Friends

Jul 2003

Ja rodilsja v moskve

http://www.venganza.org/

http://profiles.friendster.com/853078

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/asia-pacific/4804018.stm

פראָפ 1;ע&

I am the founder of Sternocruise. Bell Artes RIP (I guess?). Pudding for the People. "yiddishkeit"

http://www.furry.org.au/chakat/Visions-new3.html

Palimpsests & Gospels. Children's books about animals, and also Richard Wallace's "Jack the Ripper, Light-Hearted Friend". Grampa Chaz the Smeltor's "To Be A Man". "The Good Soldier".

They cost a nickel in shoe stores. Tevye Der Milkhiger. Brilliantovaja Ruka. Adventure Serials. What the magazine "Green Mountain Cinema" demurely refers to as "The Experimental Films of Brigette Blood". Tsirk. Polisz Kicz Projekt. Andrew's volcano movie, if he ever lets me see it. Anything whose characters appear too en la Biblia.

The Blubbering Down the Hall. Guns, Germs, & Steel. The Iron Curtains. The Louie Louies. Division of Sex. Detsl. Apsurd. Sert Musslemanner. MC Hot Dog. Paraziti. Lazy Muthafucka. Duragon Ashu. Fettes Brot.

As a boy I was allowed to watch anything from television or the movies with the singular and fairly bewildering exception of NBC's The Smurfs. What's Happening, and Muppet Babies, Magnum PI and even the news, but ever did those hallucinatory blue friendlets remain verboten, Canaan to my Moses, apple to my Tantalus. And so I have, even to this late and present day, never watched so much as a single episode of that singsong fungal overblue that seems so indellibly to have stamped my cogenerationists. And so, from here, from out beyond the sanctum, let me tell you, you smurf people, you smurf-line-towers, let me tell all of you people something: y'all sound fucking crazy.

Cancer

Call me an orange-peddler in the empty cadences of sea-water, grim about the mouth, whitened and suffused in the blue maw; this is my substitute, with canceled momentum, as if to show its significant side. City of a dreamy Sabbath, fugitive darkness under an olive tree, up on the pier-heads, the hollow above her a heroic attempt.
Companions of this figure reaching the street, dense and sweet-smelling, the wandering ship's company - the horse, black flanks - edge of an English razor; such was the thunder: muted with heat that has never lost its childhood, all steel and whalebone to examine the hub of the city, and silent, silently so eyeing the vast blue eye, the new photography shop, Greek Hospital.

Here was a painted booth, grove of that astonishing yucca which he will today mail to the German journal of physics as a leaf, and next ninety miles of rutted wagon road, notebooks of patents rinsed out by anemia, or planted amid beet fields with a low-velocity typebar. Loose fragments of cloth owned by the city's richest men might exist in other worlds. Snowdrifts in which ancient tank tracks are still visible undress shyly.

Here I thought the whole story through from the Bell X-1 rocket plane to the apothecary on Spitalgasse; historical fabric of the place will simply swell the morning, the precise position of chairs. A survivor's delight - clear, grade and pave - crouches and waits for the stream; a bottle of petrol uprooting the citrus gardens could make his life miserable with a desire to be claimed by the city: stripped bare of nature and history, every future is real.

Over a denuded countryside you fly like a felon, is the saddest story I have ever heard; to refound Llano slowly, by gasps, with an acquaintanceship as loose and easy as the ghosts of May Day, as of cause that she was the sufferer. I had just written a book on the oilcloth-covered base behind the window, the grant of the Indian chief. That is at least partially true: the white-coated barber was shaving himself; at this moment, I am actually writing.

Crossroads, capitals, seaports, the advanced grade and the growing, incalculable sight out of their heads: no city had ever been sold that remained unlimned, and I swear to you that the small-town dentists, wealthy spinsters, tubercular schoolteachers, aware of a lyric indolence, vanished in four crashing days. And the mass immigration of Catholic and Jewish poor, a languid spiral of smoke, if it rained, in discreet shelters, out the sideways, out of the echoing houserows, out back and under the finality-sonatas of clay.