_________ _______ ______ /___ ___\ / __ \ / ____\ / / / /__\ / / / / / / __ / / __\ / / / / \ / / / /__/ /__/ /__/ /__/ THE ANNIHILATION FOUNTAIN A JOURNAL OF CULTURE ON THE EDGE... TEXT ONLY - ISSUE #11 FEATURING MS. LILI I. WARING the millennial mother a whore and a saint a poet a lover a deamon in disguise welcome to the real lilith fair.... Ms. Lilian I. Waring The Annihilation Fountain & TAF Copyright c 1997-2000 Neil MacKay ISSN 1480-9206 http://www.capnasty.org/taf/ the_annihilation_fountain@iname.com "I'm into inciting people to think, to accept, to evolve, to remember, to respect, to love, to fuck, to sit back, to get up and do something.... to think without propaganda or limitations..." -Lili I Waring CONTENTS: --------- *SAFE SEX IS ALL IN THE MIND *A MEMORY AND DREAM SUPPRESSED TO MAINTAIN FREEDOM *BREAK NUMBER SEVEN *FEAR IS CONTAGIOUS *THE BLACK ROSE *VIRTUAL TORTURE *IN HER OWN WORDS... *********************************************************************** SAFE SEX IS ALL IN THE MIND BY MS. LILIAN I. WARING *********************************************************************** Detroit 1992 Lucinda wanted to be a model, just like in the fashion magazines. In the little bit of time that I knew her, I watched her - every free moment - flip through the glossy pages. She'd sit cross legged on the floor of her room, spending every moment not working, dreaming of runways and spotlights and international allure. When she'd see a black woman dressed as a modern day queen, she'd carefully tear out the picture, placing it, with absolute care, into her scrap book of dreams. Once the page was carefully in place, she'd run to the bathroom with all of her cosmetics and transform herself into the image she had seen. On the third day of work, I walked in while she was highlighting her hair; crisp wisps of blonde tinging the edges in the mirror. "Do you think I'm pretty?" She asked my reflection. "Of course you are." I answered with a smile. You could not be working here as a where, if you weren't." She smiled. Other people can not say things like that, but when you re working together you can, sometimes... "Do you think I can be a model?" She was looking me in the eyes. I did not know what to say, so I pretended not to really hear her. "Do you want some tea?" I asked her. "I want to be a model." She said with an embarrassed smile. "I want to make real money." Looking to my barefoot I said I didn't know anyone. "You'll take one anyway. You may meet someone. You are artsy, I bet you do know those people." I left the room to make my tea. I had a date (trick to turn) in an hour, and I could not deal with her delusions. My own problems were bad enough. --------------------------------- Next morning Lucinda was crying by my bed. Her man had taken off, left the kids all alone, and had taken off with her cash which was hidden in a can in the kitchen. Strange that people still do that. I brought my hand to her face, and it was like soft wax, but real damp. Too much crack cocaine with her clients. She got paid to stay for a week with rich white men who liked to get high and fuck black women. "Lucinda! God Damn You! Get the fuck off of the floor. Get ready for your date. If you are late it will cost you half the session/. Get the fuck up, now! Stop bothering the other workers." Louise was in the doorway, her large frame taking up the whole space. I hated it all, but just had to be amiable to whatever was thrown my way. I hated the way that Louise yelled, and screamed, and the way that she threatened us ... No wonder Lucy got high with her tricks like she did. I was going to get up, but I fell back asleep. Tall, statuesque black women with blonde tipped hair and skeletal limbs modeled an American trend: Death and delusion accessorized by faux gold earrings and stems. "Look how lovely!" An automatic voice echoed, "The dark side of the American Dream..." The fashion ended when one women walked off of the runway into a powder pink bordello room. Behind the heavy satin curtains, burnt out buildings and urban decay were hidden from view. A white man about 50 in a very expensive suit sat on a velvet chair of burnt rose, and in his hand was corporate American Express; in the other hand was a little black sack with his stem and his crack. "Oh!" he purred, "you are so exotic! Has anyone ever told you that you should be a model? Like in a magazine? " he smiled with his lie, and his dick hard with anticipation. "Black women are so exotic. You should ............." "........take my picture back to new York with you." Lucinda said sternly, "If you meet someone you can show it to them!" O looked to a snapshot of a thirty something year old women with two children in Detroit. "I've got to leave early. My ma's with my kids." Her client was just leaving, hours later; hot, empty stem. All Rights Reserved 1993-99 Safe Sex is All In the Mind Lilian I Waring - Thank you, have a nice day! *********************************************************************** A MEMORY AND DREAM SUPPRESSED TO MAINTAIN FREEDOM BY MS. LILIAN I. WARING *********************************************************************** xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx rated X due to political expression. This piece is for consenting adults only. (note: this piece has not been spell checked due to the fact that operation censorship states that it is an illegal operation to continue. please excuse at your own risk, and excuse any typos. This is an edited and condensed version of a manuscript unavailable to the american public. It is based on an actual situation.) Warning! The following piece contains graphic content which is not suitable for children. It is a mature piece. It is based upon a real situation. It is neither fiction nor non.fiction. The body of work is formatted in the style of Vietnam-era "anti" propaganda. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Freedom of expression became her favored weapon and even if you could not understand her words her eyes told you that she saw the Devil come to slay and then he did veil her pain instead of blood flowing down her scared face an explosion tore her sole to shreds releasing her from all but the instinctual calm and swift kill which was all before morals and rhetoric replaced respect the only kind who could appease the jagged edge of soul debris on soft organs and gentile flesh were those of wars who could not tell yet beneath their carefully stated words in silent breath whispered the eternal voice of death who it seems does not always appear thr reaper so cold and cruel sometimes death appears and folds a ripple like a tear Not so sad when you do accept the embrace with a child's himble grace that some force beyond what human's know may walk amongst the flesh clad fools in search of those who pose as militia and chamber masters directors and editors lovers bonded not by mating but by love of passion like assassins perfection called a sin. Like the assassin who dares to touch the very essence of the infinite question: Where does life and death begin? --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Where does life and death begin? Someone wanted to take my LIFE that is how this story came to be Someone wanted for my life to end brutally and explicitally so that no one would dare question it a monster masked as a normal man like those we meet everyday who would notice who would care THE DEVIL he did or whatever the name of the thing is. Instead of a bullet, the Devil shattered my soul, and broke through to stand in front of the monster thing like a man, but different than any of the men - good or bad - who I know. Even the men I know who kill do not do so without a reason or a YOUNG WOMAN stood before a camera, tape rolling, microphones on, lighting bright white in her eyes; she was naked. In most films about the devil there is this moral fight between right and wrong, and it does not really apply here, not as we know it, for to most people both the monster man and the young woman were both wrong, and there fore not a reality to be dealt with, but the DEVIL, well, he tohught different. It reminded him of a brief bit in time when there was no right nor wrong and the laws of the jungle became much more hardcore. A YOUNG WOMAN with no good or bad intention stood naked during an interview which would determine her life or death, she had thought she'd be asked her name and her entertainment history, instead she was asked, "Have you ever thought about what it would be like to be in a snuff movie? Would you like to be in one?" It was at that point that her soul was penetrated, leaving something feeling like shards of glass deep within her, which isnot so bad, as it all just psychological and figurative, and it is - after all - better than being raped and tortured and shot in the forehead. For the rest of her life, she will feel a bit odd, like there are little pieces of glass ingraving the new outline which casts her shadow, and illuminates a new light from her soul. And the Devil will always feel the dull throb of a broken heart, which is what was left behind from the shock which registered in her mind ..... ----------------------------------------------------------- It may seem strange, but the Devil's heart was tortured over the fact that for no reason someone would want to torture a woman so slowly, and that even worse, no one would care, and all of a sudden all time just stops while the monster like a man who stood on the other side of the white light in her eyes gets a bit high on the rot in his spinal column, it fills his cranium, slowly his synapse like a toxic shock similar to the toxic shock from his mother's dirty pussy so many decades ago ...... ----------------------------------------------------------- He, the monster man, not the Devil, hated all women though he did not know why, and if you asked him, he'd tell you he loved them all, but he really hated them - thuogh he did not know why; a slight retardation with a taint like a shock which compells him to kill what he feels is not appealing; like a whore to remind of how worthless was his mother He liked to have them cornered play a long game of cat mouse and hen would not one would ever suspect him he would show up to make them realize that the only thing he really loved was the taste of the blood of a whore totured and murdered for sins against jesus just like the baby the monster was sure he too had been pure loved deep within the womb blessed the virgin the mother "I think that is what he may have wanted." Said the man in uniform, "to cut out the womb. Throw it away while she lay dying. His cock in the cut flesh with a gun to her head, cocked..." "No motive." said another, shaking his head in disgust. But it really did not matter. Would not have had it happened as it was suppossed to have happened. Call girls do not have rights like other citizens. "As far as can be determined, there was no motive. No reason to investigate this any further. She came here on her own volition. No need to further this investigation." In the city hospitals, where dead whroes are brought they are labeled Jane Doe, cut up, left to rot. In a pine box they aer sent to Potter's Field. The dream she was trapped in felt a bit too real. "I see no need to further this investigation. She was, after all, a reputed sex worker. Mark it Jane, call it a bad dream." ----------------------------------------------------------- Instead of waking up I have this weird spasm like convulsion. Three dimensional beads containing moving images not all visible, but connected; they pass before me out of sync and mechanized time. I try to recreate a dream scape to allow my rem in, but instead the devil whisperes to me that it is all alright, and that - for now - the rights to my memories belong to him. "Because they hurt your sense of cognition." He said. "So you just relax, and I will hold onto this unpleasant memory system. Don't worry. I'll get him." He smiled like a bounty hunter with a new set of secrets to head after, "Consider yourself an honour, like a vietnam veteran hero never revealed with a purple ehart medal." He laughs, and I can not tell, but I do not think it is at me - finally I think someone laughs for me. And I start to cry, but I do not know why. Tears just flow until he snaps his fingers, and they dry! "Come on now, do not make me uncomfortable. I mean, it is good to cry to get it all out, but ...." He said I was not being punished or anything, that I was just an unexpected guest. "It may be Hell, but well, most existence is! You are now in Paradise, just so that you know that, but if any wayward souls pass through on their way down, ask - tell them that you are hostage, my dear, that way no one knows that we are ..." Awake asleep it did not really matter it was better than the white light in my face, and that voice of the fucking asshole, "Are we friends?" I finally ask him. He shakes his head viciously, "No. No. No. Absolutely not!" But I think he may have lied about that, because the rest of the film was not ever shot. ----------------------------------------------------------- He sat at a big desk with a view of the Metropolitan.From the high rise you could tell just how rigid was the isle of Manhattan. A cinemascope beyond dimension and human capacity. There is still a bubble of attempt at comprehension. He takes a syring, and injects me with it - no malice or ignorant exploration. The bubble of the past disappears, and I concentrate on the view. Suddenly very relaxed, my heart not out of sync, my breathing very calm; "A shot from the Garden of Eden." He quietly opened a mahogany drawer, and smiles at me - "maybe we can give him an injection of hydrochloric acid. I hear they still do that in some states."He closes the drawer quietly, so quietly, respecting that sudden noises make me too alert, and tense. "Such is about as bitter as your tears of late have been." He's gone. I'm alone in my apartment, an electronic ticket reserved in my name via another's phone. Like a black hole is my expression, a trait left by the situation. Like a black hole I've been told, and it is bothersome because it is a bit what death is suppossed to look like, and that is part of why he is attracted to me, it is - because I saw death, and though shaken, I'm still standing. That is why some people do not like staring into me, because I stood up to death, and it is often mirrored in my eyes - at least when I am sober. ----------------------------------------------------------- A little while later all is better. Time stopped, it is no more, except that the Devil says just remember, "Day to next day after night from dark it is light and sometimes it is loud but it will again be quiet." Suddenly I am on an airplane flying from home, on an airplane landing so far away until I can figure out what to do, or until it is done for me. I concentrate on that, and the bubble visions disappear, and I don't think about why anyone would want to hurt or to kill me, especially not in THAT way. I don't think about anything really. Crystal clear vision. The only thing which I think about is that each day turns to night from dark it is light and sometimes it is loud and sometimes it is quiet, for a long while my whispering such is the only sound besides the strange and irregular beating of my once steady heart. For a while, noise gave me such a headache. Any noise. Talking. Television. The radio with all of it's obnoxious dj's and frequency fluctuations. I still do not like to be crowded. Still wince when white light is thrust into my face. I almost always feel a bit detached. My temper is a bit shorter now. Especially when anyone attempts to upset the pleasantry I've created around me like a halo, or an arena. If you have a problem with that, well then fuck yourself wide, and hard - man. Maybe i'll even make a movie of you like made of me maybe you won't think it an issue after you know what it feels like to stand naked and blind and be told you are about to be in a snuff movie! This ethereal essence I call the Devil returned when it became apaprent that I still could not stand on my own. A chasm, a labyrinth lay where once was simply soul. Everytime that I tried to think about the next day, I wondered if I'd wind up in a room naked like yesterday, except that in the next round, there'd be no one else around, I'd never leave, maybe never be found. And paralyzed I was with a fear which choked my heart, and made me feel like I was buried alive while everyone around moved so happily about; not really noticing I suppose - who cares really? Apparently some ghostly essence did, a cold embraced me, and felt warm with understanding. An ivisible blanket of compassion. I was having a nervous breakdown, and it was the only thing which kept me together. A cold echo of solice who's name I do not know. The Devil from the original Garden, before Satanism was about rebels and morals. "Like a porcelein doll very fragile," he said, "porcelien dolls can not be cuddled for they may hurt or they may break, yet they seem to outlive all of the one's made of plastic. A body so soft, yet an expression which is not. Too old for, and too beautiful for a child of a man, to sensuous and experienced for a young man - too painful are the reflections from eyes into which old man like to gaze when feeling youthful ..." So the Devil stayed for awhile. He usually comes and goes, and lets chaoes explode, but this time - he sat in order to stop it. I'd say we are friends, but we are not, you know - that would be mental, and stupid, and rather juvenile. See - now He is my guardian. An assassin. Or he was, I do not know. We never talk about my years as a nationally circuited prostitute, never talk of his private business or the Vietnam War; which is why he understands torture and the sort. It does not matter, though, what matters is that he prefers me as a Dominatrix, and he has trained me to take care of myself just in case he has to go away or fades away or was never there to begin with ... ----------------------------------------------------------- For only those chosen and challenged may kill in the name of god or country with the passion of souls unfilled into the mouth of his brother the devil like during war turned to raw wasteland prism paradise lost and regained by murder (Or the attempt to do so.) Sometimes I do not want to go to sleep. If I do it all goes back to a white light and the sound of rolling tape and the voice with a resonance too deep and filled with disgust as I stand to what I thought was a challenge, but it was not, it was something much different STOP! CENSORED! STOP! CENSORED! RED ALERT! WE ARE ON RED ALERT! Someone find that fucking footage. Seal it. Confidential confidential confidential confidential confidential WE ARE ON RED ALERT! (LADIES and) GENTLEMEN! confidential. now maybe let's say between 69 and 72 far away eurasia maybe STOP! RED ALERT! SEIZE THAT FUCKING FOOTAGE! SEAL IT CONFIDENTIAL! But not in time to prevent a woman like any other woman on a day which would be discarded from all universities, law libraries, black market agencies the most hardcore around the world screaming in horror and compassion unrivaled somewhere it happened maybe at the crossroads in Vietnam maybe Cambodia Maybe in Burma down the river from defiant yet determined young American Freedom Fighters a woman is gang raped while her fingers are sliced off one by one as a warning that all not in favor ofcommunism would be slaughtered she screamed in pain as a cock in her ass pierced forth towards the gun in her mouth until image once solar goddess is a raw beast spouting blood as the dick of a man with an unseen face comes hard for the camera and the lower rank men must all kiss his gun much prettier are the women in the black market shops in brothels, and she was not like that - she had been a school teacher; an educated woman who believed in something other than what they filming the scene believed in. She maybe had believed in freedom. The politics of business and warfare are so much different now a life support mass brainwashing system to corrupt and alter pay back proove a point and I never got to ask, "Are you mafia militia military broke wiseguys with no one else to sport?" it is kind of similar, but she was teacher, and I'm just a student classified more as a hooker to prove it my own disease, and not society's, and if I die, I'm going out with more than a mother fucking whimper, I am, and I'll make sure other people feel the pain of every minute - whether anyone films it or just witnesses it. All women are without purity. Except for their womb, an extension of their pussy. "Have you ever thought about what it would be like to be in one? Have you ever heard of a snuff movie? Have you ever thought about what it would be like to be in one? Have you ever heard of a snuff movie? Have you ever thought abuot what it would be like to be in one? Have you ever heard of" It's echoed enough now that it does not matter. The question rolled all of the way down to thebottom of the abyss once my soul, and it rolled back up with a new and distinct resilience to such a comment, and it is better each day light to each Light dark and after a while it is noisy and then later it is quiet each day passes another one just is, and I do not even know if I would feel it if someone was to murder me. A strange and etheral essence embraces me, and I do not let it go, for it is the only thing which reminds me ....; That cold feeling which chills my heart keeps it from dissolving and stopping in a sweat laden false ego. It is alright. Each day light passes to each day now night and sometimes it is quiet and sometimes it is loud and tomorrow is around the corner not a monster man - he's not allowed. For now. I suppose. For now. And I begin to feel the warm flush of fear, and I embrace even more tightly my strange cloak of cold. "Why should there not be a patient condifence in the ultimate justice of the people? Is there any better or equal hope in the world?" Abraham Lincoln, Inaugral address, 1861. this piece has been revised, and condensed. The original is available by contacting the author.A Memory and a Dream Suppressed to Maintain Freedom is based upon an actual situation which is still pending legal attention. Please notify the below listed e-mail if you would like to utizlize any part of this piece in your format. LILII7@aol.com *********************************************************************** BREAK NUMBER SEVEN BY MS. LILIAN I. WARING *********************************************************************** (chapter insert) Please lay beside me for I am weary I've journeyed far and long my body aches as does my soul and I must know that when I wake I do not wake so all alone Please, lay beside me do keep my body warm... (Inspired by "To Lay Me Down" by the Grateful Dead, and memories of The Sandman.) From: Dahlia: a Tale of the Erotic and Perverse (c)1992 All Rights Reserved © 96-99 Anthology of Treasured American Poetry *********************************************************************** FEAR IS CONTAGIOUS *********************************************************************** Warning! This material is rated X Modern Contemporary Literature Pop Sub Culture! Warning! FEAR IS CONTAGIOUS 1999 LILIAN I. WARING in affiliation with M. DANTE' ASSOCIATES This is a piece in progress. If you're interested in understanding more about this piece, please contact Lili. Due to the graphic nature of the content, requests for more information and or copy must be accompanied by intent of purpose. FEAR IS CONTAGIOUS LOVE. FEAR. LOVE. WHAT IS LOVE? "A COMMERCIALIZED AND CREATED CONCEPT." SHE WHISPERED TO HERSELF. "LIKE FUN." SHE IS GOOD AT HAVING FUN. COMMERCIALIZED AND CREATED TO HOWEVER YOU MAY DEFINE IT. IT SCARES PEOPLE. IT ALSO SCARES PEOPLE THAT SHE HAS LIVED FOR SO LONG WITHOUT EITHER LOVE NOR FUN AS MOST PEOPLE NEED IT. WITHOUT LOVE, AND WITHOUT ANY FUN. WHO WOULD WANT TO LIVE AT ALL? IT MADE THEM FEEL FEAR. MOST FEMININE STATES HAVE BEEN SO EXPLORED AND/OR EXPLOITED, ALL WOMEN CAN BE EASILY CATEGORIZED, CAN'T THEY? SHE CAN'T. SHE DOES NOT FIT INTO ANY 13F THOSE PREFABRICATED BOXES OF RITUALIZED EXPLANATION AND FEIGNED CONFUSION. SHE IS LIKE THAT SONG ON THE PATTY SMITH ALBUM, DANCING BAREFOOT. IT MADE THEM ALL FALL IN LOVE WITH HER. ------------------------- LOVE IS VERY RARE. TRUE LOVE. GENUINE LOVE. SHE LOVES HERSELF. SHE'S HAD TO LEARN TO BECAUSE THERE WAS TOO MUCH HATRED ALL AROUND HER. TOO MUCH HATRED GENERATED TOWARDS HER. A LOT OF PEOPLE THINK THAT MAKES HER A WHORE. THAT 1S NOT WHAT MAKES HER A WHORE. THE FACT THAT SHE IS ONE IS MERELY A COINCIDENCE. A WHORE IN THE TRUE: SENSE OF THE WORD. A HOOKER. A CALL GIRL. A PROSTITUTE. LIKE THEY HAVE IN LONDON. OR WHAT WE BELIEVE THEY HAVE IN LONDON. THOUGH NOT REALLY IN AMERICA, BECAUSE AMERICA DOES NOT BELIEVE IN THAT TYPE OF BEHAVIOR. A DOMINATRIX. A REAL ONE. SHE DOES NOT TELL THEM WHAT TO D0, SHE SEDUCES THEM INTO HAVING TO DO IT. IT IS NOT HER FAULT. ASK ANYONE SHE KNOWS. THEY ALL KNOW, TOO. AND THEY WILL ALL TELL YOU THAT IT IS NOT HER FAULT IT 'S NOT ANYONE'S FAULT. IT JUST IS. SHE STARTED AT IN A DIFFERENT PLACE, AT A DIFFERENT TIME ? AND SHE WAS VERY YOUNG ? SHE DID NOT KNOW WHAT IT ALL MEANT OR WOULD COME TO MEAN. SHE WAS JUST A FEW MONTHS INTO SIXTEEN. NOW SHE IS OLDER. SHE: IS VERY .... I WANT TO SAY THAT SHE IS MEAN, BUT AFTER YOU KNOW HER THERE IS NO MORE NICE OR MEAN: YOU UNDERSTAND THAT IT IS ALL RELEVANT. SHE IS A LOVELY GIRL. I HATE THE WAY SHE IS REFERRED TO AS A GIRL. WORKING GIRL. FOREVER THESE FLICKED LITTLE GIRLS WITHOUT MORALS. SHE IS A YOUNG WOMAN. A LADY. SHE IS ... TOO PRETTY. TOO MANY UNFORGETTABLE DAYS AND NIGHTS. SOMETIMES SHE HAS CONVULSIONS IN HER SLEEP FROM THE NIGHTMARES. SOMETIMES SHE SEEMS TO WAKE UP, BUT IT IS NOT BEING AWAKE. IT IS LIKE WHEN VIETNAM VETERANS AWAKE, AND ARE BY THE FRONT LINES OR SOMETHING. IT IS ALRIGHT, THOUGH. SHE DOES NOT EVEN REALIZE IT, UNLESS IT 19 REALLY SAO. AND LUCKILY ... SHE KNOWS A LOT OF PEOPLE. SHE JUST MEDICATES IF IT GETS REALLY BAD. SHE KNOWS A LOT OF PEOPLE, AND THEY MAKE SURE THAT IF SHE NEEDS SOMETHING, SHE CAN GET IT REALLY CHEAP! AND WITHOUT ANYONE EVEN KNOWING. IT IS A SHAME. SHE SHOULD HAVE: SOMEONE TO KEEP AWAY THE DREAMS WHILE SHE SLEEPS. SHE DOES, I SUPPOSE. SHE HAS HERSELF. "FUCK THE FUCK OFF!" COCAINE. TEQUILA. THESE THINGS ARE HER LOVE. THINGS THAT PEOPLE FEAR, AND FEARS BUY PEOPLE LIKE HER WHAT EVER THEY WANT AT A VERY GOOD PRICE. ''OH my LORD! PROTECT ME, PLEASE. DON'T LET THEM GET ME. DON'T LET THEM HURT ME." SHE IS STILL ASLEEP WHEN SHE ASKS FOR THAT. SHE IS NOT EVEN AWAKE. SHE IS STILL ASLEEP, AND SHE IS TALKING TO HER LORD. WHENEVER SHE IS SOBER, THAT IS WHAT HAPPENS. WHEN SHE GETS HIGH, IT IS NOT LIKE WHEN MOST PEOPLE GET HIGH. SHE FEELS SO MUCH PAIN THAT IT ALL JUST KIND OF ABSORBS INTO A PART OF HER S0 DEEP INSIDE THAT SHE JUST FUNCTIONS LIKE SHE IS FINE. BECAUSE WHEN SHE IS LIKE THAT SHE IS. SHE FEELS IT A SHIELD, BESIDES. IF THEY WERE TO TRY TO GET HER, SHE'D BE S0 NUMB FROM GRAM AFTER GRAM AFTER GRAM OF PURE GRADE COCAINE AND KETAMINE SHE'D DIE WITH A SINISTER SMILE OF SATISFACTION ON HER FACE. YOU KNOW IF THEY ACTUALLY TRIED TO TO WHAT? IT SCARES ME TO THINK ABOUT IT. AND IF YOU DON'T KNOW, I CAN NOT TELL YOU. IT IS CONTAGIOUS. AND A LOT OF PEOPLE ARE AFRAID OF HER NOW. SHE DOES NOT CARE, THOUGH. SHE LOVES HERSELF. AND HOW MANY PEOPLE CAN SAY THAT? WITHOUT ARROGANCE. WITHOUT FALSE PRIDE. WITHOUT LYING? ------------------------- BRYN MAWR. WYNWOOD. BALA. CYNWOOD. SIN. "YEA ? IT IS A SIN, BUT SO WHAT ?" IT COULD BE WORSE AFTER ALL. ON THE SOUTHWEST SIDE SOME GUY HAD A WORKING GIRL IN HIS CLOSET WITH A CAN OF URINE, INSTEAD OF PEPSI, DIGESTED. HER EAR WAS CUT OFF. "AND THAT IS TRULY A SIN, NOW ISN'T IT?" SHE COULD NOT BE TOO CONCERNED. SHE WAS OUT OF MONEY. EVERYTHING WAS PAID. EVERYTHING. BUT WHAT IS LIFE IF WHEN YOU PAY YOUR BILLS YOU DO NOT HAVE A WALLET FULL OF CASH AFTERWARDS" ------------------------- SOMETIMES SHE WAKES UP PRAYING. SHE GETS EMBARRASSED, BUT IS KIND OF BEAUTIFUL. SHE WAKES UP PRAYING THAT NOBODY KILLS HER. LIKE THEY WANTED TO DO, AND MAYBE STILL WILL AT SOME POINT. SOMEONE WANTED TO TORTURE HER, AND RAPE HER, AND MAKE A MOVIE OF IT, BUT NOT THE KIND THAT NICOLAS CAGE OR GEORGE C. SCOTT MADE SOMEONE WANTED TO REALLY MAKE ONE OF HER. AND SHE LIKES THE MOVIE VIDEO DRONE. AND SHE LIKES THE MOVIE LOST HIGHWAY. AND SHE LIKED GEORGE C. SCOTT IN HARDCORE, BUT SHE COULD ONLY WATCH IT BECAUSE SHE WAS IN BED WITH A NEW FRIEND WHO EARNED EXTRA MONEY BY BREAKING PEOPLE'S LEGS FOR A LIVING. SHE WOULD HAVE BEEN AFRAID IF SHE WAS ALL ALONE. INSTEAD OF WAKING UP PRAYING, SHE MAY HAVE WOKEN UP INSTEAD WITH CONVULSIONS, AND NO ONE TO CARE OR TO HELP HER. I THINK IT IS BEAUTIFUL WHEN SHE WAKES LIP PRAYING. THAT WAY THERE IS A HAND FOR HER TO HOLD AS SHE PASSES FROM ONE DIMENSION TO ANOTHER. ANGELS MIGHT HEAR HER, FOR I KNOW SHE IS TALKING TO SOMEONE. I HOPE THAT IT IS NOT TO THE PEOPLE WHO WANTED TO KILL HER. I HOPE IT IS TO AN ANGEL WHO GUARDS OVER, AND PROTECTS HER. I HOPE THAT SHE DOES NOT HAVE TO BEG HIM. BECAUSE SOMETIMES IT SEEMS THAT SHE IS BEGGING. AND I DO NOT THINK IT BECOMES HER. I THINK IT IS MORE ATTRACTIVE WHEN SHE SIMPLY STATES SOMETHING. I WONDER WHAT THEY DID TO HER TO MAKE HER S0 AFRAID. SHE WASN'T ALWAYS. SHE WASN'T AFRAID AT ALL. IF SHE WAS. NO ONE EVER KNEW, NOW THOUGH, I DON'T WHAT SHE FEELS ? IT TRANSCENDS WHAT WE WERE TAUGHT PEOPLE FEEL IN SCHOOL . I WANT TO UNDERSTAND, BUT I DON'T WANT TO FEEL THAT WAY, SO I SYMPATHIZE WITH HER, AND WORSHIP HER FOR NOT CAVING IN TO WHATEVER IT IS OR MAY HAVE BEEN... SHE BELIEVES SHE IS WORTHY ENOUGH FOR GOD OR THE GODDESS OR WHOEVER SHE IS PRAYING BEFORE TO HEAR HER, AND LOVE HER ENOUGH TO LET HER NOT BE A VICTIM. IT MAKES ME AFRAID, BECAUSE IF SHE: GIVES UP THAT BELIEF, I BELIEVE THAT SOMETHING BAD WILL HAPPEN. ON THE SW SIDE OF PHILADELPHIA A WOMAN WAS LOCKED IN THE CLOSET WITH HER EAR CUT OFF, AND A CAN OF URINE MARKED PEPSI HAD BEEN FORCEFULLY DIGESTED, AND A MAN ACROSS THE HALL WAS WHAT THE ONLOOKERS WERE TOLD THERE WAS, AND HE WOULD CUT OUT THEIR ORGANS, EVISCERATE THEM, IF THEY SAID ANYTHING OR TOLD ANYONE. I HAVE A COPY OF THE NEWSPAPER ARTICLE. HE WENT TO JAIL. SHE WAS THERE A WEEK BEFORE HE WENT TO JAIL, BUT WAS NOT HAPPY THERE FOR SOME REASON, AND SHE WANTED TO GO HOME. HE DROVE HER BACK TO THE BROTHEL SHE'D BEEN AT BEFORE. THE BROTHEL THAT SENT HER TO HIM. HE WAS NICE TO HER, BUT HE COULD HAVE KILLED HER INSTEAD. SOME PEOPLE MAY THINK HER PRAYERS ARE FOOLISH. I THINK IT IS BEAUTIFUL, BUT AT TIMES IT MAKES ME CRY. SOMETIMES SHE WAKES UP CRYING, BUT DOES NOT KNOW THAT SHE HAS BEEN CRYING. I WONDER WHY LIFE IS LIKE THIS? IS THERE A REASON OR ARE WE JUST CAUGHT UP IN A SOCIETAL ACCIDENT? A TRANSFORMATION PROCESS LIKE WHEN THE INDUSTRIAL AGE BEGAN. ONLY NOW IT IS ENDING, AND EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT THAN IT WAS A HUNDRED YEARS AGO - EXCEPT FOR THE LIMITED MENTALITY OF A LOT OF PEOPLE'S EGO. AND CAPITALISM IS A GLOBAL DREAM. EVERYTHING IS FOR SALE. I HOPE THAT HER PRAYERS GO TO A BUYER THAT CARES IF THE ETHEREAL IS LIKE HERE. I HOPE THAT THE OWNER OF HER PRAYERS DOESN'T ENJOY ABUSING HIS PRIVELEGES. ------------------------- "I'M GOING TO HOLLAND TO SELL MYSELF IN A WINDOW." HER CLIENT LOOKED AT HER AS THOUGH SHE WAS OUT OF HER MIND. AS THOUGH SHE HAD PULLED OUT SOME PCP OR ASKED HIM TO TAKE A BIG, BLACK ONE RIGHT UP HIS BEHIND. "THAT IS DANGEROUS, AND STUPID." HE STATED WITH CONFIRMATION. ------------------------- ON THE SW SIDE OF PHILADELPHIA THERE WAS WORKING GIRL IN A CLOSET WITH HER EAR CUT OFF, AND A CAN OF PEPSI FILLED WITH URINE THRUST DOWN HER THROAT. BEFORE THEY PUT HER IN THE CLOSET, THEY WORKED HER FOR 50% OF HER MONEY. BY THE TIME SHE PAID OF ALL HER FEES, SHE EARNED ABOUT 25%. SHE MAY NOT EVEN HAVE HAD ANY EXTRA MONEY TO BUY A CAN OF PISS TO CHOKE UPON... ------------------------- IT IS STRANGE HOW WE KEEP THINGS THAT ARE SCARY HIDDEN IN THE CLOSET. DEEP WITHIN THE FIGURATIVE CLOSET WHICH ACTS AS A BARRIER BETWEEN THAT WHICH IS REAL, AND THAT WHICH IS FABRICATED TO BE REAL, THERE ARE VICTIMIZED MARTYRS OF CONTAINMENT INTO SOCIETAL EXPLANATION. SOME THINGS SIMPLY ARE. WE CAN NOT ASK WHY, FOR THERE IS NO REASON. T HERE MAY NEVER BE ANY ANSWER. IT SIMPLY IS THE WAY THAT IT IS. HOW FRUSTRATING. NO ONE IS TAUGHT IN SCHOOL THAT THERE ARE NO ANSWERS. THERE ARE ANSWERS FOR EVERYTHING. THERE SIMPLY ARE ?THERE MUST BE .... THERE MUST BE SOME KIND OF REASON. "MONEY", SHE THOUGHT. HER STATEMENT COMES AT THE PERFECT MOMENT TO ANSWER A QUESTION SHE WOULD NEVER BE ASKED. SHE IS GOOD AT THAT. THOUGH. SHE IS S0 USED TO THE HALF HOUR AND HOUR INCREMENTS OF TIME, THAT SHE ALWAYS KNOWS JUST WHEN TO COME AND JUST WHEN TO GO. SEE THEM OFF. TELL THEM OFF. GETS THEM OFF. SHE ALWAYS GETS OFF. ALWAYS WILL. NEVER ASK WHY, BECAUSE SHE CAN N0T TELL YOU, BUT SHE'LL ALWAYS GET OFF. JUST LIKE THE DEVIL. DON'T ASK WHY. OR YOU'D SAY IT WAS ALL JUST A WICKED. WICKED. WICKED. LIE. SHE'D LIE ABOUT IT ANYWAY. SHE'S ALLOWED TO DO WHATEVER SHE WANTS TO NOW. WHATEVER SHE HAS T0 DO. REGARDLESS OF ANY CONSEQUENCE. ------------------------- SHE COULD DIE IN A CLOSET ALL ALONE. OR WHILE PEOPLE STAND OUTSIDE THE DOOR LAUGHING. EVERYDAY IS A GAME OF RUSSIAN ROULETTE. EVERYDAY IS JUST ANOTHER GAME. IT IS SAD THAT IT HAS BECOME THAT WAY. THAT IS WHY THERE IS SO MUCH LOVE BECAUSE OF ALL OF THE FEAR. AFTER THAT GIRL GOT TAKEN OUT OF THE CLOSET - FOR SOME REASON EVERYONE FELL IN LOVE WITH THE GIRL I'M WRITING ABOUT HERE. BECAUSE OF ALL OF THE FEAR. IT COULD HAVE BEEN HER, BUT SHE IS SO CONCENTRATED ON WHAT SHE HAS TO DO EACH DAY. SHE NEVER REALLY STOPPED TO CARE THAT IT COULD HAVE BEEN HER WITH BRUISES ACROSS HER FACE, AND HER EAR ON THE FLOOR, AND HER SOBS NOT HEARD BY ANYBODY WHO WOULD EVER CARE. SHE LOOKED INSIDE OF HER WALLET TO SEE HOW MUCH MONEY SHE HAD LEFT. IT WAS NEAR EMPTY, AND SHE BEGAN CRYING HEAVILY. *********************************************************************** THE BLACK ROSE BY MS. LILIAN I. WARING *********************************************************************** My lover appeared the other evening in a dream, asking me, "Why are you choosing to leave when all is going so well?" "I don't know." I responded candidly, then I lied, "Maybe I am just bored." He breathed in heavily to hide his laugh. He knew when I was lying and when I was telling the truth. No matter how seriously I took myself or my responses, he could always see right through them. He mentioned casually that suicide was fascinating, then vivid as though he were sitting right beside me added, "You may want to consider such since you have left." He laughed, and lovingly he handed me a black rose. From the dream I awoke, and in a memory I laid. The black rose of silk in the lapel of my black leather coat, a beat up hipster coat from the late 1960's which I got a used clothing store. Sometimes I forget my dreams, but the rose is proof of so abstract a truth as the time in San Francisco when I lived with a Left Handed Black Hat, or more easily understood, a practicing and very genuine Satanic Occultist. The day after the morning of my dream, he called me on the phone. Three thousand miles were between us practically; that, and too many memories. "Are you coming home now that you no longer mourn your own fears?" It was my turn to speak., like a verbal game of chess. It matters how each piece of language is projected. "If it won't bother your wife." It hit him like a knife, right in the chest. He was known for not feeling too emotional about anything, yet I was able to find a soft spot. I always could, since the night we first met. It was an act of coincidence that we became associated at all, and very much on purpose that we had moved apart - it would be better if we never saw each other again at all, really, and that reality hit me very hard in the heart. I was about to say more when an image transcended all words; the image of chaos and contradiction which bloomed during our affair - and I, again, felt alive. It was hard for me to feel that way, life simply was not the same since dying. He was going to say something witty, when instead he screamed me a Bitch, A Woman Child like a Witch, A Woman of Instinct, less the confines I've been told society teaches He felt my pleasure I guess, for he resumed his stoic grace. Emotions, though a vital necessity, certainly do have their place. He then told me that he thought it was absurd that I had tried to blame him for my death. He feels that it would be incorrect. I have to acknowledge that we both are to blame, as we both have this sick fascination with cause and effect. So no one can be blamed. It would be too difficult to find new mates with which we might play - If ever we were to again. I think I was too young when we started, really. I did not even know the name of the game. I look to the Black Rose, and am lost in another memory. The phone rings again. I'd hung up on him before. Instead of answering it, I walk back into the room of the memory which the rose offered to comfort me: "The name of the game is three dimensional chess." He stood smiling, as I walked into the room where, throughout the night, he would paint. "With a rotating board, of course!" he smiled, and asked me I I asked him or told him. I said nothing, so he lit another cigarette off of the one he had lit, and he spoke quietly and condescendingly, "The name of the game is three dimensional chess. The board is different than you normally see. You have to envision it within your mind until it is a stable as reality! Now, the colors are all primary, and nothing is stationary - except your understanding of when and where and how it is that you are playing." He sat down on the couch, and pulled out a mirror of fresh Shard. "Now sometimes you are white." He passed me the mirror and a rolled up fifty dollar bill. "and sometimes you black." He motioned to do what was there, and put away the shiny reflection between us. "The board may spin out of control as you play, and then unexpectedly the other's moves you must claim. What do you think?" It could have been a question about the game or the drugs. It didn't matter, for everything was loaded , and my expression usually defied my respectful reaction. "You seem to be puzzled. Too complex a game? Why not think about it for a while, dear." He handed me a small bottle of metallic gray paint. "Go paint a dagger for your ethereal altar." I was dismissed. And now so was the memory as the dagger I envisioned became so sharp it drew black, which turned into the rose on the lapel of my jacket. The phone still ringing is the only thing that brought me forth the black mirror. I answered it, and he asked if I yet had use of my hand.. Black turned to gray forcing my attention back to the rose. It turned plum then mauve then blazing red before my gaze froze. He did not really care about my hand at all, he simply was bored without me around, and was trying to make me feel in need and sentimental. The girl that I had been would have, as she was a bit of a hopeless romantic. Not a bad quality unless is taken advantage... When I had laid in fluid death I entered into a dimension not accessible in stagnant life, and now I was not so easily played or swayed. "Are you sorry that you are the one that had purchased the knife?" He laughed because he had taught me how to not merely answer a question, how not to be the conversation's victim. As I stared at the rose I remembered blood covering the bed in which we had fucked, and starting to cry unexpectedly I asked him, "Was it seductive or Vile." Like I said, "Suicide is fascinating," then he added, "And many murderers never make it to trial." Then he repeated my question out loud, "Was it seductive or was it vile?" He finally let his anger dominate him, as it was too difficult to answer. "You know, dear, though the truth may be beautiful, the beautiful is not always true." The line went dead, and I felt a bit more a live again. It made me sad that I had to this, but like he said: Suicide is fascinating, murderers never make it to trial. This was now a game of life or death, absolute survival. The board was spinning as was my head. The rose was black again in the lapel of my leather coat. My hand on fire, I fell asleep instantly, holding onto myself as though I was a child. "What are you painting?" I asked him as I walked into the room where he painted throughout the night. I wanted to get high, have him come to bed, fuck for a while. His wife was sound asleep, and I was tired of laying by her side. He said he was going to paint me, but could not find the talent to paint such a crystallized prism of brazen desire. Trapped in the memory like a dream until morning, I awoke crying, my hand throbbing and swollen. Slow beading tears which he'd never see. He's have called me melodramatic, then painted them in when he missed me. Slow beading tears like the rain on the window the day that I left. It was good, it was, all of that rain. We had stood outside the apartment awaiting a cab to take me to San Francisco Airport.. In remember he looked at me so serious, then said, "If I was a pedophile, I could have hired a gum snapping whore." He looked down to me as though I was a child. It was the first time I realized how old he actually was - 36 and I was 23 My looking up to him made him uncomfortable. "you still have your rose!" He changed the subject when he saw it bound into my lapel. He gave it to me the night that we met. The cab pulled up before another word could be said. The rain coming down, the lingering mist whispering, "It was seductive, it was, though even he can not admit it" Though such may seem vile, it truly was all worth while. As the cab sped to the airport, I remembered the attendants taking me away. It had to be a dream, I kept thinking, it simply had to be a dream. Except that a short while later I was dead on the hospital table. I remember a sad looking Asian man dressed all in white, asking me my name, "What is your name, please. I know that you can hear me! Please..." but it did not matter anymore. The game was over. I'd bled right through. "I love you." I mouthed as I was walked down a bloody trail. My lover stared back with icy un.care. "Bitch!" A cigarette dangling from his lip, way too many drugs inside for the amount of police now on the doorstep. The ambulance lights so bright. "What is your name?" My lover asked me at the bar the night we met. He smelled enticing, like the processing of fine grade crystal meth. He already knew, so I sarcastically asked if he loved me." I do." He said, then pondered, "But what is love, anyway..............." As I lay dying on a table my lover painfully screamed, "You Cunt! I do love you!" See, that is what was not supposed to have happened. We were not suppose to fall in love, it ruined the logical cause and effect of our actions and nature of the liaison. Once at the airport, I stepped out into the rain. I was crying beneath the veil offered by the weather. I looked to my hand, and wondered what the fuck we had done. I was in so many states of confi9ned and unpleasant pain in every aspect of my being, that I wondered why I could not have just stayed on that damn table. Instead though, I stood ready to board and jet plane to far away. I was on my way to a small town a few hours from Miami. Far, far away. I dreamt as the airplane carried me away. I remember the attendant asking me if I was okay. I'd forgotten to cover my hand when I was seated, and even with the bandages my fingers stuck out swollen and extremely discolored. Saying I was fine, I passed out in a lucid dream - the Bay completely gone, the desert far behind, the sun rising proudly revealing an angel in the phosphorescent glow. It was as pained as me when it woke to the roar of the engines so loud reverberating within the depths of the clouds - the angel was me! A little girl with a narcissus flower and wings reflecting an image of what I was once, then suddenly I awoke as the woman I'd soon be. The face stared at me without emotion. "Are you going to write me?" My lover asked, "Explain how you got be as you are. A 23 year old woman child who believes in games so odd!" "But you taught me to play!" the dagger no longer an ethereal painting, but a real ceremonial piece. "If you are lonely or simply alone, why not share with me" He paused and he breathed as he did when he'd come down my throat, "Why not share with me a bit of your aura, illuminate me, enlighten me! I'll take no offense. We'll learn from each other without the confines of false age nor innocence." We'll never speak again. We revealed too much. We always got along better when we stopped talking, and simply got high and fucked. Maybe we knew each other long, long ago when the ways that men and women communicated were a bit different than in this modern world. The telephone ringing, I fell asleep dreaming of the death of a single black rose, and a man who I had once known. *********************************************************************** VIRTUAL TORTURE BY MS. LILIAN I. WARING *********************************************************************** This story was first created 08 September 1993. It is now 07 November 1999. Paul tried to make his fear subside by silently cracking jokes. In an exaggerated voice with a detective slang tone he thought of all of the dime store paperback openings he had read as a kid: 'He awoke in a white room... Dazed! Confused! "Where am I ....?" the man asked himself.... Or, 'He awoke from the dream with a howl of absolute mortal terror, shocked to find his wife alive and well sleeping beside him - except for a transmitter now attached to her temple which led to one attached to his.' The only problem was that he WAS in a white room, and he was beginning to feel a bit dazed and confused. After realizing how distant the voice in his mind was becoming, he forced himself to acknowledge that he was scared near to death. He had been left waiting for over half and hour, the only sign that anyone knew he was still there was the "nurse" who had come in to take his temperature and pulse. Her chubby face purposely expressing nothing, but her interest in his statistics. Despite his efforts to lighten the weight of he air which hung heavily in his chest, she robotically did her job before leaving him again, alone. Though he needed the money, he was beginning to wonder if he had made a grave mistake. This was, after all, the government - and the government, he knew, was the enemy. When he had initially seen the advertisement in the free press he thought getting money from the enemy was ideal. He could buy another block of thermo paper, get some infra paints and maybe, if he could sit thru two sessions, even get the listings from the Black Net. He was almost out of cigarettes and DMT, neither of which was acceptable. The thought of real butts and real drugs relaxed him enough to place his paranoia aside and regain the persona he knew and loved well. He was Paul Li - revolutionary cyber artist - master of the free visuals, and nothing - especially not that which he placed himself within - would dominate his fear centers unless he so chose. "Besides" he said aloud, "It IS the cosmic orgasm. What could there really be to fear?" He laughed to himself, then, "They better fear me when I shoot for the stars!" Paul Li was in for the fuck of his life. "Is everything in order?" The pretty lady in the white latex nurses uniform looked to her supervisor with absolute adoration, "yes, Ma'am!" "Good! Please let Mr. Li know that I will be in to see him in about five minutes. If he wants any water he is to have some now. Let him know that once we begin there will be no interruptions or breaks allowed. He may speak now, or ... " The supervisor paused to feel a smile play across her lips, "or forever maintain his peace." She laughed alloud as the nurse leaned forward and kissed her, gently, on the lips. Then apologizing, she reached into her pocked pulled out a seal bag of CB-2 and modified Shard."No need to apologize, not at all." The nurse nodded in an eerily robotic manner, her eyes aware yet devoid of true depth; the aquatic green reflecting no response except for that which was her love, and that which was her duty. She would have been quite pretty, probably was before she acquired that expression which must have been acquired at the beginning of the Millennial depression. Now though her body was very thin, while her cheeks were a bit swollen from food substitute pills - ever since the surplus markets had shut down, the Black Net began trading food substitutes, most of which were filled with imitation protein meal. The effects were more damaging to the aesthetic than the essence. "Rana?" "Yes?" She smiled with adoration at her Supervisor. "Be sure to bring a catheter and internal pulse unit, tho keep both in their packaging. I don't want for, ah ..." The Supervisor paused to review the statistics once again. So many people had responded to her ad that it had become impossible for the staff to keep up with the roster, really. Three pages of names with five columns on each rolled down before the module clicked onto Paul's information, and the moniter went on showing her, secretly, into his room. "He we are! Mr Li!. Mr. Paul Li. We do not want for Mr. Li to become intimidated. Keep all aparatus fully covered and the priorites boxed. Do you have any questions?" "No." "Dismissed. Oh. Wait, wait ...." The Supervisor quickly added, "Rona, don't forget to take tyour supplements, you are going to be working late, and add multi energy to htat." The nurse thanked her Supervisor, concern lining her face as she reached into her apron pocket without feeling her pills and powder. Once safely within the reach of her fingers, she resumed her placid grace, and silently the latex nurse left the room. Taking a deep breath to acknowledge a moment of solitude, the Supervisor asked the system to give full background on the subject. Paul Li's file appeared within a milisecond. In the moniter her reflexion revealed how truly handsome of a woman she was, especially inthe combination of leather and latex she donned in her attire - chosen especially for when she did these sessions by her mentor - one of an elite few doctors who had trained her for her specialized modification panels. NAME: Paul Li D.O.B. 29 May 53 S.S. AMERca2288417 Assoc. Scouts of the New Nation, Neurozines, ThermoKools, Artists Freedom Group. The computer asked her if any other information was necessary after his statistics were upgraded by Rona's entry of a few minutes earlier. "Negative. Ready to begin with the next hour span." She stood up, stretched and left the office to begin her session with Mr. Li. She laughed out loud how much he truly would be riding the free visuals, only the Master was entirely her. End chapter 01/ 07 November 1999 *********************************************************************** IN HER OWN WORDS... *********************************************************************** MDA/LILII is the brainchild of a 30 year old female writer from the United States of America. The author Lilian I. Waring is a facet of the MDA/LILII identity. The truth behind such? Well, Lili has been on her since 16 - the same year that she was first in editorial print and invited to politcal forum for her disbelief that schools were going to make it mandatory for students to pray, but found it unnecessary to maintain their sex education curriculum. Stuck in the South where her mother and step father had relocated from the North for entreperneurial work - at 18 she sold everything and moved to New York City. By 22 she was spending much time also in San Francisco where she was welcomed by the local Underground due to her poetic abilities. "Though I had regular jobs and all, I was part of circuit and was booked for Adult Venues across the country secretly. That is how I got to Frisco. Luckily some angelic spirit led me to a stage other than just for cash transgressions. Without San Francisco - I'd have no carreer as a writer, really, just a dream." In Manhattan her work had begun appearing in fanzines such as the Temple of Lilith's: Tongue of the Serpent. Interestingly enough her newly presented short story, The Black Rose appeared in the early 90's as prose in T.O.S. Other than that though, she had only basic Waterfront readings in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn and at the SPY Building until California opened some new doors for her. Invited to the Valencia Street open mikes (Jane 69, Bucky) and Bay Area coffee shops (Dick Ranger, Howard Vives) in 1994 proved continuously successful for her. From the open mikes she was invited to Los Angeles for a sponsored reading through the Cacophany Society Los Angeles Chapter, and she appeared on High Defiance Television - first with erotic art associate Morrie Cramer, and then on her own for the Strong Words section of Frank Czjaka's show. Shortly thereafter, she began appearing in FAD International's BAD headquarted out of San Francisco, and such led to her being welcomed to read more lucratively in New York. First as the showcased new female poet at an Anne Sexton Memorium (my Mum was even there!) , and then in some group efforts including performances which included DCTV Gallery in SoHo with Andrew Hampses. LILII's work has infiltrated the Underground, but has also maintained allegiance to classic literary venue, as she won honourable mention in the Sparrow Grass Poetry Forum, and then placed twice in Hardcover Anthologies of Traditional American Poetry. Her literary and technical skills have allowed her associate on projects with Grove Press, ICON Thoughtstyle Manahttan, The Shooting Gallery, EMK Films/ Mad Dog Productions, Sick and Wrong Television, but At this point she is contemplating where to re.locate (Holland, Honk Kong, Luxembourg, London?) as she wants to be somewhere where there is less genuine censorhip and more money for dynamic intelligent sensual and strong women. "Yea - having been a homeless girl when younger and earned my way through this society as a Whore and Domimatrix, I understand America from a broader perspective, and Madison Avenue does not find my experiences as cute Tama Jamawitz' or as laughable as Prozak Nation. You know if you are not co-dependent on something or someone trendy you are really fucked, and I am just so bored with the same old same old." Tired of small venues, LILII is ready to dedicate her full attention to her creative endeavors, is now looking for the location where such can be a reality, and the people with whom to bring such to life! She had thought it would be Frisco, but feels that SF like NYC is becoming a gentrified and stifled once oasis now a rim in Dante's Hell - Over seas seems to be where she is striving to re.located by the end of the first year of the new Millenium, "I'm in a contest now which would allow for me transfer an extended prose to any cinematic medium I desire. It would run for a year as part of the festival, and after that I would own everything. It has inspired me to realize that having my work in full International print and also as films appeals to me greatly. I'm ready to concentrate on new writing and directing, but don't want to do so here. I want a more mature environment than Disney or the Simpson's America has to offer. Somewhere where I can be myself, and my work can be uncensored and profitable and fun for me, as opposed to a political debate, yea!" A moment to thank: Eli Kabillio of EMK Manhattan, Frank Cjzaka and Cameron Seven of High Defiance Television, Dean Seven of FAD/BAD International for their support of MDA/LILII - for that is a large part of why I now stand before this Annhilated Fountain - Equisite! Thanks, Neil! And Good Nite. *********************************************************************** As always, Thanks Gary 03/09/96 RIP {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{} The Annihilation Fountain & TAF Copyright 1997-2000 Neil MacKay http://www.capnasty.org/taf/ the_annihilation_fountain@iname.com