PreviousIndexNext
========================================================================
Date: Wed, 1 Jul 1992 20:18:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "transfer error,
please requeue file" <H.UNIATZ>
Subject: The Diffidence
Yes, I understand that M. has latched onto a mistaken belief in some
userid, M. is of a delusional nature, M. spies, and M. requires little
encouragement to speak on the conjugal melodramas of the poor dear
royals, the facile inference of the kindly bestowed "answer and
explanation" being that Juniper Sage would not engage in any such giddy
discomposures: well&good: A/A+, m'dear, I knew that examination hall
syndrome of yrs whereby you felt quite slinkingly sunk at the thought
of confronting an inquiry would pass, with time. However, my difficulty
lies in this matter of M. having another of his wearisome moody spells
and planning departure in ire at exposure of operatives, which makes no
more sense to me than it does to you; I'll tell you sometime of how,
once, I was supposed to have killed him, though the mechanics of the
murder were never made clear, and he did return, he did, he did, he did.
If you should meet him, would you please require of him to be less
slipshod in his accusations (C+/B-), and, if you can bring yrself to do
so, tell him I want him back.
And, yrself, resolving to clear up and out and "readily return this
account": mind well you don't insert a central "to" there, that'd be
Just Abominable! Let's you&I play a game: you'll invoke possiblereasons
why M. scrammed, and I'll counter them. Then you'll come up with one
which I cannot refute, so we'll declare you the winner and play another
game instead: snakes&ladders, say? And, while you're at it, stewheart
most misguided, distress yr features and smile.
H.
========================================================================
Date: Wed, 1 Jul 1992 13:31:00 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Bialik Poetry Server <BIALIK@BRANDEIS.BITNET>
Subject: Poem number 881007
In-Reply-To: Your command poem 881007
Dream Song 14
John Berryman
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) `Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no
Inner Resources.' I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as achilles,
who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 2 Jul 1992 11:32:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Local Mail Delivery Error <H.UNIATZ>
Subject: et encore une fois
Heartsick with indecision, A. M. Ward debated with himself how many spoons
of sugar to have in his coffee. No sugar at all had been his norm since
he returned from the war, but so many facets of his life had changed
in the recent past that he felt his ingrained habits should bow
acknowledgement to the new regime. The notion of asking Roinn for advice
had occurred to him, but he seemed so absorbed in the task Ward had set him,
looking through old copies of _Vogue_ & _Vanity Fair_ in search ofmodels
who had been employed by the sales catalogue companies, faded cutout by his
side, that Ward hated to disturb him. Finally settling for one spoonful
of sugar and two of strawberry jam, he quickly drank, then rested his head
on his arms on the mahogany desk as he wondered what he should do with those
two imbeciles who'd disturbed him that afternoon. He'd been so distraught
at the effort of maintaining an attitude of cool composure while facing
them in that same office, and at the trauma of disarming one of a post
office tower (though the fool had been holding it by the wrong end), that
he'd had to wander down to the village immediately after dungeoning them, to
calm his nerves by checking the best-before-dates on perishables: he did
love to write in his spare hours to the Consumer Association and have small
long-established family-run businesses dragged through the courts for
inappropriate selling practices, and once, he'd even had his picture, the
nice one with the Old Etonian tie he'd borrowed from the trainee milkman,
in the Liverpool evening paper for his troubles. Now, he was very tired,
the walk had been longer than he had thought and Roinn had made quite
tedious company with his prattle of the ninth commandment and the new
longer-lasting lightbulbs.
Remaining slouched at his desk, Ward paid little heed to the occasional
sound of page-turning until Roinn started to speak, upon which, struck by
the note of discovery in his voice, he sat quickly up. Although
considerably angered to learn that Roinn had interrupted his thought-pattern
for the sole purpose of remarking that he thought velvet bodices were %so%
terribly fifties, Ward managed a grimace of agreement, wishing to retain
for a time the assistance of the knight. In truth, he was somewhat
frightened of him: the staunch air of purpose about him as he described the
long-term benefits of double-glazing with only minimum outlay and no hidden
upkeep costs had seemed quite formidable to Ward, to whom smalltalk was as
painful as the headache he'd given himself by wearing a monocle he'd found
lying about in the castle kitchens when he first explored the place, and,
despite Roinn's insistence on the excellence of folk remedies, he didn't
think the paper bag he'd worn over his head all the way back had helped in
the slightest. Soon afterwards, Roinn came across an article on sewing
with metallic fabrics; this kept him silent for a while and gave Ward a
chance to sleep.
Meanwhile, down twenty-five flights of steps, our hero and his companion
were seated on a wooden bench in the converted wine-cellar, now fitted with
all the trappings of a well-run dungeon, though the bust of Byron in the
corner seemed a trifle incongruous. The child was explaining the flight
mechanism of the bat, using as example one which had drifted too near him
and found itself, in consequence, wingless. The child, you will recall, was
a boy-scout. They are like that. The rate of blinking of our hero, if
monitored, would not have done justice to the inherent fascination of the
subject under discussion; he was still more than a little peeved at finding,
as he was led to his cell, that the existence of a service-lift, sturdy
though slow, had made unnecessary his earlier pilgrimage up the main
staircase, and, after seven years in films and two FBI commendations, he had
really resented being told that his handling of a post office tower was, at
best, hopelessly ineffectual. However, he felt he should, for the sake of
his image in the eyes of the readership, be nice to little children, so he
nodded at intervals and later assisted in the digging of a grave for thebat.
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 2 Jul 1992 15:58:00 -05
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Merciful Lee Dickens <DICKENS>
Subject: Hey, Great Britain!
Happy 4th of July!
Hah hah
nyah nyah nee yah yah
we won our freedom, we won our freedom
and if you can't dig it, why, hey:
you can just kiss our Florida!
uh oh, RUN - here they come!
Merciful Lee Dickens
American Statesman
========================================================================
Date: Sat, 4 Jul 1992 12:33:43 CST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: GR4302
Subject: Sera Frim 'n Cher Abim
i considered calling this post something like GOOKCITY part one, but i
want you to still love me and read it when it comes. thanks for the
many replies, thanks also, for becoming this list for me. some messages:
D., you got it you got it, now dump it at least twice a week and the
future will ocome. to Pio Baroja (to make much of time): my standing
offer still stand to debate anyone into the dirt on this subject of
temporalness--none dare oppose me. this is not macho, just the truth.
now about bobby (sands? kennedy? seal? seele? ze'el?)
ok, i see your point. Ha ha I'm going to reveal that H. don't
give a shit about the 4th cause she's canadian. haha H., the queen pissed
on your homeland and you weren't even there to taunt her. she said
she was the queen of canada--of course we all know that you are, love.
sorry, sorry, love. be a dear--no no, sorry, sorry. stay away from
that kidney pie ifin y'know wots good fer ye. eat some good ol' m00se meat.
because of H. I will post part one (which is also entitled "GookCity")
Maybe Today...and when I start capping my 'i's i mean business ... or
economics??
========================================================================
Date: Sat, 4 Jul 1992 12:47:05 CST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: GR4302
Subject: xxxj27h54ef29xxfxxh93tahx7hy37x773xhlo383hxx837r38h844xxx
when the theologians and the philosophers say that the common understanding
that god is a person is simple and vulgar, they are themselves being the
most simple and vulgar of minds.....
========================================================================
Date: Sat, 4 Jul 1992 22:00:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Fry By Night <CSTMADDEN@ >
Subject: Am...hello....hello?
Sorry.
Excuse me.
AS any one seen my list? I know I left it around here some where? It's been
missing for about a week now, and I'm starting to get worried. I don't knowif
it can survive out there, with all those FNORD-L types that hang 'round late
at night, picking on poor innocent users know how to set a personal name orwho
don't have very good spelling. Makes me sick, you know. And now littleSBRHYM-L
is lost, gone, maybe injured or worse.
Or maybe its me - you never know what those CSEs have done, do you?
Niall
========================================================================
Date: Mon, 6 Jul 1992 11:36:00 -05
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Merciful Lee Dickens <DICKENS>
Subject: DAN'L FOSS EXPOSE
He blew his whole dowry on phosphorescent plastic swizzle sticks
The kind with the hula girl on top
And never gave his girlfriend none
Now she's gone and he's salt-encrusted
Was glum
But now he's bitter
Watch out for him
He does weird things with spatulas
Consider yourself forewarned, Four Eyes
Felonious J. Cubensis
Your Best Friend In The Whole World
========================================================================
Date: Sun, 5 Jul 1992 21:12:55 EDT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Juniper Sage <CHEATING@SBCCVM.BITNET>
Subject: Re: Am...hello....hello?
In-Reply-To: Message of Sat,
4 Jul 1992 22:00:00 GMT from <CSTMADDEN@ >
I'm afraid that you have become rather confused by your own quite
successful attempts at spelling, CSTMADDEN; the list has come alive
as of late, and I'm very pleased to see it. GR4302: You realize that
it is an unkind cut to keep us waiting; please, present your bastard
issue to our hungry eyes. And H760: "readily return <to> thisaccount":
very droll, very droll indeed. I see again why M is in love with you.
Juniper Sage.
========================================================================
Date: Tue, 7 Jul 1992 09:53:47 CST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: GR4302
Subject: preparation
For the World to live, Romanticism must die. A divorce from this meagre
illusion, this mind-parasite, is due. When Byron said that the others
were foolish to dimiss Pope and the Past, but rather that they should see
the artistry that informed their thought, most assumed that in the quest
to be the most rebellious of rebels, Lord B. just had to subvert the
very foundations of Romanticism itself--the idea that Pope is a turd!
Yet if we examine, say, _Don_Juan_ more carefully, we can easily see
the insight into the Problem of Meaning that Byron possessed. Is meaning,
then, as Wordsworth and the gang would have it, a welling up from some
inner reserve of most holy being, the blood-in-the-lungs mystery of life?
Or is it rather, as the Medieval Scholastics and the Renaissance Dramatists,
et. al., say: It is a collection and collation between quanta oficonography.
I'll repeat that another way: Meaning is a result of structuredinterrelation-
ship between discreet icons. I'll not go into too much detail here, butlook
at the literary functioning of Genesis for a widely available example. Tosee
this clearly, take a close look at the story of Joseph and the interpolated
story of Judah--icons, despite the supposed personalism of Hebraicdoctrines,
and the supposed impersonalism of the Hellenic, we find iconic quanta in the
Bible and dogmatic idealism in the Greco-Roman philosophers. Hencepersonhood
is, as is obvious if examined properly, iconographic! is a quantum inter-
action! Look, it's an AI problem: Those dumb early folks thought realitywas
so rill it was jumping up and biting them on the nose every second.
Of course their impeccable experience and their perfected logical modelswould
easily reproduce God's finest creation, the human brain! But, holee-hooly,
they find that their lines and logic, their reductionist thinking, their
naive idealism, keeps running into quanta (fast moving at that too) ofmeaning
rather than Plato's underlying realm of absolutes. So, stop feeling fromyour
damn gut, you fools, and start using your brains like they did in the middle
ages or you're all likely to go out in one big bang...no, no a bunch oflittle
bangs...or...wait....hmmmmm...
Well put it this way: When Goedel published his proof in '39 of theinadequacy
of mathematical systems, well....one may say that is beat to pieces many
nations of notions which had been stirring much too long....
========================================================================
Date: Tue, 7 Jul 1992 09:45:58PDT<Date: Tue, 7 Jul 1992 09:45:58 PDT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: JEFFREY
Subject: Reality? Reality? We don't need no stinking reality!
> Those dumb early folks thought reality was
> so rill it was jumping up and biting them on the nose every second.
Gr4302, you've touched something I've often wondered about. Does reality
only consist of what you can see, or is it only what cannot be perceived by
the "obvious" senses? There's the theory that the visible world around us
is such an illusion that is actually subject to the bending force of ourwills.
We make our own reality. Who needs a moral code or society's restraints
when you are living in a universe of your own creation?
And, if you have the power to mold your environment to suit your needs,
who the hell needs to go outside, or even feel the real wind on your face?
Why bother, when you can just imagine a life custom-built. Just wait till
virtual reality is perfected and disseminated to the public. The lines
between what you can imagine and what you can experience will gradually
fade until mankind will eventually be living in his own dream-state.
P.S. I didn't understand your point about Joseph and Judah in Genesis.
What was that about icons?
--Jeffrey
========================================================================
Date: Wed, 8 Jul 1992 18:18:18 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "PURNGVAT" <cheating@CCVM.SUNYSB.EDU>
Subject: Re: preparation
In-Reply-To: <TEST%92070711324736@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
Juniper, Juniper, "Darling", give it a rest, willya, puhleaze? Izzit
rilly necrossary to be reporting like the good li'l Murphy Brown doll
yew are on my every mo(ti)ve? Nay, I say unto you: hardly. So what
if, a short while ago, I ran screaming (after being told kindly to
"Go Away", no less, no more, indeed), dispensing of mere formality
and the Normal "howdeyado?" when you bleated before my oncoming path
and sent you flying. At least yr real and don't have to worry about
the congenialities of what is behind that nail-polish pink wall.
H760: Having extolerated yr virtues, yr whims, yr charms thus far,
well, yes, unearthing I did venture, cost me a day or so, then the
preternatal car crash, just a bit of a cut, slight limp, you don't
mind yr apparations holding canes, now, do you? as it's much more ...
Cary Grant, I suppose, who, should I spy walking in acetone grimaces
opposite to you across the Great Yellow-Striped Divide (we have our
"lorries" on the %right% side, don'tchaknow), I'd cry, "Yo, Archie,
see that one, over there? Give me some tips, I'm going back-bent-
backwards crazy, and I need to let her know about the impending trip
in which she shall play a part of decorum if not integral, far more
than the coat-rack I used her body-&-soul for last time (sorry, sorry,
rilly, 'bout that, should've known better (mmm, perhaps this, then,
was the Orangery Cheating family mottoe), the Stetson unbalanced yr
whole sultry leave-as-you-may madcap macadam mania unbridled [sic, my
best one yet] pose), and I thought ..." & he might even teach me to
pratfall into yr wide encompassing incomprehending arms. It is agreed,
then, invoking a non-existing reference without a number, that between
[rutabega] and [wish the Enemy (please, capital) were there], wars
waged dispense of much of the CNN-attention grabbing spectral effects.
Well-risen, aforeminted, I'm not, and can only assist in preying that
you be there, in that place, whenever yr shelter is pulled from its
carrying case. As for my truffle-hunt ... all the hatches were
battened down and no seepage, near as I could figure; luckily got
word from Jamaica at long last and feel more safe&warm&secure.Might
we play that game intended to ensnare Juniperish-the-thought? Maybe
M was disappointed to find that, in fact, there is no hono(u)r role...
GR4302: First off, it is scarcely my fault if I don't true-aim into yr
life and all that's meant to be; ask H about it, she seems to think,
though, that the right recant and I could; "gateway my love". I'll
have you know, though, that I read everything posted, very carefully,
I even utilize dictionaries (foreign, too) when the need creeps and
crops; I've even started to read the H & M correspondance as I felt
displeasure when DanBoyd left as that meant she remained attending.
Your life? Do tell. So whatever mediated Mediterranean conspiracies
she has devised, bring them on, already; but, in preparation, this:
> Meaning is a result of structuredinterrelation-
>ship between discreet icons.
has to go. "[D]iscreet icons"? What, you wish to decorate yr walls
with the flaccid emptied bodies of monads, fine, taste ne'er became
you, but watchyrmouth, ladies present, a-hem. Try: "discreet sets of
series, themselves but constructs of and for meaning (hypertropism in
the refraction of hyposemia, if you get my discharge [shrug]).
Autrefois, yr haute scholastic glee club & basketball team will get
bogged down in the low post game, what with widening gyres dominating
the boards. Yr move, chuckles.
LIBWCA: By now, you've seen that DAF (deposed roi de soleil) was
conserving his strength to bum the HISTORY summer vacationers; if
you've not seen the Cockroach spread its wings, dismount alas.
Jeffty: Hi.
========================================================================
Date: Wed, 8 Jul 1992 14:25:00 -05
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Merciful Lee Dickens <DICKENS>
Subject: FOSSAGE
"It was LSD that changed me."
--Daniel A. Foss
Well, you're not going to believe THIS one, kiddies. Better tighten
up your chin straps...
Guess what Foss, that DAFfy bastard, is up to now? He's going shopping
mall to shopping mall, getting signatures for Ross Perot! I thought
he was spouting Anti-Perotisms just a few short weeks ago? What
precipitated this sudden change, I wonder? Or was it typical Foss
jabberwocky all along?
He's to date been positively identified in malls from Bangor, Maine to
Cecil, Mississippi, and implicated in several Bingo game disturbances
that the Perot non-regime has tried to "hush-up", unsuccessfully.
He is apparently making no effort to disguise himself, appearing at all
times in the traditional garb that has come to be associated with him
and his particular brand of bleating idolatry - to wit, a breechclout
made of two Fruehof mudflaps, crisscross "bandolero" ammunition belts
stuffed alternately with "Slim Jims" and "Hav-A-Tampa Jewels", and a
styrofoam pith helmet with a great big STP decal across the front.
Local authorities have placed alerts to all personnel to remain on
standby should any of his surprise appearances precipitate violence,
and reportedly the FBI has recently declared him "unarmed and
dangerous".
Stay tuned for further developments and while you're up, would you mind
refreshing this drink for me?
Not So Much Ice This Time,
Felonious J. Cubensis
Your Ace Cub Reporter
========================================================================
Date: Wed, 8 Jul 1992 21:42:51 CST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: GR4302
Subject: meaning is inherently iconographic
i'll try this one more time: meaning is ultimately quantum. no matter how
much you formally reduce it you run into quantum packages that must be taken
'as is'. all meaning is built up this way from iconographic quantumpackages.
my form of nomimalism. if you want to use sets then instead of elements--i
must agree with taube that the meaning set (just like the set ofpossibilities
in quantum physics) is a dense nondenumerable class, a non-ordered contiuum
of possiblity....now no more until GOOKCITY part one.
ALL UNDERSTANDING IS METAPHORICAL, INCOMPLETE, A SLICE OF THE PIE; A PIE,THEN,
THAT CANNOT BE HAD WITHOUT SLICING.
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 9 Jul 1992 18:18:18 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
Comments: Allan Adler is my father
From: "PURNGVAT" <cheating@CCVM.SUNYSB.EDU>
Subject: Re: GHumphrey RBogart reborn 4302 times
In-Reply-To: <TEST%92062815074422@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
No, GR, try, try again, or a few more times, though I'll be happy
to wait until after GOOKCITY. Though the metaphor to quantum is
contrived, I'll loan it out to you (contrivances and cliches being
in the domain of mes yeux, n'est-ce pas?): but yet, you persist
with "building blocks", unwittedly sounding like a young Russell
(now, there, m'dear, was a TYPIST) before his lobe-splicing
accident. No elements, all "as is" until something better-looking
whistles our way: nominalism with a kick, son, eating itself for
dinner (as, well, what else is there?) like the moon in the sky:
ALL UNDERSTANDING IS UNDERSTOOD AS METAPHORICAL, OVEREXTENDED, A
SLICE OF THE PIE, A PIE THEN THAT CANNOT BE HAD WITHOUT THE KNIFE
to slice it with, the plate to serve it on, the apron with which
to wipe your fingers barring the presence of one to lick the sticky
sweet substance from them, the waged-war labor which went in to
the constructivism (anyone seen Haines Brown?), the cockroach which
crawled into the sugar and died but was not extracted previously
from the mix, the digestive system which waits crouched to be
brought in to decon, the resultant excrement, the lawnchair in which
self sits pleased with placing it over the top of the anthill, the
PART THAT GOES UNEATEN AND GOES BAD IN THE IMPROPERLY FUNCTIONING
refrigerator which leaks harmful emissions which are damaging to
the ozone layer, the ozone layer which would not have been invented
were it not for the pie, and, of course, the extent of her feelings.
or so she said.
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 9 Jul 1992 15:17:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Epouvante je me vois <H.UNIATZ>
Subject: 49 Ways To Leave Yr Lover
Dear H760,
I hear you've been importuning the hired help of the relatives
of H800 for the German for "oh yeah?"; I presume it's planned as retort
to the little matter of "gerne biete ich mich dir an": lovely cheapshot,
that. You are, of course, perfectly entitled to address him with any
epideictic nothings you deem appropriate, while curtailing the speech of
the EEEnemy super-typing-machine to the few utterances permitted by the
rulebook; it's just his secluded upbringing that makes him think otherwise.
Good fortune: you've been awarded the Paranoid-of-the-Year prize;
you were unanimously chosen by the judges for yr tenacity in obliterating
most traces of yr existence since last November, triple-protecting yr
account so it takes yrself five minutes to get into it, avoiding suspected
spies whenever possible, and even signing any and all petitions with
extravagant pseudonymosity, ensuring you use different names when
supporting conflicting issues. The reward, as promised in the promotion
leaflets, is his undying, though don't inquire of me what you could
possibly do with that: use it as a doorstop, maybe? (Sorry, Daniel, you
only get second place despite yr remarkable feat of cockroach mailing.)
He's mistaken, you know: what he uncertainly supposes to be "fair
enough" is not fair at all: perhaps you should cease the "mockery", if it
was that, keep yr jokes to yrself, leave him with nothing at all to hold
against you, and watch in wonderment as he comes up with another
accusation; take notes, if you can, you'll never find a better champion
of the "hard done by" victimage, bless his soul, if he has one.
I suppose you've become inured by now to playing the inexpiable
jester; just don't ever, ever challenge his longanimity, else he'll take
refuge in his weatherhouse of fair-times foul-times dinky personae, as if
a counterfeit userid, a barrage of spies, a pleasant levity, a constant
readiness to have done with, and a surfeit of very clever conjuring tricks
did not accord him safeguard enough. Yr luck has changed, you deteriorate
and linger in despotic despondencies which shiver the whole scurvy
leave-as-you-stay madrigal macaberesque manacle unmanumitted [sic, my best
one yet] repose, but you're sequaciously smiling regardless, I trust, just
as I am; he might have wanted you to. Crooked pictures straightened, he
declared, and that includes yr gilt and tarnished frame of mind; nothing is
sacred, nothing is scared, and no manner of thing shall be scarred.
<Dear M, or whoever you're being, I'm sorry, "safe&warm&secure"
won't do: it sounds too comfortable. You didn't really have a car crash,
did you? Not in my '62 Corvette? Jamaica? As in Jamaica Ginger?
Jamaica Rum? Money for Jam-aica? Just forward any further words
from Jamaica to H.UNIATZ and she'll gladly save you
the trouble of replying to them.>
My apologies, H760, that was a digression. Consider Ash Wednesday:
"Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining" and agree that
"neither division nor unity matters": this is his land, he has his
inheritance: it's His Town, and don't you ever forget it.
It's been nice talking with you, H760, really, really nice.
mine &c,
H760 (janitor@black.illuminati.gov)
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 9 Jul 1992 23:23:23 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
Comments: Warning -- original Sender: tag was H.UNIATZ
From: "PURNGVAT" <cheating@CCVM.SUNYSB.EDU>
Subject: sidelonging for credible estates
H760--
Do you think it solves anything to talk to yourself?
--H760
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 9 Jul 1992 23:24:25 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
Comments: Warning -- original Sender: tag was H.UNIATZ
From: "PURNGVAT" <cheating@CCVM.SUNYSB.EDU>
Subject: sidelonging for credible estates
Congrats, babe, guess this makes up for the Emory fiasking-price; I
can only assume that They really have had it in for you to accord you
such indelible honors, though I thought you'd entered in the Schizoid
Division and the Amateur Borderline Patients Association sponsored
cakewalk; can only assume that They put you in the wrong category.
Fanfare, tra-la-la-la, & all that; while all-in-one-basketing in
this glory, will you still have time for lonesome li'l me? I know,
I know, best be carelessful here: you'll lean over the inkwell, bring
out a rubber stamp which, if you hold the bottom of it up to a mirror,
gives the reflection of "hard done by", the name of that tune which
you used to sing me to sleep. I've already asked of you somewhat
kindly not to display the victimage which you gave me (I will repeat
that for those in attendance lacking the proper hammer-anvil arrears:
_you_ _gave_ _me_) to the whole town, yr bloody lesion-causing, ulcer-
ridden, damp-cellar-smelling, pulp-and-stockage-economied town, but
I fully gerne biete ich mich dir an if you wish to go right ahead
anyway; don't mind the doorstop, but step lively.
As for my longanimity, the userid, the spies, the levity, the (lack of
a) readiness to have done with, and the superficial surfeit have most
assuredly done me all but (n)ill; throwing in the fair to middling
enough Obsession with her lack of a December and her tendency towards
canonizing the calendar, and what a mockery (proudly) I make! That
spoke to/of yr Smile, tolerable company it may or may not be: None of
them, not even the immigrant personae, dinks one and all, have kept
you from smash-it-uppancing through them like the playing-cardboard
protectorates they were, roughshoddy running across the epouvement
as if. Would you like to know of severe dyscomfiture? Then you
begin: does your bike still bear the indention from your attempts to
demonstrate last year that circus animals don't have it so tough? If
your answer even remittancely reassembles a self-reference, I'll pass
along the proxy Corvette tales.
As you were "kind" enough to bypass Moody, I shall do the same for
Eliot.
Once, you might consider introducing me to H760; it sounds as if we
might have a great deal in common. (vide.M)
PreviousIndexNext