Date: Tue, 22 Sep 1998 15:24:06 -0700
Subject: praise for bookbinders


ah, before s/he starts writing sh/e's free to adopt any persona.  taking
up the pen causes a crisis of specific specifications.  dentists and
radios are appointed then.  all mysteries and secrets of anything dies,
becomes wrapped up with a corpse, at best to look out the cut-away eyes
like portholes.  in the resulting ever-present now s/he dreams s/he and
other monkeys dance in the margins of what's campy.

now addicted to publicity, s/he'll never open hir eyes again to what
hasn't been inscribed there upon.  s/he and all of hir kind are walking
memoirs;  words, lines;  whole pages and even chapters glossed over so
smoothly, to authentically touch them decimates any message that might
have been read as different than remembered.  only what's written upon
hir is never really read anymore.  except for pangs of nostalgia s/he
barely distinguishes from everyday anxiety, sore muscles or a head cold,
s/he apparently makes no move to change what s/he thinks is written on
the sky behind hir eyes.

nothing can be any more revolutionary than a tea party any more.  that
is unless s/he finds a way to stop.  that is unless s/he finds a way to
stop the corpse in which s/he lurches ahead, one meaningless step after
another, choking on hir tongue like a jack-o-lantern choking on melted
candlewax.  s/he has to stop in the middle of something approaching a
festival.  s/he has to be surprised in a way that can only occur after a
defiant but firm resolution to write instead of continuing to be
written.  surprises arrive when least expected, but most solidly in
anonymous crowds of idlers.

chaos having no respect for class or age, it comes
to (tres)pass that even the best nod must go hence--mal/donne/adieu