s$ $$ .d""b. .d""b. HOE E'ZINE #1025 [-- $$""b. $$ $$ $$ $$ -- ------------------------------------------- --] $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ss$$ "We'll Always Have Paris" $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ by Rhea $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ 2/11/00 [-- $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ -- ------------------------------------------- --] $$ $$ "TssT" "TssT" And then there was me, standing on the same fucking planet as the man who decided this was a planet, and breathing the same air as the man (or woman, maybe, but somehow I doubt it) who decided the correct procedure for rescue breathing. Two slow breaths -- dirty with your life and with all your dirty cell's excretions and with every stale lingering odor of everyone you've ever kissed -- into the sealed mouth of your unconscious suffocating victim, and then another breath every five seconds. Every five seconds. Yes, there was me, I think. (and can't you just picture him, my love? can't you just picture him sitting at his desk in a little room, dark with sunlight or a little candle light at best -- because Edison hadn't cursed the world yet with the blissful artificiality that we look at each other in - with his hands on his head and his pen in his hand trying desperately, oh so desperately, to prove with logic and science and with whatever little else he thought he knew that God exists! Can't you just picture him? Oh, it makes me so sad. Whenever I see the Cartesian plane now I think of the screwed up logic in his final attempt and it makes me so sad. and then I laugh.) There is a strict definition for the words "comedy" and "tragedy," isn't there? There must be - all logic and science and whatever else we think we know demands it -- but you know it all blurs together for me. It's a fuzzy fuzzy world, this world, and I don't know what to see! You see? Long Live the King! The King is Dead! Long Live the King! Long live me, the king of my winter of discontent of my spring of love and laughter of my queen of my prince - love I love you love love you I - of my star, the one who always laughs at me, and I hate commas. I hate them all, and I hate dashes -------------------------- ------------- and s p a c e s and periods (god, I hate periods) and letters and words (but not conjunctions) and god help us both if this is summer. Did God help Descartes? Or did the Evil Genius just laugh and laugh and laugh all day long? Or did you forget to hold the nose when you breathed those rescue breaths? And did you remember to tilt the head back? And will you remember for me, my sweet? A light bulb exploded on me once. I was underneath its heat and glare and bam! pop! scream! I was stung before I even knew what had happened with the hot hot light bulb shrapnel. It left a mark on me - a red welt that I glanced at for days after every once in a while, still surprised at the comedy of it all. Or tragedy. It burned, my sweet, it burned. Now I'm thinking plaster. No, cement! I'm thinking, "Man, Lover, and Father of Modern Philosophy" etched in the logic which killed him which kills me which kills you - what's more logical than a tombstone laughing down on you? -- unless you're a church-going person of course. God Save the Queen! And then there was me, trying to find some meaning in this text but it was all a joke because like the Wise Men say, "Those who know how to laugh at themselves shall never cease to be amused" and hahahahahahahaha I tried to write about religion and hahahahahaha I tried to write about death and hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha I tried to write about love but I can't I can't damn you I can't I'm stuck instead in this run-on sentence. I'm laughing too hard; I'm living too hard; I'm loving you too hard because it makes me sad and it makes me laugh and after all, this is the great American romance! Baby baby baby let's make babies. Let's move into Inverness together. Just you and me and our stained hands and when the forest starts creeping up we'll grab the fire extinguisher plainly sitting there beneath that light bulb and spray and spray and spray its foul chemicals all over those fucking trees. Don't worry, we know just where the extinguisher is. Yes, we know. We could even fi! nd it in the dark! (fumbling around in the black is bad enough without this burning desire to be more than just some silly etching in your screen your screen your screen your screen) "I remember it perfectly. The Germans wore gray. You wore blue." Yes, yes, hahahaha, yes! It all blurs together in me in you in love in we in you in me in hahahaha! Yes! It all blurs together in me. [-------------------------------------------------------------------------] [ (c) HOE E'ZINE -- http://www.hoe.nu HOE #1025, BY RHEA - 02/11/00 ]