.sdMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMbs. ----------|MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM|----------- ----------|M/ .sdSbs. .sdSbs. .sdSbs. .sdSbs. .sdSbs. .sdSbs. \M|----------- ----------|M| $$$$$$$ $$$$$$$ $$$$$$$ "`$'" $$$$$$$ $$$$$$$ |M|----------- ----------|M| $$' `$ $$' `$ $$' `$ $ $$' `$ $$' `$ |M|----------- ----------|M| $$ $$ $$ $ $ $$ $ $$ |M|----------- ----------|M| $$ $$ $$ .sd' $ $$ .sd' $$ |M|----------- ----------|M| $$ $$ $$ `s $ $$ $$ |M|----------- ----------|M| $$ $$ $$ `$ $ $$ $$ |M|----------- ----------|M| $$ ~~$ $$S~~ $$ $ $ $$ $$S~~ |M|----------- ----------|M| $$ .$ $$ $$ $ $ $$ $$ |M|----------- ----------|M| $$..sd$ $$..sd$ $$ $ .s$s. $$ $$..sd$ |M|----------- ----------|M\ `~~"""" `~~"""" `~ ~ `"~"' `~ `~~"""" /M|----------- ----------|MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM|----------- `~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~' issue #16 <------------------------------ ---> 05-06-97 "MOMMY, I SMELL DEATH. or THE ISOMORPHISM OF LIFE AND BASEBALL: WHAT'S THE FIELD RESISTANCE AND POLARITY?" and other portions of the diary of emotions -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- NOTES ON MOTIVES FOR GERIPE Looking back over the first issue: an introduction; i see it was only partially complete. The name was explained. It was important then what billboard I gathered thought under and it is important still. But I didn't explain my template for the nature of the content. I think only recently have I fully understood what the gathering principle is (or more probably what it has become): a chronicle of my life as it happens. That includes my thoughts, emotions, and all that aleatoric nonsense that always has its way of passing through my life. By writing or publishing/republishing what is tangent to my path I can clear myself of what I don't need (and what are those things I need?); true catharsis. It glances my skin and I can take it in and then let it go. Something has to pass away before anything new comes in. It's beneficial to me, and people seem to be interested in my tangents. I can only really hope it remains that way. Enjoy the issue. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- "MOMMY, I SMELL DEATH. or THE ISOMORPHISM OF LIFE AND BASEBALL: WHAT'S THE FIELD RESISTANCE AND POLARITY?" Don's flesh is consumed by the heat; burns, crumbles like charred paper and quickly replaces itself with a new coat. It is understood that this regeneration doesn't ever complete the job leaving him lesser of a man each instance. Soon, Don will be a boiling tumor baking on the asphalt, his atrophied tongue pushing the back of his teeth straining for a plea of mercy. He's grown weary of his supine days and nights. "Give me pain or give me death; just keep me away from the fucking boredom." His lungs fill with smoke. When he dies those lungs will appear to be crushed grapes lying in a bed of soot. Exhale... Inhale... Exhale... Don is consiously aware of his breath. In fact, he can't take his mind off of it. "Why should I waste my time with you? I'd rather wear you externally: the branch of bronchi wrapped around my neck." He says this aloud. The other few people at the bus stop ignore him with a bovine indifference. A frighteningly homely woman next to him gnashes madly on a greasy chicken leg. Her face assumes the shape of a rabid shih tzu: eyes direct and predatory, hair bobbing with anxious rage. Her exposed navel forms Don's future mouth. It whispers: "The end is coming." The tongue darts out with the speed of a striking snake snatching chicken crumbs out of the air. After satisfying its hunger, the mouth recedes to navel. Don decides he doesn't want to take the bus. He hates the smell of fried chicken. He walks away, passing a seven-year-old girl that writhes on the ground in the midst of a violent epileptic fit. Grand Mal. She foams at the mouth, eyes flitting like the wings of a hummingbird. Don sees this with vague interest. Her mother prys her tongue out of her throat. The girl's mouth snaps shut like an animal trap, biting her own tongue. Blood trickles down the side of her mouth. She coughs and spits blood on the front of her dress. Don quickens his pace now, bored with sightseeing. He makes out a little boy saying: "Mommy, I smell death." His mother blames it on the people with accents. Don steps off the curb carelessly. He trips on his own feet smacking his head quite audibly on the street. No one notices, not even the bus driver while he calmly drives over Don's neck. His trachea crushed and his neck broken Don remembers a song he's never heard. It builds with a crescendo echoing inside his skull: This is just the beginning Of life's new inning. In this baseball game of life, The innings are filled with strife. You've just struck out. What's your life been about? -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Haiku may only have 3 lines. It follows the pattern: 5 syllables, 7 syllables, 5 syllables. Tree-huggers may gain entry, but suicidal poets are not allowed. "I swear to you, I'll never write a poem. Please don't flog me again. My back and buttocks are sore and red and I am feeling ever so morbid." -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- FEEL THE PAIN, BABY. CREEN CON TRISTE: THOUGHTS TO THE ONE I LOVE White walls, red carpet: I'm taking the notes of a life I don't live. Where am I placed? When do we intersect? When's the Great Smelting of raw ore? The lead and the iron form nacreous pools, the rounded edges give a sense of depth. Is it determined that our fluids flow through mutually, but never connect? When's the goddamn alloy to be created? Does there exist such an alloy? Am I the lead? Do I poison all those babies? Can I be blamed for the trips to the emergency room? I'm stuck to myself; my life is predetermined. I have no choice. But you can blame me. With it, maybe we can find that understanding and satisfaction I crave. Does lead feel like I do? Maybe I, too, have a low melting point. I feel so goddamn CONNECTED. LINKED. It's fucking irreversable and I wouldn't have it any other way. I can hate so much, but I have a great bundle of love to give. It's densely packed like the sun; but it doesn't burn. Cynically: "What do I do with this rancid stuff?: the meat off my bones. Do I have to take it everywhere? I want to put it in one place: One special box to whom what it contains is recursive." -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- FEEL free to ask me questions about the issue OR otherwise. I'VE GOT AN EMAIL ADDRESS NOW. WRITE me at: rapeman@bbs.utopia2.com SEND me your text. if i like them they WILL be published. contact me at the distro sites: file area is back online -----> vip------------------(972)494-1024 our newest distro site -------> high weirdness-------(972)288-6755 our new web page (perpetually under construction)----, ____________________________________________) ( `---> http://rampages.onramp.net/~rick/geripe/index.html (many thanks TO id for his GENEROSITY) IF you would like FOR your bbs to BE a distro site please contact me. ALSO, if you would like to ADVERTISE in Geripe, please email me. ads are absolutely free -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- grp_eot