The Boundaries of Sanity ====================== (C) 1992 Aaron Turpen Issue #: 12 Edited by: Aaron Turpen (AKA Thanatos) Released: 09/04/92 ============================================================================= | The Boundaries of Sanity is a proud member of the Disktop Publishing | | Association (DPA), dedicated to the art of paperless, tree-saving | | publishing! You can contact the DPA's BBS in Birmingham, Alabama at | | (205)854-1660(9600/N81) for the latest developments and outcroppings of | | electronically published literature. Please support paperless publishing | | THE WAVE OF THE FUTURE! | ============================================================================= What's In Here: =============== 1. Special Thanks My empty thanks this month. 2. The Editor's Soapbox I talk of election stuff. Nobody reads this anyway. 3. Feature Story #1: Journal of a Jaded Gypsy An old gypsy comes to an understanding of self. 4. Feature Poem #1: Living Pain. Is it really in death? 5. Feature Poem #2: Whore An interesting look into the eyes of a show-whore. 6. Feature Story #2: A Peculiar War-Time Problem: Solved Even war in space brings interesting problems. 7. Feature Poem #3: Enter Morpheus The poetry of sleep. 8. Feature Poem #4: New Life Birth: the mother's point of view. 9. Famous Quayle Quotes: Dan Speaks Latin...Sorta Our famous Second-Man proves his deficiency yet again! 10. Feature Story #3: Colorblind The confines of the imagination are breached... 11. Feature Poem #5: Life To Me Finding a friend who is around; even beyond death. 12. About the Literature An explanation of this madness! ============================================================================= Special Thanks: =============== Well, who should I specially thank and for what? I could thank Allen's for supplying me with such a wonderfully shitt..er...lucrative job. Or perhaps Ross Perot for dropping out and leaving me no choice but Bo Gritz... Nah. I guess I won't really thank anyboy this month except maybe Borden for these wonderful LaFamous chips I'm munching on (salsa dip, too). ================================================================= The Silver River Sequential is another electromag available for download as SILVER??.ZIP (replace the "??"s with an issue number) from several prominent BBSs. HIGHLY recommended by the editor of this magazine, it is another free electronic publication. CHECK IT OUT! ================================================================= The Editor's Soapbox: ===================== Well, this hasn't been an interesting month. I bought new boots (no, not cowboy shit-kickers!), but that's about it. Nothing special. Maybe I'll talk about spasmotic squirrel droppings. Naw. Too painful a subject. I would like to mention, though, that this issue marks the one year anniversary of this magazine! WOW! ONE YEAR! That's a damn long time! Anyway, just to let you know, there'll be a special issue of the magazine out about two weeks after this one to commemorate this wonderful occasion. It's sorta like a MAD or Cracked special issue. The name'll be SANITYS1, meaning Sanity Special 1 (imaginative, eh?) so watch for it! Get bent! Now to talk about serious type stuff: We have several opportunities to make a difference (yeah, right) this year. Bush, Clinton, Perot?, Gritz. Who to choose, who to choose. Nicely enough, none of the parties were interested in sending me info on their "stances" this term. Not one! I tried to get some info from all of em, but didn't get response. Well, OK, the Independent party sent me a flyer thing that was anything but informative. Otherwise: NIL. Oh well. That's Democracy for ya. You have to learn on your own. So I went out to the librarian and said "Inform my ass! I needa KNOW!" She said "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave, young man." So I flipped her off. Some public servant, information giver she was! Sheesh. So I went to the Mall and wandered around, talking to a lot of shopkeeps and shoppers. Generally, everyone is voting for everyone mentioned above (though not many had heard of Bo Gritz, so I mentioned neat ideas of his like 4-trillion dollar coins for the debt and such). Anyway, the guy in the knife shop was, of course, pro NRA and therefore anti-Democratic Party. The salespeople at the record stores were mostly for either Bo Gritz or Perot, though there was one very striking young lady who was voting for Bush. Was she coming on? Doubt it. Ahh, well. Since the mall wasn't exactly a storehouse of info, I decided to jaunt on over to the local college; UVCC. Lots of people in a hurry to get some- where and a lot of other people eager to be ignored. I guess you have to learn by yourself at college. Failing at the learning institution (in more than once course), I figured it was time for a drink. 7-11 was convenient, so I dropped in. You know, the last thing I expected there was to find my answers! But lo and behold, there they were! In plain sight! Easily digested in small words and big print! MAGAZINES! So I read. And I read and I read and I read. After an hour or so, I got kicked out, but not before I'd found the ultimate answer! Yes, I had it! I had the answer to every question I'd ever had before! You might say, the true answer to the ultimate question! 42. Yes, this simple number is the answer! So, when election time comes this November, go to your ballot box and mark everything that coincides with the number 42. The 42nd box; someone with 42 characters in their name; ANYTHING! And if there's nothing that coincides with 42, simply put "Bart Simpson" in the "write-in" area. Close enough... --Aaron Turpen ==================================================================== Room 101 -- (801)224-3256. Has MANY files to choose from! Good message bases and several questionable users . Nice setup. The editor frequents this BBS. ==================================================================== Journal of a Jaded Gypsy ======================== (C) 1992 Chris Lynn The crystal sphere on the yellowed, crocheted tablecloth had lost its glow years ago. The sunlight seemed as if it had to be dragged through the window to gleam on the ball. It gave off a glow, but it wasn't the same. The small cottage sat on four haggard, wooden spoked wheels forming a wagon. The once colorful, flaking and faded, had long since given up hope on the wagon's inhabitant. A sign, now too warped and dirty to be read, once announced the establishment to be a thriving business. Finding no job to be served now, the sign hung in retirement. The wagon wheels were surrounded by obtrusive weeds and were sunken into the earth, unable to move. A single electrical outlet held its neck above the wild grass. It was the lone survivor of an idea which used to be Chuck's R.V. Park. Chuck had installed one outlet and had found that his loan wouldn't be coming through. A wire ran from the lonely plug-in through the bottom of the wagon to power the worn appliances inside. The mule which once pulled the ancient mobile home had gone lame and was shot (a job which the denizen of the wagon had liked not one bit). The old woman in the trailer stared at her crystal ball and sighed. Business had been slow. She shifted in her antique chair and it let out a horrible creak which helped to break the monotony of lunch. The aging female nibbled her cracker and the crumbs gathered in a valley in her lap. She then sipped the rest of her Chamomile tea and stared at the remaining leaves in her cup. Nothing. The leaves told her nothing. Nothing of her life, a customer's life, someone who was dead, nothing. She used to be able to read the leaves as if they merely told a story. Now she felt dyslexic or illiterate. She put the cup down in frustration and fingered her tarot cards. The deck, which was now warped and frayed around the edges with a crumbling, green rubber band around them, seldom told the truth anymore. The wagon was silent except for the chattering of the wind blown gypsy beads in the doorway and the sporadic explosions of bugs in the bug zapper. The old gypsy used to sit for hours mesmerized by the blue fluorescent light and guffaw when a large moth would get caught in the "Cage of Death" and flounder around until it was zapped to dusty pieces. But the woman found the "Cage of Death" was too close of a simile to life to be enjoyed. The familiar crowing of the rooster outside of the shanty could still be heard through memories. Memories were all that she had now. Nothing new happened anymore. Only memories of what had happened and hope that that vigor would return to visit, even if it was just for a short time. "Hope! The fuel for fools!," she could hear her father bellow. She didn't care if she was being foolish. It couldn't hurt to hope. Maybe hoping does help. She couldn't help but remember the gaiety of her vagabond life with her group. The parties which they would have by bonfire within the circle of wagons where Father would play his guitar and she would dance with the young men of the tribe were so light-hearted. Oh, how she wished that those days would return! That the nomads would return. that she could dance with those from the grave and those still living while her father, in his burial dress, would strum a lively tune on his instrument. Memories and hoping filled her chest like a friendly glow of pride. The pride she once had at a job well done. Pride that she could look at someone's palm and tell them of all that has happened and all that will happen. The pride she felt when her customer would just stare at her in bewilderment and awe. Soon the glow in her chest turned into a small fire. then it got larger and larger. It hurt to remember. Her bosom throbbed and her head spun. No! It was another one of her heart flutters. Medicine! She looked behind her and saw the familiar bottle of white and green pills. She snatched it and fumbled with the childproof lid. No... Wait. Why try to escape the "Cage of Death" just to get zapped again. Just give in and end up on the ground like everyone else. Yes. She let the small bottle tumble from her fingers and the pills scattered like small insects. She left to see the voices the she had been able to communicate with long ago. ==================================================================== Mog Ur's -- (818)366-1238. RIME network, as well as a few other NETs. BIG board, populated by many users. Teeming message bases as well as files areas. Has all issues of this magazine, to date. ==================================================================== Living ====== (C) 1992 Ken Marrott Life alone, is a seal of death, More hate and pain, than one should guess, I permeate my own hands, with inflicted pain, None more than is pushed upon us all, By who with there name, have us stained, Someday, they shall see, they are the ones, who are truely pained. ==================================================================== The Brass Cannon BBS -- (801)226-8310 (public node, 2400). Specializes in messages (carries the RIME network), and quality files. Also features an abundantly helpful SysOp and a friendly, occasional Co-SysOpess. The editor frequents this board. (Avail. via ->BRASS) in the RIME Writer's conference.) ==================================================================== Whore ===== (C) 1992 Chris Lynn Jubilation for the lips of the mountains which speak useless, taunting words towards my pulsating fingers. "Fuck off!" I scream at the glazed tips of my blisters. They won't run from my hate because they think it's a show. I tilt my vision to see the hologram change from hate to sorrow so I cave in to the pressure of the mountains and return my eyes and halt my screeching. ============================================================================= A Peculiar War-Time Problem: Solved ==================================== (C) 1992 "Rusty" Toliver It was a dark and stormy night, well it was snowing and cold as blazes and that could constitute a storm, and 'Ole Jake was at his wits end as to how to buck up the moral of the troops. After all, they had been in the fighting for over a month and many had been injured, though none killed - a plus for the new 'Flex Armor' - and all the injured were back after their stay at the Med-Orbit station above the planet. It was women that caused him the problem. Of course in the case of the 'Lady Warriors' it was men. The hypnotic 'No No' between the combat sexes would stay in effect until either their release from service, should they be draftees, or their return to the base planet were the 'Pro Troops'. And the 'Slithers' could in no way substitute for 'Ladies of the night'! That got Jake again thinking about just what made 'Slithers' tick. A very intelligent race and a very adoptable one. The only planet species that the Unified Worlds had encountered that did not walk upright. What was their reason for being so damn adamant about not discussing trade with the U/W. When the first lander touched down on the planet and all the personnel were killed - it had happened before- it was thought a local taboo had been breached. It was only after the second landing they learned that the Slithers had adopted the first lander to use for themselves and tried to attack the mother vessel. The planet was one of the lessor ones of the system and the only one with a habitual climate of sorts. Slithers were carbon oxygen based life similar to Jake's race in that regard. Life forms of other types were bypassed because of problems related to Jake's species sustaining life. Jake stretched his four arms and pushed himself erect on his feet. Sex. What a dirty word. Now if they had a system like that species out on the edge of the galaxy, Earthers as they called themselves, with their space brothels and traveling shows, he could overcome the problem with ease. But higher command thought that decadent and the religious element in the government frowned also. Some of those Earthers would be a help here Jake thought. With their smaller size, four limbs and ability to take this type of colder environment, they would be an asset. Of course they were just now coming on line with deep space vessels and 'Hy-Drive'. A few were on the mother vessel as observers and he rather liked them. They laughed a lot, a sure sign of intelligence. Of course the damned Slithers laughed a lot also. But the converting of a Adak-Three lander to their use proved their intelligence. A species had only two arms and no legs or feet that could convert a vessel that needed the controlling of four arms and two feet had to be smart. How many did they have now? Perhaps a half dozen. They attacked the mother vessel several times a moon rise. And their weapons were improving daily. Jake didn't hate them. As a Pro Trooper he was conditioned to combat without hate. Really he did not want to kill anyone. If only the Slithers would parley. Tell the Adak's what they wanted and set up some peace signals this whole mess could be stopped. Oh well. His not to reason why. Just do the job and get on toward retirement. The com-board lit up and a familiar face seemed to look around the room. Jake answered in his twitter to the Commander. "Jakeobe Cod Adak here". "Ah, General", the Commander said, "May have good news for you". Jake thought good news would be that they were giving up this campaign and going home but knew better. "Yes Sir, Tell away Sir". "Well General one of our Earther's has come up with a idea for our sex problem". Now how in Adak's three moons could an Earther solve a problem of Adak-three sex. "He got the idea from our 'Flex-Armor'. He's made an item for our repro gland to expand into and fit in a Lady-warriors receiptor. Works like a charm. I tried it last night. Really great". Jake could see the Commander seemed sexually satisfied and wished he could feel the same but one problem still existed. "Sir?" Jake questioned, "What about the Hypnotic No No between Troopers"? The Commander leaned back and stretched to his full ten feet, then recoiled back to his usual eight and laughed: "General the simplest part of all. A dark room, blindfolds and groping. The Earther suggested that also. It seems they prefer their sex in the dark and like to feel around. He said it goes back to something called the 'Victorian Period' of their culture. Any way he even gave his item a name. He calls it a 'Rubber'. I think that rather Quaint"! ================================================================== Cloud 8 -- (801)756-5100 (2400 MNP) or 756-1630 (16.8K high speed) Specializes in Sound Blaster and high res. .GIF support! Carries the NaNet (North AmeriNet). EXCELLENT files and a helpful SysOp. The editor frequents this board. ================================================================== Enter Morpheus ============== (C) 1992 Chris Lynn Eyes dart beneath the closed lids While the seemingly random images Carry an inexplicable plot Along the valleys of unconsciousness. Leaving behind the drool and crust To contrive Morpheus' tales Of intangible journeys to never-heard-of places, Sheets mangle the floating. You don't want to return To the drool and crust of your eyes. ==================================================================== The Pension Grillparzer -- (801)224-1242, 2400 baud. Specializes in messages and oddities/literature files. Running Waffle v1.64. Also has an overtly helpful SysOp and a casual, confusing atmosphere and BBS system. Plus, newly added, USENET! Also has cookies... ==================================================================== New Life ======== (C) 1992 JoAnne King A light has opened inside of me: A hint, A glint, A wonder of heredity. My belly bulges and grows: A swelling, A basketballing, All this it will show. How big I am; now all will see: A look, A meuc, Everyone happy for me. Time's getting much shorter: A pain, A gain, A rush for like a mortar. Sudden I can hold, see: A crying, A sighing, Someone who calls me "Mommy!" ==================================================================== Randon Lunacy BBS -- (801)221-0928. Carries FISHNet as well as several, smaller networks and several quality files ranging from Japanese anime .GIFs and scripts from Anime movies/shows. Healty, spastic environment. The editor frequents this board. ==================================================================== Famous Quayle Quotes: Dan Speaks Latin...Sorta =============================================== "The U.S. has a vital interest in that area of the country". --Dan Quayle referring to Latin America ============================================================================= Colorblind ========== by David Manning Portrait of a cartoonist, sitting on his stool scratching away at an image on his drawing board, floor, walls, littered with various clippings and rejections, coffee maker and empty cup on the stained little table at his side. Pencils done, inking nearly completed, almost time for another cup of columbian. Pen clatters to the tray, stretch, crack a few weary knuckles. Still a quarter or so left in the pot, luke warm, what the hell. A glance at the wrist, Mickey's screamin' twelve thirty-five. Some color, a bit more coffee, and then the comfort of a queen-sized waterbed. The Pope never had it so good. "The Pope's an asshole." Huh? "Ain't so much the dumb hat as it is that stupid thing he drives around in. 'Nuf ta make a guy puke." What the hell? "Who's there?" Empty doorway, vacant room. "Your memory that short?" "Where are you?!" Scraping of the stool on tiled floor. Window closed, no one outside. "Down here, bright boy." "What? Where?!" A pile of aging newspapers. "Here, Sherlock, the board." The drawing board, nothing except..."Oh my God!" Half-filled cup of coffee crashes to the floor. "Is it October already? What's with the blank stare?" "HOLY SHIT!" Glance at the coffee maker. "It ain't the coffee, mac, and it sure as hell ain't lack a sleep." "What...you're...oh my God!" "Get a grip will ya, you're embarrassin' me." "But you're..." "A cartoon? So what. Doesn't mean I don't have nothin' interestin' ta say." "You can't do that, you're not real!" "Oh no? How 'bout this." Impressive bird with only four fingers. "I don't believe it!" sitting back on the stool. "Look, it ain't really that impressive, ya know." "How do you do that?" "Are you serious? You just take the middle finger, or the closest to the middle in my case..." "No, how do you move, talk on your own?" "I get it from my mother's side. I thought they taught this stuff in school." "Who ARE you?" Leaning closer. "Who am I? Ask yerself, you drew me." "But WHAT?" Gesticulation. "Whatever you make me, it's your head, pal, not mine." "I control you?" "Mostly, yeah. We can do what we want, but can't leave the boundries you've set up. Dissapointin' sometimes." "But I haven't set any 'boundries', I just draw. I don't understand this." Puzzlement. "Look, mac, you're a great cartoonist and all, but you're a dull guy. You don't consciously set up the borders, they're just there. Get it?" "No. I still don't get how you move, and talk. This is insane." "Sanity ain't somethin' I care much about." "No kidding." "No. Look, come a little closer, I got somethin' ta show ya." Motioning with a stubby finger. Distance shortened. The coffee would likely stain the white tile. Oh well. "What?" "This." Searing pain. Blood spattering the drawing board and paper, estatic laughter. "HA HA, I finally got you, you stupid sonuvabitch. TAKE THAT!" Blood welling like tears from the stricken eye, the other clenched with the pain. "AAAAAH...SHIT!" Stool tumbles to the floor. "Ya like that one? How 'bout this." More pain, jeans ripped, leg burns as if on fire. "AAAAAH." More laughter. "Only one way, bub." Good eye slits through the pain. Claws lash like knives at the stomach. Quick step back, the swing catches only shirt, but the ceiling swings into rapid view as the fallen stool steals feet from underneath. A thud to the floor among paper and spilt coffee and a head full of painfull haze. "Careful now, don't wanna hurt yerself." Eye forgotten, head reeling in a throb. "We want out. Only one way ta break down the walls." Tearing, shredding. A dozen clawed arms holding everything down. Head clearing. The walls alive. "It didn't have ta happen like this, ya know. You coulda been a lawyer or writer or somethin'. But no..." Vision clear, save for the burning pit of the right eye. Hundreds of images fill the room, dancing on the walls, the floor, the ceiling. More pain, nearly overwhelming. An entire body aflame. Ripping, laughing, blood from dozens of oozing wounds. Flesh being clawed away by the angry hands of an army of insanity. Insanity. "We all have a right to freedom, right mac?" A shriek of inhuman confusion wraught not of the tongue, but of a shredded soul, hangs sharply in the air for a long moment, and then slowly fades to darkness...and bliss. ==================================================================== Z-Board -- (801)228-8826. Has MANY files to choose from! Especially FX and sound demos and music files! Also has a RoboComm comp. PCBoard setup and a maildoor. Good all-round board. The editor frequents this BBS. ==================================================================== Life To Me ========== (C) 1992 Aaron Turpen As I sit and ponder how life is for me I wonder how it can soar so high into catastrophe. On my cloud, I've watched the world Rolling underneath; and wind has come and hurled Me into yon muddy seas. I've struggled, not quite drowned, all this I see: Perfection cannot be attained without Several squirmings in water, like the trout Who swims incessently towards an end Which he cannot be sure is not just a bend In the river that marks his path; As one thing tugs, another pulls. Hath I no way to tell myself if nothing will be All I have? No, I have a friend in me. ============================================================================= About The Literature: ===================== "Journal of a Jaded Gypsy" is a story from long-time contributor, Chris Lynn, who has appeared in past issues with several works. He witholds all copyrights to his work. "Living" is from Ken Marrott, a past contributor of poetry, who does holds all copyrights over his works. "Whore" is another work from Chris Lynn, who witholds all rights of authorship, including copyright. "A Peculiar War-Time Problem: Solved" is from a new contributor by the name of Rusty Toliver. Rusty dabbles in many things, especially those related to aircraft of the two world wars. He witholds copyright to his works. "Enter Morpheus" is yet another work from Chris Lynn, who witholds all copyrights to his work. "New Life" is from a first-time contributor who just had a baby boy last month. Congratulations, JoAnne King! she witholds all copyrights to her works. "Colorblind" is by David Manning, who hasn't appeared in this magazine before. He does not withold copyrights to his work because, as he says, he'd be flattered if someone thought it good enough to steal! "Life To Me" is from the editor of the magazine, Aaron Turpen, who witholds all copyrights to his works. =============================================================================