elizabeth lane lawley
michael "OC" clarke
e v h e a d
sweet fancy moses
wood s lot
m. melting object
Monday, September 30, 2002
From time to time, it becomes necessary to remind readers
that The EGR Weblog is nothing
more than what it promises: all noise - all the time. Intermittently, as deemed appropriate by the author for reasons known only to himself
(and rarely then),
it is an ongoing exercise in true-life fiction. The characters
and incidents portrayed and the names used herein are
any resemblance to the names, character, or history of any person is
coincidental and unintentional. Heh.
Crucially, there is
2:17 AM | link |
What Do Women Really Want? Me.
an outrageous claim
is kited, you know
there'll be a survey
to follow up. Here we asked a random sampling of women bloggers what they
thought about RageBoy's brag that he is the "Babe Magnet of
Blogdom." The results were unsurprising.
||I dream of RageBoy every night. He's so hot.
I cream just browsing EGR. Listen to this... "the power of
business is based on a bad metaphor: incorporation.
It means: to become flesh. And pretty clearly, companies don't do
that. Therefore, corporations have no heart, I say. I get blank
stares. No, I don't mean how much your company gave to the fucking
United Way or fucking Save the Children. I mean literally. Here, try
this, I say: corporations have no sex. No balls. They've never gotten
laid. Never fallen in love." Oooo, I think I need a pee break.
||Razhe Boy ees not like zee men in my country, who are so fool
of eet I would like to puké. He ees zee real existentialist, not zees
pees of shit poseurs we have in Paree. I want to have ees child.
||If elected, I will put an end to this prurient filth we are
seeing today on the Internet, especially from these self-styled
"web loggers." The worst offender in my view is a man, if we can
call him that, who calls himself "RageBoy." He is
nothing more than a psychologically
arrested adolescent with serious mental problems. However,
personally speaking, I do want to have sexual relations with him.
||Are you kidding? RB is a trip! When he was down here last time,
we got so messed up on ayahuasca I couldn't find my goats for a
week. He understands about how things are, not like those
clueless gringos who only pretend to help. He's is more like us. He doesn't
give a shit. I don't know how he gets so many girls, but he is
definitely a motherfucker in that department, oh yes.
||That RageBoy come round here again, he gonna get a faceful a
hominy. He a bastard, just like all these kids he leave me with.
The man jes no damn good. Fuck him. He come back, thas
precisely what I gonna do, too.
||Oh RageBoy, yes. He rings my bell bigtime. He's so
cyberspacious, you know what I mean? And so, I dunno, smart and
all. I don't really understand that stuff he writes, but who cares!
When he gets me in the back seat of his '55 Impala, all I can think
of is when I was a Candystriper at St. Luke's and me and these guys
I knew used to ride around and around in those big dryers. Wheeee!
||Aesthetically, he is very sensitive. Very attuned, I would have
to say. At times, he comes across as the worst sort of philistine
yahoo, but this is a carefully maintained pose. In bed, he has the feel of a
Stradivarius and the touch of a Yo-Yo Ma. I never meant to get
seriously involved with him, but he does have a way of sneaking up
on you. When we first met, he told me how deeply he was moved by
Beethoven's later quartets. After that, things seemed to go all
haywire for me. But no, I have no regrets.
||Yo, girlfriend, you believe what this honky motherfucker is
saying here? There gotta be some kinda law against that shit,
don't there? Have to admit, though, he do have kind of a cute butt.
You see a telephone number on that blog anywhere?
||I am very worried about the RageBoy. Is he taking the bad drugs
again? Is he messing with the women? He has no sense about the
women. He gets himself in trouble every time. One day,
I think the policia will catch him and then it will not
go well. He is a good boy, but he has no intelligence. He is kind,
but a fool. I like him anyway, though, and have hidden him on several
||My productivity is up up up after just a few rolls in the hay
with RB. My PowerPoints are all pointy. My flow charts are flowing.
My pie charts are all busted cherry. My manager says I've never
been so on the ball. Little does he know! Fortunately. True, RB's
not very deep, but he sure knows how to get a girl going. I have a
meeting right now, but I could tell you more later.
||Oh yah, dat RagerBoy be so much fun! I love him all the time he
come around here. The children love him too because he is always
laughing. I tink maybe crazy. But I tell those kids get out of
here, shoo! Me and Mr. Boy got some business to conduc. He know
about that, jah love he do. I wish he wouldn't go away so soon, but
he say he got this "blog" something, and some clients. Prob'ly he
lying. But that boy make me very happy, yes. You see dis smile on
my face. Where you tink dat come from?
||RageBoy has been very good to my family, especially our young
daughter. He takes her to the Europe one time and buy her many
things. When she return, she was so happy but also crying tears
because he must go to "EGR HQ" in "Yucatan Pennisula." He write
these things for my husband, and give him a good watch and a new
wheelbarrow from Poland. He say it once belong to Marek J, so take
good care of it. The little one is having her baby now, so I must
||He is the fire of my loins, the light of my eyes, the cool of
evening after the long day, the gushing spring in the desert's
thirst. It is simple. I am a woman. I would kill for this man.
||RageBoy? I really can't talk about it. Well, maybe just a
little. On the other hand, maybe I better not. Some girls get upset
when they find out we're together. How can anyone can be so petty?
Just because he chose me, that's no reason to get all weepy. He
said he was buying me a Porshe. If you see him, tell him Mina says
hi and hurry back!
||If that asshole comes back to my village, I will chop his dick
off. I will be proud to hang the dick of RageBoy outside my tent.
You see this child mutilating my tit? He is number 23. I don't know
why I let him in when he comes here stinking drunk and reeking of
the bad drugs. He promised me he was going into rehab, but of
course he was only lying again. That is why I always carrry this
large knife today. Let him come. This time he will be sorry. I love
him, though, so I hope he is OK.
||If you're asking would I fuck him, well, I guess the answer
would have to be yes. If you're asking if I already did, I'd have
to take the Fifth. I'll only say this: he's been running this two-for-one sale that's really hard to beat.
||Minga! That fuckin RageBoy will be the death of me. He came
here last month and now all the young girls are pregnant and none
of them will confess to the priest. He is the devil in human form.
He is pure evil. However, sometimes he can be generous. He brings
me the green olive spumoni from Roma. Blessed by the Holy Father,
he says. Of course he is lying, but it is a charming lie. If I were
a little younger, may the Virgin forgive me, I suppose I would
fuck him myself.
||Why doesn't he ever turn his cell phone on? One of the top-50
business gurus, my ass. He doesn't know shit about technology! He
leaves me out on this goddam beach, says he'll call. Oh yeah. Sure.
And right after I got my hair done.
||He loves me. He loves me not. He loves my Work. He loves my
Work not. He loves my ravens. He loves my ravens not. He loves me.
He loves me not...
Oh, fuck this!
||I could crush him with one hand. His balls anyway, for what he
did to me. I never thought I'd become a lesbian, but I'm not about
to risk that again. And he seemed so sweet and harmless at
first. Almost tender. Then the degrading things he made me do! "You
want me to suck WHAT?" I'd say. But he'd just laugh, as if it was a
big joke or something. I did come a lot, though. I sort of miss
||Let's see... now what's he saying? Oh, this is just too
too good! Wait till I tell Brenda and Phillip. God how I love being
first in our country club to read the latest EGR!
||Intellectually, the man is a midget. Not to mention a shameless
misogynist and a throwback racist. Nonetheless, he does seem to
have captured a certain postmodern je ne sais quoi. Would I fuck
||When RageBoy enters my meditations, I become full and moist. In
fact, right now I'm so horny I could fuck a fire hydant. Oh Isis,
please help me overcome these defilements! On second thought,
please materialize RB in the ever-present present of your prescient
presence. Maybe call in a fire alarm. I dunno. Something!
I would like to extend a very personal note of thanks to all the brave and wonderful women who participated in this important study.
12:32 AM | link |
Sunday, September 29, 2002
Come live with me and be my love...
It was the best of times it was the worst of times.
I fell in love. My keyboard started turning colors,
filling my eyes with that double vision. "Marlowe, is
that you?" she asked from the gloom of my outer office.
"What are all these damn roses doing here?" What could
I tell her. I needed a client. Bad. It had been a lean
season, but things were looking up. "Come right in, angel.
Relax. Try on these slippers. Now, what seems to be the
7:07 PM | link |
Jenna Turns Five!
Jenna, the lovely Ur-rascal daughter of
Jeneane and George Sessum,
will be FIVE YEARS OLD
tomorrow. At my suggestion (yes, you can blame me for
this one), Jenna has put together a comprehensive wish list on Amazon. Imagine what
you would wish for if you were five. Click on the title slug above, or
on Jenna's picture below to send her a birthday present.
Let's blow our very own
Baby Blogger's mind to teensy li'l bits! (And psssst... pass it
5:24 PM | link |
She's So Heavy
1:55 AM | link |
Saturday, September 28, 2002
Please Mr. Postman
Free-associative intertextual deja-vu precursor to the previous post. From the introduction to
The Bombast Transcripts (the book no one ever fucking buys)...
My resume looks like the routing manifest for some displaced person
after WWII. I am merely a high-tech migrant worker, following the
harvests like Sisyphus rolling his rock. Rocking his roll. Locking and
loading and finally going postal from the high bell-tower of a mind at
once unhallowed and unhinged.
11:38 PM | link |
Friday, September 27, 2002
Coming Soon to a ZIP Code Near You
8:54 PM | link |
Hey now, all you sinners
Put your lights on, put your lights on
Hey now, all you lovers
Put your lights on, put your lights on
Hey now, all you killers
Put your lights on, put your lights on
Hey now, all you children
Leave your lights on, better leave your lights on
Cause there's a monster living under my bed
Whispering in my ear
an angel, with a hand on my head
She say I got nothing to fear
There's a darkness, deep in my soul
I still got a purpose to serve
So let your light shine, into my hole
God, don't let me lose my nerve...
put your lights on / supernatural / santana
the following is part of an
EGR I wrote on May 3rd of this year, but never finished, never sent.
Been listening to Santana all morning, trying to kick the same old
poison blues. Which is strange, because I'm in love today, so much to
be glad about. She say I got nothing to fear. I tell her that too. We
pass it back and forth. Say there's no monster living under our bed,
whispering in our ears. It's a question of faith, or courage under
fire, of love. So hey now, all you killers, put your lights on. Put
your lights on...
gimme your heart
make it real
or just forget about it
smooth / supernatural / santana
Last night I went out and had a T-bone steak and eggs at Denny's.
Because nothing else was open at that hour. Also because I love
slumming with the underclass. Not bad. I was hungry, hadn't eaten all
day. Forgot. So I ate and left. Not a lot of small talk.
On the way back, I figured I better pick up cigarettes, running low.
So I go into this gas-and-groceries place near where I live and this
thing off the Santana Supernatural CD is playing. Quoted
above. Because that's the line. Beat of the street. Macho guitar, that
voice. Uh! When you got nothin' and the world is burning: strut. Hot
nights, straight-up love, no compromise. "I could change my life..."
and the towering sneer as he lays it down: "to better suit your mood."
Or is that just me? The sneer? I mean, it was a huge hit, a Latin love
song. Everybody grooves on those. I don't know. I'm reading my own
trip into everything these days. Maybe it don't mean shit. Is this
stuff in my head or really happening? Real, or the monster under my
bed? Ah fuck... just forget about it.
Gimme your heart.
I was trying to remember the name of that gas-and-groceries place this
morning. Go there all the time. Open 24 hours, etc. Couldn't remember.
Today not anything like yesterday. Yesterday was overcast and I felt
pretty good. Almost past it. Today it's sunny, perfect weather. The
kind of day you want to be out there with someone. And I'm trying to
sit on the speed. Check the rearview. Panic racing up the outside
lane. So I get in the car to go get the name. That's all I'm looking
for. A short ride. Nothing else to do. PDQ. That's what it's called.
So there. Now you know. For completeness.
I go in. Might as well get something. Don't want anything. This time
it's Nirvana doing Come As You Are. As you were. As I want you to be.
Christ, I gotta get outta here. I grab a quart of Gatorade, the most
artificial color I can find. Looks like anti-freeze, tastes like
catpiss. As a friend. As a friend. As an old enemy...
Outside I walk to the edge of the store (just typed "to the edge of
the story"), the grassy verge along the highway. A little stone table
and bench to sit looking at the mountains. God, the mountains! What a
day. Too beautiful. The ache in my chest is back. She's gone. For
good. For ill. Why won't this stop? Let up?
I keep telling myself I've gotta get to work. On something productive.
Bring in the bacon, put food on the table. Yeah, but then I say, what
if there's nobody there to eat it? Be kind of a Pyrrhic victory then,
huh? So I cop that my work right now is to write and keep writing. My
work this week is to save my life. And what if it's not just this week
you gotta worry about? I ask myself these questions. What if it goes
into overtime? I keep thinking I've come to the edge of the world.
Come to a place I can stand, if not quite yet stand still. But there's
more. There's always more. Everything I know, I learned on acid. It
all comes in waves, so roll with it. Roll with it. Let them pick you
up and put you down. Feel into the swells. Keep rolling.
All those words I wrote said I love you come back. You know me, they
said, but not all the way down. There's more to go. And I know you,
but not all the way in. You say I don't know you at all. That I'm
making it up. That I'm using your words and your silence against you.
And in public. With strangers. With everyone looking. And this works
3:13 PM | link |
Thursday, September 26, 2002
In Which I Rant Into Gary Turner's Answering Device
2:12 PM | link |
1:53 PM | link |
London Calling: Anarchy in the UK
Gary Turner writes:
"Chris Locke called me and left a voicemail at 5am UK time this
morning. I just picked it up and laughed so hard in a public place that
people were looking at me funny. I'll upload it tonight..." But then,
letting mere domestic concerns overwhelm his bloggerly
responsibilities, Turner cops out. In the comments to the foregoing post,
he pathetically attempts to exonerate himself:
"i'm out of time tonight, we spent three hours in the maternity ward
getting tests done - everything's ok, just first pregnancy jitters
So, the voicemail's gonna have to wait until tomorrow people. but it's
worth the wait, you'll die with laughter when you hear an quadruple
espresso pumped locke ranting about putting fucking tivo machines onto telephones so he can dictate novels to people, how he hates voicemails
that only give you 2 minutes to leave a message and just as he's
getting into his stride the three minute cut off message appears and
he totally loses all composure before being cut of in mid expletive.
he should be locked up."
12:30 AM | link |
Wednesday, September 25, 2002
The Untapped Power of The Weblog
Blogging will get you through
times of no sanity
better than sanity will get you through
times of no blogging.
This wisdom adapted from Fat Freddy of the Fabulous Furry Freak
a brusque interview with Gilbert Shelton, the creator of F3B as well
as Philbert Desenex, Hog of Steel, a.k.a. Wonder Warthog.
memories of youth!
1:03 PM | link |
Boulder Writers Alliance Keynote
Tonight, I drank four iced espressos (my usual pre-talk regimen), then made a complete
spectacle of myself in front of this unsuspecting group of 150 or so
mostly tech writers. I started by explaining my attire. I was wearing
jeans and a pinstriped white button-down shirt, sneaks. "I usually
get $20,000 for a talk like this," I said. "For that, you get the
Dockers and a better cut of shoes, a decent jacket. For $150,000 you
get the tie to go with. For pro-bono gigs like this, I usually arrive
naked, so all-in-all you're ahead of the game."
"Also," I said, "since you're not paying me jack shit, I don't much
care what I say. So this should be pretty relaxed."
Of course, it was no such thing. I proceeded to rave, froth and fulminate non-stop
for over an hour. I told them I wasn't really Chris Locke -- they wouldn't
know -- but that I'd just bumped into him downtown,
and he'd promised me 20 bucks if I'd come here tonight and say
whatever came into my head. I told them that the secret of my success
was lying and making shit up -- and that there was a fine line between
those two. Even I had no fucking idea what I was talking about. Not
that that's anything new. I delivered strong opinions on matters I
know nothing about, fabricated a revisionist history of the world
economy since 1983, and laughed at all my own jokes. Sometimes the
audience laughed along. I suspect to pretend they had the least clue
why I was laughing. I sure as hell didn't.
We all learned something, I think. Me, that I can
extemporaneously pontificate on any totally x-random bullshit and make people (or at
least myself) believe I'm a bloody genius. They, that I should have
been sedated and taken to a quiet place.
I found this email waiting when I returned to my cold, empty lair.
You were fabulous, and I'm not blowing smoke up your Ying Yang
either. That's was AWESOME! I hope we can get you again somewhere on
down the line. I got so busy I didn't even get to buy a book from you,
so I may be bugging you to buy one of your signed copies someday. Too
bad you don't drink beers anymore, or I'd buy you a round or 20 and
really pick your brain.
I told him, no, I didn't drink, but that I do accept free dinners in
By the time I got home, everyone I know was either asleep or under surveillance, so I
couldn't indulge my growing phone jones. However, I did fill up
several voicemail boxes from London to Lahore. As the Rolling Stones
once noted, it's not easy living on your own, Jagger artfully
underscoring the point: and it's a pretty hard thing....
However, I observe that this relatively minor complaint in fact represents a significant step forward in my glacial
recovery. Having finally accepted that the fantasy world is my friend, I feel an orgasmic surge of unwarranted self esteem.
Shit, a month ago I wanted to kill all sentient beings and stuff
them for target practice. I wanted a bumper sticker that said "I Blew
The Dalai Lama," contemplating with joy the fatal traffic
accidents it would cause here in Boulder, Colorado. Which is btw where
I live. For those of you who are new.
Apropos of nothing (see previous paragraphs), will somebody please
send me some interesting fucking email before I go fucking batshit over
here? Like I'm already not. But thanks in advance for understanding.
2:44 AM | link |
Tuesday, September 24, 2002
Paynter Loses It Entirely
It was bound to happen. Stretched to the breaking point by my
repeated bogus promises to do an interview on
not to mention his placement at the ass-end of my blogroll for
unspecified crimes against women (how could he have done that to sweet
little Gretchen Pirillo?!), poor Frank has finally lost it. As in snapped.
As in slipped the surly bonds of earth. He seems to have been hallucinating
again. Thinking he's been seeing body parts appearing on and disappearing from my
blog. "I see intermittent pussy," said Paynter when questioned.
This is a common symptomatic precursor to full-blown dementia praecox.
He writes: "One also assumes that RB and Her Anonymousity are okay
with this teasing!"
Ask your momma, Frank. She told me it was cool.
"And of course," he adds parenthetically, "the underlying assumption
to all of this is that the tree is actually falling in this particular
Unsure as to which particular forest Frank has been frequenting
of late, I can only surmise that he is speculating about whether "Her
Anonymousity" a) exists, b) is a figment of my imagination, c) is the
erstwhile newage artchick, d) is
Dave Winer in drag, e) is sweet little Gretchen Pirillo, f) I have
forgotten to take my meds again, or g) is my virtual dream
lover for real with whose various body (mind, and other ineffable)
parts I have unexpectedly yet utterly fallen in love.
The answer will be fully revealed (over her dead body, she says) in my forthcoming
interview, on which I am already hard at work. No, really.
"Back to my bond analysis," Paynter ends the item.
Good idea, Frank. Glad I'm outta the market.
12:40 AM | link |
Monday, September 23, 2002
Dr. Coyote Meets Pink Floyd and Finds True Love
Come on [come on, come on...]
I hear you're feeling down.
Well I can ease your pain,
Get you on your feet again.
Relax [relax, relax...]
I need some infor-ma-tion first.
Just the basic facts:
Can you show me where it hurts?
CAPTION: coyote wants to help. he is skillful at finding pain. he thinks this
is good. he does not understand that people do not always appreciate
his skill. then they see him as an evil demon. coyote is lonely. coyote is
sad. he has been looking for someone who is not afraid of his medicine. now he
has found her. coyote is happy. he will give her many blessings.
though some may seem a little weird at the time.
12:46 PM | link |
Sunday, September 22, 2002
12:55 AM | link |
from EGR, May 15
It is not a mistake to love. All it says on the
page in front of me. Red pen new notebook. So hard to get started
sometimes, but that's not it this time. Watching a storm come in all
day. From up on the mesa. Smoking on Don's front doorstep at 4. Out in
front of Starbucks. It finally hits, outrider winds slipping down over
front-range thermals like
Sitting on a park bench eyes
closed in freefall. Hit me change my mind this sky is moving baby no
12:21 AM | link |
Saturday, September 21, 2002
full moonfall equinox
2:27 AM | link |
Thursday, September 19, 2002
Explanation separates us from astonishment, which is the only gateway
to the incomprehensible.
- Eugène Ionesco
3:19 PM | link |
"We that are true lovers run into
As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 4
12:19 AM | link |
Tuesday, September 17, 2002
In From The Cold
In the darkest hour, my life all broken glass and blood, an angel came
to me. She said, listen up you badass demon coyote motherfucker, get a
grip. She said listen to this...
When you know
And I said thank you, Angel. I needed that. My last lover wore out
faster than these jeans I'm wearing. Next time I'm going to buy six
pairs, put three away in the closet as spares. Also, I'm gonna take
them off more often, give em a much needed rest. Take yours off too.
that you know
who you love
you can't deny it.
Or go back
or give up
you don't buy it.
When it's clear this time
you've found the one
you'll never let him go.
'Cause you know
and you know
that you know...
And it's time
to come in
from the cold.
- Shawn Colvin
12:10 AM | link |
Saturday, September 14, 2002
before the fall
the air so bright
coffee tasting good.
these rushes lifting me
they could be fear
perhaps once were
but run through my heart
so many times now
feel like breathing free.
Your eyes this morning
holding me. Your white-sailed boats
giving me harbor, lending me joy
your passion for the world.
sorrow flowing like good methedrine
red light, green light, shadows falling
children playing in the street
just before the lights come on
Stones playing from an upper window
it is the evening of the day.
from our different worlds
make one. share hands and lips
and beating hearts.
touch a sadness in ourselves so deep
indistinguishable from coming home.
6:56 PM | link |
Thursday, September 12, 2002
Which Have Mo Mojo: My Ho or JOHO?
I got my mojo workin'
(yeah, well, we'll see about that)
Jes' don' work on you...
6:25 PM | link |
All You Need Is Love
Nothing you can know that isn't known.
Nothing you can see that isn't shown...
2:10 AM | link |
Wednesday, September 11, 2002
1:26 PM | link |
Monday, September 09, 2002
Fundamental Principle #1
11:42 PM | link |
3:10 PM | link |
Friday, September 06, 2002
Coyote howls. Dreaming me so long so far.
Against the shoulders of the mountains, mighty thermals rise,
swept up along a thousand miles of jungle sloping off below. Every day
for a million years clouds mass as this tropical wind rises toward the
glacial peaks, darkening into thunder until lightning rips their
bellies out. It rains.
Torrential flooding as if the world had turned upside down, oceans
pouring from the sky. For hours, then it stops. The wind comes up,
shredding what's left of the clouds. Sunlight breaks again across the
forest canopy. A bead of water like a teardrop runs down a
green-veined leaf. Falls.
On the shadowed jungle floor tiny rivulets form, connect, connect,
begin to rush together into boiling streams, raging over rocks and
fallen trees, leap out a hundred feet into thin air, plunge among
rainbows into the cauldron heartbeat of the world. Desire is an
I was in it with her for a while, joined it seemed as if forever.
Flowing together, the river opening out, always and everywhere her
mind my sky, her eyes my fire. And then... and then the film broke. No
sense, no reason, no way to stop her going. She swam to the far bank,
walked away without a backward look. But I was caught in the current
that had carried us, too weak to push against it, too broken to
escape. What had filled my heart now emptied it. No use in trying to
stop the river. I did try, but it was too strong. One man alone
against such loss, such sorrow. Hopeless. In despair.
I prayed for night. For a darkness so deep I would disappear. The
ache dissolve. Life end. Exhausted, I lost all hope, one by one cut
the threads of this life, whatever had held me here. Desire once so
deep now like a poison flood that carried me away. Away forever, never
toward. I let go and let the river take me, to drown me, to grind me
on its rocks, to leave me for the raptors circling down, sky closing
in, love ruined.
I came to on the shore, washed up, battered but alive. I checked
to see if the pain was gone. It wasn't. After the first shock, I was
afraid, and I lived in the fear of an emptiness I came to recognize as
myself, my heart a vacant mirror.
I made a fire on the edge of the river, watched it as the moon
rose, forgot to count the days. Slowly I learned to breathe again. A
little. Then drowning in memory. Then opening my hands to the earth.
Then clawing the ground. Then parched and crazy. Finally drinking the
water of my fear from the river itself. And I knew then why I could
not leave it.
I don't know how long I was there. Day blurred into night and it
made no difference. I sat and watched the river. I began to listen to
its many voices until they merged into a single music. Began to move
with its rhythm. Here is a rock, a stick. Here is time divided into
beat. Strange song came from my mouth, a new way of breathing. Air
mountain burning skyfall open heaven. Thinking about this love. Coyote
dreaming me. So long. So far.
One day I saw a small boat drifting toward the place I was. I
waded out up to my chest. I felt the river's pull, reached out my
hand, grasped the top edge of the boat. Looked and you were in it. You
were asleep. I drew the boat to shore, wedged it against the rocks.
You awoke, opened your eyes then, looked at me. I'd never seen you
before. Then why...
...do I recognize your face, your eyes, your voice. How can I feel
your heart so deeply? Some magic growing in the space between us. Some
impossible joy. Echoes of a future not yet lived.
"Were you dreaming?" I ask.
"I must have been."
"Was there a coyote in your dream?"
You look at me for a long moment. Time stands still. You say,
"Push the boat back into the current."
I am sad to see you leave so soon. We have just met. I push the
boat back out. But don't let go. Not yet.
"A coyote, yes," you say. "Get in."
Time starts again, beat of my heart the beat of yours. Thinking
about this love. Adrift with you clouds mass above, the rains begin.
Lying in the bottom of the boat, I touch your face. Blue fire flickers
between us, lightning feeling its way to a strike. On the bank a
thousand year old tree explodes in sparks and splinters, no time at
all between flash and thunderclap. Our lips meet, tongues speaking a
secret language so easy suddenly to understand. They say desire is an
3:09 PM | link |
Thursday, September 05, 2002
10:59 PM | link |
Sunday, September 01, 2002
Heart of Darkness meets City of Light
Everything is full of gods: the first word to go out from the
pre-Socratics, though they didn't call themselves that of course. Logic
and his sister Paradox coming in later to clean up a bit. Dionysus
disgraced, slinking off to get wasted by himself. But the underground
was deeper than Hades even in those days and something lingered.
Hermetic arcana disguised as Christ and the Virgin, subaltern
coniunctio, sacred pornography more shocking than we can imagine now
that sex has finally been sterilized. (Thus the necessary importation
of homeopathic diseases, the last great 20th Century balancing act.
Ebola sez: Mr. Kurtz, he dead. And means it this time.) As above, so
below. Paracelsus stumbling onto rosy crucifixions just before the Age
of Reason fucked it up. John Locke farting at Atalanta Fugiens. Carl
Jung building Gnostic castles in the air and listening very carefully
to Wagner. "Gott ist tot" said Nietzsche trying for a revival but
getting only demons in the bargain. Goethe laughing, saying hell,
I told you so. Ah well, it's history now.
But not all lost. Perhaps. Just sleeping it off somewhere. After the
descent. After the change that never came. When you take the world
apart, hang on to the directions. How she looked in morning light,
smiled at nothing in particular. Santeria Botticelli. Voudon horse.
Her voice was soft and cool. Her eyes were clear and bright.
9:59 AM | link |
get your badge here.
"RageBoy: Giving being fucking nuts a good name since 1985."
28 October 2004
||More of Chris Locke's photos
Until a minute ago, I had no photos. I still have no photos to speak of.
I don't even have a camera. But all these people were linking to "my photos."
It was embarassing. It's still embarassing. But I'm used to that.
what I'm listening to...
egr on topica
on yahoo groups
terms of service
It is too late.