Open Letter To Reuben

WASHINGTON, DC - I swear I'm not making light of your own clever Aussie cadaver, but at 290 pounds and hurting in every direction, while I certainly am not one to rig you unfairly in this regard, don't picture me a bonny prize prince bearing up well without a prime directive to force me from the world's womb. I'm been exiled. I've been quarantined. I'm a sick and sometimes frightened book stitched in paltry cloth fraying along nearly every strand. Those are the lonely facts, facts which do me no honor. Flesh is the enemy.

My own writing has been reduced to sideline scoopings and restaurant snippets these past two years, as the corpus delecti of the Internet business inertia that I, and especially my wife, tried to manifest becomes dust, Matthew now roars in desiring to springboard along the same fairy dust trail as I ready to offer him control of it, and the loss of inertia finally sinks into the skull of my hardheaded but long-suffering wife and confidante. The collapse of the dotcom industry smited me. And to date there are no jobs to be gotten for someone who apparently cuts a rather worrisome swarth in the corporate gameplan (in myth if rarely in reality), but here's a toast to the world: I am hardly desperately seeking...

The SWORG? Merely a drop dead project that has some long hard work ahead to be of any use to anyone, no special basis for excitement right now, but thanks for the heads up on the new frontpage, both were much needed.

We've all been caught in the spotlight quarrels. It ain't Rome yet, but the SWORG aim is already bigger than my own paltry profile, so I figure I'll keep compiling little bits and bytes at a snatch, then in chunks a go go, then probably settle in for the daily writer's churn within the next month of Tuesdays. We're not Bethlehem Steel either, by God, but we're close. And it's not surveying the rowdy guts of the world chain by chain from the mountains down to the valleys across the deserts and into the seas, past the skies and into the soul, but let's face it, there's only one way to pry into the soupy gears of the living cell itself, and that's the act of creating something vital from one's own experiences and raw material. That's the Type-A hype. I can only work, taking for granted that the glory of my full imperative in artistry must somehow prevail.

Whole neck sciences & cush regions of the GT brain were neurologically tested a couple of years ago, certain problems found, but nothing life-threatening at the moment doctors said, but the continued gong and circuitry pains of stress spike off my regis, results of a hard life lived hard continue to pound me. Go figure, already half deaf and my skull on one side or the other becomes clinically numb most of my waking hours, all self-induced stress. Life as pain-spotting is boring but necessary in a dullard's hour, while migrations of stress as anonymous as an unclaimed travel trunk move back and forth across the intended victim's kinetic scales. The angel of death tells me nothing but lies and nuances which I can only defy with a sigh.

So boast in cheer my friend. True as rain and drought in Rimbaud's Africa, I too am overwhelmed by my own petty circumstances, grandiose only to myself and my wife, and so I must go on record in saying that I dare not trust any thought which aims to distance you from me, despite recent rumors fed the mill of contrarian advice.

We are fine, you and me, you and the SWORG, Kubhlai surely methinks, and Matthew too, now that we are aware that you are not simply and saintly hardwired to the SI or red-nosed with proto-Marxism and its sour belly of utopian promises that offer little in the way of contemporary relief. It's not about quotes, movements, salad dressings, or help in the machine shop, it's not even about ideas, or people with ideas. It's about the fascinating seeds of change and the torrid winds of tomorrow as they continue to make their ways plain across rusting paths emblematic in the images we know as our own daily scavenger hunts, hunts that dog us day and night year after year until we bury our own dead and disappear. I have written some on this, but have posted very little. I expect this to change soon. I have stumbled upon an idea. Actually it leaped out my mouth in one of my ranting sermonizing jam sessions with my wife a couple of weeks ago, but I am very close to thinking that I have finally solved much of my intellectual dilemma in noting that western capitalism is the purest and most active form of communism every practiced. Soviet and Chinese influences pale against America's experiment with getting out the goods, protecting the individual while serving the whole. It's not perfect. Perfection, like dignity, paraphrasing Bob Dylan, ain't ever been photographed.

Frankly, I am fresh out of ideas that pertain to why I am too tired to think in terms outside my own nest right now, only to touch base with the sites when I can.

Along the way one picks up a few more exercises, a few more characters, a few more glimpses into the universal magnificence of the self in its eternal struggle with itself first of all, then out into the competitively spinning friction among others. There is no easy salvation, my friend, no friendly state to guide us and bless us with perfect dividends as long as we remain corruptible and subjected to the long flippant even sexy fingers of time. This is what the SWORG originally stood to emphasize.

I then thought about a collaborative effort. But timely and pertinent feedback in this attempt to bridge lives often spread too thin is proving no less difficult to plot than all those other plans to make art and money, life song or noise dished up for the 1990s and now the 21st centurians, with nary a true prince among us, but paupers. The site will tighten up, and content will still be slowly added, but let's quit dreaming...

I have all but stopped writing bogged to my ears in other upkeep projects, but time they is a changing, I can only hope against thy sting, I say to Nexus the beekeeper in haiku. Yet the website is an important niche as I express this identity crisis with whatever I can post.

After a year of almost nothing but putting foot to pavement in Paris and elsewhere Europe, Matthew will no longer be a student in a year, and wants to make it in New York City. Plans to publish on demand are solid.

Next year Kubhlai will still be UK dad and husband. Rebunk, even Crash, who knows, may just keep piddling along, and with us remaining visible, contactable, such as it is, we'll all finally get to a point where we have indeed written something, compiled something, built something, unique and powerful, with cues from the ancient and wise, but as fresh and invigorating as a new life in a new land can be to a lifelong refugee still longing for a satisfying grammar.

I need to re-establish your link on the new SWORG homepage, but also with writings reconfirming that the Scenewash Project is actually a Gabriel Thy solo production. Your site of course will be linked. I will work the same names I already work, some more aggressively than others, but of my projects, none foot any bills anymore although I did make a few thousand a year once. But fortunately, it is becoming sanctioned thinking around this household again that concentrating on writing a publishable book might be my only shot at creating something powerful enough to map the whole scent.

So Matthew wants to help. We'll see how far that gets. We both voice high hopes. Mark the settings of greatness in all these crackling strategies of daily life that we've encountered with prejudice under many names and slinky numbers. We can all testify to the knowledge of this perpetual line of fire, grace under hire, grappling at the wire, none of us the liar. Because our own lies, we suspect, will always come back to haunt us, then consume us, leaving us the bitter result of a wasted life. And one other thing is certain. None of us, those five or six who became the sworgsters of '98, became enemies. Even within the more rippled shadows of existence we are friends, the special sort of friends I will always associate with great reward.

Here in that box, there in those, everywhere I search. There must be a meaning to this utter singularity of a duty call that not even technology can forestall. Or is it just another buzz in the flames of the unfamous and the unmattered? There's never an unblemished answer, no, beyond questioning in this scenario. Thus it never ends, no completion, no vanishing point in the tunnel until time finally takes a holiday. But as I write this, I'm beginning to feel and utterly embrace that odd rejuvenation again now, in an effort to help correct all this disfigurement settled on me by past floods of doubt and oversung anthems aimed at me by well-intended others throughout the bog & jug annals of petty history, and a few maybe not so well-intended glory zone pips who strutted up my asphalt with danger in their eyes, unstated devotion in their veins. I suspect there's something we only catalogue in whispers we all want to follow like christ, we just don't realize it's already inside us, ready to execute these connections to the universal potlatch we each claim in the name of our own humanity .

Meanwhile, what can I say compadre. So much for an ugly American to do, so little. . .

Gabriel Thy
February 15, 2001

Top of page

Home | Site Kiosk | Scenewash Lobbies | LUXMACHINA | Bookskellar