world dallas everything around us and that comprises us and that we yearn for and that we fear. 980901 ... drew some land, some water, some air, some funky people... and the urge to move. 980904 ... eric the current embryo 980905 ... jeff ...highly overrated... 980905 ... k sometimes i feel so small 981121 ... Caine Hated by all the people it doesn't like anyway. 981124 ... adam the world outside my window looks hungover today, all sluggish and temperant. 990212 ... Demi Monde my name, in french, means half of it 990301 ... nice sucks shit... but you already know that. 990301 ... [marissa] in adam's hungover planet eric's helpless fetus... i find the comfort of a day that always ends with night and begins again with morning. the one thing you can count on. the only thing, perhaps. 990304 ... aaron could be beautiful if humans didn't fuck it up. 990523 ... Felix a little place in universe. 991018 ... FooLmOOn Disco Dance World I knew so little… almost nothing!!! I wasn’t even sure of what they were... The people looked like sketches, waiting outside one pink-lit inviting doorway which left me even more mystified but excruciatingly anxious. A force? I’m forced (?) forward onto a wobbly silicon floor which draws me nearer to the door and I hear the beat from inside... Dance is common to all inhabited worlds in the multiverse and it is never danced properly? But that isn't the secret... The secret is IN the dance. IN the beat. Yes! it has to be done. There is a personality in it. But... Personalities come to an end. Only Forces endure. Perhaps it is a force... just a force... because becoming a personality is inefficient.. and I don’t want to spread. ...Suppose gravity developed a personality. Suppose it liked people... Would it let me go. Would it let us fly? I walk through the pink-lit doorway.. All I feel is a throbbing, beating all over my cold body. The heat flowing in faster then the light can radiate it and I want to burn into a blue electric flame and burn the same way that a strand of hair does; a small cloud of vapour - quickly and with no residual mess. I AM NOT TIRED! I watch the luminous people moving. ONE stands selecting. He selects one. And then another and more, many more. Select, select. More, select! Then asking me... Are You Scared? I turn my head for I learnt that pretending not to know only keeps you safe. Or does it? I move further into the beat and the floor starts to spin. People zooming past my eyes and the blurring of their colours and dancing bodies start to form vivid images in my mind. It spins faster and faster and my transparent skin starts to tingle. I open my mouth to breathe and instead letting the air escape. The vivid images I created all fit into place and my eyes start to water. I feel them burn. Streams of tears leave acid lines down my cheeks which I use to be able to cover up - They call me PLASTIC! But they don’t seem to be looking up above their heads where the puppet masters lie and control their moves so carefully. My body slams up against the padded wall by the forces in the beat. My throat closing... suffocating me. I close my mouth. As I always do… and the room starts to slow; letting me fall to the floor. "Its Just a Disco Dance World, Why do you question it so much?" he said, pulling me up. My eyes close as I feel the twisted knives around his wrists slice open my warm sweaty hands - the Bright Red Sticky Gum eases out the slits. The stale air darkening it. So.. Blood is everyone’s secret? My blue veins swell to balloons, the pressure increasing with each cut - it eases my fear - pain always eases my fear. The music, the beat, the sound, the heat, the pounding, the people, the sick smiles, the smell, the hate... they start to sway the room and I grab a hold of his arm... the beat moving faster and all he does is stare. He stoops to kiss my face and I turn my head once again - I am no replacement. He whispers to me against the increasing noise "The most who die, the more we live - we blow hope to terror, blow seeing to blind and soul to mind. Why do your eyes still have their silence?" and I reply "My silence is only for those who's minds are deflated prunes, but my silence for those whose minds are with substance is only because… one with a million words to say… has no substance." We watch the lenses extend around the still moving room - everyone moving out to the sides like worms, slugs and I am left in the middle - moving faster. I whisper to my self.. this is the greatest most difficult enterprise in the human experience. Its the strongest sensation of fear, pain, suffering, desire, ecstasy - the full scope of this is not sustainable by cellular organisms as it is the gateway to another level of being - but its variable nature - a common misconception is to take any experience or sum of experiences as the full potential. The floor starts to fall beneath us leaving me falling. All the force… Drained. Where is the personality? Gravity let me go? Let me fly.. but no, I chose the forces. The forces endure and I endure. We all spin, faster and faster the vivid images flashing back even clearer. My hands start to burn as the salty gravel eats away at my wounds. I watch the pink-lit room fade further and further away as I sink back into an empty shell. Slowly opening my eyes.. I haven’t even moved. I’m still in my COLD STEEL CAGE. But the memory of the beat, the pounding remained.. moving through my body like poison. I think its the best memory I have. It brings me ultimate joy through ultimate pain. I need those extremes to make my life special (?) And I say nothing, and I do nothing - people rip and tear at words - nothing I am makes sense. I am soo tired. 991022 ... Colleen Our melting must be done in a Crockpot. 991112 ... why me it sound like whirled and it is 991122 ... SimplyMe The trouble with the world today is that people don’t have enough fingers. Imagine, if you will, what the world would be like if we were all born with two dozen fingers on each hand. For starters, we would have been less likely to develop our absurd ten-based number system. Let’s see, two dozen on each hand, that would make for a grand total of sixty. A sixty-based counting system would have been much better from the start. That’s what the Incas used, and believe me, they wore way cooler hats than anybody alive today. Perhaps one of the biggest obstacles against a sixty-based number system—that is, besides the finger thing—is the huge variety of symbols necessary to depict sixty different numbers with a single digit. Again, the Incas had us beat there too. Their low numbers, one through five, were just simple lines and crosses, but as the numbers got bigger, they became more complicated, from lines to patterns of dots, from dots to large grotesque faces, and from faces to huge murals of the gods at war. Wouldn’t it be a wonderful world if instead of writing “60” you would have to sit down and draw Apollo driving his solar chariot across the sky as Bacchus and the fauns celebrate in the summertime forests below. And imagine how a digital watch would look. Think of how far and how fast technology would have had to progress just to put that digital green snarling warrior face on your wrist. With the extra boost that a sixty-based number system would give to science, we would have mastered manned space flight hundreds of years ago. Imagine if you will, a colony on the surface of the moon—not that stereotypical spacemen-in-a-glass-bubble colony, but a real colony, outdoors, in the open air. You might say, “What air?” Well, I’ll tell you. It ids very simple. Imported air. We have so much of it here on earth just sitting around not being breathed. We could build a solid pipeline between the earth and the moon, and then force air through it with a gigantic box-fan. Of course, as we all know, the moon moves all over the place, so it would be necessary to build supports to keep it in one place. Now, if the moon was to be stopped, it would have to be stopped over the territory of one country or another, and then we get into the difficulty of who owns the moon. Naturally, it would seem that whoever got to the moon first would own it, and since the United States was the only country to plant its flag on the moon, it would seem that they would have first dibs on it. But then, before you know it, Burma, or France, or some other third world country would claim to have gotten there first, and would claim to have placed a perfectly ordinary rock on the surface as a marker of their territorial right to the hottest bit of new real-estate around. In that case, there would be nothing to it but to fight a war. Now, normally war is a nasty, brutish thing, but I like to think that in our enlightened world, we can think of ways to make it a bit more sporting. A few simple rules would level the playing field. First off, no soldiers from a country with nuclear strike capabilities would be allowed to wear shoes or a helmet in combat. Secondly, the pilots of jet fighters and bombers would be required to spend at least one quarter of their air-time close enough to the ground for people on foot to throw rocks tat them. And lastly, gunners would be forbidden from firing anything larger that 22 caliber bullets at any enemy mounted upon a donkey, camel, llama or other beast of burden. With those rules in place, I think it would be possible to actually have a “World War 3” without risk of turning the world into one of those cheesy post-apocalyptic desserts that you see in so many sci-fi movies from the nineteen-eighties. You know the type. Bunch of punks riding around on spiked motorcycles, picking on honest hardworking mutants and children. I swear. And then somebody always eats a dog, like it’s some big deep social commentary on human nature—“Oh no! Look how terrible we are, first we nuke the world, and now we eat man’s best friend.” Makes me sick. What exactly is so bad about eating a dog anyway? The Polynesians do it all the time. Once I knew this nice Polynesian guy, his name was Sam. Once in a while he would invite me over to his place, and we would have dog and watch the ballgame. It was really good—of course, that’s only cause his wife knew how to cook it—I mean, you can’t just toss Spot on the barbecue and expect him to taste good. You have to marinate your dog first. The breed is also important. Sam told me all about it. Australian dingoes are ideal, and so are saint bernards, and Irish setters. Never eat a lap dog, they are real stringy, and avoid Dalmatians, because if they are undercooked, they can get you real sick. Also, despite the name, wiener-dogs don’t taste like wieners at all. They taste more like bratwurst. Some people get mad when you talk about eating dogs. They act like you are some kind of ogre, eating something that will shed on the furniture and jump on guests. They think it is wrong to eat something so cute and furry and intelligent. To those people I say “What about bread, huh?” Do you realize what bread is? It is made from ground up wheat! When most people think of wheat, they think of a dry little plant sitting there in the field doing nothing. That is just the sort of image that the grain industry tries to promote through the media. Don’t buy into it! Wheat is warm and cuddly! Wheat is soft and friendly! Wheat makes a better pet than a dog. In fact, it is even possible to house-train wheat, and to teach it to bring you the morning paper. Next time you take a bite out of a sandwich, think about how many poor little wheats had to die horrible deaths in the threshing machine to provide you with your meal. Have a little pity. Bread is murder! 991217 ... Leann is just a great big place to go out and fuck up in! 000311 ... Free We are the world. The world is what we've made it. 000408 ... john how can alternative genitalia compete in a phallic world? 000429 ... That Goo Goo Dolls Guy and i dont want the world to see me cuz i dont think that theyd