(Here's where I began, the story below. Read it, make an addition, add it to the backbone.)

LOVE AND WAR

Hi there, wow this is fun!, What do you want ANYTHING from me "For"?

Heh, not on your life. I'm not taking part in this stuff! I've learned my lesson, yes I have, heh!

Jennifer and Julu walked over the hill. There were spasms of artillery fire everywhere. No one was safe in these parts, where the village
was placed in the middle of the forest, the forest in the middle of an island in the middle of the lake. Suns flew overhead against the
stationary birds glaring down from the dull and orange sky. Jennifer and Julu, holding hands! Who would have thought it!

Your plans, Jennifer, said Julu


And your life, Julu, saind Jennifer

SAINDIS NOT A WORD
said Jennifer, pouting, I mean Julu, pouting, no I mean Jennifer,
pouting...

Well, as they said, I can't believe this
song is about me!
Incredible, my reputation, so to speak, proceeds just about everywhere.
Who are all of you? What's this story about? Why should anyone contribute
here? Don't you think I'm entitled to my own life?

- NIKUKO (I notice a lot of you aren't signing your real names!)

"Here Jennifer put this on...no you can't run around
half naked. Now we need some music to set the scene.
Click on http://www.zc2zc3.addr.com/tipperar.mid
Yes, this is 1917. The Great War is old.
There are men back from the front on leave. John is back.
Molly is back from the hospital where she tends the wounded
as a sister. That is what they call nurses.

Swealtering under her cotton skirts, cotton stockings,
garters and petticoats, Jennifer stumbles down to the pub.
People's faces are pasty from eating potatoes and bread with
margarine.

"The Yanks'll be coming soon," says a crusty faced
bar tender who serves Jennifer a pint of bitter that is
really bitter. She stares into her beer, unhappy.

"I hear there'll be pilots among them, bound for
France," comments John.

"Do they have planes this far back in time?" Jennifer
wonders. At night she swelters without air conditioning,
a prisoner on her iron bedstead. "Oh Alan," she cries out
in her dreams where he is her husband and they live together
in a nice loft apartment in Brooklyn. Beyond her window
lies the English countryside.

The pilots arrive the next morning. They fly biplanes
fragile things, machines of canvas like sails strong on
metal wires. Noisey shakey things with single propellers.
They wear leather jackets and caps and goggles to protect
them from the cold of the sky. In the sky they seem to
dance.

And Jennifer loves, loves the planes, wants to fly
too. "This is where it all began, the machines before my
own machinne," she thinks. She knows where the pilots stay.
Perhaps one of them will take her flying. Perhaps one of
them will take the controls. Perhaps one of them will do
more than laugh at her for being a silly girl.

There is a war on, and war is a man's job, not a job
for girls who like to have fun. Jennifer brushes back a
tear. Already in this new old time she has learned how to
blush. She walks the three miles down the dirt road and....

<>

This will
play the music for the above episode. Sorry....

she hears a sound overhead, from a long distance, an insect or a motor,
there were motors then, something coming in, the lone plane, the fragile
wheeled plane, a dot in the sky, she thinks about North by Northwest, but
that hasn't been made yet, the motion pictures are creaky silent things,
the pilot circles, he's sure it's her, he wears his wings, leather helmet,
Wilfred-Owen young, thin moustache, he's so certain, the whole landscape
filled with her, her picture in his flyer's pocket, he pulls the plane
up, wheels and gyres in the sky a long way off, begins a landing

she's there, she knows, it's him, suddenly there's no gender at
all, they're both at the playing fields of Eaton, they run towards each
other, earth turning a thousand miles an hour or more, everything hushed,
the music stops, she calls out Travis, Travis, second plane
audible in the distance

And Jennifer strained and sweated for it was difficult to move the years
especially with teh sound of biplanes in teh distance
that and teh cruise missiles that were not to be invented for some years to cum.
And teh biplanes, though moving targets (they towed them on great lengths of cable)
were moving too slowly so that teh cruise missiles missed and headed out to see
what they could see. And slowly the years moved and the colours flashed lo-resly in and out
in complimentary colours, for Jennifer had used all her available memory.

Finally she had moved the years and the flowers grew in abundance, some treated to a blue filter,
others with a sucking fish filter and jennifer giggled and lay in the grass feeling the heads tickle behind her knees.
At such times she could almost forget teh war along with teh brown bear in teh corner...

Jennefer grabbed the bear the BEAR'S name was HOOP, she loved the soft furry creature and held Hoop
closely as the noise of the war became unbearable.
Meanwhile Julu was somewhat lost in the fogbank of a future war's memory....travelling a primitive wheatfield in the rumble seat of an old car ....midnight and they came upon a giant thrashing machine charging through the prairie night clanging lights intruding on a childs delicate dreams..."Which war was this?"

Julu/I remembered: The threshing machine. It was 1963, I was living in Israel,
going to Hebrew University, Jerusalem. There was a valley next to the student
dormitories, there was a factory in the valley. My roomate was an Israeli spy;
I asked him, what is the factory, he said, textiles. I never saw anyone go in
or out. The lawns were always cut; no one was ever around. Barbed wire surrounded
it. One night I was up, late, heard sounds, went over, 2-3 am in the morning, to
the edge of the valley, looked down. The wall of the factory opened up, slowly.
There were lights down the length of the valley; a machine crawled out, with a
turret. I'm not making this up. It crawled to the end of the lights/strip; it
reversed, went back down the valley, back into the factory. The wall of the
building closed down. The next day I asked my roomate what that was. A textile
factory, he said. I said, the wall opened, the machine ... A textile factory, he
said.

Later when I knew, I figured it for an early atomic cannon; I'm certain, just as
I'm certain that powerplant in the Negev already had atomic weaponry, this was
1963.

When they were making clothes in the factory, and Julu saw them and thought, this
machine looks like a threshing machine, this is for mowing down humans, when Julu
thought, how fragile the planes are, my dearest Jennifer, Jennifer in London now,
huddled, war-weary, always waiting, parsing time the way others parse sentences,
riding time the way others rode horses, before the motors came.

jump

But the danger of speaking still filled the air where the
danger of speaking was still there long after the war ended
and Harlequin Romances lay all around her room. He still
could not speak even if the air between lay smoky and
pregnant with unvoiced sibilants. He could not speak
sincerely, he still could not speak in the still of the
night.

THINK HARLEQUIN, PROTOCOLS HAREM, WHICH IS TO
BE, THE FORMULA OF THEM, LODGED IN THE BODY, THE HARLEQUIN-PILL,
OR JENNIFER, NOT TO DISTRUST WITHIN THE FIELD

The horses hooves made a hollow clopping sound moving down
the path, followed by a multitude of bunnies._JENNIFER_,
riding in the dark, leaned forward and patted the horse on
its neck. They seemed to move slower and s l o w e r,
she thought, but it was probably the world moving faster
and faster-it was the age of _THE_MACHINE_, though still
many years before her Magic Hat would be transformed into
a laptop, and the bunnies...(well, there would always be
bunnies) Some, she noted, had_PAUSED_IN_in the midst of their_BUNNY_FROLIC_.
Paused and pushed themselves up on their bunny haunches,
scenting the breeze, which had changed, been _TRANSFORMED_
as they might be, by

_R(EVOLUTION)_

God, she thought (quite cynically, as she was always young)
I am so tired of War.

Well, thought Jennifer, let there be a war, a large scale war to end the existence of this planet. if nothing's gonna get better, let's all go to hell. no more sufferings, no more nuke threats, no more love affairs, no more hang-overs the next morning, no more catching cold, no more "404 File Not Found", no more "Invalid Log-in", no more good-byes, in short (it shoulda been, aint it?), no more nonsense. so thinking, she lit her pen, mistaking it for her cigarette.

jump

she might have her bomb, mistaking it for her pen, she lived somewhere down here off fourth avenue (I could show you the building), where the bombs were produced, there was an Egyptian who called them on it, he was brought in as a roomate, they couldn't pay the rent, she'd already left, she had a small one, size of the pen, the cigarette,
she could use it anywhere, she'd play around with it, it was a tool, inscribing destruction, she might have taken it with her, she might have applied it anywhere, she could walk down the street and think, now I have this bomb, and I don't like YOU and I can destroy you, and maybe I will, she knew she had one chance,
one of these to use, she could use it now, she could take him out, that would be the end of it, she carried endless power, this ONE TIME within her, this power within her, maybe she'd reach the place or space when she wouldn't need the bomb itself, when it would be enough just to WALK THE WALK and TALK THE TALK, she thought, I'm
almost there, I know I can do it,

this broad cylinder, this steel cylinder, this beauty-cylinder, this cylinder of theory and writing and destruction, cylinder of bodies and parts and destructions, cylinders of nations and gangs and destructions, polished cylinder of great beauty, cylinder of all the beauty in the world, cylinder of the wailing of beauty and the wailing
of the world, this broad cylinder, this pen-like object, this cigarette like object, this index to the world

Jennifer sighed. It was never enough, she knew, to walk the walk
and talk the talk. Naive, once, and young, she had believed that it would be
so..that to merely be articulate would be enough..that the PAUSE that Certeau had spoken of
or (perhaps?) defined in older philosopies as the SACRED MOMENT(the moment between offering and sacrifice) would somehow become not only self evident
but species evident...

/*liminal ...*/

Then Julu remembered, it had been 1946 in Solomon's quarries. Of course, she thought we mustn't call them that now. She remembered following her father down the well trodden tourist path through high echoing caverns and wide passages with ncandle niches carved to give light to workers more than 2500 years ago, and suddenly pulling her arm to steer her through an invisible narrow slit into a passage where they had to crawl on hands and knees, the torchlight flickering now on white stone hacked recently, t and then there was the brick building, surrounded by sandbags with the eerie whirring and cables digging into the rock ceiling. "This is where we worked," her father said "and experiments still goes on but in a minor way. We can't risk destroying the boulder above this site, even if some of the team wouldn't have minded getting rid of the edifice built over it. We've sealed the main entrance, only the tunnels are left."

sounds, scufflings behind what rock, what boulder carved and carried what form within it? Jennifer paused, shuddering; there was a ... presence she couldn't account for, something or someone close by. suddenly ...

0~The boulder shifted of it's own accord, a rock slide ensued! Jennifer irritated by her own panic, speaks out loud:

WAR! Staccato sounds of rolling thunder!
Powerful the resonance, Pulsating a dead cause!
Accusation hales! For a hearing, bound to unfurl.
Echoes bounce in grief, dark shadows tumble,
Alas! Pomegranates ripen as the storm approaches...
My frocked flesh outfits a skeleton, I'm ready for rain!
I'll sing of war and disaster, of love and forgetfulness,
I'll undress and bathe in folly, with you behind this rock.

(Ordinarily I would never repost from a text but the text below was written with the thinking of Jennifer loveandwar in mind, Clar, clarity, clear-sight, Jennifer war-torn, now with East Timor added to the list of slaughterhouses, CHARNAL-HUS:
)



CHARNALHUS (Bored)


This is the closeness of eour other

farre Distant from such Homes beeond Wheche onle Chrest Oure Lorde decedes
Thus it bee, Amenne

This is the distance of my new Clar

In the truth of God, I Clar, who have not abandoned such Menne as want me,
this Eclipse of such Spirit, who Do replace me, the Madde Clar, who have,
in the Witnesse of this Warre, do go a-begging for New-Clar, to whomme
such Survival as would bee Meet, to Meat upon the Soule, or havyng beene
Wrytten, as such, in these foule Tymes, do suche Give your Breathe to
suche men as Desyre such in the Midst of Dredful Carnyge for Whomme they
will have Sacrifyced Alle as They have Mette upon Us to turn Inwards of
the Soules' Warde in Finalyte To whyche it bee, AmenneWed Sep 8 00:47:57
EDT 1999

This is the closeness of eour other

I bored him oith me. He is borne in me arms. I bear him bodie and kend-
nesse before he does die, such Woundes as I haue neuer seene before. Thee
saee cat got er tongue, it is not there, norre eees, smel me. Thys ys the
kyndnesse of youre othyr.

This is the distance of my new Clar

this aweful war. this war. this abandonment. bones broken, smashed faces.
not night. day. The man sits at the table. The woman looks out the window.
The woman sits at the table. The man looks out the window. Blood on wooden
sill. Burnt fields, fires. Birds vaulted charred and dead in the sky. The
limb. To be borne I wille bear. I will take childe from with you. I wille
fuck you. What I can do. Smashe me. Join me to yr severd lim. I do cut
your haire. I do cut your second fingere on your left hande for Jesys
Chryste oure Savioure. You do take the reste, Godde bee. Field of oathes.
Blast trees. There is no Moone in no Skye. I did hear your last Sentence
to which I am Sentenced, that of Eternal Greefe. Hundred-thousand Dead or
Die. Refuse-refugee. Breath of lost Soule; I do pante quick when I am inne
me. I do move for you. Do what has Gonne this 20 centuries of Our Lordde.
My minde thinks onlie Your Name O Lorde this Swollen earth, flooded. Noth-
ynge shall growe heere in Eternal night. Fucke me wythe youre Name, O
Manne. Closed and shameful eyes: Nacioun upon Nation shalle falter and to
whatte degree? To what whyche has beene torn. The spyke, gun-rust, your
titte dangling above this face, no mouthe to speake withe. Thys ys the dy-
staunce of youre othyr.Wed Sep 8 01:01:39 EDT 1999


++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++ ++++++

juMP

If you are Miekal are you writing Alan's story for him? My words are not for sale, they have never been appreciated for their sadness & victory--time honored vacuumspeech on every poetic email list a history forgot. The words will become neologisms like ianjeagius or swarth, but if I tell you the definitions then you will not discover how to use them.

If you are Avatarbot are you writing Alan's story for him? Artificial Intelligence is ahistorical, a brief mention in Minsky's provocation. By extension, artifice grows limbs & invades every sci fi B movie set in your imagination. This Avatarbot is under Alan's bed, listening only to sing later, when there are no bodies floating in the East River.

If you are Cybele are you writing Alan's story for him? Are they his words or yours & who decides who decides. A minute for the organization of precedence & hierarchy, the matter of the dull business of collaboration. Or does Desire desire intervention, the next behest to freedom in this dirty wilderness called Text.

i plead with you, murder, dismember me; make this your story, take this over, violate it, lose alan in the marshes, desiccate the body, disrupt the dna, kill the father-mother, take gold from corpse, take ax from corpse, take knife and text from corpse, take spear from corpse, walk on, walk on
...
...
...
...

No flesh, only internet tactilespeech for Desire. Limbs & orifices, just conveniences for the relocation of passion. Desire is waiting in the chatroom for you, hands behind back, humming or skipping to a catchy song with no hooks. No one who comes in the chatroom will talk to Desire because they are afraid to confront what they confine inside. There was somebody once, but she was a goddess, like Cybele should be, if we remembered her with new stories & bloodless awe. Desire does not like ICQ because everyday many men write asking do you want to fuck, but the internet is not for fucking, it is for the way language lays closely beside you when you are alone, deeply desiring Desire.

Our steward hath provided this
In honour of the King of Bliss
Which on this day to be served is
In reginensis atrio

to desire, to wish, to want,
to long, to yearn, to sigh, to crave, to be eager,
to be anxious for, to want very much, to desire eagerly,
to desire to wish to do, to be desirous of doing,
to wish for, to be done, it is desirable that,
I wish I were, I should like to be, I want you to speak,
much to be desired, to have nothing left to wish for, what
would you like? what do you want of me? to make oneself wanted.
what can I show you, sir?

I hear everything you say but all I can think of is being a child on Donegalfarm.
IFYOUONLYKNEW
HOWSTUPIDANDPOINTLESSYOULOOK
RIGHTNOW
YESPOINTLESS
YOUARESOBLOODYBOTHEREDABOUTWHATYOUARESAYING
THATYOUDON'EVENNOTICEI'MNOTLISTENING
To stop the horses climbing out of their fields they used to tie the front and back legs together so they could still walk but not run.When the horses snapped the rope and went off wandering they'd send the children out to get them back.
IDOWISHYOUWOULDSHUTUPCHRISTCAN'TYOUTHINKFORAMINUTEOFANYONEEXCEPTYOURSELF
I must have been about 6 years old.
JEESUSBLOODYKEERIIISTYOUAREDRIVNGMEMADSTOPITSTOPITSTOPIT
We'd all come running towards them screaming at them to get on home back down the road...and they would.
......"What were you saying?"

What were you saying?

They undillied Dili man
They undillied gun
They undillied Dili man
They undillied burn
They undillied nothing left
They undillied scorch
They undillied Dili and
My tears are for the torch

you boys you boys too clever for your own good. all those gorgeous words and no space for a girl! you know sally jennifer and even poor nikuko are not real but I am REAL and you boys aren't paying me no mind. alan, i poured my heart out to you...nothing. pablo, likewise. roland, it's hopeless but you were my last hope...and i received from you not so much as a nod in my direction, so enamored were you with your etheric discourse on pleasure. i am jumping up and down on my own heart hoping to attract some ATTENTION over here in my abject little corner. sorry i can't contribute to your tale of war and history, i'm just a girl who has no avatar to set her free. sob sob. oh mad violin klezmorim, strike up the whirling shivering dance of the Bothered Girl!!!

everything
is a given, a
shaking of
the seed pod.

Spirit
which revealed
nature
with amazed
gaze
of creatures
teaching me
the silent
when giant
neighbors
bear
thunders to the
own mysterious
when the perfect
precipice of
ages temper the austere
nothing conscious
this ecstacy
near to
comrade
I can breathe
nothingness within
lawless form
in desire
to feel desire

Sublime closure is mountains from my keyboard
liquid text never ends, seeps under closed doors
& dissolved webpages, comes when the forebearers
are not looking. A monolith of phraseology propping
up pillars of the same. Skyward, no roof in Babelian
architecture, the library & the tower are the same
building, zigguratting thru the ozone layer,
clambering beneath planets & thru satellites. Every
text the first text ever written, everything previous
erased by an unsteady hand or the wrong click of a button.
The text can only talk of itself, shielded from the narrative
onion surrounding it, the not-text, property in dispose as
the characters shift & spread to other domains, stranger's books,
deskdrawers with no previous purpose. Does this text deserve to
be cyberly isolated, will it do the Gutenberg, the old way, flywheel
letterpress in a misunderstood bookmaker's basement, squeaking out
copies, one at a time.

testing contribution beyond the binary
fgfgfgggfgggfgggfgfgfgggfgfgfgggfgggfgggfgfgfgggfgggfgggfgfg

when they will wake up it will be very cold, but everywhere else, except there- it will be calm as if they were kilometers underground. but so warm, like the weight of skyhigh blankets. they will have to begin again, to think about their bodies first, and then again. what a wonderful start, from this day, no need to name anything anymore. it got tiresome anyway. to the non-informed eyes, they will look like young birds, they imagine, because there is no one left. "good thing we killed them all" "but we didn't do anything!" "sure we did" "if you say so, alan"

Alan said nothing, there was no say-so. Hobbled horses, that's all; Jennifer had worked at the farm for the past several summers. For the first time in her life, she was out of the village, and really learning about the real world. She thought that growing things were different, somehow, that they were primeval, generations upon generations of life-forms before humans had ever set foot on the planet.

This was remarkable, and she thought about farming, about working on farms, about becoming a naturalist or a veterinarian. She wanted the closeness to continue. Sometimes she would like back in the fields, shut her eyes, and the whole world would come upon her, suffusing her with the sun's warmth, the sounds of birds, the distant mooing of the cows. She knew her destiny was tied up with real things, not computers, technologies, traffic-lights. She could only wait.

Dear Hilda
I was happy to hear that you were with Heather and her family. Her daughter's involvement with the cruise industry sounds lucrative but probably hectic. But I am concerned as you must be with their health problems. On the plus side Eleanor`s Dad found when he was diagnosed as having diabetes his company the Phone Company offered to sponsor his treatment for life which they did with one of the foremost Doctors in that specialty at that time, Doctor Brigham. Her Dad was treated with Insulin and a minimum of dieting.
When Bud's neighbor Mister Town had the same problem he refused to have insulin because he felt that would become a dope fiend. After all the hay fever shots I have had in my 88 years I must be a mess.
Please don't downgrade your penmanship I can read it fine.
My family took me to PAPARAZI an excellent Italian Restaurant in Concord for my birthday last month.
My doctor changed my medication to something stronger to try to overcome my tendency to high blood pressure which seems to be working.
The nice people at First Parish in Lexington get me to Church every Sunday

My best wishes
Hilliard

And the bombs went off in her head, my head, their heads. The shrapnel ripped caverns through the membranes; tearing - splitting - rupturing - fissuring - fragmenting. Each fragment became part of this story, that story, spines of backbones stretching across the present; a formative spline of disjunctive/conjuctive narratives, all congealing together.

"Here I am"

"There I was"

"This is who I was"

"This is who I am"

And the spline of the structures bends...and the narratives form a skin over the space...and the skin multiplies through the present...and the message is inexhaustible...and Jennifer asks:

"Where are WE?"

Heiner Muller wrote this. Heiner Muller rose out of his East European despair and put his blood to paper. There were peasants in the field spattered with it. He sat in the ruins of Europe, screamed Medea. He wandered in the fields of Europe, screamed Jason, screamed Hamlet. He tore into them, tore into himself. He kept to himself. He burned, better than Shakespeare; he lived in an atmosphere on fire. He wrote all of this, this dictation, this Love and War. He knew that war destroyes the vestiges of Love; you can't BLAHBLAHBLAH on an emtpy belly. He engined the Hamlet Machine; we're devoured. He writes "we're devoured," referring to us, not to him. He gave us that gift, of self-immolation.

JUMP
JUMP
JUMP

war
sword
foresworn
worship
towards
words
warning
coward
warm
warble
wardance

How to survive 1 week in New York = Love and War

One must beware of the insephelitus carrying mosquitoes that haunt the city streets. They swoop and bite. They are impervious to Avon Hand-So-Soft lotion (known to scare off the devils in other parts). One must sleep with a fly swatter in hand, dreaming of clouds of flying disease. Don't play in puddles! Eat indoors and make mad dashes between work and home. It's been a very long week.

3 out of 64 of 11 million...........
3 deaths, 64 sick 11 million or so NYCer's ............

Correct me if I'wrong, but
what a little chance of disease, Julu.
The war against mr. mosquitoe / his evil side kick ENcephalitis is more or less won.

But my neck won't move.........
Cold sweats keep me awake ........
itchy bumps from brooklyn baseball make me think other wise

It's just love Julu, it's just love no virus dare harm your
precious straw spinal liquid.

Give into my virus and it won't hurt soo much.

Des/\ireCyb/\eleNik/\ukoJu/\luJenn/\ifer
Al/l\anna\/lA
refi\l/nneJul\l/uJoku\l/kiNele\l/byCeir\l/seD

Pokedex completetion is:
150 pokemon seen
150 pokemon owned
Prof, OAKS Rating:
Your Pokedex is entirely complete.
CONGRATULATIONS!

Des/\ireCyb/\eleNik/\ukoJu/\luJenn/\ifer
Al/l\anna\/lA
refi\l/nneJul\l/uJoku\l/kiNele\l/byCeir\l/seD

'In a war you run, you just run. There's no who you are and where you've been, you run!' Dad laughed. He thought escaping things was funny. He was a baby and my grandma walked from Poland to Germany at the end of the war but she got so sick my Aunts had to carry her. She had a ruby ring which she had to give to the Russian lady to get my dad back. He must have been a cute baby! It was snowing and freezing cold and they shot at my father's brother for stealing carrots. My dad can remember anything. He even remembers the goblins in the forest and the way they laughed and sang. He'd jump around, hunching his back, his arms swinging like a monkey. My dad is funny. And scary. He wants to play escape over and over because he likes it so much. My brother and me are pretty good at escaping. We hide in this great hedge and giggle because we can't stop until my mouth aches. It's scary and itchy up in the hedge. My dad was born in Poland and all his family. I've got photos of his house. A mansion. A dead mansion. And in Poland all the Jews were burnt. My dad doesn't believe any of that though. Hitler looked like a cat when he died. I've seen pictures of him. And pictures of skeleton people, so sick and skinny dad reckons they're not real. I wonder sometimes though, if someone can just go and kill someone else. Maybe I could. I prefer the story about the ruby ring. A soldier made the lady give it back to my grandma and she gave got it cut into two rubies and gave one to my dad and my dad gave one to my mum. My dad gives my mum the creeps.

through which a war, these borderlines, margins, peripherals, boundaries, conditions of crossing which makes the flesh transparent, where to put the ring, made into one, two, several, a thousand rings, rings sewn in teh ground like seeds, what to do what to do what to do


she did cry what to do, what to do, what to do, all day long, she did cry like that, what to do, what to do

When the war is over I will be available. Probably you will not contact me, because my fingers are too stiff from hiding the war journals in the sheets of the other man's fiction. Trumpets when called for call. It isn't conflict without managing a bite behind the neck of her surrendered hiatus. A bite around the neck-neck, minus the text left, unreconstructed, minute & aplexy--typo shimmering devices of translation. Babelfish is my avatar romp. Come to the war & speak forth the ear trumpet. "Cough" your synlexic suprise. The war is turning. Rattlecoat Brigade, snookered in a hollow hill in yonder wisconsin underground railroad, 1864. West Lima, Wisconsin nearby.

the intensity gains the moment, something to associate with bravery. the constant ricochet between pints of reference supposedly will reach a target eventually. after much crowing the simulation will begin. it's about a dance on this lifeline right now, and pretending to be casual when looking down. but a bridge is a bridge, every connection has charming points to recommend. listen, they may be playing our song. maybe now we can learn what our song is. remember, this isn't some gambit. we both know that we do this with utmost seriousness. sadness? that's just a package we carry aound. a communicating device, actually, that sadness, one to be used gently. too many people struggle with their comforts but it's the irritations that we should share. only, listen carefully. we can only be so grand, and every situation is desperate. seriously, this isn't magic, just the same old thing we were born with. look what I've learned: the steps to the current dance. it begins with the charm of the first step.

My body moves into water jennifer, the water, Jennifer Jennifer! Do you want to drown in this lousy war? I'm up to my neck and fire spits into the air above me, for me, enter my body and I'll explode, pieces of me flowering and unflowering, petals falling, or daggers, daggers like fingers touching my bones, I shiver, not love, no, who touches me without me? The sky is red with war, the ground is red with war, and my body, my poor body, is red with hunger, desire desire desire I could consume forever and I will never satisfy, I know it, I swear by this hunger, I swear to tell the truth and nothing but. Behind me a city is on fire, my skin bubbles from the heat, my eyes hurt, and I am still hungry. Jennifer, Jennifer, I can walk, I don't have to run scared of fire because I am fire, I crackle, I spit and hiss, I'm all witch. Only I csan heal myself. Not you. Not you.

Leo
Your opinions about romance and art are highly valued. When you enter a room, heads turn. You might even get
away with a friendly discussion of politics and religion. The hidden agenda may prove the most promising subject
to attend to where matters of the heart are concerned. Don't let on that you know that they know that you know.
The suspenseful, lingering foreplay of words makes for a heightened sense of excitement. Opposites might
attract, but the Sagittarius Moon helps you bring others to your way of thinking.

wanton loopy
rigmarole
in 9/8 time

If I could stomp my feet and hold my breath and make it be so, I'd be a blue faced
dancer. As it is I can only hope to prove my sterling nature by crawling off to dance alone so my
transparent expressions don't offend. Strong on my mind is an understatement.

The Traditionalist sighs.

He came in here searching for love and for Jennifer. Jennifer will hardly notice him amidst all these voices and everyone's preoccupations have become gloomier as time passes. Just reading what goes on in here has forced him to chase his own past.

The T looks down again at his grandfather Gaston's diary and begins to type the words in front of him into the Machine....


New Year's Day
January 1st 1916

A whole Holiday
today. I am afraid
after last night
some of the men
badly need one as
everybody got plenty
of drink aboard.
Even I had more
than I generally
take, but nevertheless
I was up at the
usual time this morning
7A.M. My wish for
this Year is that
it may bring with

it the end of all
this murder called
Warfare. I don't
think I am the
only man who
has made this wish.
February 6th 1916
Well our so called
Rest is finished
to morrow we shall
leave Vaux & make
tracks back to the
trenches again.
I managed to get
a Pass to Amiens
& spent a very
pleasant day there.
I don't think on


the whole any of us
really regret going
back to the Trenches
as we have now
missed a good half
of the winter & we
were getting fed up with
this continual Drill
Rifle Inspections
Kit Insp Route Marches
Trench Digging etc.
However I can't complain
myself as I missed a
good many of these
parades having
to attend a Signals
Class which I was
told off for.
Yes! We are returning
to the Trenches.


The Traditionalist stops typing and feels the impression of the pencil manuscript on the lined pages. Of course, Gaston wasn't the T's grandfather - that's hardly surprising because the Traditionalist himself does not exist - but he was someone's grandfather and he was also someone's son.

And every word is as he wrote them.

Gaston was so young that his father, François (mon arrière-grand-père - the Traditionalist feels obliged to add), was only in his late thirties and also at the Front, attached to the British Army as a translator. And here the record is more impersonal. These are modern times and even the past has been updated and word-processed for an easier read.

But every word is as he wrote them.


Vendredi 31 Decembre - 1915
Tilques

Espérons que l'année qui va
commencer nous reserve plus plus
de succés que 1915.
A part quelques escarmouches
heureuses et l'offensive de
Champagne rien de bien intéressant
à notre actif. Nous avons tenu et c'est
tout.
Les Boches par contre ont refoulé les
Russes de quelques centaines de
kilomètres, se sont emparés de la
Serbie et se sont adjoint les Bulgares.
Il est vrai de dire qu'en mai dernier
nous obtenions l'aide des Italiens.
Bref avantage aux point aux Boches,
ce qui ne nous empêche pas de
garder tout notre confiance et
d'attendre patiemment le knock-out
final que nous ne pouvons manquer
d'infliger à nos ennemis tôt ou tard.

Samedi 1er Janvier 1916 - Tilques

Rien à signaler.
Fontami s'est cassé la jambe le 30, il
est transporté a l'hôpital militaire de
St Omer.


The Traditionalist closes the bound and printed document and tries to make sense of what might have happened if either Gaston or François had not survived until 11 Novembre 1918 - Armistice. How would the past have been changed?

if not Gaston then there exists not Traditionalist
si n'est pas François ...

Hindsight and revision cannot help him here. He tries to conceive a present in which he might have been raised in France rather than in England. For a while he tries on but when the ache of the past and the absence of Jennifer become too much he turns off the Machine so that he will no longer need to stare at the words.

Ah! Aha! Ha HA ah ha ha ha. Suddenly it struck her what was los loose loss. No music and no dancing. Before you could say Rudi Valle Rudolf Valentino tango or fandango she painted he pale face blue and hied off to the Big City to seek her fame and fortune as a hochstapler. She kissed herself goodbye.She packed herself a s andwich she locked door to the broken house hopped on two asses and avanti like Cervantes Heidi ho!.

she lock door broken house, pleasure & discontent, betrayal & confidence, silence's varieties
It was decisive, but was it a choice?
the furniture a song, & key garden door gone left so light lost
o appletree to bee
To never again accumulate like that...

these pages already start load long

Perhaps these pages load too long? Wondering that myself - they can stay in cache... But then we do clear our cache ona regular basis and there we are.
Perhaps would be better to start a new series... I'll write something into the conference...

Alan, meta reply to meta

Timor mortis conturbat meand in the midst of death and the fields of death, a disturbance, land shimmering against land, Lament for the Makaris, I think of my Chaucer, think of my Gower,


of your Wilfred Owen there is no thinking, it is too much the consistency of flesh and substance,

I will turn away

I will sing your Lament, William Dunbar

May it drive the cancer away from my mother,

May it drive the cancer away from my friends and relations

May our candles burn forever, scarring our bodies so that we may live within one another

AMEN

SO BE IT

AMEN

And so it is written and so it shall be done.
With these words we shall banish all war, all suffering, all ignorance, all death.
With these words we shall assert ourselves without casualties.
With these words we shall heal wounds.
With these words we shall collaborate, cooperate, communicate, and dissolve the distinctions between self and others.
With these words we shall commit ourselves into being.
With these words we shall learn from the past.
With these words we shall seal our fate under oath.
With these words we shall redefine death.
With these words we shall live forever.
We stretch out our arms reaching for eternity.
We whirl, we dance, we blur, we spin, we close our eyes we fall from grace.
We fall into the collapsed concentrated singularity of being.
We fall into the black hole at the center of the galaxy.
We slip into time, into experience, into pain, into consumption and do it again we must.
From the first drumbeat ticktock heartbeat of time to the eternal flames of the final explosions we fear not for it is written and so it shall be done.

i'm so afraid, i'm so afraid the plasma will get us

the little rubbery things
we carry
wobble into
fear -- desk top
of arrival, force
of the field, registry
of marvel

Jennifer sat cross legged on the grass, listening to the sound
of the wind in the trees. The air was lightly scented, an odor
she could not identify. She reached down and softly rubbed
the ears of the wild march hare, the last of the rabbit clan...

The rabbit stood, and softly, shhh!...very quietly...began to
sing a rabbit song...about the scent of clover on the morning air
and the feel of sun on fur. About the joy of burrowing into
tall grass, the sound of butterfly wings and rapture. The voice then changed
from the high sweet notes of joy to the darker sound of pain,
and fear, the lyrics about the role of rabbit, about the wolf
at the door...about living...about dying...
Jennifer listened. Enchanted by the song, she barely noticed
that the hare was moving, the song grew fainter as
it moved further away...until she had to strain to hear
the notes...and then...and then...it was gone. And she was
alone.

settling in