness, which is a far
too easy piece of unsubstantiated derogation to toss into any ring, let
alone one which purports to be the den and dungeon of Stony Brook's
Literary Underground -- have all the cafes and bookshops dried up and
away so that the only place for people with elongated cigarette holders
out on the Sound is in etherea, or is this definition contributed in
that wonderfully contemporary fashion by which (wherein) Irony becomes
one's poker chip and one's gold tooth, even when one thinks so?) to
provide the vaunted and vaulted leadership // control of the airwaves
(smash the pirates! no more Radio Free Sbrhym!)? A brisk wind now bends
the 19th century-fabricated spindle, and the huddled masses (wrecks?)
retreat and entreat their favorite gods to intervene. Not a chance.
Pedants beware: Logic rides a bicycle. With the coming of The Fall,
brown shirts will once again be the rage as pursuants of fashion move
in to the neighborhood, there goes the neighborhood, sporting varsity
letters and Greek acronyms. "And with increased community support, we
have been able to effectively reduce crime," the Commissioner sputters.
All the questions which I had hoped to ask seem stupid now, mere
holiday tidings from a more innocent age: Why would one hate Pat, esp.
as, thanks to Jeffty's assistance, we can conclusively determine that
Pat has a broken nose and a mote to contend with (with which to contend
-- she's got me in a self-editing mode, drat and darn it all)? Why
was it necessary for burial, esp. considering the food shortage and the
high price garnered for a good, fresh decapitation? Why have kept a
diary at all, esp. as (as admitted) this might all be best left forgotten
and unmentioned to one's once and future love(r)s? Why underestimate
those with whom you've been selected for purposes of dancing and much
merriment? Have you truthfully spent much time as of yet in airport
terminals, wandering in the partial newsshops set as alternatives to
open markets and haggling and camels and wondering why none of the
papers are in Gaelic, getting up with your sizable baggage draped over
the one shoulder that is still working and around the neck as you
cart off to look for a new seat to escape the immediacy of the Man
with One Eye who had sat across from you and, drooling (The horror! The
horror!), had exposed himself, muttering inexhaustibles, as you again
check your watch to see how long you yet have before the flight %away% --
"hablo de la ciudad, pastora de siglos, madre que nos engendra
y nos devora, nos inventa y nos olvida"
-- and I ask, in passing and in charm, to accomplish...? I (the mere
personal pronoun that is (Objective!) all that it's cracked up to be)
still seek that verification on tangential lines: Your aims, m'dear,
in the brilliant and versatile means of endowment/endearment by which
you wielded them in a provocative and infuriating manner: What were
they? On this day, let us make a covenant: I shall make amends and
utilize the homonyms "you're" and "your" correctly (though I still
maintain that I never, ever accused you of not understanding -- not
even when I correctly ascertained that you had misunderstood) in exchange
for you're (oops! slipped) body and soul, or at least the aforementioned
Voice in the Wilderness, which, as promised, I deliver unto myself in
the act of resurrection. Speak, Lazarus: You shall now and forever be
beholden unto me in thy name: I keep you as a duelling partner, at least
until you successfully return from your more nightmarish journeys to
the battlefront where, ambulance driver, you mistakenly drive into the
barracks, doing more damage than the enemy could ever hope to inflict:
H. Uniatz will swell within the CHEATING node.
Sing: I've Never Felt Better in My Life. And who could ask for
anything more? The Great Conversation shall begin in the words of (who
else?) the crack team of consultants. Let the recession begin.
-(tbc)
========================================================================
Date: Fri, 13 Sep 91 13:07:19 CDT
From: GR4302
To: Sbrhym-l@SBCCVM
Subject: barf and junk
Dreeb flab and flim the warn fly floobie do. A gloob floob and what'llroll?
Nothing nothing... Watch for the moon, coming soon: a rock a wall[pokeintended
] and golden highway home. What will it bring? Question: How manyliposuctio
n patients does it take to screw up a light-bulb? The answer's in flushedfat.
Now on the Sirius side: Soon it'll go, the dogstar down. One more day of
torture and nine days of subsidence, then we're back to ourselves. No more
messages till next year. I for one will be relieved [can never seem to pisswh
ile it's up there] but what about THEM? Do they likewise fear and tremblewith
our focus?? How come we always see THEM as higher?? Better weed ondogstar?
I bet not!! Dreeb flab and flim the floobie by. Once I was walking, rather
crawling down the city streets of my small village when a man with enormous
vericose veins [too many childbirths] rolled over to my thatched cardboardhut
and inquired: Any room? I smiled and handed him a dollar; he handed me a
small volunteer watermelon with a moonbeam drawn perfectly along each green
stripe. Others would fear him, but I knew his power was benign. It rottedin
time. I burried it and therefrom grew a small bonzai, mutated by radiation,it
sprung up in one night at an age of over 300 years. That's how I knew hewas
one of them: they never tell but sometimes you can. Next it was a woman.She
didn't look a day over 30 [which is too bad I prefer the older set] but sex
was not in her bag, which instead contained the remains of a golden poodle.
Dead for seven weeks, it's eyes were still alive and burned ferevently withthe
red fire of the beyond. What mean this? Land announced? Brute and human?And
for this you went back to heaven? I never knew... I never knew...
bAD cHI
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Date: Wed, 18 Sep 91 15:51:54 CDT
From: GR4302
To: Sbrhym-l@SBCCVM
Subject: big blue thing with eyes!
The other day I was praying in the Sciences' Church when I felt a tingle
up my spine and the screen started going wavey (like it's doing now! ohno!)
I knew I was about to have that once in a lifetime experience, maybe even
a spoken message when much to my surprised medula oblongata I was overcome bya
Big Blue Thing with Eyes! It pounched on me and held me down. I was
suffocating and begging and pleading it for release when all at once it
stabbed me with a non-phalic probe that burned my insides like a milliontiny
well heated razors slicing into every limph node in my body. I screamed in
agony and it suddenly fled. Without my testtubes I could tell nothing for
sure but I think I had a near-death brush with the Blind Eye of Science, and
the news is it's got alot of them and they're all Blind!!!
Or maybe it was just...
bADcHI
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Date: Sat, 28 Sep 1991 01:48:55 EDT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "M. Uniatz" <CHEATING@SBCCVM.BITNET>
Subject: Crises
"The millennial century was ending and Jesus had not returned.
Moody stamped on later revivalism the enduring theme of the Second
Coming. Where once evangelists wanted to convert the world to make
it attractive for the return of Christ, Moody belonged to the opposite
school, which thought that the worst traumas for both the church and
world still lay ahead. Until the catastrophe ended the existing world
and brought Jesus back, efforts to improve the world were largely
futile. Asked to preach against corruption in New York in 1894, Moody
told backers that soon Christ would come anyhow and there would then
be no more chicanery: 'There will be no men seeking office.' Against
the evidence of his supporters, he claimed that when Christ filled
the heart, a person lost interest in gas stocks and water stocks.
As it worked out, his followers capably watched out for their stocks
%and% the Second Coming. They rallied to hear him preach against the
'outrageous despotism' of the unions, for they had chosen the other
side in labor conflicts. While Beecher accurately pictured how differently
he and Moody viewed the world, Moody gave the most memorable summary
of his own mission. 'I have felt like working three times as hard
ever since I came to understand that my Lord was coming back again.
I look on this world as a wrecked vessel. God has given me a life-
boat and said to me, "Moody, save all you can."' Finally he tired,
and when he died in 1899, they buried him far from his cities, back
in Northfield, 'just about as near Paradise as we can get on earth.'
========================================================================
Date: Mon, 07 Oct 91 11:18:44 CDT
From: GR4302
To: Sbrhym-l@SBCCVM
Subject: throwing heads
In the latest issue of _Flaming Carrot_ the Carrot and the Ninja turtles
throw around the severed head of Frankenstein's Monster (who is trying to
steal the Empire State Building through levitation). Screwball's head
explodes when he gets into a mental lock with the severed head, but hedefeats
it anyway. I just thought you sickos would like to know.
bADcHI
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Date: Fri, 11 Oct 1991 06:50:11 EDT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "Dktr. Subtilis (ego vamp -" <CHEATING@SBCCVM.BITNET>
Subject: Are place names central?
>A belated reply to words of Mon, 9 Sep 1991 08:33:49 EDT from
>"Dktr. Subtilis (ego vamp -" <CHEATING@SBCCVM.bitnet>.
>
Constitution: identical to the above only en retour; a replicative
rejoinder, issued forth from crosshatched civil servitude, the girders
of these anointments having brought us way past the "out-of-reach".
No datum-point with which to grope, ipso facto, with the tainted
material. A (new) anodyne is requested -- an escape route burgeoning
with the early seeds of the %mysterium%, viz colloq abbr for "fun
detection", that dance around the lacuna which draws one in, the pull
of highway exits poised rapid-fire, each its own justification to be
pamphletized in the annals of philanthropy.
>They won't get answered, or if they do, it'll be in pages of convoluted
>lies, but no matter, i'll keep asking (for as long as it takes (toaccomplish
>(to accomplish what? (see? (no))))). My geography is laughable, atbest,
>and i am baffled by most bitnet codes.
>
In pages of convoluted lies, it shall be decreed, replete with the
impulse to document exactly what did not happen, empowered with
statistics which will support the tenuous claims of squatter's rights
which your assorted identities impugn. But --, and I've made a note
of it for following up upon and so that the records shall remain
complete.
Having stated such, let it be understood (read) that this is done by
way of fulfilment of prior obligation, not by matter of choice.
The answers have been typeset in reverse: a mirror will undue the full
set. You have always appeared with just the slightest aire of
Inquisition about your persona, an infelicitous trait I imagine, but
one which you wield with a joie de vivre remarkable for the age. You
chose M. (bassist), and, thus, that settles the occupational crisis of
accountability. I am, in truth, embarrassed now to admit whence
originated by previous bitnet code, and thus hope you've discovered
the answer through independent consultation.
>Strange though it may seem, Chris, this rather interesting messagemerely
>serves to provoke the posing of further questions:
>
For the legal record: On Thu, 27 Jun 91 15:21:14 CDT, in response to
the question, "And what or where is 'stony brook'?", contained in a
message posted by STANIFHLATHU@, CHEATING@SBCCVM stated,
"Stony Brook is where Daniel Foss is. Sorry, I mean George Papoon."
Thus, even before "harrangue" miscued, at least a partial (incomplete)
definition of the "Cheating" modalities was given via DAF. No matter,
though; yr source code lacks authenticity. My Palace of Holyroodhouse
is Sbrhym itself, this township a patent ludification it's granted
but, again, no matter. Reticence prevails in calm hearts.
>What now? Shall we have another obmutescent interval during which you
>can take stock and build a fence on which you and your terminal can
>precariously balance a while longer? Intelligible answers will not be
>provided, but let's assume otherwise, as, of course, is permitted.Thus,
>i adopt as my Text For Today, Brethern, that M. means well. Henceforth,he,
>in his best frock, may consider Considerations all he likes, but i,allowing
>self a much greater degree of freedom, shall consider Assumptions.
>
Is this significant? Ah, yes. And, in part, you struck iron ore --
there was a fanciful interval which has been as much due to my regret
in part that, until we hear otherwise, this will sit unheeded with
only DFB (as opposed to DAF) likely to read it -- that assuming that
he would bother to read this series any longer -- nonetheless, I have
let the silences fill too long while this message sat, challenging me
to come forth and become translucently discernible.
What now? Has the dilapidation of our flaxen threads allowed your
"tiresome susceptibility" to gain the majority ownership, thus giving
way to a willingness to confer failures of discretion?
What now? Will you rejoin in a guise which will prevent anyone from
building unstable fences until It's Too Late (perhaps I should be more
cautious as regards Kate Oneschuk ... we'll see ...)?
What now? Is this to be followed by a depression of the pause button
while the committee to interview the next candidate sit, fingers
clasped as tightly as lips together, not having much to say as they
have been culled from separate departments and some have only recently
been introduced, and, in truth, the only comments they could make
would pertain to the interview process, of which, however, they,
according to the terms of the contract which they all signed by threat
of unemployment and/or death, may not speak lest anything they say
could be utilized by any candidate as leverage toward a civil suit,
and still the button is held though the knuckles are turning white.
I encourage you to apply. Send me your vita. However,
>Consider a covenant.
should read: Assume a covenant. Remember, I have only your very best
interests at heart, just as you do mine. And I have always accounted
for EVERY WORD, even of yrs. Part of the "body&soul" duties.
>Why deem a covenant necessary at this point anyway? Stay off the twin
>minefields of marriage and (in)comprehension and we muddle along in a
>vaguely acceptable fashion. i'm ok, psychological epistemological
>space-invaders being, for the moment, a pleasing diversion. You're ok,
>my spectacular M, as i appear to have developed an unwholesome weakness
>for you which prevents me from tearing you, as you sometimes somanifestly
>deserve, apart. (Admission: i probably couldn't, anyway, though it would
>be fun trying.) This is ok, being mere sciamachy. Furthermore, you,being
>what you are (whatever that is), would work loopholes into anyagreement.
>And if you really are guilty as charged (by Foss), i'd like to know:
>
> 6. How did you do it?
>
Protectorates, m'dear. Nonselfgoverning, a muddled mess of masses
which blows apart the Federal tendencies towards swift, strict
injunctions in favor of allowing History to stand still. And this, I
think, may provide the greatest explanation of a covenant: given my
inability (at the time) to provide you with a suitable "marriage
partner" (though, again, note, this pertained solely and without
proprietary responsibility to Sbrhym) I invoked the Sacred Muse of the
Monroe Doctrine, summarily chancing nothing at all by slaking all
leeway towards my side of the Atlantic, this after you bombshelled us
all -- or at least DFB and myself -- by announcing that you were
clicking your indigo moonlight slippers together to "have done with",
leaving a kitten amid Them, enemies with busses. At this point, it
deemed spritely my way to claim dominion where, admittedly breaching
various insignificant human rights, I'd never ventured, not with the
sanctions (etymologically invoking sanctity) in place. I thought I'd
do you proud.
But you _claim_ to be returning; when? (Don't answer this, it's
purely rhetorical.) In the meantime, "H. Uniatz" ought to have due;
it's just not fair otherwise!
But, more to the point: that certain Something -- y'know, the one that
Came Up -- has withdrawn from my infrared sights. Again, I'll be
tickled as punch to detail tout le monde sometime after menopause,
but, for now, let it be known that, for what it's worth, the proposal
has been reopened.
Unfortunately, it is too late. You have already accepted DFB's offer.
Again ... no matter. As you said yourself, "dead-end detecting runs
morosely", and the offer reopens purely for the cosmetic aspect of it
all: upon your receipt of this, you may commence with "tearing me
apart", "to the content of what it may please you to call your heart".
Crooked pictures straightened, that's all. For the "prize" for which
your band of motored-brigands has destroyed the wrong suburb is
scarcely that, but, rather, a diminishing return (as previously
mentioned), currently restricted to exilian pastures/pastimes.
For now, however, I accept the impasse. Cop this:
"I have / Only my intermittent life in your thoughts tolive /
Which is like thinking in another language. Everything / Depends
on whether somebody reminds you of me."
I hope that, wherever you find yourself, strange screaming is
eliminated from your nights.
M.
========================================================================
Date: Sat, 12 Oct 1991 18:30:09 EDT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "Dktr. Subtilis (ego vamp -" <CHEATING@SBCCVM.BITNET>
Subject: RE: Whatever happened to...?
In-Reply-To: Message of Fri, 11 Oct 1991 12:04:00 GMT from <H.UNIATZ>
Hello, Princess Cassimassima;
It would seem that I might wish to cheque my horoscope in the very near
future; no sooner do I begin the heavy-hearted task of responding to
your message -- if not actually the questions therein -- then two (2)
brief statements bearing the unmistakable Gaelic accent of H. Uniatz
appear in my mail file. Too exhausted yesterday to respond, I shall
do so now briefly.
I am glad to see that my suspicions regarding Princess Cassimassima's
message of Mon, 7 Oct 1991 12:35:00 GMT to History were in fact correct;
no deadly absurdium spiralling abyss of detective work to plague my
days and nights. Might I caution you gently, however, about challenging
the very learned Daniel A. Foss to anything other than a game of draughts?
I fear for your safety; you have already accepted my and Daniel F. Boyd's
proposals, and DAF's Personal Ad of June 9th has never been withdrawn.
East-Anglia? Quite Unthankful. Norwich is so, so ... typical.
Sincerely,
========================================================================
Date: Tue, 15 Oct 1991 18:46:55 EDT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Dan Boyd <consp04 >
Subject: for three deep green half-truths
In-Reply-To: "The Dream's message of Tue, 15 Oct 1991 15:13:00 GMT
Surveying your domain from on-high can lead to bruises and
broken bones. Breathing, Bleeding, Broken Bones, Burns -- that's the
order in which you check for these four kinds of injuries. Breathing
first, becuase without it you live only a couple minutes. Bleeding
next, because serious bleeding can cut you off in a few more minutes.
Broken bones can make you start bleeding again, and then you fix the
burns because they do their work through dehydration which takes a
little longer.
Hello H. Uniatz. What is a haruspex and do they give good
financial advice regarding one's stock holdings?
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Daniel F. Boyd -- consp04
========================================================================
Date: Wed, 16 Oct 1991 12:12:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "The Dream at the Hook" <H.UNIATZ>
Subject: haruspices
> Hello H. Uniatz. What is a haruspex and do they give good
>financial advice regarding one's stock holdings?
Hello, Daniel F. Boyd; i'm glad you're still there. A haruspex
is the same thing as an aruspex: a very clever person who can make
other not-so-clever people believe that he/she can make prophecies
by examining the entrails of animals. Note my respect for other
cultures. i am not one of them, never have been, and not being
partial to dissection, never shall be. And i'm still breathing not
bleeding not broken not burning so that's all right, though the
medical spiel was appreciated.
Financial advice: no. Nothing that precise: more the veiled fairground
fortuneteller in the tent beside the candyfloss stand type thing. Call M
if you need financial advice; he patiently explained to me a while back
about some crash or another which i was not to confuse with some other
crash or yet another. Having lost all my mail files, i cannot supply the
exact quote, but it had an air of spurious authority.
You mentioned a story?
H. Uniatz (soothsayer).
========================================================================
Date: Wed, 16 Oct 1991 11:41:03 EDT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Dan Boyd <consp04 >
Subject: Saying sooth
In Peter Shaffer's play, 'Equus', a man talks about having a
dream where he's on a Greek island in the Mediterranean, and he's
dressed up in a priest's robe with a mask over his face. He stands
over the altar, and two lesser priests grab the next sacrifice and
hold it down over the altar, and he slips his knife in under the
breastbone and slashes downward, pulls out the intestines, slashes
them out, and tosses them on the ground. The other priests look
sagely at the pile, and then reach for the next sacrifice.
The sacrifice is a herd of boys and girls. He realizes that
he is the head priest because of his terrible streamlied efficiency;
his rhythm of stab, slash, cut, stab, slash, cut. And he realizes
that if he falters, if he questions the social utility of the whole
sacrifice mill, the other two priests will lay him out over the altar
and have a look at his entrails.
And he continues, stab, slash, cut, stab, slash, cut -- sweat
beading on his forehead and running down into his eyes. He pauses for
an instant, and they grab him and push him down, tearing the knife out
of his hand. The knife descends...
So I guess you should be careful about what major you pick in
college, because you could end up in dead-end career -- or worse.
-- Dan
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