Alicia's Lament

Alicia's Lament

FACE*UP*TO*IT.kom
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Tell it to Mama, Honey......

username: THE RED QUEEN

Lester L. is in deep psytological shit. And Jameilla help me, I'm dependant on the buzzard for my very psyte-survival. I have to Face*Up*To*It. It's the first step on the way toward psyte-suffiency, I know. But how am I to go on without herm? The first step is to story bore it, or so they say. So here it goes.

Lester, my beloved she.He, is in a state of almost total ego-psyte disintegration. If you have any doubt just check this piece of crap on WRODOK that hesh thinks int is channeling, not writing. The stupid fuck is calling it "Another Book of Lies" and believes it is being almost dictated to herm by some supra-human creatures int calls Colbeques.

aheeleeleelee Who wants to read a book of lies written by aliens? Save your K.breath Lester L.

Hesh told me yesterday morning, during another one of O.url fruitless sexual encounters, that hesh feels positively possessed, to the point of being dis-possessed, and int's sure this possession began long ago. That int's been fighting it for years but has given up now and is just letting it flow through herm as if int's own ego-psyte did not exist. ???? Watching herm get up nite after nite or morning after morning to klick klick cklick at int's e-bok J4, I can believe it.

Then hesh started onto some long parentheses about int's ex-wife Alice's father, and about how when he (Lester L. when he was a HE, as opposed to now when int is just 2/5 she, since she did squirt out a little kid named Alyson once upon a time - that's a long other story)

,,,,,,,,aannyywaay,.........

...... about how when he was a youngish retro-hippy, his father-in-law pointed out to him, in his pedantic way, what a fool he (Lester) was. It was a long story and I was only half awake for some of it and totally asleep for the rest. Lester's voice always puts me to sleep. That's the only good thing about sleeping with herm, but it counts big for me: hesh puts me to sleep. And with the nervous hours I put in, I need to sleep, and without pills if possible. Lester is better than little blues for sleeping.

Anyway I woke up to the punchline where the old creepy father-in-law says " It's not physical bodies that count Lester; it's political bodies." Now supposedly those "political bodies" are the Colbees that have been pursuing him all int's life. And then hesh was going on about how it all made sense now.

Even our trip to Morocco last summer came into it somehow. I think it had something to do with me buying and reading that book DANS LE PEAU DE AUNTY AREN'T U. by Lore Addler. A primarily anecdotal biography, though well-documented and complete, of the well known proto-intrasexual Aunty Aren't U. Aunty is deservedly famous for int's ideas regarding what int calls "the carnality of evil," which hesh first elaborated in the article, "Ikeman in Jurysalem."

I just bought it by chance for a euro because it is five cm thick and the thicker the better with all those skreen-less evenings in the old vw Peoples Bus, anether-whirlding in Morrocco. Anyway I thought it was an OK book but Lester was like less than halfway through when hesh started making notes in the back of it. That's when the Colbees reestablished contact, hesh says, and started dictating to herm. And now hesh just can't stop writing. I believe that. Heshe couldn't even get int's little half clit / half dick thing hard yesterday.

Which is new for herm, from what I've heard. I had a real heart to heart with Lester's sister last year in Havaii and from what I hear int has been quite a dog, a pretty rough combination of a boar in rut and a bitch in heat. I haven't seen any of that.

Lesters' sister Mabel told me that like six years ago at the Bred of Life Writers Conference up there at Mittelberry, on Worm-mountain, Int spent the whole two weeks shacked up with some very surprised full-males and full-females that were delighted to discover int's extra equipment. Maybe some of those full-sexers wrote something published in "The Bread of Life Ant-thology" over there in that pile of books int keeps by the door. Next time I need a good nap I'll ask herm about it. If there is a next time. Face*Up*To*It.

All Lester ever told me about that trip before was that the author of "The Word According to Carp" was there, (I can't remember the guy's name) a book that everyone, including Les, just jissm'd all over but that I'd never even heard of before. But I'm learnin. Anyway, according to Lester, whoever the author is, he was a real prick dedicated to knocking the badminton birdy down the throats of his opponents every nite in the sporting competitions that closed the day's intellectual activities. Fucking intelloes.

I do know that there were writers from various "genres" (see I told you I'm learnin) at that Bred of Life conference (what the fuck is the bred of life, don't tell me, it has to be the written word, oh Jamaella and Makemud protect me.) And that Lester was really disappointed that the super famous poet of the year was some super boring intello rather than his own favorite poet Renard Koan, Over there in the pile by the door next to the table where int's channelling the Colbees, I know is THE COLLECTED POEMS OF L RENARD KOAN.

On the back, listen, is this usual bla bla bla: "Koan has enjoyed a moderate reputation in the 21st centURLy after a somewhat rocky beginning in the twentieth. Nonetheless he remains more of a cult figure and minor poet rather than either particularly popular or critically acclaimed. The pomes found here include "Take this Walk" and "Superfly you are beautiful""

Going through the pile right now, as if I might find a clue or even a cure for Lester's ego-psyte destruction, I find one book, way at the bottom of the stack, a paperback with that compact solid feel of a book that has never even been opened. THE LONG SHORT STORIES OF GEORGE LEWIS BOREHASTE: "The nationality of this writer is unknown, as is the language he originally wrote in. We have unearthed a ton of stuff by him in many languages. It is a veritable Babbble of words. Some have the same opinion of the contents of the works themselves." So goes the jacket blurp. blurp blurp

Doesn't sound as if this Borehaste guy is too popular with somebody. "I wonder who the editor is," as Lester would say. Not named on the cover and I don't want to crack the virgin spine to read in between the lines. My hands are dirty from unpacking shipping boxes and handling cash money all day (can you believe it). Yes cash money and that's another long story.

Anyway, Lester Lesley, the fat bitch is gone, and I am scared psyte-less and heart-broken. I feared it wasn't going to last, but I am surprised shehe didn't take any of int's shit with herm, what he calls int's junk, art-like object pomes. Now I have to clean out the fucking loft and, that is where I found what I guess is The suicide note of one Lester Lesley Tothenth, may Jaweilla forgive Her servant.

All it says is this. "Lester can feel intself slipping into one of the experiential wHOLES in int's life; slippiing day by day by day further down into the sand-gravel wHOLE of the ant-lion king, and we all know what lies in wait at the wHOLY vortex. It goes by the name of The Bred of Life."

I better stop. This is gonna cost me a k.debyt. But maybe I'll be able to open the shop now.........alone