From: owner-eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org (eda-thoughts-digest) To: eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org Subject: eda-thoughts-digest V3 #385 Reply-To: eda-thoughts@smoe.org Sender: owner-eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org Errors-To: owner-eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org Precedence: bulk eda-thoughts-digest Wednesday, November 22 2000 Volume 03 : Number 385 * If you ever wish to unsubscribe, send an email to * eda-thoughts-digest-request@smoe.org with ONLY * the word unsubscribe in the body of the email * . * PLEASE :) when you reply to this digest to send a post TO the list, * change the subject to reflect what your post is about. A subject * of Re: eda-thoughts-digest V3 #xxx or the like gives readers no clue * as to what your message is about. Today's Subjects: ----------------- ET: street talk [chic-a-cherry-cola ] ET: The Great Miss Bond(poem) ["Seth D. Fulmer" ] ET: The Great Miss Bond part 2(poem) ["Seth D. Fulmer" Subject: ET: street talk i am standing out on a streetcorner at night, holding a sign. i stare glumly at the passing cars. it's not cold tonight, but it may as well be to add to the dreariness of the past half hour. the past half hour? try the past days, the past weeks, the past months. the streetlamp blares down on me as i shift in my stance, ignoring the ragged guy leaning out the car window gaping at me. he's maybe in his 20s, and when i'm still not looking he starts whistling. really, i'm thinking. how appealing can i be in a men's polo shirt, a hat, and men's dickies? the light changes and the cars take off. i feel like i may as well be standing here advertising something wearing only fishnets and a fur coat, for christ's sake. i'm thinking, i really need to get a new job, because this just is not working. all the lights turn red as an ambulance crawls past the late-night-business men in their hondas in nissans who are just kind of sitting there, lumps of monotonous, shiny metal. the blaring blinking lights on the ambulance are bright and overdone, like christmas lights. all the lights are too much, the headlights flashing into the black and the streetlamps letting off dim shades of light and the ambulance's red blinking lights flickering off as it flips a bitch and wheels away. next time that's going to be me in there, i'm thinking to myself. i haven't always been this morose. actually, i have way more than my share of giddy carefree moments. but being the only girl advertising-(think about it, advertising!)-on a corner, at night, i feel way less safe and way more like someone is going to walk up behind me, put a knife to my neck and steer me away. i can just picture them eventually finding that fucking banner on the ground and saying where the hell is she? yeah, she ditched. sure i ditched. okay, truthfully, i'm not just being dramatic. my job is the same thing over and over. though i have to give it pointers for keeping on my toes, always. my job is a simple job. i answer the phone with a long, long statement that leaves me out of breath and still leaves them asking me to repeat it. i slap pepperoni on dough that is always reminding me of being weirdly similar to some old woman's flabby arms. i take money, and i smile at customers as if i really do give a shit about their pizza, their lousy appearance and their fucking impatience. smile, smile, smile. and every once in awhile, i get to hold a sign (advertising a special that hasn't changed in months) on this godforsaken street corner. this is the life. i think the cuts on my arms are going to get better as time goes on, but instead they just look worse and worse, more and more like i really tried to slash the living fuck out of my wrists. i sink into the tub water, surrounded by warmth and steam. water makes everything beautiful. if you lift your hand out of it, the drops fall and hit the surface like they're some kind of unearthly musical glass. water is also the perfect place to take photographs. it's almost as if someone's actual self emerges right then, just for an instant, and if you're lucky you can catch the glimmer of them before it vanishes. then again, water also distorts everything. like me, for example. i'm not always this down on myself, but honestly. with tits too small and a waist that makes my hips and legs look even rounder than they probably are, i'm thinking maybe it'd be better if i just wavered into nothingness. i used to really want to do that. i ate hardly anything, not even on purpose but just on impulse. i had this idea in my head, this idea of being thin and pure like a glass cup. that way nobody could really break me. it sounds crazy, because if you're like a glass cup you're more likely to be broken, right? i never said i was sane though. i just said i wanted to seem almost vacant. huh. vacant. that's an interesting way of putting it. vacant on the outside, like i felt on the inside. you know that moment when a stifled scream dies? then you don't need to scream anymore, it seeps down, just like when after awhile of not eating you stop being hungry. that's how i was. i felt like i was kind of fading away, while all the while i was still there, am still here. still there, writing my words trying to express what was wrong or right with anything, playing my guitar, singing my melodies. driving my car, putting life and vibrancy into each step but yet at the same time feeling emptied and hollow all along. the cuts on my arms, well, when it seems like nothing's left, that's still there, ready to show me that there's something. something, at least, to pulse through me, something remaining. he's staring at my hands, but i know he's not really staring at my hands. i ask him what he's thinking about, and he says, faith. do you have faith in anything samara? he asks. i look at the floor from behind these annoying drifts of hair and let my mind go blank for a moment. then the word faith fills it. i've had faith, i'm thinking. i must have faith, because i would never be optimistic, happy, have varying moods and abilities, i would not even be alive anymore if i didn't have faith. so i'm thinking that there must be some faith in me somewhere. the thing is, i just can't find it. maybe it's lodged somewhere between my ribs and my lungs, or twisted around my cerebral cortex or something. but, as far as i can tell, it's not there. so i say, no. no i think i have no faith. it kind of gives me the chills, saying that i have no faith. i mean what does that say? to be alive you have to have faith in at least something, if in the least that thing be the very fact that you are alive. it's just that sometimes i get this shudder go through me and it jolts me, like maybe i don't know what the difference is between living and half-living. i'm feeling guilty, then, for saying i have no faith. faith sounds like a religious word at first, but i know that's not what he means. though he does throw something about god or this or that in there. i guess i really can't tell what he means precisely, because i'm still wondering why exactly i have no faith. though a lot of great things are going on, it seems like most of my meaningful actions lately (this is, meaningful with impact on me, and i'm not talking school here--) have all lacked that particular thing. it's weird though, because i don't feel like a fuckup. it's like i'm looking at it all objectively but at the same time it makes me sad. makes me sad, because it's me i'm looking at. because, behind the jeans and makeup, here i am. i may as well be obsolete. sometimes, i tell him, the process of dying seems more worth it than living is. he says that all the girls he knows run to therapists as the first thing they do when life starts screwing them. therapy wasn't the first thing i ran to-(i first went to poetry, then to crying, then when the tears dried up in silence and i was left wordless, i went to razors)-, but it was something i came to eventually, because i figured it was better than dying. however, my therapist didn't do shit. she did wonders for my family life, but for my personal inner demise, she did nothing. she may as well have drawn a nice, even fill-in-the-blank across my forehead and said "guess, because i can't". either i was not mental enough, or i was too mental. a petite, long-haired louisianan who used phrases like "do you still cut on yourself" and "you have to respect your parents", she seemed kind of like a bored fly with me as the wary spider in the corner. i never knew my diagnosis, but i felt i must have been either trivial or utterly psychotic, because she, in turn, seemed either overly patient or like she was silently sizing me up with her hand on the intercom to call up the authorities. i figured there must be some alter-ego to her, because i couldn't imagine living a whole existence speaking so quietly with an expression that remained so much the same. even when i actually broke down crying, she just looked at me. and if the actual reason for my signing myself in ever came up, i crawled quickly to another safer topic; because when i tried to tell her the symptoms of my issues, she made it seem more like i had some sort of contagious disease than (factually) that i am just a deranged, masochistic, tired teenage girl in a high-paced high-pressure society. so, in the end, i checked myself back out of therapy, supposedly "mentally healthy", all healed up and ready to go out and conquer the masses; and it was not until i slit my wrists again months later with an xacto knife that i was finally able to "solve the problem" by, out of sheer exasperation, throwing the knife away. traces of that side of me are still there, in slivers on my arms and on my soul. it's almost like i actually cut through. i'm thinking it would be nice to have somebody care about me. i realize the person i probably have faith in is my mother, because no matter how much i fuck up she remains loving me. and what more of an incredible gift could a daughter want? nobody else can give such a thing, or at least nobody has, and that kind of love deserves something at least equal in return, that thing being some sense of faith in the person. i mean, come on here. be realistic about it. but i'm not talking about my mother when i say that i'm thinking right now that it would be nice if someone cared about me. if i wasn't confidently yet self-consciously flaunting myself around, blowing kisses and laughing, would anybody tag after me at all? it seems a lot of guys start off liking me, then they move on to my best friend. that's fine by me, because i guess i basically toss them over my shoulder, where they remain somewhat hanging by the strings i keep attached, but they still wander around and move on past me. i don't know what it is-no, maybe i do. i'm kind of flyaway i guess. whereas she is always there, stable, comforting, willing to take them in. she's like some kind of loving goddess while i'm darting around like a drugged out insect. i guess that's the way it goes. i mean, it really all comes back to myself-to anyone's self. do you ever feel like no matter how with people you are, you're really alone? i am always alone, i say to the air in front of me. because a person can always retreat back into themselves, and no one can find them. then you can be utterly lonely. then you can lose yourself, and, if you aren't careful, vanish entirely. i guess, though, that all of this is what i'm in it for. to see what happens. since it all sort of comes back to the same general idea-the crazed lust after a guy or the slow-dripping blood from my wrists, the gleeful skipping freak-chick or the girl who falls back into herself behind her hair and pictured 'like-a-glass-cup' till the will of her mind nearly makes her become that, if only for an instant-it's the same thing in the end, the same question, the same answer. if i'm not going to die then am i really here living? if i'm not going to die then i may as well be living. ------------------------------ Date: Tue, 21 Nov 2000 09:23:05 -0500 From: "Seth D. Fulmer" Subject: ET: The Great Miss Bond(poem) Hey there, I wrote this watching this Bond. I dunno..just in a bond watching mood lol :) I just finished Goldfinger and I think I'm going to watch Goldeneye later on. If I recall right this is my first poem with a story that I'm the bad guy. Yay me..I'm getting better in my skills. Anyhow, If you don't want my poems, let me know and I won't send them. Also comments and all that are welcome but not required. Take care and Have a Good Day, and a Happy Thanksgiving if you're in America and I don't talk to you until then. -Seth ============================================================== The Great Miss Bond by Seth D. Fulmer 11-21-00 She was the great Miss Bond with a great Mystery style This great woman of desire threw men's hearts into a whirlwind Whenever a job came to her she took it in hand with pleasure The difficulty of the mission never came without temptation Her baby a magnificent underdog who wished he knew her ins and outs took all her messages for her and kept her informed of her dangers But then one day she met her match a powerful man named Moi He had a body made of iron and his fingers were made of pure aurum. What power he had, and how he did shine No man could defeat him in combat So incredibly strong, but what she did wrong was misunderstand he too had a weakness Moi was an incredibly sensitive soul; he cared for her as well as he could He tried to be the angel he was born to be but somewhere he turned into a demon So Miss Bond did something that she had to do She kicked his ass clear into tomorrow Made him lick his wounds and cry to his mother and whine to all his friends and give them hugs ------------------------------ Date: Tue, 21 Nov 2000 22:34:13 -0500 From: "Seth D. Fulmer" Subject: ET: The Great Miss Bond part 2(poem) Hey there, After comments that the first part wasn't finished and some thoughts this evening, I just wanted to add onto the original part. Comments and all that are welcome but not required. If you have any questions or wish to not receive my poems, please bring it before me :) Take care and I hope you have a good Day/Thanksgiving :) -Seth ==================================================== The Great Miss Bond part 2 by Seth D. Fulmer 11-21-00 Moi really loved her The Great Miss Bond He cared for her personality and physique He loved when she talked He loved when she laughed and when she smiled and hugged him and kissed him When Moi was away from her He found he always thought of her Though she could always kick his ass and make it feel pleasurable There were times that Moi could be a real mean butthead and probably times that he was Each time he really regretted the act Sometimes being a bad guy was harder than usual and he helped her out quite frequently at that But then again he really wanted to be her savior He loved and he cared for her with all his heart His touch was evil except when around her When she was concerned he was weak Miss Bond was a lady and a strong one at that and could make Moi bow before her with honor A beautiful lady, and a lady with stealth Men bowed before her beautious persona If you should meet up with Miss Bond 007, You too will fall for her great charm ------------------------------ End of eda-thoughts-digest V3 #385 **********************************