elizabeth lane lawley
michael "OC" clarke
e v h e a d
sweet fancy moses
wood s lot
m. melting object
Saturday, January 25, 2003
EGR: The "Lost" Sends
"The clouds in the east are colored with the pink newness
day. Now I see that this place remembers me, is tending to me.
Blind for so long my eyes are opened in tears and sunrise."
"Sentimentality is a superstructure covering brutality."
Carl Gustav Jung
On May 7 last year I wrote, in
Mourning Becomes Electra:
"As many of you have noticed, I deleted the last four EGR sends from
the Topica archive. However bright the writing may have burned (some
seemed to think so), they were attacks on someone I love and who loved
me. Attacks that were keeping me going at another's expense. And they
were. Keeping me going, breathing, able to feel I had any world at all
worth speaking of."
In retrospect, I finally realized that love didn't have much to do
with it (queue Tina). From her end anyway; nor friendship from mine.
If my words cost her something, the expense was as insignificant as I
became to her overnight -- for pretzel-logic "reasons" that made about
as much sense as one of my favorite EGR issues:
DiChirico Fends Off the Spectral Bats of Andalusia.
Readers interested in pursuing the actual reasons and the convoluted psychological
dynamics underlying the irrational surface rationalizations may wish to explore
any or all of the following:
So... taking my usual deeply ethical view of such matters as life and love, grieving
and forgiveness, I figured, well, fuck the bitch. So here again, by popular demand,
are URLs for, and selected clips from, The "Lost" Sends -- on Yahoo Groups, where
they've been all along. Just for the record. And the exorcism now in progress...
To the friends and lovers who've reached out to me and helped me
through this last year, my undying gratitude. You know who you are.
- Date: Sun Jan 20, 2002 12:42 am
EGR: Burning Down The World
I once knew a woman who dreamed of a snake. She told me about this dream,
in which the snake was coiled near her, within striking distance, dangerous.
But she didn't try to get away from it, and it didn't bite her. She sat where
she was and watched it, paying close attention. After a while, it simply slithered
away. It was an important dream, I could tell. I could tell that was why she
was telling me.
The problem with stories is that they often speak in tongues, to each who
hears them differently. If we share the same vision, we grasp the same meaning.
Look in my eyes; speak my language. But the stories themselves are how we
say: "here is the way I see." Not what, but how. Like a hologram, another
metaphor, the whole not only includes the parts -- the usual case -- the parts
also include the whole. We have only these images, these words. When vision
is occulted, despair is a black whole. The game is good if your heart is true.
But true to what? We're getting to that.
Or are we?
In the dream of my friend, I tried to read if I truly was her friend and she
mine. Reading, as ever, between the lines, I did not believe it showed that.
I saw myself as the snake. I am dangerous to her, I thought. She is hoping
that I -- or that part of me -- will go away. Without causing trouble. Without
poisoning her. Even though I knew I could be wrong, was very likely wrong
about what this dream meant to her, I felt a terrible deep sadness. She saw
me and knew what I was. She made no judgment, didn't flee. And still, my leaving
restored the balance of the world. Things as they are and should be. A deep
and abiding sense of peace.
Like a fool, I fought with her. I said to hell with that, I will not go gently.
It is not peace you want. You are afraid. And I am not here to ease your fear
or help you ignore it. I come out of the darkness that is also within you.
You know me better than you think.
I knew I was wrong about her vision. I thought I knew. I said, I think I am
wrong about this, but I feel it anyway. This darkness is at the heart of how
I see the world, so here, I want to show you: my anger, my refusal. And she
said I cannot trust you with my dreams. It was our first real fight, but not
our last -- yet another word that has two senses. Last can mean latest or
final. Wherever the corrosion of trust began, we are no longer fighting. [more...]
- Date: Wed Apr 24, 2002 2:23 pm
EGR: Day Tripper
Dynamics. Some of these people did get raped. For real. Others metaphorically,
but just as real. Got their worlds torn down, or never got to build one. Oppression,
yeah, a real thing. My heart goes out. Genuinely. No irony. But still others
looked at all that and began to pick up on the subtle bennies. A certain sympathy,
a certain indulgence. And spinning those promising semiotics through the cultural
mix of the times, came up with a whole new way of Healing. Here's how it works.
You are in a desert. Nothing makes any sense. Every time you have trusted
anyone, you've gotten fucked over. Bad. If you want to keep living, breathing,
you're going to have to reach out to someone. Cautiously. Carefully. You look
for someone who understands. Someone of the same sex. Has to be. Because the
original damage came from that quarter most likely. And finally, after waiting
so long, look! Here are sisters who care. They speak to you of going down
into it, the hurt, the pain, the terrible Jehovah-like rejection. Too often
to count: Dad. They help you understand this. Maybe. You want it to be true.
You want the pain to end. You want to believe so bad, you would give anything.
Yeah. Sounds familiar. Sounds real as it gets. I'm not hacking on any of it.
Except there's that Maybe. It's a big maybe from many perspectives. Maybe
the helpers will know what the fuck they're doing. Maybe they won't be vampires,
feeding on your pain. It ain't all Buffy Goes to Suburbia out there. And maybe
you won't have just found the custom-made algorithm to become a vampire
yourself. One that can walk in the light. That can wrap itself in Light, in
the Mystery of Mysteries, and never be exposed. Because exposure equals death.
Relegation back to the desert, the empty place, the place of no warmth, no
blood, no heart.
The modern term is narcissism. As you might suspect, I know something about
this. I speak from experience. And we're talking Special People here. Like
me, and yet not like me. From next to nothing, we construct a world, a world
in which we are esteemed. Supremely. Without question. Unconditionally. That's
what we want. That's what all of us want when we're two years old. Some of
us don't get it. Some of us learned to compromise. Ambiguity, slop in the
system, neglect, disorder. Life. Genuine acceptance. But there's another kind
of "acceptance" which is supplied by others. Proffered willingly, love. Dangled
as bait, desire. Doesn't matter. Makes no difference. All is taken as food.
As fuel for an esteem of self that becomes an inverted religion. Disguised
as spirit, a hunger so dark it remains forever hidden. So sealed, it admits
nothing but itself.
The words and catch phrases are significant, charged. They become sacred.
"Ground" becomes an obsession because there is no ground. No earth. No human
birth. Only a construct, an unacceptably accidental accretion of unconscious
flotsam. Nobody home. And the fear of that. The dread. I speak from experience.
We all know about this. It's not so funny when you get up close. Is it? We
all of us know, but most of us do different things with it. Make different
choices. I hope. I hope I make different choices. Not to sacrifice another
life to my own willing blindness. Not to mistake "needs" sanctified by sleight
of hand for love. Not to trade an open heart for a vacuous sense of ease and
beauty. Otherwise, boundaries become critical to keep vision at bay. All the
time masquerading as vision. A shallow vision, a tightly bounded surface.
A thrilling reflection in a breathless pool. Calm. Serene. Deadly.
Her voice was soft and cool
Her eyes were clear and bright
but she's not there...
Too strange? Too twisted? Too much to swallow? Count yourself lucky if you
have no idea what I'm talking about.
Look to the audience. If there isn't one, beware. If it's you, unamaze yourself.
Disenthrall. Whatever it takes. Or else you're going down, for good, and the
waves will close silently over you, a tribute to her bountiful care and kindness.
Her unparalleled, unquestionable beauty. [more...]
- Date: Sun Apr 28, 2002 11:52 pm
EGR: Rubber Soul
And so down and around again back toward my car. A girl is smoking outside
the Indian restaurant. "Cigarette break?" I ask, flashing my own smoke. A
kind of brotherhood/sisterhood thing I'm thinking. Weak, but what the hell.
She smiles. Yeah. I'm going to walk past but I stop and say did you eat here
tonight? Was the food good? Do you always hang out smoking between courses?
Do you feel like shooting the shit? Words to that effect.
And she does. Feel like talking. So I ask this and that. Where from, where
to? Doing what why when? She's been married to this older guy, she says, for
12 years. Had a driver's license for nine, but he always drove. Very controlling.
They were in Tucson but now she's at the Sunshine Community in Loveland, cooking.
Oh yeah? I did that too, I say. For nine months at a Buddhist dude ranch up
outside Fort Collins. This is Colorado talk. Mountains and edges of mountains.
It was a recuperation sort of thing, I say, for me. I forget to mention that
when I got shipped there, I'd just spent five days in the slammer.
Oh yes, Sunshine is a spiritual community too, she says. I'm sort of finding
myself. He had to leave. It was a pretty bad scene, she says. Ah yes, I know
how hard that can be, I say. Yes, she says, but I was the one who wanted to
end it. End it finally. We broke up three times. He called me last night.
I haven't heard from him in seven months. It was a good talk. But I'm someone
else now. I'm not the same as I was when I was with him. When I started driving,
it was if I'd been driving all along.
Out of the blue, with no provocation, people will tell you anything.
So I say, and what do you do up there other than cook? I'm an artist, she
says. Oh really? I say. And aren't we all? And that explains everything. But
I don't really say those things. Instead I say, what kind of art? And she
says well symbolism mostly. I swear to god. So I ask, what medium are we talking
here. And she says acrylics. Primary colors, and secondary, and sometimes
I throw in some earth tones. The garden is completely organic.
By the way, just so there's no mistake, this isn't like me imagining I'm getting
off on smack. This was a real person I met tonight walking past The Tandoori
Grill. She isn't a character I'm making up. Not some allegorical bit player.
I'm mostly not into symbolism myself.
So you paint, I say, piecing it together. Oh yes, she says, and it comes from
my Source. Somewhere way back in. Sometimes animals. Usually a male and female
theme. I bet that feels good, I say. Oh yes, she says, it feels wonderful!
Is she coming on to me with these furry male/female Source beings? I bet I
know what they're doing back in there. But by this time I know I'm not coming
back on to her, even if she is. Not that it hadn't crossed my mind.
I'm a little sorry to realize it, but I'm now doing research for the book.
The book I just flashed is the book, the book I've been looking for
for a year and it just came together today. I also realize I'm fucking with
her head. Not in a mean way. It's just that this conversation has gone so
far south I'd have to leave my flyway. And after the events of the last few
days, few weeks, months, decades, I'm thinking: better hold, better wait.
Better take a pass. Until hell freezes over.
Sounds archetypal, I say. Oh yes, she says, I am totally into Jungian Philosophy.
I'm starting to get cold. Her friends come out of the restaurant. Oh she says,
I have to go. I shake hands with her. Why, I'm wondering now. Whatever for?
Perhaps to signal that we've had a like totally mature, adult interchange
with no ulterior motives. She's thinking: I'm going to make it. I'm thinking:
she's going to make it. I'm also thinking: I'm not usually this covertly cynical.
I ask myself if I've let it show. I tell myself no, I haven't. Good. Goodnight,
she says. Good luck, I say back.
How totally weird. Friday night, full moon in Scorpio... I'm way into Jungian
Philosophy myself. Solve et coagula, baby. Make my day. [more...]
- Date: Wed May 1, 2002 9:19 am
EGR: Here Come the Miracles
...let's be realistic. And OK, I admit that when I get realistic, it's a little
different from when most people get realistic. But that's what makes it interesting,
right? Sure makes it interesting for me. To demonstrate, here's a completely
realistic down-to-earth conversation I remember having when I was about 18...
Grace Slick: Don't you want somebody to love?
Sure everybody likes to dump on the '60s, but as the Bard once said, love
is not love that alters when it alteration finds, motherfucker. However, it
might need to get an image upgrade. Dante had to go through hell to find Beatrice.
Me, I'm a modern sort of guy. I don't go in for this heaven and hell shit.
I go to Starbucks.
Grace Slick: Don't you need somebody to love?
You see what I'm getting at here? You do, don't you. See, I knew you'd pick
right up on it right away. You're amazing really. Practically reading my mind.
(Think about that one for a second.)
Of course, maybe I should resist porting these fantasies altogether. Lest
I cause harm. You'll hear certain people express such concerns these days.
Especially if you happen to live in Boulder, which is crawling with Buddhists.
Or if you live anywhere on planet Earth, such is the incredible power of the
Dalai Lama's literary agent. Jesus Christ, how many books has that fucker
published now? About 683, I think.
But as I was saying, might I not better renounce my defiled grasping so as
not to cause harm to others? This sounds good in principle, but it's so unilateral.
How about if they stop first? Could we maybe work something out? Get a like
pre-nup or something on general all-around pain causing?
Here's what I think. When you hear people talk about "not causing harm" you
are listening to the words of either saints or liars. Guess which is more
So this notion of forgoing human (read sexual) relationships until I have
achieved Perfect Great Enlightenment is just not gonna fly, Orville. I mean,
if I'd gone down that road at 18, I'd still be sitting on my ass in some louse-ridden
ashram going OM all fucking day and still wondering what the hell was up.
And I'd have no stories to tell you, so what good would I be? And then what
of the happiness of all sentient beings?
Instead, I've put myself in harm's way, you could say. I loved and got laid
just as much as I could. For, as I also heard, around the same time, from
the fulsome lips of St. Jagger himself: an empty heart is like an empty life.
Sex, lies and TCP/IP. You could almost dance to it.
What's amazing me today is that I'm angry. And it feels good. Not like one
of Liz Keebler-Wroth's denial-ridden Polly-Wanna-Cracker Stages of Grief.
No, like being good and fucking pissed. Angry to have been tossed aside like
a spoiled calligraphy. The last time I saw her, she showed me this piece she'd
just finished. It was exquisitely done, as usual. But see here, she said,
I misspelled a word. Can't you fix it, I asked. No, she said, probably not.
I could tell she was upset. It was a fatal flaw in an otherwise perfect work
The word she'd misspelled was "judgment." No comment.
No, comment. Did you know that "to spell" originally came from the same place
in our collective history as "to cast a spell"? Do you believe in magic? No?
How about self-fulfilling prophecies? Like trying to tell a stranger about
rock and roll: that spoon, that spoon, that spoonful...
Amazed at myself because always before I was so sorry I'd ruined everything.
So devastated, guilty, ashamed. But I ain't gonna take the hit this time.
I never was your artwork anyway. Cry me a river, I'm not ruined. Not an error
of judgment. Not going down for this one.
I tell myself these things, I feel better. Not good, not glad. Just better.
As in: can't get no worse. Gods willing. [more...]
3:35 AM | link |
Friday, January 24, 2003
Repurposed Spam, Item #824
2:06 PM | link |
"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.