     s$
     $$     .d""b. .d""b.                  HOE E'ZINE #1025
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     $$  $$ $$  $$ $$ss$$             "We'll Always Have Paris"
     $$  $$ $$  $$ $$                          by Rhea
     $$  $$ $$  $$ $$  $$                      2/11/00
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     $$  $$ "TssT" "TssT"

 And then there was me, standing on the same fucking planet as the man who
 decided this was a planet, and breathing the same air as the man (or 
 woman, maybe, but somehow I doubt it) who decided the correct procedure
 for rescue breathing.  Two slow breaths -- dirty with your life and with
 all your dirty cell's excretions and with every stale lingering odor of
 everyone you've ever kissed -- into the sealed mouth of your unconscious
 suffocating victim, and then another breath every five seconds.  Every
 five seconds.  Yes, there was me, I think.

        (and can't you just picture him, my love?  can't you just picture
         him sitting at his desk in a little room, dark with sunlight or a
         little candle light at best -- because Edison hadn't cursed the
         world yet with the blissful artificiality that we look at each
         other in - with his hands on his head and his pen in his hand
         trying desperately, oh so desperately, to prove with logic and
         science and with whatever little else he thought he knew that God
         exists!  Can't you just picture him?  Oh, it makes me so sad.
         Whenever I see the Cartesian plane now I think of the screwed up
         logic in his final attempt and it makes me so sad.  and then I
         laugh.)

 There is a strict definition for the words "comedy" and "tragedy," isn't
 there?  There must be - all logic and science and whatever else we think
 we know demands it -- but you know it all blurs together for me.  It's a
 fuzzy fuzzy world, this world, and I don't know what to see!  You see?

                        Long Live the King!
                        The King is Dead!
                        Long Live the King!

 Long live me, the king of my winter of discontent of my spring of love
 and laughter of my queen of my prince - love I love you love love you I -
 of my star, the one who always laughs at me, and

 I hate commas. I hate them all, and I hate dashes --------------------------
 ------------- and s  p  a  c     e        s and periods (god, I hate 
 periods) and letters and words (but not conjunctions) and god help us
 both if this is summer. 

 Did God help Descartes?  Or did the Evil Genius just laugh and laugh and
 laugh all day long?  Or did you forget to hold the nose when you breathed
 those rescue breaths?

 And did you remember to tilt the head back?

 And will you remember for me, my sweet?  A light bulb exploded on me
 once.  I was underneath its heat and glare and bam! pop! scream!  I was
 stung before I even knew what had happened with the hot hot light bulb
 shrapnel.  It left a mark on me - a red welt that I glanced at for days
 after every once in a while, still surprised at the comedy of it all.
 Or tragedy.  It burned, my sweet, it burned.

 Now I'm thinking plaster.  No, cement!  I'm thinking, "Man, Lover, and
 Father of Modern Philosophy" etched in the logic which killed him which
 kills me which kills you - what's more logical than a tombstone laughing
 down on you? -- unless you're a church-going person of course.

 God Save the Queen! 

 And then there was me, trying to find some meaning in this text but it
 was all a joke because like the Wise Men say, "Those who know how to
 laugh at themselves shall never cease to be amused" and hahahahahahahaha
 I tried to write about religion and hahahahahaha I tried to write about
 death and hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha I tried to write about love but I
 can't I can't damn you I can't I'm stuck instead in this run-on sentence.
 I'm laughing too hard; I'm living too hard; I'm loving you too hard
 because it makes me sad and it makes me laugh and after all, this is the
 great American romance!  Baby baby baby let's make babies.  Let's move
 into Inverness together.  Just you and me and our stained hands and when
 the forest starts creeping up we'll grab the fire extinguisher plainly
 sitting there beneath that light bulb and spray and spray and spray its
 foul chemicals all over those fucking trees.  Don't worry, we know just
 where the extinguisher is.  Yes, we know.  We could even fi! nd it in the
 dark!

 (fumbling around in the black is bad enough without this burning desire
 to be more than just some silly etching in your screen your screen your
 screen your screen)

   "I remember it perfectly.  The Germans wore gray.  You wore blue."

 Yes, yes, hahahaha, yes!  It all blurs together in me in you in love in
 we in you in me in hahahaha!  Yes!  It all blurs together in me.

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 [ (c) HOE E'ZINE -- http://www.hoe.nu       HOE #1025, BY RHEA - 02/11/00 ]
