Love-Hounds-request@EDDIE.MIT.EDU.UUCP (02/07/87)
Really-From: IED0DXM@UCLAMVS
No, it's not poetry, just a story, says IED of his latest posting
to me, which I relay to Love-Hounds. He says it's just a reflection
of "the way I got out of The Garden, and back inside The House."
He says that the reason for the order the lines are in is obvious. It's
pretty corny, if you ask me, but who cares what I think? -- Andrew M.
This is the front door. Knock on it. Pound on it. Knock the door in.
Frustration whips round in my mind
as the siren wind whistles and sings to The House.
Already I've run out of steam,
yet I must somehow slip in with the wind.
Knock, pound, whip, whistle.
How desirable the spoils of such a siege,
how maddening to be passed by the hardworking seekers of the world!
HA!
Now, quick, down the stairs,
the loud, winding, uncertain stairs.
To reach the top, I must first go down endless flights of stairs,
across endless deserts,
across endless oceans,
and still I will be standing outside The House.
As I sat,
slumped and empty,
in front of The House
that could not be entered,
I saw a small marching band.
The band was coming
directly toward me,
marching down the street.
Crunch. Crunch.
Um-pah. Um-pah.
A driver was delayed by the band.
Beep-beep-beep!
shouted the car and its driver.
And then, finally, I lost patience.
I took out some gelignite and blew the bleeding door open.
NOW I'D REALLY MADE IT. THIS TIME I WAS IN FOR SURE.
("What was that?"
"Only your imagination.")
This is true happiness! This is getting rich quick!
Wait a minute...wait a minute...
What's this?
This isn't pleasant.
This isn't pleasant at all notatallnotatall.
The guitar chirps angrily, people twist notes like rotten bamboo.
What a sick...a sick...a sick feeling.
The House is striking ME. Rather striking SOMETHING...
Striking something UP...striking something up IN ME...
This is not The House...This is not a house at all.
Here, in the darkness, I could be anywhere!
A hot wet wind
is attacking me from the rear; and I want to get out,
and live indoors.
Listen, let's get the hell out of here, flutter away in the night wind.
Look over there! (Where?)
The terrain is getting more familiar.
It's English countryside
I see below.
If Stonehenge is outside
in the garden,
then we must really be inside The House.
But if God is not here but out there
in the studio,
then maybe we should get out there again.
Dreaming doesn't help.
I stomp about, in antiquated rhythms,
through numberless rooms,
in The House. But always I remain outside.
Inspiration is elusive.
Every step
past the threshold
is hard won,
easily
lost.
But at least I'm inside.
Now, guard this new advantage,
guard this prize.
SHUT THE DOOR BEHIND ME.
(But you know that's not the way...)
SHUT THE DOOR BEHIND ME.
(But you know that's not the way...)
Just open it, and leave it that way.
Love alone will give you the art you seek.
Well, since you ask,
It's the open air that I'm open to.
The garden air buzzes, flirts.
Heavenly breezes skirt the walls of The House.
Let's explore this House, how about it?
Well, I don't know...it's awful big, and there are no lights.
No lights? Oh, you're right, no electricity.
Well, o.k., we'll look for the fuse-box.
Where is it?
It's usually in the basement.
The basement? It's dark down there.
Yeah, but you've gotta risk something to gain something.
O.K., let's hit the stairs. HEY! It smells funny down here!
What do you mean, 'funny'?
Well, kind of EARTHY...
It's an earthen floor! There's ANIMALS down here.
Quick, forget the damn lights,
Let's get out of here!
Up, up! Go! keep climbing, quick!
Whew, what a relief! Fresh air, the fresh, dark night air.
Hey! We've gone all the way up to the roof!
Relax!
How do I relax? There's still no light, no moon...
Ssh! I hear something!
It's just music, squirming around the foundations of The House.
Yeah, and someone's down there, too,
making alot of racket. I'm very worried!
Why? Nothing to worry about, love.
Worry rattles around in my head. I'm going
downstairs again.
Do what you like,
but you're being silly.
Something may come
after you
up there!
Come on, come downstairs NOW!
Down, down, down, and we're in the front parlor.
Crepe covers the windows.
This is worse than death,
this is death with consciousness,
death with pain,
The pain that brings the will to live and relive,
To run for dark hills in the open.
This is the sound of death, nevertheless;
the cool, airy song of death;
the sweet,
urgent sound
of remorse.
Remorse carries me into life again.
I'm still in the front parlor, but the crepe has gone.
I have hired strange agents
To help relive.
Their vulgar interference is horrible, but what choice have I?
We must enter The House, or leave it,
together or not at all.
And still it doesn't happen.
SHUT THAT DOOR AGAIN, QUICK!
SHUT IT! SLAM IT! LOCK IT!
Protect me from the wind,
the dark wind hanging heavily overhead as it flies,
entreating me to give it a room.
The House is love, The House is complete.
The House is loved, The House is holy.
THAT'S IT! I AM THE HOUSE!
NOW YOU'VE GOT IT! THE HOUSE IS ME!
HERE IT IS! My goal lies here,
THERE! The dead of night calls
WHO'S THAT? For his goal is the same,
THIS IS THE END! But he is not yet formed, as I.
THAT'S IT! Protect me! Protect me!
HERE I WILL REMAIN! Protect me from the cold night wind of evil.
COME TO ME! Magician, help me now!
FACE ME! Let me turn and flee!
FACE ME, DEAR! FACE THE BLACK, FROZEN BREATH OF LIFE!