D I U e m n s a i c g v r i e i n r p a s t r e i y of a n s double issue vol. 29 & 30 "first thought, next thought..." -TBC hao era bs at r y i gave hommage to the pope who passed thru an amulet covering his third eye his vestial robes glittering green red and black his dreads falling way past the backs of his knees--his arms spreading wide wide arched back he cried jah--to a thick crowd wafting ganga smoke responding rastafari later he came in gold lame suit his porkpie hung low around his eyes as he danced a trance the only wailer wailing a pair of rude boys breaking near his ankles and the audience was reverent he is still the messenger many moving in prayer flailing their hands apart together no wafer so magic as those huge cones the colors mixing and becoming one always white always black (bunny at the zenith--29 june 1995-- for the first time in europe? since the death of marley, tosh) --Wa-Ben _Enlightenment and Illumination_ In translating Kant's "aufklarung" into enlightenment, we get a "shedding of light through clearing away." The light of reason falls from elsewhere, shed on an object. For Kant, enlightenment involved "the public use of one's reason [...] as a scholar before the reading public," that is, a common space of communication was opened, the sort of equatable scholarly exchange that the Internet bills itself as selling. The Internet is a metaphor of reason: immediate, connective, without mediation. (This message) (I send) (will be) (received) (by you): this series of metaphoric relays are the final home of the Enlightenment. Yet with Enlightenment comes paranoia. The so-called Illuminati panic originated with the Weishaupt's 1776 (no independent coincidence here) Illuminati Temple in Bavaria (and perhaps much further back), but fueled fears of an inner cabal of conspirators behind the French Revolution, not to mention all the other events of Enlightenment Europe. These conspirators were accused of practicing magic, mysticism, the use of secret codes, and of arguing for sexual and political egalitarianism (gasp!). Within enlightment is a hidden source of light, a secret. Illumination: in its etymology an emitting of light, a shedding of light from an inner, subjective source. This interior both threatens and is the truth of enlightenment. In the clearing away of "aufklarung", a space opens for the mystical speech of illumination. It doesn't matter if the Illuminati control history, or rather, to think about history, to think, is to believe in this inner history. The revelatory drive of the paranoid or conspiracy theorist is America's answer to eschatalogical history, and is not limited to psychotics, but does make for strange bedfellows, from Pat Robertson to the Michigan Militia. (Well, there must be some conspiracy theorists who aren't psychotic.) Conspiracy theory is the promise that the excess of the world will be revealed in a final telling of history; or rather, it is the acknowledgement of the barbaric exterior of any institutional formation. The inevitability of conspiracy is the mark of the violence that installed the state-sanctioned story. All theories of history are conspiracy theories, and their paranoia increases in direct proportion to their explanatory power. (We think here of the comprehensive, adaptable, totalizing drive of Marxism. What could be more paranoid?) At the same time, who are the conspirators? We all are: conspiracy marks the literal version of enlightenment, and to believe in the metaphor of the Internet is to accept its paranoid structure, its conspiratorial excess. In the deciphering of metaphors lies their literality. Illumination literalizes the "aufklarung", clearing away the illusions of non-mediated communication. E-mail is a gnostic realization of the hallucinatory force of the illuminated word. We are hypnotized: it was always the case with words, but here they are, illuminated. The Internet message is sent, but nothing is communicated; rather, we somatize the light on the screen, we give our belief to the possibility that this illumination corresponds, mystically, to some moment elsewhere. --CB THESES FOR A **NEO-LUDDITE @UNION THIRD INSTALLMENT "'The Book of History has many missing pages' murmurs the Madonna of the Middle Ages but in between her cracks you can read between the lines/she'd love nothing better than to rob the Louvre blind Baroque and complicated/her lovers never stay it looks like Mona Lisa is having a bad day so please, just go away" --M. Shocked "Perhaps the immobility of the things that surround us is forced upon them by our conviction that they are themselves, and not anything else, and by the immobility of our conceptions of them." --M. Proust _Swann's Way_ We wish to propose here, the beginning of a dialectic surrounding the issue of the un- voice or the un-realized or the un-heard. What remains of this proposition and its accepted terms has yet to be established simply because it has never had a _presence-music chance_ to be developed--in a utilitarian sense. Thinking back to the first installment of the these _Theses_, we remember the idea of _witch-hunt conversions and inquisitions_. This scarred and centuried event seems wiped away; as if it were a glop of stain on the kitchen counter-top, sopped up by an absorbent towel, never to return, for it has been _thrown- away_, yet transmogrified into blind acceptance. This un-realized/sub-realized glop or blob of refuse material seems to have seeped, however, into the crevices of our grammatical formica consciousness. The inquisition-conversion continues on many levels: even within the seemingly liberated confines of our neo-post-posthumous-composted 1995 cybergasmic entertainment-ladened craniums. We see that women, in particular, have entered this cyber-spectacle, again as manacled and tortured objects of instant gratification and mindless/body-less entertainment; currently, as in the past, these objects of instant cyber-gratification (children, shield your eyes) are silent, un- heard and un-realized. Sure, these objects can _talk dirty_ to you, through the screen and straight to your neo-Platonic pants, yet, these are solely images without realization and are, essentially, missing or spectral pages (ill communication) within a hate- language text. We also see that _pater-asts_ or _mater-asts_ have entered the on-line arena as well. This is also an un-realized, incestuous, formative-years-love, page of history--but with an aberrant/_normal_ twist. For, these _cyber-paters_ and _maters_ (essentially, over 18 yrs old) rely mainly on non-presence-grammar (or, hate-cyberlingus)-- via the electronic post-office--to communicate their surfacia-amour offerings. **This tract has no intentions of ameliorating gender relations, socially constructed images, therefrom, nor the sexual _dystopia_ of hate- language culture. It _does_ wish to examine the whereabouts of _missing_, squelched and seeping language/ideas and specializations as a counterdevice in aiding the militia and its union against non-presence or hate-language philosophy. When we think of the hot pokers, branding irons, emotional manacles, and royalty cultivating its "jollies" over torture, from the thirteenth through the twentieth century (we must settle on the sofa of a centenary time-frame, here, because we cannot begin to encompass the Pantagruelean legacy of torture, wars-in-the-name-of-religion, burnings and drownings in this space. Not to mention the presence of past and present internment/concentration camps) we wonder how this was/is/could be justified and accepted by a general/emotionally delayed populace. Certainly, the language and politics of fear and hatred, perpetuated by the absence of discoveries and new knowledge within the secular-vernacular contributed to a linguistically spoon-fed, attention-deficit peasantry. The separation and delaying of the classes and the guarding of seemingly _specialized_ knowledge, certainly contributed, as well, to the continuation, perpetuation, and acceptance of a blueprint for death-cult/ure. For separation, essentially, a specter in and of itself, perpetuates an idea (incongruously) of wholeness; therefore believable, in its game- of-wholeness. Wholeness--or completion--does exist, perhaps, but on a purely molecular and micro-biological level--and, only in the sense that moving parts "bump" into each other, is this micro level to be considered "wholeness". We believe, that one cannot begin to incorporate the chimera of language within the realm of _wholeness_-through-separation. The problem that arises, when we begin to think of language as whole, or completed "bouncing" or "bumping", or as a micro-biological/molecular (finished) entity, is that this falsification continues the separation spectacle, and hence, hate-delusion (We think of our first installment of the _Theses_ and the _definition_ of _psychosis_). And, this is where, we believe, women have fallen/were pushed (long ago and times on times) into the clutches of fetishistic, chimeric language separation--in-the-guise-of-wholeness. Fashion contributes to the perpetuation of the death- rattle (inquisition/conversion) culture. The Union believes that, although clothing should not necessarily _matter_ or be affected by non-presence language, that the facialized, chiaroscuro-ed image of clothing impacts our conception of what is _real_ or _meaningful_ (absurdum, again). The pushing of the hem- line/shoe-heel control buttons further a necrotized--in-the-guise-of-playful-eroticism- -construction of psychotic hate/fear-language. These ghosts of the _fetish_ are difficult to exorcise (ask Linda Blair), for, like the cyber-gasmic men and women on our monitors, they _appear_ to function at the micro- bio/molecular level. We believe that high- heels, hem-lines or waist-lines have no molecular meaning (or, fully realized molecular _meaning_) and that hairless women and men are a continuation of a ritual separation within the philosophy of the inquisition-conversion over-mind. Of course, this is simply a thesis and we, at the Union, believe that _the clothes certainly do not make the woman/man/household pet_, for, this would, certainly be, yet another, ritual hate- separation within the very borders we wish to dissolve, overcome, or re-conceptualize, with the assistance of our resident therapists. This is why, within these tracts (we like to think of "tract" in the anatomical sense versus a separationist religious or political pamphlet sense: "a system of organs and tissues that together perform one specialized function"), the reader will find mutated or changed language; words that may not be words, by standard dictionaries. This is done in hopes of raising the spectral consciousness of a _presence-music-language_. It is at this point in the Third Installment that the Union must reconvene and gather fresh energy, vegetables and ideas for perhaps, a continuation of our exploration into the problems and potential solutions of our inquisition-conversion dialectic. @The Union has amended its name (viz. _Militia_) due to the current hate-language ministrations within some political/national arenas that have associated with such a term. Yet, the very usage of such a term, as may be done at any time during the installments, in conjunction w/_Union_, exposes the very spectacled incongruity of the term itself. The Union, as well, will continue to embrace the _elan vital_ of a non-violent _standing army_; _reserves_ that _further_ the exploration of re-conceptualized (or, re-constituted) linguistic, philosophic, and at times, hallucinatory vistas.** --Gens. Nedd Ludd and Gracchus Babeuf (sit in for the Capt. this week). Conference of the Birds, KZSC, Santa Cruz 9-4-95 David Murray Big Band/ Lovejoy/ David Murray Big Band Conducted by Lawrence "Butch" Morris Randy Weston/ The Last Day/ Tanjah Sun Ra /Planet Earth/ Sun Ra Visits Planet Earth ... Les Go de Koteba/ Mi Bara Seri/ Les Go Kapere Jazz Band/ Amagy Lando/ Luo Roots Houria Aichi/ Elle Sort du Bain/ Songs of the Aures Achmed Wahby/ Serej Ya Fares/ Chant Oranais Khaled/ Liah Liah/ Khaled Ile Aiye/ Seperatismo Nao/ Canta Negra ... Abelardo Barroso/ Alborada/ Cuba, Que es Linda Cuba Noah Howard Quartet/ Birds of Beauty/ Schizofrenic Blues Randy Weston/ Tanjah/ Tanjah Alfredo Rodriguez/ Canto a Oggun/ Para Yoya Ivan Cuesta y Sus Baltimore Vallenatos/ El Caballo Viejo/ A Ti Colombia Antonio Sanchez & Tchota Suari/ Ahau, Recontacan di Nazadi/ Music From Cape Verde Jafar Husayn Khan/ L'Amor Pour la Prophet Nous Conduit du Neant a la Vie/ Chant Qawwali de l'Inde du Nord ... Juan Pena el Lebrijano/ Entrad Por La Puerta Estrella/ Juan Pena el Lebrijano: Grandes Cantaores de Flamenco Manzanita/ Liberate/ Espiritu Sin Nombre ... Hector Lavoe/ Periodico de Ayer/ El Cantatnte Nathaniel Mackey/ Song of the Andoumboulou #24/ Strick: Song of the Andoumboulou #16-#25 (anonymous)/ (untitled)/ Zurates & Daulia (Zorna Music from Greece) Julius Hemphill/ Rites/ Dogon A.D. Henry Threadgill/ Dirty in the Right Places/ Makin' a Move Ali Hassan Kuban/ Samiry/ Nubian Magic Abdel Aziz el Mubarek/ Achir el Achira/ Orient de Luxe ... Mohammed Khaznadji/ le Nuba Ghrib/ Algerie: Volume 2 >announcement< This document has come to us from afar. Its contents, though well known in some circles, are still relatively obscure, and their references even more so. Due to the elliptical nature of the text, and the fact that scholarship and trans- lations have only recently begun and are still underway, we've chosen to present the text in installments. The reader should be aware that the first fragment (here translated by a host of our finest professors) does by no stretch of the imagination yet constitute an "official document." The names have been left intact, and despite the apparent correspondences, we've found little evidence to suggest that they refer to previously known figures (alive or dead). The date of the fragment is not yet certain, but we believe it's composition to have been collective, and to have transpired in the years immediately following the collapse of the Oceanic state Phthongos. All quotations, in the following fragment, are believed to have been taken from a book entitled "Dangerous Crossroads: Popular Music, Post- modernism, and The Poetics of Place," by George Lipsitz. The title is provisional. From THE ANNALS OF MULTIKULTI Once upon an age, while wandering, we came upon a book. This group of us, nestled in among the rocks and detritus of centuries (this once man- made cave now rife with unacknowledged, in- ordinately veral spirits -- animals and other noises whose names, both taboo and tumescent (so much so that we'd chant them secretly, at night, when they'd force themselves upon us, and when we'd knew there'd be nobody alive to listen)) we found a book. Not easy was it to unearth -- clinging to it's pages like barnacles were ancient (indeed so ancient) musics whose ever insistent voices we recognized as those of, if not our own, then others we knew and could tell had plodded with troubling thirst through deserts and the war-torn environs we'd come to call (if only ironically) our home. No, we dug it out with fury this book, flinging to the side our sisters and brothers so hungry were we for words. And we read it (though we scarcely understood), we poured desperately over its pages, hour after hour, tirelessly, seeking to divine the meaning behind what we knew (or what I need say now we assumed) to be its veil of trivia, it's careful (because we knew it'd been written in a time when people still believed the apocalypse impossible) and discriminate sidestepping of potentially volatile -- indeed potentially explosive -- potholes and pre- monitions. And yet we were foiled. All attempts proved futile. Indeed, such statements as: Long histories of avant-garde art and vanguard politics demonstrate the overwhelming failure of efforts to transform society by imagining that we can stand outside it, by seeking transcendent critiques untainted by domi- nant ideologies and interests... made with no irony other than that the subject matter we knew it to be embracing (those very songs which kept us warm in exile) referenced such "long histories" of "imagining," such "outsides" the bitterness of which we ourselves continually tasted (though we knew better than to equate bitterness with failure), served preliminary notice that we were dealing not with kin (as we had previously hoped), but rather with artifactual politics, what we knew, as we struggled to keep warm, to be a document of precisely that academic fashion (peculiar to the late twentieth century) we'd come to know as post- modernism. Not yet convinced, still hungry (if only because our appetite for sober and learned thought, coupled with a dearth of information in any of our sources' known libraries regarding 'Bhangramuffin,' 'Reggae, ' Parisian Rai,' and 'Chicano Punk,' intrigued us) we read on, in hopes that among the ruins of what we now knew to be a circumstantial (and somewhat arbitrary) application of once-trendy politics, we could find a kernel of knowledge sufficient to forward our own prolific (if unpublished) musings in the phenom- onology of music. "Here, listen to this!" shouted one attendant with excitement. Having stumbled upon a quote, the opinionated yet reserved gentleman who we'd come to know as Cricket, began to read out loud: The rhythm was very militant to me because it was like marching, the sound of an army on the move. We lost Malcolm, we lost King and they thought they had blotted out everybody. But all of a sudden this new art form arises and the militancy is there in the music. "Max Roach!" Cricket revealed. "He's one of us!" We read it again and again. "He's talking about L.L. Cool J." We read on: "L.L. Cool J. doesn't seem to like political music," (Roach) later explained... "but the politics was in the drums." "Same as it always was," exclaimed a misanthropic Robert Browning, referencing a chapter we'd skimmed that dealt with the appropriations of "other" cultures by the once popular David Byrne, a "Talking Head." We laughed. "Same," replied Cricket, as it ever will be." We continued, inspired by what we thought might be an inroad to the obscure and esoteric logic at work behind the banal surface of this estranged document. We thumbed through page after page of explanatory drivel, generalized sociology, and poor sentence structure, our urge towards knowledge growing more desperate and more hopeless with each word. "What the hell happened to Max Roach?," ex- claimed Black Hole Sun finally (he'd busied himself during the more obviously silly parts of the text thumbing through the cassettes we'd discarded earlier, mumbling to seemingly no-one in particular the words on their labels: "Tanganyika Strut," "The Stratospheric Canticles," "Outside, My Strange Attractor..." ... to be continued... --The Ain'thropology Dept. The Last Days of the White Race The Last Days of Radiofree North America 17 September 1995 quotes are from _American Negro Poetry_ Arna Bontemps, ed. (Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 1974) in memoriam JG "Does the violet-lidded twilight die And the piercing dawn And the white clear moon and the night-blue sky . . . Does the shimmering note In the shy, shy throat Of the swaying bird?" -Angeline W. Grimke "To Clarissa Scott Delany" "Why, beautiful. still finger are you black? And why are you pointing upwards?" -Angeline W. Grimke "The Black Finger" "What is sorrow but tenderness now in this earth-close frame of land and sky falling constantly into horizons of east and west, north and south what is pain but happiness here amid these green and wordless patterns, indefinite texture of blade and leaf" -Anne Spencer "For Jim, Easter Eve" "Treading toward a new morning, May not his race, its body long bared To the world's disdain, its face schooled to smile For a light to come, May not his race, even as the dew-boy leads, Light onward men's minds toward a time When tolerance, forbearance Such as reigned in the heart of One Whose heart was gold, Shall shape the earth for that fresh dawning After the dews of blood?" -Effie Lee Newsome "Morning Light the Dew-Drier" "Against the day of sorrow Lay by some trifling thing A smile, a kiss, a flower For sweet remembering." -Georgia Douglas Johnson "Common Dust" "Strange atoms we unto ourselves Soaring a strange demesne With life and death the darkened doors And love the light between." -Georgia Douglas Johnson "Lovelight" "These fell miasmic rings of mist, with ghoulish menace bound, Like noose-horizins tightening my little world around. They still the soaring will to wing, to dance, to speed away." -Georgia Douglas Johnson "Prejudice" * THE LITERATI OF SAN FRANCISCO And Neighboring Environs Some Honest Opinions at Random Respecting Their Authorial Merits, with Occasional Words of Personality by Edgar Allen Poe Part Six: FRIEDLANDER, ROBINSON * * * BENJAMIN FRIEDLANDER I have seen one or two brief poems of considerable merit with the signature of _Benjamin Friedlander_ appended. For example-- "INSOMNIA Walking in the rainfinite. Is it permitted--am I? --to lag along the fennel track episodic? We, the drenched combines of yore, depleted, gather up the war _repeated_ in the clenched kiss proffered at the door. He--blemishes--our souls replenishing the stream whose icy crystal pours across a broken length of dream." I must confess, however, that I do not appreciate the "clenched kiss" of such a word as "rainfinite," and, perhaps, there is a little taint of self-dramatization in the passage about "drenched combines of yore." Let us be charitable, however, and set all this down under the head of dreaminess--one of the first of poetical requisites. The _inexcusable_ sin of Mr. F. is imitation--if this be not too mild a term. Emily Dickinson is his especial favorite. He has taken, too, most unwarrantable liberties, in the way of downright plagiarism, from a German poet whose works are not fully available in English, which lack Mr. Friedlander takes as his license. I refer, of course, to the poems of Paul Celan--a favorite of the neo-post-romantics. I place Mr. Friedlander, however, on my list of San Francisco _literati_, not on account of his poetry, (which I presume he is not weak enough to estimate very highly,) but on the score of his having edited for several years, with the aid of Andrew Schelling, two magazines, the first called _Jimmy & Lucy's House of "K"_, the second _Dark Ages Clasp the Daisy Root_. These works, though professedly "available," were issued at irregular intervals, and were unfortunate, I fear, in not attaining at any period very extensive circulations. I learn that Mr. F. is not without talent; but the fate of his magazines should indicate to him the necessity of applying himself to study. No spectacle can be more pitiable than that of a man without the commonest school education busying himself in attempts to instruct mankind on topics of polite literature. The absurdity in such cases does not lie merely in the ignorance displayed by the would-be instructor, but in the transparency of the shifts by which he endeavors to keep this ignorance concealed. The co-editor of _House of "K"_ and _Dark Ages_, for example, was not laughed at so much on account of mixing essays on punk rock with reviews of books of Language Poetry, and ending poems with corny rhymes--poems that are not intented as light or comical verse--as where he rhymes, above, "stream" with "dream"--he was not, I say, laughed at _so much_ for his excusable deficiencies in taste as that, as in the hope of disguising such deficiency, his perpetual lamenting the "typographical blunders" that "in the most unaccountable manner" _would_ creep into his publications. Nobody was so stupid as to suppose that there existed in San Francisco a single proof-reader--or even a single typist--who would permit _such_ errors to escape. By the excuses offered, the errors were only the more obviously nailed to the counter as Mr. Friedlander's own. I make these remarks in no spirit of unkindness. Mr. F. is yet young--certainly not more than 36--and might, with his talents, readily improve himself at points where he is most defective. No one of any generosity would think the worse of him for getting private instruction. I do not personally know Mr. Friedlander. He lived for many years, I believe, in the East Bay, where he was involved with a claque that included Jeff Gburek, Andrea Hollowell, Pat Reed, David Sheidlower, and others; subsequently he left town for the East Coast. About his personal appearance there is nothing very observable. I cannot say whether he is married or not. * * * KIT ROBINSON _Mr. Robinson_ has become entirely known through his contributions to our small press literature. I am not familiar with his scant forays into critical prose, but Mr. Robinson's poems have been numerous and often excellent. His first collection, _Chinatown of Chayenne_, was published 20 years ago in an exquisitely tasteful form, by Whale Cloth Press, of Iowa City. Since then he has published some dozen books, the most recent, if I am not mistaken, being _Balance Sheet_--apparently a companion to an earlier volume, _Ice Cubes_, brought out by the same press--Roof Books of New York City. The opening section of _Balance Sheet_, entitled "Counter-Meditation," is by no means the most meritorious, although Mr. Robinson has seen fit to republish this piece in its entirety from a chapbook brought out in the Canary Islands by Zasterle. In general, these "Counter-Meditations" evince the author's poetic fervor, classicism of taste and keen appreciation of found and ordinary language. No one of these verses can be judiciously commended as a whole, but no one of them is without merit, and there are several which would do credit to any poet in the land--still even these latter are rather particularly than generally commendable. They lack unity, totality, ultimate effect, but abound in forcible passages. For examples-- "The limitations of a brown notebook are three inches by five inches by a person unable to escape from a shadow of fluctuating dimensions even in a hundred thousand million eternities." The opening stanza of the title poem, "Balance Sheet," puts me in mind of the rich spirit of O'Hara's noble epic, "Second Avenue." "Pieced lines and lined pieces lead to the blind shed, its light green finish peeled off before the eyes can catch hold. Stasis has become a way to get the job done, an unlikely reminder blessed with the virtues inherent in a peach pit, part of something much longer, but remaining, for the time being, a cradle to stillness." The phrases are well balanced, and the idea of the peach pit as a cradle to stillness is one of the happiest imaginable; neither can anything be more fanciful or more appropriately expressed than "Stasis / has become a way to get the job done." The final section of _Balance Sheet_ continues the earlier exercise in one-word-line pieces (called "Ice Cubes") begun in the earlier book--a book also divided into three parts. That these pieces _are_ exercises does not detract from the minor pleasures they afford. Among the more surreal in spirit and altogether the best of Mr. Robinson's poems, I consider his admirable anthology piece "In the American Tree," unaccountably excluded from Mr. Messerli's book--perhaps out of lingering resentment toward Mr. Silliman, who took Mr. Robinson's title as his own when editing the big treasury of Language Writing. Mr. Robinson's "Tree" is noticeable for the vigor of its transformations. A more recent instance of Mr. Robinson's transformative imagination, simpler than "Tree" but no less delightful, is "Nursery Rhyme," whose concluding couplets run-- "A sky can open, but a ditch can't rise. _An edge can cut, but a pill can't spill_. A beach can stretch, but a body can't believe. _A wall can stand, but a reason can't complain_. A room can contain, but a switch can't stay the same A place can evoke, but a visit can't last forever. A sea can swell, but a blank can't be read. A surface can recede, but a tense can't be nonsense." I italicize what I think the effective points. In the line, "A beach can stretch," The two components of the preceding line appear to have happily suggested the image of a shoreline, a spilling edge as it were. The effect of this subtle continuity is to recall the prose opening of the poem, where the terms of the verses are first laid out--a psycho-mnemonic pedagogy wholly appropriate to "Nursery Rhyme." I must not be understood as citing these passages or giving their analysis in illustration of some pedagogical _skill_ of Mr. Robinson, but of an occasional happiness to which he is led by a logical mind. Upon the whole, he has a keen sense of poetic excellence, and gives every indication of that great ability which sustains, beyond verse or book, a whole career in poetry. With more earnest promotion he might accomplish much in the way of example to the young, who too eagerly immitate the ill-disciplined quacks now dominating the scene. In character Mr. R. is sincere, fervent, benevolent, with a mind given to the truest wit--inured to praise and blame by a solid sense of self-worth; in temperament, haughty (although this is not precisely the term); in manner, subdued, stern, yet with grace and dignity; converses impressively, earnestly, with powerful voice. In person he is tall and slender, with short hair and powerful eyes--reminiscent to a great degree of Anthony Perkins. * If you are interested in receiving DIU, send a subscription request which says SUBSCRIBE DIU-L your name to listserv@cnsibm.albany.edu you'll be asked to confirm this request detailed instructions are given still performing via the logic of snowflakes of given season. all DIU transmissions archived at the Electronic Poetry Center on the University at Buffalo Web-server: http://wings.buffalo.edu/epc/ezines/diu contribute to DIU via e-mail to cf2785@cnsvax.albany.edu thank you!