Archive-name: my_struggle7

From: mithryl@walrus.com (Mithryl)

Subject: CODY: MY STRUGGLE Part 7 Final Passages

Newsgroups: rec.arts.prose,alt.sex.stories

Chapter 20

Friendly Microbes

Renelda Higgins, a spokeswoman for the city's Human Resources Administration, said officials with the Agency for Child Development were not "allowed" to answer questions about the city's plans, and Colleen M. Roche, a spokeswoman for the Mayor, said Cit y Hall officials would "not participate" in an article about child care and welfare reform. -- NY Times, 10/14/96, p.B2, "Welfare Mothers and Informal Day Care: Is It Up to Par?"

"...scientists who later studied [the gold fields of Serra Pelada in the Amazon jungle] concluded the rich lode was produced ... by swarms of microbes that over millions of years concentrated the gold from jungle soils and rivers and rocks." -- NY Time s, 10/15/96 "Bugs Shape Landscape, Make Gold"

Dear Cody,

"If you're not interested in making a difference, why are you writing?" -- Brian

Dear Brian,

Why does a snail spin a shell? Do you think Joyce or Thomas Mann were trying to change the world? Do you think Faulkner was? I doubt it.

Did you know that every year, each person shits his weight in microbes? Did you know that microbes, bacteria and other microscopic organisms, make up more than ninety percent of the life on earth, and that the cumulative biological mass of microbes over the last three and half billion years probably exceeds the weight of the planet as a whole? And you want to make a difference? Forget it. Just by being alive you are making a difference. You can't help it. Everytime you take a shit you make a differ ence. What you are talking about is making an explanation. An explanation of what you are doing with your shit. That's what humans do. They make up excuses for befouling the planet. For committing murder. For finding a cure for cancer. Suppose Meng ele had found a cure for cancer. Today, we would be making up excuses for not allowing people to use it because of the Holocaust.

Faulkner was a drunken old Southern racist who's shit came out in Ah, Wilderness. Or was it Hells A Poppin? Whatever. If you really want to know why I'm writing, it's because I want to be the first person to win a Nobel for literature for writing on t he internet.

(Something in your letter gave me the idea you were off shore. Like in another country. Maybe that accounts for you're not being aware of what's happening to welfare in this country.)

Dear Cody,

"Just read part four, and I'm stunned. This is a major improvement (bordering on a quantum level jump) over your previous writing.... Although I doubt that I have any right to be so, I'm very proud of you ...." -- Bill

Dear Bill,

You're right. You don't. What makes you think you have anything to do with my pain? With what happens in my life? The right to be proud of whatever brings me to the point where I throw up all over the page? Stop trying to take credit for who I am.

I'm sorry. You are the most intrusive person I know. Don't you have a life of your own? I'm not looking for your credit. If you like it, fine. If you don't like it, that's okay, too. I don't write for anyone. For me. For my "audience." I simply write. Period. Get out of my face with this bullshit.

That doesn't mean stop writing. Stop trying to communicate. Stop. It just means, stop trying to get into my psychological pants. I do like you. You're a really sweet guy. And I don't want to hurt your feelings. Oh yes, I forgot. You don't have an y. Something about long ago, you transcended all that crap. I forget the way you put it. I just mean, what I mean is, have the courage to have your own fucking feelings, and stop the intellectual bullshit.

You're probably thinking, I try to compliment this arrogant bitch, and she screams in my face. Fuck her. Well, you have a right. I know a lot of guys go to a lot of trouble to think up compliments, especially when they want to get close to a woman, bu t it's all bullshit. And why should I hold your bullshit? I mean, come on, for god's sake. Be real. I'm not a toilet. You can use the toughest scentener in the world, but it's still shit. So stop fertilizing me.

I mean, for your own sake. Not mine. Because, of course, when you do, it's just like fertilizer. I've gotten some good writing out of you. Things you said. I wonder if that's what makes roses grow. Reacting to shit. Like, just the other day, somet hing you said, I forget what it was, made me think that what Andy Warhol meant -- oh yeah, it was you said because I quoted you in an internet posting you would now be entitled to your fifteen minutes of fame -- and I thought, what Andy meant when he said we'd all be -- each of us -- be famous for fifteen minutes was there would be fifteen minutes when someone else would know exactly what we meant and where we were coming from. Someone would get it. And about all any of us was entitled to was fifteen m inutes -- tops.

Because that's what fame is, you know, when someone else knows what you are saying. When they absolutely get you. Like, direct hit. No survivors. Not even mangled body parts floating around in the ocean. Fame is when someone else knows you. Who you are. And the more people who know you, the more famous you are. That's why Dole and Clinton will never be famous. Because there's nothing there. No one's home. On the other hand, you take a man like Winston Churchill. Or Teddy Roosevelt. Whatever you think of them, they were there. Totally. They can be dead a hundred years, and people still know them. On the other hand, whatever happened to Millard Fillmore?

So I wouldn't have had that thought, maybe, if it hadn't been for you. If you hadn't been there. Work on it.

P.S. Nothing that I write is rhetorical.

"The human fetus, before birth, is both innocent and germ-free. Skin, mouth and gut are all sterile." -- NY Times, 10/15/96 "From Birth, Body Houses Microbe Zoo"

Dear Linda,

That's a start. I hope it's not the finish.

I enjoyed our conversation. Even though it had to be through an interpreter. I felt we understood one another intuitively. I'm not entirely sure about this medium. This is the first time I've tried this. Gone off net, so to speak. So bear with me.

On the internet, they know me as Cody Ann Michaels. My present address is mithryl@walrus.com. So if you want to reach me, you can get me there. Also, you have my number.

This is scary.

I wanted to be working on the final chapter of my novel tonight. But somehow, this seems to take precidence. Writing to you. 23.

Skidoo.

Do you know where the term, 23 Skidoo, comes from? When they built the Flatiron building on 23rd and Fifth Avenue, across the street from where Jenny Jerome grew up, the shape of the building made a change in the wind currents, and men used to stand on the corner so they could watch the wind blow up under women's skirts and show their legs. And the police used to tell them, "23 skidoo." Meaning, beat it. So you see, some things do make a difference.

I would say you are having the effect psychologically on a lot of people somewhat equivalent to ...

Normally I would erase that last sentence, but it's a good specimen of what I mean by bullshit.

I was starting to make it up, instead of letting it flow. What do I want to say to you?

I love you. You know that.

It would be hard not to love someone like you.

I want you to keep making your programs. I want you to be very, very careful. Watch your back, girl. The forces of darkness are all around. And it's Hallowe'en. All Saints Day. Followed by all souls. They don't need a Kalashnikov to take you out. It could be a car, say, a Ferrari, skidding on wet leaves.

Both of us do the same thing. We listen. And we speak. You do it on Channel 16. I do it on the net. But don't ever think you're a force for good -- or evil. That's just bullshit. You are a sweet bird on the wings of perception. It's like Krishnam urti said: the flight of the eagle leaves no mark. Well, he said something like that, you know what I mean. Be totally centered. The person you told me about, the one who came up and shook your hand, has already done heavy damage to people like us. So be cool.

I've already written about him some place else. Maybe some day, you'll read my book. I think I would trust you with it. I had a piece in New York Press a couple weeks ago. About Carla Lockwood. The mother who starved her daughter to death. What the y didn't make a big deal about was that three months before, the city cut off her welfare and medicaid benefits. She was literally feeding her children by begging from the neighbors. Maybe she would have starved her daughter, anyway, but the city didn't give her any incentive not to.

One of the things you made me think about was that I have been thinking about a letter I might write to one of the columnists in N.Y. Press. Mistress Ruby. There seems to be a rule at N.Y. Press that it cannot have more than two people on its staff at any one time who can actually write. And at present, Mistress Ruby is one of them. The other being Alexander Cockburn. (Significant name. I know. I know, it's pronounced "Coachburn." It's just a joke.) Mistress Ruby writes about domination. Something she wrote a couple weeks ago made me think about...

Whoops.

I just thought, I can't tell you this story. Because, it's not really mine. It belongs to someone else. So ... Shit.\

Did you know that in traditional cultures, people communicate by telling stories? Not giving statistics. Like, for instance, the Indians tell about coming up out of the earth. And anthropologists insist they came across the Bering Strait. And the Ind ians say, bullshit. Which is what B.S. stands for. Bering Straight, my ass. We came from Poughkeepsie. Did not. Did too. And so it goes.

There's another woman who's really right on. Big Linda. That's what I call her. A friend of mine's mother. Her trademark sign off was "And so it goes." Vanessa, her daughter, ran away from home when she was fourteen. Rode boxcars through Montana. Belly danced in New Orleans. She played guitar in night clubs in Istanbul and steamrolled her way through the East Village. I thought she was Janis Joplin's ghost. She was like a volcano of poetry and motion and she played Bach on her guitar in my kitchen at six in the morning, and I miss her.

So it goes.

Eventually, I guess, they always find you. You know, a friend of mine, blew your cover. Sort of. He's a performer, too. He said, the safest place to be is on a stage. Yeah. Just ask Lincoln. I can see you hiding out. It's like an illusion, isn't it? Like a security camera?

Did you ever think of this? For fifteen hundred years, give or take the reformation, the Catholic Church, a bunch of old men in Rome, managed to keep half the known world indoctrinated with just a sloppy network of larcenous priests? Everyone believed the same thing. No one deviated. Or he died. And every Sunday, everyone went to church.

Now, today, with the most sophisticated high tech security the world has ever known, nobody believes anything. And the government is scared shitless. I mean, every time you turn around, someone is adding on another system of cameras and microphones. A nother pack of sniffing animals. Did you know, they are training gerbils to sniff out airports for bombs, drugs, and underarm bad smells that might cause the sensitive instruments on the plane to order a self-destruct? Didn't Bradbury or someone write a story like that? The reason things go bad, like TWX-800, is because the machines revolt. Their instruments simply get tired of living, and... ping! Can't you just see the bald guy from the National Safety Board telling that to the press? TWA 800 comm itted suicide. They'd have a field day. Like, what's going to go next? The presses? My car? This platform I'm standing on. Omigod, it's an elevator. How'd I get here? Please. Just let me down. I'll never do it again. I promise. I'll never both er you as long as I live. Goodbye.

That's the trouble, Linda. I get an idea. My mind opens. And this is what comes out.

It's like there's a door in the left side of my head. It just opens. Up. Like...

I love you.

Maybe if I just focus on that, I can get my head back together. I love you. You're beautiful face. You're incredible breasts. You're gorgeous tummy. I just realized, I've been saying "you're," which means, "you are." But it's true. You are your go rgeous naked tummy. You are your wonderful red hair. You are your ecquisite face. You are... me. I feel I'm looking into another mirror. I feel that I am absolutely you. And I know the truth. I'm not.

And I never will be. Will I? That's what hurts. That I will never be you. Strange. We are so much alike. The only difference is in our age. You are forty. And I am twelve. But other than that, we are just the same. I don't mean that I am you wh en you were twelve. I mean, I am who I am, and you are ... Linda.

Boy, you sure hold it together. I just hope I look like that when I'm twenty.

What am I thinking about?

Why did I start this letter?

Now. Oh yeah, I'm supposed to be working on my book. The last chapter. I just want to get it done and get out of here. In the book, Cody gets caught. The last chapter is a confession. It starts out with Cody saying, "My name is Constance Myers and I wish to state totally and unequivocally that everything I wrote in the previous chapter is a total and dispicable lie. I also wish to confess that I am the dirty little left wing hippy punk whore slut known as Comrade Cody or Cody Ann Michaels, and tha t I have conspired against the fatherland. Fatherlands. I have descrated the fatherlands. All of them. For which I am truly sorry and recontrite, and which I solemnly admit I am not worthy to mention by name. Also I acknowledge that I am deserving of
the most stringent punishment, even death, my captors can give to me."

You see, she's been captured. Tracked down. Especially after what she wrote about School of the Americas. That was really pushing the envelope. The Somozas may be dead, but there are plenty around to take their place. There's a gun against the side of her head, telling her what to write.

Cody was expecting maybe the F.B.I. She wasn't prepared for what happened.

You know, you said you haven't worked. You hadn't done anything new. I want you to keep working. Keep going. I want you to wake up in the morning figuring how to do that. And keep thinking about your art all the time. Right until you go to bed. Ea t, breathe and shit your art. And dream about it in the night. You know, I want to tell you something, Al Hirschfield once said that no line drawings have ever been made that are better than the ones of the animals in the caves of southern France. That made me think that art is something more than making something to sell or use for decoration. And it is pretty close to what was behind these pictures. Which was not to decorate or sell, but to be.

I know you know that.

That studio you were in the other night, where they make your program. That was like a cave. And you were like the horned man who dances with the animals. The master of the beasts. Or was he their slave?

What was I saying?

"Those who I have soiled in my depraved rantings against the supreme command. I am a low down scumbag commie sex freak. I admit to this, and also a betrayal of the high ideals of our great patriarchal tradition. I wish only now to be rehabilitated, for
which I sincerely and ernestly apply to the judges of this tribunal. And beg for their mercy and compassion. I hereby renounce any ties to the criminal uprising and promise my captors to cooperate fully in tracking down my fellow conspirators, uncondit ionally, even if should be determined that I am totally without any redeeming condition and should be exterminated. I also renounce my voices which are the voices of unreason and the devil..."

This, by the way, was supposed to be in garbled English, because they had broken her fingers, and maybe even nailed one hand to the table. Then they would make her sign it.

Constance Myers, aka Commander Cody

This was to be Cody's last communique, although I was toying with having her coming back; that it was maybe her house sitter.

She was to die of kidney failure, having eaten both during the questioning -- they had been dug out of her back with a grapefruit spoon. When you walked in.

I don't mean to alarm you. This is just the way I write.

You'd make a terrific dominatrix, by the way. What do you charge? You said a hundred and ninety an hour. For counseling? Right. Maybe we can work something out.

I bet you'd look great in a uniform. Forty? Somewhere there is a picture. Black leather. Sitting at a table. Outdoors. A cafe. Leotard. Black stockings. High heeled boots. Your hair just as you wear it. Those eyes. What would be the arithmetic? My father's collection. In the attic. With the books. So long ago.

But not a dungeon. Or the Vault. Or all that other crappy stuff. Something like...

I blew my chapter. I can never go back. And do it again. For one thing, I've disturbed the course of the stream. Altered time. You can't just splice in a different segment, like it was DNA. You'd get an entirely different species. I was just sitti ng down to write when you called. It changed everything. Shit.

In the story, the lieutenant orders his men to take Cody out into the yard and shoot her. Which they do. While he is sending Cody's or Constance's last communique. Along with his own personal message describing how she died. Begging for her miserable life.

It gives him great satisfaction. He positively gloats. The description is totally unreal. In between, he admonishes his men to stop fucking Cody's corpse. It's very funny. It makes him really look sick. And it pokes fun at those who fight for the supreme commands everywhere.

But, I blew it. Something made me write to you instead. Now the story is going off down its own separate pathway, leaving me behind. It's almost like I wanted to be tortured. And still do. Like I'm disappointed. Hey, wait a minute. That's my pain you're taking away. My real identity.

Except, I'm not Connie Myers.

You should see this apartment!

Those fucking assholes really trashed it. They smashed my brand new laptop. Shit! That fucker cost me three thousand dollars! I just got it. And nailed my cat to the bathroom door. Sick mother fuckers. Who would do that to an animal?> Connie does n't look too hot either. I knew something was wrong when I saw that message. It wasn't even in the right newsgroup. Good thing Bruce grows bonzai trees. The guy I spent the weekend with. Upstate. In the Hamptons. Connie doesn't even have red hair. She's a dirty stringy blonde. And she weighs 180 pounds. Although, it's nicely distributed. Mostly in her tits. I told her she could use the place to hide out from her old man. And this is what I get. I come home and the place is a mess. Assholes. I think they're on to me. The next time I might not be so lucky. I've got to get a look-alike.

The newest thing in security.

Someone who looks like you.

The target.

That they shoot at instead of you.

While you hide in a corner

and suck your thumb.

The person who lives your life.

How secure can you get?

Who takes your blows.

Your school of hard knocks.

Come to the School of the Americas and find out what real living is all about. Said the brochure.

I know this is not the love letter you were expecting. But it will never get any better than this. I promise you. There will be no improvement and no falling off. There will only be this.

Connie, wake up. Come on. What happened? Wake up, you shit.

She had a Kate Moss look. I know, Kate Moss does not weigh 180 pounds, but that's the way she looked. The expression in her eyes. And the way her lips were sort of hanging wettly open. Like an open cunt. Just waiting.

She toyed with the bottle. Then set it down.

After awhile, you don't notice the break. The wound just sort of closes over. And you're alone, again. Oh, the other reason I write is because it's a launching ramp into the unknown. I never have the slightest idea what I'm going to discover. It's l ike total orgasm. Over and over again. And then... She picked the bottle up again, and looked at it. Then she put it down.

Or suicide.

You plug your brain.

Same effect.

An opening in the left wall of your brain.

She picked it up.

Tell me about it.

Juan came before his people on the 17th of Peron. They named it after him. Linda, are you listening? Good. Now that I have got your attention, I am going to tell you something. Weave. Dodgge. get oput of towjhaetg ae

i wanted to convince mysel;f it was a dream. i almost imagined I could do it but then she came and Ihad to go it ditn't heoppen broken teeth through borken teeth she typed she oithered her why haven't you done anything is it because of the acident, sweet bird of youth? anyone who has ever seen it knows it by heart answer me do it Nike owns that. So you can't say "do it" anymore. It has to be licenced. It all does. Am I getting through to you. He had been trained by a master to tell the tale so that everyone would understand you. Got that? Morty understood what the girl had said. And he translated it to Cody. So that she could understand that it had been an accident and it wasn't his fault he had his dick up inside her So she crossed him and this was the payback Dance with the devil, sugar. It was lucky for you she was out of town. Yeah. Otherwise it could have been worse. What what you did of course Anyone can program her. Programming Linda was a joy ride in Hell It couldn't be done buyt they did it. Coney Island of the Mind twist her. you really don't mean that. From then on, they would communicate only by screen. He saw her through a window of his defeat. Soon she would be vibrant standing here in the apartment as if she was there. Print it out. What if their computers broke down? You know, like had a nervous breakdown. They walled her off. In space. They just stopped broadcasting. They had a remote. Sometimes, if you turned it up, you could hear the screams. But other times there was just the squishing of raw sex. She was fifty-three. Lebed was fired. It was his department. They just left them there. The Americans had to come and get them down. Like, who would be last? Who would stay when the others had left? Which one was still up there? Like a seed in an egg. Waiting. For the big one.

Lost in space. We bred a race of monsters. They're still up there. Although from time to time one falls to earth. On batwings like a space umbrella. Solar powered. Down here, they can't get enough sunlight. And they have to stay. Grounded. We pick them off.

Let's get out of here. This place frightens me.

Linda. You still there? Keep coming. We're almost there. What are those things? I think they're us.

Oh, spare me the sunday supplement astrology. I want some real answers. Like, why are we here? What are we supposed to be doing? Who are we? Yes. I know they're us, but that doesn't answer anything, does it? I mean, like who am I? Baldrick and Ad der. Attorneys at law. In Washington, D.C. Black Adder takes the Fifth. Doesn't mean anything in Europe, but over here, it means a lot.

The number five means a lot of things to a lot of people. 2 plus 3. Equals 4 plus one. So there, you see, five means a lot. (Pen means five. Did you know? As in pentagram or Pendragon. C.S. Lewis said that Pendragon is really a title, and that the re is an unbroken line of Pendragons that extends from far beyond Arthur. Back to the Neolithic. There is one, in fact, today, living....) If 42 is the secret of the universe, what is 5? Forty two minus thirty seven? No. Actually dear, you're a tad off. It means this. He hit her. Five fingers doubled up in a fist makes a pretty good punch. Solid. Wham! Tyson in the fifth. Don't waste your time. He'll finish her in the first. And have four to spare. The fans went wild.

Brutal, said the Daily News.

A bash raved Bother in the Post.

Glib said the Trib.

A knockout said the ump.

The bullets redeemed Tupac from humanity. She was there. She lov3ed watching men slug it out in her living room. Over a cheap tramp like Cody. Got to get out. She stepped out of the limo into the bright lights. Her panties were showing.

I was there. Men have been taking me out since I was fifteen. Maybe more. I mean, what do I know? I'm just a stupid blonde. Oh, Connie. You had such a poor opinion of yourself. I mean, endless victimhood. Why did you only start when you were thir ty-four? What happened before that?

I just realized, I don't have anyway to end this. I guess that's where it starts.

Dear Cody

"Great hearing from you again! So, I never did get your answer to this question: clamp with chain attached to one (or, heck, both) of your nipples. Now, the chain is pulled. How far can you go?" -- Karna

Dear Karna

The buddha nature of a dog is ...

a. dust in the wind
b. my grandmother's wet hairy cunt
c. the sound of a flushing toilet
d. you keep coming back for more employees will please wash their hands employees must wash their hands where? it doesn't say where. In the sink. In the toilet?

Where? Where are they going to wash their hands? The buddha nature of a dog is personal hygenie. You'd be appalled at the conditions. When I came out of there, I wanted to puke. Did you read it"? Then why send it? Someone will. Would you like to have it published? I can have it done for you. On the internet. Listen, give it to me, and I'll take care of it. He threw it in the next trashcan. I lost it. Fuck you. I worked hard on that. There was only one copy. She sent it back. We can't us e it. Rejection. It was eating me out. I mean, why couldn't I stand up for myself? They're just waiting for you to do it. Not me. I won't be the first one out of the foxhole. Wham. They blew He was standing there, looking down at where his men h ad been. My uncle Louie. Lost his whole command. Shell landed right in the foxhole after he had jumped out of it to lead the charge. He had seen action, but never like this. 13 year old school teacher ravaged by adults. Was that it? Did I get it ri ght? Was the azimuth of the trajectory right on target? WHAMO! He never talked about it.

So where is this thing going? Mother England? The old Globe. The lIon's head tavern. Next to the Stonewall. He turned on the other side of the street just as the firebomb exploded. His wife was still in here. And so were the kids. The firemen hel d him back. He wanted so to save them, but as usual, bureaucracy intervened, and only the firemen were licensed to save people. They wrote him a ticket while his wife shrieked and threw their children out of the fifth floor window. They each landed hea d down on the concrete. Only the youngest was spared, and she had brain damage. She would have to learn to walk all over again. It might take weeks. In the meantime, she strode down the runway, shaking that thing. 190? Not bad. A perfect ten. 1 an d 9 makes ten. Zero doesn't count. So you're the one. A double five. Are you getting this?

It's all in pursuit of a common wager. What's good for you. What's right for me. Each hand washes the other. I hold your coat. You take my hand. We cross the puddle together. It's like going to America. As opposed to actually getting there. Plea se don't ask me about this. I really don't understand it. I'm simply moving it on down the line. Tomorrow, it will be something different. If you want me, look for me under your bootsoles. I stop someplace. Waiting for you.

Cody

Dear Linda,

I don't know if you want to read this. Maybe you think I'm some kind of weirdo sick freak for writing stuff like this. It's just I need to tell someone, and you seem to understand. Maybe you've been there, too. Anyway, if you don't like it, just thro w it away. I won't bother you anymore. I promise.

Love,

Cody

P.S. You were beautiful, Sunday night, but my cable was screwed up, so I couldn't hear the sound. I love you. Ciao. Keep dreaming, Magic Window.

Chapter 21

Dualities

...the Clinton policy of emphasizing commercial diplomacy, often playing down human rights, especially in Asian countries with fast growing economies, has been appreciated in Indonesia and Little Rock. "At the beginning we had some problems," said Arif in M. Siregar, the Indonesian Ambassador, referring to the Administration's early criticism of Indonesia on human rights. But, he added in an interview last year, "the relationships now are much better." -- NY Times, 10/17/96, p.7 "Clinton and Arkansas Have Long Ties to Indonesian Family."

[Mark Grobmyer, a Clinton golfing friend] said in a 1995 interview that his Indonesian activities included helping strengthen the "sister-state relationship" between Arkansas and Indonesia... --ibid.

"I'm going to get out of your way here." -- Bob Dole, when Clinton crowded him off his own lectern at the second debate.

Here is a story:

One day, Caliban was asking Ariel what it was like to fly. Ariel said it was great. "You should try it." Caliban said he couldn't. Ariel said that was because he didn't try. "Come on. I'll show you." He floated up effortlessly and sat on a tree li mb. "See, it's easy." Caliban tried but he couldn't get off the ground. He just kept hopping around like an ape and falling on his behind. Ariel still encouraged him, doing loop de loops and power glides which Caliban could only envy in his dark heart . The problem was, he said, he was not light and beautiful as a ray of sunlight like Ariel. Ariel told him to stop being negative. But still, Caliban could not fly. Finally, Ariel got an idea. He took Caliban to the highest mountain on the island -- they lived on an island, you remember. To a cliff. It was five thousand feet straight down. (Five plus zero plus zero plus zero is five.) Walking out into space, he turned around and told Caliban to do exactly the same thing. Caliban said he didn't k now. "Just do it," Ariel said, using a phrase that he had licensed from Nike. Caliban swallowed hard, and walked off the edge of the cliff. With a hideous shriek, he flew straight down and smashed his head to pieces on a rock.

Moral: Some people will commit suicide rather than give up their old routines.

Here is another story:

Two Indians were out hunting. Far across the prairie, they saw what looked like a thunder cloud rapidly coming their way. As it got closer, they saw that it was a white buffalo, and when it got almost there, it turned into a gorgeous woman. The White Buffalo Cow Woman walked up to the two Indians. One, when he saw how stunningly beautiful she was, had thoughts that are generally frowned upon in churches everywhere, i.e. natural. The woman knew what he was thinking and she invited him to do whatever he wanted. The Indian took her and the two of them were suddenly engulfed in a cloud of smoke. When the smoke cleared, the White Buffalo Cow woman was still there, but the Indian was a pile of bones. The other Indian, who had only good thoughts, was th e person to whom White Buffalo Cow Woman taught the Sundance and the other Sacred Rites of the Oglala Sioux.

Black Elk told that story in a book by that name. What he neglected to mention was that the dead Indian was smiling. Like, Wow!

What a ride.

What the good Indians got was how to punch holes in their chests and hang on ropes and rip out their pectoral muscles in the sweat lodge. Which is okay. It's a ride. Sort of. But no one really knows what White Buffalo Cow Woman gave to the bad Indian . Maybe it was the clap. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she was a complete cow in bed. On the other hand, a woman who could change shapes like that probably knew some pretty amazing moves. Like, time is relative. You never know when you're kissing eternity.

"Just what are you trying to say in this book? Is it a cry for help, or just a long rant against the foolishness of life?" Lizabeth asked. Actually, that's a quote from one of Brian's letters. But it's the sort of thing Lizabeth, my shrink, is always asking. Like, why am I writing this? What do I want to happen? Like, without action of some kind, all it is is a scream in the night. Right?

A friend of mine today who's studying to be an anthro said that it's believed a tribe of people who lived ten thousand years ago in the middle east, I forget their name, oh yeah, the Netuzi, created art because they were under stress. If that's true, th at art is the result of stress, I know a lot of people who should be Rembrandt.

I'm scattered tonight. Not sure what I'm doing. The apartment is freezing. Fucking landlord won't give heat. I just lit the oven. I read today that there's only what, fourteen days to the election. I was surprised. Is Dole still running? I heard the tv stations don't even talk about him in California anymore. If you think that's bad, there's even fewer days until the wedding. Kelly and I are going to be married in All Soul's Cathedral in Marietta, Ga. on November 2. The day of the dead. When the graves open and the dead come back to life. You're all invited. Even Dole. I wish he'd come. Maybe it would cheer him up. If a pretty girl is like a melody, two pretty girls getting married ought to be real down home harmony. Even if one of them is a corpse. Dole ought to feel right at home. Especially with the KKK honor guard on the front steps.

The fact is, time is running out for Dole. Just as for Dole, the one in my book, who is running for president in his pajamas. As if it were all a bad dream. Blue silk pajamas with navy piping around the cuffs. And floppy bunny bedroom slippers.

And I realize that I haven't said enough. I've said enough about Dole, the one on tv, who Clinton chased around the stage during the last debate. I felt sorry for him. I think, of the two, Dole is much more real. He's despicable -- in 1994, he killed an amendment that would have banned the use of U.S. arms in East Timor, where the occupying Suharto government of Arkansas's "sister state", you know the one that has such a good relationship with Clinton, has genocidically murdered a third of the native population, often using U.S. trained personnel -- but he's a real human being. Clinton is a bot. I wouldn't vote for either of them.

But the other Dole, the one in my book, we're not finished.

Actually, it's Kansas, that I'm still incomplete on. And for me, Dole is Kansas. And Kansas is Dole. Even if he does live in Miami.

When I started this book, I didn't know anything about Kansas, beyond the fact that Dorothy grew up there, and had her visions. And also, that Dole did, too. And, of course, I'd seen the picture. Hundreds of times. They used to show it in geography c lass at school. Also, multicultural studies. They showed the Wizard of Oz practically every month in M.S. class. It was supposed to show you what it was like to encounter a culture and society radically different from your own.

But since then, I've become almost an expert on Kansasian studies. I'm even thinking of writing my Ph.D. in it. What set it off, of course, was watching The West. I watched The West during the two weeks I was writing The Dead. Toward the end, I began to wonder if there was a connection. After all, in western folklore, the west is the land of the dead. Anyway, there was a lot in The West on Kansas.

I didn't know there was so much about Kansas. Like, Kansas was like the doorway to the west. I think we studied some of that in the eighth grade, but that was when Kelly and I were first getting to know each other, so I may have been slightly unconscious.

Bloody Kansas. They called it. This was long before Dorothy. Before the Civil War, in fact. It was like a little preview of the Civil War, in fact, with pro-slave and abolitionists fighting it out over free soil in Livermore. People actually went we st to Kansas to kill other people. Just to start a fight. Make trouble. Or they came from there. John Brown started out in Kansas before coming east. Kansas had a rich tradition of bloodshed and murder long before Bob Dole's grandfather got there in the 1880s. This was about the time Dorothy was a kid on her uncle's farm. They showed pictures. Of the houses. People were really flooding into Kansas now. From both the south and the north. Ex-slaves heard that they were giving away land and 500 do llars to farm it. New towns sprang up overnight. Of course, the land belonged to the Indians, and the Indians were being murdered right and left, or herded into concentration camps. Why do they always call them "reservations"? Like that's supposed to make them nicer. Some of these places were as bad as Auschwitz. Okay. Dachau. Anyway, they were death camps. Worthless barren land, until the white men found oil under it, and then, 'oh, let us try to get you something nicer'. Let me tell you, none of those houses would fly.

People did not live in wooden houses on the plains of Kansas. Because there was no wood. You see, that's what a plane is. It has no trees. Wood has to be trucked in. They lived in sod huts, dug into the ground or the side of a hill, and walled up wi th sod. They were called sodbusters. Because the roots of the prairie grass went down feet, sometimes yards, into the earth, and held it steady. The sodbusters killed the grass, burnt it off, dug up the roots, and created the worst dust bowl in history . But that was years off. Generations. In Dorothy's time, they were still living in holes in the ground. Not wooden houses like the one in the movie. Those sod houses were not aerodynamically sound. I doubt one of them would get off the ground. I wouldn't want to fly one to Europe. But Dorothy went all the way to Oz.

How can we account for this?

The only thing I can think of is special effects. I mean, isn't that always the answer? It was done with computers. Mirrors. Smoke. A good old American twister wasn't enough. There had to be a lot of blood. Like when she hit the mirror. Today, th ey would not hire Munchkins. They would program them. The Munchkins, by the way, were originally the Munich Boys Choir, but Louie Mayer was mad at Hitler for some reason or other so he had it changed.

For some time now, I have been working my way through The New York Times' Sunday Book Review section's 100th anniversary edition, which reprints reviews from the beginning, starting with Dostoyevsky's Brothers Karamazov, (Dostoyevsky had been dead for mo re than 30 years in 1912, when this review appeared, which is typical of the way the Times gets around to things) up to the present. It's sort of interesting. Like, for instance, I didn't realize Rachel Carson's Silent Spring came out in 1962. That's two life times ago, and it's tens of times worse. Like, haven't we learned? What is the matter?

It's also been since 1966 Truman Capote wrote In Cold Blood. The murders took place in 1959, when Bob Dole was still Attorney General of Kansas. (=24=6)

I want to read this to you -- from Conrad Knickerbocker's review of In Cold Blood. The first paragraph:

"The plains of western Kansas are even lonelier than the sea. Men, farmhouses and windmills, becoming specks against the vast sky. At night, the wind seems to come from hundreds of miles distant. Diesel-engine horns echo immensity. During the day, o ne drives flat out through shimmering mirages. Highways all roll straight to the point of infinity on a far horizon. Tires click; tumbleweed rustles; Coca-Cola signs endlessly creak."

Nice writing. Reminds me of On the Road.

Knickerbocker goes on to list a number of other incidents (besides the murder of the Clutter family) which he said were typical of life in the mid-west in those days. They included: Charlie Starkweather, accompanied by his teen-age lover, killed 10 peo ple. George Ronald York and James Douglas Latham murdered seven. Lowell Lee Andres, the mild, fat student with dreams of becoming a Chicago hitman, killed his father, mother, and older sister with 21 bullets. 2 and 1 equals 3. Three people died. 7 bu llets for each one. Assuming each was killed with an equal number of bullets. (It may actually have been some kind of mathmatical progression.) 7 and 3 equal ten which equals 1. Very significant. (7 minus 3 equals 4, which is a different story.) Dua ne Pope, a clean-cut young football player, shot four people, 3 fatally, who were lying face down on the floor of a Nebraska bank. Why were they doing that? A bank is no place to take a lie down. This review appeared January 16, 1966. In April, Richar d Speck would kill 7 nurses in Chicago, and in July, Charlie Whitman would get up on the University of Texas tower in Austin and shoot another significant number. So why does everyone act like this stuff is new?

Hey, come on assholes! My generation did not invent murder and violence. My generation is a wimpy amateur compared to Bob Dole and his forebears. Four bears? Yeah. Like get off my back!

Do you wonder why the young don't vote? Because we have spent our lives being dumped on by politicians. Like Dole and Clinton. Everytime a sleazebag politician wants to get off a cheap shot, he thinks up something to do to kids.

First, they took away our right to drink before we're 21. Then they started with the cigarettes. Now, Clinton wants to make kids take a drug test before they can get a drivers license. Give me a break. So what. You just stay clean for a month. What a fucking asshole. I liked the girl on TV the other day who said kids aren't going to listen to adults, "especially someone like Bill Clinton." Of course, she probably didn't even know who Dole was.

All they're trying to do is criminalize kids. Just like the teachers. You would think teachers would get it into their stupid heads that their future pay raises depend to a large extent on the good will of the people they're fucking over now. I.e. kid s. Kids get out of school, and all they want is revenge. Just wait for the next election to increase the school budget, honey.

Or, like in the Daily News there was story about a 15 year old kid who was sentenced to 180 hours "community service" besides 12 months probation just because he got caught with some weed. Does that suck? It was part of an op-ed article by a judge frot hing at the mouth over how great it is to punish people by making them do "community service" (10/21/96, p33). Johnny's minister told the judge she would "structure" a c.s. project of 180 hours doing church clean up and light repair, so basically, what s he was getting was a slave free. I thought, how stupid can they get? If the kid learns anything, it will be that c.s. is punishment, and he will most likely never volunteer for anything for the rest of his life. It might explain why almost no one else does either. Like who wants to be associated with criminals? Kids figure the only people who do c.s. must be cons working off their sentences, or maybe the Junior League. And, oh yeah, people on Welfare. Like, would Michael Millken be helping out at the church social if it wasn't keeping him out of jail? Me? I don't think so. I mean, like, I didn't do anything. So why should I do anything? You think passive resistance doesn't work? Wait til election day, and see how many people vote 'fuck you' b y not voting at all.

Shit. What am I babbling about? Kansas. The Clutters. Dole. Perry Smith and Richard Hickock. "Social dropouts filled with nausea, disillusion romantics, they were the perfect loners."

I wonder if Dole met them. And whether he met them before or after they killed the Clutters. Did he know the Clutters, themselves? Did they know one another? Capote wandered around west Kansas for five years soaking everything up. By then, Dole was in the House. Where he voted against medicare. He interviewed the living and communed with the dead. Knickerbocker called him "the discoverer of death." He used no mechanical aids, such as a tape recorder or shorthand. He memorized the event and its dialogue. And wrote it as a novel. I'm talking about Truman.

In other words, he told the story. He didn't write it.

When Dorothy says, "this doesn't look like Kansas," she is only speaking what we all know. Nothing looks like Kansas. Perhaps fortunately so. We would go mad. Like Charlie. Or Duane. Or those boys down in Arkansas who killed the other three boys in a Satanic ritual. Funny, how they have almost the same name. Kansas and Arkansas. George. James. Dino. Charlie and Bob. Dick and Ernie. Bonnie and Clyde. Another great couple. Right out of homespun America. The James brothers. The Daltons. The Wells Fargo stage.

All that central American honesty and good feeling.

The Earps. Marshall Dillon. Miss Kitty. Dodge. The place where America was the way Bob Dole wants it to be.

Sure, guy. My kind of town.

Stress. You talk about stress. With history like that, Kansas ought to be the art capital of the world. Willa Cather wrote a story about an artist who is brought back to Kansas to be buried. And what it was like in 1890, waiting for the train with hi s corpse to arrive. No one in town understood him. He had grown up there, a crazy kid who went off to New York, and became the world's most famous sculptor, I think it was. But he died, maybe from consumption. And now one of his students was bringing him home. Only one man in the crowd understands that there's a world beyond Kansas, and he's a drunken lawyer. (I would look it up, but frankly, it depresses me.)

I was surprised when I saw the photographs of the 70,000-year-old "art" they found in Australia. Rows and rows of round cookie indentations in the sandstone -- the sides of rock outcrops that look like the monoliths at Stonehenge. For one thing, it was so organized. The cookies were arranged in rows instead of just being haphazard. Maybe it was a mathematical problem. And, like I said, the rock outcrops weren't like mountains or anything. They were just freestanding in the middle of the jungle like dolmens. Like, how did these marks last all that time? How did the rocks themselves. Well, like, why shouldn't they? It just seems strange. That was three light years ago. In other words, the earth and the solar system have come more than three and a half light years since those marks were made for whatever reason. That's a lot of miles.

I'm under a lot of stress. I make marks on a paper. Or on a keyboard. On a screen. And then I shoot them out over the internet. Or print them out and mail them. And I feel better. Momentarily. And then the tension starts to build again. And befo re I know it, I'm Charlie Starkweather's girl friend, LuAnn, and we're going down the road...

Making art.

You see, what we do not understand about the Kansasians is that art, to them, involves large amounts of violence. Disruption and dislocation. Like the time the Confederate calvary charged into Livermore and shot every man to death in sight, some in the arms of their womenfolk. They also burned the town down. So it goes.

There's so much more about Kansas that I never knew about. It might as well be Australia. They're finding more and more things about Australia. First it was the art. Then it was Murdoch. Now it's old trees. They found a tree in Australia that's 40, 000 years old. And they found out Murdoch doesn't pay taxes.

Let's see if I have this right. Murdoch became an American citizen so he could buy Newt Gingrich and Channel 5. And the New York Post. And George Pataki. And ever so much else. But he is still an Australian. So he can still own newspapers and telev ision stations in Australia. But foreigners are not allowed to make political contributions here. However, Murdoch's News Corp., which is an Australian corporation, gave the Republican party more than 351,000 dollars (Daily News, 10/21/96, p.33) because an American subsidiary of a foreign company can make political contributions -- if the subsidiary makes a profit, and News Corp has consistently reported that even though it made 8.5 billion dollars last year in America, it didn't make a profit. So, eit her News Corp made a profit and can legally donate 351,000 dollars to the Republicans or News Corp did not make a profit and any contribution it made was highly illegal. Did I get that right?

I hope so. Numerology is very confusing. We do not know the exact age of either the artwork on the rocks or the plant. I mean, 70,000 is 7 and 40,000 is 4. But what does that mean? Those are just round numbers. Seven and four is 11, which is 2, but suppose the plant is actually 40,001 years old. Or say it's only 39,992. It throws off all the other figures. We do know Murdoch is in his sixties. But I forget which. Which number. So that's no help, either. 62 or 63. It could mean different things.

Murdoch is also in trouble for numerology in Israel, being what his newspapers would call "an accused tax cheat." (That's a way to legally libel someone. Call him an accused this or that. Like, Clinton is an accused sexual criminal. Well, Paula said he is.) Something about making payments to people in Europe to avoid the high income taxes in Israel. (Ibid. p.4)) Big mistake to stiff the Israelies, Rupert. The ZOG does not tolerate holdouts. You could end up doing eternity as Leona Helmsley's prison slave.

Dole is 73. Which is 10. Which is one. So he's the one. Clinton is 50. So there you have it. 5 and 1. Makes six. Tonight is a dark night.

The numbers add up, but nothing makes sense. We are in this together. I'm simply groping for words. Something to hold onto in the dark. Is there anything left?

Who are they trying to kid? They're all whores. Dole has his hand out for the big numbers just like Clinton. It's funny they don't grope each other. Clinton almost did the other night. Going for old Dole's testicles.

And everyone was waiting for Dole to be mean.

Dole being mean to Clinton is like a penny ante crook kissing a rattlesnake. Just wait. You think Caligula was bad? We are in for a wild rolly coaster ride of the soul during the next four years. Nothing will be sacred.

"But what does this mean to you?" she asked.

"I don't know." Liz can be so persistent.

I've told you about her before, haven't I? Gorgeous brunette. In her mid thirties. She's my shrink. She asks a lot of the same questions that Brian did. Like, what is this all about? I don't know.

That's what I come to you for.

Tell me.

Make me understand.

Forget it.

You have to do it yourself. What am I talking about? Bill tells me all the time what it's about. And my eyes glaze over. That's just it. The difference between Bill -- he wants to be called William now -- and me is that I am living and he is explaining.

Who cares?

I do.

But what do I care about?

There's not much to go on. No yellow brick road. No scarecrow or tinman. Or... Wait a minute, who are you guys? one said he was the tinman one said he was the scarecrow and the third was cowardly lion. They'll all be at the funeral. Afterwards. From the church. Well, we have to bury Kelly by sundown. By Sunday morning, I'll be a widow. and wearing black for Kelly Won't a I, Kel?

uh?

She's so out of it. Has no idea what I'm plotting. She's to be buried alive on Hallowe'en, in the old south cemetery. And will come out of the tomb two days later. Ready to be married. Neat, huh? Naturally, there will be a last supper before hand on the night before. And then Kelly will be betrayed. As in all coventicles, this will be broadcast to the internet at large, allowing as many to participate as wish to. All stations are go. We are awaiting the event. yes. Take her down slowly. That's it. Don't hurt her. The Russians were at the gates. We had to hide it. But where?

Take her down to the docks. We'll push off from there. On our journey down the Reingold. Slipping off into the forest. Where we will consume our love in the wilderness. LIke King's Holly. Foxfire. It isn't enough. Torch it. We burned off most of it. Stuff's been out here for two million years. What do you suppose it was? Some alien creature. Looks like a house. With a little girl in it. Like, what did the Munchkins do with the house? They never said that. She'd flown it all the way from K ansas. Like a 747. And just left it there? Or was it an airport? Did the house fly back to Kansas by itself? Was there a pilot? Did she need a reservation? Why didn't someone meet her at the airport? Well, they did. Billy Burke met her. And a bu nch of security people. And customs. Customs strip searched her right there in the terminal. They also put her dog in quarantine. To prevent rabies. This is madness. She demanded to see the ambassador. He said he wasn't in. Then who are you? The Ambassador's wife. Billy sailed her right through customs. Then she met the wicked witch of the west. Did you ever think, the witch was "of the west"? Why? Billy was the "good" witch of the north. But the west always got it in the neck. No wonder s he was bitter. There was something out there. Something evil. What was it? Something on the edges of the Glynn. Hilda had her castle there. Glynda was the witch of the north. But what was the west witch's name? They don't tell you. She must have had some personal history, a dossier. Was the green color the result of radiation? Dorothy had killed her sister. That was another thing? Why wasn't there an investigation?> Who was pulling strings? You just can't fly in here on a house and kill una rmed civilians. This isn't East Timor. Or Wounded Knee. What is this? A pipe. And this? Marijuana. Do you have anything else to declare? No. They let her through. It was the ruby slippers. The red shoes would take you where you want to go.

Seven inch heels. Hell in the prairie grass. Especially when there was a wildfire coming. And you was trying to run. A twister was one thing. A grass fire was another. They came to a river. And jumped in. The fire sucked all the oxygen out of the air. They all died. Cept her. She made it out somehow. Said her visions had saved her. That, and hunkering down in the mud. Tinman died. Cowardly Lion died. Strawman went up in a blaze of glory. Dog died too. Security has got to be tight around the church. Going to be a real sacred moment. Gonna sacrifice a cat on the altar. And a mess of chickens. And a bull. I have to cut his throat. I forget the whole ritual. They talk you along. And then I smear it all over Kelly. And she does the same to me. It's real super special. You'll like it. You have to come.

I never know what I'm going to say next. It just comes. I forgot why I was writing this.

Oh yeah. Evil. Like Guiliani trying to give up one of the city's tv channels to Murdoch. That was evil. Guiliani already killed one public tv station. WNYC. 31. (Equals 4.) Now he was gunning for more. He wanted to give away two channels. One f or Rupert and one for Bloomberg. Ted Turner stopped him. Go, Ted! Go Braves! The Braves creamed New York in the first game of the series. 12-1. (And the 2nd, 4-2) I mean, why even play with a score like that? Talk about Dole being a loser. Dole i s Babe Ruth compared to those guys. Ted Turner called Rupert der Fuerhrer. Guiliani's wife's television career belongs to Murdoch. On Channel 5. Chanel Number 5. She's an anchor. The city Ethics Commission said there was no conflict of interest. And so it goes.

(Is this pathetic or what: at last night's game, Murdoch's people had a plane flying around Yankee Stadium flashing a sign that read, "Hey Ted. Be brave. Don't censor the Fox News Channel." So while Turner's team was trashing the Yankess on the ground , Murdoch, the bully, was snivelling outside like a wimpy beggar with snot hanging under his nose, begging for a free channel. What a loser.)

"Where were you?" the Indian asked.

"Kansas City."

"How was it?"

White Buffalo Cow Woman said she had a good time. "Everything's up for grabs in Kansas City. They've gone about as far as they can and still be inside the law."

"Nice shoes."

"Thanks." She gave him the pills she brought back. "One will make you larger and one will make you small." He said the ones she gave him the last time didn't do anything at all. She said he might have to have an operation. Whether or not the HMO would okay it was another nasty question.

"If you don't assure that kids get a good education, if people begin to feel hunted, what kind of divisiveness is this going to raise in our society, we who have always been such an open society? I think it's horrifying. If these policies continue ... I think we're either going to see people starving in the streets or they're going to be ... swept up and carted away." -- John Cardinal O'Connor WNBC-TV's News Forum, 10/20/96

I got out a road atlas and looked up Kansas. It was so big. It filled up both sides of the book. There were names of towns written all over it. But not as much as some other states. Like New Jersey had lots more towns per square inch than Kansas. M ost were housing developments. In Kansas, the towns look more like real places. I wanted to see where Russell was. And I have a cousin living in Hays. There was Wichita. Salina. Dodge City. Dodge was just a little place. Topeka. Kansas City. Ther e are actually two Kansas Cities. One in Kansas and one in Missouri. The one in Missouri is bigger. Russell, Salina and Hays all lie on Interstate 70 from Topeka and K.C. Wichita is south of Salina. Dodge is west of Wichita. As falls Wichita, so fal ls Wichita Falls. Down south along the border is a place called Arkansas City. I don't know anything about it. Below Kansas is Oklahoma, and north of it is Nebraska. There are other places. West of Kansas is Colorado. West of Dodge and a little to t he south is Ulysses. Tulsa is in Oklahoma. Manhattan is also in Kansas, at Fort Riley Military Reservation. The Arkansas River runs through Kansas. Kansas does not border on Arkansas.

The Missouri River divides Kansas City into two parts as it forms part of the border between Missouri and Kansas, practically the only part of it which is not straight. The river flows in a free form configuration across the northeastern edge of Kansas and makes a jagged mark on the map, as if to indicate something natural in the basic structure of the state. All else is straight. Nebraska. Colorado. Oklahoma. The counties are also marked off in straight lines, the curve seemingly having been anath ema to nineteenth century materialistic rationalism. At one point, the Arkansas curves in a wide arc from north to south and the place is called Great Bend. One wonders, was this an embarassment to the cartographers of the day, as if they were somehow b eing forced to acknowledge the presence of evil spirits, forces greater than themselves? Or did they welcome it as a quixotic respite from the merciless grid? Other rivers also curve, but they are not mentioned. And the land too was an undulation of fr ozen dunes held in place momentarily by the prairie grass, a monster the sleepy residents were about to unleash in their savage eagerness to make places that have names. Sometimes a road runs straight but diagonally, as if the heresy might have occurred to someone that it would be faster to get from Topeka to El Dorado if one did not have to go though Manhattan first. Halfway between lies Emporia.

The lettering of Russell does not have as dark an imprint as either that of Hays or of Salina, which it is almost midway between. Hays is west. Salina to the east. Russell is almost non-existent in its tiny typeface. Under it is a number and a word: El 1828. 9 and 10 equals 1. Just like 7 and 3. El, of course, refers to Yahwah. El. You see it in the Bible and in Biblical names. El Al, for instance. Jewish. I don't know what else to tell you about Kansas. West of Hays is Ellis, which has a n otation: Walter P. Chrysler's boyhood home. Route 70 follows the old Oregon trail, the pathway for those to whom Kansas was only a transient's memory between Independence and the Rockies.

stand on the corner of fourth street and vine. See what happens. okay. Got her. in the grid the rigid grid of Kansas some crazy little women there and I'm going to get me some nice lyrics. going to Kansas City up the wide missouri Around the great bend and into the heart of darkness west to Alaska a little bit south of Nome.

I think you made a wrong turn somewhere Kansas is one long runway. What do you mean, turn? It's an alien concept. There are no turnarounds in Kansas. It's like the barrel of a gun. Once you pull the trigger, you don't get second thoughts. You load it here. Then aim and shoot. It's like an accellorator. Kansas is the long stretch. Around the backfield, into the turn and it's Sea Bisquits in the ninth. You put the magnets in Nebraska and Tulsa. And then you turn it on.

You don't know. Just give up. It won't hurt you. Cry. In public. Clinton is beating his ass in. It's Red River all over again. They're going to indict her as soon as it's over. She'll plead guilty. They'll send her to jail. It will be Evita all over again. Or she won't go to jail and she'll be sullied forever. Totally degraded. Like she's special. Fuck her. Everyone will condescend to her. With that in her background, how could it be otherwise?

She's better off taking the rap and going to jail. I wonder if she'll cry on Barbara Walters. Like Leona. "Nobody loves me." Or the electoral college might just vote for Dole.

You never can tell.

It's totally legal. No matter if Clinton buries him in a landslide, Dole could still win it in the e.c. Say the Clintons are both indicted. The E.C. might be forced to act to protect the country. It's a tricky business. The last time they did that, Hayes won. It could happen again. Gore would lose because he's only the vice president and the E.C. can o nly cast votes for the president. As to whether it is legally bound to select one of the candidates is a matter that is not clear. Technically, they could pick anyone who is a natural born citizen over 36. So they could pick Dole or Dole's wife or Barb ara Walters or Ted Koppel. Or Oliver North. How about that? That would make the world sit up and take notice. How about Arianna Huffington? You can't be serious? Well, why not? Off hand, no one could come up with a reason not to not exclude her fro m their deliberations. Murdoch, having come here as an alien, was automatically excluded. Who else? Arnold Swartzenegger. But he was married to one of the Kennedys. Couldn't there be an exclusionary principle in cases like that? Aren't we making thi s more complicated than it sounds? Bo Derek. She's too young. She's forty. She'll never admit it. The list seemed endless. They went through the phone book, making random inquiries as to whether various persons would like to participate. They had a deadline. They had to pick someone before it was taken out of their hands and thrown into the House. No one wanted that. Who did they know who hadn't been indicted? That was another rule. You had to be germ free. A total security risk. Let me see the dossier. Why is she green? I think she lives in Utah. That would account for it. They do call her the w.w.w. Brigham Young's only surviving wife. They gave her a pension. She was two when she married him. They only did it once. Her children p opulate the western plateau. Is she an American? Technically Utah was still a territory when she was born. Her mother was half Ute.

An Indian?

In the white house?

I'm not so sure.

Maybe we should have an investigation.

The polls show she has the feminist vote.

How is she on abortion?

She's a Mormon, for God's sake.

Then there's that movie.

So? What about Reagan?

The exclusionary clause.

But that only applies to consecutive terms. Doesn't it?

He's brain dead.

So? We have to do what's best for the country.

You know, the limits of the E.C.'s power have never been actually determined. Theoretically, we could suspend the constitution and take over the country. Maybe we could make a deal with the military. We could promise free elections in a year or two. When the country was ready for self-governance. People would probably like it if we shot most of these bastards.

Suppose oil reserves were found under Munchkin land? Mr. Buxley said, staring up my dress. Would the American government have a right to take it? What rights would Munchkins have? As a foreigner, could Dorothy legally make a political contribution? W hat about business contracts? Radio and TV stations? Sexual favors? Even if the W.W.W. was bizarre, did she have rights? What were they? Was East Timor a separate country or did it fall under the jurisdiction of the government in Oz? What about the U.N.? What about the anthropologists? Did they have a right to take Munchkin skeletons? Open Munchkin burial mounds? Do DNA testing on paleo-Munchkins? What about missionaries? What about slavery? Suppose the Munchkins kept slaves? Would that be r ight? Would it give the U.S. the right to take their land? What about slicing up young girls as part of their initiation into womanhood? He looked at me? You know, they do that, don't you? Slice and dice their cunts. Are they entitled to sexual asylum? What do you think, Cody?

Mr. Buxley always encouraged us to think. Like, suppose I was a young girl who was about to be butchered because of the beliefs of some old men in my tribe. Would that be right? Or did I have the right to cop out and come to America instead of submitt ing to our sacred traditions? Our native values? He showed slides. Audio visuals. Sounds the girls made while their clits were slit. Should Americans stop all that? Or look the other way? Did we have the right to force our way of life down the thro ats of native peoples everywhere? How about jets? Suppose we just sold them F-16s, like Clinton plans to do with the Indonesians? Would that be okay? "You don't use F-16s to kill civilians and crack down on dissidents." (Mike McCurry) But were the pe ople in East Timor dissidents or a separate people? We're back to that>? Aren't we?

He asked if I would like to come over to his house after school and talk about it? Suppose they refused the terms we offered them? Then could they be moved to a reservation? His wife was sick. He could use some help. Would I volunteer to look after the kids? It would be like community service. I could work off my sentence. He just wanted to be friends. Would I like to see his slides from when they were in Western Samoa? Thailand? This girl was my age. Her sister was nine. Would I do that for him? How did I like the course so far? I said okay. He said I was a good student. But I could do better. His wife knew all about it.

What about dope? Did I use it? What if the Indians used dope in their religious practices? Do you think that's right? The Supreme Court has ruled that Oregan has the right to arrest Indians who smoke dope as a religious sacrament. Do you think that' s right? Would you use dope? If your priest gave it to you as a religious practice, would you smoke it? What if your teacher did? Would you like to try it? How about other stuff? Like cocaine. Do you think it's right the CIA should sell crack to po or people to raise money for the contras? Here, let me show you how to put it up your nose. That way there are no marks. It makes you feel good, doesn't it? This will make you feel even better.

What does it mean to come face to face with evil? With Perry Smith or Wild Bill Hickock or Buffalo Bill or General Suharto or Stalin or Hitler? Or someone who is giving away the people's television to foreign millionaires? It's like no matter which wa y you go, something is always being taken away. Stolen. The horse soldiers are everywhere. Riding through our tents, knocking us down. Killing. Shooting. No one knows which way to run. It's almost funny; when we take back our dead, the hungry look on their faces, knowing that forever they will not be able to gnaw those dry old bones.

Intermezzo

"Know thyself." -- Delphi

"After all, we are in the entertainment business."
-- Murdoch, when he got caught with the faux-Hitler diaries.

Wow! That was some letter. I think I can safely say that you're the first man I've encountered on the internet who writes as well as I. For a moment, I felt I was looking into another mirror. I could almost suspect you of being a woman. Do you cross dress? Dole, by the way, also lived in the cellar of his house the year he was getting a divorce. In Virginia. Maybe it's the sodbuster in him. He just feels more natural underground. I didn't know the part about hanging from the arm -- the pencil holder. At one point, I almost wrote to him and told him to lose the pencil. Or pen. Or whatever he's always got stuck in his claw. I mean, talk about a major turnoff. Every time he walked out on a stage, the first thing people saw was that pen stick ing out of his dead hand. What a dummy. But I never got around to it. You would think someone would have told him, wouldn't you?

I'm glad I remembered Guiteau, -- to ask you about him. But then I didn't remember Guiteau. That's the point. No one does. I could have gotten the spelling of Czolgosz's name from my friend who wrote the play, but Guiteau is not even listed in Garfie ld's dossier on the web. In fact, when you started to write about him, I wondered what you were talking about. But thank you for all the information. I'm not sure, however, that I totally agree with you about him being nuts. He sounds eminently qualif ied to be ambassador to the French; at least as much as, say, Winston Churchill's mother. I find names very intriguing. Names and labels. It is the people behind them who often turn out to be a bore. What, I wonder, shall I call you?

I have to admit, when I first read your letter, my first idea was, I'm going to steal this, at least the part about Dole. Because you have expressed exactly what I am trying to say about him, even more so. Exactly! Right down to the bit about Capra Ka fka. But then I thought, no. I can't. Not just because I am no longer headed in that direction. But it would contaminate my own passion.

I also wondered, do I know this guy? Meaning you. I also had an XL200 that I totalled. A gun-metal grey convertible. But that was in Florida. And I never went to Wellesley. I'm pretty sure I didn't. Although I might have been so stoned at the time I don't remember. What was it Parker said? If all the girls from Wellesley were laid end to end, she wouldn't be a bit surprised. Maybe I should call you Benchley. Did you see that movie? It was such a pathetic bore. If the round table had been as lame as that movie made them all seem, no one would have remembered them two minutes to make a movie. The only reason I saw it was I was in a wheelchair at the time and one of my friends rented it one Friday night to cheer me up. I couldn't escape the s ense that Dorothy Parker would have been sadistically pleased at my having been forced to watch it. She was not big on other women writers. Or other women, for that matter.

You don't, however, at first glance, seem the Benchley sort. But then, what is the Benchley sort? I couldn't help noticing that Giuteau made his speech -- the speech -- for Garfield in Buffalo, the same place McKinley was shot. Both Chester A. Arthur and Teddy Roosevelt were from New York City. I also notice that I keep forgetting, no matter how many times I correct myself, how to spell Guitieu's name. It is as if consciousness conspires with history to obliterate it. Odd. Why>?

An eldeerly friend of my grandmother's studies general symantics. He said that Korzybski, the founder, devised a punctuation symbol to indicate "etcetera" in open ended sentences, i.e statements that imply there is more than is stated. It was a period followed by a comma. I suggested that a more elegant marking would be either >? or >.. Or vice versa. Anyway, I don't believe in misspelled words. I think the unconscious is trying to tell us something. For instance, Victor is an "el-deer." An old d\ear. He's also an amazing stud.

He and I had a long talk about space and space time. He said space doesn't exist. There was only space time. He wanted people whenever they would say or write space to use space time instead. I asked what about the space in space time? What were the y supposed to do about that? His wife had just died. He's 92. He asked what I meant. I said, if you write space time instead of space, then you have to write space time time. And then instead of space time time, you would have to write space time tim e time. And so on. I don't know why I'm telling you this.

What does Guiteau mean?

It sounds French. Czolgosz, Leon, was Polish. An anarchist. In my friend's play, he and Emma Goldman are lovers. The cops, at the time, actually picked her up and beat the shit out of her. But they couldn't prove a conspiracy. Later, of course, the y got her on another rap.

I seem to remember Guoiteis. The name. Though obviously not in this context. Is it related to guitar? Tonight I feel heavy. Like a hopping bird. That can't get off the ground. An apteratx. Whatever. Where, I wonder, is Guiteau's hole? I forgot. You don't like names. And yet, you supplied me with the name of a man who history remembers not as a name but a label, "a disappointed office seeker." How odd. You also named me Evita. I won't let it go to my head.

The A. in Garfield's name is for Abram. The name of the first president to be shot, but spelled differently. Garfield had been a general in the civil war. So had Hayes. McKinley had been a private in Hayes' regiment. They were all from Ohio. So was Harrison. Harrison's grandfather had been the first president to die in office. Adlai Stevenson's grandfather, Adlai, had been Harrison fils' vice president. Stevenson the younger had killed a woman -- was it a woman? -- when he was a boy. It was an accident. The first and fourth president to be murdered were each succeeded by men named Johnson. Both Johnsons were preceded by a president who was shot in the head. McKinley was shot in the stomach. Garfield in the back. I still do not know what to call you or who Gateu was.

This is a diversion. With my wedding less than two weeks off, I should be making preparations. Getting ready to write the final chapter. But I feel nothing. I feel weak. Numb. Powerless. Dole-ful.

I think partly this is because lately I have been pigging out on chocolate. I can't stop eating it. Especially those wonderful Lindt Swiss chocolate bars. Every time I go to the grocery store, I come home with six or seven of them. Why am I doing thi s? I'm going to break out in zits. Maybe I feel insecure. The wedding. The conspiracy. The election. Everything reminds me of my mother.

Lizabeth, my shrink, pointed out the other day that I have written almost nothing about my mother. Excuse me while I get another candy bar. This one is Swiss milk chocolate with Cognac liquid fillings. The one I just finished was raspberry. I'm going to get sick. The only thing else I've had to eat today was a banana.

God, these are so good.

But all this chocolate is giving me a headache.

It may be a couple of days before I figure out gatau\ waht's iface. But I assure you I will get to the bottom of this mystery. It is simply a matter of knowing where to look. And using the right instruments. Tv for one. Tv is a wonderful research instrument. Without it, I never would have known a lot of things. Like, without tv, I would never have heard of Hitler.

There seems to be an awfully lot about Hitler on television these days. Is he making a comeback? He's a total media darling. I wonder if they were still going on about Napoleon the same way fifty years after the war. Or Atilla the Hun. But then, Nap oleon was never half as useful to his captors as Hitler. Last night, he was on two different channels. One was a pogram about the Russian front and the other was in Africa. There are tons of shows about Africa, and yet, I don't know one person who has ever heard of it. Even black guys. Don't they watch tv? The other night, they showed us two elephants fucking. They also explained estris and must. Must is like sweat that comes out of a bull elephant's head and turns him into a sex freak, and estris is a nice word for a female elephant who wants it bad. She shows this by spreading her legs and urinating in the bull's face. I know guys who actually get off on stuff like this.

The interesting thing about Hitler's and other shows, though, is that after you watch enough of them, you notice the dialogue has nothing to do with the pictures. Take the Russian front, for instance. This has been going on for what seems like weeks. It's a whole series. Stuff about tanks and airplanes and battle formations. Mostly it is statistics piled on top of statistics. The announcer says a Mark 3 was heavier than a Mark 4. At the same time, we see a fussy filmstrip of tanks going fast. The n there's another clip of tanks going fast the other way. Then they show Stalin. And then they show a road from the middle of nowhere with a line of what look like homeless people who are supposed to be either the Germans or the Soviet Army. Then we se e Hitler making marks on a map. And then there are more tanks going one direction or the other and then they show the Stutkas. But none of it has any connection with what the announcer is saying. I mean, how do we know that this particular Stuka bombed this particular railway line when the announcer said the railroad was blown up? Or if the Stutka and the train go together? Or if that's even the train he's talking about. The same for fronts. These pictures could be from anywhere in the world. We d on't even know if they were taken during the war. They could be field exercises. At one point, Stalin recalls all his generals and has them shot. Now that would make a good movie. But they don't show that. I would have liked to have known more about those generals. Like, what did they think? That they were going to a brain storming session with Stalin? Did he know any of them personally>? Did they actually meet face to face? Was it buddy buddy, touchy-feely? But no. All we get are more tanks. Tanks a lot. Now shoot them.

In the end, the programs are smoke and mirrors, like Nazism itself. This is a basic truth about all documentaries. The audios and the visuals never fit. The elephants might as well have been in the Africa Korps. Maybe this was the Africa Korps. I ha d the same problem with The West. There was nothing to indicate that any of the photographs that were shown had anything to do with the time or place the announcer was talking about. Like, were the pictures of the Indians we were shown the same Indians who were killed, or were they just to show us what an Indian looked like in case we ever met one? One guy who wrote to me from Australia said he had never seen an aborigine. Neither have most Americans.

The evening news is even worse. You would think on a planet that weighed six sextillion, 588 quintillion tons, give or take a few pounds, Peter Jennings and his clones would be able to find more than two news items a night to sandwich between the commer cials. By news, I mean, something not having to do with Bosnia or O.J. Simpson or medical-breakthrough-of-the-day boilerplate. But every evening, I dutifully turn on the six-thirty news, and within four minutes, I'm flipping over to Bundy reruns. Becau se the networks have nothing that is of the slightest interest to anyone with an iq above 75. There is especially no news./ Nada. Zilch. What do these guys do for their pay besides get dressed? All they can say is, "when we come back." What are they supposed to be? Yoyos? The only guy who comes back more than they do is Hitler.

Someone, Brian, asked me why I write. I write to get everything in one place. Now I can throw out the newspaper that has the earth's weight in it. You should see this place. All the junk I've dragged in here since the beginning of August to write thi s fucking book. I'm litterally sleeping in paper. See. That wasn't a mistake. It's litter. All of it. What bullshit. Who cares?

But now I will be able to bind everything up in a neat manuscript and forget about it. Kelly says I'm compulsive. Maybe I'll just torch it. When we leave. For Georgia.

We're going down next week to be with my mother. And her new boy friend.

My mother's a high powered lawyer. She makes tons of money. She's got her hooks into some old guy who lives in Atlanta. No. Not Ted Turner. She said she'd buy me a new laptop as a wedding present. I can just see my mother and Kelly's folks at the r eception. Well, my mother's white trash, too. She was fourteen when my father picked her up in a diner. But she's come a long way since. Put herself through law school. I have to hand it to her. She's one tough cookie.

Early thirties. Gateau. Don't I know you? I think so. Leave him alone. I'm sure that we can make a deal. Come up to the bedroom. He raped me. That's your story. This isn't a trial. Get off it. LuAnn was waiting at the door. What's she doing h ere? I thought you'd want me to invite her. After all, she was married to your father. Kelly's people were out in the car. Where do you want them?

Intimacy is so complicated in a one room farmhouse. There were six of them. They weren't staying for the dinner. Like, who comes in and who stays out? LuAnn is in permanent estris. A stay burst through the lining and was digging into her chest. Tha t will be all, Scarlett. The young woman withdrew.

Charles Gateu had known Brett Ashley in Cannes. He referred her to the Collins who offered the young couple some southern hospitality. The old manse was stuffed to the gils. The tanks were outside of Richmond. How'd they get here? The front was miles away. In Khartoum. Nothing could harm us now. Except an explosion. The rebels had advanced to within miles of the hog wallow. Soon their shells would be kicking up the mud. Come on, Kelly. I'll show you the stables. He led her away and Cody went into the house. Is supper ready yet? The slaves cannot wait any longer. They must be fed.

Thjen it was all done with slave labor?

Yes.
That explains it. Without the slaves, they would have lost. They did lose. oh Tara took off her shirt. Cody was getting ready. What about the embargo> What about it? The girls slipped into fresh cotton dresses that clung to their skin. there is nothing like a southern wedding to make you feel good.

Uncle Aubrey was sitting on the porch. The feeling starts days ahead of time, and goes on well after the funeral. Kelly shivered. As if she already knew what was going to happen.

This is no place to fight a war. I could hear them screaming in the next room. Jasper and the other dogs would also have to get into the act.

gitooo. Like the sound of a rifle bullet whining through the den. Cousin Charlie.

From New York. Who were the Stawarts> The other side of the family. Out hear on the edges of madness. We rode down there after breakfast. I gave Kelly a kick to make her mind. Lordy Lordy. Nibbling around the edges. Trying to figure it out. God made me do it. A
pathological optimist. gitoo who keeps shooting at us? why is he doing that? Kelly shied. I had to work to hold her. Eventually, we got her mounted. My god, it's almost as if she's alive. Let's have a drink. Then we'll sick the hounds on her. What's this? Spanish moss. It comes on all the trees. Take some if you want it. It looks like hair. OH SHIT!

I forgot. Tonight is mystery night. The last part of a three part series. When we finally learn who killed those people on the moor. Shit. I missed the first fifteen minutes. I hated the ending. It was lame. But it was inevitable. Like, the writ ers did not provide what I would call a rich universe of plausible suspects. That's the way it is in real life, too, isn't it? I mean, most crimes have only a limited number of possibilities. Only God has the luxury to make a real mystery; drop clues a ll over the place. Establish false leads. There's an old Ukranian man on my street who always smiles and says hello when he sees me. Today he had a little boy with him, "my grand grandson from Ukrania." As they walked away, I thought, "Ivan the Terrib le." "Treblinka." All old Ukranian men look alike. Round bald heads. Like pumpkins. I like them. If G. was in search of G-d, what motive did the others have? C. was an anarchist. H. was in love with Jodie Foster. O. denied he did it. And B. was a southern sympathizer. There was also the grassy knoll gang. Americans with their t-shirts are like the Golem. You write life on its forehead to make the golem live. To be. And to kill it, you write McDonalds. Or Camels. Or My Girl Friend went to Disneyworld and All She Brought Me was this Lousy T-Shirt.

One plays these word games, hoping to find some deeper truth.

Maybe that's it. Maybe G. didn't have a hole. Maybe he was a free agent. Without a salient to intrude into any other part of the universe. Across any known frontier. Like Arthur. Arthur went all the way back into time. To the Stuarts. The Ramsays and McDonalds. The Hatfields and McCoy. The Round Table. Dorothy Parker. Sir Alexander Walcott. Thurber. You could be my little bunny rabbit, Thurber. Indian name Rolling Thurber.

The Indians say that they were the Buffalo people, and that they came up out of a hole from underground. I think they just do that to confuse the anthropologists. It's a way of getting even. That, and taking back the bones.

It's sort of cruel. But as a conquered people, that's the only recourse the Indians have left. The law gives them the right to bury their own people. And keep them buried. But you take a bone away from an anthro and he practically pisses his pants. Especially, if he can't dna it. Dna is the white man's voodoo. It's their rattle. The wasichus will dna you right into the ground if you let them. Just ask O.J.

O.J. beat the whites at their own game. He got better dna than they did. No wonder they hate him. The wasichus think if they shake their dna rattles enough, they can do anything. But they were no match for the dream team. Most of the bones are Kentu cky Fried takeout anyway. That's an old Indian trick. They take a bunch of chicken bones, say, and salt a place where they know the white anthros are going to poke around. Then they hide and watch. The anthros practically wet their pants, they get so excited when they find the bones. And the Indians nearly split their guts laughing. They let the anthros dig around, get out the bones, measure them, take pictures. But before they can dna, the Indians stop them with a court order. It drives the anthr os totally nuts.

After that, they take whatever bones are involved and bury them back on the reservation so they can never be tested, ever. Then they make up new stories. About how great spirit made Indians from sugar cubes. Or something else as crazy as that. Rabbit made them from chocolate chicken turds. I don't know. They came from Disneyworld. The anthros know it isn't true, but they can't prove it, because they can't dna the evidence.

I guess it is cruel. But Indians have always been cruel. The sundance is not a merry-go-round, you know. But it's hard to feel sorry for people who have a creation myth that says they come from monkeys, who's ancestors killed the buffalo. How can you take a monkey seriously? Everyone know Great Spirit just jacking off when he make white people. He create real Frankenstein monster with that one.

This summer, the anthros found a skeleton sticking out of a river bank in Oregon. It turned out to be of a white man, but it was 9,700 years old. Demographics do not show this part of Oregon to have been a white neighborhood in 7,500 b.c. It raised so me basic questions. But before they could dna the skeleton, the Indians -- I'll have to check, but I think it was the Ojibways -- cut them off. Respect, they said, must be paid. Dna destroys the bones. It's worse than Cortisone. And the skeleton had to be reburied. Like now. A federal judge backed them up. Of course, the anthros freaked.

"But it's not an Indian, I tell you. The features are indisputably caucasian." The Indians wouldn't budge. It could have been Odysseus, and it wouldn't have mattered. They were still going to bury it. My suggestion is they should trade. Like, give us back Grande Tetons. We give you monkey man bones. How bout that? We give you lots of bones, prove land bridge over Gowanus Canal; you give us Astrodome. Deal. For sixty truckloads of cadavers, the U.S. ceded everything west of the Rockies. It fair deal. We also throw in Ryder truck full of cowshit. You get real bargain. Do all dna you want. Be careful where you park it.

Your Evita

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