Your leaking thatched hut during the restoration of a pre-Enlightenment state.

 

Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").



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Like my brownhouse:
   go see Rory's website
Tuesday, August 12 1997
    Oberlin is legend for its lack of a sense of humour and its failure to comprehend satire.
    O

    ne of Shonan's friends came by just as I awoke. I forget his name. I may have once known, but he just radically cut his hair so now I only have suspicions as to who he is. He used to attend Oberlin College, and he told me some interesting news. It seems that one of my crazy right-wing letters to the editor actually was published at the Oberlin Review some years ago. It was the one complaining about all the lesbians on the streets of the town. Apparently the letter caused quite a stir, with much vitriol vented in the feedback section of subsequent issues. I fully expected this to happen; for its supposedly intelligent population, Oberlin is legend for its lack of a sense of humour and its failure to comprehend satire.

    I drank a fair amount of vodka by myself. It's a good way to drink sometimes, though it's supposedly a sign of alcoholism. Who the hell cares?

    Speaking of alcoholism, I made a connection recently between three pieces of information in my mind:

      I'd had my doubts about item #1, thinking it just some kind of medical legend like human spontaneous combustion.
    1. I read somewhere once that in physiologic alcoholics (those people with a strong genetically-linked physical addiction to booze), alcohol is converted in the brain into a powerful opiate, resulting in serious addiction and other problems similar to those experienced by heroin addicts.

    2. Gabby has described being disgusted to see her mother drunk because she "acts fake." Unfortunately, I cannot find where in her journal she wrote about this. But she found it: go to her May 25th entry.

    3. I find myself being disgusted by the appallingly fake enthusiasm and extrovertism of people on heroin.

    I'd had my doubts about item #1, thinking it just some kind of medical legend like human spontaneous combustion. But after assembling items #2 and #3, now it all makes sense.

    W

    ell, the mysterious guy with the recently cut hair hung out at our house all day, watching teevee with just Deya. Hmmm... he seemed really shy and nervous, like he could have used a stiff drink.

    He's taken to it like a dirty old man to a passed-out lingerie model.
    R

    ory's website is developing rapidly. Particularly amusing is his glossary of British slang. He must be investing a considerable effort in learning HTML. The cool thing is that none of this costs him any money; he has access through publicly-available computers at the University of Virginia, hooked to the internet via a heavily-burdened T3.

    Rory has a headstart on all the other newbies just getting caught in the Web; I've pointed out some of the Web's finer pleasures, such as the harassment of Elly. He's taken to it like a dirty old man to a passed-out lingerie model. But you should see the message Elly apparently left in Rory's guestbook.

    Elly's journal today contained a poem to Rudy, the fiancé she's never physically met, entitled "10,000 miles."

      The posting of this poem was predicted by one of my correspondents only about a week ago.
    Also, for the first time ever, Elly rejected an award that she suspects she may not deserve.
    Finally, she concluded with thoughts of suicide. This is heavy stuff, man.

    Without further delay, here is "10,000 miles," reprinted in total for those of you locked off Dreamdweller.com's web server:

    Ten Thousand Miles

    by Elly Jordaan

    My feeble brain can bare endure this distance lying between us
    Like the yawning chasm of some deep dark spirit.
    What form of recompense could ever turn the minutes
    Days weeks months we are apart into something whole and acceptable?

    My body is all that remains; the rest of me --
    Heart mind soul spirit -- lies in your being.
    It is not light years between us: miles, rather; only miles.
    But oceans apart, continents removed; might as well be Andromeda.

    But I know you, beloved. I feel your presence in my soul
    Caressing me, nurturing me, whispering words only lovers reveal.
    God in cursing has put us at distant poles, laughing no doubt.
    But I will defy the miles and the twisted wit of the Source.

    I shall enter into the belly of the airframe, snug my seatbelt
    Tight around me and pray that the pilot is sharp-witted.
    Hurtling through Earth's dwindling atmosphere at speeds defying rational thought
    Miles above the planet's surface until ten thousand miles are none.

    Copyright April 10, 1997 Elaine M. Jordaan

    T

    his online journal thing may be one aspect of an emerging culture of surveillance, enabled by the potential for nearly effortless and costless publication on the web. But I have a rebuttal: my view and my spin are very different from the FBI's and the dominant media's. I'd like to think that from now on, we literate nobodies are having a hand in writing history. Now my friends groan, but they will be known.



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