speedfactory phase 1 writings

Speedfactory Phase 1 writings

-----Original Message-----
From: burnbabyburn < burnbabyburn@burnbabyburn.netlineuk.net>
To: margot.write@btinternet.com < margot.write@btinternet.com>
Date: 24 November 1999 20:45
Subject: Re: speedfactory

                                                           measure me
                                                             magnify me
                                          calculate all my angles
                                                        my tolerances
                                                                my stress
                                                                 my parity
                                                   my redundancies

think me the visible hell ov curves unquantifiable
incalculable
on demand
data rated & signal spiked

        my protocol is dial me

misheard   i may be
breadth
bread
breath

breathe the bare bones

                blue
    amplitude

the first e-mail got returned this one hasnt been returned - hopefully it got thru - its now 9:30pm - i'll check in in 20 minutes see if hopefully you've received it & sent a response

all the best
sean

received this successfully at 21:53 - awaiting your response text        sean

-----Original Message-----
From: Margot < margot.write@btinternet.com>
To: burnbabyburn < burnbabyburn@burnbabyburn.netlineuk.net>
Date: 24 November 1999 21:46
Subject: Re: speedfactory

my message to you didn't even leave the Outbox so trying again

this was returned: i'll try again - hopefully it gets thru ths time

or that angle at which ma horizonbody breaks bread bakes breaths tracked curve
the cracklin lack ov air majesty   radio frequency   turbulence ov    priestholes
ov rhythm air   the settin ov hopes dailies   the knockin ov clock gazin ov
which curves back track lack ov   loss ov   aa am   maybe   perhaps

and the extent of my vibratory movement is modulated by variations in the wave form... but you are breaking up, l can no longer receive you........

break breakin brokin up you / receive no longer can I / up break you can i / form wave yu / yr variations / yr variances upon the module / the dance ov chance vibrations / sine cosine / longitudinal latitudinal / the extent & the extensions / the attenuations ov truth / the count down to / 47 48 50

breaking up is hard to do but l am terminating my connection with you.....

is this does this aa mean is that is this this is that .............

break

up is heart do

to but i

term
at
con
yu

up break .............

br king u s ha t do l a er in in my con i ou.....

7 6 2 1 zero zero zero

................

From New World to Old
Words glide
Echoes of lives lived
Ancestors shared

The speedframe stops

----------
>From: Catherine Daly <cadaly@pacbell.net>
>To: Kate McIntyre <kate-mac@dircon.co.uk>
>Subject: Re: speedfactory 1
>Date: Thu, Nov 25, 1999, 7:55 pm
>

> We read, ourselves,
>
> ourselves returned
> in different handwriting,
>
> experience's texture
> stripped out, machine
> adding chirps and howls
>
> to my choice,
> your note,
> pasts.
>
> Someone reaching back, not me,
> grandfather, grandfather, to Puritans
> swearing on the Sabbath,
>
> appearing in the 1640 records
> without their wives, only sins,
> hands in stocks.
>
>
>> They strip-mine what they read
>> Skimming meaning off the top
>> only
>> Leaving what might trouble
>> buried
>> deep
>>
>> I like my text light
>> Super-whipped and frothy
>> light like latte
>>
>> They strip-mine what they read
>> There's no time to dwell
>> On deeper levels
>> This poem's built for speed
>>
>> ----------
>> >
>>
>> > Strip Mining Handwriting
>> > "they strip-mine what they read"
>> > Sven Bickerts
>> >
>> > What is the texture of
>> > America's love of the horizontal,
>> > long lines,
>> >
>> > what fault coal's depth,
>> > what seam,
>> > what land
>> > fall?
>> >
>> > The body has a texture its own;
>> > I write, the body of experience.
>> >
>> > One grandfather, a coal miner,
>> > engineering landscape.
>> >
>> >
>> >> Lap top
>> >> Hand held
>> >> Palm size
>> >>
>> >> Computer
>> >>
>> >> Fits my body
>> >>
>> >> Sits neatly
>> >> winking at me
>> >> quietly
>> >> awaiting my next move
>> >>
>> >> Capture my next thought
>> >> Freeze it
>> >> Catapult it into space
>> >>
>> >> Where will it land?
>> >> Will anyone out there understand?
>> >>
>> >>
>> >
>> >> > Hut
>> >> >
>> >> > What mediates
>> >> > handwriting,
>> >> > pencil, print,
>> >> > pen, Palmer method,
>> >> >
>> >> > cursor, courier,
>> >> > palm, keys?
>> >> >
>> >> >
>> >> > Hut
>> >> >
>> >> > Like electricity,
>> >> > space,
>> >> > music hanging in the air,
>> >> > this partial,
>> >> > frozen speech.
>> >> >
>> >> >
>> >> > Hike
>> >> >
>> >> > You know, I work in a speed factory,
>> >> > and we generally rely on you
>> >> > to prune for us,
>> >> > poet of attention,
>> >> > reader.
>> >> >
>> >> >
>> >> >
>> >> >> Poems should be written by hand
>> >> >> perhaps
>> >> >> The ink sinking into handmade paper
>> >> >> Connects the soul of the writer to the material world
>> >> >> In a way that the machine denies
>> >> >>
>> >> >> Sending words into space
>> >> >> via bandwidth
>> >> >> both hands on
>> >> >> the keyboard
>> >> >> eyes glued to the blue
>> >> >> words tumble, fragmented
>> >> >> bits and bytes
>> >> >> sent scurrying
>> >> >> across the pond
>> >> >>
>> >> >> Handwritten, the poem would take time
>> >> >> To make the journey
>> >> >> Ink blot
>> >> >> Paper fold
>> >> >> Stamp lick
>> >> >> Walk to post
>> >> >> Hello to neighbour
>> >> >> Bottle of milk on the return
>> >> >>
>> >> >> This poem is built for speed
>> >> >> One to one
>> >> >> Direct connection
>> >> >>
>> >> >> ----------
>> >>
>> >> >>
>> >> >> > Handwriting
>> >> >> >
>> >> >> > What is the sound of one hand, writing?
>> >> >> >
>> >> >> > Unable to escape the body,
>> >> >> > speaking,
>> >> >> > like a pianist, humming
>> >> >> > off the tune,
>> >> >> > I am writing
>> >> >> >
>> >> >> > a word trap
>> >> >> > into the machine
>> >> >> > delivering me another blank metaphor.
>> >> >> >
>> >> >> > I print
>> >> >> > or animate them,
>> >> >> > caging them in a black box,
>> >> >> > displaying them onscreen.

-----Original Message-----
From: Whitehead, Helen [SMTP:helen.whitehead@ntu.ac.uk]
Sent: Wednesday, November 24, 1999 2:39 PM
To: 'Kim Chandler'
Subject: RE: 50 words

I watch the feather flutter, dwindling sunlight flickering on its barbules. I recline in the sand, warm and comfortable, loose-limbed, lashes closing. To rest and to sleep ... to dream of a world peopled with hard machines, constricted emotions, a world in which you are far from me...

----------
From: Kim Chandler[SMTP:kim@mpcclaims.com]
Sent: 24 November 1999 14:21
To: Whitehead, Helen
Subject: RE: 50 words

Loki the joker - the raven; I steal a feather from his tail. I am a snake
divulging my secrets by leaving them. The feather lays on melting sand
and sings as I lay upon it, move along it, ride its length. I do not
dance, the feather shall take wing for me.

-----Original Message-----
From: Whitehead, Helen [SMTP:helen.whitehead@ntu.ac.uk]
Sent: Wednesday, November 24, 1999 2:09 PM
To: 'Kim Chandler'
Subject: RE: 50 words

New life springs within me, I shed the old. My colours symbolise
re-creation, a delicate primrose, a blush just touching a white
petal, the luminescent green of new shoots. The light in which I dance is a
melody of living. I am an instrument playing my own part amidst the harmonious
cadences of the orchestra.

----------
From: Kim Chandler[SMTP:kim@mpcclaims.com]
Sent: 24 November 1999 13:53
To: Whitehead, Helen
Subject: RE: 50 words

I am born again. Each day a dawning of vibrancy, a multitudinous
chorus of light which leads me forwards and illuminates the way. The dream
is jasmine poised on my tongue, as sweet as the harmony played by rain upon
stone, singing me to sleep. I wake and am born again

-----Original Message-----
From: Whitehead, Helen [SMTP:helen.whitehead@ntu.ac.uk]
Sent: Wednesday, November 24, 1999 1:32 PM
To: 'Kim Chandler'
Subject: RE: 50 words

Something obstructs my passage, a resistance, warm and
milky. I push, here... and here... and am through. There is red that
smells like mint, fragrance that explodes in my head with silvery colour, a
sound that vibrates through me as gently as the leaves so recently on
my shoulder....

----------
From: Kim Chandler[SMTP:kim@mpcclaims.com]
Sent: 24 November 1999 13:17
To: Whitehead, Helen
Subject: RE: 50 words

As I run I feel each breath of the whole envelope me, take
me, ease my way through all that stands in my way. The warmth of the
ether parts and I am like Moses leading all that is mine through it into the
other - me to a newness that is.

-----Original Message-----
From: Whitehead, Helen[SMTP:helen.whitehead@ntu.ac.uk]
Sent: Wednesday, November 24, 1999 1:08 PM
To: 'Kim Chandler'
Subject: RE: 50 words @ 10:20

I hear the wet and wild music of the ocean, the majestic symphonies
of the planets, the song of whales, the notes in the wind of the dry
savannah as the ibis run. I have been quiescent, listening, but the
thought of speed excites me and I start to move...

----------
From: Kim Chandler[SMTP:kim@mpcclaims.com]
Sent: 24 November 1999 12:53
To: Whitehead, Helen
Subject: RE: 50 words @ 10:20

I put my ear to the shell and hear an ocean. I stand on a mountain but ride the waves. Each particle, each micro-particle, all are the same only the speed changes. The dusting of stars swept under universal carpets we are both the sweeper and the swept - knowing and known.

-----Original Message-----
From: Whitehead, Helen [SMTP:helen.whitehead@ntu.ac.uk]
Sent: Wednesday, November 24, 1999 12:40 PM
To: 'Kim Chandler'
Subject: RE: 50 words @ 10:20

I exist, as an individual, unique. We exist, as multiple, duplicated. Down
to the atoms we are the same: you, me, them. The electrons circle in
prescribed orbits, the enzymes fold into identical conformations, the muscle
fibres contract. Everywhere order and processes, but overall, a knowledge of
uniqueness.

----------
From: Kim Chandler[SMTP:kim@mpcclaims.com]
Sent: 24 November 1999 12:19
To: Whitehead, Helen
Subject: RE: 50 words @ 10:20

I am everywhere and no where. Both bridge and barrier, boundary
and boundless. If you could touch me it would be nothing - everything. To
touch me, touch yourself. To know me, know yourself. To be me, be
yourself. The moment you give to being is the moment you become.

-----Original Message-----
From: Whitehead, Helen [SMTP:helen.whitehead@ntu.ac.uk]
Sent: Wednesday, November 24, 1999 11:56 AM
To: 'Kim Chandler'
Subject: RE: 50 words @ 10:20

I am everything and nothing, I am part of you and separate, I am
your world in a glance. As I embrace the cherry tree, the bark blistered by the
salt in the air, I feel your heartbeat. Leaves of golden and bronze fall
gently around me, your presence among the others.

----------
From: Kim Chandler[SMTP:kim@mpcclaims.com]
Sent: 24 November 199911:34
To: Whitehead, Helen
Subject: RE: 50 words @ 10:20

I have seen you - across the blue moon I couldn't understand. I
sat on chalk looking across the horizon to everything else and
knew you. I knew you because I felt you, felt a part of you - as
you are a part of me. I carry your world upon my lash.

-----Original Message-----
From: Whitehead, Helen [SMTP:helen.whitehead@ntu.ac.uk]
Sent: Wednesday, November 24, 1999 11:16 AM
To: 'Kim Chandler'
Subject: RE: 50 words @ 10:20

Leave behind unco-ordination, translate to an environment entirely
loose. I am the bubbles in a moment of ocean; the pearls coagulating
in darkness; the slimy protein sap moving along the phloem; the myxamoebae
moving, searching for brothers; a puff of heavy green smoke scented with lavender,
slowly hugging the ground.

----------
From: Kim Chandler[SMTP:kim@mpcclaims.com]
Sent: 24 November1999 10:54
To: Whitehead, Helen
Subject: RE: 50 words @ 10:20

Water, sand, wind - all free, all loose. Certainly they can not be accused of being, or behaving in an uncoordinated manner. All move and function as a whole yet are composites of millions of "parts" moving from their own will. Willing their looseness - their freedom - to mesh with the whole.

-----Original Message-----
From: Whitehead, Helen [SMTP:helen.whitehead@ntu.ac.uk]
Sent: Wednesday, November 24, 1999 10:35 AM
To: 'Kim Chandler'
Subject: RE: 50 words @ 10:20

Loose, non-gripping, non-grasping, lack of co-ordination as well as freedom. No sense of rhythm... flexible, flowing is good, but taken too far makes you an outcast, floppy, failing to keep up. Perhaps better to eschew company and take on the looseness, the free motion of the natural world: water, sand, wind...

----------
From: Kim Chandler[SMTP:kim@mpcclaims.com]
Sent: 24 November 1999 10:15
To: Helen Whitehead (E-mail)
Subject: 50 words @ 10:20

Loose in rhythm as well as style - that is the natural gait of "man" and of his best work. To be loose in rhythm is to allow the fullness of the body to limber up - stretch - and mould itself to the form. Take a simple walk around the block and notice that underneath this there is an undercurrent of subtext taking form.

Connie King and Joseph Safdie

di
dis
disg
disgr DISGRACEFUL CHRISTMAS CARD
disgra
disgrac Visit the 5 disgraceful sites under the tree below!
disgrace
disgraced
disgracedi
disgracedis
disgracedisg
disgracedisgr
disgracedisgra
disgracedisgrac
disgracedisgrace
disgracedisgraced
disgracedisgracedi
disgra
disgra
disgra

http://www.queencity.com/whistleblower/slick-disgrace.htm
http://home.clara.net/dagobah/timeonyourhands/funstuff/funstuff_5.htm
http://www.die.net/random/v/e/b/i/index.htm
http://www.nwlink.com/~timelvis/cowtip.html
http://home.clara.net/dagobah/timeonyourhands/funstuff/funstuff_4.htm

Dear Joe,
What is a word? If it is one thing in itself, not a line of
gibberish...not
a phrase...not a number...you will find that this message contains
exactly
50 words :)

Holiday greetings,
Connie King
__________________________________________________________________________

Thanks for the present, dear!
I thought you were going
to deconstruct the word, but
your web sites do a
good job of "dissing grace"

I thought I'd be more
personal -- talk about times when
I'd felt grace, and disgraced,
sometimes both at once! But
fifty words aren't a lot . . .

__________________________________________________________________________

Gosh, Joe.

Was my mail too disgraceful? :)

I haven't received anything from you yet. I'm supposed to reply, I think.

All the best,
Connie
____________________________________________________________________________
____________________
You were waiting for me --
I was waiting for you --
That's a disgrace in itself!

How long would we have
gone on like that before
one of us said something?

How many marriages end similarly?
Misunderstood silences breeding anxieties, fears . . .
Why don't we go on?

Not to would be disgraceful . . .

Ralph Lynx and Tony Green

[1 of e-mail speedy RalphLynx/tgreen]
-----Original Message-----
From: RalphLynx@aol.com <RalphLynx@aol.com>
To: tgreen@clear.net.nz <tgreen@clear.net.nz>
Date: Thursday, 25 November 1999 10:01
Subject: Illicit

>Ill is it. I suppose it is. Ill. When Kirsty walked out she had no idea how
>ill it was. But then Paul was, as usual, appalled. May was dismayed, Tim
was
>intimidated. Hans, naturally, was enhanced. "Get more out of a box," he
said,
>liquid as was his wont.

[3 e-mail speedy RalphLynx/tgreen]
-----Original Message-----
From: RalphLynx@aol.com <RalphLynx@aol.com>
To: tgreen@clear.net.nz <tgreen@clear.net.nz>
Date: Thursday, 25 November 1999 10:38
Subject: Re: Illicit

kan ji zai bo satsu gyo jin han nya hara rattled over the radio, peaking at
23 MHz. "Elucidate 'illicit' " said the announcer - at least I'm sure he
did.
But I could have been mistaken. Handing over of LIQUID goose could have been
Kirsty's mistake back in '46. 1846. Contextualise the imperative! Was then
the rallying cry: ash burning / leaves turning / cottonwool cork / Hans was
pork … you know, in my teenagerhood in Jamaica, 'pork' was the name given to
white people. It was then that Tim's grit got stuck in Liberace's flys. Sad,
what?

Tony 100 words or 50? Bernard said 50 each go, but I'll go with what you
want

>Next 50 plus 1 words (these included in the word count) Ok RalphLynx, I
>compiled my 50 with your first 50, except that I inadvertently omitted one
>word: _a_ from the phrase _a box_. So to make up for that here are 51 words
>in toto. I am simply going compiling ....
>

[5 e-mail speedy RalphLynx/tgreen]
-----Original Message-----
From: RalphLynx@aol.com <RalphLynx@aol.com>
To: tgreen@clear.net.nz <tgreen@clear.net.nz>
Date: Thursday, 25 November 1999 11:15
Subject: Illicit 5

>
>"What the hell's going on?" asked Kirsty
>"What 's going on?" moaned Paul
>"What?" shrieked April .. sorry, May - or June, perhaps?
> "?" wuffled Tim intimately
>"Was zum Teufel ist hier los?" quoth Hans (but he was enhanced, so that's
>ok)(and Swiss-German peaks are tided over and of equal contempt)
>

>
>perplexed by expectations not fulfilled without time
>for explanation rushing to the next obstacle disclaimers
> all around begonia inevitable approximations thoroughly
> steeped in absences from rigour of discourse problem
>pass time counting words & recounting history protocols
>of philosophical rupture forgot the unforgiven continue to
>compile to make result manageable
>

The question is, is Tim a dog? And if so, so what? We struggle with split
infinites whilst suffering penile dementia. Whether 'tis nobler in the
mind …
what mind? Whose? Could this be the Lynx? Back in '46 Kirsty, who wasn't
born until 1963, said something which everyone immediately forgot.

>They asked me how I knew My true love was
> true. I of course replied, Something here inside, Cannot be
> denied. They said some day Clothes must play a part
> to light an eye to win a heart they say
>a gown can almost speak If it is chic. Should
>
>

Bernard

An 800 word production from 3 hours manufacture at the Speedfactory by
Carrie MacMillan and Pauline Masurel, featuring some splendily elastic 50
word portions.

Mazzy

****************************************************************************
**

The words are swirling everywhere, spiralling upwards and down on the
slight
breeze, hardly subject to gravity. They begin to settle around us and
under
the terms agreed we must choose carefully to infect them with meaning.
Already the infinite possibilities are closing down on us. How do we
begin?

Quickly. Hesitate and die. Grab a phrase from the ether, feathery and
elusive, and just pin it down. To begin, never let the words settle of
their
own accord. Instead, negotiate meaning, navigate plot and bind it all into
something tangible. But most of all, enjoy it.

I'm stretching for each one now, just missing out on intercepting them as
they fall. But this is how I think it started. I told someone that I
loved
and would never leave them. Of course, at the time I had no idea what
that
would mean and the agreement was purely verbal.

I love that moment of waiting as the idea drifts in and becomes solid. The
joy is in watching them fall. At what point does love become a promise? I
wait to see. I remember a moment in winter when I watched water gush from
an
outdoor tap and become speed-sculpted ice in a split second.

Then I think you will understand how fast something fluid can become
rigid.
A tight band around the chest, constricting until there is hardly any life
or breath left within. I only know that she was my sister and out of love
came commitment.

And from commitment? There can be a freedom. In love there is no written
agreement; as you say, only verbal. So words equal trust and beauty is to
be
found in both the fluid and the rigid, like my mighty icicle. It can melt
and take many forms. But a band around a finger? Gold cuts and will not
bend.

Freedom? Beauty? I am reduced to a point source of no light, without mass
or dimension, trapped in nowhere. Perhaps you share my apprehensions of
becoming tied, but not by blood. Have you never signed up to anything you
no longer want any part of?

I'm confused. Blood ties are slippery as water. There are no signatures
apart from the signature note of shared eyes and smiles. We are not
contracted into family but choose to stay, despite the sensation of
smothering. We choose this. We choose the pain for the joy of blood.

What if those choices heat the ice and in flexing freely it splinters
everything? I only know that I am condemned to inhabit the town I grew up
in, fettered to my sibling till death us do part, because I offered
reassurance in the struggling years.

Mind forged manacles? Contracts of love are the bendiest kind. In them we
can bend and sway, push and pull until the fabric stretches and the rope
burns but compromise is met. But have you ever just broken something? Just
smashed it and laughed when the pieces flew?

She went out laughing, blind of sin in the morning and came back in the
evening a thing not quite whole. There is no inscription to commemorate
that sort of loss. She was tricked by her trust. She caught any number of
things off him but the worst was lack of confidence.

Sisters. Mine held herself together in her youth, determined always to take
the straightest path. She was constricted and confined, contracted out at an
early age. Is it not sometimes better to choose the risk, take the pain
rather than the mediocrity? We can be rebuilt.

I wish that we could be. But don't imagine we were always this way,
frantically clinging together for fear of the past. Once we were diamond
hard, girls out on the razz as many nights as we pleased and back then we
liked to think that we could please, we just didn't know who.

Some girls can look at the moon one night and walk away from it all the very
next morning. Some girls can smile with diamond hard eyes at night and shrug
off the pleasures the very next morning. They hunt in packs. To some girls
nothing matters. They don't care. You cared and felt it all.

When the wind gets up, like tonight, and the words are out there then maybe
we can still feel it. The world remains an expandable thing, is not
completely folded in upon itself. Like lava, beneath the solidified and
ever shrinking crust something warm still moves.

There is always warmth. I will never believe we are bound or lost or frozen
anywhere we don't want to be. But sometimes, as with sisters, there is that
ring of love we choose to stay inside, no matter how much it cuts. Our words
soothe the sores.

Louise Tondeur and Richard Dillon

Green

Louise: Fir trees smell green and give a winter feeling to the unimportant people who sit on my window ledge picking mud out of their boots. They look angry. One of has a green face and wears a bowler hat. A woman in red shirt bangs her parasol on the window.

Richard: Green poetry best be read in slim personal volumes
why read it entombed in ponderous anthologies to gather green dust
on a shelf why my timeless treasures of classic verse
bound in glove-soft green leather exquisite ready to travel
a walk in green woods or a flight across the green ocean.

Louise: There are books in piles around me and when I open one it’s full of green water. I dip my hand into the cold pages. Lying under the covers at ten o'clock, I listen to the traffic and smell books, musty volumes, a stuffy leafy smell sends me under water.

Richard: All of their brilliant green works here bound for green minds
cherished by generations to come wrought upon green Avebury rushes
by hands from afar sailing by space/time navies over green England.

Green spears shake and the multi cosmos is given paradigm.

Could the great Queen prevail upon MI5 to desist?

May Big Ben ring the green dawn its new eternity!

Louise: Digger comes to dig up my home, my roots, my trees and instead trees start to grow over my body, they get so that I'm plicking them out but they grow so fast that I can't keep up. I turn into a forest, spread myself over the road.

---------------------------------

>keyword is "handwriting"

>> Rosemary Lim limbc64@singnet.com.sg 04.30-08.30; 10.00 to 16.00.
>> linda carroli lcarroli@thehub.com.au 4 am-8am GMT

----------------------------------

Smudge.
"Shit."
A black slash cut the page. She stopped, sighed and began to cry. Fountain
pens are useless, she thought, wishing she had a biro that worked. Tears
splattered the letter separating ink into rainbow swirls -- reverse fusion.
Black, the colour of her life before divorce, has every colour.

She picked up the crumpled, stained envelop. It was the word 'couple' that
attracted her attention to the scribble of the discarded note. "Guy 43
years no ties slim and fit, average looks would like to meet nice couple
for fun time. Very broad minded. Meet most nights and weekends."

"Come on, it'll be fun!." She could still hear Derek's words the first time
he'd coaxed her to visit the brothel. It hadn't been fun, she'd hated it,
but Derek was addicted. Every week she'd had 'fun time' just to keep him
happy. Broad minded? Guy 43 should meet Derek.

After each visit he'd ask, "did you have fun?". It never seemed like a
question. One day she was going to snap. That mindset about keeping
everyone, except herself, happy was going implode.

"Fun?" she would ask, jabbing the biro into his face. "I'll give you fun."

'No!' she shouted and put up her hand in the stop sign, a technique her
therapist taught for controlling wayward thoughts. 'No,' she repeated,
calmer, 'I'm not going there.'

She searched for happy memories: Derek's cremation was the first to make her
smile. Pity he hadn't died before the divorce.

She returned to the table, to the spilled ink staining it through the crisp
white paper. It was careless of her to make such a mess. It had been so
long since she'd handwritten anything longer than a cursory postcard. Her
once graceful hand was now shaky and fretful.

'Please apply in writing.' If Derek hadn't left everything to Luscious Lola
she wouldn't need to apply for jobs.

The swinger's note caught her eye. She smiled again. What if she arranged
for Guy 43 to really meet Derek in hell? She picked up the phone and dialled
the number.

Ringing. No answer. Dial Again. No answer.

She'd need to find other sport today. Her therapist warned her about the
consequences of this kind of behaviour. If she persisted, she'd be
consulting a criminal psychologist.

The warnings never stopped her spinning devious plots. Sooner or later,
she'd snare someone in her web.

The phone rang.
'Hi, did you call me?'
'Sorry?'
'Your number was on my caller ID.'
'Oh hi! I'm Lola. I saw your ad in the newsagent's.'
'Hi Lola. So, tell me about your partner.'
'Well, he's out of town this week, but we can meet up.'
'Great. I'm Alex.'

They arranged to meet the following night at a bar on the other side of
town. No one would know her there. More of a plan was needed. Muttering as
she paced. Perhaps a meeting on the weekend. A hotel out of town. Yeah.
That'll do it. Fingering the hotel listings in the Yellow Pages, she found
'The Blue Moon Motel'.

* * *

'You don't look like a Lola.'
'Really?' said Ann, 'You look exactly like an Alex.' Gorgeous, she added to
herself.

They sat in a private booth and sipped their drinks.

'Lola, I have a confession. I'm a writer. I'm doing research for a novel.'
She choked on a lemon wedge.

Drawing her breath, she looked around the bar. It was like any
other-side-of-town bar, smoky, noisy, grubby and peopled by unlikely
characters.

"A writer?" she responded coolly. As her drink spilled, she recalled the black
smudge of ink initiating the series of thoughts and events bringing her
here. Cried.

Alex was pulling out his notebook and pen, 'Mind if I ask you . . .? Oh,
sorry.'

'You have a biro,' she blubbered and he nodded dumbly. 'Is it black?'

'Blue,' he replied..

'Perfect. Can I try it?'

He handed over the pen and pad and she started to write.

'Er . . . Lola?'

'Please excuse me. I'm a bit emotional lately. You see I lost someone very
close to me recently.'

'We don't have to do this now,' he said, smiling reassuringly. His hand
across the table to touch hers, but not quite. 'Perhaps I can drive you home?'

'No thank you. You're very kind.'

She took a cigarette to her mouth and lit it. She enjoyed smoking more now.
The brief burst of flame reminded her of Derek's still body charred black
by fire.

'Actually, he wasn't close to me, except in the physical sense. He was my
husband. I hated him.'

'He made you a swinger? That's why you hated him?' She nodded.

Alex nervously eyed his notebook and pen, his fingers creeping across the
table to reclaim them before she started talking.

His nerves turned to confusion. 'Who was the partner, you mentioned?'

'I have a confession to make now.' Laughed. 'It was just a little joke
I was playing.'

' I have to say I don't get it.'

'If all went to plan, then you would definitely have got it. This isn't
working. I should go.'

'No wait.' He reached out a hand to pull her back and she didn't shudder.
The first time in years she didn't shudder at a man's touch.

She sat down again.

'I'll put away the notebook,' he said, hastily stuffing it into his bag.
'But I'll give you the pen.'

'Yes, I'd like the pen. It seems that none of mine ever work.'

Taking the pen into her hand, she felt it's weight, and his residual
warmth.

'A pen has to be the right weight before you can use it,' she explained
emphatically. 'Otherwise, your handwriting is reckless, like a
child's.'

'Let's get out of here. I know a quiet place.'

'Wait!' Ann grabbed the notebook from Alex's bag. 'What did I write?'

'You don't know?'

'My shrink told me to try free association. My handwriting's so bad I never
did.'

'Writers call it "freewriting",' he said.

Beautiful loops covered the page. One sentence over and over -- 'I love this
guy!'

END 08.05GMT 24 November 1999

Det Bazelmans/Jane Austin

Start keyword "architecture"

1.det(the netherlands): 17.28
Searching for the place of our first appointment I just see small
spheres
growing bigger when I approach them. I distinguish objects on their
surfaces.
Will she permit me to open her sphere to let me in?
Anyone can make his door invisible when he needs privacy.
I hear a sound .....

2.jane(england): 17.51
A bell chimes. It wakes the sleeping figure inside the sphere. On her
waking a door appears in the sphere.It glows with a milky translucence.
Should he go in? What waits inside?

3.det: 18.11
He hesitates for a moment, but why .....
The sun is blazing down and the sphere becomes more lit up.
He makes a step forward and the outside world is cut off.
Midst birds squirrels and rabbits he hears a voice saying:
"My brains are open now."

4.jane: 18.33
Inside the sphere all is silence. He has a sense of being watched but
the sphere is empty.
Time has stopped, there is a sense of waiting..

5. det: 18.51
He realises that he will have to approach her another way and makes a
direct connection with her brains. A shock hits his neurons and a nicely
structured database appears. He will have to choose a keyword to find his
way.

Something went wrong, it tooks 45 minutes before 6. arrived.

6.jane:
The brain is searching through all the possible variations and somehow
in the moment of hightened awareness hits the key.
Which key was it? The visual picture in the mind says ....k..777
The light has changed and the sphere is beginning to expand. There is a warm
orange light which alternates with red. It is like a living pulse of a
being, quite awesome.
What does it look like?

7.det:
The brain tries to crack the ....k..777 code. His system is falling
down. He tries to restart his brainsystem and then for 45 minutes nothing
happens.
He is desperate, but after the 45 minutes a new file comes in ( 7 times
the same one) there is hope.

8.jane:
The files are slightly damaged and the code has been distorted.
Still the image has come up- millions of neurons are forming its intricate
structure. The brain is trying to correct the code, perhaps there is a way
to delete the files and start all over again.
Is there another code...

Ro Garner/Jane Holiday

> > >> >> >From: "Ro Garner" <Ro@garner333.freeserve.co.uk>
> > >> >> >To: "btclickfree" <jane.holiday@talk21.com>
> > >> >> >Subject: Re: No 1
> > >> >> >Date: WedNov 24, 1999, 10:33 pm
> > >> >> >
> > >> >>
> > >> >> >
> > >> >> >----- Original Message -----
> > >> >> >From: btclickfree <jane.holiday@talk21.com>
> > >> >> >To: <ro@garner333.freeserve.co.uk>
> > >> >> >Sent: Wednesday, November 24, 1999 10:10 PM
> > >> >> >Subject: No 1
> > >> >> >
> > >> >> >
> > >> >> >> I am both solvent and insolvent
> > >> >> >> As I dissolve in ecstasy
> > >> >> >> (Like Keats' nughtingale)
> > >> >> >> Regardless of unpaid bills;
> > >> >> >> Or finish the guardian crossword
> > >> >> >> While the bills lie unopened...
> > >> >> >> Is happiness a transparent liquid then
> > >> >> >> And misery opaque?
> > >> >> >> And,like Schrodinger's cat,
> > >> >> >> Could I be seen and unseen
> > >> >> >> Simultaneously
> > >> >> >> Insolvent and
> > >> >> >> Solvent?
> > >> >> >>
> > >> >> >>
> > >> >> >>Seems transarently obvious, the desire to hide
> > >> >> >in the bank's software, changing the decimal points,
> > >> >> >altering tracks towards solvency- a ghost in the concience of
> lost
> > >> > souls
> > >> >> >who remember facing living people to say
> > >> >> >' sorry - the spirit is fine but lacks flesh,
> > >> >> >come again in your next life, better prepared.'
> > >> >>
> > >> >>
> > >> >> But how better prepared, if ,like ancient Egyptians did,
> > >> >> (Or so we're told),
> > >> >> We've had our brains hooked out through our noses
> > >> >> Unable any longer to sniff the solvent
> > >> >> Of magical oblivion,transcendence,
> > >> >> Whatever you want to call it,
> > >> >> Why did they want to live in loxury
> > >> >> Without their brains?
> > >> >>
> > >> >>
> > >> >> >>And on the park, a pyriamid of empty cans, waist high, waste
high.
> > >> > Thinking they could do anything.
> > >> > Heads stuffed tight, full of burning sand to
> > >> > shrink the brain as small as ancient kings wrapped tight in
> > >> > bandages and gold.
> > >> > And then the wheat left with them, grows.
> > >>
> > >>
> > >> And grows and shrieks hideously
> > >> Through distorted ears of sharpened tools
> > >> And priests with bloody beaks
> > >> Who scatter their dreams into thin skeins
> > >> Of greyish matter.
> > >> In the museum they are sold as jigsaws
> > >> And rubbers and pencil-sharpeners
> > >> But nothing erases their memories
> > >> Of something other than slimy steel.
> > >>
> > >> >> >>
> > >> >> >
> > >> >>Inocuous gifts from the echoing shop,
50 pence to forget those tedious
> > > past lives.
> > > Buttons pressed on the long walk round.
> > > And on the bus trip home in crumpled
paper bags, priests and kings and
> > > skeins of winter geese compressed into
> > > a mandrake scream of memories of slime and steel. >
> >
> > Yet now another sun warms them
> > Releases them at last
> > From undeserved pain
> > Into the bug free
> > Brave new
> > Museum of the Dome
> > Dissolved into a tale told
> > By the people of the new millennium.
> > Goddesses of a happier cast
> > Bless them
> > And recreate their terror into beauty.
> >
> >
> > >Because sometimes, even the theme park is
> witness. And even the old lies and the old truths sleep easiest
> under a water proof lining.
> And even bank managers need to change their currency and park their cars.
> And the wheat from ancient egyptian tombs will be modified to make the old
> world solvent.
>

Sharron Macmillan/Marie Savage

Investing In The Present

"How much for that carton of bananas?" Joe roughly asked the man unloading
the delivery truck.
"You a cop, kid?" the man responded without looking up. "I got no time for
cops."
Joe knew it was imprudent to jump into the black market but he had to save
his
store.
What his neighbourhood needed was fruit and vegetables, not the junk that
was ordered every week by 'the owners.' 'The owners' who spent their
winters in Florida and summers in Alaska. What did they know about being
hungry for real food?
"I'll take those four boxes," reaching for his wallet.
The bananas were green so Joe threw a couple of apples in with them before
he
tucked them into the storage room. They'd ripen up in a day or two.
When he heard the jingle at the front of the store, he straightened up and
went to greet his customers.
"Morning Bill," Joe headed for the tobacco counter where old Bill Graves
stopped every Tuesday morning for his tin of Old Crow.
"I've got bananas Bill, would you like a couple?"
"Bananas?" the dried apple-doll face cracked open into a grin. "I haven't
tasted a banana in five years."
"You're exagerrating. You're exagerating. You've had bananas. You've had
bananas." Bill's sweetheart Anna muttered behind him. "You've had
bananas. You've had bananas. Don't tell no lies. Don't tell no lies."
"Annie, banana pudding at the church doesn't count," Bill said. "No thanks,
Joe. I can't spare the cash right now."
"Well, I have a plan, Bill and I need your help. Yours and Annie's."
Annie did a soft shuffle closer to Joe. She smelled of camphor and urine.
"Well, if we can help out, Joe, you know we would," his voice full of doubt
at how they could help anyone.
Joe took a deep breath. "I'm going to start a coffee stand for local
workers
out there," he said tilting his head toward the sidewalk. "I was hoping
you and Annie would look after serving the coffee and collecting the money.
You'll keep twenty-five cents for every cup you sell."
"Twenty-five cents, twenty-five cents," Annie chanted under her breath.
"First, you and Annie take a banana each, walk slowly around the
neighbourhood eating them, tell everyone that Joe's gone bananas. Tell them
you and Anna banana here are working for me. Then we'll wait and see what
happens."
"Don't you think it would be imprudent of me to jump into a business
arrangement with you when you don't even own the store?" said Bill. "You
could be gone before those bananas ripen. I think Annie and I are doing
fine with our investments."
"Your investments?"
"Yeah, each other."

Liz Bassett/Kate Amphlett

>From: E.H.Bassett@bton.ac.uk
>To: kateamphlett@hotmail.com
>Subject: RE: authentic
>Date: Wed, 24 Nov 1999 18:13:35 -0000
>
>Kate
>
>I have to go - but am fascinated by this. Would like to mail you later and
>continue or discuss - it's an amazing process.
>
>Liz
>
> > ----------
> > From: kate amphlett
> > Sent: Wednesday, November 24, 1999 7:10 pm
> > To: E.H.Bassett@bton.ac.uk
> > Subject: RE: authentic
> >
> > [re]authen[ticity]
> >
> > electric.
> >
> >
> > fingers fixed on keys as speech from tongue is swallowed light passes
> > through fingers to join the race and is scorched with other
>transported
> >
> > messages mimicking conversation but
> >
> > ever
> >
> >
> > so
> >
> >
> > much
> >
> >
> > slower.
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> > it is with our eyes that we search for expression
> >
> >
> > an electrical impulse
> >
> > like brain
> >
> > connection to emotion to sense to time to rhythm to urge
> > un see
> >
> > and see.
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> > connection severing
> >
> > losing last grip
> > on
> >
> > owner ship
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> > >From: E.H.Bassett@bton.ac.uk
> > >To: kateamphlett@hotmail.com
> > >Subject: RE: authentic
> > >Date: Wed, 24 Nov 1999 17:43:45 -0000
> > >
> > >Re [Re] Authentic
> > >
> > >
> > >and with my own aping mouth
> > >I mirror your words,
> > >- a witness to your attempt to forge
> > > a boundary
> > > between light and word,
> > > and speech.
> > >
> > >There are no rules here,
> > >- we might
> > >misread misplace
> > >images
> > >[under
> > >sub texts of
> > >meaning
> > > [whilst]
> > >imagining
> > > sweet
> > > validation]
> > >
> > >I have inherited no traces of symbols passed through
> > >generations of hands and minds in flight,
> > >
> > >It is with my eyes that
> > >I search your expressions
> > >
> > > - speech becoming light
> > > becoming code becoming transport
> > > becoming light becoming speech
> > > becoming touch
> > >
> > > > ----------
> > > > From: kate amphlett
> > > > Sent: Wednesday, November 24, 1999 6:22 pm
> > > > To: E.H.Bassett@bton.ac.uk
> > > > Subject: RE: authentic
> > > >
> > > > hi1 i wasn't sure what to do either
> > > >
> > > > are we supposed to comment on eachothers stuff - well here's a go
> > > >
> > > > [re] authentic
> > > >
> > > >
> > > > forging path with lips to speech
> > > > utterance is entry to symbols
> > > > "generations of hands
> > > > and minds
> > > > in flight"
> > > > replicate language
> > > > mimicry
> > > > counterfeit
> > > > through reproduction moulds into readymade
> > > >
> > > > seductive.
> > > >
> > > > an image of otherness appearing in opposite
> > > >
> > > > those hands. made through air and
> > > > touch.
> > > >
> > > > forge a boundary between light and word
> > > >
> > > > screen and speech
> > > >
> > > >
> > > >
> > > >
> > > > fusion.
> > > > touch becoming speech becoming light
> > > > becoming code becoming transport
> > > > becoming light becoming speech
> > > > becoming touch.
> > > >
> > > > "there are no incantations for me to utter"
> > > >
> > > > >From: E.H.Bassett@bton.ac.uk
> > > > >To: kateamphlett@hotmail.com
> > > > >Subject: RE: authentic
> > > > >Date: Wed, 24 Nov 1999 16:46:54 -0000
> > > > >
> > > > >
> > > > >Kate - thank you - I didn't know what you wanted in respnse - so I
> > have
> > > > >quickly wriiten what came to mind. I haven't commented on yours as
>I
> > > > >thought it would be unfair to without putting up my own offering
> > first!
> > > > >What do you want to do next?
> > > > >
> > > > >Liz
> > > > >
> > > > >
> > > > >(Authentic)
> > > > >
> > > > >Bequeathed no words,
> > > > >no whispered prayers, no blessings,
> > > > >no traces of symbols passed through
> > > > >generations of hands and minds in flight,
> > > > >There are no incantations for me to utter
> > > > >as I place this food on our table.
> > > > >So it is with my eyes that
> > > > >I search your expressions,
> > > > >and with my own aping mouth
> > > > >mirror your words,
> > > > >nicking their edges,
> > > > >- a connoisseur of forgery.
> > > > > > ----------
> > > > > > From: kate amphlett
> > > > > > Sent: Wednesday, November 24, 1999 5:22 pm
> > > > > > To: E.H.Bassett@bton.ac.uk
> > > > > > Subject: authentic
> > > > > >
> > > > > >
> > > > > > timeless appeal to
> > > > > > fortune offered for
> > > > > > legend
> > > > > >
> > > > > > luminous texts in their numerous
> > > > > > ness
> > > > > > are authentic?
> > >[auth
> > > > > >
> > > > > > or
> > > > > >
> > > > > > ed]
> > > > > >
> > > > > > misread misplace
> > > > > > images
> > > > >[under
> > > > > >
> > > > > > sub texts of
> > > > > >
> > > > > > of meaning
> > > > >[hidden
> > > > > > there
> > > > > > imagining
> > > > > > sweet
> > > > > > validation..
> > > > > >
> > > > > >
> > > > > >
> > > > > > All Who See Will Understand
> > > > > > this style of knowing is outmoded
> > > > > > in flow over woman to the reading
> > > > > > must resemble others
>like
> >
> > >or
> > > > > > unlike
> > > > > >
> > > > > > itself
> > > > > > shelved to the index as referral to
> > > > > >
> > > > > >
> > > > > >
> > > > > >
> > > > > > I Quote "The great poet must bravely become female"

Terri-ann White/Jo Hagger

When the imposter arrived in the room we all scattered. We knew there was
something going on, something to be concerned about. His reputation
preceded
him: this brain surgeon who had had to swot so hard all of his life so far
to fulfil the requirements of his father on his deathbed. Years of studying,
pouring over text-books and sweating in dusty exam halls had left him a
strange, introverted but intense character. Tall, thin and wiry with a
large hooked nose and piercing blue eyes, he cut a dashing but slightly
demented figure as he stood in the middle of the room. Why was he here?
This was a day of judgement, up against the Board of the Highest Order. (Of
Bastards he always said, but only in private.)Everyone knew his story but
It appeared no one knew it fully , just fractured detail. A strange
conglomeration of family story, deceit, great desire to succeed in somebody
else's estimation.
Preferring the company of books to that of his colleagues, he had always
kept himself to himself. Consequently, he had few friends, and many that
were intimidated by his raw ambition and ruthless pursuit of excellence.
But would anyone have ever really doubted him had it not been for that
incident during last term?
Did you know he had been my closest friend for decades? I doubt it. That I
knew his secrets and many of his fantasies, and he mine, was undoubted by
all of those around us. Sometimes, though, we lost confidence, forgot what
was important. He left me there and now it is too late, over for all of us.
Call it betrayal, I did.
For a long time I couldn't understand how someone I'd felt so close to
could do something like that, but I guess really I didn't know him at all.
Seems funny now, really - how
I... we.. were just part of his clever little plan. I should have listened
to you all along.
Something so poignant about that gap between knowing and remembering, the
touch of a beloved and
the mark left after the touch has been withdrawn once and for all. You see,
I loved you. For all of those years there was
the masquerade of deep friendship. I was sure you would one day notice and
you never did or, cruelly, you avoided the incontrovertible evidence. And
then there was your father, lying out straight and dying in the hospital
bed. With his fierce demands and his awkward death.
Twisted and contorted with anger and pain. Your father, who in life was so
relentlessly harsh and blind to your true passions and dreams and yet who
you continued to love so unconditionally. I know you never really
recovered from his death. And now you've lost your brother. Or at least
the person you thought to be your brother. Our brother. We collect the
memento mori and we make our way out of the house again, this ritual, this
pain, and into the space for mourning, in preparation--for what? For our
own death? For our return to the house after the deed has been done? To
look at the garments and ornaments laid out there.

>>>>From: Teri Hoskin [SMTP:ti@va.com.au]
>>>>To: Thomas, Sue
>>>>Cc:
>>>>
>>>>Subject: RE: tremble
>>>>Sent: 24/11/99 13:34
>>>> Importance: Normal
>>>>> > > >
>>>>> > > > tremble. ..now there's a word
one
>>>>>must be 'in'.
>>>>> > > > To be ALL (everything) a tremble.
>>>>> > > > Cold - more sustained than a
>>>shiver.
>>>>>Fear- terror.
>>>>>>The old
>>>>> >>saying,
>>>>> > > >someone
>>>>> > > > walked over my grave. Always
>>>>>involuntary, I can't
>>>>>>make
>>>>> >>myself
>>>>> > > >tremble.
>>>>> > > > hmmm, 50 words. In beginning I
am
>>>>>alone without you,
>>>>>>are you
>>>>> >>reading
>>>>> > > >this
>>>>> > > > tremor? Could we make something
>>>>>tremble?
>>>>> > > >
>>>>> > > > ah...64
>>>>> > > >
>>>>> > > > ...is not this sufficient? Our
>two
>>>>>bodies spread
>>>>>>across the
>>>>> >>world
>>>>> > > >yet our minds joined together in this
>one
>>>>>place, this brain
>>>>>>place,
>>>>> >>this
>>>>> > > >locus of everything thought and
>>>imagined...
>>>>>and we have the
>>>>>>POWER
>>>>> >>to create
>>>>> > > >more from it, and more, and MORE... is
>>not
>>>>>that enough to
>>>>>>make them
>>>>> >>afraid?
>>>>> >>
>>>>> >> frenzied drums clanging. I'm lucky here, it's night,
wind
>>>>>down time,
>>>>> >>beyond
>>>>> >> the office phone call. I read LMW's score- her writing,
>>>>>lyrics and
>>>>> >> direction for a festival show here. It made me cry, and
>>>>>shake. I had
>>>>> >>to
>>>>> >> listen to a woman sing - and now Betty Carter calls
>>amongst
>>>>>the
>>>>> >>drums and
>>>>> >> piano, "someone to laugh with, someone to die for...".
>The
>>>>>crowd
>>>>> >>goes wild.
>>>>> >> I love it when she talks to the audience while they
clap.
>>I
>>>>>wish you
>>>>> >>could
>>>>> >> hear her too. Now if I was net sound savvy...
>>>>> >>
>>>>> >> but I can hear them. I can see you shaking. They run to
>me
>>>>>across
>>>>> >>the wires from your ears to mine, from your head to mine. And
>>yes
>>>>>I am in
>>>>>>my
>>>>> >>office, no drums but the drums you send to me. And I am
>>receiving
>>>>>them loud
>>>>> >>and clear. My head is spinning with the noise of it but I want
>>>>>more. Turn
>>>>>>up
>>>>> >>the volume.
>>>>>>
>>>>>>now it is the bass, low slow, sweet and sad. "can't keep my feet on
the
>>>>>>ground" the sound of the interval, shiver of the brush across the
metal
>>>>>>cymbol. This is Day Dream. Sue, do you know that shiver that happens
>>just
>>>>>>above the surface of the skin, of the skin but not quite, as though
the
>>>>end
>>>>>>of Me has disapated, trembled , mixed with everything else. It makes
my
>>>>>eyes
>>>>>>fill and blur. Sadness is a strange joy.
>>>>>>
>>>>>>There is that moment when I seem to slip out of my skin. Sometimes it
>is
>>>>>>when I am conversing with someone and I become absent just for that
>>>second
>>>>>-
>>>>>>my mind has lifted out - and then I am back again and embarrassed and
>>>>>>wondering whether they noticed. Is that what you mean?
>>>>>
>>>>>yes, that too. perhaps that's the day dream. when it happens with me
and
>>>>>music, music and I, words don't come, difficult to write, to make
>>'sense'.
>>>>>boy there is some hairy stuff palying now, it really bothers me. I'm
>>going
>>>>>to switch it off. phew, gone. (back to domestivc sounds, a door opens,
>>>>>daughter walks around, music gives me a place to go to). I've been
doing
>>>>the
>>>>>final edits to lux, the fiddly bits, whilst writing and reading your
>>>mails.
>>>>>I have fallen in love with this writing all over again. It is
beautiful.
>>>>>shall we go on and on and on. shall we do this again when you are at
>>home,
>>>>>not in the office, in your space. while I'm dealing with everday
>bizness?
>>>>>xt
>>>>>ps. i always wonder if they notice too, since i usually notice if
>someone
>>>>>else is dreaming whilst 'listening'.
>>>>>
>>>>>-----------------yes this is a good time to have a break. I am an in
odd
>>>>>space, with Bernard and Terri-ann in the next room - so fleshly close
>and
>>>>>you on the other hand so far away. You are right. It is time to switch,
>>>>time
>>>>>for you to become me and me to become you. It is almost noon here.
>>Fitting
>>>>>for us. Shall we meet again in 8 hours? You to write
>>>>>first?--------------------------(I am sending this to B and T-a -
>>evidence
>>>>>that we are here)-----------------
>>>>
>>>>I'll get up at 7am and write then. did you do that wonderful thing at
the
>>>>top with alignment? It is beautiful - like lace. heather kerr would like
>>>it,
>>>>
>>>>will you be home then? you can tell me about your new abode,
>>>>
>>>>I have just finished lux; tommorrow i will scan the best slide then off
>to
>>>>the printers. I'm so excited about seeing it finished - as an
>object-book,
>>>>
>>>>xt
>>>>
>>>>i am here waiting for you to wake up
>>>>please reply to this address - i will receive it faster
>>>>yes i am here in my new house
>>>>it is 8pm evening time and i am thinking about TREMBLE and how it feeds
>>>into
>>>>this house
>>>>I tremble when I think of the pain that drove me here and I tremble with
>>>joy
>>>>that I have reached a place of safety and also when I think of the
>friends
>>>>across the web who held me when I had no strength left to survive a
>moment
>>>>more
>>>>
>>>>yes it is evening here but in my heart the skies are light and dawn is
>>>close
>>>>and the green fields beyond my garden do indeed go on forever
>>>>
>>>>dawn for you was an hour ago - I checked at http://www.worldtime.org and
>>it
>>>>told me sunrise in Adelaide was at 5.57 and already it is 6.50am for
you.
>>>>And currently 20.20 for me. Good morning Teri! Did you sleep well?
>>>
>>>am i late am i late, i remembered a white rabbit on the way to fill my
>>>glass with water. Good Morning Sue. Less crisp, more blurry - but here
>>>anyway. 7.18. a deep sleep and waking with a list of tasks scrolling. I
>>>want to read more about your trembling house...
>>>
>>>my house does not tremble - it holds me while I shake and stays firm
until
>>I
>>>have calmed
>>>
>>>it has much sky above it and at night I step into the open garden and let
>>>the breeze blow about me while I lift my face to the moon and to the
>planes
>>>descending slowly overhead. Sometimes it is the planes which are low and
>>>huge and sometimes it is the moon. There are always, always, stars. That
>is
>>>how it is at this moment. When you are properly awake I will tell you
>about
>>>the sun.
>>
>>i am awake enough for the sun, that is, i am ready, there goes one of
those
>>road trains. I want the sun, and a cup of tea. stck stck for words do i
>>have to make fifty one more than forty nine the trucks are getting closer
>>and faster its ok they slow down later it s the got-to-get-there-on-time
>>crowd rush rush that keeps the cogs turning in a familiar fashion.
>>blithery. stop. tell me about your sun and your day...
>>
>>Of course I am remembering it when you are experiencing it. You have the
>>reality of the rush-hour trucks and the noise and smell and I can sit here
>>at 9pm and imagine the morning. Well, the back of the house faces east and
>>so my bedroom and my kitchen are flooded with yellow when there are no
>>clouds, which seems to be most days. But often I wake at dawn and see the
>>sky looking just as it does when I fly home from America and we break
>>through into morning. The blue-pink streaks which tell me my journey is
>>over. The endless stretch of air and light as i surf into England. But I
>>guess I am always talking about what is *outside* my house rather than
what
>>is outside! While I think of that, tell me about the inside of your house.
>>Which room are you in right now?
>
>good to have a dawn to come home too. this is my study and my bedroom. i
>work in the room i sleep in. less than ideal but it is a very large room
>(one day not just' a room', but 'a house' of ones own). it has a beautiful
>ceiling rose, applied 'wet' a visitor told me. she said this in awe so i
>suppose it is a special skill. i can see the thumb marks where the plaster
>has been smoothed away. The walls are made of stone, very thick, the
>windows are six panes of glass, three small ones at the top with wobbly
>glass in them. we love this house, it is big and remarkable quiet. i know
>that a woman lived here for forty years, i suppose she dies here too, she
>loved the garden. the soil is rich and loamy, the walnut tree is huge.
>there are a lot of fruit trees. look, now i'm outside too. Sue, you wrote
>this >But I guess I am always talking about what is *outside* my house
>rather than what is outside!>. can you tell me what is inside rather than
>inside your house?
>
>inside my house are rooms that I am just getting to know. I've only lived
>here a few weeks - like you, I think - but I have already paid for some
>rooms to be decorated. It is the first time i have ever paid for this.
>Upstairs I have only two rooms and a bathroom. A small bedroom big enough
>for the necessary furniture and no more, and that is now deep red with a
>small window opening onto the sky / fields. At the front is a larger room
>painted bright bright yellow and that will be the book room. There will be
>shelves top to bottom and all around. there will be wide bright yellow
>curtains and there will be a rocking chair by the window. This is the place
>for reading and thinking and being alone or musing with good friends and
>coffee. This is where my guests sleep under a yellow coverlet. You see, I
>have these rooms almost formed. The lounge downstairs is still growing, but
>it houses the machines: tv, computer, piano. I am sitting there now. The
>only sound is the CPU fan and my two elderly dogs, snoring. Is all of your
>house yours, or just part of it?

i can see the small red room with the window out to the green and blue. we
rent this house, my daughter and i- all of it is our home. i want another
room, its being 'fixed' on to the back, in the way that landlords often do,
haphazardly - it will be another (sun) room/study. there are bright yellow
net curtains in my kitchen. that room is always warm. i must go now and
force some action out of my son, we will b elate we will be late,
thank you Sue, for waking me up. Enjoy the rest of your evening,
xxti

Margaret Penfold and Keith Pomfret

8.28 p.m. Jack yawned moved his knight to Bishop 4.
The Police Duty Inspector looked up from his monitor, called out
"Squad 4
move to Bradstone, Youths laying siege to the Royal Oak
All lights went off. The generator hummed in, dimmed lights came on
again Was this for real ?,

8.59 p.m
McKinley stamped and shivered. He shook his Police radio. Nothing. He
glared
at the handset. The rest of his squad was banging testosterone and
beer
soaked heads together in Bradstone. 'Sport' McKinley shook his head.
He was
in Raster. A 999 call at 8.30. Suspicious doings - abandoned cases.
But
where? 9.pm

A white nothingness, a rush of air. Where McKinley had stood just a
dark
shadow on the ground. A proliferation of swirling glowing cloud shot
high
into the sky In the bunker the inspector glared at his dead monitor.
The
pcs discarded crackling phone-sets.

Jack's radio started into life: 'CQ -CQ- CQDX.' There was a crackle
followed
by roaring silence. No words. The analogue ether was trying to reach
him.
Faintly at first but then more loudly as he tweaked the tuning dial
and
popped the squelch control: 'Raynet, Raynet. Any Raynets in Raster or
Broadbridge.' The voice. Young. Frightened.

He recognised the voice as that of the newest junior member,. He
remembered discipline, followed protocol, reported position, was
relieved
when Senior Terence Byass took over. An atomic explosion in Raster. No
one
to leave bunker until army delivers protective clothing. Then prepare
to
drive through contaminated areas with loudspeaker.

Detail sketchy - 15 kiloton yield - tactical nuke with cobalt
core -
contamination very (underlined) dirty. Inspector Wilson passed Byass
the
official memo and shook his head: 'We have to go through channels.'
Byass
thumped the metal desk and thrust his handset at the policeman:
'Whoose
channels will you communicate with...'

The inspector turned glazed eyes towards Byass, straightened his
shoulders
"Sorry," he apologised "I'm not thinking. My family live in Raster.
You are
the official channels now., until the army can put us in a line to an
unaffected exchange. " He turned to his telephonists. "Prepare for
other
duties."

Wilson relinquished the command seat to Byass and led his dispirited
constables away. Byass tried the leather swivel chair for size and
lifted
the handset. The plastic microphone had become infinitely heavier in
proportion with the responsibility. He spoke slowly and clearly: 'All
Raynet
to channel five. Check in in sequence.'

Only one Raynet member missing. The one in the bunker beneath the
central shopping mall.

The Inspector returned with the list of the voluntary sectors to be
notified, the volunteers on duty, potential rest centres

"Contact the army. Check which of these addresses are outside primary
pollution"

The answer disturbing. Three bunkers only.

Worse, the e-m-p from the primary blast played havoc with the comms.
An army technician studied Byass¹s assortment of Raynet hardware. He
poked
at a small connector. He said: ODo your comms uplinks have this port?¹

Byass visibly brightened: OOf course. Data instead of sound checksum
weeds
out problems and we¹ve a secure net as long as we can get a terminal
to
each station
The Inspector was ruffling through a file.

The same army technician looked at him

"Where's the emergency officer?"

"Didn't they tell you. McIntyre and the deputy died in a road crash
coming home from the final briefing yesterday. Heart attack, I hear"
"The army technician raised his eyebrows "Sod's law

OSod¹s much to answer for,' hissed Byass. He hunched over a terminal.

The technician opened his mouth to interject. Byass frowned: OWe¹ve
set up
a data net. At the edge of our area we patched into the internet. O He
paused. Fear showed: ONo one¹s there. No one¹s answering.¹ He retched:
'We're finishedS'
The technician raised his eyebrows
"The Internet, maybe. Not necessarily us. Hackers were bound to have
had their glory day."
Down the corridor a stentorian voice shouted, "All non-essential
personnel into protective clothing for outside duty"
"You too, Byass. Take your truck to this emergency relief centre.
Here's the co-ordinates."

The co-ordinates meant nothing.
Outside, Byass joined them. No roads, buildings, fields. Only ash
As they piled in, Byass yelped as he sat on something hard. He reached
in his pocket , grinned and switched on the device.
In the sky, twelve satellites, unaffected by radiation sent
co-ordinates to
the sat-nav in his hand
The landscape gradually returned to normal apart from the luminescent
cloud behind .
The rest centre was in position, a 16-18 comprehensive. They were not
the first arrivals. WRVS from the neighbouring district already
setting up registration tables , the kitchens, distributing tea to
workers, Red Cross, the children's corner

Ellis removed the virtual reality helmet and handed it to Lindsey:
ONo. Next
time I want the adventure channel. This Armageddon, save the
worldstuff S He
took the proffered towel and wiped away the sweat. He glanced at his
watch.
Time to go back to work. He looked around. No one was watching. He
placed
the suitcase in a corner of the changing room and left, whistling

Justina Robson keyword: induction

Heat travels in and out of different states of matter, every agitation that
creates it in turn draining energy from another place, in another way,
moving itself through solids, liquids, gases, permeating and permeated. In
a vacuum nothing passes. An empty mind transmits nothing, hears nothing,
but it's still alive.

Nick Campion and Allan Wakefield

This time, it had been one hell of an argument. They'd argued before, they'd shouted and they'd cried before but never screamed this loud nor sobbed this deep. There was no kissing, making up and making love this time. Even now, Sarah's eyes were still filling with those silent tears

This time was different. There were the daggers that struck to the hearts of them both, there were the passions that lighted the flames they had hoped were dead but most of all, there was the memory of their daughter, Alicia. Where was she now, he could not recall

but he yearned for her return. They had had a letter four months ago from Chile in which she claimed she was ok but Michael had his doubts. She was only 17 and had left over eight months ago with nothing but a rucksack and a broken heart. Michael wished that

Then came the dreams? At first there was the feeling of unease in the morning but there was no memory, only the uncertainty, the concern that stayed with him all the day. But she never worried. she never pined for their long lost daughter. Only today mattered to her

today, the day when she passed the point of no return. The blame had hung over them for months now and finally the sword of Damocles had dropped and sliced their marriage clean in two. She felt more alone now, even with Michael just a few feet away, then ever.

Him! he stood there carrying the pain of the world on his shoulder and never a single thought for her, the one who had given birth to that so small creature those seventeen years ago. She knew his dreams, his longings, But did he know hers?!! No Never, not him!

Ever since he made her pregnant and they married, she had always kept a part of herself well-guarded, the part she didn't want destroyed by that selfish, cynical, uncaring bastard. Now he was just beginning to understand what she was made of - and he didn't know how to handle it.

But then, gradually, they had changed. She had become isolated, remote. Alicia had taken her place in this man's affection but how much she would never guess. And then she had left so abruptly. Just the one letter from some god forsaken corner of the world. Where was she now!!

They had tried to fill the void Alicia left but nothing worked. The silence had been so unbearable recently that the television shouted out the whole time. But still Sarah's head hurt from the silence. In the quiet, both of them thought about the words they had said to Alicia.

The argument was finished. There were no more words. Now they both knew the truth if, truth there was, they both knew that she had split them apart as if that sword had split them to the core. They embraced and kissed for the first time since she had gone.

Miekal And and Mez

*********************************vurr.shion key.1*********

my heartz a key-tick-tocking
thizz thyme i seem to be over aNd outah
do u hear [here] the rhythm? hymn N har....i humm N har[d]....in the
keye of??

[an insert: the authoress half D-sides [polygraphically] 2 speaK.
an example of a phone/fax/email/etic disorder, the n[bl]eed to
correspond
via techne? should we de-c[h]ide?]

the wind blowz thru my absent hair
the shave creating vacc.u.m[e]z...

coal.oil.petrol.lab[oration]z, rationz of wordz, rational thortz...
i a-wait, b-wait, c-weightte...

lightwait, heave.EEwait, tomwait[s]....

[n-sert 2: we wonder about the f-e-k-c [translation:efficacy] of
language,
and ponder the gaps and slidez, the space n sighz. collabawerate in
faschionz]

i wonder the strandz n strainz, the simila[g]rittyz, the themez that
will
pop N purr.form along...
keyed in2 my nerv-oh.i.us system[ic]z

[my sistah and i uzed 2 play a game, i'd play on song on our old stereoh
and then eye'd say "YR TURN!!"...the game was ritualized, shee had 2
pick
aH [g]nu artits, new toon, it was pre-size in its authoritee..]

aH [g]nu artits, new toon, it was pre-size in its authoritee..]

key preponderance, only storees, back of the mind = yesterday, before
time tripped morning or the difficulties tabled sleep charm sleep wisdom
sleep on the back of night....

[nite day/night/dazes mi mind stopps and heart leaps and mind
blank[ette]z]
[mi mourn.ing, a wurd is spoken and a langue start.head]
[sleep keys=zzzlepp quays=shleep=queing into dreamstatez]

game barker queues like little likeless go go champion, in yesterday is
key opposition to morrow & again say my charm bankers, my jazz hooligans
rowdy with insurgence.... [braket the breakdown a language has faith in
its disssolution], one mentality sing alone on a pole

presence spelled rerightly is poor sense

[paw sense? paw cense[ors]]
[my dog is wrest.less thiz nite, looking for a way to bark her
ang-[sq]uish
down]
[mi friend still talks and i remind a-gain of worth & doorz, of locking
mechan[ic]izms]...

[should we lock this down?] dangle in soliloquy {dif. fer ref. errant}
outside no bLOod wonders animamuzes [n alls]. my anticipated undoing,
grace for fall, grace @ let it happen.

[diff. furr.rent. errant kanvez all of us, mee too now with my shaved
furred head[onism]] cLause for c[l]ause, phobia N PHILIAS mingles while
port() ab[sub/normal]ility prob[oscis]es. my brood WILL digit [y]et al.
bot/her distance & tables set for yr honoro yr tableux yr brACKet.

[devil savant. didgerrrdos-n-dont'z, we prickelle on this
[in]contintent, rockless sleep didnt re memE.BUURS, touche on matte(r)s
close at hand/home/HEART | ewe below when u | Y can'T ORGANOlogic
SUBstrate you into mi dR[apid]E[ye][a]M[ovement] | rapid I/O movement
blue rens song out-side mi window with a famil[iar]ee..a minor- and
-major
N the key of birds singz here 2....]
[singelle celled anima & mus, overthymic glandz make beautee.full petz]
[ass.um?arh? re/adverbbed]. key puzzle bides tames when time rubbers
tome. my safe little river phee-lows backwurd, l=i=b=e=r=t=[Y]=a=t=e.

furtha details permit (windows closed to) +never +more =nine slices of
anxious await | #channel present | diamond suture, book of | slivers

shaved & what's not, a wire tests our becoming, YOU there? yours is
pliant, skintight, Genuine Speech at the market. wollongong is innocent
gamelan in prediction radio, shimmering bells toll | controll booth

yesterday now, the 17 hour hump. each & ever word bank.

(she talks in sleepless[{liquid feminine appellation}target fluids])

mess flesh, mesmer flask. Im tangled in approach to flesh, unknowing
best.

Neoprobe a diaphanous speech part. limbs lips sub(liminal harbor lights
jagged in my o my o DESIRE MACHINE

furtha details permit (windows closed to) +never +more =nine slices of
anxious await | #channel present | diamond suture, book of | slivers

[dia.[tribic]monte sewingz, book of silvered tongues and uhnz]

shaved & what's not, a wire tests our becoming, YOU there?

[N insert: was quoting the uberday the line from angelHeart "I no who i
am!!"
in thizz case, "I no where i am!!" ore du i........] local denies,
defies

yours is
pliant,
[appaloosian horseflesh image ling[h]ers]

skintight,
[frightnightian imagery here]

Genuine Speech at the market.
[markups n downs, mark mi wordz and thorts]

wollongong is innocent
gamelan in prediction radio, shimmering bells toll | controll booth
[pre.deal.lick.shionz?] [das radio, das zimmerman][N the bell tolls 4
know
man[icz]] (dog on loose, syntaxis premptSHUN.

[arh, con[ned]troll[and dwarves N gnomez N uber fantastiez]

(she talks in sleepless[{liquid feminine appellation}target fluids])
s/he taulks and torques spinning wurds, he batz them bac and volleyz
az+bz=cz[seas of truthian wordologiez]

literal wurdz & buckets. *to stand for as in honor lift from the
sucking sorted downsmackking grav(e)ity. Deeprive my sensate organ(pros)

mess flesh, mIeKalmezsmer flazk. eye'm tan-N-coz-eggled N ape.proach 2,
unknowing
beatlike wurds that sear...

yesturkeyspainday now, the 17 hr hubris. each & ever word bLank.

bot/her distance & tables set for yr honoro yr tableux yr brACKet.
[N 2 u, the words that drip and slide into a velvet breast]

my anticipated undoing,
grace for fall, grace @ let it happen.

[graceless N agelezz]
[loose n happenin]

Neogizm N diaphragmz speeX p.ARTimbs liphes liminal to the
star[t]crozzedboard
jagged in my o my o deSIRE&DAM MensCHINE

adaptation is masterfull:) (: mastermind is permutator

little or no sleep Aweside the bare possibilitee of sun angst

between (each transMissive) clacking sticks time like no clock ever

tumble - between - knew writing - know edge of race institute, &nbsp
punch clock - <tag yr it>

come crumption, decryptor seance when candid morning slakes (y(our 1st
happ[y]opening

finally in the wake, "good morning sister"

aH! wire tests our becoming, YOU there? [may a-temp a narratiff]

say:the deSIRE&DAM MensCHINEs r little adaptations of the grande maL
narratiff.
adaptation is mizz&masterfull:) (: master&missmind r permutationz of the
other.

they live in a small metalle housian brinkian place, and get
little or no sleep.They live in aweside of the bare possibilitees of
sun angst & moon liphez....& bee-tween (each transMissive) clacking
sticks
time [like no clock] ever
tumbles - between. They a-temp[ting!] knew writing, & cre.ate edgez ov
racez instituteing &nbsp & punch-drunk clockz, singing <tag yr it>!!

They come acroption, decrypting seancez when candid morning slakes their
ball-bearing thirtz (y(our 1st
happ[y]openingz they d-claire]

finally in the wake-full-nezz, they x-claim: "good morning sister" thru
lighter.all wurdz & buckettez.

person hood taste of notion, noting, never closing a story starts over
|over wire sample ^character penetrate ^charter bllood ^ozwoken culcate
^grab browser

affix an Isight without a motherly

yabba who comez one comet/meant/comment back of the shtoree

interwrite a basket holiday | jub.i.lat.shine

jangle the keeper who broadcasts d(This .tXt

"Neogizm N diaphragmz speeX" mezzolisque transputer she who

% of coming to pt. # of times each neothot babels. ! of qwest. put
t(his) on da map___________1 binary@time

avatar hand/sh/ache

they push at copy gnosis, 2 when 1 is incompleat, Angle of approach,
appraisify a sing(er)le melificent. PROSE CORRUPTS chldrn,
wildoffspring. .com to think of it + Eye'm silent|atious handyman. Fix
at the tech, arborescence equivilates a brooding mycelium of hYpnotXt

Viriya Swangchot/Alan McDonald

>Date: Wed, 24 Nov 1999 12:42:59 +0700
>To: alan.mcd@geo2.poptel.org.uk
>From: viriya <viriya@ksc.th.com>
>Subject: the first array
>
>
>
> Last night, i did not sleep. I wrote until the sun was shining
and then went to feel asleep when (i aasumed)everybody really went to thier
working daytime. So may be I had not been specified avaialble earlier than
you. Time and space in modernity made us though someone went faster tha the
other. by the way making the speed be with us. I don't why i pushed'the
first'before array in subject of this email.
>
> VS................far away so close......U2

>Date: Wed, 24 Nov 1999 13:49:56 +0700
>To: alan.mcd@geo2.poptel.org.uk
>From: viriya <viriya@ksc.th.com>
>Subject: factory without U
>
>
>
> time and space made speed collape................without
Uuuuuuuuuu, factory without speed too. so i will back again at 11 am GMT.
And hope we would be paired togerther with speeeeeeeeed. I think we could be
in the same cyberspace accessed time...... under hot sun in Thailand now.
well, i gooooooo to sleep and let the speed surfing with myterious ways.
>
> VS
>

>From: "Alan McDonald" <alan.mcd@geo2.poptel.org.uk>
>To: "viriya" <viriya@ksc.th.com>
>References: <1.5.4.32.19991124054259.0067b144@ksc.th.com>
>Subject: another array
>Date: Wed, 24 Nov 1999 09:52:04 -0000
>Organization:
>X-MSMail-Priority: Normal
>X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300
>
>grey clouds my fells, my hills...arrays of raindrops streak my view...here
>in the valley they make the pencils that perhaps you use...what does your
>factory craft and send to me?
>
>alan
>

>Date: Wed, 24 Nov 1999 19:07:27 +0700
>To: alan.mcd@geo2.poptel.org.uk
>From: viriya <viriya@ksc.th.com>
>Subject: time..my craft
>
>
>
>time....my craft in time but actually not in factory. arrays of time trace
my life to the way to nowhere. i don't know...how many time i loose the
way. it goooood to be free. sometime be conversly...the way loose me
too.....freedom goes away but not my time.
>
>Viriya
>

>From: "Alan McDonald" <alan.mcd@geo2.poptel.org.uk>
>To: "viriya" <viriya@ksc.th.com>
>References: <1.5.4.32.19991124194218.0066d7c0@ksc.th.com>
>Subject: about arrays
>Date: Wed, 24 Nov 1999 19:43:04 -0000
>Organization:
>X-MSMail-Priority: Normal
>X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300
>
>a(0), a(1)...
>B(1), B(1,1), B(1,2)...
>
>Four dimensions three space one time don't seem much when you can travel
>inside the journey inside the journey at right angles to the journey and
>still
>
>it's IMPOSSIBLE to get hold of YOU
>
>I offer you a light

>Date: Thu, 25 Nov 1999 03:39:35 +0700
>To: alan.mcd@geo2.poptel.org.uk
>From: viriya <viriya@ksc.th.com>
>Subject: eeeemmmail arrays
>
>
>
> EMAIL tRanfORms me to the angles with no wall, no WARM.
> QUEStions of different space@notime.human made SALesMam
going MAD
>
> the sound MAKe got the tricket to the JOURNEY by wondering
Around.
>
> But there is no exist FORM WHAT.
>
> viriya

>Date: Thu, 25 Nov 1999 04:35:52 +0700
>To: alan.mcd@geo2.poptel.org.uk
>From: viriya <viriya@ksc.th.com>
>Subject: ar-rays
>
>
>
> TO FEEL aspeep in awake make the moon dream as the SEE....bUt
Visa card charges you service like a speed of RACING CAR.
>
> the beauty of speed win your perception. MORE CAFE make you
dream still awake.
>
> THIS IS THE
IMPOSSIBLE CHALLEGE.

>From: "Alan McDonald" <alan.mcd@geo2.poptel.org.uk>
>To: "viriya" <viriya@ksc.th.com>
>References: <1.5.4.32.19991124203935.006803a4@ksc.th.com>
>Subject: rays
>Date: Wed, 24 Nov 1999 20:49:22 -0000
>Organization:
>X-MSMail-Priority: Normal
>X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300
>
>e-mails are rays in out in like a footballer dribbling for goal too fast for
>the eye to follow
>
>invalid page fault
>
>moon at my shoulder moon in your sky rays like e-mails instant light
>
>alan

>From: "Alan McDonald" <alan.mcd@geo2.poptel.org.uk>
>To: "viriya" <viriya@ksc.th.com>
>References: <1.5.4.32.19991124213552.0067f13c@ksc.th.com>
>Subject: or rays
>Date: Wed, 24 Nov 1999 21:42:59 -0000
>Organization:
>X-MSMail-Priority: Normal
>X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300
>
>or raise your eyes above the moon beyond Visa desires faster than the speed
>of light your imagination making connections
>
>or raze the earth and build new bright impossible buildings fuelled only by
>your dreams
>
>or rays of cyberlight dance on your words

>Date: Thu, 25 Nov 1999 05:30:25 +0700
>To: alan.mcd@geo2.poptel.org.uk
>From: viriya <viriya@ksc.th.com>
>Subject: let's dance the last ray
>
>
> TEleWRITING is mY aLL IMAgi-...NATION
>
> ESSAy is my Cybbbbeeerrr<POLTIC>.
>
> CAFfeINe is not my blOOd.
>
> GOZziLA dances with my religion.
>
>WHere on <EARTH> would you like to BE?........MOMENT or SPEEd
>
> @time to go to sleep........waiting for YOUR array
>
> ........Let the last dance
arrays ..........

>From: "Alan McDonald" <alan.mcd@geo2.poptel.org.uk>
>To: "viriya" <viriya@ksc.th.com>
>References: <1.5.4.32.19991124223025.0067f904@ksc.th.com>
>Subject: last waltz
>Date: Wed, 24 Nov 1999 22:59:47 -0000
>Organization:
>X-MSMail-Priority: Normal
>X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300
>
>essay assay array
>hey hey hey
>tell-a tele far away
>dance the end of the day
>essay to say to sway
>1, 2, 3
>tired thai toe to toe
>waltz into thanksgiving day