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   nSSn  nSSi SSn "Sbnn"     nSn  `SS  "Sbnn" "SbdS"


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.......... ......... ........ ....... ...... ..... .... ... .. .  .   .    .
   .   .  . . .. ... .... ..... ...... ....... ........ ......... ..........

    t h e  n e o - c o m i n t e r n   e l e c t r o n i c  m a g z i n e
                 I n s t a l l m e n t    N u m b e r  1 1 3

         LANOITANRETNI ht5 EHT ERA EW - WE ARE THE 5th INTERNATIONAL
                       0002 ,ht5 yluJ - July 5th, 2000
                          CMB :rotidE - Editor: BMC
                             :sretirW - Writers:
                                  CMB - BMC


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 ;P                      Featured in this installment                      .b
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                               EDITOR'S NOTE

        Oh my.  You just interrupted me in the shower.  Can you give me a
couple of minutes to get dressed?  If YES then 1, if NO then 2.

1) Thank you for being so kind.  Do you like my new socks?  I think they're
blue but some say they are grey.  Oh well.  So what are you doing tonight?
I'm just about to throw this issue together.  I imagine you'd like to read
it, wouldn't you?  Ok, well I'll explain what's going on a bit then.  In this
issue we have a very special story that my best friend Heck and I dreamed up
a few months ago.  Yes, I remember when this love story was just a dream, but
now it is a beautiful reality.  So before you read this issue I would just 
like to announce my thanks to Heck for her involvement in this story and her 
kindness for not suing me when she sees it in print.

2) Oh, so are you here for the issue or for something else?  Now that you
mention it, I've been feeling like a machine and that's no way to feel.  Come
make love to me between the pixels of this tender love story, entitled "Three
Simple Words."

        I love you.

        By the way, not to break the mood but this issue is going out to my
homies Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley.  Peace out.

       Whoooooooo@@@@@@@@@@OOOOOO0000000000!


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Three Simple Words.  

Giraffes never talk.  Nobody really knows why, though.  All we know for sure
is that they walk around all life long doing nothing but eating fruit from
really tall trees and hanging out in zoos.  They never utter a word.  Why?
Is it because they have nothing to say, or is it merely because they lack
the physical capacity to do it?  Nobody knows, and nobody really cares
either, but I bet you have thought about it a few times.  Have you ever
bothered to look it up and actually find anything out about it though?  Of
course not, and neither will I.  Ever.  From the beginning of time to the
end there is only one fellow who ever gave a damn about it, and that was
young Sole Winston.

Well, wait a second.  He wasn't all that young.  Well, actually, he was
young once, but at the time that this story took place he was in his late
thirties, still young in the eyes of old people.  When I think of the
important names, though - the artists... most of them died before the age of
forty.  The passionate artists, the eternal emotionalists.  Your life might
be changed if you witness one of their bodies (of work).  To witness the
artist's work is to live their life and share their experience, even gain
their wisdom, and that's their purpose of existence, to have you feel with
them.  To the artist, every stroke of the tool is an act of love, and every
creation an orgasm, perhaps even a birth.  The pain an artist suffers
through, though, is everlasting.  It is never over like the delivery of a
human child is.  It is deep pain, passion, love.  Intensity.

Sole Winston wasn't an artist, though.  He was just a guy.  Just a guy?  Why
bother writing a story about him then?  "Just a guy"s are not very
interesting, and they never really do anything important in life.  "Oh
well," I say (for I must defend my creation), "'Just a guys' make the
world-go-round."  But that's about it.  They're not worth much else.  Well,
wait a second.  That's not entirely true.  Sole Winston was a bit different.
He wasn't an artist or anything important, but he was still special in his
own way.  He had a thing for giraffes (get your mind out of the gutter,
cause it wasn't a sexual thing, in fact it was purely intellectual).  He
thought they had much more to offer the world than just something tall and
pretty to look at on your day off from work.  He knew why they didn't talk.
For the same reason that people don't sing.  They don't think it's
worthwhile, they don't think they can get they can get anywhere with it.
They are convinced that nobody will care and they will end up projecting
sound out into nothing because the world has been conditioned to ignore
their voice.

Sole was different, though.  He heard the voices.  He was very ambitious
(for a man).  He realized that there was something that could be done about
that.  "If you devote all of your energy toward singing," he thought, "the
world must hear you eventually."

He was right.  This unimportance of a human being was about to set off a
chain reaction that would make the world a different place.  Do it, Sole, do
it.

It was Sole's day off from work, and he went... to the zoo.  Yes, this was
the same as every other day off.  He woke up, showered, shaved, ate
breakfast, brushed his teeth, put on cologne, and jetted out to his hydrogen-
powered car which carried him directly to his true home, the zoo.

His false home was the townhouse that he had just left.  He didn't feel at
home there.  It was lonely, the basement was dark, the windows were too
small, the walls were too dense, the stairs were too many.  It was the trap
of the poor working-class peasant.  This was Sole's square chamber where he
was doomed to live and die, but his real place was there with her.  Her,
Millie, the intelligent giraffe whom he was sure would open her heart to him
sometime soon.  She had much more to offer the world than she let on.
Love.  She was amazing.  Love.  He couldn't wait to see her.  Love.  He
loved her.  He couldn't get her out of his mind.  This was his day off,
though, and he was going to spend it by going down to the zoo and then going
to the grocery...  love.  He couldn't tear his mind from the thought of
love.  It wasn't working.  His thoughts always returned to her.  Emotion
dominated his life, but he couldn't have wished for it to be any other way.

Sole drove on.  Stop.  Turn left.  He got out of his car.  Here he was, at
the zoo.  Ahh, the love.  He walked briskly over the grass toward the
entrance to the zoo.  He walked over the grass.  It was beautiful at this
time of year.  It was half grown in, but there was still a fair length of
time to go before it reached maturity.  He walked forward, eyes straight
ahead, not noting the beauty crushed beneath his feet.  Left.  Right.  Left.
Each footfall a sign of disrespect, each moment representing beauty unheeded.
Swish-swish.  Thump.  Crush.

But this was a man in love.  Of course this man would be an admirer of the
beauty of the world.  Love makes people sensitive, right?  Love is good.

It was early in the season, and the zoo was just opening up for the year.
In fact, most people didn't even know the zoo was open at this time of year,
and when Sole Winston startled the man in the ticket booth, he wondered if
the zoo employee was aware that the zoo was in full effect.  The ticket
booth guy was doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing in the booth,
and Sole realized this when he walked up to the window and the man inside
made some quick movements and then refused to look Sole Winston in the face.
"Very conspicuous," Sole thought.

He was right.  It was conspicuous.  The man came up to the window of the
booth and stood there, waiting for Sole to say something.  Sole said
nothing.  The man looked at Sole.  Sole looked at my man.  Yep, you heard
me, my man.  The guy happened to be my boyfriend, and that's how I heard
about this story.  I bet you're waiting for me to say something postmodern
now, like that I was only gay in the story.  Ha ha a little joke like in
Bugz Buny, but nope.  This story is all true, and the booth man is truly my
guy and I love him dearly.

Sole looked at my man.  There was some more silence and the booth man
finally said something.  "Eight dollars."  His breath smelled really bad.
Sole assumed the guy had been ingesting something he shouldn't have been,
and he was probably right.  Sole cringed, frowned at the man, gave him a ten
and waited for change.  He took the fancy two dollar Canadian coin from
Boothman and put it into his heart.  Walk walk walk.  Sole was over by the
monkeys now.  How cute.  He walked past the peacocks and a lion, and walked
on a bit further.  Ahh, there she was, the giraffe of his dreams.  He looked
up at her with wide eyes and brows arched outward.  She looked down to her
lower left and there Sole was.  She wanted to lick him, but didn't know how
he would react.  "I love you," thought the giraffe.  It was the most
beautifully romantic and equally pathetically sappy moment you could
possibly imagine.  "I love you," said Sole, as if in response to her
thought.  Then he did something that perhaps he should not have done.  

Sole Winston got down on one knee and reached into his pocket.  He pulled
out a ring, size seven, and proposed to his giraffe.  "Will you marry me,
Millie?" he asked.  He called her Millie, but the sign on her cage just said
Giraffa camelopardalis reticulata, and that's probably what those zoo
bastards called her too.  Millie said yes in her own way, which consisted of
doing nothing at all.  Sole was the happiest man in the world.  She raised
her hoof and he put the ring on her finger.  But what next?  She was inside
a cage, trapped, unable to go free, unable to be with Sole.  Ahh!  A plan!

He knew that there was only one place they could be happy together, and that
was in his townhouse.  That was the plan.  Now the only problem was to
determine a way to get her there.  Aha!  A fantastic escape like in those
fucked up jail movies eg. Shawshank Redemption and Birdman of Alcatraz (I am
just assuming they made a movie by that name).  Sole went back to the booth,
and this time he caught the boothman in the act of drinking straight out of
the bottle.  It was Appleton Estates amber rum, and it looked like he had
drank about 20 ounces of it so far.

"Hey, guy," Sole said, "do you know where I can get a metal file or a
cutting torch?"  The man in the booth jumped and put the bottle behind his
back as quickly as he could, and twisted his shoulders in such a way that
Sole assumed that he was putting the cap on the bottle.  Speaking as little
as possible, the man shambled over to the tool shed and gave Sole a cutting
torch.  "Thanks," exclaimed Sole, adding the word "...loser" when the booth
guy was out of earshot.

Sole walked, no, he ran back to the cage where his bride-to-be lived.  He
cut the bars, bottom then top, bottom then top, bottom then top.  He removed
eighteen of them (actually many more than he needed to remove), then he
climbed onto Millie's back and rode her to freedom.  As they went past the
ticket booth they saw the booth guy passed out in his own vomit.  They
laughed, and Sole plotted a course for his townhouse.  Later that night he
walked back to get his car, so don't worry cause I didn't forget about that.

How does it feel not to have fear in your heart?  How does it feel to find a
love and be taken to a place where things are innocent and you have complete
faith that things will be ok?  It's hard to remember it.  It's hard to say
what it is like when you are not right there.  You can only be in one place
at a time, and it takes imagination to visit another.  Imagination.  Note
that word.

Imagination and reality are not the same, and things aren't always perfect
even though they may seem that way.  When you are in love you can only
imagine the reality of the situation.  You can't actually believe it.  We
human beings tend to mend clothes, fill holes, paint and repaint.  This is a
thinly veiled technique to trick ourselves into thinking we are somewhere
that we are not.  In all fairness, though, the mental patches are put in
place in a completely different way than physical ones are.

The physical world is very straightforward.  When we see a wooden fence and
put a coat of paint over top of it, we know that the fence still has the
same capacity to be effective and no more.  We know it will serve its
purpose as a barrier.  It will be neither more nor less efficient.  When we
cut ourselves we know that our scab is not nearly as efficient as skin, and
someday it will be a scar that will also be weaker than what we started
with.  We can be completely conscious of the downfalls of these cover-ups.

When it happens in your head, though, then what?  How can we rationalize the
ineffectiveness of a patch that has been put in place for the purpose of
fooling us?  If it is there at all, it must continue to fool our sense of
reason.  If it fails to do this then it does not actually exist!  People
often refer to the mind as "playing tricks," and although most people don't
know why, there is probably a pretty good reason.  If you talk to a
psycholotrist or a psychiagist you could probably figure it out, but I don't
know any of those people or even know what those big words mean so I'm just
going to continue on with my story if you don't mind.

Sole and Millie got married the next day, and they were quite happy
together, as you might imagine.  They did fun stuff like hanging out in the
park and going for walks by the river.  They went grocery shopping together,
they ate green pudding and oysters, they cuddled.  They loved each other.
One thing they never did, though, was talk to each other.  Well, Sole talked
plenty much, but Millie never had anything to say.  Is it possible to have a
meaningful relationship without verbal communication?  It appeared so,
because the love between the two was true.  "What is she really like,
though?" wondered Sole, "What goes on in her mind?"  He didn't know.  There
was much more to her than she revealed to him.  He was pretty sure of that.
He hoped it, anyway, but he never found out.

Millie never said much, but she thought about lots of things.  She didn't
like being in a building with a roof.  She was too tall, and she had had to
crawl around on her hands and knees all the time.  It was just that bad.
She tried talking to Sole about it several times, but she could never find
the words.  The days and years rolled on, and Millie just couldn't take it
anymore.  She wanted to get a new place and she couldn't think of another
way to get the message across, so she started biting him all the time.  She
hated doing it, and she knew it caused pain for him, but she figured that
one of these times he would get the message that she wanted to move to a
place with a higher roof.  That isn't the message that Sole got from it,
though.

Bite minus message equals meaningless pain.  Ouch.  As Sole received message
after message it started becoming clear to him.  Not that Millie had a plan
for a better life, but that he was starting to get really pissed off.  They
had been together for at least a hundred months and not once had he heard
that woman speak a work or even use body language.  Oh, he forgot, it was
not a woman that he had fallen in love with, but a giraffe.  What the hell
had he been thinking?  Was it one of those things that seemed good at the
time?   Why had he done this?  There was no explanation in the world for it.
How people must have laughed behind his back when he introduced them to his
new wife who was incapable of returning his love.  Ha ha.  It was very funny
in a wrong and twisted way.  He had hoped that he could pull her through,
that there was something magic within him that could bring her to life in
the same way that she inspired confidence in him, but all of a sudden there
was nothing to this relationship but getting bitten several times a day.  

He became bruised, and as the bites became more painful to his body they
became a source of anguish to his frail masculine mind.  After a point,
every time she would bite him would inspire a new terrible thought about
her.  Bite.  "She has never told me that she loves me."  Bite.  "She has
never introduced me to her parents."  Bite.  "She is an insensitive lover."
Bite.  "I can't think of a single thing I like about her."  Bite.  "I hate
her."  Bite.  "I can't live like this."  Bite.  "I want to die."  Bite.
"The problem is hers, not mine."  Bite.  "I want her to die."  Bite.  "I am
going to kill her."

And that's how it happened.  It was over an extended period of biting.  His
arms were raw.  He loved her to death.  "To death do us part," he thought to
himself.

He brought a gun home that day.  It was a shotgun.  Millie greeted him at
the door with a bite, and Sole began to weep.  He didn't want to do this,
but there was no other way.  He pulled out the gun and pointed it at
Millie.  Millie was pretty much oblivious to what was going on, as one might
expect from a giraffe.  Sole looked at her one last time and pulled the
trigger.  Oops, the safety was on.

Sole looked at Millie one last time and wanted to kiss her goodbye, but he
knew she would bite his face again.  He took the safety off and pulled the
trigger.  Oops, there were no bullets in the gun.

Sole looked at Millie one last time as he loaded the gun.  He pointed it at
her.

BANG!  Someone kicked the door down before Sole could pull the trigger.  It
was a zookeeper.  He held a tranquilizer gun.

"STOP!" he yelled, "don't kill that giraffe.  Allow me to tranquilize it and
take it back to the zoo."  Sole nodded and said ok.  The zookeeper smiled.
He smiled and laughed and tilted his head back with delight.  Then he aimed
steady and shot Sole in the face with the tranquilizer gun, which made Sole
convulse and squeeze the trigger, killing Millie completely.  Oops.

Sole found himself in a different state of consciousness.  He saw Millie
standing before him, but she was translucent and appeared to be made of
vapour or fire or something cool like that.  Sole asked, "What is going on?"
"I'm a ghost now," said Millie. "You killed me, you stupid dink."  Sole felt
bad.  Millie finally had something to say, and it was the opposite of what
he wanted to hear.

"So why did you bite me so much?" he asked.  "Because you never listened to
me," Millie replied.  "You never said anything, Millie!  You never said
anything!  Hey wait, why am I a ghost?  Am I dead too?"

Suddenly Sole woke up.  He had a bottle of 151 in his hand.  Was it all a
dream?  Yes it was.  It was my dream.  The End.


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    ___________________________________________________         
   |THE COMINTERN IS AVAILIABLE ON THE FOLLOWING BBS'S |
   |~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~|
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   |___________________________________________________|
   |   Website at: http://members.home.com/comintern   |
   |           Email BMC at: thebmc@home.com           |
   |___________________________________________________|

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 Copyright 2000 by The Neo-Comintern                           #113-07/05/00

All content is property of The Neo-Comintern.
You may redistribute this document, although no fee can be charged and the
content must not be altered or modified in any way.  Unauthorized use of any
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