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   ooooo   ooooo  .oooooo.  oooooooooooo       HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #751
   `888'   `888' d8P'  `Y8b `888'     `8
    888     888 888      888 888            "A Love Letter To GrlFrMars,
    888ooooo888 888      888 888oooo8                 Part Two"
    888     888 888      888 888    "                  by AIDS
    888     888 `88b    d88' 888       o               7/24/99
   o888o   o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8
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                                                              July 6th, 1999 

 Dear Miriam, 


        Where to start where to begin?  Maybe I should cop to something I
 did, and I hope you'll forgive me, because it was a lie, but not really that
 big of one.  Some of the people I said hated me, in my last letter, really
 don't.  Some of them in fact, are very good friends.  But you know, dramatic
 license, and what not, everybody must give something back for something they
 get.  So I lied a little, just for the sake of verbosity. 
	
	But I did not lie when I said it wasn't the corporal realm that
 interested me.  For sure, that's part of it, but that ain't all of it.  In
 fact that ain't even most of it.  I didn't lie when I said I could see you
 through the veil.  I can see the river from the trees, and the difference is
 nothing, but that doesn't mean a thing.  I don't know, maybe I come on a
 little too strong, but that's only because I have a direct universal
 imperative driving me.  It demands that I write to you.
	
        A lot of people, so they say, don't believe in God.  Particularly
 among the young.  If you notice, even in the rank and file of such a fine
 institution as HOE, there are quite a few iconoclastic jokes.  And Jesus is
 always the punchline.  You know the type: "Hey guess what I just fucked?"
 "What?"  "Jesus!  hahahaah!:"
	
	The sad thing of course, is that this iconoclasm only implies a
 genuine and real belief in the things you would skewer.  The parenthetical
 you, of course, my dear.  If a person believed Jesus to be without efficacy
 and meaning, it wouldn't be the punchline, and so and so forth, and some may
 claim it's got something to do with social parody, but we all know what a
 crock of shit that is.
	
	Even sadder, as we all realize, is that these people will,
 eventually, return to the fold.  As life turns cold and people start dying,
 as the haze of youth clears, people will come back to the faith, and perhaps
 an even greater blasphemy than their youthful indiscretion.  They will not
 worship out of a profound relationship with God, but rather out of fear and
 out of chore, and that isn't belief at all, but just another venal activity,
 like eating or shitting.  T'aint no different.
	
        With your sheets like metal.  and your belt like lace.  and your deck
 of cards missing the jack and the ace. 
	
        But I have a true belief in God, or so I hope.  I do not worship as a
 chore, but I worship as an instrument of faith, and I worship out of
 thanksgiving.  There isn't a lot to gives thanks for, and a lot of people
 don't have food on the tables, but they've got forks and they've got knives,
 and they've got to cut *something*. 
	
        Mainly, though, I thank God for his deliverance of you.  Warwick will
 never be the same, not now, not with this burning knowledge of your
 existence occupying.  You have been brought into the world, and in you I
 find the best evidence of a benign and forgiving creator.
	
	You are the penicillin of my infection, but it is my soul infected,
 not the body.
	
	With your childhood flames on your midnight rug, and your Spanish
 manners, and your mother's drugs, and your cowboy mouth, and your curfew
 plugs.
	
	Perhaps in my earlier letter I came off as a bit too contrived, as if
 I was somehow joking, and you believed that I did not exhibit the sincerity
 one would expect in such an undertaking.  If this is the case, then I humbly
 apologize, and ask that you forgive this contemptible wretch, who is humble
 before God.  If my manner did offend or confuse, I can only offer the
 explanation that I am an odd fellow.  I have tried to keep the affair more
 restrained in this epistle.  I do not want you to think me a frivolous sort,
 thought it might seem it.
	
	I wish only to impart the absolute severity and earnestness of these
 letters.  There is no fallacious material or messages being presented.  Only
 that which has been called Truth.
		
        It's not a bad way to make a living.  And I ain't complaining.  For I
 can blow my plum and drink my rum and go on home and have my fun. 
	
	It's something like the collective unconscious, which is a much
 maligned and ill understood theory.  I don't know how else to describe it,
 because it seems more like racial memory than anything else.  Here I am, a
 seemingly OK guy, and all of sudden I'm turned all retarded at this one
 sight.  Why?  Something in the distant past, distant distant.  Something
 other worldly.  But I've got to face the shadow and descend into the water. 
	
	In closing, dear Miriam, I hasten to add that you should contact me.
 I do not know how much longer I can go on like this, without affecting a
 profound change, and the sun is eclipsed every once in a while, and then
 it's the *moon* everybody has to worry about.  I've got an email address,
 you know, it's something like: jarett@tregar.com.  You might send something
 there, or you might not.  Think about it. 
	
        It's a wicked life, but what the hell, everybody's got to eat.  I am,

                                                               Yours Truly,

                                                               Jarett Kobek 

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 [ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS!      HOE #751 - WRITTEN BY: AIDS - 7/24/99 ]
