VI.
Perplexity causes me to show master what I have written.
They think I am a cat, I say, pointing.
SHe reads for a while, nodding, then begins to make a type
of mumbling commentary, half to the screen, half to me.
I wrote down here what I remember, after.
I used quotation marks too, I think this is efficient.
"Your correspondents seem to have read Soseki's 'I am a cat'
and therefore they see what you are writing in terms of
that...mentioning your tail may have helped this sort of
projection, and also, of course, in that particular work
there is a master around which many of the anecdotes
revolve. It's probably your name, too....
The fizz he called manifest stations of a felinity might be
there or might be extensions of a body in the form of an
aura, or something, my belief systems are not, well, they are
in a dick, what, to be objective about these things - objective! -
with any certainty. All I know is that the weight of reality is
personal, or I spose I should say individual, and depends on
awareness and having some material to go on with, and as well,
on being aware of one's elf in relation to other elves. This is what
I had hoped to gain.
"Personally, I see you as Monkey, just that I wish Kuan Yin
would answer my prayers and send me a headache sutra that I
could use on you, to give me more control -- Hey! I've an idea!"
SHe turns to me, "Bend over. Here." SHe points to a spot.
SHe takes off the necktie sHe's wearing and loops it
around my forehead twice, tying it at the front. I see my
reflection in the mirror next to the computer screen. I
look like a hippy of yore. She grabs a pencil and sticks it
under the headband now, starting to twist it, a tourniquet.
It gets tighter but doesn't hurt. Not so much.
"Now, will you do my bidding?" sHe says.
"Of course, master", I reply, "Mephistopheles is not your
name, but I know what you're up to just the same, so I will
listen hard to your tuition and you will see it come to its
fruition. Then I will turn your face to alabaster when you
find your servant is your master. You'll be wrapped around
my finger!"
SHe smiles and turns back to the screen,
"Yes, I am seen as master because, as you say again here,
you are apt to do what I say to do. There is a dependency
relationship going on here. However, it should be plain
that I am also in a dependent position. If I say to do
something, and you do it for me, then my own needs
may be perhaps fulfilled, even though from one point of
view it might seem as if I am making the other do something.
Between matters of suckering or controlling, there seems to
be a very fine line. However, I do not force comply ants, and
therefore our relationship may be seen more fruitfly like in
terms of a let's see prosody or complete mentality.
"And, oh yes, your style is naive, look, I haven't noticed
any passive constructions at all, and you still have a
limited vocabulary, why the hell won't you read, I'm
going to tie you to a chair facing a wall, and the only
entertainment you can have will be reading a book, I will
supervise this personally..."
Here sHe trailed off, and then began blithering away again
as if I weren't even there.
"You are rather talented at imitation and mockery, and so I
ambitioned some kind of stylistic 'improvement' should you
read any other writers stealing fish. Of course, there may
be still others who do not see such a change as improvement
at all, but instead, the replacement of one set aphasia
lodgees with another, with a pretensive style on top
of that which has naturally developed. But whatever style,
or formal feet chores are adopted by a writer, one is left
with the question over the relationship of such feet chores
with that of what has been called content. I am bent over
with a favorite form as content in many cases.
,
or at least the formal feet chores as being primary, as
a dick catering a certain register or instruction to read AS
something, even if that is occasionally to read something
as not a normal text. I will not enter the dark
passageways of discussion on what is or how
one deems a text normal here, now....
Yes, the very ordinary mess of your text a signal to start
peeling away...But of course, we all know what lies at the
heart of the common garden variety onion...
Indeed, as the sage said, form is emptiness,
and emptiness is form...
(she whittered on regardless)
"But then, this is because perhaps, I, myself have been used
to putting the writer in this light, that of master to the
reader, seeing the text as instruction, as pry Mary-Lee
information about how to think, how to read. Here, however,
I have this creature at my seeming disposal who yet will
not read, and writes in a style which is to all intense and
purposes, super fish all, and yet, you damn monkey, the content
,
what is it? Public cases! A load of old kong an! (I have
no idea what sHe was talking about here, or even if I heard
correctly.) Let me read more of your writings so that I may
more fully explore these contradictions in myself."
SHe gets up and wanders off to the bathroom, pulling at the
beard sHe's growing.
----
I pounce on the master. What is postmodern? I ask.
Well, sHe says, It's a condition, like a disease. That's
not to put any negative value on it of course, nothing has
any value anymore. SHe narrows those eyes.
So I start singing, quoting back to the quote meister -
I'm looking for one new value, but nothing comes my way!
But, I say, Doesn't 'post' mean 'after'? And so, it should
mean 'after modern'.
It's not a time thing, sHe says, It's a state of mind.
Whatever era people were alive, that was 'modern' to them,
but some people were past that, even then.
No, I say, That can't be right. Because lots of people have
computers and televisions these days, and before, they
couldn't find out things about other people so quickly, and
there's much more stuff to find out now too, Hah.
SHe nods and smiles, Yes, that's also true. These days are
different, because more people can know more things about
more people more quickly. But it only means that the
condition spreads faster, and perhaps that its symptoms
have evolved, plus, that the strain is more virulent.
Do you think I can catch it, I ask, Like, through the
computer?
Well, I'm sorry to tell you this, sHe says with a stupid
grin, but I think you are the epitome of the postmodern
thing. Shall I count the ways?
And then will you tell me the Standard Deviation? I say,
cackling and running away for the ladder up to the roof.
Catch us if you can! I shriek, grabbing for the rungs.
Gotcha! sHe growls, reaches under my skirt and grabs me by the tail.
Uh-uh, don't you know how slippery a postmodern thing is.
And I flick it out of the master's grasp and keep going.
The thing that gives you away, sHe says standing under me,
is your inability to wear undergarments - no panties is a
synecdoche for the postmodern.
(I had to use my dictionary for this)
What? I said, Come in for a closer look then.
And I waited till I could feel breath on my bum.
I said, Did you say cynic douche? Here's one for your
trouble then. And I started to piss on the upturned face
between my legs.
Stop! sHe gurgled laughing, You're making me all wet!
I finally got the latch of the trapdoor unfastened and
pushed open the lid.
You've always been all wet, I say back, But come out on the
roof with me and you'll dry up in no time.
We clambered up onto the flat expanse where I have a little
garden of pot plants, and stretched ourselves out luxuriously
before laying down amongst them and stroking our bodies
slowly into the most delicious orgasm. It started in my
nose, sneaked down into places I couldn't touch and caress
with my hands, it wound down though my stomach and into
my empty bladder, exploded onto the folds of skin between
my thighs and ran back up laughing over my breasts and
into my mouth where it forced my tongue, curling,
out through my lips and fangs into the warm air in search
of salty piss dried skin. It laughed outright at the sky.
Then, we talked about nothing at all until the sun went
down. It made everything orange in turn while it got lower.