Date: Mon, 1 Feb 1999 20:38:43 -0500 (EST)
From: Marsha Faizi <mfaizi-AT-rbnet.com>
Subject: Ari's Reality Post


Ariosto Raggo wrote: 

>Faizi or whoever and whatever you are,
>
>	This is the reality check post I'm sending you. We are almost
>there again, somehow I think I am begining to trust you in spite of
>your anonymity. 

I do not like to put my name on anything. My name is poison. Trust me, I know.

You must be the writer, Ariosto. You can enjoy the accolades and do all the
socializing. You can dance and have fun--work the babes and the old guys;
make 'em feel real good. Suck up to the Anglos. They will love you for it.
Work the women for their beauty and the men for their comradeship.  

Sway to the music. Al otro lado, my lovely. Trip the light fantastic, 
al-goddamn-ready. Just don't trip over your own feet. But that is not a
problem for you, little laddie, because you are one well-coordinated Latino,
that's for sure; an acrobat. You can do anything you want to do; execute any
move with strange grace and stylish charm, my little balletomane. Mashito
and His Afro-Cuban Orchestra, indeed. Trip on, trip on, dancing boy.

(Did I tell you that my sister-in-law is a Cuban of African descent? I love
Marguarita. Darling woman. Married to a Paki. Interesting combination. She
knew Fidel, of course, when they were kids. She loves him like a brother.)   

I have decided: You can be my virgin. I need one, you know; require it. I
require you, my angel; my little saint; my rhythmic harbinger. Locate me,
baby.  
You look good in white linen; your panama. Comb your fiery moustache and
smoke some good Cuban cigars. Give me one, too. I appreciate good
tobacco--part of my Southside heritage--long line of tobacco growers, eaten
alive by the current prohibition; the law suits. Sue Sir Walter Raleigh,
already.  

You have it made, sunny. You are so bright that you can light up a million
grey skies with your yellows and your reds and your oranges; your opaque
solidity, reflector of light: It bounces off you like electricity from a
metal pinwheel.    
I am a monster. Black silk dress; black veil; black lace gloves; black
cameo-- dark coral from a blackened sea; tar; peat; hides the redness of my
scars and my open wounds in lush, soft, wet anonymous silence. I am not fit
for light. It hurts my eyes and burns my skin. I do not belong on this beach
except in cold, white reflection. I can meet you in shadow. Let me give you
madness as a gift: Microbeast--I live on the sand. It is all right for you
to keep me on a leash as long as you know that I am in control. I am in
control, such is the nature of my scars and wounds, self inflicted.    

>I know this is difficult for you but you are going to
>have to try to keep fantasy and reality separate so that we can meet
>without a mask so to speak in so far as this is possible. 

Yes, baby, tell me about it. There is no separation of fantasy and reality.
Life is what we make it, honey. Everything else is waste.  

I wear no mask. I send you no disguise.  

Faizi

I decided to send you this excerpt, such as it is. I do not expect you to
answer it. You belong to Earl and Deanna now. I do hope that you can find
your niche in the middle class, since that is what you want.

Allah rehemkah,
hoodahavas, amigo,
Faizi