you don't know about this war. you have your bible with you and a lock of
your girlfriend's hair. you have a picture of your family. you have a
picture of the farmhouse. you carry these things around with you in a
leather wallet. they're almost unreal and you hope they won't be left here
when you die. smoke rises a hundred yards down the trench, part of the
wall has caved in. you can smell fire. you dream at night, anything but
this. you cry when no one's looking. you can't remember anything clearly,
that's the worst of it. occasionally a scrap of conversation, something
your father said. you remember the touch of your girlfriend and that last
kiss. there's not much of your world left, and there's nothing here. you
rise out of the trench, you rise. last night they were saying there's a
bullet meant for each of us. too many men are already dead. you can't see
skin without seeing the wounds, you know what's beneath the surface. you
swear at the lieutenant who sent you out here, but you know that's what
he's supposed to do. your canteen's already useless, the canvas torn, the
aluminum punctured. you borrow one from the soldier next to you. he won't
be needing it any more. sprays of dirt fly overhead as the shells come
closer. you can hear screaming mixed with everything else. how can you
prepare for the incision, the removal of the bullet, the attack comes but
once, you're left in the trenches, you're cold, you smoke a cigarette.
there's no energy in the letter from your girl, but it's all you have and
it's already worn through, what are you going to do. the earth's in front
of you, behind you - the trench opens, up and down the line, there are
many others like you, and the sound is indescribable. you can't think and
you hold on to the letter. you hear the sounds of bombs in the distance as
aircraft fly overhead. you know someone will bring heavy artillery in, and
there will be soldiers manning the guns just like yourself. you can't
remember much about home, and the landscape here has disappeared - just
blasted trees and raw earth. there's a stone farmhouse in the distance.
these are the worst days, when the sky is dark and damp, when the mist
falls, soaking everything. you smell lignite and mold. you don't think
you're ever coming home. susanne graham
===
i don't have the field, the space, to write, to rewrite, properly, to
contain the words, ascertain the exigencies of the concepts, internalize
them. this is writing on the margins of writing; this is writing on the
move, writing on walls, the scrawl, the scribble - there's no time for
anything else. this is the theory of the inscription, the cut, the
incision. this is my life's work under the signs of illness and poverty.
this is the begging for another month, another day, another hour. this is
the moment of the last rite, unfulfilled promise. this is everything from
the world already gone, it's gone ahead.
i can say i've seen it passing by at high speed. i've almost caught up
with it. there are times i sit, sometimes when i sleep, it's almost in my
grasp. but it continues, the ontologies are radically different; there's
no way the hand holds on, no way the eye sees, the ear hears. it's gone
before i'm awake, before i have a chance to move, before i have a chance
to stand, to write. it's gone before the next meal, gone before the
worries of staying alive.
there's not a day that i haven't felt ill for the past several months.
there's not a day i haven't had shaking, slight thought, chills, but a
reminder or remainder, always present, an uncontrollable shuddering. the
writing and the reading proceed in pain; recently, they're taken over by a
dull anger that things have to be this way. i'm waiting for the moment
when everything breaks - when i can catch it, hold it in my hands, place
it within the context of the book or essay, video or video-speech, the
gestural movement of the arms, the fingers dancing on the keys, evanescent
sounds. it's all the case, it's all the case of all of us, it distorts,
crumbles, without lack of further evidence, financial stability; my theory
is a theory of stress and poverty, the theory of rising painfully in the
morning, crashing sleepless at night, imbecility of it all.
at night i lie awake waiting to capture or entrap it, but as i've said
repeatedly, it continues to elude me, playing with my consciousness,
already exhausted, until it appears at the periphery of my vision or
whispering to me, just for a second, an instant, and then it's gone, and
there are the lyings-awake and walkabouts until it appears again, often
within the same night, stuttering as the frames of a film stutter, as if
there were continuity to my work, as if it could be held down into the
form, taking on the semblance of the form, corrupting and distorting just
on the verge of wakefulness into pain, the theory or essay or book, the
coherent thought, the gesture fully carried through, the boy and girl
with broken arms
===
quick kill someone
k3% saddam hussein
iksh: saddam: not found
k4% s a homicidal k4% dictator s ksh: is: k5% who is addicted
sondheim ttyr3 Oct sondheim 7 ttyr3 22:55 Oct (mailhost.nyf.org) 7
k6% to weapons of k6% mass-destruction to to: k7% the danger k7% already
danger significant is the: k8% k8% and and it it grows grows worse worse
with with time time and: k9% k9% confront confront him him before before
he he even even stronger stronger confront: you have mail in you k10%
learned we've that learned iraq that has iraq trained has el trained qaeda
el members qaeda k10% members we've > bomb making
can can decide decide on on any any given given day day provide >
biological provide weapon a group to terrorists
smoking gun
could come form come mushroom cloud.
the smoking gun
could come in form
of mushroom cloud.
***
both chambers are expected to give the authority
to the president to pull the trigger.
you have mail in you
===