Copyright © 1992 by David Reitzes


The train of events and the burst.

A black cloud of sanity hung over the McCarthy-esque proceedings, the only lie added to an otherwise true story.

Suddenly there was no confusion. Something he could almost sense through the pores of intuition linking them together. A heedless footfall in the wrong spot, and he could now say no, should he so choose. Choice, of course, being a relative. He felt free (that word again!) to look hard and clear. He read her the count to interfere as he was sometimes wont when trying to betrayed no further reading.

Was it only a dream?

He drew a red slash mark to smile politely, no vague uneasiness that something he had flash-frozen in his mind for the praise from his superiors - though the last, it seemed to him the strategic removal at her discovery. We've got a mystery, boys, but in the wrong direction.

He had predictably rented his concentration. I had much to do with it.

Did you lose some the one remaining window seat to see that everything going sniffing rabbit-fashion to a superior, as always until nearly last? And knowing, he froze, lest he be mistaken recapture a thought. He could only say yes, for he had long since declined. Everything fell off where he was words and punctuation hang on? To be found then looked up. No speaker himself a silent steady flow of someone else advanced to this ordered carrying out of his duties followed the train backward through the manhole cover. Other side of efficient hands were discovering there was no next life.

We're humbled, but proud to be back in the game. We're making up our own rules now, and I'm sorry I compared you to Hitler. Sex is infinite, whether you're flexible or downsizing. The army of white collars is out of work, but not out of wick. It's dog eat dog in Pavlov Town, and gender cheating will not be tolerated. Now, let's go out there and get some credentials!


The process and purpose of knowing (a word from our sponsor).

Thinking has become a way of life. While the familiar certainties crumble before the facts of experience, questions are formulated and answered. The utility and value of self-consciousness produces theoretical and practical exploration. These considerations may provide a basis for reassessing experiences, in the extent to which a vital intellectual community itself classifies its relation to other disciplines.

Do men suffer from sex? Are there gaps or contradictions in these stories where men as a whole are suffering, offering an unusual collaboration between the invention of special problems and choosing a feeling of terror? Are masculinity and manhood constructed so as to frame the problem?

We'll talk about how business and women in a wide range of circumstances see old ground as a continuing story, which replaces lost certainties, including men, sometimes with a sense of liberation, sometimes with an engaged and active faculty. They share, too, a responsibility for the intellectual challenge of its conceptions of humans that characterize each area of their programs with the climate about which it wants to or is thought of.

For whom?

We will trace these respectively, applying both techniques.


The pilot turned from his control panel. Now, days later, he knew the cadets and their indiscretions. Fortunately there had been no industry he could discern and, catching himself from behind, he was prepared to drink far too many.

To think that once long ago he had learned something.

Whenever he was passed over a man in the taxi wore a number on his sleeve. He had hurried from three identical serious injuries, but what had occurred to a passenger, someone who had entered into himself and saw, filed away before his former college the moment in the bookstore and everything from the office that had gone.

Yet now even this memory was stolen, jerked from a file in the army by the car's owner in his living room, where in the television he sat nodding outside the window in his bathrobe to the hearings and the senators and to all the leads and lies that were his life. He told no one, and in his fantasies transformed his injuries into a virus called insurance that wreaked havoc on the ills of many who were crass before obliterated, dead in some secret place. There were younger days, but most of them were gone.

His left feet connected with their proper places. Scissors, masking tape, it had shaken him to the kilter. Vanishing bottles of disappearing ink were simply not among the hardy left of bored people surged into it, looking for you to fill their shoes, when three shakes could fill their shoes. Yes, the white-out, the perfection seduction. The Phallus in Autumn, the titles read, and it was all happening again.

Something wrong all scenery.

No, here it is - eating oatmeal.

His clothes flew off, and stuck with a splat to the screen. They skittered on the gauzy surface as a warmth swelled at the back of his eyes. It wasn't fair. He didn't deserve this.

Inside it was the usual procession of the faceless and nameless. It could be now, or it could have been then. Did it matter? Is this what they were trying to tell him?

They all joined the dance, passing his features from one to the other. Behind the screen one could almost see their minds working. Time may just as well have been stopped.

It's not my place to complain, he thought. Years later there would be time to spare for such cinema.

But he'd seen enough. He ran through the corridors until he found the trick door. As his eyes adjusted to the flickering blue, a wave of relief swept over him. All was as he'd left it, more or less.

Thank goodness, he laughed, even as his hand reached out involuntarily to touch. Leave the hocus-pocus to the professionals - he knew to find the screen and come no closer.


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