From: Ariosto Raggo <df803-AT-freenet.carleton.ca> Subject: Re: socks Date: Thu, 8 Apr 1999 02:21:47 -0400 (EDT) Faizi, I am not going to finish your moaning drivel. You forget my gifts to you so quickly, spun while observing the black widow that I keep as a wild pet in my cell. She doesn't want to leave for some reason so I got to like playing with her and even thinking like her a little which I know is impossible and probably an imaginative projection having to do more with me than her--and I think she knows or senses this distance and lack of familiarity, both of us being of different especies. Somehow she adds a certain something to my cell, I don't know what, but it seems to work for me. Having her near me even when we ignore each other as is probably appropriate gives me a strange comfort, love hate sort of thing perhaps or a repulsive attraction as if she and her spinning were coming out of a sublime issue like all monsters. Who cares if you or anybody thinks wether or not this list moves as a conversation, it does and you know it. This is just another one of your ploys to get attention. If you didn't mention my name maybe I would be writing this, but you know... I especially wouldn't be doing it now that I am working six days a week and I am still waiting for my mind and body to find a new rhythm. And then there is all the time I am giving Stacey...It's becoming such a beautiful conversation, we are surprising each other so much, almost everyday, no kidding, brings exciting stimulation. I think like you sometimes she thinks that maybe I could be less cock centered but I still like this instrument of expression, of my rays and semen. You well know I write some nice stuff as gifts that you have accepted graciously. Knowing you are not moved by the authority of references and citations, I drop it with you for the most part but sometimes I adress others who go crazy for this stuff. Do you think this has anything to do with you? No, it has to do with them. So, you know, let a thousand flowers and the weed bloom and choke in all their variety. You are so sensitive to noise, almost like you want to live in sensory depravation chamber when everything is just peachy to your liking. Well, welcome to the realistic world where lying shit mixes with inspired jewels and you know which ones I am talking about. I mean the ones that are arid and polished to become with a mirror that blurs easy to see contours, that fucks up straight lines and smudges things into a mix of clarity and obscurity. This is still noise like laughter and crying that comes out of a tree all of sudden as you walk down the path. It surprises without its context of references, without its memory to make any sense out of it. Why get all anxious about all that sort of noise, it means nothing, neither threat nor security. A --
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