Paul Freeman

Paul

Freeman

FreePee:

Well, the astonishing thing about Martinis is

how difficult they are to make. It's a bit of a mizzler.

I mean, what's in them except gin? Gin, a few drops of vermouth,

and an olive. Should be easy. Should be EXTRA easy. Not so.

Why is that? I have to keep drinking the duds. It's the best way

to learn. Can you believe I've gone all this time, and never actually

tried to construct a martini? It seems almost impossivle. If luck's

bad, I'll never remember gargling with the last one.

If luck's good, I'll get the right amount of wave* over the glass

(beer mug--must I admit it?).

Do you think a perfect martini is possible?

Such difficult Zen questions.

*"WAVE the vermouth over your glass.

Don't actually pour a drop." he said.

Subject: tearing

From: peefree@netcom.com (Paul Freeman)

To:

Well Brother,

flaccid words

tell my sordid tale

for I am bought

like an expensive whore

to do the business

that now three businessmen

are looking at me to perform.

I dance

on deals,

offers, and propositions

to support my own lust for security

and the wanting of being wanted.

Perhaps this is not what I had envisioned

but I am no prophet

and Notradamus never uttered my name

lost and deluded

I am to follow

paths of least resistance

at least till my conviction

rises to my throat

with the burning certainty

of acid laced dreams

or a troubled stomach

Go ahead,

speak directly

vehemently

vociferously

I am hardened without care

filled with greed

or shortsighted need

Where I am wanted

I go

whipped into submission

by my own direction

that is after all

as directionless as the wind

let them prevail

till calmer trades are found

So you see

who is the whore

and who is the whore monger?

break the illusion

reveal the dream

nothing is clear

exempt that which is unseen....

pleef

Subject: tearing

From: peefree@netcom.com (Paul Freeman)

To:

returning to this place called Home

I tear at the walls

ripping away comforts

throwing all possession into a heap

fit for burning

destroying bitter sweet memories

reducing my life to a pile

of ashes and rubble

This place is no more my home

than the crusted gutters

of a dreary alley

where disenfranchised

I happen to lay my weary head

Waking up to a blinding dawn

sweltering in the asphalt blackness

with sweet dreams dancing

through an aching head

memories start to waver

in the mirage of what could never be

Still your faces stare me down

cold new mornings

steamed away with smells

of warm friendship

in a murmuring of sleepy dawn

quiet steps around my head

promising a smile

companionship

never ending

pure love

I shall never return

as if I never left

to rip my soul in two

the pieces shattered on the floor

scattered shards

swept up neatly

wrapped in yesterdays news

discarded

so that the future may live

unencumbered

by the mistakes of the past

If my error were clear

I would emblazon it upon my skin

painted out in the sharp pain

of a pin prick endlessly repeating

a story that can not be retold

except in the turning towards

what shall be my future

Let the clocks all strike midnight

and a dizzying spin light up a new dawn

while spasms contort my frame

writhing in a pain to escape

come forth and release me

holding out you hands

no longer wavering

in the margins

of twilight

If this weren't all such bull shit I'd be rich with praise. But then again

what good would that do me? Still, the clock spins so slowly that I no

longer know which way it is going. I think I will fly away from here in

disgust. Happily disgusted though, rather than gagging on the ad-nauseum

of so many weeks gone into preserving nothing. So say goodbye and say

hello. It's time for me to get in your face with sarcasm and droll angst

filled uncertainty. No, let's have none of that. Peace, wisdom, and

friendship; much better said. See you all soon enough, shaking the chains

and breathing with life.

hee hee

it's

Pee Free!

Subject: Re: have I ?

From: peefree@netcom.com (Paul Freeman)

The word for the day is "passion". What is it really? From the heart,

mind, body or soul... Put a finger on it and the hand begins to quiver.

Put the mind to it and the soul leaps. A friend of mine is on a quest to

regain passion for her own life. Fighting the odds of life's sundry

tediums. Too many hum drum faces hiding in the crowd of humanity. The

banal Godzilla footsteps of civilization marching onward to a monotonous

cadence. Beat a drum to shake the rhythmic heart. Climb the highest

mountains to find that this is still the very bottom of the sky. What rock

do we look under? What direction is most enticing? Do I love what I am

doing or am I following masked budahs to find enlightenment in chains?

Too many questions are not a mark of wisdom. Throw out all knowledge, I

want to see the unknowable, to feel the unfelt, oh yes, perhaps to 'fly',

as you put it. Metaphysically, majestically, magically, on a whim yes, on

the backs of groaning metallic mechanical assemblies no. The air is not

really my place, not like the sea. Fly me through beds of kelp, over rocks

and reef, in a quiet rhythmic turbulence broken in sea foam upon the sand.

So rather, do you want to learn to surf?

There is no yes or no, all crime is good.

P.S. newly ensconced in stable location, trees and frogs and peace when I

need it. Stay tuned as I fine tune my existence.

Subject:

Re: where it's fat.

From:

peefree@netcom.com (Paul Freeman)

Who is not drowning? In a pool of thought, in sweeping waves of time, in

thimbles of precision pharmaceuticals, in consumptive panicked bliss? At

least we have a good soundtrack to enjoy the drama with. Find my mood and

play it to the world at pumped up electric volume with dynamite explosions

of bass. This song is "ME".... the artist pulls out another greenback and

buys a drink. Fuck the silence, I like the delicate tinkle of ice on glass

in a pool whiskey. Angels of mercy singing "MY SONG" while they sneek into

my brain and literally rip the fat cells from my cerebellum. Such viscous

little tricksters, I can picture them in there every time I take a sip.

Maybe I'd better lay off the sauce for awhile, but my heart protests

bitterly and orders another drink. Who can argue with that?

Sorry I missed out on the wine last week. Spent the evening getting

emotionally violated by the "X". Not fair at all, just missing the point.

She wants to be friends but I have to keep asking the question "what do I

get?" I know she's gettin' another friend to dump emotions on but I seem

to end up with a slow leak of blood somewhere in the emotional

transmission. Get me another bottle of Stop-Leak and I'll be fine? No,

I'm a wreck, get me to the body shop and let me pick out one, hmmm, that'd

fix the damage.

Are you racing along just fine or are the curves just a bit sharp?

Meanwhile I hope to hook up in person soon.

Subject:

Re: slippin'gears to cogs.

From:

peefree@netcom.com (Paul Freeman)

Where am I? Heh, I am not where. I am what. What am I?

I am no longer what. I am what was. Wasn't I?

No, not I. Not at all, say I. But where is here that I am.

Here is the "I" that lies. On flat that is, lying flatly.

Flatly denying anything that I might do as done. Done nothing

you see. Nothing doing really. Can't deny that though.

Not while lying here doing nothing. Been caught in a lie.

Again I am caught. Caught up, all together ahead of the game.

Running circles around the competition. Yes that's true, no one

else is in the running though. Not left behind mind you, just no

one left. Or have they all left? Left me behind? Not so!

Seriously now, could they? Bugger. Now /where /am I /now /where...

Silly now in Portland, silly now you are in Seattle. What is to be done...

Subject: Woop-ass

From: peefree@netcom.com (Paul Freeman)

There's an insanity to being adrift in a senselessly underworked sea. I

need to find a job one of these days. Too much leisure is making me

complacently lazy. Good god it's fun though. The nights are alive in this

torrid city I have finally discovered. This is not the tortured

soulessness of Berkeley. Alas it is torture, but my masters can not hold

me long in one place. I nominate myself King and must snatch away the

reigns. Hence the woop-ass. The best activity seems to be a late night

dive into the frigid bay. Unpleasantness heightens the primal pleasures of

simply being alive. I encourage everyone to dive right in and raise a

splash....

So what torrid adventures have you indulged?

Subject:

heh!

From:

peefree@netcom.com (Paul Freeman)

Sounds of spitting up flem. Oooh, for the cold dampness of a freeway

underpass somewhere on the way out of town. A can of cold beans, empty,

forsaken to the dust and the curious wanderings of bright eyed rodents.

Nightfall enshrouds the landscape, a slow moving cloud, darkening, and

rain. In the waning minutes of twilight no one can help but ask "have

you repented?" The answer always comes back flatly "no". Darkness

continues filling the gap while passing cars burn red to the horizon.

Gotta get out of this town....

Some of us have already left. It's a struggle to stay put, but the

question always nags, "what have you found?" There's no answer and I

slowly realize that I have not asked a question. Louder this time, to the

darkness, "what is there to be discovered?" Headlights flash briefly and

hiss by, shimmering red tracers slipping along the wet pavement. Silently

the greasy water seeps back in to fill the gaps of narrow tracks leading

elsewhere....

No time to follow, just stay put for now. The rain will pass, the clouds

will break, dawn will come. This must be certain in the collective

unconscious or we would all go down to sleep forever. It will certainly

pass, I will wait. There seems to be a hidden reservoir of strength which

holds the body back from running to exhaustion. Always saying "stop now,

or you will never be able to stop at all". Doesn't make sense, nothing or

everything, and the dull ache of being inbetween. Gotta get something....

Subject: pissing into the so cial gale.

To: Paul Freeman <peefree@netcom.com>

From:

Massive doses of wind palm trees bent to the floor That Maxwell

Poster---you know the one. An indoor version of outdoors, minus cool

sounds, and martini glass tipping. Another genius e-motion from the

main man of electronic highways, Paul Freeman. Noted by Brock whose

computer is totally fucked up and recumbobulated at the moment (i can't

believe it hasn't crashed yet) so I'm pushing SEND before it's too

late. Stay tune-med for more new millennium tantrrrric randy rants and

raves.

Subject: Re: Try....

From: peefree@netcom.com (Paul Freeman)

Well done my friend. I would not think anyone would have the patience to wade through my thoughts with such persistent interest. I know that I

might not, given a choice of course, a choice I do not have eh?

Rather the mindfulness continues to overflow and spill onto the edges of the world. Whorls of gibberish, chit-chat, glib prose, and the vortex of

emotion which forces us all towards one universal center. On the verge of drowning under the pull and finding a million hands reaching out for help. What is one hand to do but reach back and pull with unknown strength.

"""""Try these instances"""""

>To: "Matt Shanahan" <SHANAHAM@cadlab.eas.pdx.edu>

>From: peefree@netcom.com (Paul Freeman)

>Subject: Re: good day eh'

>news is a baseless idea to make light thoughts turn into the heavy

>importance of the self conveying itself. news = narcissism

>hence news is for the outwardly barren and the inwardly greedy.

>you have no news?

>not such a bad thing after all, you see?

>for myself, it is when nothing of importance springs to mind, that I see

>what is critical. Ergo summ and a lot of latin crap. again nothing

>springs to mind.

>if I had a higher BAC this would roll like dribble on my chin, a high

>glaze over the cerebellum, a state of mind akin to enlightenment. no I

> am just a stupid dolt, but sober right now so I will suffer through it.

>in my own red nights which build like the heat in a passive windless >day, my voice falters, my eyes blur with unadmitted tension, and the >muscles on my face begin to twitch. It is amazing how the absence of >anything worthy of dedication or attention can create a paralysis of >creativity-- a spiral of tedium like being wrapped up in a string with a >billion tiny knots.

>Thoughts of escape are not easily arrived at unless neatly packaged

> in a bottle or a pack of cigarettes. It is these things, which even the >most destitute of bums or the most depraved of the insane can, and do >acquire even when all other "functionality" has failed. It's no surprise, >I'd be further gone than I am now if it weren't for some shred of >enthusiasm which occasionally flits past my visions of the future.

>Get me the Hell out of here! This is not life, when I can go days >without uttering a single word to another human, when I stumble >through the random events that fall at my feet with no order, no future, >no vision. I see dozens of beautiful, oh so beautiful women every day, >and they are just a chance which has failed, walking on by and >disappearing around the corner forever. Occasionally a brief lapse >opens in the void and I find myself making some vague mumble of an >attempt at speech which is inevitably met by the icy coldness of beauty. >I am no great writer of verse, of prose, of the fictions which catch the >ear and bend it towards my favor. I am for the most part a boring dolt. >At least in this terminal stage of boredom I have become so--I am so. >Ergo Ergo Ergo....

>But now I have found my escape. It seems that my cousin, who was my >age, an aspiring medical Ph.D., with a husband, a 6 week old newborn >son, and more, I am sure, it seems she decided to take a flight of fancy >from the roof of a building. Perhaps more respect is due, there are >doubtless things that I do not know which she alone could scarcely >bear. But I do not feel any lack of respect, but rather a kinship which >runs deep into this tree of life from which we both sprang. It would >explain something of the nature of my family at any rate, something a >twinge off center. That thought is a comfort in this world so hateful of >the "privileged white male", it gives me something to whine about, well >at least to whimper about.

>But suffering is not what this is all about and your point is well

>expressed when you note with glee the "madness" of running into the >thick of the world. Thereby not delaying death, but directing life to run >a fuller course! God help me I can become a preachy bastard. I should >have become a priest for all my celibacy has gotten me. At least I >would be guaranteed that golden spot in heaven. Ah, but to hell with >my soul, I have no hopes which rest the prospects of being dead and >gone just to be alive. Get your heaven while you can, and if she's good >in bed, well shit, all the better.

>spiffy pee

"""You see? (The answer.) Or is it this…'''

>To: petre (to whom she once belonged).

>From: peefree@netcom.com (Paul Freeman)

>Subject: meaning what?

>What meaning except the absurdity.

>That I have finally discovered the meaning

>of a martini glass,

>strangest shape yields easilly to the reading of poetry

>through the straight pane of thin glass

>raised in a sip.

>And absurdity prevails in the enthusiasm of electrons

>which perform this dirty deed

>and allow me the freedom to pester you as I please

>with intoxicated mor'es

>and thoughts insincere

>while I liesurely sun my pale skin

>to incur the wrinkles of age.

>Age brings wisdom,

>at least it is said so

>I'll let you judge

>and let your minions be jury too,

>I know you have found a great following

>even if she perhaps makes you

>insane?

>No, I doubt it

>and the poetry will reveal,

>love is a mystery

>culminated in the ritual of marriage

>everlasting?

>We shall see, though I know the thought pesters you

>I will not play that part as well,

>It just crossed my mind

>in the absent minded way

> that I gaze upon a beautiful woman

>in a short skirt

>with a smile

> that fills the heavens

>and eyes

> that swallow it all up again.

>Oh never mind me,

>This is the nature of good Gin.

>This is the nature of my neurosis.

>This is the future of society?

>No, society and civility go hand in hand

>I am looked upon and I am looking

>as an outsider,

>Mind and body so separate as to be two

>Two halves within

>and two halves without

>Ha, laughter comes to the smile

>that the sun alights on my face,

>You see, this is absurdity....

>Don't worry, I will convey only what the electrons can.

>You know they spin with "flavor" and "charm"

>Ask the best physicians, and they will tell you so.

>You will only know what my finger tips can tell.

>Perhaps we are all as blind as we can be.

>Groping for words

>that fit things that can never be said

>I don't understand, and that is the key.

>No mystery will be unlocked here...

>This is religion,

>don't you see?

>So I tell you if you haven't bored yet,

>the music plays and I have unplugged myself

>to the scenic beauty of a sunsetting afternoon

>free to ponder and pry at whatever free thoughts

>you might be harboring.

>Don't panic for need of reply,

>I do this for myself and you are simply

>the victim.

>Don't laugh, I imagine your emotions are already turned

>though I can not predict how.

>This is wrecklessness

>and wrecklessness is good.

>Yes?

>I'm sure you will agree.

>I will let this end now

>and find the Gin again.

>The night is young

>and there is much

>which remains to be seen...

>Pablo

'''I was dead wrong there, seeing as I got the girl and then I got???'''

>To: marissa

>From: peefree@netcom.com (Paul Freeman)

>Subject: later than I think

>X-Attachments:

>>FWD: To: petre (whom I got her from)

>>From:peefree@netcom.com (Paul Freeman)

>>looking into the eyes of a woman

>>my soul ripped

>>from it's bodily anchor

>>and cast out upon the open sea

>>adrift and vulnerable

>>in vast unforgiving complexity

>>with her delicate

>>whisper of a sigh

>>the ship commences sinking

>>timidly

>>to the dark blue depths

>>lying forgotten in obscurity

>>no word need be spoken

>>no mistake made

>>truth is told

>>in silent waiting

>>tears of a watery grave

I should always listen to my own advice but alas??

>To: Sbiomes@aol.com

>From: peefree@netcom.com (Paul Freeman)

>Subject: Re: today is a day

>A fitful sleep...and you think of me?

>I do what you'll let me do for you. Nothing more and nothing less. Push

>and I yield. Pull and I am at your side. Perhaps it sounds plastic,

>letting you have dominance on my soul. No, I flow like water through your

>hands and ripples spread out to eternity. Moving always through stillness

>or rage towards whatever destination pull with greatest gravity. To not

>hold too tightly what is not yours, yet cherish the movement that

>surrounds you, this seems like wisdom but offers only a glimpse at truth.

>There is much more to be said of moving within the soul. We do not block

>up the water like some stoic piece of stone without it pushing to the side

>and moving on. Perhaps the turbid ripples in our wake give hints of where

>we must give way to the motion. I see the swirling confused presence of

>my own life as well as the confusion I have left for others. And diving

>in to whirlpool the motion continues, not towards a never ending spiral

>but towards the calm of moving onward.

>p.

A hand reaches out.....

peefers

his week's featured artist at: http://www.UNRULY.ORG ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ From: peefree@netcom.com (Paul Freeman) Subject: woof I once saw two feral dogs, engaged as it were, most unusually. Mangral mutts between the garbage dumpsters, nothing to draw much attention except... I had never seen two dogs coupled in this particular manner. With one dog on top of the other, a natural pose, but the dog underneath clinging upside-down in an embrace. Paws wrapped, almost naturally around eachother, face to face -- or rather muzzle to muzzle. The sight seemed almost frighteningly endearing, among the swarming flies, rustle of day old news, coffee grounds, and perhaps even a used condom or two. As I watched the two dogs coppulate, I marvelled at this imitation of human life, the tenderness of canine feelings which drew them to look into each others eyes and lick softly at their lips, seeming to revel in the power of procreation. This pair was clearly not among the spayed and neutered of our domestic [civilized] pets. They expressed a wild freedom in that the only companionship for which they yearned, was their own. It was a sight so shocking-- indeed almost vehemently urging me to drive them apart. For why should these instictual beasts have any part in the subtle magic of passionate intimacy? My own notions of love and lust were being torn apart and moreover I would have to revise my previous notion of what was meant by "doggie style". right? pfiction